#puttinontheritzcollab

YOU LEAVE WITHOUT PACKING A THING.

The house is still asleep when you slide the window open and slide out, the winter air biting at your hands. Your fingers feel raw as you climb out the window onto the fire escape, the metal stinging to the touch. Your breath fogs despite the fact you're barely breathing, too afraid to make a sound.

With frozen fingers, you push the window shut, heart hammering as it squeezes. You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. The cold nips at you, wind pulling at your clothes that aren't thick enough for winter and scraping against the back of your neck.

Sucking in a breath, you force yourself to shut the window the rest of the way. Turning, you creep further onto the fire escape, desperate not to make a sound. In the distance, New York is awake. She never sleeps, but she's loud tonight, the sound of sirens carried on the wind, the roar of a Model T somewhere a few blocks over.

The fire escape is blessedly quiet as you navigate down, too cold, too alert, too nervous. You nearly miss the last step on the way down, stumbling onto the frozen street. As soon as you're on level ground you're moving as fast as you can, pulling the thin jacket around you as you go.

Your fiance always said you'd never make it three blocks without him knowing.

You make it eight.

The train yard is loud, though you can barely hear it over your chattering teeth. You're so cold you can barely think, driven only by fear. You become a passenger to the fear, letting it drive you through a tangle of metal train cars and clanking metal, the night sky twinkling above you as you find a freight train, near ready to leave.

You don't think. You swing up into a car, uncaring where it's going or what's inside. You don't care. Anywhere is better than here, and any direction that's away from your rotten fiance and his violent hands is good enough for you.

Heavy wooden barrels fill the train car. They're unmarked but rotund, hammered bands of steel keeping the frame intact. You weave between them, looking for a nook dark enough for you to hide - warm enough to not freeze to death. For a brief moment, you think that might not be so bad. Better than dying at the hands of your fiance or his family. Better than letting him put marks on you were you can't see them, better than-

Voices startle you. From a distance, you hear the rolling slam of train car doors and metal locks sliding into place. You panic, diving for the corner of the train car behind two barrels, tucking yourself into the shadows. It isn't warm, but you can no longer feel the icy teeth of the wind scraping across your skin, threatening to bite.

Tucking your hands between your thighs, you hold your breath. Male voices approach the car and you listen as they jump in and walk around briefly, taking stock. You can't see them, but you make yourself smaller. You've always been good at that, and it works now. They don't see you tucked in the corner, jumping back out before rolling the door shut with a clang that makes you flinch.

You don't breathe until the train starts moving, the sound of the whistle and the lurch forward startling you. You shiver violently, relaxing a fraction as you lean back into the cold metal of the wall, pressing your hands between your thighs to keep them warm. It only works a little, but it's the best you can do, eyes fluttering as you breathe in the smell of wood and something dark and rich.

The train rocks back and forth, the sound of the clicking tracks and liquid sloshing in the barrel. You feel yourself relax for the first time in weeks - shoulders sagging, breathing leveling out. There's no way for Vin to catch up to you now, and it makes you smile tiredly, a sliver of pride leaking through your exhaustion.

Your fiance always said you'd never make it three blocks without him knowing.

You've now made it eight and some change, train chugging to somewhere far off away from him and those who would force you to marry him for the sake of power and a name.

-

The train coming to an abrupt halt startles you awake. You groan, neck stiff, muscles locked and cold. Everything hurts from sleeping in the cramped corner of the train car, bones popping as you sit up straight, alert to the sudden halt. You don't know how long you've been asleep, but it's still dark in the train and you feel exhausted.

Curling in the shadow, you wait for the sound of voices, the opening of doors. Your intention is to get off in whatever city you've landed in and start a new life. Pick up a job waitressing, maybe. Or at one of those exclusive places they sell bootleg alcohol and don't ask questions. Anything to get you a little bit of cash and get you somewhere warm.

You smile, thinking about this new life. You imagine yourself in a smoky lounge, tucking cash in your pocket after giving strangers smiles and-

The screaming rips your illusion in half.

You sit up straight, hand flying over your mouth to suppress the startled sound that slips through. A man screams somewhere in the distance, the sound wounded and terrified. It's cut off abruptly, the silence so heavy that your ears start to ring, goosebumps rising on your skin from more than the cold.

The silence doesn't last. Another scream pierces the night, this one closer, raw and guttural like an animal being torn apart. You press yourself deeper into the shadows behind the barrels, knees drawn up to your chest, heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. The cold has seeped into your bones, making every shiver feel worse. You bite down on your lip to keep from whimpering, tasting the metallic tang of blood where your teeth break the skin.

Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate, crunching on the gravel outside the train car. Your breath hitches, fogging the air in front of you. The door to the car rattles, metal groaning as it's shoved open with a force that makes the whole car shudder. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself invisible. The footsteps enter now, soft but unmistakable, padding across the wooden floor between the barrels.

There's a pause. You don't dare breathe, hoping they can't see you. You hear a soft inhale and then the scuff of feet.

"Well, well," a voice says, velvet soft. "You are most certainly not the Amontillado I was looking for."

Your eyes snap open, and there he is, standing just beyond the barrels, silhouetted against the faint moonlight spilling through the open door. He's beautiful in a way that doesn't make sense to your brain, short circuiting. Medium length dark hair falls around his face in waves, framing sharp features that look ethereal enough to be in a painting. His eyes are dark, flashing silver briefly as he crosses through a shaft of moonlight toward you, his gait impossibly smooth.

He tilts his head, studying you, and another scream rips through the distance. You flinch, cowering in your corner, stomach churning. You hear a man begging, screaming no - a wet gurgle cuts him off.

The man in front of you doesn't flinch. He doesn't even glance toward the noise, just continues studying you, something close to amusement on his face. Then he sighs, looking up at the dark ceiling of the train car.

"You," he says, sounding tired as he looks back down at you. "Are a most unfortunate stowaway. What in the world are you doing here, little mouse?"

You stare at him, frozen. Your mind races as the screaming picks back up again, fainter this time but no less horrifying. You stare at this man and realize he expects an answer, his brows raised, watching you and waiting.

Licking your lips, you murmur, "I just…" You think about what to say but you don't know what. So you're honest. "I just didn't want him to hurt me anymore."

The words hang in the frozen air between you. You don't elaborate, don't say anything else. You stare at him, the fear mounting, your fingers numb either from the terror or the cold, you're not sure.

He stares at you then sighs, seeming to make a decision. He comes toward you and you press further into the wall as he moves the barrels out of his way with no problem. You blanche - the barrels must weigh far more than he can lift, but you watch as he picks them up with no effort.

"Don't scream," he murmurs as he reaches you, crouching down. As he does, you catch the faintest whiff of him - sweet, like jasmine. He shrugs his coat off, offering it to you. "You are a very unlucky woman, but I'm feeling empathetic tonight. Put this on before you freeze to death."

With a shaking hand, you reach for the jacket. He becomes unnaturally still as you take it, his pupils dilating slightly in the dark. You look away, his eyes unnerving and predator-large in the dim of the train.

His jacket is thick and woolen, the smell of jasmine intensifying. You pull it around you, warmth making you melt a little. It cures the worst of your shiver and you clutch at it instinctively, clinging to the lifeline.

"Listen to me." His voice is barely above a whisper and you look back up at him. "I'm not going to hurt you. I need you to stay close. Don't look at anything or anyone. Let me guide you. Can you do that?" You nod and his mouth twitches. "Good girl. Let's stand, yeah?"

His hands wrap around your arms and he pulls you to your feet. Your legs wobbled, cramped from the cold and the cramped position. He steadies you with ease, his touch surprisingly gentle. You let out a shaky breath and he makes a sound - something almost fond - and brushes the hair from your forehead.

"Stay close," he reminds you, fingers lingering on your forehead. "I'm Jeonghan, by the way." You give him your name, breath fogging around the shape of it. "Pretty. Tasteful. Like Amontillado."

Jeonghan slides an arm around your waist, pressing you close to his side. His body is solid and warmer than it should be in the freezing night. You don't pull away, too stunned and too terrified to do more than follow as he leads you toward the open door of the train car.

It becomes immediately clear why he told you not to look at anything.

Outside the train car is a slaughterhouse. You freeze in the doorway but he tsks and jumps to the ground, turning to pick you up by the hips and swiftly puts you down. You suck in a sharp air at how easily he does it, movements quick and effortless.

Bodies are everywhere. Train workers lie scattered across the yard, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, throats torn open, blood pooling in the dark. The metallic scent hits you, thick and coppery and your stomach turns over. You duck into his arm as he hushes you gently, hiding your face.

"Come on," he murmurs, arm tightening. "We have to walk, Amontillado."

You can't help but look, stomach lurching. There are figures - people - bent over the fallen men of the train yard, their mouths pressed to necks and wrists. The scene confuses you, bloody faces pressed into the flesh of the fallen, blood running down chins and necks as their throats gulp-

Drinking. They're drinking. Blood. They're drinking blood. They're drinking blood like vampires.

The word slams into you, impossible and yet you don't know how else to describe what you're seeing. You've read Dracula before, but what you see here is worse, the ravenous hunger displayed in red carnage too real, too vivid to process.

Another scream makes you startle. You see a worker pinned under two of the creatures, his legs kicking futilely as they rip into him. Blood sprays and you clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your gasp.

Jeonghan doesn't react. He leads you through the carnage, his steps sure and unhurried. Casual. Like he does this all the time.

One of the vampires turns toward you, a burly man with wild eyes and blood matting his beard. He straightens when he sees you, his eyes flashing unnatural silver as he steps into the moonlight, grinning, mouth a gash of red and teeth.

"Ah-ah," Jeonghan warns, his words hissed. "Mine. Please finish and load the casks in the middle car. They're what we were looking for."

The vampire dips his head slightly. "Understood, boss."

Jeonghan keeps you moving , guiding you past the worst of the bodies, stepping carefully over pooling blood that steams in the cold. The yard is vast, tracks stretching into darkness like black rivers, and the vampires are finishing their work - dragging corpses into neat piles, licking crimson from their fingers, wiping mouths on sleeves. The silence is heavier now, the screams gone, replaced by the occasional wet smack of lips or the crunch of bone under boots.

Your teeth chatter despite the jacket, and he notices, pulling you even closer so your side is flush against his. His body radiates heat in a way that feels wrong for the season, wrong for anything human, but you lean into it anyway, desperate for anything that isn't the biting wind or the copper reek of blood.

"Why did he call you boss?" You murmur, eyeing the car he leads you toward. It is eerily empty in the train yard. You realize they have - the vampires - have killed everyone else. "Are you a gangster or something?"

"Hardly."

Despite the violence, it relieves you. You hadn't run from the mafia into another. Though you think this might be worse.

"I'm in charge of a rather complex operation," Jeonghan tells you, opening the car door. You let him usher you inside, the interior cool. "One of which, you have just stumbled upon."

You swallow. "Why save me, then?"

He glances down, that faint smile returning, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Empathy, as I said. And perhaps curiosity. A little mouse who ran from one wolf only to stumble into a den of them. I think it would be a shame to let all that effort go to waste, Amontillado."

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Amontillado is complex. Fresh. Lingering." He grins. "And it's my favorite."

Your fiance always said you'd never make it three blocks without him knowing.

You make it to Long Island, the moonlight shining through the car window as a vampire slides into the cab of the car next to you, looking down at you with a glint in his eye that you can't tell if it's curiosity or hunger. Or both.

-

The Hamptons are like nothing you've ever seen. Not that you've seen much outside of your tiny life in Manhattan. Snow dusts the ground in patches, glittering under the moonlight like sugar scattered over the extravagant lawns. Grand houses line the sides of the roads, their stone walls covered with overgrown ivy.

Winter is quiet in the Hamptons. You wonder what it looks like during the summer, full of life and light and parties that only exist in myth to you. It's beautiful in a lonely way, the empty fields stretching toward a dark horizon broken only by the occasional barn or silo. No crowds, no push of bodies on sidewalks, no blare of horn.

Most importantly, no Vin.

While the Hamptons isn't as far as you wanted to get from him, you think it's far enough. For now. You glance at the vampire next to you and think that Vin wouldn't be able to get to you here anyway. Not with the strange creature sitting next to you, his eyes flashing silver occasionally when the moon catches them just right.

Jeonghan feels you looking at him. He flicks his eyes to you, tilting his head as he drinks you in. Once again you're put off by the way his eyes dilate, pupils larger than they should be. They're beautiful in an unnerving way, a tingle starting at the base of your spine under his stare.

"First time out of the city?" He asks, voice quiet.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. The car turns onto a smoother drive, the road narrowing as it curves toward the coast. Lights flicker ahead, gas lamps lining a long driveway. An estate emerges from the night, massive and made of all stone. The windows glint warmly against the dark, towers rising at the corners covered in winding ivory.

Your breath catches. It looks more like a palace than a house, a fantasy capture on pressed magazines and where people whispered about bootleggers and oil barons throwing parties until dawn in the summer. The car pulls up to the grand entrance, gravel crunching under tires, and the driver kills the engine.

Jeonghan exits first, offering a hand to help you out. You take it, stepping out on legs that feel like jelly. The air smells like salt and pine, sharp and cleaner than anything you've ever breathed in. You take a few gulps of air, the cool burning your lungs. He makes a sound like he's amused before he tugs you forward toward the steps that lead up to the mansion.

It's even more imposing up close, the double doors carved of heavy oak. You hesitate a little at the carved gargoyles, a strange piece of architecture in a place like this. Jeonghan brisks past them, opening the door with a gentle push, like the house answers to him.

"Welcome," he teases, ushering you inside.

Warmth hits you immediately, such a relief that you can't help but make a small noise in the back of your throat. The air carries a faint scent of wood polish and cigar smoke, warm and inviting. The grand foyer is made up of marble floors veined in gold, a staircase sweeping up toward the shadowed upper levels. Paintings line the walls, dark depictions of stormy seas and dark florals. A grandfather clock ticks in the corner, the pendulum swinging slow and steady like your pulse.

You stand there, dripping melted snow onto the pristine floor, feeling small and out of place in your thin clothes and borrowed jacket. The amount of wealth in front of you is something you've never seen before. Your family had money - not you - and your fiance had money too, but not like this. Not the old money that keeps these houses heated even when they're empty in winter, and full of life in the summer.

"What now?" You ask, voice small in such a vast space.

Jeonghan turns to you, dark eyes searching. "Unless you have somewhere else to go, I'd presume you're stuck here."

Stuck. The word twists inside of you. You'd been stuck in Manhattan, too. Until you finally ran, knowing it was better to die of the cold than it was to die at the hands of a violent man who wanted only your family's name and money. Not you. Never you.

"Stuck." You repeat the word, voice hollow. "I've been stuck my entire life."

"The world out there isn't kind to strays. Especially the kind like you, who have seen something they shouldn't have. My kind don't leave witnesses."

Nervousness coils tight in your chest, your hands fidgeting with the jacket's hem. "But you said you wouldn't hurt me."

"I won't." There is an unspoken yet that lingers between you. But he softens anyway, sympathy - either fake or real you can't tell - crosses his face. "I give you my word. But being with me does have consequences. There are rules and dangers, others who won't hesitate like I did. You have to trust me, and I have to trust you."

Trust. The word tastes bitter, after Vin's lies and the crack of his hand. You look at the closed door behind you, knowing that outside lies nothing but the cool winter of the Hamptons, empty until summer. Here though, it's warm. Here, there is a roof. A creature that could kill you, but perhaps would stand between you and Vin - and Vin's family.

"You're free to leave, if you wish," he murmurs. "You will be safe from whatever cruelty you've run from, if you're lucky. If you stay though, you will find a different sort of cruelty here. Never to you, but you will see things you're not used to."

You look up at him. "But you won't hurt me?"

"I won't hurt you."

It shouldn't be enough. But in a world like yours, filled with mob bosses and men who rule the city and every block of your home, you think that the promise of not hurting you is good enough. It's the only one you've ever received.

"It's enough," you whisper.

He hums. "I wonder what is so bad that you'd choose me over what you're running from, Amontillado."

"The mob."

"Indeed?" You nod. "You are unlucky. Come. You need rest."

He offers his arm, and after a beat, you take it. He leads you up the staircase, steps creaking faintly under your weight but silent under his. The banister is smooth mahogany, carved with intricate vines that twist like veins. You're suddenly reminded of blood, of the people in the train yard, the sounds.

Your stomach flips. There's no turning back now. So you let him lead you up, tired and sore and still a little cold.

The upper hallway stretches long and dim, gas lamps flickering in sconces, casting shadows that dance on wallpaper patterned with subtle florals. Doors line the walls, heavy wood with brass handles, every detail intentional and rich with an artistry that is beyond you.

Jeonghan pauses at a door near the end, turning the handle with a soft click. The room beyond is a dream. A four-poster bed dominates the center of the room, draped in velvet curtains the color of midnight. A fireplace sits cold, but Jeonghan drifts toward it, immediately setting himself to the task of lighting it. You follow him, eager for warmth.

Windows overlook the dark grounds, heavy curtains - to block out the dawn, you realize - covering the glass. A vanity sits in the corner, mirror framed in twisting gold filigree. A wardrobe looms opposite, closed tight.

Flames lick to life. You hold out your hands, thankful for the heat as Jeonghan rises in one fluid motion. He looks like the devil, the orange light from the fire turning his face from angel to demon. Despite the heat, you shiver, staring at him as he cocks his head, looking at you like he doesn't know what to do with you.

"This room is yours," he says. He gestures toward a door. "There's a bath through that door. I can send for a tailor for clothes in the morning. You look dreadful and unless humans have rapidly adapted in a way I'm unfamiliar with, you're going to freeze dressed like that."

"I…" You hesitate. "You don't have to do that."

"I don't have to, you're right." He walks toward the door, steps silent. "Like I said, I was feeling empathetic, Amontillado. And perhaps I'm loath to see such a pretty thing snuffed out after fighting so hard to keep burning."

His words make your stomach flutter. You watch him go, unsure how to thank him. Unsure if you should thank him. Unsure if this is all a mistake and if he's going to kill you and drain you when you let your guard down, a liar to the end, just like Vin.

Jeonghan pauses at the door and levels you with a look that feels like he can sense your fear again. "Sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow night."

Tomorrow night.

Because you won't see him during the day. You swallow thickly, nodding. "Thank you, Jeonghan."

"Lock the door if it makes you feel safer. Though nothing here will harm you without my say."

Then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone. You stand there, heart pounding, the jacket still wrapped around you smelling like jasmine. The fire pops, and you move finally, shedding the coat and sinking onto the bed's edge.

For the first time all night, you lay down on a bed, sinking in. It's softer than anything you've ever known, and you wonder what it would be like to live like this, surrounded by softness. By richness.

Sleep drags at you, and just as you begin to fall asleep, it occurs to you that perhaps you've just traded one cage for another.

-

You wake with a start, sucking in a warm breath of air as you sit upright. The room spins, unfamiliar and confusing as the last dregs of your nightmare start to melt away, flashes of images sticking to you: Vin's snarling face, your mother's iron cold hand on your wrist, blood pooling in your mouth, cheek stinging as your father yells.

The room is dim, fire refused to glowing coals that cast a faint orange glow across the velvet curtains. Your heart begins to slow as you remember where you are. You're not in that tenement apartment with thin walls and shouting neighbors, with Vin's heavy footsteps and angry shouting.

You draw your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. The memories of last night settle around you like sediment in water: the fire escape's icy bite, the train yard with pools of blood, Jeonghan's voice cutting through the wet sound of flesh parting and blood spilling.

Shaking it off, you get up and pad to the curtains, peeking between them. Late afternoon slips through the velvet, pale gold light turning the snow outside sugary. The grounds of the estate stretch wide and white, oaks stripped bare from the winter, icicles hanging like crystals from their branches. A frozen fountain sits sentinel in the drive, a detail you'd missed the night before.

Beyond the estate, you see the Atlantic. It rolls grey and restless, the horizon swallowed by clouds. No people. No movement except the wind. It seems that this lonely house is smack in the middle of the extravagance of the Hamptons, but the winter has chased everyone else away.

Everyone else except the man who'd brought you here last night.

Turning away from the window, you look at the door to the bedroom. You'd taken his advice and locked it last night to feel better, still small and a little afraid in this strange house. Now, you wonder if it's safe to explore. Jeonghan had said he would see you the next night and he hadn't forbad you from exploring during the daylight hours.

Curiosity overrides the lingering tremor in your hands. You need to move, to map out this place in your mind, to find exits in the event you need them again, to prove to yourself that you're not trapped.

The hallway outside is hushed, gas sconces turned low, their flames steady behind etched glass. Doors line both sides, dark wood gleaming, brass handles cold under your fingertips as you test one. It's locked so you don't push further, drifting toward the staircase. The bannister is smooth under your palm, dingers trailing along the carved vines, half expecting them to twitch and come to life in this strange place.

Downstairs, the foyer is empty, afternoon light slanting in through the tall windows, dust motes floating in the air. The grandfather clock ticks slowly in the corner, the only sound to accompany you as you turn left toward an archway that leads to a parlor. Velvet settees in burgundy and marble-topped tables fill the room. Empty crystal decanters glinter in the sunlight, tossing rainbow prisms around the room.

A beautiful grand piano sits in the corner. You drift toward it, noting that there's no dust, despite the lid being closed. The sheet music is yellowed at the edges - Mozart, you realize. Your lips twitched, tapping the top as you wonder if it's Jeonghan who plays.

You pass from the parlor, drifting room to room. Each one unfolds, richer and more marvelous than the last. There's a dining hall with a table stretched long enough for banquets, a conservatory with walls of fogged glass and full of ferns and orchids that are sleeping under the frosty panes, a billiard room with scarred felt and perfectly racked cues.

Paintings watch your exploration from every wall. The gilded frames are filled with stern men in high collars and ladies with keen eyes. You shiver as you pass them, wandering until you find a set of ancient double doors cracked open, the smell of paper and wax luring you in.

You step inside, the warm lamplight spilling over you. Your breath catches - it's a library. It's massive inside, shelves climbing three stories high with ladders on brass rails. Leather spines in every color line the shelves, some with gold lettering, some in lettering you can't read at all. It smells like paper and ink, drawing you in.

It's dark inside as you drift toward a shelf, your fingers tracing titles. Poe. Shelley. Things in Latin and French you don't know how to read. You smirk when you see Stoker, pulling the tome from the shelf and drifting toward the lamplight as you finger through the thin pages.

You settle on a rug on the floor, closest to the single floor lamp that's on. Even with the lamp, it's a challenge to read, the darkness of the library pressing in as you squint at the opening lines of the story - though now real, perhaps - interested in what truths you might find.

A needle-thin awareness prickles at the back of your neck. You look up, turning over your shoulder, heart skipping as a chill settles in. You see nothing at first, eyes struggling to adjust in the dim light. You nearly write it off as paranoia from the subject material in your lap when you see it, the outline of a shadow near the stacks, just at the wavering edge of lamplight.

Panic locks you in place. There's a man standing in total shadow, tall and broad-shoulder. You can barely make out his face, but you see him cock his head, the lamplight reflecting off glasses. Your heart begins to race when you see the unnatural silver flash of his eyes - vampire.

He drifts forward and yet he hardly seems to move at all. One second he's in total darkness, the next he's in the orange glow, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your instincts scream predator. His lips part, revealing the barest flash of fang, and a low growl vibrates from his chest - quiet and gentle, but it vibrates through you, terror unlike anything you've ever known thrumming through you.

"Wonwoo."

Jeonghan's voice slices through the tension like a blade. You flinch, looking at where Jeonghan has appeared in the doorway. He's in a white shirt that's open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He steps forward and appears between you and the vampire - Wonwoo - in the blink of an eye, impossibly fast.

"We have a guest," Jeonghan says. "I apologize - I haven't had a moment to tell you and I didn't think our little Amontillado would go wandering." Jeonghan glances at you, eyes glittering. "She's braver than I thought she is. Let's leave her be, please."

Wonwoo's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. His gaze flicks from Jeonghan to you, hunger warring with something colder - resentment, maybe. He exhales through his nose then turns, vanishing into the shadow again. You blink. One moment he's there, the next he's gone, a phantom among the stacks.

Jeonghan drifts toward you and crouches, sighing. "Breathe. You're safe."

It isn't until he says something that you realize you're shaking. You swallow and nod, snapping the book shut in your lap.

"I didn't mean to tresspass. I was just looking."

"I know. It's alright. You did nothing wrong."

You look up at him and he gives you a lazy smile before leaning forward to pluck the book out of your lap. He huffs when he sees it, holding it up, cover toward you, as he arches a brow in question. You flush, looking at your hands in your lap.

"Thought I could learn a thing or two."

"Stoker doesn't get much right," Jeonghan chuckles. He offers you a hand and you take it, letting him pull you up. His touch is warm and steady, thumb brushing over your knuckles briefly before he releases you. "I should have warned you not to wander at first. You're not a prisoner here, you are certainly free to treat the house as your own. But a gentle reminder that this house has teeth."

"How many teeth, then? Besides you."

"Three. Wonwoo, who you just met. He's particular about territory and he doesn't like people in his library without warning, so please ask for permission next time. Junhui you don't have to worry about, he is incredibly kind and is fond of humanity. Soonyoung…" Jeonghan pauses, expression darkening. "Soonyoung struggles. He is a gentle soul, but blood calls to him louder than the rest of us. Stay away from the east wing unless you're with me, yes?"

You nod. "No east wing. Understood."

Jeonghan studies you a moment longer, then offers his arm. "Let me show you properly. No more surprises."

You slip your hand through the crook of his elbow, fabric of his shirt soft against your palm. Your heart races and you wonder if he can tell, the twitch of his mouth something between smug and genuine. You let Jeonghan lead you back through all of the rooms you toured yourself, but now with his soft voice pointing out things you never noticed before.

In the parlor, he sits at the piano, lifting the cover. You grin, drifting toward him as his hair falls forward in his eyes while his fingers run over the keys. It's not the sheet music in front of him, but it's something darker and more melodic, the sound swirling around you.

Your eyes fixate on his hands, watching the way he plays. They're delicate and fluid, moving over each key intimately, like stroking a lover. It makes you flush as you listen to him until he finishes, the last note dying in the warm air.

"It's beautiful," you murmur.

He glances up, dark eyes wide. "The piece or the player?"

Heat creeps up your neck. You look away, but not before catching the spark in his gaze, something warm and teasing. It tugs at your heartstrings. You don't know what to do with warm and teasing, so used to Vin's vitriol and cool dismissal.

Jeonghan picks the tour back up, leading you down into the wet cold of the cellars. You shiver, following him down the stone steps. Lanterns glitter to life as he passes, the soft yellow glow throwing light and shadows.

At the bottom, you step into a room with vaulted ceiling overhead and crates lining the walls, each labeled with something innocuous. He drifts toward one, prying the top with that same inhuman strength he'd used the night before to reveal dark bottles inside.

Your breath catches at the sight. There are dozens of bottles of amber liquor and dark crimson, vicious in the low light.

"Bootlegging is popular among us," he says, voice low. "It's made it easier for us to run blood. We run both blood and liquor across the East Coast - New York, Boston, Phildelphia." He taps a bottle of red. "The real cargo is the blood. It makes it easier for us to live in the open when we have a supply."

"The train last night - was it carrying both?"

"It was." He drifts closer, eyes darkening. "So imagine my surprise to find you among my well-paid for Amontillado, hmm?"

"Do all your… endeavors go that way?"

He sharpens. "No. Those men last night were trying to steal from me."

"Oh."

Jeonghan closes the crate and leads you back up the stairs. His hand brushes against the small of your back when you stumble, leading you carefully out of the dark and back to the top. Your skin tingles despite the separation of fabric, and when he steps away, you realize you wish he wouldn't.

"Tell me about you," he says, crossing his arms behind his back as you stroll toward the conservatory. "Not the escape. But before. Why you were running."

You chew your lip, suddenly embarrassed to recount your life to him. How to tell him that you could have had an okay life if you were good at being seen, not heard, if you could just say the right thing at the right time. If you could just accept Vin's apologies and flowers that always followed harsh words and a smack.

"My family business was…" You start, looking for words.

"The mob." You nod. "So you said."

"My family wasn't very high up but the son of a powerful man thought I was pretty. My father paid for his seat at the table and promised me to him." You look at your hands, hating the way your voice constricts. "Like I was property."

"You're not property." You glance up at him. His eyes are dark, something you can't read in them. "And I need you to know when I say mine - it is different among my kind. It is only true in protection, not ownership. I told you you were not a prisoner here. I meant it."

"Thank you, Jeonghan."

Jeonghan’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind those dark eyes. Then he offers the smallest nod. "Come, there's still more to see."

He guides you through the rest of the ground floor with the same patient cadence he’s used all evening, never rushing or crowding you. You pass a smoking room lined with leather-bound books of poetry and shelves of crystal decanters, a conservatory annex where orchids sleep under frost-laced glass, a solarium whose leaded windows overlook the frozen sea beyond.

Every room feels both lived-in and impossibly untouched, as though the house has been waiting decades for someone living to walk its halls again. Jeonghan moves through it all with casual ownership, fingers occasionally brushing a carved chair rail or trailing along the edge of a marble mantle. You notice how he never quite touches anything for long, as though the textures of the human world are both familiar and faintly foreign to him now.

You wonder what it must be like to be a vampire. You don't know much about them beyond the violence of the trainyard and the pages of Bram Stoker's Dracula. You have no idea how much of Stoker's recount of them is myth or fact, but Jeonghan seems human enough, once you look past his stillness and the silent way he moves. He smiles earnestly, eyes crinkling. He has secret smiles when he seems to remember something.

Still. There is a hint of melancholy about him, a touch of sadness that you can't really understand as he shows you the pieces of his home like he's introducing you to relatives he hasn't seen in a long while.

Eventually the tour curves back toward the center of the house. He pauses at an arched doorway you hadn’t noticed earlier, half-hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain. Warm light spills from the other side, carrying the faint scent of coffee and something buttery.

“The kitchen,” he announces, drawing the curtain aside. “I thought you might be hungry.”

You hesitate on the threshold. The kitchen is far larger than anything you've ever stepped foot in. Copper pots hang from iron racks overhead, gleaming softly under pendant lights. A long island of black marble runs down the center, flanked by high stools. Windows line one wall, snow drifting being frosted glass.

Jeonghan glances back at you. “You’re allowed in here, Amontillado. In fact-" He pats the countertop beside him. "Up you go."

You blink. “On the counter?”

“Yes. It’s the best seat in the house when I’m cooking.”

There’s a playful lilt to his voice that makes your stomach do an uncertain flip. You climb up carefully, the marble cold through the borrowed clothes. Jeonghan doesn’t comment on your bare legs or the way you tug the hem down self-consciously - he simply starts pulling out materials for breakfast.

You watch as he gathers eggs, butter, a small wheel of cheese in wrapped paper, a bundle of chives. He unwraps a loaf of bread that looks as though it was delivered today, the crust still dark and crisp. He sets a cast-iron skillet on the burner and lights the gas with a quick twist of the knob, every move efficient and practiced.

“I don’t usually keep food in the house,” he says conversationally. "When it's just me and the others, the pantry is mostly empty. When we have large parties, I simply cater. But after last night, I had several things delivered at dawn. Figured you needed more than survival instinct to live on."

You let out a surprised laugh. “You ordered food? For me?”

“Unless you’d prefer I let you starve. Which would be terribly inconvenient, considering I’ve already decided I like having you around.”

Heat crawls up your throat. Instead of acknowledging his comment, you say, "I didn't imagine vampires cooked."

“We don’t need to eat.” He cracks eggs into a bowl with one hand, the motion practiced, elegant in its refinement. "But some of us remember how. I enjoy it. The rhythm of it. The way heat changes things. The small alchemy of salt and time. I used to like feeding people."

The admission is quiet, almost offhand, but it lands somewhere deep in your chest. You watch the way his forearms flex beneath rolled sleeves, the careful way he folds chopped chives into the eggs. There’s something intimate about witnessing it. He's entirely different from the man who led you through blood and gore just the night prior.

Jeonghan slides the omelet onto a plate and adds two thick slices of break slicked with butter into the pan, toasting them briefly before removing them and adding them to the plate. He turns to face you, setting the plate next to you with a small flourish, followed by freshly squeezed orange juice.

"Eat," he says softly, leaning one hip against the counter as he crosses his arms. "I know it's technically evening, but breakfast should be enjoyed at any time."

You pick up the fork. The first bite is impossibly good and you make a small, involuntary sound of pleasure and he grins. "Good?"

"Better than good. I haven't eaten anything since… I left."

His expression softens. He reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You freeze briefly, but if he's put out by your reaction, he doesn't show it. He simply watches you, those dark eyes uncanny and incredibly open. And kind.

It sends a shiver down your spine. You don't know the last time someone looked at you with kindness, and yet the creature in front of you has made you feel more cared for in the last twelve hours than most of your family have your entire life.

"If you want more, I'll make more."

You smile, soft and small. "You said you like feeding people."

"I do."

"Why?"

He considers the question, gaze drifting toward the window where snow has begun to fall again in slow, fat flakes. “Because once I was human. And once I was hungry in ways that had nothing to do with blood. I remember what it felt like to be taken care of. To matter enough that someone would stand at a stove and make something warm for you. I suppose I'm selfish and I like the reminder."

It reminds you of what he said last night: I was feeling empathetic.

You think it might be more than that, that perhaps that under the sharp, playful exterior of the vampire is something that longs for kindness in an overly cruel world. You don't say so, but Jeonghan's actions speak louder than the casual cruelty you saw last night.

Jeonghan watches you finish the last bite of toast, the way your tongue darts out to catch a stray crumb from your lower lip. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead he reaches past you to collect the empty plate, his sleeve brushing your bare forearm.

He sets the plate in the deep porcelain sink, runs water over it for a moment, then turns the tap off and dries his hands on a linen towel. When he faces you again, he seems inquisitive. He leans against the counter, arms crossed as his eyes drink you in. You feel a little exposed under that heavy gaze, fidgeting as he assesses something.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About last night. About the train. About how easily you could have died in half a dozen different ways before I ever found you behind those barrels.”

"I know. My fiance said I wouldn't make it three blocks without him."

"Is that so?"

You nod. "But I made it all the way here."

“So you did.” One corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “Alive. Warm. Resilient as I've ever seen in a human.” His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. “It occurred to me that I might have use for someone like you.”

Your heart stutters. "Use?"

"My business requires a certain kind of performance. We move products through human channels. Speakeasies and backroom deals, deliveries that need to look legitimate to anyone wearing a badge or asking questions. The humans we employ are useful, but they're not one of us. They don't know what we are. They know that we're something, but it's a risk for us."

You straighten, realizing where this was going. You wipe the crumbs from your fingers, nervous but interested. You've never had a job before, and you don't dare to hope that Jeonghan is giving you one now, but you listen eagerly.

"You've already proven your worth to me," he continues. "You ran from a man who would have killed you for less than what you saw last night, and you didn't scream once. Didn't run away in the night. I need someone I can trust with the daylight side of things. Someone who can walk into a club at noon to check inventory and smile at the suppliers or charm the cops. I'd like that someone to be you, if you're up for it."

You blink, stunned. No one has ever asked you to do anything that mattered. Not like this. Your father wanted you silent and ornamental. Vin wanted you to be compliant and decorative. Even your mother’s rare moments of attention came with instructions on how to sit, how to speak, how to disappear into the background of powerful men’s lives.

What Jeonhan is offering you is the opposite. He's not offering marriage or to be a decoration. He's asking if you want a role. A purpose. Agency to do something on his behalf. He must see the realization cross your face because his expression softens, just a fraction.

“There’s no obligation,” he adds quickly. “If you say no, nothing changes. You stay here as long as you want. You read in the library. You eat whatever ridiculous quantity of food I have delivered."

"And if I say yes?"

"I’ll teach you. Everything. How the liquor routes work. Which speakeasies are ours and which ones we tolerate. How to spot a fed before he opens his mouth. How to move money without anyone noticing the blood on it.”

"Really?"

He smiles. "Yes. And I’ll keep you safe while you learn. No one will touch you. Not Vin. Not his people. Not mine.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. Were this Vin asking, you'd feel like it was a trap. Some sort of trick question to get you to give him a reason to hurt you. But Jeonghan stares at you earnestly, no threat hanging above your head, no punishment for saying no.

A choice.

It's a choice, which you have little experience with. Jeonghan gives it to you freely, leaving it up to you whether you want to learn something new, to have a job - an important one, one that requires trust. Respect. The very thought of getting to be important to someone - of getting to help - makes your heart race.

A few hours ago, you were ready to risk freezing on a train to go somewhere far away. You'd had no plan other than to pick up whatever job you could, to scrap something together from nothing. You'd been desperate and ready to risk your life to get away from Vin and your family, willing to do anything.

"I've never…" You pause, taking a breath. "No one has ever asked me to help with anything important before."

"I don't want you to be quiet or invisible." He takes a step toward you, then hesitates. He seems to want to move closer, but he thinks better of it, leaning against the counter again. "A woman willing to do what you did last night deserves a chance at being something, Amontillado. I want to give you the chance to be sharp. To be seen."

You think of your father’s study, the way he’d talk business over cigars while you were sent to the parlor to embroider or pour tea. You think of Vin’s apartment, the way he’d lay out your days like a schedule. How he'd tell you when to smile, when to look away, when to pretend the bruises were accidents. You think of every time you were told your worth was in your face, your name, your ability to be handed from one man to another like a signed contract.

Jeonghan's gaze rests on you. You look at him - this creature who could kill you with a flick of his wrist - and feel heat in his gaze. Vin looked at you like something to be shown off. Jeonghan looks at you like you might be the missing piece in his carefully constructed world. Someone who could walk into rooms where people lie and cheat and kill, and walk out with information, with leverage, with power.

You've never had power before. The allure of it is hypnotic, a pull to something you've only dreamed about having. You know that helping him means stepping deeper into this world, that last night's trainyard of blood and violence will become commonplace. If you say yes, you’re choosing to stand closer to the monsters. You’re choosing to become complicit. Useful. Necessary.

But you'd be protected in a way you'd never had before, and important enough to make your own decisions. Defend yourself, even. Maybe.

The option to say no is there too. To live a life hidden here, under Jeonghan's care. But you want more than safety. You want purpose and you want to know what it feels like to be the one making choices instead of having them made for you, even if the choices are dangerous.

You lift your chin, leveling your gaze with his. "I would like that."

His pupils flare, black swallowing the silver flash for a heartbeat. Then he exhales softly, almost laughing as the tension thrumming through him eases. You realize he thought you were going to say no, and you delight in having surprised him.

“Tomorrow night, then,” he says. “After dark. I’ll take you to our flagship in Manhattan. You’ll meet the staff, see how the front room operates, learn the signals we use when something’s wrong. You’ll wear something that makes you look untouchable.” His gaze travels down the length of you, lingering on bare legs, then back to your face. “I’ll have clothes sent up. Something black. Something sleek. Something that says you're protected.”

The possessive edge to the words should frighten you. It doesn’t. Not when he says it like a vow instead of a chain. Not when you’ve just chosen to walk into his world with your eyes open.

Jeonghan grins and steps forward, offering you a hand to help you down from the counter. You slide your palm into his and he helps you down, but doesn't let go of your hand right away. His thumb strokes over your knuckles once, slow and deliberate.

"Rest," he murmurs. "Read. Bathe. Eat again if you're hungry, ask for me to make you a meal. Whatever you want. Explore, so long as you stay away from the east wing, yes? You remember?"

"Yes. That's where Soonyoung is."

He releases your hand but stays close. “And Amontillado?” You look up at him. “When we step outside these walls tomorrow night, you walk like you belong there. Because you will."

With a small grin, he leaves you there, drifting from the kitchen and through the curtain, a silent wraith. You sit there a moment longer, replaying the decision in your head. Fear and exhilaration twist together until you can’t separate them. You’ve just agreed to work for a vampire. To lie to people. To handle money that’s been laundered through blood. To step into rooms where danger is as ordinary as the sky is blue.

But for the first time in your life, the choice was yours. Three blocks and some change away - further than Vin said you'd ever get - you feel lighter than you have in years.

-

Dracula sits in your lap as you curl into the deepest armchair you can find in the salon downstairs. Your legs are tucked beneath you, the fire in the grate burning down to embers. It's quiet, night turning late as you flip through the pages of your book, engrossed with the way the letters in the novel unfold, feeding you pieces of information that you're sure aren't fact, but rather embellished mysticism.

The door to the salon opens and you look up to see Jeonghan step inside. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled to the elbows, his hair slightly mused. He pauses in the doorway, eyes finding you immediately.

"Good," he grins. "This is a good place to do it."

You close the book slowly. "Do what?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he turns back toward the hall and makes a small gesture with his hand. Two men in dark suits enter behind him, each carrying leather cases and several garment bags folded carefully over their arms. Another man follows them, noticeably taller than Jeonghan with a lean, elongated frame.

His face is arresting, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair that frames dark, cat-like eyes. He's handsome, drifting gracefully into the room to perch on the settee, elegant as ever, dark eyes looking at you with interest.

Jeonghan closes the door behind him, drifting to lean on the bookshelf closest to you. The two men begin popping open their suitcases, revealing measuring tape, samples of fabric, and more. Your interest piques as you glance at Jeonghan, who smirks.

"Measurements," he tells you. "Can't keep wearing borrowed things forever, Amontillado."

You set the book aside and stand, the ill-fitting trousers and shirts a little baggy in some places and tight in others. Jeonghan watches you, his eyes missing nothing, gaze lingering a little. There's nothing overt in the way he looks at you, but you feel something in his gaze anyway, your face warming as you turn toward the tailors, heart pounding.

The man on the settee lifts his hands in a small wave when your eyes settle on him, curious. "Junhui," he says. "Jeonghan said he'd appreciate my opinion. I like clothes." He tilts his head, studying you. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," you murmur, turning as the lead tailor steps forward.

"We will begin with measurements, Miss." He gestures to the open space between settees where the younger of the two men - his apprentice, you think - sets a small step. "Please stand on this small platform."

You hesitate only a second before stepping onto the makeshift platform. Jeonghan doesn’t sit. He leans one shoulder against the bookshelf nearest you, arms folded, watching with that same unhurried focus. Junhui shifts closer, perching on the edge of the settee so he can see both you and the tailors clearly.

The tailors begin to take your measurements, encircling tape around your bust, your waist, your arms. Junhui and Jeonghan watch in silence. Junhui's gaze is clinical and precise, while Jeonghan's makes the side of your face heat. You swallow past a knot in your throat, turning this way and that as the tailors work efficiently.

"She has a bit of a delicate build," Junhui notes. "Perhaps we can play that up without making her look fragile. Let's go with high necklaces but cut to show the line of her throat. Nothing that says look at me but rather says you should be looking."

Jeonghan makes a small sound, his fingers tightening briefly against his biceps. His eyes don't leave you for a second.

Junhui gestures to his own body for reference along the waist. "Create cinches here for her. Can I see the fabric? I'd like dark options - emerald, sapphire, burgundy. Nothing pastel. She isn't a debutante, though she is untouchable."

He glances at Jeonghan on the last word, smirking. Jeonghan doesn’t react outwardly, but there's a subtle shift in his posture, his gaze darkening just enough that his eyes flash that unusual predator silver when he tilts his head. He’s still leaning against the shelf, still casual, but there’s a tension in him now, coiled and quiet. Like he’s imagining you in every garment they’re describing. Like he’s already seeing the way the fabric will lie against your skin, the way it will shift when you turn, the way it will look under speakeasy lights when you’re standing beside him.

The thought sends heat crawling up your neck. You look away, focusing on the measuring tape as the apprentice moves to your inseam. The apprentice kneels, fingers delicate on the inside of your thigh, and Jeonghan makes a sound. Everyone goes rigid, your eyes flicking to his.

"Careful with your hands," he murmurs. "That's all."

When your eyes meet his again, he doesn’t look away. There’s no smirk, no teasing lift of his brow. Just that steady, intimate stare. You hold his gaze for longer than you mean to. Something shifts in the air between you that you don't understand, but you feel goosebumps spread down your arms as the tailors finish their measurements.

"We have what we need," the lead tailor says, bowing his head toward Jeonghan. "The first pieces will be ready by tomorrow evening."

Junhui stands, stretching like a cat. “You’re going to look devastating. Come find me in the north wing if you're ever looking to play cards."

You manage a small smile. “Thank you for your help."

He winks, then glances at Jeonghan. “I’ll leave you to it. See you tomorrow night.”

Junhui slips out, followed by the tailors, who murmur polite goodbyes and promise delivery. The door closes behind them with a soft click. Jeonghan pushes off the bookshelf and crosses to you in three silent steps. He stops just a step away, close enough that you smell the jasmine and faint cedar of his shirt.

"You can go back to reading. Dracula, was it?" You flush and he grins. "It's okay. Tell me what you think when you're finished."

You nod, throat tight. "Thank you, by the way. For the clothes but… also everything."

“You’re welcome, Amontillado.”

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to. The air between you hums as he dips his head, eyes lingering for only a moment before he drifts out of the room, soundless as ever. When the door clicks shut behind him, you drop into the chair again, heart pounding, head reeling.

-

Winter dusk settles over the Hamptons. You stand in your room - because it is your room now - turning in the full length mirror as you examine one of the dresses the tailor dropped off for you just an hour ago. It's a black dress made of crepe de chine, clinging to you like a second skin. The neckline is high like Junhui recommended, but frames the hollow of your throat, a subtle invitation of vulnerability in a room full of vampires that you think is meant to lure them in.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you smooth the fabric over your hips. This isn't the threadbare cotton dresses of your old life, nor the gaudy silks Vin paraded you in at mob dinners. This feels like armor, sleek and sensual, designed to make you move through the world with purpose. Untouchable, but not invisible. There is a difference in the two, and knowing that leaves a new hum resonating in you as the grandfather clock downstairs chimes.

Taking a deep breath, you remove a coat from the wardrobe, also newly delivered. It's heavy, and furlined, the collar thick to keep the wind off of you. You throw it over your arm and head downstairs, hurrying to not leave Jeonghan and Wonwoo waiting. Jeonghan had instructed you to meet them in the foyer at seven sharp, and you don't want to disappoint him from the start.

At the base of the stairs, Jeonghan leans against the banister, one hand in his pocket, the other idly tracing the vines carved into the wood. His suit is midnight wool, cut sharp and flawless, a white shirt open at the collar to reveal the pale column of his throat. Wonwoo stands just behind him, his black suit more severe, his hands clasped behind his back like a sentinel.

Jeonghan glances up as you approach, lips parting slightly. For a heartbeat, he is utterly still, a predator frozen in the act of spotting prey. His gaze sharpens and then softens immediately, like he's controlling an instinctual hunger as his gaze travels the length of you.

Heat blooms under your skin everywhere Jeonghan's eyes linger. You've seen desire before - Vine's was crude and greedy, a claim staked with bruises. This is different, a sort of awe that makes your heart beat faster as you reach him. Jeonghan's pupils dilate, and you feel a ripple of something go through him, a palpable change.

"Amontialldo," he murmurs. "You look utterly devastating."

"Thank you."

Wonwoo clears his throat politely, drawing your attention. His expression is stiff, jaw tight beneath his glasses, but there's no hostility, just a guarded politeness. "Sorry for the other night."

"It's alright. I won't intrude again."

His mouth twitches. "The library is open to you. Perhaps just… knock."

Outside, the car is waiting. Jeonghan offers you his arm and you take it, the wool of his sleeve warm against your bare fingers. His touch is light, but the proximity is intoxicating - the faint jasmine scent of him, the solid warmth. Wonwoo falls behind you as Jeonghan pauses at the front to help you shrug on your coat before leading you outside into the cold night, snow crunching under your boots.

The car idles for you, and the same driver from the other night opens the door. You slide in across the leather seat, Jeonghan's hand helps you before he follows, settling beside you. Wonwoo takes the other side, bracketing you between them.

Sitting between two vampires is odd. Wonwoo is stiff, leaning into the door. You think it's to offer you a little comfort, which you're grateful for. Jeonghan's presence is the opposite. His knee knocks into yours occasionally as the car drives through the frozen Hamptons, sometimes lingering. You glance at him to find him watching you already, tension thrumming through him like a plucked string. He doesn't speak, but his gaze flicks to your mouth briefly before he turns to watch the world pass by out the window.

You wonder if he feels it too, a single magnetic thread between you. You shake off the thought. If there's any desire there, you think it might be the instinctual one to bite you, the one that he clearly makes an effort to retrain as he watches the world pass by. Wonwoo stares straight ahead, stiff as a statue, but you catch the subtle flare of his nostrils, as though scenting the shift in the air.

It must be difficult for them, you realize. You're pressed between them, your blood probably a temptation. You try to make yourself smaller, shrinking in on yourself to make it easier on them, to-

"Don't do that," Jeonghan murmurs. You glance at him, eyes wide. "We're perfectly comfortable. Aren't we, Wonwoo?"

"Quite."

You nod, relaxing a little as Jeonghan's mouth quirks before he looks out the window.

The drive to Manhattan stretches long and silent at first. Bare trees claw at the starless sky, their branches like shadows against the night. The car's heater hums, warming the cabin until it's nearly stifling. It isn't until the city is blooming on the horizon, a spill of lights against the oil slick of night that Jeonghan breaks the silence.

"The first place we're visiting tonight is simply called The Red." His voice is soft, barely above a murmur. "It's our flagship, essentially. It fronts as a high-end jazz club, but the real business is below. Liquor for the humans, blood for us. Tonight you'll meet the staff and learn the signals. It's just about learning. No tests."

"Stay close," Wonwoo adds curtly. "The Red is our highest concentration of vampire customers. You won't be able to tell them apart from humans for the most part."

You nod. "I will."

The car weaves through the traffic as it plunges into the city's heart. Manhattan is alive and roaring, streets gleaming wetly from melty snow, reflecting the lights from neon advertisements for Coca-Cola and the newest Broadway show. Pedestrians huddle in fur coats, breath fogging the air, small areas lit by alleyway warming fires and the flash of police lights.

Your car arrives at a nondescript brick building in Greenwich Village, its facade unassuming and a single sign that denotes the building as a laundry service. Jeonghan helps you out of the car, the winter air biting as he leads you up the steps behind Wonwoo. Wonwoo raps three times on the door and waits until it opens.

"Evening, boss," a burly man greets.

Wonwoo claps the man on the shoulder and steps in, you and Jeonghan after him. The store is a dry cleaners. There are racks and racks of clothes in wrapped plastic and garment bags, a small counter ready to take orders with a till. A hallway leads back toward additional storage closets and offices, but it's otherwise entirely normal.

You glance at Jeonghan who grins, and nudges you to follow Wonwoo down the hallway, his fingers lingering at the small of your back. Wonwoo opens a door that leads to an office with a wardrobe, to which he then opens to reveal a false door and a set of stairs. You startle as he walks down the steps, vanishing into the dark.

"Careful," Jeonghan murmurs, breath against your ear as he guides you. "Don't miss a step."

As you go down, music swalls. The air grows heavier, scented with rose perfume, whiskey, and something metallic. The speakeasy unfolds before you like a living dream, all low ceilings and gas lamps that cast golden pools of light amid velvet shadows, illuminating booths upholstered in red leather. Couples lean close, lips brushing ears amidst laughter, the air heavy with cigar smoke.

Tables scatter the floor, covered in white linen stained with rings of spilled drinks, crystal ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. The bar dominates one wall with bottles of amber and crimson liquids glinting behind it like jewels in the dim light. Bartenders in crisp white shirts move with practiced grace, pouring from unmarked decanters, their eyes sharp, missing nothing.

Someone offers to take your coat and you let them. You're unsure where to look, the entire speakeasy a kaleidoscope of sound and color - flappers in beaded fringe dresses that shimmer under the lights, en in pinstripe suits and fedoras cluster in groups, cigars clamped between teeth.

Jeonghan steers you through the throng, his presence a shield as he leads you to a large, empty booth in the corner. "This is ours. Always."

You slide in first, the leather cool and yielding against your thighs through the dress, sticking slightly to your skin in the humid warmth. Jeonghan follows, his thigh pressing against yours as he settles with his arms stretched either way across the back of the seat, not touching you, but close. Wonwoo takes the outer edge, his stiff posture a contrast to Jeonghan's relaxed elegance, eyes darting around.

A waitress approaches immediately. She's pretty, a young woman with pretty emerald earrings and a tight dress. "Gentleman and…" Her eyes flick to you, surprised. "New face?"

"She's with us," Jeonghan says over the noisy din. "You'll adjust to her. The usual for Wonwoo and I." Jeonghan looks at you. "What are you having?"

"Old fashion," you answer haltingly, looking from Jeonghan to the waitress. You've never had one, but you'd watched your father drink them, always wanting to try. "Rye, not bourbon. Extra bitters, if you have them."

Vin never let you order, always deciding for you like you were a child. Here, Jeonghan's lips curve in genuine pleasure, his fingers grazing your shoulder in approval. The waitress nods before slinking off, melting into the crowd.

"That's Ella," he tells you. "Very sweet, sharp. Probably the most loyal person we have, for a human. She knows we're something but not what. She handles the front bar, spots trouble before it brews."

Wonwoo shifts. "The signals are key here. See the bartender over there?" You lean, looking at the tall man behind the bar. He's broad shouldered and taller than anyone else in the bar, his hair slicked back and shining under the light as he flashes a smile at someone. "That's Mingyu. Note the pocket square in his jacket. What color is it?"

"Green."

"Good. Ella acts as a spotter. She'll tell Mingyu code words and the colors of his pocket square changes to alert the workers. Red means problem - feds or a rival, really anything that means one of us needs to address it to assess whether we need to clear out. Blue means someone is asking too many questions. Green is good. Yellow means shipment of liquor has arrived, orange means blood. You only need to handle yellow."

You nod, absorbing it, questions forming. "How do you hide the specialties?"

Jeonghan's eyes sparkle with that delight again, leaning closer so his shoulder presses yours. "Clever question. The liquor comes in marked as laundry detergent. Blood crates will be marked as ammonia."

Before you can respond, Ella returns with drinks. Two of the glasses are wine with a hint of something metallic - blood. The other is your old fashioned, the orange peel making the air tangy. You thank her and take the drink, sipping. It's strong enough to make your eyes water, scrunching up your face as it burns all the way down.

As Ella leaves, another man walks over, slender and elegant as a knife. "This is Minghao," Jeonghan says, gesturing to the man who bows his head a little. He's one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen, dark eyes shadowed in the dim bar. "He's our manager, but he can only work the night shift." You nod, understanding - vampire. "I'd like him to show you some things so you can handle the day shift."

"Really?"

He grins. "I meant what I said. Go, learn some things. I'll be watching." His eyes flicker to Minghao. "Take care of her, please."

His hand squeezes your knee under the table. It makes your heart lurch and you grin as Minghao steps to the side for you to slide out of the booth. You follow him to a small office behind the bar. It's cramped and lit by a single desk lamp, walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books.

Looking at Minghao, you know there's no way you would have been able to mistake him as a vampire after seeing Jeonghan and the others. His movements are too fluid, steps too silent. There's an eeriness about him in the dark that wars with his hypnotic beauty, voice soft as he introduces himself.

Minghao pulls a ledger out of a desk, pages filled with coded entries, dates and quantities with cryptic notes squeezed into margins. He taps to a line and glances at you as you allow yourself a single step closer, trying not to get into his personal space.

"See here," he says, tracing a line. "This is where we track inventory and payments including payoffs to cops and others. This book being accurate is paramount. What do you notice on this section of the page here at the bottom?"

You lean, licking your lips nervously. The faint citrus bite from your orange twist is still there as you look at the bottom of the page in question, trying to make sense of it. The numbers are easy, though you don't know what the items are - not yet. You can do math though.

You point to a line. "Here. This delivery is for ten items, but the payout equals that of twelve." You drag your finger up the pay. "Here is the same product at ten items for the right price. It should match but it doesn't."

"Meaning?"

"Whoever managed the delivery either overpaid on accident, or skimmed money off the top and disguised it as a price increase."

Minghao grins. "Smart. Yeah, caught someone saying there was a tax increase but Jeonghan talked to our supplier and confirmed there wasn't." He snaps the book shut and replaces it the drawer. "You're good at math?"

"I try. Never did anything with it, but I used to watch my fiance count money." Minghao raises his brows. "Ex," you tack on. "I'm not with him anymore."

You can tell he has questions, but he doesn't ask them. He simply nods and passes you a piece of paper. You unfold it to see it's a key for all of the product in the book, a code for each line item and what type of alcohol it is.

"You'll need to learn all our suppliers and who to trust," he says, leading you out of the office and into the hall. "If you start shadowing me, I can walk you through it. How good is your memory?"

"I'm not sure."

"Was Ella wearing jewelry?"

That makes you pull up short, thinking back to the waitress. "Yes. Emerald earrings."

His mouth quirks. "Good. You remember random details."

Minghao leads you back through the haze, turning to you. "We'll start you on daylight deliveries in about two weeks. Shadow me a few nights first. Learn the faces and the codes." He nods toward the booth as he heads to the bars. "Go on. Boss is waiting. Tomorrow, we start in full."

Giving a grateful smile, you slip back toward Jeonghan, sliding into the booth next to him. His thigh brushes yours as you settle and he gives you a little grin. Wonwoo acknowledges you for only a second before he goes back to scanning the crowd, watching closely.

"Well?" Jeonghan murmurs, breath fanning against your ear as he tilts toward you a little. "How'd it go?"

"Good, I think. He was pleased I remembered what kind of earrings Ella had on. He wants me to shadow him before I start daylight shifts."

"Emeralds. Matches her eyes when the light hits right." He tilts his head, dark hair falling forward as his cool fingers brush your shoulder briefly. "Good. Minghao wouldn't waste time with you if he thought you were unfit. I assure you."

The evening unspools like a glitterying thread around you. Jeonghan's murmur is a constant in your ear, pointing out the subtle tells of the patrons with a casual grace. You listen to each word and when you're brave enough, point out the things you see, the shifts in the room. The way a woman looks at her husband fearfully, the way another wears gloves too long to hide what you suspect are bruises.

Jeonghan's eyes darken when he realizes what type of observations you make. His jaw ticks and his gaze lingers on the male partners you point out, men who aren't regulars exactly, but frequent his bar enough that Jeonghan knows of them.

He knows of everyone. He seems to have some sort of knowledge about every person in the bar, even if it's their first time. You're unsure if it's a vampire thing, or if he can just overhear the dozens of conversations happening under the shield of jazz music and noise.

As your gaze sweeps across the bar, your eyes land on Mingyu. He's shaking a brass shaker, arms flexing. When he lowers his arms, you note the red square in his pocket and you stiffen.

"There's a red square in Mingyu's pocket," you breathe.

Jeonghan nods, humming as his finger idly traces the rim of his glass. He nods toward a man in a corner both to a wiry fellow in a rumpled suit, fingers tapping a staccato on his table. "Fed. Ella already let Mingyu know, which is why the red. Wonwoo will take care of it momentarily. No mess."

Wonwoo shifts minutely, his knee a solid barrier against yours on the other side, a silent counterweight to Jeonghan's fluid warmth. He doesn't speak much, but when a group of rowdy patrons edges too close to your booth, his eyes flash silver, and the air thickens just enough to send them stumbling back.

"You're probably wondering how to tell the vampires from the humans," Jeonghan notes.

You nod as Wonwoo slides out of the booth, drifting toward the man in the corner. You watch him change dramatically, shifting from stoic and cold to warm and friendly, shaking the man's hand.

"Minghao feels obvious," you note. "Once I knew that vampires existed, I mean. He's beautiful in a way that feels… wrong."

"Mhmm. It happens that way sometimes. Anything else?"

"Your eyes. They flash silver in some light."

"Good. Predators eyes. Without that, though? Can you pick the vampires out?"

Turning your eyes to the crowd, you try. But the crowd blurs together under the warm gaslight. Flappers laugh with their heads thrown back, men in pinstripes lean close over drinks, a couple sways on the small dance floor. Everyone moves, breathes, blinks. No one stands out as obviously other.

"I… can't," you admit, cheeks warming. "They all look the same."

"Good. That's the point."

"It is?"

He nods. "The differences are subtle. Deliberate. We spend centuries learning to mimic. But once you know what to look for, you can't unsee it." His finger traces an invisible line along the back of the booth, pointing without moving. "The woman in the silver dress at the bar - look how still her shoulders are, even when she laughs. Vampires lack natural movement and we sometimes struggle to replicate the fullness of life."

He nods toward a man in a charcoal suit near the piano. "Him. Breathing is shallower. Almost performative. We only do it when we remember we should."

Before you can ask more, movement catches your eye. The wiry man in the rumpled suit walks with Wonwoo, who is gesturing wildly with a smile on his face as they walk toward the back of the bar. Minghao is near the door, a blend of silver eyes and shadow as Wonwoo leads the man - the fed - down the hallway. Minghao shuts the door behind them and stands in front of it under the guise of smoking a cigar.

Minutes stretch. The music swells, then dips. Then Wonwoo reappears at the edge of the crowd - not back through the door at all. You raise your brows, watching as he walks to the booth smoothly and retakes his seat. He's still the same measured calm, but there's a flush to his necks and cheeks that wasn't there before.

Jeonghan leans in again, voice velvet-soft. "See that? The flush. Fresh from feeding. It's the only time we look truly warm. The blood brings the illusion of life back to the surface."

You nod, swallowing thickly. "Got it."

"That's how you'll know, eventually. When one of us has just fed. The color doesn't last long, but it'll be a warning for you. Freshly fed vampires are stronger, though a little less alert from the blood lust. Vampires who haven't fed are more unpredictable and sharper."

You nod, filing the detail away like a key. Wonwoo settles back into place without comment, though his posture seems fractionally looser, the tension in his jaw eased. He meets your eyes for half a second before returning his attention to the room. You think of him that night in the library, the way he had drifted forward, ready to end you there.

It unsettles you a little.

The night wears on. Jeonghan continues his quiet lessons, pointing out alliances and rivalries, naming the vampires among the humans with a tilt of his chin. Wonwoo interjects once or twice, voice clipped but polite. By the time the gas lamps dim and the crowd begins to thin, Jeonghan signals Minghao with a subtle raise of his glass to shut down.

Together, the three of you slide into the car. The drive back to the Hamptons is quiet, the city's roar fading to the hush of empty roads, snowflakes scattering like ash against the windows. You lean into Jeonghan's side without thinking, exhaustion pulling at your bones, his arm a loose curve around your shoulders. Wonwoo stares out at the dark, silent as ever, but you catch the faint softening of his jaw when you stifle a yawn.

It's cold when you get out, pre-dawn light tinting the sky. Jeonghan walks you up the wide front steps, his hand still wrapped loosely around yours. Wonwoo lingers a beat longer in the car before sliding out, coat collar turned up against the wind. He gives Jeonghan a single, unreadable look, then nods once at you with the barest twitch of a smile on his face. He drifts off, fading into the shadows of the home, leaving you with Jeonghan.

Jeonghan leads you up the stairs, the grandfather clock in the foyer ticking with each step. At the top of the stairwell, you pause. He hesitates, turning to face you. He doesn't rush or ask what's wrong. He simply waits, dark eyes patient.

"Thank you, Jeonghan."

He raises his brows. "What for?"

"For tonight. For giving me something more than just a place to hide. For giving me a choice. It's nice."

Jeonghan studies you for a long moment. You can barely make out his eyes in this light, but they're dark, pupils large, predator black. He lifts a shoulder, a barely-there shrug. "It isn't much."

