#jay oneshot

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE if you enjoyed this, even the smallest bit of love and feedback encourages me<3

hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

thankfully, as if your professor knew of your suffering, he briefly concludes the last few slides and released you into freedom. while the loyal jay solar system stays close to their sun, you squeeze past them, feeling the freedom of the end of classes.

moving through the masses you pick up some fellow students exited mutters. "yea it's gonna be insane tomorrow. he hasn't been announced anything!"

you almost stop paying attention when another drops the news.

"i mean it's jays fucking birthday, it's bound to be something."

oh god. hell awaits you tomorrow.

if people have been annoying any other day, they will be fucking insufferable tomorrow.

for a second you think of simply not showing up, but then again, you refuse to let this random man affect your studies. this has to fucking stop.

in the end, you should've just stayed at home. the halls were filled with people carrying homemade cakes, birthday cards signed by the entire university being handed around so that not a single person will be left out.

"y/n! come sign real quick." a girl you've never met in your life practically screams and shoves the card into your face.

carefully, you push the card towards her again. "no thanks, him and i don't know each other."

"come onnnn", she whines. "it's jay, everybody knows jay."

that earns her a scoff from you. "well i doubt he'll miss my signature then. he'll be just fine." and with that you move past her. it's honestly baffling to you how people still act like this in university. one would think you'd all be past the idolisation of random people at this age.

a mere 24 hours later tough, despite all the odds, you find yourself within the holy walls of residence of the golden boy.

you had been curious, you can't lie. the invitation had mysteriously found its way into your bag, a fucking qr code staring back at you.

please scan to confirm your attendance.

what did you have to lose? confirm that he's just like the other rich kids and settle this once and far all?

you hadn't put much attention to your outfit, you didn't want to give him even the slightest suspicion of going for his sake.

the place was vibrating with energy and the bass of music. the entire university must be here, what was the need for confirmed attendance?

the plan had been to lay low, observe, confirm your suspicions and disappear again. but jay's eyes had been fucking everywhere. you couldn't even make your way through the first floor without his eyes meeting yours all across the, way too big, room.

next thing you knew, you were locked into his bedroom with him. truly, you don't even remember it happen. there had been a tug on your hand up the stairs, him guiding you through the masses of students, jealous eyes staring at you in disbelief.

something inside of you had snapped the moment you heard the door click, you couldn't believe him.

"the fuck do you think you're doing?" you almost screamed at him and you yourself were surprised at your rage.

jay was fiddling with his hands in front of his chest, broad shoulders shaking with his uneven breath. his mouth opened and closed. opened. closed.

"speak!"

he sighed, eyes darting around the room and you don't miss how his eyes lingered in the corner. you turned your head. the bed. the motherfucker was staring at the fucking bed,

you scoff, grabbing his arm and dragging him across the room. his knees hit the expensive wooden frame, causing him to fall back against the abundance of pillows.

"someone fucking fluffed those up for you before your guest came, didn't they?" you mutter as you straddle him.

as if he wasn't flustered enough, your words flicked a switch in his brain and he only managed a weak nod in response.

"you're so fucking spoiled." you practically spat at him.

and in response he whines. he fucking whines underneath you.

"y/n you're so mean to me." he pouts and it's the most pathetic thing you've ever seen.

"why, because i don't fucking fawn over you when you simply breathe?"

his hands twitch, aching to touch you but he knows you'll just slap them away.

"you never even looked at me. you never went to any of my parties. i've been trying to get your attention since the beginning." he breathes, eyes low lidded and hazy.

you coo, "awww, poor baby. couldn't buy my attention, how mean of me." a fake pout forming on your face.

jay trashes around, hair messily splayed over the pillow. desperate whines keep bubbling out of him, you make him so fucking insane.

"please." he mumbles, head lulled to the side, soft pillow muffling his voice.

"hm?" you question. "please what?"

he scoffs, "let me touch you, feel you. my god anything please, please just let me be inside of you."

and there it finally was.

for a moment you only stared at him, his eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but your face.

he didn't know what he expected for an answer. a witty comeback, a teasing question maybe. but what he didn't expect, was you just full on laughing at him.

"you think", you manage to get out between giggles "you think that's all it takes for you to get what you want? say pretty please and i jump at you command?"

all jay can do is look at you with wide eyes, but it's not out of hurt. no. he's so fucking horny right now.

"please." he chokes out, rapidly blinking up at you. "please y/n i promise i'll make you feel good."

"hmmmm, what to do what to do..." you say with a roll of your hips against his. he hisses, sensitive cock throbbing underneath his tailored slacks.

"fuck, don't tease me i'll fucking cum in my pants."

the moment those words leave his mouth, he immediately starts to regret them. especially when he noticed the sparkle in your eyes.

"oh how awful." you pout down at him, index finger slowly slipping underneath his shirt and trailing down his torso.

you felt each and every abdomen muscle flex under your touch as his breathing starts getting heavier and heavier. but what really gets you is the sight of him when your eyes dart back to his face.

his jaw slack, eyes fixated on your fingertip: the man was utterly at your mercy.

a small chuckle leave you and you lean in to hover over his face, fingertips still ghosting over his skin.

"so responsive, hm?" you whisper in his ear and he shudders at your closeness.

with dreadful slowness your fingers travel down his abdomen, tracing every rig of his toned body.

jays eyes travel down and you grab his face. "nu-uh." you tut, index finger softly caressing the line of his jaw. "eyes on me, pretty boy."

you don't quite know where this part of you is coming from. before today, you would've imagined yourself to be in his position, not the opposite. but you refuse to give him power over you right now, not after him acting like a spoiled brat, despite the fact he showed off only for you to notice him.

after excruciating seconds, your hand started playing with the waistband of his boxers, careful fingers slipping beneath it. his hips buck involuntarily and he sighs out of frustration of his erection being exposed to the cool air.

ever so slowly you move your along the elastic band, other hand pulling his slacks down and inching closer to his throbbing cock. the sound of his frantic breathing music in to ears. but you refuse to give in this easily and make the band suddenly snap back against his skin.

a strangled moan escapes him and his eyes close shut, brows furrows. "fuck, please y/n."

"who knew you could beg this sweetly?"

"could've shown you ages ago baby, you never fucking looked at me though."

you smile at his witty remarks, despite his already fucked out state.

"can't have the birthday boy wait much longer then can't i?".

he frantically starts nodding; god he's absolutely pathetic and it's the hottest thing you've ever seen.

your lips replace your fingers along his waistband, teeth nipping at his skin. he twitches in response and you press his hips back to the mattress. "stay. or i'll stop."

his hands fist the sheets and he throws his head backs in frustration.

you start placing open mouthed kisses all over his boxers, careful to avoid where he wants you most. though that doesn't stop you from "accidentally" nudging his cock with your nose through.

"oopsie." you giggle, placing a kiss on the spot and he hisses.

"please, i need your mouth on me so fucking bad." his voice is raspy, filled with need and desperation.

you're not letting him get his wishes that easily though.

with one smooth motion, you lick his length from base to top, teeth grazing the fabric. you feel his legs flex, but he refrains from moving much.

"hmmm, good boy." you praise, pressing another kiss to his clothed tip.

he jerks again at the petname and you notice the faint red staining his cheeks.

"awwww, pretty boy blushes at the slightest form of praise."

your words only intensify his embarrassment, one hand covering his face, one that you instantly remove.

"absolutely not. you've been acting like an attention whore all along, you don't get to hide now."

he scoffs, little high pitched noise bubbling out of his throat. if he wants to play brat you just have to put him back into his place.

not giving him time to fix his attitude your teeth are on him, but not nipping at his skin. no, your teeth sink into the sensitive flesh of his, still clothed, tip.

tortured moans fill the room, his hands flying down to swat your head away.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry, please- ngh, i'll be nice now i promise."

you take his hand into his, intertwining his long fingers with yours.

