#trigger x reader

Your body is constantly smothered by hickies, welts, claw marks and handprints. Being in your own harem in New Eridu has its perks.

Trigger feeling the tremors in your legs as she nimbly bends and folds around your trembling self as her swelling ass rubs your gorging face while she eats you out between your twitching legs. Her flexible self would not cease squeezing her thighs and rear against you in all the right places.

Hugo littering deep bites in your neck, almost like a vampire would, but making sure not to draw blood. He'd test out whether you cum more from his gloves or his bare hands as he stuffs his appendage up your dripping pussy. His intimate kisses let you taste yourself from his velvety lips.

Astra never stops teasing you in your ear as her lipstick smooches decorate your body draped in her lace and pearls, her nuzzles in your breasts and fondling your ass makes you squirm and flustered to which she giggles on how cute you are.

Evelyn binding you in quite the shibari position, having you laying on your stomach, blindfolded, as her heels decorate your back. She'd carefully use her whip on your ass. If the sting is too much, then her gloved hands will use your sore bum as bongos.

Yidhari's tendrils suspend you mid air, already stuffing all your holes. Drool spills down down your face as you choke on the big one filling your throat. Another suction cups your clit. Your folds and asshole won't stop fluttering and squeezing the ones now milked up by you. Yidhari's hands stimulat her own chest and pussy as she watched you with blushing endearment, finding this inspiration for a future explicit story to write.

Manato would not stop wagging his tail as you makeout with his scarred pecs and abs as his arms squeeze you tight up against him. However, him raw dogging your ass while scratching up your thighs and hips would come, his heat would last for hours.

Lycaon would be more gracious when claiming you. His claws would not stop kneading your cleavage and pinching your nubs between his nails while his furry schlong ruts in and out of your nether regions as he spooned you from behind. He doesn't mind you tugging on his collar to keep him close even as he bites your neck and shoulders through the mating session.

Yanagi litters your face with kisses as she cuddles you. She goes pink as she uses your face as her seat, her own thighs trembling as you drown from her essence. Her electric spark makes your limbs spasm, succumbing to her influence as her smooth praises have you going puddy in her now stained palms.

Miyabi does step on you when you ask her too. Her heels have the right amount of pressure to mark your face. But her hands rub and massage your marred expression. Her cooling abilities soothe you. Stimulating your mounds meant kitten licks to thaw the ice, warming your chest up with her thoroughness, letting you feel her fox ears throughout it.

Yixuan uses her ink esque techniques, painting your body as her canvas as she rides your lap. Her hitting your pressure points help you go lax while her boobs suffocate your face. Her mystic energies pulse like living fingers in your caverns, adding to elevating your carnal releases to pair well with her inky decorum.

Ye Shunguang would not stop fussing over you as her fluffy tail wrapped possessively around you as she rubs herself against your crotch, matching your pants and moans with your own in messy kisses, praising you for everything she adores about you.

Ye Shiyuan knots himself in your very womb, making sure you're cream filled with his seed, whether with tenderness or as his darker persona, his furry tail would not stop curling around your leg as he spasmed in your walls, muttering claims in your neck as teeth marks decorate your throat.

Cecilia's maternal instincts come out. Her MILF energies have you feeding off her titty milk, nearly suffocating as her melons squish your stuffed cheeks. She doesn't hesitate to let your pussy rub all over her chest. Her rewarding kisses come with shy mewls as you lap up the mess you made.

Damian's arrogant face crumples into a groaning mess as you blowjobbed him, slobbering all over the leather couch seat, his hand taking a fistful of your hair to help you bob your head up and down to meet his deprived thrusts. Yhao watches while lounging about, smacking your bum, making comments on the side.

Jane Doe cuffs you, hogtied you even for her examination, her nails teasing your neck, spine, and holes as she stripped and tore off your bearings, her sultry tone already making you wet for her, taking her time in fingering your flaps with her digits and tail end. She petted your head, praising you for being so good for her as she sat on her legs, keeping your head between her thighs as she let you feast, still fingering you.

Cissia's snake tail anxiously rubs between your breasts, in between your thighs, even up your ass. Clinging to you as her mumbles her rants about her low paying job and demon lord of a boss all while she devours every inch of yummy snack and/or food staining your body. You're a whimpering, moaning mess as she drools and sucks all over you, making sure not to prick you.

