#pjs

a/n: look who’s back…anyways i felt inspired after reading @gyuuberryy ‘s fic ‘don’t look back’ so i decided to write one w a bit of my own twist. this is such a fun concept of writing i feel like i should write more horror esk concepts even though this is very tame. anyways..enjoy. comments,reblogs and notes are always appreciated!

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you took the job because it was supposed to be easy.

midnight shifts, half-asleep mall rats, and a paycheck big enough to cover your rent and leave you just enough for junk food and gas. it was supposed to be quiet. boring, even. which it was—until tonight.

the mall had always been unsettling after hours. too quiet. too still. the overhead fluorescents hummed above you like a dying animal, and the janitor's closet on the second floor always reeked of bleach and something else you couldn't place. but still, nothing that screamed danger. nothing you couldn't handle with a flashlight and a firm tone.

until tonight.

it starts with a sound. soft and distant. like the scuff of a shoe on the squeaky floor tiles of the place.

you pause by the entrance of the food court, your flashlight flicking over darkened storefronts and plastic chairs stacked like bones. the noise comes again, this time sharper—like fingers dragging across metal.

your stomach tightens.

you pull your walkie to your mouth, whispering a check-in to your partner on the other end. but no response comes back, just static.

okay, you tell yourself. don't be dumb. don't go towards it. you're not in a horror movie.

you step back. your sneakers squeak on the floor, loud in the quiet. you turn on your heel and start walking the other way, fast. maybe it's a rat. maybe it's some idiot hiding in the dark and doing one of those '24 hours in the mall challenge' from 2016, or maybe it's nothing.

whatever it is, you just want to get to the office, call it in, and get the hell out.

but the air shifts.

it feels... wrong. heavy. thick, like walking through water. the hum of the lights grows louder, buzzing at a pitch that makes your jaw ache. something flickers in your peripheral. you spin, flashlight jerking toward it—nothing.

your knees suddenly give out.

no warning. no pain. just a dizzy, stomach-dropping sensation like the floor disappeared beneath you—and then black.

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when you wake, everything is yellow.

the world smells like mold. not fresh mold—old, dead mold. the kind that's lived too long in dark spaces and grown stale with time.

you're lying on cold carpet, face pressed into a nauseating mix of damp fibers and dust. fluorescent lights above you stutter and blink, buzzing in intervals that sound almost... rhythmic.

you sit up fast, heart slamming in your chest as your eyes struggle to adjust to the stale brightness of the unknown place.

this isn't the mall.

you're in a hallway. no windows, no doors. just endless, repeating yellow wallpaper—peeling in places, patterned with some ugly 90s texture—and identical hallways stretching on in every direction.

you push yourself to your feet, head spinning.

"hello?" you call out, voice cracking. nothing. just the hum. you turn a corner. then another. and another.

it feels like walking in circles, except every hallway is just different enough to make you doubt it. a different stain, a different pattern in the ceiling tiles. but always the same walls. the same lights. the same sickly yellow glow that makes your skin look waxy.

where the fuck are you?

you start to run. but the halls go on. and on. and on.

and somewhere behind you, a shadow moves. you've been walking for what feels like hours.

your legs ache. your throat is dry. and the lights—god, the lights—never stop humming. they flicker sometimes, almost rhythmically, as if reacting to your breathing.

you gave up calling out 20 minutes ago. the silence that followed every "hello?" was worse than nothing. it felt... intentional. like something was listening. choosing not to respond.

you stop to rest against a wall. the wallpaper peels beneath your touch, crumbling like dried-out skin. the carpet squelches faintly underfoot. it's damp now. damper than before. it didn't start out that way—you're sure of it.

you close your eyes. just for a second. then you hear it.

click.

a tiny, impossible sound. like a nail tapping on glass. you spin around fast—nothing behind you. just more yellow, more humming.

you swallow hard and start walking again, faster this time.

the whisper comes a few minutes later.

faint. garbled. like a voice behind a wall.

you stop cold, "...can you hear me?"

you whip around—heart hammering, chest heaving—but the hallway is empty. it sounded so close. like someone just on the other side of the wallpaper, lips pressed to the wall, whispering into your ear.

"don't run."

your breath catches and you take a step back. then another.

a low, almost inaudible rustle drifts from behind you, like fabric dragging along the floor. you don't look back this time, you run.

you sprint down the endless corridors, turns blurring together. every wall looks the same. every shadow stretches too long. the humming of the lights becomes deafening, almost sentient—rising and falling in sync with your panic.

and then—a corner.

you turn it too fast, shoulder slamming the wall. and there he is.

a boy.

he's standing halfway down the corridor, backlit by the same yellow haze, dressed in black and hunched slightly, like he's been walking for days. he looks up, his eyes hollow and lifeless.

you freeze.

he looks just as scared as you. "wait—" he says, breathless. "you're real?"

your heart nearly caves in your chest.

finally—finally—someone else.

you don't know that he's been waiting here for you. you don't know that the whispers were his. you don't know that he's the reason you're here at all.

you only know relief and that's exactly what he wants.

he's standing in the middle of the corridor like he's been waiting there forever. just... still. as if he knew you were coming.

your feet skid to a stop, sneakers dragging against the damp carpet, chest heaving from your sprint. his head lifts slowly. your eyes meet.

he's beautiful.

not the kind of beautiful you expect in a place like this—no, he looks too clean, too human, too painfully real. black hair falls across his forehead, his eyes wide and startled, like he hadn't seen another living thing in years. his frame is lean, shoulders hunched slightly with tension, a black jacket clinging to him like a second skin. he looks tired.

his mouth parts, stunned. "you're... real?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you don't answer at first. you're still frozen. still trying to figure out if this is a hallucination. if the place has finally cracked your mind open and spilled delusions into your skull. but he takes a hesitant step forward, hands raised as if to show he means no harm.

"i—i heard someone running. i didn't think... i thought i was alone."

you nod, slowly. your throat is too dry to speak. he sees it in your face, that fractured look of someone at the edge—and his features soften.

"hey, it's okay. i'm not gonna hurt you," he says gently. "you've been here long?"

your voice finally stirs. "i don't know. not long. maybe an hour?"

he winces. "i've been here days," he says, lowering his gaze. "maybe weeks. it's hard to tell."

you want to ask where is this and how do we get out, but the words collapse in your mouth. he seems just as lost. just as scared. and if there's one thing you know about surviving fucked-up situations, it's that panic spreads like a disease. and right now, he's the only person tethering you to something human.

"what's your name?" you ask, voice hoarse.

he smiles faintly, "jay." you give yours in return. and somehow, it feels sacred. the first time you've said it aloud since waking up here. it tastes real again.

you walk together.

not aimlessly—jay says he's mapped a bit of the place out. that some corridors loop, some don't. he tells you he's found areas with flickering lights and strange noises. some that smell like burnt plastic. some that feel colder than others, like they're not finished forming.

"sometimes i hear things," he says, tone hushed. "but i try not to listen."

"you hear them too?" you ask, something cold settling in your bones.

he glances at you. then gives the smallest nod. "they whisper your name, don't they?"

you don't answer, but your stomach twists.

you keep walking. you try not to notice the way the lights don't flicker around him like they do when you're alone. how his shadow always falls in the right direction, no matter where you turn. how his footsteps are too quiet—too synchronized with yours.

you try not to notice how his eyes flick toward your throat when you speak. how he never really seems out of breath. how the carpet never squelches beneath his feet the way it does yours.

he keeps asking you things.

where you're from. how you got here. what you remember.

and every time you answer, he watches you like he's cataloging each word. storing it. savoring it. but his smile is kind. his laugh—quiet, sweet, disarming. it feels like warmth in this place where nothing is warm.

hours pass. well, you think.

the corridors have started to change. the wallpaper grows darker the deeper you go, browner. as if stained by time or something else entirely. the lights flicker longer now and shadows linger too long at the edges of your vision.

you want to stop walking, but jay touches your arm—gentle, reassuring—and murmurs, "we're close. i think i found something a while ago. it might be a way out."

your chest stutters with cautious hope.

"really?"

he nods. "i didn't go alone. i was scared. but with you—" he breaks off. his voice turns soft, "—i feel safer with you here."

you look at him. he seems so genuine. eyes big, expression honest. he says it like it's a confession. like he needs you. you nod. "okay. lead the way."

and so you do. deeper.until the lights above flicker one final time—and die.

time doesn't pass here the way it should.

you think it's been days. maybe a week. maybe more. but there's no sunrise, no clocks, no hunger cues to guide you. only the flickering lights and the ever-stretching corridors—yellow fading into brown, into olive, into something sickly gray.

but you stop counting the days. because now, you have jay.

he stays close. always at your side, quiet but attentive. sometimes he hums under his breath—soft, tuneless notes that lull your nerves. sometimes he tells stories about his old life: a little apartment with too-thin walls. a sister he hasn't seen in years. a favorite café with mismatched mugs. things that feel so vividly real you almost forget where you are.

you learn his quirks. how he hates the buzzing lights more than the silence. how he taps his fingers on his thigh when he's thinking. how he always walks slightly ahead of you, like he's trying to shield you from whatever comes next.

"you know," you say one 'day' as you walk together through a hallway tinged orange by dying fluorescents, "if you weren't here, i think i'd have lost my mind already."

he glances back at you, lips quirking into a small smile. "same."

"really? you seem like you've got it together."

"nah," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "i'm just good at pretending."

you don't think about it much. but the next time the lights go dark for a stretch of corridor, it's his hand that finds yours. warm. solid. grounding.

and you don't pull away.

you have moments like that now. tiny, precious ones that feel stolen from reality.

he finds a corridor with walls covered in strange drawings—childlike scribbles in charcoal, some of them humanoid, some not. you sit with your backs to the wall and pretend you're at a museum, whispering critiques and giving the "artists" fake names.

you laugh together. it's a rusty sound at first—too loud in the quiet—but jay laughs too, soft and real.

sometimes, when it gets too quiet, he'll ask about you.

your job. your family. the place you grew up. and he listens—really listens—with his whole body, eyes fixed on you like you're telling him the most important story in the world. when you falter, he encourages you. when your voice cracks, he gently changes the subject.

and when you dream—because you do, sometimes, in flickers and fits—he's always in them. guiding you through endless rooms. catching your hand. pulling you close before you fall.

you wake up and he's right there, watching you with a worried expression like he's been guarding your sleep.

"you talk in your sleep," he says once, voice quiet.

"oh god," you groan, rubbing your eyes. "what'd i say?"

he pauses. smiles faintly.

