#supportive partner

The grief clawed at you from the inside—a raw, unrelenting void that left you shattered. You'd locked yourself in your apartment. The world outside was a blur. Your body curled into a tight ball on the bed as sobs wracked you. Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.

That's when Sylus materialized, slipping through your defenses like he always did, his presence announced only by the soft click of the door. You didn't look up, didn't acknowledge him. "Get out," you snarled through gritted teeth, your voice hoarse from crying. "I don't want you here. I don't want anyone here."

He ignored you, of course. Sylus never did what anyone wanted, especially leaving when you needed him. He crossed the room, dropped his coat on a chair, and sat on the bed's edge. "No," he said, his tone firm but edged with softness. "I'm not going anywhere, kitten."

Your pain exploded outward, and you slammed your hands against his chest with what strength you had left, your fingers clawed and knuckles white, trembling with a fury carved by grief.

"I said leave!" you yelled, voice wobbly and scraped raw. "I don’t want your damn pity.  Get out!" Tears scalded your cheeks, their heat as bitter as your rage, not at him but at the circumstances, at the world. You tried to push him away again and again, desperate to make the world around you as empty as you felt inside.

But he caught your wrists gently, his grip unyielding yet careful, refusing to let you drive him off. He pulled you closer, holdingyou in his arms as you struggled.

"Stop fighting me," he murmured, red eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pierced through the haze of your pain. "You're breaking, and I'll be damned if I let you do it alone. I won't watch you shatter without me here to hold the pieces."

You thrashed against him, your body betraying the exhaustion creeping in. Still, your will burned hot. "Why won't you just go? I can't... I can't handle this with you watching. I don't want you to see me fall apart!" Your voice cracked, sobs choking you as you pounded weakly at his chest. But he held firm. He absorbed every blow. His arms were a cage you couldn't escape—or maybe didn't truly want to.

"Because I refuse to," he whispered into your hair, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. "I've got you. Scream, hit me, whatever you need—but I'm staying. Let me be here for you."

Time blurred in his unyielding embrace. The minutes stretched as he held you through the storm. He didn't offer empty platitudes. Just his solid presence, a rock in the torrent of your grief. You fought it longer than before, twisting and cursing under your breath. Gradually, the fight ebbed, leaving you raw and exposed.

The sobs came harder now, unfiltered, as you finally let the walls crumble in his arms. He didn't pull away, didn't judge; he just held you tighter, his fingers threading through your hair in gentle, rhythmic strokes, his breath steady against your ear.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice a quiet rumble that anchored you. "You don't have to be strong. Let it out." His palm brushed your cheek, catching tears with a gentleness that startled you, his red eyes reflecting a silent understanding. He gathered you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, where the slow, steady thud of his heart echoed in your ear—a fragile promise that life endured, even when the world felt lost to shadow.

When the storm of tears faded to hiccuping breaths, he remained, silent and steadfast, his presence a barrier against the cold world. The ache lingered, but it was no longer yours alone—softened by the warmth of his embrace.

"I'm still here," he murmured, lips brushing your forehead, his fingers drawing slow, aimless shapes along your spine. In the shelter of his arms, for the first time since the loss, a faint ember of hope flickered to life, or perhaps simply the courage to meet the next day.

He lifted the pizza box slightly. “Special delievery”

You frowned. “I told you I was sick.”

He tilted his head, studying your face. “Yeah. And I know you too well to call bullshit.”

Your chest tightened. You stepped aside to let him in, suddenly embarrassed by the state of the apartment, by the state of yourself. He took his shoes off without being asked and followed you inside like he belonged there, like he always had.

“You don’t look sick to me,” he said gently. “Maybe tired but....in a different way."

You laughed weakly and rubbed your arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied.”

He set the pizza down on the counter but did not open it yet. He leaned back against it, crossing his arms loosely. “Hey,” he said. “Come here.”

You did not move at first. Shame made your feet heavy. “I just didn’t want to get into it. It’s complicated. My family is complicated. And I didn’t want you to see that.”

Keeho nodded slowly, like he was absorbing every word without judging any of them. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. Truly.”

You looked up at him then. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. Then his expression softened, playful warmth returning around the edges. “But don’t lie to me. That’s all I ask. I want to know you as you are, not the version that thinks she has to fake a cold.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time it felt different. Safer. “I promise,” you said quietly.

His smile spread, bright and unmistakable. “Good.”

