#studiosvt

THE UNLUCKIEST MAN AND HIS LUCKY CHARM

In the bustling city in the height of 1921, you were considered to be the prize many men sought after. The eldest daughter, the golden child of the richest family in New York City. You not only brought a social status, you brought what was believed to be generational wealth with you. Your father’s means of making money have been connected to the dark underbelly of the city. Your father is the richest, and the most feared man in the whole city.

Your whole life you were raised with the intention of being nothing more than a trophy wife. Something for your future husband to show off. This never sat right with you. You dream of a life away from all of this. You dream of truly living your own life. You're hopeful maybe one day you can find true love.

Life hasn’t always been easy for Jeon Wonwoo. He’s been struggling to get by for as long as he can remember. He thought once he graduated and started his career things would be easier. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case, he still feels as if he’s drowning out in the freezing cold Atlantic Ocean.

He spends his days on the university campus teaching, making just enough to get by. His debt started to grow massively after he got sick during college. A bad case of influenza left him out of work struggling to get by. He started gambling to make some money, but it didn't work. He thought he made friends in high places when a man offered to loan him money. That man ended up being one of the higher up men who work for the richest man in the city, your father. The loan was never an act of kindness, it was just as a power play. Your father was known to pray on people in need. He would offer them loans to make the pawns.

One night coming home from work he ran into the man he owed money to. Wonwoo that night finds himself in a position he feared he would end up in. Tied to an expensive leather chair, he’s been beaten with in an inch of his life. The man who controls the city is standing in front of him. He's given an offer he can't turn down.

From that moment on everything changed, not only for him but for you.

-

It's a week after he's been offered life line. He's awoke at five in the morning by your father's goons. Wonwoo is dragged to your family's home to tell you about your impending marriage. His bruising has started to fade. He's left with a light water color of yellows and greens around his eyes. Luckily his glasses help hide it a little. He can't bury the feeling of shame eating away at him.

Early in the morning you're awoken to commotion downstairs.

Crawling out of bed you grab your silk robe. Wrapping it around your body you head down the hallway. You hear more commotion and yelling. Your mother meets you at the top of the stairs. She grabs your hand stopping you. “It’s your father. Please just agree to anything he asks you to do.” What on earth could your father possibly ask you to do at barely six in the morning? “Darling, I just spoke to him. Please don’t fight with him.” Knitting your brows together, you have no clue what is going on.

Practically running down the stairs you find your father and his men in the foyer. The dim light of the chandelier above casting a shadow down on them.

Your bare feet pad down the stairs. You're greeted to the sight of not only your father and his men, but a man you've never seen before. He's clearly sporting two black eyes that are healing and a busted lip.

"Father?"

Your father turns to you, giving you a wicked grin. Your stomach flips, feeling instantly nervous. "Darling, say hello to professor Jeon Wonwoo your soon to be husband."

You knew this day would come. One day your father was going to set you up to marry someone. You thought maybe deep down inside you would have a say in who you married.

"Why him?"

"Because my darling daughter, if you marry him, I will have full control over both of you." You're instantly reminded how evil your father can truly be.

The moment both your eyes lock, you know you must protect each other. He looks just as scared as you are.

"Jack prep the townhouse on fourth street for the soon to newlyweds."

Wonwoo doesn't say anything, he just silently stares at you with a look of sorrow in his eyes. No matter how hard you try you can't stop the tears from sliding down your cheeks.

"You'll be married in two weeks. You'll move into the townhouse together."

Your father leaves taking his men with him. You're left standing there with the man you're supposed to marry. Reaching up you push away your tears. You want to be mad and blame him, but you can't be. You know he truly had no say in this. He looks just as terrified as you.

A sob breaks in your chest. You fall to the overwhelmed. Silently Wonwoo scrambles over to you. He drops down to his knees in front of you. He hesitates for a moment, before resting his hand on your cheek. Slowly he drags his thumb across the delicate skin of your cheek. Pushing away your tears.

"I'm sorry," you cry.

"This is my fault. You shouldn't be sorry," this is the first time you've heard him speak. His deep voice is soothing.

"Why did he pick you?" You need to know what he's done, so you can try and protect him.

"I owe your father a lot of money."

You push yourself up a little. Looking at him, you try to study his face. He's extremely handsome, even if he is covered in bruises and a busted lip. You can't help but wonder what a professor did to be in debt to your father.

"I'm _____, but a lot of people call me lucky. My mother says it's because I'm a good luck charm."

A smile tugs at his lips. Mindlessly he drags his thumb across you cheek. "I'm going to need a lucky charm."

"Wonwoo, we're a team now. There is no way out of this. We have to get married, but just know I'll be loyal to you."

He knits his brows together. "Loyal?"

"Yes, I'll protect you from my father. Just promise me, you'll try and learn to love me."

Silently he blinks at you a few times, processing your statement. "I will."

A DIAMOND RING AND SADNESS

The wedding your father planned for you is being held in ritzy hotel in the heart of the city. Your vows will be exchanged in ballroom, and the other will host a lavish reception.

When you were younger you always imagined your wedding. You assumed you would walk down the aisle and find the man of your dreams standing there waiting for you. Turns out in the end there stands a man you've known for only two weeks.

Wonwoo is the definition of handsome, and he seems like a great man, but you don't love him, and he doesn't love you. He doesn't even really know you.

Everything about your wedding feels like a blur. The wedding is considered to be the event of the decade. All richest and most elite people are in attendance.

You're dressed in a very elborate white beaded dress. Adorning a long white veil. You've cried more today then you have in your whole life. You manage to gather yourself as your repeat your vows to Wonwoo.

Your eyes stay focused on Wonwoo, trying to tune out the sea of people watching you. Everything feels numb, this is suppose to be the happiest day of your life, and you feel nothing.

"I pronounce you husband and wife." A tear slides down your cheek. Without even thinking Wonwoo reaches out, resting his hand on your cheek. He slowly brushes away your tear as the priest says, "you may now kiss the bride."

Everything feels silent, the whole room feels as if the oxygen has been sucked out. Wonwoo is completely still. He's just silently staring at you, almost as if he's asking for permission. Your lips part slightly, taking in a small breath. He leans in a little closer. This feels like a like a lifetime, when in all reality maybe thirty seconds has passed.

Closing your eyes he leans in all the way. Your lips touch for the first time, and this isn't some spark filled moment. It's just a moment between two sad people fighting for their lives, and trying their hardest to protect each other.

Pulling away his hand still lingers on your cheek. The room erupts into deafening cheers, but you can openly focus on the man staring back at you.

Taking your hand he turns you both so you're facing the crowd. There in the front row is your father's menacing presences. He watches both you and Wonwoo with a calculated look. Wonwoo squeezes your hand capturing your attention. He leads you down the aisle. Everyone cheers and claps applauding what they think is a happily newly wed couple.

The moment you're out of the ballroom, he pulls you off to the dressing room you got ready in. He never lets go of your hand. He locks the door and you both stand there for a moment, just silently staring at each other. Without even thinking you throw yourself into him. Your wraps your arms around his waist and cling to him.

Your chest shake, as a sob threatens to break. "It's okay." He says softly, his hand running up and down your back, helping to soothe you.

"I'm sorry." You cry.

"You don't need to be sorry, I'm sorry, lucky." Him calling you lucky, makes you smile, even while you're crying.

"It's almost over." He whispers.

"It's not though, we still have the reception."

There is a pounding on the door. Pulling away from Wonwoo you look at the door. "Mr and Mrs. Jeon, you're being called." You here the familiar voice of one of your fathers men, Tae.

"Mrs. Jeon?" You repeat loud enough for just the two of you to hear.

"I'm sorry." He's said this so many times since that early morning you met.

"Enough, we can't keep apologizing." You pull away from him. You brush the front of your bead encrusted dress.

His brows knit together. He pulls his wired frame cheaters off. You watch him silently for a moment.

There is another knock on the door. "One moment," Wonwoo yells.

Wonwoo laces his fingers with yours, leading you out of the powder room. The entry way to the ballrooms is sparse with people. Everyone is inside waiting for you.

The two door men open the doors. The ballroom is lively with jazz music and a sea of people. The moment the crowd is made aware of your entrance everyone cheers as Wonwoo leads you inside.

Soon food is passed around and you're both dragged on to the dance floor. You cling to Wonwoo, swaying to the beat of the jazz music.

"Lucky." He says loud enough just for you to hear.

"Yes?"

"We'll figure this out."

Without thinking you lean up and press your lips to his for a quick kiss, earning applause from the crowd.

It's not long before your father leads you around introducing you to influential people. Wonwoo takes a chance to step away, claiming he needed to speak to the dean from his university, who is attending the wedding.

He stands by the dean attempting to listen to him. He’s more focused on watching as you talk to who he assumes is your best friend. He sees you light up for the first time. The way you smile as you speak to her is absolutely mesmerizing. He can’t help but smile as he watches you. You’re absolutely beautiful, any man would be lucky to share this day with you. Hopefully one day you’ll light up like that for him.

Wonwoo makes small talk with the dean before he finds Mingyu standing on the balcony. His friend is leaning against the railing smoking a cigarette.

Mingyu puffs out a cloud of smoke. He reaches into his suit jacket pocket pulling out his carton of cigarettes. Wonwoo grabs one. Mingyu lights a match holding it out towards him.

"Does your wife care if you smoke?" Mingyu asks before taking another puff.

"I'm not sure." Wonwoo stares at the cigarette before taking a hit. He takes a long deep breath inhaling the bitter smoke.

"I can't believe you're married." Mingyu was shocked when Wonwoo told him about his impending marriage.

"It wasn't either of our choice." He takes another hit. Wonwoo leans against the railing. He looks into the busy ballroom. He watches as your father parades you around.

"Do you like her?" Mingyu nudges him.

"I could. We don't know each other yet."

"Do you already carry a torch for her?" Mingyu can't help but smile.

Wonwoo focuses on you, barely hearing anything Mingyu is saying. "It's a crush."

"A crush?"

"She's beautiful, and kind." He barely knows you, but he can tell you're beautiful inside and out.

"You sound like a like a love sick fool." Mingyu drops his cigarette on the floor, and steps on it.

"Knock it off." Wonwoo nudges his friend.

"I didn't tell you, you clean up nice, you look spiffy."

The doors open and you step outside. Mingyu smiles over at Wonwoo before he bows to you. "You look beautiful Mrs. Jeon." Mingyu can't miss an opportunity to tease his best friend.

"Thank you." You bow your head a little.

Mingyu gives you a bow before heading back inside. You step closer to your new husband. Your nose scrunches at the scent of his cigarette. Immediately he drops to the floor.

"Not a fan of smoking?"

"No, my father smokes." That's all you need to tell him.

"I won't smoke around you."

You move so you're leaning against the railing next to him. He reaches over, lacing his fingers with yours.

"We can leave in an hour, my father told Jack to have a car waiting outside for us. We're going to our new town house."

Wonwoo doesn't know much about the house your father set up. He just knows it's property your father owns. From what little he knows, he does know it's located on the fancier side of town.

"How many rooms is the town house?"

"Two, they've fully furnished it for us. One room was turned into an office for you." He knits his brow together. He didn't expect you to give him space for an office.

"Is Mingyu upset you're moving out?"

"I think he's pleased he'll have the place to himself ."

"Is it safe to say Mingyu is a lounge lizard?"

Wonwoo bites his bottom lip holding back a smile. "The ladies love Mingyu."

You want to ask him about his past with women, but you aren't sure if that would be crossing a line. "Do the ladies love you?"

He lets the corners of his mouth turn up, with an small smile. "Not nearly as much as Mingyu."

"You aren't a lounge lizard?"

"No."

"Oh." A silence takes over. Nothing is said as you both watch the party unfolding on the other side of the glass.

"I'm not some ladies man, who chases women."

You look over him. He looks so embarrassed. "It's okay if you were."

The door opens and your mother pops out. "Come back inside, people are asking where the bride and groom are."

Your fingers are laced together the rest of the time you spend at your wedding. You're putting on quite the show for the guest. From the outside looking in, it appears you are a couple who has been together for a while. The constant touching, and the not so subtle longing looks between the two of you.

Once it's finally time to call it a night, the band plays you out as you make your grand exit. Your father has a car waiting for you. Wonwoo drives the two of you away from the luxurious hotel. Your guest cheer as you drive away.

The whole way home Wonwoo keeps glancing over at you. Nothing is said between you the whole drive.

Arriving at your new shared home, Wonwoo helps you out of the car. Walking up the couple of steps to the door, Wonwoo is right behind you. You freeze staring at the door. You always imagined on your wedding day your husband would carry you over the threshold.

Wonwoo steps next to you, and reaches out unlocking the front door. Walking in slowly, you realize this is your new home. Stepping inside behind you, Wonwoo locks the door. He looks around and see a fully furnished home for you. This place is nicer then the place he shares with Mingyu near the university. You've grown up with two different tax brackets. The couch near the window looks to be an expensive Italian leather.

You walk away from him. You must know the layout of this place. You head up stairs and head off to the bedroom. Wonwoo follows behind you.

Wonwoo is suddenly aware that this place only has one bedroom with a bed in it.

Heading off to the en-suite bathroom you struggle to remove your dress. Wonwoo hears your struggling and peaks his head in. You immediately notice the absences of most his clothing, he's just in his dress pants. You can't help it as your eyes wander his torso. It takes everything in you not to reach out and touch the outline of his abs. Your face flushes with embarrassment instantly.

"Are you okay?"

"I need help." You sound completely defeated.

He steps close to you. Hesitatingly he reaches out. He takes his time unbuttoning the buttons that run up your spine. He works cautiously, he's trying to make this as easy on you as possible.

The final button is undone, he looks away and steps back trying to give you privacy.

"I can sleep on the couch." He knows there isn't another bed here.

The beaded dress falls to the floor, leaving you standing in a pool of fabric. You're left standing there in your silk white undergarments.

"I would prefer I don't spend my wedding night alone in bed."

Wonwoo catches sight of your exposed body through mirror. His cheeks flush and the tips of his ears turn red. He's seen his fair share of women even more exposed than this, but this feel incredibly more intimate.

Wonwoo doesn't know much about you, but something tells him that you're very much a virgin. The way you reacted to his bare torso.

Laying in bed you can't help but feel sad. You always imagined your honeymoon would be some, grand romantic night. You always thought this wojld be the night you lose your virginity. Instead you find yourself laying in bed fully dressed in a nightgown staring at a man you barely know.

He looks just as sad and hollow as you do. His lips part as he goes to say something, but nothing comes out.

Reaching out, you rest your hand next to him. Tears slowly slide down your cheek, landing on the cotton sheets below you.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"We have to protect each other."

"I'll do anything to keep you safe." He reaches out, pulling your body close to his. He doesn't say anything else as you fall asleep crying in his arms.

NOTHING IS EASY ABOUT FALLING IN LOVE

A week into being married and it feels as if you're just roommates. Wonwoo has work at the university five or six days a week, and you find yourself spending time alone more often than not.

Your days at home are spent attempting to find a hobby. Before all of this you had a passion for painting. You've found yourself most days setting up an esel and painting in front of the living room window.

It's normally quite late by the time Wonwoo arrives home from the university campus. You've tried to have a home cooked meal waiting for him every night. You hope that maybe having dinner together every night can help build your relationship.You learned very quickly that you still don't know much about each other. You were strangers thrown together, and even with the little time that had passed he still practically feels like a stranger.

You've learned his mother and father live in a different state. Wonwoo only moved here for college and to work at the university. You've learned that Mingyu is the closest thing he has to a family in the city.

After a few late nights of Wonwoo coming home, you're terrified he's off in a speakeasy gambling or possibly seeing someone else. You're not able to protect him from your father if he keeps losing money, or if he's having an affair.

It's close to ten at night when Wonwoo finally arrives at home. You're sitting on the couch with a book in your lap. Wonwoo comes in looking deshevled and exhausted. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is loosened.

He's startled at the sight of you waiting up for him. "You waited up for me?"

"I was concerned about where you were."

"It's Mingyu's birthday. I stopped by his place to have dinner with him and Soonyoung."

"Oh." You close the book and stand up. "I would have appreciated if you let me know if you won't be home for dinner. I spent an hour cooking. I even waited up for you."

"I didn't think you would care if I missed dinner." He sighs, dropping briefcase down on the floor.

Taking a deep breath you stand up. You refuse to be stuck in a strained marriage, just like your parents. "Wonwoo, I understand that we didn't chose this marriage, but I desperately want to try and make this work."

He pushes his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Okay."

"So, please just communicate with me." Your eyes brim with tears. Your emotions and stress are getting the best of you.

His stomach twist seeing you, once again upset, because of him.

"I'm sorry." He steps closer to you.

"I should get some sleep." You're exhausted and you don't want to have this conversation anymore.

Laying in bed you stare at the door. You wish more than anything Wonwoo would walk through it, and join you in bed. Since your wedding night you've slept fully alone. Wonwoo has been sleeping on the living room couch. Your bedroom, you are supposed to share feels lonely. He only comes in here when he needs to get clothing from the closet.

The longer you stare at the door the more you start to cry. You cry yourself to sleep once again.

Walking out of the bedroom in the morning you're greeted to the sound of a silent home. You already know Wonwoo is gone before you reach the living room. In the kitchen you find a letter in a cream envelope with "My Dearest" written on the front.

Opening the letter you immediately feel your heart squeezes at the sight of Wonwoo's penmanship.

My Dearest,

I want to apologize for being so distant. I'm aware that all your troubles have been because of me. I sincerely want to be a better man. I want to learn to be a good husband, and learn to fall in love with you. I know before this we didn't know each other, and because of my disgressions in life, you're now tied to me. I want to make a promise to you, I'll try my hardest to make this work. I have stopped gambling, and have stayed away from anything related to your father. I want to prove to you, that I can be a good man. The one thing I ask for time, please let me learn to navigate all this.

I do have one last request, have dinner with me tomorrow night.

Always,

Wonwoo

You hope that he's being truthful about wanting to grow and be a better man, and that he truly does want to learn to fall in love with you. The idea of being stuck in a loveless marriage is terrifying to you. You've seen too many people you know get stuck in those types of marriage.

Wonwoo is true to his word. At six pm sharp he walks through the front door. He find you standing in front of the window working on a painting.

"Hello." He says pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Hello." You turn away from your painting. "I made dinner earlier, we just need to heat it up. I thought soup would be nice, after a cold day."

Wonwoo heads off to the closet that's near the door, and hangs up his coat. Heading off to the kitchen and start putting the soup back on the stove. Aimlessly you stir the soup. Wonwoo's foot steps catch your attention.

Wonwoo silently starts setting the table to the two of you. You glance up at him, slowly stirring the soup.

"It smells delicious." He says glancing over at you.

"Do you mind bringing the bowls in here, so I can dish us?"

He brings you two bowls, you pour the savory soup, serving both of you. Wonwoo walks them back to the table.

Sitting at the table you watch him slowly eat. He's such a handsome man, you can't imagine women didn't chase after him. "Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever courted someone before?"

"Yes." He suddenly feels embarrassed and he doesn't know why. "Have you ever been courted?"

"I was secretly seeing someone once." You were so young and naive back then. You were barely twenty-one when you started an innocent affair with one of your father's men.

"Who was it?" He suddenly feels jealous at the idea of someone being with you. He hates this feeling. He has absolutely no right to feel this way.

"Johnny, one of my fathers men."

"Oh." That's definitely not what he wanted to hear.

"Nothing happened, we never consummated our relationship or anything like that. I ran away before anything could happen." That was back when you desperately wanted to escape this life.

"You ran away?" He had absolutely no idea you ran away.

"It was back when I was twenty-one. I had enough of how controlling my father was. Honestly it's a story for a different time." You still remember the fear you lived in while you were on the run.

Wonwoo wants to ask you more questions, but can immediately tell this is a touchy subject. "Okay, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

You both silently eat together for a little bit. Even though neither of you are really saying much, it's just nice to have company. You can't take this feeling of being alone.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the letter."

"It's the least I could do." He sets his spoon down. He gives you a sad smile. "I know I'm the reason things haven't been easy for you. I promise I'm going to try my best."

"I appreciate that. I meant it when I said, we're a team. As along as you are trying that's all I ask "

He reaches out and takes your hand. This is the first time he's properly touched your, since your wedding night. He bring the top of your hand to his lips, and presses a soft kiss there.

Tonight might just be a small step in the right direction, but at least things are changing.

Things after that night feel like they’re heading in the right direction. Wonwoo makes sure he's home for dinner. He’s actively getting to know you. You’ve learned so much about him.

On Sundays you’ve even started going for evening strolls together. You look forward to any time you get to spend by his side. Even if you weren’t forced together, you feel as if Wonwoo is someone you would have easily fallen for. You often wonder if he feels the same about you.

You’re hopeful things will keep going smoothly.

THE MARRIED VIRGIN

It's been four long months of marriage. You thought maybe things would get easier the longer you have been married. But it turns out they haven't. The threat of your father hanging over your head, while you're attempting to make your marriage work, hasn't been easy. Wonwoo has gotten so much better at communicating, and he's gone out of his way to work on getting to know you.

The true issue other then the ever looming threat of your father hanging over your head is, the fact Wonwoo won't share a bed with you. Wonwoo sleeping on the couch is starting to drive you mad. You’ve been married for four months and he won’t even touch you, other then a holding your hand or a kiss on the cheek. He is so respectful of you and polite you can’t even be mad. He's been a gentleman in every sense of the word. The fact that you're a married woman and still a virgin is maddening.

You've decided to spend this Saturday morning shopping with your best friend. She's mentioned needing to find a dress for an upcoming party her and Joshua, her husband are attending.

Looking through dresses hanging on the wall you're listening to her ramble on about nonsensical things. Her newest fascination is the fact that Wonwoo won't touch you in any sort of romantic way.

"Four months and you're still virgin?" Jewel sounds appalled at the idea of you still being untouched.