"you called my name."

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somewhere around day fourteen—or what you think is day fourteen—you stop hoping for a way out.

not because you've given up, but because this, whatever this is, doesn't feel unbearable anymore. you eat the ration bars from your security belt. you sleep curled near jay in corners that feel less watched. you follow his lead because he always seems to know where to go, which halls to avoid, when to turn around.

you stop asking questions.

and you start looking at him longer. watching the way his profile softens when he's not speaking. how his hair falls into his eyes. how he always reaches for you first when the shadows flicker too close.

he never tries anything. never crosses a line. he treats you like something breakable.

so you start crossing those lines yourself. a teasing shoulder bump when he's zoning out. lingering touches when you pass him supplies. once, you fall asleep with your head on his thigh. when you wake, he hasn't moved an inch.

"you could've shifted me off," you mumble groggily.

"i didn't want to."

but still... there are moments. strange ones.

times when the lights flicker a little longer when he walks through. when the hum syncs to his steps. when he looks ahead into the darkness a beat too long, his expression unreadable. once, you see something in the wall—a smear of something dark, a shadow stretching toward you—but jay turns his head at the exact moment and it disappears.

you blink. it's gone.

and he's already holding his hand out to you again, voice soft. "this way."

you take it. you always take it.

"i think we're close." jay's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the murky silence like a flare.

you blink up at him, wiping the sleep from your eyes. your back aches from the floor. the light above your heads flickers with that same electric buzz, only softer now—like it's struggling. failing.

"close to what?" you murmur, throat dry.

he glances down the corridor ahead. you follow his gaze.

it's different here. the walls have changed again—duller, the yellow wallpaper turning jaundiced and blistered, warped like water damage has soaked through the structure itself. the ceiling is lower, and the light is dimmer. there's a smell now. faint. metallic. wrong.

"a way out," he says softly. "or... something. i don't know. i didn't go in before. i found it a while back, but i was alone."

"but you didn't try?"

he shakes his head. "i was scared." his voice wavers, just a little. you look at him closer, and it feels like the most human you've ever seen him—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw tight, eyes dark with something you can't place.

"but i'm not now. not with you."

you believe him. how could you not? after everything, all the ways he's kept you calm, grounded—safe.

so you follow.

the deeper you go, the more the backrooms begin to rot.

the wallpaper falls away in strips, revealing a glistening material beneath—like old flesh or wet clay. pipes jut from the walls now. some of them drip. the air is heavy, saturated with warmth, as if something is breathing in these corridors right along with you.

"do you hear that?" you ask quietly.

jay tilts his head.

there's a sound behind the walls. a low thrum. a rhythmic thud-thud-thud—like a heartbeat. like footsteps. but not yours.

you grip his sleeve.

"don't worry," he says. "just a little farther."

the hallway finally ends in a door.

not a real one—just an opening. the trim is darker here, almost black. the light inside pulses faintly, like it's trying to lure you in. and the smell intensifies.

when you step through, you find yourself in a new chamber.

this one is wide, circular. walls curved and smooth, lit by a single humming bulb that swings slightly above your head. in the middle of the room are three slides—long, slick, and strangely out of place, like they were built into the floor of a decaying playground.

one is white, polished like marble. one is red, chipped at the edges, with a faint dark smear down the middle. one is black, dull and velvety, almost absorbing the light around it.

you stare at them. "what... is this?"

jay exhales next to you. "i don't know. i found this place once before. didn't stay long enough to figure it out."

"you said it could be a way out."

"i think it is. maybe."

his voice is unreadable.

you turn to him. "do you know where they lead?"

he shakes his head slowly. "no. but we have to choose. eventually."

you look back at the slides. something deep in your stomach curls. they feel alive somehow. waiting. "what if it's a trap?"

he doesn't answer right away. then softly says, "then we face it together."

you look at him. he looks calm, soft-eyed—safe. just pick one, you think. you're not alone. he's here.

your eyes fall to the slides again. white. red. black.

your fingers twitch toward the black one. the surface almost shimmers. you step toward it.

and jay smiles. not sweet. not warm. sharp.

but you don't see it, not yet. the moment your foot touches the black slide, it shudders beneath you.

not visibly. not violently. but it reacts—subtle, like something flexing beneath its skin. the surface isn't hard plastic like you expected. it's soft. pliable. warm. like flesh left out too long.

but jay is right behind you. watching. and something in your chest tells you to keep going.

so you sit and push off.

the slide isn't straight. it twists. drops. swells and curves like a throat swallowing you whole. the walls are too close—pressing in—and the material isn't smooth. it pulses. you think you feel something breathe against your shoulder.

your hands sink slightly as you try to brace yourself. a slick, wet sound echoes all around you. like something digesting. and then—black.

pure, absolute black. no light. no air. no sound but your own blood roaring in your ears.

you try to scream—but nothing comes out.

you fall forever.

and then—you land.

hard.

but not on carpet, on something alive.

it shifts beneath you, twitching like muscle memory. the ground is slick and damp, lit by dim red bioluminescence leaking from the walls like infected wounds. it smells like copper. salt. something rotten and sweet.

you stumble to your feet. the slide behind you is gone. there's no way back.

you're alone. or—you think you are. until you hear his voice. "you chose it, you know."

your head snaps toward it.

jay.

but he's standing different now—spine straight, head tilted at an unnatural angle, like his neck is made of wire instead of bone. he's watching you. not with the wide, soft gaze you've grown used to.

with something else. something ancient.

"you could've picked any of them," he says quietly, stepping forward. "safety. death. or this."

you shake your head, backing away. "what are you talking about?"

"you picked me." his voice is still warm. still familiar. but too steady. too calm.

"i don't—this isn't—what the fuck is this place?"

"it's mine," he says simply. "or, more accurately... i am of it."

your stomach turns, "i don't understand—" he smiles. soft. so soft. but something ripples beneath his skin, like muscle twitching beneath stretched fabric.

"i made it easy for you," he murmurs. "you wouldn't have followed me if i wasn't kind. if i wasn't... safe."

your knees nearly buckle, "you're lying."

"no. i've never lied to you. not once." he pauses, his mouth curling into a cruel smile, he steps closer. "you just never asked the right questions."

your heart is in your throat now. the walls pulse with it—thump-thump-thump—like they're echoing your fear.

"this isn't real."

"it's more real than where you came from," jay says, almost tender. "you just don't want to admit it."

"what are you?" you whisper.

his smile widens, just slightly. his teeth look too white. too straight. too perfect.

"hungry."

you've never felt cold in the backrooms. until now.

the air is still warm—wet and clinging to your skin—but your body is shaking. not from temperature. from something else entirely. from the kind of fear that curdles in your gut and hollows you out.

you stagger back, but the ground beneath your feet pulses with every movement. it's not carpet. not even earth. it's... him. it's part of him. you don't know how you know that, but you do.

jay stands in front of you, his expression peaceful. soft. like this isn't a reveal—like it's a gift.

"you were always going to end up here," he says gently. "i just helped you make peace with it."

you shake your head slowly, the world pitching around you. everything's wrong. everything's been wrong.

his kindness. his patience. his restraint.

"you lied to me."

"i didn't," he replies, stepping closer. "you just believed what was convenient." and that, that—breaks something open inside of you.

because he's right. you never questioned him. not once. not when he always walked ahead of you, somehow always knowing where to go. not when his eyes flicked toward the shadows before you noticed them. not even when he told you "i feel safer with you here" and never let you see him afraid.

you wanted to trust him. you needed to.

and now you realize: you told him everything. your childhood, your family, your fears, the dreams that had started to fray in the real world. every scar. every vulnerability. you poured yourself out like an offering because he listened. because he looked at you like you mattered.

but what did he tell you?

his name. that he had a sister. a favorite café.

things you can't prove.

"i asked you what you did before this," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "you said it didn't matter anymore." you could feel a stream of tears begin to pour down your face like a facet, and you could only imagine how ridiculous you looked right now.

"because it didn't."

"you said you couldn't remember how you got here."

"i didn't lie."

you can't breathe.

you remember how he always turned questions around on you, how he always made you feel like the one in control. and you fell for it. every time. he played the perfect companion, the kind stranger, the fragile survivor. but he was leading you. grooming your trust. guiding your hand to this exact moment.

and you never saw it.

"you were watching me this whole time."

his smile doesn't change. "since before you fell. you were marked the second you stepped out of your world."

you try to move, to turn, to run—but the room itself responds. the walls bulge inward, not closing, just guiding you back toward him. toward the center.

and now, behind jay, the ground shifts, ripples, and 3 new openings emerge from the flesh-like floor. 3 more slides, each one glistening in the low red light.

white. red. black. again.

but this time, they're not clean. they're not innocent. they're organic—like veins, like tongues, like they've grown from the very bones of this place.

"you made me choose," you whisper. "back then."

"i had to. i needed your consent. your fear. your longing." you flinch at his words, your body twitching with fear.

"you could've picked safety," he continues, voice low. "you could've chosen death."

"but you picked me."

you can't speak. you can barely stand. the pressure in the room is like a hand on your throat.

"and now," he says, walking toward you slowly, reverently, "i'm giving you a second chance."

he gestures to the slides behind him, and you realized what each colour had represented.

white is safety. "you'll wake up in your home. you'll think that this is all a dream and if you tell anyone they'll never believe you."

red is death. "not metaphorical. not symbolic. ending. i promise it will be quick."

black is to stay. "with me. not just in this place. part of it. bound. fed. worshiped."

your knees nearly give out, "why me?"

he stops. looks at you—really looks at you.

"because you were lonely," he says softly. "you needed to be wanted. i felt it when you fell in. all that ache, all that heat under your skin, how badly you needed something to hold you down, claim you, keep you."

he tilts his head.

"i just answered the call."

you want to scream. you want to cry. but deep down, under the panic, under the betrayal, under the spiraling horror— a part of you remembers how safe he made you feel.

how warm his presence was. how seen you felt when he looked at you. and that part of you doesn't want to leave.

jay sees it. he senses it.

he steps closer, close enough for you to see the subtle shifts in his face—something beneath his skin twitching, pulsing, like he's holding back something monstrous, waiting to be chosen.