"It's everything to me."

Something shifts behind his expression, soft and unguarded that he doesn’t bother to hide. His mouth curves, not the usual teasing tilt, but a slow, genuine grin that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. He reaches for you, gently tugging you by the hand until he's kissing your knuckles gently.

"You deserve more, Amontillado. But I will give you what I can." Your heart stutters as he tugs you down the hall gently. "Dawn is coming. Sleep, you deserve it."

You nod, throat too full to speak again. He releases your hand reluctantly, stepping back just enough to give you space to slip into your room. He winks at you before you shut the door with a soft click. You lean against it for a moment, still wearing the black dress, still carrying the faint scent of whiskey smoke and jasmine on your skin, heart pounding.

Outside, the first pale spill of dawn floods the yard, and for the first time in years, sleep finds you easily.

-

The weeks slip by like snow melting under the first weak spring sun. You settle into a rhythm at the Red, shadowing Minghao turning into running the books yourself most afternoons. It's mostly checking crates against manifest, spotting the occasional discrepancy before it can grow into a problem, and letting Minghao know.

You’ve learned the suppliers’ names, their tells, the way certain delivery boys linger too long at the back door when they think no one’s watching. You’ve learned which cops take envelopes without looking inside and which ones need a smile and a quiet word first. You’ve even started recognizing the regulars who come in during the day pretending to pick up dry cleaning, and you’ve gotten good at keeping your face neutral when you catch the faint metallic glint in their eyes.

Jeonghan is constant. Not in a way that feels suffocating like it had with Vin, but in the way the cold tide of the Hamptons is constant, always there, pulling gently, retreating just enough to let you breathe. He appears most evenings when you're finishing up, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you with a smirk that you've come to think is something equal to fondness.

He always teases, light and playful banter, velvet words that make your stomach flip. But never pushes or crowds, never lingers too long. It's maddening the way he looms near you but not as close as you'd like him to, frustrating when he murmurs clever girl, Amontillado, before drifting away again.

It's always the same with him. The touches last long enough to spark heat under your skin, then vanish. Jeonghan keeps an entirely respectable distance. You tell yourself it's nothing - he's charming that way, like the moon. Distant. Beautiful. Constant.

You chalk it up to instant. To blood. Not to you. It only makes you like him more - more than you should, even. More than is safe. You keep that bit tucked away like a secret coin, something you only let yourself turn over in the dark when the house is quiet and you can't sleep, wanting to stay up and talk to him but knowing your schedule is flipped.

You belong in the sun, he'd told you. Only problem was that you wanted the moon.

Today the office smells of old paper, ink, and the faint citrus of the orange you peeled earlier. The bar is empty, lights off save for the desk lamp. Minghao shuffles in, readying for the nightshift. He ruffles your hair affectionately as he kicks snow off of his boots and hangs his coat on the back of a chair.

"How was today?" He asks.

"Fine. There's an entire load of red that Mingyu said smelled weird, though."

"Hm, I'll check it out. You're good up here?"

"Mhmm."

You keep working, the scratch of your pen the only sound until the buzzer on the desk rings. It's from the door upstairs. You frown, setting the ledger aside to let yourself out of the office and walk upstairs to the laundry front. A man is standing at the front desk and your frown increases. Minghao typically locks the front door when he comes in, especially if Tony isn't working the front to let people in.

"Hi," you greet, something your skirt down. "Can I be of any assistance?"

The man turns to you. His hands are in the pockets of his charcoal overcoat. He's tall and lean, his dark hair swept back, suit immaculate. Your gaze sweeps across his shoulders - they're too square, too pushed back. His head is cocked at an odd angle, and as you count his breath, you note that he breathes too slowly. Practiced.

There's a flush to the man's cheeks and as he peers at you, his pupils dilate. Vampire. You know the signs now. A vampire who has fed recently. You put yourself behind the desk, a deliberate choice to separate the two of you as he watches you. His nostrils flare and you watch as a shiver goes through him.

"I was told this was the place to get detergent."

Code. He wants blood - more of it. Your smile is pinched. "I'm afraid we're closed for book keeping. If you come back during our open hours-"

"I just need a little."

"You'll need to come back when we're open, sir."

He doesn’t answer. Just takes one slow step forward. Then another. The floorboards don’t creak. Your hand slides toward the small electronic alarm under the counter, but before your fingers can press it, he moves.

He's blinding fast, vaulting over the counter in a single fluid motion. You don't scream - you've learned better than that - but you do grab the heavy brass statue from the shelf behind you and swing it at him. It catches him across the temple with a sickening crack. He staggers, surprised, but he doesn't go down, hand snapping out as claws rake down your arm.

Pain blooms white hot, blood welling fast. You stumble away from him and slam into the wall. He lungs again, fangs clashing and you kick out hard, screaming this time. Your foot connects with his knee, making him stumble. He still comes at you though, hissing, eyes silver and furious.

A blur crashes through the doorway from downstairs. You barely register the vampire that drags your attacker backwards. You make out blonde hair and a white shirt as the newcomer hauls your attack to his feet and drives him into the wall hard enough to crack plaster and send an explosion of dust forward.

They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and snarls, an arch of blood splitting the air as you hear a wet rip. The blonde tears and tears and tears, the sound wet and violent until your assailant stops moving. You look upward, realizing as the blonde rises that the vampire's head is no longer attacked.

Your savior is heaving, standing and backing away from you rapidly. Blood covers his face and the front of his shirt, bright red, his eyes flashing molten silver in the low light. His pupils are blown so wide there's almost no iris left. He's trembling violently, every muscle coiled tight.

You press yourself flat against the wall, blood dripping steadily from your arm onto the floorboards. The copper scent fills the small space, thick and cloying. His eyes drop down to your arm. A ripple goes through him and he presses himself against the far wall, sliding toward the shop door.

"Don't move," he murmurs, voice low. "Please don't move." His hands flex. "Minghao!" His shout is raw, terrified. "Minghao!"

He takes a single, jerky step back, then another, putting distance between you even as his body visibly fights to close it. His nostrils flare again, pupils dilating impossibly wider at the scent of your blood.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice cracking. "I was carrying something in for Minghao and heard the commotion and came upstairs. I'm not supposed to come upstairs when you're here. I'm not good with people. Not yet. I'm sorry-" He cuts off, shivering as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Minghao, please!"

You realize, with a cold jolt, who he is. Soonyoung. The east wing. The gentle soul who struggles. The one whose blood calls louder than the rest. He’s trying so hard not to look at you, trying not to breathe. His entire body is vibrating with restraint, the shivers violent.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, and in a moment, Minghao is there. "Soonyoung, don't."

A low, animal sound rips from Soonyoung's throat. His control snaps like a taut wire and he launches toward you. Minghao is on him, catching Soonyoung around the waist and hauling him backward as he screams for Mingyu.

Mingyu appears in the doorway a second later, broad shoulders filling the frame. He doesn't hesitate, grabbing Soonyoung's arms to help Minghao haul him backward down the stairs. Soonyoung thrashes, snarling rattling up the hall as they get him to the bottom where you hear his voice break into desperate apologies that fade as a door slams shut somewhere.

Silence.

You’re still against the wall, breath ragged, arm burning. Blood has soaked your sleeve to the elbow, dripping in slow, steady drops on the floor. You slide down until you’re sitting, knees drawn up, pressing your good hand over the worst of the gashes. The pressure hurts, but it slows the bleeding. You focus on breathing. Ignoring the dead vampire, you tear a strip of cloth from the bottom of your skirt with shaking handles and wrap it tight around your forearm.

A few minutes later, the door to the front slams open. You freeze, looking up fearfully, but it's Jeonghan who rounds the counter. He freezes for half a heartbeat when he sees you, then he's across the room in a blink, crouching in front of you. His hands over, not quite touching, his eyes dark and storming.

"Amontialldo," he says softly. "Please look at me." You do. His pupils are normal, no silver. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

You shake your head. “Just the arm. Deep scratches. I fought back. Hit him with the ledger. Kicked him. It slowed him down a little."

"You did good."

He reaches for your arm, carefully and slowly. He peels back your makeshift bandage just enough to see the damage. His expression doesn't change, but his fingers tighten fractionally.

“These will need stitches,” he says quietly. “And cleaning. Come on.”

Jeonghan helps you stand, one arm around your waist. You lean into him, legs unsteady. He lets you, guiding you toward one of the back offices that only serve the purpose of making the front look legit. He opens one of them and sits you down at a desk, fumbling around until he finds a first aid kid. It's old, but there's gauze and antiseptic.

His hands are cool and steady as he works, crouching as he cleans the blood from your arm. You watch him. He doesn't shy away from the blood or lean in too close, his movements entirely methodical. Careful. You wonder what kind of control it takes for him to do this, to touch the blood and not take.

You think of Soonyoung.

"Soonyoung was here." Jeonghan looks up sharply, hands pausing. "He helped. I guess he heard the noise and he came upstairs. He… apologized too. said he wishes he was better with people."

"He's been trying for years. For some of us, the blood never quiets. Not really. He stays in the east wing because it's enough for him. Coming up here today to help you was a risk for him. Not a small one."

"If me living at the house is too much-"

"It's not. It helps him practice control. He's good at a distance. It's when exposed to blood that he… struggles."

Jeonghan finishes the bandage, taping it securely. Then he stays crouched in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees. You meet his gaze. For once there’s no desire there. No teasing, no playing. Just him, steady and present.

"You're allowed to be afraid," he says after a moment. "You're not going to get demoted for it."

"Thank you," you whisper.

He smiles and it warms you. "Always, Amontillado. How about we get you home, hmm?"

Jeonghan doesn’t let go of you the entire walk to the car. His arm stays firm around your waist, supporting most of your weight. The driver is already waiting, engine idling. Jeonghan helps you into the back seat, careful of your arm, then slides in beside you. The door closes with a soft, final thud. The car pulls away from the curb, tires crunching over slush, and Manhattan begins to recede behind tinted windows.

You lean your head against the seat, eyes half-closed. The pain in your arm has dulled to a deep, throbbing ache under the makeshift bandage, but every bump in the road sends fresh sparks up your nerves. Jeonghan doesn’t speak. He just keeps his hand on your knee, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over the fabric of your skirt.

The drive to the Hamptons stretches long and quiet. Snow has begun falling again, fat flakes catching in the headlights. You watch them drift past, letting the rhythm of the road lull the worst of the adrenaline crash. Jeonghan’s presence beside you is steady heat against the winter chill seeping through the glass. When you shiver once, he shrugs out of his coat without a word and drapes it over your shoulders. It smells like jasmine and cedar - smells like him.

By the time the estate gates swing open, the sky is totally black. . Jeonghan helps you out of the car, arm around you again, and guides you up the wide front steps. The foyer is warm, lit low by gas sconces, the grandfather clock ticking its slow, familiar heartbeat. He leads you up the staircase, past your usual room, to one at the end he's never shown you before.

His room. You know it immediately by the smell of jasmine and cedar.

It’s darker than yours, walls paneled in deep walnut, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the windows. A fire is already burning low in the grate, casting long orange tongues across the floor. The bed is massive, draped in charcoal linens, but he doesn’t take you there. Instead he guides you to a low leather armchair beside the hearth and eases you down.

“Stay,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual.

He disappears into the adjoining bath and returns with a medical kit that's larger and far more comprehensive than the one upstairs at the Red. He kneels in front of you again, but this time he's closer, the heat of him intoxicating.

He unwraps his work from earlier, careful not to tug. The fabric peels away with a wet sound that makes your stomach turn. The gashes are ugly and jagged now that you look. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth click together, and you look up at him. It isn't hunger that you see. It's rage, pure and black in his eyes, so violent you freeze.

Without speaking, he threads a curved needle with suture silk. You watch his hands, steady and elegant. He distracts you from the pain in your arm until he murmurs, "This will hurt."

"I know."

The first stitch pulls a sharp gasp from you. The needle bites, the thread pulling through an eerie feeling. You focus on breathing while he works, watching him with a fluttering heart. By the time he ties off the last knot and snips the thread, sweat beads on your forehead and your good hand is squeezing the arm rest.

Jeonghan sits back on his heels, studying his work. Fresh gauze, taped securely. He exhales through his nose, long and slow. When he looks up at you, his eyes are still that same unfathomable black, so full of rage that it pins you to the spot.

"If Soonyoung hadn't killed him, I would." Jeonghan's voice is so soft you almost don't hear him. "I know you getting hurt is sometimes an inevitability, but seeing it enrages me. More than I thought possible. I wasn't.. I didn't know I would be this angry."

You swallow. The fire pops behind him, throwing shadows across his face. He's beautiful. You're reminded of the first night you'd met him, his face half shadowed in the dark of the night. You'd thought he looked like an avenging angel then, beautiful but terrifying. He does now too, only this time, you're not afraid of him.

Not in the slightest.

“When I found you in that train car,” continues, voice like velvet, "curled between those barrels, half-frozen and heart hammering so loud I could nearly taste it… I saw myself. A small, stubborn thing that refused to die. That would claw and scrape and run until there was nowhere left to run. I liked that. Still do. More than I ought to, probably. More than what is wise."

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, close enough that you can see the faint silver rim around his irises - not hunger, but something deeper. Something raw.

“The idea of anyone putting hands on you makes me see red. Especially him. Especially Vin." He swallows. “I’ve spent decades learning control. Decades pretending nothing touches me. And then you climb out of a window in the middle of winter and stumble into my world, and suddenly everything I thought I’d buried feels so close to the surface, Amontialldo. Closer than ever before. And I love it. Love that I feel again."

Your heart is loud in your ears. You study him, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair falls forward to shadow his eyes, the careful way he holds himself even now, like he’s afraid one wrong move will shatter something fragile between you.

All these weeks you’ve told yourself his touches were casual, his smiles habitual, his gaze only instinct. You’ve watched the silver flash in his eyes and labeled it hunger for blood, not for you. You’ve kept your own feelings folded small and secret, afraid that naming them would be a mistake.

You think of the first night in the cold metal train car, the jasmine scent hanging on his coat, the way he'd called you Amontillado like it was a private joke. The realization isn’t sudden. It’s slow, like ink spreading through water. You’ve been falling for him in pieces, like listening to him play piano right before you inevitably go to bed, like the way he likes to cook meals because it makes him think of being human. Of being alive.

“I like that you feel that way,” you admit, voice small. “I like that I matter to you. No one has ever cared before."

Jeonghan stills. The firelight catches in his eyes, turning them molten. For a long moment neither of you moves. Then, he reaches up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don't, and he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. When you don't pull away still, he leans in.

The kiss is careful at first, almost tentative. His lips are cool, soft, tasting faintly of copper and winter air. You exhale against his mouth, surprised by how gentle he is, how restrained. Then you tilt your head, just a fraction, and something in him gives.

He deepens the kiss, slow and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with blood. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like if he lets go, you'll slip from his fingers. You reach for him with your good hand, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, feeling the steady, unnecessary beat of a heart that serves as nothing more than to pump blood that isn't his through his body.

When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath is cool against your lips. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. Since you started looking at me like I might be salvation instead of the damnation I have often felt like."

You laugh. "I still think you're both."

"Probably." His mouth twitches. "Are you alright? I don't want to push."

"I want you to."

A slow smile curves his mouth. It isn't the teasing that you're used to, but instead something softer. His eyes darken, the silver rim flaring briefly before he reins it in, that eternal hunger subdued for now. He leans in to brush his lips against your forehead, then your temple, trailing kisses down your jaw, tongue darting out to taste you. It feels so good, a shiver crawling up your spine.

"Good," he whispers, breath tickling your ear. "Because I've been patient for weeks, Amontillado. I've been watching you bloom in my world and it's been divine torture not having you."

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound breathy and a little shaky from the adrenaline still simmering in your veins. "Torture? For a vampire? I thought you were all about eternal suffering."

"I'm not Wonwoo."

He stands slowly, offering his hand to help you up. You take it, letting him guide you toward the bed. The room feels warmer now, the fire's glow casting long shadows that dance across the walls. He eases you down onto the edge of the mattress, then kneels again, this time between your knees. His hands rest on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles through your skirt. He looks up at you, eyes round, questioning.

"Go ahead," you breathe.

You lift your hips slightly as he slides the fabric up, exposing your legs inch by inch. The cool air hits your skin, contrasting with the heat building under your skin like a furnace. He drags his mouth across your knees, your thighs, pushing the fabric as he goes. When he reaches your panties, he hooks his fingers under the waistband, glancing up for confirmation. You nod, and he slides them down slowly, discarding them gently.

Your breath hitches as he parts your thighs wider, settling between them. He leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up. His lips are cool, but the sensation ignites fire wherever they touch.

Carefully, he eases you to lay back on the bed. You're careful about your injured arm, letting it lay out to the side as the other twists in the sheets while his fingers come up to trace your folds, wet and warm. He finds your clit, circling it slowly as he watches your face, lips parted.

"Like that?" He asks when you make a little sound.

"God, yes."

The pressure is light at first, building gradually as he learns your rhythm. He dips lower, one finger sliding inside you with ease, the cool intrusion making you arch. He's so gentle, curling it just right to brush that spot that sends sparks behind your eyes.

It feels maddenly good, your lids fluttering as you writhe under the feeling. He pumps his finger slowly, fixing his mouth on your inner thigh, sucking your skin gently. You feel the scrape of his fangs, the heat of his mouth, the press of his fingers against your front wall and it makes you fall apart.

"Good girl," he praises as your hips cant toward his hand. "Take what you need."

Jeonghan adds a second finger, stretching you slowly. It feels good, your head pressing into the mattress as you arch into him. Your skirt bunches around your waist, shirt sticking to your sweaty skin as he works you, mouthing at the inside of your knee, whispering against your skin.

"Good girl," he whispers, letting out a little moan.

He pumps his fingers in and out at a languid pace, thumb still circling your clit, building the tension. You feel the tightening in your gut, toes curling, eyes squeezing shut as bursts of color pop behind your eyelids. You shiver again, muscles twitching.

"Jeonghan, I'm-"

"Let go. I've got you. Come for me, Amontillado."

His fingers curl deeper, and you shatter, clenching around him hard as you come. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until you're trembling, oversensitive and breathless.When you come down, he withdraws slowly, pressing a kiss to your thigh before he crawls up to hover over you, bracing on his elbows.

"Hi," he breathes.

"Hi.

He grins, dipping to kiss you deeply, hands active as he peels you out of your skirt, your top, your bra. He's so delicate with you, handling you like something precious, treasured. Not rough and impersonal like Vin - never like Vin.

Jeonghan leans up to peel his shirt off, his body sculpted and narrow. He deserves to be painted, captured in some half-shadowed light on canvas. An angel. A demon. You run your good hand over his chest and he shivers, capturing your hand in his to bring it up to his mouth, kissing the pads of your fingers.

"You're beautiful," you murmur.

"Not as much as you.

He lowers himself to kiss you again, trailing them from your lips down your neck, across your collarbone, to your breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple, sucking gently while his hand teases the other. It makes you arch, his name dripping from your mouth.

Jeonghan kisses lower, down your stomach, until he's settled between your thighs once more. His eyes meet yours as he leans in, tongue flicking out to trace your folds. The wet slide of his tongue parting you makes you moan, the sound broken and fractured. He grins and does it again, pupils blown out, never leaving yours.

He takes his time, lapping slowly, savoring every reaction. When he focuses on your clit, sucking gently, you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him close. He hums, pleased at the feeling of your fingers tightening, nails scraping against his sensitive scalp. His tongue circles your puffy clit until you're climbing again, hips coming off the bed.

It makes him growl a little. He doubles down, sucking harder, mouth greedy and reverent, the sound of his mouth unholy against you. You come undone a second time, crying out sharply as he pins your thighs open, licking you through it with broad, lazy strokes of his tongue until you're spent.

Climbing back up, he kisses you softly, sharing the taste of you. His hands roam your body, soothing, worshipping. He sheds the rest of his clothes, and you take in the sight of him, hard and swollen and leaking. You reach for him but he shakes his head, lowering himself until he's nose to nose with you, eye lashes fluttering against yours.

"You sure?" He asks.

A choice. Again. Always a choice - your choice.

"Please," you murmur, pulling him closer.

Jeonghan nods, rolling his hips to slide his cock through your messy folds, both of you breathing hard. He slides a hand between you, pressing on the head of his cock until it presses against your entrance. You let out a strangled sound and he grins, sliding into you slow and torturous. He groans, burying his face in your neck.

"Fuck," he rasps. "Feels so good. Smell so good." His tongue darts out to lick at your pulse and you roll your head to the side, giving him access. "Not tonight. Maybe one day."

Jeonghan starts to move then, slow and deep, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. You can barely breath, the feeling of him sliding home so good that you scratch at his lower back with your good hand, pressing him closer, breaths shaky.

"That's it," he pants. "You take me so well. So beautiful like this." His hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts. One more for me. Let me feel you come around me."

His thrusts deepen, slow and grinding, hitting that spot relentlessly. He's pressed close to you, chest sliding against chest, your legs wrapping around his hips. It drives you mad, having him this close to you. His mouth catches yours, a tangle of tongue and teeth as he works you to another high, the slide of your tongues broken only by desperate sounds.

Jeonghan nods when he hears your sounds, spurred on. He rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate glide that drags the length of his cock through your cunt, your walls fluttering around him. His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, tongues tangling in time with the slow roll of his hips. You taste salt and yourself and something faintly metallic.

He shifts his angle just enough that the head of his cock drags perfectly over that spot inside you with every pass. Your back arches off the mattress, a broken cry muffled against his lips. He drinks it down, swallowing every sound you make.

“Feel that?” he whispers when he pulls back just enough to speak. “Right there. That’s where you need me, isn’t it?” He punctuates the question with another deep, grinding thrust that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

When you come again, it's with Jeonghan's name on your tongue. He drinks it down, mouth pressed to yourself, breathing in time. He follows moments later, thrusting deep one last time and stilling, a low groan escaping as he spills inside you. He stays there for a moment, your chests pressed together, your heart pounding.

Jeonghan shifts carefully, easing out of you gently. He doesn’t pull away far - only enough to reach for the discarded blanket at the foot of the bed and draw it up over both of you. The heavy wool settles, trapping the shared warmth of your skin together.

He gathers you against him without a word, turning so you’re tucked into the curve of his chest, your bandaged arm resting carefully across his waist. His chin settles atop your head, one hand splaying wide over the small of your back while the other threads lazily through your hair. The motion is slow, meditative, each pass of his fingers grounding you.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. Outside, the snow continues to fall in thick, silent sheets, hissing against the window as it melts. You trace idle patterns on his chest with your fingertips, following the faint ridge of a scar.

"How'd you get this?" You ask.

"Before I was turned," he murmurs. "Turning heals the body, but it also freezes you. I like it, though. Makes me feel more alive."

You press your lips to the scar in silent acknowledgment. “I like it."

He stills for a heartbeat, then tilts your chin up so he can look at you properly. In the dim light his eyes are dark velvet. “I’ve lived a very long time,” he says quietly. “Seen empires rise and fall, watched people I cared for age and die while I stayed the same. I thought I’d forgotten how to want anything beyond survival and control. Thank you for reminding me what it's like to want something."

You grin. "I made it a lot farther than three blocks, didn't I?"

The manager’s eyes brighten at that, and he gestures toward a display near the back. He begins explaining the merits of several electric refrigerators, their ability to preserve food longer, the mark of a modern household. Pa listens intently as the man opens doors, points out compartments, lists features meant to impress.

Pa runs a hand along the smooth metal, thoughtful. Then he turns slightly toward your mother. “Charles would like this, wouldn’t he?”

Charles.

The name settles in your chest the way it always does. Charles Whitmore. Your fiancé. A man born into old money and old expectations. The engagement had been arranged long before either of you were asked how you felt about it, two families aligning their interests with practiced ease.

He is polite to a fault, always saying the right thing, always standing straight, always mindful of who might be watching. Reputation matters deeply to him, perhaps more than anything else. Appearances must be maintained, traditions respected, nothing ever allowed to stray too far from what is deemed proper.

You don't hate him. Charles is not cruel, nor careless. He treats you with courtesy and kindness. Yet, there is something about him that feels distant, like a man already married to the life expected of him.

You suppose that, in his eyes, this refrigerator makes sense. Another sensible purchase. Another step toward a well ordered future.

You know better than to interfere. Decisions like these are not meant for you. Your role is to agree when spoken to, to smile when appropriate, to trust that the people who know better have everything under control. So when your parents’ attention remains fixed on the manager and his endless explanations, you take the opportunity and slip away.

You wander past the polishes appliances until something tucked slightly to the side catches your eye. A phonograph rests atop a polished wooden cabinet. Your fingers brush the edge of the cabinet, tracing the smooth finish, then hover near the horn. You imagine music filling a room, imagine evenings softened by sound rather than silence.

“Do you like it?” Assuming the question isn't for you, you don't answer. You continue looking at the phonograph until the lack of response becomes noticeable. You glance up.

A man stands nearby, watching you with a faint smile.

You point to yourself, unsure. “Me?”

He nods.

“Uh… yes. No. I mean,” you falter, embarrassed. “I was just looking.”

He chuckles softly and steps closer. “It’s a good one,” he says, gently. “Clear sound. Strong needle. If you take care of it, it’ll last years.” There is a warmth in his voice as he speaks, a fondness, like he is talking about something dear. “Music sounds different on these.”

You listen, drawn in despite yourself. Somewhere between his explanation, your focus drifts. You notice the shape of his eyes, expressive and bright, the way his hair falls slightly out of place, the softness in his smile that feels entirely unpracticed.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Kim Mingyu,” he answers.

You smile. “Mingyu. Do you like it?” you ask, gesturing to the phonograph.

His eyes light up, and he continues, speaking about music, about evenings spent listening. You nod along, asking small questions wanting to hear him speak more. You do not realize how long you have been standing there until a familiar voice cuts through the moment.

You turn to see your parents waiting, already prepared to leave.

“It was nice to meet you,” you say softly. “Mingyu.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he replies.

“See you again,” you add, unsure whether it is something you are allowed to say.

You settle back into the car, skirts smoothed, posture proper, the familiar weight of your parents on either side of you. The door closes with a dull thud, sealing you back into your place.

Your father is the first to speak. "Charles is coming home tonight,"he says, almost casually. "We should start planning about the engagement now."

Ma hums in agreement, asking him if there is anything to be prepared for the meeting with their future son-in-law. You nod when expected, a small sound of acknowledgment leaving you, though the words barely reach you at all.

Your gaze drifts instead to the salesroom window as the car begins to move. Through the glass, you spot him. Mingyu stands near the display, hands resting on the cabinet, his attention elsewhere now.

As the car begins to move, the image shifts, the glass carrying him farther and farther away until he is nothing more than a shape behind light and reflection. You do not look away until the salesroom disappears from view.

A few days roll by, slow and uneventful, until you find yourself out again, this time for dress shopping.

Martha is with you today, like always. She has been there for as long as you can remember, lingering in the background of your childhood. If anyone has ever known you in all your unguarded moments, it is her. She is older than you by years, and yet indulgent enough to let you forget that sometimes.

The shop is bright and filled with fabric, layers of silk and lace draped over polished counters. You move between racks with a lightness you rarely allow yourself, lifting skirts, holding them up to your frame, spinning just enough to feel the fabric sway.

“Careful,” Martha chides, arms already full of garments. “You’ll wrinkle everything before we even get to the fitting room.”

You slow, offering her a sheepish smile that you know she cannot resist. She sighs, shaking her head, but her lips betray her.

You both leave the shop with bags in hand. you insist on ice cream, dragging Martha along despite her protests about sugar and melted hems. You buy two cones— chocolate for you and vanilla for her.

She sets the shopping bags down with visible relief, flexing her fingers as you press the second cone into her hand.

“For me?” she asks, surprised.

“For you,” you say simply, already taking a step ahead.

“Miss,” Martha calls, juggling the cone and bending to pick up the bags at the same time. “Wait. These are heavy.”

You glance back, walking backward now, licking at the edge of your ice cream. You smile at her, bright and teasing. “Hurry up, Martha.”

And then you bump into someone.

Your steps falter, ice cream nearly slipping from your hand as you instinctively step back preparing yourself for an apology.

"Oh!"

It's him.

For a moment, you simply stare, surprised in a way that steals your breath. You had not expected to see him again. At least not like this. And yet, a quiet, unwelcome gladness settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, then pause.

“Mingyu,” he says followed by your name. “You were at the shop the other day.”

“I was,” you say, warmth creeping into your voice. “How do you know my name?”

He nods. “Heard it that day, at the salesroom. It was pretty hard to forget you—it.” He quickly corrects himself.

Your cheeks warm at that, and you shift slightly, suddenly aware of the way you are standing, the ice cream slowly melting in your hand. Your gaze drifts, then settles on the flowers in his hand—a modest bouquet of lilies and sunflowers.

You glance around and realize where you are. A flower shop sits just behind him, its door open, the scent of petals lingering in the air.

"Are those for your lover?" you ask, even thought you know you might be overstepping, you kind of envy the woman he thought of while buying these.

“No,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the words. “No, I'm not in a relationship.”

Your eyes flick back to the bouquet, questioning without meaning to be.

“Oh,” he adds, realizing, a soft laugh escaping him. “These are for my grandmother.” He scratches the back of his neck, shy, almost boyish. "She really likes sunflowers."

"That's so sweet."

His eyes meet yours, and for a second the look he gives you feels thoughtful, curious, like he is seeing you rather than simply looking at you. You glance away first, suddenly conscious of your ice cream, the slow drip threatening your fingers.

He laughs softly. “It's melting.”

You look down with a small gasp. “Oh. Right.”

You fumble for a napkin, and before you can properly manage it, Martha appears at your side, bags in hand, eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

“There you are,” she says. “I turn my back for one moment.”

You smile innocently. “I ran into someone.”

Her gaze shifts to Mingyu, assessing but kind. He straightens instinctively, offering a polite nod.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Martha hums in response, then looks back at you. “Shall we continue, or are we planning to block the pavement all day?”

You suppress a laugh. “We were just leaving.”

Mingyu steps back to give you space, though there is reluctance in the movement. “It was nice seeing you again,” he says. “I didn’t expect—” He stops, smiling instead. “I’m glad I did.”

“So am I,” you say quietly.

Mingyu shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on the bouquet as if wanting to continue this conversation with you but the way Martha was gaping at him suddenly made him aware of how long he had been just standing their and admiring you.

“Well,” he adds, lifting the bouquet slightly, “I should take these."

You nod. “Of course.”

You hesitate, then add, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

His smile returns, warmer now. “I’d like that.”

You walk a few steps before Martha speaks again, her pace unhurried, perfectly measured beside yours. The street noise rushes back in, filling the quiet he left behind.

“Well,” she says at last.

You glance at her. “Well what?”

She gives you an amused look. “You seem to have developed a habit of bumping into interesting people.”

You feel your face warm. “It was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” Martha replies, adjusting the bags in her hand. “Accidents can still be interesting.”

That earns a sheepish grin from you. You lick at the melting edge of your cone, buying yourself a moment. “He was just someone I met once before.”

“Ah,” she says, drawing the word out. “Just someone.”

You walk in silence for a bit, the street opening up ahead of you, warm and alive. Then Martha speaks again, gentler this time.

“He seems kind.”

You glance at her, surprised. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” she replies.

Your steps slow slightly at that. You say nothing, because you do not trust your voice to remain steady.

Martha squeezes your arm briefly as you walk. “It’s nice to see you laugh like that,” she adds. “You don’t do it enough these days.”

You look down, smiling to yourself. “Neither do you.”

She scoffs. “I laugh plenty. Just not at men who bump into me on the street.”

The next time you see Mingyu, it is raining.

It falls with no warning, one moment the sky is clear, the next it opens up entirely, rain pouring down hard enough to scatter people off the street.

You stand beneath the narrow awning of the post office, hands tucked into your coat, watching the rain hit the pavement. A letter has just been sent, sealed and addressed carefully to your brother.

You miss your brother terribly—you had been inseparable since forever. But he left years ago, chasing work the city could not offer him, and ever since, his visits have been few and fleeting. So, now you settle for letters instead.

You snap out of your thoughts when the sudden gust of cold misty air hits you. You have no umbrella and your empty hands make that painfully clear. Midst of debating whether to make a run for it or not, you notice someone step closer, shoes stopping just short of the edge of the shelter. You glance up.

Mingyu.

“Hello,” he says first, a little breathless, like he had not expected this either.

“Hello,” you reply, surprised and quietly pleased all at once.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, then quickly adds, “I mean, not here here. Just… the post office.”

You smile faintly. “I was sending a letter. To my brother.”

He nods, understanding softening his expression. “I had some installation work nearby,” he says. “They needed help setting something up inside.”

For a moment neither of you speak.

“Why are you standing here?” he asks.

You lift your palms slightly, as if the answer is obvious. “No umbrella.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping the tip of his umbrella lightly against the ground, using it for support as he settles beside you. “That would do it.”

The rain pours down relentlessly, filling the silence between you. Without quite deciding to, you shift a little closer to him, drawn in by the warmth radiating from his body as the chill settles into your bones. You tell yourself it is only that, that you are cold and nothing more, an excuse you cling to even as you know better. He smells like lavender and the thought stays with you longer than it should. If he notices the way you move nearer, he gives no sign of it, says nothing.

You wait, half expecting him to speak, while he seems to be doing the same, both of you lingering in that quiet moment, unsure of who should say something first.Then, as if by instinct, you both step forward at the same time.

“Why aren’t you—” you begin.

“Do you want to—” he says.

You stop, then let out a soft laugh. Mingyu too laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly shy. You gesture for him to continue.

He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “Would you like to share an umbrella with me?” he asks, words tumbling slightly over one another. “I mean, the rain does not look like it is stopping any time soon, so…”

You look at him, something warm blooming in your chest. “You would not mind?”

His head jerks toward you immediately. “Why would I mind?”

You giggle softly. “Then… yes. I would like that.”

His smile comes easily now. He opens the umbrella and steps out into the rain, pausing just ahead of you, holding it steady. You join him, the space beneath the umbrella small but enough. His arm brushes yours as you fall into step together.

The streets glisten underfoot, puddles rippling as drops fall on the ground. He matches his pace to yours without thinking, slowing when you do, angling the umbrella whenever the wind shifts.

You walk beneath the umbrella together, the space close but careful, his arm steady as he shields you from the rain. The street gleams under the downpour, puddles breaking apart with every passing drop.

“Well,” he says, glancing down at you, “this is not how I imagined my afternoon.”

You smile. “You did not plan on rescuing strangers from the rain?”

“Hardly strangers,” he replies. “We have collided twice now. That feels intentional.”

You laugh. “By that logic, I should start watching where I walk.”

“Please don’t,” he says easily. “I’d miss the chance.”

You shake your head, amused. “Do you always say things like that?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” he admits. “Which is unfortunate, because it seems to happen often around you.”

“That is good to know,” you tease. “I was beginning to think you were just naturally bold.”

He scoffs lightly. “I am many things. Bold is not one of them.”

“You did offer to share your umbrella,” you point out.

“After standing there far too long debating it,” he says. “I almost convinced myself the rain would stop out of politeness.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “I am glad it didn’t.”

He smiles at that, adjusting the umbrella as you turn a corner. “So am I.”

A gust of wind cuts through the street, blowing rain beneath the edge of the umbrella. Cold drops kiss your sleeve and cheek, making you flinch.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, adjusting the umbrella, angling it closer. “The wind has a mind of its own.”

“Much like you,” you tease. “You seem to appear when least expected.”

He laughs. “I will take that as a compliment.”

You feel warmth bloom despite the cold, rain still tapping insistently against the fabric above you. You open your mouth to reply when the sound of wheels rushing over wet stone grows louder.

A motorcar barrels past the edge of the street. Before you can react, Mingyu reaches out and pulls you toward him. The car speeds by, splashing water onto the empty stretch of road you had been standing on moments before.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, loosening his grip. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You shake your head, still a little stunned. “No. It’s fine. I just—”

You trail off, suddenly aware of how close you are now, how the umbrella shelters you both, how his hand lingers near yours as if reluctant to pull away entirely.

He clears his throat, stepping back just enough to give you space. “You were saying?”

You blink, then laugh softly, a little breathless. “I… honestly do not remember.”

Mingyu just laughs, shaking his head.

The walk slows as you turn onto your street, the rain easing just slightly, as if it knows the journey is nearly over. Your house comes into view, its windows lit warmly against the darkening evening.

You smile, a little shy. “This is me.” As you reach the gate, you turn to face him. "Thank you,” you say. “For walking me home. And for the umbrella.”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “I’m glad I could.”

When you step a bit away from him, you notice one shoulder of his his coat is noticeably darker, damp from where the rain had slipped in while he made sure you stayed dry.

“Oh,” you say, frowning slightly. “You’re wet.”

He glances down, then shrugs. “Oh. Yeah. It’s no problem.”

“It is,” you insist. “You got wet because of me.”

“It’s just a coat,” he says quickly. “It’ll dry.”

You hesitate, then reach out, fingers brushing the fabric. “Let me have it,” you say. “I’ll get it cleaned.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—”

“Please,” you say, more earnestly now. “Otherwise I’ll feel really bad.” You do not realize you are pouting until his lips twitch, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

“Well,” he says, surrendering, “I suppose I don’t stand a chance.”

You brighten immediately, taking the coat from him with care. “Of course.”

He smiles at you, rain still falling lightly around him. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” you reply.

You watch him leave for a moment before stepping inside, the door closing softly behind you. The house is warm and quiet. You hold the coat a second longer than necessary.

It smells like him.

You are halfway up the stairs, still holding onto that quiet, foolish smile, when a familiar voice stops you.

“Where have you been for so long?”

You turn slowly. Pa sits on the sofa, cup of tea cradled in his hand, watching you over the rim. Opposite him, legs crossed neatly, posture impeccable, is Charles.

The smile fades.

“Charles,” you murmur, more to yourself than to anyone else.

Pa’s expression hardens. “You are to be married soon,” he says sharply. “It is not appropriate for you to be wandering about like this. ”

Your fingers tighten around the railing.

Charles lets out a small laugh. “Uncle, do not worry,” he says smoothly. “Everything will change once we are married.”

He looks at you then, expectant, waiting for agreement. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Another soft laugh from him, unbothered. He sets his hands on his knees and turns back to your father. “May I spend a little time with her alone?”

Pa gives him a small smile. “Of course! There's no need to ask me, you are to be married anyway.”

Charles stands and gestures toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

He goes ahead of you, already climbing as if this is his house. You follow a step behind, slower, your stomach tightening with every stair. You already dread the conversation waiting for you.

He enters your room first.

Charles looks around with polite curiosity, eyes moving over the shelves lined with books, the desk cluttered with loose papers and half finished thoughts. His lips press together. He clicks his tongue once, quietly.

“You still…write,” he remarks, glancing at the chaotic pile of papers on your desk.

When no reply comes, he turns to face you, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “I came as soon as I landed,” he continues smoothly. “There is much to prepare for, and I thought it best to ask your opinions on certain things.”

You nod. “Of course.”

His attention drifts downward then, to your hands. You are holding a coat you do not recognize as yours, the fabric dark damp, which he assumes is because of the rain. As he looks closer, something shifts in his expression. He inhales lightly, once, then again. The scent clinging to the coat is unfamiliar. Not the soap used in this house. Not yours.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“You were out longer than expected,” he continues, voice still calm. “People notice these things.”

“I was delayed by the rain,” you say.

He hums. “You should be more careful. Soon, your actions will reflect on both of us.”

There it is. The thing he always returns to.

He glances back at your books. “You will not have as much time for these after the wedding,” he says lightly, as if discussing the weather. “A household requires attention.”

You manage a small smile. “I imagine it does.”

Charles steps closer, his voice warming, softening into something meant to reassure. “You will adjust,” he says. “I am sure you will.”

You look up at him. His hand lifts, brushing your cheek before tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You know I care about you, right?" his voice warm.

You nod, though your grip tightens around the coat.

He smiles and puts his hand down. "Well, I should let you rest. You must be tired."

He leaves your room your room a moment later, the scent lingering, the weight of the coat still warm in your hands.

You close the door behind him and cross the room, the weight of the moment finally settling into your bones. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, arms spreading out against the covers as a long sigh leaves you. The ceiling blurs above you as your thoughts tumble over one another—the conversation, Charles, the future laid out so neatly for you, whether you want it or not.

You turn your head and your gaze lands on the coat resting beside you. The faint scent still clings to it, unmistakable now in the quiet of your room. Your lips curve into a small, private smile before you can stop it.

You can't wait to meet Mingyu tomorrow.

The next noon, you ask the driver to park a little distance away from the store.

You sit there longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the small bag in your lap. You check your reflection in the hand mirror once, then again, then a third time, smoothing hair that refuses to be out of place. You inhale. Exhale. Too many times to count.

It is not like you are meeting Mingyu for the first time, but all those times before were coincidences ,and this was somewhat planned and you wanted to look presentable for the first time.

When you finally step inside, no one rushes to greet you the way they did when you came with your parents. You are simply another presence in the room, and strangely, you do not mind. It gives you time to look around the store— to look around for the one you came here for.

You spot him in the corner.

Mingyu is bent over a machine, sleeves rolled up, hands busy adjusting something delicate and precise. His brow is furrowed in concentration, hair falling forward just enough to look careless. There is grease smudged faintly along his fingers, his focus so complete that the world around him might as well not exist.

He does not seem to notice when you get near him. You clear your throat to get his attention.

He looks up, surprise flashing briefly across his face before it softens into a smile. He straightens quickly, wiping his hands on a cloth nearby.

“You look really busy,” you say, smiling.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little breathless. “No! No, actually, just finishing up.”

For a moment, you simply look at each other. Then you extend the bag toward him.

“I came to return this.”

He takes it, curious, and peeks inside. The coat is there, neatly folded. And beneath it, a small box, wrapped carefully.

He pauses. Frowns slightly. Then opens it.

Inside rests a small brooch, simple but elegant. He looks up at you, confused.

You smile. “Thank you. For yesterday.”

“I was just—” he begins quickly. “I mean, I was just doing my job.”

You shake your head. “It is not your job to walk me home safely.”

“But—”

“Take it, Mingyu,” you say gently. “Thank you for yesterday. I really enjoyed spending time with you.”

Color creeps up his neck, unmistakable. He clears his throat, closes the box, and places it carefully back in the bag.

“It’s no big deal,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“It is to me,” you reply.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, his smile changes into a softer one. Mingyu hesitates, shifting his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the bag in his hand.

“Um,” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Do you want to maybe… have lunch together?”

He barely lets the words settle before he rushes on, tripping over himself. “You know what, it’s okay. You must be busy and I should probably get back to work and—”

“I am not busy,” you say quickly.

He blinks.

“And lucky for you,” you add, smiling, “I am actually very hungry.”

His expression brightens instantly, relief and excitement mixing in a way that makes it hard not to smile wider. He comes around the table in a few quick steps. “Well, that’s great. If you could just wait a moment, I’ll clean up real quick.”

You nod, watching as he moves with surprising speed, wiping his hands, setting things aside, already halfway back to you before you expect him to be.

“Ready,” he says, a little proud.

You step out together, the bell above the door chiming softly behind you. The street feels different in daylight, livelier, warmer.

“Do you have a place in mind?” you ask as you walk.

“I do,” he says immediately. “There’s this small cafe down the street. Nothing fancy, but they serve really good sandwiches. And soup. Their bread’s always fresh. I have lunch there almost every week, actually.”

He keeps talking, filling the space easily, telling you about which days they bake extra, which seat near the window gets the best light, how the owner remembers his order without asking.

Then he stops.

“…But,” he says slowly, glancing at you, “I’m not sure if you’ll like it.”

You tilt your head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Well. You know. Because you’re…”

You understand what he means without him finishing it. You scoff, leaning a little closer. “Mingyu, you seriously underestimate me. I love food,” you say, dragging out the words, “and I’m very glad you’re taking me with you today.”

He smiles at that, a little shy, and you feel a small flutter at the corners of his mouth.

Soon, you reach the cafe. The bell above the door chimes as you step inside, and the owner, a round, cheerful man with a perpetually flour-dusted apron, greets Mingyu warmly.

“Mingyu! Back again, eh?” he says, eyes lighting up. “And… who’s this pretty lady?”

Mingyu clears his throat, slightly flustered. “This is… uh… my friend,” he says.

The owner laughs, clapping him on the back. “Ha! You seem to know a lot of pretty ladies, lucky bastard!”

Mingyu’s cheeks pink instantly, and you can’t help the small twinge of jealousy that prickles your chest. Who else has he brought here before?

You both head to a table in the corner, Mingyu moves ahead of you pulling out a chair for you. You don't think much of it, head filled with questions.

You pick up the menu but can’t resist. “So… who else have you brought here?” you ask, voice light but teasing.

“Huh?” he looks genuinely confused.

“The owner said you know a lot of pretty ladies,” you explain, glancing at him, “so I was just wondering… which other pretty lady you’ve brought here.”

Mingyu shakes his head. “I’ve never brought anyone here. You’re the first.”

You can’t help but smile— he looks like shy bird.

He continues, his voice dropping slightly. “He… he once saw me with a customer, and since then he’s been on my back. He’s crazy… no one is prettier than you.”

You feel the heat rise immediately, cheeks warming, heart skipping.

Mingyu seems to realize it too, his eyes flicking to yours, expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

“Let’s… let’s order,” he says quickly, clearing his throat, and lifts his glass for a large gulp of water. You hide your smile behind your menu, trying not to look too pleased, but failing spectacularly.

The cafe visit passes in a blur of laughter, shared bites, and easy conversation. The walk back to the salesroom is comforting— you get to know about Mingyu's obsession with reading books— one thing you both had in common among other things.

The conversation drifts effortlessly, touching on little curiosities and passions, until the shop comes back into view, and the comfort of the walk lingers long after.

When you reach the entrance, you pause. “Thank you again, Mingyu,” you say, smiling. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too,” he replies, his own smile warm, a little shy.

Mingyu watches you go, shoulders tense for a moment, eyes following your figure until it disappears from sight. He doesn’t even notice the hum of the street around him.

A voice cuts through his thoughts. “Are you in love, my boy?”

Mingyu jumps, spinning around to see Jeonghan peeking over his shoulder, smirking.

“What?” Mingyu says, heart suddenly racing.

Jeonghan's smile turn into a genuine one. “You're carrying a torch, oh my god.”

“I’m not,” Mingyu insists, brushing it off, though his voice wavers.

Jeonghan just shakes his head and sings, loud and teasing, “You are in love, so in love…” before turning back to his work with a triumphant grin.

Mingyu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not in love, okay? She’s just… a friend.”

Jeonghan, still smirking, hums teasingly, “Loooveeee…”

“Shut up!” Mingyu snaps, red creeping across his ears, but there’s no real conviction in his voice. You linger in his thoughts far longer than he cares to admit.

Much to Mingyu’s quiet dismay, a week passes without a single glimpse of you.

He keeps himself busy, or at least he tries to. He throws himself into work, fixes machines with more focus than necessary, lingers longer than usual while locking up. Still, his eyes wander. Every other day he finds himself passing the flower shop, slowing near the post office, pretending he has errands when really he is only hoping. Each time, he leaves with empty hands and a heavier chest.

He even postpones his monthly trip to the bookstore, something he never does, telling himself he will go next week when his head is clearer. It never quite is. By the end of the week, the absence feels loud enough that he gives in and heads to the bookstore anyway, convinced a stack of fresh pages might help.

It is there, between shelves and spines, that the heavens finally take pity on him.

As he turns into another aisle, he bumps straight into someone. He looks up, already forming an apology, and then his breath catches.

Your name slips off his tongue with an unmistakable excitement.

He blinks, half certain he has imagined you, then immediately stiffens, realizing how creepily cheerful that must have sounded. You, on the other hand, look delighted.

“I’m so happy to see you,” you say, eyes bright. You glance around at the shelves. “Are you here to buy books too?”

His shoulders ease as he smiles. “Yeah. I was starting to think I’d never run into you again. I’m glad we met like this.”

“I’ve been busy this week,” you say. “My birthday preparations took over everything and—.” Then, quieter, almost lost between words, “I missed you.”

He stills, surprise flickering across his face. Thinking how wrong it might have come off as, you shake your hand quickly.

“No, no” you rush, cheeks warm. “I mean—it was fun spending time with you. I missed spending spending with you.”

His laugh comes easy, relieved. “I missed you too.”

“Really?” you ask, smiling.

He nods, then tilts his head. “It’s your birthday? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

You laugh. “How could you? I never told you.”

“Well,” he says gently, “happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you reply, then pause. “It’s tomorrow. If you’re free… I’d really like you to join.”

You pull an invitation card from your purse and hold it out to him. He takes it carefully, like it might disappear if he grips it too tightly.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll try to come.”

Before you can say more, a familiar voice calls out to you from the front of the shop, reminding you that you have to leave, that your father will be home soon. It's the same woman he saw you with the other day.

"Just a minute, Martha." you call back, then turn to Mingyu once more. “I really hope you’d come.”

You give him a smile, warm and lingering, before moving away to check out your books.

Mingyu stands there a moment longer than necessary. The faint scent of vanilla trails in your wake, already missed. He looks down at the invitation card in his hands, thumb brushing the edge, a small smile settling on his face.

He folds the card neatly and slips it into his coat pocket, right over his heart, before finally turning back to the shelves. The books blur together now, their titles meaningless. His mind is already elsewhere, already counting the hours, already hoping.

For the first time all week, the wait feels bearable.

Mingyu stands outside your house longer than he should, invitation card folded and unfolded between his fingers. The place is lit up like it is holding its breath, windows glowing warm against the night, laughter slipping out through the walls. He looks down at himself, suddenly aware of how little he belongs here, and for a brief moment, he considers turning back.

But it is your birthday.

So he straightens his coat and steps inside.

The house is transformed. Garlands of soft lights trail along the banisters, flowers spill from vases in careful arrangements, pale ribbons woven between them. Music hums low and elegant, conversations overlapping in polished tones. Everyone looks effortless and expensive, silk dresses brushing marble floors, tailored suits pressed sharp. Mingyu feels like he has walked into another world, one he is only meant to observe.

He accepts a glass of wine from a passing servant, murmurs a thank you, and drifts toward the corner of the room where he can breathe. He tells himself he will just wait, wish you well, and leave quietly.

When you appear, the room seems to notice before him— conversations pause, heads turn. You descend the stairs in a burgundy floor-length gown with intricate black beadwork, a fitted silhouette, and you look—you look angelic.

Compliments follow you down the steps, voices praising your beauty, your grace. You thank them all with a practiced smiling but your eyes wander around the room looking for a particular someone.

When your eyes land at him your smiles changes to a warmer one. You lift a hand and wave. Mingyu lifts his glass in return, heart thudding a little too fast.

You start toward him but are intercepted, pulled gently into another conversation.

Fifteen minutes go by and eventually the cake is brought out, candles lit, people crowding close to feed you the first bite.

A man, who's almost Mingyu's age, stands constantly beside you, too close for his comfort. Mingyu does not know who he is, but the sight leaves something unsettled in his chest.

He looks away, focuses instead on the table beside him. Cheeses laid out in careful rows, shapes and textures he has never seen before. He takes another sip of wine, pretending to study them, pretending he does not feel out of place. Mingyu knows that he shouldn't be feeling all this, he shouldn't be here at the first place, he shouldn't…like you.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He turns startled.

You are there, smiling up at him, close enough that he can smell your perfume.

“Happy birthday,” he starts to say.

You do not let him finish.

You take his hand, and without a word, you pull him gently toward the stairs, away from the noise, away from the watching eyes, leaving the party humming behind you as you lead him upstairs.

As you both reach the terrace you turn to face him, hands still warm from his. You tilt your head, eyes bright with expectation. “So?” you ask.

He blinks. “So…?”

You tut playfully, lips forming a small pout. “You know,” you say, dragging it out. “You’re the only one who hasn’t given me a gift.”

His eyes widen just a fraction. “I—” He hesitates, then exhales. “I was going to—”

You chuckle watching him stutter as if caught doing something wrong. "It's okay, I was just joking."

Mingyu's hand reaches to his pocket, feeling the box inside. He hesitates for a bit before taking it out and handing it to you.

“It’s not that good,” he rushes out. “I couldn’t think of anything and I didn’t know what you’d like and I’m terrible at this, I swear—” Mingyu keeps on blabbering which stops when he hears you gasp.

A locket with your name engraved on it.

Before he can react you step forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his chest. He freezes for half a second—then his arms come around you, tentative, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.

“I love this,” you murmur, voice thick. “A lot.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re crying.”

“I am not,” you sniff, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are glossy, smile soft. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You glance back down at the locket, fingers tracing the engraving. “Help me put it on?”

His hands brush your neck as he fastens the chain, careful, reverent. When he’s done, his fingers linger for half a second too long.

Mingyu’s hands drop back to his sides, but you can still feel the ghost of his touch at your neck. He clears his throat. “It looks… nice on you.”

You turn to look at him properly, "thank you, for this." you motion to the locket which rests beautifully on your neck now. "And for coming today. I would've have been really lonely today."

"Anything for you." Mingyu whispers.

What began as chance meetings quietly turned into something deliberate. You started sneaking out at late hours, excuses ready on your tongue, just to steal a few moments with him over shared snacks and hushed laughter.

The salesroom became familiar, almost comforting, its corners holding pieces of your routine now. You knew the creak of the floorboards, the hum of machines, the names and habits of the people who worked there. Jeonghan, who always seemed to be around, took an immediate liking to you, greeting you with exaggerated bows and relentless teasing, much to Mingyu’s embarrassment.

Bookstores became another refuge, aisles and back corners offering privacy. You were rarely together in open spaces, a rule Mingyu insisted on, always careful, always wary of being seen. You thought it unnecessary, even foolish, argued with him more than once, but he never budged, his concern quiet and unyielding.

When the walls of public places felt too thin, you found yourselves retreating to his house instead—talking, reading, doing your own things in the same room.

The more time you spent at the salesroom, the more curious you became about the machines themselves. You asked questions endlessly, about gears and levers and sounds, watching the way Mingyu’s hands moved as he worked.

You knew you distracted him, could see it in the way he paused mid task to answer you, so one evening you asked properly, if he would teach you how one of them worked, a phonograph sitting proudly near the front. He had smiled then, surprised but pleased, and agreed.

Now it is past ten, the city outside long settled into sleep. Jeonghan has already gone, leaving the closing to Mingyu as promised.

The salesroom looks different at night. When Mingyu switches on the small table lamp, only one corner of the room is washed in warm yellow light, the rest sinking into shadows. The phonograph sits between you. Mingyu rolls up his sleeves and begins to explain, careful and patient, pointing out each part, his voice softer than usual in the quiet. You nod along, eyes following his hands more than the machine itself.

“Now you try,” he says, stepping back to give you space.

You do exactly as he showed you. Or at least, you try. The needle slips, the sound comes out wrong, and the machine gives a weak, pitiful noise. You freeze, then burst into laughter.

“Gently,” he says, guiding your hand. “You rush things.”

“I am being gentle,” you protest, concentrating far too hard.

You try again but the needle slips.

"Wow. So impressive." Mingyu says flatly.

You swat his arm. “You’re a terrible teacher.”

“I showed you exactly what to do.”

“And I did exactly that,” you insist, fiddling with the machine again, tongue peeking out in focus.

He stops correcting you. Just watches. The way you lean closer, the way your brows knit together in concentration, the way you smile to yourself when the sound almost comes out right. There’s something soft in his gaze now, something unguarded, like he’s already lost a battle he never meant to fight.

“Careful,” he murmurs, quieter. “You’ll break it.”

“Then you’ll just have to fix it,” you say lightly, not looking at him.

You both might have been a bit too loud, because you hear footsteps echoing outside the door.

Mingyu stiffens. “Oh shit.”

In one quick motion, he switches off the phonograph, plunges the room into darkness, and tugs you down with him beneath the table. You let out a small, breathless giggle before you can stop yourself, the thrill of it all bubbling up. His hand comes up instinctively, covering your mouth as he leans close.

“Shh,” he whispers.

You nod, eyes wide, laughter trapped behind his palm. You don’t struggle. You just look at him, close enough now to make out the shape of his face in the dark.

The footsteps pause. Mingyu holds still, barely breathing, eyes scanning the sliver of light beyond the tablecloth. Seconds stretch. Then the steps move on, fading into nothing.

Slowly, his attention comes back to you.

He lowers his hand, careful, hesitant. “You alright?” he whispers.

You nod again. He breathes out, relief softening him, and then he notices the way you’re still looking at him. He says your name, barely more than a breath.

He leans in too, instinct overtaking sense, and then the reminder settles heavy in his chest—this is wrong, you are engaged. He pulls back abruptly and tries to stand, forgetting entirely where he is.

Thump. Mingyu's head hits the table. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his head.

You reach for him immediately. “Are you alright?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he says, then straightens, suddenly all nerves. “I think the guard’s gone. We should leave. Before we get caught for real this time.”

You nod, even as disappointment settles quietly in your chest. You follow him out of the darkened salesroom, heart still racing.

On your way back, you don't talk as much as you do usually. He drops you off a little distance away, careful as always. You slip back into the house quietly, shoes in hand, heart still racing but unworried. Pa and Ma would be fast asleep by now. You climb the stairs on light steps, already picturing your bed, when a voice stops you cold.

“You shouldn’t be out at this time.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “Martha,” you whisper, clutching your chest, “you scared me.”

“And you doing this scares me,” she replies, unimpressed.

You resume walking, Martha following close behind. “Doing what?” you ask, though you already know.

“Spending time with a joe,” she says, lowering her voice, “and that too this late.”

You sigh. “Martha, not you too.”

Inside your room now, you slip off the coat and place it carefully on the chair. You sit at your dressing table, fingers moving automatically as you unclasp your jewellery, the quiet ticking of the clock suddenly too loud. Martha stands behind you, arms folded.

She calls your name softly. “It was fine till the birthday party. But I fear this is escalating into something that will put you in a difficult position.”

You turn your head slowly. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, then says it anyway, voice dropping at the end. “I've been noticing how you've changed since you've met him. You can't do things like this—like sneaking out of the house late at night, like lying to your parents, like… like falling in love.”

Your eyes widen as if she has uttered something forbidden. “Martha!”

She exhales, tired. “Love can be fickle, dear. Mingyu is a nice person, no doubt. But you are engaged. And if anyone even gets a whiff of what you’re doing, it would do great harm. To Charles. To your family. To him” Her voice softens. “I care for you, honey. I’m worried about your future.”

You say nothing. Just look at her through the mirror.

Martha sighs again, defeated. “You should sleep. You have breakfast with Charles tomorrow.”

She leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

You turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back at you looks unfamiliar, cheeks still warm, eyes too bright. Your gaze drifts to the coat resting nearby, still carrying his scent, faint and unmistakable.

You swallow.

You, in love with Mingyu?

Charles insists on breakfast outside, saying it would be nice to have some time alone before the day properly begins. You agree, though a part of you would have preferred the quiet safety of home. The café he chooses is refined, all polished tables and hushed voices.

He pulls out your chair for you, smiling. “You look well this morning,” he says, warm, familiar. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes,” you reply, managing a smile of your own. “Thank you for asking.”

You talk easily at first, about small things, about the weather, about the wedding preparations that seem to follow you everywhere. Charles asks your opinion on flowers, on the guest list, on trivial details, listening attentively, nodding as if each answer matters. A server approaches, a young man fumbling slightly as he pours water, spilling a few drops onto the tablecloth.

Charles’ expression hardens instantly.

“Do be careful,” he snaps, sharp and cutting. “This isn’t a roadside stall.”

The server stammers an apology, face flushing as he hurriedly wipes the table. Charles waves him off with an impatient gesture, already turning back to you.

“Honestly,” he says lightly, as if nothing has happened. “Standards seem to slip more every day.”

Your chest tightens. You glance at the server retreating, shoulders hunched, and something twists painfully inside you. You think of Mingyu, of his patience, his quiet respect, the way he spoke to everyone as if they mattered. The contrast is jarring.

Charles fixes his sleeve, turning to you with a tight smile, and continues to talk. His voice is steady and composed, but the words drift past you without settling. Your mind keeps wandering back to Mingyu, to the warmth of his laugh, the way he looked at you like you were something rare. Martha’s words from the night before echo again, heavier now, harder to ignore.

“—and the guest list should be finalized by next week,” Charles says.

You don’t respond.

“Darling?” he tries again.

Nothing.

He says your name once more, firmer this time. “Are you listening?”

You blink, startled, pulled back into the present. “I’m sorry, what?”

He studies you for a moment, concern flickering across his face. “I was saying we need to decide on the venue for the rehearsal dinner. Mother prefers something formal. I thought perhaps the Whitmore estate would be suitable.”

“Sounds good,” you say automatically.

He continues, warming to the subject. “We’ll need to schedule fittings, and there’s the matter of the invitations. I want everything to be impeccable. People remember these things.” He smiles at you, reaching for your hand. “I want our life to begin properly.”

You nod, but the thought makes your chest feel hollow. You try to imagine it, standing beside him, building a life that looks perfect from the outside. But you can’t picture your heart racing the way it does with Mingyu, can’t imagine laughing without restraint, or feeling seen in the quiet moments.

Charles squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be happy,” he says, certain. “We’ll be very good together.”

But inside, you know it isn’t the same. He doesn’t make your pulse quicken. He doesn’t linger in your thoughts when he leaves the room. Your heart doesn't beat for him the same way it does for Mingyu.

And that realization settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable.

You push your chair back suddenly, the sound scraping a little too loud against the floor.

“I need to go,” you say.

Charles looks up at you, startled. “Go? Now?” He sets his cutlery down, confusion clear on his face. “Where do you need to be? I can have the driver take us.”

“It’s something I just remembered,” you reply quickly, already reaching for your bag. “You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

He studies you, concern creeping in. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” you say, softening your voice. “I’m fine. Truly.” You manage a small smile. “Thank you for breakfast, Charles.”

You don’t trust yourself to say anything more. You turn and leave before he can ask another question.

The car ride is quiet. Your hands twist in your lap, thoughts racing, heart pounding with a strange urgency you don’t fully understand. When the driver slows near the salesroom, you step out almost before the car comes to a full stop.

You take a few hurried steps forward.

Then you stop.

Not far from the entrance, Mingyu stands with a woman you don’t recognize. She’s close to him, closer than you’ve ever been in public. She reaches up, brushes his hair aside with easy familiarity, laughing at something he says. He bends slightly toward her, smiling, relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t like the way it looks. You don’t like how quickly your throat tightens. You don’t like how small you suddenly feel.

Without thinking, you turn back.

You open the car door and slide in, avoiding the window. “Take me home,” you say quietly.

With only a month left to the wedding, everything around you moves at a relentless pace. There are fittings and meetings and lists that never seem to end. And yet, in the quiet moments between it all, your thoughts betray you. They drift to Mingyu. To that night at the salesroom. To the way you stopped going there after seeing him with that woman. You have not spoken since.

“I like this one. What about you, honey?” your mother’s voice pulls you back.

You lift your eyes to the mirror. The gown you’re wearing is white and luminous, silk falling softly against your figure, delicate embroidery catching the light with every small movement. It is beautiful. Effortlessly so. Anyone would look at you and see a bride ready for her future. You look at your mother’s reflection and nod, smiling.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s lovely.”

She smiles back, pleased, adjusting the veil with gentle hands. “You look radiant,” she says, proud.

The drive home is quiet, the gown carefully packed away, your mind still elsewhere. When you step inside the house, setting your things down, a familiar voice carries from the sitting room.

You stop short.

You freeze for half a second before your heart leaps. “Joshua?” you call out, disbelief turning into joy as you rush forward.

He barely has time to brace himself before you throw your arms around him. He laughs, arms wrapping around you just as tightly. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You pull back just enough to look at him, smiling so wide it almost hurts. “You have no idea,” you say, hugging him again, holding on like you’re afraid he might disappear.

Joshua pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, annoying way that means he’s knows everything.

“Well,” he says slowly, lips twitching, “I’ve been told you’ve been acting… strange.”

You frown. “Strange how?”

He hums, pretending to think. “Quiet. Distant. Smiling at walls. Very unlike my little sister.” He leans closer, mock-serious. “Someone even said you look like you’re about to bolt at any given moment.”

You scoff and jab him lightly in the stomach. “Stop listening to gossip.”

He laughs, catching your wrist easily. “I knew it. Hit a nerve.” His voice softens as he lets go. “Big wedding coming up. Guess that’ll do that to a person.”

You shrug, suddenly finding the carpet very interesting. “It’s just… a lot.”

Joshua studies you for a moment, the teasing fading into something gentler. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”

Joshua spots your mom hovering near the doorway and immediately lights up.

"Ma," he says fondly, stepping past you. He bends down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

She laughs, swatting lightly at his arm. “Flatterer. When did you get so smooth?”

“Born this way,” he grins, then glances back at you, eyes sparkling. “Clearly the good genes skipped someone, though.”

“JOSHUA,” you protest, shoving him again.

Joshua laughs, pinching your cheeks, muttering how cute you are.

You both settle at the long dining table, the chandelier above casting a warm, honeyed glow over polished wood and porcelain. Joshua leans back in his chair, watching you with that familiar, knowing grin.

“So,” he says lightly, reaching for a napkin, “my little bookworm—found any new treasures lately?” His eyes flick past you, toward the doorway. “Martha tells me you’ve been frequenting the bookstore more than usual these days.”

Martha appears right on cue, placing a small plate between you—warm buttered scones dusted lightly with sugar, still smelling faintly of the oven. You shoot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. Traitor. Martha, unfazed, merely smooths her apron and disappears back into the kitchen as if she hasn’t just exposed you.

Joshua is already helping himself, breaking a scone in half and popping a piece into his mouth. “Mm,” he hums. “Still undefeated.”

“Just trying to give myself a break from all the wedding preparations,” you reply, reaching for one yourself. The scone flakes softly between your fingers, crumbs scattering onto the plate.

He turns toward you then, expression softening. “That makes sense,” he says gently. “Don’t push yourself too hard, yeah?” He dusts his hands together, clapping off the sugar and crumbs before resting them on the table.

Joshua stands, nudging your shoulder with his hip as he passes. “Go rest for now. You look exhausted.” He smiles, warm and teasing. “You can play tour guide later—I expect a full tour. It’s been far too long since I’ve been home.”

Two weeks slipped by. The city moved on, the house filled with florists and seamstresses and quiet congratulations, and suddenly the wedding was no longer an idea but a date looming only two weeks away.

Your father insisted on hosting a party in your name, something grand and respectable, something that would assure everyone that everything was exactly as it should be. You smiled when required, stood where you were placed, listened when spoken to. And all the while, missing Mingyu felt like a clean cut under silk.

If anything, the nearness of the wedding had only made it worse. The farther you forced yourself from him, the more he occupied you. Every time you thought of going to the salesroom, of finally speaking, of ending this ache properly, something tightened inside you—fear, duty, cowardice, you didn’t know—and you would turn back before you ever reached the door.

Now you sat before the dressing table as Martha did the work for the evening, brushing your hair, pinning them with floral hair pins.

The party echoes faintly downstairs—laughter, music, glasses clinking but it felt miles away. You already know how it is going to be— greeting people with a put on smile, mingling in small talk with people you've never even met, searching every face without meaning too for a particular someone—someone who won't even be here.

"I miss him."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

You lift your eyes to the mirror to look at Martha behind you. Your reflection wavers, lips parting as if the truth has been pressing against them for days, waiting.

"I miss him," you breathe. "I miss Mingyu."

Her hands still. Just for a second. When she meets your gaze in the mirror, there’s no surprise there—only a tired sort of pity that says I knew this moment would come. She exhales softly and resumes tying your hair, gentler now, as though you might shatter.

You don’t wait for her to speak.

“It’s everywhere,” you say, words tumbling out. “When I wake up, when I try to read, when someone laughs and it isn’t him. I keep telling myself it will pass—that it has to—but it hasn’t, Martha. It’s only gotten worse.” Your fingers curl into the edge of the dressing table. “I haven’t even seen him and still he’s… still there. Like he’s carved himself into me.”

She swallows, her eyes lowering for a moment before lifting again. “Oh, my dear,” she murmurs, barely audible.

“I try,” you continue, voice trembling now. “I truly try to think of Charles, of my family, of what’s expected. I try to be grateful. But when I imagine the rest of my life…” You trail off, shaking your head. “He doesn’t disappear from it. Mingyu doesn’t disappear. And that scares me.”

Martha’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, warm and grounding. “I was afraid of this,” she admits quietly. “Not because you’re wrong to feel it—but because love like that… it doesn’t listen to reason.”

Your eyes sting. “Am I terrible for this?”

She leans down, resting her forehead briefly against your hair. “No,” she says firmly. “You’re human. And you’re in love.”

"You're in love?" Your head snaps to the door.

Joshua stands there, one hand still on the knob. He’s dressed sharply—as always—in a dark three-piece suit, waistcoat snug, his hair is neatly combed back, but his expression is anything but composed.

He steps into the room slowly, eyes moving from your face to Martha, then back to you.

“Who are you in love with?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. “It’s not Charles, is it?” A short, humorless laugh escapes him. “The way you’ve been acting this past month—I doubt it’s Charles. So then who is it?”

You say nothing. Your gaze slips away.

Joshua’s jaw tightens. He studies you for a moment, something clicking into place. “Is this the person that caused your frequent visits to the bookstore??” he asks quietly.

Silence.

His voice rises. “I’m asking you something!”

The dam breaks. You fold in on yourself, sobs tearing out of your chest as apologies spill from your lips—soft, broken sorrys that don’t even make sense anymore.

Joshua says immediately, crossing the room. He grips your shoulders, firm but careful, forcing you to look at him. His eyes soften, then harden again with disbelief. “The wedding is in two weeks,” he says, slower now. “And you’re—” He exhales sharply. “In love?”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face. “Does he love you too?”

“I—” Your voice cracks. You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

Joshua stiffens. “You don’t— you don’t know?” His grip loosens. “Does he even know you love him?”

Another shake of your head.

His hands drop completely. He turns away, pacing the room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he says nothing. Then he stops in front of you.

“Go tell him.”

You look up, stunned. “What?”

“Go tell him,” Joshua repeats, voice firm, resolved. “Tell him you love him.” He meets your eyes fully now. “Whatever happens after that—we’ll deal with it after. But you don’t get to suffocate like this in silence.”

Your breath catches. “But the party—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he cuts in without hesitation. “I’ll make excuses. I’ll lie if I have to.” His expression softens, just a little. “You’re my sister. I won’t watch you marry someone while loving another.”

The room feels suddenly too small. Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Joshua steps aside, gesturing toward the door.

“Go,” he says quietly. “Before you convince yourself not to.”

The music from downstairs still hums faintly through the walls as you slip out of the house, shoes in your hands, heart racing louder than the party ever could. You move down the back steps, past the hedges, into the waiting car Joshua arranged without questions.

Your chest aches the whole way. Fear, hope, guilt, relief—everything tangles together until you can hardly breathe. You think of his laugh, the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching, the restraint that always sat heavy on his shoulders. You think of the woman you saw him with and how it twisted something ugly and unfamiliar inside you. You don’t even recognize myself anymore, you think. But you know this—you can’t lose him without trying.

When you reach his building, you barely wait to steady yourself. You knock one too many times to be polite. The door finally opens.

Mingyu stands there, hair slightly mussed, sleeves rolled up, confusion flashing into shock the second he sees you. Your name slips out of his mouth.

“I love you.”

The words tumble out before you can lose your nerve. “I love you, and I have for some time now. I tried to stop it. I swear I did. I tried to be sensible, to be good, but every time I stayed away it hurt worse.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going. “I hated seeing you with someone who wasn’t me. I hated the person I became because of it—jealous, restless, reckless—but I hated even more the thought of never telling you.”

He just stares, stunned, whispering your name like it’s something fragile.

“I don’t care if it’s inconvenient or foolish,” you press on, tears burning your eyes. “I don’t care if it ruins everything I’m supposed to want. I only know that I—”

“I love you too.”

The words cut clean through you. You freeze, just for a heartbeat, as if your mind can’t quite catch up. Your gaze drops to his mouth.

You finally kiss him with all the weeks you lost, all the words you swallowed, all the wanting that never had anywhere to go.

He exhales against your lips, hands finding your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The door shuts behind you without either of you noticing.You cling to him, fingers fisting in his shirt, heart pounding wildly as if it finally knows where it belongs.

Kissing him is nothing like you rehearsed in your head on all those sleepless nights. In your imagination it had been softer. This isn’t. This is messy and immediate and a little desperate, like both of you have been standing on opposite sides of a locked door and someone finally turned the key.

You pull back only long enough to breathe, but he follows you instinctively, forehead brushing yours, his nose grazing your cheek as if distance, even an inch of it, is suddenly unacceptable.

"Need you." you whimper around his lips.

His eyes search yours for a second, just making sure—and whatever he finds there breaks the last bit of restraint he had left.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. One hand slides from your waist to your back, flattening against your spine, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him startles you. You can feel his heartbeat, fast and uneven, matching the chaos in your own chest. Your fingers slide up into his hair, and he makes a quiet sound against your mouth.

He pulls away just barely, his thumb brushing your cheek, slower than any movement so far, as if he’s reminding both of you to breathe. Your chest rises and falls unevenly anyway. You don’t realize how tightly you’re holding his shirt until his other hand gently covers yours where it’s fisted in the fabric.

“You’re okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, but the word doesn’t come out. You can barely think past how close he is—how every place he’s touching you feels suddenly more sensitive than it has any right to. He kisses you again. Your shoulders relax under his hands, and you lean into him without realizing, trusting the steadiness of his grip.

His mouth leaves yours and for a second you think you did something wrong. Then his lips brush the corner of your jaw.

You inhale sharply. His hand slides slowly down your arm. Your fingers curl into his shoulder to steady yourself as his mouth traces lower.

He pulls your skirt up, revealing your wet undergarment. He pulls your panty down.

"Oh baby." He sighs as if he's seen the gates of heaven.

His face moves closer to your heat. He licks you slowly from hole to clit, humming pleasantly at the taste, making you clasp a hand over your mouth.

He slowly drags his tongue, circling your clit, before sucking it hard, making you arch your back.

His fingers and tongue work in harmony—curling inside you, as he ruins your pussy.

The stimulation causes you to clamp your thighs around his face. Mingyu's fingers dig on your hips, as he pulls away from you, gasping. "You good, love?"

You sigh out loud. Unable to form any words, you just nod. Giving you a small smile he dives back, tongue fucking you. His index finger moves tauntingly inside you, his thumb never leaving your clit.

Mingyu whispers soft endearments, each one followed by another long lick that makes your hips buck against his face.

"Mingyu—" you gasp as his tongue explores your insides. Your body starts throbbing profusely as heat builds up in your cunt, his digits going knuckle deep before pulling out again, just to thrust all the way in, hitting every single nerve that leaves you cumming in no time, letting out a soft, choked moan as your entire being spasms and trembles with exertion.

Mingyu laughs as he pulls his tongue out of you, his face still pressed on you. He gives your clit one final kiss before getting up to kiss your mouth.

His lips linger against yours, as though savoring the simple fact of being allowed to be this close to you. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there is nowhere else he needs to be but here, with you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his smile barely there but unmistakably tender. His hand slides from yours to your waist.

He exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice thick with feeling. “For choosing us—for choosing me.”

He leans in, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he doesn’t.

Morning comes softly in his house.

Light slips in through thin curtains, settling over the familiar walls and the quiet hum of a city just waking up.

You turn your head to see Mingyu still asleep beside you, one arm flung loosely above his head, hair falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look younger.

The sight of him sends a strange, tender ache through your chest. Last night feels almost unreal now, like something you might’ve imagined if the warmth of him weren’t still right here.

As you sit up slowly, you feel the mattress beside you shift.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You turn back to him, smiling before you can stop yourself. “Good morning.”

He blinks at you for a second, then smiles too—slow, disbelieving, like he’s still making sure you didn’t vanish with the night. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist, grounding himself. “You’re still here.”

“I am,” you say quietly. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

That does something to him. You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the way he exhales. He sits up beside you, close but not crowding, as if he’s relearning how to be with you without restraint.

Neither of you talks about what comes next. Not the wedding. Not the fallout.

For now, there’s just the morning light, the shared silence, and the simple, terrifying truth that you chose each other—and for the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest eases.

Mingyu presses his forehead to yours, gentle this time, reverent.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says.

You believe him. It's going to be alright. You just need to talk to your father and—it will be fine, you tell yourself.

By the time you reach your house, the weight of reality settles in. You pause at the door longer than necessary, fingers resting on the handle. You draw in a breath, square your shoulders, and step inside, already wondering how to begin saying what can no longer be unsaid.

When you step into the sitting room, it feels like walking into the quiet before a storm.

Your father is seated on the sofa, spine straight, hands resting on his knees as if he has been waiting for this moment. Your mother sits beside him, her shoulders drawn in, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Joshua stands near the wall, leaning against it, arms crossed tight across his chest. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on the floor like he already knows what is coming.

“Where were you?” He asks too calmly, his voice stripped of warmth.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You don’t trust your voice.

He takes a step forward. “Where were you?” he repeats, deeper now, heavier.

When you still don't answer, his control fractures. “You spent a night in another man’s house,” he says, his voice rising, anger breaking through at last. “And that too a regular fella. Did you forget that you are engaged.”

Your mother gasps, "darling—"

"He's not just anybody, I love him." You finally find your voice.

He lets out a sharp, humorless huff. “Love.” He paces once, agitated. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone for this childish love. I don't care, you can show all the love you want after you’re married to Charles.”

Your eyes sting. “I can’t marry someone I don’t love.”

“Do you hear yourself?” he huffs. “After everything that has been arranged. The invitations. The guests. The name attached to ours.”

"I hear myself very well," your voice becomes bold. "This is the first time I ever decided something for myself,and you cannot tell me to change it."

“I don’t want to see you anymore,” he says at last, voice cold and final. “If you insist on shaming this family, then stay out of my sight.”

Joshua straightens slightly. “Pa—” Your father lifts a hand without looking at him.

Your mother reaches for his sleeve, shaking her head gently. Tears brim in her eyes, but she keeps her voice steady.

“Please,” she says. “This is still our daughter.”

Your father pulls his hand from your mother's grip and looks away from you, as though the sight of you pains him. "Stay out of my sight."

You turn to leave.

In your room, you sit heavily on the edge of the bed before letting yourself fall back against the mattress, still in yesterdays dress. You stare up at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks and shadows, feeling hollowed out and sore in places you didn’t know could ache but no tears come. Your heart is filled with satisfaction. After all for the first time in your life, you chose yourself, and the weight of that choice presses gently, relentlessly, against your chest.

A knock comes not long after.

You sit up.

Your mother enters first, her eyes glassy, lashes wet. Joshua follows her in, closing the door quietly behind them, as though sound itself might shatter you.

Your mother crosses the room in two quick steps and pulls you into her arms. You fold into her instinctively, breathing her in, the familiar warmth of her holding you together.

“Oh, my darling,” she whispers, her voice breaking despite herself.

Joshua lingers near the foot of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense. “You did nothing wrong,” he says firmly, as if daring the world to argue.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you murmur into your mother’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know,” she says softly, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers. “But I would rather you be brave than obedient. I would not want my daughter to be stuck in a loveless marriage.”

Joshua exhales. “Don’t carry all of it tonight,” he says. “Pa is… Pa. He’ll come around. Maybe not soon. But someday.”

You look between them, heart aching but full. “I hope so.”

Joshua hesitates, then moves to sit beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A crooked smile tugs at his lips. “Seeing you spend the night outside, I'm taking everything went well."

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You glance at him, nodding, a shy smile curving your mouth.

Joshua lets out a satisfied hum. “Well,” he says, leaning back on his hands, “I’d really like to meet the bee’s knees who managed to make my sister fall head over heels.”

Your smile softens, something warm blooming behind your ribs. You don’t answer—don’t need to. The way your eyes drift, the quiet in your breathing, says enough.

Your mother watches the exchange, her expression easing. She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, slow and tender. Then she cups your face fully, studying you the way she did when you were small, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

“Rest now,” she whispers. “You’ve been strong enough for one day.”

You lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling again as they leave. Your chest still aches, the future still uncertain, but beneath it all is a steady warmth. Because now, you have Mingyu with you now.

Things do not fix themselves overnight. You learn that slowly.

Your father still does not acknowledge Mingyu’s. Mingyu, to his credit, never pushes.

Joshua, on the other hand, is a lost cause.

They take to each other like they have been separated at birth and only just reunited. Inside jokes form within days. They argue over food, over music, over which one of them would survive longer in the wild.

Sometimes you sit between them, listening to them bicker, both talking over each other, and you realize you're playing gooseberry in your own relationship.

But you don't mind.

Your mother warms to Mingyu quietly, the way she warms to all things she trusts. She notices the way he listens when you speak, the way he reaches for your hand without thinking, the way his voice softens around you. She asks him if he’s eaten, if he’s tired, if he’s happy. She presses an extra helping of food onto his plate and says, “You’re too thin.”

You see the way his eyes shine at that.

Life is calmer now—not easier or perfect, but you're happier now. You and Mingyu build something slow and sturdy. Morning routines. Shared silences. Arguments that end in laughter or apologies murmured into skin. Love that does not demand you shrink or bend.

Some nights, when the house is quiet and the world feels far away, you lie beside him and think of the girl you used to be—the one who thought love was something that happened to you, not something you chose.

You chose this.

You chose him.

And when Mingyu turns to you in the dark, half-asleep, arm pulling you closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you know—with a certainty that settles deep in your bones—that whatever matters remain unfinished, whatever bridges yet await their crossing, you are, in that moment, precisely where you are meant to be.

THE ROOM IS THICK WITH SMOKE JUST LIKE IT ALWAYS IS, a heady cigar haze blanketing the entire cafe-turned-speakeasy better known as Club Maestro. Long, languid, melancholic notes sung by the beautiful jazz singer onstage rise into the air and fold right into the clouds, and between that and the smuggled liquor in your system, you feel a little dizzy.

“She's the berries, ain't she?” Evelyn asks before she brings her cigarette holder to her lips and inhales, the tip of her cigarette burning a bright orange as she does. You follow her gaze to the singer and nod.

“She is,” you agree. “Voice of an angel.”

You've only snuck away with your best friend to visit Club Maestro a handful of times—whenever your husband wandered off for poker night with his friends—but you're sure you recognize the performer from one of your past visits. The loneliness and longing in her voice sounds too familiar for this to be your first time hearing it.

After a few minutes of silent appreciation, Evelyn's low whistle cuts through the music. You look over at her to find the gloved hand holding her cigarette holder covering her lips in pleasant surprise. You frown.

“What?”

She doesn’t bother using any words, instead nodding behind you and puckering her lips pointedly. You look over your shoulder, doing your best to pretend you’re casually scanning the room. At first, you don’t see him. There are too many bodies, too much smoke, the lights are too dim, and you're too tipsy. But even so, as soon as he breaks through the crowd and makes it to the bar, you know immediately who Evelyn is referring to.

The man stands casually once he's at the bar, talking to Mingyu, the co-owner of the speakeasy, like they're good friends. You take the opportunity to enjoy the stranger’s profile while he's turned away from you, openly and unashamedly admiring him. His smooth, supple skin, tanned from whatever must keep him in the sun. The dark hair he dares to leave long and unstyled, a stark contrast to all the slicked back dos around him. His plump lips, looking so pink and soft and… bitten—in the slightest of pouts. He’s exactly what your husband would call a miscreant. You think the only truly fitting word is bewitching. 

He must feel the weight of your stare because his eyes stray away from Mingyu's and go straight to you, like he knew exactly where he felt the prying gaze coming from. There's something about his eyes—imploring and insistent—that make you feel stripped bare. You look away quickly, turning around in your seat to find a delighted Evelyn.

“Go over there.”

You look at your best friend incredulously. “What?”

She smirks and kicks your shin lightly under the table. “You heard me! Go over there! Introduce yourself. Get the guy to slide you some giggle water. Flirt a bit!”

“Ev, I’m married,” you say, dumbfounded. 

The reminder drains all the joy out of her face and voice, and you immediately regret bringing your husband up. Doing so always has this sort of effect on her. 

“God, don't remind me,” she groans, taking an especially long drag of her cigarette. She blows the smoke out the side of her mouth, frowning as she stares down at the table. 

Her red lips twist to the side into an uncertain and hesitant pucker, and she flicks her perfectly waved hair out of her face, habits you recognize when she's contemplating whether or not she should say something. You watch her, your own thoughts wandering to the fact that she can wear lipstick so bright—that she can wear makeup at all without her husband calling her an unrefined woman. You would never be allowed to wear makeup for fun. You would never be allowed to cut your hair the way Evelyn and so many other women have. Short, sharp, cute. A statement against the traditional household. According to your husband anyway.

“He's not here, we're on the other side of the city, and it's not like you're taking the Sheik straight to bed!” she finally says, the words tumbling out of her mouth like they've been kept inside it for too long. “You're just going to say hi!”

“I'm not going to say anything,” you insist. You're the mayor's wife. It doesn't matter where in New York City you go; you'll never actually be away from him. It's enough to be sick with paranoia that he'll one day find out about these escapades to Club Maestro. You don't need to add flirtations with a stranger to the list of things to worry over. “I'm married.”

“Please stop saying that,” Evelyn begs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she taps her cigarette against the ash tray on the table.

“What?” you ask, huffing a short laugh. “That I'm mar—”

“Yes!” your best friend nods fast as she cuts you off. “That bluenose you call your husband doesn't have an ounce of respect for you! Why should you give him any back?”

You try not to sigh heavily. While the state of your marriage isn't something you explicitly discuss, it's also not a secret you keep from her. Everyone who's ever meant something to you has already faded to the edges of your life, giving up on contacting you over the years because of your busy schedule or your conflicting stages of life. Or maybe it was just a product of your sheer inability to get anyone you care about to care back. But not Evelyn. 

Evelyn persisted through ignored phone calls and disregarded letters and missed dates and days you would leave her knocking on your front door for what felt like hours because you couldn’t bear to face her. She didn't let any amount of stonewalling or insistence from your husband that she leave you alone deter her. Evelyn, it turned out, is the only friend you've ever really needed. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I… I don’t intend to be mean.”

You try to smile. “No, you don’t need to be sorry. It's just complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” she says, nodding. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder. “A simple hello to a stranger would be a lot less complicated.”

You level her with a flat look. “Ev.”

She says your name right back before she sets her cigarette down on the ashtray, leaving it to burn out. She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, intertwining her fingers before she cradles her chin on top of them. She looks at you like she hasn't properly seen you in years. 

You only see her once a month. You acknowledge that she probably hasn't properly seen you in years—since before your wedding. Between the music, the bootleg alcohol, and the furious gossiping you two engage in, there isn't much room to really look at each other. Really see each other. Not that you particularly want to. You're afraid all you'll see when you look at Evelyn is a wife who chose much more wisely than you did.

You wonder what she sees as she looks at you now. 

“It doesn't have to mean anything,” she says softly. “I was just joking. You don't need to flirt or get the man to slide you some giggle water or even say anything beyond ‘hi.’” She sighs, her eyes running away from yours and focusing on her quickly diminishing cigarette. “I just want to see you do something for you.”

“I do things for me,” you defend yourself weakly. “I come here with you, don't I?”

“And even that is really for me,” she points out, rolling her eyes before glaring at you. She isn't wrong. You stand to lose a lot coming to Club Maestro when your husband is a staunch prohibitionist, but it’s the most you can do to nurture your friendship. You're lucky it suffices for Evelyn. “When was the last time you did something for you?”

Her question comes out in a tone so exhausted, it threatens to sober the entire joint right up. And it's the reason you find yourself wordlessly gesturing to your face—a silent question for your best friend. Do I look okay?

You suppose the least you can do to chip away at the debt you owe her for staying around is say hello then scurry on back, insisting you did exactly as she asked when she inevitably throws a tantrum about it. Those bright red lips slowly curve up into a wide grin, and she nods.

“You're perfect. The real bee's knees.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, thanking her quietly.

“Here goes,” you sigh, shrugging as you stand.

The bar the stranger and Mingyu are at isn't far from your table, but between the wall of drunk, pushy bodies and the dimmed lights, it still takes a great deal of time and effort to get over there. By the time you do, you grab the first spot available like a child grabbing the wall of a pool in their struggle to keep from drowning.

You huff a curse under your breath as you pull yourself closer, staking your claim on your small piece of real estate at the bar. When you're sure no one is going to shove you out of your space, you straighten your hair and dress once more, looking over your shoulder at Evelyn, who is silently and excitedly clapping. You suppress a smile as you turn back to the bar.

You didn't quite make it to the stranger, but you're only one couple away and you’re grateful for the chance to muster up the courage to make your way down. Ever the attentive bartender, Mingyu steps away from his friend almost immediately, fixing his charming, lopsided smile on you.

“Why hello, Miss Lady,” he says, using the nickname he’s given you.

It used to be Miss Mayor when he—horrifyingly—recognized you during your first visit. Then it became Miss First Lady, and now just Miss Lady—each nickname replacing the other every time you, Evelyn, or even his wife, Jihyo, scolded him for calling attention to you. You aren’t exactly worried about the person engaged in criminal activity dropping a dime on you. You think Miss Lady is conspicuous enough and after enough time, it's grown on you. 

“What can I get for you and Miss Evie?”

“Um, just me,” you say, smiling nervously. He doesn't question it, though, his easygoing grin staying put as he nods. 

Honestly, you hadn't thought far enough to actually have an order in mind. You just thought you'd waltz right up, say your quick and panicked hello, and march right back to Evelyn. Your excitement withers a little as you realize how out of practice you are.

Your husband courted you when you were young—naive enough to still believe everyone had good intentions, and inexperienced enough to blindly crave a passionate romance like the ones you saw come out of Hollywood. You never even got a chance to see what else was out there. Who else was out there. Saying you're out of practice might not even be accurate if you were never practicing to begin with.

“Miss Lady?” Mingyu calls, laughing a bit as he narrows his eyes at you playfully. “Where is that little head of yours off to, hm?”

You apologize, body jostling a little as people push past. “Sorry, just… zoning out. Been a long day,” you say. It's not inaccurate. Every day feels like a long day.

“Well, then let's get some moonshine in you and make it an even longer night!” he says, smirking mischievously.

You can never keep a smile off your face around Mingyu, and you understand well why Jihyo glows the way she does even with all the hardships she and her husband seem to have—hardships that force them into avenues that could end in a prison sentence. 

It feels impossible sometimes, looking at her and Evelyn and seeing lives you maybe could've had if you hadn't shacked up with the first swell that paid you any attention. The glamour drew you in, and now, even if your best friend seems to think you're the bee's knees, the last thing you feel is glamorous.

“I'll take a Bee's Knees, please,” you tell him.

Mingyu pounds the surface of the bar with his fist before shooting you a quick finger gun and winking. “Comin’ right up.”

“Thank you,” you say so softly, you’re not sure he even hears as he steps away to make your drink. You sigh after a few moments and steal a glance to your right to look at Mingyu’s friend. You’re startled to find the couple between you is gone, and without anyone in the way, he’s leaning most of his weight against the bar, brazenly staring at you. “Um—” you clear your throat nervously. 

His lips quirk up into the smallest of smiles. He nods at you. “Sweet drink.”

The stranger's voice is soft and deeper than you imagined it would be—almost a low rumble and barely audible over the sounds of Club Maestro. Still, you hear him like he's speaking right into your ear. He stands to his full height and slowly saunters forward, his hand dragging along the counter as he keeps his body angled toward you and takes the spot the couple left.

Every word you've ever known suddenly vacates the premises of your brain. From the table you were seated at with Evelyn, he was a handsome man—the most handsome man in the room as far as you were concerned. But up close, he’s breathtaking. You're not sure you've ever seen someone as striking, with his deep brown eyes, even deeper dimples puncturing each cheek, and a look on his face that tells you he's trying his best to be guarded but is miserably failing.

Because the only word you can use to describe the look in his eyes is intrigued. He rolls his lips between his teeth like he's trying to subdue a smile, and your muscles relax the longer you stare. He doesn't rush you to respond, seeming perfectly happy with just enjoying the moment. You immediately know that your plans of a fleeting “hello” have been dashed, and you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything but excited about it.

“My best friend told me I look like the bee's knees,” you finally say. “Felt fitting to order it.”

“I'm afraid she was severely understating her compliment,” he argues.

“Is that so?” you ask, rolling your lips between your teeth to suppress your own smile now. That just makes him grin freely, his dimples inviting you closer. You feel your knees wobble. You clutch the edge of the counter.

“Very much so,” he insists, nodding. “I'd say it's clear you're the most beautiful woman in this gin mill—probably in all of New York City.” 

You feel your cheeks immediately warm and you can't help the smile that takes over your lips. Something about his expression softens, his eyes turning to melted chocolate as they sweep your face for something.

“And unsurprisingly… a beautiful smile to match,” he tells you quietly. He watches you so carefully, like you might disappear under his very gaze if he does it in any other manner. Like he sees right through your attempts to be a normal person in here.

“Does that work with all the dolls you chat up?” you ask, your voice not as confident as you wish it would be. You can hear just how shaken you are, but if he notices it, he doesn't say.

He shakes his head. “Wouldn't know. I've only tried it on one pretty lady.” He smiles at you expectantly, and his dimples immediately become your favorite thing about his face. He tilts his head in question and asks, “Well? Is it working?”

“No,” you lie. He grins wider. “It isn't.”

“Eh, I’m a patient man,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging even though you know he knows it's working. “Got nothin’ but time.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what to even say to that because you weren't expecting such a forward conversation. In only a handful of sentences, this man has managed to make you feel desired for the first time in years.

“One Bee's Knees for Miss Lady!” Mingyu's voice booms before your brain can even begin to form words. 

The man reappears before you and slides the cocktail across the grain—a pale yellow drink with a lemon rind hooked on the rim, dangling off it in a perfect spiral. It's almost too pretty to drink, but you need something to fix the sudden dryness in your mouth and throat. You immediately take two healthy gulps large enough that both men raise their eyebrows at you.

“Thirsty,” you whisper, clearing your throat and trying not to wince at the way the liquor burns, even with all the honey and lemon. You quickly slide Mingyu a few bills—money you've quietly saved—and when he counts it and cocks an eyebrow at you, you jab a thumb over your shoulder in the general direction of Evelyn. “For the night's tab.”

He continues to stare.

“And then some,” you mutter over the lip of your drink.

“Thank you!” he says cheerily before tucking it into his apron.

“Thank you.” You take a tiny sip this time. “Amazing as always.”

“You can thank this guy,” Mingyu informs you, nodding at his friend next to you. You turn back to the stranger to find his eyes haven't left you, though he has a more easygoing energy about him with the speakeasy's owner here. “This is our supplier.”

It's funny hearing it so casually admitted in the safety of Mingyu's bar. When you hear about bootleggers and rum runners in the light of day, it's either whispered with scandal or muttered with a level of derision and disgust you don't think matches the crime. But in here, you can remember a time when your parents shared a bottle of wine at dinner on the rare occasion they didn't have to work. In here, you can almost reach out and touch a time in your life where you didn't have to hear about how alcohol—and not the failings of men—were ruining the country.

The man doesn't seem concerned with how you'll receive this information, and why would he be? You're a patron at a juice joint with a cocktail in front of you. His smile turns into a lopsided smirk now and he shakes his head. “I get Mingyu bathtub gin. He's the one who makes it edible.”

You cough at the idea of bathtub gin in your mouth and the men laugh. You should've known it was a joke; the liquor here certainly didn't taste low quality.

“He's being modest,” Mingyu says, rolling his eyes. “Seungcheol is the best rum runner around. Liquid gold, truly. Gotta fight all the other joints in town for his attention.”

A warm sensation spreads across your body and you're sure it's just the alcohol hitting your stomach, but it pairs well with finally knowing this man's name. You tilt your head at him and smile. 

“Seungcheol,” you repeat, testing how the syllables feel in your mouth. They taste sweeter than the honey sticking to your tongue. His mouth opens in a silent “ah” as he nods once and gives you a charming smile that lights the feeling in your stomach on fire. 

“Choi Seungcheol,” he confirms. 

He extends his hand toward you and gives you a look you can't quite decipher. It almost feels like a challenge. You stare down at it, large and halfway to you in line with the counter. You can see callouses along the top of his palm from where you are, and you picture him carrying heavy boxes of liquor into Club Maestro every night. You wonder how the callouses would feel compared to your husband's smooth palm—free of any blemishes that would suggest having ever worked hard in his life.

Your muscles tense at the thought of him.

It's just a handshake. It's what people in society do when they meet each other for the first time. Your husband shakes hands with dozens of people a week. Maybe even hundreds. This is one hand, one introduction—just a brief, customary greeting between strangers before they part again forever. Somewhere deep down, you're aware it shouldn't scare you like this; you know that feeling this way isn't normal.

But you've suffered a lot worse for a lot less. You know the consequences of a fleeting glance you didn't even notice you gave or a man looking at you a little too long—a man you never even noticed yourself. Even when all you did was avert your eyes to the ground and exist out in the world, there were consequences simply for drawing attention.

The idea of what could happen to you if you slide your hand into Seungcheol's makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand. The gravitational pull convinces you to do it anyway. His fingers close around your hand firmly but gently, and he simply holds you there, not even bothering to uphold the guise of shaking it. 

You stare down at your hands joined together, your left ringer finger glaringly empty like it always is in Club Maestro, your wedding ring tucked away in your nightstand to avoid any further speculation should someone think they recognize you. You like the way your hand looks like this. Plain, empty.

You state your name for him—the name you had before it became just another thing your husband took from you. You don't know why you do it, and it doesn't help the fear ravaging inside you, but you give him your maiden name. 

Seungcheol repeats it, same as you did, and he must like it because his lips press closed into a delicate smile, like he's trying to keep the taste of your name inside his mouth. 

“That’s a lovely name,” he says, making your heart violently lurch.

Aside from Evelyn, no one knows it—your maiden name. Everyone who does has already been methodically and meticulously cut out of your life. Now, someone knows you again, and that alone feels like an entire well full of hope you can bathe in—that there's a version of you in another living human being's mind that isn't tangled up with your husband. On top of that, he thinks your name is lovely. And after all these years, you'd forgotten to think that too.

“Thank you,” you say through the knot in your throat. 

You're not sure when, but at some point, Mingyu wordlessly slipped away to help his other patrons, leaving you to figure out what to say to Seungcheol next, an increasingly hard task given how captivated you are by his eyes.

You settle on: “Um, you don't want a drink?”

He shakes his head. “I don't drink on the job.”

“Oh… you're working right now?” 

“Mhm,” he nods, looking toward the back of the bar past Mingyu. Two men you think you might have seen before are bringing out new bottles of liquor from another room. “Just made a delivery. I have a few more.”

“Well, don't let me keep you,” you say almost too quickly. You're getting a little too lost in how exciting and nerve-wracking it feels to talk to Seungcheol, and you're not sure that you can step away from him unless he does it first.

He scoffs out a laugh like it's the most ridiculous notion. “I'd let you keep me for as long as you wanted. New York will survive without their precious alcohol for a night. Besides, that's what those two idiots are for.” He jerks his head at the two men. “Joshua and Vernon can handle things if you decide you're generous enough to keep me here a bit.”

You feel your cheeks warm. It shouldn't feel romantic—a criminal putting off his crimes just to spend some time with you. It does anyway.

“Why do you only visit once a month?” he asks suddenly.

The question takes you by surprise. “You've seen me before?”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “‘Course I have.” To his credit, he seems to think his next words over this time, but in the end, he says what he's thinking anyway. “Hard not to. I come here almost every night to oversee deliveries or take inventory. I always catch myself looking for the beauty in the blue dress.”

You look down at yourself, surprised that the dress you wear every single time you visit Club Maestro was memorable enough for him to take note of. It's the only colorful garment in your entire wardrobe—a relic from your old life that you were able to stow away in the back of your closet, safe from your husband's prying eyes—and it’s plain and outdated and unflattering compared to the fashion the speakeasy sees. You love it anyway. 

“More often than not… you aren't here,” he finishes, pulling your gaze back to him. “Not a big drinker?”

“No,” you admit, laughing a little because your cocktail is ironically almost finished from the sheer nervousness of being in Seungcheol's presence. “But I suppose I'm a bit of a homebody too. My friend and I—” you nod in her direction. “We do this as our girls’ night out.”

“And will your friend be mad that I've interrupted your one girls’ night out this month?” he asks, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“Please,” you shake your head and scoff. “She's thrilled.” Your eyes widen a little at the answer, which feels like an admission that the two of you discussed him. You blame your cocktail. “Um, I mean—”

“Well then count me as grateful to her,” he says, smiling widely. “I've been too intimidated to approach you.”

“Approach me,” you repeat dumbly.

He hums. “I thought about all the ways I'd try and get you to give a nobody like me the time of day.”

You playfully glare at him but all he does is shrug and laugh. You sigh. “Well? Tell me about these grand plans of yours.”

He acquiesces easily, like vulnerability and rejection don't scare him at all. “Maybe I'd ask Mingyu what your order was and bring you and your friend some giggle water. Ask you to dance. Maybe I'd pretend to trip by your table and embarrass myself horribly and win your pity long enough to learn your name.”

You snort at that one. “Wow, a man willing to wound his own pride for me.”

He shrugs. “Don't give me too much credit,” he says, chuckling. “After all, it still took you getting to the bar for me to finally say hi.”

“I still commend you on your effort,” you tell him honestly. “How long have you been…” You gesture at the wall of liquor behind the bar.

He grins. “Breaking the law?” You nod, blushing a little. The mayor of New York City enforces prohibition laws with an iron fist, and his wife is currently lost in conversation with a rum runner. “Since it went into effect. I was already working at a small liquor distributor, so when we got shut down, I just took what I knew and ran with it.”

“And what did you know?” you ask.

“I knew all of our overseas connections, for one,” he lists. “I knew that they stood to lose a lot of business with prohibition, and were therefore willing to turn a blind eye to a lot.” He nods down at your drink. “And I know what tastes good and what tastes like shit.” 

You grin at his cursing. It’s impolite to talk like that in front of a lady, but there’s something refreshing about hearing it in public. There’s something respectable about a man doing that out in the open rather than behind closed doors, pretending like he never said a horrible thing in his life anywhere else. 

You take a sip of your drink and you nod. “Very tasty. Not-at-all bathtub gin.”

He laughs. “No, definitely not bathtub gin. Though… I do know how to bootleg liquor too.”

“‘Course you do,” you say against the lip of your glass, rolling your eyes and enjoying the feeling of pretending you know anything at all about this stranger. His smile is bright.

“Why do you say that?”

“Something tells me you're nothing if not resourceful.” 

“Guess you gotta be in these times, huh?”

You can't help the sigh you heave then. “Right.”

“Tell me about that,” he says like he just caught you saying something you shouldn't have. You look at him with confusion. “That sigh,” he clarifies. “What's got a pretty woman like you sighing like that? Tell me.”

“I can't,” you say regretfully. Not without shattering this illusion you know you're both under—the one where you're single and available to fall in love. 

“Okay,” he responds easily, not pressing the matter. “Then just tell me anything.”

It’s this request that finally reminds you who you are and who you’re expected to be—mostly, it reminds you who you can’t be. And you can’t be someone who tells Seungcheol anything real about yourself. You can’t be the woman he meets at a bar and sweeps off her feet and whisks her away, even if by some miracle that's what he wants to do. And you doubt he does.

You’re probably just someone he thought would be fun to pass a few hours with. You have a good thing at home. You have a roof over your head, food on the table, and the kind of security a lot of women vie for. 

“I should get back to Evelyn,” you say quietly. “Um. Girls’ night and all. I'll see you around, Seungcheol.”

You don't wait for his response. You don't even look up at him. You leave your drink on the counter and turn away, making your way back to your best friend, and you ask that she leave the topic alone for the rest of the night. Mercifully, she does.

That first conversation with Seungcheol seems to break a dam for him because he has no qualms about approaching you after that night. It starts with catching your eye across the bar and winking at you, smirking when your face gets hot. It grows to coming over with both of your regular drink orders—knowledge lent to him by Mingyu—and chatting your best friend up like he knows the way to your heart is her approval (and if the way her bright and infectious smile puts you at ease is any sign, it probably is). It even escalates to pretending to trip next to your table and using it as an excuse to say hello, then staying and making the two of you laugh for hours—so long that his employees have enough time to leave, make the rest of their deliveries, and return to kick back and relax.

He tells you stories about his eccentric clients and tales of deliveries gone wrong. He tells you about Joshua and Vernon, and the insane things they get up to while on the job. He has you laughing and gasping and shrieking and asking endless questions all night with his company, and it isn't until several months after that first night that you finally realize every single interaction has been his attempt to chip away at your resolve. 

“‘Scuse me,” Evelyn says, sighing and standing up. “Need to go to the ladies' room.”

“I'll come with,” you tell her, moving to stand up. You're startled back into your seat when she throws a glare at you.

“No need,” she practically barks before giving you a sickly sweet smile once more. “I'm a big girl. I'll be back with another round. The usual?” 

You shake your head, gesturing to your glass still half-full. Seungcheol follows your lead even though his drink has been long gone.

Evelyn shrugs. “Suit yourselves. Be back.”

“Subtlety really is her strong suit," Seungcheol comments, smiling down at his empty glass as he tilts it back and forth, the ice in it sliding around lazily.

You hum your agreement, shaking your head as you watch her retreating figure. “Conniving.”

“Wow, being left alone with me really that bad?” he asks, faking a wound to his chest as he brings a hand over his heart.

“No! No, it's not that! I'm just—I think—”

“So you do enjoy my attention,” he swings completely to the other end of the spectrum, that easy smirk finding his mouth again. 

“I…” You can’t say yes but you also find yourself incapable of lying. You very much enjoy Seungcheol’s attention.

Visit after visit, he never fails to find you, work to break down the walls you’ve built up in the time since you last came, and make you smile all night, your cheeks hurting by the time you’re home, resting your head against your pillow. Hurting so much, that you find yourself terrified of these foreign feelings and you spend the next month trying to steel yourself to face him again, just for him to break through as easily as he always does.

He’s also ingratiated himself with your best friend with master precision—so much so, he’s all she can ever talk about now.

Seungcheol is so sweet on you.

That man is carrying a torch for you.

How can you resist a man so kind?

Questions like that—questions Evelyn often asks—make you coil in on yourself in shame. You know she’s really asking why you’ve instead settled for a man so unkind when men like Seungcheol exist. What she's really doing is encouraging you to step out on your husband. 

The rum runner snorts at your loss for words. “Have I proven myself yet?”

“Proven yourself…?” you repeat, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Have I proven to you that I'm not just another drugstore cowboy using lines on you?” he asks, eyes never leaving you. “You got any plans to stop runnin’ soon?” 

“Running…” you repeat again.

“That's what you're doing, isn't it?” he asks, setting his glass down and tucking both hands into the pockets of his pants. He nods at you. “This whole thing you got going on—being cold to me for the first hour I'm here, ultimately being unable to resist my insanely captivating charm—” You roll your eyes. “—and raising my hopes just to put me back at square one the next time I see you… you're runnin’.”

“I'm not running,” you say confidently. Because you should be running, and this is not what it should look like. Running properly would be never returning to Club Maestro and giving your husband no reason to suspect you've been doing anything he considers unsavory of a lady.

“Then what are you doing?” he asks, eyes studying you carefully. They sweep across every bit of your face slowly, but like always, there isn't a trace of irritation on his face. It's been months of this, and he's still every bit as patient as he's always been. 

“It's just…” you shrug. “It's complicated. I'm not in a… place in my life where I can do…” you gesture at him and the space between the two of you, “whatever this is.”

He grins. “So you agree, there is something here.”

You groan, and let your head fall into your hands briefly before pushing your hair away from your face exasperatedly. “You're exhausting.”

“Hey, you tell me to stop, and I'm out of your hair,” he says, pouting a little. “I'm persistent but I know what ‘no’ means.”

You stare at the table, begging yourself to just tell him to stop. It would make your life so much easier—a lot less scarier and riddled with anxiety. But it would also take one of the already few joys you experience in life. Now that you've experienced Seungcheol's attention, you're selfish enough to want to keep it, even if you know you shouldn't.

“I like you, Y/N,” he says, his mouth smiling softly around your name. He makes it sound so beautiful. “I think I've proven that ‘complicated’ doesn't scare me. So be complicated. I don't know anything about you.”

You don't know much about him either, but he's right; he knows absolutely nothing about you other than your name. 

“If complicated is all I get to know about you, I'm fine with that. It's something. And I'll take anything you give me.”

You exhale slowly, feeling your resolve breaking. It took a lot of strength to ignore a man as handsome and charismatic as Seungcheol. You're realizing now it's impossible to outright reject his affections. You don't even want to. If it were up to you, you'd give him anything he asked for.

But it's exactly that kind of thinking that landed you in your marriage. 

“I can't give you much. Anything at all, actually…” you say, hearing the regret in your voice loud and clear. 

"You've already given me your time,” he points out. “A seat at your table. The privilege of being one of the dolls on girls’ night.” You smile against your will. “Give me one more thing. No matter how small. I'll find a way to make it last me years.” 

Your face gets hot at the words, and if you weren't already sitting, you know they would've knocked you clean off your feet.

You blow out a breath. “Like what?”

He smiles widely at the question, taking it as a step forward. “Like… a dance.”

“A dance?” you ask like dancing at a club with a live band and a dance floor is the most ludicrous idea you've ever heard.

He smiles like it endears him. “Mhm,” he hums easily. He nods at the dance floor, which is packed with couples swaying to the singer's voice. “Do you know how to?”

You nod. “I do…”

“Then, do you want to dance?” he asks again, patience not-at-all waning. 

It's a point of no return, you think. You say yes to this dance, and you say yes to him holding you. You holding him. You say yes to prolonged periods of doing nothing aside from staring at each other. You say yes to wanting this.

You're fully aware you're about to cross lines that could break bones. Your body stiffens a little at the thought, but one glance around and it's clear no one is paying either of you attention.

“Okay,” you whisper. He hears you loud and clear, though, standing and offering you his hand. You stare at it, just like you did the first time you contemplated shaking his hand, and he gives you that same look—a challenge.

You slip your hand into his, your other quickly grabbing your drink for courage, and he gently pulls you to your feet. He quietly leads you to the dance floor until you're somewhere you've never been in at Club Maestro: the thick of it.

Seungcheol leads your free hand to his shoulder, your other cradling your cocktail against your chest like a lifeline. He rests his hands at a respectful height on your waist, and he nods at you.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

It's such a simple question, but it almost knocks you off your feet. You used to find assertiveness attractive. You used to think being led and having decisions made for you was romantic. Is this okay would've had a younger version of you rolling your eyes and teasing Seungcheol for being a pushover. Today, at the age you are now, you think it's the kindest question he can ask you.

You smile and nod. “It's perfect.”

He returns your smile and wordlessly begins to move, your bodies swaying to the music, and although your paranoia continues to gnaw at you, you feel safe. With a wall of bodies around you, and Seungcheol's kind eyes and light hands, you feel safe. 

“You're very nice,” you say, feeling silly as you do. It's such a juvenile compliment, but you think it's the best one you can give. Nice is all you really want these days. 

Seungcheol doesn't seem to think it’s juvenile, though, because he smiles warmly. “I think you're very nice too.”

You purse your lips into a flat smile and nod once, tucking away another opinion of you Seungcheol has that your husband would probably never agree with. 

“You'd think I told you you were insufferable the way you look right now,” he tells you, laughing a little. You join him, shaking your head.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “Guess I'm just not used to… this.”

“If ‘nice’ has you flustered, I better not get started on all the things I think about you.”

You nod quickly. “Yeah, best not.” He laughs louder at that, and you smile, enjoying the way you can feel the sound under your fingertips. “You're so forthright about your thoughts and feelings. It's a little intimidating.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he says, honest as always. “I got tired of being anything other than uncomfortably honest after a while, though. Life feels too short to spend it keeping up appearances.”

You bite your lip, feeling ashamed for the truth you're omitting every time you see him. “Right.” 

All you do with your life is keep up appearances. At fundraisers, galas, rallies, all the things a mayor's wife is meant to make an appearance at. You go and you smile and you wave and you pretend to be a happy, loving wife when you don't know the last time you felt happy outside of Club Maestro was. Even then, you'd be in denial to pretend like part of that isn't because of the man whose arms you're swaying in right now.

“Tell me anything,” he says gently, fingers curling against your waist ever so slightly. 

It's the same request he had the very first night you met—the one that sent you scurrying away. His efforts to wear your walls down must have worked because you feel like you've long missed the chance to run away from him.

So instead, you take a sip of your drink and you tell him about the version of you he's already received parts of—the you who still has the maiden name he knows you by. You tell him you're an only child of two parents who were never home because even with both of them working, there was always just enough food to feed the three of you. You tell him you started working under the table yourself cleaning homes before you graduated high school. 

You tell him that even with all the struggle, you still had a happy childhood. Your parents were embarrassingly and loudly in love, and where money fell short, you were showered in adoration. You were always lucky enough to find yourself in good company, making friends easily and often. You don't tell him about the single unlucky time you misjudged what you thought was the best company you were ever going to get.

“And now?” he asks, a soft smile on his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“You've told me all about you in the past tense. Who are you now?” Another simple question that makes you lose cognitive function.

“I'm… here,” you say simply. “I'm here… with Choi Seungcheol…” His smile widens. “And I feel… happy. I don't care to know who I am beyond that right now.”

He nods. “I'll take it.”

“Your turn. Who are you?”

He laughs, shoulders shaking under you. “Loaded question.”

“Oh, so you do see how hard it was to answer,” you point out jokingly. It takes you by surprise—the joke. You don't unwind long enough to do a lot of it at all. He laughs louder, nodding.

“Yes, I see the spot I put you in,” he admits and apologizes. He bites his lip once his laughter fades, and he stares at a spot above your head while he thinks of what to tell you. You think you can see the same hesitation and fear you felt.

“Courage?” you ask quietly, tilting your glass toward him. “I hear they get the best liquor in all of New York here.”

He looks down and smiles at the cocktail between your bodies, both amused and touched by the offer. He accepts, one hand slipping off your waist to take your drink. 

“I got it,” you say quickly, shaking your head as you bring the glass to his face. 

The surprise is plain on Seungcheol's face, but he schools his expression quickly, letting his hand find your waist again, this time a little lower than before. He nods his consent and you press the glass to the pink of his lips gently, tilting until you watch the yellow disappear into his mouth. Your eyes fall to where his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. You discreetly press your thighs together.

He nods when he's had enough and you take the drink back, taking a sip of your own, eyes unable to leave his as you do. His gaze flicks down to your mouth for only a second, but it's enough to lift the corners of it. 

Is this who you are? Not a woman who cheats on her husband so publicly because you're forgetting that bit the longer you sway here with Seungcheol. But a woman who flirts? So openly and freely? A woman who forgets herself and what's expected of her long enough to joke and laugh and tell someone she hardly knows about how she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night to her parents dancing in the living room after a long day of work—a lot like this—while their favorite record played on their dingy, secondhand player? Is this who you are? Because you were tied down by your husband before you would've ever known.

“I was raised by a single father,” Seungcheol starts, licking his lips free of whatever honey and lemon remains. “Similar to yours, he worked like a dog. He died when I was 15.”

You close your eyes briefly and nod, your free hand instinctively dropping to his chest to rub it in what you hope is a comforting motion. It must be because his hand comes up to close over yours, squeezing gently as he holds it over his heart. You try not to stumble or stare at your joined hands, forcing your gaze back up to him. You can tell he doesn’t realize what he did because he's looking past you like he's somewhere far away.

“I was old enough by a lot of men's standards to start working, so I did. Left school, worked the factory line until I worked my way up into contracts. Luckily enough, Mingyu kept in touch from school, and we've been inseparable since. At least until he met my cousin.”

“Who's your cousin?” you ask. He gives you a light glare before looking around with an annoyed expression on his face. You choke on nothing. “Jihyo?! Jihyo is your cousin?!” 

He sighs, nodding. “Yes. Her mother is my dad's sister. They live across the country, and Jihyo showed up on my doorstep one day, demanding I house her. Something about finding herself.” 

He rolls his eyes and you laugh, choosing to be delighted by the information rather than focus on the fact that he was still left to fend for himself at 15 despite having family.

“She and Mingyu did invent ‘inseparable,’” you giggle. Jihyo likes to pretend Mingyu forced her into this life of crime they have, but everyone knows that woman can't be forced to do anything she doesn't want to. If not for its lucrative business, she did it because she's helplessly in love with Kim Mingyu.

“They sure did,” he says, feigning irritation, but after a moment, he smiles. “They're perfect for each other. Even if I hated the idea and punched Mingyu when I first found out.”

You flinch. “You punched him?” you squeak. 

He nods, smiling at the memory, unaware of the alarms going off in your head. “Mhm, I found them petting heavy on my own couch like they were opening up a zoo.” Your lips twitch in an attempt to keep from laughing. “And I punched him. Pulled my punch, though, and all he did was laugh at me.”

You bite your lip and nod, letting the information sit with you. It doesn't matter anyway. Seungcheol, whether or not he had a propensity for losing his temper, would go on with his life, and you would go on with yours, unaffected by his inclination to punch friends.

“Then…” he shrugs, looking around the room. “Prohibition happened, and we all had to adapt. So now, I'm here.” His eyes come back to you and life fills them once more. “I'm here, and I'm also happy.”

You hum. “Good.”

He realizes now that he’s holding your hand against his chest, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers, smiling softly when he sees it’s real. His other hand takes more real estate on your waist, arm snaking around you and bringing you closer to him so that his body flush and warm against yours. Your dress suddenly feels too thin on you, and you think if he concentrates hard enough, he’ll be able to tell just how badly you want to let him take it off you.

“I feel like it’s my responsibility to let you know Evelyn got back to the table five minutes ago and has been staring at us like we’re her divorced parents getting back together,” Seungcheol informs you. You snort, not bothering to turn around to glance at her; you know she’s doing exactly that. 

“Again, subtle,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Should we rejoin—”

“Nah,” he says quickly. “She said it herself. She’s a big girl.”

You nod, biting a smile down. She did say that. So you choose to ignore your best friend staring holes into your back and enjoy this moment with Club Maestro’s rum runner. For once, you try your best to follow Evelyn’s wishes and do something for yourself, and right now, there’s nothing more you want to do than sway your body with Choi Seungcheol’s while he looks at you like you’re the only woman in the room. 

And you do that for exactly two more songs before your time together is cut off by three loud bangs upstairs. The musicians stumble on their beat and you flinch against your dance partner, your glass slipping out of your hand and tumbling to the floor, soaking the front of both your dress and Seungcheol's shirt on the way down.

“Shit!” you gasp. “I'm sorry!” 

You don't even get a chance to start wiping at his chest because the bouncer bursts through the door of the cellar and shouts one word at the top of his lungs, the sound cutting through the music and the quiet murmur of conversations easily. 

“RAID!”

The chaos that ensues is immediate, the crowd erupting into shouts of fear and confusion. The dance floor becomes an uncontrollable wave of patrons desperately trying to find an exit that doesn't involve coming face-to-face with an officer.

The first thought that crosses your mind is that anyone in a uniform will immediately recognize the mayor's wife. The second is Evelyn. You turn toward the table you were at to see if you can catch a glimpse of her, but it's already abandoned, the chairs you were in all  haphazardly thrown to the ground. Before you can start scanning the room for her, you're shoved hard, taking what you think is an elbow to the ribs.

Your pained shout is drowned out as you're ripped out of Seungcheol's grasp by several people trying to push past, and before you know it, you're being carried away, caught in the riptide of panic. It doesn't take long before you lose your footing and you're thrown to your knees. You scramble to get up but take a foot to the side as someone trips over you. You recover just to get a foot on your hand. And suddenly, you're curled up into a ball, hands protecting your neck and head as you're battered by the stomping of panicked people who don't even realize you're there. You squeeze your eyes shut the way you always do when something hurts.

If you die here, you don't think it's the worst way to go. Realistically, your chances of dying bloodied and bruised were always high. Doing so at the hands of strangers who didn't know they were doing it somehow seems better than any other way.

“Come on! Up, up!” 

You hear his voice before you can register you've been yanked upright. When you open your eyes, you're met with Seungcheol's chest. He has an arm around you, holding you tightly to his body as his other makes sure to keep everyone else away from the both of you.

“Evelyn!” you shout in his ear.

“I saw her leave!” he shouts back, pushing through the unforgiving crowd as he tries to make his way to the stage. “Went through the bar exit!”

Your relief is overwhelming, the tension in your shoulders releasing as you let Seungcheol haul you to an exit. The trek is a blur, and you only process you've been successfully led out when the cold night air bites at your face. Seungcheol doesn't release you though, instead taking your hand in his as he pulls you away from the building.

“What about Mingyu and Jihyo?!” you shriek.

“They know what to do!” he assures you, pulling you into a run as he navigates the streets, full of patrons running every which way as cops begin to descend. You lift a hand to your face to hide it as you follow Seungcheol.

He safely leads you into an alley where what you assume is Seungcheol's Ford is parked. He opens the door for you, situating you in your seat before he quickly shuts it and makes his way to the driver's side.

The engine roars to life and he peels away from Club Maestro, refusing to let up on the accelerator until he's several blocks away. When the night outside the car is quiet enough that all you can hear is your labored breathing, Seungcheol slows to a stop in the parking lot of a diner. Before you can ask him a stupid question like “what now,” he's out of the car and opening your door. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, brows furrowed as his eyes scan your body for injuries. Of all the things you thought he would ask or say, that wasn't one of them.

When he doesn't find anything, he gently takes your hands in his and guides you to lift your arms. You wince at the tender spot on your ribs, and the pain is familiar enough that you know you're going to have a nasty bruise to hide for weeks. His eyes dart up to your face in alarm, and when he registers the pain on it, his face contorts in anger.

“I'm sorry,” you breathe, trying to tamp down your expression of pain. 

“What are you sorry for?” he asks sharply. You try not to flinch but fail. He takes pause, watching you carefully as confusion takes the place of anger. He lowers your arms but keeps your hands in his hold, his thumb rubbing your skin in soothing sweeps back and forth. “How bad is it? Should I take you to the h—”

“No!” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I'm fine, I promise. Just a little sore. I'm okay.” He says your name like he's known you for years and can tell you're lying. “I'm not going to the hospital. I'm going home.”

You slide out of the car, ignoring the perplexed look on Seungcheol's face. “I'll take you home.”

“No, it's okay.” You try to sound nonchalant but even you can hear the slight tremble in your voice. There is no way Seungcheol is taking you within a mile of your home tonight lest you want the both of you dead. “You should check on Min—”

“I told you, they're fine. We have a plan for things like this,” Seungcheol says, his concern growing more and more palpable by the second. You feel like you could choke on it. “Please let me take you home. I'll even drop you a block away if you don't want a stranger seeing where you live.”

Your heart breaks at how sweet he's being. Still, you shake your head. “No, it's not that. It's… I just have to go, okay? I have to find Evelyn and—”

“Then we'll find her together!” he insists, showing you even more of his stubborn side than before. “I won’t sleep tonight—or maybe ever again—if I let you wander off into the night with an injury after a raid.”

“That's a bit dramatic.” He glares at you and you groan. You step toward him and take one of his hands in both of yours. It's warm and grounding and you try to take note of every curve and callous, knowing this will be the last time you get to have this. “I promise you, I'm fine and I will get home in one piece. I wish I could explain, but… I just can't, okay? Please get home safe, and please take care of Mingyu and Jihyo.”

You move to step away—where, you have no idea. Probably into the diner to try and get the smell of alcohol off your dress before calling a taxi service to get you home. But Seungcheol doesn't let you go, his hand clinging onto yours. You turn back and are struck by the forlorn expression on his face. He still has that look about him—the one that makes it feel like he's trying to be guarded but failing miserably. It makes all the fight leave your body, and you feel your arms go limp as you stand there staring at each other.

One gentle pull has you up against his chest.

“Why does it feel like you're planning on never seeing me again?” he asks quietly, like if he asks any louder it's a curse that will come alive. You open and close your mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. “Tell me it's not. Tell me it's not the last time and that I'll see you after this. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever. Even if you need the cover of night and Club Maestro to do it. I'll go wherever and whenever you need us to be.” You're astounded at how easily he reads you. At how unafraid he is to be honest. “I'll say goodbye tonight… but only if you tell me I'll see you again.”

You lift his hand to your face and press your lips to each of his knuckles, struggling to keep from crying as you steel yourself to lie. You smile against his skin and nod. 

“You'll see me again, Seungcheol,” you say, voice surprisingly steady. “Maybe tomorrow. For lunch, out in the light of day, away from the club. Okay?”

He smiles but it doesn't reach those beautiful eyes and he nods once. You think he knows you're lying because he doesn't ask for your phone number and he doesn't offer you his. He just pulls you into his chest and hugs you tightly against him. You feel his lips against your temple before he pulls away. 

“You better get home in one piece,” he says in a threatening voice that doesn't instill the fear of god in you. Instead, it makes your stomach warm again.

You nod. “You too. I'll see you.”

“Soon, okay?” he asks, voice still hopeful. 

You agree and walk away and into the diner. When you look out the window one more time before entering the restroom, you find him standing right where you left him, watching you. You lift a hand half-heartedly. He doesn't return the wave, simply smiling.

When you come back out of the restroom, your dress soaked and wrinkled from your shoddy wash job, the Ford is gone, and so is the man of your dreams.

When you were only 19 and freshly hitched, your husband had only one other married friend, and his wife was named Rosie. You saw the couple often and even spent time with Rosie by yourself, shopping together, having tea, and confiding in one another. In fact, you're sure you're the only person who knew just how sad Rosie could get—whole days where she couldn't get out of bed, couldn't speak, couldn't be a human being, let alone a wife. 

You weren't sure what to make of it, but you did your best to be there for her, making meals and delivering them, providing distractions in the form of gossip, or just sitting in silence if that's what she needed.

Then, one day, she just… disappeared. Your husband said she went crazy—“hysteria,” he and his friend called it. Like it was some kind of contagious disease. They told you she was sent away for help, and it wasn't until you relayed this to Evelyn that you understood it meant being committed in a mental asylum. 

You're sure it was very helpful for Rosie to be sent away on her own and for her husband to be remarried within the year, but good wives didn't make observations like that. Good wives accepted new wives with open arms and used them as reminders of how replaceable they were. 

You still don't know what became of Rosie. You suppose you could've found out but you didn't. Maybe you knew all this time what it meant, and maybe you knew all this time that it could happen to you, so you kept your head down and you tried not to be sad or unmotivated or “lazy” or “difficult” or “emotional” or any of the other words used to describe Rosie.

But you still went to Club Maestro and you still let Seungcheol into your life because you didn't think that what happened to Rosie could be more than just a horribly misguided attempt at rehabilitation—that it could be leveled against you as an actual punishment. 

You hadn't even been able to say a single syllable before he had his hands on you the night you got home with your dress still smelling like liquor and honey.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out immediately when the fuzz spotted my wife at the biggest raid in the city?”

“You thought you were slick, sneaking around with a thug behind your husband's back?”

“Did you let him fuck you in the bathroom like the fucking whore you are?”

Your screams went ignored by your own staff and neighbors for hours, and by the end of it, you were locked in a room, left in a pile on the floor with nothing but a single threat: “You shape up now, or you're getting committed. And I'll find myself a wife who understands her blessings.”

You're not sure how long it's been since then—how long it's been since you lied to Choi Seungcheol's face and promised you'd see him again. It doesn't really even matter because already, you feel like you’ve lost something you’ll never have back. You spent several months resisting his charms and trying to convince yourself that you didn't want him, and for what? A body so black and blue, you haven't been able to rise out of bed without help. 

If anything, your husband's wrath should've made you regret ever seeing Seungcheol—ever going to the speakeasy at all. Instead, it had you wishing you'd done something that maybe would've actually warranted the reaction you got. 

Nothing you ever do could've deserved that. You think it's Evelyn's voice you hear dismissing your thoughts.

But didn't you deserve it? You knew going to a juice joint as the mayor's wife was a bad choice. You knew letting the rum runner flirt with you so openly was dangerous. You knew dancing in his arms the way you were was inappropriate. You knew what would happen. Maybe you did deserve a bit of punishment—not because of what you did but because you stupidly did it anyway, knowing what it would cost you.

You spend more time unconscious than not, and when you are awake, you don’t bother to open your eyes or do anything other than beg any god that's listening to be put back to sleep. The time goes by with brief glimpses of staff helping you, darkness engulfing your room, sunlight taking its turn, and helplessly crying when your body refuses to sleep anymore than it already has.

You don't think you've known pain quite like this, and still, somehow all you can think about is Seungcheol and his dimples. The thought of him on the dance floor—all yours for that brief moment—is the only thing that helps you forget how broken you feel.

There are two soft knocks on the door, and you groan from under your covers, not quite able to muster up the energy or the pain tolerance to open your mouth and speak. 

You hear a key slide into the lock and the door opens with a soft creak when your visitor—probably the kitchenmaid with another weak attempt to get you to eat—doesn’t get a proper response. The only people with the key are the housekeeper and your husband, the latter of which deemed it appropriate to lock you in this room despite the fact that you couldn't sit up on your own, let alone walk to the door and leave the house.

Your visitor steps in quietly, closing the door behind them softly and turning the lock once more. 

In the silence, you think you fall asleep again, but you feel a hand rest against your shoulder and realize it's only been seconds. The touch is so featherlight, but you shudder at the sensation anyway, whether out of pain or fear, you’re not sure because you don’t even know where your pain comes from anymore.

Someone whispers your name and it sounds awfully like Evelyn. You don’t think you’ve heard her voice in quite some time. You know you meant to call her the morning after the raid, but of course, you couldn’t. You don’t even know how long ago that morning was. It could have been yesterday. It could have been a year ago. All you know is you miss the sound of it. 

“Ev…?” you croak under your covers, unable to shrug them off. “Can’t…” It takes everything in you to speak, but your voice miraculously squeezes through the ring of bruises around your throat, coming out dry and raspy. “Can’t… go to… Club M…” you don’t bother finishing your sentence. 

You’re too tired to go, and you’re 100% sure you’ll die in this very bed at this point. What a silly thought for Evelyn to even have at all—to come here and ask you to go out. 

“We’re not going to Maestro,” she says with an urgency you don’t think makes sense. “Come on, get up.”

“No.” Then, a thought comes to you. “How…s—how’s S’ngcheol…”

The covers slip off and you hear a soft gasp. Her voice is watery the next time you hear it. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Cheol…?” Why would she kill him?

“What?” she doesn’t wait for you to brace yourself for the pain and respond. “You have to get up. Please! We don’t have a large window,” she speaks.

Evelyn makes sounds that have you thinking she’s rummaging through your things—clothes and toiletries your husband had thrown at your body in a rage before locking the door on you. You don’t know how many hours it had been until he finally allowed the housekeeper in to clean you up and get you into bed. 

“He left for a fundraiser on the other side of the city,” she explains. “Come on, babe, you have to get up.” When you don’t respond to anything she’s saying, she abandons whatever she’s doing to come back to your side. “I'm going to help you up, okay? It's going to hurt a whole lot, but I promise you'll be safe after.”

Safe.

The word gets you to open your eyes for the first time in… you're not even quite sure. It's dark, your best friend backlit by the moonlight streaming in through the open window behind her. Your eyes still feel swollen, but you find you're able to open them much more than you could the last time you did.

It takes you too long to try to produce words to express your confusion because Evelyn apologizes preemptively before slipping an arm under you and lifting you into a sitting position. You gasp as your pain increases tenfold, your ribs and your stomach screaming in protest as Evelyn forces you to stay up. A foreign sound escapes your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut once more, willing the pain to go away. It doesn’t listen. 

Evelyn grasps your hand in hers, letting you grip it as hard as you need to without complaining. 

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, supporting your weight as you lean heavily into her. “I’ve got you. We’ve all got you, and we’re getting you out of here, okay? You never have to come back. All I need you to do is try, and I promise I’ll do the rest.”

“What… what….”

“Come on, babe,” she whispers, moving your legs gently and slowly until they’re hanging off the edge of your bed. 

“He’ll…” you wince as you swallow, your throat distracting you from the rest of your body. “He’ll kill you.”

Evelyn scoffs. “I have Kim Mingyu and Choi Seungcheol and my fucking husband, and you think he can kill me?” she barks out a laugh as she starts to loosen her grip on you, testing to see if you can hold yourself up. She finds the answer is no and curses. 

“Where is he,” you gasp. 

“At a fundraiser,” she repeats. “He left a few minutes ago, and—”

“Not him,” you say, shaking your head. You open your eyes when you think you can stomach the pain and find Evelyn crouched down in front of you, hands on your shoulders as she holds you upright. Her eyes soften with understanding and you’re thankful you don’t need to explain. 

“He’s here,” she says quietly, smiling at you with tears in her eyes. “He’s here, Y/N. And so are Mingyu and Jihyo. They’re outside ready to bump off your piece of shit husband if he comes back early. Even Jun is helping,” she tells you, voice sweetening around her husband’s name. “He’s at the fundraiser with him and when he sees him leaving, he’ll call your house, let the phone ring once, and hang up as a warning. I’ll explain, but only once you’re out of here, okay?”

Tears slip from your eyes and hers spill over too. She shakes her head. 

“I’m so sorry I left you here with him all these years,” she says, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. But I’m here and I’m getting you out, okay?” She pauses this time, allowing you the near minute it takes to speak through your tears and the ache in your throat. 

“Okay.”

In the end, you never hear the phone ring. Partly because you fall back asleep as Evelyn leaves you to pack your things—and you stay asleep—but mostly, because by the time that lone phone ring echoes off the walls, you’re long gone from the prison you’ve been calling home for years. 

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With a heavy sigh on his lips, he heads towards the couch, closing his eyes and relaxing his muscles. The quiet is drowning, his heart aching as his thoughts overtake him. It's the same thing that's been haunting him for the last three years — the fear of living his life alone, with no one waiting for him at home and making his day brighter. It's scary. The idea of never finding anyone to spend this life with scares him.

He might have the money, a stable job, a life many dream about — but it's not the life he aches for. He'd exchange everything for a loving family instead in the blink of an eye if given the chance.

A curse slips past his lips as he opens his eyes again, the back of his hand resting on his forehead as he stares at the ceiling. He needs to do something with himself, occupy himself and think about different things — anything, really. As long as he can push the loneliness aside and pretend like he is okay, like he has everything he's ever wanted.

The first to come to mind are his friends — the smiles of his loved ones that always help him focus on the better things. Jumping up from the couch again, he quickly grabs his wallet and car keys, hoping his friends are home and available to keep him company.

Listening to the loudness of his car's engine, Mingyu manages to calm his thoughts for a while. He hums in a soft rhythm as he waits for the red light to turn green again. He should go dancing soon. If Seokmin isn't home — which he so desperately hopes for — maybe that should be his next destination. It's not often that he gets to listen to music unless it's his coworkers singing their lungs out on a drunken night after a successful flight. And if he's honest, they are always off tune.

Seokmin doesn't live too far away from him, and so he stops again after twenty minutes. Compared to his, Seokmin has a lot smaller place. And yet, Mingyu is certain he's never felt like it was little in any way. Min's place has always been filled with laughter and comfort ever since he knew him. It might be why he was so drawn to him in the first place, knowing the two of them would be friends right then when they spoke for the first time. It's probably also why his place was the first he thought of, driving his car here without second guessing anything.

And while Mingyu loves all of his friends, the welcoming sight of Seokmin at the door will always warm his heart and make him feel the most like he is home.

"It's been so long," Seokmin wraps his arms around his friend without questioning anything. "How have you been?" Stepping aside, he creates enough space for Mingyu to step inside, closing the door right behind him.

"It's been good," he hums, taking off his jacket. Seokmin takes it from him immediately, hanging it for him. "I just got back home. Two weeks of freedom." His friend whistles with a laugh, hurrying him into the living room so they can sit down and talk. "What about you, though? Your stories must be so much more exciting," he asks as he takes a seat on the couch, Seokmin following right behind.

"My stories?" He shakes his head with a soft laugh. "All I do is work. It's honestly incredible how you managed to catch me on my day off. Happens once in a blue moon."

"I could say the same. It feels like I've been working nonstop for the past two months," Mingyu sighs.

"That is because it's been two months since you were home. Why don't you take it easy and enjoy life while you still can? It's not like you don't have the money for it," Seokmin suggests, offering him the pie his wife made before she fall asleep on the couch and he carried her into their bedroom.

Mingyu politely refuses, saying he isn't hungry. "And what would I do if I was just home all the time? I know it might be what you wish to be able to do — stay home and spend time with your wife — but I don't have anyone to spend my free time with. It's better when I'm flying, keeping myself busy."

There is no right way Seokmin could answer. Mingyu doesn't have to say it out loud for him to understand — to see that he also has his own problems he doesn't talk about. Opening his mouth to answer, he slowly closes it again when he realizes he's not sure how. It's hard when he isn't sure what it is that bothers his friend in the first place.

"Am I dreaming or is that you, Kim?" The female voice interrupts both of their thoughts, both men turning to the door to see Seokmin's wife standing there, her eyes scanning the familiar figure she hasn't seen in months.

"In all of my glory," he smiles, getting up to hug her. "Hi, Luna."

"Min can not stop talking about how much he misses you," she whispers, low enough so that her husband won't hear. It makes Mingyu chuckle, a soft smile decorating his face as he steps back and takes in the sight of her.

"Marriage suits you," he comments, making her roll her eyes. "I hope you're not making it too hard for him, though. You know he is weak."

"I can hear you guys," Seokmin interrupts them with a scoff, joining his wife's side and wrapping his arm around her waist. "Did you sleep well?" He asks as he presses a kiss to her temple. Mingyu watches, his smile faltering for a split second. It's quick, neither of his friends noticing, but he feels it — the way his heart aches at the sight, wishing for the same thing. He needs booze. And he needs it now.

"I'm sorry for waking you up, Luna. Maybe we should go someplace else? Give the lady her well deserved relax," he offers, trying to sound considerate instead of desperate.

"You guys should go and have fun," she agrees, glancing at her husband to assure him it's okay to leave her alone. "You two haven't seen each other in ages," she continues and even though Mingyu isn't sure if she saw right through him or not, he appreciates what she's doing for him. "How long will you be in town for?"

"Two weeks. I should get back in the air after that."

"So a plenty of time for us to catch up," she grins. "Go have fun together and we can sit down a different day. You'll tell me all about your travels and if you met any interesting people," she winks at him with a smile, one he decides to ignore. Glancing at Seokmin instead, he waits for him to give his opinion.

"Alright," he grins. "Let's get the guys to join us and have some fun." He glances at his wife, pulling her into a reassuring kiss before joining Mingyu's side. "While staying on our best behavior, of course."

"Right," she shakes her head, rushing them off. Laughter echoes of the walls, just like Mingyu is used to. Seokmin's home has always been like this — a place he wishes to come back to much more than his own house.

♡⸝⸝

Seokmin leads him through the streets of New York, visiting alleys Mingyu never stepped into. Every time he's visited Seungcheol or Minghao, he drove to their house. He genuinely can't remember if he's ever walked to their places ever since they all settled down. Maybe that's what makes this quiet walk to precious.

As soon as all four of them are together again, just like they used to be all the time before falling into the adult life and worrying about work, money, and living, all his worries seem to disappear. His mind quiets, now only filled with the thoughts of the speakeasy they will lead him to. He tries his best to focus on the road as they move, but he quickly gives up when he realizes he's never set foot in these streets. He'll just have to hope he can catch a taxi back home later.

Grabbing the closest empty table they see, all four of them fall into the booth, the singer's voice ringing in their ears immediately. It's loud despite it only being around seven pm, the bar filled with people. "I'll go order, first round is on me," Seungcheol proclaims.

"Thanks, I'll get the next one," Seokmin smiles, watching him walk off to the bar.

Mingyu soon stops counting the number of drinks he's had. He loses count when whiskey joins the table, the liquor sliding down his throat with ease. It might be the alcohol honestly, but the more he listens to his friends talking about how life's been treating them, the more he misses them. Being in the skies all the time gives him the freedom he wishes for along with a fresh mind, but it also takes away from him nights like these. With his ears red from the alcohol, he doesn't even notice Seungcheol leaving the table, nor the fact he hasn't come back yet even though it's already been forty minutes.

"I need to piss," he blurts out, settling his empty shot glass down on the table.

"Don't throw up!" Minghao calls after him and Mingyu just waves him off with his hand. It's then that he catches a glimpse of Cheol, leaning against the bar and talking with some girl — one of the singers he assumes due to her clothing. Shaking his head at him, he looks ahead again, focusing on not tripping over his own feet and getting to the toilet.

When he comes back, Cheol is back at their table with two girls beside him. He wants to be shocked, act like he is surprised, but the emotions don't come. If anything, he's expected this. Seungcheol always knew how to act around women, how to speak and behave. Yet, somehow he was just as single as Mingyu. Well, except for the fact he is sure Cheol has women sleeping over at his place, even if it's just for pleasure.

"There he is," Cheol smiles, telling him with his eyes to play into whatever his plan is. "I'm sure the two of you would find some things in common." Mingyu's eyes widen for a split second before he quickly composes himself again, taking in the sight of the brunette looking up at him. This is certainly not the best time to be meeting any women, but he can try his best.

Taking a seat beside her, he avoids meeting eyes with the guys, too scared of what they have to say. "I've heard many things about you," she says, her voice low enough so only he can hear.

"Like?"

"You haven't married yet."

Right. With two of his friends in a happy marriage and Seungcheol occupied with her friends, all that was left for her was him. "What's your name?" He asks instead of acknowledging what she said, watching as she leans forward slightly, giving him a clear view at her cleavage if he wanted to. He keeps his eyes on hers, refusing to let them fall down. It doesn't seem to please her much. "Choi Hyuna." He repeats her name, trying how it sounds on his lips. It's plain if he is honest. "Do you work here? Do you sing?"

"Yes," she shrugs, straightening her back again. "I'm on in thirty minutes." He nods, glancing at the current woman on stage whose voice fills the room. "Will you watch me?"

Meeting her eyes again, he finds nothing but lust behind them. "If you want me to," he nods. "I could."

"You should," she smiles. "You should wait for my performance to be over and help me home." Unfortunately for her, stuff like these never worked for him. Simple night tangled in each others warmth just to never see each other again was never something he hoped for. If she wasn't with her friend, she might have had a chance with Seungcheol and find better luck there.

"Maybe," he forces a smile, grabbing the first beer he sees on the table and taking a sip. The conversation doesn't flow as he'd wish for it to. Hyuna constantly tries to touch his biceps or thigh, doing everything she is used to working on the other guys that visit the speakeasy. But as Mingyu's responses become more and more timid, her frustration only grows.

He only feels like he can breathe again when she leaves the table to go up on the stage. With a heavy sigh leaving his lips, he relaxes in his seat. "Should we get another round?" He asks, looking around at his friends. Well, the remaining ones as Seungcheol manages to escape the bar a few minutes ago with the girl hanging on his arm.

"I should head back home," Seokmin shakes his head. "I miss my wife."

"Of course, you're right," Mingyu agrees. "Say hi to Luna for me." His eyes trail to Minghao, a hopeful look on his face. But as soon as he meets his friend's eyes, he knows he doesn't plan to stay with him either. "You should get back as well."

"Come visit some day," Minghao says as he stands up. "We do a game night with the guys every Friday, you should come. And you can tell us all about your new girl," he motions towards Hyuna on stage. Mingyu nods despite disgust spreading through his entire body just at the thought of that — of calling her his girl. It's not like she did anything wrong, deep down he understands her, but it's also not something he could do. All he can do for her is wish she finds someone else, someone who would fit her preferences more.

Mingyu doesn't leave the speakeasy right after his friends do, buying himself another shot as he watches Hyuna on the stage, forcing a smile whenever she looks his way. She has a nice voice, and the longer he listens, the more he thinks she was made to do exactly this — sing on a stage. It's nice when something like this happens, when people find their calling. A part of him wonders if his friends looks at him and think the same — that what he does is something he was made for, that being in the air truly is what he is meant to do. He hopes so.

The watch on his hand clearly says two in the morning. He didn't mean to stay for so long but he just couldn't find it in himself to leave. Once he did, it was only because Hyuna was getting off the stage and he was scared she'd want to talk to him again. It's pathetic really. He is pathetic. He spends all his time thinking about what it'd be like if he had someone's company, if he wasn't just alone all the time, and yet the moment a woman is interested in him, he can't even talk to her properly.

Maybe he should have tried. He should have talked to her more, get to know her before writing her off and labeling her as someone who wouldn't look his way if it wasn't for the fact all his other friends were already spoken for. A part of him debates turning around and seeing her again, but he quickly snaps out of it, reminding himself how that conversation would go and that he isn't wrong for wanting more than she has to offer.

"Please! I'm sorry! I won't—"

"Quiet!"

Mingyu's eyes snap up when the argument reaches his ears, freezing when he sees a group of officers from the sheriff department holding a lady and trying to drag her to their car. It takes a mere second for his feet to move again, this time faster than before, trying to get to the scene as quickly as possible. "What's going on here?" He yells loud enough for them to hear, catching the attention of two of them.

"This doesn't concern you!" One of them yells. By the starting wrinkles on his face and the color of his hair, he'd guess he is in his late forties. Why on Earth is a grown man like this holding a lady who couldn't be any older than twenty three in a way that could easily break her arm if he doesn't control his strength properly.

"I think it does," he argues. "You're going to hurt her!" He points out, hoping to get them to back off. He presses further, asking them to let her go and explain why they are arresting her. It doesn't seem to go like he wishes for it to, though, the officers' anger only growing.

"Please," you interrupt, avoiding the strangers eyes as you beg for forgiveness. "I know what I did was wrong. I know. Please, just let me go this once, I promise I won't show up here again," you quickly shake your head, your pleading eyes flickering between all four officers around you. "I have a daughter waiting for me. I can't— she needs me."

Mingyu's eyes widen at your pleas, something in him snapping as he listens to you. "How much for letting her off?" It's a risk. He can't know if he's using the right method, if it won't just rile them up more and he won't end up in a cell right beside you, but at the moment, it is a risk he is willing to take.

He watches the officers hesitate, exchanging a look before slowly dropping their arms to their sides. He doesn't wait for them to name their price, reaching into his pocket and taking a handful of clams. Handing it to the eldest of them, he finally looks at you too, looking for any bruises they could have left with their hold. "Is that good?" By the gawking eyes of theirs, he guesses it is. Well then, he doesn't need to bother himself with them anymore then. "Are you okay?"

"Thank you," you mumble without meeting his eyes, staying still until the group drives off.

"Do you need a ride home?" He asks, his head tilted as he watches you.

It's then that you finally meet his eyes, caught of guard when you see the brown orbs, watching you as if you were something fragile. You quickly shake your head at his offer. The idea of having a stranger drive you home and find out where you live doesn't sound too appealing. His eyes stay on you even after you refuse, making you sigh. "I didn't lie before. I need to get back home. Can you come back tomorrow? I can do something for you then I just—"

"That's not why I helped," he interrupts you, stopping you before you can finish. "I don't want anything in return. I just want to know you're okay."

"It's never just out of a good heart," you mumble as you walk past him. He turns with you, keeping his eyes on your figure. He hesitates, watching you move further away from him. He can't get his feet to move, to catch up onto you and ask you once more if you're okay. With your earlier implication, he is scared you'll take it the wrong way again, and he'll just end up bothering you the same way the officers did.

"Wait!" He calls once you're at the end of the alley, ready to walk away and never see him again. "What's your name?"

You stop mid step when his voice reaches you, your shoulders visibly tense no matter how he looks at it. Closing his mouth again, he regrets calling after you. He should have just left you alone, let you get back home to your daughter and pretend he never saw you.

You glance over your shoulder, taking in the sight of him — nervous and hesitant despite your first impression of him being completely different thanks to the muscles and height he carries. "Neve," you tell him your work name, not giving him a chance to say anything back before disappearing into the night.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Neve.

The name repeats in his head over and over again.

It was three am when he got back home, struggling to get out of his clothes so he could shower before falling into his bed. He ended up catching a taxi that took him home, riding with his window rolled down in hopes of the fresh air helping him sober up. When he spoke to you and the officers, it felt like adrenaline took over, helping him think rationally for a moment. But as soon as he sat in the back of the yellow car, he started to feel the alcohol in his system.

The shower helped a bit too, but he still ended up falling into his bed naked, not bothered enough to put his pajama pants on. Sleep caught up to him right after. But even then, you stayed on his mind. His dream was full of you, your figure everywhere he looked, your scared eyes finding his in an instant. It's the memory of the officers holding you that clouds his thoughts, worries of what could have happened if he didn't show up making it hard for him to sleep.

Even when he wakes up at noon and goes to cook lunch for himself, you are still all he can think about. If you got home safe last night, if you got to your daughter, if everything is okay.

As if in trance, he finds himself leaving his house and following his and Seokmin's footsteps, exploring the streets of New York on his own this time. It's stupid, he knows it is. But for some reason, he hopes that by some luck, he'll be able to see you again if he goes into the same alley. That the universe will be on his side this time and he'll get a chance to calm his mind when he sees you are safe.

However, as soon as he reaches the alley, he wishes more and more he won't find you here. It's only now that he walks through the street that he realizes properly where he is, his smile falling and his brows furrowing further every time he passes a homeless person sleeping on the cold ground. He'd like to think that if it was a different situation, he would worry and try to find a way to help them, but right now, all he can think about is if you go through the same thing — if he'll find you sleeping somewhere on the ground as well; with your daughter cuddled up with you.

It doesn't make sense for him to worry so much. All he knows about you is your name after all. But just like all throughout the night, it's you who clouds his mind. The deeper into the alley he walks, the more scared he gets, slowly regretting his decision. Would it have been better if he let the officers take you last night? Would it be better to let you spend a night in jail and stay warm? Maybe he shouldn't have messed with you and think better about his decisions. It's all he can think about, the different ways the night could have went. But when he remembers what you said, begging for them to let you go because you need to get to your daughter, he doesn't regret helping you in the slightest.

"Now, this is the most perfect cat I've ever seen." Mingyu's eyes follow the voice, finding a woman on the side eyeing him up and down. She looks his age, twenty six if he had to guess. "It's not often I see such handsome men around here," she continues, eyeing him like he's a pray she's going to hunt. "Wouldn't you like to come inside with me?" She bats her eyelashes at him, her words making his eyes trail to the building behind her. It looks ordinary from the outside, nothing special about the building. He looks through the window, noticing an empty stage and a bar inside. For some reason he doubts it is simply a speakeasy, though.

"I'm sorry," he smiles politely, taking a step back. "I don't think I'm in the right place." She smiles back, a sign she understands his refusal. He looks back at the way he came from, ready to give up on this meaningless hunt and go back to his house, but something in him stops him, making him take in the sight of her again. It feels like an invisible force, the universe keeping him where he should be. "Do you know Neve?" He blurts out the question before he can think about how strange he'll look if she doesn't.

She tilts her head, pretending to think, her black hair falling into her face. He sees right through her, understanding what those clueless eyes of her long for. Taking out his wallet, he pulls out a few banknotes and watches as her eyes widen at the sight. She reaches forward and he places them in her hand. She tugs the money into her top happily, smiling when she meets his eyes again. "Neve works with me."

A colleague. Okay, that's a start. There are many things he wants to ask her about — where you live, what it is you do, what you like, what you hate — but she beats him to it, talking again. "She is usually on time but she hasn't came in today yet," she mumbles, the complain falling off her lips as if she's been waiting to talk badly about you all day. "I hate working out here but guess who had to cover for her?"

"Why do you hate working here?" He interrupts her, tilting his head confusedly.

"You're cute," she comments, leaning back against the wall behind her. "You have no idea, huh? It's dangerous out here," she shrugs simply. "Much more than when I'm working inside. Out here, flirting with men, one wrong move and I can say hello to the big house."

That's all he needs to hear in order to connect the dots, his eyes widening at the realization. Of course. It now makes sense why you were under arrest when he met you, why you were outside so late at night with your clothes hugging your body and revealing more skin that was probably comfortable with the night air around. Alcohol warmed him up last night so he walked around in just a shirt, but if it wasn't for it he'd definitely want a jacket on top.

"Could you tell her I stopped by? Whenever she comes in."

"I guess," she shrugs. "Is that all you want me to say?"

"Tell her my name is Mingyu and I'm not asking for any compensation no matter what she thinks. All I want is to know if she's okay."

Nodding, she eyes him up and down, deciding to try her luck once more. "And you're sure you don't want to come in?"

Forming an apologetic smile on his lips, he shakes his head again. "Looking for that sort of company is not for me…" he trails off, hoping she can introduce herself when he asks for her name with his eyes.

"Jisoo," she finishes for him. "Suit yourself," she hums, fixing her dress and stepping from the wall. She stops beside him, looking up to meet his eyes. "If there is one thing we learn on the job, it's that men always want something in return. It's hard to trust one when he says otherwise, especially since most of us got burned in the past. If you truly mean what you said, though, then know that you have my admiration."

Looking down at her, he finds himself repeating her words in his head. She pats his biceps gently, smiling at another guy currently passing by. Mingyu steps aside, barely looking at her again as he walks back the path he walked here through. "I'll come back again tomorrow!" He calls before getting too far away, catching Jisoo's smile before she gives her full attention to the young man in front of her.

♡⸝⸝

One would think nothing can get lost in a one-room apartment. Well, they would be wrong. As you frantically look all over the place, searching for the baby medicine you are convinced you have somewhere, you are once again reminded that things can get lost everywhere. As if this forsaken cursed apartment wasn't enough on top of your daughter crying beside your leg because she is in pain, you are late for work.

"I know, baby," you coo, picking her up into your arms and looking through the bathroom again. When you don't find anything, you just pray your little girl's fever will go down on its own. You're not sure how you'd be able to deal with it if it doesn't. Hurrying outside, you stop in front of your neighbor's door, knocking as if your life would depend on it. If you're honest, it does. You need him to open the door.

Thankfully, the door opens just as you snap your palm on it again and you stand face to face with your neighbor. You don't greet him or ask how he is doing. Instead, you try putting on your best smile, "Please, Jihoon, just until—"

"No," he shakes his head, stopping you before you can even finish your sentence. You don't need to voice it fully for him to understand what you're asking, his eyes falling to the girl you hold tightly in your arms. He looks mad, which you more than understand. But you need him. You can't just waltz into work with your daughter's hands wrapped around your neck as she cries because of the sickness that has gotten to her.

You met Jihoon when you first moved in, a few weeks after your daughter was born when you started working for your boss. He never cared about you much, barely sharing hello's with you when you'd pass him on your way into your apartment. The two of you were never friends, far from it actually, but when he learned about your situation, seeing as you'd leave your daughter with some questionable looking people — that he has later found out you met through work — he offered to help looking after her from time to time.

He truly saved you back then. Had it not been for him, who knows how things would look like right now. Which is also why you appreciate him so much. And even though you know you can't just rely on him all the time, he is the only one you truly trust with your baby.

"You need to find a real babysitter," he mumbles. "I can't be doing this charity work all the time."

"I will," you blurt out, desperate to convince him to look after her while you go to work. He sighs, reaching out his arms and taking your daughter from you. She immediately wraps her baby arms around him, leaning into the comfort he always gives her. You quickly run down the hallway, glancing over your shoulder one more time before reaching the stairs. "I'll help you out when I get back!"

There's a clear implication in your voice, one that makes him roll his eyes and shake his head. "I'd rather you not!" He yells back, making you giggle as you rush down the stairs, trying to get to work as quickly as you can. Jihoon's eyes trail from your figure to your daughter in his arms, a soft smile on his lips. "Come on, Nabi, let's get your fever down so you can come to the studio with me." She cries for her mama and he just slowly rubs her back, taking her back inside with him.

You curse yourself out as you try to fix your clothes while running through the streets. You are so terribly late. You were supposed to start at five — a hour and half ago. You are so terribly screwed. By the time you reach the speakeasy it'll be 6:42, 6:40 if you're lucky and fast enough. Your boss is going to kill you.

You can't help and think of the worst case scenarios. Despite being your boss' favorite, slip ups like these certainly won't help you keep her on your side. There are many ways she could destroy your life if she wanted to — not paying for your apartment and kicking you out on the streets, sending the sheriff department to you so they could take your daughter away after finding out what you do, cutting your pay; the list doesn't end.

"You're late," Jisoo grumbles as soon as you come into her field of view.

"I know. I'm so sorry. Nabi has got a fever and—"

"I don't care," she interrupts you. "Save that for the boss. I'm not the one who needs explanation." Jisoo moves away, stopping with her hand on the door knob. You watch her hesitate, hovering there. It almost looks like she isn't sure if she doesn't want to stay, if she doesn't want to keep your position. A heavy sigh leaves her and she drops the knob, meeting your eyes. You tilt your head confusedly. "A guys stopped by asking for you earlier.

"Who?" Your brows furrow together.

"He was tall, broad shoulders, dark hair and annoyingly gentle eyes. His name is Mingyu," she waits, scanning your face to see if you recognize him. You think you do, you think you know exactly who she is talking about. "He said he doesn't want anything in return, or something along those lines. And that he'll be back tomorrow." You nod to her, waiting for more. But more doesn't come, and before you can ask her anything else about him, she disappears inside.

Your thoughts trail back to the man from last night as you stand in front of the door, looking for customers. You have no doubt it's the same man. You couldn't look at him properly in the dark but from the glimpses you did catch, he would fit Jisoo's description. And who else would be so stupid and run back here again, just to check on your apparently? It doesn't make any sense, the way he acts. How could anyone with even a little rational thoughts care so much about a stranger?

When you think back to last night, it makes even less sense. Not only has he rushed to save you, but he spent his money on you as if it meant nothing. You saw the sum, the great amount that would make your life so much easier if you had gotten your hands on it. No one in their right mind would do that. No matter how high he sits on the food chain, no matter how much money he has, you can't figure out a single reason why he'd want to help you out of all people.

Maybe you could understand if he wanted to use your service for free, if he asked for you inside just to enjoy the power he holds after you after helping you out. But he hasn't done that. And for some reason, you don't feel like he will either. You know it would make sense, that it's something you should expect from him, from any men that wanders around you, but just like Jisoo said; his eyes look too gentle to make you believe he'd do that.

You're not sure how you feel about the last part, about knowing he wants to come back here to see you, about promising he'll be back. You can't figure out what he'll do, and if you're honest, that scares you much more than the typical men you meet on the job.

♡⸝⸝

Jihoon is already at home when you come back, the hallways dark due to the late hour. He looks sleepy when he opens the door to face you, seeing your awkward smile. "She's fell asleep as soon as we got back," he says, stepping aside so you could walk inside. "I gave her medicine and her fever went down too, so hopefully she'll be good for the rest of the night."

"Seriously, thank you so much," you say, unable to express with words how grateful you are for everything he does for you and your daughter. "My boss said she can get me some medicine soon too so if it comes back, I'll be able to get the fever back down." He nods, leading you towards his bed where Nabi peacefully sleeps, her little arms and legs sprawled all over.

"Did you think about a babysitter like I mentioned?" He asks after a moment of silence, making you look his way again. "I could help you look for someone." You bite the inside of your cheek, unable to tell him about your struggles — about the way you doubt you'd be able to pay another person to look after her despite your boss paying half of your rent — so instead you simply nod, forcing on a smile.

"Yeah, it'd be great if you could help."

He hums back, coming closer to his bed and gently scooping Nabi up, careful enough not to wake her up. "I'll carry her, come on," he nods towards the door and you nod, following him back out. You open your apartment door, allowing him to step inside and look at the mess your space is as he take her to bed. He doesn't mention it, but you see his eyes trail over the things on the floor and the stack of clothing just sitting on your kitchen counter. He settles her on the bed and turns to face you again.

You watch as his eyes scan your figure, obviously debating if he should say something or leave it be. You interrupt him before he can open his mouth, not wanting to hear it right now. "Do you think you could look after Nabi tomorrow as well? Just for like an hour or two, I swear it won't be long."

"Isn't it your day off tomorrow?" He questions, tilting his head slightly.

"It is," you agree. "I just need to take care of something. I swear I won't be longer than those two hours, through," you try your best puppy eyes on him. You are confident it won't take longer than two hours. That is the maximum you are willing to wait on Mingyu for. He doesn't get any more.

To your surprise, the eyes actually seem to work as he sighs, running his hand through his hair. "I can't believe I always get wrapped up in your stuff," he murmurs under his breath before finally accepting, your smile widening.

"Thank you, you are so amazing, Jihoon," you cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around his neck without hesitation. He doesn't hug you back but you don't need him to. You know he cares either way. He wouldn't be doing you all these favors if he didn't.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"If anything comes up, I'll be at work, okay?" You remind Jihoon as he takes Nabi from your hands and she immediately nuzzles into his neck, just like she always seems to.

"We are going studio!" She smiles happily, the hole in her teeth obvious.

"Not today," Jihoon shakes his head. "Today we'll be home waiting for mama, okay?" Her smile falters for a second before she glances back at you, her round cheeks making you smile as well. You promise her you'll be back soon and she just nods, wiggling down from Jihoon's arms before running to hug your leg. She looks much more lively than she did yesterday now that her fever has gone, and you love seeing her like this. You debate just staying home and not going anywhere as your tiny version hangs around your leg, but when Jihoon reaches out his hand to her and she happily runs into his apartment, you shake the thought off. You know she'll have fun with Jihoon, and that's what is important.

It's not that a part of you wants to see Mingyu and see what he has to say, you convince yourself as you walk away. It's truly just about the fact Nabi will have a great time playing with your neighbor. Nothing else.

You take your time, not rushing anywhere. When you ran yesterday, it took you 12 minutes to get to the speakeasy. It takes you 25 today. You awkwardly smile at the girl standing outside of the speakeasy, her hands wrapped around a man's shoulders but her eyes anywhere but on him. It feels weird seeing what you do almost every day from afar, the uneasy feeling in your stomach staying with you even as you take your eyes off her.

Deciding to wait on the opposite side of the alley so you wouldn't be in her business, you lean against the dusty building behind you. Closing your eyes, you wait if Mingyu does show up after all.

"Neve!" The voice causes you to open your eyes again. Turning your head to face him, you feel caught off guard when your eyes land on his figure. You knew he was coming. He promised Jisoo he would come back. But somehow, deep down, you didn't want to believe it. There is no reason for him to. He isn't making any sense again. "Hi," he reaches you with a soft smile and you hum back in response, averting your eyes and letting them drop to the ground beneath your feet.

Mingyu stands beside you, leaning his back against the wall just like you, his arm brushing against your shoulder. "I came by yesterday," he speaks, his voice low, careful.

"I know."

Silence settles over the two of you and you slowly raise your head again, meeting eyes with the girl from before. The guy you saw with her before is now kissing her neck, but her eyes are on you, judging you even from afar. You can't blame her. She probably thinks you are stealing her possible clients.

"Is it about me?" You ask, forcing your eyes off the girl as the uneasy feeling reaches you again. "Did you refuse my offer because you don't find me appealing enough? If you'd like the company of a different girl in return I might be able to arrange something—"

"No!" He interrupts you, much more eager than he wanted to sound. He shakes his hands in the air frantically, making your eyes widen due to his panic. "That's not why I came here. I don't care about any of that."

"What is it then?"

"You've been on my mind, so I wanted to make sure you were okay. That you got home safe to your daughter. I was just worried."

"Oh," you breath out, blinking as you look at him.

Mingyu makes zero sense to you. People never do anything selflessly. No one is just so good to be throwing money around without a single care in the world and instead of asking anything in return wondering about if you are safe. All throughout your life, it has always been about people wanting something from you, and if you couldn't give it to them, they'd just throw you out like an old, used up, piece of furniture.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He smiles, "that's good." Your eyes flicker all over his face, taking in his features and trying to find an explanation to your questions, anything that would help you understand his motives. "How about your daughter? What's her name?"

You hesitate, reminding yourself it's a stranger you are talking to. He doesn't know you and you don't know him. So why should you tell him anything about the most important person in your life? But for some reason, despite your brain cursing at you not to tell him, to turn around and never speak to him again, your mouth does the exact opposite. "Nabi."

Seeing sparks in this grown man's eyes wasn't something you expected, but it happens. "A butterfly," he comments and you raise an eyebrow, questioning what he is talking about. "Her name. It means butterfly, does it not?" Little shocked, you nod, agreeing. A beautiful grin decorates his face right after. "It's adorable. Neve and Nabi." It rolls off his lips with ease, and you hate how much you like the sound of it.

You take a moment before correcting him, telling him your real name. He repeats it after you, just as happy as before. It makes you roll your eyes. "Where did Neve come from then?"

"It's my work name," you explain. "I don't really… it can be dangerous when others know your actual name." He hums to show he understands, his smile falling as he unconsciously glances at the speakeasy — or what he believes it's supposed to be on the outside — and meets eyes with the girl watching the two of you. She smiles at him as a different man trails her curves with his hands and it makes Mingyu frown, taking his eyes off immediately.

It's quiet for a bit after, but you don't mind. It's comfortable. Well, until Mingyu breaks the silence again. "Can I ask something?"

"You've been asking me things," you tell him, watching him curiously. His smile is nervous as he takes in the sight of you in. You feel his eyes everywhere — on your face, arms, legs — but for some reason it doesn't feel the same as when the guys you work with eye you like this. While their eyes have always been hungry, only thinking about where they'll put their hands first, his eyes feel gentle, like he is actually appreciating you.

"Will you go out for a dinner with me?"

Your eyes widen at his question and you quickly shake your head. You had a few guesses on what he might ask, but none of them were this. "I need to be at home and cook for my daughter," you turn his offer down, but he doesn't seem to back out easily.

"Let me take both of you to dinner then," he changes his offer, leaning against the building while keeping his eyes on you. You look at him with nothing but awe, wondering what happened with the universe, what shift was made for you to even be having this conversation at the moment. You've had your clients ask you out before when they were satisfied with your work, but this is far from how it is with them.

As he waits patiently for your answer, you are once again reminded you don't understand Mingyu and his deal. Nothing about the way he acts and treats you makes sense.

You don't get the chance to answer before your name rings in your ears, followed by a loud "Mama!" call. Turning around, you see Nabi in Jihoon's arms, smiling when she notices you. You smile back at her, unable to hide the happiness you feel every time you get her back from him.

"I'm sorry, I know you asked for two hours but something came up and I need to go." He apologizes as you take her into your arms. You quickly shake your head, assuring him you understand. You wonder what it is he needs to do but he just brushes you off with another apology before running off, obviously in a hurry.

Finally looking at Mingyu again, you see him already focused on you, his eyes flickering between you and your daughter. He is smiling, his eyes soft and welcoming. Nabi looks at him the same, admiring him as if he was an Angel walking this Earth. He might be. You haven't crossed that option out yet. It takes him a second to take his eyes off the little girl in your arms but as soon as he does, they lock with yours again. "Dinner, my treat. That's all I ask in return for that night. Nothing more, nothing less."

You still feel hesitant, but it is true you owe him as much. Had it not been for him, who knows where you'd be now, where Nabi would be now. You'd like to think Jihoon would take her in and protect her, but you can never be sure. "Okay," you nod. "You can take us out for a dinner." His grin widens as you tell him your address, insisting on him being on time otherwise you're not going anywhere.

He promises he will be there.

♡⸝⸝

Mingyu isn't sure why he feels so nervous as he paces his house, debating if the casual suit he put on is too much or too little. There are many other things he could — and probably should — stress about, but at the moment, the peek of his worries is if you'll like the clothes he put on. He wanted to see Seokmin and Luna before coming to pick you up, but with the time he already spent on thinking where he'll take you, he can't waste any more minutes.

It's been a while since he felt like this, since something other than work mattered to him so much, which is probably also why he has the stupid smile on his lips as he gets into his car. Paying the officers off that night was truly an act of his heart without any ulterior motives, but after spending the last two nights without much sleep and you occupying his thoughts, he needed to do something about it.

The first night when he managed to get home, it were his worries that kept him awake, wondering if you got home to your daughter.

The second night, after seeing your coworker and the people around, worries about your safety were joined by wondering how you live, what your house might look like, if you eat with your daughter dinner every day or if you are too busy to come back on time.

As he drove to the same alley earlier, the thoughts about you didn't stop, they only grew. When Seokmin and Luna started seeing each other and Min would tell him about how much he misses his girlfriend every time they hang out, Mingyu didn't understand. But now, as he finds his mind wandering to questions he wants to ask you when he sees you, he finally starts to get what he meant. It might have been crazy considering you were far from being with him, but he couldn't help it.

And the more he talked to you, the more he wanted to ask about anything and everything that came to mind. He might have convinced himself it was pure curiosity, a simple interest in how other people in New York live, but the moment he saw another guy holding your daughter and acting as if you were close, the spark of jealousy he felt made him look at the situation much clearly — he wasn't just interested in your way of life, he was interested in you.

Seungcheol would probably laugh in his face if he heard about all the thoughts he's had in the past few days, but Seokmin and Luna would understand. He is certain about that. Back when they met, Seokmin told him there was an immediate spark, a look in the eyes that made him absolutely certain he wanted to be with her. When Mingyu listened to him, he thought it was cute.

Now, experiencing it himself, it felt scary.

If he could compare the feeling to anything, it would be free falling. Which is exactly what he's thinking about as he drives through the busy streets of New York, scanning all the street names with his eyes and trying to find the one you live at.

Mingyu truly believes he has the greatest luck of everyone in this country, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to arrive in time. Driving through the city also made him realize how little he knows his own hometown, and that he might have to spend more time on roads than in the air.

"Hi," he smiles as he reaches you already waiting outside of your apartment building, Nabi in your arms with her eyes sparkling as soon as she notices Mingyu.

"Hi," you smile back, your eyes flickering between him and your daughter. "Nabi, look, this is Mingyu. Can you say Gyu?"

"Gyu," she repeats after you, looking at you for approval before reaching her hand towards him. As Mingyu stands there, watching her tiny outstretched hand, asking to be held by him, it feels like the free falling finally stops. His eyes soften, his smile bright as day as he asks you if it's okay for him to hold her.

"Promise not to drop her?"

"Promise," he nods, certain. You nod as well, handing her to him and taking in the sight, your heart shattering a little. She's always been clingy with Jihoon, but this is the first time you're seeing her like this with anyone else. And the look in his eyes as he holds her tiny hand in his rather large one certainly isn't helping how you feel. "Hey, little butterfly. Are you going to get dinner with me and mommy?"

"Dinner with mama!" She agrees, a giggle escaping her lips.

"Dinner with mama," he repeats after her, his eyes finally flickering to you again. "You have a beautiful mama, Nabi, do you know?" He doesn't take her eyes off you as he speaks to your daughter, but that only makes you feel hotter, your cheeks catching a light pink as you shake your head at him, unable to hide the smile on your face. "Shall we? I am parked around the corner."

"You drove here?" Your eyes widen. You knew he was rich, of course you did, but somehow you didn't think of the fact he might have a car. It's weird how your brain immediately classifies him as a higher up, someone completely out of your league, who you shouldn't be able to talk to so casually. But the moment you meet his eyes, it doesn't feel like that at all. He is there, right in front of you, sharing that stupid smile with your daughter as if going out with you was a normal Tuesday tradition.

"Yeah," he nods, a bit confused at your surprise. "It's not exactly close to my house and I didn't want to sweat too much before even seeing you," he shrugs.

"I see," you mumble, averting your eyes from him and quickly walking past him so he can't see just how unreal that sounds to you. He follows right after you, not letting you get ahead. It's easy for him, with his long legs he catches up to you in an instant. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," is all he says before steadying Nabi with one hand and grabbing yours with the other so he could tug you with himself towards his car. Despite you trying your best not to, the warmth of his hand makes you feel at home.

"Wait, is it safe to put a child this small into a car? What if we crash, what if someone crashes into us from behind?" His eyes widen as he hesitates with his car door open, the panic written all over his face. It makes you laugh.

"Those are things that can happen even without a child in a car, are they not?" He nods hesitantly as you take Nabi from him again and slip past him into the back of his car, holding her in your lap. "Does this make you feel better? Me holding her?"

He doesn't say anything, simply watching you for a moment before finally nodding and closing the door behind you. "It would have been better if you sat in the front, but a guy can only dream, hm?" He glances over his shoulder and you roll your eyes. You hate that his stupid smile works wonders on you.

You were in a similar position when you were nineteen, falling for a guy who flashed his white teeth at you and made you feel like you were a star glowing in the sky. In only lead to you losing your life, and if that's what some stupid smile can do, you don't want to fall for another one.

"You should start driving before I leave the car and decide to just eat one of the canned foods we have at home," you say, forcing him to look forward again.

"I'd rather you don't," he answers, briefly looking at you one more time before driving off.

As Mingyu parks the car in front of a restaurant the size of half of the apartment building you live in, your eyes widen. He doesn't stop surprising you. "This isn't where we are eating, is it?" You gawk at the front while he steps out of the car. He's lucky you are too busy admiring the space to open your own door, feeling a little giddy as he opens it for you and extends his hand forward to help you out. "Mingyu," you warn as you look up at him, still sitting inside.

"Come on out," he encourages, refusing to take his eyes off you.

"This is too much. No," you shake your head. "Let's go to like a chuckwagon or something. We can go back to my place, I don't have that much at home but it's enough to feed all three of us, come on."

Your name slips past his lips, a gentle sound that echoes in your ears. "Just hold my hand and follow me, will you?"

"I don't fit in that kind of a place," you still refuse while Nabi watches you confusedly, her curious eyes flickering between you and Mingyu. "You might eat out with your friends a lot and dress in suits and drive cars but," you hesitate, hating how sincere he looks as he still holds out his hand for you, giving you the time to speak but not backing down. "I'm not even dressed for a place like that," you settle for the that simple fact, looking down on your sweater and long skirt. You want to say much more, that you don't and never will belong in a fancy place like that, that you definitely can't afford eating there, or that you are scared of the people inside and their dirty looks.

"You are gorgeous," is all he says before finally dropping his hand to his side and taking a step forward, crouching down on the ground and making himself eye level with you. "Not only your clothes, but your hair, your face, the way you act, your eyes — you are gorgeous."

"Stand up," you whisper-command, looking around quickly and scanning the place for any people around. Thankfully, it doesn't look like anyone is paying you any attention. "And stop doing that. That— whatever you are doing."

He tilts his head to the side, blinking innocently at you. "Doing what?"

"Just stop," you groan, averting your eyes and looking at Nabi instead. "Mingyu is insufferable, baby," you whisper to her and she giggles despite not understanding the words.

Your name leaves his lips again in an attempt to get you to look at him. You don't. But he continues anyway. "Not that there is anything like fitting into a place, but you'll be alright. I promise. Just let me take you to a place I like, have a nice dinner with me, tell me all about your life and act normal. It's going to be just the three of us at the table, and I can assure you, you definitely fit there."

"If I was acting normal I wouldn't be here with you at all," you mumble, slowly stepping out of the car. He immediately jumps to his feet again and reaches his hand out. You hold it while keeping Nabi steady with one arm as she wraps her hands around your neck and rests her head on your shoulder. "Don't make me regret this."

"I won't," he assures you with a smile, thinking again about all the questions he is going to ask you tonight as he squeezes your hand in his, loving how they fit together. He steals glances at you as you walk across the street together, heading towards the restaurant that scares you so much. He meant everything he just said — you are gorgeous. And honestly, he can't believe you worry about fitting in when it's him who is scared of not meeting your standards and disappointing you.

"I can't believe you actually took me here," you mumble as soon as the waiter walks away and Mingyu looks at you again. He ordered Beef Wellington for the both of you — a dish you can only imagine the cost of — after you told him he doesn't need to buy Nabi anything because you'll share your portion with her. He tried convincing you he could get her something small or ask the owner for kid's size of your meal but you insisted.

"Do you really hate it so much?" He asks, worries written all over his eyes. You look up, your eyes panicked as you shake your head. Even though you still think he is insane for all of this — for treating you this well without any reason — you don't want him to think that deep down you don't actually like what he is doing.

"That's not it," you assure him, a sigh leaving your lips when he keeps looking at you like he doesn't believe it. "I'm just not used to it, that's all."

"Well, you should be."

A soft smile tugs in the corner of your lips as you shrug casually, "then help me get used to it."

It's all Mingyu needed to hear, a small reassurance that he should keep trying, that he should try harder, and do everything in his power to get what he wants — in this case, you. Nodding, he grins at you as if he was a teen boy seeing a woman for the first time.

"Oh my god," you sing as you take a bite of your food, the meat melting in your mouth. "This is so much better than what we eat at home. Come here, Nabi, take a bite." Mingyu watches you as you feed your daughter while stealing bites yourself, the smile on your face letting him know you truly do find pleasure in the taste.

"Do you always eat canned food at home?" He asks, remembering your mention earlier.

"I'm not sure what Jihoon feeds her when he has her overnight but I usually do unless my boss treats me to something," you answer without looking up.

"Is Jihoon the guy we saw earlier?" This time you do look at him as you nod, tilting your head to the side in confusion. "Is he the father?"

"What?" A soft laugh erupts from you as you watch his completely serious face, the jealousy written all over his eyes. It's quite cute if you must say. "Oh no. Even though I'm pretty sure everything would be much easier if he was my baby dada." Mingyu doesn't laugh which only makes your teasing smile grow. Nabi's eyes flicker between the two of you as she waits for another bite, one you gladly give her. "Relax, big boy. You're gonna get wrinkles."

"Jihoon is my neighbor, he lives in the apartment besides mine. And because he is so kind, he looks after Nabi when I'm working." Mingyu looks at your daughter who has a smile on her face at the mention of her favorite, causing some sort of urge to compete to grow in him. "I don't know how I'd manage without him, honestly. Before he offered to help me, my boss would find people I barely knew that were willing to look after her — mostly people from work."

"I can help," Mingyu states confidently and you blink confusedly. "Let me help as well."

"Have you ever taken care of a child? I doubt."

"I'll learn."

"It's not that easy, Mingyu."

"I'll learn," he repeats, the confidence shining through him. "This little butterfly can't be that hard to deal with," he makes a face at your daughter, making her laugh. "I'm home all day since I'm on break. I can do it."

You hesitate, taking in the sight of him. Not only does he looks confident, but he is also determined. You know he'll keep trying to convince you until you say yes if it means being able to help you out.

"I don't even know you that well, I'm not leaving my daughter with a complete stranger," you shake your head.

Mingyu doesn't hesitate for even the shortest moment before answering. "I'm Kim Mingyu, born and raised here in New York. I have a younger sister who lives with her husband so we don't see each other much anymore due to my schedule. I work as an aviator, and I think I'm doing a pretty good job. I was born on the sixth of April, 1897. I love meat, any kind, really. I love music, I think it's a great thing."

Staring at him blankly, you let silence settle over you before a laugh bubbles out of you. "I see," you shake your head slightly.

"And I also like you and your daughter," he adds, waiting for you to look at him again. As soon as you do, he notices the faint blush on your cheeks and smiles. "Let me do this for you."

"You've done plenty for me already," you argue, trying to ignore the fact your heart screams to say yes and have a reason to continue seeing him. It's your head that stops you though, the reminder of what happened the last time you reached out your hand towards a fire and burned yourself.

"Please," your name leaves his lips, a gentle sound that echoes in your ears. It's always like this. Every time he says your name, you feel sick. But much to your despite, it's not the throw-up kind of sickness, it's more like I don't want to feel like this. "I'll be good."

"We'll see," you mumble as you avert your eyes from him, too scared he'll read your entire expression.

But at that moment, Mingyu doesn't even think to observe you anyhow, simply happy to have made a progress somehow. He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the night, joking with your daughter without a single care in the world if others are looking at him weirdly. His focus stays on the two of you, making sure tonight stays the best night you could have asked for.

He carries Nabi in his arms back to the car while holding your hand, keeping both of his girls close. He wouldn't say it out loud, too scared what your reaction could be, but deep down, he's already decided you were both his girls. Even if you might not feel that way.

"Will you sit at the front with me?" He asks, batting his puppy eyes at you. You look him up and down, properly taking in the sight of him — from his hair, down to his arms in the suit, to his shoes. There are two ways you think tonight can go. One, you tell him yes and he'll drive you to his place. Two, you say no and this will be the last time you're seeing him.

Neither of them sound ideal, but there is one you'd rather go through. "Sure," you nod, taking Nabi from him as he opens the door for you and waits until you're comfortable with your daughter on your lap before closing it again and walking around the car to get to his own seat.

To your surprise though, he takes the same road he did before, not turning away even ones. You continue talking and so you don't watch the streets as closely, but no matter how much you try, it just keeps looking like the way to your home.

And when he parks his car again, in the same place he did when he came to pick you up, you realize there might have not only been two ways your night could go.

"Thank you," you mumble sheepishly as you step out.

"That should be my line," he smiles, walking with you to your apartment building. "Thank you for going out with me."

You hum back, hiding your smile from him as you let him follow you into your apartment. It's just for a split moment, a millisecond, really, but the thoughts of him wanting to spend the night crosses your mind. You assume that's why he didn't drive to his house but to yours — to make it more comfortable for you with Nabi. Or maybe it's because he doesn't want you to know where he lives, so he could just never show up again after giving you hope.

You quickly shake your head, pushing the thoughts aside. You can't help and feel like everything that happens is just an evil plan against you that will leave you heart broken. Maybe it's good you think that way, though, considering if you always think the worst, it won't hurt you as much in the end.

But he stops at the door despite you inviting him in. "It's late and Nabi is sleeping in your arms," he shakes his head. Still, he hesitates before leaving, his eyes trailing the space behind you as you wait for him to say something.

Narrowing your eyes, you are the one that breaks the silence. "Don't pity me or anything like that," you state firmly and his eyes find yours in an instant. "I don't need any of that. I don't want that."

He blinks confusedly before the panic settles in his eyes. "I wasn't going to," he assures you, almost stumbling over his words due to how fast he is talking. "I was just— seeing where you live. It's not like—"

You rolling your eyes at his panic with a smile on your face helps him calm down again, a soft smile spreading across his lips as well as he leans against the doorframe. "How about you stop talking and just finally come inside?" You prompt but he doesn't move, simply taking in the sight of you.

"I'm going home," he refuses gently, trying to see if the look in your eyes changes anyhow. He doesn't like how it looks like right now. It's different from earlier. Before, he saw a spark, a girl full of personality who he wanted to spend as much time with as she'd let him. But now, all he sees is someone hurt, someone who is forcing themselves into pushing themselves down. "When can I see you again, though?"

Your eyes widen in surprise and you take a moment to think about your answer. He doesn't rush you, patiently waiting while gazing into your eyes as he watches them turn back into the ones he loves. Into the ones full of you. "I need to work tomorrow," you finally say, looking away into the ground. "So if you want, you can take care of Nabi."

"Can I?" He straightens his back immediately. "I promise I'll keep her safe."

You nod. "I trust you," the words escape your lips before you can rethink them, catching you off guard. The only person you've trusted in a while was Jihoon, maybe because you knew he was the only one different from the people you surround yourself with. Well, now he isn't the only one anymore. It feels weird, but also like something you could get used to.

"When do you start?"

"At five. I end at two in the morning, though. Forget it. I'll ask Jihoon tomorrow so it's easier."

He immediately interrupts you, refusing. He repeats how he can do it again, promising to be here again tomorrow at four. Before you can say anything back, fight him or tell him how overly excited he is for this, he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. You freeze in your place, your grip around Nabi tightening as you try to steady yourself. He then pats your daughter's hair, gently enough not to wake her up. "I'll see your tomorrow," he smiles, turning around and walking down the hall while you stay in place, watching his back.

You did not think this day would come again, but you might be done for. Kim Mingyu — born in 1897, raised in New York who now works as an aviator — might have just found his way into your heart.

But it's not happiness that crosses your mind first. It's worries, the sudden panic of what he thinks of you, how he sees you when he knows what you do to make money. You've never regretted agreeing to this since it put food on your table and you were able to take care of your daughter alone, but now that there might be another person in the equation, you do question if it was worth it, if it's not only going to stand in your way now.

Instead of dwelling on it for too long, though, you make your way to your bed, gently laying Nabi down and changing her clothes before doing the same, burying the thoughts aside and hoping sleep will bring better things.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It's four in the afternoon when Mingyu knocks on your door. He takes a step back, not wanting to scare you or anything. His feet lightly taps against the wooden floor as he hums to a melody stuck in his head, deciding not to pay attention to how cold it feels here despite him being fully dressed up. That's an issue he can bring up with you later.

The door opens, but it's not the one he is standing in front of. His eyes trail to the side, landing on your neighbor. Jihoon, if he remembers correctly. "Afternoon," he mumbles with a light nod, a motion Mingyu repeats. He doesn't think much of it, averting his eyes to your door again while Jihoon slowly walks down the hallway.

But Mingyu wouldn't be him if he didn't voice his thoughts. "Uhm, excuse me," he turns to the shorter man, causing him to stop mid step and glance back at him. "Has it always been this cold here?"

"Yeah," he brushes him off as if it was completely normal. "Windows don't close completely and water leaks through the ceiling when it rains or snows." Hesitating for a moment, he eyes Mingyu up and down. "You are the dude I saw yesterday at the… speakeasy, right?"

"Kim Mingyu," he extends his hand forward, offering a handshake, despite Jihoon being out of reach.

Thankfully, he takes the few steps forward and holds his hand in his. "Lee Jihoon. Are you a client?" His eyes trail to your door and Mingyu quickly shakes his head no.

"A friend," he corrects. "Kind of."

Jihoon hums as he let's go of his hand, watching the door of your apartment open. "Nabi, I'm right there!" You call helplessly as your daughter's cry echoes off the walls. With a heavy sigh, you greet Jihoon before redirecting your attention to your seemingly favorite aviator. "I don't know if this is going to work," you shake your head. "She's been crying all morning and I don't even know what to do to stop it. She's only going to cause you trouble and you're never going to want to see us again and everything will—"

Your name on his lips stops your panicked monologue, making you meet his eyes. "No matter how she's feeling and if she causes trouble, I'm not going to stop wanting to see you," he squeezes your shoulder, a gentle gesture that is meant to help you feel calmer. To your surprise, it works.

You catch Jihoon's eyes, feeling your cheeks heating up immediately as he smiles at you, a soft knowing one that screams "I'm proud" no matter how you look at it. Hurrying Mingyu inside, not wanting to look at your neighbor any longer, worried he'll make fun of you for this whole situation, you gasp out a see you latter before slamming the door in his face.

"Jihoon seems nice," Mingyu comments as he allows himself to look around your apartment. This time, you let him, too busy running to your daughter and trying to calm her down to yell at him not to judge you.

"He is," you mumble. "You can sit down. Unless all the money you have is painted all over your head and you can't touch anything if it isn't luxurious."

He quickly snaps out of his thoughts and rushes to you. "I don't mind being here," he assures you but you catch him glancing at the leaking ceiling.

"Then stop gawking at everything so much."

"I wasn't—" he meets your raised eyebrow and gives up on lying. "Okay, I might have been. But not because I'd think any less of you. I just like seeing parts of you and this place is full of that."

You don't answer that, holding Nabi's hands in yours and trying to make silly faces on her. "Baby, come on. You're going to play with Mingyu, aren't you excited? You like Mingyu, don't you?" She doesn't even look at you, her cries getting louder. A groan leaves your lips and he crouches down beside you. His hands cup yours as he holds Nabi with you, a soft coo leaving his lips as he tries to get her attention. Your eyes shoot up to him, watching his side profile as he pays her all his attention, acting like it's no big deal for him to be here, like it's completely normal.

But while it might be casual for him, the warmth of his fingers on yours sends a shiver up your body, You're not used to this. Even when you were with Nabi's father, it never felt like this. Like every single time he looks at you, sparks erupt in your entire body. He catches Nabi's attention as much as he catches yours, and while tears continue running down her chubby cheeks, a smile decorates her lips now.

"What the hell did you do?" You blink confusedly, pulling your hands away from him and hiding them in your lap.

He shrugs, glancing at you. "I tend to have this effect on the women in this house," he grins, boyish and pure. It creates a smile on your face too. "Isn't it possible she's hungry?" He wonders and despite him trying to be subtle about it, you see his eyes falling to your breast.

"I don't breastfeed anymore," you answer and he forces his eyes up again. You haven't seen him look at you like that once since you got to know him which honestly surprised you at first. But now, as you finally see him looking, it feels great. "But she should be full still. Usually she cries due to food around six. It's too early."

"Okay," he nods. "Don't worry. even if I don't know what's going on with her, I'll take care of her as best as I can."

"Thank you," you mumble, your cheeks flushed. "Where do you live? So I can come pick her up later. I mean, unless you'd rather stay here?" Looking around, you know he won't pick the latter. You can't blame him. You might not know what his house looks like, but you have a general idea what kind of a street he lives on. It must be a big change for him being here.

"I'll come pick you up," he shakes his head. "I'm not risking you getting lost or hurting yourself on your way, so I'll be waiting for you when you finish." He watches you bite the inside of your cheek as you look up at him. There's a mixture of appreciation and nervousness behind your eyes — a look he just fell in love with.

"Okay," you nod slowly and he looks away again, lifting Nabi in his arms.

"Let's go, little butterfly. Mommy needs to work," he smiles at you while hugging her and your heart melts at the sight. It's weird because you've never felt like this with Jihoon. No matter how good he is with your daughter, seeing him with her doesn't do the same thing to you as seeing her with Mingyu, surrounded by love even though he barely knows her.

"I'll see you later then?"

"You'll see me later," he agrees, leaving you all alone between the four walls surrounding you.

Mingyu rubs gentle circles on Nabi's back as he carries her to his car, never stopping with the soft coos. She seems to relax in his arms, burying her head in the crook of his neck as she watches the buildings around her. She's probably just tired, he realizes as she weakly wraps her arms around him. "What should we do then, hm?" He asks himself while looking at her, finding himself falling for you even more as he carries a smaller version of you in his arms.

"Whose child did you steal?" Seokmin's eyes widen as he opens the door of his house, confusedly blinking at his best friend and the little girl in his arms.

"My future wife's," he grins at the thought while Seokmin's mouth opens wider, no words leaving his lips. "May I come in?" It takes him a moment to regain his composure but he steps aside, creating space for the brooding male.

"Luna is going to lose her mind," he scoffs, still in disbelieve as he follows Mingyu into the living room.

"Who was it, love?" Luna peaks in from the kitchen, the knife in her hand almost slipping from her fingers as her eyes find her husband and his best friend. "Oh," she breathes out, unable to take her eyes off the tiny human being sleeping peacefully in his arms.

"Hi," Mingyu smiles sheepishly, acting as if a stranger's child in his arms is completely normal.

"Let me set this down and get to you, I need to hear this one," she laughs softly while shaking her head, disappearing from his vision again.

Mingyu settles on the couch, making his movements minimal in order not to wake Nabi up. Seokmin takes a seat right beside him while Luna sits in the armchair on the side as soon as she joins. "Well, meet Nabi, guys."

"Nabi," Seokmin nods in acknowledgment. "I'm assuming you didn't name her? Or you just haven't told us you have a daughter, which I wouldn't be surprised at this point."

"No, I didn't name her," he chuckles. "I wanted to stop by and talk to you sooner but then I got… busy," he says the first thing that comes to mind. Which, if he thinks about it, isn't as far away from the truth. He did get busy, thinking about you.

"Busy enough to not tell us you have a child now?"

"I don't have a child," he argues. "But the woman I think I fell in love with does."

He watches as both of his friends' eyes widen, a part of him wanting to hide in this very couch. He gets it. The Kim Mingyu they know has never even spoken of love and definitely hasn't come out his way to find something for himself, but now, with your daughter in his arms, every inch of him wants to do so. His life has consisted of work and flying for as long as he can remember, but now, he wishes to push back the upcoming end of his break as much as he can.

"Alright, tell us about her," Luna encourages, a smile spreading across her lips as she notices the sparks in his eyes when he opens his mouth.

It takes thirty minutes for Mingyu to finally stop talking about you, only because Seokmin interrupts him by saying he needs to go pee. It's only then that he stops daydreaming and meets eyes with his friend again, seeing the proud smile on her face. A part of him also feels proud. It's such a simple thing, a basic human feeling, but it feels great to finally be able to share the love he's been storing inside himself for years with someone else. Especially when that someone are two pretty ladies he wants to cherish and take care of.

"She sounds great," she assures him and it feels like weight lifts off his shoulders. "When am I going to meet her?"

"Whenever she wants to meet my friends," he shrugs casually. "That's completely up to her."

"You're a good guy, Mingyu. I'm sure she'll see it as well." Mingyu's eyes trail down to Nabi in his lap, the thought of both of you in his arms as he talks to his friends and fills the space with laughter clouds his mind. He wants that. He wants to be happy outside of work and share said happiness with other people. He wants it more than he realized before.

"Although, I'm a bit worried." He looks up again, suddenly nervous. What could she worry about? "Have you given any thoughts to your lives before, Gyu? What she is used to, how she's probably used to being treated and how you grew up? What about your work? And hers? There's a lot of variables you need to have in mind when you say you are falling in love."

He doesn't answer immediately, letting himself linger in the silence. Of course he thought about all of these. With how much of his mind you occupy, it would be insane if he hasn't. Last night, as he laid in his bed after your date, the way you live was the only thing he could ponder upon. The image of your apartment — the bits he saw — were still vivid to him. And now that he's seen it fully, it only adds to his worries. Not because he'd want judge you — god, he doesn't think he ever could — but because he can't imagine what you have to go through.

He's never been a lustful man. Not because he wouldn't understand why someone would be, but because there were always far more important things to him he could pay attention to. And the moment he's learned what you do for living, when he heard you suggesting repaying him with your body, he subconsciously pushed every single thought regarding sex to the back of his mind.

While he is certain he could see himself wrapped in your warmth and being intimate with you, the worry of ending up just like the guys you meet at work, of falling to their level, was too powerful. He'd much rather give up on lust fully if it'd mean knowing you feel comfortable and safe with him.

"It's probably not easy on her if she's raising this little girl all alone."

"I know that. Which is why I wanted to make it a bit easier," he nods towards sleeping Nabi and Luna hums. "I want to be there for her, and help her out. If I could, I'd pay for her to live someplace else, anywhere she'd want. I'd design her a house if that's what her heart aches for."

"But I'm also trying to give her the breather she probably needs, so no matter how deeply I feel, I'm not rushing anywhere."

"You truly have grown while I wasn't looking," Luna's smile softens.

"You are younger than me," he reminds her instead of acknowledging her comment.

She decides to ignore his as well. "Unlike you, Seokmin jumped in straight away. I didn't mind, but it's nice that you consider her feelings as much as you do yours. It might not feel like a big deal to you, but we aren't used to it."

"Well, you should be."

"You have many privileges you don't even know about, Gyu," while her voice is soft, her words feel like anything but. He knows it probably wasn't her intention, but it hits him harsher than he thought it would. He never thought of it like this. While he has realized your life must be a lot harder than his with a child constantly needing your attention and no help outside of Jihoon's availability, he's never pondered on all the things that were delivered to him on silver plate simply because he was born the way he was.

"I wouldn't necessarily say it's bad, or that it makes you bad," she continues, "but you can't understand even half of it. Honestly, I was lucky. I don't think I'd be able to tell you everything she had to go through. It's only a guess from what you've told me, but I wouldn't count on that girl's life ever being easier than it is now."

"How do I help?" He interrupts her train of thoughts, blurting the words out before he can think over them. "How do I make this all easier?"

"For now, just continue what you already do," Luna smiles at his eagerness. "And if you are lucky, then you might end up making both of you happy."

♡⸝⸝

Mingyu leaves his friends' house before Nabi can wake up, settling her on the passenger seat after debating if he'd able to drive with her on his lap or not. Leaning over his seat, he also rests all the things Luna gave him in the back. Apparently, Seokmin's cousin visited them last week with a box full of children stuff — a silent wish from their families to finally reproduce as well, they assumed — and now that he has a child with him, she thought it would be of better use with him than them. From what he saw, there is a bunch of books and toys, so he will have no problem finding use for them.

It's harder to carry all the stuff out of his car than it was taking them in for some reason. With one of his hands tightly wrapped around Nabi, he tries his best taking everything else in the other one. He wouldn't say it's too heavy for him, but his grip certainly isn't perfect.

He has to place the box down on the floor in order to open the door, gently moving the box inside with his foot before shutting the door behind himself and exhaling as if he's just achieved the greatest accomplishment of his life. That's truly how it feels. In that moment, he admires you even more for everything you do.

He sets Nabi down in the middle of his bed, letting her sleep some more. He leaves the door to his room open while picking the box in the hallway and moving it into the living room, dropping it all on his couch so he could take a look. There are four books in total which he places on the table in front of him, briefly scanning the titles with his eyes. The next thing that catches his eyes is the worn out teddy bear. It stinks, but Mingyu is almost sure he can wash that scent off. Leaving it besides the books, he roams through the rest of the stuff, checking to see which toys he wants to give your daughter and which look far too dangerous for children to play with.

Once he is done with that, he tries his best washing the stuffed toy in his bathroom. It's the least he can do, he reminds himself. Helping you out like this, getting your daughter toys to play with and making sure she isn't going to catch anything from them — he can do all that. With all you do for her, this is nothing.

He wraps the teddy in a fresh towel when he is all done in order for it dry, right on time as he hears a cry echo off his walls. Panic rushes through his whole body for a split second before he forces himself to regain his composure and rushes to his room, seeing Nabi waking up. A heavy sigh of relief leaves his lips when he assures himself it's not because she'd fall off or hurt herself but simply because her nap ended.

"Shh, it's okay, little butterfly," he coos, sitting down beside her. But his voice or gentle brush of his fingers doesn't help as she cries for her mama. Okay, he's got this. "Mommy is working, bug, it's just the two of us." It doesn't seem to budge with her even a little bit. Less words then, alright. He makes a mental note to himself as he scoops her up in his arms, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. Rubbing small circles on her back with his thumb, he carries her out into the living room.

It seems to work a little as her little fingers reach up to grab onto his hair, playing with it while her cries slowly quiet down. He barely feels it due to the strength she has but it makes him smile nonetheless. "We'll be okay even without mommy for a while, right baby?" He turns his head slightly to look at her and she raises her head as well, her glossy eyes meeting his as she nods, her lips pressed in a thin line. She's trying to hold back her tears, he realizes. "Oh, Nabi, you are just the strongest little girl, aren't you?"

Thankfully, luck seems to be on his side today. Nabi plays with the toys laid out on the couch as soon as he sets her down, slowly forgetting all about waking up in a space she doesn't recognize. Mingyu watches her with a smile, holding a doll in his own hand and letting her lead the story while her giggles echo in his house.

The same place that felt empty and suffocating just a week ago now brings a smile to his lips, all thanks to stumbling upon you that night. He's realizing this was exactly what he needed, what he wishes would fill these walls — giggles, smiles, love. And while it's just him and your daughter at the moment, he can see you clearly in his mind. Sitting on the couch behind Nabi, playing with her with a smile on your face and laugh that makes him fall even deeper in love. He can imagine you comfortably laying in his bed, his arms wrapped around your waist as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, listening to your soft breathing.

He can see both of you filling this house, turning what was once quiet and boring into something exciting, something he could look forward to coming home to.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Nabi is fast asleep in his car as Mingyu waits for you to come out, leaning his back against the same wall he did when he invited you to dinner. It's rather quiet at this hour, even though he can hear soft music coming from the speakeasy. But other than that, the streets of New York are calm this late into the night.

The front door opens and his eyes immediately trail down the figure walking out. It's not you. He ignores the disappointment bubbling in his chest as he sees a different woman locking eyes with him. There's truly nothing he wants more than to be around you again.

"Still not coming in?" Jisoo's voice rings in his ears and he pushes himself off the wall, coming closer to her.

"I'm happy right here," he smiles at her, watching her hum.

She looks around for any other passerby, leaning on the doorframe when she doesn't find anyone. "You truly are a special one," she mumbles as she takes he sight of him in. Mingyu doesn't answer, simply taking a small step back. He's not sure what it is, but this conversation feels a lot different from their first one. While back then she made her intentions clear, letting him know she found him attractive, this time makes him much more uncomfortable. "So, what are you doing here?"

"Waiting."

"For Neve?"

"For Neve," he nods. "She should be ending any minute."

"Yeah, I think she is supposed to end soon," Jisoo agrees. "Although, who knows when she'll be done. The last time I saw her she was with an eager one."

Mingyu grits his teeth together at the thought. Not for the same reasons Jisoo wishes he would, though. While the image of you with another isn't pleasing, he doesn't feel any disgust or repulse towards you. If anything, he finds the men inside the speakeasy pathetic. He understands why you do it, that at the end of the day, you'd probably love to be able to do anything else — and if not then his support wouldn't change — and he doesn't see anything wrong with that. The men inside? He can't say the same about them.

"Okay," he shrugs, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a bigger reaction.

Jisoo blinks at him confusedly before collecting herself again. "Well, have fun then." While her words are likely supposed to get to him, he simply smiles at her. Saying his goodbyes and watching her walk away. He sighs as he closes his eyes for a second, listening to the jazz music coming from inside as he keeps on waiting.

"Gyu," your voice causes him to open his eyes again. He isn't sure how long it has been, but he hopes he didn't fall asleep. There's a smile on your face as you look at him and he can't help but mimic the motion. "Thank you for coming for me."

"The least I could do," he shakes his head, getting off his suit jacket and dropping it over your shoulders. You don't question him, holding it closed with your hands to guard yourself from the chill of the outside air.

You walk side by side out of the alley without exchanging another word. It's when you reach a lamp on the main street, casting a soft light over you, that you reach your hand out towards him. Mingyu's eyes flicker between yours and your hand before the boyish grin you love appears on his face and he takes your fingers in his. His hand is warm to your surprise.

You recognize his car as soon as it comes in your field of view, noticing the messy hair of your daughter immediately. She's sleeping soundlessly inside, much more comfortable than you thought she would be. Not that you'd mind. Knowing he had no trouble taking care of her today only makes your heart skip a beat. "Do you mind carrying her? I feel exhausted."

"Why? I'll drive."

You blink up at him. "I live fifteen minutes from here. You don't have to drive us."

A soft "Oh," leaves his lips, making you tilt your head confusedly. "This is stupid of me. I thought— I didn't even realize I could drop you off at home. I left her things at mine, I thought we'd go there."

"Her things?"

"My friends had a few toys and I got her some clothes—"

"Mingyu," you interrupt him. "You bought her clothes?"

He nods hesitantly, a bit worried what you're going to say now that you're standing beside him. But instead of arguing with him like he half expects you to, you stand on your tiptoes to reach him, steadying yourself by holding onto his shoulder, and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

Mingyu's cheeks are flushed when you pull back, somehow making him even more attractive than he already was. "We can get back to your place," you nod, walking around him and getting into the back of his car, a chuckle leaving your lips when he stays glued in place. "Come on, big boy, the car isn't going to drive itself."

It is safe to say you mess with Mingyu's head. As he sits behind the wheel and starts the car, all he can think about is how pretty you look in the back of his car and how soft your lips felt on his cheek. He's getting red all over again, but he doesn't care. He can just blame it on the cold if you question him. Clearing his throat and doing his best to look ahead at the road, he drives the now familiar road back to his house.

Surprised doesn't feel like a strong enough emotion as you look at the house he parked in front of. Just looking at it from outside, you guess you could fit five families inside. When you lived with your parents, your house wasn't small, it was much bigger than the apartment you have now, but even then when you thought you were living in luxury, it couldn't compare to the house he owns.

"This is yours?"

"All mine," he nods, his hand finding your lower back as he leads you inside, holding Nabi with the other one. The four am on his clock greets him as soon as he walks past it, deciding to ignore the late hour when there are far more important things right now — like you being in his house.

"She seems to like the teddy a lot, as well as the two dolls," he comments when he sees you eyeing the toys sprawled all over the couch. He didn't bother cleaning it yet, so there is a mess everywhere. But he sure if anyone would understand the mess your daughter can make it'd be you.

"This is awesome, Mingyu," you exhale, meeting his eyes in the dark.

He smiles at you, glad you like it. "Let me lay her down and I'll be right back."

You take your time exploring his living room and kitchen, letting your finger glaze every inch of his furniture you can. Even with the lights off, you can tell it's beautiful. If you could show someone your dream house, it'd probably look a lot like this place. The entire place is so spacious you don't have to worry about bumping into things as you walk, you don't have to worry where you're going to store clothes or eat your food. It's everything you don't have and wish you did.

"Do you want anything to eat? Or drink?" You hear Mingyu behind you but you don't turn, just gawking at the cabinet full of pictures of him. Despite the black and white, you can make out the beauty of his face and excitement he feels as he sits in a plane, the same with the picture beside it where he is surrounded what you can only assume to be his crew. He joins your side, looking at the same pictures. "This one is from last year. I was the lead in a rescue operation. And the guy you see right here, Soonyoung, he was my partner back then."

"You are amazing," you breathe out.

"Well, I think the same about you."

You look up at him just to find him already looking at you, everything about his eyes telling you he means everything he says. "All I do is barely get by."

"You could think that," he hums. "But to me, everything you do for Nabi to make sure she has a place to call home and something to eat, I think of as incredible." Tugging your hair behind your ear, he let's his thumb brush against your cheek. Keeping your eyes locked onto his, you listen to your own heartbeat in the silence, instinctively leaning into his touch. Deep down, you missed this. The warmth of another person outside of work, the reassuring words and smiles meant just for you. "Stay here tonight."

His voice is barely above a whisper but as the sound echos in your ears, it feels much more like a yell. As much as you'd like to call yourself a guarded person, someone who keeps her distance from others and takes her time trusting someone, Mingyu keeps proving you wrong every time you talk to him. He has a charm, you think. A spark in his eyes that breaks down all the defense you try building up and instead of pushing him back allows him get closer.

"With you?" You keep your voice low, matching his.

"With me." His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his eyes falling to them as well. And honestly, as he looks at you like that, there is nothing you want more than to stay here tonight. "My bed is large enough for us all to sleep comfortably, and it's be easier than driving you back so late," he reasons.

"Is that why you wanted us to come here? You wanted to ask me to stay with you?"

He doesn't argue. "Please."

Your breath trembles and you find yourself nodding. He takes a step forward, leaving mere inches between you. Your eyes flicker between his lips and orbs, unsure what to focus on more — the love in his eyes or the urge in his lips.

But just as you are pushing yourself up on your tiptoes again, he steps back and his hand falls to his side. Your mouth hangs open in surprise, blinking fast as you take in the scene in front of you. "You're tired," is all he says before holding your hand in his and pulling you towards what you assume to be his bedroom. You are right.

"Mingyu," you try to stop him but he doesn't look at you, going to his wardrobe and pulling out a fresh shirt, telling you you can wear it to sleep and that he will stay on the couch. "Mingyu!" You try again, this time louder. Your eyes quickly flicker to sleeping Nabi, making sure you didn't wake her up. "Talk to me."

"It's late, and you just finished working," he shakes his head, making you frown. "You should rest."

It's you who holds his hand this time, stopping him from leaving the room. "Is it because of that? Did you remember how I spent my working hours and decided I wasn't attractive to you anymore? Is that why you didn't kiss me just now?"

You can see his eyes widen even in the dark. "God no," he shakes his head quickly, not giving you the chance to continue. "You could never not be attractive in my eyes. If anything, I didn't kiss you because I didn't want you to view me as all the other guys you spend time with."

"So you just—"

"I wanted to give you space."

A heavy sigh leaves your lips and the grip on his hand tightens. Mingyu gives your hand a tight, reassuring squeeze before lacing his fingers with yours. "I didn't want to screw anything up." Gently cupping your cheek, he finds himself gazing into your eyes again.

"Then please, kiss me, Mingyu."

He doesn't need to be asked twice, leaning down and closing the space between you fully. He let's go of your hand only to hold your waist and pull your closer, his other hand holding your chin and tilting your head for a better access. His lips are soft against yours, plum and sweet. Every move he makes, every step, is extremely gentle, almost as if you were something fragile.

You're not sure when you moved back but at some point, your back hits the wall, and you have nowhere to go. Your hands wrap behind his neck and you pull him even closer than he already is, a soft moan leaving your lips.

"I wanted to take my time with you," he mumbles between kisses, his lips never staying away from you for too long. "Wanted to cherish you," his breath shakes. "And love you properly."

Your head spins at the words combined with his actions, every inch of your body itching to be as close to him as possible, wrapped in his warmth. But because Kim Mingyu is the good guy he is, he forces himself back, his hand resting on the wall beside your head as he closes his eyes and let's both of you breathe. You cup his cheeks in your palms, forcing him to look at you again. "You're not doing anything wrong."

You can see the weight lift off his shoulders at your words, smiling at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you chuckle. "Now, you said I can wear that, right?"

Despite you assuring him it's okay, Mingyu insists on stepping out of the room while you change clothes, his eyes only widening more once he sees you again, his shirt swallowing your whole. A part of you hoped for less gentleness and more touching, but for now, you'll have to do with the way he crosses the room and kisses you all over again. His hands stay on your cheeks, as respectful as he can be.

You scoop Nabi to the side, taking a bunch of Mingyu's pillows and creating a barrier between her and the edge of the bed. It is true his bed is much bigger than yours and will have no problem fitting all of you in, but you'd rather be safe than sorry. Slipping under the blanket beside her, you watch the giant man who seems to be hesitating about getting into his own bed. "Come on. I thought you said it was late."

You watch as he rethinks the whole situation, fighting himself in his head before finally joining your side. You turn your back to your daughter to face him, allowing yourself to gaze into his eyes while he does the same. "Can I ask you something?" You break the silence and he nods. "What do you truly think of…me, and what I do?"

"Darling, I meant it when I said I think you are incredible. I admire what you do."

"No I mean," biting the inside of your cheek, you struggle to ask properly and figure out how he feels. It's scary. This whole conversation is scary. But it is one you want to have with him. "My work. How do you… How do you feel about that? Do you not mind?"

"Mind what? You providing for your family? Absolutely not." You tilt your head, serious. A sigh leaves his lips and he scoots a bit closer to you. "I'm okay with you doing what you want to do, if that's what you want to do. I don't— I thought about this a lot, actually. And while I know I don't have a say, the only thing I care about is the fact you surround yourself with people who don't appreciate your worth."

"But you don't think any less of me?"

"I couldn't think any less of you even if I wanted to," he assures you. "And it's not like I don't feel any jealousy, but I also know you are doing your best, and I'll just be the luckiest man alive if you manage to allow me to be close to you."

You avert your eyes from his, focusing on the sheets under you instead. He is too sweet, definitely more than you deserve. "I've been telling you I'll sleep with you ever since we met," you remind him and he frowns.

"I don't care about that. I don't want us to be like that." You keep your head low, listening to him. "The moment I see you naked, it will be because we are so deeply in love with each other we simply cannot stay away from each other any longer."

It's crazy. You know each other for a week. And yet, a smile spreads across your lips as you close your eyes. "I like that," you whisper. "I like that a lot."

You turn your back to him in order to keep an eye on your daughter while his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His head rests on your shoulder, the room falling quiet. It's comfortable, and you find yourself melting into his touch. "But just so you know," his voice is so quiet you're not sure if he wants you to hear and pay attention or not. "If you'd tell me you don't like doing what you do, that you wish to stop, I'd take both of you in in a heartbeat and make sure you don't have to do anything you don't wish to."

Your breath catches at his words and without him knowing, you slowly fall for him. Step by step, the wishful dream you had once build in your head where you and Nabi laugh together, living the happy life you always wanted for her, slowly changes into a picture of the three of you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You're not sure how it all happened, how you ended up over at Mingyu's house every day the following week, or how you got into this conversation. But as your daughter's giggles ring in your ears because Mingyu manages to hold a serious conversation with you while playing with her, you don't ever want to go back to how things were before.

"I promise you arranging my schedule is no problem. I've been taking on any and every shift I could until now because I didn't like being at home. But if you stay here and I get to see your beautiful face every time I come back home, I can manage with a lot less shifts."

"You seriously want us to move in with you?" you question.

"Well, I want you to marry me but I didn't want to get too ahead of myself."

You pin him down with your eyes and he raises his hands in surrender, a soft laugh leaving his lips. "I can't just turn your entire life upside down, come on. Two weeks ago you were flying around the country saving people."

"And now I want to stay home and be with you," he shrugs casually. "I can afford this, baby. I can work less and be there for the both of you. You can't want me to get back in the air without breaks when I finally have something holding me down and making me look forward to coming home."

"But I also can't want for you to do all this for us. I'll feel bad."

He shakes his head at you and leans over the table, pressing his lips to yours. Every time he kisses you, it feels like the first time all over again. You never know what to expect, if he's going to kiss you with hunger or going to be gentle, and that makes the thrill of it all so much better. This time, his kiss is filled with reassurance, grounding you.

"You deserve to get away from that place. You deserve to live your life without the constant reminder of how much power your boss holds over you and that you ended up where you did because the men in your life were terrible."

When you told Mingyu about Nabi's father, about who you thought was the love of your life and how fast he ran away when you found out you were pregnant, he was mad. But the moment you told him about your parents, about your father kicking you out onto the streets because he wasn't going to have a failure under his roof, his anger exceeded all your expectations. Ever since then, the hatred he feels towards men and practically anyone in your life except for Jihoon only grows each day.

If you're honest, it's incredibly attractive.

"I'll think about it, okay? My boss is already mad I asked to be behind the bar and singing instead. I'm not sure I want to see her reaction if I tell her I'm quitting fully."

"And she's listened to you, right? She doesn't force you to work," his eyes flicker to Nabi who is watching both of you curiously, "down there, does she?"

"I'm okay, Mingyu," you assure him but he doesn't calm down completely. "I promise I'll think about it, so you just think about what you're planning to do for us as well, okay?"

"Alright," he agrees even though deep down, both of you know he's already decided. If he wants to stay at home and be with you as much as possible, he will make it work no matter what. "We still got two days before I start again anyway. Should we do something together?" He bats his eyelashes at you with his head tilted and it gets to you more than you wish it would.

"We could," you avert your eyes. "But didn't you say you have plans with the guys tonight?"

"Then tomorrow." He doesn't back down. "Let's go out together. We could go see a play and have dinner," he suggests. You can feel his eyes on you even though you're not looking at him, knowing he's not going to give up until you agree. "What do you think?"

"I don't know if a play is a good idea. Nabi could disturb people around and I don't have anything fancy like that to wear."

"We don't have to go see one, but if you want to, I'll make it work," he assures you. "I could convince Jihoon or ask Seokmin and Luna to look after her and we could buy you a new dress — even though I think your clothes are perfectly fine."

"Mingyu," you raise your brows as if to tell him he's stupid. He immediately leans back in his chair, shaking his head as if to tell you he did nothing. You sigh, pointing down at your clothes, a long worn out skirt and Mingyu's button-up. "Have you ever seen what women wear while going out? It's certainly not this."

"I'm sure Luna has something you could borrow as well," he thinks out loud, barely paying attention to your complains as he thinks about going shopping with you and having you try on all different kinds of dresses. "Shopping. We should definitely go shopping if we want to get you something new."

"Are you even listening?" You see right through him. With the way he is zoning out while looking at you, it's not hard to guess what he is doing. "How about you stop getting weird ideas in your head and start heading out. I'm sure the guys are already waiting for you."

He gasps, bringing his hand to his heart to add to the shock. "Kicking me out of my own house? How terrible of you, darling."

You roll your eyes. "You are the one who wanted me in your house. Isn't that right, Nabi? Did Mingyu want us in his house?" You lean to your girl and she giggles, nodding her head.

Mingyu watches you both, the same soft smile he seems to have every time he is with you spreading across his lips. It's impossible not to have one when you are like this. No matter what you do, if you tease him, argue with him and tell him how stupid he is for being so in love with you, he just finds you adorable. Even more so, when you are cooperating with your daughter.

"I'll be back later," he says as he stands up from his place at the table.

"I know you will."

♡⸝⸝

It's been long since he last visited Minghao's house. Not long enough for him to forget the way, but long enough to be surprised at the beautiful garden standing beside his house. It's also long enough for him to almost not recognize Hao's wife tending to the flowers.

The game is already in full swing when she leads Mingyu into the living room. He thanks her once more before she leaves and he takes the last empty seat at the table beside his friends. Seokmin leans into his side immediately, showing off his cards with an evil smile. Looking at what he has, Mingyu can only assume it's a part of his strategy.

Seungcheol scoffs, obviously not buying any of it. Unlike him, though, Chan, who sits between him and Minghao, seems rather nervous thinking about what cards his elders have in hands. There's only been a few times Mingyu has interacted with Chan. Not because he wouldn't enjoy his presence, but simply because their schedules didn't align enough to give them the opportunity to get to know each other more. His three close friends didn't have the same problems, and so it was easy for them to get close. Close enough that he was a part of their game nights.

"I don't know what you're laughing about, because no matter how I look at it, I win," Minghao shows off his cards as the turn comes to an end, causing Seokmin to groan loudly. Mingyu laughs with the others as Hao takes all of Seokmin's money, enjoying teasing his friend.

"Next round is mine," he proclaims confidently, which only causes another wave full of laughter.

"Leave me out," Mingyu shakes his head politely. "I only stopped by on the way, I need to go again."

"You just got here! Can't you stay even for one game?"

"I need to make my girl's life a bit easier again," he smiles at Seokmin, knowing he'll understand what he means. "But I'll make sure to come back as soon as I'm done. I'm sure there is only as much money you can lose while I'm gone."

"I would run fast if you want to catch him while he is still bidding. It doesn't take long to rid him of everything he has," Cheol laughs and Seokmin immediately hisses offensively.

"I'll be an hour max. I wouldn't miss this."

While the road to Minghao's house wasn't as familiar, the one he takes now is a different story. He's drove to the same apartment building so many times in the past two weeks, he could probably do it blind. He tugs his hands inside his pants pockets as he walks to the speakeasy that started it all.

To his surprise, it feels the same as when he first came looking for you here. He walks past a group sleeping on the cold ground and past people trying to warm themselves up with a fire until he finally reaches his destination, coming face to face with the same girl that helped him get to where he is right now, even though she probably doesn't realize it.

"Every time I see you here I question if you truly mean it when you say you aren't interested," Jisoo says with her hands on her hips. "Neve isn't here today."

"I know," he nods. "She's at my house," he adds proudly.

"Oh?" She tilts her head, a smile spreading on her lips. "But you are here." Mingyu nods, opening his mouth to explain himself. But before he can do so, she's speaking again. "Does that mean you might finally join us inside?" She bats her eyelashes at him and while he doesn't find it at all pleasing, he agrees. "Wait, actually?"

A soft laugh escapes his lips as he hums, "Mhm, I've got some things I want to do."

She doesn't ask further, stepping aside and opening the door for him with a proud smile — almost as if she finally accomplished her biggest goal. Who knows, maybe he has been her biggest goal all along. Unfortunately for her, Mingyu doesn't have much care left now that you've stepped into his life.

On the surface, the speakeasy looks like any other ones he's been to. Jazz music echoes off the walls, accompanied by a woman's voice. The tables are still rather empty at this hour, but there is a guy behind the bar nonetheless. "Hey," Mingyu greets him casually, leaning against a bar chair.

"What can I get you tonight?" The barista eyes him up and down. "Blond island?" He suggests and Mingyu frowns at the chose of name for what he can tell immediately is not a drink.

"I'd like a chat with the boss."

Mingyu watches the barista's eyes widen as he looks around the place, almost as if looking for some sort of help. He seems stressed, but that's a reaction he expected. It's probably not often that men dressed in full suits they've never seen before come in and ask to see the person in charge of an illegal bar. Had it been him behind the bar, he'd also assume the worst.

"Angel," he calls over to one of the girls walking past, heading to the back. She blinks up at him confusedly before hurrying to his side. They exchange a few words together, quietly enough so that Mingyu couldn't hear. "You can follow her."

"Hi," she smiles at him and he returns her greeting. Straightening his back again, he follows her to the back of the bar, looking around as she leads him through the hall. He's never been more thankful for music and how it can cover other sounds around.

"Do people pay more for that?" He wonders, a question more to himself than anyone else. But the girl in front of him glances over her shoulder to look at him, clueless about what he's talking about. "Being loud, I mean. It sounds awfully forced." A soft giggle leaves her lips at his comment but other than that, she doesn't answer.

The boss' office is at the very end of the hall. The girl in front of him makes sure to knock three times on the door before stepping inside, encouraging him to follow. The office isn't anything fancy on its own, plain white walls with only a few closets decorating the space and a table in the center. But then again, there isn't really a reason for the room to be anyhow special, is there?

"Who do we have here?" The woman behind the table asks as she eyes him up and down, her eyes lingering on his muscles longer than he'd like. While the room isn't screaming wealth in the slightest, the woman in charge certainly is. Two pearl necklaces line her neck and she's wearing a pretty red slip dress — one he is convinced would look gorgeous on you. And while he isn't an expert, her earrings and rings look expensive. Unlike the ladies she has under herself, it seems like she has money.

"Mingyu," he bows his head slightly as the introduction slips past his lips.

She hums happily. "Angel, you can get back to work. I don't think we'll have any problems here." The girl quickly nods, excusing herself and rushing out of the room before Mingyu can even turn his head towards her. "Madam Yang," she introduces herself back.

"I came here on behalf of one of the girls in your care," he explains, motioning towards the empty chair a few feet away from him. "May I?"

"Well, of course," she allows him to sit, a polite smile on her lips. "Excuse me for not knowing, but are you one of our clients? Would there be a complain?"

"Not necessarily," he shakes his head slightly. "But I have a girl working under you because of her financial issues — Neve — I'm certain it rings a bell. Well, pardon my bluntness but while she tells me she requested to be behind the bar and on stage only, I have a feeling you don't allow her as much freedom."

"Neve," she sings a low chuckle leaving her lips as she leans back in her chair. "Well, Mr. Mingyu, I never thought I'd be meeting you like this."

"I never thought I'd be meeting you, ma'am."

"It seems we share a few concerns regarding Neve's work life," she hums and Mingyu frowns. Despite appreciating her professionalism, the way she speaks to him is less and less to his liking. "We each have a different idea of what is best for her."

"Enlighten me, please. What do you think would be the best for a girl in her situation?"

"Making more money, obviously. Which she can't do if she's pouring drinks behind the bar. She herself should understand that what she needs to do to feed that child of hers is what I've been offering her since I met her."

"Nabi," he interrupts her. She tilts her head in confusion. "That child as you say with so much disgust. She has a name. A beautiful one if I may add."

Madam Yang shakes her head at him which only makes his blood boil more. "Poor child," she starts despite Mingyu being certain she is his age. Thirty, maybe. "You could never truly understand her or her needs. If those are the things you worry about, you never stood a chance. But that is okay, after all, you are just a man."

In reality it only takes a second, but internally, as Mingyu closes his eyes to calm down, he thinks of twenty different way he could destroy this woman's career and make her regret this conversation. The only thing stopping him are the other girls working under her, who might be in a similar situation like you, who need this job despite everything.

"You're right," he sighs, slowly standing up. "I am just a man, a foolish one some may even say. But I stand by my decisions. Especially the ones regarding this very girl you only use to make money for yourself while giving her barely enough to get by in life." A scoff leaves her lips, but Mingyu doesn't let her say anything. "Which makes it so much easier and enjoyable to be the one to tell you not to expect her to come here from now on."

"What?" Her voice sounds panicked now as she leans forward again, quickly composing herself again when she realizes what she's doing. "What do you— You can't be serious."

Putting on a fake smile, he makes sure to take in the distress on her face. "But I am. You know, Madam Yang, I am a foolish man at heart, and I tend to fall deep. So even if one day she decides she doesn't want to be around me anymore, that she doesn't like me anymore, I will continue supporting her so that she doesn't need to come back here no matter what. And I'm sorry I don't fit your ideal of a man, of those you meet here, thirsting for your woman just to kick them aside once they get what they want. Maybe your life would be easier if I was."

Fixing his suit jacket, he smiles at her once more before turning around on his heel and heading out the same way he came in, making sure to tip the bar and tell him to share with the girls working so hard today.

Mingyu doesn't tell his friends what he was doing when he comes back, acting like nothing happened and laughing at Chan's and Seokmin's failed attempts at tricking Seungcheol. He might find himself in an argument with you tomorrow when he tells you what he did without talking to your properly first but for now, all he wants to focus on are the guys, and the possibility of getting to see you happy because he lifted the burden off your shoulders instead of you yelling at him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Mingyu genuinely couldn't think of a better way to spend the last day of his break than by your side. And as much as he wishes to have both of his favorite girls with him, he is extremely grateful to Seokmin for agreeing to look after Nabi for the night so he could spend some alone time with you. And even though you said you aren't feeling the play he suggested, he was going to make the most of the dinner.

As your giggles echo in his ears, he is more than sure the night is as perfect as it could be. He doesn't remember what he said anymore, what caused this beautiful sound he loves, but it doesn't matter. As long as he can keep listening to your laugh, nothing else matters to him.

"All of your friends sound amazing," you nod while bringing another piece of meat into your mouth. "I knew I would like Luna from the start, but I'm just liking her more and more the more you talk."

"She's really excited to meet you. If that's what you'd like as well?" He asks and you nod immediately.

"I'd love to. After all, I need to know who is taking care of my daughter as we speak, don't I?"

"Certainly," he chuckles. Your smile grows bigger with his and it only makes Mingyu fall for you more. He seems to fall in love with you more and more every day, no matter if you're telling him about something, laughing with him, or just sitting in silence. It all leads to him being more grateful for getting to meet you. "I'm going to miss that pretty smile every time I'm in the air," he mumbles.

"Are you now?" You tilt your head teasingly, but your eyes soften at his words, feeling the same way he does — like every time you are with him, you fall a bit deeper.

He mimics your motion, tilting his head and resting his cheek in his palm as he watches you. "Absolutely," he agrees. "From the second I leave the house, all I'll be able to think about are my two favorite girls."

And there he goes again, making your heart beat faster. It's not only the way he feels about you, but the way he always includes your daughter in as well. Deep down, a part of you always thought that your chances at love or an ordinary life went down to zero when you had your baby, but he proves you wrong every time he opens his mouth. He couldn't get any better.

"Well, then you better work your schedule around so you can be with us as much as possible," you shrug casually, leaning back in your chair.

His eyes widen immediately and he straightens his back as well. "So you agree? You are okay with me wanting to be home most of the time?"

"Yeah," you nod, still smiling. "But I don't want to be a burden on you. You can't just be paying for everything on my behalf. So, I'll ask my boss for more money, maybe it'll be possible if I'm not longer living in her apartment. It doesn't matter, I'll just figure something out so I don't have to keep living off your savings."

"About that," he mumbles under his breath, his gaze dropping down into his plate. It makes you frown as you tilt your head confusedly, questioning what he means. "Before I tell you and you get mad at me, I stand by what I said and I will support you even if you decide you don't want to be with me. Even if you are so angry with me you decide to pack your things tonight — I will still pay for your hotel room and anything else need. Heck, I'd leave you the entire house and go to a hotel myself."

"Mingyu, what are you rambling about?" You interrupt him, your confusion on growing. You have no idea what he is talking about, but if he is so worried about you leaving, it probably isn't anything great. Just your luck, really. Every time you think you are going to be happy, something like this just has to happen.

"Yesterday, when I was at Minghao's, I might have left for like an hour or so. An hour I spent at the speakeasy you work at — used to work at," he corrects himself quickly. Now, your confusion is turning into panic. What does he mean he was there? The thought of him talking to your boss and having you quit doesn't cross your mind for even a second. Instead, you think of him with one of your coworkers, finding pleasure in their company instead of being with you. Oh fuck, you feel like crying.

Mingyu notices the distress in your eyes immediately. "Whoa, whoa, wait. I thought you'd be angry that I went behind your back but don't cry." He's panicking, trying to lean across the table and cup your cheeks. You dodge his hand, clearing your throat as you try to excuse yourself and get up. "Love, wait. Let me explain," he stops you quickly, catching your hand before you can leave. "I know I should have waited for your decision, but I just couldn't stand having others walk over you like this anymore. Your boss is insufferable. And I just— I think a part of me was also jealous, and so I just acted on instincts."

"Which is also why I want to support you no matter what. I'm the one who decided you are quitting and so it's completely on me to take care of everything even if you one day decide you don't want anything to do with me anymore."

Confusion comes back to you as you take in the sight of him — sincere, in love, without any regrets. "You quit my job for me?" You realize.

"I'm sorry," he exhales, holding onto your hand like letting go would mean losing you completely. "I was selfish, yes. But I also thought I'd make your life easier that way. That without your boss making decisions for you and using you for money, you'd like it more if you had the freedom and my support. And I know it sounds stupid because I just made a decision on your behalf and it doesn't make me any better."

"It makes you so much better, Gyu," you quickly interrupt him, unsure if you want to jump over the table and kiss him right now or pretend like it doesn't mean the world to you he's done that. "I don't think I'd ever be able to do it on my own and you—" you hide your face in your free hand, hoping he doesn't see how much you are blushing. "I love you so much."

Mingyu's eyes widen as your words reach his ears, his brain fighting with his heart as the urge to jump off his chair, wrap his arms around you, and spin around while declaring his love to you grows. He is pathetic, and just like Madam Yang said — just a man.

Your man. He thinks. He is grinning ear to ear, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he also hides his face in his hand, realizing how absolutely gone for you he is.

"Thank you."

He brings his hand away so he can look at you, squeezing your hand tightly on top of the table. "There is nothing you could possibly thank me for," he shakes his head. You open your mouth to argue but he continues before you can say anything. "Everything I did since the night I met you is because of my own feelings. I never thought I'd find myself in love or having a family despite my heart always aching for it, so the moment I figured out what I feel for you — how deeply in love I'm falling with you every day — I simply acted on my selfish intentions."

"And yet, they were always the least selfish things you could have done."

A beat of silence passes, a moment you spend simply gazing into each other's eyes and falling in love. All your worries disappear, and a part of you can't believe you ever doubted him. Kim Mingyu, the same man who's already done everything he could for you and your daughter. Of course he'd go and make you quit the job you despite so much. And as much as he says he's done it for himself, because he was selfish, you know deep down, he's done it for you.

"Let's go home?" You suggest, tilting your head slightly. Mingyu swears it's the prettiest you've been since he's met you. He isn't sure why, if it's because of the dress you're wearing, how you did your hair, the way you say home when referring to his house, or the way he can see his love reflecting in your eyes. It's probably all of the above.

"Let's go home," he repeats, his voice soft. All you can do is smile as Mingyu pays for dinner, wanting to get out of this restaurant as quickly as possible so he could finally kiss you. You feel the same urgency, wanting nothing more than to get away from all these curious eyes that you felt like were judging you the entire night and be alone with your boyfriend.

His fingers lace with yours as you walk back to his car, his suit jacket thrown over your shoulders. The cold air didn't even get to hit you before he was already wrapping you in his clothes, making sure you're warm and taken care of. He reaches to open the car door for you but you stop him, pressing your back against it and looking up at him. His eyes trail down your figure, questioning what you're doing. "Didn't you want to go home?"

"Well, right now, I just really want to kiss you since I couldn't when we were inside."

His smile grows as he closes the space between you, his hands resting on your waist as he pulls you onto him, his lips moving against yours in sync. You stand on your tiptoes, a soft, barely audible moan escaping your lips. You feel Mingyu's hands shake as he holds you, the vulnerability and hesitance clear. You don't give him the chance to question anything, wrapping your hands behind his neck and deepening the kiss. The moment he melts into your touch is so obvious your head spins with how in love you feel.

Mingyu has a problem. An aching one that is making him forget he is in public, with you pressed against his car. He is sure you feel it too, there is no other explanation as to why you'd rub yourself on him to test his limits if you couldn't feel him. "Home," he exhales against your lips, forcing himself back. You chuckle as you take in the sight of his flushed cheeks, his eyes wide.

"Quickly. There is so many ways I want to tell you how much I love you," you whisper and his grip on your waist tightens. You love seeing him like this, having him lose control all simply because you said something. You love being the one who makes him like this.

His hand rests on your thigh the entire car ride, making you feel hot. It's not only the way he squeezes your flesh any chance he gets but also the way he looks whenever you glance at him — one hand on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road. Mingyu has always been incredibly attractive, you know that. But somehow, he manages to look even better now.

The longer you look at him, the more occupied your mind gets. The memory of your kiss is all you can think about, his clothed cock pressed against you, and his hands holding you. You can't help it and think about his hands on other parts of your body, exploring every inch of your skin and worshiping you like you wish he would. You think about his lips, about how affectionate you can imagine him being with you, how finally, after years, you can see yourself making love again instead of just having sex. All thanks to him.

"Is it weird that I've never felt as good as I feel with you despite only knowing you for such a short time?" You ask quietly, staring at the road ahead. You can feel his eyes on you even without looking, knowing those brown orbs of his are watching you with as much care as always.

"Darling, you can't keep doing that to me," he groans. "You can't just— Fuck." You look at him again, your eyes softening when you see him, his emotions on full display. "If I'll crash this car because I desperately need to hold you and kiss you all over, know that it's your fault," he chuckles lowly, but you can hear the pain behind his words — pain you know he feels for you, because that's just the kind of a person he is. It's not like he's lived your life, like he's known any of the people that shaped you into who you are today, but you still know that he shares all kinds of emotions for them.

While your feelings have mostly gone numb, the previous anger and regret you felt turning into a void, Mingyu feels them for you. He holds anger for your parents and Nabi's father you can't anymore, he feels pain for you, for all the things he thinks you deserve but never could have had until you met him. It all makes him so much more attractive.

"How about you do that when we get home?" You smile.

It's weird how fast and yet tenderly the two of you can move. The moment the entrance door closes behind you, Mingyu's hands are on your waist and his lips on yours. Your back hits the wall and a whine escapes your lips, every inch of your body itching to be closer to him even though he is pressed flush against you. "It means so much to me," you whisper against his lips.

"I still should have asked first," he argues, kissing you again. He is unable to stay away for too long, needing to feel you on him as much as you need him.

"You didn't need to," you shake your head slightly. His hand cradles your jaw as he tilts your head up, allowing himself to get lost in your eyes.

"You are so beautiful," he breathes out, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. You take the opportunity and wrap your lips around his finger, keeping your eyes on his. He pushes down onto your tongue, his head spinning. He wants to take you right here, admire your naked body and sink into you, but he still has his worries that keep him from doing so, worries that he'll be pushing you into something you don't want.

You can practically see the thoughts in his eyes, letting your hands pull up his shirt and wander over his toned abs. "I want this, Gyu," you assure him as his wet thumb pulls away from your lips. "I want to enjoy our free night. I want to have you all to myself," your hands move up to his chest, his skin shivering under your fingertips.

"What if you change your mind halfway through?"

"Then I'll tell you," you promise. "I'll tell you and we'll just cuddle all night again as if nothing happened, hm? I'm not leaving if that's what you're worried about."

Gripping your waist, his head falls down to your shoulder and your eyes widen in surprise. "Does that mean it's okay to tell you how much I want this? How much I want you," he mumbles into your skin but you hear him, nodding as you trail your hands down to his waist.

"Please tell me."

He raises his head to look at you again. Neither of you say anything, telling each other everything with your gaze. His lips are on you again, gentle yet needy. And when you wrap your leg around his side, he doesn't hesitate gripping your thighs and picking you up.

The walk to the bedroom feels like hours. Not that you mind when he kisses you so sweetly, but the wetness between your legs begs for more than just this. You hold onto him, your nails digging into his shoulders until your back finally hits the softness of his mattress. Before you met him, you had no idea they could feel like this. Sleep naturally came easier ever since you started sleeping here.

Mingyu hovers above you, his broad shoulders blocking your view at the ceiling. His knee rests between your legs and you find yourself grinding against him while helping him out of his shirt. The suit jacket of his he gave you fell somewhere on the floor as he was carrying you, so it's only suitable to throw the shirt to the floor as well.

Despite seeing him shirtless before when he was picking which shirt to wear or walking out of the bathroom, it feels entirely different right now. Even though the room is dark, you can see his lines perfectly, the muscles you always admired, the tan you know he has, even the bulge in his pants.

"Mingyu," you breathe out and he hums back, his eyes trailing down your body. His hand slides under the hem of your dress, slowly making his way up and buckling the material up. Your core is still pressed against his knee as you slowly rub yourself on him. He takes his time touching every inch of your skin, just like you imagined he would.

From your ankles to your fingertips, he pays attention to it all. His hands are gentle at first, at least until he hears you moaning his name as you rub yourself on him again. You can see his eyes growing hungry as he looks at you, the urge behind them clear. But instead of acting on it, he presses his lips to your again, trying to calm himself by focusing on something else.

You on the other hand, can't seem to focus on anything but the need between your legs. "Love," you whisper this time as soon as he pulls away to breathe. His eyes widen and his hands grip your waist immediately.

"Yes?" He coos, the proudness in his voice after hearing you call him love evident.

"Please," you bat your eyelashes at him, "Can you please touch me more?"

A groan escapes his lips at the sight, your words doing wonders to him. "You'd tell me if you don't like anything, right?" He assures himself one more time and when you nod your head, he finally let's his fingers dip between your legs, feeling how wet you are. Your eyes trail his entire face as he locks his eyes on your pussy, unable to look away now that he's allowed himself to look. It's so incredibly attractive.

You let him slowly play with your clit and pull your dress off, letting the garment fall to the floor. "Can I taste you, pretty? Can I feel you on my lips?" His eyes meet yours again and you feel like coming on the spot when you see him. It was always obvious by the way he looked at you that you meant a lot to him, and he's always reminded you he wants to be around you, but the way he looks at you now is entirely different. It almost feels like he'd die if he doesn't get to have every last bit of you.

"You want to—" you swallow, suddenly shy under his gaze. "You can do anything you want, Gyu."

His brows furrow together at the answer, something about it bugging him the wrong way. "But do you want me to? Do you like it?"

"I don't know," you admit and his brows dip even further. But this time, it's not in confusion but anger.

"None of the saps you've been with done this for you?" You shake your head and he clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Can I be the first then, my love? Can I show you how good you can feel when men don't just focus on themselves but on you as well?" Your breath shakes as you nod, watching as his frown gets replaced by a proud smile again.

He takes his time kissing your inner thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he makes you beg for more, your pleas a pleasure to his ears. You don't care what he does, if he just decides to fuck you after all or eats you out like he just promised—you just want to feel more.

As his tongue laps between your folds though, you realize waiting was worth it. With his hands gripping your thighs, he pulls you closer onto him, keeping you in place while his tongue circles your clit. His eyes flicker to your face from time to time but other than that, he pays his full attention to your needy pussy. Had it not been for his grip, your thighs would have closed around his head in an instead. But like this, you are forced to feel it all.

Your back arches under the pleasure, one of your hands instinctively reaching for his hair while the other fists the bed sheet under you. You grind your hips forward, your clit rubbing on his nose. His tongue pushes past your folds into your gummy walls, making your eyes roll back. Experiencing this for the first time, you understand why he was so mad no one's ever done this for you. It just shows how much he truly loves you.

"God, baby," you gasp, a loud whine leaving your lips. He smirks against you as he slowly pulls away, his lips glistening.

"That's not my name, love," he teases, circling your clit with his fingers. "Or were you praying for a baby? Is that what you want with me?" He ignores his own cock twitching in his pants at his words, thrusting two fingers into you. With how thick they are, you feel like there are three inside you. "Do you want me to put one into you? Because that works differently, darling. I can't do that with my tongue."

As if his fingers now stretching you open wasn't already enough, the way he speaks to you makes you so cock-drunk you question how you managed to spend the last two weeks with him without jumping on him.

You whine and his smirk only grows. "Did I get it right? Do you want my baby in you?" A part of you is convinced if he keeps going, you just might tell him yes — that you absolutely do. "But we already have a baby, love. You think we can take care of two, hm?"

"Yes," you gasp as he hits your sweet spot, your back arching again.

To Kim Mingyu, there isn't a more beautiful sight. With his fingers deep inside you, your naked body itching towards him and pleasure he knows you hadn't gotten much before written all across your face, the only thing missing is that baby of his inside your belly.

The only thing that compares to how you look right now is how you look with a smile on your face and your daughter in your hands. And while every inch of his body wants to fuck another baby into you, he'll be just as happy if Nabi is the only child in his life.

"My love, I shall die with this image painted in my mind," he groans, lowering himself again and wrapping his lips around your clit. It doesn't take much longer for him to make you come on his tongue, your legs shaking around his head as he helps you reach an orgasm you didn't think you had in you.

And when he comes back up, the grin on his face is unforgettable. He lets go off your thigh only to lace his fingers with yours, giving your hand a tight squeeze as he praises you for doing good. You try to steady your breath, ignoring his comment and remembering the feeling of his lips on you. Now that you've got a taste, you don't think you'll be able to fuck without it.

"The baby," you breathe out when your eyes find his. "Put one into me, love," the quiet plea rings in Mingyu's ears much louder, your words repeating over and over again in his head. He has to fight himself not to come untouched with his pants still on.

"Oh, darling," he coos as if his head wasn't spinning thinking about it. "You just finished and you already want more?"

You nod with a whine, reaching your free hand behind his back and tugging him closer. With your lips mere inches away from his, your voice grows more desperate. "You do this to me. It's your fault."

Another loud groan leaves Mingyu's lips as he drops his forehead to your shoulder, hiding his face so you wouldn't see just how pathetic your words make him. You chuckle at the reaction, reaching down and tugging his pants down as far as you can — even though you barely pull it down enough to free his cock. But that's enough for now.

Your fingers wrap around his length and you look at him, waiting for him to raise his head. He doesn't. Keeping his head buried in the crook of your neck, he enjoys the feelings of your hand rubbing over his tip. He knows you are waiting for a reaction, teasing him, but this is the reaction he is going to give you now, nothing more and nothing less.

But that's enough for you. Because while he thinks he is making himself unable to read this way, you focus on the small details that tell you he is enjoying this. Like the way he squeezes your hand, or the way his hips trust forward in your hand, or the muffled moans against your skin.

"Love," you beg, squeezing his tip. Another groan and finally, he looks at you again. "Will you please put it in?"

That's all he needs to hear before straightening his back and forcing his pants down, kicking them off. He is in a rush, that much is something anyone could tell. And god, do you love it. You pull up to wrap your hands behind his neck, doing the same with your legs around his hips with a smile on your face. His lips immediately crash with yours, his tip rubbing between your folds.

It's nice seeing him like this, knowing that while it was him making you crazy just a few minutes ago, you can make him feel the same way with ease. You pull him flush against you, your chest pressed against his as he slowly sinks into you. Your mouth falls open at the stretch but he never stops kissing you.

"I want you to look at me, love," he says as soon as he sees you closing your eyes at the pleasure. You whine as you listen to him, locking your eyes with his. "I want you to see who is making you feel good. I want you to know you're with me."

You nod, his words echoing in your ears. It's hard to stay focused when you can feel him everywhere; his hands on your waist, his lips on yours, his cock inside you — it's all too much. Every inch of your body begs to just turn off and give into the pleasure fully, but you get why he wants you to look at him, why it's so important for him to make sure you are being loved right now and not just used. Somehow, it makes you hornier.

Your heels dig into his lower back, keeping him close. It's probably impossible for the two of you to be closer than you are now, but you love it this way. It's not something you are used to, and that just makes him so much more special.

"Faster," you plea. A low groan leaves his lips as he speeds his pace, his hips thrusting towards you much quicker now. It's clear he was just trying to stay gentle before — which you appreciate deep down — but you want to feel all of him, see what he can give you even when he stops treating you like something fragile.

"Darling, you—" this time it's a whine that escapes him and you don't think you've ever heard anything more beautiful. You are gone, so gone for this man. You could kiss the ground Kim Mingyu walks on, simply because you know he'd do the same without a moment of hesitation. "I can't—"

You crash your lips against his before he can finish, keeping yourself occupied so you wouldn't just moan with every thrust he gives you. He moves against you with hunger, that you can feel with his every touch. His grip on your waist tightens as soon as he registers the kiss, his fingers digging into your flesh. He will probably leave some light marks after his hands but you don't mind, you can't when your nails scratch his back in return. You might not be able to see the art you leave behind right now, but you know the red lines will look beautiful on his back.

Your pussy clench around him as you reach your orgasm again, his own following right after. He covers your walls white and you truly believe you've never felt better about making a man come. Maybe it's because he makes you feel taken care of, or maybe it's just because of how attractive he is, but you'd like to believe the fluttery in your chest has something to do with it.

He doesn't pull away even after the orgasm and you don't let him go either, the position turning into a warm embrace. "How am I supposed to leave tomorrow?" he whispers against your skin as he lets his head drop to your shoulder again. "Knowing that you'll be right here, in my bed, sleeping without me? How am I supposed to fly anywhere and not crash?"

"You'll need to keep thinking about how needy I'll be as soon as you come back. You can't fall from the skies when you'll have me waiting for you," you smile, pressing your lips to his shoulder. You can already imagine it, having Nabi on your hips as you come greet him at the door with the biggest smile on your face, his open arms as he swallows you in a tight hug immediately from how much he'd missed you, and having him cling to you the entire time he is home.

You can see yourself living like this for the rest of your life. With him by your side.

It's incredible, how much ones life can change in the span of a few days. If anyone told you you'd be having these thoughts a few weeks ago — hell, even if they did just last week — you wouldn't believe them at all. But now, it doesn't seem like such an unimaginable things. You can picture Mingyu being a dad to your daughter, you can picture him being a partner, a husband, to you, and you can picture finally living the ordinary life you once dreamed of.

Mingyu feels the same way. He used to love suffocating himself with work, being in the skies as much as he could, surrounded with his colleagues. He used to hate coming home just as much. He used to hate the feeling of an empty house and no one waiting for him.

But now, there is nothing more he wants to do than be at home and stop flying entirely. Not because he wouldn't enjoy it anymore, but because there are things far more important to him now. He can see himself working an office job if he needs to, being with you every night, and raising your daughter like his own.

He can see it all too well.

Suddenly, being home isn't as lonely as it once was.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"Daddy! Mom says you need to go away for whole two weeks!" Nabi rushes into the room dramatically, her big eyes on the verge of crying as she looks up. "Tell her she's wrong! Why would you go away again?"

"Oh, butterfly," he coos, picking her up with ease and resting her on his lap. She's all grown now — a six year old, he reminds himself — but there are still things she doesn't completely understand and takes out of context. "I need to go to work. Remember how we looked at those airplanes last week? I'll be flying a similar one so I can buy you and mommy nice things." Still, every time he hears her refer to him as her dad, he has to resist the urge to quit his job and stay with the two of you forever.

"I didn't say you were going away," you argue as you follow your daughter inside the bedroom, leaning at the door frame with your arms crossed over your chest. "I said you would be at work for the next two weeks."

"That's not fair! Who is going to teach me to read? Daddy, stay home," she begs and Mingyu meets your eyes from across the room. You know this is his weakness. It was a few months after you moved into his house that she called him dad for the first time — it was dada at that time — and he was on the verge of crying as he picked her up and spun her around in the air, making her feel like she was flying. It was huge for him, and seeing him so excited over it only made your feelings for him grow.

There wasn't a single time where you'd question his devotion to the two of you. He's changed his life entirely just to make sure you had everything you've always wanted, from a lovely home to a partner who would stand by you. He's worked things around with his boss and agreed on only taking jobs that would allow him to be back home for dinner or breakfast the next morning, aside for a few exceptions. You could see that it was something new for him, being home for the night and sleeping in his own bed, but you could also see the happiness it brought him.

And every time you question if you made the right decision, if you weren't in the wrong for trapping him like this and limiting his options, he'd greet you with a long kiss after getting back home and reminding you just how much he loves living like this.

There is nothing better that could have happened to you. Kim Mingyu is the second greatest thing that happened to you, right after your daughter.

"Baby, you know daddy can't just do that," you cross the room, squatting down beside his leg and locking eyes with her. "He would get in big trouble if he didn't listen to his boss."

"How about uncle Jihoon helps you read while I'm gone and then you'll show me all that you learned, hm?" Mingyu smiles at her, watching the frown on her face slowly turn into a smile as well as she thinks about it. "I promise I'll be with you the entire week after that. And we can talk about that thing I told you about." Her eyes widen in excitement and you question what he means, tilting your head confusedly. "That's just between me and my little angel," he grins at you.

"Yes! It's a secret!" A big smile decorates Nabi's face as well, her crooked teeth showcasing. "One mommy can't know about!"

"Mingyu," your eyes narrow as you look at him. He doesn't answer though, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of your head instead.

"Let it be a surprise," he mumbles before kissing your daughter's head as well. Considering how secretive he is about it, it must be something serious. Usually, he'd fold under you in an instant and tell you anything you want to know, but it seems this time he is set on keeping it a secret.

"Keep in mind I can lock you outside if I don't like what you're planning," you remind him and a flash of fear appears in his eyes.

"You'll love it!" Nabi interrupts immediately.

"Of course, baby," you smile at her. Standing up from the floor, you pick her up again, ready to get back to cooking lunch. But you stop at the door once more, glancing back at Mingyu and narrowing your eyes to show him you're not playing around.

But Mingyu keeps a grin on his face, unable to hide his excitement as he thinks about the first thing he wants to do when he comes back from this trip — asking you to marry him.

A glob of saliva floats on the drink atop your tray. You immediately regret it. Your tongue feels dry, and who knows when your next break will be. There's no time for a glass of water. Serving in time keeps the customers content.

You shouldn't be doing this.

Familiar applause echoes against the gold draped walls and wood floor, reaching the stage in an offbeat rhythm that doesn't match with the song that was just finished.

There was a time when the sole idea of singing to a pleased crowd that idolized your every move put stars in your eyes. When your dream sat first on your list of priorities, what drove you to push harder and keep on living life restlessly until you'd eventually fulfill it. That person, full of hope and willingness, would tell you to keep on going. That person would never consider giving up. That person would've never spat in a regular's drink and served it to him so naturally like you're doing.

Since you were little, music was the way to disconnect from reality, even for just a little while. You used to stick your ears against the wall to listen to your neighbors' wind-up phonograph for as long as possible.

Instrumentals made life manageable. As long as there was a song playing in the background or a neighbor practicing close by, being secluded in your home wasn't so bad.

A woman's voice on a record for the first time changed everything. In that moment, music stopped being for those with time and money to spend on instruments. If you had a voice, if you had a tuned ear, you could be part of the magic too.

It so easily became your dream that it being impossible didn't cross your mind.

The singer smiles at the men not taking their eyes off her. Helen is a master at keeping the crowd's attention, with her short icy blonde hair clipped clean to the side. She told you once, the only advice any of the singers has ever given you, that showing the side of your neck could attract any men within watching distance. You never followed said advice, but you've yet to witness an instance where it didn't work for her.

When the musicians behind her begin a new song, with a seductive saxophone melody and low double bass, the applause dies down and conversations strike up again.

"Enjoy your drink, Mr. Baker."

You set the new drink by his previous empty glass. His yellow teeth appear behind the rising corner of his mouth, his wrinkly gaze not rising from your chest.

He points to the stage as he puts his pipe down on a silver holder. "When are you getting up there alone, gorgeous?"

You prop your free hand on the table, looking straight at his face while showing a better view of what he wants. The fake smile you've mastered feels almost natural to put on.

"After the next Canary," you reply, voice sultry. "Will you stay to watch me?"

At that, his eyes finally see yours. His pale fingers graze yours on the table. Your skin prickles, urging you to get away. He lifts an eyebrow, finally registering your question, and nods you off. He sips on his drink, unaware, as you leave. You hear the bartender's light chuckle as you pass by the bar. He saw you spitting on the man's drink.

As much as you learned to endure the constant flirting attempts and unsolicited touches, you also came to realize that it's the only way to get by without being a singer full time. Every server girl does it as well. If you're not on stage, you need to gather as much attention as possible.

The stage schedule is always the same. No matter how hard you try, how many times you ask, how many men you manage to hold off until closing time, you're never allowed a solo during prime time. At best, you're Helen's third back-up vocalist.

The free jazz show starts at 7.pm, the same time every weekend. The bar plays 78s from the record player in the middle of the sitting area until every table is full, and then, the show starts. The first singer always has it harder. If she's lucky, she'll have the rest of the lineup in her shadow. The luck of the second canary depends solely on the previous performance, and so on. It's in the 9-10.p.m window, when pockets get loose enough and men lose interest in their wives at home, that the Canary gets the most attention. Powerful men don't stick around until their heads hurt and their breath stinks of whiskey. Without fault, by the time you're on stage, your crowd consists of only canned single men wasting the little money they have left.

In the meantime, you've learned to take desperate measures.

When you make them believe they have a chance, when you let them look and don't budge at their advances, some men delude themselves into staying late. When the clock hits half past twelve in the new day, the microphone is in your hands and the double bass accompanies your voice. Only every other table has its chairs occupied, but you know it'd be worse if you weren't showing a bit more leg skin than the rest. That's what works for you, not the neck.

Hidden in the dark at the back of the bar, Harold's silhouette watches you put on your show. His judging glare, always present when you're the view, can be felt from afar. You know a speech of how awful you did will wait for you after you're done.

At 1 am sharp, weak applause follows the dying music and your cut off microphone. Harold escorts the last two drunk men out of the establishment as you escape backstage. They always ask about you, about your tacit promises. You never deliver.

"Thomas Baker was asking for you," Harold enters the small canary changing room after you. "Again."

You register the disdain in his voice. It hasn't changed since he got you the job.

It doesn't matter how many wealthy men you hold back until closing. It doesn't matter if you sell them the most expensive illicit alcohol available at the bar. It doesn't matter that they keep coming back for you, maintaining the speakeasy open with investments and daily splurges. What you do is never enough to earn what you want the most.

Since the Prohibition, most bars across the country shut down, as the primary reason for the wealthy class to attend was the alcohol. But not only did the men lose their source of entertainment outside of their homes, musical joints were declining in popularity as well, and with them, your chance at dedicating your life to jazz.

Everything changed one night at the Grand Central Terminal.

You were determined to leave the city. You took the clarinet your parents worked so hard to buy and the few nice clothes you had, and headed for the train station. Your dad had sent a letter to a distant cousin of his, and you were set to stay with her for a while. The city wasn't for you anymore. Or so you thought.

You arrived at the station with enough coins for a one way pass for yourself. The man on the other side of the cabin scoffed seeing your hand and saw you off the line. Railroad passes had raised its prices days before your decision, without your family's knowledge.

It was a cold February afternoon and you sat there for hours. Each time the line for buying passes was empty, you argued with the worker, pleading for him to let you get on the next train, but nothing you said convinced him.

When the last train of the day was set to arrive, to take off later and end the day at the station, you took one last chance.

"I can send my father to pay the rest!" You pleaded over the worker's sigh. "Please, I need to take the train."

"You're not the only one, lady." He didn't spare you one glance, focusing on the passengers stepping down the Chicago train.

Stylish women with long simple dresses covered the station, accompanied by their equally well dressed husbands, fedoras on their heads and full bags on their hands. The man you had been arguing with all day posed a fake smile in front of the wealthy, ignoring you once more. You'd learned to ignore rich people's judging stares and insulting low mutters long before, so the wave of high class assholes didn't make you budge.

"Look, lady, I'll get in trouble if I let you in. Come back first thing tomorrow with the correct amount and you'll be on the way." The ticket seller tried once more seeing you wouldn’t relent even with waves of people on the way.

"Please, you don't get it—"

"Is everything okay here?"

A man appeared behind you, standing in the line you were blocking from forming. Even taller than you, the hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but you were confident it was not you he talked to.

"Apologies, sir, she was just leaving. What can I help you with?" His client attending smile quivered, but when you stepped out to let the man through, it felt like you lost.

How long would you have to wait until your parents get a spare dime? You thought. The train was going to leave without you on it, your distant aunt would wonder why you hadn't arrived until you sent her a letter explaining everything. Your future would be put on hold, again.

The strange man's deep black gambler hat drew your attention. He was dressed in the latest fashion, expensive fabrics and bougie cologne noticeable from afar, but had no ring on his finger. Had he just come from the Chicago train? Or was he escaping from New York City like you? Your answer came in quickly after the thought ran through your head.

"Do you play, miss?" He asked, nodding his jaw to the clarinet in your hand.

Few times had someone treated you with respect. 'Miss' wasn't a word you heard directed to you often, especially without an arrogant tone. The corner of your mouth tipped upward feeling his attention, and you showed your old, faded gold clarinet with pride.

"Yes, sir. I carry music everywhere I go." It sounded foolish the second it left your mouth, but it was true.

Whether you were home, in your sewing classes with your elderly neighbor, or in the streets searching for the cheapest prices to buy ingredients for dinner, music was your driving force. You sang, whistled and hummed every song you memorized. Mrs. Clarence loved showing off his brand new 78s player, and you urged her to as well in between sewing techniques.

"I have a place where you can play and earn a few dimes for it." The stylish man offered. "We need talented singers to keep the place afloat."

"Are you offering me a job, sir? You haven't heard me play or sing." You asked, bewildered.

"Please, Call me Harold." He winked and stretched his hand. "And I sure am, miss…"

You told him your name with a shake of his hand.

Had he heard you begging for a boarding pass? It didn't really matter at the time. That night, you thought in the moment, God had shown you that not all was lost. Leaving your home, your parents far away, wasn't ideal, you knew it on the way to the Grand Terminal. Instead, you were presented with an opportunity to have a life of your own, playing music and singing like you've always wanted in the city where you'd thought the music scene was blurring away.

You would have never thought how simple-minded you were.

There's a blister on your left big toe. You've gotten used to them over the years, as using the same dancing shoes to work every day has worn them out, its soles hard and no longer breathable as they used to be. You take a peek around the deserted joint. Harold's nowhere to be seen, probably in the basement counting the earnings of the day down to the dime. You decide to take your shoes off and finish cleaning the tables without them.

This is the time you love the most. No one has stopped the 78s player, and the saxophone takes over the song in a magnificent solo. It's one of your favorites the joint plays. You hum along the music as you wipe spilled liquid from the tables and set the half-empty glasses on a tray.

The rest of the girls finished their closing duties while you were on stage, leaving you on your own. You prefer it that way. You don't like sharing a change room with judging women who think less of you because of your stage tactics. Muttered comments about your closeness with Harold once bothered you. Every stare was impregnated with unwarranted jealousy, and you were shut off. Yet the promise of singing for hours on end to a crowd made it bearable, even if it seems to grow distant as the days pass.

"Night, Y/N," you hear as a hand touches your back. You smile back at your friend, voice low in your goodbye return. "Don't arrive too late."

Sophie, hardly swayed away from her own opinions, is the only performer who doesn't ignore your existence. Maybe calling her a friend isn't entirely accurate, but having someone to talk to in dead moments backstage saved you from breaking down in tears many times. She offered you the spare room in her cousin's apartment when you most needed it. You keep to yourself, and she doesn't cross your boundaries. With her off the clock, only one other worker is left on the bar floor with you. And you couldn't wait any longer for the alone time.

A couple tables over, crossing the threshold of the bright stage light to the dim warm lights hovering over the bar, Jeonghan empties and cleans the glasses left half-full by men who prefer to follow the server girls around and dirty talk to their ears.

You walk away from your, now finished, duties to the sound of Jeonghan's question. "First time defiling a client's drink?"

He dries off a glass and sets it in front of your unofficially assigned seat.

The lighting in that part of the joint makes it hard to properly see, however, Jeonghan manages to keep the place happy and the customers entertained well enough, making him the clear favorite of the owners.

Before you prop down on the faded brown wooden chair, Jeonghan's already pouring gin and a splash of seltzer in the glass.

"A lady should not reveal her secrets."

On the way from its place to your lips, Jeonghan drops an ice cube and a slice of lime on your drink. He cares about the excellency of his cocktails. You care about unclenching your back muscles and forgetting the night.

"That was the last pour of my most expensive bourbon," he deadpans, but you catch the corner of his mouth tipping upwards. "You should have spilled it on his ridiculous hat."

"I like having the upper hand." You smile at his chuckle.

The cold drink burns down your throat as you watch Jeonghan slowly cleaning his space. He's accustomed to having your eyes on him, and your silence doesn't scare him off. You hum the last tune on the 78 as he moves around and dances lightly, the smell of different mixes of alcohol disappearing with the time.

Since the first time you were let down by Harold and his promises, Jeonghan gave you a space to slow down and let go of everything weighing you down. He was done for the day, putting on his hat to leave, when you stepped down the stage from the performer's door and sat down on his bar. He let you go on and on about Harold promising a prime time stage time for you only to take it away after. He served you a glass of his favorite bourbon and heard you complain without getting his eyes off you.

For the first time since entering the place, your past or your relationship didn't matter to someone.

You sip on your drink, letting it wash down every heated stare staining your skin and all the shameful words you had to say in the day.

It was all for nothing.

Tomorrow would be the last free show until the following week. Today was your chance to impress the joint's favorite clients and encourage them to invest in the place. Your chance to secure a spot during prime stage time on Sunday. It shouldn't have been a surprise that, to Harold, what you do for the place will never be enough.

"It's very idiotic for him not to put you on up there." Jeonghan's voice does a circle around you. You take your eyes off the lightless stage to find him leaning on the stool next to yours.

"He revealed the schedule?"

Doesn't matter how much it happens, each time fills you with embarrassment. You're just not good enough. Coming to that conclusion wasn't easy. How come something you love so dearly doesn't come naturally? How come, no matter how much effort you put into every walk, every glance, every word and song, you don't get better? Jeonghan being the first to hear the news makes it even worse.

"I heard Helen gloating about getting 9 again when she left the basement," Jeonghan explains, tone soft as if you were about to break.

"She'd pay you more attention if she knew how much Harold's parents like you more than him," you chuckle. You know how much it hurts being ignored because your job isn't deemed worthy enough.

"You talk as if I care." His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit there, lingering, incomparable to any others. "This place doesn't deserve you."

"I have nowhere else to go," you whisper, afraid to speak it into existence. "My family needs me to work."

You close your eyes and hide behind your hands, blocking tears from forming against your will. You haven't seen your parents in so long. At least they get the money you send them, you know as much because they write grateful letters back that you keep in a box under your bed.

The warmth from on your thigh spreads all across your body as Jeonghan stands in front of you, knees touching and hands cupping your jaw. He softly holds your head high, away from hiding, to look up at him.

"You can go back to them. You're not a prisoner here."

"You know I can't do that." You lean into his touch, his thumb caressing your cheek and the faint smell of his soap reaching your nose. "They can't see me like this, I told you."

"They want you to be happy, not miserable for a few coins."

"I will be happy, one day, far from this place. Only then, I can return."

Jeonghan doesn't argue with you. It's a topic you've touched on many times, and he knows your answer will be the same, that you can't run away from your only opportunity.

You jump at the sound of a door handle. Jeonghan puts enough space between your bodies before Harold and Tim make their way up the basement into the ground floor of the bar. But their blond heads barely nod your way, chuckling together about money issues. They get out the back door without turning back. You go seen but unacknowledged.

Though if they'd seen you two, really saw you, you doubt Harold would care. He hasn't cared about what you do off the stage in a long time, but you'd hate for Jeonghan to be on the receiving end of his anger.

"I have an idea." His hands are back at the sides of your face, as if the close call didn't matter.

You lock eyes again, a hopeful glint behind his makes you unable to look away. His thoughts are often unreadable, unpredictable. He tucks a strand of curled hair behind your ear and parts his lips looking at his hand go down your jaw.

"They could've seen us," you warn as his face enters your personal space.

Jeonghan's lips find yours in a mix of sighs and matching gin breath. He holds you close in his embrace, the feeling of his chest against yours replacing the bar digging into your back. You melt into his touch and his unmoving lips pressing yours with quiet passion, savoring the fleeting moment you get with him.

The lingering peck leaves you breathless. Neither of you want to part ways, but Jeonghan does so with a smile painting his face.

"We won't have to worry about them much longer."

"Did you see Mr. Miller paying with a $500 bill?"

"I bet he's giving out more of those downstairs."

"He could spare one for me."

The only empty cushioned chair in the changing room was opposite from the conversations being had, but the loud, proud voices of the Canaries allowed you to hear even the faintest switch in tones.

It was a special performance that day, as the speakeasy had to close early due to heavy policing in the neighborhood. Before any customer could get so drunk they had trouble taking a taxi home, Harold's parents announced the 9 p.m show would be the last of the day. Men were ready to spend the highest dollar bills they had in their pockets, it didn't matter that their play time was cut short.

Helen, Ruth and Anna were taking up all the mirror space, rushing to leave their faces with no trace of make-up and staining the old mirror in the process. Nothing was natural about the lipstick colors they chose, and as their painted cupid's bows disappeared with the swipe of a damp towel, you understood that their goal was drawing attention. Natural make-up wasn't in fashion anymore. You needed to understand their strategies to garner attention on stage.

"Mr. Davis stayed until the end," Helen announced to the room. "I thought he would leave before the show as he always does."

"Nothing a wink and a peek below the shoulder doesn't fix for you," Anna replied, and the three of them giggled in unison.

"Maybe I can convince him to make friends downstairs next Friday," Helen reasoned. "I'm sure his wife wouldn't mind."

"Harry would love that—"

"That is if Yoon doesn't do it first," Ruth interrupted the cheeky conversation, gaining a choir of groans in response.

Sophie was slowly getting undressed on the chair next to yours. She acted like she had all the time in the world, uncaring about what happened around her, but you knew she was listening to every word the others said. The look you two shared nearly took a chuckle out of you.

"He's always watching our stages with such serious looks," Anna added.

"I bet he's the one Harry says tries to convince his parents to change the show schedule," Helen offered, and the discussion continued while you feigned deaf ears.

You knew little of bartender Yoon then, but it was clear the women's view of him was skewed by something you couldn't quite comprehend. The few words you exchanged with him during your serving shift had been nothing but polite. You did feel his eyes on you during that day's show, but decided to push the thought aside. It had just been your first time being a background singer for Helen, and she had been so stern when giving you directions not to steal her show, you doubted anyone was looking anywhere but at her.

You were sliding down your natural-colored stockings when Harold knocked on the ajar door. The three of them batted their eyelashes at him, greeting him with soft tones you haven't heard from their mouths ever before, but he paid them no attention. Their brows frowned as he called your name and asked you to step outside.

If gazes could burn, your body would've been rendered to dust in the swipe of a brush.

Sophie patted you on the back as you stood up. She didn't have to, she barely knew you, but the quiet support helped you get rid of the nervousness of a sudden one to one talk with the boss.

Harold had told you the day before that he'd watch you closely. You knew his review was coming, that it'd be the time to prove yourself worthy. Had he liked it? Would he recommend you for a solo stage? Back then, it didn't matter what time slot you were given, if it meant you could stop serving and were allowed to sing your favorite song, by yourself, to a crowd.

"A lot of important clients watched tonight's show," Harold started. And indeed they had.

You had practiced the moves the entire week, the correct ways to sway your arms to match the other background singers, when to accentuate your hips and legs, but never to wink or tuck your hair. You knew the songs from beginning to end, your neighbors were surely tired of hearing you practicing reaching the low notes from dusk til dawn. You were to support Helen on her show, while simultaneously proving you could sing and follow instructions with hungry, wealthy eyes on you.

Maybe, if Harold was pulling you aside, was to tell you good news. Maybe practice and willingness was finally getting you somewhere.

"Did the owners watch the performance?" You asked, hopeful enough to earn a sigh from him.

"Were they in the audience?" He retorted. You felt silly to even ask. "I will tell them when to watch you."

The reality was becoming clearer by the second, but you still questioned him. "Then, how does the schedule work?"

"When our highest paying customers ask for you, when they stay for you and put your name on the bill to tip, then, you can earn your spot."

"That wasn't—I thought I was here to sing, no, you asked me here to play music. I'm no hoofer."

"I brought you here to keep the joint open. We keep it open with clients willing to empty their pockets every night, either downstairs or with the shows."

He didn't continue. You knew what he meant.

That morning, Harold had kissed you in his bed, watched you preparing breakfast and talked about the importance of that night's show. For a moment, you felt special. It was you he wanted his hands on when not working, it was you who he found in the city wilderness and helped when he didn't need to. That Harold wasn't the same you witnessed inside the walls of the joint.

Everyone saw you going home together each night, it was not a well kept secret. You endured judgment while he put on a façade in front of his parents. It wasn't love per se, why you stayed, it was a desire for something more.

The wooden floor creaked as he waited for your answer. You couldn't look up, ashamed of your too high expectations. "I'll do better."

By the time you finished changing your stage clothes and getting rid of the extravagant makeup, the place was deserted. The Canaries had left while you were with Harold, then he and a woman's voice you couldn't quite recognize passed by the changing room door, followed by his parents while you were cleaning the mirror enough for a reflection to look back.

Will Harold be waiting for you to come to his bed tonight? The thought did nothing, save for bore you. He liked you enough to slip his manhood between your legs until your inner thighs were slick with his release and he sighed against your neck, but never showed the infatuation outside of the walls of his home, and you were starting to grow tired. As quick as he reached his peak, he'd fall deeply asleep without having laid a finger on you, or he'd stay silent when Helen or Anna or Ruth made fun of the repeating schedule. Sooner or later, you knew he'd grow tired of you.

It was a needed uncomfortableness, you thought. You'd keep him happy for the time being and keep your place in the joint. If you weren't needed for the weekly jazz shows, then you had to prove your worth. You had to prove you were needed for it to stay afloat.

At least, you then learned of an alternative, thanks to Harold's running mouth when stressed. You could allure wealthy men without compromising much of yourself. A peek of skin, a soft touch to the shoulder, a mind game between your words and their need to be in women's eyes. Taking longer to return so Harold fell asleep alone was the easy fix you thought of. Later, you could find a new place to sleep. If money was the prime issue, you'd focus on that instead of the owners' son.

The bartender stayed late often, you knew he liked keeping an eye on the place, which is why you didn't find it odd that he was wiping down the cupboards when you stepped down the side of the stage.

"How late is it to ask for a drink?" You asked, mindless of his schedule after work.

He recognized you as you walked across the bar. He smiled and propped two freshly clean glasses in front of the middle stool, as if his closing tasks ceased having importance. "I always have time for one of our stars."

"I would not call myself a star," you chuckled, avoiding his eyes. "I only made my debut just today."

"I'm aware." He didn't ask what you wanted and neither did you tell him. He placed an ice cube in the two short glasses and poured the same amount of an orange-leaning liquid in both. He then grabbed the closest one to him and lifted it as a cheer. "Our finest bourbon as a celebration of your first show and six months working here."

You mirrored his motion, unable to fight the shock showing in your face at his words. The liquid stung down your throat.

"You know so much about me, but I must apologize, your name I don't recall." Your voice doesn't quiver, yet he smiles in understanding.

You thought of yourself to be important back then, so much so that you didn't bother meeting the workers unrelated to the stage. That was clear in your audacity to go and ask for a drink when he was supposed to leave.

Oh, if you knew how little it mattered one server whose dreams were unimportant.

"Your stage companions call me Yoon," he replied, playing with the rim of his glass but paying it no mind.

"They do, but that is not your name."

The corner of his mouth lifted at your rebuttal. He drank what was left of his drink and set it aside to wash again, yet he didn't take his eyes off you.

"Bartender Yoon Jeonghan, pleasure to meet you." He dramatized a shake of hands, allowing you both to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. "What brings you to wallow with a stranger at such hours of the night?"

As quickly as you could, you withdrew your hand from his. How, you didn't know, but Jeonghan reading your behavior so easily rippled a tremble down your veins. Concealing what was on your mind came with a stage job, acting a certain way to appeal to the audience was key, yet Jeonghan read there was something hidden behind your walls within seconds of meeting.

"Work troubles, you know," you attempted to swerve the conversation. He saw through it, you realized by his smirk still present, and you should've known he would. "I would not want to bore you."

"Countless men have come to get a drink and to let out their issues to a stranger like me." Jeonghan didn't give up on his quest. "And, to tell you the truth," he continued, "they all think of themselves to be infinite times more interesting than they are. I doubt you could be as boring as them."

After time and time hearing Harold and the other performers speaking so highly of the clientele, it was refreshing to hear someone else having similar opinions to yours.

That watchful Jeonghan made you chuckle, your cheeks warm due to the alcohol, and gave you a sense of comfort. You could've put him in trouble if you disclosed what you were conversing about, yet he spoke his mind regardless, all so you could open up.

"Well, I am sure I'm not the first one going through this, but I will tell you because you're making time for me." Your glass clinked against the bar, empty, along with Jeonghan's stare focusing on your next words. "Harold brought me to sing on the stage, and today was finally the day when the owners were supposed to watch me and decide if I had what they wanted."

"I see…" Instead of moving to wash your glass, he poured more bourbon in it.

You drank it all at once. "I feel like a fool. I should have known it wasn't all he wanted."

"Hmm," Jeonghan hummed in acknowledgement. You were unsure with which statement he was agreeing. "His parents have been worried about low income, not so kindly advising him to find new investors."

You didn't know how to react. Yes, you were ignorant regarding the joint's business, but you didn't think it would have repercussions on you. Very idiotic. You knew women weren't allowed in the basement for a reason, yet you never bothered to ask Harold. You heard the Canaries conversations about satisfying certain men, yet until that day, Harold had never asked you to do it as well.

At the rage of his parents, he took it out on you and your dream. You were stupid to think you were special in his eyes.

"Glad I'm not the issue here." Your tone came out lower than intended.

"It's not very nice what he's doing to you, but no, I believe he has other things to worry about."

Jeonghan waited in silence, letting you soak up the events of the night. He didn't need to stay behind, go over his working hours, and you didn't want to hold him back either.

It didn't hurt that Harold didn't love you. It didn't even hurt that he was using you, because, arguably, you were using him too. He needed you to keep the place open, and you needed the place open to do what you have always wanted.

And you weren't the only one he was using, if the flowery perfume out of your price range you smelled on his bed, and that he hadn't gone back to look for you were clues of it. That moment, you pitied whoever he had between his arms instead of you. Poor woman wouldn't be satisfied by his refusal to find a female's pleasure place.

"He's not very worried about me, I'm sure of that."

"He's a rake," Jeonghan declared. You wanted to agree, but a smile was all you could muster. "And a selfish one."

You knew the joint was empty, that you and Jeonghan were the only people lonely enough to be there still, but not even the dim lights and background silence eased your nerves of speaking that way out loud. "You cannot say those things!"

"I've known him for long, he knows my thoughts." His serious tone and growing smirk threw mixed signals your way, but it was nothing you could argue with. "And, apologies if my assumptions are unfounded, but you don't seem infatuated with him as the others."

"I suppose I am not, not anymore."

You didn't have to think about your answer, it had become clear earlier. Whether the other stage girls were in love with Harold or were pretending like you, an act in your demeanor must've revealed your truth to Jeonghan. You didn't have to pretend.

"How do you know all of this? No one remembered that I started working six months ago today." You were rather evident in your search for his truth.

"I like to keep an eye on what happens under this roof."

Jeonghan held eye-contact for an undecipherable amount of time, as if his statement wasn't anxiety inducing.

"Will you let the owners know that I was badmouthing their son?"

"That would put me in a difficult position, would it not?"

"I guess it would."

As long as your rendezvous remained unknown to the rest of the workers, you didn't mind that Jeonghan observed and understood everything you thought you were properly disguising. You knew Jeonghan wouldn't reveal what you said, at least if he didn't want to come into trouble by hearing Harold being deprecated and doing nothing about it, or worse, deprecating him as well.

At that moment, you felt weightless. You enjoyed the thought of a person understanding you beyond what you present to the world, without having to explain yourself.

You broke the silence before the night turned longer. "I'm sorry for compelling you to stay here. I shall leave now. Thank you for hearing me."

"You were no bother." Jeonghan's hands tidied up the space, yet his body was turned your way. "Are you going to find him?" He asked, a mix of shy and curious and another feeling you couldn't pinpoint.

"That is not your concern," you snickered. "I have a bed to sleep on. My life does not revolve around him."

"Good." The line of his lips fought a smirk.

You turned around with a smile. You needed to get out of there. "Good night, Jeonghan."

"You're welcome any time."

His voice sounded distant as the back door came closer. You couldn't turn back to watch him. He couldn't see your reaction. And the invitation remained on the air, a flicker of hope.

You did take Jeonghan up on his offer. It wasn't the plan. But like many things that are out of people's control, you didn't anticipate disappointment to become a constant in your life.

Week after week, show after show, client after client, each time that Harold dismissed you, excusing his actions as part of an elaborate plan to keep his family's speakeasy open, you understood that nothing you did was ever going to satisfy him.

Helen reigned the stage each weekend, her shadow filled by you and your voice. Her numbers changed weekly, yet her final song remained the same, as did the way she commanded the attention of the men sitting at the back with ladies on their laps. Your body danced mechanically, your voice in tune with the melody you practiced, your weekly routine of trial, and trial, and trial, and failure. It never changed, save for your eyes getting looser, finding Jeonghan's just in front of the liquor section. He hadn't lied that night.

He was always watching. And he always welcomed you at the end of the night, glass propped on his station, ready to listen to you talk. Most times you complained about Harold, other times you asked Jeonghan to take your mind off everything. And, on rare occasions, you both chose to stay silent, enjoying the other's company while finishing tasks.

Jeonghan became a key part of your day to day life swiftly, like a thread going through silk.

One night, you were set to talk to Harold after not seeing him for weeks.

After your first show, he had vanished, never invited you over to his place again, never sent sweet looking smiles with more behind them. His trips to Chicago were longer, his time on the gambler's table as well. It was like you didn't exist. It wasn't his kisses or his touches you missed, you realized after the first few days. There wasn't anything to miss. What you needed was reassurance that you weren't dragging yourself through the mud for nothing.

You found Harold on the way out of the basement, behind Mr. Miller and Mr. Davis and... with Helen peppering kisses on the side of his neck.

It wasn't surprising. You weren't together, he owed you nothing, and she resented you for being with him and probably jumped at the chance. Your eyes locked with hers as she smugly continued. You didn't want to pity her, but she didn't need to draw the owner's son's attention to get what she wanted. She was talented and easily the favorite Canary out of all of you. You didn't blame her at that moment for wanting it all, but rather despised Harold for taking advantage of her.

The talk went as quick as a flick of Helen's hair. Harold wasn't interested in you anymore, and he reluctantly agreed to talk to his parents about giving you more time on stage.

The realization hit you in the shape of warmth flushing your chest. There was only one person you wanted to tell the good news to: the quiet bartender whose late night conversations had become your favorite part of the job.

Being on the stage alone was everything you thought it would, and simultaneously nothing like it.

The week prior you spent perfecting your number. Filling a 30 minute slot by yourself was no easy feat, but it was a type of stress you welcomed. You sang your favorite songs during every free time you got, picking and choosing the ones that sounded nice together, matching with elegant thought out moves. You watched the other girls perform during the week, a smaller audience since the non-weekend shows were expensive, and informed yourself what the clients liked more.

Not only you had to impress with your talents, you had to keep an audience in awe of you. It wasn't as hard as it seemed, but you wanted to stand out. Doing what worked for the other Canaries wasn't the way to remain in people's minds. It was an interesting study.

Jeonghan didn't see you that week. Not that you had no complaints for him to chuckle at, but you were so focused on excelling that you had no time to spare.

That Saturday, you stayed up until 3 in the morning fixing old stitches on your best gown. It wasn't the most fashionable, it wouldn't compare to the previous looks the audience was going to see, but it was yours. You weren't going to hide behind the fancy dresses in the changing room. Your performance had to be authentic.

You practiced your make-up to flatter your eyes, undoubtedly the part that was going to be watched the least. If the men weren't looking at your leg cutting through the opening you made on your dress, then you had to look them in the eye and, for that moment, giving them a chance to fall.

And your work wasn't in vain.

You did finally arrange a show and performed it in front of an audience. Yet, as soon as you got on stage, time appeared to change its workings, because your dream was over faster than a pour of water.

Song after song, melody after melody, the last thing you thought of was how long you had been waiting, or that less than a third of the tables had clients sitting on them, sober enough to watch you. It was okay, because the light was finally on you, singing your heart out and bringing your imagination to life.

You had to step down the stage eventually. Unfortunately. Your show was the last of the day, and people started leaving as soon as the clocks indicated it was 1 in the morning.

As always, you were the last Canary to leave. The technique to be off by the time the last client leaves was to start cleaning tasks during the last show of the night. The men left were either too drunk or too into flirting with another woman to care that they were essentially being kicked out as soon as the music stopped

You reached the table floor after changing back into normal clothes, maybe more disappointed that you were alone than from the poor audience you had to entertain. The yellow lights over the bar were still on, giving you a flicker of hope that erupted into flames when you heard shuffling sounds behind you.

Jeonghan stood between the empty tables, beside the bar's expensive record player. The wind-up phonograph was kept safe in a glass case that could only be opened with one set of keys. Jeonghan, you saw, had them in his hand with that exact purpose.

You dodged and fixed chairs left messily standing on the way, with a smile that didn't match working over hours and cleaning up people's messes. "You will get in trouble if they see a scratch."

No one was allowed to touch the record player. Not even Harold.

"I could blame it on Mr. Davis, it would be believable enough," Jeonghan joked. Mr. Davis was known for being clumsy when drunk, even breaking several glasses, but that idea didn't ease the little anxiety. "I'm careful, you shouldn't worry. I'm good with my hands."

He gave you no time to fix your breathing. Hiding from your sight, there was a big envelope he opened with ease. You couldn't recognize it, and you watched in awe as Jeonghan gently placed the fragile record on the player. Everything he touched held a delicate feel, even the large needle placed on the fragile record, until every piece was in place.

You had never seen a player being put together so closely before, and his casualness left you in awe.

"Do you own one?"

"I do," he replied, closing the glass case once more, now with a new record in, ready to play. "Do you?"

"Oh, no. I wish." You shouldn't have felt embarrassed, you knew Jeonghan wasn't asking out of spite, but rather genuine curiosity. "My parents couldn't afford it. Our neighbors had one and I would listen to the records they played over the wall. I've seen one up close, but neither my neighbor or her husband dared to touch it when I was around. I loved being in their home, but they were right to not let me get too close to their player. I would've broken it with one touch."

He nodded at your story, smiling to himself. "Why don't you get one for your home now? Your neighbors would be jealous."

"I don't live with my parents anymore, and my neighbors passed away a few years ago."

"I'm sorry." Jeonghan aimed to lay an assuring hand on your shoulder, but hesitated and went back to lay on the player. "Why don't you live with your parents?"

You realized then how vague you had been when talking about your living situation. You couldn't blame him for asking.

"That's a conversation to be had with a drink in hand," you chimed.

It had been a while since you stopped feeling guilty about asking for drinks at night. Jeonghan chuckled lightly at your non-answer request, and turned on the player before heading back to the bar. It always took a little while for the music to start, so you followed him.

By that time, you'd become familiar with the different illicit alcohols available at the bar. The Prohibition didn't stop Jeonghan from finding the best of the best.

"Try this one today."

He slid a glass over to where you were sitting. The usually orangy liquid was now clear as water, with tiny bubbles fizzled on the sides and a slice of lime as decoration. Jeonghan was on a self-imposed quest of finding your favorite drink. You did not have one, and that did not stop him.

"It's gin tonic," he replied to your unasked question. "Sweet and sour."

"Different." You had become accustomed to the drinks he served to most men, the ones that were thick and bitter and couldn't be drunk quickly unless one was already dizzy.

"More your style," he simply replied.

Jeonghan's eyes followed your every move, your fingers draped around the cold glass, your lipstick-stained lips on the rim, your throat gulping down the drink he's been thinking about for weeks.

It was a bartender thing, he thought. He wanted to see you, his most unusual client, satisfied.

The condensation formed around the glass left your lips wet after setting it down. You licked them clean, the faint taste of the lime slowly overpowering the bitterness of the gin.

"That was just as strong as last week's bourbon," you joked.

Jeonghan's face was unreadable. He stared in silence as you let the taste of another sip wash down your throat. Once you got used to the after-taste bitterness, the drink was enjoyable, the perfect mixture of bitter and sour, with just the right amount of sweet.

"I think we found it," he said under his breath.

His mouth opened and closed, hesitant. You preferred the silence to what you knew was waiting for you after he asked what he wanted.

It was then when the record player decided it was time. A soft hum of a low bass invaded the space, cutting through your avoidance and Jeonghan's wonders. You recognized it within the first note.

"This one is my favorite!" You jumped off your seat, already imagining what it would be like to sing a song like that one. "I wanted to perform it today, but I could never do it justice."

"I heard you singing it on Tuesday, liked it, and bought a 78."

Even when you didn't spend time together, he paid attention. You didn't think anyone had heard you singing, but you should have thought Jeonghan would.

"Are you secretly rich? These are a rare kind!"

Jeonghan chuckled, going around the bar like he owned the place. "You would be surprised at how many drunk men tip you when you hear their affairs."

"Oh, am I not the only one you share drinks and secrets with?"

"They could be future investors, it's my job to be kind to them," he deadpanned. "I spend time with you because it is what I want."

His words should have not elicited such a warm rush of blood, yet it coursed through your system against your will. The dim lights might've hidden your face, but if Jeonghan was going to notice something, was your body becoming more shy the closer he got to you.

"How did you come to work here? I haven't asked." He knew your story, your problems with Harold. You took the opportunity to skew the conversation away from what made you flush.

Jeonghan held a hand high, stretched so his palm faced the dimly lit ceiling, and motioned for you to take.

"I will tell you over a dance."

You had no proper attire. The shoes you bought months ago were starting to get worn from everyday use. Your gown was purposely a discreet brown, knee long, unlike dancer dresses with vivid color and short to allow the legs to move.

If it was any other man asking, you'd politely refuse. A woman shouldn't be dancing with whoever asked, and being under-dressed was wrong too.

Yet, Jeonghan was no stranger. You had always struggled to make friends, and this feeling of easiness you had never felt with anyone. Every day, you found yourself wanting the clock to be over, for the joint to be empty, all so you and Jeonghan could have your late night talks.

You took his hand and bowed with a thickening smile.

To the rhythm of your favorite song, Jeonghan placed his other hand just above your hip. He guided you to turn in slow circles, as much as the little space available let you.

His stare burned a blush on your cheeks, but you refused to return the gaze. Harold was the only man you had ever been so close to, yet it would have been ridiculous to compare anything you lived with him to how you felt at that moment.

Jeonghan wasn't imposing, he wasn't making the situation to leave you with no choice. From the placement of his hands, to the polite distance between your chests, you were alone in a room that wouldn't welcome another person until the next morning, and you didn't doubt you were safe.

"So, how did you find this place?"

"I hope this doesn't break your trust in me," he began. What a start! "Harold's parents, Homer and Celia, took me in when I was little."

"That is… a big piece of information," you couldn't avoid stumbling over your words. "I guess I should not be surprised."

"Why?" He scowled, finding your little shock amusing. "They are hardly here, and Harold does not care to hide his dislike for me even if I choose not to say we were raised together."

"Yes, the owners might not be seen here, but you forget, Harold's personality does not change in his home. He hates you over the normal amount for a co-worker." That earned a chuckle from him, and your closeness allowed his breath to fan your face. "So, they offered you a job and he hates you because the clients prefer you?"

"I asked them to place me here," he revealed, smile fainter than before, "I felt like I owed it to them. I didn't want to depend on other people, even if they never complained about having to spend money on me. But I was always on Harold's bad side. He didn't like sharing with a street kid with no family, and didn't like being put boundaries by his parents either."

"I'm sorry, that must've been awful. His parents sound nice, I've never spoken to them."

"Yeah, his—our parents, they were good. I always knew me and Harold weren't the same, and they've made mistakes when raising us, but they meant well. I live on my own now, and came to like this god-forsaken joint. I'll have my own one one day, maybe when the Prohibition lifts."

When it came to family dynamics, there was little comfort you could offer Jeonghan at that moment. However difficult your home life was, it couldn't compare to being taken in by strangers when you had no one left. You didn't want to sour the evening further, but you had to talk after him.

"I'm living with Sophie, do you know her?" Jeonghan nodded. "At the beginning, I accepted when Harold invited me to his place, not only because I thought I meant something to him," you were ashamed to accept it out loud and decided to look down to the wooden floor to continue, "I needed somewhere to be without my parents.

"I know I should be grateful I have a mom and dad who took care of me even in the toughest moments, but I couldn't bear it any longer. I couldn't bear to see their relationship becoming more about tolerance than love. Some time between working to maintain our home and having to raise me and my unattainable dream, their fire just burned away, and being home was not comfortable and safe anymore, but rather draining."

"Have you gone back since?" His touch hardened in reassurance.

"No," you replied, frozen in place. "Have you?"

"Not as much as I'd like."

He didn't ask for more from you, which you were glad for. Jeonghan remained silent, let you rest your head on his shoulders and swayed you in a non-dance until the song ended.

The silence was suffocating. You felt warm all around from being in Jeonghan's hold, fearing he'd feel your heart beating so fast he'd think you were having a heart attack. And maybe you were. You had just openly spoken out loud the worst thing you have ever done.

"I hope you don't think of me as a horrible person," you whispered.

You couldn't bear the thought of ruining the one good thing you had managed to gain while stepping over people to achieve a stupid dream.

"I would never think of you that way." Two fingers held your chin high from your hiding place, and you had no other choice but to look up at Jeonghan. "Everyone has their reasons. It would not be fair to judge you for doing what you had to."

"I abandoned my family for a foolish dream that has not worked out. It's been a year, and I have barely taken one step in the right direction."

"Expecting to accomplish a lifelong dream without a fight would be foolish, not this. You're working hard, and it paid off today. You were amazing on stage." He sounded sincere. "It was like no other show I've seen."

Tears were dripping down your blushed cheeks. Even then, Jeonghan managed to make you smile. "It was over so fast, I barely remember a thing."

"Trust my word. You have nothing to fear. Be confident in your talent."

"You should talk to the owners about me then, now that I know why they like you so much."

"Harold will duel me if I do so."

Your giggle elicited a matching chuckle of his. He held you closer than before, with both of his hands on your lower back. You welcomed the change in topic and a lessened atmosphere, and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"You're not awful for being with him either."

Jeonghan acknowledging your past with Harold was like a punch in the gut. It wasn't a secret, and you had complained about it countless times with him, but it was always you who did the talk. You had assumed he pittied you, as you pittied Helen.

"I was a fool for thinking he saw something in me. I wanted to feel that spark."

"He's the fool if he doesn't see how special you are."

You felt a stool digging on your skin, just below where Jeonghan's hands had taken place. You had stopped dancing at some point, you weren't sure when, but you were back to the yellowy darkness of the bar.

"Do you think this place is good for us?" Jeonghan raised a brow at your question, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not legal, but good to get somewhere after."

"Are you perhaps planning on leaving?" He joked, yet a tint of disappointment was evident in his tone.

"I don't know. I'm not there yet, but maybe in the future, when I'm better settled."

You saw in his eyes, there were more questions on his mind. You didn't explain further, already nervous due to his sudden closeness.

You were pinned between the stool and his wide shoulders, at the mercy of his want to never end the conversation.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," he settled on saying. "Being around Harold must be hard."

"It's not because of him, but rather his unwillingness to fulfill the promise he made me. Leave it to me to put my trust in a questionable man."

You wanted to laugh at your life choices. Looking back, it should've been obvious that after denying him more unsatisfying sex, he'd put you aside and pick another impressionable woman. Jeonghan didn't find it very funny.

"I could talk to Celia, if you want me to," he offered with the utmost sincerity you had accustomed to hear from him.

"There's no need. They'll come one day and I'll impress them."

He nodded, unsatisfied. "Would you tell me if you needed me to?"

"Jeonghan, it's okay. I'm not telling you this to manipulate you into helping."

"I know you are not. I'm—I want you to know that you can trust me."

Jeonghan looked as if he was pleading you to.

It would not be fair to make a comparison, but you couldn't help it. You thought about the men you saw every day. The men rich enough to buy the world. They came to the bar, bored of their perfect, simple, safe lives, and eyed women who faked interest in them. A self-centered life that stained every corner of the speakeasy, except for the bar.

All the men you came to know were exactly like one another. Drunk wealthy cheaters who cared for no one but themselves. Of those qualities, Jeonghan couldn't be farther from.

"I do," you sincered. "I trust you."

"Good." He exhaled.

Your words relaxed him in place, and he was somehow closer to you than before. He towered over you even when his back was no longer stiff. It felt like a final wall crumbling down. Jeonghan could see even your ugliest parts. The shameful parts, the foolish ones, the ones who chased a dream. You hadn't scared him off.

His dark eyes locked with yours, like a mirror of your thoughts. He had also shared his story. Was he feeling the same as you? Like you could talk about anything with him forever?

The last ounce of trust you had leaned into a 'yes, he did'.

Your heart tugged with something new. Something that made your stomach boil and your skin burn where Jeonghan was touching.

His gaze hadn't derailed from yours. He was watching every thought going through your mind. The trust you felt seemed like something more. You trusted Sophie too, but it wasn't quite the same. If whatever it was, Jeonghan felt it too like you thought, then it'd be no problem.

Your eyes traveled down his face, analyzing his expression as best as you could with the poor lighting. You got caught up on the lower half, on his lips slightly parted to exhale.

Jeonghan crossed the line first.

He was hesitant as he pressed his lips on yours. The touch was soft like no other, giving you a way of breaking it if it was not what you wanted.

Before he could step away and leave a peck as simply that, you cradled the back of his neck, pushing him harder against you. At your encouragement, his hand grabbed your jaw and guided you to him. You both sighed and relaxed into each other, as if you had been waiting a lifetime to feel a kiss like that.

Jeonghan's other arm wrapped around your waist and lifted you over the stool. Your lips molded together, unwilling to separate even when changing positions. You hadn't realized how much you wanted Jeonghan to be the one to make you feel all that you were missing. He kissed you with a purpose, and whatever it was, you weren't going to get in the way.

His tongue licked over your top lip and deepened the kiss. It was indecent and filthy, wrong in every sense of the word, yet stopping was nowhere present in your mind.

Jeonghan led the kiss just like he had led the dance: slow and caring and with only you in mind. Every sound that escaped from you set him in the correct direction. You let him take care of you, let him explore the only part of you unknown to him.

You followed his hand on your jaw and his fiery kiss wherever Jeonghan guided you. His thumb swiped over your lower lip and you opened up to him. He tasted the remains of his drink and erased any trace of someone else. He didn't know he was the only one you had ever really wanted, the only one capable of blurring everything around you and making you focus on the electricity flowing with every touch of your lips.

Your foreheads leaned on the other as you broke the kiss. You breathed on each other, the reality of what happened dawning on you.

"This is wildly inappropriate," you sighed out.

Jeonghan couldn't hide the smile your breathless words elicited.

"We wouldn't want to be improper in such a distinguished establishment."

Of course, Jeonghan was unable to spend a second without making you giggle even in the tensest situations.

Your hands drifted down to his chest, feeling the way it filled with air under your touch. He pushed his hips between your legs, slowly as to give you time to reject more advances. Your lack of stocking lets you feel him directly. You wanted nothing more than to continue feeling him, to let him show you that touching and kissing could feel desirable.

"Is this okay with you?" He asked as his fingers raked down the side of your back.

You nodded and looked into his eyes. He touched and gripped at your chest and thighs over the fabric of your dress, testing each reaction you gave him. You were too reactive to every touch, but he kept going, with more fervor each time you squirmed.

"Did he ever—"

"No." Harold never touched you, not like that. Harold didn't make you sigh onto his lips, didn't draw you to chase his touch, didn't care to know what you liked.

To say that Jeonghan was shocked would've been underplaying everything that went through his mind.

"That damn louse." He hardly ever sweared, but every bit of information you gave him made everything more intense.

He lowered his face and placed kisses down your jaw. You sighed into the thick air around you. Everywhere was on fire, and you didn't want Jeonghan to ever stop.

His hand found the hem of your dress, hiked up above your knees as his hips pushed you two closer. He found your inner thigh, and you shivered.

"You've only been with him?" Jeonghan dared to ask.

"Yes, but—" You were clueless as to how to best explain. He waited for you, halted his touches until you were ready. "He never really touched me. I got him off and he fell asleep."

Jeonghan was shocked once more. "I'd get a good laugh if what you tell me wasn't too outrageous."

"I guessed men were all like him. I have not heard other canaries complaining about their experiences with him."

"Did you complain about him with others hearing?" He tilted his head to the side with a smirk. Except for him, he meant. You shook your head. "Were you okay with me touching you?"

He talked so openly about such an improper topic, you had to hide your face on the crook of his neck so he wouldn't see you blush.

Sex was never something you were allowed to talk about. You touched yourself when the moon was high in the sky, covered your mouth so no one would hear. When Harold was soundly asleep, you twitched at his side searching for what you gave him hours before.

Instead of answering Jeonghan's question, you found his hand under the skirt of your dress. He had distanced from where you wanted him the most, massaging just above your knee. You slid his palm up your inner thighs until his fingers grazed over your underwear. You pressed your head against his clavicle at the feeling.

"Do you want me to touch you? I need you to say it." Jeonghan pretended your reactions had no effect on him, yet the heavy rise and fall of his chest told you another story.

"Please, touch me."

His other hand found your jaw under his shoulder and lifted it up so his mouth could find your neck. "I can make you feel things he never did." He whispered in your ear.

Burning fire coursed down your body into your pulsing core. Jeonghan touched where you felt damp and groaned against your neck. Anything other than your hand was foreign to your core. Even Harold's hard hadn't ventured higher than the pressing skin of your thighs.

"Relax for me."

You obeyed without much thinking, opening up your legs further.

Jeonghan's fingers drew circles where you felt most sensitive. It was a stark contrast to the times when you were desperate enough to touch yourself. Those times had been rushed, shameful even. You didn't want to spend so much time chasing something you weren't sure you deserved.

Yet, in that moment, you wanted to drown in Jeonghan's slow, thoughtful touches. He grazed over every point that went often overlooked. He listened to your reactions, your moans and deep inhales in his ear, and went back to replicate each one of them.

"You sound so sweet," he purred as he pressed harder against your core. "Has he heard you moaning like this? I'd wager he hasn't. He doesn't deserve you."

Every word coming out of his mouth sent shivers down your spine. You could feel your underwear getting uncomfortably wet, sticking to your core and letting you feel each swipe of Jeonghan's fingers better.

"Jeonghan," you sighed into his neck. Your hands gripped the sides of his coat, pushing his chest and arms inevitably closer to yours. "I—"

"Let me make you feel good, like you deserve."

A gush of cold air snuck between your thighs. Jeonghan had moved your underwear to the side. The pads of his fingers touched your wet lips gently, getting you accustomed to the unfamiliar skin. Your hips jerked in his direction, pressing his hand harder against you like you never felt.

"I want—" your thoughts were clouded by his fingers circling the spot that made you gasp. It felt immoral to want it, it felt wrong to even ask it, but Jeonghan kept pleasuring you without a second thought. He wanted to give you anything you asked. It couldn't possibly be as wrong as society deemed it, not if it felt so good. "Make me feel good, please Jeonghan."

Jeonghan let all the air out of his lungs in relief.

Everything became too much for you to handle. Jeonghan let go of everything shielding him from pleasuring you like you deserved, according to him. Every swipe of his fingers against your wet core was thought out, with one purpose.

Your dress stretched far more than it should. It gave in to the pressure of Jeonghan holding your legs open as you trembled on his stool. You heard fabric ripping somewhere along your thighs, but nothing mattered over the bubbling feeling at the pit of your stomach.

Jeonghan muttered, praising nonsense against your ear. Your body reacted to each word with a jerk of your hips, yet you registered nothing beside kisses on your neck and frantic fingers chasing your release. You tugged at his hair, gripped his arms muscles, held on to every bit of his body available within grabbing distance. He was so impossibly close, his hand so impossibly wet gliding over your core.

It wasn't gradual like you were used to. No. Jeonghan pressed on your clit and bit your earlobe and you were done for.

Flames burst without warning across your entire body. Your vision went white. Your knees closed on his hips, holding on to Jeonghan as you quivered against his hand. He kissed along your neck until he found your lips again. You kissed him lazily, letting your breathing go back to normal.

That was how it was supposed to feel? Your throat felt coarse from sounds you didn't even hear you were making. You had never felt too in tune, yet disconnected from your body, known yet unfamiliar.

"Tell me how you feel," Jeonghan asked, demanding yet shy.

"I had never—I didn't know it was like that." Words were hard to find.

Jeonghan let you settle down. He cleaned his hand on the sink and cleaned the mess between your inner thighs. It all felt too intimate, too real. The reality of what you did was dawning on you fast. You two were nothing, and you let him take you like it was nothing.

"Is everything okay?" Of course, Jeonghan read you like an open book. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You looked down his body, the shadow of his hardness drawing your attention. He made you feel good and you didn't give him anything in return. You were just like Harold.

"I'm sorry. It was all too much," you replied first to his question. You nodded to his hips and asked, "Do you want me to…"

"No need." Jeonghan shook his head, fighting a smile. "Let's go outside."

He had a case of cigarettes in one hand, and stretched the other for you to take.

The back of the bar shone with one streetlight on. The street on the side was clear, as the mandatory curfew would start less than an hour later. Jeonghan lit the cigarette and handed it to you. You inhaled softly. You didn't want the smell to carry onto Sophie's place and raise more questions from her part.

"We could open a proper joint some day," Jeonghan proposed, smiling to himself at the idea. "You'd have all the stage time in the world."

His voice echoed against the grey wall in front of you. There was no reason for him to think of something like that, which only made you match his smile.

"Are you making future plans with me already?" You laughed it off incredulously.

Jeonghan had an easy way for your spiraling thoughts to stop. He brought you back to the real world with a crazy thought and a quirked smile. He was the Jeonghan that made your work days bareable, he wouldn't let you overthink about how wrong everything you felt was.

Your eyes drifted to his lips, and you tingled with the remainder of being pressed against him.

"I'm serious! I like it here but not for it to be my life, and you don't like it here that much either."

"I can't disagree with that."

Could you do it? It was another dream added to your growing list. Opening a jazz bar with none other than Yoon Jeonghan. The thought was crazy enough, but he had said it out loud. He had put it out into the world.

thank you so much for reading! i didn't start writing tihs with the idea of doing it in parts, but life happened :( I'll get to writing the last part asap!

Nestled in a hidden part of the hotel lobby, behind a password protected door, was a speakeasy. Jihoon pulled together the last of his savings, praying for a win, to decorate the old backroom of the hotel into the most swell joint he had ever seen. He had gotten lucky with the location: a speakeasy in an infamous hotel, right in Manhattan, where people were desperate for alcohol … It wasn’t long before the Velvet Ruby was the most popular juice joint for New York’s elite.

Jihoon didn’t want to reach out to old friends, but the only way to smuggle alcohol in was through bootleggers. He typically relied on smugglers from Canada to bring in his moonshine and other popular liquor from distilleries. Using people connected to the Lucky Aces and other gangs, Jihoon created a network of bootleggers so that he never, not once, ran out of alcohol to sell. 

With his bartender and partner in crime, Kwon Soonyoung, they ran the Velvet Ruby like the military. Every employee at the hotel was paid fairly, and they even had enough to hire the finest entertainment and several servers that were looking to make a buck. Soonyoung was one of the best cocktail mixers around, and if you were lucky enough, sometimes he got up on the mic to belt out a tune.

The hotel business was steady, but the speakeasy earnings were pulling them through a harsh autumn. Even through the success, Jihoon still had bad days. Days when the music got too loud or the loneliness of leaving his family crept up on him. Sometimes the only warmth he could feel was when he stood outside in the cold rain, inhaling smoke from the cigarette in his gloved fingers, as he watched the light above his hotel flicker.

But if days like this didn’t come up, he probably wouldn’t have met you.

You were standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, when your eyes met his outside the Hotel Ruby. Hair wet and clutching what looked like a torn suitcase, Jihoon stubbed out his cigarette and opened the door for you without a word. You brushed past him, but he could feel you shivering. Water dripped from your coat and onto the plush red carpet, but Jihoon had never been the type to chastise a woman for anything. Not even for ruining his carpet.

He slipped behind the front desk at the lobby because Wonwoo had probably fallen asleep on break. Without looking up from the guest book, he asked, “Looking for a room?”

“Actually, a job.”

Jihoon’s head lifted. The night had shrouded most of your face outside, but now that he was looking at you under the warm lights of the lobby, his body froze. Despite your wet hair clinging to your face, there was a natural beauty about you. Something to be admired. The kind of face that didn’t belong in a seedy city, but somewhere gentle, warm. Your face stood out in a place like New York, where crime and gambling ran rampant. 

You weren’t from here.

“We don’t have any positions open at the hotel,” he replied.

“I – I’m n-not –” You stuttered, teeth chattering. The handle of your suitcase shook in your lithe fingers. Voice lowering, you continued, “I’m not asking for a job at the hotel.”

It clicked then, and his brow raised. How did someone like you find out about the speakeasy? He couldn’t dwell on it, not when you had pertinent information. With a cock of his head, he led you into the manager’s office behind the front desk, locked with a golden key. Wonwoo was slumped in a cushioned chair by the door, waking up when the edge hit his foot. Jihoon side-eyed him, and he skedaddled before he could be reprimanded.

Moving the stack of bills to the floor, Jihoon sat down behind the desk and gestured for you to take the seat in front of him. You settled into the chair warily, still shivering, and just the sight of a pretty thing like you suffering made him pause. He stood and rounded the desk, reaching a hand out. You looked up at him with confusion. “Let me help,” he muttered. “Take your jacket off. It’s soaked.”

“O-Oh,” you nodded, sliding the wet material off and handing it over.

Jihoon averted his gaze when he realized your were wearing a white blouse underneath, the line of your undergarments clearly visible beneath the soggy fabric. Clearing his throat, he hung up your jacket before draping an old trench coat over your shoulders that he kept in the closet. You pursed your lips, and he was pretty sure he heard something that resembled, Thank you, sir.

Plopping back down in his chair, the first thing he said was, “You’re not from around here.”

Your mouth opened, but his words caught you off guard. After a beat, you replied, “No. I’m from up north. I took a bus to the city.”

“How did you find out about the Velvet Ruby?”

He was so blunt, his tone like a dagger. You almost didn’t expect it from someone like him. He was broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that spoke to what little sleep he got and slicked-back hair. Two inches shorter than you and smelling like a combination of cigars and expensive cologne, but his words cut sharper than a blade. You hugged the trench coat more on your shoulders.

“It’s because – I’m not –” You exhaled heavily. Your first instinct was to lie – always lie. It had become a habit after you married Han. Rubbing underneath your nose, you decided to be truthful: “I found out because I know the right people. I’m running away from my ex-husband.”

His brow shot up. “Divorced?”

“I don’t have the money to even get divorced. My family is flat. I married up, until I realized …” You smoothed a hand over your tired eyes.

He licked his lips, realizing how much your expression had soured. His back straightened in the chair and he laced his fingers together on the desk. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me, angel.”

The nickname made your gaze flicker to his, and you both let it hang in the air for a moment. The office was so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop. So you cleared your throat. “No,” you muttered, “I probably should.”

He watched your chin fall into your palm, your eyes haunted and somewhere else. Whatever you had experienced left an imprint on you, a bruise that wouldn’t heal. A wave of protectiveness washed over him and he had no clue why. He didn’t know you, didn’t know what you’d been through, but for some reason, he felt the need to crush whoever made you this way.

“Everything okay?” He asked over a long beat of silence.

“I’m trying to fight the urge to lie to you.”

“Oh.”

You finally sat back up, pushing strands of wet hair behind your ear. Your lobe was pointed, something so characteristically you. “My husband’s friend is one of your bootleggers.  He sources your gin and rum from Canada. Both him and Han are part of the Lucky Ace gang.”

It dawned on him then – he forgot some of the Lucky Aces reached as far as the north east. They were one of the most spread-out gangs on the eastern part of the U.S., but with the likes of the Chicago Outfit maintaining superiority amongst the crime syndicate, it was hard to believe they were still out there, past the boundary of New York State. 

Suddenly, Jihoon felt his breath still. “Han,” he repeated, the name tasting burnt on his tongue. “As in Cheon Han?”

You swallowed, mouth refusing to open.

“Your husband is one of the leaders of Lucky Ace,” he said, though he was sure you knew that from the look on your face. “I grew up with him, until he moved … North.” It was all clicking in his head then: the day they met in elementary school; Jihoon’s 18th birthday when Han revealed he was moving in with his uncle; the night he got the news from his father that “his old friend” had went up in the ranks of Lucky Ace up North, surpassing folks older than him. 

“Oh, my god.” He moved his chair back, surprised when it hit the wall. “I can’t hire you. I can’t house you. That’s asking for a death wish.”

“Only if he finds out,” you were quick to say. “I’m not asking for shelter. I got an apartment for myself outside Manhattan. I just need a job to pay for it.”

Jihoon shook his head. “He’ll kill me.”

“Let’s be honest, he never does the killing. One of his torpedos will do it for him.”

He paused, because he knew you were right, and it wasn’t exactly helping your case. You placed a hand on the desk, as if to reach out to him, but your fingers were trembling so much. The tips were red, so warm compared to the rest of your body. When he met your eyes again, they were pleading. “Please,” you said, “I wouldn’t ask for help if I wasn’t desperate. I’m good with customers. I can … I can be a server. I have good balance –”

“All my servers are male. I only hire female dancers.”

Your face fell. “I’m not a dancer. But I can … please. I know you don’t know me, but I’m asking you to take a chance.”

Jihoon stood, his mind swirling with possibilities. He paced in front of the door and ran a hand through his hair. She’s Han’s wife. They’re not even divorced. She’s running away from him. Fucking Christ, if he finds her here, he’s going to kill me –

A hand latched around his wrist. He turned, meeting your eyes. 

“He won’t find me,” you promised. “He’s too busy with his deals to ever come home and I planted a seed within his friend group that I was going even further south to see distant relatives. He would never guess I’d be in New York. And if he does …” You looked down, realizing you were still gripping him. His skin was pale and cold, but not as icy as yours. Sucking in a breath, you pulled your hand away. “I’ll make sure I suffer the consequences. Not you. I swear."

It was a gamble. You were a gamble. And he quit betting a long time ago, after a risky night at a underground casino with Soonyoung on his 29th birthday. Jihoon had never been entirely sympathetic, had never let himself be swayed by anybody, and yet … The warmth in your eyes left him stunned. Frightened. Like he could feel the whole world turning on its axis, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He sighed, and then rubbed at his eyes. “The men who come into the joint aren’t kind.”

“I’ve survived my fair share of unkind men.”

“You’d be the only female server. I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a woman.”

“That’s okay. Nothing has ever been easy for me.” You adjusted the coat on your shoulders. “Are you offering me the job?”

He closed his eyes, wondering if he should back out now, but he was already nodding, holding out his hand for you to shake. “Name’s Lee Jihoon. I’ll be your boss.”

“Jihoon,” you repeated, lips pulling into a wide grin. You told him your name, but he decided then that the only name he wanted to call you was angel.

You supposed it didn’t exactly matter what you wore to your first shift, but you planned on being more put together than yesterday. A fresh shower in your new apartment and a couple rollers later, you looked more spiffy than the women having brunch at the Ritz. Your hair was perfectly curled, red smeared onto your lips in a perfect cupid’s bow, and you wore a simple, button-down plum dress. One that you made sure to iron before leaving the apartment.

Jihoon asked you to be on the premises an hour before the speakeasy opened, which was usually around 9 to 10 PM. Naturally, you arrived at 8:45, having just enough time for a cigarette with your hood up. You were on guard these days, never taking a chance to reveal more than half of your face, especially when indulging in your worst habit. After taking one last inhale, you crushed the death stick with the heel of your flat and walked inside the hotel.

You expected to see Jihoon there – behind the front desk, talking to a bellhop, anywhere – but the lobby was empty besides Wonwoo with the guest book. He waved awkwardly to you, looking like a beanstalk in his uniform that hardly fit his long legs. You cowered in on yourself, tucking your hands into your jacket, as you prepared for someone from your past to jump out. Wonwoo was probably looking at you like you lost your marbles.

“Hey, big shot!”

You turned at the loud voice, seeing the back door slam open behind Wonwoo, and the taller male almost jumped out of his skin. Another male with curled dark hair stepped out, just a few inches under Wonwoo, clapping his hands in your direction. He wore a black dress shirt and tie, accompanied by a pair of baggy slacks with the ends tucked into tall, tiger-print socks and leather shoes. 

He looked insane, and yet … surprisingly on trend.

When you were within feet of him, he pulled you in by your hand, his grip stronger than you assumed. “Name’s Soonyoung. You’re the new one Jihoon let in, yes?” You nodded, and with your hand still in his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His smile was mischievous, but weirdly contagious. “Look at you all dolled up for the first night. As lovely as …” He fingered the collar of your dress and attempted not to grimace. “… This is, you do have a uniform. Which I adapted from what the men wear.”

Wonwoo tossed him a pair of clothes from one of the desk compartments and Soonyoung caught it without missing a beat. He placed the uniform into your arms and spun you around, pointing to the public restrooms. “Change please,” he instructed, although it was more like a demand when he pushed you forward in that direction.

The uniform was tighter than you assumed, but that was a given when you didn’t get anyone your measurements. It still fit, the flared black skirt hugging your waist just right. Soonyoung paired it with a white, collared blouse and an apron that secured around your middle. You hadn’t realized he’d given you an old pair of kitten heels, the leather worn-out at the toe. After slipping on some sheer black tights, you stuck your feet in the shoes and prayed you’d get used to them. You’d never been a pro with heels. 

Walking out, Soongyoung sent you smirk of approval before gesturing that you follow him. Wonwoo gave you one last nervous wave, all lanky and long-limbed, before you quickly trailed behind your new tiger-socked friend. He led you down the corridor to the left of the hotel’s entrance, and you noticed the lights getting dimmer the further you got from the lobby. You held your old clothes close to your chest, wary. When you reached the end of the hall, Soonyoung checked you were still behind him and presented the door in front of you both. It was tall and made of iron, with a window slot in the middle that was currently closed. Soonyoung knocked on the door in a specific pattern – two hard knocks, pause, one soft knock, three more hard knocks, slam your palm on the surface – and the window slot opened, revealing a pair of dark eyes.

A whiney voice emerged. “You wanna do that password again for me?”

“Oh, just open the door, Seungcheol!”

The bouncer chuckled, slamming the window shut before tearing the heavy door open. Seungcheol gave you a look as you strode past him, almost tripping in your heels when he winked. Soonyoung looked over his shoulder, glaring at the bouncer, before looping his arm through yours. “Don’t mind him. He’s an ass, but overly friendly. Has a wife at home,” your new friend explained.

Showing you the coat closet, he had you secure your clothes in your own locker before meeting him back out on the speakeasy floor. The joint was small, but clearly prestigious. The lights above where faint and colored in warm tones like yellow and red. Each circular table around the room fit at least four people, decorated with a red velvet tablecloth and a singular rose in the middle. A stage was set up at the front for live entertainment, and you saw a few dancers practicing their routine for tonight. The bar looked new, made out of dark maple and stocked full with every liquor imaginable. This place in fact was the real deal.

Soonyoung raised his arms. “Welcome to the Velvet Ruby.”

“It’s …” You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes scanning the room. “Very dark.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he gabbed, arm laced through yours again as you both flitted about the rooms. “Depending on the crowd, we won’t give you more than three tables. Just because it’s a small amount, doesn’t mean your attention shouldn’t constantly be on them. This is a business and we’re selling liquor. If someone isn’t being bum rushed out of here because their too canned to walk, I’m not doing my job right. You’ll typically find me mixing behind the bar with Seokmin, but don’t be mistaken. It is my bar.”

You nodded. “Noted.”

“Rules of the house,” Soonyoung continued, rounding the corner as they reached the seats at the bar. He held up three fingers. “No violence with patrons. No touching from patrons. And absolutely no questions about past lives.”

You began to nod in agreement when the sound of two bodies hitting each other emanated behind them. Your head spun out of instinct, seeing two of your fellow servers – one, a shorter man with reddish-brown hair and an otter-like smile; the other, a big six with hulking shoulders, strong muscles, and perfect features like wavy, black hair and honeyed skin. They greeted each other loudly, their raised voices making you flinch instantly.

Just a sound could take you back to Han. To the nights you heard him getting scrappy with one of his torpedos, right behind the door of your shared bedroom. To the days he yelled at his right-hand man as you prepared coffee in the kitchen, and then his hand gripping your apron as if to anchor himself to you before he clocked his friend in the kisser. 

Han had never been violent with you. Never touched a hair on your head. But to be married to a gangster was to see a threat at every turn. How long would it be until one of his enemies got the upper hand?

“You got the heebie-jeebies or something?” Soonyoung asked, and you whipped your head back to him. But he noticed the look in your eyes, how scattered you were, and with a soft smile, he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. I’ll tell Chan and Mingyu to pipe down.”

You schooled your expression – one of the many skills Han had taught you once he revealed his true identity. Your shoulders squared and you cleared your throat. “I know. I’m just … getting used to being the only female server.”

He laughed. “Yeah, Jihoon kind of set you up for failure with that one. Especially in this city.”

You raised a brow.

“Not that I think you’re going to fail. I’m sure you’re swell. It’s just …” He closed his mouth, realizing that he was going on a tangent. “I should let Jeonghan take over.”

Soonyoung yanked over another tall male with dark hair that reached his shoulders, almost making him drop all the glasses on his tray onto the floor. Jeonghan shook his head at the bartender before introducing himself to you. His slender build was similar to Wonwoo’s, but he wasn’t as broad.

Jeonghan brought you over to one of the tables to explain the basics of serving: how to write out your orders, address customers, and when to exactly cut them off. “The hardest part of being a server isn’t even about interaction,” he explained, and then lifted his full tray of empty glasses on his shoulder. “It’s about learning how to balance. Never, ever, break a glass.”

You nodded, jotting down notes in your server book. Guests were beginning to pour in, but Mingyu and Chan took the lead while Jeonghan showed you the ropes. Businessmen strolled through with women that probably weren’t their wives. Even a few flappers made their presence known, requesting Mingyu as their server specifically for one of the ladies in the friend group. You tried to focus over the noise and be present with Jeonghan, but your eyes couldn’t help but drift around the room, until they finally landed at the corner of the bar.

Jihoon leaned against the edge, a lit cigar between his teeth as he spoke to Soonyoung. And it seemed his eyes were drawn to you too, because only a few seconds later, you were the only thing he could focus on.

Sitting on the cold wooden floor of your apartment, back pressed against the side of the twin-sized bed, you dug out a small box from underneath the frame. One of the little things you made sure to pack before leaving, the gift box was old and torn, the vintage paper from when your mom was a child. You placed it in front of your crossed legs, your work heels discarded just a few feet away. The time was nearing 3 AM and you’d just gotten back from the Velvet Ruby, but your hands were itching for this, for the memories.

Lifting the cover off, you smiled at the pile of rectangular photos from years past. You picked up the first one off the top: an overexposed shot of you and your mother from when you were a child. It was the time you were sick, so she dressed you up in the prettiest clothes and had a photoshoot with you, as if you were her little doll. Your big grin, one tooth missing in the front, a red nose from sniffling. It was a good memory – a really, really good memory.

Your hands pilfered through the family photos: the one of you and your grandparents, your first day working for your parents’ laundromat, your 16th birthday party. Each a crucial part of your childhood. Setting the plethora of memories to the side, you picked up a photo that felt like a lifetime ago: you, leaning against a telephone pole outside, wearing your mother’s old wedding dress that came to your ankles because you were much taller than her. The smile on your face was different, and when you flipped to the next shot, you knew why. It was the day you and Han got married at the courthouse. His hands were in yours, his eyes on you, while you were looking at your father’s camera. The court clerk was in the middle of almost dropping his booklet when the image was captured. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. This was when things were good, when Han was just a customer you met at the laundromat.

You flicked through the photos, noticing the way your eyes changed in each one. As if your fear of the unknown and the weight of being your husband’s moll had made you lose your sparkle. Even in the shot from your first anniversary – which you had taken of both of you, sitting on the beach in some warmer state, albeit on a day where you were so happy – there was something in your smile. The first inklings of uncertainty. Because even on this day – one of your favorite days with him – he had gotten a letter with a threat sent to their hotel room near the beach. And it had become clear then that you might have fallen in love with one of the most dangerous men.

One of the last shots at the bottom was a picture he asked your father to take after the wedding. You both stood in the middle of the courthouse, him holding your wrist as you presented your hand out, the ring on your finger glinting in the lens. Standing on both sides of you were men that you deemed as his friends at the time, unaware that they were his associates in the Lucky Ace gang. Now that the dust had settled, you wondered if you had just been blind, because you most certainly remembered one of them having a shiv in his suit to defend Han at a moment’s notice.

But you didn’t think anything of it. You didn’t need to. Because he hadn’t been truthful with you in the first place.

With a heavy exhale, you buried all the photos of Han to the bottom of the box. You couldn’t dwell on the past or else you’d be filled with dread. Reaching into your apron, you pulled out a new addition for your collection: a photo Jihoon had requested to be taken of him all his staff at the Velvet Ruby. This photo spoke of new beginnings, one where you’d stop being afraid of what would happen next. Because you were protected here; everyone promised you that.

In the photo, Soonyoung was standing to Jihoon’s left, one arm around him while holding up his other hand, curled like a cat’s paw. Beside him was Chan and Mingyu, and then Jeonghan with Seungcheol on the corner. On the other side were a few servers you had been introduced to that day – Vernon and Minghao – both sporting the same unamused expression, with the other bartender, Seokmin. You were standing to the right of Jihoon, lips pulled into a soft smile while his arm slipped around your waist, yet hovering. Your heels made you feel like a tower next to him, but he was still the most important, confident man in the room.

When he had given you the photo a few days later, you assumed it was because this was one of the damaged copies. The brightness of the image, the way Mingyu was mid-talking to Chan. But still, you couldn’t help to ask, “Why are you giving me this?”

“I like having pictures. They’re a good memento.” He tapped his finger against the flimsy paper before meeting your gaze. “And I want you to have a good memory. To show you that there will always be a place where you will be safe.”

It took a couple weeks to get into the swing of things, but it felt like you had finally established yourself in a new place. And you did it on your own. You didn’t flinch anymore at sudden footsteps and raised voices, although you did have to tell Mingyu to shut it every once in a while. You slowly got the hang of serving and attending to wealthy patrons, even picked up a few regulars that came by at least once a week. Much to your excitement, they  were mostly women – a group of flappers looking to gossip about their dates or dance to whatever live band Jihoon hired that night.

As it turned out, working in such an energetic place was great exposure therapy.

Jihoon checked in on you regularly: before close, when you hung out by yourself at the bar. He’d meet you outside when you had a cigarette on your break. He asked you questions no one else did: Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Is everyone treating you well? Are you happy? Sometimes, he’d walk with you to the bus station, wait beside you until it came, and when you asked him why, he’d be so nonchalant. 

“This is on my way home anyway,” he’d say.

And you’d tilt your head. “The bus station?”

“Yes, I live … just over yonder,” he explained with an awkward wave of his hand. “I should get going.”

Your apartment could be scary at times, especially for a woman living on your own. Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the day – since you worked long into the early morning hours – hearing your neighbors argue over the price of milk. Insistent door knocking startled you before it became clear that no one was at your door at all; they were downstairs. Every loud noise outside your window sounded like a gunshot at first, until you realized that it wasn’t. It was just the kids on the sidewalk playing with wooden blocks. 

But you found solace at the Velvet Ruby – in a routine, in seeing your coworkers. Your friends. They were kind and made you laugh, the happiness returning to your eyes again. With them, you were safe. 

Jihoon made you feel safe.

And then, December 1st came.

Soonyoung was keeping you at the bar as he slowly made two Gin Rickeys for one of your tables. The drink was simple – club soda, lime juice, and of course, gin – but he had a better time holding you hostage there with a story from last night, which he told rather exuberantly. “And there I was, wearing my favorite socks – you know, the ones with the tiger pattern?” He asked, giving you no time to nod before he was continuing. “I was cleaning up the bar when Laurie – you know her? One of the hoofers Jihoon hired to come dance every week? Dark hair, big brown eyes. Anyway, she comes up to me –”

You watched him gradually poor the lime juice into both glasses before looking over your shoulder to see your patrons bored of their minds. Not even the pianist on stage could keep their attention.

“– And she wants to see me past work hours. Complimented my socks and everything.  Didn’t realize someone had a crush. Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” He slapped the top of your hand, making you swing back to him. “Are you even listening?”

You blinked. “Oh, um – Laurie’s stuck on you. Anything else?”

Soonyoung glared at you and poured a shot of gin into each glass. “Maybe I should ask her on a date next time I see her. What do you think?”

“Well, do you like her?” Your eyes slid to the right, where Jihoon stood in the corner of the joint. He put a cigar to his lips while Seungcheol whispered something in his ear, and then his gaze was on yours, making the hairs on your arm stand up. For what reason – you had no idea. Yet.

“She’s pretty.”

You flickered back to Soonyoung. “Then you should go on a date with her.” Your hands wrapped around the two Gin Rickeys. “If you’ll excuse me, my table is about to fall asleep if I don’t get these to them.” 

You turned, foot coming out to step forward, when two people breezed past you and you almost forgot to breathe. It was a man with a woman on his arm, and his face … it was something out of a nightmare, out of one of the pictures you had looked at weeks ago. But it couldn’t be him. Minho never let his hair grow that long, and he swore he’d never leave Han’s side, not even for a vacation. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

Minho was one of your husband’s enforcers in Lucky Ace, his right-hand man for all problems. A shield, but also a brother to him if he needed it. Which meant he was a brother to you too – however, you never let him get close enough. You kept Minho at an arm’s length, a hard task given the fact that he was almost always with your husband. Except for right now. If that was him. 

Most likely, it wasn’t. But what if it was?

This had to be your anxiety talking and you weren’t going to let it win today. Not after all the progress you made. You avoided the table he sat and thanked your lucky stars that you didn’t have to be their server. Pulling Mingyu away from one of his regulars – a blonde flapper named Kallie, who skirted around the rule of not touching the wait staff with lingering caresses and eyes that spoke trouble – you informed him to not let you near that table under any circumstances. Typically, Mingyu would crack at joke in this moment, but when he saw the serious look in your eyes, he knew this was important.

Keeping your face turned away from his table was harder than you assumed, but when it was finally nearing closing and you were getting back your last check of the night, you thought maybe you survived. Maybe you could sneak a peak now to see if it really was Minho. You just had to swing by the bar and drop off this money –

A warm palm latched around your arm.

Eyes wide, you turned, seeing Minho so plastered that his Old Fashioned was sloshing over the sides of the glass in his hand. You were petrified, body going ice cold. Because it was him – it was fucking Minho. In the flesh. Right before your eyes. His hand feeling like an iron brand on your bicep, as if he could burn through your blouse.

What was he doing here? How did he find you? Did Han set him up to this –

“H-Hey,” he slurred, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. The woman beside him was tugging on his arm and begging to leave. “Don’t I know … know you from sssssomewhere?”

“I – I –” The words were clogging in your throat. You tried to tug your arm free, but he wouldn’t let go. Oh, my god – he wasn’t going to let go. He was going to take you back to Han and the woman with him was just a ploy and – fuckfuckfuck –

“No touching my servers.”

Your arm was yanked free by a strong arm suddenly appearing on your left. Stumbling back, you caught yourself on the edge of a table as you recognized the back of Jihoon’s head. He was smacking away Minho’s hand, roughly grabbing him by the collar before he could even look in your direction again. Soonyoung was at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and shielding you from the scene. 

You heard the scuffle behind you, and you turned your head just enough to see Jihoon bum rushing Minho out of the speakeasy with Seungcheol on his right. They were both yanking on Minho’s flailing arms, ignoring his drunken shouting, while the woman on his arm sprinted after them.

The Velvet Ruby shut its doors for the night and instead of cleaning, Soonyoung insisted that you take a breather. You found his small pantry nestled behind the bar, the entry marked off by just a velvet curtain. This was where he stored all the extra liquor, where bootleggers met Jihoon with their latest shipments. You sat on the steel table by the wall, your legs dangling off the edge, and you took a few deep breaths. Realizing your pantyhose had a few tears in them, you sighed. Sleep was already creeping up on you, but there was still so much left to do. You should offer to mop the floors, clean up behind the stage, and yet …

The curtain swung open, and Jihoon closed it quickly behind him. “Are you doing okay?” He asked while striding up. His tone was detached, but it was his words that spoke to how much he cared. 

You didn’t answer, only nodded your head.

“Are you fighting the urge to lie to me again?”

You blinked a few times, his words making a tremor run through you. “I guess I was. Unintentionally, at least.” You looked back down at your legs swinging and gripped the edge of the table. Anywhere but his eyes. Sometimes you wondered if he could see right through you.

A moment of silence passed. Jihoon clicked his tongue. “So did you … know those two people?”

He was trying to pry you open, read through you like the Sunday paper. But you couldn’t let him. The less people who got in your shit, the better. It was for his own good. He was the one who almost didn’t hire you because he was scared of Han in the first place.

“You have to let me in at some point,” he whispered, softer this time. Intimacy laced in his tone and invited you in. He then snickered under his breath. “You got me all balled up over this. I probably just threw out someone who gave me good business –”

“He knows Han,” you confessed. “I don’t know who the woman was.”

Jihoon stuck his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “I see.”

You chewed on your bottom lip. Was the tear in your tights getting bigger or were you finally seeing things? “I didn’t think it was him at first, but … he saw me. What if he goes back and tells Han? What if –”

“He was too tanked to see, and he won’t remember anything now either.”

Slowly, you lifted your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were so dark that you swore you could drown in them. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry about it, angel.” He loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. Your stare drifted to his forearms, admiring the veins that led up to his knuckles, which you realized were now … red, bruised. Both of his hands were. “Do you trust me?”

His words rang through you, causing your gaze to flicker up to his again. After a moment, you nodded. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.

He stepped closer, the fabric of his expensive pants rubbing against your ruined pantyhose. “I think its best if we establish a plan. If someone asks for you, how should I respond?”

Your hands started to shake, knuckles turning white as you clutched the edge of the table. Looking to your feet, you realized how little you thought this through. Your plan had cracks. You  hoped it wouldn’t get to a point where you had to worry about this happening. “I … I don’t know. Say you don’t know me. Say …”

He placed a reassuring hand on top of yours. Your eyes slowly slid to the right, realizing that his hands were bigger than you assumed, prominent veins and scars etched into his skin. His palm was warm, and one of your fingers couldn’t help but twitch. 

He squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.

“A cup of Joe or tea?”

Your head swung up. He was that much closer, his hand not leaving yours. Cocking your head to the side, you answered, “Tea. Why?”

A smile flashed on his plump lips. “I figured that was easier than the hard stuff. Morning person or night owl?”

“I used to be a morning person.” Your lips pursed as his gaze burned into yours. “But these days, I think I prefer the night.”

You noticed the way he swallowed, and for a moment, you thought he shivered. But he let go of your hand before you could feel it.

“Are you comfortable here?” His voice was so smooth, like dark chocolate melting in your mouth. After a beat, he added, “With me?”

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip for a moment, and you notice Jihoon’s eyes move down, ogling you like a painting. Finally, you uttered, “Yes.”

“Good.”

He was in your space now, so close you could inhale his cologne that he probably bought from Lord & Taylor. Or maybe he had it custom. He smelled like firewood and something so inherently masculine, stabling you. A hint of cigar smoke lingered on his collar. He placed his palms on the steel table, thumbs just barely brushing against your hips, as he leaned into you, meeting you at your eye level.

“Tell me,” he continued, “is it worse to be trapped by someone who has feelings for you, or hunted by someone who doesn’t?”

You arched a brow. “We’re back to the hard ones now.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I think …” Pausing, you debated your answer, even though you knew it instantly. Maybe you wanted to make him sweat a little. “I would rather be trapped. Better to be trapped and unharmed than hunted.”

Jihoon’s tongue darted out from the corner of his mouth, slowly dragging over his bottom lip. Your answer obviously unfurled him, making his body tense as he stood there and questioned his next move. Your stares connected, but both of you were completely frozen. “You know you can leave at any time, yes?”

You nodded. “I know.”

Time stilled, the small pantry seemingly warmer than usual as Jihoon inched forward. You were white knuckling the table again, but you weren’t moving away. Because maybe … just maybe, you wanted Jihoon to kiss you. And would that be so bad? To have just a modicum of happiness, only for a moment, with his lips agains yours? Or maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should lean back and say, “Bank’s closed,” like your friends used to in your single days. 

But that was like torture. Moving away from him felt like a curse. 

Just as you leaned in, he cleared his throat, stepping back. Both realizing just what you were about to do, your bodies went rigid again. Your cheeks flushed bright red while he rubbed a finger over his top lip. He had never shied away from eye contact with you, but now … he was avoiding you like a disease.

“Let me go get your coat,” he said, already heading for the curtain. “You don’t have to stick around to clean tonight.”

You opened your mouth, wanting to say anything. Even if it was the first thought that came to your head. But Jihoon had already vanished, the curtain swinging in his wake.

December came and went. The winter months were slowing blurring into each other. You were looking forward to the warm comfort of your bed after a long night at the Velvet Ruby. Once the doors had closed, you had to clean up the huge puddle of a spilt beer pitcher by a clumsy patron and his wife. Your knees burned and there were blisters on your feet; you just wanted to be curled up under your blankets before drifting off to sleep. Dragging yourself up the stairs to your apartment, hearing your neighbors arguing at 2 o’clock in the morning, you groaned and stuck your key in the lock.

But your door wouldn’t budge. The lock had been changed.

You looked up, seeing a folded up paper with a coffee stain on the corner. Once you opened the note, you read the words, RENT LATE. PAY OR MOVE OUT, in your landlord’s messy handwriting. A heavy exhale filtered through your lips as you pressed your back against the door, sliding down to the carpet. The same carpet that probably had bugs in it, but you were so tired right now that you didn’t care. Your head fell into your hands as your lack of sleep took over. You didn’t want to doze off out here – absolutely not – but your landlord was surely asleep right now and you wouldn’t be able to pay him until morning. 

There was only one option for you.

Using the only change in your pocket, you hauled a taxi and gave the driver instructions to the place you knew best. The taxi pulled up the double doors of the Hotel Ruby, the blinking red sign out front casting a glow on the cab’s interior. You handed the driver your change before stepping out, quickly rushing in to escape the falling snow and giving the doorman, Joshua, a kind smile. He looked confused to see you back, but didn’t question much these days.

You expected to see Wonwoo lounging behind the front desk as usual, but you froze when you realized Jihoon was organizing the mess his regular employee always left there. Jihoon didn’t work here often; he typically stayed in his office or slept in his bedroom connected to it. His mind must be running. What other reason would someone be organizing this late? 

Sensing your presence by the door, he finally looked up. A smile curled at his lips, and then fell, realizing that there probably wasn’t a good reason for you to be here after your shift. He said your name, so soft, and then asked, “What’s eating you? I thought you left for the bus an hour ago.”

“I did,” you replied, shaking the snow off your hair. “But I …” You wrung your hands out in front of you. “I must’ve forgot to pay my rent this month, so my landlord changed the locks. Obviously, I can’t reach him until he wakes up, so I was hoping … I could stay in a room tonight.”

Jihoon blinked, studying the red blush on your cheeks. You didn’t know if it was from the cold or your own nerves.

“I could pay, if you need me to. Or you could take it out of my paycheck. That would be easier. Used my last clam for a taxi here.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “I realize that this might be unethical –”

“It is entirely unethical,” Jihoon finished with a straight face. And then, he smiled again, smoothing back a stray hair that had slipped from his slicked back strands. The bags under his eyes became more prominent. “I don’t usually let employees stay. If I let one, then everybody’s got a chance.”

This was mortifying. You felt like cowering in on yourself, sticking your hands in your pockets and pretending you were never here. “I understand.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he chuckled low, stretching out his arms over the edge of the front desk. His sleeves were rolled up, despite the chill from the door, the veins that ran from his wrists protruding and making you even more flushed. “I can make an exception for you, angel. As long as you keep my secrets.”

You were glowing now, a huge grin on your face. “Your secrets are always safe with me.”

“I know they are,” he snickered, and then called over one of the bellhops bringing a cart to the lobby. “Jun, can you bring her to any of the available rooms for tonight? Any floor. I don’t care. Use the universal key.”

Jun nodded, leading you to the elevator just off from the lobby. You looked over your shoulder, giving Jihoon a soft smile and a wave, before catching up to Jun. Jihoon simply watched you go, but you managed to catch his front teeth bite into his lip as you rounded the corner, and a familiar warmth pooled in your stomach.

Opening the lattice metal door, Jun escorted you inside the intricate elevator and told the lift boy, Seungkwan, to take you both to the second floor. “Nobody typically stays on that floor,” Jun said to you, filling the awkward silence. “Maybe it’s because the rooms are a little more drab. Not sure. But they’ll definitely be one available.”

The elevator stopped on the second floor and Seungkwan pulled the door open, tipping his hat as you left. You couldn’t help but ogle him, because he had the kind of look in his eyes that said, I know things you don’t. You couldn’t imagine the type of things he saw on a daily basis, the type of people he caught switching floors.

Jun twirled the shiny golden key in his hand, which you guessed opened every door in this hotel. The power he felt like he held right now was immense. He whistled under his breath, swinging his finger left and then right, as he decided which room to choose. Finally, he stopped by room 214, at the far end of the hall. 

“Good with you?” Jun asked, peering over his shoulder.

You nodded. “As long as the heat works.”

His laugh was so low you almost didn’t hear it. As he fumbled with the key, you looked to the right and squinted, wondering if you were seeing things correctly. There was a room at the end of a corridor. Marked as room 217. It looked almost out of place, like a mirage. Why would the second floor end on an odd number for rooms? It just didn’t seem right.

When he finally stuck the key in the lock, you asked, “Does this floor really end on an odd number?” You pointed to the right.

Jun followed your finger. “You mean 217? Yeah, only floor that does, I believe.”

You were still perplexed. Was he incapable of offering any more information, or was it just you who thought this was strange? “Must be the biggest room on this floor,” you continued as he turned the key, “because its in the corner. Right?”

Jun shrugged, unlocking the door and holding it open for you. A blast of warm air hit your cheeks as he turned to face you. “I wouldn’t know. No one is allowed in there.”

Your brow knitted together, but he was still holding open the door, looking at you as if you were the bird in this situation. Why was no one allowed in that room? Was it never available for people to stay in? You walked forward, into the room, and shed off your coat. When you spun back to view at Jun, you opened your mouth to ask him another question, but he interrupted you. 

“Can you butt me, doll?” He held out his hand. “I ran out of cigarettes.”

Your face fell. With a glare, you shut the door in his face.

Your bag accidentally whacked a shoulder on your way inside the hotel, and you looked to your left to apologize. Recognizing the photographer that had taken the pictures of the speakeasy staff nearly a month ago, you waved and blurted a couple thousand sorry’s before heading to the secret entrance for the speakeasy. You had noticed that photographer lingering around the hotel for weeks, but no one seemed to question it so you wondered if maybe you were the odd one out. Eventually, you brought it up to Joshua, since he saw most of the comings and goings of the hotel. 

“Oh, him?” Joshua rubbed the back of neck. “Think Jihoon told me that he’s here to take photos of the hotel for advertisements.”

There was a hint of a question in Joshua’s tone, telling you that even he didn’t understand the reason for the photographer. He was just always around. Sometimes when you looked a certain way, he was right there, loitering in the lobby with his camera glued to his hands. 

Maybe you were seeing things. Maybe he wasn’t here as often as you thought. You were having trouble falling asleep these days.

When you closed your eyes, sometimes you thought about room 217. It still baffled you; its presence haunting your mind like a ghost. A couple times, you took the elevator up to the second floor just to go see it, the secret of your visits staying between you and Seungkwan. You tried the knob once, and when it wouldn’t budge, you jumped back as if it burned you. This was crazy – you were crazy. Sleep deprived even. You should not care so much about this, but nearly a week after the late rent incident – which you did make up for, thankfully – you found yourself thinking about this room over and over again. 

Nobody typically stays on that floor. No one is allowed in there. 

Jun was going to be as helpful as a chocolate teapot, and you assumed that most people didn’t know or care much about a locked room anyway. You could ask Jihoon, but … something told you that you might not get the answers you wanted. And maybe what you actually needed to know was more about the elusive hotel owner first. Perhaps that could crack the secrets of 217, and truthfully … you were still a little embarrassed after your almost kiss to be alone with him again.

So you went to Soonyoung.

As the staff was preparing for the Saturday night rush, you dropped off your coat at your locker before stalking up to your favorite bartender. He was drying off glasses, fresh from a wash, and you noticed that he had smudged some black eyeliner on his waterline. Conveniently, Laurie was dancing tonight. It didn’t take an idiot to put two and two together.

“Level with me,” you said to him, lacing your hands on the edge of the bar.

Soonyoung glanced up with a wide grin. “Okay, big shot. What do you need from me?”

You had him right where you wanted him. Soonyoung was always willing to gossip.

“I have some questions about Jihoon,” you proposed, “but I’m just too scared to ask him. I know he’s busy and I don’t want him to have to recall any bad memories. I’m just … curious.” 

“Well, now you got me curious. Shoot.”

You started off easy, asking him how the Hotel Ruby came to be. Soonyoung explained that Jihoon had inherited it by his great grandfather on his mom’s side that he almost never spoke to. Nobody ever understood why he had been written down in the will. Jihoon once thought that maybe his grandfather’s handwriting had been so bad that they just assumed the name was his. But he had been grateful, because inheriting this hotel had pulled him out of a series of bad events. 

“After he modernized the hotel, he realized no one was coming to stay because of all that stock market bull, which was when he approached me about running the Velvet Ruby together,” he went on. “I was his first friend in the city, so it only made sense for us to become business partners. It’s proven to be his most successful venture, but I supposed anything is better than what he ran away from years ago.”

You raised a brow. “And what was that exactly?”

Soonyoung scratched the side of his head. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you everything …”

“Who am I going to tell? I only talk to you.”

He set down one of the dry glasses. “You make a great point.” He exhaled heavily, wrinkling his small nose, before continuing, “He was born into the Lucky Ace gang. His father was some big leader in it. I’m sure he’s mentioned this in passing, right?”

It all made sense now. Upon your first meeting, Jihoon had known your husband, even mentioned growing up with him. But you didn’t expect this: that he had once been part of the gang that you had somehow married yourself into. Just like his mother. 

You schooled your expression and played along, hoping to get more out of Soonyoung. “I believe I heard it once. So he ran away from the Lucky Aces?”

Nodding, Soonyoung replied, “He only told me about it once, so I could be misremembering. He had some huge brawl with his father after his mother’s funeral, and then he stole his father’s car, drove it to the bus station, and got a one way ticket for the city. His father had sent for him, tried to get him to come back, but eventually stopped trying because he wanted his son to suffer on his own. Jihoon had been determined to never set foot near the Lucky Aces again, even put himself through poverty and lived on the street. Until he came into his great grandfather’s wealth. Guess he kept the luck from the Lucky Aces after all.”

“Has he ever talked to you about Cheon Han?”

He set a couple clean glasses on the racks behind him, thinking, and then shook his head. “Not really. Heard the name pop up once or twice. Said he was a good friend from home, but obviously not anymore. In fact, he actually mentioned that name again recently. I overheard Jihoon say it to Seungcheol and gave his description, told him to never let him in the bar under any circumstances.” His eyes slid to yours. “How do you know that name?”

You blinked, trying to keep your composure. “I thought we agreed on absolutely no questions about past lives.”

Soonyoung’s lips slowly curled into a cat-like smile. “Oh, horsefeathers! Look at you. Making me remember my own rules.”

You shrugged nonchalantly at his compliment, even though your brain was screaming at the new information you just received. Jihoon had known Han. Jihoon had been involved with the Lucky Ace gang. He probably still had low-risk friends in the gang, which was why one of Han’s friends was one of his bootlegger’s. This was almost unbelievable. You were more connected to him than you ever imagined.

“Do you …” Using the tip of your finger, you traced senseless circles onto the dark wood of the bar. “Do you know anything about room 217?”

He didn’t answer. Your eyes flickered back up and you realized his body was frozen, his gaze locked on the glass he’d been drying for longer than usual. After what felt like several minutes, his stare met yours. “You know about room 217?”

“Well … not exactly.” You were playing with your hands now, the nerves slowly creeping in. It was important that you stayed impassive during this conversation, but your true colors were starting to show. “I just … I just saw it when I had to stay the night here last week. That’s all.”

“You’ve never been inside it?”

You shook your head.

“Oh.” His shoulders immediately relaxed, and he turned his back to you while putting away more glasses. He made sure he wasn’t looking at you as he said, “I don’t know anything about it.”

Your brow raised. “Really?”

“I know what everyone else does: Jihoon doesn’t let anyone stay in that room.” He spun back again, his shrug the picture of disinterest. “Maybe it’s haunted.”

After that unproductive conversation with Soonyoung, you decided that it was probably best to give up on finding out the secrets of the mysterious room. Clearly, no one had an inkling of knowledge about it, and the ones that did weren’t going to budge so easily. You knew it wasn’t the truth, but maybe it was just haunted. Every old hotel had one. 

If you looked into it more, you would find out things that might hurt you. Things that might ruin the picture perfect image you had of everyone in this hotel. The place that had become your safe space.

So you gave up. For now.

February was treating you nicely. Jihoon had added an extra nickel to your weekly paycheck and put more tables in the speakeasy to accommodate the growing crowd on weekends. This Saturday was no less busy than the last, especially with Laurie’s growing fame. She was even looking into managers now to try to further her career, past the small stage of the Velvet Ruby, but she never forgot about Soonyoung. He still met her behind the curtain during her intermissions, doing who knows what. You were grateful to not know.

The joint was filled with male patrons tonight and the usual flapper group in the corner. Dollar bills were thrown on stage, and there was a particular table near the back that was especially rowdy, engaging in a loud bull session with each other over the music. This was your worst nightmare, so when you asked Mingyu to cover for you while you went on a smoke break, he agreed without question. If anyone could handle a table like that, it was him.

Some would say it was idiotic to make your way outside for a cigarette, especially in this weather, but it was a habit that you weren’t keen on breaking just yet. Slipping past Seungcheol and heading for the main lobby of the hotel, you pulled your cigarettes out of your apron, stuck one between your lips, and adjusted the tie in the back. Shouting emerged the closer you got to the lobby, making your brow crease. It was only when you reached the threshold that it all became clear.

The unlit cigarette dropped from your mouth.

Cheon Han was being held back by two of his friends – not Minho; you didn’t recognize these ones – while trying to swipe a knife in Jihoon’s face. Must’ve been a shiv he borrowed from one of his associates. Jihoon’s arm was out to shield his face, while Wonwoo was at his side to bite the bullet, if it came to that. Jun was on Jihoon’s right, looking utterly clueless and downright terrified, with his bellhop hat crooked and his fists in the air. As if that was going to do anything.

“Han.” The name slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

Your husband’s face whipped to yours immediately. His eyes were bloodshot and his body froze. Even his associates recognized you, but they looked like strangers in your wide-eyed gaze. A few long strands of hair escape from his signature slicked hairstyle, falling onto his distressed forehead. His nose scrunched as he took in your appearance. A uniform. A server. You worked here.

The knife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.

But he was furious. His eyes blazed with a fiery intensity as he shouted, “Did you think I wouldn’t know where to look?! I have friends everywhere. You really thought you could run away from our marriage and I wouldn’t find you? You slay me. Really, that’s funny, doll.”

Your hands balled into fists. Han was seething with rage, while Jihoon was staring at you, not sure what to do. “Our marriage was built on a lie!” You exclaimed. “You know it was. You never told me – not once – until after we were married about what you were. What I would be putting at risk by being married to you – my life, my family. I didn’t want to be some moll, Han!”

“Oh, this is such bull.” He let out a laugh, but there was no humor behind it. His associates slowly let go of him and pocketed the shiv. Han looked back at you, and before you could blink, he was advancing. “Come on now, doll. Let’s stop playing around and go home.”

He was within a foot of you when Jihoon blocked his path, using himself as a human shield. Wonwoo and Jun watched with hesitation, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Jihoon stood tall, even if he was shorter than you than usual when you were in these heels. He was broad and his muscles bulged from the rolled up sleeves of his black dress shirt. His brows were narrowed as he said, voice low and menacing, “She’s not going anywhere with you. Beat it, Cheon.”

Han’s teeth gritted, his whole body shaking from the rage flooding through him. The same rage he showed his soldiers when they fell out of line. And he was leveling it towards Jihoon. “She’s mine,” he growled.

Your husband had never been violent with you. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t possessive.

“Not anymore,” Jihoon replied. His tone was surprisingly calm despite the situation.

“Han,” you called, letting your voice take on the velvety tone you used to have with him. His eyes went yours instantly, softening slightly with recollection, before he remembered how pissed off he was that you ran away and some pill was standing between him and his girl. You licked your lips and said, “You should leave. I’m not going home with you. This marriage is over.”

Jihoon snickered. “You heard her.”

His brow knitted together in frustration. “We’ll see about that.” Nodding to his associates, he turned on the heel of his boot and muttered. “Let’s go. We’ll be back around.” Han’s glare met yours. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”

Once the lobby was clear, Jun ran to tell Joshua to not let those men anywhere near the doors of the hotel again. They locked it from the inside, making sure to only allow in current guests and speakeasy customers leaving the building. Wonwoo headed to the front desk, phoning for the police immediately. (Specifically, the only officer they trusted who didn’t rat Jihoon out over the speakeasy.) Lucky for him, he hired good people who took care of the hard stuff without him asking.

He turned to you behind him, seeing your body start to crumble with the awareness of what just transpired. Hooking his arms through yours, he cooed, “Angel, no. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

As the sobs began to rack through you, Jihoon used his strength to help guide you out of the lobby. He motioned for Wonwoo to take care of talking to the investigator, hoping that with a thorough description, they would be able to do something. Anything. But he stopped trusting those bulls a long time ago.

He led you to the laundry room just off from the lobby. He gestured for the two maids occupying the space to leave, and they followed his orders with a bow of their heads. Letting go of you, he allowed your back to slide against the wall until you were sitting on the cold stone floor. He sighed before taking the spot next to you.

You rubbed at your eyes and sniffled. “I knew this would happen.”

“It couldn’t have been that drunk fool that told him.”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s here. He found me. Right when I started to feel safe.”

“Angel,” his voice was so gentle when your nickname rolled off his tongue. His fingers were on your chin, turning your tear-streaked face to his. “You are safe here. I’m not going to let him take you.”

“I know I said before that I would make sure I suffer the consequences if you got found with me,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes again, “but now I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to leave. And what if he kills you?”

Jihoon smirked. “One of his torpedos will do it for him, remember?”

A chuckle emerged under your breath, recalling the words you said to him months ago. You shook your head looked down to his lap, where his free hand was twitching, as if he was fighting himself not to touch you.

Lifting your eyes to his again, you felt his thumb swipe under them, catching the tears. “Jihoon, why do you care so much about protecting me?”

“Because,” he whispered, and then stopped himself. He bit his lip, unable to come up with anything that didn’t sound like a lie. “Because I …” His hand fell from your face.

So you grabbed it, placing your palm on top of his. His hand was warm and soft, despite the callouses that were constantly on his knuckles. “You don’t need to explain yourself,” you murmured. “I overstepped.”

“No, no, you didn’t. I …” He exhaled, annoyed more with himself than anything. Running a nervous hand through his dark hair, his gaze lifted to yours. You were sure that he had galaxies in his eyes. “Your marriage with Han … it was always a lie?”

You paused, chewing on your lip. Your hand on his was like an anchor, wondering how much you wanted to reveal. But if you had gotten this far, trusted him this much … maybe it was worth finally divulging.

“It started in a place like this.” Your fingers slipped from his, gesturing to the electric washers and washboards littered throughout the small room. “I worked at my family’s laundromat since I was 8. My whole life had always been school, then work. And when school was finally over, my life had become just … work. Washing and drying. Tending to the wealthy’s clothes and praying I didn’t ruin them. My fingers permanently pruned. But I digress.” You huffed longingly. “Han had come in one day to get a mark out of his suit. He was the berries, looking like he worked on Wall Street or something. I remember making sure I really got that stain out, and he was so kind when I gave it back. He proceeded to come back everyday, sometimes asking to wash a garment regardless if it was dirty or not.”

You shrugged and added, “I didn’t even realize he was carrying a torch for me until he asked me to dinner. I said, ‘Yes,’ because, well … who wouldn’t? He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.” Your eyes casted down, fingers picking at the widening hole in your pantyhose. “We went on a solid five dates before he asked for my hand. It was all very fast, and I told him I had to think about it because I didn’t know him. I wanted to say no, see if he wanted to continue to date, but … my family. They encouraged me to agree. We needed the money and Han would provide whatever we wanted. It just made sense.

“So, I said, ‘Yes,’ again to Han. After the wedding was when I found out.” You thought back to those photos at the courthouse, how you’d been standing so close to all his right-hand men. “All those boys that I thought were his friends … days later, I learned they were his associates and soldiers. He didn’t tell me anything until after the ring was on my finger, said he was scared I would judge him or say, ‘No.’ Said he loved me and didn’t want us to change. And I believed it wouldn’t … for a while. But when your life starts to get threaten, you begin to realize just what you got yourself into.”

You turned your head, your haunted stare meeting his, and you realized just how close Jihoon was. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“And do you still?” He asked, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Love him, I mean.”

You curled your legs to your chest, smoothing your skirt over your knees and playing with the hem. Eventually, you replied, “I love the memories.”

A beat passed, and then his palm slid on top of yours on your knee. His hands were partly cold, but you didn’t have it in you to move away. Not now. Not ever. You watched as his fingers squeezed yours, thumb running over your knuckles.

“I’m going to secure the perimeter of the hotel,” he promised, “and you can stay here until you feel safe.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me charity –”

“Angel,” he chastised with a shake of his head, “it’s not charity. I’ve never been that altruistic.”

He gave your hand one last squeeze, leaning in just enough for you to think something might happen, but he was getting to his feet. His shiny Oxfords were such a contrast against the speckled stone floor. When you lifted your head, you found him lingering by the doorway. With a lazy smile, he muttered, “Sometimes love is enough.” 

You blinked at him, wondering if you heard him correctly. Maybe you were overthinking, because Lee Jihoon couldn’t have meant what you thought he just did. He barely knew you. He barely touched you.

But he had always stayed. He had always listened. And that could be enough.

He stepped forward to leave the laundry room, but then looked back, pointing a finger at you. “When you’re ready, let me know when you need me to contact my lawyer. I can help pay for your divorce.”

Ignoring Han’s phone calls to the front desk got easier with time. Especially when Jihoon sent a group of his old friends to drive him out of the city for the time being. Wonwoo had told you about the first few calls when you started staying at the hotel, and only stopped after Jihoon requested he only tell upper management about Han’s persistence. Your husband couldn’t even step near the property without the new body guards knowing. You wouldn’t have even found out about the party Jihoon sent after Han if you hadn’t overheard his private conversation with Wonwoo, when he described the money it took to haggle a group of hard boilers to chase down a well-known gangster.

His methods should scare you. His connections to the Lucky Aces should have you fleeing. But he was the only person, in such a long time, to make you feel secure. He was going to protect you, even if it cost him his life. 

You didn’t understand him. And maybe it was better that you didn’t. 

Jihoon helped obtain a private divorce lawyer through means you didn’t bother questioning. The kind of lawyer you would never be able to afford if he wasn’t paying, far from society’s prying eyes. It wasn’t like you were much of a big deal, but a divorce between any gangster and his wife was front page news. Society would rip you to shreds, demanding you provide proof of desertion or adultery. You wanted to avoid that at any cost. His lawyer was able to start the process of separation almost immediately, involving you at every step.

After cutting your lease at the apartment, which Jihoon happily stepped in to help, you moved all of your belongings into a room at the hotel. You wondered if you’d be put in another room on the second floor, but much to your surprise, Jihoon put you in a free room on the first floor. Close to his quarters and the manager’s office.

“I want to be close in case you need me,” he said, opening the door to room 101. “Please, don’t hesitate to call for me.”

You had looked back at him in that moment, setting your only two bags near the bed. The words that came out of his mouth were nonchalant, but you could see in his eyes what he really wanted to say: Please, need me. 

Oh, how you wished he understood how much you did.

Using the phone in your room, you finally called your family again to tell them the news. Your mother had sounded relieved that you were even alive: “I had been holding out hope. I was so scared. I thought you might’ve run off with some drugstore cowboy!” But when you revealed that you were separating from Han, you had to pull the phone away from your ear just to drown out the sound of your mother’s screaming: “Excuse me?! How much have you had to drink right now? I bet everyone at this speakeasy you work at is just handing you hooch all the time. That’s the only reason why you would be spouting such nonsense. Han is a good man. Why would you even think about doing this?!”

You knew she didn’t mean it. Han had fooled everyone; you almost didn’t believe it when he told you his real profession after the wedding. And truthfully, your parents relied on him when times got tough. Han was constantly sending them money if they needed it; that was one of the many reasons they convinced you to marry him in the first place. Your family wasn’t well off. They needed him. 

So you had to make her understand.

After finally coming clean to her about your husband’s crime-related activities, she had finally calmed down, started speaking in a tone where you didn’thave to have the phone so far from your actual ear. She became more concerned about the social implications of separating from such a well-known man, but you convinced your mother that you knew what you were doing. Even if you didn’t believe it yourself. Even if this process was scaring you half to death. And she trusted you. 

For the first time ever, your mother trusted you.

The dust was finally starting to settle. You had been living at the Hotel Ruby for two weeks and honestly, your body had never been more relaxed. The phone calls to the front desk had stopped. Your lawyer was handling everything behind the scenes. And you were safe. 

You found yourself spending more time with Jihoon than you expected. Long nights after the juice joint closed, the staff cleaning around you, and the two of you found yourself sitting at one of the tables and sharing stories from years past. You both preferred to share a cigarette because it felt less detrimental than smoking two individually. It felt intimate, almost like a kiss. A not-kiss, that maybe you desperately wanted to have. Maybe he did too.

Going in for your shifts became so much easier now that you didn’t have to rely on the bus or a taxi to get you there. You simply had to get dressed and head down the hallway that led to speakeasy. Seungcheol was especially chipper today, already having the door open for you as your new kitten heels clicked down the corridor. Jihoon had bought them for you in his favorite color: a deep burgundy. 

Slipping into the backroom, you said hello to Minghao before opening your locker to grab your apron you left there overnight. Pulling out the discarded heap of fabric, you paused when you heard a thunk, noticing a folded up piece of paper fall onto the bottom of your locker. Your brow furrowed and you looked around, but you were still alone. When you picked up the note, you realized it had weight to it. 

You bit into your lip, hesitating, and then opened up the paper. The first thing you saw was a small, gold key with the numbers 217 slightly embossed on the top. Your eyes widened. This looked like a copied key, and it wasn’t the first time you saw one of these. Han used to have a special person he went to for copied keys. The molding of the numbers was a crucial giveaway. When your gaze finally shifted to the note, you froze, reading over the words as you felt your throat close up.

Only visit when the clock strikes 1 PM, it read. Good luck.

You threw the note back into your locker as if it burned you. Someone was trying to set you up. You couldn’t have this in your possession. Maybe you could throw it in the fireplace tonight, watch the metal of the key slowly melt into charred wood and ash.

The possibilities ran through your head all night, but it was all cheap talk. Because that key stayed in your locker for another week before your curiosity got the better of you.

It was 1 PM on a Thursday and Seungkwan was giving you a look as he pressed the button for the second floor that made your whole body shake. Like he knew what you were doing. Like he’d been waiting. But neither of you said a word, just simply rode the elevator in silence. As you left the metal cage, he tipped his hat towards you and left you alone in the barren hallway of floor 2. You swallowed hard, and then turned on your heel to see room 217 at the end.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. You wondered if you blacked out. Because you were suddenly standing in front of the door in question, the copied key trembling in your hand. Why were you so nervous? You had no idea what was behind this door. Maybe it was excitement, the knowledge of finally seeing what had plagued you for weeks. To be in the know. Once you saw this, you could be on your way and never have to think about why everyone acted so strange about this abandoned room in the first place.

Twisting the key in the lock, you let the door slowly open and reveal the room. It looked like every other room, almost identical to the one you stayed in, so you stepped further inside. Your tread was silent, and you walked forward like you were waiting for someone to scare you. But the room was … the same. Nothing too out of the ordinary, besides the paintings hung up on the walls. These ones looked old and expensive. Worth a lot more than what this room costed. Your hands finally unclenched, feeling like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. All that curiosity amounted to … nothing. But it did make you wonder why everyone spoke so oddly about this room in the first place.

And then you turned.

On the wall, directly facing the bed, was a gallery of photos. Each taken from different angles, days, situations. Some featured a smile, some had a cigarette dangling from lips. Eyes met the lens in a few. Some even included other employees of the hotel and speakeasy staff. But there was one similarity between all of them, and that was that they were all taken without  any knowledge.

Oh, and they were all of you.

You stumbled, not sure what to make of this. Every photo was of you. This was a collage of your face. You took another step back, landing on the edge of the bed. Your hand came up to your mouth as you ogled the assortment of photos, until you almost couldn’t look anymore and peered at the room around you.

There were stains of self pleasure on the sheets. 

Cigarette ashes piled in the litter of trays on every surface.

You gasped, standing up immediately as you took in the horror. But amongst the perverse, the deviancy, there was a sort of … softness here. There were fresh red roses on the bedside table. You recognized the paintings from the renaissance era, suggesting a fondness. And when you approached the desk by the window … there was a note, ink stains embedded into the thin paper. A box with a pearl necklace sat on the edge, and the note was addressed to you from Jihoon, explaining why he wanted to gift the necklace to you. He wrote as if he were devoted, as if he were in love, and simply didn’t understand how to express it.

This was Jihoon’s room. This was all his doing. That’s why no one was allowed in here, because they’d see … who he really was.

Turning to face the photo wall again, you suddenly realized that you didn’t know how to feel. Your emotions were torn in two different directions. For so long, you’d been devalued, treated as an accessory. Nothing but the doting wife to a notorious gangster, just shy on the totem pole to be important enough to receive threats to your life. Han loved you, but not like this. You walked forward, scanning the multitude of pictures, noticing the little moments he captured of you, and your heart … clenched. Like someone with an iron grip was holding it and wouldn’t let go.

He noticed you. You didn’t ask for it, but he chose you anyway.

You should be terrified. You should be running away screaming. This shouldn’t make your eyes soften or make you wonder if it was possible to stay here forever, with him. But you couldn’t help yourself when you reached out, fingers brushing the corner of a zoomed-in photo of yourself, your eyes fixed on the lens without even knowing it. You were smiling, the corners of your lips almost reaching your ears, as snow fell around your head like a crown. Your mouth trembled and your heart sped up because … you mattered to him. 

But you shouldn’t be here. You knew you shouldn’t. Everything about this was wrong – from the collage wall to intruding on his private domain. This wasn’t meant for you to know, for anyone to know. And when you were sure you heard the elevator ding outside the room, you bolted, unaware that you knocked down a small frame of Jihoon and his mother on a small table near the door.

There was a maid’s closet right near room 214. You sprinted out of 217, whipping your entire body into the closet as you heard the metal doors of the elevator open at the end of the hall. Pushing yourself deeper into the small room, crowding against the mops and brooms and  various cleaning products, you stilled your breath. Footsteps echoed, highlighted underneath the crack in the door, and you gripped a hand over your mouth. They stopped at the other corner of the corridor – near 217 – and it was only when you knew the door had opened and closed did you finally allow yourself to breathe.

The Velvet Ruby had never been more lively on a Thursday night, and you found yourself struggling to keep up. Everywhere you looked, it seemed that each of your customers wanted another drink, as if they were guzzling them. Sweat beaded your hairline each time you bumped into one of your coworkers, your mind somewhere else, thinking of the photos and pearl necklaces and ashtrays –

You collided into Mingyu’s shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. He apologized and brushed past you, allowing you a moment to still yourself amongst the chaos. You breathed out, closed your eyes, and gripped the edge of your tray. Everything was going to be okay. The day would end and you could go to bed soon enough. You would survive, because you had to. Because you were still safe. Maybe you’d even forget about the photos, the note. 

Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d let it consume you whole.

You finally opened your eyes, head turned slightly when you felt a gaze burning into your cheek. Even in the darkness, even amongst the crowd of drunken patrons and servers who jostled around you … you could find him. And he was watching you from the corner of the room, bringing a cigar to his lips, exhaling the smoke that filtered around his dark eyes. He didn’t approach. He didn’t nod. Jihoon simply watched, his stare never leaving yours.

Everything stopped. Your heart paused.

And it was then, that you wondered if he knew what you’d done.

Of course, he knew.

Infatuation was like a disease, spreading to every sap like it was going out of style. Jihoon had known infatuation, but he had never known it like this. He needed to restrain himself. He was a well-heeled man. Being a well-heeled man meant that he was a put-together, sharply dressed, impressive. The kind of man who knew how to act in public and paid attention to his employees, who smoked cigars but helped his patrons at a moment’s notice. The kind of man who secretly enjoyed cheap alcohol and taking a date home to bend her over before having his way with her. But it didn’t matter. It never got out, because he was a well-heeled man. Handsome and level-headed. He never got angry, never punched his employee’s husband so hard that his knuckles scarred, never thought about each way he could claim a married woman in just about every corner of his hotel. He was, as always, a well-heeled man.

But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? A character he fought with in his head. Because well-heeled men didn’t really exist. A well-heeled man didn’t take in women like you, someone married to a gangster he ran away from. A well-heeled man didn’t have the thoughts he had about you. A well-heeled man didn’t pour every ounce of his dough into getting his lawyer to take your divorce case. A well-heeled man didn’t have a secret room where he masturbated to a collage of your pictures on the wall.

The room didn’t start this way. It was just supposed to be a place for him to unwind. That’s why he hung up his favorite paintings – Sandro Botticelli’s Primavera, Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait – and always had fresh flowers by the bed. It was a room away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel, the speakeasy. Everyone. Where he could decompress and smoke his cigars in peace. 

And then, he hung up one picture of you. It was the staff photo, but he folded it up until it was just you, overexposed and smiling at the camera. You looked so beautiful, tall, nothing like the woman who walked through the doors of the hotel. You blossomed under him like a flower in spring-time.

He had more pictures taken of you. He couldn’t help himself, and he simply loved photography. You were his muse when he wasn’t even behind the camera. He hung up another photo. And another. And another. Until the whole wall was covered in you. And he was still calm – calmer than ever before. He had to be. Jihoon let himself fall back onto the bed, looking up at the wall of you, his gaze reveling in your smile, your eyes, you.

You were an imprint on his mind. An itch he couldn’t scratch. His angel. And it was then that he realized he simply couldn’t be calm anymore. Especially not when his hand started to drift towards his waistband, cigarette hanging from his lips as he unbuckled his belt. He was reaching into his pants and finding himself hard and – god, you created a monster out of him.

He wasn’t a fool. Of course, he felt perverse, shameful. But you had made him weak and he simply couldn’t stop. The pictures were beautiful – you were beautiful. And if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then maybe he could gaze upon you and find a little sense of peace while he fisted his cock until he came all over his thigh.

There was something off when he came back to 217 on Thursday. The air seemed different, a new perfume that hadn’t been there before, but he chocked it up to his imagination. His eyes were sharp though, and within seconds, he saw it: the small, wooden frame laying facedown near the door. His stare narrowed, lifting the frame back up so he could see the photo of him and his mother, taken just a few months shy of her death. He set it in place before walking around the room.

There was a shift in the bedsheets. One of the photos amongst the cluster – the close-up of your face, eyes fixed at the camera without you knowing it – had been tilted slightly. And that scent … it only got stronger the more he was in the room.

The only people that knew about this room were him and Soonyoung, who never came in here anyway because he didn’t approve of it. Soonyoung had always been the most open person, willing to understand just about everything, and it wasn’t that he was cruel to Jihoon about it. Cruelty wasn’t in his nature. When Jihoon finally finished the photo wall and decided to let someone in on the secret, he allowed Soonyoung to walk into 217 on his own.

His friend’s face was nothing short of shock.

He had stood there, staring at all the photos for a long time, before noticing the cigars on the desk, the indent of a body on the sheets. Soonyoung knew what this room was about, what kind of depravity his friend was up to as means of relaxing. It smelled of smoke and fresh roses, ink and arousal. He was momentarily disgusted, but didn’t have it in him to be shocked. This was Jihoon after all. His closest confidant, and if he was letting him in to this secret, it must be for a reason.

“Pal,” he finally said, “you can’t keep doing this.”

Jihoon waved his hand. “I’m not adding any more photos.”

“Not that. I mean this –” Soonyoung gestured around the room. “– in general. I know that you have no … ill intent behind this. I know you’re carrying a torch for her –”

“I think it’s more than just that now.”

“– But,” he continued, and then sighed, his eyes growing heavy. “What if someone finds this room?”

Jihoon shook his head. “No one will. The door doesn’t even open with the universal key.” He pulled out two distinct looking gold keys with his pocket. “217 was used for storage by my great grandfather back in the day. The lock will only open for these two keys.” He placed one of them in Soonyoung’s palm and then closed his fingers. “I want you to have the second one. Keep it safe.”

Soonyoung’s eyes flickered to his friend’s. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“You don’t have to be involved in anything,” he chided. “Just don’t let this key out of your sight. Be my friend. Please.”

Soonyoung had always been weak to begging, and after a long moment, he nodded. That had been months ago, and he hadn’t been in 217 since. He didn’t tell a soul and tried his best to forget about his friend’s personal time. He kept the key safe, or so Jihoon thought. 

Because someone was in here. Any normal person who found this room would come to him immediately about it, call him out on his behavior or threaten to call the police, take him down for a good price. But no one did. Even hours later, as Jihoon sat in 217 and contemplated who could’ve been in here, he realized that the answer had been in front of him.

The only person that would stay quiet, the only person that would refuse to look at him after stepping inside … was you.

He heard the lock click open, and he tilted his head to see Soonyoung opening the door. He looked relieved to find him here, as if he’d been looking for him for hours. Or maybe he was simply thankful he hadn’t walked in on his friend touching himself. Nevertheless, Soonyoung was panting, out of breath, and he didn’t even give Jihoon a second to ask what was wrong before he was exclaiming, “I think someone copied my key.”

You were going back to the room.

For an entire week, you wondered if it had all been a dream. The memory kept you up most nights, making your eyes tip up to the ceiling, where room 217 was locked just above your head. What if this was your cue to run again? What if these photos got back to Han? What if Jihoon had been secretly working on turning you into him this whole time? Rational was out the window now. Not when you were in the midst of divorce and he could use any piece of leverage against you. 

The key shook in your hands as you stomped towards the room. You dared to not meet Seungkwan’s eyes this time, half-knowing that it must’ve been him who gave you this key in the first place. But why? Just to cause a stir, or was he curious himself? Maybe it wasn’t meant for you to know, and truthfully, you didn’t need the answer either. You just wanted to make sure that it was real, and then make a decision from there. What transpired this afternoon would change the trajectory of your future, if you fled this hotel or not.

You unlocked the door, key trembling in your grasp, and shut the door behind you before looking up. A gasp left your lips.

“So I didn’t scare you away?”

Back pressed against the door, you found Jihoon lounging in the desk chair, back slumped and legs spread comfortably. Instead of his typical cigar, he inhaled a drag from a cigarette before flicking some ash into a tray beside him. You swallowed hard and flattened your palms against the door, as if you could push it back. But you didn’t want to get away from him. Quite the opposite. Because you had questions and Jihoon, without a doubt, had answers.

“I don’t scare very easily anymore.” Your chin lifted to feign confidence.

Both sets of eyes shifted to the photo wall, still hanging in place, and when yours flickered back, his was already pointed on you. Transfixed. As if his gaze was always meant to find yours in a room.

“You had all these photos taken of me,” you muttered, leveling a glare at him, “and you’re using them for – what? Self pleasure, or are you actually working with Han?”

Jihoon’s brow furrowed. His stare was blank. “You think I would put my own life on the line like that by reaching out to Han about you, angel?”

You shrugged. “He must have a bounty on me though. It’s probably steep. Any hotel owner with a secret room is probably using it for …” You glanced at the sheets, which were now clean. “Nefarious activities.”

“That’s not what this room is for,” he answered. His voice was so calm, like you weren’t accusing him of anything. “And I am not, nor will I ever, be in contact with Han. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your stare flicked to his and you bit your lip. His eyes moved down to see your teeth sink into your plump bottom lip, but you couldn’t let him distract you as you assessed his tone. And somehow … you knew he was telling the truth.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “This room didn’t start out the way that you think. It was just a place to unwind, and then … I realized you face made me feel better than any rare cigar.”

You paused, lips pursed. “You knew I’d come back.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t feel like you had to, but yes.”

“How long?” You didn’t even bother to gesture to the wall. He knew what you meant.

Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave yours as he replied, “You’re not a fool. You know how long.”

Since the photographer came to the hotel. Even if you refused to admit it to yourself, to face the reality before you – you did know it. You watched him lean forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, as he took in your schooled expression.

Finally, you moved from the door and approached the wall. You reached out, fingers brushing over one photo in particular, before plucking it off. The corner ripped, and Jihoon fought the urge to get to his feet. It was a photo of you and Jeonghan, sharing a cigarette outside the Velvet Ruby. You could practically hear the laughter embedded in the ink. This had been a good day; you remembered it fondly.

When Jihoon eventually stood from his chair, he was careful not to crowd you, keeping his hands to himself. But you were slowly walking to the bed anyway, staring at the photo like it contained a hidden meaning you couldn’t quite figure out. You turned it over in your palm, then another time, before you let your eyes glaze over the surface again. “All these photos …” You murmured. “You don’t have a version of me that’s afraid.”

Jihoon’s spine was pressed against the old drawer in front of the photo wall. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles turning white from restraint. Well-heeled men control themselves.  His voice was but a mere whisper when he said, “I wanted to remember you like this: safe, happy, beautiful. That’s the version of you this place created.”

You viewed up, crossing your legs over the edge of the bed. The confession struck you like lightning, making every hair on your body stand up and your skin prickle. You licked your lips and muttered, “If I told you this crossed the line …”

His answer was immediate: “I’ll remove every single trace of you from this room and I’ll …” He grimaced, but only for a second. “I’ll let you leave the hotel. I’ll wipe your name clean from the Velvet Ruby. I’ll let you move on.”

“And if I didn’t tell you that?” You bit your lip again.

His fingers flexed. Well-heeled men didn’t stare at married women like that. Well-heeled men didn’t imagine tugging on that lip before devouring her mouth. He did a sharp intake of breath.

“I would wait for you.” He took a beat. “Until you were ready. Until after your divorce finalized."

“The divorce will be finalized. The when part is simply up in the air. No need to be a worrywart.”

He tried to even his breathing, but the tension in the room was so thick that it could be cut with the dullest knife in his kitchen. His dark eyes never left yours, serious and unyielding. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Jihoon,” you confessed. You knew it was wrong – it was diabolical – to want him in a moment like this. To acknowledge the desire you kept inside for so long, to hear him admit to it too. But you needed to, or else you might just explode. “I guess I just want … you. No one has made me feel safe like you do. No one has given me agency like you have. I’m not the person I used to be – I’m not afraid anymore – because of you.”

“Angel, you have to know …” His voice trailed off as he ultimately let himself step forward, slowly, in your direction. “You are the most enticing creature I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. Before you, before this – everything felt cold and lonely. But your presence has invigorated something in me, something protective and primal that I know is wrong. I simply couldn’t help myself. Everything about you invites me in. You’re the predator and I’m just your weak prey.”

Your breathing stilled as you watched Jihoon sink to his knees in front of you. His hands, still scarred from ramming his fist into Han, carefully went to your hips, hardly even touching you. “So if you really want me,” he continued, “I need you to say it again, and I’ll do whatever your heart desires. As long as it means I get to touch you.”

You swallowed down the bile rising in your throat, hesitated, and then let your nimble fingers trace his mouth. “I want you, Jihoon,” you whispered.

He surged upward, standing between your long legs, and crushed his lips onto yours. You didn’t know what to do. You hadn’t been kissed like this in years. And he knew that, so with his mouth still on yours, he took your palms off the bed and placed them on his chest. Instantly, your fingers curled, fisting into the silk shirt, bringing him that much closer. He laughed into the kiss, surprised by your eagerness, as he carefully slipped his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t remember the last time Han kissed you, especially like this. With passion, with the kind of intensity that almost scared you, but you needed him more than you let on. You pulled Jihoon closer as he licked into your mouth, and you tasted nicotine on his tongue.

He leaned back, just slightly, noticing how swollen your lips looked from just one kiss. His mouth curved a little on one side, his fingers sliding down from your jaw down your collarbone, skimming your sides, before they rested at the buttons of your blouse. Your mouth sealed and you looked at him with wide eyes. “When was the last time anyone touched you?” He asked under his breath.

“I …” You shook your head. “I can’t remember.”

He raised one hand again, the tip of his finger trailing around your rounded lips. “Don’t sweat it, angel,” he whispered, leaning in to inhale your perfume yet again. He damn near groaned at the scent. “I wanted to go slow anyway. We have all the time in the world.”

“You have to go downstairs to watch the front desk though.”

Jihoon leveled a look at you. “Trust me. We have all the time in the world.”

You nodded, and your body froze when he tugged on your bottom lip finally, sucking it in between his teeth. He couldn’t stop the sound that reverberated from his mouth anymore, and when he released your lip, he saw the ident he left behind. The mark only he could give you. 

No second guessing. No regretting. You slowly leaned back onto the plush mattress, your hair fanning out and making you look like an actual angel. Jihoon almost forgot to breathe at the sight of you. In this moment, you were all his and more. Everything he ever wanted was at his fingertips as he slowly unbuttoned your blouse and pulled your skirt down. He made sure to fold both pieces in a pile on the floor, topped off with the heels he bought you, before eyeing you yet again. 

You were wearing a cotton chemise, trimmed with white lace, and stockings underneath. Under his gaze, you were already squirming, unsure how to handle someone looking at you with so much heat. Han had never, not even when you had first met, during the initial moments of attraction. Not even when he took your innocence. Never. Now Jihoon was, and even though it made goosebumps rise on your skin, you liked it. You needed it.

“You’re a real-life angel,” he whispered, hardly loud enough for you to hear, and helped lift the chemise over your head.

Jihoon almost fell back. He wasn’t that old, and yet, the sight of you half-dressed had him gripping the wall for support. Your breasts were the perfect size, rosy nipples that perked up from his attention. A garter belt was secure to your waist, holding up your sheer black stockings, and a pair of drawers underneath it all. The wet spot soaking into the fabric was so apparent, but even if he was blind, he could smell it. Smell you. He had never smelled this kind of arousal before, the kind that begged to be touched.

He wanted to taste you right now, like this. Push your drawers to the side and suck your clit into his mouth like a proper gentleman. Tights still on as one leg curled on his shoulder. But truthfully, he was too selfish. If he didn’t see you naked in the next thirty seconds, he might just come undone.

Taking off the garter belt, he carefully unhooked your stockings, slowly rolling them down your thighs, maintaining eye contact with you. He noticed your breathing pick up a little when his fingers hooked around the waistband of your drawers, and he paused, kneeling slightly and letting his breath ghost between your legs. His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Jihoon –” You breathed.

“You’re wet,” he smirked, and your nipples hardened more. He hadn’t even touched them yet. “You’re so wet and I’ve hardly done anything.”

Your eyes closed for a moment, cheeks heating from embarrassment. “I just …” Words died on your tongue.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he whispered, peeling your drawers down and setting them aside in the pile he laid out for you. Placing your hand in his, he brought your palm to his groin, letting you feel the hardness beneath. Your eyes widened, connecting with his, and he added, “I need you too.”

You swallowed, fingers pressing down to squeeze his bulge, but he took your hand off before you could feel anymore. Lord knew that if you touch him any longer … his release would be completely wasted.

He set your hand back down on the bed and lowered his gaze. You had to be the most beautiful thing he ever saw. Completely bare, hair unfurled out like a halo, pebbled nipples and slick gathering between your thighs. To think he had you, like this, in the room where all his perverse fantasies lied … this had to be a dream. And yet, when his fingers grazed your thigh, felt your hairs quill, it was real. You were real.

“Wait,” he murmured, jogging over to the desk and grabbing a compact camera from the cabinet. He didn’t even close the drawer, too excited, and wound the knob on the camera’s frame. Your head tilted to the side, but he didn’t give you a moment to ask as he waved the camera. “Can I, angel?”

In most circumstances, you would say no. But this wasn’t most circumstances. This was Jihoon, the only man that had ever made you feel unharmed. You were his angel, his muse. God forbid, you liked the way you were seen in his eyes, under his lens.

Your chin nodded, a soft smile gracing your lips.

His cock throbbed in his pants.

Lining the viewfinder up to his eye, he adjusted the aperture to the dimly lit room the best he could. He was hardly a professional; he just enjoyed photos that much. You didn’t smile. You just laid there before him, one arm slightly behind your head so your breasts lifted. He made sure to capture the whole scene, even the wrinkles within the sheets, the slight shine of arousal from your folds. With steady hands, Jihoon held his breath as he pressed the shutter lever and took the photo. Then another, and another. He wanted to be absolutely sure when he developed this film that he captured you perfectly.

And then, he threw the camera onto the ground, not giving you a moment before he was burying his face between your legs. The immediate moan you let out was heavenly. Jihoon was sure that was what the choir sounded like when he was forced to attend church as a kid. You leaned up on your elbows, watching the way his eyes rolled back as he licked into your weeping hole. Your jaw unhinged; you’d never felt anything like this. Never once thought you would feel anything this good. His nose was hitting that part of your core that you had only touched a few times, the place that made your insides turn to mush and cause honey to drip down your thighs, as his tongue did ungodly things to you. Your moans, you realized, only spurred him on more, and he curled his tongue inside you faster.

He looked up, eyes meeting yours from between your thighs, and noticed you were sitting up to watch him. But he wanted you to enjoy this, so he slid one hand up your body and pushed down your stomach. You complied, fully lying back against the mattress, as his other bicep looped around your leg. He need to pry you open more, spread you like a feast.

Rolling up his sleeves, the last thing you expected was him sliding two fingers inside of you while taking your swollen bud in his mouth. You exhaled, hardly a moan, because you weren’t sure what sounds you could make at the moment. Your hips lifted, grinding against his face unintentionally. Jihoon groaned into your pussy and it vibrated through you, causing your nipples to perk so much that they practically hurt. Suckling your clit, he tasted your tangy flavor, and he knew then that no one, not one person, came close to you. You were meant to be his and he was meant to be yours and he would be doing this over and over again.

You weren’t sure how he did it, but he managed to shove his face impossibly deeper. He tugged at your clit, curled those fingers inside you in a come forward motion, making you reel. Your thighs began to shake. How was he able to reach places no one ever could? Your whole body was on fire, and he was still lapping at your core. “That’s it, angel,” he muttered, and you shivered at his hot breath on your swollen clit. “Soak my face. I know you can.”

“Says … says you,” you huffed out, unsure if you even could reach that peak. Had you ever with Han? Now you were questioning everything and this was certainly not the time to think back to your previous marriage.

Jihoon chuckled, and your back almost arched. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”

Then he was going back in, swirling his tongue around that bud that made your knees twitch, pushing another finger inside of you. He was preparing you for his cock, stretching you to see if you would be able to take him, although you were unaware at the time. And when you finally came after just one curl of his three fingers, he knew you’d fit him so well. He almost whimpered at the taste of your release, the way you clamped down on his three thick fingers and rode out the rest of your orgasm on his face.

As he lifted his head from between your legs, you realized he made due on his promise. You didn’t just soak his face; he was covered in you. His chin mostly, but you watched him wiped down his entire face with his sleeve and you instantly blushed with embarrassment. It was impossible to hide.

Jihoon only smiled at your flushed face, getting to his feet and leaning over you. His lips grazed your cheek, feeling how hot your skin was, as he fought with the buckle on his belt. “No need to be embarrassed. Your flavor is … out of this world,” he whispered, and then leaned back slightly to study you. After a long moment, he asked, “Has no one got you off before?”

You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m … not sure. Was it obvious to you?”

He flashed a smile. “Just a smidge.”

A sigh escaped you, and then your lashes fluttered open. “Of course, I … Han and I undoubtedly have had …” The words turned to ash on your tongue. Growing up as a woman during this time taught you to hold your tongue on all things sexual, but he understood what you were trying to say. Your hand smacked down on the bed. “I think he tried and I simply never realized that I was supposed to feel something like that after intercourse.” 

“It shouldn’t just be after intercourse, angel,” he explained, licking the corner of his lips. “He should’ve been getting you off in other ways. You were his wife. Someone to worship.”

“Again, Han tried –”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping down the slope of your nose, and your lips immediately sealed. Jihoon had a way of looking at you that just completely silenced you. He was so calm, so soft, when he said, “Can we not talk about your former husband anymore so I can make love to you?”

You nodded immediately, your own hand coming up to squeeze his wrist lightly. He tried to hold himself together at your submission; the last thing he wanted was to frighten you with just how much he needed you. But it was hard. He was fucking hard. Jihoon couldn’t remember another time that he was this aroused, just like how you were minutes ago. Precum was practically seeping through his slacks and there was a pretty significant tent. Your gaze drifted to it every so often. You knew how badly he desired you, and still … you were just as excited. It made him want to push into you deep, fast, so you could feel him stretching you and reach that one spot that made you crumble.

He was a well-heeled man though. He promised to take this slow, and once you were ready … then he would really take you.

Jihoon didn’t just want to make you see stars. He wanted you to see galaxies.

He unbuttoned his shirt in front of you, wanting to make you watch. It was obvious the way your fingers twitched and your toes curled that you liked what you saw: a toned torso with  long arms and bulging biceps to match. Jihoon always felt the need to tell the women he slept with that his height was the only short part of him, but your dilated stare told him that you already suspected this. You felt it. And when he finally slipped off his belt, peeled down his slacks, you weren’t completely surprised. But your teeth still dug into your lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, because the size of him was unfair to most men.

Jihoon’s fingers were thick, but his cock was even thicker. His girth should be enough to scare you, and you tried to remain impassive. However … you weren’t sure how he was supposed to fit inside anyone – let alone you – who had only ever slept with your ex husband. He was probably still long when he was soft, but when he was hard like this … Jihoon might as well have been hiding a third appendage in his pants. Veins traveled up the shaft towards a head that was flushed ruby red, precum beading at the tip. You noticed the way his cock quivered, begging for an ounce of attention, flopping against his chiseled abdomen.

He moved forward, and suddenly, the dynamic shifted for him. He was now the predator, and you were the prey. Propping his knee on the edge of the bed, he knocked your thighs open, giving him enough room to take you. Slick oozed from between your legs, and just the sight made more precum trickle down his length. He leaned forward, his breath mingling with yours as he aligned his cock to your entrance with one hand. Using the other, he leisurely took your wrists in his grip and pinned them above your head. 

“I’m going to take you slow, angel,” he murmured, trailing his mouth down your jaw, and then your neck, before licking down the valley between your breasts. You began to squirm again, but you didn’t budge. He kept eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue so lightly around one of your nipples, then added, “If you want me to go faster, or harder, tell me. I’ll do whatever you need.”

You nodded quickly. He grinned, as if he wasn’t just about to completely ravish you with his thick cock. He pecked your lips, and then adjusted his position slightly, before you finally felt his bulbous head start to push into your tight channel. Your breath caught, your walls pressing down when he wasn’t even halfway inside. “Relax, angel,” he whispered, lowering his head again to take your hard nipple into his mouth. Just the feeling of him suckling on you like this was the best distraction, and he felt your body give way to him. 

Once he was fully sheathed, he paused and savored the tight connection between the two of you. You were almost afraid to move, praying he wouldn’t slip out just yet, no matter how uncomfortable the stretch was. Your eyes shifted over his shoulder, scanning the wall of photos. Every single picture of your face. He was devoted to you – god, was he devoted – and you knew it from the way he heaved against your nipple just from the realization of being inside you finally. In room 217. On the bed he pleasured himself on so many times to your image. 

Because it was you. It was always going to be you.

His mouth moved, pressing against the curve of your breast, as he pulled all the way out before slamming back in. You gasped, still not used to the absolute fullness inside of you, but you relaxed again as he rolled your other nipple between two fingers. He began a steady pace, looking down at you so your eyes would never leave his. He wanted to make sure he caught every expression as he fucked into you deep. “God, you feel …” He lost the will to speak, only able to huff and sigh. “Like … like heaven.”

“Really?” You breathed.

“Really,” he muttered. “Terribly so.”

Your pussy was squeezing him so tight, but he wouldn’t yield. Not unless you said so. He molded you just for him. He would ruin you for anyone else. Jihoon had to, because he couldn’t bear the thought of any other man being inside of you, not when he finally tasted heaven. And it was when you said the words, “I want more,” that he might’ve lost all restraint.

“More?” His brow furrowed down at you.

You confirmed with a nod. “Harder. Faster. Please, Jihoon.”

“Angel, you don’t –”

“I do.” Your response was so calm, stern. You knew what you were asking for, and when he was still stalling, you pushed your hips up to meet his, rubbing against his groin. “Take me how you’ve always wanted to.”

His grip on your wrists tightened, and all you heard was him mutter, “Fuck,” before every ounce of control left his body. Pulling out again, he practically pounded back into you, relentless. His new pace knocked the wind out of you, his hips fucking into you so hard that you were sure there would be bruises the next day. And you didn’t care. Because he felt so good, and you felt good, and you finally understood why your old friends used to say that sex was only good with the right person. That was Jihoon. His cock curved into you just right, hitting that one spot, and you keened, whimpering his name like it was the only thing you knew. 

“Squeeze me so good,” he grunted, meeting your completely fucked-out stare, “you know that?” 

All you could do was nod, mouth falling open as your body vibrated with pleasure.

His free hand left your nipple to hitch your leg up onto his hip, and his groan sounded otherworldly as he fucked into you even deeper than before. He had to be dreaming. No one could ever feel this good, but you did. And of course, it would be you. Wrists fidgeting in his hold, you felt your arousal gush around him just from the pleasure of being absolutely filled like this. You managed to hold your leg up, even when it felt like jelly, and his hand crept between your legs. “I’m gonna make you see stars again,” he promised, fingers finding your puffy clit, “and then I’m going to let go inside you. Sound good, angel? Because I can’t hold on much longer.”

Before you could utter a strangled word, he pinched your clit, and then pressed down on it at the same time he pushed into you hard. All you saw was white. Just as you started to let out the kind of moan that would echo through the entire hotel, he sealed his mouth over yours. He kissed you with purpose, swallowing every sound as you came for what felt like forever. Your walls contracted, clenching around his cock, until he was groaning against your lips and spiraling down the same path. He fucked his release into you, not stopping for one moment, but his hips faltered slightly. Emptying himself inside of you, you felt the stickiness begin to drip from between your thighs and the deafening squelch when he thrust into you one last time. Finally, he exhaled, collapsing on top of you as the last of his release trickled inside.  

You were both silent for a while. The sound of heavy breathing filtered throughout room 217. Jihoon finally slipped his hand off your wrists, muted red marks now blooming on your skin, and cupped your cheek so you could look at him. He admired you: hardly able to keep your eyes open, your dilated pupils, the flush on your cheeks and the sweat dotting your hairline, making your perfectly-kept hair now frizzy. You were even more beautiful like this – not put together, claimed. You were all his now. And no one – not even Han – could take you away from this hotel.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered against your kiss-bitten lips, “forever.” 

THE UNLUCKIEST MAN AND HIS LUCKY CHARM

In the bustling city in the height of 1921, you were considered to be the prize many men sought after. The eldest daughter, the golden child of the richest family in New York City. You not only brought a social status, you brought what was believed to be generational wealth with you. Your father’s means of making money have been connected to the dark underbelly of the city. Your father is the richest, and the most feared man in the whole city.

Your whole life you were raised with the intention of being nothing more than a trophy wife. Something for your future husband to show off. This never sat right with you. You dream of a life away from all of this. You dream of truly living your own life. You're hopeful maybe one day you can find true love.

Life hasn’t always been easy for Jeon Wonwoo. He’s been struggling to get by for as long as he can remember. He thought once he graduated and started his career things would be easier. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case, he still feels as if he’s drowning out in the freezing cold Atlantic Ocean.

He spends his days on the university campus teaching, making just enough to get by. His debt started to grow massively after he got sick during college. A bad case of influenza left him out of work struggling to get by. He started gambling to make some money, but it didn't work. He thought he made friends in high places when a man offered to loan him money. That man ended up being one of the higher up men who work for the richest man in the city, your father. The loan was never an act of kindness, it was just as a power play. Your father was known to pray on people in need. He would offer them loans to make the pawns.

One night coming home from work he ran into the man he owed money to. Wonwoo that night finds himself in a position he feared he would end up in. Tied to an expensive leather chair, he’s been beaten with in an inch of his life. The man who controls the city is standing in front of him. He's given an offer he can't turn down.

From that moment on everything changed, not only for him but for you.

-

It's a week after he's been offered life line. He's awoke at five in the morning by your father's goons. Wonwoo is dragged to your family's home to tell you about your impending marriage. His bruising has started to fade. He's left with a light water color of yellows and greens around his eyes. Luckily his glasses help hide it a little. He can't bury the feeling of shame eating away at him.

Early in the morning you're awoken to commotion downstairs.

Crawling out of bed you grab your silk robe. Wrapping it around your body you head down the hallway. You hear more commotion and yelling. Your mother meets you at the top of the stairs. She grabs your hand stopping you. “It’s your father. Please just agree to anything he asks you to do.” What on earth could your father possibly ask you to do at barely six in the morning? “Darling, I just spoke to him. Please don’t fight with him.” Knitting your brows together, you have no clue what is going on.

Practically running down the stairs you find your father and his men in the foyer. The dim light of the chandelier above casting a shadow down on them.

Your bare feet pad down the stairs. You're greeted to the sight of not only your father and his men, but a man you've never seen before. He's clearly sporting two black eyes that are healing and a busted lip.

"Father?"

Your father turns to you, giving you a wicked grin. Your stomach flips, feeling instantly nervous. "Darling, say hello to professor Jeon Wonwoo your soon to be husband."

You knew this day would come. One day your father was going to set you up to marry someone. You thought maybe deep down inside you would have a say in who you married.

"Why him?"

"Because my darling daughter, if you marry him, I will have full control over both of you." You're instantly reminded how evil your father can truly be.

The moment both your eyes lock, you know you must protect each other. He looks just as scared as you are.

"Jack prep the townhouse on fourth street for the soon to newlyweds."

Wonwoo doesn't say anything, he just silently stares at you with a look of sorrow in his eyes. No matter how hard you try you can't stop the tears from sliding down your cheeks.

"You'll be married in two weeks. You'll move into the townhouse together."

Your father leaves taking his men with him. You're left standing there with the man you're supposed to marry. Reaching up you push away your tears. You want to be mad and blame him, but you can't be. You know he truly had no say in this. He looks just as terrified as you.

A sob breaks in your chest. You fall to the overwhelmed. Silently Wonwoo scrambles over to you. He drops down to his knees in front of you. He hesitates for a moment, before resting his hand on your cheek. Slowly he drags his thumb across the delicate skin of your cheek. Pushing away your tears.

"I'm sorry," you cry.

"This is my fault. You shouldn't be sorry," this is the first time you've heard him speak. His deep voice is soothing.

"Why did he pick you?" You need to know what he's done, so you can try and protect him.

"I owe your father a lot of money."

You push yourself up a little. Looking at him, you try to study his face. He's extremely handsome, even if he is covered in bruises and a busted lip. You can't help but wonder what a professor did to be in debt to your father.

"I'm _____, but a lot of people call me lucky. My mother says it's because I'm a good luck charm."

A smile tugs at his lips. Mindlessly he drags his thumb across you cheek. "I'm going to need a lucky charm."

"Wonwoo, we're a team now. There is no way out of this. We have to get married, but just know I'll be loyal to you."

He knits his brows together. "Loyal?"

"Yes, I'll protect you from my father. Just promise me, you'll try and learn to love me."

Silently he blinks at you a few times, processing your statement. "I will."

A DIAMOND RING AND SADNESS

The wedding your father planned for you is being held in ritzy hotel in the heart of the city. Your vows will be exchanged in ballroom, and the other will host a lavish reception.

When you were younger you always imagined your wedding. You assumed you would walk down the aisle and find the man of your dreams standing there waiting for you. Turns out in the end there stands a man you've known for only two weeks.

Wonwoo is the definition of handsome, and he seems like a great man, but you don't love him, and he doesn't love you. He doesn't even really know you.

Everything about your wedding feels like a blur. The wedding is considered to be the event of the decade. All richest and most elite people are in attendance.

You're dressed in a very elborate white beaded dress. Adorning a long white veil. You've cried more today then you have in your whole life. You manage to gather yourself as your repeat your vows to Wonwoo.

Your eyes stay focused on Wonwoo, trying to tune out the sea of people watching you. Everything feels numb, this is suppose to be the happiest day of your life, and you feel nothing.

"I pronounce you husband and wife." A tear slides down your cheek. Without even thinking Wonwoo reaches out, resting his hand on your cheek. He slowly brushes away your tear as the priest says, "you may now kiss the bride."

Everything feels silent, the whole room feels as if the oxygen has been sucked out. Wonwoo is completely still. He's just silently staring at you, almost as if he's asking for permission. Your lips part slightly, taking in a small breath. He leans in a little closer. This feels like a like a lifetime, when in all reality maybe thirty seconds has passed.

Closing your eyes he leans in all the way. Your lips touch for the first time, and this isn't some spark filled moment. It's just a moment between two sad people fighting for their lives, and trying their hardest to protect each other.

Pulling away his hand still lingers on your cheek. The room erupts into deafening cheers, but you can openly focus on the man staring back at you.

Taking your hand he turns you both so you're facing the crowd. There in the front row is your father's menacing presences. He watches both you and Wonwoo with a calculated look. Wonwoo squeezes your hand capturing your attention. He leads you down the aisle. Everyone cheers and claps applauding what they think is a happily newly wed couple.

The moment you're out of the ballroom, he pulls you off to the dressing room you got ready in. He never lets go of your hand. He locks the door and you both stand there for a moment, just silently staring at each other. Without even thinking you throw yourself into him. Your wraps your arms around his waist and cling to him.

Your chest shake, as a sob threatens to break. "It's okay." He says softly, his hand running up and down your back, helping to soothe you.

"I'm sorry." You cry.

"You don't need to be sorry, I'm sorry, lucky." Him calling you lucky, makes you smile, even while you're crying.

"It's almost over." He whispers.

"It's not though, we still have the reception."

There is a pounding on the door. Pulling away from Wonwoo you look at the door. "Mr and Mrs. Jeon, you're being called." You here the familiar voice of one of your fathers men, Tae.

"Mrs. Jeon?" You repeat loud enough for just the two of you to hear.

"I'm sorry." He's said this so many times since that early morning you met.

"Enough, we can't keep apologizing." You pull away from him. You brush the front of your bead encrusted dress.

His brows knit together. He pulls his wired frame cheaters off. You watch him silently for a moment.

There is another knock on the door. "One moment," Wonwoo yells.

Wonwoo laces his fingers with yours, leading you out of the powder room. The entry way to the ballrooms is sparse with people. Everyone is inside waiting for you.

The two door men open the doors. The ballroom is lively with jazz music and a sea of people. The moment the crowd is made aware of your entrance everyone cheers as Wonwoo leads you inside.

Soon food is passed around and you're both dragged on to the dance floor. You cling to Wonwoo, swaying to the beat of the jazz music.

"Lucky." He says loud enough just for you to hear.

"Yes?"

"We'll figure this out."

Without thinking you lean up and press your lips to his for a quick kiss, earning applause from the crowd.

It's not long before your father leads you around introducing you to influential people. Wonwoo takes a chance to step away, claiming he needed to speak to the dean from his university, who is attending the wedding.

He stands by the dean attempting to listen to him. He’s more focused on watching as you talk to who he assumes is your best friend. He sees you light up for the first time. The way you smile as you speak to her is absolutely mesmerizing. He can’t help but smile as he watches you. You’re absolutely beautiful, any man would be lucky to share this day with you. Hopefully one day you’ll light up like that for him.

Wonwoo makes small talk with the dean before he finds Mingyu standing on the balcony. His friend is leaning against the railing smoking a cigarette.

Mingyu puffs out a cloud of smoke. He reaches into his suit jacket pocket pulling out his carton of cigarettes. Wonwoo grabs one. Mingyu lights a match holding it out towards him.

"Does your wife care if you smoke?" Mingyu asks before taking another puff.

"I'm not sure." Wonwoo stares at the cigarette before taking a hit. He takes a long deep breath inhaling the bitter smoke.

"I can't believe you're married." Mingyu was shocked when Wonwoo told him about his impending marriage.

"It wasn't either of our choice." He takes another hit. Wonwoo leans against the railing. He looks into the busy ballroom. He watches as your father parades you around.

"Do you like her?" Mingyu nudges him.

"I could. We don't know each other yet."

"Do you already carry a torch for her?" Mingyu can't help but smile.

Wonwoo focuses on you, barely hearing anything Mingyu is saying. "It's a crush."

"A crush?"

"She's beautiful, and kind." He barely knows you, but he can tell you're beautiful inside and out.

"You sound like a like a love sick fool." Mingyu drops his cigarette on the floor, and steps on it.

"Knock it off." Wonwoo nudges his friend.

"I didn't tell you, you clean up nice, you look spiffy."

The doors open and you step outside. Mingyu smiles over at Wonwoo before he bows to you. "You look beautiful Mrs. Jeon." Mingyu can't miss an opportunity to tease his best friend.

"Thank you." You bow your head a little.

Mingyu gives you a bow before heading back inside. You step closer to your new husband. Your nose scrunches at the scent of his cigarette. Immediately he drops to the floor.

"Not a fan of smoking?"

"No, my father smokes." That's all you need to tell him.

"I won't smoke around you."

You move so you're leaning against the railing next to him. He reaches over, lacing his fingers with yours.

"We can leave in an hour, my father told Jack to have a car waiting outside for us. We're going to our new town house."

Wonwoo doesn't know much about the house your father set up. He just knows it's property your father owns. From what little he knows, he does know it's located on the fancier side of town.

"How many rooms is the town house?"

"Two, they've fully furnished it for us. One room was turned into an office for you." He knits his brow together. He didn't expect you to give him space for an office.

"Is Mingyu upset you're moving out?"

"I think he's pleased he'll have the place to himself ."

"Is it safe to say Mingyu is a lounge lizard?"

Wonwoo bites his bottom lip holding back a smile. "The ladies love Mingyu."

You want to ask him about his past with women, but you aren't sure if that would be crossing a line. "Do the ladies love you?"

He lets the corners of his mouth turn up, with an small smile. "Not nearly as much as Mingyu."

"You aren't a lounge lizard?"

"No."

"Oh." A silence takes over. Nothing is said as you both watch the party unfolding on the other side of the glass.

"I'm not some ladies man, who chases women."

You look over him. He looks so embarrassed. "It's okay if you were."

The door opens and your mother pops out. "Come back inside, people are asking where the bride and groom are."

Your fingers are laced together the rest of the time you spend at your wedding. You're putting on quite the show for the guest. From the outside looking in, it appears you are a couple who has been together for a while. The constant touching, and the not so subtle longing looks between the two of you.

Once it's finally time to call it a night, the band plays you out as you make your grand exit. Your father has a car waiting for you. Wonwoo drives the two of you away from the luxurious hotel. Your guest cheer as you drive away.

The whole way home Wonwoo keeps glancing over at you. Nothing is said between you the whole drive.

Arriving at your new shared home, Wonwoo helps you out of the car. Walking up the couple of steps to the door, Wonwoo is right behind you. You freeze staring at the door. You always imagined on your wedding day your husband would carry you over the threshold.

Wonwoo steps next to you, and reaches out unlocking the front door. Walking in slowly, you realize this is your new home. Stepping inside behind you, Wonwoo locks the door. He looks around and see a fully furnished home for you. This place is nicer then the place he shares with Mingyu near the university. You've grown up with two different tax brackets. The couch near the window looks to be an expensive Italian leather.

You walk away from him. You must know the layout of this place. You head up stairs and head off to the bedroom. Wonwoo follows behind you.

Wonwoo is suddenly aware that this place only has one bedroom with a bed in it.

Heading off to the en-suite bathroom you struggle to remove your dress. Wonwoo hears your struggling and peaks his head in. You immediately notice the absences of most his clothing, he's just in his dress pants. You can't help it as your eyes wander his torso. It takes everything in you not to reach out and touch the outline of his abs. Your face flushes with embarrassment instantly.

"Are you okay?"

"I need help." You sound completely defeated.

He steps close to you. Hesitatingly he reaches out. He takes his time unbuttoning the buttons that run up your spine. He works cautiously, he's trying to make this as easy on you as possible.

The final button is undone, he looks away and steps back trying to give you privacy.

"I can sleep on the couch." He knows there isn't another bed here.

The beaded dress falls to the floor, leaving you standing in a pool of fabric. You're left standing there in your silk white undergarments.

"I would prefer I don't spend my wedding night alone in bed."

Wonwoo catches sight of your exposed body through mirror. His cheeks flush and the tips of his ears turn red. He's seen his fair share of women even more exposed than this, but this feel incredibly more intimate.

Wonwoo doesn't know much about you, but something tells him that you're very much a virgin. The way you reacted to his bare torso.

Laying in bed you can't help but feel sad. You always imagined your honeymoon would be some, grand romantic night. You always thought this wojld be the night you lose your virginity. Instead you find yourself laying in bed fully dressed in a nightgown staring at a man you barely know.

He looks just as sad and hollow as you do. His lips part as he goes to say something, but nothing comes out.

Reaching out, you rest your hand next to him. Tears slowly slide down your cheek, landing on the cotton sheets below you.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"We have to protect each other."

"I'll do anything to keep you safe." He reaches out, pulling your body close to his. He doesn't say anything else as you fall asleep crying in his arms.

NOTHING IS EASY ABOUT FALLING IN LOVE

A week into being married and it feels as if you're just roommates. Wonwoo has work at the university five or six days a week, and you find yourself spending time alone more often than not.

Your days at home are spent attempting to find a hobby. Before all of this you had a passion for painting. You've found yourself most days setting up an esel and painting in front of the living room window.

It's normally quite late by the time Wonwoo arrives home from the university campus. You've tried to have a home cooked meal waiting for him every night. You hope that maybe having dinner together every night can help build your relationship.You learned very quickly that you still don't know much about each other. You were strangers thrown together, and even with the little time that had passed he still practically feels like a stranger.

You've learned his mother and father live in a different state. Wonwoo only moved here for college and to work at the university. You've learned that Mingyu is the closest thing he has to a family in the city.

After a few late nights of Wonwoo coming home, you're terrified he's off in a speakeasy gambling or possibly seeing someone else. You're not able to protect him from your father if he keeps losing money, or if he's having an affair.

It's close to ten at night when Wonwoo finally arrives at home. You're sitting on the couch with a book in your lap. Wonwoo comes in looking deshevled and exhausted. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is loosened.

He's startled at the sight of you waiting up for him. "You waited up for me?"

"I was concerned about where you were."

"It's Mingyu's birthday. I stopped by his place to have dinner with him and Soonyoung."

"Oh." You close the book and stand up. "I would have appreciated if you let me know if you won't be home for dinner. I spent an hour cooking. I even waited up for you."

"I didn't think you would care if I missed dinner." He sighs, dropping briefcase down on the floor.

Taking a deep breath you stand up. You refuse to be stuck in a strained marriage, just like your parents. "Wonwoo, I understand that we didn't chose this marriage, but I desperately want to try and make this work."

He pushes his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Okay."

"So, please just communicate with me." Your eyes brim with tears. Your emotions and stress are getting the best of you.

His stomach twist seeing you, once again upset, because of him.

"I'm sorry." He steps closer to you.

"I should get some sleep." You're exhausted and you don't want to have this conversation anymore.

Laying in bed you stare at the door. You wish more than anything Wonwoo would walk through it, and join you in bed. Since your wedding night you've slept fully alone. Wonwoo has been sleeping on the living room couch. Your bedroom, you are supposed to share feels lonely. He only comes in here when he needs to get clothing from the closet.

The longer you stare at the door the more you start to cry. You cry yourself to sleep once again.

Walking out of the bedroom in the morning you're greeted to the sound of a silent home. You already know Wonwoo is gone before you reach the living room. In the kitchen you find a letter in a cream envelope with "My Dearest" written on the front.

Opening the letter you immediately feel your heart squeezes at the sight of Wonwoo's penmanship.

My Dearest,

I want to apologize for being so distant. I'm aware that all your troubles have been because of me. I sincerely want to be a better man. I want to learn to be a good husband, and learn to fall in love with you. I know before this we didn't know each other, and because of my disgressions in life, you're now tied to me. I want to make a promise to you, I'll try my hardest to make this work. I have stopped gambling, and have stayed away from anything related to your father. I want to prove to you, that I can be a good man. The one thing I ask for time, please let me learn to navigate all this.

I do have one last request, have dinner with me tomorrow night.

Always,

Wonwoo

You hope that he's being truthful about wanting to grow and be a better man, and that he truly does want to learn to fall in love with you. The idea of being stuck in a loveless marriage is terrifying to you. You've seen too many people you know get stuck in those types of marriage.

Wonwoo is true to his word. At six pm sharp he walks through the front door. He find you standing in front of the window working on a painting.

"Hello." He says pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Hello." You turn away from your painting. "I made dinner earlier, we just need to heat it up. I thought soup would be nice, after a cold day."

Wonwoo heads off to the closet that's near the door, and hangs up his coat. Heading off to the kitchen and start putting the soup back on the stove. Aimlessly you stir the soup. Wonwoo's foot steps catch your attention.

Wonwoo silently starts setting the table to the two of you. You glance up at him, slowly stirring the soup.

"It smells delicious." He says glancing over at you.

"Do you mind bringing the bowls in here, so I can dish us?"

He brings you two bowls, you pour the savory soup, serving both of you. Wonwoo walks them back to the table.

Sitting at the table you watch him slowly eat. He's such a handsome man, you can't imagine women didn't chase after him. "Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever courted someone before?"

"Yes." He suddenly feels embarrassed and he doesn't know why. "Have you ever been courted?"

"I was secretly seeing someone once." You were so young and naive back then. You were barely twenty-one when you started an innocent affair with one of your father's men.

"Who was it?" He suddenly feels jealous at the idea of someone being with you. He hates this feeling. He has absolutely no right to feel this way.

"Johnny, one of my fathers men."

"Oh." That's definitely not what he wanted to hear.

"Nothing happened, we never consummated our relationship or anything like that. I ran away before anything could happen." That was back when you desperately wanted to escape this life.

"You ran away?" He had absolutely no idea you ran away.

"It was back when I was twenty-one. I had enough of how controlling my father was. Honestly it's a story for a different time." You still remember the fear you lived in while you were on the run.

Wonwoo wants to ask you more questions, but can immediately tell this is a touchy subject. "Okay, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

You both silently eat together for a little bit. Even though neither of you are really saying much, it's just nice to have company. You can't take this feeling of being alone.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the letter."

"It's the least I could do." He sets his spoon down. He gives you a sad smile. "I know I'm the reason things haven't been easy for you. I promise I'm going to try my best."

"I appreciate that. I meant it when I said, we're a team. As along as you are trying that's all I ask "

He reaches out and takes your hand. This is the first time he's properly touched your, since your wedding night. He bring the top of your hand to his lips, and presses a soft kiss there.

Tonight might just be a small step in the right direction, but at least things are changing.

Things after that night feel like they’re heading in the right direction. Wonwoo makes sure he's home for dinner. He’s actively getting to know you. You’ve learned so much about him.

On Sundays you’ve even started going for evening strolls together. You look forward to any time you get to spend by his side. Even if you weren’t forced together, you feel as if Wonwoo is someone you would have easily fallen for. You often wonder if he feels the same about you.

You’re hopeful things will keep going smoothly.

THE MARRIED VIRGIN

It's been four long months of marriage. You thought maybe things would get easier the longer you have been married. But it turns out they haven't. The threat of your father hanging over your head, while you're attempting to make your marriage work, hasn't been easy. Wonwoo has gotten so much better at communicating, and he's gone out of his way to work on getting to know you.

The true issue other then the ever looming threat of your father hanging over your head is, the fact Wonwoo won't share a bed with you. Wonwoo sleeping on the couch is starting to drive you mad. You’ve been married for four months and he won’t even touch you, other then a holding your hand or a kiss on the cheek. He is so respectful of you and polite you can’t even be mad. He's been a gentleman in every sense of the word. The fact that you're a married woman and still a virgin is maddening.

You've decided to spend this Saturday morning shopping with your best friend. She's mentioned needing to find a dress for an upcoming party her and Joshua, her husband are attending.

Looking through dresses hanging on the wall you're listening to her ramble on about nonsensical things. Her newest fascination is the fact that Wonwoo won't touch you in any sort of romantic way.

"Four months and you're still virgin?" Jewel sounds appalled at the idea of you still being untouched.

Your best friend Jewel has given you pointers on how to seduce your husband, but your inexperience with men, has left you too shy to try. You've heard about all the dirty details about her sexual escapades with her husband Joshua.

"It's not from lack of trying on my part. It's a delicate subject. I'm not sure how to approach him with the idea, that I would like to consummate our marriage." Your face is bright with embarrassment.

"Lucky, you just need to tell him. Tell him being a married virgin is strange."

The door to the store opens and you pay no mind to it as you look through the beautiful dresses. Someone clears their throat and you turn around to see one of your father's men Tae standing there.

"Miss, your father sent me to give you this." He holds out an expensive looking envelope with a gold wax seal on it. He hands one to you and one to Jewel.

He stands there waiting for you to open it. Pealing away the seal you find an invitation for art auction. Your father has been known to host these, you just didn't expect him to have one of his men give you a personal invite.

"Your father has requested you and your husband Mr. Jeon attend." Your stomach twist at him mentioning Wonwoo your father is up to something, but you aren't sure what.

Jewel is standing next to your protectively. "Tae, how did you find us?" Jewel grew up down the street from Tae so she has no problem sassing him.

"Mrs. Jeon's father is friends with the owner of this store." You glance up at the store owner to see him intently watching your conversation.

Shoving the invitation back in the envelope you glance up at Tae. You aren't sure what your father has up his sleeve, but he's playing some sort of game, you'll play along.

Tae leaves and you're left feeling uneasy. Jewel can immediately tell the day has been soured. "Should we call it day?"

"Yes, I should speak to Wonwoo."

Walking into your home you find Wonwoo in the living room. He’s standing in front of the window holding a book watching the rain fall. He’s dressed in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt. He seems more distracted than normal today.

“Wonwoo,” you say, earning his attention.

“Hi,” he closes the book and turns to fully face you.

“We have an event we have to attend,” you hold out your invitation that Tae dropped while you were shopping downtown with Jewel.

He pads across the living room and takes the invitation. His eyes brows knit together as he intently reads it.

“Why are we invited to an art auction?”

“I don’t know what his game plan is,” you sigh. Your father always has something up his sleeve. He’s always ten steps ahead of you. “I just don’t trust him. He has something planned.”

“What happened when you ran away?” Wonwoo asked, sitting down on the couch. You never planned on telling anyone about your attempt to run away. You realized after getting married, you can't keep secrets from Wonwoo. The only way you can keep each other safe, is if you're both open and honest.

You take a deep breath remembering the night you finally had enough and called Seokmin to help pack your bags while you attempt to get out of the state. “My father had someone find me.”

You shiver thinking about the constant fear you lived in waiting to be found. You finally had enough of being controlled and left in the middle of the night. With money you had been saving you ran away. You got to a different state. Your original plan was to get a new identity and start over, but you never got that far.

“Who found you?”

“Johnny." You vividly remember him breaking down the door to the apartment you were in. You had a short fling with Johnny before your father sent him to track him down. He didn’t think twice about turning his back on you to listen to your father.

“Did he hurt you,” he gently rests his hand on your thigh.

“No he didn’t. I knew what he was capable of, I didn’t give him the chance to even hurt me." Johnny might have cared for you before you left, but the moment you ran away you became nothing more than a job to him. "I made it to Chicago when he tracked me down."

“Were you planning on leaving again before that night you met me?”

“I wanted to, that’s why my father forced you to marry me. My father needed me to have someone who could be collateral damage for any mistakes I could make. You’re meant to anchor me here. If I leave he’ll kill you and not think twice about it.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. The heavy feeling in your chest hasn’t left you since Wonwoo arrived at your family home, early that morning many months back.

“It’s not your fault. I got myself into this situation too.”

“You stopped gambling right?” you ask praying he didn’t get himself into any more of a mess.

“I stopped. I try to avoid anything connected to your father at all costs. I hasn't step foot in a speakeasy since that night." He pushes his fingers through his dark hair. “If you want to try and run away again I’ll go with you and we can try to fully disappear again.” At this point Wonwoo would do anything to keep you safe.

You can’t believe he just offered to risk his life for you. You couldn’t ever ask him to put his life on the line for you like that. You know you could never fully disappear. Once Johnny or Tae did find you, they would make sure they killed Wonwoo in front of you.

“We can’t do that Wonwoo, I care about you too much for you to risk your life for me.”

“We’re a team right?” He says leaning in before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah we’re a team.” Closing your eyes you lean into his touch. You’ve fallen hard for your husband, you pray he feels the same way towards you. “Wonwoo—" You want to ask him to sleep in your room. There is a desperate feeling you have, to share some sort of intimacy with him. Even if it’s just sharing a bed and sleeping near him. “Please stop sleeping in the living room. I want to sleep in the same bed as you.”

Looking at you he cocks his head to the side as his eyebrows knit together. “Is that something you truly want?”

“Yes. I fully understand if you want to stay out here. But we’re married and I don’t really see you as just my roommate." You're putting yourself on the line here.

“I’ve tried really hard to be respectful because you didn’t choose me. It’s not like I was courting you before.” He reaches out, taking your hand. You move so you’re facing him sitting on the couch next to him.

“I might not have chosen you, but I care about you and I have feelings for you. I would like to be your wife, not just on paper.”

“Lucky, I would like to be your actual husband not just in name,” he whispers leaning forward.

“Okay good,” your nose brushes against his.

Leaning forward your lips touch for the first time since your wedding night. His soft lips are gentle for the first part of the kiss. He pulls away with his lips barely away from yours. “I have wanted to kiss you for so long, He whispers. You crash your lips into his for a heated kiss. You kiss him like you need him to breathe. He’s the air that fills your lungs in the suffocating ocean your father has brought you into.

He grabs your hips pulling you onto his lap. His hand rests on your soft sides as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he says.

"Wonwoo—" You're quite inexperienced in most aspects of a sexual relationship. You and Johnny did fool around some back in the day, but you are still very much a virgin.

"Yes?" He pulls back a little bit.

"I'm a virgin." Your face immediately flushes. You shouldn't feel embarrassed admitting that, but for some reason you are. You stomach knots as he just blankly stares at you for a long moment.

The corners of his lips, tug into a smile. "Sweetheart, that's fine. You have nothing to be embarrassed about." He reaches up, resting his hand on your cheek. "I'll take care of you."

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip. Your lips part slightly, as your stare at him with lust filled eyes. "We should move to the bedroom."

Crawling off of him, you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. His lips move against your as he slowly works on removing all the delicate layers of your clothes.

Laying on the bed completely bare you watch him, slowly take off if his own clothes. His glasses have been discarded, they're sitting in the dresser. His eyes stayed locked on you only focused on you as he strips away his clothes.

You've never properly seen a man naked before, but you know just by the glorious sight of his naked body, Wonwoo is no average man. His abs that line his stomach are absolutely mouth watering. The small trial of hair that leads down his navel to the promise land, leaves you awestruck. His cock is much bigger then you expected. It's a large and girthy. His length is a rosy color, and it curves up slightly. Maybe another time, you'll take your time exploring his body.

Wonwoo crawls on the bed slowly. You expect him to move so he's hovering over you. You're caught off guard when he lays down in front of you, with his face right in front of your needy core.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows you look down at him confused. You know Jewel has mentioned Joshua is a fan of cunnilingus, but she said not all men like it.

Wonwoo places a kiss on top of your mound. Your eyes are blown wide, unsure of what to expect. "Wonwoo?"

"Yes darling?"

"What are you doing?"

"It's your first time, I need to prepare you." What does he mean, prepare you? "I want you to have at least one orgasm, before you can take me." He slowly runs his pointer finger through your wet folds. "Have you ever had an orgasm before?"

Your face burns with embarrassment thinking about the few times you've touched yourself, and the one time you found your release rutting against Johnny's thigh.

"Yes."

"Relax and let me take care of you."

Leaning in close he starts, lazily licking your sensitive clit, while he toy with your entrance.

"You taste so sweet," he moans against your clit.

Your finger grip the cotton sheets below. He sucks on your clit like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

Dropping back down to the bed, you moan out. Your fingers grip the sheets, desperately trying to ground yourself.

You can't help but squirm as you suck in your tummy. All the senses in your body are on high alert.

"Won—" you can't think of any other words then his name, in that moment.

He moans against your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the cliff. You free fall in the deep abyss. Your walls flutter around his fingers like a heartbeat.

He pulls away with a lazy smile, and his eyes half lidded. He wiped your release off with his fingers. Sticking them in his mouth he licks your sweet release off.

"You sound so pretty when you cum."

He moves so he's sitting on his knees, between your spread legs. Your chest rises and falls, your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wonwoo's strong hand rubs your thigh, helping to soothe you. "Are you okay to keep going? We can stop if you're not ready for more."

Desperately you reach for him. You can't bare for him to stop once you've had him. "please, I need you."

He nods. "Okay, darling."

He moves so he's hovering over you. Reaching between you, he takes his length in hand. He runs bulbous tip through your wet folds, collecting some of your release.

"This might hurt a little. If it hurts too much or you're uncomfortable, please tell me."

He enters you at an excruciatingly slow pace. Pushing in inch by inch, giving you a chance to adjust to the sheer sizes of him. The feeling of him stretching you, is like nothing you've ever experienced.

He fills you to the brim, practically kissing your cervix. He holds completely still, sitting on his knees, hovering over you. One of your hands holds his shoulder needing something to ground yourself.

"How does it feel?" He asks.

"Strange, it kinda of hurts, but not in a bad way."

"We can stop."

"I don't want to."

Reaching out, he laces his fingers with yours. he pins your hand, next to your head. Leaning down he connects his lips to yours for an intoxicating kiss. His tongue slides across you bottom lip, asking for access. Your tongues move together, helping to distract you, as Wonwoo slowly starts to move.

The first few shallow thrust feel strange. With each slow movement your body starts adjusting more and more.

"You feel so good." He moans against your lips.

Tangling your fingers in his hair you hold his face close to yours. "oh—" your moan is nothing more than a breathy whimper.

"You're doing so good." Hearing him praise you, does something to you.

With each slow thrust the pain starts to dissipate. The steady feeling of pleasure starts to take over.

"Feels good." The coil in your stomach starts to tighten.

Nose rest against yours. "Can you cum again?"

Wordlessly you nod.

"You're doing so good." He repeats. This thrust have grown deeper and steadier.

Your breathing feels shaky as you approach the edge of the cliff. Every thrust brings you a step closer.

Your eyes roll back, and your body free falls into the icy cold abyss. This orgasm feels like nothing you have experienced before. Your walls flutter around his length, that doesn't stop moving. Moaning his name loudly you squeeze his hand that is pining yours to the bed.

"Wonwoo—" you cry.

"Fuck." He swears with a moan.

"You're squeezing me." His thrust have lost their rhythm. His own release is rapidly approaching."I'm going to cum, where should I?" He's on the brink of falling apart.

The logical part of your brain should tell him to pull out, that you haven't discussed children. But that part of your brain isn't in charge right now. Your fingers cling to his back as your practically cry. "Inside."

He picks up his pace, chasing his high. He moans your name like a sinful prayer as he paints your walls with his milky release. He ruts his hips into your, helping each of you, ride out your high.

He drops down to his elbows, he's practically plastered against you. Every aspect of him, feels so consuming to you. Reaching up, you run your fingers through his dark hair.

"Did I hurt you?" He doesn't think he could live with himself if he hurt you.

"No, I'm a little sore, but that was wonderful."

Leaning down he presses his lips to yours. You want to say the three words out loud that are stuck in your throat, but you can't. Not until you're sure he feels the same way.

"I need to clean you up." He pulls away from you. You want to beg him not to leave, but you know he's trying to take care of you.

He leaves the room long enough to come back with a wet cloth to clean you up. Laying the bed he takes his time wiping away his release that slowly leaking out of you.

"We've never discussed having children." He says looking at your core.

"I know."

"I've always wanted to be a father." He knits his brows together and looks away from you.

"I think you would be a good father." Wonwoo is kind, caring and very intelligent. His one flaw is gambling issue, that he's seemed to have gotten under control.

"Do you want to be a mother?"

You can't help but smile. "I would like to be one."

Wonwoo disposes the cloth, before he crawls into bed with you. He pulls you close to him. You're both still naked, neither of you have a desire to get dressed. Your head rest on his chest. Gently he rubs your side helping to soothe you to sleep. For the first time in a longtime, you no longer feel lonely.

-

The day of the art auction, you can't get rid of the anxious feeling eating away at you. It's a Saturday so luckily Wonwoo has the day off. He's sitting in the living room reading a book while you're on the verge of a panic picking a dress to wear.

You settle on an emerald beaded gown. You call for Wonwoo, needing his help to button your dress. He walks in and is immediately taken a back at how beautiful you are.

He takes his time individually buttoning the back of your dress. Finishing up, he steps back to admire how beautiful you are.

"You're so beautiful."

"Thank you. You should get dressed."

Wonwoo heads off and gets dressed in his three piece suit you got him. He looks absolutely incredible my handsome. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You eyes roam his body.

"Were quite the pair Mr. Jeon."

"It helps that Mrs. Jeon is gorgeous."

Arriving at the ballroom. There is a lavish entry filled with the richest and the most elite people in the city. Wonwoo takes your hand, leading you past the sea people.

A jazz band plays on stage. Looking around you see paintings lining the wall with people staring at them.

You catch sight of Joshua and Jewel speaking with one of Joshua's friends Seungkwan. Wonwoo releases your hand long enough to to track you down something to drink.

Jewel grabs your arm leading you away from the boys. "You look beautiful." She says to you, leading you towards the paintings that line the wall.

Your heart sinks staring at the black and white paintings. They're all reminiscent of the street in Chicago you ran away to. There a few details that leave you absolutely sick. Walking closer to you see red paint splattered in some, that resembles blood, and another has a pair of broken glasses, that look exactly like Wonwoo's

Instinctively your hand clutches your pearl necklace. Your eyes are wide as your try not to cry. This art auction is truly nothing more then a warning to you from your father.

"Lucky?" Jewel immediately knows something is wrong.

"I need my husband." Turning on your heels you speed walk over to Wonwoo.

You practically throw yourself into his arms. He can immediately tell you're extremely upset. He looks at the paintings where you just were. He releases you and pulls back. His hand rest on your cheek. The slow drag of his thumb acrossed your delicate skin, is helping to soothe you.

"What's wrong?"

"The painting are a message to me." Pulling away you search for your father, but he's nowhere to be seen.

It's clear your father wants to play a game, and you're not a about to become a a pawn again.

The band plays a song loudly. You look around and find Jewel and Joshua standing near. Wonwoo's hand is protectively on your back.

There is about an hour you play the role of the socialite. You lead Wonwoo around to speaking to old friends, and people connected to your family. Everyone is very interested and learning about your new husband and his job as a professor. The whole time you're making your rounds you watch out for your father close circle of men. You know if you spot Johnny, Tae or Jack your father is near.

Wonwoo leans in close and whispers in your ear, "your father is here."

Looking across the room you see your father for the first time. You know your mother and sister are somewhere here, but you don't have time to look for them.

"Wonwoo stay here." You lean up to give him a quick kiss.

He looks over his glasses and finds your father intently watching both of you. "I can go with you."

"No. Let me handle him." You step away from him, but before you can get more then a step away he pulls you back. You can tell by the look in his eyes, he's scared just like you are. "Wonwoo, I'll be okay."

He doesn't say anything, he just leans down and presses his lips to yours. "I'll be waiting for you."

Taking a deep breath you make your way across the crowded room.

"Father." You walk up to him. The man standing next to him in and expensive suit takes this as his sign to walk away.

"My darling daughter. It's clear your husband is already keen on you." Your father's eyes are locked on Wonwoo while he stands next to Jewel and Joshua.

"He's a good husband."

"You're fooling nobody. It's clear you've fallen in love with him. Seems he's serving his propose already." His words are menacing.

"His purpose?" You need to play dumb, so your father shows his hand.

"If you love him, you'll do anything you can to keep him safe. If you leave, I'll make him suffer, while you watch." His hand grips your heart, and he squeezes tighter and tighter with each pointed word.

"Leave him alone." Each one of your words is pointed.

"As long as you behave, nothing will happen to your husband."

"I'm not going to run again. I have him, and I'm happy. Leave us alone."

Your father lets out a little laugh. "You know Wonwoo has some good genes. He's handsome, and extremely intelligent. His only issue is his eye sight, and him wearing those cheaters." His eyes are locked on Wonwoo. "I would love grandchildren. Maybe I should tell your husband that it's time to make you a mother." Bile starts to crawl up your throat. If you have children one day, you want to keep them far away from your father.

"Leave him alone."

"Maybe marriage wasn't good for you. Suddenly you think you're able to talk back to me."

"Stop it." You've had enough of his threatening words.

"You should find your mother. She's been looking for you all night."

"Goodbye father." You step away.

"Just remember, even if you love him, that won't stop me from using him to keep you in line."

With each step you take, you fight to hold back tears. Looking up you see Wonwoo watching you. As he goes to take a step, you shake your head. You don't want him anywhere close to your father.

Jewel and Joshua watch as you rush to Wonwoo. The second you're close enough he grabs your hand, pulling you toward him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you bury your face in his chest. Desperately you try and fight back tears. You pull away from him slowly. He rests his hand on your cheek. He drags his thumb across the delicate skin on your cheek.

"We should leave." You can't stay here any longer.

"Lucky, are you okay?" Joshua seems just as concerned as his wife.

"Mr. Jeon." You're father's menacing voice echoes behind you.

Wonwoo pulls back a little, dropping your hand. His eyes stayed locked on your, you can instantly see he's scared. Reaching down you grab his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

"Sir." Wonwoo responds.

Your fathers give him a menacing smile, stepping closer. "Do you like the art?"

Squeezing his hand, you let him know he's not alone. "it's quite unique."

"I found an artist who is great at drawing cities."

"So it seems." Wonwoo responds.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" Your father mentioning the name of the city you ran away to sends a chill down your spine.

"No sir."

"I've heard it's beautiful, you should ask my daughter about it."

The loud room instantly feels silent. A ringing takes over you ears. You stomach knots, staring at your father.

Wonwoo squeezes your hand, snapping you out of it. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"I don't think that's necessary." Wonwoo says.

Shame suddenly takes over you. You feel incredibly small under the crushing gaze your father is giving you. Whatever sick and twisted game he wants to play, he's winning.

Tae walks over capturing your fathers attention. He whispers something in his ear.

"I must take my leave. Lucky, tell your husband about Chicago." He walks away, leaving you feeling sick.

Stepping back, you hold back your tears. Wonwoo doesn't let you go far. He desperately clings to your had.

"Lucky." Jewel rushes towards you, with Joshua right behind her.

"Do you want to go home?" Wonwoo asked.

"Yes, I'm ready to leave." He just bibs his farewell and leads you out of the ballroom.

You flee with the party, clinging to your husband. You desperately want to escape this personal hell, your father has made for you.

The whole ride home Wonwoo doesn't try to make small talk, his silence is comforting.

Arriving at home Wonwoo takes his time to help unbotton your dress. Once the last button is undone, he presses his lips to your bare shoulder.

"Are you okay?" He knows it's a loaded question.

"No, but I will be."

TEAR STAINED CHEEKS AND SWEET KISSES

Six months into marriage things between you and Wonwoo are fantastic. You've fallen head over heels more and more in love with him.

He does anything he possibly can do to make you happy. There is a little part of him that is constantly reminding, that in some way he will let you down. He's known for awhile at some point he's going to need to take the train back home to see his family. In an ideal situation, he would be able to take you with him. He knows deep down inside he can't.

After a long day at work, Wonwoo finds you painting in the living room. Painting has consumed your free time. Wonwoo often finds you like this after work. He loves watching you paint. You seem so incredibly happy when you're lost in your painting.

"Hi, my dearest."

You turn and find him standing there looking so handsome. In these last few months you haven't been able to keep your hands to yourself. You just can't get enough of him.

"I need to take a trip home to see my parents." That wasn't what you expected him to say.

"Oh?"

"I would love for them to meet you, I'm just worried if you go, your father will assume we're up to something." Wonwoo tries to act strong when it comes to anything involving your father, but you know he's just as terrified as you.

"Are you asking me to stay home?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'll only be gone a week. I asked Mingyu to keep an eye on you, as well as Joshua and Jewel." Your face falls, and Wonwoo feels his stomach twist. He can't stand seeing you sad.

"Wonwoo I don't like the idea of staying home." You aren't used to being alone anymore.

He rushes over to you. "I know, I hate it too. I'm just scared of you go with me, your father will follow us."

"When do you leave?"

"In a week. I'm going to take the train to Philly."

"Okay."

"Lucky, please don't be mad. I'm trying to keep us safe."

"I want to meet your family." You hate the idea that Wonwoo's family wasn't even at his wedding. They have no idea what you're like. Apart of you is terrified they'll hate you for bringing Wonwoo into your mess of a family.

"I want you to meet them too. We just need to wait."

"Wonwoo do they know why we got married?"

He pushes your hair behind your ear. "No, I just told them I fell in love with you. That we had a whirlwind romance and I begged you to marry me."

"When did you tell them that?"

"That week I wrote you that letter. I sent them a letter telling them about our marriage."

You try to go about your night normally, but the aching feeling in your chest still lingers. Even married your father continues to control your life. A normal married couple would be able to travel to see their in laws, but you simply can not do that.

Laying in bed you stare at the wall. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop the tears from falling. The bathroom door opens, and Wonwoo steps into the bedroom.

There is a long beat of silence before Wonwoo slides into bed. Without saying a word, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your body close to his. He presses his lips to the exposed delicate skin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He hates that he keeps hurting you.

"It's not your fault, it's my fathers fault."

"I still hurt you though. I want you to meet my family."

"I know."

He hand kneads your stomach, helping to relax you. "I love you." He says those three words you've been dying to say for months.

"I love you too."

Mindlessly he starts kissing the side of you neck. Soft moans pass your lips, as he focuses on the sensitive area under your ear.

"Darling, can you lay on your back for me?"

He pulls away, giving you space to move. Laying on your back, you look over at him. He sits on his knees, he takes a moment to pull off his shirt. This body is mouth watering. Recently you can't seem to get enough of him. Pushing yourself up, you pull off your night gown. Lifting your hips, you shimmy out of your panties. You're left laying on the bed completely bare.

Wonwoo hops off the bed long enough to remove his pants. He's already hard, his large lenght is already leaking.

Slowly he crawls onto the bed towards you. He takes his time lowering himself onto the bed in front of you. Leaving a trail of wet kisses across your inner thigh.

Hw kisses the top of your mound before he dives in, like a man straved. He knows exactly what you need to push you over the edge. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, holding him close. Without even thinking your hips rut towards his face.

He laughs against your core, at how needy you are for him. He adores seeing you desperate for your release.

"You sound so pretty." He moans.

"Won—" you all but cry, practically on the edge.

"Can you cum?"

Rapidly you not your head. "Yes."

"Okay, darling." He goes back to sucking on your clit. He works you closer and closer to the edge. His finger work in tandem with his mouth. He thrust two finger in and out of you, over and over again.

Your orgasm feel like a white hot wave. Releasing your fingers from his hair, you go limp against the bed. Your whole body feels as light as a feather.

He pulls back, sporting a grin. Silently he licks his fingers clean of your release. "You taste so good."

Your eyes can’t help but focus on the way his hard cock is leaking. He moves so he’s hovering over you. He’s pressing his lips anywhere he can reach. Without thinking you reach between you. You start pumping his velvety length.

“Fuck—“ he moans.

“Wonwoo, I need you.”

“You can have me.” He removes your hand from him. He takes his cock and guides it to your entrance. A gasp passes your lips as his mushroom tip slips in. No matter how many times you do this, you need a few moments to adjust to the sheer size of him. He pushes in inch by inch.

The moment you’re filled to the brim he looks down at you. He looks at you as if you hung the stars and the moon. Reaching up, resting your hand on his cheek.

“My darling wife, you’re my everything.”

Your heart squeezes. Tears brim your eyes once again. Wonwoo loves you so much, and in turn you’re head over heels for him.

“I love you.” You whisper.

He pulls back slowly, before pushing his hips forward. He makes love to you slowly. His lips are all over your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. Your hands touch anywhere they possibly can. You want to touch anywhere and everywhere you can reach.

With each slow and deep thrust he’s brushing that spot inside of you, that has you seeing stars.

The room is filled with echoing sounds of your moans and whimpers, and his groans against your skin. There is a sound of squelching from your release.

“Im gonna—“ your brain can't even process how to finish that sentence.

“You can do it baby.” He pulls back slightly.

“Won—“ you cry out. You release hits you hard and fast, the air feels as if it’s been knocked out of your lungs.

Your walls flutter around his length like a heartbeat. Your fingers cling to him, holding him close. His thrust has lost its rhythm. His own release is rapidly approaching. His moaning your name like a sinful prayer.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to—“ his hips stutter. With one practically deep thrust he spills his milky release.

His forehead rests against yours. His eyes are squeezed shut. Slowly he rocks his hips into you, helping each of you ride out your highs.

“I love you.” He whispers with his lips brushing yours.

HIS LUCKY CHARM

You've been feeling off for a few weeks, and the entire time Wonwoo has been gone you've been nauseous and throwing up. You're pretty sure you're pregnant. You want to be a mother, and you know Wonwoo would be an amazing father, but you're scared.

You've spent the whole time pretending you're okay in front of Mingyu, Joshua and Jewel. You don't want anyone to know you're pregnant until you tell Wonwoo.

The whole time he's gone, you miss him dearly. One evening you finally decide you feel well enough to paint. You open your box of paints, and find a letter from your husband.

My Dearest,

I hope you find this letter. I hate that I wasn't able to bring you along. Just know I did it to protect you. I know we did originally chose each other, but that didn't stop me from falling in love with you. You're the sun to my moon. You're the reason breathe each day. I love you so much, and I can't want until we're reunited.

Love, your husband.

You never thought you would find love like you have with Wonwoo.

You spend your time alone painting for ready some of the books Wonwoo keeps in a bookshelf. Jewel and Joshua often invite you over for dinner, or Mingyu comes around, so you aren't alone.

The amount of nausea you're experiencing is a firm reminder you're indeed pregnant. You and Wonwoo haven't done anything to prevent pregnancy, so you aren't surprised.

It's the day Wonwoo is finally serving back home. Sitting on the bathroom floor you wonder how Wonwoo will react to the news.

Your plans for cook dinner tonight have long gone out the window.

The sound of the front door closings catches your attention. You hear your name called in the distance. You're barely able to yell out for your husband, before you throw up again.

He finds you with your head in the toliet, spilling the contents of your stomach. Instantly he squats down next to you, and starts rubbing your back. Helping to soothe you.

"Darling, what's wrong."

"I think I'm pregnant." You pull back sitting on your knees looking over at him.

Wonwoo suddenly feels a mixture of excitement and terror. The idea of your father using his child as a pawn against both of you is absolutely terrifying.

He's lost all the color in his face as he stares at you. "Wonwoo?"

"Lucky, that's amazing, darling."

Placing his hand on your cheek he leans in and rest his nose against yours. Even thought the circumstances that led to your marriage aren't normal, he can't deny how much he loves you.

"You're going to be an amazing mother."

"I hope I am." You never wanted to raise a child anywhere near your father. The idea of bringing a child into this world is terrifying.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. He ever so slowly pushes your hair away from your face. "Darling, let me make you some tea to soothe your stomach."

He helps you stand up, and gives you a chance to clean up. Heading off to the kitchen he focuses on making you a cup of tea.

Walking into the kitchen you find Wonwoo focused on making you a cup of tea. Walking up behind him, you wrap your arms around his stomach. Resting your cheek against his back. You missed him so much.

"Next time you go on a trip, can we try and see if I can go with you." His absence made you realize, you don't want to live a life where Wonwoo isn't by your side.

He pulls away and spins around. Wrapping his arms around you, he holds you close. "I missed you so much." He leans down pressing his lips to yours for a gentle kiss.

"I missed you too."

"I saw your painting by the window."

You pull back giving him a soft smile. "In your absence, I distracted myself with painting."

He reaches out resting his hand on your stomach. "Maybe you could paint our beautiful baby something for their nursery?"

He's always encouraging you to paint. He always says, he loves watching you light up painting. Since everything unfolded that morning where you met Wonwoo, painting has brighten you so much joy.

"I would love to do that."

Sitting at the kitchen table sipping on tea, Wonwoo tells you all about his visit to see his family. He lights up, mentioning how his mother says she wants to meet you, and when she says she wants grandchildren. Instinctively you rest your hand on your stomach.

Unfortunately Wonwoo's parents won't be the only set of grandparents in your child's life. You know your mother will be a great grandmother, you're just terrified of your father.

For the longest time you have been sitting on lots of information about your fathers illegal activities. It seems the time has finally come to let your father know he won't be controlling your family you've built with Wonwoo.

Looking at Wonwoo you can see the way he looks at you. You're his everything, and in turn he's your everything. You stand by your promise you made to him, you'll protect him. The only way you can truly protect him, is by telling your father to leave you alone.

Your first evening home with Wonwoo ends with you laying in bed together. His head rest near your stomach. You can't help but smile as he talks to your baby. You both know there is no way your very small child can possibly hear him, but it doesn't matter. His actions makes both of you happy.

"I'm going to love you so much. You're momma is the best thing that ever happened to me." His sweet words make your eyes water.

"They're going to love you just as much." You respond.

-

Two weeks pass until you're finally ready to speak to your father. You make sure not to tell Wonwoo, and you plan your trip for when he's at work at the university. You made sure to inform Jewel of your location, incase your father tries to pull anything.

It's a chilly autumn morning as you make your way through the city. Your families home is located on the upper fancy side of the city. You hold your close to your body, protecting yourself from the breezy.

Walking into your family home, you find your mother in the foyer. She lights at the sight of you. She pulls you into a tight hug.

"Lucky, I didn't know you were coming by." She immediately helps your remove your coat.

"Wonwoo is at work, and I need to talk to father."