#jun imagines

“Terrorism? Wow, tell us how you really feel, Y/N,” Jun retorts playfully. “But fine. Anon, if they’ve been feeding you breadcrumbs for half a year, that’s basically emotional warfare. Please save yourself and block them on everything𑁋and yes, that includes on Spotify.”

You snort at that, tapping your pen against your script notes that you’ve been barely following anyway. The show had practically devolved from advice to whatever banter you and Jun had cooked up on the spot. “Exactly. Listeners, if your situationship has an expiration date longer than expired milk, it’s time to toss it. Jun is too sweet to say it, so I’ll do it. Run.” 

“I𑁋’too sweet’?!” A dramatic gasp tumbles out of Jun as he spins his chair toward you. “I was the one who told last week’s caller to roast her boyfriend’s dick like a marshmallow because he kept forgetting her birthday!” 

“But you said it with, like, the sweetest voice ever!”

“That man deserved to get emotionally blue-balled! How can you forget your girlfriend’s own birthday for a second year in a row?” 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s basically audible over the mic. “God, Junhui, you have the emotional range of a raccoon.” 

“I’ll take it.” Jun grins at that, thrusting his shoulders back as if he’s trying to appear bigger and more intimidating. “At least raccoons are cute, right?” 

On your laptop, the chat is going crazy.

user: here we go again with their flirty banter 🙄 user: JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY YOU TWO!!!!!!!!! user: i swear this radio show is hosted by 2 delusional idiots user: i think they should kiss idk

“No, we shouldn’t!” You exclaim at the chat like you’re scolding a bunch of twelve-year olds. 

Jun nearly hops out of his seat. “Wait, I agree!” 

“Wen Junhui!”

“What? I was agreeing with you!” 

“That was not you agreeing with me,” You groan. “You agreed to kissing me.” 

“Well, the chat started it, so don’t put all the blame on me,” Jun says with a pout, folding his arms together. “Plus, it would be good for research purposes, wouldn’t it?” 

Your eyes bulge out of your skull, your mind and face flaming up. “You’re such a𑁋we host a radio show, not a damn lab!”

“Chemistry is still relevant! And chemistry is needed for relationships!” 

“We are not in a relationship, oh my, God.”

“Hypothetically, Y/N. Think hypotheticals.” Jun clicks his tongue, letting out playful tsk-tsk-tsk. “I’m telling you our ratings would absolutely skyrocket.”

You fight back the smile threatening to split your face in half, but there’s no point in trying to battle it. After being best friends with Jun for most of your life and witnessing pretty much all the stupid shit he has ever said or done, you’ve long accepted that his brand of chaos is the only thing in this world that can make your chest too tight and too warm at the same time. Especially if it involves the playful flirting you’ve been bouncing on for years. 

“Whatever, to answer your question𑁋raccoons are cute, but they’re also known for making stupid life decisions,” You point out with a victorious smirk. “So, maybe not the best comparison to make. It’s accurate, regardless.”

“Harsh,” he whines, but his eyes𑁋those stupid, unfairly expressive eyes of his𑁋sparkle with teasing delight. “Alright, onto the final submission of the night. Anonymous says…”

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air, I’ve been supporting the show since the very beginning, and now, I think I’m in trouble enough to make a submission.  I’m in love with my best friend. I have been for years and it struck me pretty hard this morning. Is it weird to say when I first met them it felt like love at first sight? We talk every day to the point that everyone assumes we’re together, but we’re not. They’re kind, funny, and sometimes I think they deserve someone better than me. But is it selfish of me to say that I want to keep them in my life forever? Even if that line isn’t crossed?  What should I do??? 🐱

The studio falls silent for a few moments after Jun finishes reading. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. When Jun picks his head back up to look at you after reading the confession, his usual smirk is still in place, but fades just a tad when he catches the contemplative expression on your face.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N?”

“Huh?” You blink back up at him. “Oh, shit. Right, uh…”

You can’t tell if it’s the late night hour getting to you or something else entirely. You’ve received so many similar confessions before𑁋a best friend falling in love with their other half, the slow and torturous ache of unspoken feelings, the fear of messing up something that’s already so beautiful itself. And ultimately, your advice has always stayed the same.

But when you meet eyes with Jun, it’s as if the words have completely cut your tongue off. You finally clear your throat. 

“First of all, welcome cat anon to the club of people who are all vicariously and collectively screwed together,” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I wish we hadn’t read yours at the very last minute since we’re about in end in five𑁋”

Jun lifts a brow. “Wait, we have about fifteen𑁋”

“𑁋but I’ll just say that you aren’t selfish for wanting to keep them in your life. But you are doing a disservice keeping it locked away forever. This kind of love doesn’t come around twice. So tell them, even if it scares you. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?” 

You can feel Jun’s heavy gaze linger on the side of your face.

“Exactly, anon,” he jumps in like the professional he is. “Ripping the band-aid off would only hurt temporarily, right? And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here next week with some ice cream recommendations to help you cope.” 

“Keep in mind what Jun said, guys,” You say, forcing a small laugh. “Thank you all for turning into Love On Air. Stay honest, stay unhinged, and send that one person a risky text. If you want to submit a confession, please send one to our email. We are live every Saturday on FM 98.7! Goodnight, everyone!” 

You kill your microphone first as the ON LIVE sign on the wall blinks out with a soft click. Jun switches off his microphone right after, and the silence that washes over the studio is louder than anything else. 

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You still feel the ghost of Jun’s gaze warm on your cheek from when you were giving advice just a minute ago. It’s silly, really𑁋how one singular anonymous confession is enough to make you think and contemplate so hard. You’ve given advice to more people than you can count on your hands and toes, but this specific one feels as if it grew limbs, crawled out of the screen, and sat itself between you and him. 

“You rushed that ending,” Jun interrupts your thoughts as he swings his coat over his shoulders. 

You scoff lightly. “I did not.”

“Did too.”

“I literally answered the question,” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “That’s our job.”

“Exactly,” he hums in response, leaning his elbow on the desk and resting his chin lazily in his palm. “You answered it like it was your first time ever hearing it.” 

A pause.

“When it’s not.”

It’s not. But why𑁋out of all goddamn times you’ve read the same exact fear𑁋did this one feel like someone jabbed a finger at your chest and said: here, this is yours? 

You force a laugh at that, letting out a deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental at my big age.” 

“You’re literally younger than me.”

“Only by a few months. Your argument is irrelevant, grandpa.”

Jun tilts his head at your words, pushing himself off the table and invading your personal space as always. He stands only a step away from you, observing the way you’re speedily packing your belongings like some kind of punishment. When you face back up at him, he gives a light flick to your forehead. His touch lingers for a few seconds, before he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s playful and casual, but the way your skin tingles after isn’t. 

Your heart does a stupid little flip in your chest. 

“Come on, youngling, I’ll drive you home,” he says with a cheesy smile, dangling his car keys off his finger. 

A groan leaves you as you allow him to drag you by the wrist and out of the studio. 

To be honest, the radio show started off as one big fat joke. 

It started in sophomore year of college, where you and Jun were nothing but a pair of dumb, broke college kids. Then you both decided to sign a quick gig for the campus radio station because you thought it would look good on your resumes. The two of you were supposed to do the boring music hour𑁋basically play whatever indie crap the station manager liked and read weather updates every morning. 

But that didn’t exactly go as planned, as the majority of those sessions were spent with you both roasting each other’s music tastes live on air, and for some reason, the listeners seemed to eat that dynamic up. 

In one particular session, Jun opened up the radio station email box live on air. You both expected for another complaint, which wasn’t uncommon knowing how immature the two of you act sometimes. However, it wasn’t a complaint this time.

It was a confession.

A girl had written about how she’d been in love with her roommate for the past two years and didn’t know how to voice it without ruining their lease together. Jun read it when his microphone was supposed to be switched off, and something in the studio shifted that night. 

“Do… we answer it?” Jun had asked you warily. 

You had hesitated for once, before a sudden surge of determination filled you. Perhaps it’s the delirium of two idiots who believed they could wing it, or the thought that a random person decided to reach out to both of you𑁋out of anyone else𑁋was the reason for the determination. Either way, you looked across at Jun that night and said, “Yeah. Let’s answer it.” 

And that was that. 

The rest of the semester became an absolute rollercoaster of love confessions, messy breakups, love bombers, situationships that made you want to pull your hair out, and the two of you slowly carving a name for yourselves as the unfiltered chaotic duo who gave sarcastic advice that came straight from the heart. The campus station extended their time slot, then the local radio station in the city picked the two of you up. 

Somewhere along the way, and four years later, Love On Air stopped being a joke and became a real thing you and Jun committed together every Saturday at midnight𑁋your own little pocket of chaos in an otherwise normal adult life. For the most part, at least, because pining for your best friend is totally counted as normal. 

Wen Junhui came into your life like a stray cat who decided that your doorstep looked comfortable enough to stay forever. Uninvited and unpredictable, way too pretty for his own good, yet somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. He randomly plopped down right next to you during freshman orientation, snatched the last macaron on your plate, and gave you a look that said you’d be fun to annoy for the next four years before introducing his name. 

You’d never admit how absolutely starstruck you were the first time he smiled at you. Or laughed. You told yourself you were just sleep deprived and lonely being in the city all by yourself, but deep down, the voice in your head at that moment said that you wanted to keep him. 

You should have been annoyed. But instead you laughed and nearly choked on your water, and that was it. Game over. And you became each other’s favourite person without either of you having to put a label on it. Best friend felt too small, and soulmate felt too big and scary for two broke college kids who couldn’t dedicate themselves to a single major. 

So you just… existed together. Thrived together. Grew together through the most stupidest decisions known to mankind. 

And at some point down the road, that stray cat curled up into your chest and refused to leave.

“Listeners, let’s give a full round of applause to user derangedcarat for cutting off their cheating ex-partner,” You announce into the microphone, clapping your hands like a proud mom at a recital. The chat explodes immediately. 

user: 👏👏👏👏 user: FINALLY i’m so proud of u user derangedcarat queen user: anyone who cheats on their partner needs to be put on death row user: ^^^ preach!!!

“And you did the hard part, user derangedcarat,” Jun adds in. “We love growth in this household. Maybe email us a screenshot of the block so we can frame it in the studio here.” 

“Exactly, and please don’t forget to take care of yourself,” You reassure into the microphone. “Block, delete, go touch some grass if you need to. You deserve someone who actually respects you.”

The next confessions run by in a blur over the next hour. Someone sends in a confession asking if it’s weird to still be hung on their high school ex, another person confesses that they’ve been naming their house plants after people who ghosted them, which the two of you undoubtedly praise for creativity. 

To top off the chaos, there’s one submission an anonymous user submits with screenshots of cringe-worthy flirty text messages from a man they’re talking to, with the sender begging for the two of you to rate the messages on a scale of “smooth operator” to “immediate block”.

Jun narrows his eyes toward the screen. “Y/N, listen to this: ‘hey babygirl, how’s your night been? mine was spent thinking about u 😏’. Sent at 2:19 in the morning, left on read for three days.” 

You burst out laughing, cheeks puffing out to the point it hurts. “Oh, my God. Solid negative five. That’s a biohazard right there.”

“That’s way too generous,” Jun snorts while spinning in his chair. “Anon, this man is serving nothing but expired milk. Please save yourself a headache and block his number.” 

Heartbreak, confessions, and ridiculous stories𑁋you and Jun tag-team them over the next hour like strong duo you are, with the chatting eating up every particularly brutal line that leaves either of your mouths. This is what seems to happen when you give two nocturnal people a cup of bitter tar coffee and the free will to say whatever they please. 

By the time the final minutes of the session comes, you and Jun decide to read out one last confession. 

“...Cat anon is back with a follow-up confession.”

You perk up curiously at that. “Really? What does it say?” 

Jun hesitates briefly, before clearing his throat. 

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air, Hi, it’s me again. The one who wrote the other week. Thank you both so much for responding to me. I listened to every word you guys said, and I think you’re right. I was almost brave the other night𑁋had this whole stupid mental speech planned to tell them when we were hanging out together. But I… chickened out. Again. Really dumb of me, I know.  And I know that I look like a coward who needs a weekly pep talk, but this show feels like the only safe space I’m able to confess this. I do have a question for the two of you to answer and discuss. Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘perfect love’?  I think that’s my dilemma right now. I want to be perfect for them. I want to give them that perfect love that they deserve. But how can I do that, knowing who I am? 🐱

The studio falls into a gentle kind of quiet after Jun finishes reading. The words are still processing deeply through your mind when he warily lifts his eyes back up at you, lingering on your concentrated expression. Then his heart stutters in his chest when you meet his eyes as if he got caught doing something wrong. 

“Jun, why don’t you answer it first?” 

Jun blinks, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear away fog. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long arms up with a thoughtful sigh, enough for his hoodie to ride up just slightly for you to catch a sliver of skin. You try (and fail) not to notice, muting your microphone briefly to let out a cough into your hand. 

“I mean, ‘perfect’ love is that type of stuff you read about in books or watch in movies, right?” He shrugs, letting his arms fall back down as his chair creaks softly beneath him. “Like no miscommunication, no timing issues, no one being stupid… which already disqualifies most of humanity, honestly.” 

You lean back in to unmute your microphone. “Are you saying you’re part of that disqualification?” 

“Absolutely, I’m the poster child for it,” he claims with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I constantly forget shit, I’m nocturnal as hell, and sometimes I make objectively terrible decisions. Who would want to date me?” 

The question lands a little too easily, maybe even familiar, sending an uncomfortable ripple you feel all the way down to your toes. Something about the way it left his mouth without any hesitation sends a painful grip to your heartstrings. Jun has always had this kind of self-deprecating humour, tossing it out like it was nothing at times. It makes you want to one: shake reality into him, or two: kiss him to prove him wrong. 

You force out an awkward laugh, higher than it needs to be. 

“Someone with terrible taste, clearly,” You answer, keeping your voice teasing despite the heaviness in your chest. “But luckily for you, the world is full of people with terrible taste.”

Jun chuckles, spinning his chair so he could study you properly. 

“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “You think so?”

The chat is moving so fast now it’s basically a complete blur.

user: bro really asked who would date him while staring at his wife user: why is he so boyfriend coded still tho user: y/n should answer the question too!!! user: PERFECT LOVE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER STOPPP RNN

“Chat is right,” Jun quips. “What’s your answer to the question too, Y/N?”

The second the question leaves him, you can feel every pair of invisible eyes staring at you through the screen and your pulse kicking up loudly in your ears. Jun is still leaning back in his chair, relaxed as ever, his curious gaze fixed solely on you. 

Finally, you clear your throat.

“Well, I’ve seen couples break up because their relationship isn’t ‘perfect’,” You begin. “But the ones that last? They’re the ones where both sides are a little flawed, a little messy, and a little scared, but they choose each other anyway. That’s what you would call an imperfect love, and… I think that’s the most beautiful kind of love that can exist.” 

Suddenly, the tiny studio feels almost suffocating to sit in. Your eyes flick up to Jun. He isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. He’s just staring at you with an expression so open𑁋almost surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be so serious𑁋it steals the rest of your answer out of your throat. 

You refuse to look at the chat; you already know what they’re saying.

“You really thought about it a lot, huh?” Jun asks, scratching at the back of his neck. 

You could only manage a small, somewhat self-conscious nod, bringing your eyes down to the ground. “Yeah. Guess I have.” 

A wave of silence washes over the studio for a minute.

“...it’s a really good answer,” he murmurs.

A pleased smile crosses over your face. “Well, I am kinda a professional at this.”

“Mm,” he hums absentmindedly in response. 

You pretend to busy yourself with your laptop, trying to read over the chat that has now morphed into just meaningless spams of screaming text and heart emojis. Your cursor lingers over nothing, while your heartbeat is running a full blown marathon of panic. 

But when you glance back at Jun, the panic seems to strengthen even more.

“Cat anon, we really appreciate your trust in us,” You finish softly. “And I really hope that our advice tonight resonates with you. At the end of day, we’re all just a bunch of flawed humans looking for love, right? Don’t drive yourself to be perfect, because you’re already perfectly imperfect just as you are. And if your best friend reciprocates these feelings…”

Your eyes flit back up to Jun.

“...then take the leap, because they’re probably already waiting for you.” 

After a pause, you lightly kick Jun’s foot underneath the table. He jolts in his seat like you shocked him, before recovering with a nervous, boyish chuckle, sounding not even close to his usual, bright and effortless laugh. For once, he appears almost rattled, with his pupils wide and his ears pink that even the dim studio lights can hardly hide. 

On the wall, the ON LIVE sign flickers in and out of its glow. 

“She’s, um… Y/N is right, cat anon,” Jun agrees quietly. “You don’t have to become someone else to prove yourself worthy for someone. If they’re your person, then… who you are already is why they stayed this long.” 

From that, the chat practically combusts.

user: WEN JUNHUI???? IS THERE SOMETHING U WANNA SHARE W THE CLASS??? user: why did this suddenly get so intense lmao is it hot in here or is it just me? user: i’ve been on this ship since the beginning of the show!!!!

“Alright, that’s all the time we have for tonight,” You interrupt quickly, instinctively switching back to host mode. “Thank you to everyone who sent in your confessions tonight. Stay safe, stay honest, and please don’t respond to someone who sends you a babygirl text at ungodly hours.”

Jun reaches for the switch. “Goodnight, everyone!”

Click. The ON LIVE sign dies. 

Jun slides the headphones off his head and shuts down his laptop. You do the same. The two of you pack up belongings in that familiar and companionable silence that always spills into the room after a session. When you swing your bag over your shoulder, Jun glances up in your direction worriedly.

“You okay?” he asks. 

You nod, offering him a small, sleepy smile. “Take me home?”

Jun swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Yeah.” He’s already opening the door for you. “Always.”

Jun remembers one of the first discussions the two of you had on the show together.

Love at first sight. 

Back then, the studio was smaller, scrappier, and the chairs squeaked each time either of you moved even a centimetre. The world had fallen asleep long enough that honesty slipped through the cracks of your voices so easily. You both were running on nothing but instant noodles and caffeine, way different than the semi-functional adult routine you have established now. 

He remembers the beautiful laugh that left you when the question came in halfway through a song neither of you remembered choosing. 

He laughed with you too. Rolled his eyes and called it nonsense, all while pretending to not notice how your smile had gone a little soft when you answered it with that amused lilt to your voice. 

“I think it exists,” You had said. “Not like movie magic, though. But… you just meet someone and your brain clicks into place, you know? Like it says, ‘Oh. It’s you.’”

“That sounds like you’re trying to make shit up to justify bad decisions,” Jun argued back with a smirk. 

You gasped at that and slapped his wrist, causing him to laugh. “Excuse me? That was uncalled for.” 

And the segment moved on after that. 

But Jun continues to carry that sentence with him like a permanent scar. 

Oh. It’s you.

“What are the chances that a confession we’ve read out is from someone we know?” Jun asks while plopping a chip in his mouth, adjusting his body from where he had been sprawled across your couch for the past few hours. 

You don’t bother to spare a glance up from your laptop, but a grin crosses your features. “Pretty high, to be honest. Soonyoung once told me he submitted something to the show one time.” 

Jun nearly chokes on the chip scratching at his throat. “Soonyoung? As in Kwon Soonyoung? Never shuts up, Soonyoung?” He sits up so fast he accidentally knicks his socked foot under the coffee table. “Ow! I𑁋What the hell did he confess? Was it about that girl in his dance class that was drooling over him?”

You finally look over at him, chuckling at the way his eyes have grown comically wide. “He didn’t say. Just that he sent it under a funny username and almost died when we read it out. Apparently, we just straight up told him to stop being a coward and talk to her. They went on one date together. He found out she was allergic to cats and broke her heart by saying they were incompatible. End of story.”

Jun stares at you for a full blown three seconds, before he throws his head back into the couch with a laugh so genuine you would think his soul left his body completely. 

“That’s insane,” he says breathlessly. “Literally the most Soonyoung thing to do. No wonder he’s still single.”

“Actually, he’s not,” You chime back in. “I think he’s dating this new girl named… Skye, I think?”

“Sky?”

“Skye, but with an e at the end.” 

“Wow,” Jun mutters, crunching down on another chip and sarcastically adds, “Character development. We love to see it.” 

You roll your eyes, shutting down your laptop with a click and leaning back into the couch with Jun right next to you. You curl your knees up to your chest. “People change, Jun. Miracles happen.” 

Jun offers you the bag of chips. You take one, crunching absentmindedly as your gaze travels somewhere past the TV, past the wall, past everything. He notices. Of course he does. A nudge to your leg awakens you quickly. 

“Where’d you go just now?” he asks.

“Nowhere.”

Jun huffs. “Liar.”

You flick a crumb at him. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he retorts with a lazy grin, sticking his tongue out.

You shoot a glare at him and snatch the bag of chips from his hand before he can react. A scandalised look splits his face as he lunges to grab it back from your grasp, but you manage to twist your body away and dodge his reach.

“Hey!” he exclaims, attempting to grab the back once more but you clutch it tightly to your chest. “Give that back to me!”

You yelp and scramble further into the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter as you hug the back tight enough to crush some of the chips inside. “You stole this from my pantry!”

When his fingers brush the corner of the bag, you only yank it away again. Jun narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching upwards like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Y/N.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“Junhui.”

“You’re being annoying on purpose.”

“And you love me for it,” You remark, sticking your tongue at him back mockingly.

That does it.

As he makes a dive for it again, you twist a little too far. The next thing you know, you’re collapsing back against the couch cushions with a soft oof, and Jun is falling down with you. Very much ungracefully.

Because one second he’s reaching, the next he finds himself tumbling down over you in a tangle of limbs and laughter, somehow managing to catch himself just beside your head before he can actually crush you into the couch. And he’s way too close.

His knee presses into the cushion in between your legs, while his hand is planted by the side of your head. His dark hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, and his breath comes out unevenly from the laughing.

Your own breathing isn’t exactly steady either. 

Jun looks down at you. You look back up at him. Your apartment suddenly feels fifty times smaller, and the laughter dies instantly, replaced by a familiar heaviness in the air whenever the two of you are alone together. His eyes drop down to your lips for a singular second before flicking back up to your face, and you catch the way his ears redden in slight guilt. 

You swallow down a lump in your throat. “Jun…”

And from that split second of vulnerability, he uses that opportunity to snatch the bag of chips right off your hands, catching you completely off-guard. The warmth in the air still lingers even as he pulls away from you and flops back down on the couch.

“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly. “Victory is mine!”

You stare at him in disbelief before letting out the loudest, most offended noise imaginable as you smack his shoulder. 

“Wen Junhui!”

“Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the savoury taste of victory,” he quips with a grin, face beaming with pride. 

“You’re such a little thief𑁋”

“You hesitated!” he argues smugly. “So that’s on you!”

“Because you were staring at me all weird!” 

That makes him shut up, the smugness fading off his face so abruptly as if you accidentally powered something in his system off. The apartment goes quiet enough for you to only hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the honk of a car outside. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe you did, you don’t know. 

“I…” You utter weakly, trying to brush it away with a nervous chuckle. “Can we just pretend I spontaneously combusted instead?”

A soft, disbelieving laugh leaves him. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“For… looking at you all weird.”

“Jun𑁋”

“I think I’ll get going. It’s getting late,” he mutters, immediately standing up a little too fast. He grabs the bag of chips instinctively, realises it’s still in his hands, and sets it back down on your coffee table awkwardly. 

He doesn’t look at you as he grabs his hoodie and keys, moving with a surprising speed that even your own brain can barely process what to say. When he’s scrambling to the door, you move before you think, and you grab him by the wrist before he can unlock your door. 

Jun feels his pulse jump harder under your fingertips. Twisting himself back around, he’s met with your soft yet worried gaze, before flicking down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You release him immediately like you accidentally touched fire.

“Sorry,” You murmur, taking a small step back. “Just… text me when you get home, okay?” 

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Of course.” A sheepish smile graces his lips for a moment. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Jun.”

You close the door with a quiet click that somehow is louder than it should be. Now, you’re all alone in your apartment, yet the warmth of his presence still lingers through every part of your place. He’s been in here a thousand times𑁋hell, you both have slept in the same bed together a plentiful amount during all the times he’s trespassed in your space𑁋but tonight it feels like there’s a literal dent in the air itself. 

The two of you have shared many awkward moments together. He’s accidentally walked in on you changing a few times; you’ve seen him stress-eat an entire family-sized bag of shrimp chips at four in the morning. You both have seen each other at some of your lowest points, but why, out of all nights, does it hit harder than anything else?

You sink back into the couch with a groan. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then𑁋

Buzz.

[12:55am | menace (affectionate)] i just got home you okay?

You stare at his message for a long moment.

[12:57am | y/n] good and yeah, i’m fine. you?

[12:58am | menace (affectionate)] splendid! and … tired

[12:58am | y/n] go sleep then dumbass

[12:59am | menace (affectionate)] alright mother calm down i’m brushing my teeth

A low giggle leaves you at his response. A few minutes pass before a new text from him lights up your phone. 

[01:05am | menace (affectionate)] can i ask you something really random?

[01:05am | y/n] of course

The typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again.

[01:07am | menace (affectionate)] do you think cat anon is okay?

A sinking feeling opens a pit in your stomach, thumb frozen over your keyboard. You stare at the screen until the words begin to blur. God, of all the questions he had to ask tonight…

[01:10am | y/n] i don’t know i hope so and that they learn it’s okay to be brave

[01:12am | menace (affectionate)] yeah. me too

You’re hardly able to think when his next text comes in quicker than you expected.

[01:12am | menace (affectionate)] goodnight y/n don’t overthink in your sleep

You smile faintly.

[01:13am | y/n] no promises goodnight jun

You lock your phone after that with a tired sigh, tossing it onto the couch cushion besides you like it might bite you back if you hold it for too long. And somewhere on the other side of the city, another phone is tossed away like a shameful piece of evidence. 

As you stare blankly at your dark television and feel the exhaustion of the day weighing between your bones, you know that sleep won’t come easy tonight. It becomes even more challenging even after you brush your teeth, wash your face, doomscroll on your phone for a while, and face plant onto the bed like you just came home from a wounded battle. 

“Pathetic,” You mumble into your pillow to absolutely nobody. “I’m so pathetic.” 

On the other hand, Jun is… doing the exact same thing. 

His ceiling fan spins lazily overhead while his phone screen dims beside him. The last text message you sent to him spirals through the air around him. He doesn’t even know what to do but let out a muffled incredulous laugh into his pillow, sighs, before abruptly sitting up in bed and realising how much of a loser he’s acting right now. 

“I should’ve…” Jun groans, running a hand over his face. “I should’ve just told her… I’m such a coward.” 

Because the thing about running a late-night show where love is the main topic and advice is given, is that it’s painfully easy to tell strangers to be brave when your own heart isn’t on the line, when you’re not the aforementioned person in the story who is being pined over. It’s easy to take the leap when you aren’t standing at the edge yourself. Yet for some reason, it’s only harder to take the leap when you don’t even follow the advice you give to others. 

The irony is quite laughable, to be honest. 

Jun grabs his laptop and forces it open, the bright screen nearly blinding him in the darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t care. He finds himself navigating to his email, switching to his second account, and gets greeted by a particular message that had already been forwarded to the radio show. A message that had already been read, answered, and sent under a certain pseudonym.

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air…

Biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up a fresh draft and begins typing. 

“Take the leap, cat anon,” he repeats to himself over and over again. “Take the leap, Wen Junhui.” 

Jun texted you two hours before the show that he was sick along with a selfie of him buried in a hoodie he threw on, somehow contracting a stomach bug which he blamed on some expired convenience store gimbap. He insisted that he could still come in, yet you reassured him with a string of sobbing emojis that it’s probably in his best interest to stay home to rest, and that you could handle hosting the show on your own, even if… you’ve never really done it before. 

The show must go on, after all. 

So when you find yourself sitting alone within the quiet studio just mere minutes from going live, you definitely sense both the physical and mental emptiness of his presence in the room a little too sharply. His headphones are still left the way he always leaves them, and his chair is facing the wrong wrong because he spins in it so much that he never bothers to put it back properly. 

A small, fond chuckle leaves you at the thought of him, and you have to chase those thoughts away the second the clock strikes midnight. From there, you roll your shoulders back to shake away any residual nerves, clear your throat, and reach over to the switch. 

Taking one last deep breath, you flip it on. The ON LIVE sign sparks to life on the wall.

“Good evening to all our fellow lonely and emotionally volatile listeners,” You greet warmly into the microphone. “Welcome back to everyone’s favourite unhinged radio show, Love On Air, live at midnight every Saturday on FM 98.7.” 

Your eyes can barely keep track of the live chat box being spammed with incoming messages. You read a couple of messages out of people describing their day, but it isn’t long until the elephant in the room is acknowledged.

You snort lightly. “I regret to inform you all that Jun has passed away due to… alleged food poisoning.” Some comments following your words make you laugh. “Yes, yes, you’re all invited to the funeral, don’t worry.”

user: i commence a ritual to bring him back or we riot 🙏🙏 user: bro probably slept through his alarm honestly user: WAIT BUT THIS FEELS SO WRONG W/O HIM 😭😭 user: rip… guess no husband and wife arguments for now… 😔

“He offered to join while sick, by the way,” You add in quickly. “But I personally vetoed it. I’m not letting a man who ate expired gimbap shit his way into a session. He’s probably listening in right now, so hi, Jun. Hope you’re still intact, buddy.” 

After a few minutes of more interactions, you finally pull up the radio show’s inbox and begin to organise through the confessions that were received recently. That weird feeling creeps back up your spine once again as you scroll𑁋not about the confessions specifically, just the thought about doing this alone. Your eyes flick to the empty chair right next to you once more. 

You read a few confessions and answer two callers𑁋there’s one from someone who felt bad for ghosting someone they actually liked, another person confesses they’re having a hard time with their partner wanting to open up their relationship, and one with expressing their fears of having their first time with the wrong person. You offer your own thoughtful answers and advice as best as you can, yet it feels so lackluster and flat without Jun’s playful interjections whenever you get too sappy on air. 

“Your first time should be with someone who makes you feel safe, not just wanted,” You say gently into the microphone. “You deserve that. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s okay to wait until that safety feels undeniable.”

The chat floods with hearts and supportive messages. A few people send their thank yous for the advice. Some latecomers ask questions about Jun’s whereabouts.You smile gratefully, but it feels a little fragile tonight, not quite reaching up to your eyes. 

As the final music break of the session ends, you unmute your microphone to speak.

“Alright, listeners, we’ve reached the final thirty minutes of tonight’s session. I want to thank you as always for staying up and listening into the show,” You announce confidently. “We’ve got time for… maybe a few more confessions and a possible lucky caller, so let’s see what we have left.”

Scrolling silently through the inbox, it isn’t long until your cursor hovers a familiar username once again. Your heart spikes at the sight, hesitating for a slow second.”

“Everyone, let’s welcome cat anon back to the stage with another follow-up confession.” You click the confession, take in a deep breath you’re sure the viewers can hear, and start to read it aloud.

Dear Y/N of Love On Air… Hi, it’s me again. To be honest, I don’t really know why I keep sending these, but somehow I always end up back here again. You truly have a way of words, and I really want to thank you for that. I thought about what you said about imperfect love. I used to think that if I fix every flaw about myself, then maybe I’ll be worthy of them, but now I know that love is someone seeing every fractured version of you, and staying anyway. There’s something else I want to confess too. I think I’ve been waiting so long for the “perfect” moment that I accidentally passed a thousand “imperfect” ones. It makes me terrified that they’ll meet someone more braver than me, so I’ll use this chance now to be brave for once.  I’ll be ready on the line for this session and use this chance to finally face whatever happens next. I hope you’re able to answer my call whenever that may be. I have an important message to send. 🐱

Your voice comes out almost too quiet by the end you finish reading. You flit a quick glance to the ever-exploding live chat box.

user: HOLY SHITTT CAT ANON VOICE REVEAL??? user: answer the call! answer the call! user: IM GONNA THROW UP WHY AM I SO NERVOUS user: we’re witnessing a cinematic moment in history wtff

Suddenly, the blink of the call line makes your throat tighten. Your fingers hover over the console as if it might suddenly jump out and bite you. God, you don’t understand why you’re unexpectedly so nervous𑁋you’ve talked to many callers, and yet, speaking with cat anon has you on complete edge. 

“Okay,” You stammer shakily into the microphone, covering up your nerves with a faint smile. “Let’s… let’s take this final call of the night, everyone.”

When you answer the line, it’s as if the world goes entirely mute, except for the intense pounding your chest. Nothing but static fills your headphones as the line struggles to connect for a few torturous moments.

Then, a quiet breath reverberates into your ears. The kind of breath that sounded like it had to claw its way out of someone’s chest. 

“...hello?”

The voice is slightly distorted through the line, unmistakably low𑁋clearly a male voice𑁋and trembling slightly around the edges. It’s more of a whisper, if anything. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as you. 

“Hi,” You greet warmly, slipping back into your professional radio voice. “You’re live on air with Love On Air. Is this… the one and only cat anon?” 

A small, embarrassed huff of air crosses the line. He sounds a bit closer this time as he replies, “...yeah, it’s me.” 

“Well, I’m giving you the floor now,” You assure firmly. “Whatever you need to say… we’re listening.”

Another shaky breath crackles through the line. You can practically touch the contemplation that’s buzzing through the call with your fingertips if that’s even possible, and even within the studio itself. 

When the seconds of silence turn into a full-blown minute of consideration, the line crackles once more.

“I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Your heart stops. Your mind draws a complete and utter blank. The abrupt clarity of his voice cuts through any lingering distortion and static and hits you like a wave. The world itself feels as if it’s tilted on its axis. 

“Jun𑁋?”

“I love you,” he repeats more firmly this time, voice raw and full of everything he’s been holding back. “and I told you I was sick tonight because I couldn’t sit right next to you while you gave advice I was too scared to take. I just𑁋holy shit, I love you…”

Your mouth parts open in shock, then closes. The chat is going absolutely feral right now and you can barely read through all the comments without having this unusual urge to just slam your hand onto the console and pretend that you’re suffering from pure delirium. 

On the wall, the ON AIR still glows stubbornly. 

user: I FREAKING KNEW THAT CAT ANON WAS JUN user: may i find this kind of love one day what the helly 🙏 user: Y/N ARE YOU BREATHING RIGHT NOW ???? user: our stupid oblivious hosts are in love. I CALLED it

You feel as if you almost have to squeeze your voice just to get it out. “Jun…”

On the other hand, he inhales sharply.

“...yeah?”

“You’re such an idiot,” You sputter out. “Do you have any idea how… how insane this is? Confessing on our show… using a pseudonym I gave advice to𑁋”

“I know.”

“𑁋after lying about being sick𑁋”

“I know.”

“𑁋and letting me sit here and talk about love like you weren’t the one I was talking to the whole time?” You ramble on out of a sheer mix of pure disbelief and relief, tightening your grip on the microphone. “Like all the advice I said wasn’t about… us?” 

You hear some rapid shuffling on the other side, and you could almost imagine Jun sitting up in bed as if he’s received the most shocking news of his entire life. Then you hear his dazed laugh flowing into your ears.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”

Your breath catches embarrassingly hard and your face is completely on fire. The chat combusts once again, and you have to keep mentally reminding yourself that this entire interaction is live and half the city is probably listening in at this very second. 

“From the first moment I saw you back in college,” Jun continues softly. “My heart and brain did the thing, you know? That you said before𑁋where you meet someone and all you can think is: Oh, it’s you. The second I saw you, I just… I knew I wanted to keep seeing you.” 

You feel your eyes start to burn.

“I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m… I’m a coward. I know I am,” he mutters helplessly. “I know it’s stupid pretending to be cat anon because it was safer than telling my best friend I’m in love with her. Stupid that I… used to remind myself that I never deserved someone as bright as you. But anytime you told someone to suck it up and take the leap, I had to do it now or else I’d lose the chance and probably explode.”

He lets out a soft, breathless, disbelieving laugh of relief at the very end. Tears are streaming down your face at this point, but you don’t care. 

user: IM PASSING TISSUES DOES ANYONE ELSE NEED ONE??? user: jun confessing his undying devoted love to y/n life is worth living again!!!! user: i feel like a successful marriage counselor WTF user: the solomon paradox is REAL

“Gosh, you’re…” You wipe a tear from your eye, murmuring weakly, “Your timing really needs to be studied, Jun.” 

“Wait, wait, are you crying?” Jun asks worriedly in a fit of panic. “I didn’t mean to make you cry on air𑁋oh, my God, I can take it back, I can𑁋”

“You cannot ‘take this back’, you idiot!” You cut in immediately. “I’m crying because I’m in love with your stupid ass too! And if you don’t get here and finish the show with me, I’m absolutely going to lose the rest of my dignity.”

There’s a very long, suspicious beat of silence that passes. It’s enough to have you feel like you’re going through all the stages of grief in just a matter of seconds. And you swear on Jun’s life that if he doesn’t say something in the next minute, you might actually crash out and let the world witness your breakdown. 

But reality snaps back in when you hear the sound of him nearly tripping on the other end of the line. 

“I’m coming,” he reassures you. “I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Stay there for me, okay? Don’t finish the show without me.” 

The line goes dead.

The night is quietly young as you and Jun step back into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind to finally cut out the rest of the world.

You still can barely process what just happened. First, Jun had texted you that he was quite literally shitting bricks for the entire day (which was a lie, thank goodness), then you somehow managed to host an entire segment all on your own without losing your sanity, and now the man you’ve been secretly in love for years had confessed to you𑁋live on air, alongside an entire audience of fellow love drunk listeners𑁋and is currently standing directly in front of you, wearing a hoodie he probably put on right before sprinting to the studio and a pair of pyjama sweatpants.

Jun doesn’t waste a single second. He steps up close to you and carefully wraps his long arms around you, the comforting scent of him quickly filling all your senses. He lets his forehead rest against yours, the two of you shutting your eyes together as you simply bask in each other’s presence. 

“You’re real,” he murmurs, his hands trembling where they rest on your back. “I swear I thought I hallucinated the entire night. I need someone to pinch me if𑁋hey!”

You giggle at the way his face dramatically contorts with a pout, soothing his side with a gentle squeeze. You tilt your head enough to brush your nose against his. 

“Then kiss me like I’m real, you idiot.”

For a moment, he just blinks like you spoke complete gibberish. Then he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, sending immediate shivers that make your knees weak. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth as the kiss deepens ever so slightly, your hands slowly sliding up his chest. You feel him chuckle against your lips. 

As you kiss, you find yourself backing up in the direction of the couch. Jun follows without breaking contact with your mouth. When the backs of his knees hit the cushions, you both tumble down together in a clumsy, giggly heap with you on top of him, straddling him.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and Jun’s arms lock around your waist instantly, holding you flush against him. And for a second, you both just… stare at each other. 

Jun is the first to break, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and lips as he doesn’t know where to look. “What?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide at how ridiculously cute and disheveled he looks right now, tilting your head at him like you’re pretending to study him. You lean in a little just to tease, and instinctively, he puckers his lips together, chasing after yours when you pull back away. 

“I can’t believe how stupid we are,” You whisper, brushing his lips briefly in a feather-light peck. “Giving advice to everyone but ourselves. We wasted literal years.” 

Jun chases after your mouth again, capturing it properly this time and pulling away with a satisfied hum. “Mhm. Absolute morons.” His hands find their way under your shirt, tenderly mapping the bare skin of your waist. “But I’m done wasting time now.” 

You chuckle into the next kiss, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as he tries to deepen it. God, his lips are so eagerly soft, but he’s smiling so hard you momentarily knock your teeth against his.

“Mm, wait,” You mumble against his mouth as you draw back to readjust your position, causing him to suck in a breath. “Are you trying to eat my face? Where’s the technique?”

He blinks up at you dazedly, mouth parted in playful offense. His hands tighten around your waist. “I𑁋excuse me?”

“Zero finesse. One star. I expected more from cat anon.”

Jun sits up suddenly so that you’re basically pressed chest-to-chest with each other. 

“You’re too cute, that’s the problem,” he says, voice deep yet still a little rough around the edges. “How am I supposed to kiss you if I short-circuit and all I could think, holy shit, she’s mine?” 

Your heart does a stupid little flip from his words. “Flattery won’t save your shitty technique.”

“Oh, yeah?” He cups your face with both hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Watch this.” 

The next kiss is messier𑁋heated, giggly, and clumsy because you both can’t stop smiling. You feel your toes curl as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. You sigh into it, threading your hands through his hair, the heat of it enough to make you rock your hips against his growing hardness. 

You feel the heat dancing up your skin and pooling into your belly as you continue your lazy grinding against him, swallowing down the broken sigh and groans that fall out of his mouth. When his mouth begins its descent down your jaw and to a particular sensitive spot behind your ear, he smirks against your warm skin. 

“Fuck𑁋you like that?” he breathes out, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast underneath your shirt. 

A shaky laugh leaves you, but it melts quickly into a soft moan when his thumb brushes your already-hardened nipple. “Don’t get cocky. Still𑁋mmh𑁋mediocre at best.”

Jun lifts his brow, mouth curved into a stupidly fond grin. “Mediocrity, huh?” He pinches your nipple gently, causing you to jerk your hips into his. “Your body is saying something different, baby.”

“Ignore her. She’s… a traitor,” You croak out, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweatpants. 

Jun merely chuckles, tugging your shirt up enough to expose your chest. He unclips your bra without any hesitation, pushing the straps off your shoulders then letting it fall uselessly to the floor. His eyes widen as he takes a few seconds to drink you in completely.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” 

Then his mouth is back on you. He sucks one nipple between his lips while his hand affectionately palms the other. A crude moan slips out of you this time; it heightens his confidence even more. 

As his mouth lavishes attention to your other breast, he drags his hand down your side, teasingly sliding under the waistband of your pants to cup you over your pants. He can feel how warm you are already. 

“Rating?” he requests with a firm suck. 

“Like a solid𑁋shit𑁋two-point-five out of five…”

Jun pulls off your breast with a wet pop, grin turning wicked. “But you’re soaked, and you’re still calling me below average? I think your pussy disagrees.”

You open your mouth to retort, but then he slides his hand into your panties, fingers circling over your slick folds, and nothing but a breathy gasp escapes you. Your hips roll down to meet his hand as he inserts a finger inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your back arch and he has to use his other hand to hold you in place. 

“What’s the rating now?” he asks, watching the way your face is beautifully twisting with pleasure as a second finger slides inside. 

You shoot him a death glare as you clench around his hand. “Three𑁋fuck, right there𑁋three-point-eight𑁋”

“Getting better already,” he hums in approval, leaning back down to worship your breasts once more. The dual sensation has your head falling down into the crook of his neck, your moans caressing his skin.

“Four𑁋Jun, you asshole𑁋four-point-five𑁋”

He pulls his fingers out of you unexpectedly, making you whine at the loss. Before you can complain, you find yourself being flipped on the couch as he settles in between your thighs, looking up at you with that mischievous, hungry, adoring look. He gives another tug to the waistband of your pants.

“Final rating before I eat you out?” 

Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your tone light and teasing. “Four-point-seven. Don’t get lazy down there or I’m docking points, smartass.”

Jun’s eyes sparkle with challenge as he helps you out of the rest of your clothes. When you’re fully bare in front of him, he spreads your thighs even further, letting his mouth hover tantalisingly where you need him most.

“Four-point-seven,” he repeats to himself, pressing a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. “I can work with that. Watch me get that perfect five.” 

Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your soaked pussy in one long stripe, a groan leaving him as he tastes you for the first time. Your hips jolt against his face, a sharp moan tumbling out of you and bouncing off the walls of your quiet apartment.

“Oh𑁋Jun𑁋”

“Hmm?” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth, eyes flicking up to watch your face. Two fingers slide back inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your vision glassy. “God, you taste even better than I imagined…”

You slap a hand over your mouth as the pleasure starts to bloom its way out of you, but he reaches up and pulls it away, lacing your fingers together.

“Don’t do that, please,” he murmurs against your pussy. “Let me hear you, baby…”

The way he eats you out has your head spinning. It’s dizzying, a little messy, and entirely devoted to you. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers echo and your moans and gasps travel throughout the room, only making him double down even harder to bring you over the edge.

“Five𑁋five stars𑁋ah, please𑁋”

You cum with a cry of his name, the pleasure crashing into you in waves. He continues to lazily lap at you before you start trying to push his head away, the two of you giggling breathlessly in the aftermath.

When he pulls away, his lips are shiny and he looks foolishly pleased with himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls his way back up your body, meeting you for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the thought that this absolute klutz of a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life sends another shaky giggle rolling out of you. 

“You okay?” he breathes against your mouth, chuckling softly of you barely controlling your laughter.

You run a hand over down your warm face. “I… what the hell just happened?”

“That was me letting go after holding back for years,” he answers without diffidence, tracing soothing circles over your bare thigh. “Do I get a final rating now?”

“Hmm, solid five-point-five. An extra half point for your enthusiasm and those cute noises you made down there.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, making him lean into your touch like a baby kitten. “But I’ll let you try for a six if you fuck me right now.”

Jun’s eyes darken instantly. “Say less.”

The two of you battle over taking off the rest of his clothes. Jun attempts to smoothly yank his hoodie off in one go, but it gets snug on something, causing him to laugh when it gets caught on his shoulders.

“Oh, my God𑁋stay still so I can take it off, you dummy!” You exclaim in frustration. 

“Help me then, smartass!” His laughter is muffled into the fabric. 

When you finally unsnag the hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, you both immediately reach for his pants at the same time, elbows bumping into each other. Rolling your eyes, you lightly smack his hand away so you can push it down his hips with borderline desperation. He kicks it off the rest of the way, his boxers following quickly.

The second he’s fully bare in front of you for the first time, he cages you into the couch right above you, littering soft kisses over your flushed cheeks. His cock rests heavily against your stomach as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.

“Hi,” he whispers stupidly, like he’s just remembered how to speak.

“Hi,” You reply with a bashful smile, reaching up to cradle his face, pinching his cheeks together. “Still waiting for my six-star performance.”

“Give me a break, I’m nervous!” he gasps defensively, grinding the underside of his dick along your slickness unconsciously. “I’ve only pictured this every single night for, like, the past four years!”

“Poor baby,” You coo impishly, reaching down to stroke him softly. “You’ve been jerking off to the thought of me for four years?”

Jun whines needily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Stop bullying me when I’m trying hard not to embarrass myself right now.”

“Then embarrass yourself. I’ve waited just as long, you idiot,” You urge, bringing him closer until there’s physically no more space between your bodies. 

With a sly smirk, he reaches down, lines himself up with you, and slowly pushes inside. He groans lowly as he sinks inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, only trembling with his forehead leaning onto yours. 

“Oh fuck𑁋I think I died a little,” he grunts pitifully into your neck. “You’re so warm. And tight. Think I-I short-circuited again.”

You give his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Move, Jun. Please.”

He obeys right away, thrusting into you experimentally and drawing a collective moan out from both of you. When he snaps himself into you again, again, and again, he sets a slow, deep rhythm that has the couch creaking softly beneath you.

“Shit, Jun𑁋” Your nails rake down his back as he hits that spot perfectly inside you again and again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You… You feel so good.” 

“Yeah? You look so pretty falling apart on my cock, baby,” he praises heavily, voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Still rating me? Am I passing?”

Your laugh dissolves into a moan when a particular thrust punches the air out of your lungs. 

“You’re at…” You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, glancing down to where you’re joined together. “Five-point… seven𑁋shit, keep going like that, I’m so close…”

“I’m so close too, not gonna last,” he pants, his breath molten on your neck. “God, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

You grab him by the nape of his neck to collapse his mouth back onto yours, swallowing all his desperate little grunts and sighs as the kiss turns heated fast. His rhythm stutters for the briefest second before he regains himself swiftly, the wet slap of your bodies meeting over and over again flooding the room, with your own hips rolling to meet with each of his thrusts. 

The heat of it all invades through all your nerves, that familiar coil tightening in your belly. The rating game is completely out of the window now. There’s only nothing but the drag of his cock kissing your walls and this thumb dipping in between your legs to caress your clit, encouraging you to let go.

When your orgasm finally crashes, it’s much more intense than the last. Your nails imprint sharp crescents down his back as one final broken cry rips out from your throat, stars bursting behind your ears. Your walls squeeze around him so tightly he curses, the drive of his hips faltering sloppily. 

“Baby, I can’t𑁋I’m gonna𑁋where𑁋?” 

“Inside,” You beg gravelly, wrapping your arms around him even tighter. “Lose yourself in me, Jun, please.”

That’s all it takes for his own orgasm to hit him. With one final thrust, he spills inside of you with a deep, guttural groan. His face drops into the crook of your sweaty neck as shaky little whimpers continue to leave him𑁋your name, I love you, fuck I love you𑁋repeatedly until he’s completely spent and melted into your arms. 

For a few moments of stillness, the only sounds travelling throughout the room is your ragged breathing and the sudden hum of your refrigerator. Eventually, Jun lifts his head from where it’s been resting comfortably on your chest. His dark hair is sticking out in all sorts of places, a few strands even matted to his forehead. And his eyes are half-lidded, yet so soft and full of love that you almost want to sob.

“So…” he starts hoarsely, kissing the tip of your nose. “Final rating?”

You let out a tired, contented laugh, brushing damp strands of his hair off his face.

“Mmmh… six-point-five,” You decide sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

A bright, boyish grin unleashes across his face. “I’ll take it. Room for improvement for the next round.”

“I𑁋next round?!”

“I aim to achieve ten stars. Or maybe more than that.”

“God, you’re so insatiable,” You groan, shaking your head despite the smile breaking through your expression. “Later on, maybe… for now, I just want to hold you.”

Jun swears he feels himself literally melt into a puddle at that, because how could he ever deny a request like that from you? Despite the little space on your creaky couch, he pulls out of you with a wince, grabs the throw blanket that has unknowingly dropped to the floor before shifting himself more deeper into your arms. The soft fabric wraps around your bare bodies together in a warm, messy nest, one of his legs slotting in between your legs. 

“Better?” he mumbles hopefully, letting his eyes fall to a close so he could listen to your heartbeat.

“Mhm. Much,” You hum in response, nosing through his hair. “I love you, you menace.”

You feel his lips meet the soft skin above your breast, right over your heartbeat.

“I love you too, dummy.”

Remember that stray cat that landed on your doorstep at the very beginning and refused to leave?

Yeah, he’s right where he wants to be now.

perm taglist (open) ʚɞ

@sn4psh00t @slytherinshua @seungkw1 @etherealyoungk @bananabubble

@parakissss @eskoupe @gent1es3xy @cherryophile @jaja-salute

𝐀/𝐍 ➙ ahh I adore this story so much!! I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m usually known for my angst works, so I guess this is my moment to shine hahaha. please don’t hesitate to click out or skip the explicit parts if they make you uncomfortable — this one gets a little intense with the kinktober themes 😭 anyways, reblogs (w/ or w/o tags) are always appreciated. love you lots!!

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The house was older than your name.

It stood past the last turn of the countryside road, half-swallowed by the forest, where even the birds refused to sing. The lawyer had given you the address over a call that sounded static, voice clipped, rushed — like he didn’t want to linger on the topic too long.

“An inheritance, Miss L/N,” he’d said. “A private estate. Been untouched for years. You’re the last living relative.” “Relative of who?” you’d asked. “Of the previous owner, Miss Wen.. if I remember correctly. Distant, very distant. She had no direct heirs. You might want to- ah -look through the documents yourself.”

The call ended before you could ask more.

Now, standing at the foot of the property, suitcase in hand, you realised how words could never have prepared you for this.

It was enormous, but not in the modern sense. The house was alive in its decay — a mansion of forgotten gold and black wood, wrapped in ivy that crawled like veins up the cracked stone. The windows glowed faintly amber, reflecting the dying sun. Even the wind that brushed against your skin felt heavy with something unsaid.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, pushing the rusted gates open. “Creepy, but not.. haunted. Hopefully.”

Your footsteps echoed across the gravel path leading up to the grand doors. Each step felt like trespassing on someone’s memory. When you finally pushed the door open, it didn’t screech or fight you like an old hinge should — it sighed, like the house itself was breathing you in.

The first thing that hit you was the smell — grass and rain, faint but fresh, like someone had opened a window minutes ago. The foyer stretched out before you, the chandelier above still glittering under years of dust. Paintings lined the walls. Not landscapes, not still lifes — just portraits. Of the same man.

You paused in front of one. He was handsome in a way that felt wrong for being immortalised in oil paint — sharp jaw, dark, tousled hair that falls around his neck in soft layers, eyes are gentle yet piercing. Scattered across his skin are small, striking moles — near his lips, another on his cheek, and gracing his forehead — as if even the universe couldn’t resist marking beauty where it found it.

Someone had painted him with devotion. You leaned closer. “Whoever you were,” you whispered, “you were definitely the favourite.”

The next few hours passed in quiet exploration. Every room was preserved — sheets draped over furniture, candles that looked half-burned but untouched by time, books still open mid-page on desks. It was eerie, yes, but also intimate. Like someone had just stepped out of the room and would return any minute.

By dusk, exhaustion caught up with you. You found the master bedroom on the second floor — and stopped cold. It was clean. No dust. The bed was made perfectly, the sheets turned down as though waiting. There was even a small vase by the window, a single white rose standing tall in it. You frowned.

“Someone’s been here,” you murmured. Then, louder, calling out just in case, “Hello? Is anyone-?” Silence. Except the faint hum of wind through the old vents. You hesitated, then sighed. “Guess I’ll just lock the door.”

The bed was too soft. Too inviting. You sat down anyway. The pillow smelled faintly of cedar and musk, a scent that didn’t belong to you. Still, the fatigue was pulling you under, and you let your eyes close for just a moment.

—

A breath brushed your neck. So real, so warm, it made every hair on your body stand on end. “You came back.” You bolted upright, eyes scanning the room. “Who’s there?” Nothing. Only the curtains swaying even though the windows were closed.

Your heart hammered as you reached for your phone flashlight. Its glow hit the mirror across the room — and froze you in place. In the reflection, someone stood behind you. A man, tall and pale, dressed in white collared shirt, neckline framing a single pearl necklace that adds a delicate contrast to his look.

Over it, he wears a black tweed jacket interwoven with silver threads, catching light in subtle glints. His expression wasn’t threatening. If anything, he looked relieved. He smiled softly. “You shouldn’t be afraid. I’ve waited long enough.”

You turned around. Empty. Your throat felt dry. “I’m-” You laughed weakly to yourself, trying to shake it off. “definitely calling the real estate agent tomorrow.”

You climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket tightly around your shoulders. But your body refused to relax. When your breathing finally steadied, you noticed something that made your pulse skip again. Your dress.

It had slipped halfway off your shoulder, your collarbone bare. And on your skin, faint as breath, was the outline of a handprint. You stared at it until your eyes blurred, until the scent of roses filled the air, until sleep pulled you back into the dark.

And somewhere, between waking and dreaming, you heard him whisper again — closer this time, almost tender “I’m glad you’re back, Wen Y/N.”

Morning came gently — too gently for an abandoned place. The light that poured through the curtains was soft and gold, catching the dust in the air like glitter. You sat up slowly, your body still wrapped in that hazy, half-remembered dream. There was no handprint now. No scent of smoke or roses. Just quiet.

“Okay,” you whispered, rubbing your eyes. “Maybe I just freaked myself out.” You checked your phone. Now we’re talking. I can definitely live here, there's a signal. It showed the time, 7:43 a.m. You must’ve slept like a rock.

After washing up with the little water that still ran in the bathroom sink, you wandered downstairs. The house looked different in daylight — less ominous, more tragically beautiful. Every surface was layered with dust except for a few areas: the stairs’ rail, the main hallway, the parlour table. Like someone had constantly wiped them.

You knelt beside one of the portraits in the living room and dusted it gently with your sleeve. The man’s painted gaze met yours again, unblinking and patient. His eyes were dark brown, almost gold under the varnish.

There were at least eight portraits in the entire house, all of him. Each painted a little differently: one in uniform, another in casual robes, another holding a book. You moved to the last one by the fireplace — this time, he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him. The artist hadn’t captured her face clearly, but she wore a white dress and veil, hand resting delicately on the man’s arm. A wedding portrait. You tilted your head, curiosity pricking at you. “So.. you were married,” you murmured, brushing the edge of the frame. “And I’m guessing your wife didn’t inherit the place. Lucky me.”

You took a step back, hands on your hips. The house was huge, but not unmanageable. You could make it feel like home again. So you started cleaning.

At first, it was just idle — opening windows, letting air in, humming faintly under your breath. But then something strange happened. The longer you worked, the more you noticed subtle traces of order that weren’t yours: beds already made, a vase refilled with white roses, curtains tied back differently. Someone — or something — had been maintaining this house all along.

You shook your head, deciding to distract yourself before your imagination spiraled like last night. Grabbing your phone, you opened your messages to message your best friend.

Y/N: guess who inherited a horror movie set 😭

Hao 😈: LMAOOO don’t tell me it’s that creepy old mansion your mom mentioned??

Y/N: yeah. the one with zero neighbors and 800 ghosts per square meter

Hao 😈: pls send pics 😭😭

Y/N: hold up

You snapped a few photos: the cracked chandelier, the grand staircase, one of the portraits — you didn’t even realise until later that it was the wedding one.

Y/N: okay ngl it’s pretty. like victorian pretty. you should come here.

Hao 😈: looks like somewhere a hot ghost would haunt.

Y/N: stop! 😭😭

Hao 😈: no bc imagine waking up w/ a ghost husband like “good morning my bride” 💀

Y/N: STOP IT HAO I SWEAR I’LL MOVE OUT

Hao 😈: u say that but u also said ur into tragic romance when bored soooo 👀

You laughed out loud, the sound echoing across the empty hall.

Y/N: fine. if a ghost husband appears i’ll let u know so u can write my obituary.

Hao 😈: deal

You pocketed your phone, still smiling. The house felt a little less lonely now. By afternoon, sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, scattering coloured light on the floor. You carried an armful of old books back to the library and froze when you saw one already open on the table — one you knew you hadn’t touched.

Its pages were lined with elegant handwriting. You could barely read the faded ink, but you caught one phrase clearly underlined: “Bound beyond death, by name and vow.” A chill ran down your arms. You shut the book gently, heart thudding. “Okay.. enough cleaning for today.”

Outside, the wind had stopped entirely. The forest was silent. The only sound left in the house was your breathing — and somewhere, faintly, a low hum. Like someone singing through the walls.

The house was quiet that night. Too quiet.

You settled at the desk with your laptop, your only source of light a small lamp you’d brought from your old apartment. The rest of the room lay in shadows, the wallpaper peeling faintly in the corners as if the air itself had been holding its breath for years.

You cracked your knuckles, muttering, “Okay. Chapter sixty-three. Let’s do this.” The blinking cursor greeted you like an old friend.

Your book — To Breathe Again — had been a year in the making, and your editor had been hounding you for pages. The irony of working on a novel about necromancy wasn’t lost on you. You even laughed about it when you messaged Minghao earlier those years.

Y/N: if i start writing ghost love stories don’t pick me up, i’m doing the right thing

Hao 😈: u kinky mf

Y/N: shut up 😒

Hao 😈: ok but if u get possessed can u at least ask the ghost to edit my thesis

You shook your head, smiling to yourself before getting back to work. Hours passed unnoticed, the rhythm of typing filling the silence like a heartbeat. Sometimes you swore you could hear faint footsteps pacing the hallway — the kind that made the wooden floor groan softly, like memory itself stretching awake. Every time you paused to listen, the sound stopped.

Around 2 a.m., you leaned back in your chair and sighed. “One more paragraph,” you told yourself. But the words on the screen blurred together, and your head eventually dipped forward. You must’ve dozed off right there at the desk.

When you woke, it was morning again. The sun slanted through the tall windows, warm on your face. You blinked against the light, you woke up in the bed “ahm.. did I sleep walk here last night?” you mumbled, stretching your arms.

But your body felt sore in a way that didn’t make sense — like you’d been tossing in bed for hours, muscles overworked and trembling faintly. Your nightgown clung to your skin, a little too loose at the collar and ends almost reaching your hips.

You frowned, rubbing your eyes. It hurts. That’s when you noticed your laptop. The document you’d been writing was still open — but your last sentence had changed. Instead of “She pressed her hand against the cold stone altar..” the words now read:

She pressed her hand against the warmth of his chest and whispered, “I’m home.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t remember typing that. And yet.. the phrasing sounded exactly like something you would write. You closed the laptop slowly, the faint scent of something — cedar, musk, and roses — lingering in the air, as if someone had been beside you all night, breathing close enough to touch.

The smell of sizzling butter filled the kitchen, the sound of eggs hitting the pan soft and rhythmic. Sunlight pooled faintly through the old lace curtains, dust swirling in golden ribbons. You could almost pretend the house wasn’t haunted — that it was just another quiet morning.

Almost.

You rolled your shoulders, wincing. There was still a deep, dull ache running through your muscles, especially between your thighs. “Did I- sleep weird?” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. You brushed off the thought with a nervous laugh and reached for the salt.

It must’ve been another one of those dreams. The kind that felt too real, too heavy. You remembered flashes — pale fingers tracing your skin, a whisper against your ear. The dream man’s touch had been so vivid that your body still remembered the heat. You’d seen his face this time too, clear and unblurred, framed by soft candlelight.

And it wasn’t just any face.

Your gaze drifted across the kitchen, toward the hallway where the portraits hung — the ones you’d noticed. You froze, spatula hovering midair.

The reflection in the hallway mirror caught him perfectly — the same slanted eyes, the same mouth curved like a secret. You blinked, once, twice, stepping closer to make sure your eyes weren’t playing tricks.

It was him.

The man from your dreams.

Your stomach dropped, pulse quickening in your throat. He’d been here all along, hanging silently in those frames, watching you from the moment you arrived.

You forced a shaky laugh, brushing stray hair from your face. “Okay. Creepy coincidence. It’s just- just the power of suggestion, right?” you told yourself, trying to sound convinced. “You saw the portrait before bed, your brain mashed it into a dream. Simple.”

The portrait didn’t answer. Behind you, the stove hissed. And for the briefest moment — just before you turned off the heat — you thought you heard a low voice whisper near your ear, soft and familiar “Good morning, my bride.”

You froze mid-breath.. again, every hair on your neck standing up. The voice was right there. Close enough that you could feel the faintest whisper of air brush past your ear. Your body reacted before your brain did.

“WHAT THE!” You spun around with the frying spatula raised like a weapon, egg still clinging to the edge. “WHO’S THERE?! I SWEAR I’LL- I’LL FLIP YOU TO HELL!!”

“Please don’t,” came a calm, almost amused voice from somewhere behind you. It wasn’t echoing, wasn’t hollow — it sounded real. Too real. “You’ll stain the walls with yolk, and I quite like our kitchen.”

Your eyes darting around the empty room. No one. Nothing. Just the faint sound of your pan still sizzling. Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Who- who said that?” Silence. Then, softly: “Jun.”

You blinked. “Jun..? What? Huh- ha?!” A small pause, then a low hum that almost sounded like a chuckle. “So you can hear me. That’s good.”

Your grip tightened on the spatula. “Okay. Either I’m losing it, or I’m being haunted by a polite ghost who cares about kitchen hygiene.” “Haunted?” Jun sounded genuinely offended. “That’s a rather cruel word for a husband, don’t you think?”

You gawked at the air. “Excuse me- husband?!” “Yes.” His tone softened, almost fond. “You’ve been wearing my ring.” You glanced down — and nearly dropped the spatula. On your left hand, glinting faintly in the sunlight, was a thin silver band. You had no idea when it got there.

“Oh hell no,” you whispered, yanking it off. “This is not happening.” Jun’s laugh was gentle, teasing. “You always say that. I miss hearing from you.”

“What- no, no, no! Don’t gaslight me, Casper!” “That’s not my name.” “I don’t care!” you shouted at the air. “You-! Get out of my house! Out! Whatever supernatural lease you think you have here, it’s over!”

“I’m afraid it’s not,” he said lightly. “This house is also mine.. and to you.” You dragged a hand down your face, spatula still clutched tight. “Great. Fantastic. I move into a cursed house, and my new roommate is a ghost husband with boundary issues.”

There was a low, almost bashful chuckle. “You weren’t complaining last night.” You froze, eyes wide. “Excuse me?” But the voice didn’t answer this time — just a faint, amused hum that faded into the creak of the old walls.

You pointed the spatula at the ceiling. “Don’t you dare ghost-laugh at me, Jun!” Somewhere, you swore you heard the faintest echo of a grin in his voice, that made you drop your spatula “You’re cute when you’re angry, my bride.”

—

You sat at the kitchen counter, laptop open, breakfast cold. The spatula still lay on the floor where you’d dropped it mid-crisis. Your phone buzzed beside your plate. You snatched it up like a lifeline.

[Group chat: “Emergency Life Updates (aka Therapy)]

Y/N: besties i think my house is haunted

Hao 😈: LMAOOOO it’s been 3 days, that’s a record. what happened suddenly??

Y/N: some man’s voice called me his wife while i was making eggs

Min 😵‍💫: ..was he hot at least???

Y/N: I DON’T KNOW I DIDN’T EVEN SEE HIM

Min 😵‍💫: so u married a ghost sight unseen 💀 bold of u

Y/N: IM NOT MARRIED

Hao 😈: sure kinky mf who’s writing a novel exactly with that plot, i think u manifested it loll

Y/N: also i think he’s a victorian ghost level polite. kept saying “my bride” like bro calm down

Min 😵‍💫: LMFAO STOPPPP this is going in my notes. “haunted by horny regency ghost”

Y/N: NO 😭😭

Hao 😈: did u check the portraits u sent me? maybe he’s one of those men 👀

Y/N: that’s the thing. IT’S HIM.

Hao 😈: oh.

Min 😵‍💫: …babe.

Hao 😈: are u sure ur not just having like, a super vivid lucid dream? u do write romance for a living.

Y/N: im literally wide awake and my ghost just argued with me about kitchen cleanliness

Hao 😈: sounds husband material to me. when’s the wedding??

Min 😵‍💫: more like when was the wedding LMAOOO

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why are my friends like this,” you muttered aloud. Why is Mingyu missing out of all times.. Seokmin and Minghao are no help. From somewhere down the hall, a familiar voice replied, low and teasing, “Are you in distress?”

You shrieked and nearly dropped your phone. “HAO HE’S HERE AGAIN.”

Hao 😈: ok listen before u start performing an exorcism, record it. i want receipts.

Y/N: u want me to RECORD THE DEMON?

Hao 😈: for science.

Y/N: i hate you.

You peeked over your shoulder, heart pounding. “Jun?” “I’m here,” came the smooth reply, closer now. “You don’t need to shout, my love.” You stiffened. “Don’t call me that!” “I can’t,” he said softly, like it was the saddest truth in the world. “You’re all I have left.”

The words hung in the air, so gentle it almost made you forget the absurdity of the moment. Almost. You typed one last message with shaky fingers.

Y/N: ok yeah maybe the ghost husband is kinda sad and not bad

Min 😵‍💫: so u admit he’s hot

Y/N: BLOCKED.

You set your phone down, exhaling deeply. “Okay.. Jun,” you muttered, scanning the empty room. “If we’re really doing this ghost tenant thing, why are you still here?” A quiet laugh brushed your ear like wind.

“Devotion. It ties me to the house.. to you.” You groaned. “Oh my god. He’s poetic too.”

It started the same way it had the last two nights. The soft creak of floorboards. The faint shift of weight on the mattress. The air cooling around you as if someone had opened a window. You didn’t move this time.

“Jun,” you whispered into the dark. “You’re here again, aren’t you?” Silence, then “I always am.” His voice came from beside you, smooth as velvet, threaded with something ancient. “You sleep so restlessly when I’m not.” “I sleep restlessly because there’s a ghost in my bed,” you muttered, sitting up halfway.

“Do you even.. sleep?” He chuckled, the sound low and fond. “No. Not anymore.” You exhaled through your nose, squinting into the faint light spilling through the curtains. “Okay, let’s try this again. Who are you, Jun?”

“I’ve told you,” he said gently. “I am your husband.” You rolled your eyes. “That’s not an answer. A name and a marital claim don’t explain why I wake up sore, by the way.” A pause. His voice softened, almost guilty. “I haven’t touched you without your consent.”

You arched a brow toward the darkness. “Really? Because my sore thighs say otherwise.” “I swear it.” His tone deepened, steady and earnest. “Your body aches from something else — the remnants of the bond. The house.. it remembers. And through it, so does your body.”

“The house remembers?” you repeated, half a scoff, half a laugh. “Jun, that’s not- that’s not even science. That’s..” “Magic,” he finished for you, quiet but unyielding.

You stared at the shadows for a long moment. “You expect me to believe that I’m some reincarnated bride living in a haunted love nest?” “I don’t expect you to believe,” he murmured. “Only to listen.”

Your throat tightened — something about the way he said it felt real. Too real. You tried to sound casual. “Then why are you here? Why can’t you just.. move on? Find peace, cross the afterlife, whatever ghosts are supposed to do.”

A silence. Then the faintest brush of a cold fingertip against your wrist — hesitant, reverent. “Because my peace was buried with you.” You froze. “You’ve got the wrong girl,” you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

“Perhaps,” Jun said softly. “But tell me, why do you wake up with my name on your lips?” You blinked, stunned. “I- I don’t.” “You do,” he said simply. There was no arrogance in it, only sorrow.

You fell quiet for a moment, staring at the darkness that felt far too alive. “You really didn’t do anything?” “No,” he said, and this time his voice was gentle enough to make you believe him. “Only kissed you when you were dreaming. You looked so lonely.”

Your heart squeezed. “That’s still technically not consent.” He laughed quietly, the sound curling through the air like smoke. “Then I’ll ask properly next time.”

You sighed, lying back down. “There’s not going to be a next time.” “I said that once too,” he murmured. You pulled the blanket over your face, trying to hide your smile. “You’re so dramatic for someone dead.”

“I was dramatic before I died,” he countered, teasing now. “You said you liked it.” You turned to where you thought he was, whispering, “You talk too much.” “And you listen too little.”

Somewhere between his chuckle and your quiet hum of annoyance, your eyes slipped closed. The bed dipped slightly, just enough for you to feel the outline of someone lying beside you. And though you told yourself you didn’t believe in ghosts, you still whispered, just before sleep took you,

“Goodnight, Jun.” A hand — cold but gentle — brushed your hair back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

—

You pushed the front door open with your shoulder, grocery bags cutting into your fingers, sunlight spilling in behind you.

“Jun!” you called out, voice echoing across the empty living room. “I was literally talking to you outside for ten minutes simply about if you do eat or not, and then I realised-” You paused dramatically, setting the bags down on the counter. “You weren’t even there!”

There was a soft hum from somewhere near the hallway — warm, amused. “Why are you talking to yourself outside?” Jun said. You glared toward the voice. “Don’t turn this on me. The delivery guy looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I thought you’re with me. This past few weeks, you never leave me alone”

He chuckled quietly, the sound wrapping around you. “Would you rather I scare other people half to death? Also, I can’t help you outside anyway”

You huffed, unpacking the paper bags. “Still. You could’ve… I don’t know. Come with me? You never go out.” There was a pause — not defensive, just words. “I can’t,” he said simply. Your hands stilled on a carton of milk. “Can’t?”

“The house is my boundary,” he explained. “My anchor. I’m bound here — by the curse, by memory, by you. Step beyond the threshold and I start to fade.” You turned toward the sound, heart softening. “That’s awful.”

“It’s tolerable,” he murmured. “I was alone here for so long before you came.” Your chest tightened. “Jun..” He spoke again, light but wistful. “Besides, I like it here. You fill the rooms with noise and scent and warmth. It’s almost enough to feel alive again.”

You rolled your eyes — to hide the sudden pang of emotion. “You sound like a bad poem.” “I was a bad poet once,” he teased. “You threw my drafts into the fire.” You froze mid-unpacking. “What?” He laughed, low and delighted. “Ah — perhaps that was another life.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.” “I missed being called that,” he said softly.

The quiet after that settled gently, like a comfortable silence between old friends, or husband and wife..? You busied yourself with arranging the vegetables, pretending you didn’t notice the way the air thickened slightly around you — Jun standing close, unseen but undeniably there.

“Hey,” you said after a moment. “If you can’t go out.. what do you do all day when I’m gone?” “I watch,” he said simply. “Creepy.” “Protectively,” he amended, amused. “I walk through the halls. Listen to the wind. Sometimes I read over your shoulder when you’re writing.”

You shot a look toward the dark corner of the kitchen. “That’s definitely creepy.” “Then perhaps,” he said, voice warm with laughter, “I’ll keep doing it.” You couldn’t help it — you laughed too, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Jun.”

“I was told I made an impossible husband,” he said, tone dipping into something soft, almost nostalgic. “But I like to think I’m improving.” You ignored the way your heart skipped. “Keep the flattery for someone you can actually touch.”

Another pause — this one quieter, heavier. Then: “I can touch you.. just to remind you,” he murmured.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure what to say. The light from the window dimmed as clouds rolled in outside, shadows crawling gently across the old wood floor. You pretended to focus on your groceries again, voice light but trembling slightly.

“Well,” you said, “if you’re going to touch me, at least help me unpack next time.” A faint rustle answered you — the bag of rice shifting slightly on its own, sliding closer to the cabinet.

You froze. Then laughed, a soft disbelieving sound. “Show-off.” From behind you hear his amused whisper, low and tender “Only for my wife.”

—

It was past midnight, the kind of hour where even the wind outside seemed half-asleep. The house was wrapped in silence, save for the soft rustle of paper as you turned another page of your book. The lamp beside your bed cast a warm circle of light that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, where the dark always seemed to breathe.

You could feel him there. “Jun,” you said quietly, without looking up. “Are you here?” A pause — then that familiar voice, soft and close. “I’m always here.”

You smiled faintly, still reading. “That’s supposed to be comforting, right?” “I suppose that depends,” he murmured, “on whether you believe I’m haunting you or protecting you.”

You tilted your head toward the voice. “You keep saying you’re not haunting me, but it sure feels like it sometimes.” “Would a haunt make your tea every morning?” he teased gently.

“That was you?” You blinked. “I thought I was just.. sleepwalking.” “I can’t do much,” he said quietly, “but I can move little things when the night is kind to me.”

You shut the book slowly, the words blurring. “Why do you do it?” “Because you forget to take care of yourself when you write,” he said simply. “You get lost. I don’t want to see you vanish the way I did.”

Your breath caught. “The way you did?” He didn’t answer at first — only silence, deep and heavy, filled the room. Then, softly “I loved too fiercely. Enough to tether my soul here.” You looked toward the darkness, where you thought his voice had come from. “For her? Your wife?”

A faint laugh, like wind through old glass. “For you.” The room suddenly felt colder, your heart lurching against your ribs. “Jun, that’s-” “I know,” he interrupted gently. “It doesn’t make sense. Not to you. Not yet.”

You pulled the blanket tighter around you, eyes scanning the space though you knew you wouldn’t see him. “You sound like a tragic novel waiting to happen.” “Perhaps that’s why you were drawn here,” he said softly. “Writers always return to unfinished stories.”

You exhaled, half a sigh, half a shaky laugh. “You make everything sound like fate.” “Isn’t it?” His voice was closer now — you swore you felt the faintest brush of fingers along your hair, so gentle you might’ve imagined it.

“You should sleep,” he murmured. “The world outside can wait.” “Are you staying?” you asked, eyes drooping. “I never left.” You smiled faintly, a small surrender, before your eyelids fluttered closed.

Jun stayed — unseen but so achingly near, his presence hovering like a heartbeat in the dark. And when your breathing evened out, his whisper came, softer than a sigh “You once told me you’d find me again. I suppose you always keep your promises.”

The cafe was the kind that looked like a Pinterest board come to life — soft lighting, fern leaves drooping over every table, the faint hum of an espresso machine mixing with lo-fi music. You sat by the window with your laptop open, pretending to edit your manuscript while your three best friends interrogated you like you were on trial.

“So,” Hao started, sipping his iced latte dramatically, “how’s married life?” You choked on your drink. “What- excuse me?” Min snorted. “Don’t play dumb. You literally sent us a picture of another portrait and said, He’s kinda hot for a dead guy. Don’t tell me you’re not crushing on the house ghost.”

You pressed your fingers against your temple. “I was joking!” “Were you, though?” Gyu cut in, deadpan as ever. “You also texted last night that someone made you tea again. Either you have a kind spirit or a trespasser with excellent domestic skills.”

Seokmin gasped theatrically. “Or maybe both!” You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “He’s a ghost.” “Then why are you blushing?” Minghao leaned forward with a grin. “Look at her, Seok- she’s blushing!”

“I am not!” you hissed, but your cheeks burned hotter than the cappuccino in front of you. “He’s just..” You stopped, realising how ridiculous it would sound to admit that Jun talked to you every night. That he teased you, cared for you, comforted you in ways that humans can’t even do.

Mingyu leaned back, stirring his coffee lazily. “You’re acting like you’ve got a boyfriend who only comes out after dark.” You glared at him. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Seokmin propped his chin on his hands. “Not yet.”

Hao laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “God, this is gonna be one of her novels, isn’t it? Lonely writer moves into a haunted house, ghost falls in love with her, she says it’s a curse, but he says it’s destiny-”

“Stop quoting my life!” you interrupted, waving your spoon like a weapon. “You guys are the worst.” “We’re the realists,” Min said, still smirking. “You just happen to be living inside your own plot twist.”

For a moment, they all laughed, that kind of carefree, echoing laugh that only happens in midday cafes. You joined in too, trying to drown out the strange warmth you felt under your ribs.

Your laughter stuttered, your eyes darting toward the window. The glass reflected only you and your friends — no one else. You sometimes think every time you’re outside, is he bored at home? Is he okay? That quiet presence. A part of you just wants to stay at home.

“See?” Min teased, nudging you. “She’s spacing out. Probably thinking about her ghost husband.” You forced a laugh, looking back at him, heart racing. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something like that.”

The cafe hummed with lazy afternoon chatter. You sat across from Minghao, Seokmin, and Mingyu, who somehow turned what was supposed to be a casual catch-up into a full-blown roast session.

“You’re into ghosts now, huh? So that’s why you’re not dating anyone alive?” Hao said, chuckling. You jabbed a straw at him. “Minghao, I swear to God-” Gyu raised an eyebrow. “What’s his name again?” You hesitated. The word caught on your tongue. “Jun.”

All three of them stared for a beat before Min smirked. “Jun? You even named him?” “I didn’t name him!” you said quickly. “That’s what he-” You froze. “That’s what his real wife, maybe, called him.”

“Right.” Mingyu nodded, clearly unconvinced. “So this ghost talks to you, cooks for you, and sleeps beside you-” “He doesn’t sleep beside me!” you blurted, heat rising to your cheeks. “He just- he-” “Uh-huh.” Seokmin grinned. “You’re doomed, man. She’s in deep.”

You tried to laugh it off, but your pulse was unsteady. Because later, when you were back home and the house greeted you with that quiet stillness, the laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in your head — you called Jun, yet no one was responding.

You frowned. He always answered when you came home. Even just a faint, teasing whisper — You’re late, little human. But tonight, nothing. Just the quiet hum of air through the vents and the faint ticking of the antique clock in the foyer.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, forcing a laugh. “So we’re doing the ghost-silent-treatment thing now? Cute.” You busied yourself in the kitchen, slamming a cabinet or two a little louder than necessary. Still nothing. The quiet felt heavier now — not the peaceful kind, but the kind that watches you.

“Jun.” You called again, voice sharper. “If you’re mad at me for something, at least say it. Don’t just.. vanish.” The air stirred faintly behind you, like a breath on your neck. You turned, but the space was empty. A shiver ran down your arms.

“Come on. Don’t tell me you’re sulking because I went out with my friends.” You rolled your eyes, more to convince yourself than anything. “You’re not seriously mad, right?” Still nothing. You exhaled. “Fine. Silent treatment it is. You win. I’ll just talk to myself then.”

You started rambling, pacing the living room like a stand-up comic trying to fill dead air. “For the record, they’re friends. Normal, breathing, alive friends who buy me coffee and don’t haunt my house.”

The chandelier above flickered faintly. You stopped. “Did I strike a nerve there?” A faint hum of energy prickled across your skin — the sign that he was listening, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

You sighed, softer now. “You know, it’s kind of unfair. You disappear when I talk to other people, but then you act like I’m supposed to just stay here waiting for you to materialise out of thin air.” The silence stretched.

You pressed your lips together. “I’m not yours, Jun.”

That’s when you heard it — not a loud voice, but something that slid into your mind like a thought that wasn’t yours. “Aren’t you?” You froze. The temperature dropped suddenly, enough for your breath to fog in front of you.

“You wear my ring,” his voice murmured now, closer, though he still wasn’t visible. “You live in my house. You sleep in my bed. You call my name every night without realising it.”

You spun toward the sound. “You didn’t answer when I came home. You scared me.” “I know.” The reply was soft, low, guilty — but underneath it, something darker stirred. “You talked about me with them,” Jun continued, voice drifting between the walls, nearer and nearer. “You laughed. You blushed. Did you enjoy that?”

“Jun,” you warned, heart pounding, “how did you even-? Don’t do this.” He let out a breath of what almost sounded like a laugh. “You think I don’t feel it? Every time someone says your name, every time you smile at someone else, it burns.”

Your pulse quickened, a strange mix of fear and warmth tightening in your chest. “You’re not even alive, Jun. What are you implying?” “Maybe not,” he whispered. “But you still make me feel it.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the faint outline of his form starting to shimmer near the hallway mirror — not solid yet, just smoke and memory. “Then don’t disappear like that again,” you said quietly. “If you can feel something, then talk to me. Don’t just.. leave.”

For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the faintest smile crossed his half-formed face. “You missed me.” You scoffed. “You were sulking.” “I was angry,” he corrected. “Because for a moment, I thought maybe you preferred your men.” You looked at the mirror — at his faint, sorrowful expression behind your reflection.

“They're not my men.. they’re my friends. You’re impossible,” you whispered. “And you,” Jun said softly, “are the only thing I’ve wanted in centuries.”

The room stilled. The air grew warmer. You felt the ghost of fingers trace the outline of your wrist — not cold, but not quite warm either. Just real enough to make you tremble.

Jun's reflection leaned closer, his gaze locked on your lips. His hands moved from your wrist to either side of your head, trapping you gently between his ghostly palms. “Say you're mine,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent.

You didn’t answer. He held your hands and pulled you near the mirror, “Do you need to see me, for you to talk?” he said, a little annoyed, you’re not sure whether to you or to himself. You looked directly at the mirror, memorising his ethereal face.

His hands framed your face, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as he stared into your eyes, making you look at his direction directly, nothing, you can see nothing. But you could feel his presence, his breath ghosting over your neck. “I'm not in the mirror, my wife” he murmured, voice coming from both directions. “I'm here.”

The ghostly hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. He leaned in closer, his translucent lips hovering just above yours. “Let me kiss you,” he whispered against your mouth. “Please.”

You smiled.. “only because you asked this time.” Jun's reflection smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He loved when you teased him, even a little. It meant you weren't scared of him. “Only because I asked?” He repeated softly, his voice ghosting over your lips. “You admitted before that you did without my consent.”

His expression turned serious, one hand moving to gently grasp your chin, turning your face slightly as if preparing to kiss you but stopping himself. “I’m sorry. That was my mistake.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “This time.. will be different.”

He stared at you intently, his hands steady and gentle. “I'll ask for permission every time. I'll wait for your agreement. And if you say no, I'll stop.” His voice was quiet, sincere. His eyes searched yours, looking for understanding.

You parted your lips slightly to answer. “Then go on.” That was all Jun needed. He surged forward, capturing your mouth softly at first. He tested your response — one hand cupped your cheek possessively while the other slid around your waist. You hummed softly, making him deeper. Now this is weird but also kinda hot.. I’m kissing the air.

Jun’s kiss grew more insistent, his tongue gently probing your mouth. He tasted sweet, like a phantom memory of honey and mint. His hands roamed from your waist downwards until they gripped onto your hips firmly pulling you closer towards him. You can feel him.

You gasped against his mouth as he pulled you closer, his cold hands gripping your hips tightly. Jun took advantage of your open mouth, deepening the kiss even further by pushing his tongue inside. He tangled it with yours, exploring your mouth thoroughly as if he was trying to memorise the taste of you. “Fucking hell, you taste like heaven.”

“For someone who’s dead, you curse so strongly.” You said laughing in between the kisses. In the mirror, you can see him smirking against your lips, his voice husky and amused. “Even ghosts can curse when they’re kissing someone they’ve been longing for.” His hands slid down to your thighs lifting them slightly as if trying to pull them around his waist.

You giggled, the sound muffled against his mouth. Jun groaned, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. He pulled harder, attempting to wrap your legs around his unseen waist. The mirror grew warmer, fogging up completely as their kiss grew more intense, more desperate.

“Jun.. my imaginations may be wild, yet I can’t do this to someone I can only see in the mirror”

Jun’s smirk faltered. For a second, his reflection looked as though it was flickering — as if even his smile could no longer hold shape. Then he stepped back, his eyes dark and distant. “You can’t see me because you’re not supposed to.”

Before you could ask what that meant, his hand — cold but firm — grasped your wrist. The mirror rippled like water as he pulled you through the hallway. You stumbled after him, feet barely touching the ground, until you reached a door you had never opened before. It was the last one at the end of the corridor at the third floor — carved oak, locked since the day you moved in.

“Jun, wait-” But the door creaked open on its own, revealing a dimly lit room heavy with the scent of old wood and faded perfume. Dust particles drifted lazily in the air, but beneath the decay, everything was preserved. A canopy bed stood at the center, its sheets neat, untouched. A wedding veil lay folded at the pillow’s edge.

“This room” you whispered. “I never-” “Because you weren’t meant to remember it.”

Jun’s voice was quieter now, stripped of playfulness, stripped of warmth. He stood by the window, you can’t even see his figure under the pale afternoon light. You could see the garden though — but you know his eyes were solid, endless, tired.

“You walk through this house like a stranger because you are one. But once, you weren’t.” Your chest tightened. “What are you saying?” He looked at you, a faint tremor in his hands. “You can’t see me because you can’t even remember who I am.”

The words felt like a knife — sharp, but dull in disbelief. “That’s impossible. I just moved here. I just-” Jun shook his head. “No. You came back.” He stepped closer. His voice softened, trembling with a kind of desperation you’d never heard from him before.

“You promised me you would, before you died.” Your breath caught. “Died?” “Before you died,” he said again, slower this time, as if tasting every syllable. “You said you would find me. You said, ‘Wait for me. Even if it takes lifetimes, I’ll come back.’”

You blinked rapidly, a faint ringing in your ears. Your mind refused to accept it — but your body remembered something. A pulse in your fingertips. A flash of a wedding ring. A man’s laughter. A voice saying My Jun.

He continued, eyes glimmering like glass. “I remembered everything. That’s my curse. I have lived every life remembering you — who you were, how you died, how you looked at me the day we said our vows. Every damn lifetime.”

The room felt like it was spinning. You staggered back a step and looked around the room, dizzy. That’s where you realise, this room is the real master bedroom, with another portrait.. where Jun and the same woman from downstairs. The difference is that you could see her face clearly now.

A face that is very familiar to you. A face that you see everyday. It’s your face. It’s you. “No.. Jun, that can’t be real. That’s-” “You’ve always said that,” he whispered. “Every life. Every time we meet, you never remember at first. But I always do. And every time, I find you.”

You shook your head, heart pounding painfully. “Then why am I here? Why this house?” “Because it’s where we lived,” Jun said simply. “Where I built a home for you. And where I died waiting when you didn’t come back.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He looked around the room, his gaze softening with memory. “They called it devotion. I called it punishment. I’ve been bound here, in this house, between life and death, waiting for you. Every creak of the floorboards, every breeze through the window — it’s been you I’ve been calling.”

You sank onto the edge of the bed, the veil beside you brushing against your hands. “Then.. I died?” Jun nodded slowly. “You did. In this life, you lost control of your car the day before our wedding anniversary. You were coming here.” He knelt before you, his touch barely grazing your knee, but warm now, almost human.

“You survived,” he whispered. “But you lost your memory. You forgot me.” Tears burned your eyes before you even realised you were crying. “So that’s why I can’t see you. Because part of me still refuses to remember.”

Jun smiled sadly, brushing your tears away with fingers that faded halfway through the motion. “You can’t see me because you don’t believe in me anymore. And without your belief, I’m barely here.”

You tried reaching out to touch him, his hands guiding your hands to his face — his cheek, his hair, anything solid — but your hand passed through his face like mist.

Until it didn’t.

Warmth bloomed under your touch. Solid. Living. Real. You gasped softly, feeling your heartbeat stumble as Jun’s features sharpened in front of you — the faint curve of his smile, the mole beneath his eye, the soft slope of his nose. He was no longer just a shimmer in the mirror; he was right there.

He was beautiful. And familiar. He’s divine.

The air pulsed once and then everything tilted. The floor beneath your feet dissolved, colours shifting, walls melting into light. You blinked and suddenly, the world changed.

Sunlight streamed through the canopy of white sakura trees, their petals falling like snow. You stood under an arch woven with lilies and pearls, your hands trembling as Jun slid a ring onto your finger.

“Do you promise to haunt me even if I die first?” you teased, your voice catching from laughter and tears. Jun’s lips curved into that same half-smile you’d later dream about. “I’d rather haunt the world than live in it without you.”

You threw your head back, laughing softly, pressing your forehead to his. “That sounds like a curse.”He smiled against your lips. “Then I’ll gladly be cursed.”

—

You stood in front of the house you live in now — only brighter, newer. Boxes piled high on the porch, sunlight filtering through the vines climbing the walls. Jun appeared behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Our forever home,” he said, kissing your temple.

“It’s old,” you murmured. “And it creaks.” “So do we, sometimes.” You laughed, swatting at him. “That’s not romantic.”

He leaned closer, whispering, “Then let me try again.” He kissed your shoulder gently. “Our love will creak too, old, stubborn, and impossible to let go.”

—

The sound of clinking porcelain. You sat at the wooden kitchen table, hair still messy from sleep, while Jun poured you tea with that same careful grace he did everything with.

He kissed the back of your hand. “You always forget breakfast when you write.” “And you always act like I’ll starve in two hours,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Because you will,” he replied, sliding the cup toward you. “My wife, the novelist who forgets she has a body.” You smiled, reaching out to tug him closer by the tie. “You talk too much hubby.”

He chuckled. “I love you” you smiled “I love you more”

—

The clock struck midnight, the house silent except for the faint hum of the record player. You were in your pajamas, barefoot on the hardwood floor. Jun appeared behind you, holding out his hand.

“Dance with me,” he said simply. “There’s no music.” “There’s us.”

You laughed, slipping your hand into his. He spun you once, your laughter echoing in the dim light. The two of you swayed lazily, the world shrinking to the warmth of his hands on your waist and the sound of your quiet breaths syncing together.

—

Thunder boomed outside, rain drumming against the windows. You were both huddled in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a single blanket. “Tell me something true,” you murmured, tracing his palm with your finger.

Jun’s gaze softened. “When I first saw you, I thought I had seen you before. Like in a dream that I’d already lived.” “And did you?” you asked.

His silence was long, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Maybe I’ll tell you in another life.” You frowned. “That’s unfair.” “Then stay with me in this one,” he whispered, voice low, almost pleading.

Both of you laughed, as the warmth between you two became one, cuddling at the stormy weather at the bed.

—

“Jun, stop reading over my shoulder!” you groaned, swatting him lightly with your pen. “I can’t help it,” he said, grinning. “Your characters sound like us.” “They do not.”

“They do. ‘The stubborn man who won’t take no for an answer,’” he quoted dramatically, pointing to the page. “That’s clearly me.” You threw a crumpled paper at him. “Then I’ll kill your character next.”

“Then I’ll haunt you,” he teased, eyes glimmering. You rolled your eyes. “Then I’ll marry you out of guilt.” “Perfect. My plan worked.”

—

Sunlight peeked through sheer curtains, painting soft stripes across the bed. Jun’s arm was draped lazily around your waist, his chest rising and falling behind you.

“Jun,” you murmured sleepily. “You’re heavy.” He chuckled, half-asleep. “You used to like it.” “I changed my mind.” He buried his face into your hair. “Too late. You married me.”

You sighed, smiling to yourself. “You’re impossible.” He kissed your shoulder. “So are you. That’s why it works.”

—

The dining room was dim except for candles you hastily lit on a lopsided cake. Jun entered the room and froze, eyes widening as you yelled, “Happy birthday!” “I told you not to-”

“You think I listen to you?” you said, grinning. “Make a wish before I eat it all.” He stared at you for a moment before blowing the candles out. “I already did.”

You blinked. “What’d you wish for?” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “To live long enough to grow old with you.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “That’s so cheesy.”

But he smiled softly. “Cheesy things are true things.”

—

The smell of oil paint filled the room. You sat by the window, sunlight catching in your hair while Jun worked on a portrait of you. “You’re taking forever,” you complained, swinging your legs.

He looked up from the canvas, smirking. “You move too much.” “I’m bored.” “Then talk to me.” You tilted your head. “What should I say?”

“Say something I can remember,” he said. You smiled. “I love you.” He paused, brush mid-air. “That’ll do.”

The memories collided with reality, your breath ragged as you stumbled back. The house, the mirror, the kitchen — everything shimmered and settled again into the dim golden light of dusk.

You were crying. Not from fear, but from the weight of recognition. “Jun,” you whispered, your hands trembling as they cupped his face. “I remember everything.”

Jun smiled through the tears shining in his eyes. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips like he’d done a thousand times before. “You came back to me.”

Your lips trembled. “And you waited.” He nodded once, a soft, broken laugh escaping him. “Every lifetime.”

His smile turned into a hungry kiss as he pressed you against the old bed where you shared countless moments together you’ve forgotten. His hands roamed over familiar curves remembered through centuries of waiting — for this exact moment where memory returned fully between two souls meant to be entwined forever.

His hands trailed down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed along your jawline. Suddenly, he pressed a cold finger to your neck, activating a necromantic chill that made you gasp and arch into him. “Do you remember my touch?” He whispered huskily

A wicked smile spread across his face as he remembered your kinks. He reached over to the bedside table and lit a candle, the flame flickering to life in the dim room. He started playing with temperatures, his breath, his touch being entirely cold, and the candle.. the wax. He dribbled hot wax onto your collarbone, watching as you gasped and your eyes fluttered closed. He knew exactly what you liked.

He kissed down your neck, his mouth alternately hot and cold like fire and ice. “Wife.. you taste so good.” His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone with wax on it as he slowly unbuttoned your shirt, revealing more skin for him to worship.

One hand continued the slow torture of dripping hot wax onto your skin while the other hand slipped under your bra, teasing your nipple with cold fingertips. “Cold or hot first?” He didn't wait for an answer, switching between hot wax poured onto your chest and his ice-cold hands caressing your skin.

This leaves you shivering and gasping beneath his touch. He unhooked your bra, throwing it somewhere as he continued his assault on your senses, his mouth claiming one hardening nipple while his fingers played with the other.

Junhui worshipped your body like he’d been starved for centuries — because he had been. His mouth trailed down to your stomach, kissing and licking each inch of skin he uncovered. He unbuttoned your pants slowly, almost reverently, pulling them down your legs along with your underwear.

He spread your legs gently, his cold hands contrasting with the heat of your core. He leaned down, blowing a cool breath over your clit before he spoke. “I remember everything about you. Every moan, every gasp, every shiver.”

“And I remember how you used to drive me crazy with that mouth of yours.” You spread your legs wider, teasing him deliberately. Jun groaned, pressing a freezing cold kiss directly onto your clit. “Stop teasing me with your knowledge of my body,”

His cold tongue replaced his lips, licking a slow path up your slit before sucking your clit into his mouth. He used his fingers to spread you open further, his ice-cold digits pushing inside you suddenly. You gasped and bucked against him. “Uhmm-hmm jun..” “You used to call me hubby.” He murmured.

“My hubby,” He growled against your sensitive folds, his fingers curling inside you while his tongue worked overtime on your clit. He remembered every spot that made you moan hubby. His other hand snaked up to pinch one of your nipples hard, making you arch into him.

“You used to grab my hair and fuck my face when I do this..” He demonstrated by sucking hard on your clit while pushing three cold fingers deep inside you, curling them exactly how you used to love. “Ugh! Fuck-”

You instantly wrapped your legs around his head, gripping his hair tightly and riding his face as you moaned his name like a prayer. Jun moaned loudly, his fingers freezing cold inside you as he remembered how much he loved being used by you.

“God, you always ride my face hard when I touch you like this.” He added another finger, spreading them wide inside you, hitting your favourite spot. He blew cold air onto your clit again, watching your body tightly coil with remembered pleasure.

“Stop reminiscing,” You pushed his head away sharply. He laughed softly, his mouth wet with your arousal. “No more remembering how you used to bounce on my face?” He teased, trying to pull your hips back down onto his mouth. You smacked his head lightly, “Asshole.”

He caught your hips sharply, pulling you back. He spread your legs wide, feasting on you like a starving man. His fingers still inside you, curving them perfectly as he ate you loudly, slurping and sucking your clit like it was his last meal.

Your body tightened like a bowstring as he remembered exactly how you liked it. Within minutes, you were crying out, your legs shaking as you came hard against his mouth. “Junhui- God! Aghh Oh my- fuck!”

He kept eating you through your orgasm, his cold fingers never stopping their relentless attack on that sweet spot inside you. He loved how you tasted, how you moaned his name like a dirty prayer. When your legs finally stopped shaking, he pulled away slowly, licking his lips.

He sat up, his face glistening with your juices. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at you with hooded eyes. “You taste even better than I remembered,” he said huskily. He spread his legs slightly, palming his hard, cold erection through his pants.

“My turn, hubby.”

You smirked and slowly removed his jacket and white collared shirt, revealing his perfectly sculpted abs. He lifted his hips so you could pull down his pants and boxers in one smooth motion. His massive, erect dick sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet smack.

His hands came up to grip your hair as you looked down at his length. He was already cold and hard, leaking pre-cum. “Take it in your mouth,” he ordered roughly, his Chinese accent thickening with desire. His hand tightened in your hair possessively. “Open Wen Y/N”

You spread your lips slowly, taking the tip of him into your hot mouth. He hissed sharply, his hips bucking slightly. “Damn it,” He muttered softly, watching your wet mouth stretch around him. “You used to deep throat like a pro.” He gripped your hair tighter, guiding you slightly.

His eyes rolled back as you suddenly took him deep into your throat without warning, your nose pressing against his balls. He let out a choked groan — “Fucking hell..” His hands tangled in your hair desperately as you started bobbing up and down rapidly, sucking hard “Shit.. shit- shit, you’re even better now!”

His cold dick throbbed in your mouth as you kept deepthroating him, your tongue pressing against the sensitive vein underneath. He could barely speak, his voice coming out strained “Fuck...fuck..fuck! Goddam- Ughh”

With a loud, muffled groan, he came down your throat, his hips jerking uncontrollably. You swallowed every drop before pulling off with a wet pop. He fell back onto the bed, panting heavily. “Still so noisy” You commented dryly, crawling up his body.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly, nuzzling into your neck and inhaling your scent. “Sure sure..” He murmured against your skin, his voice hoarse. “You’re the loud one. Always screaming my name.” He started kissing and sucking on your neck possessively. “My hubby.. still so good for me.”

He rolled you onto your back, covering your body with his. I can’t even see the ceiling. His cold hands gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head. His dark brown eyes bore into yours intensely. “Turns out, my wife gives even better head now. I wonder how else she’s improved.”

One hand slid under your thigh. “Spread for me, Y/N. Let me check if that tight hole still belongs to me only.” His voice was low and commanding.

He pushed your legs apart roughly, his cold dick already hardening again. I’m fucking a ghost. He’s so cold. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head against your sensitive spot. “You know what I love about this position?” He asked, his voice husky.

“What?” You barely said, “It lets me go deep,” He answered darkly, pushing your thighs back sharply and slamming inside you hard. He hit the bottom instantly, making you cry out loudly. “See?” He pulled back and thrust hard again, making you bounce on the bed. “Noisy.”

He started pounding into you relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with your loud moans and cries. One hand remained on your wrist above your head holding it back while the other on your thighs “Fuck-” He groaned, “Too loud, my wife”

His thrusts became deeper and harder, hitting that spot inside you perfectly. Your loud moans turned into high-pitched screams as he fucked you brutally. “Shut up...shut up”

He slapped a hand over your mouth as you screamed during another deep thrust. “AHHH-” “Jesus,” He muttered against your neck, “You sound like a fucking porn star.” He bit down on your shoulder to muffle his own groan, still fucking you mercilessly.

Your world turned into a blur of cold hands gripping your body painfully, eyes glinting menacingly above you, and a ghostly cock pounding into you. You could feel every inch of him stretching you open, hitting depths you never knew existed. “Mmph..”

You felt possessed, fucked by a literal ghost who showed no mercy. His cold body slammed against yours relentlessly, making the headboard bang against the wall loudly. Your screams were echoing, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth.

Tears streamed down your face from the intense pleasure-pain as he hit your cervix with every thrust. Your nails scrambled against his back, leaving red marks on his pale skin. You felt like you were being claimed by a supernatural being, completely at his mercy. “Nghh!”

Your tears only seemed to fuel his hunger for you. He watched, mesmerised, as they spilled down your cheeks and dripped onto the pillow. “Adorable,” He groaned, his voice laced with dark desire. “My pretty wife crying while I fuck you stupid.”

Mid-thrust, an abrupt memory flashed through his mind — the candle he had lit earlier, still burning softly nearby. A wicked smirk crossed his ghostly face as an idea struck him. “Hold that thought..” He suddenly pulled out completely, leaving you empty and whimpering. “Don't move.”

He quickly reached the candle, dipping his cold fingers into the melted wax. The room fell silent except for your laboured breathing and soft sniffles. “I forgot you’re a ghost, and how you can’t feel pain.” He chuckled then looming over you with a sinister grin and wax-covered fingers. “Spread wider,” He ordered darkly. “Let's play a little game.”

Without warning, he pressed the warm wax against your sensitive entrance, pushing it inside you slowly. You gasped at the foreign feeling, your hole stretching to accommodate the wax. He added more, filling you up with the warm substance before snapping his fingers. “Cold now.” The wax instantly hardened inside you,

Leaving you with a feeling of extreme fullness and pressure. He pushed your legs back even further, until your knees were practically touching your ears. “Now, let's see how long this pretty little human can hold still while I fuck her with a frozen, wax-filled hole.”

He lined up his cock again, pushing the head against your entrance. He groaned as he slowly slid in, the hardened wax making you even tighter than before. “Goddamn,” He grunted, “You feel insane right now.”

With a sharp thrust, he buried himself balls-deep inside you. The sudden intrusion forced a loud, strangled moan from your throat. “Ahh..! F-fuck..!” You bucked your hips instinctively, only for the wax to shift inside you uncomfortably. “N-no...ahh- st-still..”

He wrapped a hand around your throat to hold you down as he started thrusting his hips slowly, each thrust causing the wax to grind against your prostate pleasurably. Your moans turned into broken whimpers as he fucked you with that unrelenting fullness. “Shh, my wife.. just take it”

He picked up the pace, his hips slapping against yours with wet smacks. The wax inside you began to melt slightly from the friction, creating a warm, sticky sensation that had you moaning uncontrollably. “Ahh..ahh...ahhh!”

Your loud, desperate moans sent him over the edge. He slammed into you one last time, hitting your prostate dead on as he came hard inside you. “FUCK!” He groaned loudly, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot cum. “HUBBY!” You screamed as you cream his cock as well inside.

He stayed buried inside you, his heavy breathing gradually slowing as he nuzzled against your neck. The melted wax and his release dripped out of you messily, coating your inner thighs. After a moment, he pulled out slowly, watching as more fluid followed. “Mmm”

You looked down at the mess between your legs, then back up at him with confused eyes. “How.. how are you cumming? You're a ghost” He smirked mischievously, “Ghost sex has its perks, wife. My spirit can still produce semen.”

“And trust me, it feels just as good as real cum would.” He chuckled softly, floating down to clean himself up with some tissues he got at the night stand. “Plus, being dead means I can fuck you for hours without getting tired.”

Your eyes widen, completely not understanding what happened just now, “can I get pregnant..? BY A GHOST?!”

He raised an eyebrow at you, then shook his head with a soft laugh. “No, Y/N. You can’t get pregnant from ghost sex.” He explained, “My spirit might produce semen, but it lacks the necessary components to impregnate anyone.”

“Oh ok,” you sighed, relieved. His smirk turned into a full-blown grin as he went back up to top you, hovering between your legs. “So basically, I can fill you up as much as I want, and there’s zero risk of an actual baby.” He leaned down to kiss your neck and the night was long.

The morning light slipped through the old lace curtains, pooling soft gold across the floorboards. The air was warmer than usual — almost gentle, like the house itself didn’t want to disturb you. You stirred under the sheets, your body still aching in ways you couldn’t explain, every muscle sore but tingling with something that felt like longing.

This bed feels more like me, than the other bed. I love to be back.

Jun sat beside the bed, his elbow resting on the headboard, chin on his hand, smiling softly. “You’re awake,” he murmured. His voice was as calm as ever, but there was something different in his gaze — something steady, quiet, almost resigned.

You groaned, trying to sit up. “Remind me to never let a ghost manhandle me again.” He laughed — that deep, melodic laugh that used to echo down the hallways when the house was still alive. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, cheeks warming as you tried to swing your legs off the bed, “that was before I realized ghosts apparently have stamina.”

Jun leaned forward, catching your wrist before you could stand. “Careful,” he said softly. “Don’t move too fast. You’re still sore.” You rolled your eyes. “I can handle it.”

“Of course you can,” he teased, standing and offering his hand anyway. “But let me handle you for once.” You took his hand without thinking — it felt solid now, warm even. The thought almost made your chest ache. “Since when did you get so smug?”

He smiled faintly, leading you toward the kitchen. “Since I got my wife back.” You froze mid-step, and for a moment, your breath caught. He said it so casually, like it was the most ordinary truth in the world. But something in his tone — that faint tremor beneath the calm — made your heart twist.

“Jun..” He only smiled again, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Breakfast first. Heavy hearts need coffee.”

He made pancakes. You didn’t even think ghosts could cook, but the smell of butter and sugar filled the air, and when you asked how he did it, Jun just shrugged. “You said you missed the scent of home,” he said, flipping one perfectly golden. “So I borrowed it from your memory.” You laughed. “That’s creepy and romantic. I can’t decide which.” “Can’t it be both?”

The rest of the day passed in a strange sort of domestic bliss. You both cleaned the bedroom — or at least, you did, and Jun hovered around you, pretending to help but mostly teasing you. He brushed wax off your cheek, steadying you every time you leaned too close.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked suddenly, when you caught him watching the sunlight through the window. He turned to you, smiling faintly. “Miss what?” “Being alive.” For a heartbeat, his smile faltered. Then he said quietly, “Not anymore. Everything I ever wanted.. is standing right here.”

You stared at him — the soft glow in his eyes, the way his voice trembled like he was holding back something heavy. You didn’t press. Instead, you reached out and brushed his hand — and this time, it felt entirely real.

Jun blinked, then smiled again, softer this time. “See? You’re getting stronger.” You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to your forehead — his lips almost warm now. “It means you’ll be okay,” he whispered. “Even when I’m not here to make pancakes for you.”

You looked up sharply. “What are you talking about-” “Nothing,” he interrupted, smiling again — that same too-gentle, too-final smile. “Just saying.. ghosts like me don’t get forever. So promise me, if I ever fade away” He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “…don’t stop living.”

You didn’t know why, but the air grew heavier around you. The sunlight dimmed. You forced a laugh. “You’re being dramatic again.”

Jun chuckled softly, though his eyes were glistening in the light. “Maybe. But if being dramatic lets me stay in your memory, then I’ll take it.”

You stared at him for a long time, the ache in your chest tightening, and for a fleeting moment, you swore you could see through him — just a shimmer, like heat rising from pavement. But you blinked, and he was solid again. Smiling. Alive in his own way.

And so, you smiled back. “You’ll have to work harder than that to get rid of me.” He leaned in and kissed your lips. “I know,” he whispered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

—

The night came gentle, like the world itself didn’t want to wake you. You sat on the veranda with Jun, a single candle flickering between you — its flame bending and swaying with the wind. The garden was quiet, the air thick with that faint sweetness of rose and memory.

Jun leaned back in his chair, watching you instead of the stars. You didn’t notice at first how still he’d become. “I used to dream of this,” he said softly. “Of what?” “Peace.” He smiled faintly, eyes never leaving your face. “I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like.”

You chuckled, sipping your tea. “You sound like someone who’s about to give a farewell speech.” “Maybe I am.” You frowned. “Jun.”

He turned toward you, eyes reflecting the candlelight, gold and endless and unbearably sad. “You remember everything now, don’t you?” You blinked. “What do you mean?” “Us,” he whispered. “Before this life. Before this house. Before the accident.”

The words hit you like a chill. The images — faint, half-remembered — started to surface. The rain. Screeching tires. The ring glinting against the pavement. Jun’s voice calling your name, desperate, echoing. And then.. nothing.

Your throat tightened. “I- I saw flashes. I thought they were dreams.” He reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. His touch was lighter than before — fading. “They were memories. The last ones we shared before everything ended.”

You shook your head, tears already welling. “Ended? No.. we found each other again, didn’t we? You said you waited for me-” “I did,” Jun said, smiling. “Every life I remembered, I searched for you. Sometimes I found you. Sometimes I didn’t. But this time..” He paused, his voice breaking. “This time, you came back to me.”

“Then why- why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Because I am.” You froze. “No.”

He moved closer, cupping your face, thumbs tracing slow circles over your tears. His hands were almost see-through now — light bleeding through his fingers. “My curse was to remember every life,” he said softly. “To live them all until I learned to let go.”

“Jun, stop-”

“But yours,” he whispered, “was to forget. To live free of the pain. To start again.”

—

The moment the words left his lips, something in your chest cracked open — a white flash of pain, too bright to bear. And then..

White walls. The soft hum of machines. A dull ache at the back of your head. You blinked your eyes open and found yourself lying on a hospital bed. Your throat was dry, your body heavy. The faint rhythm of a heart monitor keeps time with your shallow breathing.

“Mingyu- she’s awake!” You turned your head weakly. Three faces came into focus — Mingyu, Seokmin, and Minghao — all hovering near your bed, eyes wide with relief. Mingyu reached out, holding your hand tightly as if grounding you.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice trembling. “You scared us.” You looked at them, confused. “What.. happened?” Seokmin’s smile faltered. “You got into an accident. You’ve been out for a few days.”

You nodded slowly, your mind foggy. But as you looked at their faces — familiar yet oddly distant — you felt something off. Something hollow. “Was anyone else with me?” you asked after a moment.

They froze. Minghao looked down at the floor, his jaw tight. “No,” he said finally. “You were alone when they found you.” You frowned, trying to recall anything — a road, a sound, a name. But your head throbbed the harder you tried. There was nothing. Just blank space.

Days passed, and you went home, that doesn’t even feel like home. You walked through your apartment, touching the furniture, tracing the edges of picture frames that held no faces. You caught your reflection in the mirror and felt the strangest ache, like someone else should’ve been there beside you. Someone who wasn’t.

Late one night, unable to sleep, you sat on your bed and whispered into the dark — not knowing why, or to whom. “Maybe it’s not about moving on,” you murmured, clutching your chest where that invisible ache lived, “but trying to remember the memories I’ve already lost.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realised you were crying. You didn’t know what you were grieving — only that your heart was mourning something you couldn’t recall.

—

You sobbed, shaking your head violently. “Then why- why bring me back here? Why make me remember?” “Because you deserved to know you were loved,” Jun said, voice trembling. “Even after death. Even after forgetting. You were my heart in every lifetime, and I needed you to know that before I go.”

The candle flame flickered. His form wavered, the edges of him breaking apart like smoke. “No,” you cried, clutching his shirt — your hands passing through him. “Please, stay. I’ll remember you this time. I swear, Jun, I won’t forget”

He smiled faintly, leaning forward until his forehead touched yours. “You will. You have to. That’s how you live.” He said. You sobbed. “Then what now? What happens to us? To you” “You live,” he said gently. “You finish your book. You keep the house. You keep going.”

“As for me.. I’ll keep waiting. Like I always do.” You shook your head violently. “No. No, you can’t. You deserve to move on.” “How can I?” Jun whispered. “My heaven was you. This is my fate.. I finally have the reason to cross the afterlife for this life, Y/N.” You felt the warmth of his breath one last time as he whispered,

“Find me again, in another life, my bride” The candle went out.

Silence filled the house — that heavy, sacred kind of silence only grief can make.

You sat there long after, whispering his name into the darkness, your tears falling onto the wooden floor. When the morning light finally touched the veranda, there was no trace of him — just the faint scent of cedar and rose and the ghost of a handprint on your cheek.

And for a moment, as you looked toward the mirror inside the house, you swore you saw him smiling.

Then he was gone.

And on the bed beside you, the veil stirred gently — as if brushed by unseen hands. unheard voice.

𝐀/𝐍 ➙ and that’s a wrap!! thank you so much for reading — I hope you liked it!! we’ve still got a few more left on our 2025 kinktober prompt list, next up is jeonghan, then wonwoo. see you all soon! stay safe, healthy, and a little unhinged, loves mwaa

⋆˚࿔ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @blssble @astraleaa @kwonxy @k4trinabluu @ateez-atiny380 @loveforred @chandaleeeee @starringhani @acphengene @yoonjeo @shininghoshstar

DAY ONE

"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"

You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.

His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.

You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.

The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"

Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.

"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.

"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."

You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.

"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"

You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.

"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."

"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.

"I don't have toiletries."

"You'll find it appropriately stocked."

"But what about my skincare?"

"Again. Appropriately stocked."

"You don't even know my skin concerns."

"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."

You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."

"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."

"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.

You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.

"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."

"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."

Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.

DAY FOUR

For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.

You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.

The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.

The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.

But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.

"Good morning. Kind of."

You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."

"Had some business in Australia."

You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."

He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.

You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.

When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"

You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.

You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"

"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.

"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."

Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.

"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."

The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"

The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"

It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.

When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.

It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.

"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.

"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.

"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"

The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?

Wait. Their souls?

"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."

"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).

"Their daughter."

You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.

You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.

"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"But… I'm here…"

He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"

"The Devil?!"

"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."

You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.

"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."

"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.

"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"

He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."

"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."

"So… you're… enslaving me?"

He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."

"But you kidnapped me."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."

"A contract."

"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"

"Enslavement."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"

"Wow, what a gentleman."

"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.

"But I didn't ask you for anything."

"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."

"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"

He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.

"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.

INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT

Contract ID 666-4 This Agreement is entered into between:

THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";

and

Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".

PREAMBLE

WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;

WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;

WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;

WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;

THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:

OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.

Duties shall include, but are not limited to:

Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day

Responding to customer complaints from damned souls

Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks

Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises

Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots

Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes

Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire

Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday

Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department

Conducting annual inventories of screams

Working closely with Minghao from Accounting

Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.

OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.

You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.

"What's the catch?"

"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."

"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."

You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."

He smirks and follows directions.

"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"

"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."

He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"

The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"

His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"

You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."

You sigh and skim the employment agreement.

POSITION

Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty

Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:

Maintaining Employer's schedule

Screening calls

Organizing contracts

Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.

Managing infernal correspondence

Other duties as assigned

Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.

COMPENSATION

During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:

Free housing

Free meals

Free skincare

Access to infernal healthcare

Unlimited coffee

Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:

Permanent demon status

Comfortable accommodations

Full retirement benefits

Choice of station

WORKPLACE CONDUCT

Employer shall not:

Steal Employee's soul

Curse Employee without written notice

Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)

Employee shall not:

Summon competitors

Sign contracts on Employer's behalf

Open portals without supervision

Feed eldritch horrors after midnight

TERMINATION

This Agreement may only be terminated by:

Employee's natural death

The collapse of reality

Mutual agreement

A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel

INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION

Upon execution of this Agreement:

Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents

Employer shall permanently cease collection efforts

Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"

The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.

You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.

"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.

"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.

"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."

"We—"

"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."

He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.

"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."

"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"

"You're the literal Devil."

"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"

You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.

"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."

"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"

You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."

He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."

The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"

"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."

"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"

"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."

"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."

He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."

"What if you hurt me?" you point out.

He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."

You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?

"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"

You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."

"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"

"On the point of employment until death…"

The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."

You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."

"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."

"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."

He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."

The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.

"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Okay…"

"What?"

"What do I call you?"

"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."

"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."

He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.

"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."

And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."

When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.

"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"

DAY TEN

Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.

You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.

And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.

He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.

Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.

"So… who are you…?"

You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.

The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"

You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."

He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."

"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.

The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.

"I am not dead."

"What's your—"

"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.

"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"

You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.

"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"

"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.

"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.

"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.

"Stop!"

"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"

"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."

You hum in approval. "Good to hear."

"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."

You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."

"Your funeral."

"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"

The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."

"I didn't ask."

"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"

You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.

"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"

"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"

You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."

Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.

Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.

Dear Satan,

If you're real, prove it.

You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.

"Interesting."

"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."

He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.

"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"

He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.

"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.

You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.

Dear Satan, should I text my ex?

I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.

Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?

No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.

Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?

Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.

Probably. What's her name?

He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"

You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"

"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."

"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."

"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"

"Nope. Get used to it."

DAY SIXTEEN

Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.

This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.

It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.

"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"

"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."

"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.

"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."

You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."

"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."

"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."

"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."

"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"

"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."

You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."

You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."

"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."

"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."

You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.

You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.

You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.

"Hello?"

"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."

"Thanks," he says slowly.

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Okay then. Bye."

You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.

You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.

You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"

He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.

"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.

"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."

"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."

"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."

You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.

"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."

"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."

You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Is that allowed?"

He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."

You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.

"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.

The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.

Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.

"Summoning uniform."

"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.

"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.

"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.

"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."

"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.

"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"

"Infernal Majesty."

"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.

The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.

"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."

"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.

"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."

"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

"Our tithes are declining."

"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.

Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."

The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"

"He gets it," Jun cuts in.

"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."

"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.

"For…?"

Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.

"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"

"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."

You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"

He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.

You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.

"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"

You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"

"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"

Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."

"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"

"Where are they?"

"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"

"Um, can we get back to the—"

"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.

"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."

"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.

"Unnecessary, but we'll—"

"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"

"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"

"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.

"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"

Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.

"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.

"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"

"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."

"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."

Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."

The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.

"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"

"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.

"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."

There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.

"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."

"Indeed."

"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"

"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."

You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"

Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.

"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."

The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.

"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."

"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"

You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.

"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."

The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.

"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."

Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"

"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."

"I was right."

"Hm?"

"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."

You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."

"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"

You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.

Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.

You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.

Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.

There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.

Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.

That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?

Will you leave me alone if I agree?

JUN.

One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.

Exhibit A: Soonyoung.

Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.

"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."

The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"

He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"

"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."

He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. Next question."

The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."

"Why not?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"

You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."

"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."

"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."

"Yes."

"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."

Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."

"The dude—"

"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"

The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.

You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.

"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."

You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"

"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"

You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."

"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."

"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."

He groans. "Yes it is!"

"It isn't."

"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."

"Why do you think that?"

He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"

You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"

"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."

"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."

"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."

"And do what?"

His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."

"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"

"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"

The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.

But you're not so you aren't. You smile.

"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."

The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"

"Spit it out."

"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."

You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.

"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."

"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"

"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"

"Because it's the full moon."

"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"

Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.

"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"

You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.

"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"

"Okay, relax," he mutters.

"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"

"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."

The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.

"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"

When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.

"What is it?" you ask.

"I am a great boss."

"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you? Because you—"

"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."

"Hm."

"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Mhm."

"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.

DAY THIRTY

You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.

"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.

Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.

"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.

Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.

Meeting with Archangel Joshua Marketing Team pitch Block for contracts Block for collection Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory) Hellhound training check-in Block for contracts 1:1 with Chief Torment Officer

His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.

"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.

"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"

"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"

"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."

You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.

"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.

"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."

Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."

"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.

But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.

"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.

And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.

"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.

"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.

You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.

The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.

"Hey!"

"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."

"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."

"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."

"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."

"Week."

"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.

"Specific."

"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.

You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.

Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.

When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.

"You're a baby when you're sick."

"I could die."

"You literally couldn't."

He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."

"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.

"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."

"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."

Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"

You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"

"Why are you feeding me?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"

Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.

"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.

After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.

"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."

"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."

You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.

"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"

DAY THIRTY-SIX

Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.

There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.

You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.

Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.

It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.

The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"

"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"

"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"

"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."

You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"

"Archangel Brayden…?"

The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.

"Tell him he's not available."

"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter.

"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"

You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"

"You said—"

"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."

"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.

"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"

"Who am I speaking to?"

You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.

He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."

"And why is that?"

He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."

"Well, he's busy."

"I haven't even given you my availability."

"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.

There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."

"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.

"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"

"I am literally none of those four things."

"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."

"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"

"Brayden."

You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.

He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.

"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.

"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?

"What a fucking tool," you murmur.

"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.

"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"

"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.

"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."

"Hm."

You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.

"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.

"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"

"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."

The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.

"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"

"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"

Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."

He squeaks in protest. "I—"

"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."

"Uh, I, um, sir—"

"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"

"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"

"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."

"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."

Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"

"Yes?" his voice trembles.

"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."

There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.

"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."

The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.

As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.

"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."

He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.

"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."

"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"

He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."

"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.

Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.

"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.

"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."

The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.

You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.

"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"

"Okay."

"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."

You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."

"Mhm."

"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.

"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."

You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."

You laugh. "Will do."

You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Jun: where tf r u Me: have a dr appt!!! Jun: what why r u ok Jun: i'll come over Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up Jun: u sure ur ok? Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon. Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back Me: bruh Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me??? Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me Me: you could have just called Jun: k wtvr noted Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK

"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.

You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."

The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."

"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"

"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."

You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.

Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.

"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.

"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."

The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"

"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"

"Brayden."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"

You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."

The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.

"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."

You frown. "What?"

She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"

"Uh…" You're stumped.

It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.

You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.

"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.

"Can you read minds?"

She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."

"But I haven't given you my symptoms."

"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."

You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"

She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."

You startle. "What? Why?"

"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."

You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.

"Are you done?"

"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"

"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."

Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.

"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."

"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"

She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."

"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?

"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.

"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"

"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."

"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."

"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."

"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.

"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"

The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.

Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.

"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"

She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."

"Right."

When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.

DAY FORTY-TWO

Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.

Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.

"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.

"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.

"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"

"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."

Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."

You roll your eyes. "Sure."

"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."

"About what?"

"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."

The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?

When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?

When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?

When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?

When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?

Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.

You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."

"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."

"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."

His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."

Touché. "It's ridiculous."

"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"

You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"

"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"

What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.

Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.

But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.

When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.

You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.

"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."

"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"

Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.

"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."

You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.

"Fair enough, I suppose."

You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?

You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.

"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.

"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"

"Hot pot?"

"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"

He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."

"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."

Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."

You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.

"Happy DAD, I guess."

The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.

"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."

You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.

"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."

You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"

His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."

You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.

"Can I hug you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"

He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."

"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"

Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"

"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.

He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.

"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."

Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."

You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.

When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.

For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.

"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."

He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."

You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."

You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.

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“You’re okay, just breathe… I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere” You kept repeating the words over and over again until he seemed to calm, until he seemed to hear you. 

Unlike Junhui you had always been a very vocal and extroverted person, always the loudest one in the room, the one who stole the attention of everyone without even trying, but after him, after the mark manifested, you drew into yourself, wanting to spend your time with him, getting to know him and his soul. 

It was difficult at first, not being able to really communicate, but at some point a few words started to make sense and as the communication became better, and your love for him grew. 

He told you about his move to Korea, his dance, his brothers, the struggles of his every day that looked so different from your own. 

The mark made it impossible to learn specific details about one another, every time he tried telling you where he was going for his tours, his voice would be muffled. Just as every time you would try and tell him about your university, yours would as good as disappear from his head. 

It made it hard, but you both knew people had it harder than the two of you did. You at least had your love singing you to sleep every night. 

Junhui was sitting in the beauty room before a shoot. Next to him was Soonyoung, and in his lap sat none other than his sweet soulmate that they had all nicknamed ‘Pink’ due to the famous hair that had brought the pair together. 

She ran her hands through his hair as she styled it. 

“Do you really need to rub it in?” Dino said with a somewhat low voice. 

“Obviously” Pink said before squeezing Soonyoung's cheeks together and kissing his lips sweetly. He chuckled in response, looking just as the hamster he claimed he wasn't. 

Jun explained the situation to you through that little link he had in his mind. 

Tell them they’re disgusting. You quickly commented with a laugh. 

As he repeated the words, Pink clutched her imaginary pearls, before jumping down from Soonyoung's lap, earning her a whine from this very grown man. 

“Don’t worry Jun, I’ll make you pretty for her, in hopes that she’s watching along” 

He laughed. You had not found him yet, and he doubted that a performance unit song would be what did the trick. But he could always hope. 

They hadn’t expected carats to go as feral for the music video as they did. But apparently a little bling and smooth moves would be all it took. 

And they did look good, ethereal almost. 

Jun couldn’t help but hope that this would mean you found him, after all that was the reason behind becoming an idol. 

“I hope you see it” He said in his mind as he reached out.

You knew he did something within the music industry, but you couldn’t even imagine the scale it was actually on. How famous your soulmate was, how beautiful. 

Once in a while you stumbled upon Seventeen music videos, but you never clicked on them. There were too many views, and for some reason you had imagined him being from a smaller, more unknown group. 

If you were being completely honest you did think that the music was kind of a side gig. A passion that made life bearable. A hobby. 

It wasn’t until your friend actually forced you to sit down and watch the newly dropped music video for “Spell” that you realized exactly who he was. 

“You have to watch it!” She said as she gently stroked the clock that was counting down on her arm. 

You rolled your eyes with a smirk on your lips. “It’s not gonna be him” 

She shrugged. “You don’t know that! I’m staying in my delusional era, convinced that Minghao has a clock somewhere on that beautiful body of his” 

You pulled her close to you on the couch. “Fine, I’ll watch it” 

A small shriek escaped her throat. You could humor her. 

Exactly two seconds after the music video had started your heart stopped. Because you knew that voice, and on screen was the most beautiful human being you had ever seen. 

The brown curls framing his head, the eyes so soft and kind were looking into your soul. It was him, there was no doubt in your mind. 

The whole scenario was overwhelming, you knew the song, he had been humming it for months, singing it to you at night. 

“This makes no sense” you said slowly as tears welled in your eyes. 

Your bestie had her arms around you in a second, pulling you close as you sobbed into her chest. You didn’t know why, but this wasn’t happy tears, no. You were devastated. 

There was no way in hell a man like that, a man like him would be okay, that he would be happy with someone like you.

He didn’t know what he had done wrong. But he had to have done something. You had been quiet now for around 3 days, and it was the longest time since he had found you, that he had gone without hearing your voice. 

The remaining of the guys had all picked up on it. He was agitated, annoyed and snapped over the smallest mistakes. 

He was currently located in one of the small kitchens in the Hybe building, filling up on water in between breaks of practicing the choreo for the upcoming tour. 

Minghao was leaned up against the fridge, arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked at his best friend.  

“You need to tell me what the hell is going on” as usual when something was bothering either of them, they spoke mandarin. It gave them a sense of privacy even when there were people around. 

Junhui sighed as he looked down at his feet. “She doesn’t speak to me anymore…” it was almost just a whisper, but the hurt, the broken heart that was lying beneath that surface of his was evident. 

Minghao pulled him close, and for once he allowed himself to be comforted. He hid his face in his friend's shoulder as he let the silent tears fall. 

“Did you do anything?” He asked as he pulled away to look at his friend. 

Jun just shook his head as he dried his eyes. “No, at least I don’t think so. I’ve been ragging my brain over and over to find out what could make her pull away. But honestly? The only thing I can think is that she found me… and that she’s disappointed it’s me and not someone else” 

His voice shook, and he burried his head in his hands, hoping the tears would stop falling if he just squeezed the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough. It didn’t help. 

“I don’t get it, I thought she loved me… I thought she was supposed to accept me for me, and not judge me for it” 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, one that didn’t belong to Minghao, but to Chan. And as he turned there stood the remaining 11 of his brothers. 

The youngest pulled him close and as he cried again, they all rallied around him.

Like the first time you had heard him, he hadn’t meant to let you in. But it did happen from time to time, if their emotions were out of control. And what he had said, had broken your heart. 

You were convinced it would be for the best, that he wouldn’t love someone as normal as you, someone as boring. You were convinced he deserved better. 

But hearing him break, hearing his sobs knowing you were the reason for them. Broke you even more than the potential heartbreak of him not wanting you. 

The days following his breakdown he had stopped trying to reach out, and it almost felt like he had given up. You had scoured the internet to find any kind of update, to see what he was doing, if he was okay. 

Dino had done a live with Minghao, begging Carats to send Jun all their love because he was struggling. 

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, he was supposed to be relieved, supposed to be happy that he, as a world famous artist, didn’t have to settle for someone as ordinary as you. 

But you were slowly learning that you had made a mistake. Because Seventeen was despite being world famous, global superstars, kind people. 

You had watched every going seventeen episode, seen every music video and over all catches up on everything. 

It was funny seeing everything after the fact. You had heard story about his friends going crazy when they played games, and Hoshi and Mingyu especially fit that bill in the ‘Don’t Lie’ episodes. 

He was quiet, more quiet in these settings than he usually was with you. But then you noticed it, hidden smiles and small laughs, it was because when he was with them, he talked to you as well. 

Always updating you on their shenanigans, filling you in on the new games they made along the way or retelling the jokes he knew you would find funny. 

You had fucked up. Severely. Now all that was left to do was trying to fix it.

As the days went by you started to reach out to him. But he wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. He could feel the sorrow in your voice, in the emotions that ran through his mind as you said good morning and good night to him every day. 

You never pushed him, and he appreciated that. He wanted to hear your explanation, as to why you had chosen to cut him out, but he was scared, so scared that the explanation would be a confirmation of all his worst fears. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joshua said as he laid a hand on his shoulder. 

He sent a tight lipped smile his way. “Yeah, let’s just get through the day” 

“Are you still not sleeping?” Minghao said as he looked up from his phone. 

Jun shook his head and sent a sad smile his way, his friends sighed in unison as Seungkwan entered the room. 

“You need to look after yourself hyung” 

“Maybe you need to talk to her” Joshua pushed. 

Jun only played with his long fingers as he released something in between a huff and a laugh. “I know, but what if all she wants is to cut the tie between us?” 

They would never quite get used to seeing their brother cry, and this past week they’d seen it more than they had in the last few years. 

It was his anxiety talking, he knew that, and so did they. But it was hard talking him down the edge when they had no chance of communicating with you, to actually hear your side. 

Seungcheol looked into the room, and all he got was a small shake of the head in return from the boys. “We’re going on in 5, game face on Jun” 

He took a deep breath and stood from his chair.

Your leg was bouncing up and down, fingers pulling on one another as you simultaneously chewed on your bottom lip. 

Something inside of you couldn’t quite figure out how this had happened, how you had made it happen on such short notice. But here you were sitting in a hall filled with carats, waiting for your soulmates and his brothers fansign. 

They entered the stage and you literally felt your heart stop in anticipation. And there he was, and if handn’t been because of the lack of oxygen you’re pretty sure you would’ve flown from your seat and into his arms before security would even have a chance to notice. 

He’s beautiful, he’s so so beautiful…

He heard your words eccho in his head and for the first time in a week he smiled genuinely all while his cheeks were painted in a subtle blush beneath the make up. 

You better be talking about me and not someone else. He quickly responded. It was a pure instinct, needing to know that you still loved him, that the silence hadn’t been because of a lack of love for him. 

He heard your chuckle in his head. It’s most definitely you Wen Junhui.

You watched him on the stage, hand quickly flying from his side to cover his mouth. You watched as his eyes sparkled. He turned away from the crowd and made these small almost awkward movements, as if he almost wanted to run away but couldn’t. 

Minghao looked his way with furrowed brows, but when he saw his friends smile, he knew that all the anxiety had just been whisked away from his body. And the remaining 12 of them quickly found that the burden they had been carrying was lifted.

“Hi” Minghao said as you sat before him on the long table. He pulled the album you had in front of him closer to sign it. It felt surreal sitting here in front of the people you knew so much about, the people who knew so much about you, but somehow had never met. 

“I feel like I owe you an apology” you said with a small voice in mandarin. The mans eyes lit up as he chuckled. 

“Why would you owe me an apology?” He asked with curious eyes and a smirk. 

You sighed. “Because I’m guessing you’ve had a rough week because of me. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was just when I found out who he was, I suddenly felt like I was lacking in every aspect” 

You looked towards Junhui as you talked, and shrugged as you ended the sentence. 

“Oh…” you looked up at the beauty that sat there, looking at you with tears in his eyes. He left the album behind and reached out over the table, grabbing your hands in his, giving them a squeeze. 

“He was afraid that you were disappointed, that you had hoped he was someone else” 

You quickly looked back to Minghao with big eyes. “What?! How the hell would he think that?” 

This time it was Minghao's turn to shrug. “I don’t know, but now our time is up, so go get your man” 

He sat up in his chair, leaned over the table and kissed your forehead. “I’ll talk to you after” 

You heard the gasps, the murmuring that had started in the room. Minghao was known for not playing along with carats parasocial relationships, he was known for always giving people a wake up call. So you could understand the shock of suddenly seeing him kiss a carat at a fan sign. 

You also knew your bestie would end up killing you for not bringing her along for this. 

Before you knew it you were in front of him. He didn’t look up from the album right away, he just introduced himself, and when his eyes finally met yours, all he saw was you sitting there with an open mouth, trying to get the words out. 

He blushed, he actually blushed when he looked at you, and in your mind you heard a small; wow. 

You took a deep breath and then you blurted it all out. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry I made you doubt yourself, doubt me, doubt us. It was never my intention. I just, I finally found you and every bad thing I have ever thought about myself was suddenly under a magnifying glass. I felt so ordinary, so plain, so incredibly boring next to you, your life…” 

He hadn’t taken a single breath since you had started taking. He knew your voice as well as he knew his own. And before he knew it, before you even blinked he had thrown himself over the table and pulled you close. 

“You’re here”  he whispered into your hair, loving the smell of your hair, your skin and your perfume. 

“I’m here” you whispered back as your hands pulled him as close as physically possible despite the table. 

He pulled away and ran a hand over your cheek, catching your tears with his thumb. He rested his forehead against yours as he laughed, a laugh that you returned. It was one of disbelief and pure joy. 

You heard all the people move around you, heard as people were ushered out of the room to give the two of you some type of privacy. The fansign would continue when everyone had a chance to calm down. 

He stood up and walked around the table. “I can’t believe you’re here, that you actually found me, that you got in here so quickly” He pulled you into his chest and rested his cheek on the top of your head. 

You could hear his frantically beating heart beneath his chest, god you could feel his chest, every muscle. Beneath your skin. 

I swear you were hand sculptured by all the gods that have ever existed. 

You said through the link in your mind. He laughed. Loud and genuine. 

You’re so beautiful my love. That you were ever in doubt about being good enough for me… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I loved you more often, that I didn’t tell you more often just how proud I am of you. That I didn’t manage to make you feel safe with me. I promise I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. 

He pulled you close with one of his hands on the back of your neck, the other on your cheek. He caressed your nose against his, looking for any type of doubt in your eyes. But he found none. Instead you closed the distance and kissed him. 

The room broke out in whistles and cheers, loud and chaotic. Just as you had always imagined they would be. 

The two of you smiled, before looking towards those he called his brothers. 

They were all over you in a second. Introducing themselves, bickering with one another about who should have the privilege of meeting you first. And Jun, he never let go of you, his fingers stayed intertwined with yours. Just as they were meant to be.

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The intern orientation is a thirty-minute slide deck with enough corporate jargon to resurrect a Roman senator. You're sitting near the back, doodling tiny skulls in the margins of your notes, when your manager says, “Let’s all welcome this year’s marketing interns!”

And there he is.

Wen Junhui. Hair longer than you remember. A navy button-down that you’re 90% sure used to be yours. He spots you in the crowd like it’s nothing. Like no time has passed. And then—the male audacity of it all—he smiles.

Your pen creaks, spine bending until the plastic gives a quiet, pitiful snap.

You recommended him. That’s the worst part. 

Back when he was unemployed and soft-spoken and yours in a way you never could quite name. You filled out a glowing referral form like an idiot. Said things like creative thinker and natural collaborator when what you meant was: makes me laugh when I don’t want to, makes me feel like I matter.

Now he’s here. Mid-career intern. Probably labeled as non-traditional in the onboarding notes. Definitely labeled as dead to me in your mental CRM.

You corner him in the coffee room after orientation. He’s stirring oat milk into some artisanal nonsense, back to you, as if this isn’t the beginning of your villain arc. “You’ve got some nerve, Junhui,” you declare, properly pissed. 

He doesn’t even flinch. Just turns, holding his mug like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. “... I was just getting coffee,” he answers, one perfect eyebrow already arched. 

You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Interning.”

“You’re in your thirties.”

“I’m only twenty-nine, actually.”

“You had a whole job before this.”

“And now I have a new one.”

You resist the urge to glower. “As an intern.”

“Mid-career transition,” he says smoothly. “It’s a thing. There’s a podcast about it.”

You’re aware. You introduced the podcast to him. “Why here?” you bite out. 

He sips his coffee, meeting your gaze without hesitation. “It’s the best, isn’t it?” he drawls. “And I always want the best.”

There it is. That infuriating sincerity, tucked behind some metaphor you can’t afford to unpack. That must mean I wasn’t the ‘best,’ then, you nearly snap, considering, you know, you up and left. 

You hate that your chest aches. You hate that he still looks at you like you mean something. Like he didn’t disappear. Like he didn’t cut the cord with clean hands and a lazy smile.

You made your bed. Now, you have to lay in it. 

–-

This Agreement was entered upon by Wen Junhui [“FORMER SITUATIONSHIP INTERN”] and You [“ABSOLUTE FOOL COMPANY”] and shall remain in effect until either party learns how to stop looking for closure in a coffee room.

–-

You decide to be a professional about it.

Which is to say: you ignore him. Flawlessly. The way an inbox ignores unread emails from old flings or the way a cat ignores physics. With dignity, aloofness, and a very calculated schedule of exits and arrivals.

You walk into Monday morning’s marketing sync with an iced Americano, a bullet-pointed agenda, and an expression that says try me. Jun, mercifully, sits at the far end of the table, between a girl who uses color-coded spreadsheets and a guy whose entire personality is PowerPoint animations. You pretend not to notice when he nods at you. You definitely pretend not to notice that he’s taken to twirling his pen the same way you do.

Soonyoung, the Marketing Director, is wearing a shirt printed with neon tigers. Again.

“Okay, okay,” he claps his hands once, then dramatically slaps a stack of post-it notes down. “Let’s make this week roar!”

The interns balk, but none of the full-timers bat an eye. You’re all used to it. The man once themed an entire quarter around ‘predator energy.’

You run through project updates with the calm precision of someone who did not threaten emotional homicide in the coffee room last Friday. You lead the discussion on the spring campaign revisions, answer questions, deflect unnecessary input, and even sneak in a joke that makes Soonyoung laugh hard enough to drop his whiteboard marker.

The meeting ends. You gather your things. You’re halfway out the door when he catches up to you. “Hey,” Jun says, gently, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “You killed that. You always do.”

You glance at him, expression neutral. "Thanks."

He looks like he wants to say more. Like he wants to be invited to say more. But you walk away, shoes clicking a little faster than necessary.

You still remember the other times he said it. After your first promotion. After you helped him rehearse for a job interview he never got. After a random Wednesday when you had ranted over a headline you couldn’t get right and he said, I wish you could see yourself the way I do.

You don’t want to remember any of it, so you go get coffee with Jihoon.

The head of HR is not known for emotional delicacy. Or any kind of delicacy, really. He wears monochrome like it’s a moral stance and drinks black coffee like it’s a dare. But he’s your friend, and he gets to the point.

“I’m not asking for details,” Jihoon says, stirring his drink with the slow menace of someone thinking about a compliance form. “But I saw the way you looked at the new intern.”

You feign innocence while you still can. “Which one?”

“Don’t insult both of us.”

Short-lived. You sigh. “It’s fine. He’s fine. We’re professionals.”

“Good. Because if I get even a whiff of nepotism, I’m lighting your recommendation form on fire.”

“You’re throwing around the word nepotism pretty lightly.”

“Am I?”

You lean back. “Everything’s professional,” you insist. “I wouldn’t jeopardize my own career over someone who thinks career pivots counts as a personality.”

Jihoon gives you a look. You sip again. Neither of you smiles.

Business as usual.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Some of it fractures two days later, in the breakroom with the flickering fluorescent light. You’re there for a sad granola bar and a moment of peace. Instead, you walk into chatter. The kind with edges.

Three interns—clipboard girl, PowerPoint boy, and someone new who looks like she does CrossFit for sport—are huddled near the snack station, laughing in that tight, conspiratorial way that means something mean is about to follow.

“I swear, he’s like, ancient,” Clipboard says.

“Wasn’t he in finance before this?” PowerPoint Boy adds. “Kind of sad, right? Like, starting over in your thirties?”

“He’s not in his thirties,” CrossFit interjects. “I checked. He’s twenty-nine. But still. Mid-career intern? Kinda screams washed-up.”

There are no names being thrown out—the slightest practice of discretion. It’s not difficult, though, to nail the topic of their breakroom gossip. The oldest intern in the pool. The one who hasn’t quite meshed with the Gen Z-ers who take OOTD mirror selfies and film TikToks in the bathroom. 

You clear your throat. Loudly. The interns freeze, a tableau of bad choices and instant regret. “Funny,” you say dryly. “I thought interns were supposed to observe before speaking.”

Clipboard opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “We didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you interrupt. “But that’s okay. Not everyone gets to be interesting on their own, so I understand the appeal of tearing someone else down.”

PowerPoint looks at the floor. CrossFit suddenly finds the nutritional facts on her trail mix fascinating.

Your words come out with their trademark sharpness, with the type of teeth that has silenced board rooms. “Jun has more experience than most of you. He chose to be here. He got in the same way you did. Maybe keep that in mind next time you’re measuring someone’s worth by your own insecurities.”

Silence. Blessed, blooming silence. You grab your granola bar and turn around.

And then you nearly walk right into Jun.

He’s standing by the doorframe, coffee in hand, eyes wide. You have no idea how long he’s been there. Long enough, judging by the way he looks at you. Not shocked. Not smug. Soft. And a little sad.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You nod once. He nods back.

You walk away, heart tapping a rhythm that feels like a memory.

–-

IV. In addition, the Intern will be eligible to participate in bonuses and other employee benefits established by the Company for its employees. The Employer currently offers the following benefits to its employees: momentary witness to your better nature, free of charge.

–-

The assignment happens on a Wednesday. Which already feels unfair. Mid-week emotional warfare is always much more draining than, say, a Monday terror or a last-minute Friday deadline. 

You’re sitting in the glass meeting room with a half-dead laptop and a whole-dead espresso shot when Soonyoung bursts in with his usual flair, dragging Jihoon behind him like a reluctant paperweight.

“Alright, team!” Soonyoung announces, sleeves rolled and tie nowhere to be seen. “It’s time to mentor the future!”

Jihoon sets down his folder with the quiet judgment of a man who had no say in this decision. “Intern shadowing,” he says, flat. “Mandatory. Two weeks. No complaints.”

“Like a tiger teaches its cubs,” Soonyoung adds, teeth bared in a wide grin.

Pairings are doled out quickly. Clipboard girl is assigned to someone in data. PowerPoint boy goes to Accounts. CrossFit intern gets Soonyoung himself (“I will break her spirit or befriend her forever,” he declares).

And then—

“Junhui,” Jihoon reads. And then your name. 

You don’t flinch. You nod once, hand still moving across your notes. Professional. If the pen’s plastic creaks underneath your grip, that’s between you and whoever invented Faber-Castell ballpoints. 

Jun, across the table, shifts. “Is that... final?”

Jihoon frowns. Never a good sign, even if it is his default. “Would you like to dispute the legality of this HR-approved decision?”

“No,” Jun mutters. But he doesn’t look at you.

The meeting ends. People scatter. You’re organizing your things when Jun corners you in the hallway, by the glass copy room that reflects everything you don’t want to see.

“I was trying to give you an out,” Jun says curtly, almost explaining.

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Back there. In the meeting. I was trying to not make things worse.”

“By publicly questioning a department head’s assignment?”

“By not forcing you to work with me when things are clearly… complicated.”

You back out a laugh. “It’s just work, Junhui. Not everything is personal.”

He stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. You mean it. Mostly.

There’s a flicker of something—memory, maybe. The last time you fought, back in the vague non-label limbo of your not-a-relationship. Something about a canceled plan. Or the way he left your texts on read. It spiraled, and somehow you ended up half-yelling and then making out in his kitchen, back against the fridge.

Those arguments never lasted long.

This one already has.

You tuck a pen behind your ear, shoulders squared. “We’ll get the intern materials from Soonyoung this afternoon. I’ll book a conference room.”

“Okay,” Jun says. He still looks like he wants to say something else. Maybe everything else.

You walk past him before he can. The hallway feels colder than usual.

Just like that, the stage is set. You. Him. Two weeks. One shared desk. Zero unresolved tension whatsoever.

The project brief lands the next morning like a meteor.

Marketing strategy for upcoming romantic comedy starring Jeonghan, the email reads. The subject line includes a heart emoji. You click it with a growing sense of dread.

The film’s title? Just Friends.

“Fuck me in the ass,” you mumble underneath your breath, the same way a corporate slave does once or twice a week. 

You open the attached pitch deck. The logline reads: Two friends navigate the blurred lines of a no-strings-attached relationship until one of them catches feelings.

You close your laptop. You reopen it thirty seconds later. Professionalism, you remind yourself, is a decision.

By 2 p.m., you and Jun are in a borrowed conference room with Soonyoung, who has inexplicably brought snacks and a whiteboard shaped like a heart. “Okay! Let’s ideate,” Soonyoung says brightly, cracking open a soda. “No bad ideas. No wrong answers. Just vibes.”

“How about a trailer that ends with both characters alone,” you start, “because some things aren’t meant to be mutual.”

Jun’s lips quirk to one side. “A little bleak for a rom-com.”

“Not if it’s honest.”

“Or bitter.”

“Not everything has to be about you.”

Soonyoung pauses mid-sip.

Jun clears his throat of the faux pas. “We could do a digital campaign,” he offers. “Confession booth at the premiere. People record what they never told their almosts.”

You write it on the board. Then, without looking at Jun, you add: “QR codes on limited-edition tissues.”

“You still have those?” Jun asks, his tone a little snide. “Thought you threw them out.”

“I did.”

A beat. The marker you’re holding is probably going to run dry by the end of this hour. Jun’s fingers are tightly clenched over the table edge. Soonyoung is unashamedly looking back and forth between the two of you, as if this is a particularly interesting tennis match between Carlos Alcaranz and Jannik Sinner.

“Maybe a microsite,” Jun says quickly. “Where users can soft-launch their regrets anonymously. Could include heat maps for popular phrases.”

You nod. “We could include copy like Sometimes the fine print on friendship is heartbreak.”

Jun’s next words are spoken under his breath. “Right. Friendship.” 

Soonyoung raises his hand like he’s in school. “Sorry,” he squeaks. “Is this a pitch or—an actual breakup in real time?”

“Both,” you say simultaneously with Jun.

Jun clicks his pen. “At least I’m trying.”

“Is that what this is? Trying? Looked more like derailing.”

“Better than deflecting.”

“Better than ghosting.”

Soonyoung reaches for another snack. You turn back to the board. “Let’s bring in Jeonghan for a cheeky teaser. Maybe he narrates bad firsts. First kiss, first fight, first time you find their ex’s number still in their contacts.” 

Jun exhales, sharp. “How about the first time they refused to introduce you to their friends?” 

“Not as bad as the first time they said someone else’s name during sex.” 

Soonyoung coughs, intentional and interrupting. “Wow. Okay,” he exhales. “Let’s take a break, cubs. Hydrate. Process.”

No one moves.

You cap your marker slowly. “I’ll send a write-up.”

Jun’s stiff fingers flex on the table. “Looking forward to your notes.”

–-

V. The Employer also offers the benefit of one (1) shared creative meltdown in the presence of your manager, and unlimited awkward silence thereafter.

–-

Jihoon calls you into his office with the same tone someone might use to summon a guilty terrier who’s chewed through a power cord. You arrive with your laptop and your most composed expression. You know better than to ask what this is about.

He shuts the door. Points to the chair opposite his desk. You sit. Jihoon steeples his fingers. “Soonyoung says the marketing brainstorm was intense.”

“I’d call it thorough,” you say wryly. 

“He used the words ‘emotional combat.’ Also ‘trauma-fueled campaign ideation.’”

You exhale through your nose. “We delivered on the brief.”

“Is there something I should know?”

The question hangs. You think about deflecting. About redirecting. But Jihoon’s office is too small for half-truths, and cluttered with evidence of a man who lives off structure and caffeine. You suspect he can smell lies the same way bloodhounds smell fear.

You lean back into the chair and pick out the bullet points. “Jun and I were… sort of a thing. Before. It wasn’t official. But it also wasn’t not.”

Jihoon doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I figured.”

Your brow furrows. “Then why ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d admit it like an adult,” he replies. “You passed. Barely.”

“I’m not going to make this a disciplinary thing,” Jihoon continues, flipping through some papers just to emphasize how above it all he is. “But you have to keep it together. Finish the project. Grin and bear it.”

“I am grinning,” you mutter. “Aggressively.”

“Good. Because this is what happens when you mix personal history with professional decisions.”

You squint at him. “You mean helping a qualified former friend apply for a job and letting HR do its job?”

“See,” Jihoon says, pointing with his pen, “this is why nepotism is bad.”

You groan. “It wasn’t nepotism. We weren’t even dating. He was unemployed. I had a moment of generosity.”

“And now you have a moment of regret,” Jihoon says. “Funny how that works.”

You cross your arms. “I liked it better when you barely spoke to people.”

“Me too,” he replies. Then, almost kindly: “Finish the campaign. Keep it clean.”

You nod. He returns to his laptop without another word. You take that as your dismissal.

As you leave Jihoon’s office, you hear him grumble, just loud enough: “God, I hate romantic comedies.”

You invite Jun for coffee the way some people file restraining orders. Terse. Cold. Legally sound. “After work,” you say, passing his desk without slowing. “Fifteen minutes. Corner place with the green awning.”

Jun, understandably, looks mistrustful. “Is this a trap?”

“Only if you make it one.”

Thirteen minutes later, he shows up. Hair slightly mussed. Shirt rolled at the sleeves like he’s trying to look less guilty. It doesn’t work. You’re seated already, nursing a decaf and a dull headache.

He slides into the chair opposite you. Eyes scanning your face like you’re a riddle he once solved and forgot the answer to. “If it’s not a trap, is it a truce?” he asks outright.

“Not everything has to be war, Jun.”

“You spent half our brainstorm launching missiles.”

“Well,” you say, sipping. “Some of them were paper airplanes.”

He grimaces. “I’m not doing this sober.”

You hate it when he’s right. 

The bar you two agree on is dim and semi-functional. Exposed brick. Mismatched stools. The music sounds like it was curated by a heartbroken DJ. Jun orders a peach soju; you get the blueberry one.

“So,” he says around the rim of his soju bottle. “Where should we start?” 

“How about,” you exhale, “with your obnoxious sipping habits?” 

“My what?” 

“The way you slurp. It still gives me the ick.” 

Jun’s responding laugh is humorless. The drinks go down quickly. The second round is unnecessary and immediate. 

“Remember that fight we had about ice cream?” you ask, after he chewed you out for being emotionally unavailable and unnecessarily anal-retentive about halving bills.

Jun laughs into his glass. “You said anyone who chose mint chocolate chip was self-sabotaging.”

“And you defended it like a personal religion.”

“You called it mouthwash in disguise.”

You shrug. “Still true.”

More drinks. More memory lane. There’s a half that has teeth, that tears through the gripes and frustrations. But there’s also a half that’s almost tender, that provides a montage of why it could have worked once upon a time. 

“You kept a spare toothbrush at my place,” he says.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You never used it.”

“You never asked why.”

Silence. Real, this time. The music changes to something softer. A song you both know. You hate that you both know it.

“I was always trying to be careful,” he says delicately. “Trying not to overstep.”

You stare at your glass. “Yeah. Well.” 

In not overstepping, Jun ended up taking no steps at all. Another silence tugs. Longer. It doesn’t bite. Just lingers.

“We were never good at timing,” he says eventually. 

“We were never good at talking.”

You expect him to push back on that. He doesn’t. For a moment, you contemplate asking the million won question. Why did you ghost me? 

Before you can, though, he’s saying something too sincere for you to ruin. “Thanks for the rec. For the job.”

“Thanks for finally thanking me,” you answer, taking a long enough sip of your soju to ignore the way your heart flutters. 

He winces, smiles. “Small steps.”

You nod.

“So, we’re okay?” he asks.

You think about it. The ghosts, the drawer, the campaign brief that cut too close. “Whatever ‘okay’ means,” you say, because you never lied to Jun; you weren’t about to start now. 

He raises his glass in a wordless cheer. You clink.

The second brainstorming session is mercifully normal.

You arrive ten minutes early, not because you’re eager but because you’ve started pre-gaming meetings with silence. Jun arrives exactly on time, not a second more, not a second less. He looks at you like he’s bracing for shrapnel. You nod like you’re not holding any.

Soonyoung plops into the seat across from you both, wearing a tiger-print shirt that says FIERCE IDEAS ONLY. You want to make fun of it. You don’t. Growth.

The meeting flows. That’s the only way to describe it. No barbs, no barbed metaphors. Jun pitches clean, clever ideas. You counter with strategy. There’s laughter. There’s alignment. There’s a genuine moment where you look at him and say, “That’s a good one.”

He smiles, appreciative and maybe even a little fond. You have to look away from it. The compliment tastes like a penny on your tongue.

“Hehe,” Soonyoung cackles, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Just your reign of chaos,” you deflect.

“Horang-haaay,” he sighs. “Anyway. Love this direction. Run with it. Make it beautiful. Make it bite.”

You do.

The presentation goes well. Soonyoung beams like a proud zookeeper. Jihoon nods once, which is his version of a standing ovation. The execs approve the romantic comedy campaign with minimal edits. There are even murmurs of early awards submissions. You pretend not to care. You care deeply.

Jun catches you after the meeting, shoulder brushing yours in the hallway. “Hey,” he says. “We made that work. Really work.”

The pride blossoms in your chest, persistent and unwelcoming. “We did.”

“So,” he starts, casual but not, “Want to grab a drink? Just us. Not like before. Or maybe not not like before. Whatever works.”

You hesitate. 

If it were anyone else, you probably wouldn’t balk. This offer isn’t a romantic advance. It’s a grabbing-a-drink-with-your-workmate-after-a-job-well-done. Unfortunately, your mind is a slideshow of late texts, half-finished thoughts, and the sound of silence where a goodbye should’ve been.

“I can’t,” you answer. Not unkind. Just honest. You give no explanation, and Jun doesn’t press even though he flinches. Wavers. As if he’s remembering his place. 

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he says with faux cheer. “Another time.”

You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. He walks away like it doesn’t sting, and you stay rooted like it does.

To ease the hurt, you take yourself to dinner like a pity party with better lighting. Your comfort place is a hole-in-the-wall Italian spot tucked between a laundromat and a locksmith, which is, frankly, how you know it’s good. The tables wobble slightly, the waitress knows your name, and the carbonara tastes like a hug from someone who never judged you for your bad taste in men.

You order your usual. Set your phone face-down, then pick it up again. Jun’s contact is open. 

You don’t remember when you opened it. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, caught between being impulsive and being pathetic.

You almost start typing. Something like, Hey, my schedule cleared up. Drinks on me? or Were you flirting with me or am I delusional? or I’m at the place where we had our first date. At the very same table we sat at, in fact. 

Then the door chimes.

You look up.

Jun walks in. Not alone.

He’s with another intern—the one from finance, maybe? She laughs at something he says as they walk toward the back. He’s relaxed. Rolling his sleeves like he wants to look like effort. He gestures to the menu like this place wasn’t once yours.

You watch, stone-still, as he orders. You catch fragments. “You’ll love the tiramisu.” “This place is a hidden gem.” “No, seriously, the carbonara—life-changing.”

You’re vaguely aware that you’re gripping your fork too tight. You don’t name the feeling. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy. Just territorial spite and righteous betrayal with a dash of indigestion.

Your pasta arrives. You pick at it. Every bite feels like chewing a memory that now has someone else’s fingerprints on it. In your head, it’s a litany of fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui. 

The carbonara is wrong. Too salty. Not al dente enough. And Jun is sitting a couple of seats away, smiling at his date. Blissfully unaware that he’s ruined your comfort food for life. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Fuck you, Wen Junhui. 

You flag the check. You tip generously, because if you’re having a terrible night, then the waitress might as well have a good one. 

Jun notices you only as you brush past his table. His expression morphs mid-laugh—first surprise, then something else. His companion’s gaze flits to you, recognizing you as a senior at the company.

“Hi!” she says politely. 

You give her a tight nod. “Hello.”

Jun rises. “Wait, hey—”

But you’re already pushing past the door. The air outside is cooler than expected. He catches up halfway down the block.

“Hey,” he calls, a little breathless. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Clearly.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh, what, colonize my safe spaces?” You stop. Turn to him. “I didn’t realize you gave restaurant tours now. How generous.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”

“You weren’t thinking. That tracks.”

The words hang. Sharp. Petty. 

“Don’t be rude to your not-date,” you grit out. “Haven’t you got some life-changing pasta to share?” 

You don’t wait for his reply.

You walk off, fast. The kind of walk that dares someone to follow.

He doesn’t.

That, too, tracks. 

–-

VI. The Intern is entitled to unlimited paid time off (PTO) for as long as they do not do it at bygone date spots. In light of this, the Employer may claim a lifetime of pettiness. 

–-

Soonyoung makes the announcement as if it’s a reality show reveal.

“There might be one or two interns we absorb after the cycle,” he tells the room of department heads, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this is an exciting twist instead of a budget conversation. “Jun’s doing well. Also, that other one—what's her name? Finance intern? The one who has a nice laugh.”

You freeze mid-note taking. He means the girl from the restaurant. The one who knows about the tiramisu. Your stomach coils, and your poor pen jabs into your paper a little too hard. 

You make it through the rest of the meeting on autopilot, the kind of dazed professionalism that only corporate trauma can birth. Jihoon gives you a look on the way out. You ignore it.

As expected, you’re assigned to write Jun’s intern evaluation.

It’s a task you’d normally treat like any other. Bullet points. Benchmarks. But the cursor on the blank Google Doc blinks at you like a dare. Because it’s not just about campaign contributions or interpersonal skills. It’s about putting on record what he it, or what he isn’t.

You close the tab. You’ll come back to it. Maybe. After a lobotomy.

Two days later, Jun finds you by the vending machine. “You’re evaluating me?” he says by way of greeting.

You take your time selecting a soda. The machine whirs dramatically. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll go away. 

He proves otherwise. “Soonyoung told me,” Jun presses. “He said you’re writing my assessment.”

You procure your strawberry Fanta with deliberate coolness, fingers already toying with the metal lid. “Do you greet all potential references this way?” you say dryly. 

“I just—I figured you wouldn’t be neutral.”

That stops you. You turn, slow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, after everything. The way we—” He gestures vaguely. “That night. The restaurant. You were pissed.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. God, what did you do in your past life to end up in a situation like this? The last of your patience snaps like a rubber band, and the words spill out of you with a kind of cutthroat that could melt tungsten. 

“I gave you a glowing recommendation, Jun,” you snipe. “I said you were sharp and collaborative and vital to the pitch. Which, in case you forgot, you were. I did my job. Maybe try doing yours.”

He gapes. You don’t stop. “You’ve been the unprofessional one here. You keep making things personal. You bring other people to restaurants that aren’t yours to share. You act like I owe you something when I don’t even owe you eye contact.”

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it again. You toss your still-full can in a nearby bin. You don’t have the appetite for anything sweet right now.

“You haven’t changed, Wen Junhui,” you bite out—the last word, huzzah!—before walking off.

It’s not the cleanest exit, but it’s something final. And right now, that’s all you have.

Jun pretends like nothing happened.

You’re not surprised. Denial is practically his native language. He nods at you in meetings, leaves polite spaces between you in the break room. He’s mastered the art of the neutral expression, the kind that suggests nothing has ever gone wrong. That everything is fine.

Then a package arrives at your desk.

No note. Just a brown paper bag tied up with string, like something out of a middle school crush fantasy. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a bouquet.

Of ballpens.

Dozens of them, in your preferred brand and ink weight. All black, all clicky. Not one of them chewed, cracked, or snapped in half—yet.

You stare at them like they’re a coded message. Maybe they are.

Jun used to tease you about it. How you went through pens like breath mints. How he’d hear the telltale crack of a barrel and look over to find you sheepish, a half-dismembered pen in hand. Once, he said he was going to buy you a box just to see how long it would take you to kill them all. You laughed and told him that was the most romantic thing he’d ever said.

You use one of the pens in the next meeting. On purpose. Jun notices. You can see it in the flick of his eyes, the way he registers it with a twitch of his mouth that isn’t quite a smile.

After, as people are clearing out, he lingers.

“That one working okay?” he asks.

You click it. Unclick. Click again. “Still alive,” you say. “No casualties yet.”

He nods. You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t say sorry.

All the same, it hangs there, between you. The closest either of you has come to being a decent person.

–-

VII. The Intern will respect all intellectual property of the Company, and in return, the Company will provide necessary tools for productivity—and occasional forgiveness.

–-

The interns are tasked with planning the company party to cap off the end of their rotation. It’s meant to be a fun assignment. Low-stakes. High morale. Naturally, it turns into an emotional landmine.

Jun, for reasons you pretend not to think too deeply about, takes the lead.

He delegates well. Manages expectations. Schedules with military precision. In the end, what catches your attention is the uncanny accuracy of his planning decisions.

The venue is one of your favorites. The playlist includes that one obscure indie-pop band you once had on repeat. The snacks avoid all your known aversions—no olives, no red velvet, no sad carrot sticks masquerading as party food.

You raise an eyebrow when he unveils the plan in the department-wide meeting. He doesn’t look at you directly, but when you glance his way, he winks. Later, when everyone’s clapping for the effort, you wait for him to slide into the seat next to yours. You lean over and mumble, taunt just for him, “Stalker.” 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I shadowed you for two weeks. I’m observant.”

The party is in a week, which is probably why you run into him at the grocery store later that night, arms full of sparkling water and overpriced string lights.

You’re already in line, clutching a frozen meal and a bottle of wine that screams dinner-for-one. He falls in behind you, a little breathless, a little smug.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.

“Is that rosemary sea salt popcorn?” you ask, peering into his basket. “Wow. Intern budgets have really changed since my day.”

He grins. “Only the best for Carat Company.”

You point at a tub of hummus. “That brand’s terrible. Too tangy.”

“Noted,” he says, and swaps it out for another without fanfare.

You don’t know what makes you say it—maybe the buzz of fluorescent lights, maybe the way he’s stacking paper plates like it’s an art form—but you tilt your head and ask, “Bringing a date?”

Jun doesn’t miss a beat. “Nope.”

“Finance intern not free?”

“She’s got better taste than me,” he says. Then, a little more tentatively: “Position’s still open, if you’re interested.”

You click your tongue. Before you can think better of it, a responding flirtation breaks free. “I could be convinced.”

Jun giggles, quick and honest. He tries to cover it with a cough, but he’s still smiling as he sets down his basket.

The next couple of days unfold with unnerving ease. You tell yourself it’s just the party approaching, just everyone being unusually cooperative for once. But there’s a rhythm to the way you and Jun move around each other now—a familiarity that feels inherited. Like muscle memory. Like relapsing. 

You catch him finishing your sentences, anticipating your notes in meetings, handing you the pen you’re about to ask for before the words even leave your mouth. It’s annoying. It’s also disarming.

You’re in the office late one evening, finalizing a last-minute asset for the event. A print layout no one else had the brain cells to catch. Most of the floor’s lights have gone dark, save for your corner, glowing sterile and soft. But Jun’s still there too, cross-legged on the carpet like he lives here, surrounded by poster tubes and tangled cable wires, wielding a stapler with the intensity of a man on the edge.

“You know we have tape, right?” you say, leaning against the copy room door frame, sipping cold coffee that tastes like regret. 

He glances up, squints. “Yeah. Tape’s a coward’s tool.”

You snort. It sounds like something he would’ve said back when you were sharing fries and arguments on your living room floor, when evenings blurred into 2a.m. discussions about plot holes in movies and whether hotdog sandwiches were burgers.

“Besides,” he adds, popping a staple in with too much flair, “this is more permanent. It says, I commit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “To the banner?”

“To the bit,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and go back to your screen, but your grin lingers longer than you want it to.

He offers you a ride home. Says it casually, like it’s a weather update. You accept. Too casually. Like you haven’t already memorized the way his dashboard lights flicker, or how he drives five over the limit.

In his car, it’s too quiet. The AUX cable is broken. His windows fog slightly from the humidity. The air smells like mint gum, vinyl from a new car freshener, and something else—something old. You give him the directions without thinking, because they haven’t changed. Neither has the weight that settles in your chest when he takes each turn with instinctive precision.

Outside your apartment, the silence hovers. “Thanks for the ride,” you say, hand on the door handle, already half-gone. Trying very, very hard not to think about the dozens of other times this ride has happened, and how each of them ended the same way. 

He doesn’t answer for a moment. He just watches you, head tilted slightly like he’s solving a puzzle or waiting for permission. You face him, nose scrunching with mild confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. 

And then he kisses you.

It’s not sudden, but it still surprises you. Your body forgets to protest, forgets the smart thing to do, forgets the narrative you’ve been building for weeks about being over this. His mouth is warm, and patient, and frustratingly familiar. The kind of kiss that bypasses logic. The kind that knows too much.

You kiss him back. Automatically. Completely. As if no time has passed. As if the ghosting, the tension, the HR talks and overused pens never happened. Just mouths and memory and momentum.

It isn’t until you break apart—his thumb still barely touching your jaw, breath heavy in the space between—that you hear yourself say, “What are you doing?”

He exhales a laugh, like he’s embarrassed. “Convincing you.” A beat. “Is it working?”

The panic rises in your throat like bile. You’re not sure what you’re about to throw up—regret, probably. But for what? Which part? 

You don’t know the answer to that question. And so you peel away from a confused Jun, and you open the car door. The night air rushes in, cool and intrusive. You get out without a word.

He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call after you. You don’t know what you’d want him to say, anyway. For once, you’re grateful that Wen Junhui has never chased after you when it counts. 

The morning after, you walk into the office like nothing happened. Which is to say: you walk in five minutes late with a coffee too hot for your tongue and sunglasses still on because your soul isn’t ready for fluorescent light.

You make yourself a promise. You will not acknowledge the kiss. You will not dwell. You will do what Jun did months ago. You will ghost in broad daylight.

It feels very mature.

Except, unlike Jun, you have to see him at the printer. And at the shared snack drawer. And at the joint team huddle where Soonyoung teaches everybody how to this weird, new hand gesture he picked up on. 

Jun keeps looking at you. That too-familiar softness, that edge of disappointment creeping around the corners of his mouth like he expected better from you. You don’t return the look. You don’t even return the stapler he loaned you yesterday. If professionalism is a hill to die on, then consider your gravestone already drafted.

Two days pass. You think you’ve successfully rewritten history until Jun corners you by the vending machine. Again. Before you can half-joke we have got to stop meeting like this, Jun is already snipping at the strings of your defenses. 

“Is this revenge?” he asks, low voice, eyes scanning your face.

Your hand hovers over the button for salted almonds. “What?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely at the space between you, which has become somehow both intimate and unbearable. “You pretending like it didn’t happen. Like the kiss didn’t happen.”

You choose the almonds. Not because you want them, but because silence is at least with vending machine clatter.

“You kissed me back,” he says. Almost an accusation. 

You shrug. It’s not as nonchalant as you probably want it to be. “People kiss. It’s a thing.”

Jun recoils, and something like white-hot guilt flashes through you. You douse it as Jun huffs out his next words with poorly-concealed offense, “Wow. Is this what being the bigger person looks like now?”

You pocket the almonds. “Well, you always said I was good at taking notes.”

His jaw flexes. Hurt flashes in his eyes before he smooths it over with a tired smile. “Right. Got it.”

You don’t stop him when he walks away. For the both of you, it’s a lesson learned. Turns out, the taste of your own medicine is bitter. 

And, sometimes, it comes with a side of overpriced almonds.

–-

VIII. The Employee acknowledges that emotional clarity is not listed among official job responsibilities, and therefore will not be provided under Company policy.

–-

The company party is held at a rented rooftop bar with fairy lights, questionable shrimp cocktails, and cheap beer masquerading as an open bar. Someone’s playlist is stuck on a loop of early 2010s hits, and there’s a half-deflated inflatable swan in the punch bowl. It’s all very on-brand. 

There are icebreaker games, a makeshift red carpet, and a cardboard cutout of Soonyoung in a tiger costume posing with the slogan: ROAR FOR Q4! It is, in every way, excessive.

You don a black silk blouse tucked into tailored high-waist trousers, sharp and clean and the only ironed thing in your apartment. Your lipstick is a soft red. Strategic, not romantic. You wear your hair up, simple earrings, and shoes that are just shy of painful. You look like someone who planned not to linger.

Jun shows up in a white button-down with sleeves rolled past his elbows, collar slightly askew like he got halfway ready and forgot to care. There’s a wine-colored blazer slung over one shoulder and, unfairly, it works. He has the ease of someone who didn’t expect to be watched yet somehow is.

You avoid each other all night with the precision of two people still nursing unspoken sentences. You talk to other departments. He lingers around the interns. Jihoon drinks exactly one cocktail, makes direct eye contact with you for three seconds too long, and vanishes like The Judgmental Ghost of Situationship’s Past.

The party buzzes on. There’s a chocolate fountain that no one trusts and a dance floor that Soonyoung won’t leave. There’s a photo booth filled with props from last year’s pirate-themed anniversary campaign. You find yourself laughing at something someone from Legal says, and immediately hate that it reminds you of how Jun used to make you laugh just like that—like you were surprised by it.

It’s going fine. Almost.

Until the awards begin. Soonyoung, of course, is the MC, beaming with chaotic delight. “And now,” he grins, pausing for effect, “for the honorary award for Best Enemies-to-Lovers Plot Unfolding in Real Time…”

You blink. Jun blinks. You both know how this film is going to end, and sure enough, Soonyoung is screeching your name and Jun’s. 

There are cheers. Some gasps. Mostly laughter. You rise with the grace of someone preparing for emotional war. Jun’s already on his feet, giving you that look like this is either his worst nightmare or his best bit. Possibly both.

Onstage, you are handed a trophy of a basketball player bought from the dollar store around the corner. You and Jun pose awkwardly for a photo as a chant of Speech! Speech! Speech! resounds in the crowd. 

You contemplate handing in your two week’s notice tomorrow.

Under string lights and scrutiny, you take the mic first. “I’d like to thank HR for not firing either of us,” you say for the lack of better thing to say. 

Polite chuckles. Someone from the Events team yells, “Not yet!”

Jun takes the mic next. “And I’d like to thank, uh, Soonyoung. For teaching me what a ‘horanghae’ is. Seriously, it’s done immeasurable damage to my vocabulary.”

Louder laughter. A few whoops. You both smile too hard, too bright, too fake. 

Later, you spot him near the edge of the bar, half-shadowed by a potted ficus. He’s slipping away. Classic Jun, retreating mid-scene. 

You excuse yourself before you think too hard about it. You follow him down a stairwell half-lit by emergency bulbs, the music above thumping faintly through concrete. He hears your steps before you speak.

“You always leave like this?” you ask.

He turns, hands in his pockets. His expression—initially closed-off, ready to bolt—creaks open ever so slightly. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he answers. 

“Can’t help it.”

He looks at you like it hurts. Like you’re saying too much without saying enough. “Is this the part where you ask me why I’m leaving?”

You fold your arms over your chest, over the maddening beat of your heart. “No,” you breathe. “I want to know why you left.”

You don’t care about tonight. Jun could leave this party and never look back at The Carat Company, and you wouldn’t blame him. You care about the way his texts stopped coming in, the way it was radio silence for weeks. How he didn’t even come to take back his things, so you made the executive decision to donate them to a thrift shop like it might somehow make you feel better about yourself. 

Jun exhales, long and tired. He shifts from one foot to another. For a moment, you think he’s going to make a run for it. 

He doesn’t. 

“I didn’t think I could be enough,” he says, finally. “Not for you. Not for the version of you that has her life together, who writes like a scalpel and moves like she’s never tripped over anything in her life. I didn’t want to hold you back. I didn’t want to be another unfinished thing in your life.”

When Jun had gotten laid off his previous job, he’d fallen into a rut that you tried so hard to get him out of. You sent him motivational LinkedIn posts. You pointed out Harvard courses and helped him scour JobStreet. All the while, you were working your ass off at The Carat Company. Coming home burnt out but still willing to help him back on his feet. 

You hadn’t realized how that might’ve looked like for him. You hadn’t seen the cracks, stretching like spiderwebs over his fragile male ego. Obscuring the reason why you did it all in the first place. 

Love. Crazy, stupid love. You clear your throat, refusing to let the rage tip out of you. Some of it bleeds into your incredulous question, anyway.  “So you decided for me?”

His shoulders flinch. “I was scared.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you say, your attempt at being cool fracturing. “You don’t get to leave me, then show back up like a better man, when the truth is—you didn’t even let me choose.”

He looks at you, stunned. “I—”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “Who I want to suffer for is my call.” 

This time, you kiss him. 

It’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s messy and fierce and fueled by months of bitterness and longing, of misspoken lines and things unsaid. His hands find your waist like they’ve never left it. Your mouth moves like a dare. There’s a wall at his back, and your chest at his front, and none of this feels professional at all.

It feels like something finally falling into place. Or breaking open.

Jun’s car is parked two levels down, the far corner of a concrete lot that smells like rain, gasoline, and the ghost of things unsaid. It’s far from the rooftop’s sticky laughter and company-wide inebriation. A hush broken only by the soft echo of your heels and the low, restless rhythm of your breathing. His, too.

You’re kissing again by the time you get nearer to the car.  This time, it’s slower. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that drags a sound out of him—half-sigh, half-swear. 

Jun groans into your mouth, hands moving instinctively. One finds your jaw, the other your waist, fingers curling with intent. Your back hits the side of his car with a quiet thud. You smile against his mouth, sharp and satisfied.

“You gonna run again?” you mumble, voice low, all edge.

He shakes his head, dazed. “Not unless you tell me to.”

“Good,” you say, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, grazing hot skin. “Then shut up and get in the car.”

He listens. He always did know how to listen when it mattered.

The door slams shut, muffling the world. The air smells like him—clean linen, faint spice, something faintly sweet beneath it. The dash glows dim. Your blouse is unbuttoned by the time you straddle him, knees digging into the leather seat. He fumbles to push his seat back farther, and you don’t wait. You settle on his thighs, hungry hands pushing his shirt up, over his head.

His eyes are already wild. Chest bare. Breath uneven. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening. You kiss him again, rougher this time, teeth grazing his bottom lip. He gasps.

“You want this?” he asks, voice cracked, part awe, part fear.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “I need this.”

Clothes are tossed somewhere in the front seat—jacket, trousers, shirt, all lost to heat and haste. Your fingers fumble with his belt; he helps, hands shaking. You lift your hips, letting him drag your trousers down, your underwear already damp and sticking to your thighs. His knuckles brush the inside of your legs as he pulls them off, slow and reverent, then not-so-slow.

His fingers ghost along your inner thigh, then between your legs, slipping through slick heat. He exhales like it guts him.

“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, voice shredded. “How are you still so wet?”

You take his hand, guide his fingers to your lips, and suck your own slick clean. Your eyes on his the entire time. The sharp, guttural sound he makes is a reward in its own right.

The kiss that follow doesn’t end so much as it fractures. Broken by breath, by the heat of your thighs still spread over his lap, by the way your hips keep shifting like you haven’t quite had your fill.

Jun exhales sharply when you pull back. His mouth is swollen, his chest rising and falling like he ran a mile, and his hands—God, his hands—don’t stop touching you. One strokes your thigh, the other drifts higher, sliding back between your legs.

He groans, thumb dragging through your slick, and you shudder. “You always get like this,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you. “I touch you and you… fuck, you melt for me.”

You grind into his palm, voice already too hoarse to feign nonchalance. “Don’t pretend you’re in control right now.”

His eyes flick up, wide and wrecked. “I’m not,” he laughs. “Not even close.”

His fingers slip in. Two at once, with a stretch that makes your eyes flutter. You gasp, back arching, one arm braced against the seat in front of him as he starts to work you open. Slow. Deep. A rhythm that feels almost reverent, like he’s savoring this. Like he’s making up for every missed chance.

“So warm,” he grunts, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “So perfect.”

You reach down to find his cock still half-hard and twitching. Your fingers wrap around him, familiar with the way he likes to be touched, with how he reacts when you drag your thumb just under the head. He shudders. Moans. His hand falters inside you.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he stammers.

You smile, sharp and smug. “Why not?” 

You jerk him slow, just enough to keep him on the edge. His eyes flutter. His mouth opens, breath catching on every exhale as your hand works him while his fingers fuck into you.

This is how it used to be, back when it was messy and undefined, back when you still pretended this didn’t mean something. His hands in your pants after a long day at work. Your mouth on him in a shared shower.  But this is different. Sharper. Hungrier. The way he looks at you now—it isn’t casual. It’s not temporary.

His lips graze your jaw. His voice cracks. “You feel so good,” he says, his words slurred with pleasure, “s-so good. I can’t think.” 

You lean closer, nipping at his throat. “Don’t think. Just give me your fingers.”

He does. He gives you everything. Curling deeper, pressing harder, stretching you out until you clench around him and gasp, nails digging into the side of his neck. “Shit,” you whisper. “There, please. Right there.”

He moans, like he’s the one being burned alive. His hips jerk up into your palm. “So polite,” he says affectionately, placing a quick kiss to your shoulder before going on, “You’re gonna come for me, baby? Huh? Just on my fingers?”

You grind down, breath punching out of you. The pleasure coils hot and fast in your stomach, that dizzy, electric pull that tells you you’re about to break. When you register that the old pet name had slipped out of him—baby—you shatter.

It hits you all at once. Tight, breathless, a wave crashing through your spine and curling your toes. Your moan rips through the silence, raw and wild, as you pulse around him.

Jun curses under his breath. Even as you climax, your hand hasn’t stopped moving. He trembles, thighs tight beneath you. “Fuck, stop, stop—please, I’ll come,” he pants. “I’ll come and I’m not inside you yet. Please.”

You still your hand, fingers flexing around the base of his cock. His hips twitch anyway, desperate. His head falls back against the seat, jaw slack, chest heaving.

You watch him. The boy you almost had. The man who’s trying not to lose you now.

“You good?” you ask, voice low. Fond. Worried. 

He nods, swallowing hard. “Barely,” he croaks. “Need you.”

You lean in, mouth grazing his. “You’ve got me,” you promise, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said all night. 

The second your hand lifts from his cock, Jun fumbles between your thighs with shaking fingers, lining himself up. His touch is clumsy, reverent, desperate. His breath hitches when the head of his cock drags against your slick, catching at your entrance.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasps, the sound raw, like he’s already too close.

You sink onto him in one motion.

It’s not graceful, not slow. It’s greedy.

Your body takes him deep, full, stretched wide around him in a single sharp thrust that leaves you both dazed. His head snaps back, mouth open in a moan that cuts off halfway, swallowed by the thud of your hips meeting. “Jesus Christ,” he chokes out. “You’re—fuck. Fuck. You’re perfect.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself. The leather creaks beneath your knees. You don’t wait, don’t answer. You ride him fast, rough, punishing—like you need him to feel just how badly you've wanted this.

His hands scramble to keep up, one sliding to your waist, the other gripping your thigh, then your ass, then back again. He can’t seem to pick where he wants to touch you, so he settles for everywhere.

“You’re taking me so good,” he groans, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined, completely lost in it. “So fucking deep. Missed this. Missed you.”

You grind down harder, pace unrelenting. “You missed me, or just my pussy?” you bite out, even as a moan escapes.

He laughs, broken and breathless. “Both. Don’t make me choose.”

You lean in and kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry, your teeth dragging against his bottom lip before you suck it into your mouth. His hands tighten, fingertips bruising. Your hips roll, bounce, grind. Every motion is intentional. Relentless. He’s twitching inside you already.

He lets out a strangled sound when you clench around him. “Trying to—hng—ruin me?” he whimpers, forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re doing that all on your own,” you exhale before chasing his lips. 

The car rocks. Windows fog. Sweat beads at your spine, your thighs, the crease of his neck where you bury your face to muffle a cry.

He’s fucking up into you now, meeting every downward slam of your hips with a thrust that has you seeing stars. His rhythm is messier than you remember, but it’s probably the moment. The setting. The reunion. 

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Shit—baby, please.”

You pull back, lips brushing his ear. “Then do it,” you whisper. “Come—ah—inside me. Make a mess, baby.”

His whole body jerks. His fingers dig in. He groans deep in his chest like it hurts to hold on. You don’t let up.

Your pace gets rougher. Sloppier. He’s moaning, practically whimpering. The kind of sounds you’ve only ever pulled from him when he’s too far gone to pretend. “You sound wrecked,” you pant, dragging your nails down his chest. “You close, baby?”

He nods, dazed, unable to speak.

You fuck down harder. Grind meaner. Your clit drags against the base of him and your whole body tenses. It hits you without warning—full-body and sudden. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, ripping your breath away as your muscles seize around him.

He cries out, high and choked. His hips stutter. “Wait—wait, fuck, baby, stop—please,” he pleads, voice cracking. “Need this to last. Need to have you for longer.”

You freeze, panting against his mouth.

He’s trembling.

“Alright?” you ask.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. Yeah. I just—don’t want this to end.”

You stroke his cheek, your body still sensitive in aftershocks.

He looks up at you, eyes glassy, lips kiss-bruised. “I used to dream about this,” he says, voice barely there. “After we... you know. Dreamt of having you again. But it never felt like this.”

“Like what?”

He swallows. “Like I could lose you if I didn’t hold on tight enough.”

The sincerity bowls you over, so you kiss him again. This time, you slow down. Not because you want to, but because you know you’re both too close to let it end like that.

Your next words are a tremble against his lips. “Don’t leave. Not this time."

“I won’t,” he answers without missing a beat.  

You don’t move for a moment. Just sit there, full of him, your body still trembling with aftershocks, hips twitching every few seconds like your muscles don’t know it’s over. Jun’s forehead rests against your sternum, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his grip around your waist just this side of desperate.

You let it stretch. The quiet. The weight. The ache.

The car is still and humid, your skin sticking slightly where it meets his. All you can hear is the slow, syncopated rhythm of your breath tangled with his. Every now and then, your body clenches around him involuntarily, dragging tiny, startled sounds from both your throats.

After a couple of minutes, you start to move again. Just a slow, idle grind of your hips. Gentle. Lazy. The kind of roll that shouldn’t mean anything, but still makes you both react. A twitch from him. A flutter from you. You do it again. Then again. Just enough pressure. Just enough friction to keep you grounded in it.

He whimpers quietly, head tilting up to look at you through damp lashes. “This is torture.” 

You smile. Kiss his temple, almost laughingly. “I always did like making your life hard.” 

Jun huffs something like a laugh, more breath than voice. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb stroking over your pulse. The other traces down to your thigh, fingers dragging along the crease with slow reverence. You keep rocking gently, almost absentminded. Not fucking. Not chasing. Just—resting. Keeping him there. Letting him feel all of you, even in stillness.

It’s unfairly intimate, how your body fits against his like it remembers how. The arch of your spine molded to the shape of his chest, your forehead resting against the curve of his jaw, your hands cradling his face when you lift it.

His heartbeat pounds beneath your palm, too fast. Too vulnerable. “Can I…” he starts, voice cautious, almost shy.

You lift a brow. “Can you what?”

“Take some of the control. Just for a bit.”

It kills you. That he has to ask. That he still doesn’t think you’d give him the world. “Of course,” you say, the word murmured against the corner of his mouth. “Take me.” 

He doesn’t answer. His grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into the supple fleshed. “Baby,” he says, wrecked and serious, “I’ve been dreaming of fucking you properly since the day I left.” 

Your teeth grazes his lips. “Do it, then,” you hum. 

And he does.

He plants his feet. Braces himself. Then lifts you slightly and thrusts up hard, cock dragging deep, unforgiving. The breath punches out of you like a hit. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, your head falling forward.

He does it again. And again. Brutal. Precise. Each upward slam meets the drag of your body grinding down, slick and hot and soaked with all the aftermath he’s still pulsing inside.

“That’s it,” he growls, his breath ragged. “Let me fuck you. Let me make you feel it.”

You let him.

You go pliant in his hands, let him chase the tempo, his rhythm messy but deep. Every thrust is a reminder of what you both lost and what he’s begging for now.

He fucks up into you like he’s trying to chase every unsaid apology down your spine. The car rocks with the motion. His arms strain with effort, sweat slipping between your bodies, your skin slapping wetly together with every filthy thrust.

“You’re unreal,” he moans. “So good. So fucking good. I forgot how you feel. I forgot how you sound when I—”

“You didn’t forget,” you cut in, panting. “You just—hng—thought you could survive without it.”

He whines at that. Literally whines. You tighten around him and his hips stutter.

The pressure rises again. Slower this time. No sharp edge. Just steady, building tension in your core. Your muscles twitch with each thrust, your chest pressed to his, damp and heaving.

Jun kisses you hard, tongue hot and desperate. “I wanna feel you come again,” he begs against your mouth. “Please. Please, baby. One more. Give it to me."

You nod, but it’s not conscious. Your body answers before your mouth can.

It crashes into you, serrated and mean. Your third orgasm claws through your nerves, your thighs clamping down around his waist as you cry out into his neck. It’s overwhelming. Scalding. Your body trembles, every inch of you unraveling in his hands.

That’s all he needs. He groans, deep and undone, shoving into you one last time and staying there. His whole body goes tight, shakes. You cup his face. Make him look at you.

The thought occurs to you for the nth time: Jun is so pretty when he comes. 

Even if he does it with a raw, wounded sound. He pulses deep inside you, buried as far as he can get, and you swear you can feel him shaking with it. Like it guts him. Like it saves him.

He clings to you afterward. Breathing hard. Drenched and unraveled.

You don’t say anything. You just stay. Let him hold you. Let him come back to you, slowly but surely.

Because this time, he isn’t running. And for once, neither are you.

The next morning, though, you wake to the absence of weight.

That’s the first thing you notice.

The second is the shape of your own anxiety, curling low in your chest, familiar as a bad habit. The other side of the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled and cooling. There’s a single long strand of hair caught in the pillowcase. Not yours.

For a moment, you just stare at it. Then you look around. Bedroom door open. A thin shaft of light bleeds in from the hallway.

You don’t call out. You don’t move. You just go very, very still.

This is, after all, a familiar pattern. Boy meets girl. Boy runs away. Girl pretends she doesn’t notice until it’s convenient to feel something about it. The air smells like sex and detergent. The ceiling has a crack in it that you keep forgetting to report to the landlord. Your throat is dry.

Then Jun reappears.

Towel low on his hips, toothbrush in hand. He stops short in the doorway, mid-step, and you watch the exact moment he realizes what his absence must’ve looked like. The moment the air shifts. The look on your face must be something, because his shoulders drop in a slow exhale and his voice goes soft.

“Hey. I didn’t leave,” he says, swallowing his toothpaste—what a fucking psycho—before setting his tooth brush on to the nearest flat surface. “Just went to brush my teeth."

You raise an eyebrow. Try to mask the little betrayal that had already crept in. “You know, most people announce their morning survival before disappearing,” you say. “It’s customary.” 

Jun winces. “You’re right. I should’ve said something. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

You sit up, sheets falling to your waist. Your body aches in a way that feels earned. Your hair is a mess after the two, maybe three rounds that you and Jun had when he fell into your bed last night. You don’t care enough to hide the overthinking.

“You could’ve left a note,” you say. Half-serious, half-joking. “Or a sock on the door. A smoke signal.”

He laughs, crosses to the side of the bed. Drops the towel a little lower on purpose, the menace. “Noted. Next time I disappear into the bathroom, I’ll launch a full PR campaign.”

You narrow your eyes. “See that you do.”

His hand lifts to your face, thumb dragging just under your cheekbone. “I’m here,” he says, plain and simple as a promise. And he means it.

Maybe it’s stupid that you believe him. Maybe it’s messier than it should be, that you’re even in this place, in this bed, with this boy again.

But his hand is warm. His mouth is soft when he kisses your forehead. And when he climbs back in bed to hold you to him, you don’t say no. 

It’s a Saturday, so the two of you let the sun climb high enough to slice through your blinds. You’d move, but Jun is draped over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues. It’s clingy in a way that would be annoying if it weren’t also stupidly comforting. 

His leg is thrown across yours. His arm is a dead weight on your stomach. He smells like your shampoo and the faint citrus of your soap, and the whole thing is either domestic bliss or a very elaborate trap.

His fingers are tucked into the curve of your hip, not moving, just there. A quiet claim. As if anchoring himself will stop time or stop you from thinking of endings.

You’re not even annoyed, which is suspicious. You should be cataloging all the reasons this is a bad idea. Cross-department entanglements, your no-office-romance policy (written internally, unspoken externally), the sheer HR nightmare of it all. Instead, you’re memorizing the rhythm of his breathing.

“So,” he says after a long moment, voice still scratchy with sleep, mouth near your collarbone, "they offered me a job."

You blink at the ceiling. The fan clicks. One of the blades wobbles slightly. “‘They’ being The Carat Company.”

He nods into your shoulder. You feel the curve of his smile before you see it. It’s smug and sleepy and dangerous—a combination that should come with a warning label.

You hum. Neutral. “That’s… a choice.”

Jun shifts. Enough to glance up at you, catching your expression with lazy amusement. It’s probably somewhere between polite support and visible internal shrieking. “Wow,” he murmurs. “You are doing an excellent job of pretending that doesn’t horrify you."

You sigh, staring at the water-stained patch on your ceiling. “I just think our HR department is one passive-aggressive email away from imploding, and I’m not sure I want to share a copier with someone who’s seen me naked.”

He chuckles. Kisses your shoulder. “That’s fair. But relax. I’m not taking it.”

You pause. Blink. Turn your head just enough to catch his face. “You’re not?”

He shakes his head, pulling back slightly, grinning like a man who knows he’s about to get a dramatic reaction. You squint at him. "So?"

“Sebong offered me something better.”

Record scratch. Full stop. You sit up slightly, sheet dragging across your chest. “Sebong Corporation? Our most flamboyant and passive-aggressive rival?”

“The very same.”

You purse your lips. “The one that sent us cupcakes during Q3 just to say ‘Sorry about your metrics’?”

Jun grins. “A plus for petty. But yeah, they want me.”

“You’re going corporate spy now? Love that for you,” you jab. “Can you wear a wire to our next team sync?"

He shrugs, undeterred by your sarcasm as a coping mechanism. “They offered better pay, better benefits. Free espresso on every floor.”

You make a sound of mock envy. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“I am,” he adds, with that soft arrogance only he can pull off without getting slapped. “I think I’m gonna take it.”

“Why?”

He looks at you with the kind of gaze that burns just a little. Like he’s searching for a permission he already knows you’ll give. Then he says it. The same thing he said when he waltzed back into your life, self-assured and saccharine. 

“It’s the best, isn’t it?” Jun says. “And I always want the best.”

You roll your eyes so hard your ancestors probably feel it. But something in your chest stutters. This time, the words land different. Softer. Honest in a way that makes your ribs ache.

He’s making a concession. He’s doing something to make this, make the two of you, possible. 

He’s calling you something he wants, and calling you the best, in the same breath.  

Jun leans in, presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing yours like an apology. When he kisses you, it tastes like toothpaste and devotion. And also maybe like something terrifyingly close to commitment.

You lie there for a while. Wrapped in warmth and silence and the complicated calculus of wanting things that feel big and breakable. Like him. Like this. Like futures you haven’t even said out loud yet.

At some point, Jun shifts behind you, arms tightening around your middle. His chin rests in the crook of your neck, breath brushing your skin.

“You okay with it?” he asks.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s marginally better than you working across the hall from me and flirting over the printer queue.”

“We’d both get nothing done.”

“Exactly. Chaos.”

Jun kisses the back of your shoulder again. It’s like he can’t stop kissing you, like he can’t believe he can do it all again. Somewhere in the quiet that follows, your brain writes the paperwork.

--

This Employment Contract (“Agreement”) is made between Wen Junhui (“Boyfriend”), and you.

WHEREAS the Boyfriend agrees to remain shirtless in your apartment at least three mornings per week, and to bring the good coffee whenever you run out;

WHEREAS emotional transparency shall be upheld with the same rigor as quarterly reporting, including but not limited to: post-sex vulnerability, Sunday-night anxiety debriefs, and one (1) designated safe word for moments of self-sabotage;

WHEREAS both parties are permitted one (1) bad take per fiscal quarter, to be gently corrected and never mentioned again;

THEREFORE, both parties agree to exclusive rights to back scratches, late-night ramen runs, shared Spotify queues, and slow dancing in the kitchen when neither of you feels like cooking;

FURTHERMORE, cuddling shall not be used as a diversion tactic during emotionally intense conversations, unless unanimously approved by both parties in advance.