Your best friend Jewel has given you pointers on how to seduce your husband, but your inexperience with men, has left you too shy to try. You've heard about all the dirty details about her sexual escapades with her husband Joshua.

"It's not from lack of trying on my part. It's a delicate subject. I'm not sure how to approach him with the idea, that I would like to consummate our marriage." Your face is bright with embarrassment.

"Lucky, you just need to tell him. Tell him being a married virgin is strange."

The door to the store opens and you pay no mind to it as you look through the beautiful dresses. Someone clears their throat and you turn around to see one of your father's men Tae standing there.

"Miss, your father sent me to give you this." He holds out an expensive looking envelope with a gold wax seal on it. He hands one to you and one to Jewel.

He stands there waiting for you to open it. Pealing away the seal you find an invitation for art auction. Your father has been known to host these, you just didn't expect him to have one of his men give you a personal invite.

"Your father has requested you and your husband Mr. Jeon attend." Your stomach twist at him mentioning Wonwoo your father is up to something, but you aren't sure what.

Jewel is standing next to your protectively. "Tae, how did you find us?" Jewel grew up down the street from Tae so she has no problem sassing him.

"Mrs. Jeon's father is friends with the owner of this store." You glance up at the store owner to see him intently watching your conversation.

Shoving the invitation back in the envelope you glance up at Tae. You aren't sure what your father has up his sleeve, but he's playing some sort of game, you'll play along.

Tae leaves and you're left feeling uneasy. Jewel can immediately tell the day has been soured. "Should we call it day?"

"Yes, I should speak to Wonwoo."

Walking into your home you find Wonwoo in the living room. He’s standing in front of the window holding a book watching the rain fall. He’s dressed in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt. He seems more distracted than normal today.

“Wonwoo,” you say, earning his attention.

“Hi,” he closes the book and turns to fully face you.

“We have an event we have to attend,” you hold out your invitation that Tae dropped while you were shopping downtown with Jewel.

He pads across the living room and takes the invitation. His eyes brows knit together as he intently reads it.

“Why are we invited to an art auction?”

“I don’t know what his game plan is,” you sigh. Your father always has something up his sleeve. He’s always ten steps ahead of you. “I just don’t trust him. He has something planned.”

“What happened when you ran away?” Wonwoo asked, sitting down on the couch. You never planned on telling anyone about your attempt to run away. You realized after getting married, you can't keep secrets from Wonwoo. The only way you can keep each other safe, is if you're both open and honest.

You take a deep breath remembering the night you finally had enough and called Seokmin to help pack your bags while you attempt to get out of the state. “My father had someone find me.”

You shiver thinking about the constant fear you lived in waiting to be found. You finally had enough of being controlled and left in the middle of the night. With money you had been saving you ran away. You got to a different state. Your original plan was to get a new identity and start over, but you never got that far.

“Who found you?”

“Johnny." You vividly remember him breaking down the door to the apartment you were in. You had a short fling with Johnny before your father sent him to track him down. He didn’t think twice about turning his back on you to listen to your father.

“Did he hurt you,” he gently rests his hand on your thigh.

“No he didn’t. I knew what he was capable of, I didn’t give him the chance to even hurt me." Johnny might have cared for you before you left, but the moment you ran away you became nothing more than a job to him. "I made it to Chicago when he tracked me down."

“Were you planning on leaving again before that night you met me?”

“I wanted to, that’s why my father forced you to marry me. My father needed me to have someone who could be collateral damage for any mistakes I could make. You’re meant to anchor me here. If I leave he’ll kill you and not think twice about it.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. The heavy feeling in your chest hasn’t left you since Wonwoo arrived at your family home, early that morning many months back.

“It’s not your fault. I got myself into this situation too.”

“You stopped gambling right?” you ask praying he didn’t get himself into any more of a mess.

“I stopped. I try to avoid anything connected to your father at all costs. I hasn't step foot in a speakeasy since that night." He pushes his fingers through his dark hair. “If you want to try and run away again I’ll go with you and we can try to fully disappear again.” At this point Wonwoo would do anything to keep you safe.

You can’t believe he just offered to risk his life for you. You couldn’t ever ask him to put his life on the line for you like that. You know you could never fully disappear. Once Johnny or Tae did find you, they would make sure they killed Wonwoo in front of you.

“We can’t do that Wonwoo, I care about you too much for you to risk your life for me.”

“We’re a team right?” He says leaning in before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah we’re a team.” Closing your eyes you lean into his touch. You’ve fallen hard for your husband, you pray he feels the same way towards you. “Wonwoo—" You want to ask him to sleep in your room. There is a desperate feeling you have, to share some sort of intimacy with him. Even if it’s just sharing a bed and sleeping near him. “Please stop sleeping in the living room. I want to sleep in the same bed as you.”

Looking at you he cocks his head to the side as his eyebrows knit together. “Is that something you truly want?”

“Yes. I fully understand if you want to stay out here. But we’re married and I don’t really see you as just my roommate." You're putting yourself on the line here.

“I’ve tried really hard to be respectful because you didn’t choose me. It’s not like I was courting you before.” He reaches out, taking your hand. You move so you’re facing him sitting on the couch next to him.

“I might not have chosen you, but I care about you and I have feelings for you. I would like to be your wife, not just on paper.”

“Lucky, I would like to be your actual husband not just in name,” he whispers leaning forward.

“Okay good,” your nose brushes against his.

Leaning forward your lips touch for the first time since your wedding night. His soft lips are gentle for the first part of the kiss. He pulls away with his lips barely away from yours. “I have wanted to kiss you for so long, He whispers. You crash your lips into his for a heated kiss. You kiss him like you need him to breathe. He’s the air that fills your lungs in the suffocating ocean your father has brought you into.

He grabs your hips pulling you onto his lap. His hand rests on your soft sides as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he says.

"Wonwoo—" You're quite inexperienced in most aspects of a sexual relationship. You and Johnny did fool around some back in the day, but you are still very much a virgin.

"Yes?" He pulls back a little bit.

"I'm a virgin." Your face immediately flushes. You shouldn't feel embarrassed admitting that, but for some reason you are. You stomach knots as he just blankly stares at you for a long moment.

The corners of his lips, tug into a smile. "Sweetheart, that's fine. You have nothing to be embarrassed about." He reaches up, resting his hand on your cheek. "I'll take care of you."

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip. Your lips part slightly, as your stare at him with lust filled eyes. "We should move to the bedroom."

Crawling off of him, you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. His lips move against your as he slowly works on removing all the delicate layers of your clothes.

Laying on the bed completely bare you watch him, slowly take off if his own clothes. His glasses have been discarded, they're sitting in the dresser. His eyes stayed locked on you only focused on you as he strips away his clothes.

You've never properly seen a man naked before, but you know just by the glorious sight of his naked body, Wonwoo is no average man. His abs that line his stomach are absolutely mouth watering. The small trial of hair that leads down his navel to the promise land, leaves you awestruck. His cock is much bigger then you expected. It's a large and girthy. His length is a rosy color, and it curves up slightly. Maybe another time, you'll take your time exploring his body.

Wonwoo crawls on the bed slowly. You expect him to move so he's hovering over you. You're caught off guard when he lays down in front of you, with his face right in front of your needy core.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows you look down at him confused. You know Jewel has mentioned Joshua is a fan of cunnilingus, but she said not all men like it.

Wonwoo places a kiss on top of your mound. Your eyes are blown wide, unsure of what to expect. "Wonwoo?"

"Yes darling?"

"What are you doing?"

"It's your first time, I need to prepare you." What does he mean, prepare you? "I want you to have at least one orgasm, before you can take me." He slowly runs his pointer finger through your wet folds. "Have you ever had an orgasm before?"

Your face burns with embarrassment thinking about the few times you've touched yourself, and the one time you found your release rutting against Johnny's thigh.

"Yes."

"Relax and let me take care of you."

Leaning in close he starts, lazily licking your sensitive clit, while he toy with your entrance.

"You taste so sweet," he moans against your clit.

Your finger grip the cotton sheets below. He sucks on your clit like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

Dropping back down to the bed, you moan out. Your fingers grip the sheets, desperately trying to ground yourself.

You can't help but squirm as you suck in your tummy. All the senses in your body are on high alert.

"Won—" you can't think of any other words then his name, in that moment.

He moans against your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the cliff. You free fall in the deep abyss. Your walls flutter around his fingers like a heartbeat.

He pulls away with a lazy smile, and his eyes half lidded. He wiped your release off with his fingers. Sticking them in his mouth he licks your sweet release off.

"You sound so pretty when you cum."

He moves so he's sitting on his knees, between your spread legs. Your chest rises and falls, your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wonwoo's strong hand rubs your thigh, helping to soothe you. "Are you okay to keep going? We can stop if you're not ready for more."

Desperately you reach for him. You can't bare for him to stop once you've had him. "please, I need you."

He nods. "Okay, darling."

He moves so he's hovering over you. Reaching between you, he takes his length in hand. He runs bulbous tip through your wet folds, collecting some of your release.

"This might hurt a little. If it hurts too much or you're uncomfortable, please tell me."

He enters you at an excruciatingly slow pace. Pushing in inch by inch, giving you a chance to adjust to the sheer sizes of him. The feeling of him stretching you, is like nothing you've ever experienced.

He fills you to the brim, practically kissing your cervix. He holds completely still, sitting on his knees, hovering over you. One of your hands holds his shoulder needing something to ground yourself.

"How does it feel?" He asks.

"Strange, it kinda of hurts, but not in a bad way."

"We can stop."

"I don't want to."

Reaching out, he laces his fingers with yours. he pins your hand, next to your head. Leaning down he connects his lips to yours for an intoxicating kiss. His tongue slides across you bottom lip, asking for access. Your tongues move together, helping to distract you, as Wonwoo slowly starts to move.

The first few shallow thrust feel strange. With each slow movement your body starts adjusting more and more.

"You feel so good." He moans against your lips.

Tangling your fingers in his hair you hold his face close to yours. "oh—" your moan is nothing more than a breathy whimper.

"You're doing so good." Hearing him praise you, does something to you.

With each slow thrust the pain starts to dissipate. The steady feeling of pleasure starts to take over.

"Feels good." The coil in your stomach starts to tighten.

Nose rest against yours. "Can you cum again?"

Wordlessly you nod.

"You're doing so good." He repeats. This thrust have grown deeper and steadier.

Your breathing feels shaky as you approach the edge of the cliff. Every thrust brings you a step closer.

Your eyes roll back, and your body free falls into the icy cold abyss. This orgasm feels like nothing you have experienced before. Your walls flutter around his length, that doesn't stop moving. Moaning his name loudly you squeeze his hand that is pining yours to the bed.

"Wonwoo—" you cry.

"Fuck." He swears with a moan.

"You're squeezing me." His thrust have lost their rhythm. His own release is rapidly approaching."I'm going to cum, where should I?" He's on the brink of falling apart.

The logical part of your brain should tell him to pull out, that you haven't discussed children. But that part of your brain isn't in charge right now. Your fingers cling to his back as your practically cry. "Inside."

He picks up his pace, chasing his high. He moans your name like a sinful prayer as he paints your walls with his milky release. He ruts his hips into your, helping each of you, ride out your high.

He drops down to his elbows, he's practically plastered against you. Every aspect of him, feels so consuming to you. Reaching up, you run your fingers through his dark hair.

"Did I hurt you?" He doesn't think he could live with himself if he hurt you.

"No, I'm a little sore, but that was wonderful."

Leaning down he presses his lips to yours. You want to say the three words out loud that are stuck in your throat, but you can't. Not until you're sure he feels the same way.

"I need to clean you up." He pulls away from you. You want to beg him not to leave, but you know he's trying to take care of you.

He leaves the room long enough to come back with a wet cloth to clean you up. Laying the bed he takes his time wiping away his release that slowly leaking out of you.

"We've never discussed having children." He says looking at your core.

"I know."

"I've always wanted to be a father." He knits his brows together and looks away from you.

"I think you would be a good father." Wonwoo is kind, caring and very intelligent. His one flaw is gambling issue, that he's seemed to have gotten under control.

"Do you want to be a mother?"

You can't help but smile. "I would like to be one."

Wonwoo disposes the cloth, before he crawls into bed with you. He pulls you close to him. You're both still naked, neither of you have a desire to get dressed. Your head rest on his chest. Gently he rubs your side helping to soothe you to sleep. For the first time in a longtime, you no longer feel lonely.

-

The day of the art auction, you can't get rid of the anxious feeling eating away at you. It's a Saturday so luckily Wonwoo has the day off. He's sitting in the living room reading a book while you're on the verge of a panic picking a dress to wear.

You settle on an emerald beaded gown. You call for Wonwoo, needing his help to button your dress. He walks in and is immediately taken a back at how beautiful you are.

He takes his time individually buttoning the back of your dress. Finishing up, he steps back to admire how beautiful you are.

"You're so beautiful."

"Thank you. You should get dressed."

Wonwoo heads off and gets dressed in his three piece suit you got him. He looks absolutely incredible my handsome. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You eyes roam his body.

"Were quite the pair Mr. Jeon."

"It helps that Mrs. Jeon is gorgeous."

Arriving at the ballroom. There is a lavish entry filled with the richest and the most elite people in the city. Wonwoo takes your hand, leading you past the sea people.

A jazz band plays on stage. Looking around you see paintings lining the wall with people staring at them.

You catch sight of Joshua and Jewel speaking with one of Joshua's friends Seungkwan. Wonwoo releases your hand long enough to to track you down something to drink.

Jewel grabs your arm leading you away from the boys. "You look beautiful." She says to you, leading you towards the paintings that line the wall.

Your heart sinks staring at the black and white paintings. They're all reminiscent of the street in Chicago you ran away to. There a few details that leave you absolutely sick. Walking closer to you see red paint splattered in some, that resembles blood, and another has a pair of broken glasses, that look exactly like Wonwoo's

Instinctively your hand clutches your pearl necklace. Your eyes are wide as your try not to cry. This art auction is truly nothing more then a warning to you from your father.

"Lucky?" Jewel immediately knows something is wrong.

"I need my husband." Turning on your heels you speed walk over to Wonwoo.

You practically throw yourself into his arms. He can immediately tell you're extremely upset. He looks at the paintings where you just were. He releases you and pulls back. His hand rest on your cheek. The slow drag of his thumb acrossed your delicate skin, is helping to soothe you.

"What's wrong?"

"The painting are a message to me." Pulling away you search for your father, but he's nowhere to be seen.

It's clear your father wants to play a game, and you're not a about to become a a pawn again.

The band plays a song loudly. You look around and find Jewel and Joshua standing near. Wonwoo's hand is protectively on your back.

There is about an hour you play the role of the socialite. You lead Wonwoo around to speaking to old friends, and people connected to your family. Everyone is very interested and learning about your new husband and his job as a professor. The whole time you're making your rounds you watch out for your father close circle of men. You know if you spot Johnny, Tae or Jack your father is near.

Wonwoo leans in close and whispers in your ear, "your father is here."

Looking across the room you see your father for the first time. You know your mother and sister are somewhere here, but you don't have time to look for them.

"Wonwoo stay here." You lean up to give him a quick kiss.

He looks over his glasses and finds your father intently watching both of you. "I can go with you."

"No. Let me handle him." You step away from him, but before you can get more then a step away he pulls you back. You can tell by the look in his eyes, he's scared just like you are. "Wonwoo, I'll be okay."

He doesn't say anything, he just leans down and presses his lips to yours. "I'll be waiting for you."

Taking a deep breath you make your way across the crowded room.

"Father." You walk up to him. The man standing next to him in and expensive suit takes this as his sign to walk away.

"My darling daughter. It's clear your husband is already keen on you." Your father's eyes are locked on Wonwoo while he stands next to Jewel and Joshua.

"He's a good husband."

"You're fooling nobody. It's clear you've fallen in love with him. Seems he's serving his propose already." His words are menacing.

"His purpose?" You need to play dumb, so your father shows his hand.

"If you love him, you'll do anything you can to keep him safe. If you leave, I'll make him suffer, while you watch." His hand grips your heart, and he squeezes tighter and tighter with each pointed word.

"Leave him alone." Each one of your words is pointed.

"As long as you behave, nothing will happen to your husband."

"I'm not going to run again. I have him, and I'm happy. Leave us alone."

Your father lets out a little laugh. "You know Wonwoo has some good genes. He's handsome, and extremely intelligent. His only issue is his eye sight, and him wearing those cheaters." His eyes are locked on Wonwoo. "I would love grandchildren. Maybe I should tell your husband that it's time to make you a mother." Bile starts to crawl up your throat. If you have children one day, you want to keep them far away from your father.

"Leave him alone."

"Maybe marriage wasn't good for you. Suddenly you think you're able to talk back to me."

"Stop it." You've had enough of his threatening words.

"You should find your mother. She's been looking for you all night."

"Goodbye father." You step away.

"Just remember, even if you love him, that won't stop me from using him to keep you in line."

With each step you take, you fight to hold back tears. Looking up you see Wonwoo watching you. As he goes to take a step, you shake your head. You don't want him anywhere close to your father.

Jewel and Joshua watch as you rush to Wonwoo. The second you're close enough he grabs your hand, pulling you toward him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you bury your face in his chest. Desperately you try and fight back tears. You pull away from him slowly. He rests his hand on your cheek. He drags his thumb across the delicate skin on your cheek.

"We should leave." You can't stay here any longer.

"Lucky, are you okay?" Joshua seems just as concerned as his wife.

"Mr. Jeon." You're father's menacing voice echoes behind you.

Wonwoo pulls back a little, dropping your hand. His eyes stayed locked on your, you can instantly see he's scared. Reaching down you grab his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

"Sir." Wonwoo responds.

Your fathers give him a menacing smile, stepping closer. "Do you like the art?"

Squeezing his hand, you let him know he's not alone. "it's quite unique."

"I found an artist who is great at drawing cities."

"So it seems." Wonwoo responds.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" Your father mentioning the name of the city you ran away to sends a chill down your spine.

"No sir."

"I've heard it's beautiful, you should ask my daughter about it."

The loud room instantly feels silent. A ringing takes over you ears. You stomach knots, staring at your father.

Wonwoo squeezes your hand, snapping you out of it. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"I don't think that's necessary." Wonwoo says.

Shame suddenly takes over you. You feel incredibly small under the crushing gaze your father is giving you. Whatever sick and twisted game he wants to play, he's winning.

Tae walks over capturing your fathers attention. He whispers something in his ear.

"I must take my leave. Lucky, tell your husband about Chicago." He walks away, leaving you feeling sick.

Stepping back, you hold back your tears. Wonwoo doesn't let you go far. He desperately clings to your had.

"Lucky." Jewel rushes towards you, with Joshua right behind her.

"Do you want to go home?" Wonwoo asked.

"Yes, I'm ready to leave." He just bibs his farewell and leads you out of the ballroom.

You flee with the party, clinging to your husband. You desperately want to escape this personal hell, your father has made for you.

The whole ride home Wonwoo doesn't try to make small talk, his silence is comforting.

Arriving at home Wonwoo takes his time to help unbotton your dress. Once the last button is undone, he presses his lips to your bare shoulder.

"Are you okay?" He knows it's a loaded question.

"No, but I will be."

TEAR STAINED CHEEKS AND SWEET KISSES

Six months into marriage things between you and Wonwoo are fantastic. You've fallen head over heels more and more in love with him.

He does anything he possibly can do to make you happy. There is a little part of him that is constantly reminding, that in some way he will let you down. He's known for awhile at some point he's going to need to take the train back home to see his family. In an ideal situation, he would be able to take you with him. He knows deep down inside he can't.

After a long day at work, Wonwoo finds you painting in the living room. Painting has consumed your free time. Wonwoo often finds you like this after work. He loves watching you paint. You seem so incredibly happy when you're lost in your painting.

"Hi, my dearest."

You turn and find him standing there looking so handsome. In these last few months you haven't been able to keep your hands to yourself. You just can't get enough of him.

"I need to take a trip home to see my parents." That wasn't what you expected him to say.

"Oh?"

"I would love for them to meet you, I'm just worried if you go, your father will assume we're up to something." Wonwoo tries to act strong when it comes to anything involving your father, but you know he's just as terrified as you.

"Are you asking me to stay home?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'll only be gone a week. I asked Mingyu to keep an eye on you, as well as Joshua and Jewel." Your face falls, and Wonwoo feels his stomach twist. He can't stand seeing you sad.

"Wonwoo I don't like the idea of staying home." You aren't used to being alone anymore.

He rushes over to you. "I know, I hate it too. I'm just scared of you go with me, your father will follow us."

"When do you leave?"

"In a week. I'm going to take the train to Philly."

"Okay."

"Lucky, please don't be mad. I'm trying to keep us safe."

"I want to meet your family." You hate the idea that Wonwoo's family wasn't even at his wedding. They have no idea what you're like. Apart of you is terrified they'll hate you for bringing Wonwoo into your mess of a family.

"I want you to meet them too. We just need to wait."

"Wonwoo do they know why we got married?"

He pushes your hair behind your ear. "No, I just told them I fell in love with you. That we had a whirlwind romance and I begged you to marry me."

"When did you tell them that?"

"That week I wrote you that letter. I sent them a letter telling them about our marriage."

You try to go about your night normally, but the aching feeling in your chest still lingers. Even married your father continues to control your life. A normal married couple would be able to travel to see their in laws, but you simply can not do that.

Laying in bed you stare at the wall. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop the tears from falling. The bathroom door opens, and Wonwoo steps into the bedroom.

There is a long beat of silence before Wonwoo slides into bed. Without saying a word, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your body close to his. He presses his lips to the exposed delicate skin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He hates that he keeps hurting you.

"It's not your fault, it's my fathers fault."

"I still hurt you though. I want you to meet my family."

"I know."

