#sas

The past is a country he can never visit again, only haunt.

Namjoon stands in Seokjin’s living room, champagne flute forgotten in his grip, watching droplets of moisture gather against the glass like tears he never learned how to shed.

His eyes find the glass of the window—his reflection superimposed over the city lights, and for a moment he sees two versions of himself: the man holding champagne at a party, and the shadow of someone else entirely, someone who remembers snow falling on a divided city that no longer exists.

Condensation arises like the fragments of memory that surface without warning.

A mother’s face, soft around the edges where time has worn away the details. A father’s voice, calling his name across a courtyard that might have been real or might have been dreamed during those seventy years of sleep.

The Korea he woke up to three years ago bears only passing resemblance to the one he left behind—gleaming towers where there once were ruins, prosperity where there once was desperate hunger, division where there once was… what?

Unity?

The word does not hold its own weight, merely a concept his enhanced memory struggles to reconstruct from the fragments of a life interrupted.

”Protect the citizens. Protect the country.”

It’s the only mantra that settles well in his chest, solid and familiar in a world where everything else feels anything but.

Captain Korea exists in absolutes—duty, honor, sacrifice. The shield he carries bears the pressure of a nation’s hopes, and he has made peace with that burden.

It is Kim Namjoon who struggles with the spaces between certainties, who wonders what parts of himself died in that underground facility and what parts were simply… misplaced.

His apartment is filled with philosophy books now, dense treatises on existence and meaning that he devours in the hours between being needed.

Heidegger and Sartre sit beside Korean texts on the nature of han, that deep cultural grief that seems to resonate in his bones like a tuning fork struck by invisible hands.

He reads about authenticity and wonders if he has ever lived an authentic day since waking up, or if authenticity is a luxury afforded only to those whose identities aren’t bisected by duty.

The government had been surprisingly accommodating about his request for privacy. Kim Namjoon could remain separate from Captain Korea, a small corner of selfhood protected from the consuming nature of public service.

It had seemed like a victory then, a small rebellion against the machinery that wanted to transform him entirely into symbol and shield.

Now, three years later, he understands it differently—the partition wasn’t protection, it was amputation.

Captain Korea carries the weight of the nation while Kim Namjoon carries the weight of questions that have no answers.

You had been devastatingly different.

The sentence echoes in his mind without a prompt, dragging with it a flood of sensations that make his chest tighten.

Coffee shop conversations that stretched past closing time. Your fingers tracing routes on historical maps while you theorized about the psychological impact of division on collective memory. The way your eyes would light up when he offered an insight that seemed to come from intuition rather than research, never suspecting that his knowledge was earned rather than studied.

You had loved his mind first—not the enhanced physiology or the symbolic weight, but the way he could untangle complex historical narratives and find the human threads running through them. Late nights in your apartment, surrounded by research papers and empty wine bottles, where Kim Namjoon felt more real than he had since waking up.

You would curl against his side while he read aloud from Korean poets, your breath warm against his neck.

And for those moments the weight of being Captain Korea would lift entirely.

The relationship had been his secret rebellion, the one space where he could be wholly Kim Namjoon without apology or explanation.

You never asked about his work, never pushed for details about the mysterious historical research that seemed to consume his days.

You simply accepted his knowledge, his insights, his occasionally anachronistic references to cultural moments you assumed he’d studied rather than lived.

Until you didn’t.

The end had come not with dramatic confrontation but with gradual erosion, like water wearing away stone.

His increasing absences as Captain Korea’s responsibilities grew heavier. The way he’d remain heedful when conversations drifted too close to contemporary politics or military matters. The way he would sometimes catch himself mid-sentence, remembering that Kim Namjoon was supposed to be a civilian, a researcher, not someone who carried classified knowledge about Korea’s defense capabilities.

You had grown suspicious, then hurt, then angry—as one in your place should.

Friends reported back to him—because Seoul’s intellectual circles are small and interconnected—that you’d called him trash, said you’d dated him for entertainment.

He would not lie about the matter at hand, such words had cut deeper than any physical wound he’d received in costume, perhaps because they contained a grain of terrible truth.

He had been entertaining you, hadn’t he?

Playing at being a normal man while knowing the stunt was temporary, unsustainable.

The breakup had been clean, nevertheless.

You’d simply… drifted away, like morning fog dissipating under sunlight.

No final confrontation, no demands for explanation.

One day you were texting him about a new book on Korean War oral histories, and the next day you weren’t.

He’d let it happen, told himself it was for the best, that Kim Namjoon was a luxury he couldn’t afford indefinitely.

But standing here now, watching you across Seokjin’s living room like you’re a mirage that might disappear if he blinks, Namjoon realizes he’s been lying to himself.

His enhanced hearing picks up fragments of your conversation with a group near the kitchen—something about government accountability and press freedom—and your voice softens some knot in his chest he thought secured.

Three winters of fog crumble in a blink.

His mouth goes dry, saliva abandoning him as if his body has forgotten how to function in your presence. The champagne glass grows slick in his suddenly damp palm, and he has to concentrate to keep from crushing it with strength he still sometimes forgets he possesses.

Across the room, you throw your head back in laughter at something someone has said, and the sound travels through him like electricity seeking ground.

His private self gravitates toward you still.

Even now—even after everything—Kim Namjoon is drawn to you, as though the universe wound your names into the same strand of silk.

How worrisome. How utterly, devastatingly worrisome.

He should feel disdain curling in his stomach, should taste the metallic bite of resentment on his tongue.

For months after the end, he had cultivated those feelings with the dedication of a gardener tending poisonous flowers.

Told himself—Kim Namjoon, always Kim Namjoon, never Captain Korea because Captain Korea doesn’t have the luxury of petty human grievances—that bitterness was inappropriate, that hurt was selfish, that a man who carries a nation’s hopes has no right to mourn the loss of one woman’s affection.

But he had mourned.

In the spaces between saving lives and attending diplomatic functions, in the hollow hours before dawn when Seoul sleeps and only he prowls the streets like a ghost haunting his own life.

He had let resentment fester in the wound you left behind, had whispered cruel justifications to the walls of his apartment: ”She never knew you anyway. She loved a fiction. She called you trash to her friends.”

The feelings should still be there, black and bitter as burnt coffee.

Instead, watching you gesture animatedly while making some point about press ethics, something coral and latent blooms behind his ribs.

Not the dulling darkness he’s been nursing, but something soft and terrible and alive; the color of want, of possibility, of all the mornings he woke up beside you when the world felt manageable and his dual existence felt like a choice rather than a prison.

The sensation climbs his throat like ivy, choking and sweet.

Everything in the room suddenly enlivens in technicolor—the warm amber of the whiskey someone is drinking, the deep burgundy of the woman’s dress near the window, the way the city lights beyond the glass fracture into prismatic stars.

For three years, his world had existed grayscale, emotions muted and manageable.

A single sighting of you and color bleeds back into his vision like watercolor on wet paper, spreading beyond the lines he’s drawn to contain it.

His chest constricts.

The champagne glass trembles in his grip, and he realizes he has unconsciously tuned himself to the frequency of your voice, filtering out every other conversation in the room until you might as well be speaking directly into his ear.

Sickness. That’s what this is.

He feels sick the way he did in those early days with you, when touching your hand felt like butterflies made human, when kissing you goodbye in the mornings left him lightheaded and stupid with want.

The kind of sickness that makes colors too bright and sounds too steep and every nerve ending hypersensitive to the possibility of joy.

He coughs into his fist, harsh, desperate, whilst his thumb and index finger find his temples, massaging against the sudden pressure building there.

The string that connects him to you—that has always connected him to you—pulls taut across the room, and he knows with crystalline certainty that if he doesn’t move now, he’ll do something catastrophically stupid.

Like walk over there. Like say your name. Like remember what it felt like when you used to say his.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs to no one in particular, weaving through the crowd toward Seokjin’s kitchen like a man seeking shelter from a storm that exists only inside his own chest.

The universe offers him no reprieve. String theory in motion—every particle connected, every movement rippling across impossible distances.

The moment your footsteps echo against the hardwood near the kitchen door, his enhanced hearing identifies the rhythm like a fingerprint.

The sound that used to announce your arrival at his apartment, that used to make his chest lift with anticipation instead of dread.

His head whips around without permission from his conscious mind, neck muscles moving on instinct older than thought.

And there you are—framed in the doorway like a photograph he’s been trying to forget, eyes finding his across the small space like they were always bound to.

Time crystallizes. The party noise from the living room fades to white static. The only sounds left are his own heartbeat thundering against his ribs and the whispered intake of breath that escapes you when recognition settles.

You stand there, one hand still resting on the door handle, frozen in the act of entering. Your eyes lock onto his, and something passes between you—not understanding, not forgiveness, but acknowledgment.

The acknowledgment that this moment was always inevitable, that Seoul is too small a city for the two of you to avoid each other forever.

His fingers grip the marble countertop behind him, knuckles white with the effort of keeping himself anchored. His strength leaves small finger-shaped indentations in the marble, but he can’t bring himself to care about Seokjin’s countertop when you’re standing there.

You blink, and the flutter of your eyelashes is such a small thing—the automatic reflex of moisture spreading across your eyes—but it knocks oxygen back into his lungs with violent suddenness.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it comes rushing back, filling the hollow spaces between his ribs.