"mhm, you better." you murmur back, as you free his cock from his precum stained boxers. the cool air made him hiss, head thrown back in both pleasure and pain.

slowly, you wrap your free hand around the base of his length, gliding it up at down at an almost cruelly slow place.

the moans that spill out of him were almost pornographic, low guttural ones mixing with high pitched whines.

deciding that he's suffered enough you start kitty licking around his tip, swirling your tongue around it.

his hips buck and he immediately whines. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry you just make me feel so fucking good."

you place him fully in your mouth, humming softly at his pleas. he tugs at your still intertwined hand and you squeeze back, reminding him that you're the only in control.

it doesn't take much for jay to get close, a few bobs of your head, not even having to take him down your throat and he's panting like a dog.

"fuck, fuck y/n please, can i cum? please i want to come so fucking bad." you couldn't help a giggle escape you, the vibrations only making him moan back at you even louder.

you pick up the pace, hand squeezing the base of his cock your mouth hasn't reached yet.

his moans turn into full on squeaks, head moving from left to right, legs twitched besides you.

"i'm gonna cum, fuck." he breathes, as his torso curved forwards, eyes forced shut and mouth wide open. he squeezed your intertwined hands so tightly you were sure all circulation was cut off for a second.

warm liquid filled your mouth and he slumped back onto the mattress, taking deep breaths to recover from his high.

"you're fucking insane, you want me to fucking die." he murmurs, eyes locking with yours.

sitting upright again, making sure he sees you swallow all of his release as you fix your hair. "someone's got to put you in your place eventually." you smile back at him sweetly.

"don't stop now then."

you cock your head at his words.

"touch me again, i'll do whatever you want from me." he rasps, not a single trace of uncertainty on his face.

"you have a crowd of people downstairs, desperate for your attention. meanwhile you're begging for a simple touch, don't you think that's a little pathetic of you?"

"i don't fucking care about them." he spats out. "i'll send them home for all i care. heck, i'd let you do this in front of them all. let them see you're all i want."

your heart stutters a little at that confession. until now this was teasing, pushing some boundaries, but you're starting to truly believe he was serious.

" 's that so? what a sweetheart you are, park."

"you fucking ruined me." he continues. "you're on my mind all the time, i can't focus on anything. nothing matters as much as being around you."

you scoff. "what happened to just talking to me. we've never exchanged a single word until today."

"i was scared, okay?" his eyes dart away from yours. "i'm not used go people not wanting to be in my vicinity. i thought you hated me."

a wave of emotion hit you, one that you couldn't quite place. sure, you avoided him because you were annoyed at this golden boy status, but you did assume things before actually having had a proper conversation with him.

"i never hated you." you whisper back.

he scoffs, "well you weren't quite fond of me."

"true, but i was more annoyed and irritated than anything else."

to that he only hums. his hands fidget and you hesitate for a moment before taking them into yours. you don't say anything and simply put them on your hips.

"if i'd hate you that much would i get you a birthday present?"

"huh?" jay looks at you, utterly confused and before he knew it he witnessed you removing your top.

"never seen tits before?" you chuckle at him — he looked like he'd just seen a unicorn walk into the room.

"no, i mean yes...uh, not yours tho." as soon as his words left him he cringed at himself. "gosh i sound pathetic."

not in your wildest dreams would you've imagined having your tits be this intriguing, let alone to jay.

"mhm, maybe a little. its cute though."

his head shot up at that and you laugh.

"you're so eager for praise, don't u get enough as is?" you tease.

"this is my first time getting it from you," he mumbled, "cut me some slack."

your hands travel up his torso, tracing little shapes and roaming mindlessly. " gonna let me have some fun with you? what'ya think about that?"

jay only manages a nod and you don't fail to notice the now faster moving rise and fall of his chest.

"well, get naked then park."

in record time jay tugs off his shirt, carelessly throwing it around the room. there flies a random 400 dollar shirt.

"you don't take care of your stuff well do you?"

he props himself up by his elbows, "not when i have to take care of you first."

you raise your brow at that, eyes slightly squinting down at the man looking up at you as if you were on ocean in the sahara and he's been wandering for weeks to find it.

"you sure you're not all talk, park?"

a sly smile spreads on his face. "feel free to punish me if you're not satisfied" he shoots back.

game on.

jay's eyes never left yours when you removed the rest of your clothes and you don't miss the swallow after he saw the pretty white panties you wore, eyes following it flying towards his previously discarded slacks.

"real price is here." you mutter, taking his chin into your hand to make him look at you again.

jay didn't know where to look first. having you completely bare on top of him seemed to have fried the last remaining braincells he had. up and down his eyes flickered, from face to tits to pussy.

"jesus christ you're gorgeous." he says, voice so breathless it almost sounded comical.

you hum, positioning your hips right above his.

with excruciating slowness you lower yourself, carefully watching how he switches from low lidded, lust filled to screwed shut eyes and sharp hisses.

"fuck, fuck more please." he chokes out and you pause, only halfway down his length. giving him what he wants easily was not on your list.

you reach your hand down, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock and squeezing. and my god; the sounds that spilled out of him were heavenly.

"please, oh my god don't tease me i'll be so good i promise," he rasps, looking up with you with glassy eyes. cute.

hand moving away from his cock, you place it against his stomach, spreading yourself as you continue to glide down on him.

"jesus you're so wet, you're so fucking perfect oh my god."

you chuckle. you don't even need to speak and he's babbling.

"pussy got you talking sweet to me, huh?" you tease and he whines.

"just don't want you to stop, please don't stop."

deciding you won't torture him much longer you drop your hips with one quick motion and you both gasp. you underestimated just how deep he'll be inside you now.

you had to take a few deep breaths, writhing jay underneath you absolutely losing his mind at the feeling of being hugged by your gummy walls.

"holy shit, move," he pleads, "please, please move i'm gonna go insane."

you slowly start rolling your hips. god did he feel good inside of you. you've heard people praise this man into the ground but surprisingly never heard much of his sex life and his performance. even if, you doubt that they could've prepared you just how feel he fits inside of you.

"come on", he chokes out between gritted teeth, "make yourself feel good on me, use me."

you throw your head back, hand gripping onto his shoulders. his hips buck up to meet the circling of your hips and you gasp, walls clenching around him.

"fuck, you're so fucking pretty angel. can't believe you're letting me see you like this."

one would think jay has met god in person and to him it feels like it. you're his god now, he's willing to devote his entire life to worshipping you.

" 'm never letting anyone have you again. say you're mine now."

you laugh breathlessly. "is that your way of asking me to be your girlfriend, park?"

"if you rather me asking when i'm not balls deep inside you i'll take you on the best date of your fucking life tomorrow, pretty" he shoots back.

"gonna show you that these fucking losers you've been giving chances could never love and spoil you like i did." sharp pain interrupts on your hips as he digs his fingertips into the plush flesh.

"i got so fucking annoyed at that girl who played you. fucking loser, just like that guy who forgot the right time of your first fucking date."

he remembered. he remembered them all; and you didn't quite know how to feel. your heart swells as your walls clench around him again.

"should've just fucking talked to me then," you manage to moan out. "could've been yours since the moment you wanted."

at your words he pulled your hips down even closer against his, his cock hitting your sweet spot just right and you gasp, falling forwards. encouraged at your reaction, he pushes you back upright again, hips snapping upwards at a relentless pace.

high pitched, almost squeaky moans spill out of you, hands gripping onto anything that could offer some stability. but jay hasn't had enough, he needs you as desperate for him as he is for you. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tiny calculated circles on it.

"fuck, jay holy shit oh my god, don't fucking stop."

"not so cocky anymore, huh princess?"

you laugh, "fuck you. you're not any better."

"gotta get an answer out of you don't i?"

"yes", you whine "yes i'll be yours, fuck, oh my god you're so big."

his ego boosted and he sits up slightly, lips wrapping around you nipple, giving it a few sucks. you moan in response, back arching forwards as he kitten licks around it before moving to the other.

" 'm so close." your voice barely even noticeable.

he hums, mouth still on your breast before releasing it with a small pop. "let yourself go pretty, hm? make a mess on my cock, come on."

your hips now match his frantic movement, the pressure of his finger against your clit, cock drilling into you, almost making you see stars.

jay is as much of a mess as you are, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils blown wide and fixated on your pussy.