He hand kneads your stomach, helping to relax you. "I love you." He says those three words you've been dying to say for months.

"I love you too."

Mindlessly he starts kissing the side of you neck. Soft moans pass your lips, as he focuses on the sensitive area under your ear.

"Darling, can you lay on your back for me?"

He pulls away, giving you space to move. Laying on your back, you look over at him. He sits on his knees, he takes a moment to pull off his shirt. This body is mouth watering. Recently you can't seem to get enough of him. Pushing yourself up, you pull off your night gown. Lifting your hips, you shimmy out of your panties. You're left laying on the bed completely bare.

Wonwoo hops off the bed long enough to remove his pants. He's already hard, his large lenght is already leaking.

Slowly he crawls onto the bed towards you. He takes his time lowering himself onto the bed in front of you. Leaving a trail of wet kisses across your inner thigh.

Hw kisses the top of your mound before he dives in, like a man straved. He knows exactly what you need to push you over the edge. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, holding him close. Without even thinking your hips rut towards his face.

He laughs against your core, at how needy you are for him. He adores seeing you desperate for your release.

"You sound so pretty." He moans.

"Won—" you all but cry, practically on the edge.

"Can you cum?"

Rapidly you not your head. "Yes."

"Okay, darling." He goes back to sucking on your clit. He works you closer and closer to the edge. His finger work in tandem with his mouth. He thrust two finger in and out of you, over and over again.

Your orgasm feel like a white hot wave. Releasing your fingers from his hair, you go limp against the bed. Your whole body feels as light as a feather.

He pulls back, sporting a grin. Silently he licks his fingers clean of your release. "You taste so good."

Your eyes can’t help but focus on the way his hard cock is leaking. He moves so he’s hovering over you. He’s pressing his lips anywhere he can reach. Without thinking you reach between you. You start pumping his velvety length.

“Fuck—“ he moans.

“Wonwoo, I need you.”

“You can have me.” He removes your hand from him. He takes his cock and guides it to your entrance. A gasp passes your lips as his mushroom tip slips in. No matter how many times you do this, you need a few moments to adjust to the sheer size of him. He pushes in inch by inch.

The moment you’re filled to the brim he looks down at you. He looks at you as if you hung the stars and the moon. Reaching up, resting your hand on his cheek.

“My darling wife, you’re my everything.”

Your heart squeezes. Tears brim your eyes once again. Wonwoo loves you so much, and in turn you’re head over heels for him.

“I love you.” You whisper.

He pulls back slowly, before pushing his hips forward. He makes love to you slowly. His lips are all over your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. Your hands touch anywhere they possibly can. You want to touch anywhere and everywhere you can reach.

With each slow and deep thrust he’s brushing that spot inside of you, that has you seeing stars.

The room is filled with echoing sounds of your moans and whimpers, and his groans against your skin. There is a sound of squelching from your release.

“Im gonna—“ your brain can't even process how to finish that sentence.

“You can do it baby.” He pulls back slightly.

“Won—“ you cry out. You release hits you hard and fast, the air feels as if it’s been knocked out of your lungs.

Your walls flutter around his length like a heartbeat. Your fingers cling to him, holding him close. His thrust has lost its rhythm. His own release is rapidly approaching. His moaning your name like a sinful prayer.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to—“ his hips stutter. With one practically deep thrust he spills his milky release.

His forehead rests against yours. His eyes are squeezed shut. Slowly he rocks his hips into you, helping each of you ride out your highs.

“I love you.” He whispers with his lips brushing yours.

HIS LUCKY CHARM

You've been feeling off for a few weeks, and the entire time Wonwoo has been gone you've been nauseous and throwing up. You're pretty sure you're pregnant. You want to be a mother, and you know Wonwoo would be an amazing father, but you're scared.

You've spent the whole time pretending you're okay in front of Mingyu, Joshua and Jewel. You don't want anyone to know you're pregnant until you tell Wonwoo.

The whole time he's gone, you miss him dearly. One evening you finally decide you feel well enough to paint. You open your box of paints, and find a letter from your husband.

My Dearest,

I hope you find this letter. I hate that I wasn't able to bring you along. Just know I did it to protect you. I know we did originally chose each other, but that didn't stop me from falling in love with you. You're the sun to my moon. You're the reason breathe each day. I love you so much, and I can't want until we're reunited.

Love, your husband.

You never thought you would find love like you have with Wonwoo.

You spend your time alone painting for ready some of the books Wonwoo keeps in a bookshelf. Jewel and Joshua often invite you over for dinner, or Mingyu comes around, so you aren't alone.

The amount of nausea you're experiencing is a firm reminder you're indeed pregnant. You and Wonwoo haven't done anything to prevent pregnancy, so you aren't surprised.

It's the day Wonwoo is finally serving back home. Sitting on the bathroom floor you wonder how Wonwoo will react to the news.

Your plans for cook dinner tonight have long gone out the window.

The sound of the front door closings catches your attention. You hear your name called in the distance. You're barely able to yell out for your husband, before you throw up again.

He finds you with your head in the toliet, spilling the contents of your stomach. Instantly he squats down next to you, and starts rubbing your back. Helping to soothe you.

"Darling, what's wrong."

"I think I'm pregnant." You pull back sitting on your knees looking over at him.

Wonwoo suddenly feels a mixture of excitement and terror. The idea of your father using his child as a pawn against both of you is absolutely terrifying.

He's lost all the color in his face as he stares at you. "Wonwoo?"

"Lucky, that's amazing, darling."

Placing his hand on your cheek he leans in and rest his nose against yours. Even thought the circumstances that led to your marriage aren't normal, he can't deny how much he loves you.

"You're going to be an amazing mother."

"I hope I am." You never wanted to raise a child anywhere near your father. The idea of bringing a child into this world is terrifying.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. He ever so slowly pushes your hair away from your face. "Darling, let me make you some tea to soothe your stomach."

He helps you stand up, and gives you a chance to clean up. Heading off to the kitchen he focuses on making you a cup of tea.

Walking into the kitchen you find Wonwoo focused on making you a cup of tea. Walking up behind him, you wrap your arms around his stomach. Resting your cheek against his back. You missed him so much.

"Next time you go on a trip, can we try and see if I can go with you." His absence made you realize, you don't want to live a life where Wonwoo isn't by your side.

He pulls away and spins around. Wrapping his arms around you, he holds you close. "I missed you so much." He leans down pressing his lips to yours for a gentle kiss.

"I missed you too."

"I saw your painting by the window."

You pull back giving him a soft smile. "In your absence, I distracted myself with painting."

He reaches out resting his hand on your stomach. "Maybe you could paint our beautiful baby something for their nursery?"

He's always encouraging you to paint. He always says, he loves watching you light up painting. Since everything unfolded that morning where you met Wonwoo, painting has brighten you so much joy.

"I would love to do that."

Sitting at the kitchen table sipping on tea, Wonwoo tells you all about his visit to see his family. He lights up, mentioning how his mother says she wants to meet you, and when she says she wants grandchildren. Instinctively you rest your hand on your stomach.

Unfortunately Wonwoo's parents won't be the only set of grandparents in your child's life. You know your mother will be a great grandmother, you're just terrified of your father.

For the longest time you have been sitting on lots of information about your fathers illegal activities. It seems the time has finally come to let your father know he won't be controlling your family you've built with Wonwoo.

Looking at Wonwoo you can see the way he looks at you. You're his everything, and in turn he's your everything. You stand by your promise you made to him, you'll protect him. The only way you can truly protect him, is by telling your father to leave you alone.

Your first evening home with Wonwoo ends with you laying in bed together. His head rest near your stomach. You can't help but smile as he talks to your baby. You both know there is no way your very small child can possibly hear him, but it doesn't matter. His actions makes both of you happy.

"I'm going to love you so much. You're momma is the best thing that ever happened to me." His sweet words make your eyes water.

"They're going to love you just as much." You respond.

-

Two weeks pass until you're finally ready to speak to your father. You make sure not to tell Wonwoo, and you plan your trip for when he's at work at the university. You made sure to inform Jewel of your location, incase your father tries to pull anything.

It's a chilly autumn morning as you make your way through the city. Your families home is located on the upper fancy side of the city. You hold your close to your body, protecting yourself from the breezy.

Walking into your family home, you find your mother in the foyer. She lights at the sight of you. She pulls you into a tight hug.

"Lucky, I didn't know you were coming by." She immediately helps your remove your coat.

"Wonwoo is at work, and I need to talk to father."

She pulls back and looks at you with worried eyes. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be." You step back.

"He's in the dining room. He just finished up a meeting ."

Walking through the the living room, you enter the dining room. Your father is sitting alone. In front of him is a plate with steak and a glass of what looks like whiskey. One of the men he met with must of brought him the illegal brown colored liquor.

"Father."

"My darling daughter." You hate that he always speaks to you in a condescending tone.

You pull out a chair and sit down across from him."I shouldn't be here long. I'm stopping by to let you know, I'm with child."

He narrows his eyes at you, clearly processing what you just told him."You're pregnant?"

"Yes, and I'm letting you know now." You pause. This is your chance to finally be brave. "If you ever want to see me or your grandchild you will leave me and Wonwoo alone. This isn't a threat, but a promise. If you so much as touch one hair on Wonwoo's head, I will burn down everything you have worked for. You just won't see me or my child ever again. I will burn down your empire." You've spent years paying attention to all the illegal things your fathers does.

He barks out a bitter laugh. "Know your place, child."

"I'm not a child. I'm giving you a chance to know your grandchild."

He grabs the expensive glass, an takes a drink of the whiskey. "You're threatening me."

"No I'm promising you, that if you hurt my husband or try to control me, I'll end everything." You've been paying close attention to your father's illegal activities since your were an adult.

"Where is your beloved husband?" He leans forward, resting his arms on the table.

"Thats none of you business."

"You wouldn't do anything."

"I think Bureau of Investigation would love to know about the speakeasy on twelveth street. Or about your money moving store fronts." You have no issues laying your cards out on the table.

"You love the professor so much you would throw away your family that gave you everything." He's switching to a tactic of guilting you.

"I would do anything for him and our child." Instinctively you rest your hand on your stomach.

He doesn't say anything he just leans back in his chair. His eyes are burning into you. "It's time I leave now. I'm going on a trip with my husband. I better not encounter any of your men."

"Are you running away?"

"No, I'm going on a much needed trip. Don't worry I'll be back."

Walking out of the dining room you find your sister and mother standing there. Both of them practically in tears. This isn't how you wanted either of them to find out.

"You're pregnant?" Your mother asks.

"Yes." You can't stop the tears that start falling.

"Does Wonwoo know?" Your sister asks.

"Yes, and he's very happy."

Your mother wraps her arms around you, pulling you close. "I'm so happy for you, Lucky. Maybe you were his lucky charm."

You think about this often. You've always been called Lucky, because your mother says you're a lucky charm, and maybe she's right. Wonwoo and you being thrown together changed his life. He's even says you're his lucky charm.

"I think he's mine."

-

EPILOGUE: SNOWFALL

Two month later you find yourself stepping off a train with Wonwoo by your side. This is your first time traveling since that faithful trip to Chicago. Wonwoo holds your hand tight as you make your way through the crowd. One of your hands rest on your round stomach.

Philadelphia is beautiful in the winter. According to Wonwoo his parents live about a five minute walk from the the train station.

He lights up looking around the city called home for most his life. "I used to walk this way to school everyday."

Arriving at the house he grew up in he stops. He looks over at you and gives you a smile. "I always dreamed of bringing the love of my life home to meet my parents."

"Is that what I am?"

"Yes, you're the love of my life, and the mother of my child."

Walking up the lightly snow covered path, you feel slightly anxious. Wonwoo knocks on the door and his mother quickly opens the door. She lights up at the sight of both of you.

His family immediately walk you in with open arms. His mother waste no time pulling you into a hug before taking you inside. Wonwoo watches with the biggest smile on his face. He was already hopelessly in love with you. But seeing you pregnant and glowing with a smile plastered on your face, reminds him that you're truly the love of his life.

You might have not chosen each other, but maybe you were always supposed to end up together.

He somehow stumbles into a makeshift safe-house. The bullet that had pierced his upper chest is still lodged somewhere between his rippling flesh. Warm, sticky blood oozes out of the deep cut slashed across his chest, splitting his skin apart.

Outside, it is a cacophony of shots being fired and the constant thuds of bodies that follow. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he inhaled air that wasn’t saturated with soot and the metallic scent of blood…or when was it that he looked up and saw a clear sky instead of the orange fumes of fire, death and decay.

There is no sensation in his left leg anymore...just angry violet skin hosting several broken bones within. The iron smell of his own blood and that of others around him swarm his senses as he waits it out.

Just a few more hours.

Ceasefire for the day.

Someone would come and help him. They ought to.

For now, he must find some way to avoid attracting attention with his garbled moans of pain. His fingers shake, or perhaps it’s his vision wobbling with intense agony, as he reaches down in his pocket to retrieve a long, sweat soaked strand of wool. It must’ve been white someday, but now, it is more rusted from dirt, blood and overuse. Yet he holds it reverently between his fingers and begins looping, spinning and tangling it between his digits. The machine guns dull, his vision clears and through the dense war around him, something soft and pure envelopes him.

Between his fingers is now stretched a smiling string figure. A doll. The tear that clings to his lower lash is thicker than the rest, heavier with meaning and memory and love. He carefully bunches the thread up and places it back into his pocket. His chest feels warmer now.

Or perhaps, it's just his shirt soaked with his blood.

(three years later) Manhattan, New York, 1921

The woman in the turquoise cloche hat rolls her eyes when her weepy husband demands yet another napkin from her. She reaches for her purse regardless, shoving another bunched up piece of clean fabric in his fist for his damp cheeks. 

“Keep it down, will you?” she hisses, embarrassed eyes darting around apologetically when he sniffles again. 

But the man grumbles something fleetingly unkind about women and their inability to interpret and empathize with art, and ruins another one of her lacey handkerchiefs with an abhorrent mixture of snot and tears. 

The woman only shakes her head. 

He has always been like this—loudly and pretentiously emotional over things that might barely jerk a half-hearted wince out of her at best. 

Now, before one labels her apathetic—she has tried...heavens know how hard. 

For him, she has pretended to laugh until her cheeks hurt at the unfunny displays of rowdy caricatures of foreigners at the theaters. 

For him, she has dabbed corners of her drier-than-the-Arizona-summer eyes after his colleague’s daughter’s revoltingly off-tuned piano recitals. 

For him, she has ooh-ed and aah-ed at the paintings of things that don’t matter simply because he rejoiced when someone validated what he deemed was the reasoning behind the choice of a certain hue by the artist. 

But it’s not the early 1900s anymore and she’s no longer his shy, teen bride. They’ve been married for over twenty years, and even the most skilled actresses can perform for so long. 

Now she only waits for his seemingly endless sobbing to halt so that she can focus on what remains of the film casting greys and blacks on the ivory sheet. 

The movie—sensational among the crowds of her husband’s likeness, and laced with a very predictable ending—that plays in front of her is named ‘Fool’s Paradise.’ 

What an appropriate name, she thinks to herself while eying her husband clench the fabric in his wrinkled fists and stare wide-eyed at the screen as if it were some holy revelation. 

She grows wary of the sight pretty quickly, and returns her focus back on the screen only to be ambushed by the sudden appearance of half a dozen alligators whom the once blind hero tries to fight to win over his lover. 

Exasperated, the woman wrings her head away from the screen, from her husband, from the lazy reconciliation that’s bound to happen on screen, counting down minutes until she can leave her seat. 

A rosy valentine’s evening—wasted. 

As she mulls over her fate, still soured over the now wasted tickets to a new and emerging jazz singer from the orient, Lee Seokmin's show that she had wanted to attend instead of coming to the cinema, a brief movement outside the flapping wooden paneled door catches her eye. 

The figure looming outside is hidden under a huge hat, an enormous tweed coat and looks fragile and small…perhaps a young boy?

Strange. 

It’s the last show of the day. Then what is he waiting outside for?

His occasional peeping through the gaps puts her on alert. Something about the jittery energy, the nervous fidgeting, the constant hiding and seeking makes her conclude that it must be a pickpocket—there have been way too many of them in Manhattan lately. 

The thunderous round of applause, the final few sniffs and the spluttering compliments as the movie ends drown out the alarms ringing in the woman’s head. But she’s already on her toes, determined to corner the supposed crook before he can wipe his hands on the bulging wallets of New York’s nouveau elite. 

“Hey, you!” she calls out as soon as she bursts out. 

She gears up her throat to scream for help in case the figure attacks her or makes a run for the exit. But her angry exclamation only makes him flinch. He buries his flushed face deeper into the scarf. 

Behind them, the cinema-goers have already begun milling out of the stuffy, dark room—immersed deep into the discourse about the actress’s beauty and blissfully unaware of what’s unfolding at the entrance. 

The woman takes a closer look, or attempts to, because her captive is already fleeing. But instead of running away, he seems to be sliding towards where she has just emerged out of. 

Taking advantage of his lithe body, he attempts to slip inside the now emptying room—no visible solicitation of theft or mischief. 

But the woman is smart enough to grab onto the sleeve of his coat, even though he begins wringing his hand. 

Something is not right about the person in front of her. 

It takes her a moment to realize what it is that grated on her about this overenthusiastic attendant in the first place…the softness of face, the swell of chest under the low buttons of the coat, the doe-eyes…

No.

That’s an absurd thought. 

The community here is still too conservative for that.

So she presses on:

“The show has ended.” She exclaims, “you cannot go inside now.”

Another short lived struggle. Another hand tightening over the coat. The flesh under her fingers seems too soft to belong to a… 

“Let me go.” The person grumbles. 

Any doubts that were holding the woman away from believing what her gut had concluded melt away the moment her captive lets their voice slip out. The person in the woman’s stronghold isn’t some naughty pickpocket or a bony little servant—but a young girl dressed in a man’s clothes. 

The woman lets her go at once, and when she does, a soft strand of the girl’s hair escapes from her hat which she quickly tucks back in and disappears inside the dark room leaving the woman more confused than she was before. 

The projector inside the room is dying slowly—nothing more than a haggard glow trembling in the stale air—and her husband is glancing impatiently at his pocket watch as he waits for her outside the theater. 

“What was that about?” He asks, only having witnessed a sliver of the encounter. “Who was the boy?”

“Pippa’s son.” The woman lies, tightening her shawl over her shoulders. “Told him to say hi to his mother for me.”

⸻

You look around one last time. 

Fifty odd seats. All empty. 

Still, just for precaution, you crouch down and search underneath them too. 

Once you’re satisfied that you’re alone in the room with a flickering projection of ‘Thank you!’ on a washed blanket, you finally clutch the hat in one hand and the scarf in another and free yourself from the claws of their itching, swampy heat. 

Your skin sighs deeper than your lungs, the scarlet flush watering down to a faint pink as you begin unbuttoning the coat several sizes too big on you. The air inside the room is stagnant and salty with all the tears it has witnessed today, but it seems as good as a fresh morning’s breeze when it settles in your hair. 

Maybe it’s the freedom from your hefty paraphernalia, maybe it’s the tingling, funny feeling beginning to climb its way from the butterflies in your stomach to the fireflies in your chest—but you find yourself giggling mere moments before he creeps up behind you to cage you and pull your back flush to his chest. 

“Hansol!” you laugh, even when nothing about the little kiss he presses against your temple is funny. 

But perhaps laughter is the only sound of homecoming. 

“You almost got caught there.” He remarks, resting his chin over your shoulder and slipping his fingers over your own to undo the last few buttons of your coat. 

You help him take it off you by shrugging your shoulders out, “I thought she was about to screech and cause a scene.”

“Well, you are unchaperoned and cross-dressed in Raymond’s cinema house.” He drapes the coat over a seat lazily, “and if that’s not scandalous enough, you’re trespassing at midnight.”

“Oh, please.” you huff out, plopping onto the cushiony seat and tapping the one next to you for him, “there’s women out there finishing off their evening shifts right now and having a smoke in the parlour next door. Not my fault your employer is still stuck at least half a century behind.”

Hansol tries his best to block your view of the giant pamphlet peeling off a corner on the side wall that reads, ‘NO UNCHAPERONED WOMEN ALLOWED PAST SIX IN THE EVENING’  among other outdated rules. 

But you read it out loud, like you do every night you come and visit him. Always alone. Always disguised.

“You know Raymond only keeps that up because he’s terrified his clientele will complain…the people around here are still too traditional about stuff like that,” he mutters, sinking down beside you. “If it were up to him, he’d let dogs and ghosts in, so long as they paid.”

“And yet,” you say, plucking an invisible piece of lint from his lapel with theatrical delicacy, “here I am. A woman. A scandalously unaccompanied one at that. And your ghosts-and-dogs-loving boss would have a fit.”

Hansol brushes a hand, warm and careful, against your jaw. 

“You aren’t unaccompanied. Not anymore.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” you tease. “I’ve been accompanied by a criminal.”

“A criminal?” He blinks. 

“Aiding and abetting, Hansol. Harboring a fugitive in your cinema of all places.”

He laughs quietly—soft, pressed-through-his-teeth, the kind of laugh he only ever lets out when he knows the walls won’t listen. The lamp behind the projector sputters one last time, dimming the room into an amber-tinted hush. Outside in the street, taxis honk and someone shouts a drunken goodbye; the world moves on without knowing you’re here, perched between shadows and the sweet leftover scent of celluloid.

He leans back, shoulders touching yours, knees angled towards you like he’s always been pulled by your gravity. For a long moment you listen to the projector cool, clicking and shrinking as metal contracts.

He reaches for your fingers—tentatively, as though asking without words—and you let him lace them between his.

“You looked so terrified when she held you,” he murmurs. “Sure you’re alright?”

“I am…now,” you assure him, resting your head on his shoulder. The rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek slows your blood down. His shirt smells faintly of the oil used on film reels—sharp, metallic—but underneath it is something familiar, something that always softens the parts of you the world keeps trying to harden. His shirt brushes your jawline as you curl instinctively closer.

