#lunaverse

The university library at 1:17 a.m. smelled like old paper, stale coffee, and quiet desperation. Most of the fluorescent overheads had been switched off hours ago, leaving only the warm pools of desk lamps to carve small islands of light across the long tables. Shin Yuna sat alone in one of those islands, third floor, corner carrel, surrounded by a fortress of open textbooks and scattered highlighters that had long since bled dry.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She pressed her palms flat against the page of her annotated copy of The Bell Jar, as if the weight could steady them. It didn't. The words blurred anyway—Plath's sharp prose swimming into meaningless shapes. Midterms were still two weeks away, but the pressure had already coiled tight around her ribs. Every unread chapter felt like another brick on her chest. Every unanswered text from her mother ("Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Don't disappoint us again.") felt like another crack in the foundation she'd barely built since moving to the city.

She let out a small, frustrated sound—half sigh, half whimper—and dropped her forehead to the table.

That's when she heard the soft scrape of a chair being pulled out two seats away.

Yuna didn't look up at first. People came and went at this hour; she was used to being invisible. But then a voice—low, gentle, almost melodic—broke the silence.

"You look cold."

She lifted her head slowly.

He was leaning back in the chair, elbows resting casually on the armrests, watching her with an unhurried calm that felt almost otherworldly in the dim light. Dark hair fell just past his shoulders, tucked behind one ear. His eyes were soft, dark, and impossibly kind. Yoon Jeonghan. She'd seen him around campus—fourth-year psych major, the one everyone whispered about because he always seemed to know exactly what to say. The one who listened like it was the only thing that mattered.

He was holding out a black wool coat, draped over one forearm like an offering.

"I wasn't using it," he said simply. "And your hands are shaking. Take it."

Yuna blinked, throat tight. "I'm—I'm fine. Really."

"You're not." His tone wasn't accusatory. It was matter-of-fact, almost tender. "And that's okay. But let me help anyway."

She hesitated, then reached out. The coat was warm from his body heat, heavy with the faint scent of clean laundry and something woodsy—cedar, maybe. She pulled it over her shoulders without thinking, and the weight felt like armor.

Jeonghan didn't say anything else for a long moment. He just sat there, presence quiet but undeniable, like he had all the time in the world. Eventually, she mumbled something about midterms, about feeling like she was drowning in deadlines, about how stupid it was to be this overwhelmed already.

He listened.

Not the polite nod-and-hum people usually gave. He really listened—head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving hers, asking small questions when she trailed off ("What class is giving you the most trouble?" "When was the last time you ate something?"). He didn't offer solutions right away. He just let her talk until the words ran dry and left her feeling strangely lighter, like some of the pressure had leaked out through the cracks he'd gently widened.

When she finally fell silent, he smiled—just a small curve of his lips.

"You're doing better than you think, Yuna."

She startled. "How do you know my name?"

"I pay attention." He stood, stretching a little. "Come on. Library closes in twenty. I'll walk you out."

She should have said no. She barely knew him. But the coat was still warm around her, and the idea of walking alone through the empty campus paths suddenly felt unbearable.

They left together.

The next afternoon—early evening, really—the campus café was bathed in golden hour light filtering through the tall windows. Yuna was waiting in line for her usual black coffee when someone tapped her shoulder lightly.

She turned.

Jeonghan stood there, holding two to-go cups. One had a little paper sleeve with a handwritten note: Chamomile with a touch of honey. You mentioned it last night when you were talking about home.

Her stomach flipped.

"You remembered," she said, voice small.

"Of course." He handed her the cup, fingers brushing hers for the briefest second. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than usual," she admitted. "Thanks to your coat. I... I washed it. It's in my bag. I can give it back now—"

"Keep it for now." He smiled again, that same soft, disarming curve. "You might need it tonight. Forecast says it'll drop."

They ended up at a small table by the window. Conversation flowed easily—too easily. He asked about her favorite books (she loved quiet stories about lonely people finding small kindnesses); she asked about his major (he said psychology because "people are puzzles worth solving"). Every so often he'd reach across to adjust the sleeve on her cup so it didn't burn her fingers, or brush a stray hair from her cheek when she laughed.

By the time they finished their drinks, the sky had darkened to deep indigo.

"I'll walk you home," he said, not asking.

She didn't argue.

The path to her dorm was lined with streetlamps that cast long, soft shadows. They walked close enough that their arms brushed now and then. Neither moved away.

At her building's entrance, she turned to face him. The coat was still around her shoulders; she started to shrug it off.

"Keep it," he said again, voice quieter now. "At least until tomorrow."

"Okay."

He reached out, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear—gentle, deliberate. "Text me when you're inside? Just so I know you're safe."

She nodded.

"Goodnight, Yuna."

"Goodnight, Jeonghan."

She watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner, then slipped inside. Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Jeonghan: Get some rest. I'll check in tomorrow morning. Sweet dreams.