"jay-"

"i know, pretty, me too."

without thinking you fall forwards, lips crashing into his. he gasps, hands moving from your hips to your waist to pull you closer. it was barely considered kissing or making out, the two of you were practically devouring each other alive. tongues clashed in fight for dominance, both of you too stubborn to back down and admit defeat.

two more thrusts and you feel the warmth in your stomach drop, thighs clenching and pussy swallowing his cock. white coats your vision and you go limb as you feel jay stiffen up underneath you, a mix of groans and whines filling your ears.

you feel his heart beating through his chest, messy rhythm matching yours. two large hands find your waist as he starts dragging his fingertip up and down your sides, involuntarily tickling you.

"you're so fucking cute." he mumbles sleepily as you try and doge his touch.

your eyes meet his, heart stuttering at his fixated gaze on you.

"you're not too bad yourself i guess," and he laughs, hips bucking up, cock still burrowed deep inside you, nudging your sweet spot for a second.

involuntary you squeak in surprise, slapping his chest lightly and squeezing his cock with your walls in response. he moans back, wide smile spreading on his face.

"feisty girl you are." he beams, connecting your lips with his. this time it's not as fiery, no clashing of teeth and messy tongues. no, it was gentle and deliberate.

lips still connected, you rolled you on your side, cock slipping out of you and you gasp at the emptiness. you gasp instantly swallowed by him he deepened the kiss, one hand leaving your waist to softly cup your cheek.

"you still standing with the answer you gave earlier?" he whispers against your lips and you hum.

"nu-uh," he pulls back and you whine, "use your words."

you squint at him, "don't you use my words against me, park."

at that he only laughs, pressing a few kisses on your cheeks. "forgive me, but i can't have you thinking i'll let you be in control all the time."

"oh please," you scoff, "you were literally begging for me a few minutes ago."

"and i'll do it again, but next i'll have you begging baby."

he smiles and for a moment you forgot how you hadn't been charmed by him the moment you saw him.

"let's see if you're not all talk then, birthday boy. make a wish."

ʟɪɴꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: happy birthday daddy, you getting fucked tonight 👅

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @saeivra @shawnyle @kookiesnkim @itsnotawrongnumber @shaiimuraaa @yelihusband @chaebbys (comment or send me an ask if you want to be tagged or removed <33)

ʜᴏɴᴏʀᴀʀʏ ᴛᴀɢꜱ: @jaylaxies true royalty in this tag section im shaking in my boots typing this

FROM YAN 🐰 ➤ idk how this idea hit me but it has and you all have to bear witness bc i think it's funny and i have to materialize it. :3 part two will be coming out soon. will open one tag list for it so just lmk !!

PERMANENT TAGLIST  ➤  @mariegibeau @kristynaaah @ikeukiss @zerocoded @alex-is-sleeping @ntxs1 @angelhyuka @tsukheeshima @clxssy1997 @cripplinghooman @xoxo-seraphine @jakeycakeys @neozon3nha @jakeycakeys @vmpiricou @ja4hyvn @luv4dani @nightcat101 @wonkiipiilled @boundlesselixirflux @cokewithcameron @taesungx @aerrdeicall

CHILDREN OF DIVORCE TAGLIST  ➤  @xolaufeyberry @sleepymochiiii @rikingrinse @katalior @wtfhyuck @jayhoonsgf @starfallia @pshrosie @dr1diot @iiunique @ssolarae @niksri @buttersoob @dolcetari @hyunjinsslut12 @wonuziex @scarett-lover23 @dina-10s-blog @svtenfate @sakiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii @enhypen113020 @jakeyyyjakexoxo @whoisovee @riknywngi @aresverlac @binnniemoonroa @apriglw @simjaeyunlvrclub @firstclassjaylee @vikeuchu @xerophyides @cixrosie

bending down slightly so their faces are nearly at level, he tilts his head—stray strands of hair falling over his eyes—before he takes his time dragging his stare across her face to make sure she sees. then, with an amused, low scoff, he says, “i stink, huh? but you’re not pushing me away.”

(y/n)’s lips part, cheeks flushing with colour and eyes blinking rapidly. she’s caught redhanded. “that’s because you’re sweaty! i’m not touching you.”

raising his brows, still with that little smirk on his face, he hums. hands drag closer at the edge of the counter, narrowing the space she’s trapped in and she visibly jolts. but the way her face blushes more and more belie her and heeseung chuckles, low and knowing.

“well, i'm taking a shower so,” he starts, taking a step closer—surrounding her with his manly smell of sweat and perfume that makes her heart race for some weird reason—and dizzying her with his presence, he then bends to the point their foreheads nearly touch. grinning predatorily, he glances at her lips before back at her eyes. “promise you'll touch me after?”

the teasing, naughty lilt in his voice is almost mocking and she can only gape, cheeks turning warmer by the second and heeseung’s heart fills with endearment at the sight.

he manages to escape right before she explodes though—barking and kicking at him as he slips into the bathroom and locks the door shut.

his face is glowing with glee, back against the barrier between them as he laughs at the way she yells at him from behind. lucky for him, she didn’t see the bright red tips of his ears.

⋆˙𐙚 P.JONGSEONG 𐙚˙⋆

ever since jay found out about (y/n)’s crush on him, he’s been walking on clouds. all this time, he thought it was one-sided and he’s been having the hardest time trying to keep himself in check—always having to remind himself not to be too much so she doesn’t feel too burdened or uncomfortable. but that changed instantly. entirely.

beep! beep! beep! beep!

the familiar sound of (y/n)’s door pin being pressed makes her look up with a confused frown and shortly after, in walks jay from his internship dressed in perfect, proper uniform—blazer, tie, dress shoes and all—and a bouquet of fresh, fragrant flowers in hand.

“i’m home~” he says casually like he’s entering his own place and the real owner rushes to him with a face of surprise. she opens her mouth to ask but is cut off by her bestfriend shoving the flowers in front of her face, careful enough not to hit. "here."

(y/n) blinks once. twice. then, slowly accepts them as a blush gradually creeps up her face. "thanks... what's the occasion?"

"nothing. just wanted to get them for you," jay replies and shrugs off his blazer to drape it over the couch before he leans his work bag against the armrest. he smiles, sharp and striking, with eyes set on the girl. "pretty flowers for a pretty girl."

his casual flirt slams her in the chest and punches the wind out of her. she coughs, shocked but nonetheless flattered, and turns away with a clear of her throat.

"what's up with you these days? you've been acting like some kind of flirty jock or something..." she trails off and hides her warm face by searching for a vase to put the flora in.

the other smirks, knowing exactly what she's doing and walks up to her while undoing his sparkling cuffs. "you don't like it?"

"it's not that!" she denies too quickly and she bites her lip at the realisation—frantically grabbing some random glass vase from the cupboard to hide the shame—before turning around just to be met with jay already standing behind her. she gasps and grip loosens but jay swiftly catches with a palm to the base.

(y/n) gulps, eyes flickering between his when he suddenly steps closer.

"then…what’s the matter, doll?" he asks.

doll. the cutesy little nickname he picked up as of late. and it never fails in making her heartbeat spike.

his voice is too calm. too soft. too sweet. but the way it makes her insides flip and shake like an inner earthquake has her weak in the knees.

"nothing. it's...nothing," she quickly brushes off and grabs the vase between them by its neck. "thanks for catching it."

she leaves with such fluidity that he can't help but bite his lip to stop himself from smiling too much. she's so cute, slipping away from him all shy and timid.

following after her to the living room table, he watches as he carefully fills the flowers into the pottery whilst trying to ignore the way his stare is burning into her.

keyword: try.

because jay can see her noticing him if her flickering eyes and fidgety fingers aren't enough to tell.

smirking, he approaches and takes the bouquet away from her with a soft pull. "let me do it."

(y/n) doesn't get to reject. not that she wants to, seeing as how she's trying to hide away from jay seeing her all red and flustered. so instead, she sits on the couch to cool down while waiting for him to finish.

the last stem falls with a little clink! and (y/n) slaps her palms on her thighs, finally calmed and ready to demand for answers—one of which being to know what he's doing at her place. she looks at his back still turned against her, takes a breath and—

"this feels pretty domestic, doesn't it?" he asks, turning towards her, kneeled upon her and yet, caging with hands sinking into the cushions on each side of her thighs—trapping her in his arms as he looks up at her with affection spilling from his eyes.

her voice dies as heart wheezes, struggling to find its footing.