He adjusts you slightly in his arms, like it is nothing and everything all at once.

Hansol hums. “I hate that you have to hide like this…by dressing up like—”

“A man?” you supply. “I think I make a fine one.”

“You make a terrible one,” he corrects, grinning now. “You’re too pretty for it.”

That makes you kiss him. Just a quick peck—short, but oh so sweet. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Hansol.” 

You begin to pull away, but his hand cups your face—calloused yet gentle—stationing you nearer for him to kiss you better. Deeper. Tentative yet passionate at the same time. His breath shudders before it mingles with yours, warming every single fibre of your physicality.

The kiss is slow…so slow that it makes you feel every single movement, every single touch, with such profoundness that it almost aches. Almost. Because Hansol has this way of dulling every pain that exists in your being until it withers down into nothing but a blossoming warmth in your spine. 

And just like that, something scarlet blends into the night-sky. 

“Happy Valentine’s, my love,” he mumbles against your skin. And then, as if the kiss was still unfinished in his books, he recaptures your trembling lips with his scorching ones. This time, more territorial and surer, like a dying flame leaping right back onto a new, diesel drenched log. Your knuckles shiver as they graze his jaw, too stimulated by his kiss.

By the time your bodies detangle, your toes hurt from curling too much inside your shoes and the perfume on your wrists has fully bled into his collar. 

Instinctually, you suck your bottom lip in, wanting to soak whatever it is of him that’s lingering on them. 

An affectionate titter escapes him at the sight of you so wrecked and gone by a simple kiss. He cradles your head, resting his forehead against yours, “I need to show you something.”

You take a moment to catch your breath before whispering: “Go ahead.”

The knot in your belly tightens with anticipation when he gives you another little kiss, gets up and disappears behind the seats. You hear the familiar whirring of metal and plastic as he skillfully loads a strip of film on the reel, adjusts the apparatus and after a few short minutes, the once ghastly white sheet in front of you is drenched in sepia tones again. 

“Is this some new movie?” You ask when he reappears. 

“Yes, I want you to be the first one to see it.”

“Oh, lovely,” you squeal, winding your arms around his bicep when he leans closer to you, “what’s it called?”

“Rites of Passage.”

Displeased, you scowl, “what an unfortunate name.”  

You had expected it to be a romantic melodrama—they’re all the rage these days. 

As if sensing your unease, he assures, “it is a love story.”

“I hope it doesn’t have a tragic ending.” 

Hansol stays silent at that. 

And then, “it ends the way it needs to.”

“Do they find happiness in the end?” 

He smiles, “yes…yes, they do.” 

“Then I have no qualms with what happens in the rest of the story.” 

Before you, the first flicker of a vibrant amber light quivers on the makeshift screen. Dust motes drift lazily through the projector beam, catching gold as the picture sharpens into focus. You lean further into Hansol’s chest, watching it half-heartedly, expecting the familiar grand opening shot—rolling hills, a train station, something suitably dramatic.

But the opening is rather quaint and even though it is a new one, you feel like you’ve seen this film before. 

A serene shot of a garden tucked somewhere between a row of terraced houses—narrow, almost secret, the sort of place only two kids would know how to find. The projection is all black and white, like new movies always are before they rot into sepia. But you think you know just exactly what the color of flowers that the little boy picks in a little basket is, or what shade of green is the little girl’s coat. There is no sound, but you’re already in on the jokes the boy tells to make the girl laugh. 

Not like an imagination. But like a memory. 

Hansol rests his cheek on the crown of your head, his warm breath brushing over the wisps of your loose hair. 

The boy on the screen tangles a long strand of wool between his little fingers, spins it around skillfully, and in a matter of seconds, conjures up what seems like a string doll between his stretched palms. 

“Remember when you used to perform these string tricks?” you ask him, fondly remembering all the different stars and animals and figures he’d entertain you with. 

He laughs, soft and balmy, “yes, and you’d always ask me to make a doll at the end of them all.” 

“I loved the string-dolls you’d make.”

“I know, dolly.” You feel his fingers tighten over your shoulders when calls you by the name only he ever calls you by. 

Before you, childhood matures into teenage—an uneven mix of awkward yearning and silent confessions. Distances grow, but so do the depths of feelings. Glances in public squares or intense staring under the old pine tree on a hill-top—as if the juvenile hero wishes to etch every curve and blip in the heroine’s face into his psyche.

It is so saccharine, so dreamy. 

Yet you feel a build-up…like any moment now, the bubbling potion of love is going to tip over and spill into a dark, rotten goo. Like every little dream that floats over a cloud for so long, this one too is about to meet its scorching fate when it crosses the sun. 

Your breath hitches and with the sudden tension in Hansol’s jaw, you wonder if he feels it too—this near dread. 

But before anything could happen—a villain bursting in and kidnapping the girl, or the ground splitting open by some ancient curse and swallowing the hero whole and leaving her to embark on a quest to bring her lover back—the reel stutters. 

The sound is jarring, like something snapping between the rusty metal but refusing to let up. A rhythm of defiance to break, but also a refusal to let the pictures move forward leaving you stuck with a static scene where the hero is halfway through a door as the heroine holds his hand back. 

“It’s stuck.” Hansol announces, gently unwrapping you from around him to go examine the projector, “I guess we overused it.”

“But we couldn’t even make it until the intermission.” You pout, a bit too upset over not finishing a movie you had no intention of seeing in the first place. 

“Next time, dolly,” he promises, still fiddling with the film-strip. 

You stay at the cinema for a little while after that, carefully vigilant yet carelessly in love at the same time. You whisper the happenings of your weeks to him so softly that even the room seems to shrink smaller for the walls to be able to hear you clearer. But the very next moment, you fail to swallow in your overenthusiastic squeaks when Hansol shares just what new movies Raymond plans to showcase at the theater next week. 

He shushes you, barely controlling his own beaming smile at your fanatic spirits. 

“Ah, Rudolph Valentino is so charming in the posters,” you exclaim, clasping your palms together, “I’ve heard it got a background score so romantic that it makes the audience weep!” 

“We plan on handling the weeping by playing the new movie of that Chaplin fella right after,” he says, “what’s it called…’the kid’?”

“Oh Hansol… I feel so alive these days.” You have no idea where it comes from, but the sparkle in your eyes is enough to light up the whole midnight. “These films…these flickering little miracles—they’re not just stories. They’re… they’re the city.”

He tilts his head, and you lift your hands as if sculpting the feeling out of thin dust motes drifting through the projector beam.

“New York is growing so fast I can hardly ever catch my breath. Every week there’s a new building stretching higher, a new crowd pushing through Times Square like they’ve been summoned by some invisible conductor. And these movies…they move just like the city moves. Quick. Restless. Unafraid.”

You turn to him and aren’t surprised when you find his face mirroring the utter reverence your words hold for a place that others might brush off as nothing more than an amalgamation of concrete and blinding lights. Maybe this is why you hold all your words, all your thoughts within yourself all day long—as excruciating as it is—because you know no one that’s not him would ever listen to you with this relevance. 

There seems to be this invisible thread that ties the centre of your chest with his and syncs your heartbeats until they’re nothing more than a background score for the movie that is the city you both grew up in. 

“Sometimes I think New York is dreaming right through us. That she’s sitting in these seats with us, humming along to the Valentino score, laughing with Chaplin. She’s becoming something bigger than any of us can grasp, and the cinema… it’s the only place I can hear her properly.”

Hansol watches you, the corners of his lips tugging upward with a quiet awe. You feel a blush rise, but you continue, unable to stop now that the words have burst open.

“I love this city like I love you,” you confess. “Like a friend, or a secret, or something I’m afraid to lose. And when I watch these films…these new, daring, impossible films, I feel like I’m watching someone I adore so deeply grow up in front of me.”

Outside, a distant streetcar clangs its bell—sharp, urgent, alive. The sound threads into the stillness of the empty theater.

“Ah,” you breathe, sitting back with a little laugh. “Hear that? That’s the city reminding us she’s awake. She never sleeps anymore.”

“She never sleeps,” he agrees, something softer than mere amusement in his eyes…deeper and more sincere, like devotion. “But I know she sighs when you talk about her like that.” 

Your lips dip into an irrepressible smile. He always does this—effortlessly putting these profound conclusions to your spirited ramblings as if putting a final bow on a bunch of randomly picked wildflowers and turning it into an expensive bouquet.  

It only motivates you to carry on with a discourse that many would brush off as nothing more than a nonsensical love letter penned by a dramatic, young girl towards something so inanimate. “People say the rush in the veins of this city is unbearable now…this maddening passion—they think it's ruinous.”

“Isn’t that exactly what they used to say about us when we were growing up?” Hansol prods, “it is always unnerving for them to see life stretch and expand in its own skin. The city, just like kids, isn’t pliant anymore…you cannot hold it back from chasing what it seeks.” Finally, his eyes settle on yours, “just how they couldn’t hold us.”

Your lashes flutter shut, your face inching further closer into the curve of his shoulder. Your voice is half muffled into his sweater when you speak, “I wish we were as brave as New York. I wish that we didn’t have to hide, that we could just run wild like her.”

Hansol doesn’t immediately answer, he lets your rueful grief settle down in the air around you—breathing it, soaking it. And once he can feel the shallowness dissipate from your inhales, he speaks, “you know why the lights here shine so bright now?”

There are a hundred logical explanations to that, but you’re aware that logic is long forgotten in this exchange between you and him. 

He continues, “you light a flame to illuminate something. But it also means you’re casting a shadow at something else at the same time—something you don’t want to see. It only makes you think, there could be so many secrets New York nurtures in these shadows behind its bright lights.”

“Just like us?” You ask.

“Just like us.” he affirms, his low voice the only evidence of his existence in the pitch darkness that envelopes you. 

You wonder what would happen if someday the spotlight tilts and shines directly at the two of you, when no matter how hard you try to outrun it and seek the shadows, it catches up to you. Because that’s what light does, doesn’t it? Finds and blinds. 

But for now, you choose to hide here—shadowed enough that the world can’t quite catch you, yet bright enough that he can. 

⸻

Lee Seokmin’s birthday arrives every year with a reminder of whom he shares it with. 

He tries to cheer up, attempts to brighten the gold in his smile even more on this particular day, answers all the letters and cards he receives. But always, in the back of his mind, there’s the shadow. His shadow. It’s been over three years, yet there’s no escaping the truth behind the life that he lives now. The ring on his finger. The woman who resides in his guest-room.

On this particular day, she sleeps until late noon.  

Good, he tells himself as he pretends to read through the details of the show he is supposed to sing at the upcoming week, it’s good that she’s resting. 

The flimsy curtains do little to stop the breeze that carries the remaining frost of the East-coast winter inside his townhouse. Seokmin stutters, contemplating shutting the glass-panels up, but ends up deciding otherwise and rather walks towards the open balcony to feel the sun on his skin. 

It’s a serene neighborhood, safe, suburban and saturated with greens—of nature, and of money. The houses all around are occupied by people like him, people whose life flourished when the city began flourishing a few years back. Bankers, performers, business owners, hoteliers…he’s the only celebrated Jazz singer around, though. 

So celebrated, in fact, that the glimmer of his raw talent and the honey in his voice drown out the color of his skin. There’s white men begging him for tickets to his shows now—can you imagine? 

He should gloat and yet, he doesn’t. Because Seokmin, before anything else, is someone who is aware. He worked hard for this, trained until his throat felt akin to sandpaper, sang like a madman at gigs that paid him in half a loaf of bread. But he also knows that all that talent, grit and experience can only mask so much about his identity that the people in this country are ‘willing’ to tolerate. 

His fame and riches helped him gloss over his foreignness, but he can never overlook the significance of the attribute that the woman fast asleep right now adds to his life. 

Slotting himself into the New York high-society as a Korean man with nothing but sheer luck and acumen to back it up is one thing. 

Trying to explain why he had no wife or fiancee or any romantic inclination towards women without painting himself red like a target is another.

Thus, there’s nothing for him to gloat about without first acknowledging the lifeline he has been given by his ‘wife’, even if it means that he has to—

“Good afternoon,” your voice is softer today, yet strong enough to pull his attention back inside the house, “and happy birthday, Mr. Lee.”

You’re all dressed up already. A giant coat that hides whatever it is that you’re wearing, only a hint of your stockings and the new pair of your low-heeled Mary Janes visible for him. Despite all the color that you’ve dusted over your face, the softened edges of your features and the droplets of water still clinging on to the tips of your hair make you feel strangely unfinished. Like a painting waiting for its final stroke. 

“Thank you,” he smiles, clearing his throat. 

This…arrangement, carefully crafted and deliberated on by the both of you, has allowed the two of you to co-exist for almost half a decade now. Yet, he still finds himself at a loss of proper words that he can say to you. Where are the lines here? What are the oddities? 

You seem more at ease around him than he does, though. Because you’re beaming, extending something towards him. That’s when he notices it—the tray full of little sweet treats clutched between your palms. 

“Oh, right.” he stutters, quickly grabbing the first dessert his fingers reach and scarfs it down whole. 

Thank God, they had been on the cooling rack for a while, or else he would have put himself out of business for a week by burning his throat with molten sugar straight out of the oven. 

That makes you laugh. This awkward, nervous energy which you’ve tried to soothe out of him through repeated assurances and affirmations. You always tell him that you feel safe around him and that you can just exist like friends. Perhaps, siblings? 

But he finds it hard to come around. 

And considering just how grave his situation already is when it comes to definitions and labels, you let him be. 

You place the tray back onto the counter but box two pieces of cakes into a tin container, clearly planning on taking it out with you. 

“It’s his birthday too, you know?” You inform Seokmin, even though he doesn’t ask. 

Seokmin considers his words for a long moment, still standing in the middle of the room, his hands sticky with the powdered sugar. 

“Ah yes,” he finally says, “I remember. Vernon—”

“Hansol,” you correct him sharper than you intended. 

Seokmin blinks, watching you uncertainly as this strange rage surges and ebbs within a split second between your brows. 

“I…I’m sorry,” you stutter, “he just…Hansol is his true name, you know?”

“Yes,” Seokmin nods, “yes, indeed. We ought to respect that.”

“I am glad you understand.” You lower your gaze, feeling impossibly ashamed of your little outburst. 

The next few moments pass in thick silence as you press the lid shut and move towards the coat-rack to fetch your hat. 

Seokmin tries to ease what just happened there. 

“It’s a bit too obsolete,” he points at your enormous hat, clearly teasing, “don’t you think?”

You scrunch your nose in faux annoyance, “but I love it. Even though it's a thing of the past.”

Seokmin’s smile flutters at the corners but you miss it completely, too busy smoothing over your outfit one last time before you leave. 

“Things of the past…” he mumbles, strolling back inside the kitchen. “Things of the past.”

⸻

You meet Hansol again on his birthday, four days after the eventful valentine’s evening. This time, you don’t have to crossdress as a man to enter Raymond’s cinema-house. 

‘I took special permission to have you here today.’ Hansol had told you, while gearing up the projector to reload the movie, ‘The rite of passage’, that you had left unfinished from your last meeting. 

Strangely enough, the reel ended up getting stuck again, this time, a mere thirty minutes before the ending. That wouldn’t have dejected you as much had you not been left hanging at a rather depressing part of the story—a scene where the boy gets drafted to be shipped off across the Atlantic for war. 

Turns out, the plot twist whose dread you could feel in your bones ever since the movie began only took a mere five minutes to play out on the screen. A letter, a summon—decisive and final. 

A crest in the budding romance. A tearful goodbye. An anxious audience. 

Uncharacteristically, you had burst into tears…not when the scene played out, but when it got stuck on the creased forehead of the heroine. Almost like you were being made to wait with her for her lover’s return. 

“Do you…do you think he’ll come back?” you ask, the wet patch under your temple on his sweater beginning to dry now that you’ve gotten a better hold over your tears. 

Hansol’s voice reverbates under your cheek pressed to his chest, “people do not always return from wars, dolly.”

“But you did,” you whisper, “you came back.”

You begin to sit up, the damp strands of wild grass poke into your skin through the flimsy fabric of your stockings as you shift from his lap and onto the ground. 

Hansol follows you, sitting halfway up and leaning back against his palms planted over the mud. 

The hillside he brought you on for a stroll after seeing just how wrecked the abrupt interruption made you is a mere blip against the New York skyline. The city throbs below you like it is preparing for bed, muted pastels washing over every building as the sun begins to soften. The skyline stands tall, quiet and sure, like it has seen generations of lovers unravel and rebuild on the very patch of soft foliage you are sitting on. 

He watches the infamous city-lights begin to flicker to life, one-by-one, before finally answering you. 

“I came back, but not the same.”

You shift to look at him, but he’s staring into nothingness, like he’s also still remembering that movie scene from before. The frozen moment of grief suspended in dim light. A soldier arrested in time, a girl paused at the edge of loss.

You don’t know whether he’s thinking of his own war that shaped him, or the years between then and now.

But after a moment, he turns to you, eyes gentler than his voice.

“Not the same…” you hate the way his words tremble, like he has to forcibly wring them out and leave them to find their own meaning. 

So far, your lives have been shaped by circumstances so colossal and way beyond your control that persistence is not just a trait, but a mechanism of survival. It is the only way you know how to keep moving—through grief, through joy, through the quiet, brittle moments that fall somewhere in between. 

Thus, even in the fragility of this dipping evening, your persistence to make this better stands its stubborn ground. 

“Things don’t have to remain the same for them to be good.” You eagerly cup his face between your cold palms, “don’t you always say how change is the only constant?”

That reminder of hope, of those tid-bits of philosophy that have somehow succeeded in not letting his smile succumb to the horrors that life has thrown at him—it gently guides him back to you. 

The veil of the past grows thinner and thinner over his eyes, and it only encourages you to distract him more. 

“I mean look,” you laugh, trying your best to mask the nervousness as you begin unbuttoning your coat. “You always make fun of me for wearing those drab, shapeless garments, don’t you?”

The coat slips off your shoulders, pooling around your knees pressed on the soft grass. Underneath, the curves of your body sway shyly under a weightless fabric that, surprisingly, ends at your mid-thighs. 

You had felt too brave putting it on earlier in the day. The dress, a gift from your friend Mildred who insisted it was all the rage these days, was so unlike your usual tailored attires of long skirts and lace-colored blouses. The thin straps barely holding the attire together make you feel so naked to a point that the blush on your cheeks flushes down and settles over the exposed skin of your shoulders, prickling it with this strange sense of heat. 

“It’s the flapper look,” you explain to his gawking eyes as Hansol watches you as though you’re something holy and forbidden. “I thought it was time for some change in myself.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just looks.

His throat bobs. Once. Twice. Like he’s trying to swallow down everything he’s feeling in the moment—wonder, fear, longing, the aching edges of a man who doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want something soft again.

Finally, quietly, he murmurs, “You look like trouble.”

You huff a laugh, pretending it doesn’t shake. “Good trouble, I hope.”

“The best kind,” he says, more like a revelation to himself than a confession to you. 

Your fingers brush over the loose fabric skimming your hips. You curl them into fists, trying to subdue the itch which makes you want to grab your coat and put it back on and just bolt away—but not before making Hansol promise that he’d forget what he just saw…what you made him witness…what you just offered... 

But his fingers work faster than yours, curling over your waist and pulling you flush until your chest mashes against his. Little knots of burning desire bunch up and explode all at once in every single inch of your body when he does that. Your lips part at the audacity—of his, and that of yours—and the sight of you like this…shell-shocked and wild-haired twists something carnal in him. 

Instead of pulling you out of this state of collapse, he only submerges you deeper when he kisses you like he has never before. Hungry, open-mouthed, lustful. You don’t even attempt to fight it when his tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing away the sweetness that lingers inside of you. 

And that act of submission only seems to fuel him further into searing his touch deeper into the form of you. 

“Divine,” he pulls away just enough to whisper that, his voice dark and hoarse, “that’s what you are.”

He worships you with his words and his tongue some more before he’s pushing you around until your back meets the ground with a harsh impact. It’s not enough to hurt you, but just right to make you moan. 

“Hansol,” you plead. For what? You have no answer. 

His lips come down on whatever trembling flesh he can find—your wrists, your collarbones, your shoulders, the slight swell of your chest. 

He moves lower and lower until your thighs press together with the foretaste of what’s about to follow. 

No matter how many times you’ve been here in this exact state, the sight of his face pressed between your legs—curious eyes gaging every little scowl, every little whimper that escapes you while his parched tongue laps at you, prods against you, cajoles you to let him in deeper—never fails to ravage your sanity. 

Hansol can’t help but grin when the much shorter, looser skirt pools around your hips on its own. His fingers have already worked through the layers of fabric that shield you from him and when the slickness that has gathered at your apex coats the tips of them, his head spins. 

“Oh, heavens,” he huffs out, dipping his finger deeper into your fluttering walls. The warmth, the soft clench, coupled with how you clasp your eyes shut but the tears still roll down—it almost undoes him right then and there. 

His breaths turn ragged with every plunge of his fingers that make you convulse and arch off the ground. Air, he needs some air in his brain to better remember what is unfolding before him until eternity. He half-heartedly unlatches his fingers from your weeping core after a particularly passionate stroke against your nub to remove his sweater. All through it, you continue to tremble on the ground, cold mud clinging onto your skin as you attempt to reach out for him with your arms. 

“Hansol,” you call him back, “please…”

“I know, love, I know.” He muses, still lost in the fierce gravity of you. 

You feel something small and hard pelt against your skin—the buttons of his shirt as he wildly rips it open. 

The white linen finally gives way for your vision to settle on his skin—taut with labor and illuminated just by the moonlight under this pine tree. 