"i'll let you go," he whispers, "if that's what you really want."

you stare at the slides.

white. red. black.

you step toward one of them and your fingers brush the edge. behind you, jay's breath hitches. soft. hopeful. and you fall forward—into white.

you don't land. you arrive.

the slide disappears beneath you the moment your body releases into it—no momentum, no tumbling drop. just a blink—

and then you're standing, a chamber breathes around you.

walls of dark, glistening flesh, lit by a muted, red glow that pulses like a living heartbeat. the air hums. it tastes of copper and warmth. there's no door. no light above. no escape.

you turn in a slow, stunned circle.

what is this? where is he?

and then you hear, "you picked well." jay's voice cuts through the silence like silk dragging across bone.

you whip around. he's behind you. standing too close.

his features are familiar, still mostly human, but they don't move like they used to. his limbs are too fluid. his eyes glow faintly with something primal and ancient. there's no tension in his body now, no hesitation—just the unshakable stillness of a predator who has already won.

your chest tightens. "what is this place?"

he just smiles. not cruel. not mocking. patient. "home."

you stare at him, heart thudding, breath shallow. your mind races back to the moment at the slide. how he'd waited. watched. how he hadn't even followed. he knew.

"you said... you said it was a choice."

"and you made one."

"but the others—" your voice cracks. "white was supposed to be safety. red was death."

his expression softens ever so slightly in faux sympathy, "white was suppose to be home, this is home."

you step back like you've been struck, "you said—"

"i never said which realm," he interrupts gently. "i just said they were options."

you feel like you're floating—adrift in something sick and sweet. "then why—why offer a choice at all?"

he tilts his head, gaze tracking you as you retreat another step. the chamber pulses around you, sensing your panic. the walls twitch with each heartbeat. the floor beneath your feet trembles in response to your breath.

you are not in control.

"because you would've run, if i hadn't made you feel like you had a say." his voice is calm. steady. "but this way—" he closes the distance in a single, quiet step, "it's consensual, isn't it?"

your breath stutters. "you tricked me—"

"no. i led you. there's a difference." he begins to circle you.

his movements are slow. languid. like he's savoring your fear. not in a sadistic way—but with intimacy. like he's memorizing every tremble, every shake of your breath.

"i listened to you. i protected you. i let you tell me every little thing that made you feel small. and when it was time to choose... you chose me."

the walls around you shiver. something stirs beneath the floor.

"there was no way out," you whisper, horrified.

"no," he confirms. "but if i told you that from the beginning, you wouldn't have been ready for me."

"you used me."

"i wanted you," he corrects softly. "and i waited until you wanted me back."

he's right in front of you now. you want to scream, but it catches in your throat. not because of fear.

because somewhere, deep down—beneath the betrayal, beneath the horror—you still remember how it felt to be seen by him. how safe you felt when he looked at you like you were worth something.

"you never had a choice, little one," he murmurs. "but the moment you believed you did... you became mine."

you don't run. you can't. your feet won't move, no matter how loud your brain is screaming. because it's not just fear anymore.

it's confusion. it's betrayal. it's the bitter taste of something that once felt safe now turning rotten in your mouth.

your breath stutters, but jay doesn't move. he stands there, gaze quiet, composed—like he's waiting for you to catch up. like he wants you to take your time. let it all sink in.

and oh god, it does.

your thoughts tumble out in a frantic stream:

he never told you anything real. he always let you talk first. he dodged questions with smiles. he cried once, remember? but his face never wrinkled. not really. he held your hand when you were scared, but his skin never sweated. never shook. he never ate. he never slept. but you trusted him anyway.

you think of the stories he told—the apartment, the sister, the café with mismatched mugs—and how vivid they seemed at the time.

but now?

you realize... none of them had names. not the street. not the city. not the sister. just placeholders. just enough to fill the silence you gave him.

you built him. you projected goodness onto something hollow.

and he let you.

"i thought you cared about me." your voice is hoarse, barely audible.

"i do," he says.

and it sounds real. but so did everything else.

you stagger back a step, and the floor beneath your feet shivers—soft, slick, and alive. you suck in a breath, but the air's too thick, syrupy and humid. every inhale feels like it costs you something.

your body is overheating.

you can feel your heartbeat pounding behind your eyes. your chest. between your legs. like the atmosphere itself is stroking your nerves raw.

"why does this feel like—"

you cut yourself off, horrified. because it feels good.

your body—traitorous, stupid—responds to his closeness. the heat, the scent of him. the pull. and it disgusts you. it shames you. but it also excites something low in your gut that you can't name.

jay sees it.

of course he does.

"the backrooms don't just shift for anyone," he murmurs. "they respond to what you feel. what you want."

you shake your head, frantic. "no. i didn't want this. i didn't want—"

"didn't you?" he steps forward again, slow, like he's taming a wounded animal.

"you followed me. you chose me. you let me in."

your vision sways. your breath shortens. because some part of you is still clinging to the way he held you when you were scared. the way his voice calmed you. the way he never pushed. never demanded. he earned your trust and now he's twisting it in his palm like a flower's stem, bending until it snaps.

you sink to your knees, shaking.

you can feel the pulse of the room rising—thump-thump-thump—the walls breathing with you, the floor cradling your body like it wants to hold you. trap you. keep you soft and helpless and pliant.

jay crouches in front of you.

he doesn't touch you, not yet.

his voice is quiet.

"you can cry. you can scream. but it doesn't change anything." he continues, "you're here now. with me. where you were always meant to be."

your vision swims. the fear twists into something else. something hotter.

is it adrenaline? arousal? both?

you hate it but you want more. and that, more than anything else, breaks you.

because now you're not scared of jay. you're scared of yourself.

"you can't move, can you?" jay's voice is soft. breathy. too close.

your limbs won't respond—your legs twitch, your fingers curl—but you're locked in place. not harshly. not like restraints.

like... longing.

your thighs ache to part. your back arches just slightly. it's like your body is moving on instinct, reacting to him.

he circles you slowly, steps silent. the walls pulse with a deep, ambient thrum, responding to the rise in your breathing.

"look at you," he murmurs from behind, his palm dragging down your spine. "so sensitive. like your skin's just waiting to be touched."

you shudder under his hand, eyes fluttering closed. you want to deny it, you should—but all you can do is feel.

heat. tension. craving. your own body is betraying you.

"you think it's just arousal, don't you?"

he appears in front of you, crouching. his eyes glow faintly in the red light. there's something predatory in the way he watches you—like he's savoring a secret.

"you think it's just the moment. adrenaline. fear. me." his hand slides beneath your chin, tilts your face up."it's not."

he smiles, slow and indulgent. "you're already bound to me. you just haven't noticed yet."

your breath catches. "what are you—"

but you stop because you feel it now—subtle threads under your skin, like the gravity in the room is focused only on you. like something invisible is holding your wrists, your thighs, your breath, and telling it to stay. to obey.

"you gave yourself to me the second you believed in me," he whispers. "and now you'll let me take everything."

his hand falls between your thighs, and your knees instinctively try to close—but they don't. you're wide open. exposed. desperate.

he chuckles low in his throat. "see? not even trying anymore. your body knows who it belongs to."

you gasp as his fingers stroke the inside of your thigh, slow and torturously light.  he leans in, pressing his mouth to the shell of your ear. "you don't want gentle, do you?"

his other hand rises. fingers grab your jaw—firm, but not painful. he turns your face toward him. you meet his eyes and almost flinch. they're burning.

"you want filthy. you want my hands on you. my spit in your mouth and my cum slipping out of your cunt. you want to be ruined by something that doesn't even pretend to be human anymore."

you whimper, but your hips rock forward—helpless, aching. he grins. a flash of something sharp behind his lips. "good girl."

then—he spits. right between your parted lips.

you choke on your breath, stunned, but you don't pull away. you can't. you swallow without thinking, dazed, flushed from the heat crawling across your skin.

"that's it," he breathes. "so easy now. so eager."

he pushes you down, palms skimming your thighs as you sink. you don't even realize you've dropped to your knees until you're looking up at him, blinking like you've come undone.

the floor pulses under your skin. the room is watching.

his hand cups your cheek, thumb rubbing gently at your lip like he's wiping you clean—but you both know better.

"no one's ever gonna take you like this. no one else could," he murmurs. "you were made for this. for me."

his voice is velvet-wrapped venom. his gaze pins you in place.

and you? you're no longer sure if you want to be free.

"that's what i thought."

jay sinks down in front of you—slow, deliberate, like he's descending into worship or war. his knees press into the pulsing floor, and your breath catches the moment he pushes you back and his hands come to your thighs.

his eyes trail down. he grabs the waistband of your pants—your last piece of dignity—and pauses just long enough for the panic to rise in your chest. then he rips them down, dragging your underwear with them in one fluid movement.

you gasp, hands moving to cover yourself—but something catches your wrists and forces them above your head, pressing them down into the floor.

the bindings return. invisible, pulsing. your arms are trapped, held still by nothing you can see — just the air around his body thick with power, with control, with him.

"still crying a few minutes ago, weren't you?" he murmurs, voice low and cruel. "sobbing about trust and betrayal and 'how could you do this to me, jay?'" he mimics your tone mockingly, a smirk curling his lips.

you turn your face, burning. but he grabs your chin—firm, sharp fingers tilting your gaze back to his. "look at me when i speak to you."

your breath stutters. his hands slide downward again, slow over your thighs. your skin trembles beneath him. and when his fingers graze over the soaked heat between your legs, he lets out a laugh—soft, delighted, mean.

"oh, sweetheart..."

he drags two fingers slowly through your slick, watching the way your hips twitch, how your mouth parts on instinct.

"you really let me break you that fast?"

you squirm, but the invisible binding tightens. you're not moving unless he allows it.

"so wet for the monster who lied to you," he taunts. "the same one who's been watching you, stalking you, baiting you since the moment you stepped through that yellow door."

he presses his fingers against your clit—just enough pressure to make you gasp. "and now look at you."

he leans in, lips brushing your cheek. "so needy. so fucking ruined."

his free hand grabs your thigh and pulls you open wider, like he's claiming more of you by the second.

"don't you dare pretend you don't like this. your body's too honest, baby."

he spits again but this time low, messy, right where you're dripping—then drags his fingers through it and back onto you, rubbing it in like something unholy.

"i should keep you like this," he whispers. "on your knees. dripping. trembling. always ready for me." your head drops back, a moan torn from your throat.

"that's it. make those pretty little sounds—show me what a filthy thing you are now."

his mouth replaces his hand and he devours you. he licks a thick strip up your slit, enjoying the way your body twitches when he slides over your clit. he ditches the teasing fairly quickly, his mouth engulfing you whole.

not gently. not lovingly. like he's starving and this is what he's been made to eat. his tongue drags through every inch of you, relentless and skilled, and you can feel his power tightening around your limbs every time you twitch or buck.

he's not holding you down with strength. he's holding you down with want. and you can't fight it anymore, you don't want to.

not when he pulls back and looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes gleaming with something dark and endless.