(y/n)'s deer-in-headlights look has jay celebrating on the inside, his own heart hanging wedding bells and banners while chanting her name.

he chuckles, amused. affectionate. smug.

reaching a hand out to tuck a stray stand of hair away from her face, he then lets it drag down her cheek to her jaw then finally, drop onto her lap where her own hands rest.

he holds them both in his—fingers massaging and caressing them before bringing them to his lips to plant kisses onto her knuckles.

her heart pops. overheated. just like her face that's steaming red and rosy.

jay lets out an airy chuckle, gentle warm eyes admiring her features with a mischievous but loving glint. "feels like we're newlyweds, huh?"

her gears stop and lips part, looking like a fish out of water and jay swears he's never seen a cuter expression.

ding! ding! dong!

oh, he hears the bells chime already.

⋆˙𐙚 S.JAEYUN 𐙚˙⋆

"do you love me?"

(y/n) turns slowly towards jake who's sitting across from her on his bed, a look of disbelief worn on her face. "what?"

he pouts, eyes all droopy and doe. "i asked if you love me. and you didn't answer. so you hate me."

his reasoning is ridiculous and his bestfriend (and crush) can only scoff.

"yeah, sure," she agrees lazily, too busy watching some videos to entertain the obviously needy and clingy sim jake. nothing out of the ordinary in their everyday interaction.

except today, he’s just a little bit insistent. juuussst a bit.

the way (y/n)’s windpipe remained intact and not stab her through the throat from the suddenness of jake’s pounce should be studied.

“so you hate me?? you can’t be serious, right??” he whines, rubbing his face against her chest and tickling her collarbone with his fluffy tufts of hair, eliciting laughter from the girl. "say you love me!"

“jake! stop!” she laughs, eyes shutting and hands weakly pushing him back by the shoulders to no avail.

meanwhile, he’s grinning like a lovesick man (which he is) with his ear pressed against her ribs—hearing and feeling the vibrations from her joy travelling through her form—and smiling wider.

finally pulling away, he hovers above her with knees straddling her hips and hands on each side of her head.

she’s panting, gathering her breaths with the biggest giddy smile on her face and jake’s mien mirrors her. but his eyes shine brighter, awed by the sight of her so carefree and happy.

beautiful.

her cheeks bloom with colour, a testament to her mirth, and the way they puff up, looking all round and fluffy, has him gritting his teeth from cuteness aggression.

his hands are balled to fists, breaths heavy, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “still hate me?”

loving, pretty brown eyes flicker across her visage and suddenly she can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears, time slow and room narrow as they seem to get closer and closer.

(y/n) sees the way jake's playful grin gradually falters, pupils stretch like they're trying to swallow her image whole and lips part in crave—stare flickering to her own and lingering.

her cheeks burn brighter at his unconcealed admiration and she clears her throat, glancing away.

"you're pretty," jake voices, mesmerized, almost a little dopey in all his adorableness. "really pretty."

the girl's heart skips beats at once, her lashes fluttering from rapid blinks and she turns her face away. "pretty, my ass..."

jake bobs his head instantly. "that too."

in an instant, he's shoved away with a knee to his stomach. he groans exaggeratedly while clutching his abs, brows knit but still looking at her from the corner of his eyes only to shut them back when he sees her already watching with a deadpanned look.

"you perv," she mutters but not of spite. amused, actually.

and jake relishes in that fact, going back to pouncing on her and nuzzling into the crook of her neck while mimicking a sniffing dog.

she breaks out in laughter again, heart and skin tickled, but the way her hands tug on the back of his dark locks only encourage him further—nipping and pecking her cheek unabashedly.

"you haven't said you love me back, by the way."

⋆˙𐙚 P.SUNGHOON 𐙚˙⋆

he flexes his arms in front of his standing mirror, a smirk on his face when he sees (y/n) staring at him through the reflection.

she’s sat on his bed, legs crisscrossed and phone in hand. the moment he turns, she quickly looks back at her screen, feigning ignorance. but sunghoon knows better.

he always does when it comes her.

walking to the edge of the mattress, he clears her throat.

“what do you think? they got bigger, huh?” he intentionally makes her look at his beefy biceps again and when she only spares a glance before mumbling a “yeah, sure,” hoon’s wolfish grin broadens. a predatory mischievous spark flashes in his eyes.

turning around, he flops onto his back on the bed with an exaggerated old man grunt and stretches an arm over her lap while the other’s folded under his head. the girl’s eyes widen briefly, surprised, but is quick to play nonchalant by scrolling on her phone—the words and content turning into blurs of colours from how fast she’s going.

look, usually this type of physical contact isn’t enough to deter her. in fact, they’re actually pretty touchy at times with his arm around her shoulders or her all pressed up against him for warmth. but right now?

this very moment when he’s wearing a fitted sleeveless tank that’s practically tight around his chest and abs, and the delicious smelling perfume (that she chose, by the way) wafting through the air and the way his even more delicious looking arm is laid across her lap like he’s serving it on a silver tray?

everything is too much but also too little.

sunghoon catches the exact moment (y/n)’s thoughts drift—seeing her gulp ever so slightly and eyes staring at his pale, muscly limb like its a snack—and he bite his bottom lip, his fang peeking out. “distracted?”

“huh?” (y/n) responds a second too late and now he’s sitting up in front of her with a palm on her knee and his head cocked to the side. her heart screeches, blood races through her veins up to her cheeks.

the sight warms the ever so cold ice prince and he chews slightly on his lip. leaning forward until their noses nearly brush, he whispers low and smug: “i know my arms grew… but i don’t think they grew so big to the point you can’t see past them.”

poof! steam’s hissing from the top of her head, overheated, and sunghoon can’t help the airy, almost wheezing chuckle, that squeezes out of him when he sees how flushed she’s become. she’s so cute.

too cute.

that he just can’t help but want to do more.

“i wasn’t staring! it was just…there,” (y/n) denies despite the doubtful shakiness in her tone as she gestures to her lap. glaring up at him, she points an accusing finger. “you put it there!”

but instead of arguing, he just nods with a cocky raise of his dark, thick brow. “i want you to look.”

she gapes, speechless. and he only goes further. he shifts one hand to let it sink beside her—grazing her thigh and stealing her breath—while the other slowly wraps around her phone in its entirety before pushing it down. all the while keeping his gaze on her, sweet but teasing. bending low enough until their faces at level, he then stretches a gentle, warm smile, one that matches the affection that oozes from his soft stare.

the other can’t help but reciprocate. her heartbeat so loud she’s sure he hears it. if only she knew he’s thinking the same.

he’s never been this forward with her, never been this bold and if she was only a little bit more aware, she would see the rosy blush rising up his neck.

but today’s not about him, it’s about her. and how much sunghoon loves seeing her turn all red and flustered for him.

“and if you want…” he says under his breath and he has to swallow his nerves before continuing, hands shaking a little. “you can even touch it, all you want.”

a long pause of silence surrounds them—then, a single hiccup from the profusely blushing girl.

he grins. moonstruck.

ᡣ𐭩ྀི₊ ⊹ masterlist ᝰ.ᐟ✮⋆˙

𝜗𝜚 hi, it’s romi here!! if you enjoyed it, don’t forget to leave a heart and reblog— they motivate me, ya know? but please do not spam like!! X♡X♡, romi ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

perma-taglist (open!): @with-luv-jen

𐙚 tagging: @floweryang @zhounauts @mygnolia @jlheon @star-hoon @ilovejungwonandhaechan @wonkixo @wtfhyuck

It all happened so fast.

One moment you were boldly texting your best friend something you never thought you’d have the courage to say. Thoughts and feelings you’ve been harboring for years finally spilling out, unable to keep any and all doubts about potentially ruining the greatest friendship you’ve ever had at bay. Harboring these feelings for so many years was driving you crazy and you just couldn’t help but test the waters a little bit to see if maybe, just maybe, there was a possibility that he could feel the same way about you.