The need to touch him that emerges out of you is so palpable, that it makes him lean down a bit, allowing your fingers to rake all over the hardened ridges on his abdomen to the smooth expanse of skin over his chest. His heartbeat turns chaotic and relentless when your touch lingers on the long, scarlet scar that runs across his sternum—a ghost of his skin that they took away from you. 

“You’re perfect,” you admit, regardless. 

“I’m yours.” He echoes, like that somehow concludes the whole truth of him. 

You don’t falter, “then make me yours, too.” 

A guttural sound escapes from the back of his throat as he half undoes, half rips your undergarments and kisses you down there with this undeniable hunger. You can only arch further into him, offering more. The taste of you never ceases to tip him over the edge of control. 

He eats you out greedily, alternating between long stripes and shameless, open-mouthed kisses to a point where every exhale of yours comes out with a desperate moan. He sucks you so hard that you feel he intends to break you. 

Your fingers fist around the strands of something—his hair or the grass, you can’t discern anymore. As a matter of fact, you don’t want to. Because that would mean shifting a part of your attention from him towards something that’s not him. And you don’t want to do that, not even for a split second. 

“I wish you could see how you look right now,” he mumbles, the vibration of his voice amplifying your pleasure tenfolds. “So ruined already…yet begging for more.”

That prompts you to imagine—your body, lying dishevelled and open on a patch of grass somewhere so public as clay accumulates underneath your fingernails while he buries his face deeper and deeper between your legs like a parched man searching for an oasis. 

You feel your limbs beginning to go limp under his ministrations, a telltale sign of the arrival of something that snatches all your coherence away from you and leaves you a blushing, blubbering mess of Hansol. He makes you welcome it with open arms with a final, scorching kiss on top of your aching folds, right over the little root of pleasure that has been bearing the delicious torment of his calloused fingers. 

By the time the coil of tension snaps, you are sobbing. Tears flow freely down your face, collecting the dirt that has gathered on your face from the struggle.

A molten blush crawls up from the column of his neck and flushes throughout his face when he re-emerges from between your legs that lie listless on either side of his body. From one side, the city lights cast just enough illumination across his face for your half-lidded gaze to catch the thick arousal that coats his gleaming lips. 

The sight makes you shut your eyes close for good before you lose your mind. 

Strong hands wrap around your thighs, angling your ankles to settle around his waist while he holds you down with his body weight. Your lips part with an involuntary moan as humiliation of reveling in the feeling of being overpowered this way begins shrouding your mind. 

Hansol calls your name under his breath, then his hand departs from fondling your chest in favor of his rock-hard length.

He lines himself up with your entrance, the blunt head positioned right by your gaping, quivering hole. He nips at your skin once, perhaps to distract you from the overwhelming pleasure laced with pain as he pushes deeper into you. 

But the ache doesn’t subside, not when your hips gyrate against him eagerly, effectively pulling him halfway inside of you. 

You mewl, suddenly too aware of the fact that you can never get used to the feeling of that first stretch, that delicious ache. 

“Doll…be patient.” He begs. 

“N-need you…Hansol.”

“I know, love, it’s written all across your body.” He slots his fingers with yours, “breathe for me, go on, breathe.”

You obey, or try to. Because every single one of your inhales crests, and every single exhale splutters. The only thing you can do without struggling is calling out his name again and again. 

Hansol whimpers when you cry, the pressure of your walls around him an intoxicating bliss. He plunges his remaining length inside of you with a breathless gasp causing your vision to blur. 

The fact that you can’t determine where pain melts into pleasure and where you end and he begins is already so nervewrecking. So when he begins rocking in and out of you, gentle one moment and reckless the other, you find yourself scrambling for control before Hansol can drive you to utter lunacy. You don’t know how it happens, but you succeed in pushing him until he’s on his back. His length slips out of you in this brief tussle, making you whine. But you don’t stay at loss for long because the very next moment, you’re climbing on top of him. His whole body jerks as he pants and the only thing that makes sense is for you to push him back inside your sensitive core.

The lust on his face makes you shiver when you brace your hands on top of his broad shoulders for support. 

Grass and dirt dig deeper into your knees as you begin moving up and down over and over again on his hard length. Your entire body convulses with every debauched plunge, your breaths breaking before they can even make it out of your throat. 

Below you, Hansol watches you with actual stars in his eyes, his mouth still wet and pupils blown out yet gleaming with the brilliance of a thousand moons even in the exhausted darkness. 

It is a trance—nothing more, nothing less. 

He smoothes his palms under the hem of your dress to clutch either side of your waist, providing you additional support with your erratic movements. The action aids you gain better control, but your desperation is no less frantic. 

You clench him like you’re proving some claim. You call out his name like that’s the only prayer you ever learnt. 

You begin to find a rhythm in how to roll your hips in a way that pleasures you both, but your lover offtracks your entire train of thoughts when he begins angling his hips to meet you halfway up. Even from underneath you, he dominates this sinful act as he begins pistoning in and out of you, forcing you to adjust to the pace he sets for the both of you. 

You have no choice but to clamp your drooling mouth over his and oblige. His grip over your waist tightens like a punishment as he penetrates your tight heat, making you succumb entirely to his mercy.

This isn’t just sex, this isn’t some fleeting desire. 

This is love, finally given an act…and boy does Hansol make you perform. 

The hot, white daze rapidly expanding from the corners of your vision quickly overtakes your senses, choking you with overwhelming pleasure as he continues to sink in and out of the messy wetness between your thighs. You shatter with a broken gasp on top of him and like he had been waiting for just that, he quickly follows suit. Warmth and bliss bloom into something tangible and thick inside of you as he fills you with all he has to give you in the moment. 

“I love you,” you break apart, sure and unwavering even when his eyes turn into a shade of onyx that you cannot recognize—such is the intensity of this moment. 

“I love you,” you drawl, your eyes rolling behind your lids as your bodies sway in tandem in the aftermath of this heat. 

“I have loved you,” he says, long after your world has suspended. “And I will always love you.”

⸻

The water instantly turns murky with dirt when Seokmin rinses the washcloth in it. 

The household helper changes the basin almost instantly, bringing in another set of fresh towels before leaving the couple in the privacy of their bedroom. 

Seokmin tries again, softer this time. The water is warmer, but the grime plastered behind your ear is impossibly stubborn—won’t come loose unless he applies at least some pressure against your raw skin. 

Your face scrunches up in pain and you hiss, the sound is so soft, so little, that it shatters him all at once. He pauses, letting you shift into a more comfortable position. There are no visible injuries on your body, just a weary kind of damage.Your skin is chilled to the touch, still holding onto the bite of a cold night’s wind even though you’ve been inside for nearly an hour. Tiny goosebumps pebble your arms and legs, never fully settling. The dirt isn’t just on your face; it’s dusted throughout your hair, accumulating under your nails and in the little crevices of your arms. 

“Shall I?” he asks, long fingers fisted over the damp, warm towel. 

Meekly, you nod. 

He pats your skin with utmost tenderness, wiping away the little trails of mud with his thumbs, picking the dried bits of dead leaves and shriveled flowers from your hair. The tactile act provides the benevolence needed in this moment against the things that hang heavy and unsaid in the air between you two. 

“Staying out all night like that,” Seokmin finally thaws the uncomfortable ice, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

The light rebuke isn’t that of annoyance, but rather disappointment. Your lashes cast down with a prickling sense of shame. 

“Your temperature is abnormal,” he continues, quite concern weighing his expressions down, “there’s a possibility that the scratch on your knee is infected…we need to—”

“It’s not fair.” 

Your voice comes out so hoarse and jagged and you immediately wince when your throat burns. 

Your statement startles Seokmin. What exactly is unfair—his rightly placed concern? The cruel gossip amidst the servants outside? 

“What is not fair?” he asks quietly. 

Your lips part, but your voice betrays you—still too raw to be overused. 

Seokmin shakes his head pitifully, offering you a cup of warm water and honey. But you don’t even attempt to reach for it—your wild eyes focused in a corner of the room where the carpet peels off the floor. 

Just when he tips the cup closer towards your cracked lips:

“It’s not fair that Raymond keeps him away from me all the time,” you begin to complain, “he had to leave for work before I could even wake up.”

The cup almost slips out of Seokmin’s grasp, but he quickly recovers. By now, he is very well versed with the drill. 

You barely even notice that though, because you’re already off on a tangent of your own. 

“I must talk to Raymond about this,” you declare, fumbling with the blanket draped over your knees, “this is simply cruel and inhumane!”

Your resolve doesn’t falter when you finally look at a very stoic looking Seokmin with this impervious hope, “say, Mr. Lee, you’d employ Hansol to work for you, won’t you? I don’t know how that never crossed my mind—”

Before he responds to you, he abruptly gets up from the bed and asks the servants waiting for his next orders outside of the room to just take it off for the day. 

Then, he marches back into your bedroom and opens the curtains wide. 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the onslaught of sunlight, your lids flutter as they struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness. They feel impossibly dry, yet brimming with tears at the same time. 

Seokmin calls out your name—not like a command, but more like an urge. He’s holding your elbows, you realize. By the time you finally recover, the first thing you gage is the absolute anxiety over Seokmin’s face. This pale look of utter horror and discomfort like he’s choking onto something—perhaps his own words. 

“Mr. Lee,” you whisper, it comes out like a question. “Why are you holding me back? I need to—”

Seokmin says your name again, softer this time. And then, “please, listen to me.”

“But it’s—”

“No, please. Just breathe for a moment.”

“But Hansol—”

“Isn’t here anymore!” Seokmin didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but he does.

And with how the color drains from your face, he instantly regrets it. 

He can see the truth that you’ve stitched deep inside your bones, in an attempt to forget, curl its way up your spine and towards your head. But there’s still that stark defiance that your heart pumps in your very veins—one that you’ll let yourself be blinded by, even if it means never seeing even a speck of light ever again. 

Seokmin tries to fight it on your behalf, “he isn’t here…hasn’t been for years. Ever since—”

You jerk your arms away from his hold. 

“Stop lying!” you scream, “all you do is lie. Your entire existence is a lie!” 

Seokmin knows exactly what’s happening—this provocation, this reflection of pain turned outward because your mind cannot hold it in any longer. It’s the same script every time, but it never gets easier to watch.

“You just…you just don’t want me to be with him because that ruins your perfect little plan,” you speak more to yourself than to Seokmin now, “because if Raymond lets him go, you’re afraid you’d lose your pretend-wife and hence, your reputation. People will know you only married me to save face! That you prefer men over women!”

“Hansol is not here,” he repeats, barely audible. “You know this. You do know this, even if you—”

You press your palms over your ears, cheeks completely soaked with hot, uncontrolled tears. 

“Stop it! Stop lying to me Mr. Lee…” you stumble off the bed, away from him, “for the love of God, stop being so cruel!” 

Seokmin can feel his own composure beginning to fracture, but he pushes through it, because someone has to stay steady. And it will never be you.

He takes a step forward as you struggle to put your coat back on, his hand carefully extended towards you. But you gasp with sheer horror, your eyes bulging wide as you flinch away from him like he’s your predator. 

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.” You shake your head frantically, “I can’t stay married to you to save your face while the love of my life rots away in a dingy cinema-room loading and unloading love stories that he might never get to live.”

Seokmin watches you helplessly as you put your shoes on with this haphazard urgency. Like if you don’t act now, something precious and pure will once again be swallowed into the belly of the Earth. A vicious act of thievery, a cruel annihilation of love. 

“I need to finish watching the movie…” you repeat, “I must finish watching the movie…”

Seokmin knows better than to stop you right now, so he waits for a beat until you disappear down the stairs and then, he follows you to the theater where your childhood sweetheart Hansol once worked before getting forcefully conscripted into the army half a decade ago. 

⸻

Raymond sees her every time when she pretends to sneak in, but never stops her. His weathered, grey irises are full of sorrow for the poor girl. 

Today, she rushes in unabashedly. No disguise. No attempt to be invisible. 

Her steps are erratic, her coat half unbuttoned. Her hair sticks to her sweaty forehead in rivulets and if anyone saw her eyes, they’d be flinching away from her as if she were a rabid animal. 

Raymond considers going after her when she barges inside an empty cinema-room, one that she always slips into. The same one that her lover once helped operate. 

Sometimes, she stays there for a few minutes. Most times, she spends hours. 

Just when he’s about to check in on her, a hand clasps his shoulder. Lee Seokmin, the jazz singer…her husband. 

“Please…just, let her be.” He pleads, reaching inside his pocket to settle whatever loss this interruption would cause Raymond. 

Raymond doesn’t accept the wad of cash. 

Just walks up to the chalkboard and erases all the schedules for the day.

⸻

The screen is already drenched in the images stuck where you had left them. Hansol must’ve loaded the projector already. Hopefully, this time, it won’t stop…even though you wish it did.

“Hansol…” you call out in the dark, this little beacon of naive hope shadowing what you already know—that perhaps, now, he won’t show up. 

Persistence—the language of your love letters to him. 

You try to wield its powers again. “Hansol, love, don’t hide now. I have enough saved…even if Mr. Lee refuses to help us, we can go—”

A loud screech, the tell-tale sound of plastic reel spinning against metal. 

The movie…the rite of passage…begins to play again. 

What a grotesque name. 

You refuse to acknowledge it by prying your eyes away from it even though the faces on the screen begin morphing into the ones you recognize. Yours. His. Seokmin’s. 

You try to run away, but something cements you on spot. 

‘I need to show you something…’

Lovers severed by war and tethered by longing. 

‘...it is a story of love…’

And one of loss, too.

‘...it ends the way it needs to…’

An ending stripped off contentment for anyone involved. 

You feel a strange sensation—something whirring inside your ears and making your focus wobble…a weird vertigo. Almost like you’re peering down the edge of a cliff, your naked feet sweat-slicked and taut over the loosening sand. 

The world seems like a single flip away from something irreversible…yet, inevitable. Time. Like you’re one with the clock. No coming back. No bringing back. 

On the screen, the hero is plucked out of his lover's arms and given an anglicised name. 

Vernon, a name that traces back to an alder tree. Hansol, a name linked to a pine tree. 

Did everyone who ever named him felt his presence akin to a balmy shade of a tree as well? Away from the blinding lights…a soft life that tumbles and giggles in the shadows. 

At the end of the movie, the hero dies. 

The heroine goes mad. 

The once opaque, ivory sheet of the projector turns into a mirror. 

There’s a gap inside of you now…like something scooped out of you. Something akin to a sweet poison which had to be sucked out or else it would have melted your insides. 

You wonder if you would have liked that gradual necrosis. If that heaviness that seems to have been vaporized out of you was the only thing harnessing you here. 

The hinges of the door creak when it opens and Seokmin enters, the matured yellow of the afternoon sun slanting its brilliance on you. 

But you don’t shrivel away anymore…you don’t close your eyes. 

fin.

author's note: i am genuinely sorry.

permanent tags:@mellowamour @lovelylonelinesssvt @gyuguys @scoupscious

@jicheolsol-lover @sumzysworld @lllucere @seungcheolsblackcard @wakandabiitch2

@helloiliketits @J3nnch3ls3a @princessjazzyjazz @livelaughloveseventeen

@sousydive @izzyy-recs @livmarauder @vwintershire @cherrymayz

special tag for @luvrung for this one <3

VALENTINES TAGLIST FORM

MASTERLIST

Huh.

You clear your throat. “I see we’re being analyzed again.”

Florence only snorts.

Which is an understandable reaction by now. It feels as if there is a new article released every day, criticizing your generation’s modern-day woman. It’s amusing in a way, seeing how strongly the older generations feel about the youth and their “incorrigible” ways.

You settle deeper into your chair and continue reading the article.

This one seems to be a bit more reasonable at times. At least they want to understand us this time, you think.

“Besides, during the Victorian era, she served an unusually long bondage to the domestic virtues…” Your voice trails off.

The sentence makes you pause for a moment—you tilt your head slightly, considering it.

Florence notices the unusual silence on your end. “Well?”

“The author isn’t entirely wrong,” you admit carefully.

You continue. “Shall we blame her if, seeing her opportunity, she takes her fling for a while and gives rein to the decorative and histrionic impulses of her nature?”

Florence lowers the volume on the wireless just enough for the music to fade into a soft, low hum.

She shifts herself towards you as she asks, “Do you agree with him?”

You don’t answer her immediately. You run your finger along the margin of the page, rereading the sentence in your head.

Another beat passes.

“I think,” you say slowly, “he believes he’s being generous.”

Florence only huffs at your statement.

“No, listen,” you insist, leaning forward. “He’s not condemning her. He’s not entirely calling her foolish or immoral. He’s saying that after centuries of being told her entire worth resided in obedience and modesty… perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised if she wants to be seen.”

She studies you for a moment.

“You’re being quite understanding today.”

“I am always understanding,” you huff out. “I don’t see what’s so terrible about wanting to enjoy one’s youth.”

That gets a giggle out of her. “You do enjoy yours, don’t you?”

You glance up at her, one brow lifting.

Florence grins. “You’re practically the bee’s knees at every social function Moonridge hosts.”

You roll your eyes at her. “Don’t be ridiculous now.”

But you know what she means.

You’ve always drawn attention wherever you go.

Although it has never felt like power to you. If anything, it has felt… inevitable. Almost predictable in a way.

You return your gaze to the article.

“Beauty as the whole duty of women,” you read quietly. “That part I dislike.”

Florence tilts her head. “Why?”

“Because it suggests that even our freedom must be decorative.”

You close the magazine gently and let it rest on your desk.

“I don’t mind being admired,” you continue, “I simply don’t want admiration to be the only language addressed to me.”

Florence watches you with that knowing look—the one that says she understands more than she lets on.

But before she can respond, the door suddenly flies open, rattling the wall on impact.

Irene stands there, cheeks pink from running.

“Please tell me you’re ready,” she says breathlessly.

Florence straightens at her tone. “What have we forgotten now?”

“The mixer,” Irene says. “With Ashbourne. We promised Mrs. Abernathy we’d help set up. She’ll have our heads if we’re late.”

You glance at the mantle clock.

Oh.

Florence groans dramatically. “I didn’t even get to finish sewing my blouse!”

You snicker at her dilemma.

“Darling, you could wear a potato sack to the mixer and you would still have a line of men wanting to talk to you.” You remarked as you stood up from the desk and smoothed your skirt over.

Florence rolls her eyes in response.

“Come on, we’ll be late!” Irene cries out, hand tugging at your wrist.

“I don’t see why my punctuality is such a community concern,” you grimace.

“Because,” Florence says, already grabbing at your other wrist, “half of the boys across the avenue attend these things in hopes you’ll grace them with ten minutes of your time.”

You sigh.

“That is precisely why I wasn’t in a hurry.”

The gymnasium has been transformed with an enthusiasm that borders on excessive.

Paper lanterns hang from the rafters, glowing softly against the high beams. Streamers loop along the walls, each one placed with meticulous care. It is all very earnest. Ambitious even. Too much care, if you had any say in it.

You arrive just in time to help adjust centerpieces and align the chairs into straight, disciplined rows. This part is usually the only one you find yourself enjoying; no eager men to bother you yet.

By the time the doors officially open, the four of you look less like volunteers and more like the evening’s main attraction.

The young men from Ashbourne file in shortly after, jackets neatly pressed, and hair styled with annoying precision. They stand stiffly at first, clustered near the entrance as if uncertain where to situate themselves.

Florence laughs first, enjoying the awkward view in front of her. Irene waves at a particular group of boys. Lillian whispers something wicked that makes you hide a smile.

It begins like it always does.

Introductions are made, names are exchanged, and compliments are delivered with that same careful, rehearsed cadence you’ve grown very accustomed to.

Your group eventually spreads out—each one of your friends already having particular men or groups to talk to.

And you?

You are surrounded.

It happens at every mixer. The music swells, the men grow braver, and suddenly the room reorganizes itself into groups orbiting whichever young woman has most recently declared “quite exceptional”.

Tonight, unfortunately, that young woman seems to be you.

“Miss—may I have the next dance?”

“You look quite radiant this evening.”

“I was hoping to secure at least one waltz before the night concludes—”

With a polite smile, you incline your head graciously. You decline two dances with gentle regret and accept one with equal courtesy. The waltz is tolerable. The fox-trot is less so.

One gentleman with too much pomade attempts to monopolize your attention, leaning too close for your comfort.

“You’ve been difficult to secure all evening.”

“So it seems,” you reply pleasantly.

“I was warned I’d have to be swift if I wanted a chance.”

You smile without any real warmth to it. “We’ll have to see about that.”

He laughs, but there’s a faint trace of irritation beneath it. He does not seem to enjoy your ambiguity.

Another tries to wedge himself into the conversation. A third hovers.

You feel the familiar tightening in your smile—not distress, yet, but the quiet calculation of how to remove yourself without appearing rude eats at you. You had hoped to slip into the background tonight. Wishful thinking.

It is not unpleasant, exactly. It’s something you’re used to already, but it sure can get repetitive.

You begin planning your escape. A headache would suffice. Perhaps a prior obligation even?

But just as you draw breath to excuse yourself, a new voice cuts through the group.

“Gentleman!” A warm voice cuts in, light but firm.

The circle jolts.

You turn toward the intruder.

He stands just outside the cluster, hands loosely clasped behind his back. His expression is quite… pleasant.

There is nothing confrontational about him. Nothing aggressive either. And yet, the other men straighten at the sound of his voice.

One weakly clears his throat. “We were simply—”

“Conversing,” He supplied helpfully. “Yes, I gathered that from all of the overlapping.”

You try to fight back a smile.

The pomade enthusiast to your left bristles. “And you are?”

“Temporarily concerned,” the newcomer replies easily, gesturing toward the formation around you. “About ventilation.”

There is a brief pause as the comment settles.

“Ventilation?” Someone repeats.

“Yes,” he says gravely. “If one more gentleman joins this formation, we may require permits.”

A strangled laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

The tension fractures. Two of the boys step back, embarrassed. Another one mutters something about securing refreshments. The remainder of the group disperse with wounded dignity, eager to pretend that they had never been part of such an arrangement.