"say it." his voice drops to a growl. "say you want to be mine."

your lips tremble, your chest heaves, and all that comes out is a whimper—but you say it.

"yours."

his smile is all teeth, "that's my girl."

"pathetic little thing." jay's voice is rich with amusement, a low rumble in the thick air around you. he's still crouched between your thighs, fingers gliding lazily through your slick heat, but he's not focused on pleasuring you—he's toying.

his hand moves away. you gasp at the loss, but he's already reaching higher.

"take this off."

you blink through the haze. "what?"

he leans in. slow. terrifying. "your shirt. now."

your hands move on instinct. you tug it up, trembling, but your fingers fumble and you wince when the fabric catches. your eyes blur with tears —again.

jay clicks his tongue. "unbelievable." in one swift motion, his hands are on you, tearing.

the sound of fabric splitting echoes like a scream in the pulsing room. your shirt is gone in seconds, shredded, forgotten and he tosses it aside like trash.

"you can't even get undressed without crying?" he laughs, shoving you back. the warm, fleshy floor catches you like a cradle. "were you always this helpless, or do i just bring it out of you?"

his hand grabs your jaw. not hard enough to bruise, not yet—but enough to make your breath hitch. "you were so loud before. crying about betrayal. sniffling like i ruined your life." he leans in. voice dropping. "but your nipples are hard and you're soaking through your panties. want to explain that to me, baby?"

you turn your face, humiliated. his grip tightens, "look. at. me." you do. your eyes sting. your bottom lip trembles. you hate this. you love it.

he sees everything, "you don't get to hide anymore."

he leans back on his heels, gaze raking over your fully bare body, and groans like he's witnessing something sacred.

"fuck, look at you. trembling. dripping. thighs shaking like you've been begging for this since the day you met me."

your face burns. you try to squeeze your legs together but he slaps your inner thigh.

not hard. not painful. but enough to sting. to make your hips jolt. "spread. them."

you don't obey fast enough so he grabs your knees and forces them open. "you want to cry again? go ahead. i like the way your tears look when they roll into your mouth."

you let out a shaky sob, frustration and arousal eating you alive, but jay just leans down and licks the tear from your cheek.

"sweet little mess," he breathes, lips ghosting over your skin. "this is what you were made for."

he kisses down your neck. your chest. your stomach. his teeth graze your hip. "tell me you want it, or i'll stop."

you squirm, humiliated, raw, "say it."

"i want it," you whisper.

"say it louder."

"i want it."

he smiles. mean. sharp. perfect, "good girl."

he presses his mouth to your heat again. tongue flat, slow, claiming. and this time, he doesn't stop. his tongue slides over your center like he's savoring something expensive.

slow. wide. cruel.

you arch under him with a soft cry, body already raw from how he's stripped you down—not just physically, but completely. nerves exposed. pride shattered. his now, and he knows it.

"mm," jay hums against your core, licking you again, slow and deliberate. "sweet little thing... this what betrayal tastes like?"

your thighs twitch. his grip tightens.

"thought you hated me just ten minutes ago. now you're dripping like you've been waiting your whole life for my mouth."

you whimper, hips twitching. he doesn't give you relief—just more pressure. too slow. too controlled. like he's building something just to tear it down.

he pulls back, licking his lips lazily. his mouth shines.

"you gonna cry again? huh?" he coos, one brow raised. "go ahead. doesn't matter how much you sob, this pretty cunt's still begging me to fill it."

you suck in a breath as his fingers trail back down between your legs. he teases you—barely brushing the slick entrance with two fingers, then pulling away.

again. and again. you try to buck your hips and move your arms but the invisible bindings at your wrists tighten.

"stay still." his voice darkens. and something shifts in the air.

he presses two fingers in—finally—but only halfway.

your eyes roll. your mouth drops open. he watches you, eyes filled with amusement. "that desperate for my fingers? not even halfway in and you're already squeezing like a whore."

you squirm as he thrusts them deeper. the stretch is overwhelming, so sudden after being teased for so long, and the heel of his palm grinds down against your clit until your vision blurs.

"feel that?" his voice is right in your ear now—he's everywhere. "that's your body saying yes while your head's still pretending to be innocent."

he curls his fingers just right and you scream. he grins like the devil himself, "there she is."

he thrusts faster now, fingers soaked, the sound of it filthy in the quiet, pulsing space. his palm slaps against your clit with every movement. your thighs shake, your hips jerk—but you're bound. you're stuck.

"how long do you think you'll last?" he murmurs. "how many times can i make you cum before you forget your own name?"

you whimper, breath hitched. "please, i—"

"please what?" he slows. again.

you almost sob.

"please let you come? please wreck you harder? or maybe you just want to be filled up like a good little toy."

you moan, body straining. the bindings tighten again—not painfully, but enough to remind you that you're completely his.

he leans in, fingers still deep, curling slow and mean. "you're not cumming until you admit it."

"admit what—?"

"that you like this."

you freeze. breathless.

"say it. say you like being used. being ruined. say you like being owned by the thing you were so scared of."

you hesitate, so he stops. fingers still buried inside you, but unmoving. "say it or i leave you here. trembling. soaked. aching."

you bite your lip. humiliated. soaked. desperate. and then you whisper it, "i like it."

"louder."

"i like it. i like being ruined. i like you owning me."

he smiles and fucks you hard with his fingers, curling, thrusting, his mouth back on your clit as he laps at you hungrily. you feel a foreign feeling build in the pit of your stomach, your body shaking and twitching.

you cum fast. loud. messy. completely undone. your body shakes, back arching, a loud sob tearing from your throat as he holds you through it—mouth locked to you, tongue relentless, fingers fucking you through the aftershocks.

and when you collapse?

he doesn't stop, "you thought i was done with you?"

jay's voice is thick with amusement, warm breath fanning over your thighs as he stays buried between them. his fingers don't stop moving. his tongue is still licking.

slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

you're shaking. sobbing. your thighs twitch with every tiny stroke to your clit, and your hips jerk helplessly, but you still can't move—not from exhaustion, not from the invisible force that keeps your wrists pinned above your head.

"don't squirm," he mutters, licking a long stripe up your oversensitive center. "you said you liked being ruined. so now i'm going to ruin you right."

you choke on a moan, head thrashing. "too much—"

he laughs. "too bad." his fingers thrust again—deeper, meaner now. the squelch of your slick, the wet drag of his knuckles, the obscene slap of his palm against your clit—it's all loud now. deliberate. degrading.

"listen to that," he sneers. "your messy little cunt can't even pretend to fight me anymore. soaked. swollen. like it's been waiting for me for years."

you gasp, mouth open in a silent cry as he flattens his tongue against your clit again. but this time, it's not slow. this time, he devours you—relentless, tongue dragging tight circles, fingers curling into that sweet, ruined spot that makes your whole body seize.

"you're gonna cum again," he growls into you, voice muffled by your skin. "don't care if you're ready. don't care if you're crying. this little pussy's mine now, and i decide when it stops."

your eyes roll back and you can feel it—already. your legs shake violently, breath catching in short, high-pitched gasps as you spiral toward a second orgasm.

"that's it. you're close, aren't you? fuck, look at you—" he slaps your clit once, sharp, just to watch you jolt. "—so easy now. so fucking weak for me."

you scream. you thrash. but the bindings hold.

"you gonna cum again, baby? gonna soak my hand like the needy little hole you are?"

your voice breaks, "jay—please—"

"beg louder."

"please! please, i—" but you never finish.

he fucks his fingers into you deeper, thumb circling your clit, tongue flicking across your folds like he's marking you with every stroke—and it tips you over.

the second orgasm crashes into you like a wave of white heat. you scream—louder than before—head thrown back, thighs quivering, tears spilling freely as your body locks and trembles and pulses around his fingers.

and he doesn't stop.

"yeah, that's it," he growls, watching the way you break apart beneath him. "fucking cum for me again. make a mess. cry about it. you're not leaving this floor until i'm finished with you."

your chest heaves, mind blank.

and jay? he's just getting started.

"look at you." jay's voice is velvet-coated filth. he's above you now, body heavy between your thighs, pinning you to the pulsing floor with casual, crushing dominance.

you can barely see him through the blur of tears. your face is hot, your lips swollen, your chest heaving with hiccuped sobs—and he's smiling. like your wreckage is beautiful. like your suffering is his reward.

"crying again, angel? didn't i just give you everything you begged for?" he reaches down—grips himself—and your breath stops.

because that's not human. not anymore.

you hadn't realized when he got the chance to slip off his pants, your eyes immediately zeroing in on what was clenches between his fist.  his cock is thick. veiny. too hot. it pulses in his hand like it has a heartbeat of its own, the head flushed darker than the rest, slightly curved, the base wrapped in ridged muscle you've never seen on anyone living. it looks designed—to stretch, to bruise, to own.

"don't pretend you're scared now," he huffs, pressing the thick head against your drenched entrance. "you begged for this. cried for it. soaked my face like a desperate little whore."

you whimper as he shoves in the tip.

your back arches, and your mouth drops down to an 'o'. "too big?" he mocks. "what a shame." his hand clamps down on your waist. you try to pull away—reflex—but he drags you back down like your body belongs to him. because it does.

"this body's not made for anything soft anymore." he pushes deeper and you scream. it burns. it stretches. he's so much, and you're still raw, still trembling from the last orgasm—and he knows it.

"so fucking tight," he grits. "like you were waiting to be split open."

he bottoms out and you sob again and jay laughs. "god, you're crying again. what's wrong, baby? can't handle being filled by what you gave yourself to?"

your fingers claw the air, wrists still bound, whole body shaking as his hips start to move—slow at first, dragging every ridge and vein against your walls, pulling back just enough to make you feel the loss before slamming back in deep.

"this pussy's mine now." he pounds into you again, "say it."

"j—jay—"

he grabs your jaw, forces your mouth open. "say it or i'll cum inside you and keep you full forever."

your cunt clamps down on him tight and he groans, low and dangerous. "fuck. you liked that, didn't you? thought you'd hate being ruined, but now you want it dripping down your thighs."

you choke. your legs are shaking again. your mind is gone. he keeps fucking into you—hard, brutal, possessive.