And now? Said best friend has you bent over his lap, his strong hand massaging and rubbing the swell of your bare ass cheeks before smacking his palm against it.

Another strong smack with his fingers spread apart has you whimpering louder than before, squirming on his lap while your pussy drips with neglected attention. “Jay…need you to touch me.”

“I don’t think you’re in any sort of position to be making demands,” he says coldly with another harsh hit. Your body lurches forward, eyes stinging with tears, but it’s the way Jay gently rubs at the flesh he just hit that has your heart fluttering in your chest. “You thought it was funny to play with my emotions? Hmm? Think you can just get away with whatever you want to me without any consequences?”

As soon as you open your mouth to answer him he lands another harsh hit to your ass, instantly squeezing your flesh so hard you can feel his nails breaking your skin. A loud gasp forces its way from your mouth along with an embarrassing droplet of drool. Your thighs are shaking, ass stinging from the repeated contact from Jay’s palms and the tears are finally starting to streak down your cheeks. Even still, your clit is pulsating, desperately awaiting some form of contact. 

“I’m sorry!” You finally give in. “Just…Jay please. I need something.”

“Something,” he mocks with a low chuckle, still massaging your bruised flesh, “You were so careless with your words before, why so shy now?”

Brain whirling in a desperate attempt to find some sort of comprehensible words, you glance over your shoulder to Jay’s lap. His black jeans are strained by his hard cock, a prominent tent beautifully on display right before your eyes. You always thought that actions spoke louder than words. So, you do the only sensible thing that comes to mind and pivot your body slightly and put both hands on his belt. 

“What do you think you’re-” Jay groans, cutting himself off when he feels your hands bump against his erection. You’re failing miserably to even get the leather out from his pant loops, let alone even begin to try to undo the stiff button and zipper. Huffing in frustration, you’re about to make some progress when Jay’s fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you completely.

You gulp loudly, braving a quick look up at him only to find his cold gaze already upon you. His jaw is stiff, the muscles flexing with each exhale he lets out through his flared nostrils. 

Jay exhales deeper, biting his tongue between the side of his teeth before speaking. “What do you think you’re doing?” Through gritted teeth the words send chills down your spine. For a moment, you brace yourself for another brutal spanking montage, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Jay patiently awaits your answer, his grip on your wrist only tightening.

“I-...I just-” you stammer pathetically. Jay raises an eyebrow at you and continues to wait. “I need you.”

Even though his dark eyes are narrowing, you see something shift, something so subtle you think you might be making it up – then his free hand is cupping the side of your cheek, gently moving along your cheekbone with his thumb, and it’s undeniably there: endearment.

All too quickly, the moment is gone.

Jay releases your wrist to undo his belt himself, fully removing it from the waist of his jeans. You excitedly lick your lips, watching and waiting for him to free himself so you can finally get a look at what he’s been hiding. But instead of tossing the belt and moving forward, Jay folds the belt in half, giving his palm a testing slap. It isn’t until his devilish smirk appears that you realize what he’s about to do.

“Jay! No! I’m sorry! I-”

Smack!

Warm pain blooms against your ass where the belt landed perfectly across both cheeks. Sharply inhaling, you try your best to keep your body calm, but your thighs are already shaking again, fresh tears threatening to spill as the sting continues to get worse. You’re about to speak, to make another attempt to protest against this harsh treament, but Jay is cruel and times his next hit perfectly. All that comes out of your mouth is a haggard sob, yet you can’t help the way your eyes roll back slightly, your clit still throbbing while you clench around nothing. It’s becoming too much. If you don’t feel any sort of contact soon you might just pass out.

“You’re such a brat,” he growls, leaning down to bite on your right ass cheek while he gropes the other. You cry out again, wondering if you’ll even be able to sit properly after this. Jay moans as you squirm, loving the way you’re whining and knowing you’re feeling so overstimulated and neglected at the same time.

Suddenly, Jay’s moving you off his lap and onto your back at the head of his bed. Body looming over yours, Jay grabs both of your wrists and thrusts them above your head, his face now inches from yours. Chest still moving rapidly with each haggard breath, Jay looks down at you with that focused stare of his, licking his lips slowly. “Hmm…I have an idea.” The belt comes back into your line of sight and for a moment, you’re slightly scared that he might use it on your clit or chest. You wonder what it would feel like, but also shiver with the thought of the continued torture.

Instead, Jay loops the belt strategically around your wrists and the headboard, completely trapping you in place.

“What?” You tug at your restraints, barely getting any slack.

“Since you can’t keep your hands to yourself and you love playing games, I figured this would be a good punishment for you.” Jay’s hands roam about your naked body freely now, savoring every bump and every curve of you. Wiggling your hips, you try to get free, but he has you fully trapped with both his legs on either side of yours.

“But I want to touch you!” You growl out in frustration, bucking your hips up again and forcing Jay to grab you by your hips to keep you steady.

“Who knew you’d be like this? God…” Jay’s hands begin to roam again now that you’ve calmed down slightly, still huffing at him nonetheless. “Has no one properly put you in your place before?” He laughs at your scowl, “I take that as a no…well it’s an honor to be the one to do it. Act like a brat, get punished like a brat. It’s that simple. Next time you can learn how to communicate like a big girl and just tell me you want me like a normal person instead of purposefully trying to get me riled up so I’ll make the first move.” He flicks a finger playfully against your perked nipple, chuckling again when you wince. 

Settling between your legs, Jay places both palms on your angled knees, rubbing them absentmindedly while pushing your legs apart – putting you on display. Just one look at your glistening folds has his head falling back with a groan, “Oh my god, look at you…damn.” Taking two of his fingers, Jay swipes them against your arousal. A long string connects from his fingers to your core, the sight completely lewd and has you shivering. Jay only groans again, moving his fingers up to his mouth before taking a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. Then, he opens his eyes and holds eye contact with you before slowly inserting his digits into his mouth, moaning as the sweet taste of you hits his tongue.

“Jay,” you whimper softly, “you’re making me go crazy.”

He scoffs out a laugh, licking his lips generously now that his fingers are back to your knees. Resuming his soft massages, Jay looks at you with dark clouded eyes. “I’m making you crazy? You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me these past few weeks.” He chuckles again, shaking his head before leaning closer, his face now inches from yours, “You’re going crazy? I’ve been going insane.”

A choked moan forces its way out of your throat because at the exact time he says ‘insane’ he ruts his clothed cock right over your core; the pressure sends an electric shock of pleasure throughout your body, finally feeling contact on your bundle of nerves after being neglected for so long. You desperately want to reach out and cling to his biceps, to dig your fingernails into his skin and finally tear those clothes off of him, but his belt still digs into your wrists. After a moment, you realize something that has you biting down on your bottom lip to suppress your smirk: your fists have been clenched this whole time. 

While Jay is distracted with rutting himself against you, you manage to slip your hands out of your restraints. Before Jay can even notice, your hands are pushing against his chest, knocking him onto his back with your legs now straddling on either side of his hips. You can’t stop the smirk from growing on your face, knowing it’ll only agitate Jay more.

You watch as his confused expression turns aghast. Jay lets out a warning chuckle, closely resembling a scoff as he’s shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. Misleadingly gentle, his hands come up to grab your hips, thumbs tracing over your curves. He takes a moment, eyes roaming unabashedly over your bare body. Adoration is clear in his gaze, but there’s a dark mix of something more, something hungry hiding behind his deep brown eyes.

It feels like you can finally relax, letting your hands roam over his toned chest without worrying about keeping him in place. 

But as soon as you lower your hips and attempt to grind on him, something shifts.

The grip Jay has on your hips tightens and soon enough, you’re laying on your back gasping for breath while he stares down at you. It’s his turn to smirk, proud at how easily he tricked you into thinking you had any sort of control.

“Cute,” he murmurs, dipping his head low to kiss along your jawline, “but not gonna happen.”

With a quick nip at your neck, Jay sits back and rolls you onto your stomach. Your heart is beating so loudly in your ears that you miss his instructions, resulting in another harsh smack against your ass.