He opened the pizza box like it was the most important task of the evening. “Also,” he added, glancing at you, “pretty sure you haven't eaten anything yet."

You blinked. “How do you know?”

“Because when you’re stressed, you forget,” he said easily. “And I can see the drool on your mouth”

He handed you a slice and waited until you took a bite. Only then did he relax, settling beside you at the small table, knees brushing yours.

“I won't leave...no matter what,” he said quietly. “Even if you don’t want to talk about it.”

You chewed, warmth spreading through you, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe.

🫧Theo🫧

The movie played on, colors shifting across the screen, dialogue rising and falling in a way that should have pulled you in. You sat beside Theo on the couch, blanket over your legs, popcorn bowl between you, but your mind stayed somewhere else entirely. Your eyes followed the movement without seeing it. Scenes blurred together while your thoughts stacked up like an endless list you could not cross off.

Groceries. Cleaning. Laundry at your parents’ place. Making sure your sister finished her homework and actually understood it. Reminding your parents about appointments they never seemed to remember themselves. You felt the familiar pressure settle in your chest, that quiet, exhausting knowledge that if you did not do it, no one would.

Theo noticed when you stopped reacting to the movie. He always did. He paused it gently, remote clicking softly in the quiet room.

“Y/n,” he said. “Are you still with me?”

You blinked and looked at him, surprised you had been caught. “Sorry,” you said quickly. “I'm just tired.”

Your voice betrayed you. It came out rough, hoarse, like you had been holding something back for too long. Theo did not argue. He just looked at you, really looked, head tilted slightly, concern settling into his expression.

You sighed before he could say anything else. “I’m just… struggling a little,” you admitted. “Keeping up with everything.”

He nodded and waited. No pressure. No rush.

So you talked. At first it was calm, almost rehearsed. You told him about your parents needing things constantly but never noticing how much you gave. About your sister and her homework and how you worried she would fall behind if you were not there. About the house that always needed cleaning, the fridge that was always empty when you arrived, the way responsibility seemed to land on your shoulders by default.

As you spoke, frustration bubbled up. Your voice shook. Tears prickled at your eyes, sudden and unwelcome. Anger slipped in too, sharp and old, because you had always been the one who handled things. The one who stepped up. The one who swallowed resentment and kept going.

“I’m just so tired of it,” you said, breath catching. “I don’t get to stop. Ever.”

When the words finally ran out, the room felt very quiet. You took a deep breath and looked at Theo, fear creeping in. You worried you had overwhelmed him, scared him off with the mess of it all.

Theo just shrugged lightly.

“Well,” he said, thoughtful, “I’m really bad at math.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“But,” he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I’m great at reading, history, science. I can definitely help your sister with those.”

You laughed, disbelief spilling out before you could stop it. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” he said. He leaned in and kissed you softly, the kind of kiss that lingered just long enough to steady you. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll help you with everything.”

You looked at him for a long moment, laughter fading into something quieter. “But it’s not your job,” you said softly. “You shouldn’t have to pick up after my family’s mess.”

Theo did not pull away. He stayed close, thoughtful, then tilted his head slightly. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s not my job.”

Relief flickered, quickly followed by guilt, but he continued before you could speak again.

“And it’s not yours either.”

The words landed heavier than anything else he had said that night. You blinked, breath catching as if your body needed a second to understand them.

He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close, pressing his cheek against your hair. “We’ll figure it out together,” he said quietly.

For the first time that night, the weight on your chest eased. The movie stayed paused, forgotten, but you finally felt present again.

🫧Jiung🫧

You spent the afternoon moving through your mother’s apartment like a quiet storm. Windows cracked open to let stale air escape. Trash bags tied tight and lined up by the door. You cleaned old food out of the fridge, holding your breath as you threw things away that should have been gone weeks ago. Your mother stayed in bed the entire time, turned toward the wall, voice distant when you reminded her to take her medicine. You waited until you heard the familiar rattle of pills before you let yourself exhale.

Your arms ached. Your chest felt tight in that familiar way, the way it always did when responsibility settled too heavily on you. You wiped the counters again even though they were already clean.

Your phone rang, bright and cheerful against the quiet apartment. Jiung’s name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” he said happily the moment you picked up. “I was thinking, you, me and some delicious fried chicken tonight."

The idea of it hit you hard. Warm food. Jiung’s laugh. Sitting somewhere that did not smell like disinfectant and neglect. You wanted it desperately.

“I can’t,” you said instead, voice steady out of habit. “My mom’s sick. I’m cleaning her place.”

There was a pause, then, “Oh, but I can help.”

You shook your head even though he could not see you. “No. Just enjoy your day, okay? I’ll call you later.”

Before he could argue, you hung up. The click felt too loud. Anger rose immediately, sharp and directed inward. At yourself for needing help. At yourself for pushing it away.

You scrubbed the sink harder than necessary.

An hour later, the doorbell rang.

You froze. Your first thought was annoyance, your second exhaustion. You wiped your hands on a towel and went to the door, already rehearsing what you would say. When you opened it, Jiung stood there with two full grocery bags and that familiar calm determination in his eyes.

You sighed. “Jiung. Go home.”

He smiled gently. “Nah.”

“I told you—”

“You can’t stop me from taking care of you,” he said, stepping inside before you could block him.

He set the groceries down on the counter and began unpacking like he belonged there. Vegetables. Meat. Spices. “I brought everything for a nice stew,” he said casually.

You groaned. “You- You can't just show up here. I’m serious.”

Jiung glanced around the apartment, eyes taking everything in without judgment. The half-emptied trash, the lingering mess, the heaviness in the air. He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “This place definitely needs my help.”

“Jiung,” you warned, frustration rising again.

He closed the distance between you before you could step away. Gently, he took your face into his hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. His voice softened.

“It’s not a sign of weakness to ask for help,” he said. “Especially not from me.”

Your throat tightened. You swallowed heavily, emotions pressing in from all sides. “But I don’t want to burden you.”

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You’re someone I love.”

Before you could respond, he kissed you. It was soft and grounding, the kind of kiss that reminded you where you were, who you were with. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “And your problems are automatically mine.”

You closed your eyes, finally letting the weight settle somewhere other than your own shoulders. Jiung stayed close, steady and unmovable, already rolling up his sleeves like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

🫧Intak🫧

It was well past midnight when you left the house, heart pounding so hard it felt louder than the door you closed behind you. The fight still rang in your ears, words sharp and careless, thrown without thought and never taken back. You did not grab a jacket. You barely grabbed your keys. Pajama pants, a thin T-shirt, and shaking hands were all you had when you got into the car and drove.

You barely remembered the drive to the dorm. Streetlights blurred together, tears clouding your vision. By the time you parked, your fingers were numb from the cold and from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. You stood outside the building, hugging yourself, breathing fast.

You called Intak.

He picked up on the third ring, his face appearing on the screen, eyes half open, hair sticking up in every direction. “Hello?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “It's the middle of the night, what happened?”

“I’m so sorry,” you said immediately, words tumbling over each other. “I’m really sorry, I know it’s late, I shouldn’t have called, I just… I’m outside the dorm.”

His eyes widened instantly, sleep disappearing. “Outside?”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” you repeated, panic rising again.

“No, give me two seconds,” he said, already moving.

The call ended. You barely had time to rub your arms again before the door opened. Intak stood there in sweatpants and a hoodie, keys still in his hand. The moment you saw him, everything you had been holding back broke loose.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed as you stepped inside, wrapping your arms around him.

He did not hesitate. He pulled you close immediately, arms strong and warm, holding you like you might fall apart if he let go. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You cried into his chest, shoulders shaking, breath uneven. He rubbed your back slowly, grounding, patient. When you finally pulled back enough to breathe, he wiped your tears away with his thumb, careful and gentle.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” you said again, teeth chattering now that you were standing still.

He shook his head. “Stop apologizing,” he said softly. “You’re freezing.”

He took your hand and led you down the quiet hallway to his room. The lights stayed low. The world felt far away in the best possible way. He sat you down on the bed and crouched in front of you, concern written all over his face.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

You told him. About the fight. About the things that were said. About how it always seemed to explode no matter how hard you tried to keep the peace. Your voice wavered, but he listened without interrupting, eyes focused on you like nothing else existed.

Halfway through, his gaze dropped to your clothes. His jaw tightened slightly. “You left like this?”

You nodded.

Without another word, he grabbed his blanket and wrapped it around you completely, tucking it around your shoulders until only your face showed. The warmth hit you all at once and you let out a shaky breath.

“You're staying here,” he said firmly. “As long as you need. Tonight. Tomorrow. However long.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “Thank you.”

He smiled softly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

He lay down beside you and pulled you close, one arm around your shoulders, the other resting over the blanket. You tucked yourself into him, forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow and steady.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I promise.”

For the first time that night, your body relaxed. The fight felt farther away. The cold faded. Wrapped in his arms, you finally believed him.

🫧Soul🫧

The restaurant buzzed with polite noise, cutlery clinking, glasses catching the light. You sat between Soul and your parents, hands folded in your lap, trying to stay present in the moment you had worked so hard for. Promotion. A word that still felt unreal in your mouth. Soul leaned slightly toward you, eyes bright, pride practically radiating off him every time someone mentioned your job.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said quietly to you, smiling like it was his achievement too.

Your father scoffed from across the table. “Promotion,” he repeated, rolling the word around like it tasted bad. “Titles don’t mean much these days. Anyone can get one if they stick around long enough.”

Your smile faltered. You stared at your plate, appetite thinning.

Your mother tried to redirect the conversation, but your father kept going. Comment after comment, each one sharp enough to nick at your excitement. He questioned your workload, your salary, whether it was really that impressive. You laughed weakly at first, hoping it would pass.

Soul went quiet.

You noticed it when his hand tightened around his fork, knuckles paling. He watched your father with an intensity that made your chest feel tight. Another remark followed, something about how you probably just got lucky.

Soul stood up so suddenly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor.

The table went still.

“Okay hold on a second,” he said, voice calm but firm in a way that made everyone look at him. “I'm sorry but...you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Your father frowned. “Excuse me?”

“She worked incredibly hard for this,” Soul continued, eyes never leaving him. “Late nights, extra responsibility, pressure you don’t even see. You should be proud of her.”

Your heart pounded. “Shota—”

But your father only snorted. “There’s nothing to be proud of.”

Something in Soul snapped, clean and final. He reached for your hand without looking away. “We’re leaving.”

He did not wait for permission. He squeezed your hand gently and guided you up, out of the restaurant, past curious glances and half-finished plates. The night air hit your face as soon as the door closed behind you.

You stopped just outside, breath shaky. “You just… you kind of bashed my parents,” you said, torn between adrenaline and guilt. “In the middle of a restaurant."

Soul turned to you, expression softening immediately. “I know.” he said. “But I couldn’t sit there and listen to them tear you down when you were supposed to be celebrating.”

“I’m used to it,” you said quietly.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he replied. “They don’t get to decide what your success means. And watching you shrink like that made me so mad I could barely sit still.”

He opened his mouth to keep explaining, words lined up carefully, but you stepped forward and kissed him before he could say another one. It was quick, sure, full of gratitude you did not trust yourself to speak.

“Thank you,” you said when you pulled back. “For standing up for me.”

Soul smiled then, small and genuine. “Always,” he said. “I’ll always stand up for you.”

He laced his fingers through yours again, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on. We’re going somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Somewhere that actually knows how to celebrate you,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Tonight is still yours.”

And as he led you down the street, away from the restaurant and everything it had held, the weight in your chest finally lifted.

🫧Jongseob🫧

It was late in the evening, the kind of late where your eyes burned from staring at the same page too long. Your desk lamp cast a small, tired circle of light over your notes, highlighter uncapped, pen forgotten between your fingers. You tried to read the same paragraph again, but the words kept dissolving the moment shouting rose from the other side of your door.

Your parents’ voices crashed into each other, sharp and loud, anger ricocheting down the hallway. Every sudden spike made you flinch. You hunched your shoulders instinctively, heart jumping like it had learned this rhythm by memory.

You unlocked your phone and called Jongseob before you could talk yourself out of it.

He picked up immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. His face filled the screen, hair a little messy, eyes already focused on you. “What’s wrong?”

You looked at yourself in the camera, tired eyes, tense jaw, the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than sleep. You sighed. “Nothing big,” you said quietly. “I just… needed a gentle voice for a change.”

As if on cue, another raised shout echoed faintly through your room. Jongseob’s expression shifted, subtle but instant. He heard it. He always did.

“Oh,” he said gently.

You did not explain further. You did not have to.

He sat up in his bed, pulling the blanket around his shoulders like he was settling in for something important. “Okay,” he said. “What are you studying?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You were studying,” he said, nodding toward your desk. “Tell me about it.”

You let out a tired laugh. “It’s just my boring university stuff. You don’t want to hear about this.”

He shook his head, serious in a way that made your chest soften. “Nothing is boring when you explain it.”

You hesitated, then glanced down at your notes. “It’s… political theory,” you said. “About social contracts and power structures.”

He smiled slightly. “See? I'm already hooked”

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. You started explaining anyway, stumbling at first, then finding your rhythm. You talked about ideas and arguments, about what made sense and what frustrated you. Jongseob listened like it mattered, chin resting in his hand, eyes warm and steady on you.

Every now and then, he nodded or hummed thoughtfully. Sometimes he asked a question, not to test you, but because he genuinely wanted to understand. The shouting in the background faded into something distant, replaced by the sound of your own voice and the quiet reassurance of his attention.

You noticed it slowly. The silence.

You paused mid-sentence. Your parents’ voices were gone. No yelling. No slammed doors. Just quiet.

Jongseob noticed too. His eyes flicked slightly, then back to you. “It’s quiet,” he said softly. “Do you want to hang up?”

You shook your head immediately. “Do you?”

“No,” he said just as fast, a small smile breaking across his face.

You both laughed quietly, like you were sharing a secret the world did not need to hear. You leaned back in your chair, shoulders finally relaxing.

You did not go back to studying right away. You just stayed there, looking at each other through the screen, comforted by the simple fact of being seen.

Jongseob’s gaze softened, full of something gentle and unwavering. “You did really well explaining that,” he said.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“Anytime you need a gentle voice...or an audience” he added, “I’m here.”

“Woah, what’s gotten you in such a bad mood?” I ask, smiling at him softly, trying to lighten the mood.  He sighs loudly:

“They… They’re… I can’t even begin to explain how fucking angry I am right now.”  He says pacing around the office, hands clenching on his side, trying to contain his anger.

“What did they say? Come on, sit down… Take a deep breath.” I say, losing the smile when I realize he’s really upset with what happened in the office, gently guiding him to sit on the couch that’s in the office.

“I… I can’t say it, but it's just… It’s utterly ridiculous what they’re doing, seriously, it’s… It’s like… Like they don’t even care about the wellbeing of the-” He starts rambling and when I realize he’s nowhere near getting something comprehensive out, I cup both of his cheeks gently enough that he can pull away in case he wants to and place a chaste kiss on his lips. 

When I pull away and look into his eyes, they’re already looking at me with so much love and tenderness. His hands that were on his lap went around my waist, hugging me gently and kissing my neck softly. 

He starts kissing his way up my neck towards my lips and he kisses me just as gently, trying to use those kisses to calm himself down. We hear the door open, then two loud comical screams come from it and we pull away from each other, my hands on his shoulder, looking at the door startled. We find Logan and Alex by the door:

“MY EYES! OH, MY EYES!” Logan screams, covering his eyes. 

“WHY?! BY GOD, WHY?!” Alex yells afterwards, falling on his knees dramatically.

“My God, boys… You’re so dramatic, you could’ve knocked” James says, covering his blushing face embarrassed.

“I’m traumatized, I don’t know how I’ll ever look you two in the eyes again.” Logan dramatically says, pretending to wipe some inexistent tears from his eyes. I laugh loudly at that, covering my mouth when James scowls at me, but I can see that he’s also trying to fight his laughter.

“Come on, kids. We weren’t doing anything.” I say standing up from the couch and helping Alex stand up from the ground, laughing through my teeth. 

“We came to check on you, boss… We heard it was a tough meeting.” Alex says, looking at James who’s still covering his face.

“You boys don’t have to worry about it, I’ll try to fix everything before the race, you two focus on resting and feeling ready for the race.” James says, standing up and placing a gentle hand on the bottom of my back. 

“Go on, kids. I’m sure the big boss won't mind if you go get ice cream.” I say laughing, noticing that James really doesn’t want to talk about that, the two younger boys look at each other and then: “I’M GETTING THERE FIRST!” They both yell at the same time, running to their cars.

“I can’t believe they’re 20 something years old” I say laughing, looking up at James to find him smiling at me tenderly. 

“Thank you, honey…” He whispers as if it’s a secret no one can hear, kissing my forehead softly.

“Anytime, handsome… Now let’s go, I made myself crave ice cream by mentioning it.” I say laughing with him, we both walk to the parking lot slowly, only to find both drivers’ cars gone. “They’re really fast for two traumatized kids.” I say laughing, bringing out a laugh from James.

“Come on, you want to go to the usual place, sweetheart?” He says smiling at me softly, opening the passenger door for me.