"i'm gonna fuck you until you forget you ever had a name. until the only word you know is mine."

your body convulses and another orgasm hits you, this one violent and sharp—rips through you as his cock drags over every spot that shouldn't exist inside you. it's like he's built to keep you on edge, to ruin you forever.

and when you cum, crying, broken, babbling nonsense—he smiles. "good girl."

he thrusts once. twice. and then he growls, a sound inhuman and deep, filling you with a rush of heat so intense your whole body trembles.

his cock pulses. deep inside. and he doesn't pull out. you could feel yourself dripping with him, your cunt clenching pathetically around him like a vice.

"mine now," he whispers into your ear, licking the sweat from your temple. "forever."

you don't respond. you can't.

and jay? jay just watches you twitch beneath him, a satisfied god feasting on the wreckage he made.

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

no one finds her.

not the mall staff. not the cops who skim the grainy security footage with bored eyes. not her family, who post missing posters no one reads.

there's no door. no sound. no sign.

just static on the feed where her flashlight dropped. just silence in the halls where she vanished.

but sometimes—if you're unlucky— if you wander too far past where the lights flicker and the walls feel too soft you might hear something.

a voice.

a moan.

a laugh, low and sweet and wrong.

or maybe you'll see something flash by—dark hair, bare feet, eyes too wide, a figure slumped against yellow walls with something crawling beneath her skin.

you won't know if she's alive.

you won't know if she's alone.

and the worst part? she might smile at you.

soft. slow. dreamy.

like she's waiting. like you're next.

because the backrooms keep what they're given. and they remember every sob, every scream, every second of surrender.

and somewhere inside them, in the red-lit heart of something ancient and hungry—he's still fucking her open. still whispering in her ear.

still asking the same question, over and over again: "do you want to be mine?"

and maybe—just maybe..

she said yes.

you approached, nerves thrumming.

jay refused to meet your eye, his jaw clenched so tightly you wondered if he’d crack a tooth. his chest rose and fell in harsh bursts. sweat carved lines down his temple, and even at this distance you could see the rigid, unnatural way he cradled his right arm, as if it was something foreign, something broken he didn’t want to claim.

he looked utterly exhausted and frustrated, a shadow of the athlete whose charming smile always made headlines and lit up social media after a win. here, stripped of the crowd and the cameras, there was nothing left of that easy confidence. only fatigue and anger and sadness.

no proof that he used to be golden. gold that people desperately seek, gold that the world took, gold that they steal.

“mr. park,” you called, forcing steadiness into your voice as you crouched to retrieve his mallet. “i’m here for an initial inspection. just to see how your arm’s holding up.”

nothing. his eyes flicked past you, toward the empty stands.

“can you lift it for me? just to shoulder height.”

he exhaled through clenched teeth, the sound harsh and brittle. after a pause that stretched uncomfortably, he jerked his arm upward, stopping halfway with a wince that twisted his face, rage and pain flickering in his eyes.

“where’s the pain? elbow? shoulder?”

no answer. just a glare at the horizon.

“fine,” you murmured, stepping into his space, feeling the heat radiate off him. “let me check. squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”

his grip nearly bruised your fingers, raw strength but wild and uneven. you wrote it down, lips pressed into a thin line, trying not to show how much it hurt.

“do you feel numbness? tingling?”

silence.

the golden boy didn’t even react, and perhaps that was the worst part.

“any sharp pain when you swing?”

another pause. “obviously,” he bit out, low.

you pretended not to notice the hostility, scribbling notes. “how bad is it, mr. park? one to ten?”

silence. no reply. just the reins creaking in his hands as the horse tossed its head.

“play nice,” coach told him, then stepped away but stayed close enough to watch.

jay occupied the far end of a battered bench by the stables, his injured arm cradled protectively against his thigh. he avoided your gaze, staring somewhere beyond the paddock. every muscle in his body was strung taut with defiance, a living barricade daring you to cross.

you set your bag at your feet and crouched, bringing yourself eye-level with him. “alright,” you began, voice gentle but firm. “today’s just about beginnings. simple movements, stretching out the tension, coaxing your muscles to remember trust.”

silence. no acknowledgment.

with care, you reached for his arm, your fingertips light against his sleeve. “i’m going to lift now,” you murmured, watching for the telltale flicker of pain. “tell me if it gets worse.”

he gave a curt nod, jaw set like stone.

you eased his arm upward, feeling the resistance in every trembling muscle. his shoulder fought the motion, a silent battle beneath your hands. “you’re gripping too hard,” you whispered. “let the tension go. this isn’t a contest.”

he let out a muted scoff, but you saw the subtle shift. his breath left him in a slow, controlled stream, surrendering bit by bit.

you kept your tone light, as if you weren’t both fighting gravity and memory. “distraction helps,” you said, conversational, “so, have you always been a morning trainer, or is this something new?”

“i’m not here to make friends,” he snapped, eyes finally locking with yours, sharp as flint.

the coach shifted behind you. “jay,” he warned, voice edged.

you lifted a hand in silent reassurance, not bothering to glance at the coach. “it’s alright,” you said. “i’m not after friendship. i want to help you move through the pain. distraction keeps your body from seizing up. trust me.”

he looked away again, lips pressed thin.

you allowed the silence to linger for a heartbeat before breaking it with your own calm, methodical voice. as you rotated his shoulder, you narrated the movement, “see how that tugs? that’s your muscle searching for old patterns. soreness is good. a dull ache means you’re healing. sharp pain is a warning. dull means progress.”

silence. silence. silence. still nothing.

“now, squeeze my hand,” you instructed, placing your palm against his. you watched the struggle ripple across his face, his grip erratic: first a burst of strength, then a sudden weakness, as if the memory of power fought with reality.

“that’s better,” you observed, offering a small, encouraging nod. “feel any pain?”

a long pause, then, “no.”

you jotted the answer in your notes, careful not to show your relief at his response. “good,” you said quietly. “that means your nerves are clear. we’ll keep building from here.”

he fell silent, but allowed you to continue, his breath rasping through each new stretch. you filled the space with your voice, refusing to let quiet become a wall. “this is just a gentle flexion. hold it for ten. don’t focus on the strain. think about the letting go. your body is relearning safety.”

when at last you lowered his arm and checked the clock, you were surprised. barely twenty minutes had trickled away.

“that’s it for today,” you announced, tucking your notes away with practiced efficiency.

jay’s head whipped around. “that’s it?” disbelief colored every syllable.

“that’s right.” you rose to your full height, not flinching from his glare. “we go slow. rush a ligament, and you’ll tear it again, maybe worse. we’ll add weight and resistance once your arm remembers how to move.”

he barked a bitter laugh, surging to his feet. “you’re wasting my time. i don’t need someone coddling me with baby exercises. i need to get back, fast.”

you held his gaze, steady and unyielding. “if you think i’m not enough, find someone else. but this is the program that will save your arm, and maybe your career.”

his jaw clenched, eyes bright with something that almost hurt to witness. “you don’t know what it’s like to lose everything in one stupid fall. i can’t.” he broke off, shaking his head, voice rough. “i don’t have time to crawl back. i need to be ready.”

you softened, but only a fraction. “let me help you do this right. i’m not fighting you, mr. park. if you push too fast, you’ll land right back at zero, or worse.”

the coach finally stepped in, his voice a hard edge. “jay, giver her a chance. you won’t get anywhere if you keep fighting the people trying to get you back on that field.”

there’s a crack in his surface, electric midnight eyes. his gaze flickered between you and the coach, frustration rolling off him in visible waves. at last, he exhaled sharply, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and spun away. his boots scraped the earth as he stalked toward the stables, leaving only silence in his wake.

you arrived ahead of time, boots crunching quietly across the grass. the coach was nowhere to be seen. but jay was there, a solitary figure outlined against the fence. his silhouette tense, his good hand white-knuckled around the reins of a restless horse.

you hesitated a moment before calling out, “you're early. did you not sleep last night, or were you just eager to get this over with?” your attempt at lightness hung awkwardly in the air.

silence, silence, silence. he released the reins, shoulders stiff, and turned toward the battered bench where you always worked together.

you set your bag down, scanning the empty field. "where's coach?" you asked, voice low.

"not here." jay dropped onto the bench with a heavy thud, stretching his legs out in front of him. "it’s just you and me today."

there was a weight to his words. a warning, not an invitation. still, you crouched beside him, sliding the strap of your bag off with practiced ease. "alright. we’ll start the same as always. basic stretches. keep building tolerance."

he said nothing, just sat hunched, brows drawn together, jaw clenched as if holding back a storm.

"lift your arm for me," you instructed, voice gentle but firm. "slow. just to shoulder height."

he obeyed, his face unmoving beneath that permanent scowl. carefully, you guided his arm, rotating it at the shoulder. his muscles resisted, tense and unyielding beneath your hands.

"you're still holding tight," you murmured, barely above a whisper. "try to let the shoulder go."

he exhaled sharply through his nose, still silent, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.

you filled the silence with words meant to comfort. "this injury won’t end your career, jay. you know that, right?"

his head snapped toward you, eyes fierce and wounded. the look in his eyes are terrible. terrifying. "don't."

"don't what?" you asked, keeping your tone even.

"don’t talk to me like you know what this is. just do your job." his voice cut through the air, sharp and brittle and harsh. "you’ll never understand what it feels like. to lose everything in one fall." he stopped, jaw trembling, eyes darting away as if the words themselves might hurt him.

you wonder if he had anymore gold to give.

you let his words hang in the air, heavy as the silence. quietly, you said, "i know one thing, though. if you want to recover, you have to believe it's possible. i can show you the program, the stretches, the exercises. but if you’ve already decided you’re broken, your body will listen."

his gaze bore into you. as if he was trying to sink your image fully. all the contours on your face, depths, highlights, sinking in, popping out, slopes, textures, tones.

his glare faltered. the fight in his eyes faded, replaced by a shadow of something you couldn’t quite name.

he didn’t answer. just turned away, lips pressed together.

you continued to move his arm, narrating each motion. "this one rebuilds your range of motion. a dull ache means you’re making progress. we'll add resistance soon, but for now, this is how your body relearns trust."

still, he said nothing, nothing, nothing. but he didn’t pull away.

when you finished, easing his arm back into his lap, the silence stretched between you like a drawn bow. for once, he didn’t snap. he only sat, eyes fixed on the ground, unusually still.

you packed up your things slowly, glancing over at him. "same time tomorrow?" you asked, voice tentative.

he doesn't answer. for a long moment, only the sound of the restless horse and the distant wind fill the space between you. you watch him for a sign. a nod. a word. anything. but he just stares at the ground, jaw set.

you shoulder your bag. "i'll be here," you say quietly. the words hang in the air, softer than a promise, as you step away.

he offered no answer. just the faintest twitch along his jaw.

but he didn’t leave. not yet.

weeks slipped by, and the rhythm of recovery changed in quiet increments. each morning, jay rolled his shoulder and flexed his fingers, the ache in his arm easing, though the silence around him lingered like a second shadow.

you guided him, gently and persistently, through stretches, resistance bands biting against muscle. then, at last, the coach relented: jay could return to the field.

from the sidelines, you watched with the coach as jay swung into the saddle, reins drawn taut between knuckles gone white. sunlight poured over the field, heavy and golden, while cicadas droned somewhere unseen.