“There’s no way a few spankings has you this out of it,” Jay murmurs, “I said put your hands behind your back.” When you don’t immediately do as you're told, Jay grunts and moves your hands to your back on his own. A cold, thick material presses around your wrists that you can only assume is the belt again. 

“Maybe this will teach you to keep your hands to yourself,” he grumbles, cinching the belt so tight around your wrists that you let out a muffled whimper.

Satisfied with his work, Jay leans back, his hands wandering over the expanse of your back down to the swell of your bruised ass before traveling back up again. It’s a simple touch, almost like a massage, yet the action has your breathing quickening, heart racing, and limbs restless as he, yet again, pushes your senses to their limit. Feeling his hands on your bare skin everywhere except where you need him most is torturous, your mind buzzing with the urge to throw a fit until you finally get what you want.

But that’s exactly what he’s hoping for.

You close your eyes and inhale slowly through your nose, exhaling only when you start to feel dizzy. Trying to keep your composure in this situation is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do, but your pride is on the line, knowing that if you beg for Jay too eagerly you’ll never hear the end of it.

Lucky for you, Jay isn’t feeling very patient anymore.

Excitement bubbles too quickly in your chest when you hear the sound of his zipper. Craning your neck to try to get a look at him, you’re met with Jay’s growing smirk, hands now moving slower knowing you’re watching him. A low whimper escapes your lips, Jay’s eyes softening with weak fondness.

“Just be patient. I’m not trying to rush this,” Jay murmurs, his smile soft and genuine. It makes your heart flutter, seeing him like this especially after he just spent so long punishing you for teasing him for so long.

Finally, finally, you feel two of his fingers sliding between your folds. An embarrassingly loud moan leaves your lips, making you bite down on your lip hard to try to control yourself. But Jay just chuckles behind you, loving the way your body twitches from no longer being ignored. He sighs longingly, collecting your slick slowly between his fingers, teasing around your clit as he does so. All you can do is keep whimpering, still holding onto what little sanity you have left. You refuse to beg, refuse to apologize for what you’ve done to get yourself in this position.

Much to your surprise (and gratitude), it seems Jay has also forgotten about his plan to make you beg and plead for forgiveness with the way his fingers slowly push into your hole. Curling his fingers slowly, Jay groans quietly. You almost missed it, too distracted with the relief he’s coaxing out of you.

It doesn’t take long for the squelching sounds to fill the room, your arousal quickly coating Jay’s fingers while he diligently curls inside you. His pace is slow but consistent, easily keeping you in a state of bliss while still eager for more.

“Fuck,” Jay groans, “you’re shaking, baby. You need me this bad?”

All you can muster is a pathetic whimper, trying to sneakily move your hips to fuck yourself more on his fingers. You should have known better, though. Nothing gets past Jay, afterall.

With his free hand, Jay brings it down on your left asscheek, kneading your flesh after the abrupt hit. “So impatient. You could have had me all this time if you had only asked.”

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” you whimper again, sighing contently when Jay’s finger brushes against your clit.

“And look where that got you; all pent up and being punished for your childish decisions. But don’t worry, my baby, I’m a patient man and will show you how to behave.” He kisses the spot between your shoulder blades, chills erupting throughout your skin while somehow leaving a burning feeling in his absence.

You try to move your head to the side so you can see him – needing eye contact before saying what you want to say. “Jay–,” Hair falls in your face, cutting off your train of thought. You groan before trying to blow it away with no luck. Chuckling fondly, Jay removes his fingers from your cunt and leans forward, taking his untainted hand to move the disarray strands from your face. Time slows for a moment when you finally see him and it feels like the universe has finally aligned in your favor. You forget all about the fact that your hands are restrained behind your back and your ass is throbbing with pain, but none of it matters because you’re here with him after all this time.

“I really like you, Jay.” 

He playfully rolls his eyes, blinking rapidly while biting his lip. The laugh he lets out is nervously joyful, his eyes softening despite his attempts to appear nonchalant. It feels so good to finally say the words out loud, confessing what’s been weighing on your heart for so long now.

“Well,” Jay says slowly, leaning closer to your face, “if it isn’t obvious…I really like you too, Y/n.” He leans in more, connecting your lips together despite the awkward angle. And it feels like the best kiss you could possibly have in a moment like this. Jay’s lips fit against yours perfectly, so soft, so comforting, so right.

When you finally pull apart, you watch as Jay’s gaze goes from warm and soft, to shadowed and devious. Your heart rate quickens, but before you have a chance to form a coherent thought, Jay sits up and is removing his shirt, barely within your peripheral view.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Jay’s words send a wave of excitement down to your core. You hear his clothes drop to the floor and you desperately want a view of him in all his naked glory. The feeling of something prodding at your hole jolts your system, completely unprepared for the intrusion. Jay’s hands grab your waist gently, repositioning your body to the angle he needs you in. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of Jay’s cock inside of you. Every curve, every vein is everything you need and more.

“Oh my god,” Jay swears, bottoming out in you, “you feel so perfect. This pussy was made for me.” A sharp smack on your ass has you yelping, completely caught off guard. “Why would you keep this from me for so long?” 

“I told you-”

Smack. The skin on your butt feels bruisingly hot, the sting so deep in your skin unlike anything you've ever felt before. And it feels so fucking good.

“Don’t talk back to me. Apologize. Tell me how sorry you are for keeping this pussy from me.” Him not moving and just sitting inside you is driving you crazy and you’ve had enough; no more holding onto your pride or sanity. You’re ready to lose it all and give anything you have as long as Jay asks for it.

“I’m sorry! Jay, please I’m sorry. I should have told you how I felt sooner.”

“Good fucking girl,” Jay growls and starts pistoning himself in and out of you, his grip tightening on your hips as he guides you into a perfect rhythm with his thrusts. You become a moaning mess, Jay’s pace unrelenting as he finally lets go of his control. The way his cock feels inside of you is a type of ecstacy you would never be able to conjure up in your wildest dreams.

“Oh, fuck!” You scream out when you feel the tip of Jay’s cock hitting the perfect spot. Even though he just started moving, it almost feels overstimulating. All the build up and teasing from before crashes over you in a drowning wave and all you can think about is how good he feels inside of you. He continues to set a steady pace, not faltering for even a moment when he leans down to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and out of your face. Your stomach flips at the small act of intimacy during such lewd and aggressive acts of sex.

It doesn’t take long before the knot in your stomach tightens to an unbearable depth. No one has ever made you get even close to an orgasm this quickly, let alone make you a blubbering mess underneath them. The way Jay handles your body…it’s like he’s known all along how you’ve needed to be handled. Maybe it’s the years of friendship coming into play, but the way your bodies connect and respond to one another feels natural, like it was meant to happen. There’s moments where you even catch yourself forgetting that this is the first time you’re having sex with him instead of the hundredth. But that will surely come in the future.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” Jay coaxes you through your high, still languidly thrusting into you while you gasp beneath him, body shuddering and quivering from how hard your orgasm hit.

Once you regain some sort of composure, Jay flips you onto your back, your restrained hands digging into your spine. Tears are streaming down your face from everything: the overstimulation, the foreplay, the buildup, the orgasm. When Jay sees your tear stained face, his body stutters. He was just about to insert himself back into you when he sees what a mess he’s made of you. Before he can even insert the tip of his cock back inside you, hand still grasping his own base, he’s coming undone. Spurts of white cum hit all over your body from your chest to your stomach and down to your thighs. Jay’s groan has your heart beating even faster than before as you watch him lose himself at the sight of you, a sense of pride blooming in your chest at the fact that he came so hard just from looking at you.

“Fuck…that’s never happened to me before,” he’s breathing hard, trying to regain his calm demeanor to no avail, “just seeing you like that…I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know what came over me…” you mutter. Jay looks at you for a moment before bursting out in a fit of laughter, you following closely behind. Falling beside you, Jay tucks his head into the crook of your neck, molding his body against yours as your mutual laughter dies down. 

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, leaving a featherlight kiss to your neck before sitting up and freeing your wrists from the constraints of his belt. He tosses the belt aside and goes back to massage your wrists gently, looking into your eyes to make sure you’re feeling okay. You nod your head, whispering a quiet “thank you” before he stands up. Stretching, you get a chance to admire the muscles of his back and the way he stands so tall and steady. Something about it is reassuring and you can’t quite place your finger on it, but you know it’s a sight you’ll never get used to.