Space. Finally.

You find yourself exhaling in relief.

The newcomer finally looks at you properly. His expression shifts from mischievous to something more sheepish.

“I hope that wasn’t presumptuous,” he says. “You looked as though you were one second away from bursting.”

You stare at him for a moment, deciding whether or not he’s one of them.

Though there’s something about his smile that tells you he didn’t act out of pure interest.

“Was it that obvious?”

His shoulders relax at your response.

“You would have to be blindfolded to not see that mess.”

You laugh at that.

But you also notice a few things.

He hasn’t offered his hand. Nor has he implied that you owe him any gratitude.

He simply stands there, as though this were the most natural exchange in the world.

You tilt your head. “Any other observations?”

He thinks for a second before replying.

“You possess admirable stamina,” he says without any hesitation. “Most would have escaped by now.”

You nod. “I was considering it.”

You study him more closely now.

His suit is well-pressed but not ritzy. His tie is slightly off-center. His hair is neat but not lacquered into submission like some of the other men do. And… there’s a faint dimple when he smiles.

You decide to continue the conversation.

“And what method of escape would you have recommended?”

“The refreshment table is too exposed,” he says thoughtfully. “The doors are heavily trafficked as well. I would suggest moving closer to the piano. No one lingers there unless they intend to sing.”

You stare at him in astonishment.

“You’ve thought this through.”

He’s quick to reply. “I prefer to understand my surroundings.”

The jazz surges into a faster tempo. Couples swirl past, skirts brushing, polished shoes gliding across the floor.

“You haven’t asked me to dance,” you observe.

“I have not.”

“Why not?”

He does not answer immediately. Instead, he watches a pair nearly collide on the floor before speaking.

“You did not seem eager to accept the previous invitations.” He answers.

“That has never stopped anyone before.”

“It seemed redundant,” he murmured timidly. “You did not appear in need of another obligation.”

A slow smile spreads across your face.

“Very well,” you say. “Since you’ve saved the evening’s airflow, you may at least tell me your name.”

“Lee Seokmin.”

The name feels warm when you repeat it.

“And you are?”

You tell him your name.

Recognition flashes briefly across his face.

“I’ve heard of you,” he admits.

You squint your eyes at him. “…That sounds ominous.”

“You won a debate last spring,” he says quickly. “On women in academia.”

You stare at him again, stunned.

“You attended?”

“Yes.”

“And you remember it?” You ask him skeptically.

Seokmin shrugs, almost bashfully. “It was compelling.”

That sparks your interest.

“So… what do you study, Mr. Lee?”

“Literature.”

“Voluntarily?” You jest.

Laughter escapes him—the sound gathering the attention of a few students nearby.

“Yes. Voluntarily.”

“And what do you intend to do with it?”

“Teach, I hope.”

There is no bravado in his statement. No attempt to impress you with wealth or ambition. It’s refreshing.

“I’m sponsored,” he adds after a moment. “A friend of my father’s insisted I apply. I consider myself very fortunate.”

You pause.

That sort of admission is rare in rooms like this. Most men from prestigious universities like his prefer to show off their lineage. It must be challenging for him at times.

“That’s admirable,” you say.

“It’s generous,” he corrects gently. “I don’t intend to waste it.”

Something in your chest shifts.

The conversation flows after that. Easily.

You speak of your desire to become a librarian as well as the infuriating limitations placed upon your college’s access to certain texts.

“I find it ridiculous,” you confess, lowering your voice slightly, “that we’re still deemed too delicate for certain volumes.”

“I agree,” he says immediately.

You blink.

“Yes, I believe access should not be restricted by gender.”

The simplicity of it catches you off guard. There’s no argument or teasing dismissal.

Just a simple agreement.

A familiar voice interrupts—a young man you once allowed to walk you home twice before deciding that he bored you.

“Am I interrupting something here?”

“Yes,” you reply instantly.

He hesitates.

“You promised me the second dance.”

“I don’t recall promising anyone a dance.”

His mouth opens and then shuts.

“I’m afraid I’m occupied at the moment,” you add.

He retreats, slightly wounded from the interaction.

Seokmin watches the exchange with faint amusement.

“You’re quite formidable,” he says lightly.

You give him a weak glare. “He is fortunate I was gracious enough to spare him. One should know better than to interrupt a conversation.”

He smiles at that.

Time slips by again without either of you noticing. The music fades into softer numbers. Nearby conversations dwindle.

When Irene eventually appears at your elbow, eyebrows raised playfully, you glance toward the clock and realize the evening has nearly ended.

“We must go,” she whispers.

Already?

You turn back to Seokmin.

“I volunteer at Ode & Quill’s bookstore on Thursdays,” you say, as casually as you can manage. “If… you ever wish to continue our discussion.”

His expression brightens in a way that feels earnest.

“I would like that.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Lee.” You say as you head toward your friend group, offering him a polite wave.

“Goodnight.” He waves back.

As you leave, Florence nudges you.

You can already presume what she wants to discuss with you. Considering that you ended up talking to a man for the entire night, one might think you’ve finally taken a liking to someone.

You’re not sure if you even want to discuss it with anyone at the moment.

“You didn’t dance with him.” She states.

“Mhm.”

“But you spoke to him the entire night… what was that about?” She turns to look at you attentively.

“Nothing special.” You mutter out.

All three girls smile at your defensiveness.

You know exactly what they’re thinking, but you can’t deny that something has shifted tonight.

You’re just not entirely certain what it is or what to call it.

❔ author's note: hey hello hi hi hello!

just popping in beforehand to say that this fic has plot in it. lol. i say this because it takes a while to get yn with sk together in one room if you know what i mean wink wink.

also, this is barely edited and proofread

that's it, that's the author's note, lol. bye ✌🏻

part one, the ledger

“I didn’t kill him.”

The words hung in the air between you and the man who sat across from you on the cold, metal table. You stared at the cigarette smoke dancing slowly, rising to the ceiling and disappearing from your line of sight. The strong smell filled your senses, but you let it be; you let the craving to get a drag twitch in your fingers and tickle your lips.

Choi Seungcheol sat in silence, his deep, dark eyes boring into you as he allowed you to think of your words. A sleek pen was held loosely between his fingers, hovering on top of his notebook. The tip had been touching the unused sheet of paper for a while, letting the ink pool at the top of the page.

You kept your hands flat on the table, forcing yourself to breathe in and out steadily as a way to reject your nerves. Nerves are a form of confession. You eyed Choi Seungcheol’s untouched cigarette once, and before you could even muster another iota of restraint on yourself, you licked your lips.

The shadow of a smile appeared on your lips. “But I know exactly why someone would.”

Suddenly, the walls of the dimly lit room seemed to narrow in on you, punching you straight to the centre of your chest, forcing you to think, to be smart. Words were keys that could open many doors, and you needed to pick them carefully if you wanted to get out.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard a door slam shut, making you jump. But no one came to check on you and Detective Choi.

He cleared his throat and wrote something down, slowly. You eyed the page again and knew immediately that it would take you a while to decipher his handwriting if you wanted to do it subtly.

“Tell me everything you know,” he said, and his tone was not unkind. It wasn’t gentle either. He pushed the tip of his tongue inside his cheek, as though savouring the words he’d just said, and weighed them.

You watched him for a long second. How his eyebrow twitched up when your lips didn’t move. He let the pen drop on the page and sat back on the chair, crossing his arms on his chest.

With a brief, but sharp exhale, you shook your head. “You want everything?” you asked, trying not to scoff.

Choi Seungcheol shrugged; he had started to bounce his knee under the table, creating a small vibration on the wooden floor. “The truth would suffice.” 

You nearly smiled.

But then your eyes fell on the cigarette again, how it sat on the ashtray untouched. The man didn’t smoke, so why had he lit it up when he first came to the room? You thought, to no end.

Slowly, your gaze swam back to the Detective’s face as understanding dawned on you. “It all started with a man I swore I’d never work for again.”

Seungcheol swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing visibly. “Who?”

“The man pulling all the strings,” you said, mustering all the courage you had left to utter his name. “Mr. Yoon Jeonghan.”

The first time you had hesitated was when you were standing on the sidewalk. The chill air had slipped beneath your clothes, caressing your skin and making it prickle. It made you suck in a breath and shiver uncontrollably. But you crossed your arms, rubbing your hands on top of your jacket and walked inside the shop.

The hideout was a tailor shop that was neatly set up in the corner of the street, next to a bakery. And you faintly remembered, as you walked into the time, you had told Jeonghan that it wasn’t wise to have a tailor shop smelling like butter and starch the whole time—it should have a clean smell. But he never cared.

There was no one manning the front of the shop, doors were unlocked. So you let yourself into the back of the shop, through rows and columns of linen, until you found where the magic happened. The very back of the shop was the workshop, a giant table sat in the middle of the room where tailors and seamstresses would measure the fabric and cut the moulds before putting it together.

“Punctual, as always,” a voice called from one side of the room, behind the columns.

You turned on your heel, following the sound of the voice. “And you are as mysterious as always. Hiding in the shadows.”

Yoon Jeonghan emerged slowly, stepping into the pool of light, his sleeves rolled up, vest unbuttoned, and the top buttons of his dress shirt loose but still elegant. Jeonghan was resplendent, dressed in black from head to toe. Time had done nothing to the immaculate skin of his face; he looked healthier, even.

“It’s good to see you, Agent.”

When you were done taking him in, measuring what had changed in him, you nodded curtly. “I told you last time—I’m done, Jeonghan,” you said, arching an eyebrow. “I meant it.”

“You told me you were tired,” he replied with a matter-of-fact tone. Then he shrugged lightly, “Different thing.”

You felt one corner of your lip curl ever so slightly. “It’s good to see you too, Jeonghan,” you said, chest swelling with a twinge of nostalgia that altered your breathing. But you interrupted the feeling by taking in a deep breath. “However, I doubt you asked me here to exchange pleasantries.”

Jeonghan’s expression eased, not in relief, but knowingly as though he had been waiting for you to get there. “Come this way,” he said quietly, gesturing to one door in the back of the room.

The day you met Yoon Jeonghan, you could’ve sworn one of two things: either God was real, and he was sending you an angel to drag you out of the deepest pits in hell—or the Devil was also real, and he himself dressed in black and was offering you the finest deal you’d ever hear.

You’d said yes. You’d let Jeonghan save you.

Until one day, of course, when he didn’t.

So when Jeonghan turned on his heel and began walking towards the opposite side of the room, you followed. And it wasn’t so much that you would follow Jeonghan anywhere—no, time and consequence had taught you that not all choices Jeonghan makes ever turn out alright.

No, it was the damn curiosity that pulled you forward.

The door creaked as it was pushed open—not by Jeonghan’s hand, but by someone already waiting on the other side.

Nerves rose like a swarm of bees from your stomach to your throat, and you tried to push them down with a big gulp.

Time and time again, you had been in that room, and it hadn’t changed in years. Same old desk, same chair. The same shabby sofa where you sat down for the first time when you struck the first deal with Jeonghan.

It was Mingyu who moved closer to the sofa. It had been him waiting inside, accompanied by the same people. All the gang—Jeon Wonwoo sitting on the couch next to Vernon Chwe, and Joshua Hong by the desk.

As soon as you stepped into their view, the whole room stilled with a deafening silence. It was obvious that they had been enthralled in a conversation, and your presence had somehow changed things.

You remained silent, almost fearful of what they would say. It was hard to discern what was written on their faces. But one thing you knew—you had shocked them to their bones.  

“Alright, boys. I won’t waste your time,” Jeonghan said without skipping a beat—like he hadn’t noticed the crack in the ice. He pulled a chair from one corner out of your view and placed it in front of you.

“So there is a ledger,” Jeonghan said.

Joshua huffed. “There’s always one,” he blinked as a frown formed on his face. “Why do you want this one? And why did you bring all of us in here?”

“This one,” Jeonghan continued, ignoring Joshua, “contains special records. Names. Dates. Routes. Docks. Every job I’ve ever run.”

You narrowed your eyes as Jeonghan paced around the grey office. “So burn it,” you spoke the words before you could even register what was really going on.

“If only I could,” Jeonghan said with a light, but crazed laugh. “You wouldn’t be here if I could.”

That was when the air tightened in your lungs. “When you say that it includes every job…”

He gave you a dry nod. “It includes you.”

A shiver ran down your spine, making you straighten.

“Well,” Mingyu said, “so where is it?”

“It’s moving. Always moving,” Jeonghan said, turning and walking towards the wall, hands clasped behind his back.

Wonwoo’s voice cut in, his dark gaze fixed on Jeonghan. “Do you know who has it?”

Jeonghan shook his head. “Not precisely,” he said. “But my source says it runs a fixed triangle.”

Then Jeonghan raised a hand, and tapped on three different spots on the wall with the tip of his finger. “The Penrose building. Lotus bar. The Ritz.”

There was no map perched on the wall. But you could almost picture it just by the way Jeonghan tapped his finger on the wall. Your stomach sank and the room fell silent again. Everyone knew what those locations entailed—high traffic. Money. Risk.

And no room for error.

“So it’s being passed?” Vernon asked.

“More like escorted,” Jeonghan said with a low tone, turning away from the wall. “Protected.”

Joshua crossed his arms on the desk. “By who?” he asked, the frown deepening.

“Who else?” Mingyu huffed, rolling his eyes. “Socialite shitheads.”

“Collectors. Patrons,” Jeonghan corrected. “The kind of people who see money and power in secrets,” he said.

Your body felt stiff in your chair as you forced yourself to sit back. “That means it’s not sitting in some office,” you said. “It’s being paraded.”

Jeonghan nodded. “For now.”

“What is the next stop?” Wonwoo asked.

 “You know the locations,” Wonwoo said, as though he’d also fallen in the stream of Jeonghan’s consciousness. “But you don't know when the next stop is?” he asked.

Everyone in the room had eyes on Jeonghan. He had stopped pacing back and forth in that dusty old room, standing mere three steps from you. It could’ve been a coincidence—but the look he directed at you was not. He met your eyes with a look full of pity, as though his eyes said, “I know something you don’t.”

“Three nights from now. The Ritz. Black-tie gala.”

Mingyu huffed. “Half the city will be there,” he said, his lip curling, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “We’re doomed. This gig is doomed.”

“The ledger will be in a room on the fourth floor. Inside a safe,” Jeonghan spoke, his tone stilted, his gaze still zeroed in on you. Almost like it was lost in you. “It’ll be displayed briefly for select investors before it goes back in the safe again.”

“Displayed?” Vernon repeated.

“These people don’t really know what it is,” Jeonghan said. “They just know it’s a valuable shipping record. Documentation tied to stolen art. Lost jewels.”

You were listening, but your mind had long fallen out of tune with what was being said. It was the look Jeonghan had given you that made you lose it.

“And your source?” Joshua asked.

“Is reliable.”

A flicker. A tiny twinge of deception made your pulse shift.

“Security?” Mingyu asked.

“Weak. Private guards at entry points,” Jeonghan replied, now yanking his gaze from where you sat. “Two internal watchmen are assigned to move the ledger for the display.”

“And after the display?”

“It’ll be transported back into the safe,” Jeonghan said with a big sigh, as though he were suddenly overcome with a big wave of exhaustion. “That’s all I know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him one more time.

“So we take it during transfer,” Mingyu said with a light shrug. “We go in quietly, quick blackout and then we go out before the lights are on again. No one will know we were there.”

You shook your head. “No.”

Every head turned in your direction. “What are you suggesting, Agent?” Jeonghan asked.

A bundle of nerves tingled in your gut. “We go in clean—I mean, no forced entry. We blend in.”

“That’s infiltration,” Wonwoo said, twitching one eyebrow up. “What about the extraction?”

“We cause a distraction,” you said slowly, trying to calm the storm in your head, in your stomach. “Something noisy. Something that pulls all eyes to one spot and away from the upper floors.”

Joshua tilted his head to one side. “My, you haven’t changed,” he said with a huff. “Are you volunteering?”

You smirked. “Of course,” you joked, but then you gave yourself a shake. “I’m not a flapper, but I can think of something.”

“Huh,” Jeonghan said, clicking his tongue, “I know of someone. Maybe I can pull some strings.”

“Let’s say we have the distraction,” Wonwoo said, blinking slowly before going back to his previous question, “—who goes upstairs?”

“That’s a two-man retrieval,” you said with an obvious tone. “One on watch. One on safe.”

“I suppose that’s what I’m here for,” Vernon said, sitting back and crossing his arms.

Jeonghan nodded once. “You’ll go upstairs with Mingyu,” he said, pointing to each face with his finger. “Wonwoo watches the floor. Joshua handles guest lists and fake identities.”

And then he pointed his finger at you. “And you—” he said, holding your gaze. “You’ll do what you always do. Bring luck.”

No one moved. No one questioned him. Even though it had been many months since you last saw either Jeonghan or anyone else in that room, you knew that you still had the same thing in common. The very thing that had aligned your fates initially—and it wasn’t Jeonghan.

It was how damn good you were at this job.

And everyone would do anything to steal that ledger.

Chairs scraped back. Joshua was the first one to move. Then Wonwoo, Mingyu and Vernon went as well. Mingyu clapped Jeonghan once on the shoulder and Vernon muttered something kindly as he passed by. But you stayed glued to your chair, unable to move, afraid of saying something that would damn you again.

The room emptied until it was just the two of you.

“So, that’s it?” you asked, rising from your chair. “You don’t have anything else for me?”

Jeonghan cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean, Agent?” he asked, his tone unusually sweet.

“Don’t play coy, Jeonghan. It doesn’t suit you,” you said, crossing your arms.

He blinked a couple of times, rapidly. “Then ask what you really want to know,” he said, his tone dropping.

“Why does the ledger exist?”

Jeonghan smiled. He’d been expecting that question. “Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said, his head tilting back slightly as his face lightened up with pride. “It’s mine.”

You closed your eyes slowly. “Of course,” you muttered, bringing two fingers to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why do you have a book documenting every job you’ve ever had?”

“Do you know how rich I am?” he asked, his tone rising as he motioned to turn away from you, but something pulled him right back. “Do you know how many fortunes sit under my name because of you?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “How did you lose it?”

“I didn’t. It was taken,” he said.

Your gaze fell out of focus as the new information sank in your mind. Everyone had made important questions about the plan, but some things had gone amiss, purposefully, or accidentally.

You blinked. “You won’t be going to the party,” you realized.

Jeonghan nodded. “It would look suspicious if I attended the gala where my secrets are being auctioned, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you arrogant bastard. What if something goes wrong?” you pressed.

“It won’t,” he said with certainty.

“How do you know that?”

“I have you,” he said without a second of hesitation.

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the door. “Goodnight, Jeonghan.”

“Agent.”

Your hand had nearly touched the door-handle when your name rolled off his tongue. You stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“There is one more thing.”

Something in his tone made you face him this time. You dropped the handle, directing a look at Jeonghan, who still stood in the centre of the room. “What,” you uttered, feeling a cold thread sliding down your spine.

“My source,” he said, his tone stilted again, “is someone you know.”

You felt that flicker again. “Who?”

Jeonghan moved carefully towards you, his face revealing more about that look he’d given you earlier. Pity.

“It’s Seungkwan.”

The name didn’t sound real at first—like it belonged in someone else’s life. A ghost. It was as though Jeonghan had spoken in a different language. But it was deafening, like an iceberg had cracked apart and caused the very earth to quiet down.

You didn’t blink. You laughed. “Seungkwan is dead,” you said flatly.

Time slowed down as your pulse quickened beyond human capacity. As fractions of a second slipped from your hands, you started to believe that this was some kind of sick joke.

Because Jeonghan’s pity deepened in his eyes. “No,” he said softly. “He’s very much alive.”

The air left your lungs. You hated it. You hated that your body could show emotions before your mind could cage them away.

“He came to me two months ago,” he continued, as though trying to deliver the news faster to let the pain consume you in one go. “He was looking for leverage.”

You were the one who stepped forward this time. “And you trusted him?” you asked, tone rising.

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. “I trusted his intention.”

A laugh escaped you. Sharp. Bitter. “And what does he want?”

As Jeonghan looked at you, it became evident before he could say it. “You.”

The pain stabbing your heart was greater than anything you had felt in months. It swept inside you in waves, making you shudder and close your eyes. “You knew,” you whispered.

“I suspected,” Jeonghan replied quietly.

“And you still called me in?” you asked, opening your eyes slowly.

As soon as Jeonghan noticed the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, his gaze softened. “Yes.”

You stilled, tears rolling down your cheeks before you could force them back in. “Is this a job, or is this some kind of sick test?”

He’d been expecting that question as well. “It’s a necessity,” he replied right away.

You looked at him for a long moment, still feeling incredulous.

Seungkwan was alive.

“Next time,” you said, voice cracking, “you lead with that, Jeonghan.”

You turned around, walking to the door again.

“If I had, you wouldn’t have come,” he replied, his voice following you into the hall. But you closed the door before you could even think of what to say, deciding that it was better to leave.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You held the deck of cards in your hand, tapping one corner of it against the dining table. Your apartment was quiet in a way that made your thoughts grow louder and louder. You came in and hadn’t even bothered to turn the lamp on. In fact, you hadn’t done anything except sit there—shoes and coat still on—staring at the deck of cards while replaying Jeonghan’s words in your head.

Seungkwan is alive.

You stood up from the chair and crossed the room slowly, drawing the first card from the deck, already knowing what you’d get.

The Queen of Spades.

You slid the tip of your finger on the edge of the card, staring at it for a moment longer before flipping the card and tucked in between the window frame and the glass. It was a subtle thing, but there was a time when it meant the world to you.

And before the self-doubt came, you stepped back from the window, deciding to put all thoughts aside and forget about everything.

One hour passed, and you decided to pour that glass of whiskey.