“he’s improved,” you murmured, eyes following the way jay coaxed the horse into a careful trot. there was tension still in every line of him, but now it was harnessed. controlled, not forced.

the coach folded his arms, eyes never leaving jay’s silhouette, studying the boy that used mirror the sun. “you know… no one’s managed to get him this far before.”

you blinked, surprised, glancing over. “what do you mean?”

“he’s burned through so many therapists,” the coach said, voice low, shaking his head. “some walked away, some he drove off. jay wasn’t always this angry. he’s furious with himself, mostly. for that one moment of carelessness. for letting the fall happen. it cost him more than just his arm.” the coach’s gaze drifted to the far fence, voice thinning to a whisper. “he lost the horse he raised. when jay’s arm gave out, he couldn’t hold the reins. the horse went down, too.”

your gaze found him again. he was guiding the horse into a slow run, posture rigid, every movement precise. but you saw it; the flicker in his eyes, the pinch at his brow, the heaviness that clung to his hands whenever he closed them around the lead.

golden. but he’s sad now.

he’s quiet, sunken, and shaded.

“he blames himself,” the coach murmured, almost to himself.

there was nothing you could say to that.

then, in a blink, your heart lurched. jay’s horse faltered, a hoof skidding in the dirt. he pitched forward, nearly unseated, panic flashing across his face.

“jay—” the coach called, but jay was already reacting.

he steadied himself in an instant, one hand stroking the horse’s neck as he leaned close, words slipping out in a hoarse whisper. his face was drawn, panic flickering behind his eyes, but his voice, when it broke through, was raw and trembling “easy, easy. i’ve got you. i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”

you stood frozen watching him stroke the horse’s mane, apologies tumbling from his lips again and again. quiet, desperate, meant for ears that could never truly answer.

beside you, the coach’s expression shifted, grief and understanding flickering across his features.

in that moment, you understood. it wasn’t just he injury that had broken jay, it was the guilt. the weight of loss he kept tucked out of sight, where no one else could reach it.

crownless prince, he saw the universe for a moment and the next, it’s gone.

later on, night draped itself around the medical facility, muffling every sound but the distant thump of bass that vibrated across the field. a reminder that life carried on elsewhere.

you slipped inside, careful not to let the door creak, footsteps soft against the floor. the lights overhead hummed as you made your way to your station, heart pounding with quiet urgency.only when your hand closed around the tool you’d left behind did you finally exhale, relief shivering through you like a gust of cold air.

“we’re not supposed to have a session right now, are we?”

you froze, breath catching as you turned.

jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette etched in the spill of light from outside. gone was the familiar training gear, but in its place, a suit clung to his lean frame, jacket undone, tie askew. his hair was carefully styled, then ruined by restless hands. the air around him shimmered faintly with whiskey and something heavier. regret, maybe, or damned at the birs of exhaustion.

you lifted the tool slightly, sheepish. “no. just forgot something.”

his gaze drifted past you, settling on the glass building that glittered cross the field. windows pulsed with light, silhouettes swirling behind them. a ballroom in motion, alive with laughter and the clink of crystal.

the sponsor gala was a world apart: investors, family friends, socialites swirling in designer gowns. servers moved like shadows between them, trays of champagne balanced high, while camera flashes burst like distant stars.

“are you staying for the party?” he asked.

you glanced down at yourself, plain t-shirt, jeans, trench coat, and let out a dry laugh. “do i look like i belong in there?”

his eyes lingered on you, unwavering, and for a moment, you felt transparent beneath his gaze.

jay, beautiful, quiet, sunken, and shaded.

somewhere in there, he’s still golden.

when he finally spoke, his voice was stripped, almost tender. “doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. you’d outshine them all.” the words landed heavier than you expected.

you blinked, unsure how to respond.

jay blinked too, dragging a hand over his face. “sorry. too much to drink.”

you cleared your throat. “i should go.”

but instead of stepping aside, he moved into the room, crossing the distance with slow, heavy steps. he sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed. for the first time since you had known him, his anger had burned away, leaving only a raw, bone-deep weariness.

“you good?” you asked carefully.

“yeah,” he muttered. “just… tired.”

you lingered, watching him. “what’s wrong?”

he gave you a faint, defeated smile. “pretty sure listening to me complain isn’t part of your job description.”

you crossed your arms. “neither was putting up with you snapping at me all the time, and i’m still doing it.”

that pulled a soft chuckle from him, though it didn’t last long. you found yourself appreciating it so much. to hear him laugh.

silence stretched before he spoke again, voice low. “do you ever wonder what would happen if you just… stopped following the rules? if you stopped doing what was expected of you?”

you tilted your head. “are you planning to become a criminal now?”

he shook his head. “no. i mean… what if i stopped being who everyone thinks i am? the interviews, the sponsors, the family obligations. it’s all been picked for me. sometimes i wonder what would happen if i just said no.”

your voice softened, careful. “i thought you loved polo.”

“i do. i love the game.” his gaze found yours, stripped bare of pretense. “but everything behind it, the pressure, the spotlight. it’s like i’m wearing a costume i can’t take off. sometimes i wonder if any of it is really mine.”

you shifted, clutching your coat tighter. “that doesn’t mean you stop being you.”

jay met your torn stare as you observed him, trying to detect what it is currently going through your brain. then he exhaled and leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “forget it. i’ve had too much to drink.”

you didn’t push further. adjusting your bag, you nodded once. “get some rest, mr. park.”

“it’s jay.” he corrected.

you shook your head. “jay, then.”

“y/n.”

you paused at the doorway.

his face was masked in shadow, but his words cut through the hush. “one day, i’ll step out of the part they wrote for me.” his eyes locked with yours, fierce and vulnerable all at once.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. so you left.

the tool in your bag was feather-light, but his words settled over your shoulders. an invisible weight you’d carry long after you stepped back into the night.

the stables exhaled as you slipped in after work, the lingering scent of hay and leather rising to greet you. darkness stretched long between the stalls, but you moved through them like a familiar ghost, your pockets heavy with sugar cubes.

one by one, you offered each horse a small sweet, your voice soft as you murmured to them, their velvet muzzles pressing into your palm, ears flickering in silent conversation.

when you reached jay’s horse, you lingered, letting your hand rest on the mare’s neck.

“you did a good job today,” you whispered, your breath stirring the short hairs by her ear. the horse’s eyes fluttered closed as you stroked her head, slipping her an extra treat. she pressed her weight into your palm, a deep trust in the way she leaned, and a soft smile tugged at your lips.

“do you always stop by the stables after work?”

you turned, heart quickening.

jay stood at the entrance, framed by the last golden shaft of evening sun making him look like he had a halo, a coil of hose slung over one shoulder and a battered bucket of brushes and bottles in the other. damp hair clung to his forehead, and his shirt, darkened by sweat, hugged the lean lines of his body. for once, he looked calmer, as if the day’s rough edges had been smoothed.

the horse shoved its head harder into your hand, answering for you.

his lips twitched before nodding. “guess you two are already well-acquainted.”

you let out a small laugh. “certainly know more about her than i do about you.”

his head shook, almost amused. without replying, he set the supplies down and started brushing the horse’s mane, movements methodical. his eyes never left the strands.

“i’ve been an ass,” he said suddenly, low. you could see the tired lines across his face. “most of the time.”

you tilted your head, brushing it off with a soft tone. “you’ve been angry. frustrated. you’re struggling with the outside and with yourself. that’s a lot for anyone to carry.”

he stilled.

“but,” you added softly, “you have to remember… choosing anger as a response is still a choice.”

for a moment, he just stared at the brush in his hand, as if your words weighed more than the bristles.

then he nodded, a slow, reluctant acceptance. "aside from being a sports therapist, are you also an actual therapist?" the faintest glimmer of humor flickered in his eyes, like sunlight on water now. "you always know what to say."

you shook your head, smiling faintly. “no. i’ve just been there before.”

he glanced sideways at you, brows furrowing. “what happened?”

you shrugged, picking up another brush from the bucket. “i was an equestrian. but that dream had already ended. back injury.”

this time, he looked at you, really looked, as if seeing past the person you presented to the ache beneath. the sharpness in his gaze softened, his features shifting into something close to understanding. "i'm sorry," he said, and the words sounded like they cost him something.

i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.

you chuckled, brushing the horse’s coat. “why are you sorry? it’s not your fault.”

“i just am,” he said simply, and there was no fight in his voice this time.

you nodded quietly, accepting it. after a moment, you asked, “so, why are you cleaning her yourself when there are caretakers?”

jay’s hand slowed through the horse’s mane. “because i like doing it. makes a relationship with her that isn’t just about riding. it’s like… making a friend at work. work and outside fun are different. there are boundaries.”

“boundaries,” you repeated, amused. “so brushing is like… after-work drinks?”

that got him to huff a quiet laugh. “something like that.”

he crouched, pulling the hose closer, and motioned for you to take the small stool. you sat down, brushing dust off your pants. then suddenly, his hands closed around the edges of the stool.

you startled slightly as he dragged it back, dragging you with it, the legs scraping against the ground. he leaned close, his arm brushing your knee as he shifted the stool a safe distance away.

your breath caught. his head dipped just enough that the scent of horse and fresh sweat, earthy and clean, rose from his shirt, vivid and real. for a heartbeat, the world shrank to the small space between you, filled with unspoken questions.

“you’re in the splash zone,” he murmured, voice low but edged with amusement. his eyes flicked to yours. soft, roaring thunder. holding for just a second too long before he pulled away.

and then, just as the words left him, the horse shook herself violently, spraying water in every direction. jay twisted instinctively, shielding you with his body, leaving his back drenched instead.

you burst out laughing, clutching the stool. “i think she likes you better soaked.”

he turned, water streaming from his hair, droplets sparkling in the stable’s muted light. but there it was, a grin, wide and boyish, stripping years from his face and leaving him momentarily unguarded. "she did that on purpose," he protested, but laughter trembled in his voice.