Disappearing into your bathroom, you hear the sound of running water and cabinet doors being opened and closed. Before long, Jay is in front of you again. Instead of handing you a bundled up wad of toilet paper like other guys have done in the past, Jay presses a warm washcloth against your skin, cleaning up the mess he left behind on your body. The warmth feels soothing, making you sigh and close your eyes as you let him take care of you. 

“Don’t fall asleep yet.”

You groan and roll onto your side facing him with your eyes still closed, “Why? You fucked me so hard I nearly passed out.”

“Because…” the sultry low tone of his voice has your eyes snapping open. Right in front of your face is Jay’s cock, fully erect with new beads of precum dribbling from his slit. Giving a light smack to your cheek with the tip of his dick, Jay chuckles seeing your widened eyes, “we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for. And we’re just getting started.”

The gods of Olympus were never silent. Their laughter and taunts echoed across the heavens, filling their golden halls with noise and light.

Among them, Hades — so few knew him as Jay — was the quiet shadow in their midst.

Rarely did he grace their celebrations, his duties below pulling him away from the vanity of their world.

But he wasn't deaf to their jests.

“He'll never know love," Hermes — whose former name was Jungwon — had said to one banquet, leaning onto his caduceus with a smirk.

"Who would want to walk in those dark halls with him?" Aphrodite chimed in, her melodic laughter cutting through the room.

Jay had sat silent, his face impassive, but their words lodged deep within him.

He had never been a creature of longing— his domain demanded stern control, not vulnerability. And yet, as centuries passed, a hollow ache had begun to grow.

Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps he would remain alone. But then, there was the smallest flicker of rebellion within him.

“Let them doubt me," he whispered, his voice cold as the mist of the Styx. "I will find someone who can see me for what I really am."

♡.

Jay seldom visited the mortal world. It was too loud, too bright, too alive.

But something had pulled him there that day, a whisper in the back of his mind, a tenuous tug he could not ignore. And so, he walked among the mortals, his dark robes altered to blend in with their simple garb.

The sun beat above, merciless. Apollo — also known as Heeseung — really enjoyed making mundanes suffer. Mortals bustled around him, their voices a cacophony of trivial concerns.

He had nearly given up, retreating toward the shaded edge of a golden orchard, when his eyes fell on you.

You stood beneath an ancient apple tree, reaching up toward the highest branches.

Your hands grasped the fruit carefully, inspecting each apple before placing it in your basket.

The sun played in your hair, catching the edges of your figure like a halo. But it wasn't your beauty that arrested him; it was the way you moved— with confidence, with purpose.

Suddenly, a strange thought assailed him: You belonged in no one's shadow. It seemed as if not even the apple’s shadow could make you lose your spark.

A step closer he came, and almost faltered. You laughed softly as you took a bite of the sweet fruit, a slice of sound that cut through the din around him. Something in his chest stirred. An unfamiliar pull, sharp and insistent.

Before he knew better, he acted.

The earth had shaken beneath your feet, and you had stood stock-still, startled.

A chill had saturated the air, unnatural and heavy. You turned, your gaze darting around for the source, but the orchard had fallen silent.

Then the earth rent asunder. Shadows poured from it, twisting and coiling like living things. Swimming around you like water would from a waterfall.

Up from the chasm rose a chariot of black iron, its wheels spinning silently above the broken earth. The horses were ghostly, their eyes glowing like dying embers.

Your breath caught in your throat as a figure stepped from the chariot, the bitten apple falling on the ground, rolling. He was cloaked in darkness, his hood obscuring his face, but his presence was overwhelming.

Power radiated from him, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight.

"Who—" Your voice broke, trembling with fear and defiance. "Who are you?"

He didn't answer, only lifted a hand. The shadows surged forward, binding your legs like chains. You cried out, struggling against them, but they held fast.

"Let me go!" you shouted, anger flashing through your terror.

Jay raised a brow; he moved closer, and for the first time, you caught a glimpse of his face beneath the hood.

His features were sharp, almost otherworldly, and his eyes were a cold, unyielding gray.

"I cannot," he whispered, and then before you could reply, he took you into his embrace.

You struggled against him, your fists pounding against his chest, but it was like hitting stone. He stepped back onto the chariot, holding you fast as the horses reared and plunged into the chasm.

The world above disappeared in a swirl of darkness as you lost your senses.

♡.

When you awoke, you were no longer in the orchard.

The air was cool and heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that sent shivers down your spine.

You sat up slowly, your heart pounding as you took in your surroundings. The chamber was huge, its walls carved from gleaming black stone that seemed to drink in the dim red light emanating from the ceiling.

And there, sat on an obsidian throne on the other end of the room, was him.

He watched you intently— his hood discarded, with pale skin and a face chiseled, striking yet severe. His dark eyes felt to see right through you, and you hated the way your breath caught under his gaze.

Hades. Ruler of the Underworld.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. You stood shakily, glaring at him. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I needed a queen," he said simply, as if that explanation was enough.

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls. "A queen? You think I'd ever agree to rule this… this pit with you?"

His expression didn't change, though you could have sworn you saw a flicker of something in his eyes-annoyance, perhaps, or amusement.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You don't have a choice."

That struck a nerve. Your hands curled into fists, and despite the fear twisting in your gut, you stepped closer. "No one owns me," you hissed. "Not you, not anyone.”

For the first time, his calm cracked.

He rose with a slow, deliberate movement, and all the weight of his presence came down on you.

"I am Hades," he said, his voice thundering with power. "God of the Underworld, you are here because I chose you, and you will learn to accept that."

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. "And if I don't?"

The silence hung heavy between you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he looked away. "Then you'll remain here as my prisoner. Either way, you belong to me now."

You swallowed hard, anger and fear warring within you. But one thought rose above the rest: You will not let him break you.

With the snap of his fingers, two servants in the form of a skeleton appeared in front of you. They looked at you with their void eyes and then turned around, walking.

You glanced up at Jay, who only beckoned you to follow them.

A scoff escaped your lips as you did just that, anything would be better than staying in the same room as him.

The skeleton's bones made a funny noise as they walked you down the neve -ending hallways. The castle was huge, crimson coated the walls as well as dark black.

“So,” you cleared your throat “Is your boss always like that? Or does he change expressions sometimes?” you tried to joke, but the skeletons didn’t reply.

Of course, they didn’t even have lips, “You can’t tell me anything, uh? Not even where the exit is?”

They just stopped in front of a door, opening it for you. Taking the hint, you slowly stepped inside, cautious.

The chamber was so spacious for only one person, a bed stood in the middle of the room, its sheets a dark shade of red.

The walls were coated with drawings of black dahlias, the ceiling so high it made you think the room never actually ended.

The skeletons closed the door behind your back, leaving you there, alone.

You walked to the bed, sitting on its edge. At least, the mattress was soft, the sheets silk and warm.

You finally allowed a sob to escape your lips, another followed and then another again.

Gods always did what they wanted, never truly considering someone’s feelings. You hated them, but more than anything, you hated Hades.

Your fingers gripped the sheets, if he wanted a wife, you’d show him just what you were made of.

♡.

The tension hung between you like a storm cloud.

Jay had come to visit you when you woke up, followed by a skeleton that placed a trail of pomegranate on your bed.

You didn’t know how much you slept, neither of it was morning or night. The Underworld had no light.

“I hope the chamber is of your likings.” He spoke after an awkward silence. You dared glance at him, but daren’t reply.

Jay let out a soft sigh, “It is the only fruit that grows in my realm, if you want anything in particular, I’ll have one of my servants fetch you something from the orchard in the Olympus.”

Finally, you reached down, picking up the pomegranate. Its scent was sweet, and the faint shimmer of the seeds made them look like tiny jewels.

Usually, you’d go crazy for the bittersweet fruit, but the Underworld made even that look dead, poisonous.

You turned it in your hands as if inspecting it. "And what if I refuse to eat?" you asked, tone sharp.

Jay's lips quirked in what might have been amusement, though it was fleeting. "You won't," he said simply, his voice soft but sure.

Your glare deepened. "How do you know?"

"Because you don't hate life," he said. "Even here, in this place you claim to despise, you'll find a reason to keep going.”

The words struck deeper than you wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but no words came.

You picked up one of the seeds between your fingers, observing the way the surface shimmered before finally placing it into your mouth.

The flavor burst on your tongue, sweet and tart, and for a moment, you were reminded of the orchards above— the sun on your skin, the breeze in your hair, the simple joy of being free.

Jay watched you in silence, his expression unreadable. When you finally set the pomegranate down, he inclined his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your evening," he said, turning to go.

So, it was evening.

But before he could go, your voice stopped him. "Wait."

He turned back; his eyes were steady but questioning.

"Why do you keep trying?" you asked, quieter now. "Why not just leave me to my misery? Use me just for your plans?” after all, it would be typical of the Gods.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, stepping closer, he spoke in a voice so soft it barely carried across the room, “Because I've spent eternity surrounded by shadows, and for the first time, there's a light here."

His words had left you speechless for a moment. He bowed his head slightly and then left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

♡.

The Underworld had a strange beauty to it, though you’d fought to see it.

The palace gardens, in particular, drew your attention on restless nights— or days. They were like nothing you’d ever encountered in the mortal world.

The flowers glowed faintly, their petals a soft silver-blue, and streams of water that sparkled like liquid starlight wove between them.

It was here, one evening, that you sat on a stone bench, your eyes fixed on the ghostly blooms. You didn't hear Jay approach until he spoke.

"You come here often," he said, his voice quiet.

You startled slightly but didn't turn. "I don't have many options," you replied, your tone still edged with defiance.

You had tried to wander around the castle, and Jay let you, but whenever you came too close to the exit, a puddle of shadows rose from the ground and brought you back to your chamber.

Jay sat beside you, leaving enough space to show he wasn't trying to intrude. He looked out at the garden, his gray eyes contemplative. "These flowers," he said after a moment, "Only grow here, nowhere else in existence."

You glanced at him, surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "You care about them?"

"They're life in a place where life shouldn't exist," he said simply.

The words hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of understanding: the Underworld wasn't just a prison to him— it was a responsibility, a realm he nurtured despite its darkness.

It was the realm given to him by his father, and it was his job to keep it going, no matter how much he despised it.

After a moment, you exhaled, leaning back slightly. "Why do you do that?"

He looked at you, brow furrowed. "Do what?

“Say things that make it hard to hate you,” you said, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, perhaps weeks or months. Time seemed to flow slower there.

But you thought it would be easier to hate him, had he been scarier and less gentle. His sharp edges always seemed to soften whenever you walked into the room, and his clothes clung to his form, revealing a body any girl from your village would go crazy about.

Not that you stared at it too much, of course.

To your surprise, Jay’s lips curved into a faint smile of his own. “I thought you’d hate me forever.”

“I’m still considering it,” you shot back, though the teasing note in your voice was unmistakable.

Jay chuckled softly, the sound low and unfamiliar. For the first time, the weight between you seemed to lift, if only slightly.

“Will you ever let me see the light again? The orchard?” or your family. Would your parents be worried, or had Jay already cast a spell on them?

“Depends,” he spoke, “Will you run away if I do.” fair point. The moment the sun kissed your skin again, you were sure you wouldn’t step inside this gloomy castle anymore.

Seeing your lack of reply, Jay just got up and turned around, murmuring “That’s what I thought.”

And for a seconds, you thought you saw something like hurt flicker in his eyes.

♡.

More time passed, and though you had resisted at first, you found yourself softening toward Jay. He had a quiet strength about him, a steady patience that wore down your walls like water against stone.

You spent most of your days in the library. Though your eyes weren’t used to the light anymore, your imagination worked just as fine.

You daydreamed of the life outside the suffocating walls of the Underworld’s castle, you dreamed of someone rescuing you.

And sometimes — but just sometimes — you fantasised about Jay, and his heart made of iron.

One night, as you sat by the fire in the great hall, he joined you, a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth clutched in his hand. "I have something for you," he said; his voice held a rare note of uncertainty. You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity pricked despite yourself. "Another 'gesture'?"

"Of a sort," he said. He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a delicate necklace of silver and black opals.

The stones shimmered like starlight, their glow faint but mesmerizing.

You stared at it, then at him. "Why?"

"It reminded me of you," he said simply. "Strong.. luminous, unyielding."

Your heart skipped a beat, though you fought to keep your expression neutral. "You think flattery will make me forgive you?"

"No," he said, holding the necklace out to you. "But it's the truth."

You hesitated, then reached out to take it. The metal was cool against your skin and for a moment, an odd sense of belonging overtook you, like this place, this moment wasn't entirely foreign.

"Thank you," you said softly and surprised yourself.

Jay's eyes relaxed, and for the first time, you saw not the god who had stolen you but the man beneath— the one who had spent centuries in solitude, yearning for connection.

for someone understanding, someone to love. Perhaps, you could learn to be just that.

You handed the necklace back to him, he looked at it, hurt. He thought you had rejected his gift, but as you turned around and held your hair up, his breath hitched.

“Would you help me put it on?” you questioned, your voice soft, unlike the usual bite it held.

“Of course.” Jay murmured quietly, his touch gentle as he put the jewel around your neck.

It fit perfectly, the dark necklace adorning your once tanned skin.

You smiled. holding it between your fingers, “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled.

Your eyes widened when he took in the sight, he smiled so warmly, and for a moment he even looked human.

“You’re beautiful.” Jay spoke, his voice so soft.

“Hades—“ You said, but he shook his head “Call me Jay.”

You gulped, the room suddenly feeling too hot, “Jay.” you repeated, the name rolling sweetly down your tone.

He let out a soft groan, like it both pained and healed him.

“I know you keep thinking ‘Why me?’” He murmured, caressing your cheek. The first time his skin met yours voluntarily “But for me, it has always been you— from the moment I saw you picking those apples, my heart belonged to you.”

You didn’t even have time to think about it, but your feet went on their tip-toes as you pressed your soft lips on his.

To say he was taken aback was an understatement. His eyes wide as body rigid, and for a moment you thought if maybe, he didn’t love you as much as he claimed.

But then, his hand held your face, the other tangled in your hair as his own lips moved on yours passionately.

Your fingers curled around his shirt, grounding you as uou got lost in the taste of him.

You took the hand that was on your cheek and guided it to rest on your racing heart, “Maybe you have the same effect on me.” You murmured on his lips.

His eyes darkened and he pulled away, “Will you marry me?”

You blinked faintly, your breath hitching at his straight-forwardness.

“Do I have a choice?” He stepped away, his breath still heavy from the kiss, “Yes— yes, I’m giving it to you right now.”

Your brows furrowed, so he added “If you think your future still belongs in the Olympus, then go. The door is actually just around the throne room.”

Jay gulped, hope flickering in his usually gloomy eyes “But if you have some sense of future here, with me, then stay. Stay and let me be your husband.”

You clenched your jaw and looked at the door of the throne room. If you exited it and followed the long hallway, you would be out.

You would see the light, feel the sun tickle your skin, see your family, your friends.

But you weren’t sure that was what you wanted anymore.

Your eyes set again on Jay. His expression had lost hope, like he had already lost.

But you smirked, crossing your arms over your chest “So,” you cleared your throat “When’s the wedding?”

A smile, brother than Apollo’s sun lit up his face as he closed the distance he had put and claimed your lips once more.

“Whenever you want, Y/N.”

♡.

In time, the Underworld became your home. Though the darkness remained, it no longer felt oppressive. The palace, once cold and foreign, now echoed with your laughter. And Jay, once a figure of hate, had become something else entirely.

One day, as you stood by the garden's edge, watching the silver streams flow, he approached you. His steps were quiet, but you felt his presence before you turned.

"You've changed this place," he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

You looked at him, a faint smile playing on your lips. "And you've changed me.

He reached out and took your hand in his, holding it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the ring. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with meaning.

Then he bowed his head slightly, his voice a low murmur "Will you teach me how to love you right?”

You looked at him, at the man who had once been your captor but was now so much more.