Your hand drops from the door handle. The soft sound of skin separating from metal seems impossibly loud in the kitchen’s silence.

“Oh.”

The word emerges from your lips so quietly it’s barely more than an exhale, but it reverberates through his chest cavity like a struck bell.

Oh.

Such a simple sound to carry so much weight.

Surprise, recognition, maybe regret.

Or maybe he’s projecting, reading meaning into a syllable that contains nothing more than shock at finding him in Seokjin’s kitchen at eleven PM on a Thursday.

Because oh is everything and nothing.

It’s the sound you made when he first kissed you on your apartment fire escape, when understanding finally bloomed between you.

It’s also the sound you didn’t make when you walked away three years ago, leaving only silence in your wake.

His throat constricts around words he doesn’t know how to say. The familiar ache of wanting to reach for you wars against the newer instinct to protect himself from the possibility of rejection.

“Byeori.”

The nickname slips free before he can stop it, clawing its way out of his throat despite every wall he’s built to contain it.

Warp thread. The backbone. The strand that holds the fabric together.

«Byeori.»

The word he used to whisper against your skin in the dark hours before dawn, when Seoul slept and only you existed in his world.

You had once teased him for calling you that, asking why not something softer, something ordinary.

And he’d told you, quietly but firmly, that you were his foundation. The thread running straight through the weave of his life.

His middle and index finger tap twice against the marble countertop—an old nervous habit you used to tease him about, one he thought he’d buried along with everything else.

Your hands move behind your back, fingers probably twisting together the way they always did when you felt cornered or uncertain. The gesture is so achingly familiar that his chest caves inward, ribs compressing around organs that suddenly feel too large for the space they occupy.

“I didn’t expect you here,” you say neutrally, but the intonation tells him you’re working to keep it that way.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he mutters, turning back toward the counter where his abandoned champagne glass sits sweating rings into the marble, “I didn’t expect you here either.”

His fingers wrap around the glass stem, using the motion as an excuse to break eye contact because looking at you directly feels like staring into headlights.

“I figured you wouldn’t have come if you knew.”

His hand freezes halfway to his mouth. The champagne trembles against the rim of the glass as his head tilts slightly toward you, not quite turning around but acknowledging your presence as he can’t help himself, not really.

“What exactly are you aiming for here?”

The question emerges more petulant than he means it to, tinged with the kind of weariness that comes from three years of practicing conversations that will never happen.

His eyebrow arches in what he hopes looks like casual curiosity rather than the defensive posture it actually is.

“You’re the one who called me ‘byeori just now."

Direct, unflinching, cutting straight through his attempt at deflection to the heart of his hypocrisy.

His eyebrow ticks. His teeth find his lower lip, gnawing at the skin there in a habit he thought he’d broken years ago.

You’re right, of course. He did just do that. Let the word escape like a bird he’d been keeping caged, watched it fly across the space between you and land with everything he’s been trying not to remember.

“What’s new these days?” you ask next, and it catches him off guard.

Especially because it’s accompanied by you shifting against the doorframe, settling in like you’re preparing to listen—really listen—the way you used to when he’d come home from particularly difficult days and need to talk through the impossible mathematics of being two people at once.

The gesture is so achingly familiar that flowers bloom sudden and violent under his tongue, petals crowding his throat until he can barely breathe.

‘Everything,’ he wants to say. ‘Nothing. I save people and attend meetings and read philosophy books that don’t contain any answers about how to stop missing someone who thinks I’m trash. I wake up every morning in an apartment that’s too quiet and make coffee for one person and pretend it doesn’t taste like loneliness.’

Instead he takes a sip of champagne that’s gone flat and warm, buying himself time to construct a response that won’t reveal how desperately he wants to know the same thing about you.

“Work keeps me busy,” he manages, the words landing somewhere between truth and lie. “Same old research projects. Korean War oral histories, you know how it is.”

The irony tastes bitter on his tongue—discussing his fictional historian persona while standing three feet away from the woman who once knew Kim Namjoon better than anyone, who could probably still read the tells in his voice that indicate when he’s deflecting.

“And you?” The question escapes before he can stop it, genuine curiosity bleeding through his attempt at casual indifference. “Still at the Herald?”

He turns fully now, abandoning the pretense of examining his champagne in favor of studying your face for the tells that used to tell him everything he needed to know about your day, your mood, your thoughts about topics you hadn’t even voiced yet.

Your eyes drift upward to study Seokjin’s ceiling like it holds answers to questions you haven’t asked yet.

The gesture is so quintessentially you—deflecting through observation, buying time by focusing on irrelevant details—that his chest constricts with recognition.

“Still at the Herald, yeah.” A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, self-deprecating in the way that used to make him want to argue with your tendency toward harsh self-assessment. “Though I’m starting to think my editor hired me specifically to torture me.”

“Torture?” He can’t help the way his voice softens with genuine concern, slipping back into patterns carved deep by two years of caring about your professional anxieties.

You let out a laugh that’s more exhale than sound.

“He’s got me chasing stories that require… difficult interviews. People who seem to have developed an aversion to press coverage.”

“Anyone I’d know?” He probes, the way he used to when you’d come home frustrated with source troubles or bureaucratic stonewalling.

“Captain Korea.” You say it simply. “Three months I’ve been trying to get an interview, and nothing. It’s like he’s actively avoiding the Herald.”

The irony sits heavy in his stomach.

He has been avoiding the Herald—specifically avoiding you, though you don’t know that.

Every interview request from your publication gets quietly redirected to other outlets, a careful dance of avoidance choreographed to keep Kim Namjoon’s worlds from colliding.

“Maybe he’s just busy,” he offers, hating how thin the excuse sounds even to his own ears.

Your eyes drop from the ceiling. “You always did defend people too easily. Remember when you insisted that professor who kept canceling your research meetings was probably just overwhelmed?”

“He was overwhelmed.”

“He was avoiding you because you asked better questions than he was comfortable answering.” Your smile grows more genuine, touched with fondness that makes his heart perform acrobatics against his ribs. “You never could see when someone was intimidated by how insightful you are.”

The compliment lands in ways he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

Insightful.

“Maybe Captain Korea just doesn’t like journalists,” he deflects.

“Maybe.” You look at the ceiling again. “Or maybe he’s like you—better at asking questions than answering them.”

The observation is too close to truth, lodged the kind of insight that used to unravel him completely.

“My editor’s getting antsy,” you continue. “Keeps saying we need the exclusive or we might as well pack up our political desk.”

His fingers tighten around the champagne flute.

You need this interview. Your career might depend on it.

And he’s the reason you can’t have it, standing three feet away from you while you worry about disappointing your editor.

Silence settles between you like dust motes in afternoon light.

A soft clink of ice shifting in someone’s abandoned drink, the muffled bass of music from the living room, what’s undoubtedly Seokjin’s cackle, it all becomes suddenly audible.

No car horns, no sirens, just the whispered sound of his own pulse in his ears.

And you’re there.

And he’s here.

And suddenly, he’s saying “I might be able to get you an interview with him.”

It’s not graceful, the way the words tumble out in a rush that breaks the careful silence like glass shattering. His own voice sounds foreign to him—brittle and strange and so loud in this quiet that he immediately wants to snatch the offer back and stuff it down his throat where it can’t complicate everything.

Your eyes widen, surprise replacing the thoughtful stance covering your figure earlier.

“You… what?”

“I mean—” His free hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, buying time while his brain scrambles to construct some reasonable explanation for why a Korean War historian would have connections to Korea’s most prominent superhero. “I might know someone. Who knows someone. Research circles, you know how it is.”

“Research circles.” Your voice carries a note of skepticism that makes his stomach clench with familiar dread.

You’ve always been good at smelling inconsistencies from a mile away.

“Academic conferences. Symposiums on modern Korean identity. People talk.”

He does not intend to lie, but he forces the words out because the alternative—watching you struggle with a story that could define your career when he holds the solution in his hands—feels infinitely worse.

You take another step into the kitchen, close enough now that he can catch the subtle scent of your perfume, something different from what you wore when you were his but still you.

“Namjoon.” His name sounds careful in your mouth, like you’re balancing it between your tongue and your teeth. “Are you being serious right now?”

His throat feels dry as sandpaper. “Yeah. I’m serious. He’s actually… he’s a really decent guy. I’m sure he’d be open to it if the right person asked.”

You blink slowly, processing this information like you’re translating a foreign language. “But do you actually know him? Like, personally?”

Your confusion is written clearly across your features—not suspicion, just genuine bewilderment at this unexpected turn in a conversation that was already surreal enough.

“I…” He runs his thumb along the rim of his champagne flute, the repetitive motion grounding him. “We’ve crossed paths a few times. Professional settings, you know. Academic stuff.”

“Academic stuff.” You repeat the words slowly, like you’re testing them for truth. “Captain Korea attends academic conferences.”

“He’s more intellectually curious than people give him credit for.” The statement is completely honest, which makes it easier to say with conviction. “Korean history, philosophy, identity politics. He’s not just the shield-throwing guy the media makes him out to be.”

You lean against the door once more, arms crossed, studying him with that focus that used to make him feel simultaneously naked and understood.

“This is so weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“This. Us. You offering to help me after…” You trail off, gesture vaguely at the space between you that contains three years of silence and whatever poison you might have spread about him to mutual friends. “I wasn’t exactly kind about our breakup, Namjoon.”