“she’s smarter than you give her credit for,” you teased.

he shook his head, still grinning. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“of course,” you shot back. “i stayed dry.”

the laughter lingered, floating between you like dust motes in the sun, before fading into the silence. jay leaned against the stall, his smile softer now, shadowed by something uncertain. "are you coming next week?"

you blinked. “you don’t have an appointment next week.”

“i know.” his eyes held yours, steady and searching. “but… what if something happens to me?”

you tilted your head, trying to keep your tone teasing despite the weight in his voice. “what, like another horse decides to soak you?”

he didn’t laugh. he just kept looking at you, gaze steady and unreadable. the air in the stable shifted, no longer playful but dense, charged with anticipation and something unnamed.

“yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “something like that.”

the arena thrummed with anticipation the moment you arrived, the crowd’s chatter and the relentless flicker of camera shutters weaving a restless tapestry overhead. coach strode at your side, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, scanning the expanse of emerald grass and freshly painted lines.

“he’s right there,” coach muttered, his voice gravelly, nodding toward a tight knot of reporters whose microphones glinted in the late sun.

jay stood at their center, immaculate in his polo whites, his smile as polished as the silver cups displayed in the clubhouse. he shone under the sunlight, glimming like a universal dream.

the journalists circled him, a swirling mass of questions ricocheting off one another, hungry for soundbites about the prince of polo’s fabled comeback. their voices merged into a single, insistent roar.

“vultures,” coach grumbled under his breath. “every last one.”

but then, amid the chaos, jay’s gaze broke free and found yours. his smile changed. less practiced, unexpectedly warm. he lifted his hand in greeting, momentarily oblivious to the reporter repeating his question, intent only on you.

your heart ached, a sharp burn spreading like a wild flame.

later on the whistle blew. the game began in a blur of pounding hooves and sunlit dust.

jay rode with the elegance of someone born to the saddle. every swing clean, every turn precise, as if the months away had only honed his hunger. yet, as the minutes wore on, you saw the strain in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his mallet, the subtle hitch in his right arm.

coach cursed softly, his words nearly lost in the din. “he’s pushing too hard.”

and sure enough, jay was sidelined, frustration etched deep in his features as he cantered off toward the stables, head bowed.

“you should check on him,” coach said, his tone gentler now.

you nodded, slipping away from the noise and the crowd, your footsteps echoing in the quieter corridors behind the stables. you found jay with his back to you, hands moving in slow, gentle circles over his horse’s withers, as if searching for solace in the animal’s steady breath.

“you did well,” you offered quietly.

he turned, the tension in his shoulders slackening just a fraction. beautiful, sunken, and shaded. “you think so?”

“i know it,” you replied, reaching to test the motion of his arm. “see? no overexertion. that’s real progress. any pain?”

jay shook his head, his eyes searching yours as if for reassurance he dared not voice. “i’m glad you’re here,” he said at last.

you tried to make light of it. “who else would put up with you when you need patching up?”

he shook his head, more earnest now. “no, really. i mean it. i’m just… glad to see you.”

your heart was about to detonate.

the words lingered in the quiet, thickening the air. you took a step back, needing space, but he caught you with his voice.

“wanna go for a ride?”

you hesitated. “but your game—”

he shrugged, resigned. “we both know i’m done for today. besides, she’s got energy to burn.”

you protested half-heartedly, but jay’s grin was infectious, and soon you relented. he swung up onto his horse, then reached down, hand outstretched.

you took it, letting him pull you up behind him, your hands finding purchase at his waist.

“ready?” he asked, looking back at you.

“yes,” you began, gripping the saddle. but his hand covered yours, moving it over his waist.

“it’s safer here,” he said softly, almost teasing. “you know that.”

the two of you crossed the fields, the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait soothing the ache of disappointment. the world felt smaller out here, bordered by the scent of rain and the whisper of grass.

“do you miss it?” jay asked quietly. “competing?”

“sometimes,” you admitted. “but i try not to dwell. life doesn’t stop just because one dream fades.”

he was silent for a long time. “that’s your superpower,” he said finally.

you frowned, brow furrowing. “what is?”

“making hardships feel… smaller. like they’re just passing weather. you always know how to quiet the noise in my head.”

“soon enough, you won’t need me for that.”

he made a low sound of protest. “you really believe that?”

“yeah. you’ll recover.”

“no,” he said, voice rough. “that i won’t need you.”

before you could answer, thunder cracked, slicing through the moment.

“we should head back,” you said, nerves prickling.

rain broke, sudden and cold, chasing you to the stables. by the time you arrived, both of you were drenched, laughing breathlessly as jay lifted you down, his hands steady at your waist. the horse shook herself, spraying you both, and you laughed harder, warmth blooming in your chest.

“she’s a jokester, your horse,” you said, pushing wet hair from your eyes.

“she knows exactly what she’s doing,” jay replied, grinning through the rain.

the laughter faded, replaced by a different tension. jay’s hands lingered, his face so close you could feel his breath. he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. your hearted beated, out if control, out of control, out of control.

“i need to tell you something—”

“jay?” a new voice, crisp and clear, cut through the hush.

you turned. a woman stood beneath the stable’s eaves, dry in a perfect coat, her umbrella a shield against the weather.

she crossed to jay, kissed his cheek, and wiped away the trace of lipstick she left behind.

“you’re soaked, honey. where did you go?” her voice was smooth, practiced.

jay didn’t answer. his eyes stayed on you.

she followed his gaze, her smile polite but razor-edged. “you must be the therapist. i’m f/n, jay’s fiancée.” she slipped an arm around his waist, heedless of his sodden clothes. “i see you’re working overtime to fix him.”

it feels there’s a hole ripped in your chest.

you forced a smile, masking the sting. “we were just talking. about how he won’t need me much longer.”

“y/n—” jay’s voice broke, desperate.

but you were already walking away, heart pounding, not trusting yourself to look back. “until next time, mr. park.”

that night, you scrubbed your skin until it was raw and red.

you worked his arm through the last series of stretches. jay sat on the bench, expression unreadable, gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

“here,” you instructed, adjusting the angle of his elbow. “this is where you should feel it tense. hold for five… four…”

he obeyed silently. for once, he didn’t argue. but the silence wasn’t peaceful. it was something taut, strung between you.

the coach hovered nearby, scrolling through his phone, then suddenly glanced up. “i’ll just take this call. keep up the good work!” he walked a few paces off, phone pressed to his ear.

the moment his back was turned, jay leaned forward, his breath brushing against your temple. “are you really not going to talk to me?”

you didn’t flinch, didn’t look at him. “i am talking to you. one more set.” your voice was calm, clinical.

but when the coach’s voice drifted farther away, jay suddenly stood, looming over you. his shadow fell across your face, the rich scent of his cologne wrapping around you until you had nowhere to look but up.

the room shifts and strains with tension, so close to breaking. always close to something.

“it’s not what it looks like,” he said, low, urgent.

you arched a brow, feigning confusion. “and what exactly is it?”

“we’re engaged, yes. but i’m not in love with her.”

your laugh was short, bitter. “that’s the kind of thing men always say when they’re caught in someone else’s arms.” his brows pulled together, but before he could speak, you clipped, “you’re finished. that was your last session.”

you turned on your heel, striding toward the field.

for a moment, he was frozen, baffled. then—“what do you mean, last session?” his footsteps pounded behind you.

“you’ve completed the program, mr. park,” you reminded him briskly. “your arm’s healed. good as new.”

“you’re leaving me.” his voice wasn’t angry this time. it was raw.

“you mean i’ve done my job.”

“we’re not done, y/n.”

“there’s no we here.”

he caught your arm, gently but firmly, halting you. carefully drew you back to him, hands aching in want. what do you want? what do you want? what do you want? his body towered over yours, eyes burning down into yours. “there is. and you know it.”

you stared at him, pulse quick. “if you don’t feel ready, then hire a new therapist.”

“i don’t want a new therapist. i want you.”

“i’m booked,” you snapped, yanking your arm back.

he exhaled, frustrated. “i don’t mean it like that and you know it.”

you froze, eyes meeting his. his voice was softer now, a desperate tone.

“you’re engaged,” you whispered, pressing a hand against his chest, shoving lightly to create space before walking again.

“she was chosen for me,” he said suddenly, voice breaking through the air between you. “our families arranged it. it’s business, it benefits both sides.”

you stopped dead. “…what?”

“i don’t love her,” jay admitted, each word heavier than the last. his tone wasn’t defensive, it was pleading.

your throat tightened. “why should i believe that?”

“because it’s the truth. ask around. ask coach. please—” he caught up to you, reaching for your hand this time, not by accident, not disguised as anything else. friends. his fingers laced with yours deliberately. “please, believe me.”

you stared at him, heat rushing to your cheeks, but forced your voice steady. “even if it is true, what difference does that make? i don’t like you.”

his eyes darkened, lips twitching into the faintest, pained smile. “i don’t believe you.” he stepped closer, erasing the space between you.

“i’ve never even thought of you in that way,” you said firmly, but your voice wavered.

“liar,” he whispered, his lips so close you could feel the ghost of his breath.

“jay… this is unprofessional,” you murmured, barely audible.

his mouth curved against the edge of yours. “good thing you’re not my therapist anymore.”

and before you could move, his lips pressed to yours. hot, urgent, breaking every line you swore you wouldn’t cross.

time seemed to splinter as his lips claimed yours desperate.

the world dissolved into sensation: his breath, jagged and ragged, mingled with yours, the heat of his body pressed so close you could feel the wild thrum of his heart against your chest. out of control, out of control, out of control.

for a heartbeat, you were marble, stunned by the audacity and the heat of him, your fingers curled helplessly in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like a lifeline.

then sensation flooded in: the rough silk of his mouth, the electric jolt as your body moved of its own volition, betraying every denial you had rehearsed. the taste of rain and adrenaline clung to him, grounding you in the impossible moment.

his hand found your jaw, gentle and commanding, thumb tracing the line of your cheek as if memorizing it, tilting your face so the kiss deepened. so you could lose yourself, just for a breath, in the ache you swore you would never admit.

your chest tightened, a storm gathering under your skin. his hand splayed at your waist, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly, as if he was just as close to unraveling as you.

god, it was far too easy to collapse into him, to surrender to the gravity between you, as if you’d been falling for years and only just realized the ground was gone. every muscle in your body seemed crave the shape of his arms around you, the safety and the danger intertwined in his hold.

but reality crashed in. merciless and cold.

somewhere, a door slammed, a distant voice called, and the spell shattered.

with a gasp, you shoved against his chest, tearing yourself away, the force of it leaving your palms tingling. his cologne, his warmth, the echo of his lips. all of it clung to your skin, dizzying and inescapable. your breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, and for a moment all you could do was stare, stunned by what you had let happen.