Yuna stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the weight on her chest felt... lighter.

She typed back one word.

Yuna: Promise.

And for once, she believed someone might actually keep it.

The first week blurred into the second, and somewhere in between Jeonghan became part of Yuna's rhythm.

It started small. A text every morning at 7:42 exactly—never 7:40, never 7:45.

Jeonghan: Morning. Did you sleep okay? Don't forget breakfast. I left an extra protein bar in your bag yesterday.

She'd smile at her phone in the dim light of her dorm, still tangled in sheets, and type back before her brain fully woke up.

Yuna: Slept better. Thank you. You're too much.

Jeonghan: Not possible.

By the third day, library study sessions had migrated. The third-floor carrel wasn't big enough for both of them anymore—not when he insisted on sitting close enough that their knees touched under the table, not when he'd slide a thermos of chamomile across to her without a word.

One Tuesday evening he looked up from his notes and said, very casually, "My place is quieter. And I already started dinner. Come eat after this chapter?"

She went.

His apartment was small but impossibly tidy—warm wooden floors, bookshelves that reached the ceiling, fairy lights strung along the window even though it wasn't Christmas. The kitchen smelled like garlic and sesame oil. He moved around it with quiet confidence, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

"You like spicy?" he asked, stirring something on the stove.

"A little."

He added another pinch of gochugaru without measuring.

They ate at the tiny table by the window. He watched her take the first bite, waited for her small hum of approval, then smiled like he'd won something.

"You didn't eat lunch today," he said softly. Not accusing. Just... knowing.

"I forgot."

"I figured." He reached across, brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Don't forget tomorrow. Text me when you do, okay? I worry."

She nodded, throat tight for reasons she couldn't name.

After that, the dinners became routine. Three, four nights a week. Sometimes he'd cook; sometimes he'd order her favorites before she even realized she was craving them. He always noticed when her eyes were tired, when her hands trembled again. He'd press two small white pills into her palm with a glass of water and say, "You're allowed to need help, Yuna."

She started taking them on time because he asked.

Her friends noticed.

At lunch one Friday, Minji leaned across the cafeteria table, chopsticks paused mid-air.

"So... Yoon Jeonghan, huh?"

Yuna felt heat crawl up her neck. "It's not like that."

Soojin laughed. "It's exactly like that. He literally carried your bag across campus yesterday. And you let him."

"He offered."

"He always offers," Minji said, not unkindly. "You're so lucky. Half the campus would kill for someone who pays attention like that."

Yuna looked down at her tray. "He's just... kind."

"Kind is an understatement," Soojin muttered. "He's basically your personal guardian angel."

The words should have felt warm. Instead they sat strangely in her chest.

That night, after Jeonghan had kissed her forehead goodnight at her dorm door (still no more than that, still careful, still perfect), she lay in bed staring at the ceiling and felt the first real crack of vulnerability open.

She texted him at 1:03 a.m.

Yuna: Can I tell you something stupid?

His reply came in under thirty seconds.

Jeonghan: Nothing you say is stupid.

Yuna: When I was fourteen my dad left. Didn't even say goodbye. Just... gone. Mom pretended it didn't happen. I keep waiting for people to do the same. Disappear.

Three dots. Then:

Jeonghan: Open your door.

She did.

He was standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair messy from sleep, eyes soft in the hallway light. He didn't say anything at first—just stepped inside, closed the door, and pulled her into his arms.

She didn't cry. Not really. But she shook.

He held her tighter. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.

"You'll never have to feel that with me," he whispered against her hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

She believed him.

Because he proved it. Every day.

He asked about her schedule so he could walk her between classes. He asked who she was texting when her phone lit up during dinner—not possessive, just curious. Concerned.

"Just a group project thing," she said once, turning the screen facedown.

He nodded. Smiled. "Good. I just like knowing you're okay."

Another time, when she laughed at something on her phone and he asked who it was, she hesitated.

"An old friend from back home."

His expression didn't change, but his voice went quieter. "He texts you a lot?"

"It's nothing."

"I know." He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear. "I only ask because I care. You're too sweet sometimes. People take advantage."

She put her phone away.

The next morning there was a new text waiting.

Jeonghan: Breakfast at my place? Made your favorite pancakes. Extra strawberries.

She went.

And when he kissed her cheek as she left for class, when he said "Text me when you get there safe," when he added "I miss you already" even though she'd only been gone ten minutes—she felt something settle deep inside her chest.

Safety.

Belonging.

The kind of devotion she'd never had.

And if somewhere beneath it all a small voice whispered that the warmth felt a little too perfect, a little too constant, a little too... arranged—she pushed it down.

Because for the first time in years, she wasn't alone.

And Jeonghan made sure she never would be again.

Friday arrived like a promise Yuna had almost forgotten she'd made.