Two hours went by quicker, and you had removed your coat and shoes.

Three hours, and you decided to go to bed.

But sleep didn’t come. At least not at first. Your mind was riddled with questions, swarming with unwanted memories and hurtful thoughts. You lay on your side, wishing for sleep to come because you were tired—so tired that half of you started to believe that what Jeonghan had said was a mere fantasy.

Seungkwan was dead. He died on the last job you had. You saw him fall from the cruise. He was never found.

You must have drifted at some point. Your mind had lost its grip on those ugly thoughts and unwelcome memories, but it was still wired enough to listen to your surroundings—to listen to that gentle, and so very familiar tapping on your window. It brought you awake with a jolt, opening your eyes to the darkness in your bedroom.

You didn’t move at first. You didn’t want to believe it.

Slowly, you dragged yourself out of your bed and crossed your apartment barefoot, floorboards creaking as you took measured steps towards the window. The Queen of Spades still lodged in the frame, but now shadowed by the man standing on the fire escape.

It was as though he had stepped out of a memory. As though he had picked one of those fateful nightmares you had in the past and decided to make it come true for you.

He was real.

And he was leaning back against the railings. Waiting. His dark and beautiful eyes roamed all over you, taking you in from head to toe. The shadow of a smile painted his face, reaching his eyes.

You lifted the window, letting the cold night air spill inside your apartment.

And out of all things you could’ve said to your dead ex, you chose— “You kept me waiting.”

He moved forward smoothly, nodding to the card still placed in the window frame. “I wanted to make sure it was meant for me.”

“It was,” you replied, crossing your arms to shield yourself from the cold air brushing your skin.

And then you met his eyes. Time shifted, throwing you back to the past—to the moment you realized you were falling in love with those eyes. Sweet and pure. Like warm coffee on a Sunday morning. Nothing made sense anymore. You were still that girl who had fallen in love with his bad jokes and smooth voice.

You faltered, but then with a sharp sigh, you composed yourself right back in. “Would you care to explain to me why you pretended to be dead all this time?” you asked, the words flying out of your mouth steadily, but your heart was brimming with anxiety.

Seungkwan tilted his head to one side ever so slowly. “Really? Do you want to do this right here?” he said, casting a look at the surroundings. He was still standing on the fire escape while you were inside your apartment.

You shook your head. “You’re not invited in,” you said firmly, hugging yourself tighter, fingers clasping your nightgown. “Not until you explain everything to me. I deserve that.”

His gaze scanned your face swiftly as though making sure you were ready for the truth. “It was all part of the plan,” he said. “It was survival. Someone had to disappear. Jeonghan decided it would be me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And you agreed?”

He shrugged. “Well, I didn’t have much choice.”

“You didn’t look for me.”

His jaw shifted slightly. “You were out,” he said, his tone low. “You got out. Away from all of it. No more crime, no more looking over your shoulder.”

“Until now,” you remarked bitterly.

Unflinching, he replied: “Yes.” 

“You could’ve gotten out too. Why are you working with Jeonghan again?”

Seungkwan blinked slowly with a hint of hindrance. “This job requires all hands on deck, m’kay?” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “If someone looks close enough, they’ll put our names back on the board. What we did in Paris. Berlin. Everything.”

“So you wouldn’t have come back if it wasn’t for that ledger?” you asked, pulse quickening as you approached a territory that you didn’t want to cross. Opening old wounds with questions would only lead you nowhere.

Seungkwan held your gaze. “ I came back because it was a smart move,” he said, conviction flashing across his eyes.

Silence slipped between you, and for a fraction of a second, you thought that he might’ve been telling the truth. But you couldn’t trust anyone. That’s what he taught you.

“And if the ledger didn’t exist?”

“I would’ve found you,” he replied without hesitation.

Your pulse slowed. His answer unsettled you more than it should have. Then it hit you. “Mr. Donovan?” you asked carefully. “That’s why you resurfaced?”

His beautiful eyes darkened. It wasn’t guilt. It was something sharper, but it slipped away before you could identify it. He looked away, driving his gaze somewhere in the night. “New year’s eve,” he mumbled quietly. “I had planned to come back to you that night. I was outside your building.”

The air left your lungs slowly as realization sank in. You remembered that night.

Seungkwan let out a light laugh, devoid of all humour. “I was going to knock,” he said, keeping that cold smile on his face. “Only to find out you had already moved on.”

You analyzed him for a long moment. “You don’t have a right to get jealous,” you said, wishing your tone had sounded slightly more secure.

“I’m not jealous,” he replied, his tone almost hitting a lilt—faux calm.

“Really? That’s convenient,” you said, holding yourself still. But you couldn’t keep the rancorous edge from your tone.

Seungkwan’s smile grew full of this stupid charm you loved so much. “For you or for me?”

You rolled your eyes. “For your pride.”

A flicker of amusement flashed across his eyes. He took one step towards you, making your chest tighten, but he didn’t enter your apartment; he stood closer to the window, close enough that you could see the faint scar on his cheek. He’d gotten that scar in Berlin. You remembered cleaning the blood off his face with shaking hands. You had barely come out of that job.

His gaze took you in again. “You look well,” he said quietly.

You sighed through your nose. “So do you.”

He didn’t reply. His gaze dropped briefly to your bare feet against the wooden floor, to the thin fabric of your light pink nightgown. Not lingering anywhere specific. He was just observing.

But you felt his gaze in your skin, anyway, making it prickle.

“You’re not cold?” he asked.

Suddenly, it was as though time hadn’t changed a thing. He would always ask questions like this, even in the middle of a job. He would give you his jacket or try to warm you up by rubbing your arms with his hands.

You shook your head. “I’m not inviting you in.”

Seungkwan smirked, leaning towards you slightly. “I didn’t ask,” he muttered sweetly.

That lilt in his tone was there again. That honeyed way he used to flirt with you.

It almost made you smile.

But then silence fell between you again. This time it wasn’t strong; it didn’t hit you. As you looked at him and he looked at you, something weighed on you. Like a mountain of things you hadn’t told each other in months.

A spark of sadness made his gaze drop. “You watched me fall,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. “I watched you disappear,” you told him. “I blinked, and you were gone.”

He nodded briefly. “I wanted you to believe it,” he said. “It was the only way I could get you out.”

You hated that he was right. And for a time, you had suspected it. But you were so riddled with grief that you’d decided to let it go. You hated that you had reached a point where you needed him gone to move on.

“And now?”

That cold smirk stretched the corner of his mouth again. “Now I don’t want you leaving,” he said, driving his gaze away.

You looked at him for a long second again. The fire escape creaked slightly when he shifted his stance. “You don’t get to decide that, Seungkwan,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed, gazing back at you. “But you do.”

Your heart faltered. “If it hadn’t been for that stupid ledger, you wouldn’t have come tonight.”

“I came because you called,” he replied.

You sighed. “You would’ve shown up anyway?” you asked, still holding to your disbelief.

“Yes,” he replied. And there it was again—the conviction. The honesty.

It crushed your heart.

“Will you be there at the Ritz?” you asked.

“Of course,” he said.

He was Jeonghan’s source, you remembered. Because of course he was, your thoughts echoed. There was no other way Jeonghan could’ve gotten that information if it wasn’t for Seungkwan.

Seungkwan was the way in. The big galas, the high-society parties. The eyes and ears on the scene. Even if he pretended to be dead, he always had connections.

You raised your eyebrows. “And if I tell you to stay away?” you asked.

He held your gaze. “You won’t,” he replied with unmovable certainty.

A slow breath left you. And you wished you could be angry at him.

The wind rose again, rustling your nightgown and messing with the loose strands of your hair. Seungkwan’s gaze moved with your hair, and just for a moment, you saw him gesture a hand to your face—a knee-jerk reaction. But then he paused, and you felt it—you felt the memory in between you, when he used to tuck the strand of your hair behind your ear.

Your heart stuttered. “Should I trust you?” you asked, feeling dumb for even posing the question to him directly.

“That’s something only you should answer,” he said, his tone falling with a note of sadness. “I only took the choice that protected you.”

“And you? What happened to you, Seungkwan?” you whispered.

He sucked in a breath slowly. “I adapted.”

You held his gaze. “You could’ve come back for me sooner.”

He blinked at you with a hint of disbelief. “I didn’t stay away because I stopped wanting to come back,” he said.

Your pulse stuttered again. “Do you think this is some romantic gesture?” you asked.

“I think that in our world, there are limited ways to show someone you love them,” he said calmly. And there was nothing in his tone, nor in his demeanour, that showed anything dramatic.

There was a pause before you could even process that you had stepped back from the window—not fully, but just about enough for him to notice.

But he didn’t move, he just looked at your face for more signs of confirmation.

You held up one hand. “Say it,” you said quietly.

He went completely rigid. He knew what you meant without having to ask. “You want me to say I loved you,” he said faintly.

Your fingers tightened around the thin fabric of your nightgown. “I want you to say it wasn’t all part of a plan.”

His gaze held yours steadily, only shifting to look at your lips briefly. “It wasn’t.”

The wind rose and brushed your face, the calm of the city breathing behind him. A distant sound of the railways, the train passing by.

“You let me believe you were dead,” you said quietly, wishing you hadn’t sounded so weak.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You let me grieve you.”

“Yes.”

And the honesty was what hit you harder than what you lived. Worse than all of the excuses. His gaze dropped slightly. “I would’ve come back,” he added. “But not to drag you with me into this mess again.”

You swallowed hard. “You can’t decide that for me, Seungkwan,” you said. “I could’ve survived that.”

He winced slightly. “I think I was more worried about what you would sacrifice if you hadn’t gotten out of this.”

You stopped breathing for a brief moment. “You think I would’ve disappeared with you?”

He blinked slowly. “I know you would’ve.”

You dragged in a slow breath, finally, letting the cold air glide on your skin, welcoming it like a bath or reality.

“You didn’t say what I asked,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard, looking at your eyes and then your lips. “I loved you.”

Your heart stumbled. “And?” you pressed.

“And I still do.”  

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to shut the window on his face. You wanted to slap him. To inflict an iota of the pain that his death put you through.

Instead, you slowly stepped back.  

Seungkwan’s eyes lit up, but he didn’t move. It was as though you, taking half a pace back, had frozen him to the fire escape.

You let out a sharp gasp, grabbing him by the perfectly polished black tie he wore, messing with the white button-down and pulling him in. “C’mere,” you mumbled.

And he followed, smoothly entering through the open window as you pulled him in. But his face was riddled with questions and curiosity.

You knew that look. “Don’t look at me that way.”

“Like what?” he asked, smiling shyly, tips of his ears turning bright red.

“Like I’m doing something unexpected,” you replied, carefully skating your hands over his chest to lock your arms around his neck. Once you were closer to him, you realized how foolish you had been.

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not,” he said, but then, with a nervous sigh, he added: “What about Mr. Donovan?” he asked, his tone lowering on the name.

You rolled your eyes. “Mr. Donovan was boring,” you said, a cheeky smile drawing on your face. “That’s why he and I are no longer seeing each other.”

Seungkwan blinked and then outlined the features of your face. Studying you. “Since when?”

Your gaze swam to the ceiling. “Since mid-January,” you said.

He sighed with a smile. “Do you find me the opposite of boring, then?”

“Who’s to say? Not many of my boyfriends have died and resurrected,” you joked.

“Right,” he mumbled, his gaze drifting to your lips briefly. Then he cautiously brought a hand to your waist, grabbing your chin with the other. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he asked, his tone low and gentle.

“Why would you be? You haven’t even apologized,” you said.

A light and joyful giggle escaped him, the sound making your heart flutter uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning his head forward. “I should’ve come back to you sooner.”

“Yes, you should’ve,” you replied in kind, voice waning as you felt his lips closer to yours.

The moment his lips touched yours, you felt like you were brought back to life. Every nerve-ending in your body responded to his kiss, sizzling under your skin, making it prickle. There was nothing better than his lips on yours, pressing slowly, locking and dancing together like old lovers.

His skin was cold from standing on the fire escape for so long. You felt a gentle exhale coming out of him as soon as you aimed for another kiss, pushing yourself closer to him with your arms still linked around his neck.

Seungkwan gripped your waist tighter, the hand that had been under your chin moving to the small of your back. His hand felt warm over the thin fabric of your nightgown, and instantly you wanted more—you wanted to feel more of him all over your skin, igniting you.

An airy moan bubbled in your chest when you pushed against his frame, making him pull his lips back with a loud, wet sound. He was breathing hard, and you realized you were too. “Be careful, will you?” he asked, still panting. “At the gala. I won’t be there all the time to keep an eye on you.”

That sounded like goodbye. Your heart squeezed. “Wait—no,” you stammered. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Seungkwan smiled; the soft sigh coming out of him brushed against your lips. “Baby—”

Your knees weakened at the sound of that word. “Did you really think I would invite you in for one kiss?”

He laughed this time, but he gave in, kissing you again but briefly. “I think you’re forgetting all the times you’ve done that in the past,” he mumbled.

“That one time in Annie’s house wasn’t my fault,” you replied, pressing your lips against his between words.

You could feel his lips shift against yours as he smiled. “I’ll beg to differ…”

You matched his smile and then grabbed him by the tie again, staggering backwards, dragging him with you until you could feel the foot of your bed with the back of your knees. “I made it up to you that time,” you said, feeling your pulse quicken as you sat on the bed, crawling backwards.

Seungkwan paused for one second to look at you taking the centre of the large mattress. After giving himself a slight shake, he removed his shoes and then climbed the bed, pressing one knee and then the other. He slowly crawled between your legs, making your nightgown climb up your thighs and reveal your panties for his view.

He swallowed hard, looking at the thin fabric sliding further up your body as you pulled your knees up, parting your legs more for him. “Do you know how much I missed you?” he mumbled faintly, running a palm on one of your thighs, looking at your skin longingly.

Your heart squeezed. “Yes,” you whispered, reaching to grab his tie and pull him over you.

He obeyed without you having to command anything verbally. Pressing his hands next to your head, he bent over you, kissing your lips just as you cupped his face in your hands. “I know because I missed you just as badly, Seungkwan,” you told him.

He pulled back from your lips, looking at you briefly before showing you a small but bitter smile. “You moved on,” he reproached.

“You died,” you bit back, blinking swiftly to repel the tears that sentence brought you. “And I never truly moved on. I think of you every single day.”

And you could see it on his face—he knew.

Seungkwan said nothing, his gaze moving from your eyes to your lips and repeating that movement before dipping his head again to meet your lips with his own. This kiss was slow, sensual. You felt the warmth of his tongue before he outlined your bottom lip with its tip, and you parted your lips, letting him roll his tongue inside your mouth.

The feeling that gripped your body was euphoric. Hot and cold at the same time. And so very familiar.

You let out a muffled moan in his mouth, moving your arms to lock them around his shoulders, pulling him in. He understood well and lowered his body on top of yours without letting his full weight rest on you.

He broke the kiss with a wet, smacking sound coming from your lips and his. Panting softly, he rested his forehead on yours. “You missed me?” he mumbled, his tone low but honeyed. And if you didn’t know him, you would’ve thought he was being flirty.

But no, Seungkwan was beginning to play his favorite game.

A game you knew too well. “Yes,” you whispered.

He let out a breath through his nose. He was smiling. “You asked me if I still love you,” he mumbled, pulling back slightly to get a better look at your face.

You paused, looking back at him with a slight intrigue. “Yes.”

He cocked his head to one side ever so slightly, a dark smile stretching his lips. “Do you still love me?” he asked, his tone still low.

“Yes,” you parroted.

He stilled, savouring the moment before bringing a hand to cup your chin. “Say it,” he said, his tone fading to a whisper.

Before Seungkwan, you had believed that love was ephemeral. Like happiness, it was just a moment. A memory. Like a photograph. But then, when you lost him, you understood. Your love for Seungkwan was beyond that. It was an everlasting connection.

“I love you,” you responded, feeling your heart pulse, true and honest. “Never stopped.”

A light smile reached his eyes before he pressed his forehead against yours again. But your response earned you another kiss, slowly moving his lips to lock them with yours. Then he slipped his hand from your chin to the side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair at the same time, and he rolled his tongue inside your mouth for a second time.  

You couldn’t help it, you moaned into the kiss. The sound was whiny, sickly sweet. And it always brought something out of him. He grunted in response, pressing his body harder against yours. It was impossible not to feel the growing erection beneath his black trousers. He was hard, and there was a wet patch in his trousers that indicated that he was already leaking precum.

That was why you loved Seungkwan. He was a great lover. He never held anything back when it came to you. 

And so he did it again. He pushed his hips against yours, rubbing his length against the thin satin of your panties. He continued doing this, pulling back from your lips only to see your face. His eyes had grown dark, but there was a spark in there; it was lust, eagerness. “You like that, don’t you?” he asked, not really wanting a verbal reply.

Because your mouth parted, but no words came anyway. You were lost in the slow rolling of his hips against yours, reminding you of the times when he did this on top of you, wholly naked and buried deep inside you. “Seungkwan,” you mouthed, grabbing him by his perfectly neat white button-down.

“Yes, darling?” he mumbled with a gentle tilt in his tone. He allowed you to pull him over you, meeting your lips with yours as you were slowly driven mad by the movement of his hips on top of yours.

He laughed into the kiss when a pathetic moan bubbled in your throat. “What’s wrong?” he purred against your cheek, kissing it softly before moving to your ear. He pressed a swift kiss below your earlobe, and then began trailing down your neck with teasing, wet kisses.

Your hands skated over his back, feeling his body over his clothes. Suddenly, your mind split in two—torn between stripping him down or asking him to fuck you with clothes on.

But Seungkwan resolved part of that question for you without needing you to voice it. With one effortless tug, the upper part of your nightgown came down, baring your chest for him as he continued delivering open-mouthed kisses to your skin. He kissed the swell of your breasts, letting your skin prickle under his lips, responding with small grunts at each of your sweet moans.

At this point, you were nearly frantic—back arching off the mattress, hands searching and holding onto whatever you could find. Seungkwan popped one of your nipples in his hot mouth, licking at the pebbled bud with his tongue. You grabbed fistfuls of his messy button-down, and, not content with that, you switched to raking your fingers through his dark, shaggy hair, tugging and coiling.

He eased on top of you again, kissing your cheek. As he breathed against your skin, you realized that his breathing was slightly ragged. “A bit eager, aren’t we?” he taunted with a smile on his face. And before you could answer, he gently pushed the tip of your nose with his own. “Do you want to cum, sweetheart?”

A shudder barreled down your spine. “Oh god—yes,” you gasped, using your hands to cup his nape to pull him in for a kiss. “Please.”

He obeyed, not needing you to tell him how to make you cum—he knew. He knew you better than any other.

So he pushed himself up, peeling his body from yours and moving his hands towards the waist of your panties—something catching his eye. “Wet,” he said, sighing with a smile on his face as he started to slide your undergarment down your legs. He tossed the piece of clothing somewhere on the floor of your bedroom, not daring to move his gaze from your body for one single second.

Even in the dark, you saw the way he swallowed hard at the sight of you—naked from the waist down, nightgown parted and baring your chest for him. He pushed the sides of the nightgown aside, stripping you more. “Tell me what you need,” he mumbled, gaze still glued to your body.

You could follow his gaze. He slid a palm on the centre of your belly, travelling lower and lower until he reached the mound between your thighs. He used two fingers to feel you, sliding his fingertips between your folds, just feeling, caressing you.

The question left your mind blank. Suddenly, you didn’t know what to choose—his fingers were closer to getting what you wanted,d but then you remembered how his mouth felt, his cock. You gulped hard. His fingers had reached your entrance, and it was already clenching around nothing. “Just make me cum. Please.”

Seungkwan felt it, pressing the pads of his fingers in your hole—but just barely. He moved back, lying on his stomach with his head between your legs. The sight was so sinful, so dirty that it brought a wave of heat to your face.

But he said nothing, he didn’t make you wait a second longer, pushing his tongue against your sopping wet pussy, parting your folds with his fingers, and letting his tongue lave your wetness up. A euphoric feeling curled every limb of your body. Your back and legs tensed, but you willed your body not to fight the sweet, sweet pleasure that was gripping you. An animalistic sound came out of your mouth as your hands flew to grip the bed covers.

He used his hands to keep your legs from snapping shut, fingers digging into the plushy flesh of your inner thighs. He responded with a grunt of his own, mouth vibrating against your pussy as he began to suck the slick mess in your entrance. Moaning like he was eating you out more for his pleasure than your own—and you had never asked, but part of you believed it to be true.

His head bobbed gently as his mouth made out with your folds, the tip of his nose gently rubbing against your clit as his tongue tipped inside your entrance. And you had gone completely limp, between trying not to fight the pleasure building up rapidly inside you and letting him do whatever he liked to you. Because he was working to get you to cum in his mouth, and he was doing it almost effortlessly.

Your breathing had started to fall out of control, chest rising and falling erratically. But you could move your head up from the mattress, daring to cast a look downward. And as though you had called to him with just one glance, he blinked and looked up, finding your gaze on him.

He moved his mouth to your clit, circling it with his tongue teasingly before wrapping it with his lips and beginning to suck. Pleasure sizzled beneath your skin, and you let out a scream that made you sound pathetic—but you didn’t care. His hand left your thigh, and you knew what he would do next. You felt the tips of his index and middle fingers gently nudging in your entrance, and he sucked your clit slightly harder.

You lost connection with reality. Tension broke in your body, pleasure blooming from the centre of your body and reaching all parts inside you. You screwed your eyes shut, feeling like you were falling out of the highest cloud, almost kissing death itself.

You were rendered completely languid, breathing hard and raggedly. With your eyes still closed, you felt Seungkwan climbing back on top of you. “That felt… so good.”

He let out a light laugh, pressing your lips with his own softly. “Want more, baby?” he asked.

The question almost felt sarcastic. Of course you wanted more. He had been gone from your life for almost a year. You had been certain that you would never see his face ever again—hear his voice, touch his skin. Now you could get all of that, and the night was just beginning.

You nodded. “Don’t stop,” you pleaded.

❔ author's note: hi hi hi hello hi

writing this has been such a nice experience. to be honest, i have been experiencing the worst writer's block ever. but this fic has brought so much light into my days, and i'm so eager for you to read the second part!

so stay tuned for part two!

i love you all, thank you so much for reading!! 🩵

toodles

it’s always five minutes. those minutes usually stretch until you’re falling asleep alone, the tv flickering on a loop. you’re tired of waiting for a version of him that isn't busy.

you stand up, your joints feeling stiff, and walk over to the tree. you don't start decorating. instead, you start taking the ornaments off. the plastic bin makes a dull thud as you slide it across the floor.

the typing stops. the sudden absence of the sound makes your ears ring.

“what are you doing?” his voice is low, a bit rough from the hours of silence.

“taking it down,” you say, not looking back. your chest feels tight. “there’s no point in having it up if we’re just sitting in the dark anyway.”

you hear his chair creak. then, the sound of his footsteps: slow and heavy, until he’s standing right behind you. he smells like the coffee he’s been drinking since noon and the faint, cold scent of the window glass.

he doesn't give a big speech or do a grand gesture, wonwoo wasn’t like that. he just reaches out quietly—the most wonwoo thing ever—his hand hovering over your shoulder before he finally lets it rest there. his touch is warm, a sharp contrast to how cold the room feels.

“don’t,” he says softly.

you finally turn around. he looks tired. not just work-tired, but the kind of look that comes from realizing you’ve almost lost yourself from all the work. he looks at the half-empty bin and then back at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“i got caught up,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. his glasses are cold against your skin, but his breath is shaky. “i’m sorry. i know i’ve been... not... here.”

“not present,” he corrects himself, as he finally finds the words.

he doesn't try to justify it with talk about 'the future' or 'the promotion.' he just stands there in the mess of the half-lit living room and holds onto you like he’s trying to find his way back.

the laptop screen is still glowing in the background, but he doesn't look at it. instead, he reaches into the bin and pulls out a small, mismatched ornament—a cheap little star you’d found at a thrift store.

“give me a minute?” he asks. it’s not the 'five minutes' from before. it’s a request.

you watch him get down on the floor, his long limbs looking awkward as he crawls under the tree to find the plug. he messes with the wires, his hair falling over his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he isn't a silhouette or a corporate slave. he’s just wonwoo.

your wonwoo.

when the lights finally flicker on—warm and gold, reflecting in the window—he stays on the floor. he reaches for your hand, pulling you down until you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest.

he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. he’s quiet for a long time, just breathing with you while the snow starts to blur the city lights outside.

“merry christmas,” he whispers against your neck. he sounds like he finally made it home.

you lean back, letting him take your weight, the gold light of the tree blurring into something soft and forgiving. you feel the warmth from his arms press against your waist, melting into his embrace.

There was that year you were seven and your parents, freshly divorced, spent most of the evening of Christmas Eve trading venomous barbs over dinner. Which they insisted on having together, at your mother's apartment, because they might be divorced but they were still a family, goddamnit, and you prayed and prayed that night that an asteroid would strike Anyang and the earth would open up and swallow you—and your mother, and your father—whole.

Then there was the year you were seventeen, and the holidays found you—consumed with anxiety over the CSATs—with a stack of practice exams in a study cafe, surrounded by the other pathetic, miserable souls who were willing to sacrifice holiday merriment and yuletide cheer to the altar of college admissions. (You ended up scoring the highest in your district, high enough to earn you admission to Yonsei University, and your mother gave you nothing but a paper-thin smile and a murmured "good job.")

And then when you were twenty-seven, two years ago, you spent the entirety of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day holed up in your fancy fiftieth-floor corner office, choking down free coffee from the communal Keurig and poring over dozens of credit documents, because the client wanted the deal closed by year-end and you, as the most junior attorney on the team, got the short end of the stick. So while the partner you were killing yourself to please and the three senior associates on the deal took off to Hawaii or Jeju-do or to one of the shittier provinces they called home, you spoke to no one but the security guard in the lobby and microwaved whatever was left from the holiday party in the office fridge for dinner.

Anyway.

You've had worse Christmases. At least this year, someone's keeping you warm. Even if that person is—

"Shit," Soonyoung groans into your ear. "Yeah, just like that, baby—"

"Little soon for that, don't you think?"

He peels himself away from you. Pouts, a crease forming between his eyebrows, and he's so cute—cuter than you remember, honestly—that you're tempted to kiss it away. "Baby," he snarks, "I'm literally inside of you."

"Oh, fine. Whatever." You lean over and scrape your teeth over his earlobe, and he twitches under you, groaning. You smirk a little at how reactive he is, how pliant. "Call me whatever you want."

He snaps up into you, impatient for more. "Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good."

You roll your hips into him, over and over. You set a punishing pace that he matches, both of you rendered speechless. You're reduced to pants and moans as he carves a space for himself inside you, the drag of his cock and the friction against your clit overwhelming in the best way.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come." He kisses a path down your collarbone, all the way down to your breasts. "Shit, are you close?"

You grab a handful of his hair. Groan, the pleasure scratching its way out of your chest, when he starts sucking at your stiff, aching nipples. "Yeah, yes," you pant. "C-Close—"

He snakes his hands between you and finds your clit with surprising ease. Starts thumbing circles into it, and you think you're going to die, right then and there. "Come, baby," he grunts. "Come for me—"

You do. Harder than you ever have in your life, trembling and gushing around him, stars bursting in your belly and behind your eyes. He's not long to follow—he groans, broken, and stiffens under you as he spills into the condom.

And then—save the violent thundering of your heartbeat in your ears—silence.

You just sit there for a minute, slumped against him with his cock softening inside of you. He traces soft, lazy circles into the flesh of your hips, which feels far too affectionate for the moment, and you've always wondered if post-nut clarity was just a guy thing, but now the panic is setting in. 

Oh, god. You just had sex with Soonyoung. Kwon Soonyoung. The sniveling little kid who sat next to you in kindergarten and stole your crayons. The boy who'd tug your ponytail on the bus home from school and let you play with his Nintendo DS. The teenager who'd walk kimchi jeon and tteok over from his mother's kitchen to yours and end up staying for dinner, his affable presence alleviating the usual tension at the dinner table. (Your mother may not have liked you very much, but she always had a soft spot for Soonyoung.)

Soonyoung, the boy you'd left behind in Anyang all those years ago in search of broader horizons, in search of a life beyond your parents, beyond your stifling hometown. And now he's looking at you like he's searching your eyes for something, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it's like you never left. 

"Baby." His face lights up in different shades of blue, yellow, red, and green, the Christmas lights he'd strung up in his living room bleeding rainbows across his skin in the dark. "Talk to me."

Soonyoung. It dawns on you then that you feel more like yourself now than you have in a long time. That Soonyoung is the closest thing you've ever had to family, real family, and that he makes up the entirety of your past but if this is what your future looks like, with his eyes shining up at you, tender and full of affection, decades of love—

Well, you might finally have something—someone—worth living for.

"I think," you whisper, "this is the best Christmas I've ever had."

If you were to choose a word to describe Jeon Wonwoo’s late-night radio show, it would definitely be melancholic.

Despite being still very young, Wonwoo despised digital media. Ironically, it was precisely digital spaces that had made his small-town radio show into the cult phenomenon it was amongst college kids around the country. 

Mingyu, Wonwoo's best friend who still lived in the city, often sent him pictures of college students wearing CARAT FM hoodies and laptops covered in the radio logo stickers. One time, while going through a blog Mingyu had sent, Wonwoo realized he was called “The Mountain Hermit” and that people curated the show's lives to preserve it.

“These b-sides shouldn't exist! Where does he find them?” one comment said. “If he hadn't played it, it didn't exist,” said another.

Wonwoo had left Seoul after finishing college. Like fate, though he wasn’t fond of people who believed in destiny, he got an offer to take care of the small local station at the jagged peak of Blackmountain, a sprawling structure of wood and copper rods far from the center of town and from everything else Wonwoo was familiar with.

Exactly what he was looking for.

It was both his studio and sanctuary. The top floor was filled with vintage records from his personal collection, and gems left behind by the people who ran the station before him, now more years than he’s been alive. It was both his studio and his sanctuary.

Wonwoo rarely left his forte, which added to the local lore, since he was rarely seen outside and there were no pictures of him online. The couple of pictures on Mingyu's social media were from the early days of school, so he was mostly a mystery to all his followers. And Wonwoo liked it that way. They admired him for the curated music he played for them, not for himself. That was all this was about.

However, there were days when he did venture into the local scene, mostly to restock groceries, in his rusted-out Volvo, also left at the station; perfectly functioning, Wonwoo just had to remove the dust and clean the leather; and whenever he did, the town reacted as if a foreign creature had landed in their town square.

He'd be standing in line to pay for something, or filling up the gas tank, and the conversations would stop. At first, he thought it was just a normal small-town quirk; he was pretty young, and most people in town were no less than fifty, with all the younger people leaving as soon as they were of college age. But when the eerie looks and dead silence persisted every time he showed up, Wonwoo knew something about him, specifically, was the cause.

To the people online, he was a vibe; for the people in Blackmountain, he was a ticking clock.

Wonwoo never noticed how people walked wide circles around him, or how the local police always pulled over to watch him pass. He didn't realize they weren't admiring his youth, or that he was a loner in a town where everyone knew each other's names. They were looking for his shadow, which was still attached, looking at his ears to see if they'd started bleeding yet.

“... And that was a B-side, recorded in 1973, in West Berlin,” He leaned back into his leather chair, boots over the switchboard, microphone really close to his mouth. “They only played 3 shows, and two of them were inside a laundromat. If you listen closely on the two-minute mark, there’s the faint sound of someone dropping coins just in the right moment of dead silence… that’s as raw as it gets. Anyway, I'll take some calls now. Please do not ask for any movie soundtrack.”

The line 1 blinked immediately. 

This surprised him, usually the first caller was way past into the first hour of the show. 

“That was very good, Wonwoo,” your soft voice said on the other side of the line. It was melodic and surprisingly clear, cutting through the usual hiss of the station. “But the pressing you’re playing is from that one show that wasn’t done at a laundromat. The mastering is far too bright, there’s none of the gray vibe we were starting with, don’t you think?” 

Wonwoo blinked, sititng up straight. “I- well, the original pressing is nearly impossible to find, I suppose there could be a mixing in the recordings for this particular one… What’s your name?” He stuttered a little, feeling a bit taken aback. 

“Before I tell you my name, let me tell you about pure raw remasters. Have you heard BSS? They were an experimental trio based in Seoul in the late fifties. Fun fact, they used tuned light bulbs as percussion.” 

Wonwoo’s brows furrowed. He knew everything about the experimental scene of Seoul of the fifties like his own name… nothing in his brain clicked when it came to an experimental trio named BSS. 

“Check the return slot in the mail bin; delivery should have arrived already,” you said. Wonwoo stood up hurriedly, and at the same time, he replied that the lobby was already locked. He had the station open for everyone in case someone decided to visit. That had never happened so far, but he was sure to lock it when he was inside the booth. 

He sprinted out of the booth into the lobby, finding a 7-inch record encased in a sleeve of hand-pressed paper inside the mail slot. No name, no address. Just a small, hand-drawn map of the stars on the center ring. 

He hurried back into the booth, heart thumping loudly inside. “I found the record. How did you send it here? Who are you?”

“A fan of deep cuts, Wonwoo. Play it, let’s see if you can really appreciate curated music as you claim.” 

As he lowered the needle, a sound so fragile and crystalline played. Hauntingly beautiful. He sat there looking straight into the record spinning for a good minute, defining what he was hearing as a color he didn’t know existed yet. He was captivated, but more than that, flustered that he had been out-snobbed. 

“This is incredible. Where did you find this?” 

There was no answer, just the faint rhythmic hum of the dial tone. 

Wonwoo stared at the record, unable to know what to play next for the rest of the night, except this. Mesmerized by the music, he had no way of knowing the entire town of Blackmountain had stopped on its tracks, and was now looking up towards the faint lights emerging from the radio tower. The red neon light ON AIR wasn’t red anymore; it was a pulsing violet. 

Everyone except Jeon Wonwoo realized that the music meant the guest was coming. 

The next few weeks were a slow-motion collapse of Wonwoo’s carefully structured world. He stopped preparing playlists or reading his vintage music magazines. He became possessed, sitting in the booth, staring at the console's flickering lights, waiting for the phone to ring.

Each night you called. And each night, you humbled him.

“Oh, you’re playing an unreleased bass solo from The8?” Your voice sounded close, as if you were sitting right beside him. “Anyhow, that record you can still find on any vintage curated music store in Haicheng, a little bit commercial, don’t you think?”

“Commercial?” Wonwoo replied. Adjusting his glasses and straightening up in the chair. “This is one of the only fifty copies ever made, not even The8 himself knew these were being recorded.”

You sighed. “Right. But have you heard about the five copies made of his record-breaking solo in the monastery in Shanghai, I believe from 1965, the one he got banned from the city for?”

“Of course.” He replied bitterly. “That’s impossible to find, only five tapes, all lost to the authorities who kicked him out.”

“Look under the turntable platter, the one that’s been wobbling for ages…”

Wonwoo lifted the heavy rubber mat of the Technics SL-1200, and tucked in the spindle was a strip of magnetic tape, and there it was.

“How..?” his hands were shaking as he placed the record into the reel-to-reel. When he hit play, what came out was the exact moment when The8, the most prominent bass player of China, made his fingers bleed with a bass solo of more than 10 minutes. Every sound was there. From the bass strings to the wind, and people amazed by this artist rebelling against the authorities that wanted to ban music all those years back. The sound of officials taking him down and telling him to leave the monastery. It was all there until it got cut off the recording, and it was something Wonwoo never imagined to be playing on his small town radio show.

“God. That was…” He leaned into the mic, forgetting thousands of people were listening, and only speaking to you. “You are ruining me. Now my collection seems so… thin.”

“Wonwoo,” you said softly. “We’ve been flirting with frequency for weeks, don’t you think it’s time we met?”

Wonwoo felt a jolt. He muttered something into the mic, remembering there were people listening.

“No one else is listening, it´s only you and me tonight,” you assured him.

“You want to come to the station? It´s like 2 in the morning…”

“I´m already at the gate.”.

Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. He ran to the front door, his heart hammering inside his chest as he rang the buzzer of the gate to open it. It was against all logic. How did you get here so fast? How did you manage to get him the records from places inside the station? None of it made sense… yet that was the last of his worries right now.

He adjusted his glasses, straightened his sweater, and pushed the hair over his face back. The signal strength meter on the wall was now blinking red, and it vibrated so hard that it cracked. The clock on the wall started clicking backward.

He then saw you getting closer. You were exactly like he expected, yet nothing like he imagined. You were covered by a coat that seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Your shiny hair brings light to your face.

“You are real.” He breathed. The snob persona vanishes completely at the sight of you.

You smiled, getting even closer until you could trace soft lines across his sharp jawline. Your fingers felt cold, yet they sent waves of heat across his skin.

“I don’t even know your name,” Wonwoo breathed again, placing both hands across your waist, cautiously but firmly.

You leaned in, lips brushing against his. “What am I to you?”

Wonwoo replied almost instantly. “My muse.”

You then kissed him, lips brushing at first, then embracing his mouth and tongue slowly, savoring every second you were connected. He kissed you back eagerly, as if he hadn’t kissed anyone else before you, but had all the experience in the world.

His hands roamed up and down from your back to your hips, and you threw your arms across his neck. Soon you were back at the booth. Lost in the heat, he reached for the master fader to lower the volume, but your hand caught his, pinning it to the desk.

“Hmm,” you hummed against his lips. “Leave it up. Let them hear what happens next.”

Outside the radio tower, the people of Blackmountain were engulfed by the flickering lights. Their shadows had left their bodies and were now dancing out on their porch, to the rhythmic pulse coming from the station. They knew what Wonwoo didn’t. That he was about to become one with the static, the sound, and the waves he loved to play for others.

“Ugh!” you groan, flopping dramatically onto the sofa beside your boyfriend. “This is the worst.”

It’s Christmas Eve, and instead of driving back to your childhood home to spend the next few days with your family, you’re stuck in your apartment. You’d just gotten off the phone with your mom after obsessively watching weather updates for the past couple of hours. Unfortunately, the blowing snow has only gotten worse, and the surprise blizzard has made travel unsafe in these conditions.

Your mom suggested it would be better to wait until tomorrow, once the roads have been properly cleared, before attempting the hour-long drive to your hometown.

You know she’s right—but that doesn’t stop the disappointment from settling in. Especially knowing you’ll miss the annual cookie-frosting contest, something you not-so-secretly look forward to all year. This was supposed to be your third consecutive win, proof of your unmatched decorating skills. Instead, the makeshift trophy your dad crafted years ago will go to one of your siblings tonight. You grumble again, your competitiveness displeased at that thought.

No bragging rights this year. No smearing frosting across your younger sister’s face when she boasts about her reindeer looking better than yours. No snuggling up with Seungkwan while your family watches Home Alone afterward, a tradition you started the very first Christmas you brought your boyfriend home.

“I’m sorry, sugar,” Seungkwan murmurs, pouting as he pulls you onto his lap. His hand gingerly caresses your cheek, thumb brushing softly across your skin. “I know how much you love your Christmas Eve traditions.”

You relax into his touch, melting into his arms as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “It’s not like we can really do much to change the situation. Mom said she’d save me some cookies, so it’s not totally the end of the world.”

Even so, Seungkwan notices the way your shoulders slump as you say it.

“I think I’m gonna go lie in bed and read,” you add quietly. “Maybe that’ll take my mind off things.” Sitting up, you lean in to leave a quick kiss on his lips before slipping from his embrace.

“Mkay,” he hums. “I’ll start making dinner soon. Do you want anything in particular?”

You shake your head, defeated. “No. Anything works.”

As you head toward the bedroom, an idea sparks in Seungkwan’s mind. He pulls out his phone and opens his messages, firing off a quick text to your mom asking for a certain recipe.

She responds almost immediately, and once he’s sure you’re likely curled up burrito-style in bed with your kindle, he springs into action. He slips quietly into the kitchen, as if he’s being sneaky, even though you already know he plans to cook, and begins gathering ingredients.

He starts with dinner. On the menu tonight is a comforting soup that will soon fill the apartment with a familiar, cozy scent. It's perfect for the mood he’s setting. After chopping vegetables and adding just the right amount of seasoning and stock, he lets it simmer before turning his attention to dessert—something special he knows you’ll love.

“Flour, sugar, vanilla…” he mutters to himself, pulling items from the pantry before moving to the fridge. “Eggs, check. Butter, check.” He reviews the text one more time, making sure he has everything, then gets to work on the cookie dough.

Twenty minutes later, the first batch comes out of the oven. Seungkwan beams proudly, right up until he actually looks at them.

His smile slips, and his eyebrows draw together as he stares down at the cookies, which are supposed to be snowmen but instead resemble a collection of slightly deformed, oblong blobs. One has completely lost its head. Another looks like it melted in despair, looking a touch too similar to the demon-ghost from the last horror movie you two watched together.

“Hmm, well that’s not right,” he mutters. “Creative, but not right at all.”

He reads the text again as if his mistake might magically jump out and explain itself. Cooking is his specialty. Baking, apparently, is where confidence goes to die.

“Huh. Weird,” he says, squinting at the instructions. “I followed this exactly...”

After another brief moment of silent judgment directed at the cookies, he sighs and starts over, determined to redeem himself. Dinner time is creeping closer, and he will not be defeated by festive (or spooky) dough.

While the second batch bakes, Seungkwan turns to the icing. He dumps the ingredients into the stand mixer, hits the switch, and immediately lets out a startled yelp as powdered sugar explodes upward in a dramatic puff, coating everything within arm’s reach in a light dusting.

Including him.

He freezes, staring down at his now snow-dusted arms and shirt. Slowly, he reaches over and turns the mixer to the lowest setting.

“Okay,” he says. “So we’ve learned that lesson too, apparently.”

While it finishes mixing, he stares at the state of the kitchen for a moment, then snorts under his breath and shakes his head. There’s no undoing the mess now. Might as well commit to it.

Not long after his mini disaster, you wake from an accidental nap. Stretching, you slowly pad out of the bedroom and hear Christmas music drifting down the hall. Seungkwan’s voice joins the next verse, blending smoothly with the song.

As you reach the kitchen, you suck in a breath at the scene before you. The island is covered in cookies at various stages of decoration. There’s frosting everywhere. Sprinkles have migrated off the cookies and onto the counter. And as Seungkwan spins around to set down a tray of freshly baked cookies, you notice a cute smear of either powdered sugar or flour right across his cheek.

“What’s all this?” you ask, grinning.

“Surprise!” Seungkwan exclaims, waving his arms out. “You might not be able to go home tonight, but at least you won’t miss the cookies. The first batch didn’t turn out quite right—I think I melted the butter too much. Or maybe I added too much of something…but these ones look promising. Want to decorate them while I dish up some soup and let it cool?”

Nodding with barely contained excitement, your smile widens as you say, “Yes!”

“Perfect. I just made more frosting, too. And the sprinkles are over there,” he adds, gesturing toward yet another mess further down the counter.

You don’t care in the slightest; the mess is the last thing on your mind. Right now, all you can think about is how ridiculously cute your boyfriend looks while baking cookies and how much you love him.

“What made you think of doing this?” you ask softly.

“I hate seeing you sad,” he admits, voice gentle. “And this was an easy way to see your gorgeous smile.”

Your heart melts. “I love you,” you say. “Thank you for always going out of your way to make me feel so loved and cared for.”

“Anything for you, sugar,” he replies without hesitation. “I love you too.”

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