“jay,” you hissed, taking a step back. “that was—no. we can’t.”

he stood there, lips parted, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. “you kissed me back.”

your cheeks burned, your hands curling into fists. “i stopped it.”

“you didn’t want to.” his voice was steady, quiet. but his gaze was fire, pinning you in place.

“don’t twist this,” you snapped. “this—whatever this is—can’t happen. you’re engaged.”

his jaw flexed. “i told you, it’s not real. it’s politics, family, business. everything but love. you’re the only one i—”

“stop.” you cut him off before he could finish, shaking your head. “you can’t just throw that at me because you’re unhappy in an arrangement.”

he took a step closer, towering again, but softer this time, as if afraid you’d run. “y/n… i meant what i said. i need you.”

you exhaled, forcing yourself to stand firm. “you need a therapist. not me. not like this.”

“you think i can’t tell the difference?” his voice cracked with frustration. “you think i would risk everything just to play games with you?”

your chest ached, but you forced the words out. “risking everything isn’t the same as loving someone, jay.”

for the first time, his confidence faltered. he looked at you like the ground beneath him had shifted, like your words had stolen his balance.

and before either of you could speak again, coach’s voice called distantly from across the field. “y/n! jay! you two done?”

you quickly bent, stuffing your things into your bag, heart pounding. “yes, coach.” your voice was steady, but your hands shook.

jay’s eyes stayed locked on you, unreadable.

as you slung the bag over your shoulder, you met his gaze. “this won’t ever happen again.”

“y/n.”

you stopped, spine stiff, before turning. jay stood there, polo uniform replaced by a crisp shirt and slacks. he looked less like an athlete and more like the heir everyone said he was. more and more out of reach.

but his eyes. they weren’t composed. they were stormy, restless, raging in sadness.

“i told you,” you said flatly. “this can’t happen again.”

“i’m not going to apologize for the kiss.” his tone was sharp, cutting through the night air. “i don’t regret it.”

you exhaled, shaking your head. “then you should be talking to your fiancée, not me.”

“i told you, she isn’t—”

“jay,” you cut him off, voice rising. “you can’t drag me into your mess because you’re unhappy with your life. i won’t be your excuse for why you can’t go through with it.”

his jaw tightened, but then he stepped closer, voice lower, rawer. “you think that’s what this is? you think i want you because i’m cornered? no. i want you because—” his throat worked, the words sticking before finally breaking free. “because when you look at me, you don’t see the title. or the money. or the mistakes. you just… see me. and no one else ever has.”

your chest clenched, but you forced yourself to look away. “that doesn’t change anything.”

“it changes everything,” he countered quickly, desperate. “it means this isn’t one-sided. you feel it too. you can’t deny it.”

you tried to keep your tone steady, professional. “what i feel doesn’t matter. what matters is that you’re engaged, and i won’t be the other woman in your story.”

jay ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “you’re not the other woman. you’re the only woman. the only one i—” he stopped, cutting himself off before the words spilled too far.

silence fell, heavy between you.

finally, you whispered, “you’re asking me to destroy myself for you.” this time your voice broke with the very last word.

“i’m asking you to believe me,” he said quietly, almost begging. “to believe that i’ll find a way out. that i’ll choose you, if you will let me.”

jay was on his knees now, unraveling that much morec and you felt that too, felt the relief and the terror and the exhaustion in that, felt the helplessness in how he clung to you.

you swallowed hard, heart thundering. for the first time, jay didn’t look like the arrogant prince or the angry athlete. he just looked… human. vulnerable.

and that terrified you more than anything.

the storm had never stopped.

rain raged outside, wind howling through the cracks in the ancient barn, each gust making the weathered wood groan and shudder as if it might splinter apart at any moment. water hammered the tin roof in relentless sheets, drowning out all but the frantic heartbeat in your chest.

you ran your hand slowly down the side of your horse’s neck, feeling the quiver of her muscles beneath your palm. her breath hot and panicked as she tossed her head, eyes rolling at each crack of thunder. you whispered meaningless reassurances, words lost to the storm, but your touch was steady, grounding both of you as lightning painted the world outside in stark, blinding white.

your phone was abandoned in your jacket pocket, the screen still buzzing with notifications. the headlines had been everywhere all day:

“prince of polo returns, better than ever.” “park heir calls off engagement in shocking move.” “families in turmoil as jay park chooses career, not tradition.”

you hadn’t dared read past the titles.

you knew you had to forget it. the love and the hate. the pain and the anger and the lust. all of it. it rests heavy on your shoulders, insistent and pounding, demanding to be thought about.

you have to bury it all. beat it down to a secret.

“did you see?”

the voice cut through the thunder, and your stomach dropped.

you spun so fast your vision blurred, heart leaping into your throat as you gripped the edge of the stall for support. framed in the barn doorway stood jay, his silhouette carved sharply against the storm.

droplets ran off him in streams, his shirt plastered to his skin and clinging to every line of muscle and exhaustion. his hair was soaked, black strands dripping into his eyes, and those eyes. wild, desperate, searching the gloom until they found you. they seemed to blaze with a thousand unspoken words.

for a moment, neither of you moved, the world narrowing to the space between his trembling form and your frozen one.

“jay,” you breathed.

he stepped into the barn, mud sucking at his boots, each stride heavy with the weight of sleepless nights and impossible choices. he looked older than you remembered, the sharp cut of his jaw tense, shoulders hunched as if he bore the storm itself on his back.

“did you see the headlines?” the words tumbled out, his voice raw and uneven. not with the anger he wore, not laced with pride, but trembling at the edges with something that sounded dangerously close to fear.

you swallowed, words sticking in your throat.

“i broke it off with her,” he confessed, his voice barely carrying over the sound of rain. he took another step closer, leaving a trail of water and mud behind him, the storm raging at his back like a living thing desperate to reclaim him. “the arrangement. the families. all of it. i ended it. i threw it away.” his words were almost frantic, as if saying them aloud made the consequences all the more inescapable.

you shook your head, barely finding your voice. “do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

“yes.” his eyes burned into yours, unflinching. “i’ve done the only thing that felt right. for once.”

the horses shifted behind you, but you couldn’t move, pinned by his gaze.

“y/n…” your name left his lips like a prayer, a plea, soft enough to be lost in the thunder. “i don’t care if i win, if i lose, if they strip everything from me. let them take the trophies, the horses, the name— none of it matters anymore. i can rebuild all of it.” he paused, his breath catching in his throat, voice splintering with the force of everything he’d never let himself admit. “but i can’t—” he choked, shaking his head as if the words themselves hurt. “i can’t rebuild if i lose you.”

the confession hung between you, heavy and trembling with hope and fear.

your chest tightened, his words cutting straight through the walls you hadd built.

“you can say no. you can tell me i’m insane, reckless, selfish. you would be right,” he went on, stepping closer, closing the distance. “but don’t say i didn’t mean it. don’t say you don’t feel it too.”

silence hung thick, the storm thrashing against the barn walls, his shoulders dripping rain onto the dirt floor.

finally, you whispered, “jay… what happens if i let you in?”

his hand reached for yours, fingers trembling. not with weakness, but with the impossible weight of the choice he had made.

rain dripped from his hair, tracing the lines of his cheeks as he looked at you, his eyes shining with the last, fragile hope he dared to hold. you ached to wipe the darkness under his eyes. “then it means everything i gave up… was worth it. every sacrifice, every headline, every sleepless night.”

you stared at him, at the soaked hair clinging to his forehead, at the rawness in his face. beautiful, sunken: and shades. slowly, against every instinct that told you to run, your fingers slipped into his.

and for the first time, jay didn’t look like the untouchable prince of polo, the heir with the world at his feet.

he just looked like a man. witnessing your heartbreaker break into a thousand of pieces.

soaked and shivering, stripped of every armor. who had chosen you above everything he’d ever known. in the silence that followed, the storm became simply a distant drum, and you realized you were no longer afraid.

the sun dipped low, gilding the field in syrupy gold as you lingered at the edge, clipboard in hand, heart ticking with every beat of hooves. jay rode differently today; his swings were cleaner, his focus unbreakable. yet you noticed the tightness in his shoulder, the shadow of old pain. you opened your mouth, ready to call it, when his horse’s hoof struck a hidden divot. in a blur, beast and rider faltered, and the world seemed to tilt.

jay was airborne, a flash of motion, a gasp ripped from your lungs, as he crashed into the dirt, the thud echoing in your bones. his mallet spun uselessly into the grass, a stray relic of the fall.

“jay!” your clipboard hit the earth with a hollow clatter, forgotten as you dashed to his side and knelt in the churned dirt. panic surged through you, sharp and electric. “are you okay?”

for a heartbeat, pain carved deep lines across his face. then, with a ragged breath, he managed a crooked, familiar grin. “worried about me?”

relief crashed through you, sharp and overwhelming, leaving your throat tight. you scowled at him, brushing grit from his sleeve as your fingers checked for injury. “it’s my job, idiot.”

he tried to chuckle, though it twisted into a wince. “unprofessional… calling your client an idiot.”

“unprofessional,” you shot back, gently rotating his shoulder, “is making me think i’d have to call an ambulance because you forgot how to sit a horse.”

he winced, but managed to lift his arm a few inches. “see? still works.”

“barely,” you muttered, but the knot in your chest began to unravel.

his gaze caught yours, softer now, all the bravado stripped away. “you really were worried about me.”

you swallowed hard, rising to offer your hand. “don’t make me regret it.”

he clasped your hand, his grip warm and rough. as you hauled him up, he didn’t let go, just tugged you that much closer, close enough that you could breathe in earth, leather, and the unmistakable scent of him.

“jay,” you warned, but your voice was softer than you intended, trembling on the edge of something new.

his grin spread, slow, a little reckless, but his eyes held only honesty. “what? you’re off the clock now.”

before you could think, his mouth met yours, tentative at first, tasting the promise there. your hand fisted in his shirt, holding tight. the kiss deepened, weeks of tension unraveling in a single, breathless moment. when you finally parted, the world spun, remade.

“still unprofessional,” you murmured, lips quirking despite yourself.

“good thing you’re not just my therapist anymore,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours.