#jihoon fluff

He liked his routine; it ensured him that his world would continue to go round as he woke up to fresh scratches on his back, and sore muscles that were worked out in the fields and in his bed with you. So, if he wasn't in the town hall right now, he could be hearing that little whine you make when he sinks into you nice and deep, your pretty nails clawing for mercy while you take all of him like he knew you could.

But instead, here he was, the dirt on his cowboy boots scuffing the old wood floor as he sat in the uncomfortable folding chair provided by the assistant to the mayor. His jeans covered the expanse of his thick thighs, his flannel stretching across his chest as he folded his arms with a furrowed brow. He watched as the mayor tried to placate the postman and the grocery store manager, the two grown men fighting over the location of the mailbox in front of 'Gyu's Grocery Store', and Woozi could feel his jaw tense.

This was a stupid meeting. It was the same meeting they always had once a month, and it had nothing to do with him or the farm.

And it's just as he begins to grind his teeth in annoyance that he feels you nonchalantly place your thigh against his.

The town meeting required everyone in Silver Springs to attend, and because the town wasn't big at all, everyone who wasn't a child attended the small town meeting. Nothing really exciting happened in Silver Springs; everyone pretty much knew everyone else since birth, and therefore, the only new bit of drama that could unfold was at these types of events.

Hence why Jeonghan had an amused grin playing on his lips as he shared a thing of popcorn with Joshua, the owner of the only candy shop in the town center.

Jihoon was a quiet man; he wasn't a man for displays of affection in these types of situations where anyone could see him, so when you touch him - his breath stills. He knew he loved you; it was a feeling etched in his bones, the same type of knowing he got when he could look at the clouds for a minute or two and know there would be a storm later in the evening. It's ultimately how his entire body hums alive when you give him the simplest touch. Your knee knocks into his knee, and it feels like electricity shoots through his veins.

You're sitting right next to him in the same type of folding chair, wearing your pretty little summer dress, which you made from scratch, and you had paired it with some little heels to match. You're a complete contrast to him. He's got dirt and grass stains smudged onto his jeans and boots, a simple flannel for a shirt, and his old black cowboy hat resting on his lap. If anyone walked in and didn't know who Woozi was or you, they'd never guess you were his wife.

I mean, you don't even spare Jihoon a glance when your thigh presses into his, your bare skin rubbing against the rough material of his jeans while the mayor demands the postman to sit down. You simply fold your hands in your lap, head raised tall, an aura of elegance coming from you. You looked perfect, but maybe Woozi was just biased.

The town meeting goes by quickly after that; Jihoon doesn't focus on the same monologue everyone gives once a month. Instead, he chooses to focus on the way your bare thigh feels against his. That your pretty little heels are next to his dirty cowboy boots, and if he moves, your perfect put-together look would be ruined.

His mind wanders.

His fingers twitch.

And when the meeting comes to a close, he doesn't hesitate to grab your hand in his. He holds you firmly, guiding you through the thick crowd as you two make your way to his red truck. Again, the contrast screams in his head. His eyes were watching you as he helped you inside his truck after opening the door for you, noticing how you stood out compared to him, and he made it halfway home before he finally couldn't take it anymore.

The truck pulls over onto the gravel road, bouncing you a little in your seat before he turns the truck completely off. When you realize you are somewhere on Woozi's farm, you try to figure out how far the Big House is. There's so much land he owns, and it's dark out, so you're not entirely sure where on the farm you both are, but it doesn't matter when he's calling to you softly.

Jihoon coaxes you closer with an outstretched hand, his fingers curling to beckon you near as he says, "c'mere." He's not asking, and you don't hesitate. You easily slide across the bench seat of the truck until Jihoon pulls you himself, his patience running thin as he brings you onto his lap directly.

You can feel the buckle of his belt against your pelvis, his jeans rubbing against your inner thighs as his fingers dig into your waist. It's cramped, but you've never felt more comfortable than right here as he looks up at you. His hat is tilted back, his hair almost falling into his eyes, as you rest your hands on his chest.

The air is charged with tension, your breath stuck in your lungs before Woozi breaks the silence. "I fucking hate those meetings."

It's unexpected, and it jolts you into laughter, your lips pulling up in an amused grin as he deadpans you. He meant every word, and you know he did.

"I'm serious. They wasted my time, and they wasted yours." He grumbles, and your shoulders shake as he leans back in his seat, the movement making you grind against his lap, and it quietens your giggles. "Could spend my time doing better things."

You know what he's hinting at, and you know you're not in public, but your eyes still flicker from window to window of the truck before you meet his eyes again. You notice the way his eyes have darkened, his lips parting as a soft pink dusts his cheeks with color. "Is that so?" You muse, your heart rate picking up pace as warmth pools between your thighs. "And what would that be?"

Your husband doesn't answer you; he pulls you into a kiss to show you. His warm hands are holding your lower back to keep you close, and he kisses you like summer rain, slow and steady, like he's got nowhere else to be. His hands move up your back and up to your face, tilting your head back so he can begin his trail of kisses down your neck, stopping in spots where you moan sweeter than before. And you're unsure how you end up on your back, splayed out on the bench seat of the 1970s boxed truck he drove, but Jihoon is fitting his hips between your legs like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

His denim jeans rub deliciously between your plush thighs, and your dress gets flipped up high enough for him to pull your panties down. You're just thankful that the windows are cracked because otherwise, you were pretty sure the windows would be fogged up by now with the way he's got you gasping for air.

When Jihoon's calloused fingers find your pretty pussy soaking wet and needy, he's got the top of your dress already bunched at your waist, his tongue laving over one of your nipples as you moan in pleasure. "This is what I ought to be doin'," he mumbles against the curve of your breast, his teeth nipping the supple skin as he swirls his thumb around your puffy clit. You make a keen whine, jutting your hips with a jolt that makes his smile grow. "Should be pleasing my wife, taking care of her. Isn't that right, my love?"

He doesn't expect an answer from you. Not when he's filling your sweet pussy with two of his fingers, stretching your gummy walls open as he sinks his digits to the knuckle.

You take him easy, already soaking wet for him, like always, and Woozi goes back to sucking your nipple into his mouth. He thrusts his fingers into your drooling cunt like he wasn't pulled over by one of the fields he owned, curling them just right, and your head swims with desire. He takes in the hitch in your breath, the way your legs fall open wider, your knee knocking into the dashboard of his truck as you take another one of his fingers, and the heart in his chest grows warmer.

"You take me so well, Peach." Woozi praises, and he looks between you two to see how glistening wet you make his fingers. "Should just have you like this all the time, wrapped around me, and making those sweet noises just for me." The sound of your pussy becoming wetter fills the small space, and your nails dig into his biceps, your cheeks flushed as he curls his fingers again and again.

He grazes the spongy spot that makes you see white, and your entire body tenses as you moan loudly for him. "Right there, oh! Right there!" You babble, and Woozi thinks about the contrast again. How pretty and put-together you were at the town meeting, and how ruined you are now.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist. Your pretty tits are exposed to his hungry eyes, and your sweet pussy is slurping on his fingers, begging for more, while he is still fully dressed. The power imbalance is unable to be hidden in Woozi's eyes, and his cock was hard and heavy in his jeans, wishing to be buried deep inside your drooling cunt as he got you rolling your eyes to the back of your head. His cowboy boots leave dusty footprints on the inside of his driver's side door as he brings your orgasm close, but he couldn't care less because after a few more strokes to your g-spot, he gets to see you like this: disheveled, holding onto him like a lifeline, and a complete mess as you cum with a cry of his name.

You tremble underneath him, your pussy spasming around his fingers while you gush hot and sweet, bucking your hips like you can't control them yourself. And Woozi's chest warms with pride, his fingers working between your thighs to fuck you through it, prolonging your high as your eyes glaze over in ecstasy.

When your tremors subside to little twitches in your thighs, he leans back, slipping his fingers from your sopping cunt with a satisfied grin. He keeps eye contact with you as he licks his digits clean, groaning at the taste of you, and murmuring, "sweet as a peach," while you try to blink away your bleary vision. "I think this was better than any town meeting."

And you can't disagree when he's unbuckling his belt, moving to shove his jeans down so he can get his cock free.

The weather is perfect today on the farm. It's clear skies and a sweet breeze that make the rows and rows of trees sway in the wind gently; the green leaves do a little shimmy before settling back in place, and you stand in your kitchen barefoot.

Normally, you'd always be dressed down to the kitten heels at the very least. Your wardrobe is usually picked out the night before, matching the perfectly fixed hair that you take your time to do every morning, but today is different. You are off today, not needed in town after your assistant threatened to lock the doors to your shop if you tried to come in. Minghao was like that, a sharp eye that meant well, and you were the kind of boss who didn't know what an off day meant until it hit you. So, after some whining from you that your assistant easily blocked, you were hung up on and left to your own devices.

But now what?

You're still in your pajamas, which consisted of a shirt of your husband's and little ruffled shorts you hand-made yourself, and your hands rested on your hips as you tried to figure out what to do for the rest of the day.

Your husband was long gone by now, somewhere on the farm working hard; he always got up before the sun did, and you would wake up to a pot of coffee waiting for you, still hot on the kitchen counter when you eventually made it downstairs.

That's what you gravitate to first.

You see the new mug set out on your kitchen counter; today it's shaped like a cowboy boot, and you fill it up with coffee Woozi left on. This was your routine. Woozi made coffee, something he desperately needed to start his day, and he made enough for both of you as he picked out the mug he wanted you to use for the day.

The first sip warms you entirely, making your lips curve into a soft smile as the taste of coffee and creamer swirls along your tongue. You're feeling more awake as you lean your hip against the old counter, your eyes flickering to the window above your kitchen sink.

You look out the window, ready to enjoy the view, when you spot your husband a little bit in the distance. He's on top of one of the big tractors he owns, tinkering on it as one of the dogs you two own zooms around it, making your husband shake his head. You don't have to be close to know he's smiling, and you can't tear your eyes off of him.

He's in his normal uniform: denim jeans, a plaid flannel, and a black cowboy hat. He's got the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to his elbows, and you know that even with his hat, he's got to be sweating. The summer hadn't turned unbearable yet, but it was still hot to be out there for long periods of time without any shade.

And you're just thinking about making him some lemonade or a snack when he's suddenly coming through the kitchen door, making you blink in surprise. You hadn't realized you were so lost in thought, but it seems you surprise Woozi just as much as he does you. He falters in step for a second, taking you in slowly, seeing your bare legs and feet as you hug the cowboy mug to your chest. You would normally be gone by now, halfway to work, but with your day off, you aren't.

You twist your body to face your husband, leaning back into the corner of the kitchen counter as he keeps eye contact with you. His eyes flicker, and it's too fast for you to try and read the emotions, but you watch as he silently opens the door of the fridge, grabbing a cold water bottle before he copies your stance - leaning back on the kitchen table, facing you, as he crosses his feet by his ankles.

His eyes stay on yours as he takes a moment to speak up, choosing to instead open the water bottle with an easy twist before bringing it to his mouth. Your eyelashes flutter as he takes a drink, a brief memory of last night flashing through your mind, and you're feeling more than envisioning his mouth sucking on something else that makes your thighs clench together in need. You watch his throat work, drinking in the water while your eyes wander down his body.

His flannel hugs his torso, stretching over muscles built by long days of hard labor, and you can't help but appreciate it. His thighs fill his jeans, and his forearms flex as they cross at his chest - and you're all but salivating at the mouth for your husband.

"You doin' work from home today?" He asks, breaking the silence and pulling you from your wandering thoughts. You shift from one foot to the other, not knowing that you were driving him insane by being in just your pajamas and a little messy hair. He wanted to bend you over the counter, spread your thighs, and tell you how much he needed to relieve some stress. How one of the tractors started acting up, getting on his nerves, and only your pretty pussy could help him get through the rest of his day - but instead, he does his best to restrain himself. He quirks a brow in your direction and watches you lick your lips before answering.

"No, I uh, took the day off." His eyebrows raise more at that, and he taps the empty water bottle against his bicep in thought. He doesn't know if he really could be productive today when he knows his wife will be inside all day, wearing his shirt, and hardly anything else. "But it could give me time to catch up on some personal work," you add, and Woozi stays quiet.

In the Big House, your home, Woozi had made sure you had your own office. A place where you could bring work home, or create on your own when you had the time. But you were always busy with something, especially since you were the main seamstress in town, and therefore, you hardly ever had time to create your own work.

Another beat of silence stretches between you two, and eventually Woozi nods his head to himself, standing straighter as he clears his throat with a little grunt. "Well, maybe I can join you for lunch if I can fix the tractor in time."

You knew your husband well enough to know that he wasn't a man of many words; he showed his affection through actions, and you knew that he'd do his best to find time to see you, and it made your heart flutter as he pushed off from the table. He seemed to hesitate again, just briefly, before he took two big steps toward you. When he was close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body, his hand reached for your face, pulling you half-way until his lips barely brushed yours.

It made you gasp, your eyes widening as your cheeks flushed, and you felt more than you saw, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. He hummed softly, and your lips tingled before he finally gave you a kiss that made your head spin. But as soon as he kissed you, he was pulling back, his tongue licking over his bottom lip as he cleared his throat like he was restraining himself. "Good morning, by the way."

And then he was gone, back outside with your two dogs at his heels while you slumped into the kitchen counter.

How were you supposed to be productive today after that?

Three hours later, you give up trying to work from home entirely when you're too distracted by your husband working outside. Your office faces the East, filling the small room full of fabrics in a warm glow, and giving you the perfect view of your husband riding the tractor he fixed. He's going up and down in the field to your left, and you're going insane alone with your unfinished projects.

Even from where you stood in the Big House, you could see that more buttons had come undone on his flannel, exposing his skin to the sunlight, and leaving you in a trance that makes you shake your head literally. You only got like this, dazed, with your husband; you were usually more composed, focused, and a little cold out in public. You owned and ran your own business, all from money you had earned through hard work, and it had taken years to get where you were now.

You had finally started becoming a recognized brand that was highly respected, and it was because you could remain composed, level, and meticulous in everything you did.

That's why no one would ever believe you if you told them you were in the kitchen making homemade lemonade as an excuse to see your husband instead of working.

You were still in your pajamas, your ruffled shorts hidden under your husband's old t-shirt as you added water to the pretty pitcher you had been gifted for your wedding. All the lemons you had stored on the kitchen counter had been juiced, and your cheeks were flushed from the silliness you felt by doing this. You could just go outside and call him over. You knew he'd drop everything, but you had no reason to interrupt his work. So, you didn't stop your lame excuse and grabbed the sugar from your pantry to stir in with your water until the lemonade was as sweet as the lemonade you could get from the state fair.

Once you were satisfied, you poured a tall glass with ice full of your lemonade before you ventured out the sliding glass door in your kitchen. Your stomach flipped as you realized you had no shoes to wear that wouldn't get ruined by mud, and you decided to carefully shake out your husband's extra pair of cowboy boots before you stepped in them.

The boots were old, worn, and dusty, but it was all you had, even if they didn't go with your outfit and they felt a little big to be walking in. Nevertheless, you were determined, and with the glass of lemonade in one hand, you stepped off the porch in search of your husband.

Luckily, it was not too hard to find him; you only had to glance at the field you last saw him in before you saw the barn door open in the distance. He must be getting ready to saddle one of the horses, and the thought alone made you walk faster so you wouldn't miss him.

The red barn was one of the bigger ones on the farm. Jihoon had four in total, not including the Big House, and they had been on this land long before he was even born. They had withstood rainstorms, snow, and a flood back in the eighties, and the goal was that they would be here long after him. Some paint peeled now and then, and Woozi would have to hire contractors to come look at a leak in the roof soon, but most of the time, it was the sanctuary he gave himself in between tasks for the day.

Amongst the stalls for the horses, and the extra bales of hay in the corner, the barn also housed all the gear he needed to saddle his horse or brush them after a long day, and a little workbench he was currently leaning against to give himself a small break. He was hoping to finish early to see you back home sooner, and he had been so lost daydreaming about you from this morning that he hadn't noticed you hesitantly walking in until you were calling for him softly.

"I made lemonade."

Woozi blinks; his flannel is fully open now, and he catches the way your eyes flicker down to the lines and ridges of his abs as you come to a halt a couple of feet away from him. His lips twitch, an amused grin almost showing on his face as his dark eyes move from you standing there like his greatest temptation and the cup of lemonade in your left hand.

"You made lemonade?" He mused, and he leaned further back against the workbench, allowing his flannel to fall from his sides. He can see you shift from one foot to the other like you were unsure of yourself, out of your element, and it's then that he realizes you're wearing more of his stuff than before, and the sight of it makes his cock twitch in delight.

"Yeah, I uh," you lick your lips and trail off because your mind is wandering south just like your eyes. You briefly wonder what it'd feel like being bent over the desk he's leaning on, and your thighs squeeze together pathetically in response. "I uh, thought maybe you'd be thirsty."

Thirsty. Jihoon nods to himself, agreeing he's thirsty, but not for your lemonade.

He stands up, slow and confident, loving that you made this excuse to see him, and he walks closer with deliberate, languid steps. His pretty wife, it seems, had been thinking about him as much as he has been thinking about you all day today. And when he finally takes your cup from your hand, he's all but backed you into one of the haystacks with a knowing smirk that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"You're right," He hums and keeps eye contact with you as he sets the cup to the side on an adjacent haystack. His hands find their way to your waist, slipping under his shirt to touch your hips without anything in the way, and the feel of his calloused fingertips against your smooth skin makes your eyelashes flutter. "I am thirsty," he says it low and deep, and you're clutching onto his biceps as he lifts you to sit on the haystack with ease.

From this height, your hips are the height of his chest, and your gasp echoes as your husband pulls your ass to the edge, his eyes sparkling while heat pools in your stomach.

"You gonna let me fix that, my love? Let me have a taste after working so hard in the sun today." His words make your heart pick up the pace, stuttering in your chest, and you find yourself nodding dumbly as his fingers hook into your ruffled shorts and panties.

He drags the two pieces of clothing down until they are balled up next to the useless cup of lemonade, and then he's pushing you back gently, forcing you onto your back as he manhandles your knees to your chest, exposing your pretty pussy to the open air.

It should be embarrassing how wet you already are, and how much more of your slick seeps from your puffy folds when Jihoon moans. He hasn't even done anything but stare, watching how your sensitive clit glitters with your juices as he stands over you. "Always so good for me," he praises, and you're unable to speak when he dives right in.

His hot tongue is thick, and the wet muscle laps up your slit like you're his favorite meal. And maybe, it's because you are. His fingers dig into the fat of your thighs, keep you spread open, and his nose buries itself against your clit as he slurps obscenely, letting the noises echo in the big barn. It's dirty how he has you, with your ass hanging on the edge of the haystack as he messily makes out with your cunt, but you've also never been more turned on.

Your hands scramble to hold onto something, anything, before you bring his face closer to your pretty pussy, your hips rocking up to match the filthy thrusts of his tongue plunging into your sopping cunt.

The familiar heat in your stomach swirls tighter with each sloppy shake of Jihoon's head between your plush thighs, and your cries resonate in the tall barn louder, mixing with his lovesick groans. "This is just - hah - what I needed-" He confesses, and you feel his hand leave your thigh before two of his fingers stuff your cunt with a sticky squelch. Your eyes swirl, and your jaw drops, and Jihoon dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth with a precise curl of his fingers that makes your ears ring.

Stars burst behind your eyelids, bringing your orgasm closer, and your whimpers turn more wrecked as he focuses on the soft spots inside you that have you thrashing underneath him.

"You don't even know how much I wanted to fuck you when I saw you this morning." His words come out between his tongue lapping on your pulsing clit, and the deep plunges of his thick fingers inside your pussy. His lips and jaw are dripping with your arousal, and he's only more determined to make a mess out of you as he keeps talking you through it. "Just - ngh - wanted to bend ya' over our kitchen table, see if your pretty pussy was still molded to m'cock from last night."

Your gasp comes out choked, and your gummy walls tighten around his three digits, squeezing him in pulses as your orgasm crashes through you suddenly. You cry out his name when you cum, and Jihoon replaces his fingers with his tongue, slurping your slick while his thumb rubs sloppy hearts into your clit, fucking you through it with a happy groan. He rides out every wave of your orgasm until your noises come out silent and you're oversensitive, weakly pushing on his head to let you go.

When Woozi finally listens, he places a sweet kiss on your trembling thighs before he stands back up from his hunched position. Your arousal coats his nose, lips, and jaw with a glittering shine that has your cheeks blushing a darker shade, and the pleased smirk he gives you when you lie there boneless has your pussy fluttering with new tremors.

You watch him lick his lips before grabbing your forgotten lemonade. He makes sure you're watching as he takes a sip, sighing in contentment before he gives you a teasing wink. "Sweet, but you're sweeter."

When the leaves change colors in the fall, the farm changes with it. It'd been an annual event for the pumpkin patch to be held on your husband's farm. It'd been the designated place for generations, so as the spooky holiday neared, your work balanced between running your business in town and creating side projects to decorate your land for the town to enjoy with their family and friends.

The usual staples would be provided, like bobbing for apples, hay rides, pumpkin picking, and a corn maze that you were determined to make spooky enough for the teenagers when they came during the evening. It was always like that: kids and families came during the day for wholesome fun, and then teenagers and young adults came in the evening for date night and scares. You were proud to be a part of this tradition, and the whole town helped, so it wasn't just on you and your husband's shoulders.

Mingyu, Seungcheol, and Dino came early to help your husband set up tables, guide food trucks to a clear field, and put up structures that you had painted the week before. Seungkwan supervised not only the kids' activities because he was everyone's favorite school teacher, but also the rest of the town on what their job was and how to do it properly. He had muttered to you that otherwise no one would do it right, and it made you hide your grin behind your hand as he sauntered off to find Vernon, who was supposed to have the raffle tickets for the prizes that would be won later.

You had felt like you had been pulled in every other direction putting this whole thing together, and it also felt like you had hardly seen your husband unless it was across the way, and he was busy with another task with one of the boys. You'd catch him lifting hay bales, muscles flexing under the autumn sun, before someone would come to talk to you about an activity, distracting you from your view of your man, and when you looked back moments later, he'd be gone. The moments seemed to build as time went on, and before you had realized it, hours had passed, and the kids and families were gone, while the evening rolled in with the next wave of people.

Eventually, you'd find yourself back inside the Big House, which was off-limits to others but your husband and you, and it was your solace as you leaned on the kitchen sink with a heavy sigh. The kitchen window gave you a view of adults mingling around, laughing and talking, and you felt satisfied with how the event turned out, even if you were tired and missing your husband more than usual. The last time you had seen him, it was just before four in the afternoon, and Seungkwan was hosting the last kids' bobbing for apples activity with you right next to him.

Your eyes had wandered from Seungkwan's dramatic flair on how to actually bob for apples to the tractor dragging the hitched trailer full of families, your husband being the person behind the wheel as he drove it around for everyone.

Jihoon had his black cowboy hat tipped back, his posture relaxed and confident, and the urge to kiss him consumed you so suddenly you felt frozen. You couldn't keep your eyes off of him, watching as he drove nearer, and as if he could feel you staring, his head turned, and his dark eyes caught yours like two magnets snapping together.

With one look, your breath caught, your cheeks flushed, and Jihoon's lips curved up in amusement. When he was close enough, he tipped his hat to you nice and slow, a teasing smile dancing on his face as he murmured, "My love," before driving by. It was just two words, but it was enough to make your tummy flip and your neediness grow as Seungkwan redirected your attention to the kids who were clamoring to bite one apple from one of the five barrels in front of them.

You had spent the rest of the day in a daze, your eyes glossed over with very little attention span, and you hadn't even realized you were no longer alone in your kitchen until your husband spoke up.

"My love," those two little words snap you from your wandering thoughts, and your head turned to look over your shoulder towards your husband, who was wearing the same teasing smile as before.

When you realize you're finally alone with him, your body moves faster than your mind, and you're not hesitating as you pull him into a kiss that makes his warm hands squeeze your hips with a groan. You take charge of the kiss easily, nipping on his bottom lip with your teeth as your hand snakes down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. You make quick work of his belt, sliding his zipper down and unbuttoning his jeans until they bunch at his knees with an eagerness that makes his head spin.

He lets out a strangled noise when you pull back from his kiss just enough to see his eyes swirl, and his cheeks darken with a blush. His hat is tilted back, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his cock is growing a tent in his boxers as your palm rubs against it, squeezing him through the thin material that separates him from you.

Precum oozes from his tip, staining the fabric enough for you to see, and your smile is all seduction as he holds onto the kitchen counter tightly. "Were you missing me, too?" You asked Jihoon with a flutter of your eyelashes. You've taken to stroking him through his boxers, circling your thumb around the tip until heat ached down to his lower stomach. His abdomen tensed, his knuckles whitened, and your husband looked too good being this wrecked over a few tugs of your hand.

"Baby-" His moan came out desperate, his hooded eyes never leaving yours as his hips twitched under your hand. "Fuck, yeah- ngh - missed you s'much." Your touch became firmer as he stuttered through his words, and your hand moved underneath the waistband of his boxers to feel him hot and pulsing under your palm.

The mere touch of your hand made a whine slip from his lips, and his head tilted backwards as you used his precum as lubricant to tug on his cock. Obscene "schlick!" noises resonated in the kitchen as the event happened just twenty feet away outside your kitchen window, and your husband's head began to fill with nothing but the way your hand felt around his cock, and the pretty smile you gave as the wet repetitive sound of your hand pumping deliberate strokes grew more frequent with each squeeze you gave to his tip.

His hips moved in tandem with your hand, thrusting his cock into your tight grip, and just when he thought you couldn't get any hotter, you're sinking onto your knees between his spread legs.

His cock is heavy, weighing down from the amount of blood that rushed south to it, and his tip is cherry red with need. The sight of him, hard, pulsing, and leaking gooey precum profusely, has your mouth watering, and you're only able to give him a cheeky wink before his vision swims, and your warm mouth swallows his tip with a satisfied moan.

"Oh fuck," his curse comes out choked off, and his muscles flex as the coil of pressure in his abdomen tightens to an overwhelming tremor. His breath leaves his lungs, and your mouth slides further down his cock until his hand comes to twist in your hair. He doesn't pull you off or guide your movements; he just uses it as a hold to keep himself grounded as your mouth slurps his cock all the way down to the base.

Your nose brushes the trimmed hair on his pelvis, and his balls tighten with each wet, slobbery bob of your head. The slippery friction of your warm mouth leaves him gasping for air as you take him all the way down your throat before going back up to swirl your tongue around his tip. The sloppy sucks of your lips wrapped around his shaft increase, your pace picking up, and his hand on the back of your head gets heavier with each filthy "gulk!" your throat makes when his cock stuffs it to the brim.

After a few more bobs from you, he can't take it anymore, and he holds your head still, his hips rolling forward on their own accord as he takes over. The pleasure became too much, and your eyes watered as he fucked your mouth, your name coming out as a thankful chant. When he looked down at you, his eyes were blown wide, glossy like your lips, and the sight of you blinking up at him as you let him use you was enough to make the pressure building inside him burst.

His hips jutted forward, his thrusts stuttering into an erratic rhythm as his eyes squeezed shut so tightly that colors exploded behind his eyelids. Your name tore through his throat, raw and undone, echoing in the room as a mix between a broken sob and a gasp. All of his muscles locked up, his hand keeping your head down on his cock, forcing your throat to swallow around his thick length as his tip twitched with the first wave of his release.

His thighs trembled, and he fought to stay upright as you sucked on his sensitive tip until you had swallowed every last drop of his cum. Your tongue massaged the pulsing veins down his length, and when the waves of pleasure began to subside, you finally let him go with a wet "pop!"

Your tongue licked your lips clean as he slumped into the kitchen counter, out of breath, and you stood up slowly, getting onto your tiptoes as you gave him another slow kiss, letting him taste himself on your tongue. "I missed you." You murmured against his lips, and his fingers curled into your dress tighter, bringing you closer.

The coldness that creeps in, foreboding the coming of winter, brings slower work for Woozi; by this point, he's moved his cattle from one area to the next, and he's prepping the old land they were on for better growth for next spring as he manages the shorter days with less sun.

He's still busy almost the entire day, but with it being the colder season, he's able to finish up earlier with fewer tasks needing his attention, which allows him to have dinner with you on a four-day regular basis, an upgrade to your normal two- to three-day dinner dates.

You two work in tandem to cook a home-cooked meal, provided by his hard work, whenever you can, and while you insist on cooking, he insists on setting the table once he's finished with work for the day. The routine is simple: you arrive at the Big House around five-thirty like usual, and immediately get to cooking, and once Jihoon comes in for the day, you're usually half-way done with dinner to allow him to wash up and set the table in the meantime. You two don't really talk as much during this time; you know your husband isn't much for talking unless necessary, so you're not prepared when he comes in a little later than usual and sets his black cowboy hat down on the kitchen counter without so much of a glance.

His walk is heavier than usual, his eyes set on you as you stir the pasta you had made in the pot, and a shiver runs up your spine when you meet his dark eyes. "I just need to make the salad, and dinner should be ready," you say, and you mistake the hunger in his eyes for food. You don't know he's had a rough day, that every little thing seemed to go wrong, and he had pent his frustration in a slow swirl that tightened up like a rattlesnake's tail that jittered in warning before striking.

The silence hangs heavily between you both, and you could feel the air shift, electrifying the tension, and you had made the fortunate move of flipping the stove top burner off before you spoke up again.

"I just need you to set the table-" you are unable to finish your sentence before your husband reaches for you. The rattlesnake struck, gripping you with strength that made you gasp as you were whirled around the kitchen until your chest met your kitchen table. The wood table was cold against the little slip dress you had worn to work. The thin material hugged your body, stretching tight when Jihoon manhandled you to bend over the table, and your arms were behind your back before you could say his name in alarm.

His one hand holds both of your wrists in a taut grasp, and another gasp leaves your glossy lips when his cowboy boot kicks your legs open wider. You can feel his hips against your ass, his buckle digging into the end of your dress, and your cheeks flush as you feel his cock is already hard under his fitted jeans. "I'm going to fuck you." His words come out confident, a sureness that makes your pussy clench in anticipation, and you're rewarded with a roll of his hips as he continues to talk. "And you're gonna cum on my cock twice before we have the dinner you've made, okay?"

You're pinned to the kitchen table, his jeans rubbing against the back of your thighs, and your panties are soaked, sticking to your folds as you nod your head quietly. You can hear him huff a little laugh, smug, and his hands tighten around your wrists as he flips your dress up, dragging your panties down just enough to give him access to your pretty cunt.

You expect him to be rough, to take you right then and there, but instead, he's much worse. He's a tease.

His thick fingers find your clit with ease, and your arousal drips down his digits as he strokes your nub with light touches. His denim jeans are tight over his wide thighs, and they are keeping you in place as he teases your cunt with slow caresses. He winds you up with knowing accuracy, rubbing sloppy hearts into your clit until your cunt is all but weeping slick down your trembling thighs.

The room fills with the wet sounds of your cunt, and your breathy moans, and Jihoon lets out a sigh like this was exactly what he needed. His eyes can't stop staring at your quivering pussy, the way your hole flutters as he plays with you, dragging his fingers through your dripping folds, teasing your entrance before going back to your pulsing clit like he knows you could cum from just this.

And you could; he's had you do it before, stroking your clit until you were throbbing around nothing, begging for his cock before you orgasmed with a cry of his name.

Tonight, he's too tense to have that happen again, and just as your hips are tilting back, pressing back onto his fingers with a wiggle that says you're about to cum - he stops. With one hand, he unbuckles his belt, shoving his jeans sloppily down to his thighs, before he grabs your ass with a heavy hand. His cock aligns with your entrance perfectly, and the fat, blunt head of his cock is dark and leaking with his precum, coating your pussy and making your head spin with lust. You're just about ready to beg for him to move when he pushes his hips forward, sheathing his cock inside you in one full thrust.

Normally, your husband has you cumming on his fingers and mouth a few times before he gives you his cock, but tonight, he takes you like you're his personal cock sleeve. He holds your wrists in one hand behind your back and your hip in the other as he drags his heavy cock through your gummy walls, pushing out loud moans from your glossy lips each time he fills you to the hilt.

The table digs into your hips as his balls smack into your clit with little 'plap, plap, plaps', adding to your pleasure as he uses you hard and fast. You can only tilt your hips up to take each thrust with a whimper, your pussy slurping his cock deeper with each clap of his hips meeting your ass. The orgasm that builds in your stomach develops hotter with each stroke he gives, and you're rendered to a babbling mess as your pussy slobbers his cock with another wave of your slick. "Oh! Yes, yes, just like that!"

You barely hear your husband scoff, a smug smirk dawning on his face as he hooks your knee up onto the table. The new angle has him plugging his cock deeper into you, and your tongue lolls lewdly in response. "Just like that?" He croons condescendingly. "Yeah, you like it when I fuck my frustration out on you? Hah, look at you - you're soaking me."

Your legs tremble, and his thrusts pick up pace, bringing drool to the corner of your mouth as he reaches under you to find your puffy clit. He rubs the pretty nub with quick and mean circles, and you're unable to warn him fast enough before something snaps inside you. Your orgasm bursts like the wail you let out, and your cunt spasms into a vice grip around his cock, pulsing in tremors that make Jihoon's hips stutter.

"That's it, let it all out for me, Baby." He praises, and your pussy quivers as he keeps rubbing your clit, his thrusts growing harder as he changes his pace to fuck you deep and slow. He makes you feel every inch plunge through your gushing channel, until you're realizing just how much of a mess you've made. You can feel your cum drip down your thighs, and your cheeks flush as your second orgasm builds quicker than the first.

"Ji-Jihoon! It's too - ngh - too much! M'gonna - oh fuck, fuck," Your moan turns into a squeal as your body locks up; you've barely stopped the trembling in your thighs before you're gushing for the second time. Your stomach tightens, your pussy clamps down on his thick cock, and your vision darkens as he smacks your clit with his wet fingers.

You think you forget how to breathe, because one moment your vision blackens, and the next you're gasping for air as Jihoon curses behind you. "Fuck, you're perfect." You can hear his teeth grinding together, and your pussy is still milking his cock through your orgasm when you feel his cock swelling as he cums. Every inch of his shaft rubs your sensitive walls deliciously, and you can feel every spurt of his cock filling your cunt with his cum as he groans loudly behind you.

His hips grind into your ass, his cock painting your pussy white, and it's then that he finally lets go of your wrists. You feel your arms drop to your sides while he rubs his hands down your back, keeping you stuffed with his cock and cum as he praises you. "You did so good for me, my love; you made such a mess- even squirted for me." He sighs blissfully, and your cunt squeezes his cock instinctively at his words.

You're pretty sure your pasta was cold now, but you couldn't care less; you felt warm and satisfied as your husband rubbed your hips and back with deep circles, praising you with more compliments as you lay boneless over the kitchen table.

There are only a few days Jihoon takes off from working his farm. If he had it his way, he'd work even on his birthday, but you'd never allow that. You always claimed that the ranch could handle one day without him, and one small finger from you pointed at his chest with a determined glint in your eye had him shutting up any protest as he hung up his hat for the night, following you to bed as you slowly led the way with an enticing sway of your hips.

But old habits die hard, and Woozi wakes before the sun does. His eyes flutter open, and the first thing he notices is that your soft body is tucked into his as your leg drapes over his hip. It's quiet, the stillness before the dawn, and your little sleepy noises that you huff into his neck make his heart warm all over. It was always hard to leave you in the mornings, even when his body moved on autopilot.

Mornings were definitely not in his favor; his eyes could barely stay open as his hair jutted out every which way, and the only balm he gave himself was by making a strong cup of coffee to start his day. As the coffee dripped into the pot, he grabbed two mugs out of habit, one for himself and the other chosen specifically for you. Today, he chooses a pink one dotted with tiny red hearts all over it just for you.

When the coffee is done, the sky has barely changed color; it's still dark, but the first glimpses of it lightening up are seen just behind the mountains to the East, and he takes his cup of coffee onto the back porch.

Your porch wraps around the entirety of the Big House, but Woozi likes to stay on the back half, looking over all the land he worked hard to maintain. Two of the red barns are back here, and the chicken coop is around the corner, so as everyone sleeps, he sighs and leans his hip into the porch railing as he finally takes his first sip of coffee for the day.

He drinks his coffee mostly black; the bitterness shoots through his veins, waking him up faster, and his brows pinch as it warms his body over the cold morning air. Usually, if he were working, he'd drink his first cup of coffee just like this. He'd take the brief moment of quiet before grabbing his second cup to go as he headed out to check up on all the animals. He only allowed himself two cups of coffee; otherwise, his body would get too jittery, his brain would drift, and the urge to "fuck all" and find his wife would be too unbearable to resist. Essentially, nothing would get done but you, so he had to have some restraint as he would call your two dogs to follow him on his heels.

But none of that matters today, though; it's his birthday, his wife was naked in his bed upstairs, and when he finished his first cup of coffee, he planned to celebrate with his head between your thighs, waking you up with the warmth of his tongue to start your day off right.

The thought alone makes him smirk to himself, his cock growing in his jeans as he daydreams, and he's so lost in his own world he doesn't hear you until you're setting your pink mug of coffee right next to his on the porch railing.

"I woke up alone."

Your statement comes out quietly, calmly, and his dark eyes shift to the right, widening when he sees you standing there still as naked as he had left you. "Baby, it's cold out here-" His body fully twists in your direction now, and his eyes can't help but dip and follow the curves and lines of his pretty wife as you give him a knowing grin.

"-then warm me up, cowboy. Make up for the fact you weren't in my bed this morning." Your little nickname was always an inside joke between you two, something you called him just to rile him up, and his plans to take you on the bed fly out the window entirely. A grin tugged onto the edge of his lips, matching your own, and his hands grabbed your waist so fast that you let out an involuntary yelp as he pulled you into him.

Your cold skin hummed with renewed heat as his hands rubbed down your back, and your moan got swallowed by his lips when he kissed you like there wasn't enough time in the world. He could feel your perky nipples against his chest, the goosebumps that ran down your arms, and the smile you two shared as he licked over your bottom lip before pulling back. "What are the magical words?" He teased low and deep, the morning raspiness in his tone making your thighs squeeze together in anticipation as his hardening cock pressed against your hip.

It was unfair how easily he could make your head clouded with lust, and your nails lightly scratched down his sides to provoke a little inhale from him as you watched his pupils blow wide with hunger. You leaned up, brushing your lips over his, and smiled at the tingling you felt all the way down to your toes. "Happy birthday, my love."

Jihoon groaned, and you laughed as you two were brought down onto the floor by him. He didn't bother even making it inside with you as his body covered yours, right there on the back porch, and his hips slotted between your legs as he squeezed your ass playfully. His head dipped down, and his teeth nipped the curve of your neck, bringing another round of giggles from you as he spoke into your ear with an affectionate scoff. "I was looking for, please, Darling, not some cheesy happy birthday." He huffed, and an adoring pinch to your side made your hips buck up into his.

Your pussy slid up his jean-covered bulge, and both of you groaned as his own body reacted to yours instinctively. Every time your hips rolled, his hips responded, grinding into your exposed cunt, dragging the seam of his jeans over your pretty clit until your arousal seeped onto the front of his jeans with a darkening wet patch.

You were so pretty, lying underneath him, dry humping him out in the open, and he knew he was going to take you right here in the cold early morning, but before Woozi could pin you down, your knees pressed into his hips, and your body used his weight to roll you two around until you were on top.

Your weight settled back onto his lap as he found himself lying on the creaky wooden floor in surprise, and your hands rested on his chest as your hips swiveled again, grinding over his lap as he held onto your waist with a moan. "Birthday boys don't need a please; they just need to be good and take what they're given." Your husband's head fell back, exposing his neck, and your smile turned a little condescending as you looked down on him. "Now, are you going to let me ride my cowboy, or what?"

Jihoon gave a short, jerky nod in consent, his vision blurring a little as his cock pulsed in need from your words. He barely made out the two coffee mugs still steaming on the railing before you made quick work of his jeans, unbuckling his belt, and sliding his zipper down. He helped you shove his jeans down to the middle of his thighs with his boxers, and you were already soaking wet as you leaned up on your knees to reach back for his hefty cock.

There is no prep, no teasing, just your hand guiding his cock to your entrance, and then your pretty pussy engulfing his shaft inch by mouth-watering inch with such warmth that his tongue slaps the roof of his mouth as his eyes roll back in pleasure.

Your pussy creates a filthy and sticky squelch from the breach of his cock stretching you open, and you can feel every thumping inch of his cock rub deliciously along your gummy walls as his weeping tip reaches places you didn't even know existed as your ass finally meets his hips in one swift swoop. Fuck, this was Jihoon's favorite position for a reason, and it shows when your head falls back and your eyes cross lewdly from the feeling of him stuffing you full.

Each time your hips slam down, driving his cock deeper into your wet heat, dirty "plap, plap, plaps!" resonate in the open air as your skin smacks into his. Your gyrations only got nastier with each twist of your hips, and the feel of his plump cock swiveling around inside you so deliciously had his jaw gritting, his muscles straining, as you rode him like he was a prized bull.

This was heaven, and he says as much as his eyes fixate on your bouncing tits, your face showing him the fucked-out expression he loved seeing you wear when you got cock drunk. One of his hands displays his fingers over your ass, squeezing the soft flesh as his other hand snakes up your curved back, bringing you lower until his lips could wrap around one of your perky nipples.

He sucks with a hard pull, and the new angle has his cock drilling into your sweet spot like a bullseye, making your entire body jolt as he bucks his hips upwards to meet your movements. An adorable "ah!" shrills from your gaping mouth, and your legs burn as every inch of your velvety walls gets massaged by his thickening shaft.

You were being fucked, and your brain lags the information that you weren't in control anymore, even if you were on top. Woozi's hand slips between your two sweaty bodies, his fingers spreading your puffy folds open even more, and you're babbling in desperation as his teeth graze your nipple with a grin. "Wait! Wait- I'm-" Your words slur, and Jihoon can't help but place a mean smack on your clit, splashing your juices across his fingertips as his other hand held your hips in place.

"So gorgeous," Your husband praises, and your cunt drools at the feeling of his cold wedding band on his left hand rubbing against your hot, pulsing clit in beckoning swirls, smoothing the harsh sting he gave your little nub seconds before.

You're not sure if it was the way he used his wedding band against your quivering cunt or the way his cock continued to bruise your g-spot with a mean accuracy, or if it was because he was looking at you like you were the greatest gift on this earth, but your orgasm slams through you suddenly, knocking every last thought from your brain as his lips crash into yours.

You feel your cunt gush all around him, splattering your juices, and his fingers make quick, swift smacks onto your pulsing clit until you're squirting hard, crying into his mouth as his tongue licks over yours with a deep groan.

When you finally pull away, Jihoon is chasing after your lips, and your pussy is still spasming through your orgasm as your slick spreads across his lap every time you fucked yourself down on his hard cock. You can barely see Jihoon's lovesick grin on his face behind your teary eyes, and his voice sounds as wrecked as you feel when he rasps, "Such a messy wife I got, huh? Squirting all over me."

Your pussy clenches wantonly, milking his weeping cock pitifully, and Jihoon's balls tense, his pupils dilating into hearts as you look at him with glossy eyes. You don't have to speak for him to know what you're wanting, and the two of you roll around again until your husband is pushing your knees to your chest, forcing you into a nasty mating press.

Maybe taking the day off for his birthday wasn't that bad after all.

The sun provides a welcoming warmth across your face as you lean back on the peach tree in April. Your chin tilts up, and your eyes close, basking in the sun's rays of spring while the green leaves cover you with partial shade. All the peaches look ripe and juicy, and a few of them are piled to your left on the blanket you're sitting on, and you can't help but think about how the past year has flown by so quickly.

You'd gotten married, built your business up even more, and had fallen for your husband more and more each day that passed. Your lips pull up into a sweet grin as you think about it, and you open your eyes just enough to glance down at your lap.

Jihoon's wearing the same type of flannel he wears almost every day, along with his worn jeans and dusty cowboy boots. The only thing missing is the black cowboy hat that he took off so he could lay his head across your lap. He had placed it by your foot, your legs stretched out over the picnic blanket, and your fingers scratch his scalp in soothing swirls, making his lips part as he exhaled a long, happy sigh.

You two had been sitting here for over an hour now, taking in the cool breeze, the green leaves surrounding the beautiful peaches, and the warmth of the sun. You're pretty sure your husband could fall asleep like this, and the thought brings a giggle that makes him barely crack his eyes open with curiosity. "What's so funny?"

Your head shakes, and his eyebrow quirks as your fingers swirl through his dark hair, combing through the long strands that now reach his shoulders. "Nothing, m'just thinking." Your left hand rests on his chest, and your wedding ring shines as you move your right hand from his head to grab one of the peaches you two picked together earlier.

Jihoon doesn't try to pry any further; instead, he watches as you take a bite of the plump fruit, the juices coating your tongue with sweetness that makes your smile grow until he can't take it any longer and he reaches for you. You've barely swallowed your bite before your husband's leaning up and bringing you down for a slow kiss, curling his tongue over yours to taste the same sweetness you just experienced.

He cups the back of your head as his tongue licks over your mouth, kissing you with a softness he only reserved for you, and your head slowly begins to fill with cotton.

When he pulls back, his forehead leans against yours as you two catch your breath, and his nose nudges yours softly. He's smiling, pulling you into another kiss that makes you melt into him, and the both of you sink onto the blanket under the big peach tree as he mumbles across your lips, "I love you."

He repeats the three words like a mantra, kissing down your neck as his hands worship your body, taking his time to show you how much he means it.

And while your husband makes his way south, sliding your dress up your soft thighs, your smile feels permanent - your love overflowing your heart as you say it back, taking over his chants as he places the first kiss on your inner knee.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

대박 - you made it to the end!

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The second the camera landed on your table, the screaming was deafening. The venue, which had been relatively calm just moments ago, erupted.

Jihoon fought every urge to groan as he kept his expression neutral, while you—completely unbothered—smiled and gave a polite wave. You were enjoying this way too much.

"Look at you," you teased, voice barely audible over the noise. "Are you blushing?"

Jihoon scoffed. "It's hot in here."

"Uh-huh, sure," you mused, nudging his knee under the table.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the host on stage decided to make things worse.

"So, I think we have to talk about one of the most beloved pairings in the industry right now," the MC said, grinning. "Our audience is going crazy for these two—Woozi and Y/N, everyone!"

The camera panned right back to you both, a split screen of your reactions broadcasting to millions.

Jihoon shut his eyes. "Kill me."

Meanwhile, you? You blew a kiss to the camera.

The screams reached another level.

The members of Seventeen lost it. Seungcheol clapped like a seal. DK was howling. Jeonghan actually got out of his seat to dramatically bow in your direction, like you had just won an Oscar.

"You're enjoying this," Jihoon muttered, side-eyeing you.

"Oh, absolutely," you replied, resting your chin on your hand as if you lived for this moment.

His phone vibrated. Another message from Jeonghan.

[Jeonghan]: Just kiss on camera. I dare you.

Jihoon choked on air. You glanced at his phone and laughed. "What's he saying?"

"Nothing," he snapped, locking it immediately.

And then, it got even worse.

A special segment played—a montage of all the best collaborations of the year. And right there, in full HD, was a clip of you and Jihoon from a previous music show, standing way too close, exchanging small smiles.

It ended with a close-up of Jihoon watching you perform, eyes soft in a way that was damning.

The camera cut back to you both just in time to catch Jihoon covering his face with both hands.

Absolute pandemonium.

Even you were giggling now. "Wow, you really don’t help your case."

"I hate this," Jihoon grumbled into his hands.

You leaned in slightly. "Hate it enough to run away?"

Jihoon peeked at you through his fingers.

You smiled. The same smile that made his heart stutter every single time. The same smile that made him—despite all his complaining—stay exactly where he was.

Every time the camera even slightly panned in your direction, the audience roared in approval. At one point, the big screen accidentally caught Jihoon sneaking glances at you when you weren’t looking, and the fans lost it.

He knew the fancams would be everywhere by the time he got back to the dorms.

And then—disaster struck.

During a short intermission, you shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, when you realized—it was shorter than you thought.

The realization hit at the worst possible moment because, just as you moved, the camera cut back to your table.

You froze.

Jihoon noticed immediately. His sharp eyes flickered to you, then to the screen, and without thinking, he reached for something—his blazer.

With swift, natural movements, he leaned in and draped it over your lap, completely casual, like he had done it a million times before.

The camera caught everything.

A split screen showed Jihoon placing his blazer over you while you whispered a flustered, “Jihoon, what are you doing?”

"Just wear it," he muttered, pretending to focus on the stage.

Fans erupted.

Jeonghan burst into laughter, clapping his hands as if Woozi had just confessed on national television. Seungkwan gasped so dramatically that DK had to hold him back, and Mingyu was already on his phone, probably tweeting about it.

The big screen replayed the moment in slow motion, zooming in on Jihoon's effortlessly protective gesture.

Jihoon stiffened when he saw it. "You have got to be kidding me."

His phone blew up.

[Jeonghan]: ROMANTIC LEAD ENERGY!!!

[Mingyu]: Jihoon, OUR SWEETHEART???

[Hoshi]: THIS IS CRAZYYYYY

[Seungkwan]: GOODBYE, WORLD. THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN.

The captions wrote themselves.

"Lee Jihoon, the definition of boyfriend material."

"Woozi naturally protecting Y/N?? We are living in a fanfiction."

"When will my boyfriend be like this?"

Meanwhile, you were trying so hard to hold back your laughter. "Did you have to be so smooth about it?"

Jihoon cleared his throat. "It wasn’t smooth."

"You literally just gave me your blazer without blinking."

"Because you needed it," he huffed, crossing his arms.

You peeked up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. "…Thanks, Jihoon."

He looked away immediately, ears turning red. "Shut up."

Jihoon should have known the night wasn’t over yet.

After all the teasing, the chaotic fan reactions, and the never-ending camera zoom-ins, the moment had finally arrived—Seventeen’s category was being announced.

The entire group sat up straighter, hands clasped together, nervous energy crackling in the air. You could feel it from your seat beside Jihoon, his usually steady hands slightly curled into fists on his lap.

“And the winner is…”

The pause was agonizing.

"SEVENTEEN!"

The entire venue exploded.

Seventeen shot up from their seats, hugging each other tightly, overwhelmed with joy. Fans screamed, members cheered, and Jihoon—despite his usual composure—looked stunned.

You watched as Seungcheol pulled Jihoon into a tight hug, and that’s when you saw it—his eyes, glossy with tears.

The camera captured the moment perfectly. Jihoon, the man who poured his heart and soul into every note, every lyric, standing there, wiping at his eyes as the weight of everything hit him all at once.

And suddenly, your own eyes burned.

You covered your mouth with your hands, trying to hold back the emotions bubbling up inside you. You had seen Jihoon work himself to the bone, staying in the studio until dawn, striving for perfection in everything he did.

He deserved this. They all did.

Jihoon stood on stage, microphone in hand, staring out at the sea of fans and glowing lightsticks. The award sat heavy in his grasp, but not as heavy as the emotions swelling in his chest.

The cheers had barely died down when Seungcheol, ever the leader, began their speech—thanking the fans, the staff, the families, and everyone who had supported them.

But when the mic was passed to Jihoon, the crowd fell into an expectant hush.

Jihoon took a deep breath. “Um…” He let out a small chuckle, voice already wavering. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

The audience cheered, as if encouraging him to let it out.

Jihoon swallowed hard, gripping the microphone tighter. “This… this award means a lot. More than I can put into words. We’ve worked so hard, and to be standing here, receiving this, it still feels unreal.” He exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly, but the tears still escaped, rolling down his cheeks.

Seventeen members immediately reached for him—Jeonghan placing a hand on his back, Seungkwan nodding at him reassuringly. The crowd cooed, some fans already tearing up themselves.

The camera panned across the group, capturing their emotions, before shifting—straight to you.

Sitting at your table, eyes glassy with unshed tears, you watched Jihoon with nothing but pure admiration and pride. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the camera lingered on you, your lips pressed together to keep from outright sobbing.

And just like that, the entire venue reacted.

Fans screamed.

The members on stage noticed, and before Jihoon could even process what was happening, Jeonghan grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face the screen.

There, clear as day, was you, wiping at your cheeks, eyes fixed on him like he was the most important person in the world.

Jihoon's face turned red instantly. He quickly turned back, covering his face with his sleeve, but it was too late.

Mingyu burst out laughing, Joshua clapped his hands like an excited kid, and even Seungcheol cracked up, patting Jihoon's back.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones crying,” Seungkwan teased into the mic, making the crowd go wild.

Jihoon groaned into his hands, but despite his embarrassment, he peeked up at the camera again—at you.

And in that moment, as he saw you smiling softly through your tears, he couldn’t even be mad.

Because no matter how much he pretended to ignore it, no matter how much he groaned when the cameras caught you both—deep down, he knew.

Soonyoung

Most common: jagiya

Soonyoung's most commonly spoken word these days must be jagi. It doesn't matter if you're sitting right next to him, and he's tapping your shoulder to show you a funny reel, or if you're in the next room, his loud but ever-so-sweet voice calling out to you, the pet name slides right off his tongue like it was made just to call you this.

When he's tired: 내 사랑 (nae sarang) - my love

Soonyoung doesn't really speak or act with a filter on most of the time, but when he's tired? Every single thought that passes through his mind will be said. You find it amusing, at times - it's hard to tell whether he's drunk or just sleepy. But secretly, a part of you absolutely adores when Soonyoung gets like this, espeically when he calls you 내 사랑 - becuase you know it's what he actually thinks of you.

Wonwoo

Most common: 애인 (Aein) - sweetheart/lover

If there's anything you always look foward to coming home to after a long day facing the outside world, its being wrapped up in your boyfriend arms as he calls you Aein-ah. It never fails to you make you feel warm and loved inside, like you're home.

When he's distracted: sweets

If you interrupt him while he's gaming or otherwise distracted, this is probably what he'll call you. You have no idea why he has a separate nickname for times like these, but it always slips out, ever gentle and patient, even if he was just yelling at his game mere seconds before. Sometimes you would call him when he's on his computer just to hear him call you this, but he doesn't have to know that.

Jihoon

Most common: babe

We all know Jihoon isn't the best with words, and the same applies to pet names. When in the presence of other people, even close friends, he prefers to stick to just your name, usually accompanied by a light touch to grab your attention. But recently, he's been starting to let babe slip. You don't even think he notices. You're not going to tell him, though.

When you're alone: my love

He may not be comfortable with pet names in public, but in private? That's a whole different person. "My love, I wrote this song for you". "Love, did you see the new anime that came out?" "Oops, sorry love, didn't see you there". It's like he knows what it does to you. Maybe this is why you're okay whenever your friends tease him for his 'lack of affection', since you know he's anything but.

a/n: may be making a longer version of jihoon's... would you guys be interested? ><

If you liked this story, check out my masterlist here!

“Here.” Jihoon’s voice cuts through your drifting thoughts. You look up and see him standing at your bedroom door with a steaming mug of tea in his hands. His eyes melt when he sees the state you are in, and you find your heart beating fast. He steps in and sets the mug on the nightstand before sitting down beside you. “You need to drink this. It’ll help with your throat.” He nudges the mug toward you for you to take it.

You don’t have the strength to argue, so you nod and take a sip. The warmth soothes your throat, and just for some time, you forget about the cameras, the questions about what you two really are, and the arrangement that started all of this. Being here with him in this small room feels like a break from everything outside.

Jihoon watches you closely as you drink. His attention doesn’t drift from you for even a second. He adjusts the pillow behind your back and tucks the blanket around your shoulders, and checks if you’re comfortable or not. He always does these little things. You try to tell yourself it’s just part of the act, part of the deal, but you know better. Jihoon doesn’t pretend with things like this. He’s naturally careful with the people he cares about.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Your chest feels tight and you don’t question it with your sickness, and you don’t know if it’s from the tea or from something more sitting behind your ribs.

He shrugs. “You’re sick. It’s the least I can do.” But the least he can do feels like much more.

The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. You’ve grown used to the gradual changes in his expression, his way of showing his worry without saying it. Little by little, he has let himself get close to you even if neither of you planned for that to happen.

You set the empty mug down just as Jihoon reaches out and brushes your forehead with the back of his hand. You don’t pull away. His touch feels so careful and a little shaky. You can’t remember the last time anyone touched you without wanting something in return. Jihoon stays for a moment, then leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. The gesture’s almost absentminded, yet it steals the breath from your lungs.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, and you find him watching you with an expression you can’t yet read. Before you can speak, he stands. “Get some rest. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

You watch his back as he walks toward the door. You don’t want him to leave when his presence feels like the only thing holding everything in you together and making you feel better. “Stay,” you whisper.

Jihoon stops. For a second he doesn’t move and you worry he might pretend he didn’t hear you. But he turns, and his eyes soften with that low-key tiny smile on his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instead of you staying all day in the bedroom, you end up in the living room together with the TV playing in the background. Neither of you is really watching it. Jihoon keeps glancing at you and checks if you’re cold, if you’re breathing fine, if your fever looks worse than before, if you need some more tissues.

When the night grows late, he gets up and stretches. “Need anything else?”

You shake your head but then your stomach growls loudly. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment. “Maybe something light. I don’t think I can eat anything heavy.”

Jihoon nods and heads to the kitchen without a single complaint. He moves quickly as if he already had something in mind. When he returns with a small bowl of warm soup, you can feel your throat tightening again, but this time it’s from your overwhelming feelings for this man. He sets it in front of you and sits beside you. “Eat.”

You take a spoonful. The heat spreads through your mouth and chest, and the comfort is immediate. Jihoon’s eyes never leave you as he watches to make sure you finish it, not in a controlling way but in a more concerned way. You want to ask him why he’s being like this. Why is he doing more than what the arrangement requires. Why is he choosing to stay here when he doesn’t have to. But you keep eating instead.

When you finish, he stands to take the bowl away. Before he leaves, he leans down and presses another kiss to your forehead. This time his lips stay connected to your forehead a little longer than the last time. His thumb brushes your temple, and when he pulls back, he looks at you, “you know,” he says, “even if this wasn’t fake, I wouldn’t mind.”

It feels like you might as well suffocate right now… but in a good way. For so long, you have been convincing yourself this is just for convenience, and a performance for everyone else. But hearing him say that makes everything inside you roam around and change painfully. You don’t want this to end, and you most definitely don’t want to go back to being strangers who only speak for the sake of appearances as co-actors. Jihoon clears his throat and looks away. He seems unsure, which is rare. He doesn’t usually stumble like this. He seems like he wants to say more, but you can tell he’s holding himself back.

“Jihoon…” Your voice is trailing. “Stay. Just for a little longer.”

He hesitates at first, probably thinking about the work he has tomorrow or the fact that he has already stayed too late. But then he lets out a sigh and nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

He starts toward the other couch, but something inside you pushes you to reach out. You pat the space beside you. “Here. It’s more comfortable.”

Jihoon pauses on his way to sit down on the other couch. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide if this is a mistake. He’s careful, never crosses a line unless he knows it won’t hurt either of you.

After a moment, he sits. It’s not too close, but also close enough that you can feel him around you. The TV keeps playing behind you, but neither of you really pay attention to it. Your eyelids grow heavy from the rest settling inside you, and you’re happy to tell yourself that it’s not from the fever. Jihoon must sense it because he finally speaks.

“You scared me.”

“What?”

“When you got sick,” he eyes lowering to his hands. “You weren’t answering your phone. And when I got here, you could barely stand.” He goes quiet for some time. “I knew you weren’t in danger, but… I didn’t like not being here.”

Your throat tightens again. He isn’t someone who throws words around. If he’s saying this, it’s because he means it. “Why?”

He huffs a laugh, but there’s nothing funny in it. He looks more frustrated with himself than anything else. “I don’t know. I just didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”

That hits something in you that you haven’t let yourself acknowledge. Your fingers brush his hand slowly, and you feel him tense around your hand, then relax and turn his palm up to hold yours. His thumb rubs lightly against your skin. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you admit to him. “I thought I’d be fine with all of this. I thought it wouldn’t change anything.”

“You were wrong,” he says.

“Yeah.”

He stares at your joined hands for a long time. “If we stopped pretending… would that be so bad?”

Your heart literally thunders in your chest now. The answer’s very obvious to you. It has always been obvious. “It was never fake for me.”

Jihoon exhales and pulls you in a little closer to him. His voice drops to a breathy whisper. “If we’re not faking it… does that mean I get to keep you?”

Your breath catches, and you feel everything inside you fall into place. You squeeze his hand. “Only if you want to.”

His expression changes to relief and what you can describe it as, realization. He cups your cheek and leans in to press another kiss to your forehead. This one didn’t feel like it was for comfort. “I do,” he confesses. “I always have.”

For the first time tonight, the weird tightness in your chest eases. It doesn’t feel like comfort but like a beginning. And you don’t want it to end.

The studio, usually a vibrant hub of creative energy, was shrouded in a hushed, almost reverent stillness. The digital displays on the mixing consoles cast faint, flickering lights, painting the room in a spectrum of soft blues and greens. The air, thick with the lingering scent of electronic equipment and late-night coffee, seemed to vibrate with a quiet intensity. You, however, were oblivious to the subtle symphony of the space, lost in the depths of a weariness that permeated your very bones.

The day had been a relentless marathon, a blur of back-to-back meetings, urgent phone calls, and the constant, gnawing pressure to maintain a semblance of order amidst the chaos of the entertainment industry. Each task, each demand, had chipped away at your reserves, leaving you feeling stretched thin and utterly drained. Yet, the thought of your daughter, her bright, innocent eyes and infectious laughter, had provided a fragile anchor, a reminder of the purpose that fueled your every move.

Your fingers, calloused and weary from hours of typing and scribbling, lay still on the scattered papers before you. The tour schedules, the promotional plans, the endless stream of logistical details blurred into an indistinguishable mass, reflecting the fog that had settled over your mind. Your eyelids, heavy as lead, fluttered closed, and your head, aching with a dull, throbbing rhythm, finally succumbed to the irresistible pull of exhaustion. The cool, smooth surface of the desk offered a momentary respite, a fleeting sanctuary from the relentless demands of your life.

The silence of the studio was broken only by the low hum of the ventilation system and the distant, muffled sounds of the city, a symphony of urban life that usually went unnoticed. Tonight, however, the quiet hum became a soothing drone, a lullaby that gently coaxed you into a state of semi-consciousness.

Woozi, drawn back to the studio by the nagging feeling of an unfinished task, entered the room with his usual quiet precision. He expected to find you immersed in your work, a whirlwind of focused energy, your brow furrowed in concentration as you navigated the complexities of the group’s schedule. He had a half-formed, wry comment ready, a playful jab about your legendary work ethic.

But the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast to his expectations. He found you motionless, your head resting on the desk, your breath soft and steady. A flicker of concern, a rare and unfamiliar sensation, stirred within him. He approached with cautious steps, his movements as silent as the shadows that danced across the room.

He paused, his gaze lingering on your peaceful expression. There was a vulnerability in your stillness, a quiet fragility that he had never witnessed before. It was a stark reminder of the human beneath the ever-efficient professional. Then, the soft glow of your phone illuminated the darkness, pulling his attention to the image displayed on the lock screen.

The face of a young girl, her eyes wide with a curious innocence, stared back at him. The resemblance was undeniable, a striking echo of your own features. The same delicate curve of the cheek, the same determined set of the jaw, the same spark of intelligence in the eyes. A realization, sharp and sudden, pierced through his thoughts, illuminating a hidden dimension of your life.

He sank into the chair opposite you, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen, his mind reeling with the implications of this unexpected discovery. The pieces of the puzzle, the hurried exits, the late-night phone calls, the subtle weariness that clung to you like a shadow, finally fell into place. He remembered the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice when you spoke of deadlines and responsibilities, the way your eyes held a depth of unspoken emotion.

He thought about the tiny jackets he had seen you quickly hide into a bag, and the small snacks that you had hidden in your desk drawer. He thought about the small drawings that sometimes were left on your desk, that he had thought were just random sketches.

His fingers hovered over your phone, a silent temptation to delve deeper into this hidden world. But a sense of respect, a quiet understanding of the boundaries you had erected, held him back. This was your story, your secret, a part of your life that you had chosen to keep private.

He sat there, in the quiet solitude of the studio, his gaze tracing the delicate features of your daughter’s face. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest, a sense of protectiveness that he couldn’t quite comprehend. He felt a newfound respect for your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that enabled you to navigate the demanding world of the entertainment industry while raising a child.

The silence of the room was heavy with unspoken emotions, with the weight of a secret revealed. Woozi, the master of carefully crafted words and calculated expressions, found himself speechless, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and unfamiliar feelings. He was a composer of emotions, a weaver of melodies, but in this moment, he was lost in a symphony of his own making, a composition of newfound understanding and quiet admiration.

The studio, once a place solely defined by the rhythm of music and the demands of production, began to transform into a space imbued with a quiet, almost palpable sense of understanding. The day after Woozi's discovery was a delicate dance of unspoken acknowledgment, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that permeated every corner of the room. You were acutely aware of his presence, a gentle undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface of his usual focused demeanor. His gaze, usually sharp and analytical, now held a softer, more contemplative quality, lingering on you for fleeting moments before he'd quickly divert his attention back to his work.

You found yourself constantly questioning his newfound attentiveness, your mind swirling with a mix of gratitude and anxiety. Had he seen the lock screen? Did he judge your situation? Was this a temporary phase, a fleeting expression of sympathy that would eventually fade? The thought of your private life being exposed, the vulnerability it implied, sent a shiver down your spine. Yet, he remained silent, offering no explicit confirmation, no intrusive questions.

Instead, his actions spoke volumes. Small, almost imperceptible gestures began to accumulate, a quiet symphony of unspoken understanding. A bottle of chilled water, precisely the temperature you preferred, would appear beside your workspace, as if conjured by an unseen hand. A neatly packed lunchbox, filled with healthy and balanced ingredients, materialized during the lunch break, a subtle nudge towards self-care amidst the chaos of the day. And when the pressure from management threatened to overwhelm you, when their demands became unreasonable, Woozi would step in, his voice a calm, firm barrier between you and their frustration.

He did not raise his voice, nor did he offer platitudes. He simply presented logical counterarguments, calmly dismantling their unreasonable demands with his sharp intellect and unwavering composure. It was a subtle act of protection, a silent acknowledgment of the burdens you carried.

The unspoken communication between you became a delicate dance, a series of subtle cues and unspoken acknowledgments. You’d catch his eye across the room, a fleeting glance that held a depth of understanding, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone. He’d leave small notes on your desk, scribbled on scrap paper, containing encouraging words or a simple drawing, a small token of support amidst the whirlwind of your day.

His presence, once a source of professional respect, now became a source of quiet comfort. He was still Woozi, the meticulous producer, the genius songwriter, but there was a newfound gentleness in his demeanor, a quiet understanding that made you feel seen, truly seen, beyond the roles you played within the studio.

One evening, as the recording session stretched into the late hours, your phone rang, its insistent chime cutting through the quiet hum of the studio equipment. The caller ID displayed the familiar number of your daughter’s daycare, and a wave of anxiety washed over you.

“I have to go,” you said, your voice tight with urgency. “There’s an emergency.”

Woozi’s gaze met yours, his expression calm and reassuring. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations. He simply reached into his pocket and slid his car keys across the desk.

“Go,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll cover for you.”

The gesture, so simple yet so profound, took your breath away. It was a silent acknowledgment of your responsibilities, a quiet reassurance that he understood the delicate balance you maintained. You stared at the keys, your throat tightening with emotion, unable to articulate the gratitude that swelled within you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, a silent acknowledgment, and turned back to the mixing console, his focus unwavering. You grabbed the keys and rushed out, your mind a whirlwind of anxiety and gratitude.

The drive to the daycare was a blur, your hands gripping the steering wheel, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. When you arrived, you found your daughter safe and sound, her feverish brow cooled by a damp cloth. The daycare staff explained that it was a brief spike in temperature, a common occurrence in young children.

Relief washed over you, a wave so intense that it left you weak. You held your daughter close, her small body warm against yours, and whispered reassurances into her hair, a silent promise to protect her from all harm.

As you drove home, your thoughts turned to Woozi. He had covered for you, without hesitation, without question. He had given you the time and space you needed, without expecting anything in return. It was a selfless act, a quiet demonstration of his understanding and support.

When you returned to the studio the next day, he was working as if nothing had happened. He didn’t mention the previous night, didn’t ask about your daughter. He simply continued with his work, his focus unwavering.

But you knew, deep down, that something had irrevocably changed. He had seen you, truly seen you, not just as a colleague, but as a person, a mother, a woman with a life beyond the studio walls. And in that quiet understanding, a connection began to form, a bond that was both fragile and profound.

The studio, once a place of work, began to feel like a sanctuary, a place where you were seen, understood, and supported. The unspoken communication between you and Woozi became a silent language, a symphony of understanding that resonated deeper than any words could convey. You began to look forward to seeing him, to hearing his voice, to feeling the quiet reassurance of his presence. And even though the fear of eventual change lingered, you allowed yourself to savor the peace, the quiet comfort, that he offered. You began to feel a warmth grow in your heart, a feeling you had long suppressed, a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, you weren’t alone after all.

The decision to invite Woozi into your home, into the sanctuary you’d built for yourself and your daughter, was a tightrope walk between hope and fear. It was a leap of faith, a fragile attempt to open a door that had been slammed shut years ago. The echoes of your past, the sharp sting of broken promises and abandoned dreams, still lingered, casting long shadows over your present.

You remembered the way he had looked at you when you told him about the ex-boyfriend, the man who had promised forever and then vanished like smoke in the wind. The way he’d gripped your hand, his own knuckles white, as you described the lonely nights, the silent tears that soaked your pillow, the crushing weight of single parenthood. He had listened without judgment, without pity, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding that resonated deep within you.

The wounds from that old betrayal had never fully healed. They were scars, invisible to the world, but deeply etched into your soul. You had built walls around your heart, brick by careful brick, protecting yourself and your daughter from further pain. The thought of trusting someone again, of letting them into your carefully constructed world, was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Yet, Woozi had chipped away at those walls, piece by piece, with his quiet kindness and unwavering support. He had seen your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that enabled you to navigate the chaos of your life. He had offered a safe harbor, a quiet understanding that made you feel seen, truly seen, beyond the roles you played in the studio.

And so, you had invited him into your home, a tentative step towards allowing yourself to hope again. But the fear remained, a persistent whisper in the back of your mind, reminding you of the fragility of trust, the potential for heartbreak.

There he stood, in your doorway, a hesitant smile on his face. The scent of rain clung to his clothes, a reminder of the storm that had mirrored your emotional turmoil the night before. You ushered him inside, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a mixture of anticipation and dread.

Your daughter, ever curious and fearless, peeked out from behind your legs, her big, expressive eyes fixed on the unfamiliar figure. She was your masterpiece, your reason for everything, a tiny echo of your own strength and determination. The thought of introducing her to someone new, of allowing another person to become a part of her world, filled you with a protective instinct so fierce it almost choked you.

Woozi, usually so composed and self-assured, seemed awkward, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected encounter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, a silent testament to his own vulnerability.

He knelt down, his gaze meeting your daughter’s, and held out a small plushie – a fluffy, pastel-colored sheep he’d impulsively grabbed from a nearby store. It was a gesture of peace, a silent offering to this tiny, unknown entity.

She frowned, her brow furrowed in suspicion, mirroring your own cautious approach to new relationships. “Mommy said don’t take things from strangers.” Her voice was small but firm, a testament to your consistent teachings, a reflection of the lessons you’d learned the hard way.

A laugh bubbled in your throat, a mixture of amusement and relief. You had raised a cautious and intelligent child. Before you could intervene, Woozi’s voice, usually so measured, softened, taking on a gentle, almost hesitant tone.

“I’m your mom’s friend,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, reassuring moment, a silent plea for your trust.

Your daughter’s gaze flickered between you and Woozi, seeking confirmation. You nodded, a small, encouraging smile on your face, a silent acknowledgment of the leap of faith you were taking.

Only then did she cautiously reach out and take the plushie, her small fingers gently brushing against his. “Thank you, Zizi,” she mumbled, her eyes still fixed on him, assessing him with the same careful scrutiny you had employed for years.

The nickname, so innocent and unexpected, broke the tension in the room, a gentle reminder of the simple, unadulterated trust of a child. A genuine smile spread across Woozi’s face, a warmth that reached his eyes, a silent promise to be worthy of that trust. In that moment, he was no longer Woozi, the renowned producer, the stoic songwriter. He was Zizi, a friend, a potential figure in this little girl’s world, a chance for you to rewrite the narrative of your past.

The studio, once a realm of pure musical creation, transformed into a covert operation, a fortress of affection guarded by the silent, watchful eyes of Lee Jihoon. He moved with a newfound purpose, a quiet determination that radiated from him like a subtle hum. He became a protector, a silent guardian, his actions driven by a fierce, almost primal instinct to shield you and your daughter from any harm.

He guarded your secret with a fervor that bordered on obsessive, his actions a testament to his growing affection. He didn’t just keep it; he fortified it, erecting an invisible barrier around your privacy. He deflected prying questions with a sharp wit, his eyes flashing a silent warning to anyone who dared to delve too deep. He became a master of misdirection, weaving elaborate tales of late-night studio sessions and urgent deadlines to explain his increasingly frequent absences.

He became a connoisseur of children’s snacks, a silent provider of tiny treasures. He’d surreptitiously slip fruit pouches and organic crackers into his bag, his expression a picture of studied nonchalance. He’d scour toy stores for the perfect plushie, the ideal coloring book, his usually focused gaze softening as he imagined your daughter’s delighted squeals.

But the members, ever perceptive, began to notice the subtle shifts in his behavior. Seungcheol, the leader, the ever-watchful patriarch of their chaotic family, observed Woozi’s increasingly erratic schedule with a furrowed brow. “Jihoon, you’re acting… strangely. You’re always disappearing, you’re hoarding children’s snacks, and you’re radiating an aura of… secretiveness,” he said, his voice laced with concern.

Mingyu, the group’s resident gossip and fashion enthusiast, held up a tiny, sequined jacket, his eyes wide with disbelief. “And this? This is clearly for a miniature diva. Who are you dressing, Jihoon? A tiny influencer?”

Jeonghan, the master of playful manipulation, the orchestrator of subtle chaos, raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Lee Jihoon. Confess. Who is this tiny human who has captured your heart? And why are you so… protective?”

Cornered, Woozi sighed, a mixture of exasperation and affection in his eyes. He knew he couldn’t keep the secret forever, not from the men who knew him better than he knew himself. He gathered them in the studio’s lounge, the air thick with anticipation, and told them everything. He explained your situation, your struggles, the quiet strength that had captivated him, and the unexpected joy that had blossomed in your daughter’s presence.

Instead of the teasing and playful jabs he had braced himself for, he was met with a chorus of genuine support, a wave of warmth that surprised even him. Joshua, the romantic, the sentimental soul of the group, clutched his chest dramatically, his eyes wide with emotion. “This is… a masterpiece of human connection! You’re like a secret superhero dad!”

Mingyu, his usual boisterous energy amplified, was practically vibrating with excitement. “This is amazing! We need to throw a welcome party! We can get her tiny designer outfits! I know a guy who makes custom mini jackets!”

Seungcheol, his expression softening, placed a hand on Woozi’s shoulder, his voice filled with genuine affection. “Jihoon, this is your happiness. You’ve found something precious, and we’re all here for you, always. We will protect her, and you, with everything we have.”

The members’ reactions were a testament to their deep bond, their unwavering support for one another. They showered Woozi with questions, eager to learn every detail about your daughter, her personality, her favorite toys. They offered to help in any way they could, from babysitting to building elaborate play forts in the studio.

Woozi, usually so guarded, found himself opening up, sharing anecdotes and stories about your daughter’s infectious laughter, her boundless curiosity, and the way she had transformed his perception of the world. He spoke of your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that had captivated him, and the way you had built a safe haven for your small family.

But beneath the surface of his newfound openness, a quiet conflict raged within him. He was still grappling with the unfamiliar emotions that had stirred within him, the sense of responsibility and protectiveness that had taken root in his heart. He was a composer of emotions, a weaver of melodies, but he was still learning to navigate the complexities of his own heart.

He was hopelessly, utterly, and completely whipped for you. He’d been harboring a crush for years, admiring your quiet strength and unwavering dedication. Now, seeing you as a mother, as a woman who had faced adversity and emerged stronger, had amplified his feelings tenfold. He found himself wanting to protect you, to cherish you, to erase the shadows of your past.

He loved your daughter, her innocent joy and unwavering trust. And he loved you, your quiet strength, the way you had built a world for yourself and your daughter. But the fear remained, a persistent whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him of the fragility of trust, the potential for heartbreak. He was still haunted by the idea of repeating the mistakes of the past, of causing you and your daughter pain.

He didn’t answer Seungcheol’s question, the question that hung in the air like a silent challenge. He simply smiled, a small, hesitant smile that held a mixture of hope and uncertainty. He knew that he cared deeply, but the idea of defining it, of labeling it, felt daunting.

The members’ support was a comfort, a reassurance that he wasn’t alone. But the final decision, the leap of faith, was his to take. He was standing on the precipice of a new chapter, a chapter filled with the potential for love and happiness, but also the potential for pain. He was a composer of emotions, but this was a symphony that he was still learning to orchestrate. He needed to find the courage to conduct his own heart, to embrace the love that was blossoming within him, and to trust that he could create a future filled with harmony and happiness.

The quiet rhythm of your evenings had shifted, infused with a new warmth and a sense of gentle companionship. Woozi, or "Zizi," as your daughter affectionately called him, had become a regular fixture in your little home, a comforting presence that filled the space with laughter and quiet understanding. He’d arrive after studio sessions, his eyes tired but his smile bright, ready to engage in elaborate tea parties, build towering block castles, or simply sit quietly, listening to your daughter’s endless stories.

One evening, as you were on a phone call, pacing the kitchen, trying to resolve a last-minute schedule change, Woozi sat on the couch, your daughter nestled beside him, her small fingers tracing the lines on his hand. She was fascinated by his large, capable hands, the hands that created beautiful music, the hands that also built the most impressive block towers.

Then, her small voice, clear and unwavering, broke the comfortable silence. “Zizi, why do you look at my mommy like that?”

Woozi froze, his gaze snapping to her, a blush creeping up his neck. He hadn’t realized his admiration was so transparent. “Like what?” he asked, his voice a little too high-pitched.

She tilted her head, her eyes wide and innocent, yet piercingly observant. “Like she’s your favorite person. Like she’s a star, and you’re watching her shine.”

His ears burned, a wave of heat washing over him. He was a master of words, a composer of emotions, but he was utterly unprepared for the unfiltered honesty of a five-year-old. “You ask too many questions,” he mumbled, trying to deflect her inquiry with a playful scowl.

But your daughter was undeterred. “Don’t hurt her,” she said, her voice suddenly serious, her small hand gripping his.

Woozi’s heart clenched. “Hurt her? What makes you say that?”

“She cries behind closed doors,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes filled with a wisdom beyond her years. “She thinks I don’t know. But I do.”

A wave of guilt washed over him, a sharp, painful pang. He had witnessed your strength, your resilience, but he hadn’t fully grasped the depth of your pain, the silent battles you fought behind closed doors. He had been so focused on his own feelings, his own fears, that he had overlooked the silent suffering that lingered beneath your brave facade.

He looked at your daughter, her small face etched with concern, and he felt a surge of protectiveness, a fierce determination to shield you both from any further harm. “I would never hurt her,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering.

“Then why do you look at her like that?” she repeated, her eyes searching his.

He sighed, a mixture of exasperation and tenderness in his eyes.

“It’s… complicated,” he began, trying to find words a child could understand.

“Is it like how you look at your guitar?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“No, not exactly,” he chuckled. “It’s… more special than that. It’s like… she’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.”

“Does that mean you want to sing with her?”

“In a way, yes. I want to be a part of her song. I want to make her happy.”

“Does she make you happy?”

“She does. She makes me happier than anyone I know.”

“Then you should tell her that.”

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “I will. I promise.”

Your daughter nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Okay,” she said, her voice serious. “But if you make her sad, I’ll tell you off. And I’ll tell everyone.”

Woozi smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “Deal,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity.

He looked at your daughter, her small face filled with a quiet determination, and he felt a surge of affection, a deep appreciation for her unwavering loyalty. He knew that he had gained not just your trust, but also the trust of your fierce little protector. And he vowed, silently, to be worthy of that trust, to cherish and protect you both with all his heart.

Two years had woven a tapestry of shared moments, the quiet understanding between you and Woozi blossoming into a deep affection. However, the outside world wasn't always kind. The growing closeness between you, a single mother, and Woozi, a respected producer, drew unwanted attention.

Coworkers, fueled by envy and a lack of understanding, whispered behind your back, their words laced with venom. "She's just using him," one would sneer, their voice dripping with malice. "Single moms always have an agenda."

"It's disgusting," another would chime in, their tone laced with disgust. "She's practically throwing herself at him. And he's so blind."

"I heard she leaves her kid with anyone, just to be with him," a third would add, embellishing the lies with a cruel twist. "No wonder she gets so much time off, she's got him wrapped around her finger."

"She's probably just a gold digger," someone would say. "Trying to get a rich man to pay for everything."

"It's so unprofessional. And in the company, too! What a mess."

Woozi overheard these conversations, his usually calm demeanor shattering into icy rage. He heard the cruel remarks, the snide insinuations, and the blatant attempts to undermine your reputation. His eyes, usually warm and gentle, turned cold and hard, his jaw clenched. His voice, usually soft and melodic, became a low, dangerous growl, barely audible. He wanted to confront them, to unleash his fury, but he knew it would only escalate the situation and draw more unwanted attention to you, and fuel the fire they were trying to start. Instead, he acted in the shadows, his methods subtle but effective.

Late one night, an anonymous account on a popular social media platform posted a detailed account of workplace bullying at HYBE. The post described a dedicated employee, a single mother, being subjected to cruel gossip and unfair treatment. It didn’t name names, but the details were specific enough to raise alarm, without being easily traced back. "This employee is constantly being verbally attacked by other employees, who spread lies about her personal life, and her work ethics. They call her names, and make her feel like she is less than human. The company is doing nothing about it. This needs to stop."

The post went viral, sparking outrage and a wave of public support for the unnamed employee. HYBE, facing a potential PR disaster, launched an internal investigation. Within days, several employees were quietly dismissed, their actions deemed unacceptable.

The whispers and rumors ceased. The atmosphere in the studio shifted, replaced by a wary respect. You noticed the change, the sudden shift in the way your coworkers treated you, but you remained unaware of Woozi’s involvement.

One evening, as you and Woozi relaxed on your couch, you scrolled through the social media feed, your eyes wide with disbelief. “Can you believe this?” you exclaimed, showing him the viral post. “Someone actually stood up for this person. It’s amazing!”

Woozi smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that warmed his eyes. “It is,” he agreed, his voice soft.

“I’m so glad someone did this,” you continued, your voice filled with gratitude. “It gives me hope that people still care. And that companies will do something about it.”

Woozi’s smile widened, a flicker of pride in his eyes. He watched you, your face glowing with relief and appreciation, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. He had protected you, silenced your tormentors, and given you a sense of hope, all without you knowing his involvement. The secret made him happy, because he knew he was the reason for your peace, and he was the one that made your life better.

Two years. Two years of stolen glances, of soft touches, of lingering stares that held unspoken promises. Two years of Woozi’s unwavering support, his quiet strength a constant anchor in your life. Two years of him seamlessly weaving himself into your world, into the intricate tapestry of your family, his presence as natural and essential as the air you breathed.

On your birthday, he arrived, not with the usual studio-related gift, but with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, their delicate petals mirroring the fragile hope that bloomed in your heart. Your daughter, ever his tiny accomplice, clung to his leg, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He pulled you aside, his expression serious, his eyes holding a depth of emotion that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I have something to say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, the words hanging in the air like a whispered secret.

You raised an eyebrow, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “What, you secretly hate me?” you teased, trying to deflect the intensity of the moment with a touch of humor.

He scoffed, a soft smile playing on his lips. “No, idiot,” he retorted, his voice laced with affection.

Then, in one breath, he laid his heart bare, his words raw and sincere. “I love you.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the sounds around you fading into a distant hum. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. “Woozi…” you began, your voice barely a whisper, your mind reeling with the weight of his confession.

“I love your daughter too,” he added, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. “I think she loves me more than you do,” he teased, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, but his eyes held a sincerity that made your heart ache.

Before you could process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you, a little voice, clear and unwavering, cut through the tension. “KISS MAMA, ZI!” your daughter yelled, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. You wanted the earth to swallow you whole, to erase the awkwardness of the moment. But then, warm fingers gently tilted your chin up, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

Woozi’s eyes, usually sharp and focused, softened, their depths filled with a tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat. “I love you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze unwavering. “And I want you. Both of you. I want to be a part of your lives, to build a future with you, to cherish and protect you both.”

The vulnerability in his voice, the raw sincerity in his eyes, shattered the walls you had built around your heart. He wasn’t offering a fleeting romance, a casual fling. He was offering a forever, a commitment to you and your daughter, a promise to be a constant in your lives.

Then, finally, he closed the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken feelings, of shared moments, of a love that had blossomed amidst the chaos of your lives.

Your daughter squealed, a mixture of delight and playful disgust. “EWWW.”

Woozi chuckled against your lips, his laughter warm and comforting. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, his expression filled with a quiet joy.

And in that moment, amidst the chaos of your daughter’s playful protests and the lingering scent of your birthday flowers, you felt a sense of peace, a sense of belonging that you hadn’t felt in a long, long time. You felt home. You felt loved. And you knew, with a certainty that warmed you from the inside out, that this was the beginning of something beautiful, a love story written in the quiet moments of shared laughter and unwavering support.

A year later, the quiet rhythm of your little home was a symphony of love and laughter. The once empty spaces were now filled with the warmth of shared meals, the gentle hum of bedtime stories, and the soft glow of family movie nights. Woozi, no longer just "Zizi," but a cherished member of your little family, tucked Munchkin into bed, his large hands gently smoothing the soft blanket around her small frame.

She sleepily grabbed his hand, her eyelids fluttering closed, her voice a soft whisper. “Love you, Zizi.”

His heart melted, a warmth spreading through his chest like a gentle sunrise. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his voice thick with affection. “Love you too, Munchkin.”

He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face, a silent promise to protect her dreams, to chase away the shadows that lingered in the corners of her young mind. He adjusted the nightlight, ensuring its soft glow illuminated the room, a beacon of comfort in the darkness.

You leaned against the doorframe, a soft smile gracing your lips, your heart overflowing with a love so profound it made your eyes sting with unshed tears. The scene before you, the gentle tenderness between Woozi and your daughter, was a testament to the love you had built together, a love that had blossomed amidst the chaos of your lives.

When Woozi turned, his eyes met yours, a silent conversation passing between you. He walked towards you, his footsteps soft on the carpet, his gaze unwavering. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering for a moment, a silent expression of your gratitude, your affection, your unwavering love.

“Love you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words a gentle caress against his skin.

He pulled you both close, his arms wrapping around you in a warm embrace, his body a comforting presence against yours. The three of you stood there, a small, perfect circle of love, bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight.

In the quiet of your little home, the silence was filled with unspoken words, with the gentle rhythm of shared breaths, with the comforting weight of love. Woozi finally felt at peace, his heart overflowing with a contentment he had never known before. He had found his place, his family, his home.

He thought of the past, the lonely nights spent in the studio, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart. He thought of you, your strength, your resilience, the way you had built a world for yourself and your daughter, a world filled with love and laughter.

In a game of Go, the white pieces are given an advantage. 

She supposes it’s all because of the way the game is set up—to favour one over the other in the beginning. The white pieces are given an advantage momentarily, only to account for total neutrality of the board. The game doesn’t care about pieces and their stories. The game merely knows strategy. 

She walks in the middle of the street, not really caring about the people she might run into. There are flashes of phone cameras all around her, but it doesn’t matter at all. Not to her. Not anymore. 

I fucking hate this game. 

“Miss, you’re going to hurt yourself,” a voice says, calm, almost soothing. Like through water. She looks at the source through her glasses, and it’s him. Lee Jihoon. As usual, he’s come to her rescue like she’s some sort of damsel in distress he needs to take care of and rescue before she’s struck down by lightning. 

“You’re here,” she murmurs, looking faintly displeased, “I was planning to jump in front of a car.”

He sighs, heavy disappointment in his gaze. “Let’s not think about that right now, miss. You need to get back home.”

“Home?” she asks, even as he hauls her out of the streets and into a waiting car, his jacket wrapped around her shoulder. “Why would I go home?”

“You’re one of the most famous people in this country, miss,” Jihoon says, putting the car into gear. He doesn’t believe it, but he says it regardless, “You need to be more careful about how you present yourself in public.”

“Fuck that,” she groans, leaning back into the seat, “why the hell do I have to play this fucking game?”

He sighs, and the car swerves into a side street. “You have the Ing cup coming in a few months, miss, you need to concentrate on that one before you go around in the middle of the roads.”

“Go to hell,” she mutters, settling down into her seat, “you should quit being my manager if it bothers you so much.”

He rubs his temples, and even from behind, she can see the heavily put-upon expression he has right now, “miss, that’s not up to me. You need me by your side right now, if you want to be a part of that tournament.”

She sighs, looking out of the window. Jihoon is driving the car, looking straight ahead. He looks at nothing else other than the road, she realises, nothing else at all. She props herself up on her elbows, and stares. Long black hair, just like the polished slate stones of her favourite set. Smooth pale skin, like clamshell stones. Annoying. “What are you looking at?” He asks, self-conscious, “go to sleep, miss, we'll reach the house in about half an hour.” 

“Looking at you,” she replies simply, turning her face away from him, “you look upset that you have to be my manager.”

“Anyone would be upset if they have to take care of a woman who can barely take care of themselves,” Jihoon grumbles, looking steadily ahead, “you drink more than an alcoholic, you smoke a whole pack a day, and you never go out unless it’s to pull stunts like these. Anyone would hate being your manager.”

“You wound me,” she sighs, watching the houses and the trees zoom past their car, “I would like to think I am a very considerate woman.”

“You are tolerable,” Jihoon replies, “I tolerate you. Not many others would.”

“Fair enough,” she says, absent-mindedly, “is Jeonghan coming?”

“Jeonghan always comes running when you call for him,” Jihoon replies, “God knows why he does. All you two do is play Go until the wee hours of the morning.”

“You don't get it, Lee Jihoon,” she says, “still, it's good that he's coming. I needed to play.”

The car stops at a red light, and Jihoon takes the opportunity to turn around, fixing his dark eyes on her, like slate black Go pieces, “that's one more thing I don't understand. You hate the game, and you still play it every day. Every fucking day, you're sitting at that board. If you hated the game, you wouldn't play it so much. You keep saying that you hate the game, and yet you play it.”

She stares at him. “You don’t get it, Lee Jihoon, you don't get it at all. And I like that about you. It's why I keep you around.”

He scoffs, “so you keep me around because I don’t care about the game. That’s funny.”

“Yes, it’s funny.” She mutters, steadily looking away. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the road and keeps his eyes firmly on it until they arrive at her home. She doesn’t say a word, just focuses on the foggy atmosphere of the world around her. She doesn’t want to think. 

You’ll always return to us, you know. 

Her eyes snap open when Jihoon parks the car with a noisy screech in front of the traditional-style house, throwing the door open for her. She’s not sure she can prove it, but he does this just to spite her. Don’t act out all the fucking time, you know. She sighs, stepping into the cold and looking up at the large, imposing facade of her house. She’d been bequeathed the house in her teacher's final will, the house that she had grown up and learnt how to play the game in. She had felt grateful then, grateful that her teacher had thought of her in such a way. That he had loved her till the end, that he, of all people, had not forsaken her. Now, all it reminds her of is the way everyone had looked at her when the will had been announced. People at the association had glared at her when the lawyer had said I leave the house and all my assets to my sole student, in the hopes that she might learn to love someone other than me. They always looked at her the same way, like she was a freak of nature. Hundreds of years of Go legacy, shattered in the hands of a young maverick who barely knew her manners. And she lives in the house of her master now, too. imagine the insolence. She killed her teacher, and now she lives in his house, wears his watch on her wrist. Is she trying to become him? How audacious.

“We’re here, ma’am,” Jihoon says, opening the gates for her, and she steps into the courtyard, trying not to think about the events of the morning and the afternoon. She was supposed to prepare for the Ing Cup right now. The first match was in less than two months. 

“Mr. Yoon Jeonghan will take some time to get here,” Jihoon says, half-deferential, as he closes the door behind him, “should I make you a cup of tea?”

“No, I want a drink,” she waves her hand, “or a smoke. Either is preferable.”

“You should not be drinking right now, ma’am.” He says, wrestling her hip flask away from her, “and where did you find that? I thought I got rid of them all.”

“I have my ways,” she shrugs, “and don’t try to fool me into thinking you actually care, Lee Jihoon. It’s better you remain the way I want you to.”

He raises an eyebrow, “And ignore you while you actively try to kill yourself? What the hell would that do for me?”

She sighs, laughing, “yeah, of course. I’m better alive to you than dead, right?”

“Please refrain from saying unnecessary things, ma’am.”

He remains stubborn in the face of opposition, so she makes the decision for him, laughing and twirling a lighter in her hands, “and I’m supposed to ignore the way you look at my money? You really do take me for a fool, huh?”

He remains silent, so she takes it a step further, walking into the living room and dropping down on a low sofa, “answer me, Lee Jihoon. You really think I’m an idiot, right?”

He refuses to meet her gaze, and instead busies himself with setting the ornaments on the mantlepiece right. She sighs. This is getting irritating. “Answer me, Jihoon,” she says, rolling her eyes and bending over to pull off her socks, “you need to talk to me for me to understand you better.”

At last, after what seems like an excruciating, long, minute, he opens his mouth, “I’ve never once thought about you as an idiot, ma’am.”

She laughs, standing up to stalk out of the living room, shedding her coat and outer jacket as she walks. Jihoon, ever the dutiful manager, picks them all up one after the other, gathering them in his arms as he follows her to the Go room. 

Before she slides open the door to the Go room, she turns on her heel, looking straight into his eyes. Slate-black, like Go pieces. She turns away, “don’t think I am not aware of the accounts, Manager Lee.” She ignores the way he flinches at her use of his position, “you allotted more than a million won for the gardener.” she gestures to the gardens, which are bare and barren this time of year, “you seriously thought I would not notice?” 

He hangs his head in what looks like shame, and she shakes her head, “I hate it when people lie, Lee Jihoon. Next time, just come to me for the money. Or just steal it outright.”

He stares at her then, which makes her turn her head away from him for the second time in the past five minutes, “what are you talking about?”

“Give us a cup of tea when Jeonghan comes to visit,” she turns away from him, “and make dinner before you leave for the night. I’m not going to ask you why you took that money, because frankly, I don’t give a shit.”

With that, she opens the sliding door,  and walks into the Go room. Jihoon stands guard outside, and doesn’t say anything. 

—

The Go room is the most traditional space in the house, still done in the fashion of the old Joseon masters, with paper screens lining it on three sides and looking over the garden on the other side. She hasn’t changed this room one bit since the time she’s moved in, to the point where it probably feels strange and unsettling to anyone who enters this space. This is for the old masters, not the young ones. 

“Ahh, this is so bloody fucked up,” she mutters softly to herself, walking to the board and squatting down in front of it. This is a hostile space. I hate this fucking game so much, and yet, it’s got its claws so far deep into me that I can’t even shake it off and move on. 

“Oi, what’d you call me here?” the doors open to reveal Yoon Jeonghan, 9-dan, clad in his usual half-open shirt and a jacket slung over his shoulders, “you want to play Go right now when you’ve been running around the city?”

She rolls her eyes, ignoring his words, “do you really want to talk to me like that when you’re half-dressed? It’s getting cold nowadays, make sure you don’t freeze to death.”

Jeonghan laughs, "still as icy as ever, huh? God knows how you managed to make a friend out of me with that icy demeanour of yours, yn.”

“I don’t remember asking you to be my friend ever, Jeonghan,” she grumbles, observing him with narrowed eyes as he takes the seat, folding his long legs into a cross-legged position and hunching over the board, “you’ve already begun?”

“Mmh. White gets four and a half points as komi. You can play now.” She mutters, “do you want byoyomi?”

“Nah, I’m fine. I can play like this anytime,” he laughs, long and low, and she pulls a face at the obvious flirtation, “even though the only person who asks me to play like this is you.”

“I’m the only one you play practice games with?” she narrows her eyes, “I find that very hard to believe. You’re 9-dan Yoon Jeonghan, I doubt you’re in dire need of partners to play a match with you. The people at the association must be tripping over their feet to get a chance to sit across the board from you.”

Jeonghan shrugs, “you’re 9-dan too, you know. And you don’t even show your face at the association.”

“I doubt the association would like me around.”

“One of the only female 9-dans in the country, and you still think the association hates you?” Jeonghan laughs, “they don’t hate you, you know. They’re mostly just scared of you.”

“Hah,” she huffs out a laugh, “that’s not what they say behind my back, you know. I know what they say behind my back.”

“Never took you for someone who would give such undue importance to the people of the association, yn,” Jeonghan laughs, adjusting his collar so she can see the sharp jut of his collarbone, all arranged in a blatant attempt to catch her attention that has her rolling her eyes, “but you should go to the association once in a while. Make your presence known. At least then they’re going to stop spreading rumors about you.”

“They spread rumors about me?” she arches an eyebrow, placing a stone to cancel out a point, “that’s very brave of them, I must say.”

“Well, when the master is out, the dogs will play,” Jeonghan shrugs, placing his stone, “which is why you should assert your presence. Help get the rumors under control.”

“And what do they say about me? Apart from the things they already do.”

“The most obvious one is about how you defeated your teacher, making him retire from the Go scene, and ultimately dying earlier than expected,’ Jeonghan stares at the board, “damn, you’re still as sharp as ever. How do you get so fast when I’m the only other player you play games with? Is there someone else I’m not aware of?”

She rolls her eyes at that. “Sometimes, when I’m bored, I go play at the local seniors’ association. The old men and women there are pretty sharp for septuagenarians.”

“That’s the secret, huh,” he laughs, “and here I was thinking you had got a student or something. Perhaps another fellow 9-dan I’m not aware of.”

“I’m not stupid enough to bring a student under my care when I can barely take care of myself,” she shrugs, “most days I can’t even get out of bed. There’s no reason for me to burden myself with another person to take care of when simple tasks are difficult for me.”

“Speaking of taking care,” Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something, most likely something outrageously flirtatious, when Jihoon slides open the door, holding a tray of tea in his hands. He says nothing, keeps his gaze focused firmly on the tray and on the floor, and places it in front of the two of them. 

“I see you are still here, Lee Jihoon,” Jeonghan says smoothly, “is she giving you a lot of grief?”

She narrows her eyes, scowling, “don’t say such shit about me to my manager, for fuck’s sake, Jeonghan. You can grill him about me later.”

This is such an obvious bait. Jeonghan doesn’t like Jihoon at all, a fact that he’s made perfectly clear over the past few months he’s been in her employ. He’s been the same, throwing these snide remarks to him whenever he sees him. Whether in private or in public. And it’s the same from the other side. Jihoon doesn’t rise to the bait. He never does, as usual. Only keeps his head down, as he’s doing right now, and says the most generic sentence to avoid being discourteous. Even now, with Jeonghan’s disdain so blatant, he merely sighs, nodding his head. “There is no problem with taking care of ma’am. It is, after all, my duty.”

Jeonghan seems like he wants to say something more, but decides against it, and Jihoon walks out of the room, clutching the tray close to his chest and shutting the door behind him. 

As soon as his footsteps are out of earshot, Jeonghan turns round on her, “why the hell is he still there?”

She doesn't take the bait. “And why would he not be? He is part of my household, after all.”

“Don’t say household like you’re in a fucking historical drama, yn, you know why I’m asking you this. Why the hell is he still there?”

She takes a sip of the tea. Fragrant, with a splash of milk, just how she likes it. Jihoon knows her preferences well, even if he makes it seem like he hates this job, “he takes good care of me, as you know. I don’t have to worry about anything else other than playing Go when he’s here.”

“And he’s also stealing your money, yn. You told me he stole a million won from you last month.”

She shrugs, “and? He’s not making any efforts to hide his embezzlement. Anyone else in his position would take multiple steps to hide the account, but he just took it under the pretext of paying it to the gardener. Laughable, really. It’s as if he had no desire to hide it at all. It’s refreshing.”

Jeonghan shakes his head, rubbing his forehead, “you confound me. The manager before last was fired because you refused to forgive his theft of ten million won, and yet, Lee Jihoon has stolen more than thirty million from you in the past three months. Why are you still keeping him around? I don’t like him.”

“You’re losing ground here, Jeonghan,” she deflects, hunching over the board instead, “you know, you just gave me an advantage here.”

“What?” He looks at the board, “ah fuck, you’re right. I’ve just managed to hand you this match. You’re just as cold-blooded as ever, huh? Taking a match from under my nose when I was busy berating the manager who’s stealing from you.”

“I do not remember asking you to stand up for my honor, Yoon Jeonghan,” she smiles, sipping her tea, “and you’re forgetting that I was the one who brought him in, which means I have final jurisdiction over his fate in my house. He takes care of me, I look the other way when he steals money. At least he’s being honest about his intentions.”

“You knew?”

She doesn’t say anything, but it’s an admission anyway. 

—

“She’s insane!”

Jihoon walks into his apartment, only to find Joshua lounging on the sofa. He’s got a cigarette hanging between his lips, looking like he’s trying to decide between playing a vinyl record of Bach or Vivaldi. He’s got the two records in his hands, and inspecting them with the bored eye of a connoisseur, “are you even listening to me right now?”

“Not really, no, I’m trying to decide which Baroque composer to listen to tonight,” Joshua replies, unbothered by Jihoon’s crisis, “do you think it should be Bach’s Toccata and Fugue, or Vivaldi’s Winter?”

Jihoon groans, “either, I don’t particularly care. Anything is fine with me.”

“This is the problem with you, you see,” Joshua shakes the two records, as if making a point, “you don't give a shit about the finer points of life. You need to be able to make a distinction between which is the better composer for a night like this one. Is it Bach, with his melancholy, or Vivaldi, with his yearning for spring? Make a decision, Jihoon.”

He rolls his eyes, “you won’t shut up until I’ve made a decision, huh?”

“No, of course not,” Joshua grins. “You need to make a decision for me now.”

“The Vivaldi,” Jihoon points to the brightly-colored record in Joshua’s right hand, “he feels like the right choice.”

“I’m going to go with Bach, then,” Joshua shrugs, standing up to place the record in the player, “you look like you’re in dire need of melancholy.”

“I don’t need melancholy, Hong. I just need to have a normal boss for once in my life, someone who gives a shit about the working conditions they’re putting me in; I mean, if she knows I’m stealing money from her, then why keep me around? I’ve already taken thirty million from her, I can always take more.”

Joshua stares at him for a second, “careful, Jihoon. You told me you took this job because you wanted her money. It seems to me as though you somehow care about her financial well-being.”

“I don’t care, that’s the thing. I don’t care about her financial well-being, it’s that she keeps behaving in ways that don’t make any sense to me.”

“Isn’t that the best course of action? To have a boss who doesn’t give a shit about their money? You can steal from them, and even if they know, they’re not going to care?”

He sighs. Joshua makes a point, the sneaky bastard. He should not be caring about her money, nor should he care about how she lives. He’s just confused. He wants her money right now. He’s already got thirty million, the rest of the money should be just as easy to get. 

“I’m going to go wash up,” he announces to Joshua, who gives him a little wave, busying himself with the sombre tones of Bach’s Toccata. His room is smaller than the bathroom in her house, and on the days he has to sleep here, it all feels slightly unfamiliar to him. His room feels unfamiliar, but so does her house. Jihoon feels like an astronaut on the Space Station, stuck in limbo, watching the Earth and its people go about their lives without his presence. He feels unsettled, unmoored. In limbo. And it is all because of her. 

His phone rings, and he takes a second to check the caller ID before pressing to his ear, “yes, mom.”

His mother’s voice is soothing. Jihoon misses it, misses how she used to sing all through the house while doing her chores, misses how she used to sing for him every time he made a new song. He misses all of it, and he hates how he’s been reduced to being her gofer in order to pay his debt. Well, their debt. It’s a family thing. 

“Jihoon,” his mom sounds tired over the phone, like she’s been working sixteen-hour days at the diner down the road, “how are you doing, baby?”

He sighs. His father works full-time in a construction zone, and his mother works at a diner, doing errands for people who don’t even give a shit about her plight. They’re working for their meagre wages, and he’s out here in Seoul, trying to get enough money to pay up for the principal. 

“I’m fine, mom,” he lies, hoping it isn’t too blatant for her to catch on, “I’m doing fine, the work pays great, you know. I can give back the principal within the end of this year, trust me.”

“Jihoon,” his mother whispers, as though talking is difficult for her, “you don’t need to worry about the principal, son. It’s our debt, not yours. You should not be paying for it.”

“You are my family, mom. It’s my debt too,” he’s been repeating this one statement for the past three years, “you don’t need to worry about me working to pay off the debt. It’s my debt as well. And I told you, I’ve already paid off part of the principal. We only need a little bit more, and the principal will be done. Then all that’s left is the interest.”

He doesn’t say that the interest is the worst part. 

After ten more minutes, his mother finally hangs up, satisfied that her son is living a life mostly unburdened by his financial woes. Jihoon falls back onto his bed, thinking over the figures in his mind. Two hundred million won in debt, but the quantity of debt is different. He had once explained this to Joshua, and it had taken over an hour for the whole lecture. Jihoon’s pretty much not worried about the majority of the money, given that it’s with the bank, and they have already lost all their assets when his father’s company was declared bankrupt. It’s the final fifty million won he’s worried about. He had not known about it, otherwise he would have stopped his father from going to the loan sharks for the money. The fifty million won did nothing for their company, and all it did was add to their growing pile of debt along with a fearsome rate of interest that he doesn’t think they can continue paying. 

How much money do I have to pay? He makes a mental note of the little money in his bank account, and the amount of money their family owes to the Busan gangs, and sighs. It’s going to take me at least a decade to repay that much money. He’s been told that he should get angry with his parents, angry about the fact that he’s stuck paying back so much money when it was not his debt in the first place, but Jihoon is not bothered by all of that. He’s a grown adult now, it’s fine. It’s his duty to take care of his family, in every way possible.

Which is why she makes him angry. 

She has all the money she needs, perhaps more. She’s a homebody but she earns more money than he ever does in a year from appearance fees alone. There are books, lectures. Even though she goes through the motions, there is so much for her. And yet, she does all of this with a look on her face that tells him it doesn’t matter to her whether she has money or doesn’t. 

Even the way he got the job was insane. 

Three months ago, Jihoon had an acquaintance of his come into the bar where he worked, and offer two hundred thousand for a day’s work. He wasn’t sure why no one else had raised their hands, but it became clear to him soon—she was insane. The first three days of work had Jihoon bring in tea at specific intervals to the Go room, and she would leave the room after every six hours to take a piss. Hell, he didn’t even see her face properly until the day she offered him a proper contract. It seemed too good to be true, but he had taken it. 

And now he’s stuck here. 

—

The Ing Cup is in three months. 

She wakes up at six in the morning. Oftentimes she falls asleep in the Go room, having gone over the manoeuvres of games all through the previous night. Jihoon doesn’t even wake her up first when he comes in to work, simply makes her breakfast and then proceeds to slide open the door to the Go room, planting the tray on the floor beside her. She wakes up to the smell of freshly-brewed tea and breakfast rolls wafting into her from half a foot away, and thinks she wants to die a little. 

Jeonghan is part of the Ing Cup too, which means he has his own preparations to take care of, and he doesn't come by as much as he used to. His absence is fine. She doesn’t care about it that much. As long as she can play Go, there’s precious little in the world that bothers her very much. 

“How long have I been playing today?” she asks one afternoon as Jihoon serves her her lunch, “I don’t think I left the Go room in the past—”

“You’ve been playing for the past five hours, ma’am,” he replies, smooth and deferential, “and you’ve not stepped out of the house in the past two weeks. You only go out of the Go room in order to relieve yourself and attend to your hygiene.”

“Call it what it is; I go out of the room to take a piss and to take a shower, sometimes at the same time, just one after the other,” she snorts, taking a sip of the soup he’s set out in front of her, “you’ve been cooking very light food nowadays, Lee Jihoon. Trying to make me lose more weight? All my hair is going to fall out at this rate.”

He raises an eyebrow, and she just sighs, “yes, I get it, I need to get out more. At least I’m not spending whole days stuck in that room.”

He looks mildly concerned, “did you do that?”

She shrugs, “when I was young, my teacher used to go over my games, and sometimes, we would be stuck in that room for twelve hours at a time. No piss breaks either.”

“And that was fine?”

 “Well, both of us developed bladder problems later on.” She claps her hands, “thank you for the food, what else is on my schedule for today?”

“You have a meeting at the association and a lecture on Go game theories at Seoul National University, after which,” he replies with practised ease, “the rest of your day is free for you to do whatever you please.”

“Whatever I please?” she thinks over this statement for a while, “how long is the lecture supposed to run for?”

“An hour. You were invited by the game studies professor, and they’re marketing it as a special lecture by one of the biggest players in the country right now.”

She shakes her head, sighs, and walks off to change into proper clothes to go out. The association was one thing, but she couldn’t get out of the obligation with Seoul National University. She wants to get some time to herself, but she has her obligations to take care of. 

“The association is important, right?” she asks, staring at her wardrobe full of clothes either half-crumpled or folded into neat stacks, “I haven’t been there for a long time, so I think it would be important to show my face there at least once.”

“Yes, you should, miss,” Jihoon replies, voice even, “Yoon Jeonghan called ahead and left a message for you. He says to come to the association without fail this afternoon, otherwise he’s going to be very angry with you.”

She snorts. Jeonghan will not be angry. He’s the last person who would be angry with her for playing hooky to get away from an association meeting, given the many instances of him sneaking out of meetings are still fresh in peoples’ minds. He’s not going to be angry with her, but his words from a few days ago give her pause. They rise almost unbidden to the forefront of her mind, when the master is out, the dogs will play. Which is why you should go back there, assert your control. You have earned your place in the association, don’t let your current state get in the way of you holding on to all that prestige and power for yourself. 

In the end, she shakes her head, “do you think you can pick out some clothes for me?”

She’s wearing her sensible suit when they walk into the Go association, paired with her dress shoes that have been shined to an inch of its life, courtesy of Lee Jihoon. Outside, the sky is dark and unforgiving, and just as they step into the stone facade, it begins to rain. Early winter rain means the temperature drops instantly, and she can feel herself shivering even inside the considerably warmer lobby. Jihoon is at her side within a moment, pressing a thick woollen scarf into her hands. She refuses it, and walks off towards the direction of one of the many meeting rooms. 

On a normal day, the association is filled with random people, mostly administrators, but it seems that someone (probably Jeonghan) has leaked the news of her arriving. And judging from the wide-eyed stares she had received from the guards at the gate, Jeonghan did not have to work very hard to get that information out to the public. 

Hence, when she walks into the meeting room, she’s met with the stares of about twenty high-ranking players, all looking at her with a mix of fear, anxiety, and in the cases of some people, annoyance. She spots a few arrogant stares too, from people who have never played her at all. Mostly from them. There are only about three other female players, but none of them are in the room. Strange. Before she stopped coming to the association entirely, the few people who genuinely seemed to get excited to see her were the other female players, most of whom were simply amazed to be in the presence of a 9-dan player. 

“Kim Myung-hee isn’t here?” She asks one of the assistants, who looks terrified to have her stare at him, “I thought she would be here.”

“Why would you be asking about Myung-hee?” Park Inho, one of the 9-dans, barks at her, “you show your face around here after so long, and you ask about Kim Myung-hee before even greeting all of us? Where the hell are your manners?”

She rolls her eyes, “I did wonder where the grating noise was coming from. Turns out it was you, sunbae. How have you been?”

Park Inho turns an impressive shade of purple, and she’s an asshole for this, but she takes no small degree of pleasure from it. He sputters, and after glaring at her for thirty seconds, gives up to stalk away from the room. As he leaves, she claps her hand at the people gathered, “yes? Is Kim Myung-hee 9-dan here or not?”

The door bangs open behind her, and Jeonghan rushes in, enveloping her in a hug, “Darling!” he croons in her ear, wearing a flimsy shirt that is open to his chest, “it’s such a pleasure to see you here, my love.”

“Don’t say that like you did not orchestrate this whole meeting,” she whispers back in his ear, trying not to scowl, “were you the one who told the entire association that I was coming to visit?”

He raises his hands, “despite what you think of me, princess, I did not tell anyone. Today is a meeting day, which means there’s going to be a lot of people hanging out here.”

She rolls her eyes, unentangling herself from the embrace, “a meeting day? Really? This is what they’re spending their free time on? Should they not be playing matches or something?”

At the sentence, there’s a slight disturbance amongst the players, who all look at each other and start whispering amongst themselves. She frowns, but Jeonghan seems unfazed by the whole thing. She wants to ask, but his expression makes her stop. He isn’t even looking at the people gathered in the room, he’s looking somewhere else. 

“What the hell are you looking at?” 

Jeonghan laughs, pointing at the people all around her, who look almost too excited to see her in action, “your manager is still here, I see. He looks almost concerned for you, which is a strange look on him, but I suppose he’s got to earn his keep somehow.”

When she follows Jeonghan’s line of sight, she can see Jihoon staring at the crowd of people, standing to the side and unconsciously backing himself into a corner. She thinks it’s bizarre for a moment before realising that this was the first time he’s accompanying her to the Association for anything at all, and he might be feeling just as much as a fish out of water as she is. 

But before she can tell him to go and get a drink or to just sit in the car instead of the stuffy, humid air of the association, Cho Kyung-ho, 7-dan, walks up to her, shaking her hand, “we’d be honored to have you play with us, ma’am.”

She almost wrenches her hand away from his grip with pure instinct, but he’s staring at her with so much stupid hope in his eyes it’s almost pathetic, and instead of telling him a firm no, she shakes her head, attempting a gentle smile and says, “who here wants to play with me?”

“There were fifty people who wanted to play with me,” she groans an hour later, massaging her neck. Across from her at the cafeteria table sits Jihoon, holding two cups of tea in his hand, “how am I supposed to play them all? And they all looked at me like I was being a disrespectful ass when I kept telling them that I would play only against the highest-ranked players.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything, as per usual. He just stares at her, unnerving, with those same dark eyes that she thinks runs almost black. Black, just like the stones in Go, and she hates how she can recognise everything about those eyes. There’s something very awful about being able to recognise eyes like that, she decides, to be able to look at someone and immediately be reminded of the game. 

There has only ever been one game. 

“Still, you played against them all,” he says after a minute of careful observation, probably choosing his words with great care in order to not trip her into a rage, “and you won against them all too. That was impressive.”

“I did not win against them all, I had to draw against Kim Myung-hee, 9-dan.” She grumbles, but secretly she’s very pleased with the outcome of the day, “do we have to make a run for the university after this?”

Jihoon checks his watch, “after we get the game record sheets, we can go to the university. We’ll be cutting it close, but we can get there within the set time.”

She narrows her eyes, “is it bad if I say that I don’t want to go?”

Jihoon sighs, “ma’am, you hated the idea of coming here to the association so much, I had to coerce you out of the house. And now you want to skip the lecture and stay on?”

She has no answer to that. She hates the association, hates the stuffy old people who haunt its corridors, making sure the young people toe the line that has been drawn in the sand over a hundred years ago, but she cannot deny the rush of playing Go. 

“Fine, whatever,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m going to go to the university as soon as I get my game record sheets.”

“That would be prudent.”

After the coffee cups have been cleared away, she waits around for a few minutes, watching the people walk past the two of them in the lobby. It would have been nice if she could talk to Kim Myung-hee, but the woman seemed to have a lot on her plate. Everyone did, given that the Ing Cup was scheduled to begin in a couple months. Most of the people who showed up at the association today were probably just here because they had heard of her showing up unannounced, because no way in hell would these monsters be willing to sacrifice even a moment of their time not playing Go. Everyone except Jeonghan, of course. That man seemed like he had no concerns at all, spending hours of his time either at her house, or at the association. She’s heard of him frequenting the clubs at Itaewon too, which makes him even more annoying, if that could be a thing.

“Here you go, princess, here are the game records,” Jeonghan appears like the proverbial devil, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands, “you really gave the record-keepers a hard time today. They almost lost their minds trying to transcribe all the moves. What kind of player plays against ten ranked players at the same time?”

“A Go monster, that is who,” she grimaces, but takes the papers from him. Jihoon steps away from the two of them, ostensibly to give them some privacy, and Jeonghan’s fingers brush her hand. She scowls at the contact, “I don’t want to pretend to be ignorant of all the rumors about me.”

“Which is why you played ten people at the same time and won against nine, drawing against one,” Jeonghan drawls, “Kim Myung-hee looked very surprised to find out that she had been able to force a draw against you, and the rest of the people in the room wanted to either bludgeon you to death or examine your brain under a microscope.”

“They called me a monster of Go,” she shakes her head, trying not to smile at the memory of watching Park In-ho, 9-dan, hold his head in his hands at his defeat, “they’re going to get a monster if they want to call me one. Not very fun when the monster is fighting back, huh?” 

“Don’t call yourself a monster, yn, you know you aren’t one,” Jeonghan seems like he wants to say something more, but stops just short, “Jihoon told me you have a lecture at Seoul National University, so I’m going to escort you back to the car.”

“Just that?” She raises an eyebrow, “and since when do you talk to Jihoon?”

“Since you hired the man as your manager,” Jeonghan rolls his eyes, “I swear to god, you’re very annoying sometimes.”

The rain has stopped, but the chill in the air remains, which is perhaps why she shivers when stepping out of the gates of the association, fully aware of the stares that follow the three of them as they walk to her car. Jeonghan opens the back door of the car for her, grinning, “you took my advice to heart, you know. I am very happy about that.”

“Your advice?” She narrows her eyes, “you mean that weird line you kept saying about asserting my dominance? And why the fuck would I even have to ‘assert my dominance’?”

“It is as I told you, when the master is out, the dogs will play,” he smiles, “today, the master came back, and they’re on edge now. Perhaps even more so than before.”

“You mean to say they were not on edge about me before?” She closes the door behind her, but he catches a hold of the door, which leaves her leaning out of the open window, “what did you do, Jeonghan?”

“Nothing, just lit a fire under their asses for the Ing Cup, using you,” he continues to smile as he closes the door firmly behind her, “they’re all going to go back to their homes and pore over the mistakes they made in the games today. They’re going to think about your playing style for the next twenty-four hours, at least. You’ve managed to destroy their well-crafted pretenses in a single afternoon, darling.”

“You play with me all the time,” she points an accusing finger at him, and it is all very ridiculous, having a conversation with her half-hanging out of the car window and Jeonghan standing on the sidewalk, “why are you not upset?”

“If I am upset, I just play with you, princess,” he gestures towards Jihoon to drive, “and there is little more that I can do apart from playing with you.”

She wants to talk to him some more, to try and understand what exactly he means by that last sentence, but Jihoon has already got his foot on the accelerator, and they’re driving off towards the general direction of Seoul National University. She sighs, slumping down against the backseat, and stares at the back of Jihoon’s neck. He’s got a haircut, she realises, looking at the neat line of hair and the starched white collar, “when did you get your hair cut?”

Jihoon pauses, looking at her through the rearview mirror for a split second, “my roommate did it for me last night, but how did you know about it?”

“I observe,” she says, non-committal, “it’s my job, after all.”

The lecture at Seoul National is what she had been expecting—a group of excited young adults all waiting to find out about the world of game mechanics through Go, and she’s there to answer all their questions, inane though they might be. She spends about an hour discussing Go game strategies with a group of statistics students, feeling mighty happy about herself, when Jihoon leans in to whisper in her ear, “if we stay here for any longer, we’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” She asks, “we don’t even have an appointment after this.”

“Well, you have to go over all your game records from this afternoon, so I figured you might need some time to do that,” he shrugs, “you need at least five hours to review every game record sheet and then you need five more hours to perfect your strategies against them in a regular match.”

She can’t even argue with his logic, it’s that flawless. Frustrated, she stands up, making her goodbyes to the organisers, and follows him into the car, trailed by a gaggle of excited students. She signs a few papers, and says the necessary goodbyes, before stumbling into the backseat, “that was exhausting.”

“You seemed pretty comfortable back there,” he offers, putting the car into drive, “do you want to start reviewing the game sheets now, or do you want to do it back at home?”

“Right now,” she holds out her hand, and he stuffs the sheaf of papers in it, “I would rather start doing it now."

“Suit yourself, miss,” he says, non-committal, and turns his eyes back to the road ahead. She doesn’t want to think about it, but the simple act of him looking away gives her a lot of relief. His gaze is unnerving, and she hates how often he seems to train those flint-black eyes on her. As if he’s looking into her soul, and does not like what he’s found there. 

“Don’t look at me,” she mutters as they pull into the driveway of the house, “I’d like to be alone for the evening.”

Jihoon complies, of course, and she’s alone in the Go room, as always, poring over her game record sheets. 

Lee Jihoon had a happy childhood. 

Contrary to what people might think of him now, he grew up as a happy boy in the middle of Busan, where his father ran a mid-level logistics business and his mother took care of the house. Jihoon grew up in a house where there was always enough sunshine, enough money, enough happiness. He had enough food in his stomach, and in school, everyone knew that Lee Jihoon was going to study music production at one of the largest universities in Seoul, probably Hankuk or Korea. They all knew he was on the path for greatness, just a matter of time. 

And then, it all went to shit. 

His father’s business suddenly went tits-up, owing to trade contracts being given to a multinational company, and Jihoon suddenly realised that his father had taken out loans in his name over the past months, just to give his business a last-minute push. Their household lost all their money, and even before he could wrap his head around the fact that they had about a hundred and fifty million won in loans from the bank, the creditors showed up at their house. 

He had taken it all for granted like the fool that he was. 

It turned out that his father had taken out a final fifty million won in a high-interest loan, from shady people who now came to collect. His mother blamed his father for the decision at first, but as time went on, she came around to it. Jihoon, still in high school, never really managed to do it. Even as he was giving up the admission to Korea University, he could not shake off the idea that he was suffering from a fate that he did not deserve at all. 

It did not help that his father had done this all for him. Jihoon could not even get angry with him for this, he knew his father was only holding on to the business for so long because he wanted the best for him. His only son. His father took out the loans because he did not want his only son to suffer on his account. An admirable sentiment, but Jihoon was the one who was suffering now. 

In a matter of days, the life that he had known for so long was effectively over, and Jihoon was now left with a burden of about two hundred million won that he had no idea how to pay back. He moved to Seoul, but not for university. His move to Seoul was not to chase his dream, nor was it to chase something else. It was to pay off his father’s debts. His parents did not want him to pay their debts, but he had to. It was his duty, after all. 

“Don’t spend your entire life trying to pay for our mistakes, Jihoon,” his parents would insist, and he would wave them off. After all, he had always known he would have to take care of his parents, just had not known how he would have to do it. In a way, this was easier. He had a set goal instead of a vague dream that would have eventually led him back to the same place anyway. He just had to pay off the debt, and everything would be fine. And most of the debt was with the bank, which meant that they had enough time to pay up. After declaring bankruptcy, most of their assets were seized by the court in order to discharge their debts, which meant Jihoon and his family would only have to worry about the last fifty million won. 

If he could go back in time, he would have implored his father to not get into debt with loan sharks, but it was too late now, apparently. 

So much money, and I have no way to pay for it. He spent so much time working in shady bars, trying to find a way out of this mess. Bartending, working as a guard for the numerous clubs in Itaewon and Gangnam. He did not want to do it in the first place, but when he turned twenty-five, he found himself working as a porter, going back to the same industry that had ruined his father. He worked in logistics during the day, and at multiple bars at night. Over and over, the same routine. Even Joshua, who had found him after a particularly gruelling shift as a delivery boy, had commented on it once. 

“You look like shit, Jihoon,” he had said, “don’t work too hard, it’s going to ruin your body.”

Jihoon had scoffed, but after so many years of working to the bone in order to send his measly earnings back to his parents who gave it back to the loan sharks, he was exhausted. He needed a way to make quick money, easy and fast. The only way he could do that was by getting involved in shady businesses. 

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried. Jihoon had tried everything, just to pay off a sum of money that only seemed to grow larger and larger by the day. He was just about to start working as a courier for the drug traffickers in Seoul when it was Joshua who had stopped him. Joshua. With all his easy swagger and strange grace that made him look terribly out of place in Jihoon’s apartment, he had held on to Jihoon’s shoulder and shook his head no. 

“You’re going to go down a very slippery slope if you take a step out of this apartment tonight, Jihoon,” he had warned, casually lighting a scented candle, “who asked you to deliver that?”

Jihoon had stood his ground, glaring at him, “none of your business, Hong. I'm trying to earn money, not be anointed as a saint.”

“Jihoonie,” Joshua had smiled, although it was unlike anything Jihoon had ever seen, “I like you, you know.”

Jihoon raised his eyebrows, “what does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I don’t want you to end up in prison, that’s why,” Joshua smiled, “I’m going to do this one thing for you right now, Jihoonie. Who asked you to make this delivery?”

Jihoon had thought for a moment. He was not really keen on making the delivery that night, but they had promised him far more money than what he would get after a whole night of working. His conflict must have shown on his face, because Joshua had sighed, “who was it, Jihoon? Who asked you to make the delivery tonight?”

Ah fuck, it’s not like he was going to be able to do anything, Jihoon had thought then, “well, it was Jinyoung. He offered me twice my daily wage to make this delivery.”

“Twice the rate?” Joshua’s eyebrows had risen, “and it was Jinyoung, huh.”

“Wait, what do you mean? You don’t know him, do you?” Jihoon had asked, even though he knew. Joshua was not the type of guy to give him any answers. 

“It’s nothing,” Joshua had said instead, “I think I’ll need to have a conversation with Jinyoung soon, huh. Don’t go out tonight. They're going to throw you in jail if you do.”

And with that, he was gone. 

Jihoon did not understand why Joshua, who never managed to rouse himself from the couch unless it was for a singing gig, left their apartment that night, neither did he know why Jinyoung apologised profusely to him the following week. All he knew was that he was about to get caught up into something dangerous, and Joshua was there to save him from it. 

He’d stopped questioning the other man soon after that. 

Joshua was a part of his life, annoying and eccentric, and Jihoon had learnt to live with him as much as he had learnt to live with his debt. Although sometimes he got the sneaking suspicion that Joshua was the reason why he was not beaten bloody in the back of an alleyway by Jinyoung after that night, but, Jihoon was wise enough to not say anything that would have him end up in worse trouble. 

About three months ago, Jun, another one of the many bouncers that hung around Itaewon, walked into the bar, his friend Mingyu trailing behind him. Mingyu looked exhausted, and Jihoon could sympathise. There was word on the street that Mingyu was now working for a boss that made even the black corporations sound like heaven. Every time he walked into their bar, Mingyu looked like he had lost about ten pounds and five years off his life. 

“There’s no way she won’t give you a day off, Mingyu, it’s your sister’s wedding,” Jun had said, “wait, there’s really no way she’s going to reconsider?”

“No, she said she needs me to be by her side,” Mingyu had groaned, “what is the point of all that money when I can’t even attend the wedding of my sister? What’s the fucking point, then?”

“You should ask someone to do a part-time job, since you want to quit anyway,” Jun had pressed on, “how much money does she pay?”

“She pays me five million a month, which comes out to sixty-seven thousand per day,” Mingyu had groaned, draining his whiskey in one go, “but it doesn’t matter. She’s insane. She’s a fucking insane woman, and I cannot believe I have to wait on her hand and foot.”

Jihoon had merely raised his eyebrows, because Mingyu always complained about his boss (with good reason), but just then, the other man stood up, brandishing his empty whiskey glass, “who wants to take on a part-time job next week? I’ll pay you two hundred thousand!”

The others, who were no strangers to Mingyu’s complaining, all remained quiet. Even the temptation of two hundred thousand is not too much, huh, Jihoon had thought, looking at Mingyu and Jun, desperately trying their best to recruit someone to take over Mingyu’s job for one day. 

“I’ll do it,” he had said before he could stop himself, “the part-time job. I'll do it, so you can pay me.”

—

Jihoon remembers the feelings he had when looking at her house for the first time. He was in an upscale neighbourhood of Seoul, staring up at the traditional-style house where his employer was living. Mingyu had served her his two-weeks notice the previous day, and had told her that his replacement was going to come instead of him. Jihoon was not very happy with that, but he also did not have any other recourse. Which had brought him here, in one of the upscale neighbourhoods in Seoul with traditional houses, the kinds that got featured in magazines. The kind of houses that people like Jihoon could never even dream of entering, let alone owning. 

He pushed open the gate, which was wide open at six in the morning. Wide open, like the owner of the house was waiting for him to appear, and had thrown the gates open in anticipation, like a red carpet to welcome him. 

That should have been the first red flag. 

“Anyone home?” he had called out, still hesitant, as he stepped inside the  compound, staring at the overgrowth that was supposedly the garden, “I’m here for the part-time job.”

He had walked around the garden, chucking off his shoes at the veranda, but before he could open the first door available, one had opened for him. 

What a strange woman. 

The first thing he had registered was the strong smell of tobacco and alcohol wafting from her body, so strong it would have triggered a gag reflex in most other people. He powered through it, staring at the woman he’s supposed to take care of for the day. Mingyu had told him next to nothing about the gig, just that he was going to wait on this woman hand and foot for the day. 

But—what the fuck was wrong with her?

She was wearing a jacket that looked like it had seen better days, with hair that resembled a rat's nest, a sickly pallor over her skin that made Jihoon think she was some sort of invalid, or at the very least a very sick woman. She leaned half out of the door, lying on the wooden floor, and stared straight at him, gaze muddy and disoriented. Jihoon wanted to throw up. This is the woman I have to take care of?

“Who the fuck are you? You’re not Mingyu.”

She had asked him in a voice that seemed rough with disuse, and Jihoon had stared even more. Was she not aware of my coming? 

“I’m Lee Jihoon, your substitute—caretaker for the day. Kim Mingyu was unavailable for the day, so he sent me in his stead.”

“Mingyu sent you?” she had asked, eyebrows raised, “and why the fuck would he send someone like you?”

Jihoon could feel himself getting more irritated by the moment. Sure, he was not Mingyu, but there was a better way to say that, not barking orders at him. “I am aware that I am not Mingyu,” he had replied, trying his best to remain even-tempered, “my name is Lee Jihoon.”

“I don’t really care,” she replied, sitting up. She was hidden from his view, and Jihoon had taken a step forward, trying to take another look at her. Maybe if I see her properly, I would be less inclined to throw away this job and go back to the bar. She was sitting with her legs tucked in seiza on a hard straw floor, and in front of her was a board with white and black circular stones, scattered all over it. Baduk? Jihoon was familiar with the game, but that was the first time he had seen someone actually play it. 

“Don’t stare, it’s rude,” she said after a moment, placing a black stone on the board, “I suppose Mingyu giving me his notice was in regard to this.”

“Probably,” Jihoon shrugs, “he’s at his sister's wedding.”

“Good for him, I suppose,” she had replied, not really sounding like she cared, “do you know what you have to do?”

“He’s given me some instructions, but not more than that,” Jihoon said, feeling very inadequate, “I don’t really know what to do.”

“Fine, whatever,” she sighed, standing up and groaning lightly, long-suffering, “remind me to buy some cushions for the Go room.”

The Go room? Jihoon wanted to ask her about it, but kept his mouth shut. He was just here for the day. No need for him to get so involved in her affairs. After he left, she could sort her business out on her own. There was no need for him to get so involved. No need at all. 

“What skills do you have?” she asked, opening the main door for him, “I need someone to cook me my meals, and clean the house while they’re at it. I don’t have the time to do anything on my own.”

He narrowed his eyes, “and Mingyu was doing all this for you?”

“He was, not anymore,” she had said, with unnecessary venom, “why the fuck would he leave me, I don’t know.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, stepping into the house behind her, and is temporarily struck dumb. Who the fuck was Mingyu working for? A chaebol? Everywhere he could see, the spaces were occupied by something expensive, more often on the ridiculous side; a scroll painting from the mid-Joseon era, Ming Dynasty pottery, everywhere he could see, Jihoon only saw more money than he could ever wish to earn in a lifetime. One of them would be enough to wipe out his entire debt in a moment. 

So much money, and nothing for him. 

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Jihoon whips his head so fast it gives him an ache in the neck. “What?”

“I’m asking you what the fuck you were looking at,” she growls, “do you want to stay here or not?”

He trips over his words, “you have a lot of expensive things in here.”

She stares at him for a second. Jihoon stares back. Her eyes are surprisingly clear now, staring at him like she’s trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with him. She’s not wearing glasses, but she’s squinting faintly, which means she’s used to wearing glasses. She stares at him for a good minute, which makes him uncomfortable. Her gaze gets underneath his skin with an efficiency that scares him. 

And then she laughs. 

Unlike her voice, which is rough and scratchy and sounds like she’s been smoking cigarettes until recently, her laughter is silent, but she doubles up over a nearby table and laughs until she’s out of breath. Jihoon stands still for the entire time she laughs, and with every passing moment, he feels as though he should run out and go back to the bar. What would Joshua say about this? He’d probably laugh at me and make a big deal out of it. 

“I like you, Lee Jihoon,” she says once she’s caught her breath, panting faintly, “you’re hired.”

He blinks. “Hired?”

“You’re my new manager,” she says, pointing at him, “I like you. The starting salary is five million won monthly. Report here tomorrow morning at nine a.m.”

—

That was three months ago, and since then, he has stolen thirty million won from her. 

It began with small amounts, spare change that he skimmed off the top of accounts. Money that was supposed to be used for groceries, money that was supposed to be used for small repairs around the house. Whatever he asked for, she gave, usually not caring about how much money that was being spent. While it made things exponentially easier for him, it also made things difficult. Jihoon felt shitty taking her money, but he also had nothing else he could do. He needed money, and he needed it fast. Taking it from her was the only plausible course of action. Still, it did not stop him from feeling terrible about it. 

That all goes away the moment she starts demanding things from him. 

His duties are never-ending, from the moment he enters the house, he’s expected to take care of her every need. And there are so many. Jihoon has to cook for her, something he should not be doing as her manager, but he does it anyway. After all, the first time he had entered her house, he had found only alcohol in the fridge, along with bottles of expensive-looking water, but nothing else. No groceries, no cooked food. Not even banchan, something even a poor bastard like him had more than enough of. All she seemed to have were expensive things, clothes and artworks on the walls, but expensive artworks don’t fill your stomach. Jihoon cooks for her, washes her clothes, even takes her out for drives when she wants to have a change of air. Most of the time these trips are to the senior centre to play hours of Go, but he doesn’t mind all that. 

What he does mind is her lack of self-preservation. And of course, there is the presence of Yoon Jeonghan. 

Jeonghan is her colleague, and he does not like him. Jihoon is aware of this fact. Jeonghan had made it clear from the first moment he laid eyes on Jihoon, and he’s fine with it, truly. He’s slightly irritated by the negative emotions, but he can learn to live with it. Jihoon’s life is far worse. 

But when he sees her walking out of the house barefoot, no care for the biting cold, or of people’s judgemental gazes accosting her, he finds it difficult to hold on to his emotions. Her biggest purchases are cigarettes and alcohol. Her blood is probably seventy percent alcohol by now, Jihoon thinks, and she’s about half a year from contracting lung cancer. At least she doesn’t smoke in front of him. 

“She’s going to kill herself, you know,” he says to Joshua one evening, sitting at their shared kitchen table, watching the other man get ready for his performance, “she smokes like a chimney, drinks at all times of the day, refuses to eat real food, and doesn’t even go out of the house unless it’s to gallivant across the town barefoot with season-inappropriate clothing. She weighs less than a model with an eating disorder, and is paler than a homebody. Who the fuck does that?”

Joshua laughs, staring at his reflection in the mirror, “sounds like you’re worrying a bit too much about her. Aren’t you supposed to take her money and serve her your two-week notice? What happened to that resolve?”

“I know, but it would be inconvenient for me, if she popped her clogs on my watch,” he groans, “I don’t understand how she has so much money. She plays Go, for fuck’s sake. Playing that game is not a very lucrative profession.”

Joshua turns around, staring at him, “what’s her name?”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow, but says it, “and why is her name that important?”

Joshua laughs, “You realise, you’ve been working under one of the greatest Go players this country has ever seen?”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Jihoon replies, turning away from Joshua. He really does not. She can go drink herself into a stupor and smoke her lungs into charred shreds for all he cares. 

—

Ing Cup, day one. 

The first round of the Ing Cup was held online, but they’re here in Shanghai, China, waiting for the second round to be held. She was a finalist the last time, which means she automatically advanced to the round of sixteen. All that is left is to win, which means she’s going to get a prize money of about four hundred thousand dollars. 

Jihoon had been spooked massively the day they had arrived, with five cameras shoved into his face. She feels a slight twinge of putty for the guy, who’s probably being accosted by cameras for the first time in his life. It could not be helped, of course, the Ing Cup was a massive event in China, and they were all here to boost the national image of Korea. Mishaps like these were part of the game. Collateral, in a way. 

“I still don’t know why you had to come here days before you were actually supposed to play,” Jihoon complains, sitting on the ridiculously soft hotel bed, “are we going to sightsee today?”

“That’s strange,” she stares at him from where she’s sitting, perched on a chair with a board in front of her, “you are not this sensitive, at least not normally.”

“It’s been a week of being in Shanghai, and all we have seen is the inside of the hotel rooms.” Jihoon replies, feeling very petty all of a sudden, “all you do here is look at the performance records of the other players, and play them against yourself. Have you even eaten street food once?”

“I can’t eat street food, it gives me indigestion,” she replies, turning back to her board, “you can go out and explore if you want, I’m staying inside. I need to figure out how Ryoki managed to defeat Guangli in the round of eight. He was in a very tight spot. No one below eight-dan would have gotten out of that situation that fast, and he’s only seven-dan.”

Jihoon sighs. He can’t leave her here, but he wants to go out and explore Shanghai on his own, without the looming threats of unpaid bills and loans waiting for him. When he’d told Joshua about the trip, Joshua had laughed and told him to have fun for a few days. Even Mingyu had told him to ‘lighten the fuck up and get some’ in Shanghai. Jihoon figures that Mingyu must have been thinking about something else, but he’s not interested in that. 

He just needs to let loose one time. Just this once. 

It’s the finals. 

It’s the finals, and this is the first time that Jihoon has had such a long vacation. He’s spent the last week and a half running around Shanghai, eating street food and drinking cheap Chinese alcohol, only returning to his hotel room in the dead of the night. Sometimes he sees the light in her room still on, sometimes it’s turned off. Jihoon doesn’t really care. Why spend so much time poring over a board game? 

On the morning of the finals, he wakes up at six in the morning, his alarm blaring loud enough to wake up the entire floor. Jihoon turns over in his bed to turn the alarm off, but sleep seems to be hard to come by. He sits up, washes his face and cleans his teeth, and ambles out of the room to go out in search of the free hotel breakfast. It’s cold, very cold, so he dresses himself in a warm coat and trousers, picking them up from the chair and slipping them on.

Just outside of his room, he finds one of the organisers pacing the floor, knocking loudly on her door. He frowns, then raises his hand in greeting, “morning, Mr Cheon.”

Mr Cheon looks gratified to see him, “Mr Lee, nice to see you here. Could you wake up Athlete y/n for her final match? There are people waiting for her outside the hotel.”

“People waiting?” Jihoon raises his eyebrows, “I did not realise that. I shall wake her up immediately.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Cheon’s smile turns oily and unpleasant, “having her stay at this hotel has been a great boon for business. There are many people who are waiting for her presence.”

“I suppose,” Jihoon replies, not sure of what to tell him, so he settles for a smile instead. It’s hopefully noncommittal enough that Mr Cheon does not understand that he’s entirely unaware of his ignorance in this matter. 

Just at this moment, the door to her room opens, and she steps out. “Oh, you’re here already, Mr Cheon. Shall we?”

Jihoon stares. He’s been out of the hotel for every match she’s played so far, so he’s been utterly unaware of all the mechanics of a ranked Go game, but she looks—different. She’s wearing proper clothes, for once; sleek black ceremonial suit over a plain white shirt that would not have looked out of place at a funeral, her trademark large glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. He doesn’t understand the intricacies of haute couture, but even an idiot like him could realise that the clothes she’s wearing are both designer and ludicrously expensive. She slips on a black overcoat that looks like a cross between a dopo and a regular coat, and hands off a leather bag to Mr Cheon, who stares at her. It’s only then that she notices him, standing off in a corner. 

“Oh, you’re here, Jihoon,” she says, half a dismissal, which irritates him even further. I’m supposed to be your manager, he thinks, even if he has been running all over town the past few days. She keeps calling him as her manager, but makes no effort to actually hold on to him. It’s all very fucking annoying. 

“I’ll take that, ma’am,” he says, slightly offended, and takes the bag from Mr Cheon, who looks slightly surprised at this action, but keeps his mouth shut. She says nothing, just shakes her head. Jihoon finds himself staring at her. She looks very different, he thinks again, looking at her surprisingly clear gaze on this cold morning, she looks very different. 

“Shall we go?” Mr Cheon says, breaking his reverie, “we’re getting late.”

Jihoon walks behind the two of them, staring at her back as she moves through the corridors with her shoulders straight, and the back of her neck stiff. Before coming to Shanghai, he’d taken her to a salon for a haircut, sitting on a sofa for over an hour waiting for the hairdresser to be done with her haircut. He hadn’t really liked the haircut on her, but now he thinks it suits her face, a short pixie cut that disarms people into thinking she’s far younger than she actually is. The back of her head has been combed smoothly, with no flyaways. Suddenly, he feels wholly inadequate to be standing beside her, or even behind her. It’s not important. She’s probably not even thinking about me right now.

“My manager is entirely unprepared for the chaos,” she says, loud enough for Mr Cheon to hear, “I hope there is an alternative entrance we could use?”

The man shakes his head no, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he replies, although his tone doesn’t convey his contrition at all, “the Korean Go Association wanted the final match to be heavily publicised. Hence the public entrance and exit.”

“Fucking hell,” she swears under her breath, but Jihoon catches it, “do you want to kill him or something?”

How bad is a single Go game?

The moment they walk out of the large double doors, it is chaos. 

There are reporters everywhere, shoving cameras into her face, and even Jihoon bears the brunt of their interest, having to push some cameras out of his space, but the people are relentless, shoving and pushing. She raises her hand, and the sleeve slips down to reveal an old watch face. This gets the reporters more excited, somehow, and the flashes get more intense. She shields her eye, and Jihoon thinks he might be blinded.

“Miss y/n, what do you think about your opponents comments about your playing style?”

“Miss y/n, do you really think Korean Go is about to make a comeback?”

“Miss y/n, are you confident that you can win?”

Jihoon wants to look away, but he can’t. She has cameras flashing all around her, like she’s a celebrity or an idol or an actress. She’s never faced cameras like this in Seoul, not even when she went out barefoot on the streets or went without a coat in the cold. She’s being accosted by cameras at this point. He reaches out to pull her away from their ring, and Mr Cheon stops him, hand on his shoulder. 

“She’s the sole representative of Korea left in this tournament,” he says, stopping Jihoon in his tracks, “Yoon Jeonghan resigned from his match two days ago. She’s the last one left.”

She’s the last one left. Jihoon doesn’t like the way he says it, but he stares at her, face blank and expressionless even in the face of blinding lights. She doesn’t answer any question, just nods her head and walks straight into the awaiting car. Jihoon follows, sliding the car door close with a thump. Even as the doors close, he can feel the eyes of multiple people on him, on her, on their car. 

As soon as the car starts, he turns to look at her, but she’s leaning her head back onto the seat, with her eyes closed. What the hell?

“She’s in good form right now,” Mr Cheon explains, the car speeding across the roads, “the final is no doubt nerve-wracking, but she looks like she’s in high spirits.”

Jihoon just stares. What the fuck is going on?

Fortunately, at the venue, there is a separate entrance for the players, and their car gets there with minimal camera flashes. Mr Cheon ushers them both right ahead, saying things like “we’re already late”, but Jihoon maintains an iron grip on her bag, focused on following her as closely as he can. 

“The members from the Go Association are here,” she mutters, the distaste clear enough for Jihoon to notice, “they’re going to have me in their grip for the next twelve hours. Get something to eat and sit in the observation room.”

“The observation room?” Jihoon asks, but Mr Cheon has his grip on him, “come, sir. We’re going to go to the observation room.”

He’s never really thought of Go as a popular game. Sure, old people played it, and some people made their living from it, but it never really registered in his mind as a popular game, not at the level of basketball or baseball. Still, looking at the number of people crammed into the large hall they were using as an observation room, he thinks that he needs to reconsider his notion about the game. There were people dressed in obscene luxury; reporters and people from Go associations all over East Asia, along with famous players that he has never even heard the names of, who all shake his hand and smile at him warmly and thank him for taking such good care of her. 

Her. everything is about her. 

She sits at a table, facing a man who looks slightly nervous to be opposite her. Who would not be, being faced with that expressionless mask? In between the two of them, there’s a Go board, stones scattered all over them, white and black. While there are no cameras that get right up in her face, Jihoon thinks it must be uncomfortable to have your every move tracked by a camera five feet from you. She’s placing a stone with the confidence of someone who has studied their opponent for months beforehand, he responds with a move that speaks more of his experience than his confidence. 

“Incredible,” someone whispers, “she’s taken control of the game from the very beginning. Ryoki stands no chance against her.”

“Even with the komi, the difference in their skillsets is huge,” another says, voice low, but loud enough for Jihoon to hear, “how is Ryoki failing? Everyone and their mothers have studied her playing style by now.”

“The thing about her is that you cannot tie her down with her playing style,” the voice of Yoon Jeonghan interrupts them, loud and clear. He’s wearing proper clothes today, Jihoon notices, with no little distaste, “she’s probably thought about how he’s read her style, too.”

“Yeah,” someone agrees, “y/n has always been pretty strategic in her playing, but today she seems especially ruthless.”

Jihoon doesn’t understand what the fuck they’re talking about. She looks lonely, sitting in front of a man who, despite his nervousness, looks like he’s much more comfortable in his situation than she is. She looks ill at ease, her back stiff and unyielding, and her left hand is balled up into a fist beside her. Jihoon doesn’t know anything about the game, but he knows her, and she’s stressed out. 

After what seems like an eternity, the man raises his hands, a white stone in between his fingers, and places it on the corner of the board. She reaches out for a handshake, nodding solemnly. The room breaks out in applause, and Jihoon turns around to seek out Mr Cheon, who is clapping enthusiastically, his face red with happiness. 

“She won!” Mr Cheon grasps Jihoon’s hand, shaking it emphatically, “Miss y/n won! Such a masterful play, you must be so proud.”

He doesn't know what to say.

“It doesn’t matter how I play, the game is the thing in itself.”

They had been received at the Gimpo airport with more camera flashes, and she had stood in front of reporters and said a single sentence, which was quoted and written over and over by hundreds of publications before they even made the trip back home. Jihoon carries her bags to her bedroom, carefully depositing them at the foot of her giant bed, and she follows him inside, looking haggard and spent. 

“I’ll cook some lunch for you.”

“No need, I’ll order something,” she waves a hand, “go back home, Lee Jihoon. You have had an equally tiring trip as me.”

Easily dismissed, Jihoon walks out of the house, which has been fortunately spared from the onslaught of journalists, walking to the taxi stand to hail a cab. The past week has been something of a dream, a vacation that he had neither thought he could get, nor did he think he deserved it, a time spent entirely on roaming around the streets of Shanghai and eating spicy street food. Is this how young people live? He has spent most of his youth trying to earn money, while people like her flew first class to China just to play a few games and earn a frankly ridiculous amount of money. 

It all was terribly unfair. 

His phone chimes, your bank account XXXX-XXXX has been credited with ₩5,000,000. 

And underneath that, a text; show me the pictures you took of Shanghai. 

He tries not to think about the five million won sitting in his bank account at that moment, and chooses to reply to her message, I’m sure you’ve seen better sights in Shanghai, ma’am. 

The reply comes almost instantly. I don’t know. I’ve never really seen Shanghai. 

It’s been two weeks since the Ing Cup. In that time, all that she has managed to do is drag herself out of the house on a single day, and smoke ten packs of cigarettes. Jihoon stares at her with distaste every time he looks at her, like he’s been faced with a particularly tough mathematics problem, one that he has no hope of solving. Jeonghan’s been staying away for a while too, perhaps busy with his newest fling or whatever catches his fancy. 

Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the board. That one damn board, with black and white forming a pattern. Graceful, yet suffocating. She understands this pattern, she’s seen it enough times for her to remember it by heart now. This is the same pattern that Ryoki Miyajima employed in the semifinal match of the Ing Cup, the pattern that forced Yoon Jeonghan to retire. She knew this pattern, because this is Ryoki Miyajima’s signature move. To use his formation, he would have had to take control of the board from the first move itself. Jeonghan had not expected this, and he’d lost as a result. It was humiliating, the way Jeonghan had lost. 

“Never let him take control of the game, even once.” Jeonghan had whispered into her ear when she had encountered him in the hallways after the game. He’d looked haggard, his shoulders slumped in defeat. It’s the first and only time she’s seen him so—broken down. 

“What do you mean?”

“The moment you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile,” Jeonghan had said, shaking his head, “he plays ruthless, so I had prepared for it, but this was beyond what I had prepared for. Make sure you never give him a single stone or a single point.”

With that he’d handed her his game record sheet, and walked off into his room. Ryoki Miyajima was a ruthless player, and everyone expected her to employ her usual style and tactic; waiting until the opponent slipped up, and then moving in with precise stones that called for an elegant game. But Miyajima was a ruthless player, and had always been one, and it was plain to her from the game records, that he planned to be even more ruthless in the finals. 

She’d spent the two nights before the game poring over his past matches and playing styles, looking up past game records. They had opposing styles, which would make for an interesting match if she decided to go that way. Miyajima must also be preparing, poring over her records in the same manner as her. Smooth as water, the Asahi Shimbun had reported during her first Japan-Korea Tengen, y/n, 8-dan, with her playing style that resembles the flowing of silk over water, defeated her opponent 4-1 in a tournament that seemed to be on her side from the beginning. She had not made particular changes to her playing style, but for this one, she might just have to go all out from the beginning. Ryoki Miyajima had not expected her to fight aggressively from the start, and she took no small pleasure in seeing his face go from confused to surprised to anger, and finally, acceptance, as he resigned. She bowed to him, turned on her heel, and returned to the hotel room. Fighting hard from the beginning. 

How does it feel, to live life like that?

She turns to lie on her side, staring at the photos Jihoon had sent of Shanghai. He had no talent in photography, but his pictures still managed to be honest and captivating. The sights of Shanghai were blurring in front of her face, which probably meant that she had been rotting in there for far too long. 

She had expected Jihoon to be bored and sensitive in Shanghai, much like everyone else. His job as her manager was to wait in the hotel room along with her. No one would like to sit in silence with a woman who just had eyes for the board in front of her. Anyone else would have been angry with him for leaving his position and going sightseeing, but she found herself not really caring. At least one of us has to enjoy this trip. 

“You have been lying in bed for the past week straight, ma’am,” the man in question walks into the room, nose wrinkled at the look of her in bed, hair tangled, eyes bloodshot, “you’re not even getting any sleep. What are you doing?”

“None of your business, Jihoon,” she mutters, looking away from him, “go away.”

“I wish I could, but I still have to get my salary for this month,” he replies, throwing open the drapes, “it’s almost afternoon. At least try to wash up today.”

She regards him with one eye open. He has an apron tied around his waist, looking supremely annoyed with her, “and what if I don’t want to?”

He raises his eyebrows, “do you want me to give you a bath? I can arrange that for you, ma’am.”

“Never mind.”

Jeonghan appears as she’s getting dressed for the day, and she finds him lounging on a sofa, staring at his painted nails, “thought you would still be in bed.”

“Then why are you here right now?” she asks, walking towards the Go room, “did it take you this long to lick your wounds?”

“Lick my wounds?” he laughs, “I was pursuing—something with someone. That’s why it took me so long.”

“Maybe don’t talk about fucking when I’m opening the Go room for you,” she wrinkles her nose in anger and distaste, “don’t disrespect the fucking Go Room, you ass.”

“And if I say I have had people in the Go room who were definitely not supposed to be there?” he smirks, waiting for her reaction, “what then, y/n?”

She sighs, walking into the dusty room, opening the door to the garden, “Libertine.”

“You like it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she rolls her eyes, producing the game record of Ryoki Miyajima and her final match from her pockets, “we need to play this match.”

Jeonghan looks at the piece of paper, surprised, “why do you still have that?”

“He beat you,” she replies, “it was quite humiliating, and I hated it. He should not have been able to beat you. But he did. So I need you to know how to beat him later on.”

“But you beat him in the final,” Jeonghan laughs, “although I am very touched by this display of solidarity, you don’t need to do all that for me. You already took revenge for me by beating his ass in the finals.”

“Just that isn’t enough,” she shakes her head, “you need to be able to beat him by yourself later on. Relying on me is not the way to go.”

“They called your win the ‘Restoration of National Pride’,” he says, settling across from her on the floor anyway, “what do you have to say about that?”

“I think it’s stupid that they’re coined that term, and it’s stupider that you’re using that term,” she counters, “I’ll play black. No byoyomi, eight komi.”

“Oof, you wounded me,” Jeonghan grins, hand on his chest, “well, shall we begin?”

Six hours later, Jihoon walks into the Go room, carrying a tray of evening tea and light refreshments. He’s had to deep-clean her bedroom while she played Go, but he’s not too annoyed by it. Rolex watch, lying unattended in a far corner of the dresser, clearly never worn. Sure, it’s second-hand, but it’s an Oyster Perpetual, which means it’s going to fetch him a cool 15 million on the market. 

He whistles to himself while he prepares their tea and snacks, and hopes that he gets more opportunities to enter her bedroom in the future. 

Yoon Jeonghan has been here for the past five—no, six hours,  and they’ve been holed up in the Go room for almost all of that time. Jihoon’s passed by the room at least ten times, and he’s not seen either of them emerging from the space. He does not trust Jeonghan at all, but he knows her. She treats the Go room as a sacred space, and she would not do anything to jeopardise the sanctity of said space. Jihoon might not like the idea of leaving Jeonghan alone with her, but he knows her. 

When he slides open the door with the tray in his hand, he’s not prepared at all for the sight that greets him. 

She sits across from the Go board with a lit cigarette in her hand, looking at the board like it’s done her a personal affront. Across the board, Yoon Jeonghan is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the secret to the mysteries of his life. 

“Tea for the two of you, ma’am,” he says, setting the tray down. “Should I take my leave now?”

She waves her hand, “yes, of course. Come again tomorrow.”

He’s about to stand up and leave the room, when Jeonghan sits up, saying, “why the hell are you telling me this right now, y/n? It would be better if you kept the knowledge about his playing to yourself. You have the Challenger Cup coming up next, you need to prepare for it. You’re so close to a Grand Slam year, y/n, why the hell are you wasting your time doing all this for me?”

She takes a deep breath, taking a drag and letting out a puff of smoke. Jihoon stares at her. 

When he was young, he had accompanied his parents to an art museum once. He was too young to understand what the paintings meant, so he had busied himself with looking at the ceilings, the way the sunlight filtered through the windows, and his mother’s light conversation as she talked to her friends. It was an idyllic moment, a rare weekend when his mother was free and could take him out for a moment. Young Jihoon had spent much of his time lazing about, but there was one print that had caught his eye. It was of a skeleton, with a burning cigarette held between its jawbones. He had not understood the meaning of the picture, but now, looking at her, smoking a cigarette and staring at the Go board, he thinks he might have an idea. 

“It doesn’t matter if you win or if I win,” she replies, not even looking up from the board, “I cannot bear to see a puzzle being left unsolved, no matter who’s on the opposite side of the board. It’s not about the match, never has been. It’s about the game, and if you leave beating Ryoki up to chance or up to other people, then you’re letting the game down.”

“You and your game,” Jeonghan scoffs, “why play the game if you hate it so much?”

“None of your business, Jeonghan,” she picks up a cup of tea from the tray, drinking it in one go, “now get going. I need to have some time to myself.”

“Don’t bother with showing me out, I know the way,” Jeonghan shrugs, standing up, “but what are you going to think about?”

She stares at him, eyes cloudy again. “Things.”

Jeonghan leaves, and Jihoon turns to get back to his work as well, but she stops him just as he is about to step out of the doors, “wait, Lee Jihoon.”

He turns, frowning, “what’s wrong?”

Her eyes are cloudy again. She stares at him, but he doesn’t know if she’s staring at him or if she’s staring beyond him, just somewhere else, “do you know how to play Go?”

Three months to the LG Cup. 

The chill in the air is getting worse. She spends most of her free time under the covers, staring up at the walls for hours at a time. She’s not doing anything, just breathing. 

Everything is so difficult. Every time she opens her eyes, there is a damn board in front of her, taunting, mocking. It stares at her, mocking, even as she tries to turn away from it, closing her eyes to it. Nothing works, the board still stares at her. All she can do is think about the damn game. Over and over again, the same game. Go. 

On the seventh day of her self-imposed exile, Jihoon returns to her house. 

“It’s been a week since you showered,” Jihoon says, walking into her bedroom, “why the hell are you still in the same clothes after a week?”

“Didn’t feel like changing,” she mutters, “you would have to wash them all anyway.”

“While I am touched by your concern for the laundry, I don’t particularly care,” Jihoon replies, “but you’re still in those filthy clothes. Good fucking god.”

“Shut up, Lee Jihoon,” she says, half-heartedly, “it’s none of your business.”

“I keep the house in order here, so it kind of is my business,” he says, “and you need to take a shower.”

“I said it’s none of your business!” she snaps at him, still lying down, and when their eyes meet, her gaze clears a bit. Jihoon doesn’t understand Go, and he’s probably the only one in her periphery who does not. It’s just that his eyes are still the same, slate-black, like Go pieces. 

The board hovers in front of her, airborne, and slowly everything else fades to black. The board remains, still and unyielding. 

“Miss!” Jihoon’s voice, loud, defiant, snaps her out of her trance, “you need to take a shower, Miss. or  a bath. You need a full-body bath, actually.”

“Don’t feel like it,” she mutters, looking away and closing her eyes. Who cares? I can play Go. That's all they want. He wants the same, and I’m here, like an idiot, giving him what he wants. 

He’s the one who had taken the old rolex from her cabinet, she’s pretty sure. She doesn’t hold any affection for the old watch, but still, it would have been better if he had told her that he was taking it. She would not have spared it another thought. 

Really? He basically made it clear he did not have any other desire to work here than the money. 

“Still, you need to take a shower, you know,” Jihoon says, stripping the covers off of her, ignoring her look of betrayal, “I’ve run you a bath. Do you want to take it, or should I carry you to the bathroom myself?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jihoon,” she groans, standing up from her bed, “I just don’t want to take a shower or a bath right now.”

She doesn’t say anything else, and it’s not important, really—she can think whatever the fuck she wants, and he’s welcome to do whatever he wants, but this—this is proving to be difficult. 

“It’s too cold, I don’t really want to take a bath. I can just wash myself quickly under a shower. Or a half-body bath. I can do one of those.”

Jihoon stares at her for a second, and takes a step forward, his palms outstretched. Instead of being rooted in the spot where she had been standing, she takes a step back, her instincts screaming at her, “what the hell are you trying to do?”

“Making you take a bath,” he says simply, depositing a change of clothes on the bed and turning around, “you need to wash your hair. It stinks."

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, but grabs the change of clothes anyway, making her way to the bathroom, where as promised, a tub of warm bathwater awaited her, a bottle of shampoo and liquid soap next to it. She wasn’t even sure she owned them anymore. Where did he even get those?

“I went out and bought them yesterday,” he offers as an explanation, as though already understanding what she wanted to ask, “do you even know what groceries and household items you need?”

“You’ve been here long enough to understand that I just do not care,” she replies, taking off her shirt and pajamas, before stepping into the water half naked. Jihoon averts his eyes, but bends down to pick up the clothes, arranging them in a neat pile. She wants to roll her eyes, but looks away instead. Let him do whatever he wants, she thinks, it’s not bothering me. 

After about three minutes of soaking in the bath, she hears him walking up to her. Jihoon takes a seat on a plastic stool, squirts out a few dollops of shampoo on his hands, and begins working it into her hair. It’s all so shocking she doesn’t know how to respond to it, genuinely confused. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Washing your hair,” he replies, “you smell atrocious. Gotta get some of that cleaned up.”

He hands her the body wash, and while she lathers it all over herself, Jihoon slowly works the shampoo into her scalp, scrubbing it into her skin with a single-minded concentration that seems funny to her, at least now. 

It’s been a long time since someone has done that for me. 

“Are you feeling guilty about it?” she asks, while he’s rubbing the ends of her hair, “don’t be sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

So he’s going to be weird about it. 

“Never mind,” she replies, busying herself with the water, staring at the surface until it makes her go slightly sleepy. She’s not trying to sleep, not with Jihoon sitting right behind her, but she’s feeling like it. If she closes her eyes, she’s going to fall asleep right in the middle of this tub. 

“You can sleep, you know,” he says, voice lower than necessary. It makes her even more confused, “you’ve been staying awake for the past week and a half.”

“Not that you noticed,” she grouses, closing her eyes, “why the hell are you washing my hair anyway? I can do it by myself.”

“I don’t know, either.”

He’s been feeling guilty ever since that day. He’d sent the money to his parents, keeping some for himself and later loan repayments, but he keeps thinking back to that hiding spot, tucked safely behind all her clothes. He could have sold her clothes, but the watch seemed like a better bet. 

Was it given to her by someone important? A family member? Her parents? A lover?

While she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would hold on to the keepsakes of a former lover, Jihoon doesn’t really know her at all. He knows she’s rich, he knows she has far too much money from playing a game he doesn’t care about. Other than that, he doesn’t know anything. The watch looked like it had been given to her by someone important. No one gives someone a Rolex watch just like that. It’s not the most usual of gifts. 

He thinks of a scenario, of her being given the watch by someone she had loved, a nameless, faceless, shadow of a person, their hand slipping into hers with the comfort and familiarity that is borne only out of a romantic relationship. It makes him slightly confused. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would entertain a romantic relationship, much less actively seeks someone out. If that had been the case, she would have been entangled with Yoon Jeonghan by now. He surely came around the house to play with her more often than necessary. 

Was it him? Yoon Jeonghan? 

Jihoon shakes his head, trying to rid himself of his thoughts, dreaming of a scenario in which Jeonghan beats him bloody for daring to sell his keepsake, and pulls on his trousers. He’s not visited her for almost a week now. 

What he sees is a mess. He’d last visited her a week ago, and it seemed to him that she had not even bothered to clean her house during that time. Had she even taken a shower? Was she just looking vacantly at the ceiling all hours of the day? What the hell? Did she just—exist and play Go?

Before he had walked into her bedroom to inspect the extent of the damage, he’d taken a look at the refrigerator. Nothing. Even the side dishes that he had left for her were untouched. Did she go without food all this while? 

In the trash he finds candy wrappers, bottles of water, all in various stages of decay, coupled with an empty container of kimchi that makes him wrinkle his nose in distaste. Cleaning can wait until later. I need to see how she’s been doing all this while. 

In her bedroom, it’s an even bigger mess. She’s dressed in the same clothes he’d last seen her in, unwashed, hair unkempt. A foul smell emerges from the bedsheets, sweat and saliva and the sweet scent of chocolate all mixed into one, and in the middle of it all, she lies, eyes trained onto the ceiling, mumbling faintly, eyes unmoving. Her chest rises and falls, which means she is not dead yet, but she might as well be, given how much she behaves like one. 

He doesn’t know why he had the desire to wash her hair. He has other things to do, more important things, better things, really. But he sits on a cheap plastic stool, lathers the soap and shampoo in his hands, and massages it into her hair. 

“I don’t know either.” He’s being honest—he does not know why he’s here. He should be cleaning the house, he should be doing anything else, but he’s in here, washing her hair like her mother did for her, no doubt. 

“The Rolex was not a gift,” she says, after a beat. He pauses, staring at the back of her head. How the hell did she know?

“The Rolex was more like a bribe,” she repeats, sinking further into the warm water. Jihoon takes the handheld shower, starts washing her hair gently. “I don’t wear it anymore. Never did. I hated what it stood for, so I never did.”

He doesn’t say anything. Her eyes droop close, almost in deep sleep, and she opens her mouth again, “you should have taken it. I don’t wear it. I don’t want to even have the possibility of wearing it.”

Jihoon says nothing, washing her hair. Why is she saying all this? Anyone else in her position would have had him thrown out of their employ in the first month itself, but he’s already figured out that she’s perhaps a bit more eccentric than most, but this seems new, even for her behaviour. 

“Was it a pretty watch?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even and hide the surprise in it, “the Rolex, I mean.”

“You would know.” She tries to laugh, but fails, “you took it, didn’t you?”

“I did not.” The lie is unconvincing to him, but he swallows it down, tries not to look at the back of her neck, and opens his mouth again, “I don’t understand what you want to talk to me about.”

“I don’t even use that watch,” she shrugs, “you know the watch on my bedside table? I use that instead of the Rolex.”

“That one?” he’s seen it, it’s an old watch model, the strap’s leather disintegrating, “you wear that?”

“I do,” she replies, closing her eyes, “go away, Lee Jihoon.”

There’s a man at the gates. Jihoon has been staring at him for the past fifteen minutes. He is wearing a coat in the same style that she had worn during the Ing cup final, a mix of hanbok and modern haute couture tailoring, something that looks far better on him than it had on her. Is this the man who makes her clothing?

“Are you the manager?” the man asks, clearly surprised to see him there, “I mean, I had heard from the association that she had a new manager now, but that’s you?”

Jihoon doesn’t answer, merely nods. He’s been asked this question enough times for him to be used to it. He doesn’t look the part, far too thug-like to be considered for the ‘manager of a Go player’ image. The people at the bar are wearing off on me. 

“This is my card,” the man holds out a card towards him, “I’m the one of the principal designers at XMH.”

Principal designer at XMH? Jihoon inspects the card to discover if it’s a forgery, his eyes catch nothing, if it is a forgery, it is a very clever one. He takes a sneaky look at the man’s car, which seems to hold a large suitcase, suspiciously full. But what is one of the principal designers of one of East Asia’s biggest fashion houses doing here? At her house? 

“Do you want me to ask if she can receive visitors?” he asks, taking note of the way his face lights up, “you should wait here.”

“I’m going to wait, so go and ask her, please.”

He walks back into the house, finding her seated seiza-style in the Go room. Even before Jihoon can open his mouth, she raises a hand, shutting him up, “get him to leave.”

“Get him to leave?” Jihoon raises his eyebrows, “he’s one of the principal designers of XMH.”

“I don’t care if he’s the reanimated corpse of Yves Saint Laurent himself, I don’t want to see him here.”

Jihoon shakes his head. There’s no arguing with her when she gets obstinate like this. She’s never going to listen to him, so why bother? Still, he presses on, “the man has been standing here for a long time. He seems like he has some things to give to you.”

She sighs, holding her head in her hands. “You can do whatever the fuck you want with his gifts. I don’t care. Sell them for a high profit on the thrift scene.”

Jihoon raises his eyebrows, but walks out of the room either way, going back to the front gate. The man is still standing there, with a pathetic hopeful look in his eyes that makes him think twice about turning him away. Should I just say fuck it and let him in? She’s not going to remain angry for very long, is she?

But then he remembers the haunted, caged look in her eyes, and steels himself. Never mind. “Sorry,” he says, loud enough for his voice to be carried to the interior of the house, “she’s not taking any visitors.”

“No visitors, or just me?”

Jihoon shrugs, and the man’s eyes start to water. What the hell? Is this man really that interested in meeting her? He briefly entertains the idea that he might be a stalker, but dismisses that outright. If there had been news of a stalker, she would have told him. Or at the very least, there would have been more cases like these in the past months than just this one. Still he can’t disregard the possibility that she’s got a high-class admirer, and so, narrows his eyes even further, standing at the gate with his arms crossed, “no, sir. No entry.”

“Fine, then.” the man sighs, looking like he’s lost a war with himself, “at least give these to her. I know she’s probably going to throw them away, but you have to—well, just take it.”

In his hands, is the suitcase that Jihoon had seen earlier, and he offered it to him, looking expectantly. Jihoon should decline politely, but when he looks at the suitcase, it seems like it is bursting to the seams with clothes. And if it’s clothes from one of the principal designers of XMH, he could get at least two million won from those clothes alone. 

“You can leave that here,” he says, trying his best to look nonchalant, “I can give them to her later on. When she’s not as angry as she is right now.”

“Yeah, right.” the man shakes his head, and then starts walking towards his car. Jihoon had not noticed it before, but the man drove a model that looked far more expensive than the car he drove her around in, which was one of those expensive foreign models that cost more than a hundred thousand dollars a pop. What kind of money does she have? 

“If I may ask,” he says, and the man stops, “why do you even want to talk to her this badly? She’s not really the best conversationalist, you know.”

“She’s unbearably rude,” the man says, smiling, and Jihoon thinks he might have unwittingly accepted gifts from a stalker. “She’s rude, but she has a right to be that way.”

“A right to be that way?” Jihoon scoffs, “what, now you’re going to tell me her life has been ruined?”

To his surprise, the man nods, sadness marring his every feature, and in the golden, late afternoon sunlight, Jihoon realises he’s the spitting image of the woman sitting inside the house. Wait, they’re related? The logical solution would be that they were brother and sister, but what kind of sister would turn her brother away at the gates? It made no sense to him.

“Her life was ruined, you know,” the man says, smiling sadly, “and I ruined it for her. Nothing I will ever do will make up for that fact.”

And with that final line, he’s gone, driving off into the sunset. Jihoon stands outside the house with the fucking suitcase full of clothes for a long time, thinking that he’s made a terrible fucking mistake. 

The LG Cup. 

They hold the LG Cup in an auditorium sponsored by the LG Group, which usually hosts the Seoul Philharmonic Orchestra once every year. Jihoon stares at it while he drives the car to the auditorium, sneaking surreptitious looks at the woman sitting in the backseat. Behind her glasses, her eyes are closed, which usually means that she’s thinking of a hundred different match outcomes in her mind, but what interests her is not that. It’s the clothes that she’s wearing. 

It’s one of the suits that her brother had dropped off the previous day, black hanbok-inspired suit with flowing pants and an embroidered dragon on the back in black thread that seemed to glitter in the light. He knows why she’s dressed to the nines for today. It’s the finals. 

The final match, against Yoon Jeonghan of all people. 

They had been semi-finalists the previous year, but he had been knocked out of the running by a Chinese player. She had won in the finals against the Chinese player that had defeated Jeonghan, which meant that the tabloids had run amok with the story of ‘Go Lovers’ that seemingly played to defend the other’s honour. Jihoon had read some of the articles of the previous years while he waited around this past week, and he had come to the express conclusion that it was all bullshit. Jeonghan, even though I hate him, has never once made an advance towards her, despite flirting outrageously. In fact, he thinks she accepts that Jeonghan is a big flirt; he says things without meaning any of them, does things without attaching any meaning to them, and disarms people quickly while keeping his own guard up. 

She shifts, eyes still closed, and the black dragon shimmers in the reflected morning light. Jihoon turns his gaze back to the road. Let's not stare at her. There's no reason for me to do that. 

When he parks the car in front of the gates, there are about fifty photographers, all waiting to see a glimpse of the famed Go player, Yoon Jeonghan’s best friend, also his enemy for today. Jihoon’s not surprised to see them anymore, having gotten his fill over the past six months, and merely opens the door for her, muscling a photographer—his tag says Chosun Ilbo—out of the way. She steps out, glasses fixed on her nose, eyes focused and clear, and the reporter from Chosun Ilbo decided to loudly shout his questions. 

“What do you think of the controversy regarding your match with Yoon Jeonghan? Do you think you can win?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to say “no comments” but another reporter, this time from Joongang Ilbo, who yells, right into her face, “this is the first time a man and a woman have competed against each other in the finals of the LG Cup, do you consider this a battle of the sexes?”

She stops. Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, and Jihoon braces himself. If she starts cursing, I need to pick her up and just make a run for it. But he knows it’s futile. The question is so stupid and so loaded, no matter what she says, they're going to construe it as something inflammatory and controversial. And it had to be one of the reporters from Chojoongdong, too. God knows how they’re going to spin this one. 

“When I play baduk, each day is like a year, who could know that winning and losing are such fun?” she says instead, smiling calmly, “no matter who wins, I aim to have a challenging and wonderful game with one of my closest compatriots in the Go scene.”

Before she sweeps away, Jihoon in tow, he overhears one of the journalists talking to his friends, “Yoon Jeonghan said the same thing. Guess they really seem to be good friends, huh. Not a peep out of either of them, and he’s usually a bit more forthcoming with the dramatic media interviews.”

When they enter her waiting room, she turns to him, “call one of the organisers.”

“The organisers?” Jihoon doesn’t want to do her stupid tasks, he wants to ask her important questions like how did she manage to keep her cool? And why the fuck was she quoting Yi Saek?

“Someone from the association.”

“The organisers cannot come right now,” Jihoon reasons, “they’re busy. They told me to keep you here for the time being.”

“I’m not a caged wild animal, for fuck’s sake,” she groans, “and the next time anyone from the fucking Chojoongdong comes to ask me bizarre questions that they use against me to paint me as a rabid man-hater, I will punch them in the face.”

“You hate most men, though.”

“I don’t want to be doxxed and trolled by randoms on the internet,” she sighs, sitting down in a chair. "Haven't they asked for a post-match interview?”

“They have. In fact, all three of them have, ma’am.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well,” Jihoon checks his phone, “Hankuk Ilbo and Hankyoreh have both asked for an interview.”

“The usual fare would be to have a press conference with multiple newspapers and online outlets,” she muses, “but you know what, we gotta lean into the man-hater thing. If they think I am a rabid, feral, man-hating feminist, they’re gonna get one.”

“What?” Jihoon asks, “I’m getting a bit scared, now.”

“No press conference, even if I win,” she shakes her head, “only one interview at Hankyoreh.”

“You’re making an enemy out of the Chojoongdong.”

“Like I care.”

By this point, Jihoon is used to the whole song and dance. He’s led away from the main playing room by one of the organisers, and all that is left to do is wait for the match to be over, while the two of them are observed by match referees and at least five cameras, tracking their every move. He counted at least three in the observation room itself. 

“What do you think about the odds of her winning tonight?” someone asks loudly, their eyes trained on the screen, “she won the LG Cup last year, but Yoon Jeonghan seems determined to rectify his own mistakes from his matches in the previous year's tournament.”

“What is the record of them playing together?” another man asks, perhaps a journalist, and Jihoon cranes his neck to see the name Hankyoreh on their press badge. “Yoon Jeonghan has played many tournament matches with her, has he not?”

“Their match records are pretty much equal,” one of the people he recognises as the female 9-dan that she requested to have a match with, Kim Myung-hee, points out, “but she’s got a higher match win record in tournament matches, while he plays better in exhibition matches. If you remove those metrics, their records are pretty similar overall, I think.”

“This is a tournament,” another person points out, helpfully, gesticulating excitedly at the board, “wait, did Jeonghan get a head start?”

The others peer at the screen, and Jihoon leans in too, interested, “who would have thought, huh. He’s playing with white, and she’s playing black. And he just got a point lead.”

“No hold on, she’s making a comeback," Myung-hee shakes her head, “it’s too early in the match to say anything."

While the two of them play on, Jihoon continues to stare at her, captivated. In the last match, she had looked uncomfortable, even as she was winning. But in this one, she doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. Even as she loses ground rapidly to Jeonghan, she sits up properly, relaxed and a faint smile on the corner of her mouth. She stares at Jeonghan as the man purses his lips in order to think about his next move, and Jihoon can see the smile now, wide enough that even he can’t ignore it and say it’s something else. She’s smiling, looking at him. Yoon Jeonghan. 

It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile like that. It’s not awkward, she’s not diffusing a situation or running away. She’s smiling. And it’s at fucking Yoon Jeonghan. 

The flash of jealousy passes by as quickly as it comes, but Jihoon is reeling, crumbling under the weight of this realisation. Why do I care, anyway? She’s just my boss. 

She’s just his boss, and he’s just her manager. Hell, she doesn’t even need a fucking manager, does she? She just keeps him around as a housekeeper. He’s there to cook and clean for her, and steal her money every month. Last month, he stole a Rolex watch and she had said nothing. Even treated it like it was a mere infraction, not like Jihoon had stolen a watch worth five thousand dollars and immediately sold it off to fencers the following day. She just said, I wear a different watch. 

He had not paid attention to the watch before, but now he sees it, peeking from under her cuff, the weathered, old leather band, the silver of the watch face catching the light when she turns her wrists. Jihoon leans, and whispers into the ear of a random organiser, “what’s the watch she’s wearing?”

“The watch?” The man, perplexed, stares at him for about a second, and it’s then that Jihoon realises that their conversation is a bit too loud for the room, it’s caught the attention of several other people, including some journalists from conservative outlets, who all look eagerly at the accessory. Their gazes are all the same, resembling that of a predator, and suddenly, Jihoon feels very anxious for her. What the fuck is she wearing on her wrists?

“She’s still wearing that, huh,” one person comments, loud enough for him to turn and recognise the man as the one who was there at the association that day. What was his name? Park? Park Inho, that’s right. “She couldn’t be satisfied with killing her teacher, now she has to go wear his watch on her hand?”

This earns a few shocking gasps, whispers running throughout the room, and another person replies, “to add insult to injury, she even stays at his house. Talk about paying respect to one’s teacher, huh?”

“The Chinese had the right thought when they called her eni,” Park Inho muses (shouts into the ears of some random journalist) “but I do think they should have used the Japanese word instead.”

“Japanese word?”

“Oni.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, even if he can’t understand what the fuck is going on, because he realises that at the end of the day, they’re all jealous and acting out towards her. They never seem to have any words of reproach towards Yoon Jeonghan, he’s seen. 

Yoon Jeonghan, at whom she’s smiling right now, even though she’s down by three points. The game is about to end and she’s smiling at Jeonghan, the man who has just dealt her a defeat by three points, and she’s bloody smiling at him. She’s never smiled at him like that, like she’s finally discovered upon a great finding, like she’s finally having fun. He’s the one who’s had to take care of her dirty laundry and he’s the one who’s had to wash and bathe her so that she would behave and look like a functional human being. And she’s never even looked at him that way. 

She tolerates the stealing. 

She tolerates the stealing, so I should not care, Jihoon repeats to himself as he sees her lay down two stones on the edge of the board, grinning wildly, like some sort of a crazed animal, grinning and shaking Jeonghan’s hand and clapping his back and fucking smiling for the camera. She’s doing all of that, and he feels like shit, but he should not think anything of it because she turns the other way. He can steal all her money and she would probably shrug and go about her day like nothing mattered at all. 

Still, Jihoon cannot make any sense of his feelings. 

“I would like to congratulate my dear friend Yoon Jeonghan on his win at the LG Cup,” she grins maniacally to the gathered reporters, “no more comments, please.”

When he drives her back to the house, Jihoon can see the glint of the watch on her left wrist, glittering in the faint afternoon light. 

“Play another round with me.”

She demands, hands rolled into fists, staring at the man sitting next to her. Jeonghan looks perplexed, “you want me to play against you?”

“I need to figure out how you managed to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use my tactics against me. That’s the first time it’s happened, you know.”

“You’re being a child, y/n,” Jeonghan shakes his head, “you know I just won on a fluke.”

“And it should not have happened!” she clenches her fists, “you knew all my openings, and you prepared accordingly. That has never happened before.”

“You do realise, I’ve played against you for years now?” Jeonghan smiles, but clears the board anyway, “it was bound to happen sooner or later. Someone would have figured out how you play. Might as well be me.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she mutters, eyes trained on the board, laying out the opening positions, the one where he got the initial advantage, “still no idea how you managed to slip past my opening positions.”

“The bigger question is, how did you manage to reinvent your tactic over these past years?” Jeonghan leans back, thinking, “you’ve been playing since you were four, which means you’ve been playing for at least twenty-five years. With only a handful of defeats.”

“Still, it’s sort of poetic that my first defeat in the finals of a major competition is at your hands.” she smiles, “let’s go.”

Five minutes into playing, she realises that Jeonghan had merely mapped out all her possible openings, and planned accordingly. I should not have leaned into my usual joseki. Half an hour into playing, Jeonghan leans back and grins, “you were flustered, for the first time in a while, huh?”

“Flustered?” she thinks back to the game, “you did force me into a korigatachi, you asshole. Halfway through, when I started playing defensive, you forced me into an unwitting korigatachi. Imagine my surprise when I looked down and realised I’d lost half the match already.”

“It was funny, you know,” Jeonghan looks at her, “not the korigatachi. I’m talking about your manager.”

“Jihoon? What the hell are you talking about?”

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, “you mean to tell me you’ve not seen the daggers he was glaring at me? I think he took your defeat to heart.”

“He’s probably just annoyed that I lost,” she shrugs, “I doubt he cares too deeply about my games, or wins and losses. He’s probably just upset. He had to chauffeur me around for weeks and I lost at the end.”

“Suit yourself, girl,” Jeonghan grins, easy and flirtatious, “he’s just a man. I know how men look when they’re jealous.”

Jihoon stares at the massive pile of laundry that is left for him to do, and at the woman who has curled up under the covers with no intention of getting out. At least this time she’s taken a shower. 

More like I had to give her a bath. Jihoon had never realised that his job, while cushy for a high school graduate, would involve him bathing a woman of his age, someone who pays his salary. He’s been giving her baths every two days, and when Joshua found out, he had looked at him strangely, and asked, “do you get hard when you do that?”

“Hard?”

“I mean, you’re bathing a woman. She’s fine, attractive, even, and you’re seeing her naked every other day. Do you get an erection when you give her a bath?”

“Sorry, I usually spend my time tacking her dandruff rather than caressing her breasts, you ass,’ Jihoon had thrown a dishcloth at him, and that was that. 

But the thought had been planted in his mind. Am I even attracted to her? His reaction during the LG Cup had probably meant that he had some sort of feelings towards her, but Jihoon was not sure what the hell it was that he was feeling. He doesn’t even get aroused when he bathes her, just mildly concerned about the amount of neglect done to her body. There’s nothing even remotely sexual about his actions, nothing at all. 

“You need to take a bath, for heaven’s sake," he announces, only to be greeted with a disgruntled raise of an eyebrow, “don’t look at me like that. It’s been two days since you’ve been holed up in your  bed, and I doubt you have been taking regular baths in that time.”

“Are you my mother?” She grumbles, but gets out of the bed anyway, walking out to the bathroom and undressing, “you’ve already drawn a bath? Who asked you to do that?”

“No one, but since I take enough money from you, I figured I might start pulling my weight around here,” he replies, averting his eyes as she steps into the tub. 

He has a routine. A fixed routine, one that involves him bathing her and washing her hair and nothing more. He needs to be in control of his actions. 

Yoon Jeonghan had stared at him for a minute after the LG Cup final, when he was staring daggers at the man. Jihoon had not liked the look in his eyes, as though he knew too much about him and his knowledge could bring Jihoon to heel. He should not have stared, but Jeonghan’s presence was grating. He had no reason to hug her in front of the cameras like that, but he did anyway, knowing that Jihoon was there, and that Jihoon, despite his apparent closeness to her, could never do that. 

But why is that bothering me?

He’s fine with it, fine with standing far away from her on podiums, far away from the lights and the attention and the adoration. She’s never going to hold his hand or hug him in public or smile at him like she did at Jeonghan, and Jihoon is fine with it. He is fine. 

Jihoon takes a seat on the plastic stool and lathers up the shampoo, focusing, as usual, on her dandruff and on her hair. It’s brittle, even after so many washes. She’s never really taken care of it, and the state of her hair makes him wonder what exactly Mingyu did when she was in a state like this one. She’s clearly in need of help, but Mingyu probably had no idea what to do. Well, neither does Jihoon, apparently. 

Her neck is visible. He averts his eyes. 

But averting eyes while bathing someone is impossible, and he turns to look at her again, trying not to listen to the sounds of her moaning in happiness as the warm water laps at her skin. She’s attractive, even in this state, she’s attractive. Maybe it is just a bodily reaction, but Jihoon starts imagining how her skin would look, if she allowed him to stare. Her skin is flushed pink from the heat of the bath, smooth; he imagines how he would take hours to map it and make it his own. He’s not a pervert, but Jihoon wants to hear her make those pretty sounds even more, just for him. 

If he slipped his hands just a little, he could feel her—

That’s sexual harassment, dude. 

Jihoon sits up, all of his previous arousal gone entirely. He feels like a creep, thinking all these thoughts when she’s clearly in distress and in need of professional and proper help, and instead of giving it to her, he’s out here ogling her like a pervert. 

For the rest of the bath, he refuses to even look at her skin. 

For the rest of the week and the next, he avoids her. It’s easier, now that she’s started to take baths on her own, but Jihoon doesn’t want anyone to know what exactly he had been thinking when giving her a bath. He’s going to keep those thoughts to himself and take them to the grave with himself. 

Which is why, when a week later, he chances upon Joshua, chewing on dry muesli in their shared living room, cup of coffee on the table in front of him, Jihoon doesn’t look him in the eye when responding to the question, “why aren’t you at work right now?”

“Took a day off,” he mumbles, staring at the clock instead. That’s a lie. He had left her a message in the morning, too sick. Might have to take a day off. He’s not particularly willing to look at her face while all he can think about is how uncomfortably tight his pants felt after he gave her that bath, and how he had to shamefully remind himself of his duties as her manager in order to calm himself down. 

“You’re lying, wow,” Joshua grins, “what’s going on?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. He’s not going to give any more ammunition to Joshua Hong, not right now. “Nothing.”

“Still hung up over her?” Joshua shrugs, “you know, you need to get laid. If you want to get over her, that is. If you don’t, be my guest.”

“Why do I have to get over her?” Jihoon scowls, “it’s not like I was under her any time before.”

Joshua laughs, “you’re really fucking funny, you know, Jihoonie. That’s why I like you.”

“Shut up, man,” Jihoon takes a seat on the sofa, “why do you want to ask about her? You don’t know her that well, do you?”

Joshua shrugs again, “I know some things about her, you know. She’s very famous.”

“Like Won Bin?”

“Like the President asks her to come play Go with him on official occasions,” Joshua searches on his phone, and brings up an old photo of her playing Go with the previous President of the country, blank and expressionless as usual. They’re at an official luncheon, and she’s dressed in one of her ceremonial suits, staring intently at the board while the President laughs sheepishly. 

“So, she’s famous,” he hands the phone back, “that explains nothing.”

Joshua sighs, “you have no idea about the Go scene in Korea, do you?”

Jihoon stares at him, “and you mean to tell me you do?”

Joshua smiles, picking up his cup of coffee, “you never know. I could.”

“The only game I have seen you play is Kingdom Hearts on your old Playstation,” Jihoon replies. 

“Fair enough,” Joshua concedes, “my father is a fan. Has been following her career since before she went pro, which means I know her life story better than most people.”

Jihoon raises his eyebrows, “you knew her career trajectory? And you never mentioned it to me?”

“You never asked,” Joshua busies himself with the muesli and coffee, “do you really want to know?”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He didn’t want to, but she intrigues him. She’s like one of those riddles in the Sunday newspaper, the ones that he pored over for hours as a child, and it’s stupid, but just like his young self, Jihoon wants to figure her out. He wants to know. But the moment he asks anything about her, Joshua will know. And he will never be able to live it down. 

Instead, he settles for asking, “Is she a chaebol?” 

Joshua laughs, falling over himself for a whole minute, before gathering his wits, “no, she isn’t in fact, her parents are pretty middle class, you know. Both government workers, stable jobs, guaranteed pensions, pretty much solid middle-class shit. They had two children, just before the IMF Crisis.”

“So she had a pretty normal childhood,” Jihoon interrupts, “what do you mean to say?”

“I mean to say,” Joshua replies, smiling like he has a secret, “aren’t you curious? Why is she like this, even though she’s had a pretty normal childhood.”

“Maybe.”

“Her brother wanted to learn how to play Go, not her,” he says, leaning back into the sofa, “she just tagged along for the first few lessons, and learnt how to play with him. He was the one who was supposed to be the star.”

“And let me guess, she started beating him out in competitions?”

“Well, as they say, you can hide a flame all you want, but it’ll make itself known, even within the ashes. She won a competition in her elementary school, and everyone started talking about how good of a go player she was.”

“I assume her brother did not like this.”

“He hated it, actually. No one likes it when your sibling beats you out in something you were doing before them, huh?”

Jihoon nods. He does not understand, not at all, but he keeps quiet. 

“Anyway, her parents found out, and boom—they had a genius on their hands. The allure of being a stage parent is not easy to turn away from, you know.”

Joshua sighs, “anyway, she’s been playing the game since she turned four years old, which means that she has been playing for the past twenty-four years. Imagine all that time, alone, away from your family, with only the Go board for company. You’re bound to go insane. Anyone else would.”

“Alone?”

“Her brother hated the sight of her and her trophies while growing up. He hated that their parents gave her more attention, took her to her competitions, even though no one had asked her if this was something she wanted to do. And why would a child give up on something that allowed them a fun day out with their parents?”

Jihoon nods his head. He can understand why she turned her brother away at the gates, and why he said that he had ruined her life. In another time, they could have probably had a better relationship, without the constant reminder of her career and his failures hanging over them. 

“Why do you know so much?”

Joshua ignores his question, “well, they could have repaired it, really, but she took the pro exam at fifteen and qualified it, which made her the second youngest person to achieve that honour. Her brother lost it entirely, from what I’ve heard. He made a scene and told her he never wanted to see her face in their house ever again. That kind of fucked her up, if you know.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have siblings, he doesn’t understand the amount of built-up pain and resentment it would have taken for a brother to say that to his sister, and the hurt it would cause to the girl who heard it. How old was she then? Fifteen? At fifteen, Jihoon still harbored delusions of becoming a music producer in Seoul, living a blissful existence with his family, who doted on him. He cannot fathom parents who would use their daughter’s talent and genius to earn money. 

Then he has a thought. “Did they take money from her? Her parents?”

Joshua stares at him. “How did you know? They took all her earnings until she turned eighteen, and asked her for more money even after that, just because they had ‘raised her’ or some bullshit. She gave the money to them too, millions and millions of won until she put her foot down one day and refused. They stopped contacting her after that.”

“Her brother?”

“He came to his senses in college, realised that he had been a massive dick to his sister for no fault of their own, and that their parents were the ones at fault, but by then, too much water had flown under the bridge. He works for XMH now.”

“He tries to make amends, you know,” Jihoon says, thinking back to the sad man at the gates, lugging a suitcase full of clothes and looking at the house his sister had cloistered herself in with eyes that seemed full of heartbreak, “he brings clothes from time to time.”

“I know, he tries doing that once in a while,” Joshua grins, “he’s not a bad guy, just fucked up.”

“She turned him away at the gates.”

“And she’s allowed to do that, too.” 

Jihoon shakes his head, “but you know, she always wears the clothes he makes to her matches. All her ceremonial suits are made by him.”

“That’s her way of making amends,” Joshua reasons, “they might not be able to tolerate seeing each other’s faces, but they make space for the other in their lives, in their own way. Her clothes are made by XMH, and he gets to see his little sister wearing his clothes on the world stage.”

Jihoon sits with this information for a while. He still doesn’t understand how the other man got this much information, nor does he really want to know. He keeps thinking about the woman in the house, locking herself in just to play a game that had caused her so much pain, still going back to it every morning. So much time and effort, devoted to something that never truly understood her. 

“None of that explains why the people at LG Cup were calling her eni,” Jihoon says after a while, “I did not understand, but it did not seem like something nice. They kept pointing at her watch and calling her that name.”

Joshua sighs, “Jihoon, you really should do some background reading on her.”

“I don’t need to.”

“She’s one of the undisputed greats of the Korean Go scene, and you—never mind,” Joshua huffs, “her teacher was Lee Hyun-dok, one of the great old masters. He took her in when she was nine and started teaching her how to play Go.”

“And why is that important?”

Joshua rolls his eyes, “Go players don’t go to high school like normies, you idiot. They don’t have a normal life. When they’re training, they spend their waking hours playing the game, analysing their faults and mistakes, and training again when they wake up. Sometimes they see the board in their dreams. The only people they interact with on a daily basis are their teacher. And the teacher’s family, if they have one.”

“Sounds like a boring life.”

“Sounds like solitary confinement is what it does,” Joshua groans, “I remember Lee Hyun-dok. He kept telling all the newspapers about her being a genius, and by all means, he was a great teacher. She was the only student he’s ever taken on, you know.”

“So, what happened?”

“She beat him in the finals of the MLily Cup,” Joshua sighs, “he was happy because his pupil surpassed him, but he died of old age soon after that.”

“And people blamed her?” Jihoon makes a face. He doesn’t know Lee Hyun-dok, but the man seemed like he had been one of the few people to genuinely take care of her, “they blamed her for her teacher’s death?”

“They had a good relationship until he died,” Joshua sighs, “she would at least look somewhat animated when he was alive.”

Jihoon doesn’t believe it. The only time he’s seen her with any emotion that’s not annoyance or anger or sadness, in the past months, is when she was playing Jeonghan in the finals. And that was another matter entirely. Still, he looks up Lee Hyun-dok on the internet, and one of the first results is that of the cursed MLily Cup final in China. The old man sits across from a much younger her in the photo, both of them hunched over a board. The man wears a hanbok, she wears a plain suit. Nothing ceremonial, nothing fashionable. The man looked confused, his white hair disheveled like he had been running his hands through it. 

She looks—radiant. 

There’s no other word for it. She looks radiant, a bright smile even as she stares at the board, and he knows it’s for her teacher. He’s never seen her smile like that, not even for Jeonghan, bright and peaceful and happy all at once. He thinks of the woman in the house, sad and angry and emaciated, and looks at this woman, youthful and vibrant. Jihoon cannot take his eyes off of her face. 

“She looks gorgeous here, huh?” Joshua peeks over his shoulder, “anyway, they started calling her eni after that.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Joshua stares at him, “did you fail your ethics classes in high school? It’s one of the ten cardinal sins of the Ming Code; eni signifies the killing of your teacher, and is punishable by death.”

“I see.” Jihoon stares at the photo, the young woman smiling, captured forever in celluloid, and then at the man sitting opposite her. Her teacher. How sad would he have been, to find out they all blamed the girl he raised and taught lovingly all those years? How hurt would he have been?

He stares at the corner of the photo, looking at the watch the man is wearing, “wait, the watch they all got angry about, that she was wearing. That was his?”

Joshua nods. “I think something withered and died inside of her when he passed away. She was bequeathed the house in his will, and I don’t think she changed anything. Everything, from the paintings on the walls to the relics on the mantlepieces, everything belonged to her teacher at some point. That house is a mausoleum.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. And I almost stole and sold off a scroll painting last month. The painting had belonged to one of the old Joseon masters, and it would have been enough to clear his debt and the interest, but he didn’t, too afraid of the increased police scrutiny on the underground resale market. Instead, he had taken the fucking Rolex. 

Would she have thrown him out, if he had taken the painting?

The thought is sobering, and somehow, it makes him sad. He doesn’t want to be thrown out of the house, the stupid cold house with its drafty doors and papered walls that need reinforcement every other month. Why did she not change anything? Even the bedroom is old-fashioned. Everything in there belongs to someone else, most of all the Go room. 

The Go room is the mausoleum. She lives, eats, and sleeps inside of a tomb. 

Jihoon had not realised that he had been spacing out for a minute, until Joshua pokes him, “thinking about her?”

“Yeah,” he admits, honesty coming easily after this revelation, “I don’t know how I feel about her.”

Joshua laughs, “you were staring daggers at Yoon Jeonghan in every photo they took after the LG Cup final. I think your feelings about her are perfectly clear by now.”

Jihoon groans, head in hands, “whatever. It’s just a passing attraction. I’m not going to do anything about it, not really.”

“Besides, you have your debt to worry about,” Joshua points out. 

“Yeah, the debt.” Jihoon shuts up. He wants to think about a time without the debt, a time where he could have approached her with no ulterior motives. Would I have had these feelings towards her? Would she have reciprocated? Even more pressing: would she reciprocate now?

He wants to say something, but then he’s reminded of the red in his chequebook, the debt he has to clear, and the loan sharks who keep showing up at his parents’ house every other week. It doesn’t matter. He’ll get over this silly little attraction, he has to. 

When there is no certainty of life, there is no space for indulgence. He cannot afford to lose sight of his goal. It doesn’t matter if he has to steal a painting of fucking Hwajae and sell it on the black market. What matters the most to him right now, is money. The rest is immaterial. 

Still, he can’t help but be curious about one little thing. He had tried his best to shut it down, but it had to come out eventually, “wait, how do you know so much about her?”

Joshua stares at him for a second, “didn’t I tell you? I know her brother.”

“How?” 

The man shrugs, “we dated in college for a while.”

Jihoon gasps, “what?”

“Well, it was before I started dating my fiancee, but not that long ago either,” Joshua says casually, as if he was not just confessing his bisexuality to Jihoon on a random Monday morning while drinking coffee, “He could have been a good boyfriend, if he was not so hung up on his past mistakes.”

He stands up, “okay, see you, Jihoon. I have a date with my fiancee in an hour.” and disappears into his bedroom. Jihoon sits there, reeling under the mountain of revelations he’s just stumbled into, all on a random weekday morning. Underneath all this, there remains a small question, what do I do about this attraction?

He doesn’t want to imagine her being hurt once again. 

—

His team noticed, of course. They always noticed when Jihoon was distracted—because it was rare. They’d been with him for over ten years, watching him pour his soul into his music, dedicated and unwavering. But you? It took you mere months to have Jihoon wrapped around your finger. And the best part? Jihoon willingly let it happen. He wanted to be wrapped around your finger.

And as much as his members teased him, he didn’t mind. Jihoon had always been the calm one, the focused one, the one who could drown out the world when he needed to. But with you, he didn’t want to drown out anything. He wanted to hear your laughter in the background while he worked. He wanted to receive those random photos in the middle of his meetings, even if they made him blush.

Now, Jihoon finds himself in his studio. Not the one at home, but the company studio. It was unusual—his fellow producers were surprised to see him there at this hour. 10 a.m.? That’s too early for Jihoon to be at work, they thought, especially since he rarely left the home studio after getting married.

“Did you two fight?” Soonyoung asked, making a quick stop before his schedule.

Jihoon didn’t answer. He simply turned the volume up, drowning out Soonyoung’s voice. Soonyoung scoffed but left, convinced that the only reason Jihoon would be at the company so early was if you two had fought. He knew Jihoon too well.

"Stop working for a while, man. Give your wife a rest," Soonyoung muttered as he left the studio. Jihoon cursed internally. How could Soonyoung read him so easily?

The truth was, last night didn’t go well. It was one of those nights Jihoon wished he could rewind—just take it all back. He came home late again, far too late. The kind of late where the house was eerily quiet, and the only light on was the one in the living room. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been working until he saw the notifications on his phone—your texts, your missed calls.

His heart sank. The guilt hit him immediately, but exhaustion numbed him from fully acknowledging it. He braced himself as he turned the knob, pushing the door open, hoping maybe you had gone to bed. But there you were, sitting on the couch, arms crossed, your phone lying idle beside you. You weren’t saying a word, but your silence screamed disappointment. And Jihoon knew—he’d screwed up again.

He paused at the doorway, waiting for you to say something, anything, but you didn’t. The air between you was suffocating, thick with unspoken words. He could feel your eyes on him, and it made his stomach twist. He hated it when you looked at him like that, like you were waiting for him to care enough to explain himself.

But instead of apologizing, instead of doing what he knew he should have done, Jihoon snapped.

"I work for you! I work hard to afford the life you want! Why don’t you understand?!" His voice rose, frustration dripping from every word. He didn’t mean it to come out that way. He didn’t mean to make it sound like you were the problem, like you were the one pushing him to the edge. But in that moment, he was too overwhelmed to control it.

The silence that followed was deafening. He saw the way your face fell, the way your shoulders slumped as if his words had physically weighed you down. You didn’t even argue back. You just stood there, absorbing the blow, your eyes wide and hurt, like you couldn’t believe the person you loved could say something so cruel. Jihoon could see it—the disappointment, the pain, the betrayal in your eyes.

He knew you weren’t with him for his money. He knew that from the start. You never cared about his fame, his success. You never asked for lavish gifts or expensive things. What you wanted—what you always asked for—was him. His time. His presence. But Jihoon, in his frantic rush to meet deadlines and exceed expectations, had forgotten.

He was so tired. The stress had piled up to the point that it felt like he was suffocating under the weight of everyone’s demands. His work was relentless, the pressure from his team to deliver perfection was unending, and somewhere along the way, he started feeling less like a person and more like a machine. And in all of that, he had forgotten you were the one person who treated him like a human being. The only person who reminded him to eat, to sleep, to rest.

But last night, Jihoon saw something in your eyes he never wanted to see again—pain. He had hurt you, and the worst part was, you didn’t deserve it.

You didn’t even say a word as you left the room, walking away with that shattered expression on your face. He stood there, frozen, wanting to chase after you, to take back everything he’d said, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think straight. The weight of everything felt too much.

Jihoon ended up sleeping in his home studio that night, staring blankly at his laptop screen, his mind racing with regret. He didn’t get any work done. How could he? All he could think about was the way you looked at him, the way your lips trembled like you were fighting back tears, the way you didn’t even argue because you were too hurt to speak. He hated himself for it.

The guilt gnawed at him all night, so by the time morning came, he couldn’t bear to be in the same house. He thought if he went to the company studio, if he just got out, maybe it would clear his head. Maybe he could focus on work and forget how badly he had messed up.

But he couldn’t. You were all he could think about. Even surrounded by equipment and projects, even as he tried to drown himself in work, his thoughts kept drifting back to you. The regret kept replaying in his mind like a broken record, and the truth settled in his chest like a lead weight—he could never stop thinking about you. He never could.

And now, sitting alone in the company studio, he could still see your face in his mind, the hurt he had caused, and it tore him apart.

"Jihoon…" His manager knocked on the door, pulling Jihoon from his deep focus. He turned his head toward the reflection in the glass and saw someone entering. Quickly, he put down his headphones.

"The bank called me," his manager said, concern lacing his voice. "Someone's been making a lot of purchases with your account, and they couldn’t reach you. So, I got worried."

Jihoon blinked, realization dawning as he remembered he had turned off his phone earlier to avoid distractions. He hurriedly switched it back on, and as expected, notifications flooded his screen. Among them were a surprising number of texts from you.

Curious, Jihoon opened your messages, and his eyes widened. You had sent him a series of photos—shopping bags piled high, receipts for luxury items, and then… a car. You bought a car?

Jihoon sighed, rubbing his temples as he scrolled through the notifications of credit charges—clothes, electronics, and more. Why did you decide to buy all of this in one day?

"Everything’s fine. It’s just… my wife," Jihoon said, a little embarrassed as he reassured his manager. "No one’s using my card without permission."

His manager chuckled, seeming relieved, before leaving Jihoon alone with his thoughts.

Just as Jihoon exhaled, another text popped up. A photo of you in a jacuzzi, clearly in some luxurious hotel, wearing a brand new red bikini. The caption that followed made Jihoon’s breath hitch.

You: Want to give me the life I want? Come here. Turns out, spending your money doesn’t satisfy me enough.

Jihoon sighed deeply, his face growing warm as he hurriedly turned off everything in his studio. It was no use—he’d have to go get his black card back from you. Or maybe get something else.

*

You feel the dash of cold air hit your skin as you lay back against the heated tiles of the jacuzzi, legs lazily draped over the edge. You can’t help the little smirk pulling at your lips as you scroll through Jihoon’s texts. He’s gonna kill you. Well, maybe not kill, but he’ll definitely be pissed off. The shopping spree, the car, the photos—God, you knew exactly what you were doing. Pressing his buttons like that, getting him riled up on purpose, all because he had the audacity to shout at you last night.

But, you’re done with his bullshit excuses. He can whine about deadlines and stress all he wants, but you’re not here for that. You’re here for him, and clearly, he needs a little reminder.

The door to the hotel room opens, and even with the sound of the jacuzzi jets bubbling, you hear it. He’s here. Your heart skips a beat as the familiar, steady thud of Jihoon’s shoes echo in the space. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel the burden of his stare on you, heavy and unrelenting. His presence is like a storm, silent but brewing.

You stretch your arms above your head, not even looking up, knowing full well he’s staring.

“Took you long enough,” You hum, voice saturated by fake innocence, like you hadn’t been the one who set the whole thing in motion. “figured you’d be quicker if i spent a little more of your money.”

Silence.

Then, the sound of him setting something down—his keys? maybe his bag? You don’t care. You hear the shuffle of his shoes being kicked off, and that’s when you finally open your eyes.

Jihoon stands at the edge of the jacuzzi, arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes dreary and locked onto you.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he finally speaks, voice low, a growl almost. “what do you think you’re doing?”

You shrug, acting like you don’t feel the tension. “Just giving myself a little treat. After all, i am your wife. Don’t i deserve the best?”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything, just stares at you for a moment longer before his hands move to his belt. Your eyes widen, mouth parting slightly. “Oh, you think this is funny? You think you can just spend my money, send me those pictures, and i’ll come running?”

“Well, you did come running…” You mumble as if you were talking to yourself.

Jihoon moves, and before you know it, he’s crouched beside the jacuzzi, fingers hooking into the strap of your bikini top, pulling you closer to him with little resistance. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice rough, “this is the last thing you’ll be wearing tonight.”

Before you can even form a reply, he tugs at the fabric, and the red bikini snaps, tearing with a sharp rip.

Jihoon stands back up, the smirk on his face teasing you in a way that gets under your skin. His hand casually tosses the torn bikini top aside like it’s nothing, he looks at you, riling you up on purpose. He doesn’t rush; he takes his time pulling off his shirt, his pants.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep the annoyance in check, but he’s pushing your buttons. “Really?” you ask. “You had to rip it off just to mess with me? You’re such an asshole”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, taking a step closer until he's right in front of you again. He leans down, pushing you back into the jacuzzi, the water sloshing as your back hits the edge. “You look mad, but I bet you’re dripping right now.”

You can even think of a response, his hand slips into your bikini bottoms just as he sits down. His fingers brush lightly over your clit, not applying pressure, just teasing, circling it slow just to watch you squirm. You twitch under his touch, your legs parting on instinct, hips bucking just slightly. He’s not giving you enough, and he knows it.

“You like to play these games, baby?” he murmurs. “Teasing me, spending all my money. What’s the real reason, huh? Just wanted my attention this bad?”

You bite back a moan, refusing to let him win so easily. “Shut up,” you manage to grit out, but the breathlessness in your voice betrays you. His thumb starts rubbing a little harder, making the bud throb on his thumb. You feel your body arching toward him, a needy moan escaping despite yourself.

“No...” he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “I wanna hear you say it. You knew I’d come running, right?”

His fingers press harder now, slipping lower, teasing your entrance without pushing in. Your hands grip the edge of the tub, eyes rolling back slightly as he continues torturing you.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hiss, your words catching in your throat as his fingers pick up the tempo. He’s still circling, still rubbing, but it’s not nearly enough. You need more, and he knows it.

“Oh, I’m annoying?” he growls softly, leaning his weight into you, fingers pressing harder, deeper, but still not giving you what you need. “What’s annoying is you buying cars and booking hotels like you don’t already have everything you want right here.”

Your legs spread wider, hips instinctively grinding down against Jihoon’s fingers as they tease your entrance. Your hand shoots up to grip his wrist, trying to gude his fingers in, but he stills the arm, cupping you. His other hand trails up your chest, stopping to toy with your nipples, flicking and squeezing them just enough to make you gasp. Then, wetting the valley of your breasts, his hand moves to your throat, wrapping around it in a firm grip, pushing your head back until it rests on the cold border of the jacuzzi.

“You’re so needy,” Jihoon mutters, watching as your mouth falls open, eyes half-lidded, breath coming out in shallow pants. You feel his thumb graze over your bottom lip, smirking as if he’s amused by just how desperate you’ve become. He hasn’t even given you what you want yet, but you’re already a mess for him.

Finally, his fingers push inside, just one at first, but the way your body responds—instantly clenching, your pussy practically swallowing his finger whole—makes him groan low in his throat. The water ripples around the two of you, splashing lightly against your skin as his movements grow rougher.

“God, you’re soaked,” he chuckles, voice almost mocking as his finger curls inside you, hitting that sweet spot making your hips jerk by their own. Even with the water swirling around, Jihoon can feel the heat between your thighs, the sticky slickness of your folds clinging to his fingers as he slides in another.

Your grip tightens on his wrist, trying to pull him closer, but he doesn't let up. Instead, his fingers work you harder, pumping in and out of you making the water splash with every push. The sound is obscene, the wet slaps of his fingers echoing in the room, blending with your suffered moans, and Jihoon's grunts.

You lift your gaze to him, lips parted, eyes pleading, practically begging for more. You look up at Jihoon with a needy expression that you know drives him crazy. But he just grins, slowing his movements slightly, his hand tightening around your throat.

“Aww, look at you,” he coos, voice soft despite the way his fingers are fucking into you hard, relentless. “Such a pretty little mess. You like this, don’t you? Me ruining you with just my fingers?”

You can’t form words, your head tilting back more as his pace quickens again, fingers curling deep, hitting the spongy spot that makes your vision blur. The water splashes harder now, droplets spilling over the edge of the tub as your hips buck in time with his thrusts. Your legs tremble, thighs shaking, and all you can manage is a soft whimper, your entire body arching toward him.

Jihoon chuckles again, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, fingers pumping in and out faster, thumb rubbing over your clit in quick circles. “You’re so fucking tight… taking it so well. What do you want, huh? You want more?”

Your breath catches in your throat, his words making your body ache. You nod frantically, too overwhelmed to say anything. The hand around your throat loosens slightly, giving you a moment to breathe, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers continue their brutal pace, fucking you deep, and you know he’s not stopping until you cum around his long fingers.

You feel your stomach flip when Jihoon curls his fingers and stills them, making your body arch off the jacuzzi edge as you instinctively reach for him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him down to kiss you.

The kiss is brutish, dirty—his lips smashing into yours, teeth clashing as his tongue slips into your mouth. He sucks your tongue hard, biting down on your bottom lip in that way that always makes your legs tremble. You can’t focus, the pleasure building too fast, making it impossible to keep up with the kiss. But you try, you desperately try, your hands clutching tighter in his hair.

It’s only a matter of seconds before your body betrays you. You moan into his mouth, the sound low and drawn out, muffled by the kiss. You pull him closer, your grip tightening painfully in his hair as the pleasure crests, your body trembling as your back arches impossibly high.

Your nipples graze his chest, the sensation of your sensitive skin brushing against his, makes him shiver, his breath hitching as your slick cunt clenches hard around his fingers.

Your moans become more frantic, desperate, and you can’t keep kissing him anymore. Your mouth falls open, head tilting back as you gasp for air, your body seizing up with the strength of your orgasm.

Your pussy tightens around his fingers, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you cum, the water splashing violently around you from the press of your movements. Jihoon smirks down at you, clearly proud of himself, fingers still thrusting into you even as you come down from your high. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice soft but teasing. “Cum all over my fingers.”

Your mind is still swimming in the hangovers of your orgasm when Jihoon suddenly pulls his hand away. You’re left panting, trying to catch your breath, but he’s already manhandling you, turning you around and pressing you into the edge of the tub.

“Get on all fours,” he orders. You don’t hesitate, your body moving on autopilot as you shift into position, knees pressing into jacuzzi, hands bracing yourself against the edge.

Jihoon’s grip is firm as he presses you down, making sure you don’t slip on the slick surface. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady while he strokes himself behind you. You glance back, seeing him gripping his cock, pumping himself slowly, the tip flushed red and dripping with pre-cum, some veins popping up when he cuts the blood circulation. The sight makes your mouth water.

He lines himself up with you, the head of his cock teasing your wet pussy, but he doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he grabs your bikini bottom—what’s left of it anyway—and yanks it harshly to the side, exposing your swollen, sensitive folds. You feel the fabric digging into your skin, tight and uncomfortable.

Jihoon watches, mesmerized, as your pussy clenches around nothing, your body still sensitive from your previous orgasm. Slowly Jihoon pushes inside. He takes his time, savoring the way your walls squeeze around him, they way you slick starts to coat him too, your body struggling to accommodate his size. You whimper, fingers clawing at the edge of the tub, trying to keep yourself stable as he fills you inch by inch.

He moans deep in his throat, the sound oscillating through his chest as he bottoms out, his cock buried fully inside you.

You bite your lip, arching your back even more, desperate to take him deeper. “Jihoon… please…”

But he just chuckles darkly, pulling out slowly, only to slam back in, making the water splash around you both again. “Oh, you’ll get what you want,” he promises. “Just keep taking it like that.”

His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. The sharp pull has you arching back, your spine curving as he yanks you up against his chest, your back pressing flush against his front. The new angle makes his cock hit even deeper, your breath hitching as the tip grazes that swollen spot inside you.

Jihoon glances at the nearby mirror, his eyes glued to the reflection of your bodies. Your tits bounce with every thrust, soft and flushed, his eyes darken, watching the way your skin sticks to his, the way your body—though trembling—melts against him, sacrificing to the pleasure despite every nerve in your body wanting to tense up.

He moans suffered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, feeling the warmness radiating off your skin. You’re burning up, both of you are, your bodies slick with sweat despite being submerged in water seconds after. Jihoon can’t help but bury his face against your neck, breathing you in, skin to skin, letting the sensation take over him.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin, almost as if he's talking to himself. “I missed this. Missed you.”

His hips don’t stop, driving into you harder, your thighs shaking as you try to keep up, but your body is already on the edge. You’re clinging to him for dear life, your head falling back against his shoulder, mouth falling open as breathless moans slip out with every thrust.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon suddenly murmurs, his voice softer now, tender. He keeps thrusting into you, but there’s an apology laced in every word, every snap of his hips. “I’m so fucking sorry… for everything.”

You don’t answer, can’t even if you wanted to. Your breath is caught in your throat, the only response you give is the way your body clings to his, melting further into his hold as his hands roam down your body.

He doesn’t expect you to answer. Maybe he doesn’t even need you to. He just keeps going, fucking into you like he’s trying to apologize through the way his body moves against yours. His grip loosens in your hair, his hand sliding down the curve of your waist, lower, until his fingers find the puffy bundle of nerves between your legs.

The second his fingers brush over your clit, your whole body tenses again, only to relax almost instantly as he starts rubbing teasing circles. You whimper, legs trembling, hardly competent to hold yourself up, and Jihoon groans into your skin, feeling the way you melt even more against him.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, his voice raspy in your ear. “Always take me so well… fuck… so tight, baby… you feel that? You’re clenching around me.”

You don’t say anything, just a soft gasp escapes your lips, your head falling back further onto his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat to him. His fingers quicken their pace, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, every brush of his thumb over your swollen clit making you cry out.

“I know I fucked up,” Jihoon whispers, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "But I can’t stop… I can’t stop thinking about you. About this. About how good you feel around me.”

Your chest heaves with each breath, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as his hand continues working you, his other arm wrapping around your waist to hold you tighter, anchoring you to him. His fingers press harder against your clit, drawing tight circles that make your whole body twitch, every nerve ending alive and buzzing.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, his voice dipping into that familiar, filthy tone, the one that drives you insane. “Cum for me… I know you’re close. I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You’re so close, your vision blurring as the heat in your core builds higher. Your body’s completely given in to him, to the way he’s fucking you deep and hard while his fingers expertly play with your clit, not giving you a single moment of respite.

And then it hits, hard and fast. Your back arches, body tensing as the orgasm rips through you, ripple after ripple of pleasure crashing over you as your pussy clenches tight around him. Your hands reach back, desperately grabbing at anything—his hair, his arms—trying to ground yourself as you moan out his name, breathless and trembling.

Jihoon groans at the feeling, his cock throbbing inside you as your walls pulse around him. “Fuck… that’s it,” he rasps, his hand slowing its movements on your clit, letting you ride out your high. He’s still buried deep inside you, his cock twitching, and he watches in the mirror as your body shudders against his.

He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he shifts you forward, placing you on all fours again, his hands steadying you as he lines himself up once more. His hand slides down to your ass, pushing your bikini bottom further to the side so he can watch as your tight puffy walls flutter around him.

Without delay, he starts thrusting again, his pace slow but deep, watching as your body tenses, clenching around him every time he sinks in.

Jihoon lets out a series of the neediest, whiniest moans you've ever heard from him, and it hits you differently—vulnerable, like you’ve broken through every layer he keeps guarded.

Then he sinks in fully and stops.

You slouch forward, your whole body going limp as you brace yourself on your forearms. You feel him pressed against your back, the warmth of his skin sticking to yours as his breath hitches in your ear.

And then it fills you—heat as his cum spurts deep inside you. Hot, thick, and it has you crying out, your voice breaking as your body quakes beneath him. You can feel every pulse of his cock as he fills you up, making your insides feel impossibly full.

Your back trembles under his weight, every muscle in your body quivering as his release continues to flood you. Your pussy clenches around him involuntarily, trying to milk every last drop from him, and it only makes him groan louder.

“Shit,” Jihoon breathes, his voice a wrecked, breathy mess as he leans forward, his forehead pressing into the back of your neck. His hands grip your hips tightly, like he’s using you to anchor himself through the intensity of his orgasm. “Fuck… you feel s'good.”

Your head drops onto your forearm, unable to do anything but take it all in. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, a warm, slick sensation as it mixes with the water around your thighs. Your legs are shaking, your core aching, but you don’t want him to pull out, you want to stay like this, to feel him deep inside you just a little longer.

Jihoon’s breathing finally starts to slow, his body still pressed flush against yours as his arms snake around your waist, holding you tight. You hum softly in response, his cum continues to spill out, and you can feel every slow drip as your pussy flutters, trying to recover from the relentless pounding he just gave you.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to glance down at the sight of your trembling back. A soft smirk tugs at his lips as he watches how your body reacts to him, still sensitive, still on edge. “Look at you,” he whispers, his tone soft but teasing. “You’re still shaking. Did I fuck you that good?”

You don’t answer him; just let out a shaky breath. Your body is completely spent, and you can narrowly keep yourself upright. Jihoon chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your damp skin before pulling out slowly, the loss of him leaving you feeling empty and aching. The last bit of his cum leaks out of you as he does, and he watches, fascinated, as it mixes with the water beneath you.

He moves to your side, pulling you into his chest, his hands rubbing gentle circles on your back as you both come down from the high.

Jihoon gently lifted you from the jacuzzi, his hands steady as he wrapped a robe around your body, drying you with care. His touch was soft, and the tension between you started to ease with each moment. He laid you down on the bed with tenderness, his eyes flickering with a mix of concern and regret.

As he stepped away to quickly clean himself up, you could feel the weight of his emotions lingering in the air. When he returned, Jihoon slid into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his warmth pressing against your skin. His embrace was tight but comforting, as though he was trying to hold on to more than just the moment.

"I'm sorry..." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the sincerity in it was undeniable. He rested his forehead gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. "Please forgive me."

You could feel the vulnerability in his words, a side of Jihoon that he rarely showed.

You lay there in his arms, feeling the tension in his body slowly release as he held you close. His apology lingered in the air, filled with emotion you hadn’t heard from him before. For a moment, everything was quiet—the warmth of his skin, the sound of your breathing, and the beating of his heart against yours.

Jihoon pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness. His brows furrowed, and he seemed almost afraid of what you might say. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, the familiar sensation calming you both.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you whispered, the weight of the past argument starting to lift. “But it’s hard sometimes, Jihoon. You get so lost in your work…”

He nodded, the regret still heavy in his gaze. "I know. I promise I'll do better. I can't stand the thought of losing you, or pushing you away."

His words tugged at your heart, and you could see how much he meant it. There had always been that side of him—driven, focused, and dedicated—but sometimes it made him forget everything else. Still, here he was, trying, apologizing, and making the effort to put you first.

Without saying anything, you leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss. Jihoon sighed against your mouth, relief and gratitude flooding through him as he deepened the kiss, his arms tightening around you as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched again, both of you breathing a little more steadily now.

“I forgive you,” you said softly. His eyes brightened at your words, and you felt the tension finally melt away completely. Jihoon smiled, a rare, gentle one that you didn’t see often enough, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling you closer again, as though he couldn’t get enough of having you in his arms.

*

Jihoon sighed deeply as he glanced around your living room, cluttered with bags and boxes of things you'd bought earlier that day. His eyes scanned the array of items before he asked, half-jokingly, “Is it even possible to empty my bank account in a single day?”

You smiled, shaking your head as you tried to ease his worry. “Don’t stress. I can sell them all on the marketplace. They’ll be gone in two days, tops. I promise.”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow and picked up one item that particularly caught his attention—a pair of leopard-printed underwear for men. He held it up with a bemused expression, “Leopard print... for me?”

You grinned mischievously, “Yup! Oh, and I got you the hot pink one, too. Thought you’d look great in it.”

Jihoon groaned, his face a mix of amusement and disbelief. “You know it was a joke when everyone said i wear these kind of panties, right? There’s no way I’d ever wear these.”

You crossed your arms, stepping closer with a playful smirk on your face. “Oh, I can make you wear them,” you teased, your tone light but daring.

Jihoon chuckled, shaking his head at your persistence. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your grin widening. “I have my ways. Just wait until you see how good you look in them.”

He rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You stepped even closer, standing on your toes to whisper in his ear, “You’ll thank me later.”

Jihoon’s laughter filled the room as he pulled you into a hug, shaking his head. “You never give up, do you?”

“Never,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. "And trust me, you’ll look amazing in leopard print."

With a defeated sigh, Jihoon gave you one more playful glare, “Fine. But don’t think this means I’m wearing the hot pink ones too.”