Minji had texted the group chat three days earlier: Party at the old house on Maple this weekend. Low-key, just us + a few people. Music, drinks, no pressure. Yuna, you HAVE to come. We miss your face.

Yuna had stared at the message for a full minute before typing back: I'm in.

She told Jeonghan over dinner that night—casual, like it was nothing important. They were on his couch, takeout containers balanced on the coffee table, some soft indie playlist humming in the background.

"There's this thing tomorrow," she said, poking at the last piece of tteokbokki with her chopsticks. "Old friends from my first semester. Just a small party. I haven't seen them in forever."

Jeonghan paused mid-bite. His expression didn't change much—still that gentle half-smile, eyes warm—but something in the air shifted. Thicker. Quieter.

He set his chopsticks down carefully.

"That sounds nice," he said. Soft. Too soft.

Yuna glanced up. "You think?"

"Of course." He reached over, brushed his thumb along the inside of her wrist like he always did when he wanted to ground her. "You deserve to have fun. See people who make you laugh."

She relaxed a fraction. "It's not a big deal. I'll probably leave early anyway."

He nodded slowly. "Just... be careful, okay?" His voice dipped lower. "You know how crowds get to you sometimes. The noise, the lights, people you don't fully trust. Last time you went out late you came back shaking. I had to hold you for an hour before you could breathe right."

The memory flashed—her curled on this very couch, his arms around her, his voice in her ear counting inhales and exhales until the panic ebbed. She swallowed.

"I'll be fine," she said, quieter now.

Jeonghan's gaze held hers for a long beat. Then he smiled again, small and sad. "I know you will. I just... I hate the idea of you being somewhere I can't reach if you need me."

He didn't say don't go. He didn't have to.

The guilt settled in her stomach like cold tea.

That night she lay awake in her dorm, phone glowing on the pillow. Minji had sent outfit options. Soojin had sent memes about bad decisions and worse hangovers. Yuna typed half a dozen replies and deleted them all.

At 2:14 a.m., she opened Jeonghan's chat.

Yuna: Still awake? 

Jeonghan: Always when you are. Everything okay? 

Yuna: Yeah. Just thinking about tomorrow. 

Jeonghan: You don't have to go if you don't want to. 

Yuna: I do want to. I think. 

Jeonghan: Then go. I'll be here when you get back. Door's always open for you.

She stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

The next afternoon she stood in front of her mirror in the black dress Minji had insisted on—"You look hot, wear it"—and felt nothing but dread. Not for the party. For the look she knew would be on his face when she told him she was still going.

She didn't tell him.

Instead, at 8:47 p.m., she sent the group chat: Sorry guys. Feeling off tonight. Rain check? Next time for sure.

Minji replied instantly: Noooo :( Soojin: We get it. Take care babe. Love you.

Yuna turned her phone face-down and walked to his apartment.

He opened the door before she even knocked—like he'd been waiting.

"You're here," he said, voice soft with something that looked like relief.

"I canceled," she mumbled, stepping inside. "Didn't feel right."

Jeonghan closed the door behind her. Didn't ask why. Just pulled her into his arms without a word.

She melted against him. The familiar scent of cedar and clean cotton wrapped around her like a blanket. His hand slid up her back, slow and steady, fingers threading into her hair at the nape of her neck.

"You don't have to explain," he murmured against her temple. "I'm just glad you're safe."

They moved to the couch without really deciding to. He sat first, tugged her down until she was curled in his lap, head tucked under his chin. His arms came around her fully—long, encompassing hugs that made the rest of the world feel very far away.

He kissed her forehead. Lingered there. Then her temple. The bridge of her nose. Each touch deliberate, reverent.

"I need you safe," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "More than anything."

Yuna tilted her head up. Their eyes met—his dark and steady, hers uncertain but aching.

He didn't rush.

He waited until she leaned in first.

The kiss was slow. Achingly slow. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing every millimeter—soft at first, then deeper, tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. One hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone; the other pressed low on her back, keeping her flush against him.

It tasted like safety. Like surrender.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing uneven, he rested his forehead against hers.

"Stay," he said. Not a question.

She nodded.

He carried her to his bed—effortless, careful—laid her down like she was something fragile and irreplaceable. Didn't push for more. Just held her. One arm under her head, the other draped across her waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on her hip through the thin fabric of her dress.

She fell asleep listening to his heartbeat—slow, even, certain.

Protected.

Warm.

And somewhere beneath the comfort, a small, quiet voice noticed how easily the night had rearranged itself around him. How the party, the friends, the plans had simply... dissolved.

She pushed the thought away.

Curled tighter into his chest.

And let sleep take her.

The spiral came without warning that evening.

One minute Yuna was sitting cross-legged on his living-room floor, highlighter in hand, trying to force the words of a lecture slide into her brain. The next, her chest was caving in—breath shallow, vision tunneling, the familiar cold sweat prickling along her spine. She dropped the pen. It clattered too loudly.

Jeonghan was across the room in an instant.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He never did when it hit like this. Just knelt in front of her, took both her shaking hands in his, and pressed them to his chest so she could feel the steady rise and fall beneath his shirt.

"Breathe with me, angel," he said, voice low and even. "In... hold... out."

She followed. She always followed.

After a few minutes the worst of it ebbed, leaving her limp and trembling against him. He lifted her easily, carried her to the couch, settled her across his lap like she weighed nothing. His arms came around her—warm, solid, inescapable in the gentlest way.

"You're okay," he murmured into her hair. "I've got you."

His lips found her temple. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.

The first kiss was soft—comforting. The second lingered. The third parted her lips, tongue brushing hers slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of the tears she hadn't realized she'd shed.

Heat bloomed low in her belly.

He pulled back just enough to look at her—eyes dark, pupils blown. "Tell me to stop if it's too much."

She didn't.

Instead she leaned in again, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

That was all the permission he needed.

He kissed her deeper this time—hungry, controlled. One hand slid under the hem of her oversized sweater, palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach, thumb stroking the sensitive line just below her ribs. She arched into the touch without thinking.

"So beautiful," he whispered against her mouth. "My perfect angel."

He peeled the sweater off slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something sacred. Her bra followed—simple black lace he traced with his fingertips before unhooking it. When her breasts spilled free he groaned low in his throat.

"Look at you." His thumbs brushed over her nipples—already peaked and aching. He circled them lazily until she whimpered, then pinched just hard enough to make her gasp. "These pretty little nipples... all hard for me already."

He bent his head, took one into his mouth—hot, wet suction that made her hips jerk. Tongue flicking, teeth grazing, he lavished attention on her until she was writhing, pleading softly.

"Jeonghan—"

"Shh, angel. Let me take care of you."

He shifted her, laid her back against the cushions, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and panties and dragged them down together. She lifted her hips to help, suddenly shy when the cool air hit her skin.

He spread her thighs gently but firmly, settled between them, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Your pussy is so pretty, angel. So wet for me already."

He dragged one finger through her folds—slow, deliberate—collecting her slick before circling her clit with the lightest pressure. She bucked. He smiled against her inner thigh.

"Sensitive little thing."

He lowered his head.

The first swipe of his tongue was feather-light—teasing the hood of her clit, then dipping lower to taste her entrance. She moaned, loud and broken. He hummed in approval, the vibration shooting straight through her.

He took his time—agonizingly slow. Licking broad stripes, flicking the tip of his tongue over her clit in quick, maddening patterns, sucking gently until her thighs trembled around his head. Every time she got close he eased off, kissing the crease of her thigh instead, murmuring praise against her skin.

"You taste so good, angel. So sweet. So mine."

When she was shaking, hips lifting desperately, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, he finally gave in.

Two fingers slid inside her—curling just right—while his mouth sealed over her clit and sucked hard.

She came with a sob—back arching, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clamping around his ears as pleasure crashed through her in violent waves.

He didn't stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation.

Only then did he crawl back up her body, kissing every inch he passed—her stomach, the valley between her breasts, the hollow of her throat.

He shed his own clothes quickly—shirt, sweatpants, boxers—revealing the long, thick length of his cock already leaking at the tip.

Yuna's breath hitched.

He caught her staring and smirked softly. "Like what you see, angel?"

She nodded, cheeks burning.

He settled between her thighs again, notched himself at her entrance, rubbed the head through her slick folds until she was squirming.

"Eyes on me," he said quietly.

She obeyed.

He pushed in slow—inch by inch—stretching her open with careful, possessive thrusts. When he bottomed out he stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.

"So tight," he groaned. "So perfect for my cock."

He started moving—gentle rolls of his hips at first, letting her adjust, then deeper, harder. One hand slid up to wrap lightly around her throat—not squeezing, just holding. The pressure made her pulse race, made everything feel sharper, more intense.

"You're safe only with me," he murmured, voice rough with want. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to make this pretty pussy come."

The words tipped her over.

She clenched around him—hard—nails digging into his shoulders as the second orgasm ripped through her. He fucked her through it—deep, steady strokes—until his rhythm faltered.

"Angel—fuck—I'm gonna—"

He buried himself to the hilt, came with a low, guttural sound, spilling hot inside her.

They stayed like that for long minutes—sweaty, trembling, breathing each other in.

Then the aftercare began.

He pulled out carefully, kissed her softly, carried her to the bathroom. Ran a warm bath, added the lavender oil she liked. Washed her himself—gentle hands between her legs, over her breasts, rinsing away the evidence of what they'd done while whispering how good she'd been, how proud he was.

Back in bed he wrapped her in his arms, pulled the blankets high, pressed kisses to her hairline.

"You're mine to take care of," he said against her temple. "Always."