He swallows thickly. “I know.”

“I called you—” You stop, shake your head. “I said things. To people. That weren’t fair.”

“I know,” he repeats, gentler this time. The hurt is still there, will probably always be there, but seeing you acknowledge it does something to soften its edges. “But had you needed this story three years ago, I would have helped you then too.”

“Would you?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes without hesitation because it’s true—Kim Namjoon would have found a way to help you then, just like he’s apparently unable to stop himself from helping you now. “Of course I would have.”

Your expression follows a complicated path, and for a moment you look like the woman who used to curl up against his side during thunderstorms, vulnerable and real and completely unguarded.

A female voice calls your name from somewhere in the apartment, bright and slightly slurred with alcohol.

You straighten at the sound, the moment of softness flickering away like a candle in wind.

“That’s Danhee. I should—”

“Yeah, of course.”

But neither of you moves. The kitchen holds you both for another handful of heartbeats, this strange bubble of possibility neither of you seems ready to burst.

“Let’s…” You pause, teeth catching your lower lip in a gesture that sends warmth spreading through his chest. “Let’s keep in touch about that interview thing, yeah? You still have my number?”

He does. Obviously, he does.

Your contact information has been sitting in his phone for three years, untouched but never deleted.

“Yeah.”

Your response is a smile that shatters his soul.

“Good. I’ll text you later.”

You wave at him then—small and shy, fingers wiggling in a gesture so endearingly uncertain that his chest aches with fondness.

Then you push off from the door and head toward the sound of your friend’s voice.

Leaving him alone in Seokjin’s kitchen with his flat champagne and the complicated promise he’s just made.

Your hormones are apparently run by a committee of absolute idiots.

What in the fucks were you thinking?

Seriously, exes are exes for a fucking reason, and here you are sitting in this sterile Blue House interview room, staring at your reflection in the polished conference table like you can shame yourself into having better judgment through sheer force of will.

You told yourself you were fine. You told yourself those two years with Namjoon had been okay but also not enough, because what is a boyfriend if not someone you're supposed to share coffee, life, and intimacies with?

And Namjoon was very good in one sense of the word intimacy—devastatingly, embarrassingly, ruin-you-for-other-men good. The kind of good that made you forget your own name and left you boneless and stupid and completely wrecked in the best possible way.

He was romantic as hell too, bringing you first-edition poetry books and remembering exactly how you liked your coffee and the way he'd trace patterns on your back while you fell asleep against his chest

He had feelings, real ones, deep ones that made your heart do acrobatics when he'd look at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the universe.

But despite all that good—the very, very good, if you're being honest—one side of intimacy is supposed to complement the other.

Which means that whole trainwreck of secrets that man had going on was decidedly not it.

Emotional intimacy requires actual fucking transparency. The ability to answer simple questions about your day without deflecting like you're in a goddamn CIA interrogation.

"I can't tell you that."

"I can't answer that right now."

"It's complicated, byeori."

Those phrases still make your eye twitch with residual frustration.

What kind of historian researching Korean War oral histories has classified information? What kind of academic work requires that level of secrecy from your own girlfriend?

You'd ask him about his research, about why he seemed to know so much about trauma psychology, about why he sometimes got this distant look when discussing family separation during the war, and he'd just… shut down. Like there was some invisible wall between you that he refused to let you cross.

So what happens now? You see Kim Namjoon and his stupid perfect dimples—those twin craters of devastation that should be registered as lethal weapons—and those stupid bedroom eyes that always looked like he was either about to recite poetry or completely destroy you against the nearest flat surface, and those stupid shoulders that could probably bench press a small car, and that broad frame and ridiculous height…

And what, everything goes to shit?

Because your hormones can't hold up for one goddamn second?

Really? After three years of drinking yourself stupid on cognac because that's what he liked and the bottles were always on discount at the convenience store near your apartment and it reminded you of him and you thought—and berated yourself as stupid for thinking—that maybe, just maybe, you should've settled for the secrecy?

Maybe you should've been okay with loving someone who treated basic relationship transparency like it was optional?

But what's the point of that, when your whole career and identity and sense of self revolves around the very fact of uncovering truths?

You're a journalist, for fuck's sake. You've built your entire professional reputation on getting people to tell you things they don't want to reveal.

The irony of dating someone who stonewalled you harder than any politician you've ever interviewed was not lost on you, even then.

You aggressively scratch the sides of your head, more hair wiggling loose from your professional chignon, and settle for a groan that reverberates through your chest like you're a wounded animal.

Because going to the kitchen at Seokjin's party? Following after him the moment you felt that stupid invisible string tying you to him, the same way you did when he approached your table at that café in Samcheong-dong with his careful, thoughtful expression and those books about Korean War research tucked under his arm?

Like the universe has some cosmic joke about connection and distance, about particles that remain entangled no matter how far apart they get.

You and Namjoon, apparently, are two particles that can't stop affecting each other across space and time and three years of very intentional separation.

Girl, you're so much better than this. You should be better than this.

You're a goddamn award-winning political journalist. You've made cabinet ministers sweat through their expensive suits with your questions. You've gotten government officials to accidentally reveal classified information because you asked about their childhood at exactly the right moment.

You've built an entire career on being too smart to fall for pretty faces and charming words and men who look like they stepped out of some romantic drama about tortured intellectuals with mysterious pasts.

And yet here you are, sitting on this uncomfortable government-issued chair that probably costs more than your monthly rent, hands pressed against your forehead like you can physically hold your brain cells together through sheer force of will, looking down at your pencil skirt and black sheer tights that cover your thighs and wondering what the actual fuck is your life and why dimpled, kind, philosophically-minded bastards with commitment issues are apparently your specific brand of kryptonite.

Fuck.

You're pathetic.

You're sitting here having a crisis about your choice of legwear like you're sixteen and trying to get your crush's attention at the school dance.

Except you're not a teenager and your crush is your ex-boyfriend who broke your heart by being emotionally unavailable and secretive and who you definitely, absolutely, completely got over three years ago.

Except you didn't get over him, did you?

Because getting over someone doesn't involve buying cognac every time it goes on sale because it tastes like the nights he'd read Korean poetry aloud while you traced patterns on his chest.

Getting over someone doesn't mean you still sleep on the left side of the bed even though you live alone because that was your side when you lived with him.

Getting over someone definitely doesn't mean you've never had an orgasm with another person that came close to what he could do to you with just his voice and those impossibly long fingers and the way he'd whisper your name like it was something sacred.

Double fuck.

The worst part is that he looked good.

Criminally, devastatingly good in that black button-down that fits him like it was tailored specifically to ruin your life.

His hair is longer now, pushed back from his forehead in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it and mess it up completely.

And those fucking dimples when he almost-smiled at something someone said across the room—like even three years later, your stupid heart still does that flutter thing that makes you feel like a teenager with her first crush.

You should've stayed in the living room.

You should've found Danhee and spent the evening making small talk about her latest dating disasters and pretending you didn't notice Kim Namjoon existing in the same physical space as you.

You should've been a mature adult who can handle seeing an ex at a mutual friend's party without having a complete emotional breakdown in a government office building at eleven thirty at night.

Instead, you followed him to the kitchen and three years of avoidance crumbled the moment he said your old nickname in that voice that used to whisper much more interesting things against your skin in the dark hours before dawn.

Byeori.

The bastard.

And now you're here, on some impossible interview arrangement that he definitely can't actually deliver on, because what kind of historian has connections to Korea's most prominent superhero?

The whole thing is ridiculous and you're ridiculous for agreeing to it and he's ridiculous for offering it and this entire situation is a masterclass in why you should've just stayed home tonight and watched historical dramas while eating convenience store ramyeon like a normal, emotionally stable person.

But those shoulders, though.

And the way he still does that thing where he taps his fingers against surfaces when he's thinking, and how his voice got softer when he said he would've helped you three years ago too, like maybe the breakup hurt him as much as it hurt you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Dimpled, philosophically-minded bastards are definitely your weakness.

The door creaks then, and your eyes dart up from your notepad.

Captain Korea fills the doorway like he was engineered for dramatic entrances, mask on, half his face hidden—and for a split second your brain short-circuits because holy shit, he’s actually here.

Actually standing in this sterile government room wearing that iconic uniform you’ve seen plastered across every newspaper in Seoul for the past three years.

Except seeing him in person is… different.

The photographs don’t capture the way the fabric stretches across shoulders that are somehow even broader than they appear in press shots.

Or how tall he actually is—tall enough that he has to duck slightly under the doorframe, tall enough that when he straightens up he seems to fill more space than should be physically possible.

You blink hard and gesture toward the chair across from you, slipping back into professional mode like pulling on armor.

“Captain Korea. Thank you for agreeing to this interview.”

“My apologies,” he says, and his voice carries that slight rasp you’ve heard in televised addresses but sounds different in person—warmer, more intimate in the small space. “There was an incident in Hongdae that required immediate attention.”

The sound travels through you in ways that are absolutely not appropriate for a professional setting.

There’s something about the timbre of it, the way certain syllables catch slightly in his throat, that makes heat pool low in your stomach before you can stop it.

What the actual fuck.

You are not finding Captain Korea sexually attractive.

That’s like finding the… president hot.

That’s like developing a crush on the Statue of Liberty or getting turned on by the national anthem.

He’s a symbol, a public figure, Korea’s golden boy who probably has his schedule planned down to the minute and sleeps in his uniform.

He settles into the chair across from you with fluid grace, and the movement draws your attention to his thighs—thick, powerful thighs that strain against the fabric of his pants in ways that make your brain misfire entirely.

Focus, you absolute disaster.

“No issue at all,” you manage, flipping to a fresh page in your notepad with hands that feel suspiciously unsteady. “After all, you accepted my request when dozens of other outlets have been turned down.”

“I understand you’ve been trying to secure this interview for some time.” He leans back slightly, the motion causing his uniform to pull tighter across his chest. “I apologize for the delay. My schedule has been… complicated.”

The way he says ‘complicated’ makes something flutter in your chest.

Not the word itself, but the slight pause before it, like he’s choosing his phrasing carefully. Like there are layers of meaning he’s not sharing.

You’ve always been attracted to intelligence.

To men who think before they speak, who choose their words with intention rather than just filling silence.

It’s why Namjoon got under your skin so completely—the way he’d consider your questions like they were puzzles worth solving, the careful way he’d construct his responses.

But this is Captain Korea. Korea’s poster boy for virtue and service and probably sexual abstinence for the good of the nation.

You are not supposed to be noticing how his lips look when he talks.

“Let’s start with something direct,” you say, clicking your pen. “There’s been increasing public debate about the role of enhanced individuals in Korean society. Some critics argue that having a super-soldier as a national representative sends the wrong message about Korean values. How do you respond to that?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you watch his face as he processes the question. The way his lips pull in thought, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head as he considers multiple angles.

It’s the expression of someone who takes questions seriously, who actually thinks through his responses instead of falling back on rehearsed talking points.

God, why is that attractive?

“I think that criticism comes from a fundamental misunderstanding of what the enhancement program was designed to accomplish,” he says finally. “I wasn’t enhanced to represent Korean values—I was enhanced to protect Korean lives. The fact that I’ve become a symbol was… unexpected.”

The thoughtfulness in his response makes something warm and liquid spread through your chest.

You’ve interviewed enough politicians to know the difference between genuine consideration and performance.

And this feels real. Unscripted.

“Unexpected how?”

“When I volunteered for the program, the focus was entirely on military capability.” He shifts forward slightly, elbows coming to rest on the table, and suddenly he’s closer. “The psychological and cultural implications weren’t part of the initial consideration.”

His voice drops lower when he’s being serious, you notice. That rasp becomes more pronounced, more intimate, like he’s sharing secrets instead of giving an interview.

Jesus Christ.

You shift in your chair, crossing your legs in a way that’s supposed to look professional but is actually an attempt to deal with the completely inappropriate heat building between your thighs.

This is Captain Korea. This is a work interview. This is your career-defining assignment, not an opportunity to develop a completely insane crush on Korea’s national symbol.

But when he leans forward like that, when his voice takes on that contemplative quality, when he talks about volunteering and duty and sacrifice with the kind of weight that suggests personal understanding rather than academic knowledge…

Fuck.

You are definitely finding Captain Korea attractive.

“You mention turning the tide of the war,” you continue, trying to ignore the way his fingers drum against the table in a rhythm that’s somehow hypnotic. “Do you ever feel like you failed in that original mission? The country is still divided.”

Something flickers across his expression—pain, maybe, or regret—and the vulnerability in it makes your stomach clench with want that has no business existing in this room.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Every day.”

It’s the pure honesty of it that does it for you.

Not the diplomatic response you’d expected, not the careful optimism about future reunification possibilities.

Just raw, unguarded truth delivered in that voice that’s starting to make your pulse behave in ways that are absolutely not conducive to professional journalism.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

He looks down at his hands—still gloved, you notice—and the gesture exposes the line of his neck above his collar. Strong, corded with muscle, the kind of neck that would probably feel incredible under your mouth if you were the kind of person who fantasized about putting your lips on national symbols.

Which you are not.

Obviously.

“I was enhanced to protect Korean families. To keep them together, to prevent the kind of suffering that comes from division and separation.” His voice carries this quality of controlled pain that makes your chest ache in ways that have nothing to do with journalistic objectivity. “Instead, I slept through seventy years while families remained separated, while people grew old without seeing their parents or children or siblings again. The war ended, but the division didn’t.”

The way he talks about failure, about personal responsibility for historical events beyond any individual’s control, reminds you of something.

Some conversation, some moment of connection with someone who understood Korean historical trauma with the same devastating personal weight.

Focus.

“But you’re working toward reunification now,” you say, writing quickly to avoid looking at the way his mouth moves when he speaks. “Your humanitarian efforts, your diplomatic appearances—”

“Are they enough?” He looks up at you suddenly, and the directness of his gaze makes heat spike through you like electricity. “How do you quantify success when success means families seeing each other again? How do you measure progress when every day of division is another day of separation?”

Fuck, that voice.

The way he asks questions—not rhetorical ones, but genuine inquiries that suggest he actually wants your opinion rather than just using you as a sounding board for his own thoughts.

It’s the kind of intellectual engagement that’s always been your weakness, the suggestion that your thoughts matter to someone whose own thoughts are clearly worth having.

“I don’t think you can,” you say, abandoning professional objectivity entirely because something about his vulnerability demands honesty in return.

He nods like your answer has given him something to consider, and the attention makes warmth bloom under your skin.

“Let’s talk about identity,” you manage, desperate to redirect your brain away from the increasingly inappropriate direction it’s heading. “You represent Korea, but you also lived through a very different version of Korea. How do you reconcile the country you knew with the country you’re protecting now?”

“That’s…” He licks his lips in pondering, and you hate yourself for tracking the movement. “That’s probably the most difficult part of this entire situation.”

The gesture catches your attention for reasons that have nothing to do with the answer to your question.

Something about the way he looks up at you, the specific motion, tugs at memory in ways you can’t identify.

“The Korea I knew was hungry, desperate,” he continues, and his voice takes on this distant quality that suggests he’s speaking from experience rather than historical study. “People were focused on survival, on protecting what little they had left. The Korea I protect now is prosperous, connected, confident. It’s everything we hoped for during the war, but it’s also completely foreign to me.”

The passion in his voice when he talks about Korean history makes something clench low in your abdomen.

God, he’s brilliant.

Not just politically savvy or media-trained, but actually, genuinely intelligent in ways that make you want to ask him about everything just to hear how his mind works.

“Do you feel like a stranger in your own country?”

“Sometimes.” The admission sounds like it costs him something, and the vulnerability makes you want to reach across the table and touch his hand.

Which would be completely inappropriate and probably result in your immediate ejection from the building.

“I’ll walk through Seoul and see these incredible technological achievements, this economic prosperity, this cultural influence reaching across the world, and I’m proud. But I also feel like I’m watching someone else’s life, someone else’s success.”

Jesus.

The way he talks about displacement, about feeling disconnected despite being the literal symbol of Korean identity—it’s heartbreaking and philosophical and sexy as hell.

You should not be thinking about how his voice would sound whispering things that have nothing to do with geopolitical analysis, but apparently your brain has decided that Captain Korea’s existential crisis is the hottest thing you’ve encountered in months.

Get it together.

“Is that why you maintain a private identity separate from Captain Korea?”

The question makes his posture shift almost imperceptibly, shoulders tensing in a way that draws your attention to their breadth.

Not defensive, exactly, but more guarded.

“Privacy is important,” he says carefully. “This role requires complete dedication, but that doesn’t mean every aspect of my existence needs to be public.”

“Of course. I wasn’t asking for personal details, just about the psychological necessity of having space that belongs to you rather than to Korea.”

“Yes.” He relaxes slightly, and you find yourself noting the way his body language opens back up, the way his hands uncurl from whatever tension they’d been holding. “Exactly. There has to be something that exists independent of the symbol, independent of public service. Otherwise, you lose track of who you are underneath the uniform.”

The words resonate in ways that have nothing to do with your professional interest in superhero psychology.

How many times have you felt like the journalist was consuming everything else about you, like your entire identity had become professional rather than personal?

But more than that—the way he says it, with such personal understanding, such intimate knowledge of the struggle between public service and private self.

It’s the kind of insight that comes from experience, not theory.

And it’s making you want to crawl across this conference table and find out exactly what kind of man exists underneath that uniform.

Holy shit.

Where did that thought come from?

You don’t want to crawl across tables toward national symbols.

You want to conduct professional interviews and ask pointed questions about policy implications and maintain appropriate boundaries with public figures who could probably deadlift your entire apartment building.

But looking at him now—really looking—you’re starting to understand why Captain Korea has such a devoted following among Korean women.

It’s not just the obvious physical appeal, though that’s certainly present in ways that are making concentration difficult.

It’s the intelligence. The thoughtfulness. The way he considers your questions like they actually matter to him.

The way he’s looking at you right now, like you’re the most interesting person he’s talked to in months.

Wait.

Is he… is Captain Korea flirting with you?

No. That’s impossible.

He’s probably just being polite, engaging with your questions the way any good interview subject would.

You’re reading too much into his attention, projecting your own attraction onto professional courtesy.

But then he leans forward slightly, close enough that you can see the way his throat moves when he swallows, and asks, “Do you ever worry that the private person is disappearing entirely?”

The question is directed at you, not rhetorical, and there’s something in his voice that suggests he actually wants your opinion rather than using the interview format to make his own points.

“Do you mean me specifically, or people in public service generally?”

“You specifically.” His gaze is focused entirely on your face, studying your expression with an intensity that makes heat creep up your neck. “You’ve built your career on understanding public figures, on getting them to reveal the humanity behind their roles. But who gets to know Y/N when she’s not being a journalist?”

Oh.

Oh, that’s definitely flirting.

Your pen freezes halfway through forming a letter, brain struggling to process this development.

Captain Korea—actual Captain Korea, not some random man at a bar—is asking you personal questions with the kind of attention that suggests he’s genuinely interested in your answers.

What the hell do you do with that information?

“I…” You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of professional composure while your body temperature rises by several degrees. “That’s not really relevant to the interview.”

“Isn’t it?” He tilts his head slightly, the movement somehow making his jaw look even sharper. “You’re asking me about the balance between public duty and private identity. Seems like a question you might have personal insight into.”

The way he challenges your deflection, the intellectual engagement combined with what feels like genuine interest in your thoughts rather than just your questions, makes something hot and liquid pool in your lower abdomen.

This is insane.

You are sitting in a government building having what might be the most important interview of your career, and you’re getting turned on by Captain Korea’s conversational skills.

But God, the way his mind works.

The way he turns your questions back on you not to avoid answering but to create actual dialogue, actual intellectual exchange.

It’s been so long since someone engaged with your thoughts like they mattered, like your perspective was worth exploring rather than just documenting.

Three years too long, to be exact.

“You’re right,” you admit, and his smile in response makes your stomach flip. “It is difficult to maintain private identity when your professional role becomes all-consuming.”

“How do you handle it?”

The question seems genuinely curious, like he actually wants to understand your experience rather than just making conversation.

The attention is intoxicating in ways that are definitely not appropriate for this setting.

“Not very well, apparently.” You attempt a laugh, but it comes out breathier than intended. “I’ve been told I’m married to my job.”

“By whom?”

The question is casual, but something in his tone makes you look up from your notepad.

“Ex-boyfriends, mostly,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because discussing your dating history with Captain Korea feels surreal in ways your brain isn’t equipped to handle.

“Their loss,” he says quietly, and the words hit you like a tsunami.

What.

Did Captain Korea just… did he just express an opinion about your romantic availability? In a tone that suggests he might have thoughts about it beyond general sympathy?

Your face heats so fast you can feel the flush spreading down your neck.

Professional journalists do not blush when national symbols make comments that could theoretically be interpreted as flirtatious if you squint and ignore the impossibility of the entire situation.

“That’s very kind,” you manage, voice coming out higher than usual.

“Not kind. Honest.” He leans back in his chair, the movement casual but somehow charged with tension that makes the air between you feel electric. “Intelligence is rare. So is genuine curiosity about the world. Most people in public life are surrounded by individuals who tell them what they want to hear rather than asking questions that matter.”

Jesus Christ.

He’s complimenting your mind.

Captain Korea is sitting across from you praising your intelligence and intellectual curiosity in a voice that’s doing absolutely devastating things to your ability to think clearly about anything except how his mouth would feel against yours.

This is professional suicide. You are contemplating kissing Korea’s national symbol in a Blue House interview room like you’re the protagonist of some deeply inappropriate romance novel.

But when he talks like that—when he engages with your thoughts like they’re worth having, when he looks at you like you’re more than just another journalist asking the same tired questions—your body responds in ways that completely bypass rational thought.

“Let me ask you something more personal,” you say, and your voice comes out lower than intended. “Do you have relationships outside of your role? Friends, romantic connections—people who know you as a person rather than as Captain Korea?”

His hands flatten against the table, and you notice for the first time how large they are.

Long fingers, broad palms that could probably span your entire ribcage.

The thought makes heat spike through you so suddenly that you have to shift in your chair to deal with the pressure building between your legs.

What is wrong with you?

“Personal relationships are complicated when your life belongs to the public.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“No, it’s not.” He looks directly at you, and the eye contact feels charged with something that has nothing to do with journalism. “The honest answer is that meaningful connections are difficult to maintain when you can’t be fully transparent about who you are or what your life entails.”

The words hit too close to home, reminding you of all the reasons your relationship with Namjoon fell apart.

But coming from Captain Korea’s mouth, in that voice that’s doing things to your nervous system, they feel less like painful memories and more like… understanding.

Like maybe he knows exactly what it feels like to want connection while being unable to offer complete honesty.

“So you’re isolated.”

“I prefer to think of it as solitary.”

“That’s definitely the most diplomatic way I’ve ever heard someone describe loneliness.”

“Loneliness implies that I want something I can’t have,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—something almost teasing—that makes you wonder if this conversation has moved beyond professional boundaries into territory that’s much more dangerous. “This is more about accepting that some things aren’t compatible with duty.”

Some things aren’t compatible with duty.

The phrase echoes in your mind, familiar in ways that make your chest tighten.

“That sounds like a rationalization.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe I’m just telling myself that isolation is noble instead of admitting that I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of letting someone close enough to see this.” He gestures at himself, the movement encompassing more than just the uniform. “All of it. The weight, the contradictions, the way duty and desire don’t always align.”

Duty and desire.

The way he says it, with that slight emphasis on desire, makes something hot and desperate claw its way up your throat.

Because the implication—that Captain Korea has desires, that beneath the symbol and the service he’s a man with wants and needs and thoughts about things that have nothing to do with protecting Korea—is doing absolutely catastrophic things to your ribcage.

“It’s easier to convince myself that solitude is a choice,” he continues, “than to risk having someone decide it’s too much.”

You’re staring at him now, pen forgotten in your grip.

Something about the way he’s looking at you—like maybe you’re not just any journalist, like maybe this conversation matters to him beyond standard media obligations—makes your pulse race.

“Have you ever had someone who made you want to risk it?” you ask out of the blue, somehow emboldened. “Someone who made the isolation feel worse than the vulnerability?”

His entire body goes still.

Not the controlled stillness he’s maintained throughout the interview, but genuine shock—like you’ve just reached across the table and touched him.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with tension that feels nothing like professional courtesy and everything like the moment before someone makes a decision that changes everything.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

The air in the room grows in pressure, electric, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.

And Captain Korea is looking at you like you’ve just asked the one question he’s been hoping someone would ask and dreading having to answer.

The instrumental melody of Lee Moon Sae’s ‘옛사랑’ suddenly fills the room, soft and melancholy, rising from his jacket pocket.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters, the curse barely audible but surprising because Captain Korea doesn’t curse, as his hand darts toward his phone.

But you’ve gone completely still.

That song.

That exact song, in that exact instrumental arrangement that used to wake you up every Sunday morning when Namjoon’s alarm would go off and he’d pull you closer instead of getting up, humming along under his breath while his fingers traced patterns on your bare skin.

Your brain stutters, trying to process the impossibility of what you’re hearing while the melody continues to play.

Captain Korea’s thumb swipes across his phone screen, cutting the song off mid-phrase, and the sudden silence rings in your ears.

“Sorry about that,” he says, voice tight. “Emergency contacts.”

But you can’t respond because your throat has closed entirely.

The coincidence is too specific, too exact.

What are the odds that two different men would choose that same song, that same arrangement, as their ringtone?

“I have to take this,” he says, standing abruptly. His phone is buzzing again, screen lighting up with what’s probably another call. “But before I go…”

He pauses, looking down at you with an expression you can’t read.

“What I said earlier—about choosing duty over someone I cared about—that stays off the record.”

The words should register as a standard request for discretion.

Instead, they land like a confession, heavy with implications that make your head spin.

You manage the world’s most pathetic nod—delayed, uncertain, like your motor functions have forgotten how to operate properly.

“Good,” he says, moving toward the door. “I’ll be in touch about scheduling our follow-up interview.”

Just before he reaches the threshold, he pauses without turning around.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice carrying something that might be regret, “I think your ex-boyfriend was an idiot for letting you go.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the echo of a song that shouldn’t mean anything to anyone except you and Kim Namjoon.

You have absolutely no fucking clue how you managed to get Captain Korea pressed against your couch cushions with his mouth on yours, but you’re not about to question the logistics of miracles.

Your coffee has gone cold on the side table, forgotten the moment he stepped through your apartment door and the professional pretense you’d been clinging to crumbled like wet paper.

One second you were offering him a drink, the next his gloved hands were cupping your face and his mouth was claiming yours like he’d been starving for the taste of you.

And fuck, the way he kisses—like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips, like he’s been thinking about this moment longer than the twenty minutes it took him to get from the Blue House to your building.

His tongue slides against yours with a desperation that doesn’t match the careful control he displayed during your interview, and the contrast makes heat pool between your thighs so fast it’s almost painful.

“Christ,” you gasp against his mouth when he pulls back just enough to let you breathe, “where did that come from?”

His laugh is rough, breathless, muffled by the mask that covers half his face. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

The statement should sound like a line—something practiced, something he might say to any woman who’s caught his attention.

Instead, it comes out raw and honest, like he’s admitting something he never intended to say out loud.

“How long?”

You’re not sure why you ask, maybe because the yearning in his voice doesn’t match the timeline of knowing him for exactly one interview and whatever cosmic force brought him to your door tonight.

“Too long,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours again before you can process the weight of that answer.

His hands—still gloved, still careful—map the curves of your waist like he’s rediscovering familiar territory. The touch sends electricity racing through your nervous system, every nerve ending attuned to the pressure of his fingers against your ribs.

When his thumbs brush just under the hem of your shirt, you arch into the contact with a sound that’s embarrassingly needy.

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe, and you feel his smile against your throat where his lips have migrated to work against your pulse point.

But it’s when his mouth moves lower, when his teeth scrape against your collarbone, that your brain stutters entirely.

Because somehow—impossibly—he knows exactly where to bite, exactly how much pressure to apply to make your back arch off the couch and your fingers tangle in the material of his uniform.

“How do you—“

The question dies on your lips as he finds that spot where your neck meets your shoulder, the one that makes you forget your own name when someone gets it right.

Which no one ever does on the first try.

Which should be impossible for someone you’ve never been with before.

“Sensitive here?” he asks, voice rough with want, like he already knows the answer.

Your response is more sound than word, something between a whimper and his title, “Captain—”

The way his name—his title—sounds in your mouth makes him groan low in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the gear pressed against your body.

His hands grip your hips harder, possessive in a way that should probably concern you but instead makes wetness pool between your legs.

“Say it again,” he demands, mouth still working against your collarbone, and the authority in his voice makes your cunt clench around nothing.

“Captain,” you repeat, the word coming out breathier than before, and his reaction is immediate and devastating.

His hands slide under your thighs, powerful forearms flexing as he lifts you like you weigh nothing at all.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and suddenly you’re pressed against the solid wall of his chest, feeling the strength in every movement as he carries you toward your bedroom.

The hallway feels endless and instantaneous at the same time.

Your mouth finds the exposed line of his jaw above his mask, teeth scraping against skin that tastes like salt and want. His breathing hitches when you bite down gently, and the sound goes straight to your clit like a direct electrical connection.

“Bedroom,” you manage between kisses, even though he’s already moving in the right direction as if he knows your apartment layout better than he should.

“I know,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—satisfaction, maybe, or relief—that makes you wonder why he sounds so sure of himself in your space.

But then he’s lowering you onto your bed, following you down until his weight settles over you, and rational thought becomes impossible when his mouth slots into yours again.

His hands frame your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones with a tenderness that doesn’t match the hunger in his kiss.

There’s something almost reverent in the way he touches you, like he’s been dreaming about this moment and can’t quite believe it’s real.

“I thought I’d never get this again,” he whispers against your mouth, so quiet you almost miss it.

Again.

The word should register as significant, should make you question what he means, but his tongue is doing things to yours that make coherent thought impossible.

Instead, you file it away with all the other little inconsistencies—the way he knows your apartment, the way he finds your sensitive spots without guidance, the way he touches you like he’s been memorizing your body for years.

“Captain,” you breathe again, because you love the way it makes him react, love the way his grip tightens on your waist when you say it.

“Fuck,” he groans, “I love hearing you say that.”

His mouth moves down your throat, pausing to work at that spot on your collarbone that makes you arch beneath him. The combination of his lips and teeth and tongue has you writhing against the mattress, hands fisting in the tactical fabric of his uniform because you need something to hold onto.

“More,” you demand, because this—whatever this is—isn’t nearly enough.

You need his hands on your skin, need to feel more of him, need to understand how someone you barely know can make you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams.

“Patience,” he murmurs against your skin, but his own breathing is ragged, his control clearly hanging by a thread. “I want to take my time with you.”

The patient cadence of his voice makes your cunt clench in need.

Because if this is what he calls taking his time—this thorough exploration of your neck and collarbones, this worship of every sensitive spot he somehow already knows—you might not survive what he considers rushed.

Your hands slide over the fabric covering his chest, mapping the broad planes of muscle beneath.

“I need—” you start, but the words dissolve into a moan when his teeth find your cavicle again.

“What do you need?” The question is muffled against your skin, his voice rough with the same want that’s making your body shake beneath him.

“You,” you manage.

His response is wordless—just a sound of pure need that vibrates through his chest and into yours where you’re pressed together.

His hands slide under your shirt, finally making contact with bare skin, and the sensation makes you arch up into him with a gasp.

“Christ, you feel incredible,” he breathes, palms settling onto the curves of your waist like he wants them to become his hands resting spot.

But then his mouth finds yours again, and you lose yourself in the taste of him, in the feeling of being wanted with this kind of desperate intensity by someone who should be completely unattainable.

Captain Korea.

Korea’s golden boy, pressed against you in your bedroom like he belongs here, like this moment has been inevitable from the second you walked into that interview room.

The irony would be funny if you weren’t too busy drowning in sensation to appreciate it.

His tongue plunges into your mouth like he’s been dying for the taste of you, and the desperation behind the kiss makes your entire body respond in ways that feel primal and necessary. Circles your tongue with his own, setting a rhythm that makes you follow his pace—slow and thorough, like he needs to savor every second of contact.

Then he breaks away just long enough to draw a shaky breath, and the sound makes you ache with desire because you can hear how wrecked he already is.

“Jesus,” you gasp, but he’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, like he’s trying to crawl inside your mouth and make himself at home there.

Your fingers find the buttons of your shirt without conscious direction, working to remove barriers between his hands and your skin.

But he beats you to it, gloved fingers moving with surprising dexterity to work the buttons free himself, one by one.

Each new inch of exposed skin makes him breathe harder against your mouth.

“I need to see you,” he murmurs, voice rough.

He pushes your shirt off your shoulders and his eyes fix on the line of your collarbone like it’s exactly what he’s been searching for.

“There,” he breathes, and the satisfaction in his voice makes your nipples tighten beneath your bra. “Perfect.”

His mouth descends to your collarbone like he knows exactly what he’s looking for, tongue tracing the ridge of bone before his teeth scrape across the sensitive skin.

The pleasurable sensation floods you, making you arch beneath him with a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate.

“Captain, fuck—”

“I love when you call me that,” he admits against your skin. “The way you say it makes me want to do terrible things to you.”

He suckles at your collarbone, creating suction that makes you writhe beneath him, then uses his teeth to leave marks that will probably be visible tomorrow.

It’s a bit painful, but it also feels so good you find yourself calling his title again absentmindedly, breathless and needy.

“Captain, please—”

The sound makes him grind against you involuntarily, and that’s when you notice the hard length of himself pressing against your thigh through the uniform’s pants.

There’s no hiding the fact that he’s fully erect.

And somehow, the realization that this affect him as much as it’s affecting you, makes your brain fuzzy with lust.

Your hand slides down to palm him through the fabric, and the size of him is unmistakable.

Enhanced in every way, apparently—thick and long enough that your fingers can’t quite wrap around him even through the clothing.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, caressing him through the material. “Are you—how am I supposed to—”

“It’s—it’s okay,” he says, but his voice breaks slightly on the word as your palm works against him. “I’ll make sure you can take it.”

Reassurance is not something you’ve ever particularly found arousing, but you can’t deny how it makes you shudder in both anticipation and something that might be nervousness.

Because if he’s enhanced proportionally to his strength and speed, you might be in for more than you bargained for.

But then his mouth moves lower, lips trailing over the swell of your breasts above your bra, and concern flies off the window.

His free hand cups you through the lace, thumb stroking over your nipple until it’s a hard point that aches for more direct contact.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, and there it is again, that oversaturated reverence. “So fucking beautiful.”

You arch into his touch, desperate for more pressure, more contact, more everything.

The bra becomes an impediment you need gone immediately, and your hands move to the clasp at your back.

“Let me,” he says, and somehow he manages to work the hooks free with one hand while the other continues its worship of your breast.

When the lace falls away, exposing you completely to his gaze, the way he looks at you makes heat race through your veins like wildfire.

There’s hunger there, yes, but also something softer. Something that looks almost like relief.

“Perfect,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on your nipple, tongue circling the sensitive peak while his hand kneads the other breast.

The softness of his gesture makes you sigh whilst your hands tangle in his hair—or try to, but the tactical mask covers most of his head, leaving you grasping at the fabric instead.

“I want to touch you,” you gasp, frustrated by all the gear that keeps you from feeling his skin. “This uniform—”

“Has to stay on for privacy and identity reasons,” he says firmly, but his voice carries regret that suggests he wants the same thing you do. “But there are other ways.”

His meaning becomes clear when you hear the sound of fabric shifting, buckles being worked open. Your eyes focus on his hands as he manipulates some hidden mechanism in the tactical pants, and then—

Fuck.

His cock springs free, and the sight makes your mouth water instantly.

Thick, yes, but not grotesquely so. Long enough that your pussy clenches with a hint of anxiety about accommodating him. The head is flushed dark with arousal, and there’s already precum beading at the tip that makes you want to lean forward and taste him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, because enhanced individuals apparently don’t hold back in any aspect of their physiology.

“Too much?” The question carries genuine concern, like he’s aware that his proportions might be intimidating.

“No,” you breathe, reaching out to wrap your fingers around the nakedness of him. Your hand barely encompasses his girth, and the heat of him against your palm makes your cunt throb with need. “Definitely not too much.”

The sound he makes when you stroke him is pure devastation—a groan that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips buck into your grip involuntarily, and the response makes power flood through you.

Captain Korea, Korea’s poster boy, seeking your touch.

“That’s—” he starts, but whatever he was going to say dissolves into another groan as your thumb swipes over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture gathered there.

His hands move to your jeans with surprising urgency, fingers working the button and zipper so eagerly its almost like he’s been thinking about this moment longer than the past hour.

The denim slides down your legs, pooling on the floor beside your bed, and you’re left in nothing but the lace panties that—

Your brain stutters when his eyes fix on the underwear with an expression you can’t quite read. Not surprise, exactly, but something closer to recognition. Like he’s seen this particular set before, in this exact context, which should be impossible given that Namjoon bought them for you three years ago from a boutique in Myeongdong that you’ve never mentioned to anyone.

He doesn’t comment on the coincidence that’s making your pulse race for reasons that have nothing to do with arousal.

Instead, his fingers hook into the elastic, but rather than sliding them down, he simply pulls the fabric to one side, exposing your pussy to his gaze.

The way he looks at you—like he’s been starving for exactly this sight—makes the wetness between your thighs grow slicker. His breathing becomes heavier behind the tactical mask, and you can see his jaw clench with whatever control he’s maintaining.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough with want. “You’re alw—you’re just—fucking beautiful.”

Then his hand moves between your legs, fingers still gloved, tactical fabric creating interesting texture against your sensitive skin as he traces along your folds.

The touch is seemingly exploratory at first, but you can’t help but notice how there’s something about the way he moves—like muscle memory guiding his hand to exactly the right spots.

“Already so wet for me,” he says, and the satisfaction in his voice makes your hips buck toward his touch. “Is this what you were thinking about during our interview?”

Your response is more moan than actual speech, but he seems to understand your meaning perfectly.

His thumb languidly finds your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with exactly the right pressure. Not too gentle, not too rough—like he somehow knows exactly how you like to be touched.

“That’s it,” he encourages when you arch beneath his touch. “Let me hear you.”

The middle finger of his other hand slides through your wetness, gathering the moisture before pressing inside you slowly.

The stretch is perfect—thick enough to make you feel full but not so much that it’s uncomfortable.

Like his hands were designed specifically for your body.

“Fuck,” you gasp, because the way he moves his finger makes you clench around him.

“Like that?” he says with dark satisfaction, and then he’s adding a second finger, stretching you wider while his thumb continues its relentless assault on your clit.

Your hands fist in the sheets because you need something to hold onto.

Embarrassed is what you are—making desperate whimpers and gasps that reveal exactly how much you need this—but he seems to feed off your responses.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the possessive endearment makes you want to mewl for unknown reasons. “Taking my fingers so perfectly. Can you take more?”

Before you can answer, he’s adding a third finger, the stretch intense but not painful.

Your body accepts the intrusion eagerly, muscles fluttering around the invasion as he works you open with single-minded focus.

The rhythm he sets is devastating—fingers pumping into you while his thumb draws tight circles around your clit. Your orgasm builds with frightening speed, pleasure coiling tighter in your lower abdomen until you’re trembling on th edge of release.

“Captain,” you gasp, not caring how desperate you sound. “I’m going to—”

“Not yet,” he says firmly, withdrawing his fingers just as you’re about to fall over the edge.

The sudden absence makes you whine in frustration, hips lifting off the bed in search of contact he’s no longer providing.

“Why—”

“Because I want to be inside you when you come,” he explains, voice splinted with his own need. “I want to feel you falling apart around my cock.”

The words make your cunt clench around nothing, desperate for the fullness he’s promising.

You watch as he positions himself between your spread thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance with gentle pressure.

“Condoms,” you manage to say, even though your brain is fogged with lust and the practical consideration feels almost impossible to voice.

His entire body goes still.

For a moment, something flickers across his visible features—an expression, dark and almost pained, that you can’t quite read behind the mask.

“The enhancement,” he says finally, voice modulated. “It changes things. Makes me… different. Like a hybrid, in some ways.” He pauses, seeming to weigh his words. “I can’t have offspring. I’m infertile.”

The confession pulls a knot in your throat. It makes you want to say something soft, something that acknowledges the weight of that truth and what sharing it conveys.

But something tells you he wouldn’t appreciate it.

So instead, you let your hormone-addled brain move past the biology to the practical conclusion.

No condoms needed.

“Okay then,” you breathe, and his relieved exhale suggests he was worried about your reaction. “We don’t need them.”

He blinks up at you, seemingly caught off guard.

“You… Are you sure?”

You now slowly.

Because honestly? Yes, you are sure. Pretty sure Captain Korea isn’t running around Seoul fucking random civilians.

And if he is and that has consequences—then he better be prepared to pay you some serious compensation money.

But the thought is fleeting because he’s already positioning himself more carefully, one hand gripping your hip while the other guides his cock to your entrance.

The first press of him against you makes your breath catch—he's big, bigger than you've had in years, and your body needs a moment to adjust.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice dropping into that tone that makes your muscles obey without conscious thought. "I've got you."

He pushes in slowly, giving you time to accommodate his size. The stretch burns in the best way, that edge of pain that makes the pleasure more intense when it comes.

Your hands grip his shoulders through the tactical gear, nails probably leaving marks even through the reinforced fabric.

"Fuck," you gasp as he slides deeper, inch by devastating inch. "You're—that's—"

"Too much?" The concern in his voice is genuine, his body going still to let you adjust.

"No," you breathe, because even though it's almost overwhelming, your body is already adapting.

The last time you took someone this big was Namjoon, and muscle memory kicks in as you relax around the intrusion.

"Keep going."

He obeys, pushing deeper until he's fully seated inside you.

The fullness makes your head spin, makes your pussy clench around him in ways that draw a groan from his chest.

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, and the restraint in his body tells you how much this is costing him.

"Move," you demand after a few seconds, because you need friction, need him to actually fuck you instead of just filling you up.

And so he does.

The first thrust is careful, testing, but when you moan and lift your hips to meet him, his control wavers. Pulls back, drives in harder, setting a rhythm that has you gasping with each impact.

The angle is good but not quite perfect, not quite hitting that spot that makes you lose your mind.

"Legs," he says roughly, hands gripping your thighs. "Put them on my shoulders."

You obey immediately, and the position change makes him slide deeper, hitting that perfect angle that Namjoon always knew—

The thought slices through your consciousness because this is exactly how Namjoon used to fuck you.

Legs over his shoulders, driving deep, the angle that made you scream his name and claw marks down his back.

"Fuck, yes," you cry out, back arching as pleasure shoots through your core. "Right there, don't stop—"

He doesn't.

He fucks you with the kind of intensity that suggests he's been starving for this, for you, for the feeling of your pussy clenching around his cock.

"Look at you," he groans, voice sopping with arousal. "What a beauty."

The praise makes your pussy flutter around him, and his breathing hitches in response.

He leans forward, pushing your legs closer to your chest as he drives deeper, and the new angle makes you choke out a moan.

"Captain," you gasp, because his title is the only word your brain can form. "Captain, fuck—"

He leans down further, capturing your mouth in a kiss that's messy and desperate.

His tongue plunges into your mouth in rhythm with his cock inside you, and the dual sensation makes pleasure build at the base of your spine.

Your phone pings suddenly, the sound cutting through the room.

His rhythm falters slightly, gaze darting toward your nightstand where your phone sits unlocked. The screen is bright in the dimness of your bedroom, displaying a conversation you'd forgotten was open.

Namjoon's chat thread. The one you'd been scrolling through earlier in a moment of weakness, trying to figure out where everything went wrong, reading old messages and torturing yourself with memories.

"Fuck," you whisper, heat flooding your face with embarrassment that has nothing to do with the fact that you're currently impaled on Captain Korea's cock.

He reaches for your phone, movements careful, and his eyes scan the screen with an expression you can't read behind his mask. His cock is still buried inside you, twitching slightly as he processes what he's seeing.

"This your ex?" His voice, when he asks, is complicated.

You lick your lips, mortification making your skin prickle.

“Yeah. I was…” You trail off, not knowing how to follow. “It doesn't matter. Just block the screen."

His thumb hovers over the lock button, but then he pauses. Something shifts in his expression, something almost sheepish, but loaded.

Sultry.

"You know," he says slowly, voice dropping into a register that makes your breath catch in your throat, "you could always show him what he's missing."

Your brain stutters. "What?"

His meaning becomes clear when he holds up your phone, angling it toward where your bodies join.

The suggestion makes heat flood through you that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with a deep, primal part of your brain that finds the idea devastatingly hot.

"A video," he clarifies, voice falling apart at the seams. "Send that loser a reminder of what he gave up."

“Wouldn’t this be a big deal if it got out?” you ask, but your voice lacks conviction. “For you?”

“Let me worry about that,” he says, and the confidence in his voice suggests he’s not concerned about professional repercussions.

You bite your lip, weighing the absolute insanity of the idea against the weird feeling of inner satisfaction at showing Namjoon exactly what he lost.

Why are brains so weird when they’re horny?

Because suddenly the thought of him seeing you being thoroughly fucked by someone who actually wants you makes heat spike through your core.

“I…” You trail off, because saying yes feels like crossing a line you can’t uncross.

“Just for you,” he assures. “Your choice what to do with it.”

The idea settles in your brain, taking root in your horny lizard brain that apparently thinks this is a stellar plan.

Because why in the hell are you actually considering this?

To prove to Namjoon that you've done better than him?

That you've moved on to someone infinitely more impressive?

That you're getting fucked by Captain Korea while he's probably alone in his apartment doing whatever mysterious research historians do?

The logic is flawed and petty and absolutely not something you'd consider if your brain was running on anything other than endorphins and spite.

But you’re horny.

And your brain thinks this is an insanely hot idea right now.

So you bite your lip, hazily nod before you can stop yourself, and his reaction is immediate and devastating.

He sighs—not disappointment, but relief. Like your agreement has just made every one of his fantasies come true.

His cock twitches inside you, and you can feel how turned on this makes him, how the idea of recording you taking his cock makes him even harder.

"Yeah?" he confirms, voice rough with need.

"Yeah," you whisper, because apparently you're committed to this terrible, hot, completely inadvisable idea.

He points your phone's camera at where his cock disappears inside you, the angle capturing the way your pussy stretches around him.

His thumb finds the record button, and the knowledge that he's filming makes you wetter.

"Make sure this loser knows what he lost," Captain Korea says, voice dropping into something darker as he starts moving again.

His hips pull back slowly, letting the camera capture the way your pussy clings to his cock, then drives back in with force that makes you gasp.

"Look at how prettily this cunt cries for me. How wet it gets for my cock."

The words should embarrass you, but instead they make arousal spike through your core.

"Had to fuck your girl, man," he says, and you realize with a jolt that he's talking to the camera—talking to your ex through the lens, creating a message that's both humiliating and devastatingly hot. "She takes cock so well. Look at her little clit trembling from pleasure every time I bottom out."

His free hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it sloppily.

"Tell him sweetheart," Captain Korea demands, voice rough with arousal. "Tell him how good this feels."

Your brain short-circuits, caught between embarrassment and arousal that's building toward something explosive. "I can't—"

"You can." His thumb increases pressure on your clit, making you gasp. "Tell him. Tell him how long it's been since you've taken cock this big."

"Since him—since you," you gasp, complying mid-way by directly talking to him as well. "Not since you—fuck—not since we—"

You can't finish the sentence because he's fucking you harder now, the phone still capturing everything, and pleasure is building at the base of your spine in ways that suggest your orgasm is approaching fast.

"That's right," he groans, satisfaction heavy in his voice. "No one else could fuck you like this. No one else knew your body well enough."

The statement makes you briefly question—how does Captain Korea know that Namjoon knew your body well? That he was good at it?

Is it merely an assumption?

"Captain," you moan, the title feeling strange in your mouth when you're thinking about your ex-boyfriend. "I'm close—"

"Come for me," he demands, angling the phone to capture your face now, capturing the expression of pleasure that you know will be devastating to watch later. "Show him what he's missing. Show him how you look when you come."

The command combined with a particularly hard thrust and perfect pressure on your clit sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes through you with devastating force, making you cry out his title as your pussy clenches around him in rhythmic pulses.

He keeps filming through it all, capturing every moment of your pleasure, and the knowledge that Namjoon might see this—might watch you come undone for Captain Korea—makes the orgasm more intense than it has any right to be.

"Fuck, that's beautiful," Captain Korea groans, his own rhythm faltering as your pussy milks his cock. "So fucking perfect."

He's still recording, still buried deep inside you, and you're floating in post-orgasmic haze when you realize this video is going to exist. Is going to be saved on your phone with evidence of you getting fucked by Korea's national hero while moaning about your ex-boyfriend.

Your horny brain thinks this is exactly the kind of closure you needed.

Your rational brain—currently offline—will probably have opinions about this decision later.

He adjusts the angle again, focusing on where his cock sinks into you as he continues moving slowly, like he’s not done just quite yet.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice hoarse, speaking for the recording. "See that? That’s what you lost, man. This sweet fucking cunt that knows how to take every inch." He punctuates each word with a thrust, sharp and purposeful, like he’s driving the thought home. "Had to show her what it feels like to be wanted again."

You moan at that, body tightening around him, and he drags a sound from you that makes your toes curl.

You don’t even care that he’s talking to your ex anymore—his voice is molten, rough around the edges and threaded with so much desire it makes you ache.

"Bet you can’t even look at her anymore," he growls softly, leaning closer, thrusting harder, deeper, forcing breathy cries out of your mouth. "Bet just hearing her name pisses you off. But look at her now—look at how she arches, how she squeezes so pretty."

He keeps the camera steady as his thumb abandons the edges and finds your clit again, rubbing slow circles that make you writhe.

"You watching this?" he mutters, his tone an intimate snarl against the mask. "Watching me give it to her rather than you? Fucking her open till she forgets what it was like to let you touch her?"

Your brain swims in the haze of it and you can barely keep your eyes open, lost in heat, but his voice keeps you awake, keeps you trembling against the sheets.

Because somehow, being praised like this—being exalted through his rough mockery of Namjoon—sets something wild loose in you.

"Captain," you whisper, voice shaky, throat raw.

"C’mon, I know you can give me a bit more," he orders softly, thrusts slowing just enough for you to catch breath. "Tell him what it’s like. Tell him what he couldn’t do."

"’S been s-so long since someone made me—fuck—feel like this," you manage between sighs, because the soft post-orgasmic pleasure is warming and the confession feels wrong but so good under his gaze.

His content sigh is low, dark, and sinfully beautiful.

"Yeah," he agrees, returning to that rhythm—steady, steep, pounding into you more intentionally. "This pussy deserves worship, not excuses. Deserves to be—ah—filled by someone who sees what it’s worth."

You can’t stop the noises that start escaping you again.

They tumble freely—gasps, tiny cries that sound half broken and half blissed out. He’s watching all of it through the camera’s lens, reverent even in the filth.

"She’s perfect," he mutters, almost to himself, almost too quiet for the recording. "Could listen to those sounds forever."

He shifts his hips slightly, finding the angle that makes your whole body tremble, the one that makes you clench around him so tightly he loses composure.

"Fuck," he grits, voice slipping from control, "you’re—Christ, you’re unreal."

You’re heat and slickness beneath him, your body sweetly pliant, your hands gripping his arms through his uniform because you need something to anchor you.

He’s breathing hard now, head tips back for a moment before he looks down, eyes dark as sin.

"God, she’s—fuck, look at her face, look at those eyes," he mutters, camera moving up to catch your expression, glazed and open, pupils wide. "That’s want, that’s need. That’s the look you’ll never get again."

He groans through his teeth, the sound animal, and lowers the phone for a second.

"I’m close," he whispers, voice breaking into something almost pleading. Then, quieter, softer, an admission that feels different. "Let me finish inside you."

The question lingers in the air, heavy, needful.

His hips have slowed to a near tremor, the rhythm faltering because he’s waiting for your answer.

When you nod—barely a motion, but enough—his whole body shudders.

"Yeah?" he exhales, disbelief laced with relief. "God, yeah. Gonna let you stay warm with it. Record it so that prick knows what he’s missing."

You can barely breathe, can barely think, because the words sink through your skin like heat.

"Say it," he demands, voice ragged as he leans back, points the camera at where you’re joined again and drives into you harder than before. "Say you want me to finish inside you."

You moan so hard it almost hurts.

"I want it," you gasp. "I want you to cum inside, Captain."

He falters at that, all restraint gone. His pace breaks into messy, desperate thrusts that have nothing left to do with control.

"Yeah—fuck—she wants it," he half-growls into the phone’s mic, the words a mix of arrogance and awe. "Wants all of my seed inside her. You’ll never get to see her like this again, man. Never get to see how her cunt flutters when I fill it."

You can only cry out as the pace pushes you past sanity, his hand gripping your thigh open for leverage, opposite hand on the phone trembling in his grip.

"You like that, huh?" he huffs, voice drunk on heat. "You want me to fill you while he listens? Watches me give you what he couldn’t?"

"Captain—fuck—please—"

The sound he makes borders on a snarl, guttural and threaded with satisfaction.

"You’re perfect," he breathes. "I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—"

His whole body locks, thrusts slowing but deeper, brutal in precision.

He makes sure the camera catches it all—the way he buries himself fully and stays there, trembling with release, vibrating through you as his cum floods inside, hot and thick.

He keeps recording even as his body shakes with aftershocks, whispering filth into the mic with a voice that’s more broken now, equal parts triumph and ache.

"Look at that, man," he pants softly, moving the phone to show where he’s still seated deep, your pussy glistening around him, full of him. "Had to do your job for you. Filled her up like she deserves. She’s dripping and glowing and you never deserved any of it."

He turns the camera upward briefly, capturing your dazed, blissed-out expression—eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, flushed skin.

His chest rises and falls hard under the tactical gear, sweat beading along his neck.

"You fucked up," he whispers more quietly, the edge of mockery fading into something almost plaintive. "You could’ve been the one recording her like this. But you let her go. Now she’s gone, and she’ll never be yours again."

You’re too far gone to think about implications, too fucked out to hear the cracks in his voice.

All you know is the press of his cock still inside you, the slow pulses that make your body twitch every time he moves.

He stops the recording, sets the phone aside carefully, then stays exactly where he is—deep, buried, sweating, shaking—with his forehead resting against yours.

The air feels thick, heavy, suffused with sex and something else. Something like longing.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet.

"You look beautiful like this," he murmurs, still breathless. "Feels like coming home."

You don’t catch the tell in those words.

You just exhale, body limp, and let him cradle you against his chest when he lowers himself onto you.

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