Yuna curled into his chest, body heavy with satisfaction, mind hazy with something dangerously close to addiction.

The intensity—the way he unraveled her, then pieced her back together—felt like the only thing that could ever quiet the noise in her head.

She pressed a sleepy kiss to his collarbone.

And let herself sink deeper.

The days after their first night together felt like falling deeper into warm water—slow, enveloping, impossible to surface from.

Jeonghan's care sharpened at the edges.

It started with the literature seminar she'd been dreading. She came home one evening—his apartment had become "home" in her vocabulary without her noticing—bags under her eyes, syllabus crumpled in her fist.

He took one look at her and pulled her onto the couch, hands already rubbing slow circles over her back.

"You're exhausted, angel," he said, voice soft but firm. "I hate seeing you suffer like this. That class is too much—three essays a week, the readings, the discussions that drag on until midnight. You don't need to prove anything to anyone."

She leaned into him. "But I'm already enrolled. Dropping now would look bad on my transcript."

"Would it?" He tilted her chin up, thumb stroking her jaw. "Or would it look like you're finally taking care of yourself? I can help you find something easier. Something that won't make you cry over deadlines. Let me look into it for you tomorrow, okay?"

She nodded. She didn't remember agreeing to drop it, exactly—but the next morning he was already printing the withdrawal form, smiling as he handed it to her with her favorite tea.

"You'll feel so much lighter," he promised.

She signed.

The friends came next.

Minji texted about grabbing coffee after class—"Just us girls, no boys allowed, we need to catch up." Yuna showed him the message while they ate breakfast at his kitchen counter.

He read it, expression neutral. Then he set the phone down gently.

"They're good people," he said carefully. "But they don't understand your needs like I do, angel. Last time you went out with them you came back anxious—remember? You said the conversation turned to things that triggered you. I just... I worry they'll push you too far without meaning to."

Yuna stared at her plate. "I guess."

"You don't have to go if it doesn't feel right." He kissed her temple. "Stay here. I'll make that pasta you like. We can watch that movie you've been wanting to see."

She canceled.

She didn't even think twice.

The pattern repeated. A study group invite from Soojin—declined. A casual hangout at the campus café—declined. Each time, Jeonghan's voice was never demanding. Just concerned. Just loving. Just right.

And every time she chose him, he rewarded her.

Friday night arrived like a gift he'd wrapped himself.

She'd had a long week—fewer classes now, but the absence felt strange, like missing a tooth. Jeonghan noticed her restlessness immediately.

He drew her into the bedroom without a word, lights dimmed low, sheets already turned down.

"Lie back, angel," he murmured, guiding her down. "Let me take care of you."

He undressed her slowly—sweater, bra, leggings—kissing every new inch of skin revealed. When she was bare he knelt between her thighs, eyes dark with hunger.

"So pretty," he breathed, fingers tracing her nipples until they hardened under his touch. "These perfect little nipples... always so responsive for me."

He teased them with his mouth while his hand slid lower—circling her clit with feather-light strokes, dipping inside her pussy just enough to make her gasp, then retreating. Over and over.

He brought her to the edge once. Twice. Three times.

Each time she arched, thighs trembling, soft pleas spilling from her lips—he stopped.

Completely.

"Jeonghan—please—"

"Not yet." He kissed her inner thigh, voice low and velvet. "Tell me you'll spend the whole weekend with me. No plans. No friends. Just us."

She whimpered. "I... I promise."

"Say it properly, angel."

"I promise," she gasped, hips lifting desperately. "The whole weekend. Only you. Please—let me come."

He smiled—slow, satisfied—then lowered his head again.

This time he didn't stop.

His tongue worked her clit in tight, relentless circles while two fingers curled inside her pussy, stroking that spot that made her see stars. She shattered—back bowing, cry muffled against her own hand—wave after wave crashing through her.

He didn't give her time to recover.

He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and entered her in one deep thrust.

She moaned into the pillow.

His cock filled her completely—thick, hard, stretching her in the best way. He started slow, but the rhythm built quickly—rougher, more possessive. One hand gripped her hip; the other wrapped lightly around her throat from behind, just enough pressure to make her pulse race.

"Good girl," he growled against her ear. "So obedient. So perfect. You come so beautifully when you listen to me."

He thrust harder—deep, punishing strokes that made her breasts bounce, nipples grazing the sheets with every movement. His fingers found her clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me again, angel," he commanded. "Show me how much you need this. Need me."

She did—clenching around his cock, sobbing his name as the orgasm tore through her, sharper and more intense than the first.

He followed moments later—burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a low groan of her name.

Afterward he was gentle again.

He cleaned her carefully with a warm cloth, kissed every mark he'd left—light bruises on her hips, faint fingerprints on her throat. He pulled her into the shower, washed her hair, held her under the hot water until she stopped trembling.

Back in bed he wrapped her in his arms, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.

"You did so well," he whispered. "I'm so proud of you."

Yuna nestled closer, body heavy with satisfaction, mind quiet for once.

She didn't notice how easily the weekend stretched ahead—empty of everything but him.

She didn't notice how naturally the cancellations had become habit.

She only noticed how safe she felt.

How loved.

How completely his.

The confrontation came on a Tuesday afternoon in the campus courtyard.

Yuna was waiting for Jeonghan outside the psychology building—same bench, same time, same thermos of chamomile he'd text her to bring because her hands got cold. Minji appeared out of nowhere, hoodie up against the wind, expression tight.

"Hey," Minji said, dropping onto the bench beside her without preamble. "We need to talk."

Yuna's stomach dipped. "About what?"

"You." Minji didn't smile. "You've changed, Yuna. And not in the cute 'in love' way. In the... disappearing way."

"I'm right here."

"Are you?" Minji leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You haven't answered a group chat in weeks. You bailed on coffee three times. Last month you said yes to movie night and then ghosted because 'Jeonghan needed you.' He's always around. Always. And every time one of us tries to hang out, suddenly you're too anxious, too tired, too something."

Yuna's fingers tightened around the thermos. "He's not controlling me. He cares. More than anyone ever has."

Minji's eyes softened, but her voice stayed sharp. "Caring doesn't mean owning your schedule. Caring doesn't mean you drop every class that stresses you out just because he says so. You used to love that lit seminar. Now it's gone and you're... quieter. Smaller."

"He's protecting me," Yuna snapped, louder than she meant to. Heads turned. She lowered her voice, fierce. "You don't get it. You don't know what it's like to wake up every day waiting for someone to leave. He stays. He sees me. He makes sure I eat, makes sure I breathe when I can't. That's not control. That's love."

Minji studied her for a long moment. Then she stood.

"I hope you're right," she said quietly. "Because from the outside? It looks like a cage with really nice pillows."

She walked away.

Yuna sat there until the wind stung her cheeks, until Jeonghan appeared—coat open, smile soft, like nothing in the world was wrong.

He noticed her face immediately.

"Angel?" He sat beside her, hand on her knee. "What happened?"

She told him. Word for word. Including Minji's last line.

Jeonghan listened without interrupting. When she finished, he looked down at his hands—long fingers laced together—silent for so long she started to panic.

"I'm only trying to protect your heart," he said finally. Voice low. Cracked at the edges. "That's all I've ever wanted. If your friends think I'm... hurting you... maybe I'm doing something wrong."

He looked up. Eyes glassy. Not tears—not quite—but close enough to twist something inside her.

"I never meant to make you feel small," he whispered. "I just can't stand the thought of losing you."

The guilt hit like ice water.

She cupped his face. "You're not losing me."

He searched her eyes. Then leaned in and kissed her—slow, desperate, like he was drowning and she was air.

They barely made it inside his apartment.

The door clicked shut and he had her against the wall in the narrow hallway—mouth on hers, hands everywhere. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding under her skirt, fingers finding her already wet through her panties.

"So needy for me," he murmured against her throat. "Even when you're upset. Even when they try to take you away."

He yanked her panties down, shoved his own pants open just enough. His cock was hard, leaking—thick against her thigh. He lifted one of her legs around his waist, notched himself at her entrance, and thrust in hard.

Yuna gasped—sharp, startled pleasure-pain. He didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her against the wall—deep, rough strokes that made the framed photos rattle. Her wrists stayed pinned; his free hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise.

"No one else could ever handle your fragility," he growled into her ear between thrusts. "No one else would stay when you fall apart. Only me. Only I know how to put you back together."

Each word drove him deeper. She clenched around him—pussy fluttering, nipples aching against her bra, clit throbbing with every grind of his hips.

He pulled out suddenly—left her empty and whining—then spun her around so she faced the full-length mirror by the entryway.

"Watch," he ordered, voice rough. He pressed her hands to the glass, kicked her legs wider, and slid back inside her from behind.

Her reflection stared back—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucked her slow and punishing.

Then he pulled his phone from his pocket—still buried inside her—and tapped play.

Her own voice filled the hallway—moaning his name from weeks ago, broken and desperate: "Jeonghan—please—harder—yes—fuck—"

The audio looped. Her recorded whimpers echoed off the walls while he thrust harder, deeper, making her watch every shudder, every bounce of her breasts, every time her mouth fell open in a silent cry.

"Look at yourself, angel," he rasped, hand sliding up to wrap lightly around her throat again. "Look how beautifully you come undone for me. This is what I do for you. This is what you need."

She shattered—watching herself in the mirror as her pussy clenched around his cock, thighs trembling, tears slipping down her cheeks from the intensity. The recorded moans mixed with her real ones—layered, overwhelming.

He followed right after—burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a choked groan of her name.

They slid to the floor together—sweaty, breathless. He pulled her into his lap, arms wrapping around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. In the mirror she could still see them: his dark head beside hers, his hands gentle now, stroking her arms, her thighs.

"I love you," he whispered. "More than anything."

She believed him.

She had to.

Because the alternative—the suffocating weight pressing on her chest, the way her reflection looked smaller than she remembered, the echo of Minji's voice still ringing somewhere far away—was too terrifying to face.

She turned in his arms. Buried her face in his neck.

And let the warmth swallow her again.

Even if it was starting to feel like drowning.

It happened by accident.

Jeonghan's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower—steam curling under the bathroom door, water running steady. Yuna had only meant to silence it. She picked it up, thumb brushing the screen awake.

The notification was from an old chat thread buried deep in his messages. The name read "Soo-ah (archived)" but the preview line was enough to freeze her:

Soo-ah (3 months ago): I can't keep doing this. You say you care but every time I try to breathe you make me feel like I'm suffocating. I'm done.

Below it, his reply—calm, measured, heartbreakingly familiar:

Jeonghan: I only wanted to keep you safe. If you leave, you'll see how cruel the world is without someone who truly sees you. I hope you don't regret it. I'll always be here if you change your mind.

Yuna's thumb scrolled before she could stop it.

Another archived thread. "Ji-eun." Same pattern: gentle check-ins, worried texts about stress, suggestions to drop plans, drop classes, drop friends. Then the slow fade—her messages growing shorter, angrier, until the final one:

Ji-eun: You're not protecting me. You're erasing me. Don't contact me again.

His response had been almost identical.

Yuna's hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone.

She set it down carefully. Sat on the edge of the couch. Waited.

When Jeonghan emerged—towel around his waist, hair dripping, skin still flushed from the heat—he saw her face and stopped.

"Angel?" Soft. Concerned. Always concerned.

She looked up at him. Voice barely above a whisper.

"I saw the messages."

He didn't flinch. Didn't rush to explain. Just crossed the room slowly, sat on the coffee table in front of her so their knees almost touched.

"Which ones?" he asked quietly.

"All of them." Her throat burned. "The girls before me. The way you... cared. The way they left. It's the same. The tea, the check-ins, the 'I'm only worried because I love you.' It's the same."

Jeonghan exhaled slowly. Looked down at his hands—long fingers laced together like he was praying.

"I've always cared too much," he said finally. No defensiveness. Just quiet truth. "I see someone hurting and I want to fix it. I want to be the one thing that doesn't disappear. With them... maybe I held on too tight. Maybe I pushed when I should have let go." He lifted his gaze to hers. Eyes glassy. "But with you, it's real. You're different. You feel it too, don't you? How safe you are with me. How no one else has ever stayed."

Tears slipped down his cheeks—slow, deliberate. He didn't wipe them away.

"If I scared them off, that's on me," he continued, voice cracking just enough to pierce her. "But if you walk away now... you'll be alone again. Like before. Waiting for the next person to leave without a word. I can change. I will change. Just... stay. Please."

The guilt crashed over her like a wave—his tears, his trembling voice, the way he looked small for the first time. She hated how much it hurt to see him like this. Hated how much she still wanted to fix it.

She reached for him.

He caught her wrist—gentle, but firm—and pulled her into his lap.

The kiss was desperate from the start. Mouths crashing, teeth clashing, his hands fisting in her hair like he was afraid she'd vanish. He stood, lifting her with him, carried her to the bedroom without breaking the kiss.

He set her on her feet in front of the bed. Spun her around. Pressed her forward until her hands braced on the mattress.

"Stay," he whispered against the back of her neck, already tugging her leggings and panties down in one rough motion.

She arched instinctively. He freed his cock—hard, leaking—rubbed the head through her slick folds once, twice, then thrust in deep from behind.

Yuna gasped—sharp stretch, immediate fullness. He didn't wait. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to arch her spine, the other gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks.

He fucked her hard—punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, bed creaking under them. Each thrust drove the breath from her lungs.

"You'll regret leaving," he growled low in her ear, voice rough with need and something darker. "The world will hurt you worse than I ever could. They'll leave. They always leave. But I stay. I always stay."

He yanked her hair tighter—pain blooming into pleasure—angled his hips so his cock hit that spot inside her over and over. His free hand slid around to her clit, rubbing fast, merciless circles.

"Come for me, angel," he rasped. "Come while you're still mine. Show me you know it's only me who can make you feel this."

She shattered—pussy clenching around him in violent spasms, cry muffled against the sheets, thighs shaking so hard she nearly collapsed.

He didn't stop.

Kept thrusting through her orgasm—deeper, harder—until his rhythm broke. He buried himself to the hilt, came with a choked groan, spilling hot inside her as his grip on her hair loosened into something almost tender.

They stayed like that—panting, trembling—his chest pressed to her back, cock still softening inside her.

Then he pulled out slowly. Turned her around. Kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"I love you," he whispered, voice wrecked. "More than I've ever loved anyone. Please don't make me lose you."

Yuna curled into him—body spent, mind spinning.

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

Because part of her still believed every word.

And the rest of her was terrified that he was right.

The rain had started sometime after midnight—soft at first, then steady, then relentless. It drummed against the tall windows of Jeonghan's apartment like impatient fingers, streaking the glass in long silver trails. Inside, the only light came from the single lamp on the side table: warm amber, intimate, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

Yuna stood at the front door.

Her backpack hung from one shoulder—lighter than it should have felt, considering everything she was trying to carry away. Inside were the essentials: phone, charger, a change of clothes, the small notebook where she used to write fragments of poems she never finished anymore. Everything else—the books he'd bought her, the sweater he'd left on her side of the bed, the half-empty bottle of her favorite lavender oil in the bathroom—remained behind like relics of a life she was no longer sure belonged to her.

The door was open a few inches. Cold air slipped in, carrying the wet scent of city streets and distant thunder. Raindrops hissed against the concrete landing outside.

Jeonghan sat on the couch.

He hadn't moved to stop her. Hadn't stood. Hadn't raised his voice. He simply watched—legs crossed at the ankle, hands resting loosely in his lap, posture relaxed in a way that made the room feel smaller. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower earlier; a few strands clung to his forehead. His eyes—those endlessly soft, endlessly knowing eyes—held hers without blinking.

"If you go," he said quietly, "I won't stop you."

The words landed like stones dropped into still water. No ripple of anger. No plea. Just fact.

He tilted his head slightly, the lamplight catching the faint sheen in his eyes.

"But you know how empty it feels without someone who truly sees you."

Yuna's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag until her knuckles ached.

The apartment was silent except for the rain and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Somewhere in the background, the playlist they used to fall asleep to had ended hours ago; the speakers sat mute on the shelf.

She looked at him—really looked.

And the memories came unbidden, flooding in like the water pooling on the windowsill.

The first night in the library: his coat warm around her shoulders, the way he'd said her name like it was something precious. The mornings he'd text exactly when she woke, always with a small reminder to eat, to breathe, to take her meds. The dinners he cooked—never asking what she wanted, always knowing. The nights he held her through panic attacks, counting her breaths until the world steadied again. His mouth between her thighs, slow and worshipful, calling her angel while she unraveled. The way he fucked her against the wall—hard, possessive—whispering that no one else could ever handle her. The mirror, her own reflection watching herself come apart to the sound of her recorded moans. The desperate, punishing rhythm from behind last night, his voice in her ear promising the world would hurt her worse than he ever could. Every quiet "I love you" murmured against her skin—tender, suffocating, inescapable.

Each memory felt like a thread stitched into her skin. Pulling any one would tear something vital loose.

She looked down at the threshold: the thin metal strip dividing the warm wood inside from the wet concrete outside. One step. That was all it would take.

Jeonghan's voice came again—still soft, still calm, still certain.

"I never lied to you, Yuna. Not once. Every time I said I cared, I meant it. Every time I held you, every time I made sure you were safe, every time I loved you—it was real. Maybe too real. Maybe I held on too tight because I was terrified of the moment you'd realize you didn't need me anymore."

He paused. Swallowed once.

"But you do need someone. You always have. And if it isn't me... who will it be? Who will remember the exact kind of tea you like when your hands shake? Who will stay awake until you fall asleep? Who will see the parts of you that scare you and still choose to stay?"

A gust of wind pushed the door wider. Rain sprayed across the entryway, misting her bare ankles.

She felt it—the cold biting into her skin, sharp and real.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She thought of Minji's voice in the courtyard: It looks like a cage with really nice pillows. She thought of the archived messages—girls who had stood in this same doorway, maybe, bags in hand, tears on their cheeks, walking away anyway. She thought of the girl she used to be: lonely, anxious, waiting for the next abandonment like it was inevitable.

And she thought of the girl she was now: quieter, softer, safer. Loved. Seen. Owned.

The word lodged in her throat like a stone.

Jeonghan didn't move. Didn't reach for her. Just waited—patient, gentle, utterly convinced she would choose him.

Because she always had.

Yuna's hand rested on the doorknob. The metal was cold against her palm.

She looked back at him one last time.

His expression hadn't changed: soft eyes, faint almost-smile, the same look he'd worn the night he first walked her home. Like he already knew the ending. Like he'd known it from the beginning.

The rain kept falling.

Wind tugged at her hair.

She took one small, trembling breath.

And the world narrowed to the space between the doorframe and the rain-soaked night beyond.

She stood there—frozen, bag heavy on her shoulder, heart louder than the storm.

The door remained half-open.

Neither forward nor back.

Just the threshold.

Just the choice.

Just the unbearable weight of being seen—and the even heavier weight of never being let go.