Severian having you in the full Nelson sex position is one example of him surprising you with what he's fully capable of. The Pub Sec commissioner stakes his claim on you, his grip firm enough to hold your legs just right to plug up your core as he jack hammered in you, ensuring his seed hits its mark.

Lighter's scarred hands never stop caressing you, flexing his muscles cradling your sweet form, making out with you, draping your legs over his shoulders, gobbling your boobs while the evident bulge in your tummy has him spilling his entire load in many times over, all while his iconic red scarf binds your hands above your head.

Gorging on several cocks with your quivering lips, some swollen tips smeared with pre cum smacking into your soiled cheeks as you try not choking as you take on too much at once.

Your moist legs spread out as the ladies hands massage your sore tooshie while their lips and mouths gorge on your puffy swollen folds that won't stop quivering and leaking.

The water was long gone from the tub, leaving in its stead grime and dirt from both your bodies. She had followed the foaming trail of body wash that had trailed down the outside of your knee. Resisting the urge to touch, to feel your scarred skin beneath her fingertips. But now, all that remained on the white ceramic was a small poodle of bloody water and a mix of dust and dirt.

Today had been particularly rough, she sighed, her eyes finally falling on your half-naked form. Your hip was plopped against the sink, your frame dressed in only your matching black bra and panties. It wasn't anything extravagant, more practical than anything, really, a simple elastic band and stretchy fabric. No lace nor underwires for it had been picked in a hurry at a convenience store.

And to her, gone were the days when her cheeks flushed and heartbeat sped at the sight of your naked form. A sort of normalcy had settled, the domestic kind that could only bloom in a trusted environment, something she couldn't imagine without you. It was the kind of domesticity that only came from two women with scars rivaling one another. It only came from two humans with nothing left to lose, for every day might as well be their last.

She slowly brought the cigarette back to her lips, inhaling the smoke before blowing it in the opposite direction from you. She didn't normally smoke indoors, definitely not in your presence since you've made it quite clear that you despise its smell. But today hadn't been normal, and it seemed you shared the sentiment since you didn't say a word at the first flicker of her lighter.

Today's mission was supposed to be easy, the 'kill and go' kind of duty. However, things are never that simple. Especially in this line of work, and, especially with the feelings she felt for the woman 3 feet away from her. She flickered the ash in the drain of the bathtub, always letting the heat get closer than necessary to her fingertips. Today had been too fucking close. Your body before her proved of such.

The wounds had stopped bleeding after a while, but the limp in your movements was evident. Scratches traveled your legs, cuts littered your arms, interrupting the constellation of your moles. She'd seen you, meet the ground, and for one frightful second, she saw what she dreaded most, acceptance behind a wall of fear.

She'd saved you, naturally.

None of you had mentioned it ever since and you had remained silent for the better part of the day, but she wanted to talk about it, wanted to grip your shoulders and shake you until you understood how miserable she'd be if you left. She wanted you to feel how she felt ever since you walked into her life.

Not today, though, never today. Maybe tomorrow, if you even had one. If you both survived again.

It was silent but far from calm. Your wet hair from the previous bath often released one or two droplets of water that met the sink in a low 'plop'.

She watched as you racked your hands through it. It was darker than usual and already curling at the ends. You sighed, too focused on your predicament to notice her balant stating.

She took another hit, leaning against the backrest of the toilet as her eyes followed your hands, reaching for the straightener. It was a ritual she was familiar with. The pattern of your hair had always been too bothersome for you. 'It's too much work', you complained when she asked. Maybe that's one of the many things she loved about you, the routine. She loved how consistent, reliable, strong, you truly were. She never knew she needed that in her life until now.

"You know…" she started, her voice not a whisper, but not her usual tone either.

"You don't have to straighten it all the time, I like the way it curls."

She hummed, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin on one of her hands while the other twirled the burning nicotine.

She didn’t look away, her gaze traveling from the back of your head to the drain as she gently shook the ash off the cigarette. You scoffed, but it seemed softer.

"Please, you don't know what you're talking about. You've never seen it."

You were right, to some extent. No matter how damaging it, you always straightened your hair while still damp and sometimes even when it dripped with water.

You leaned towards the mirror, your back creating an arch she wished she could trace with the tip of her nail and watch as it caught on the ragged skin.

Your nakedness wasn't erotic, it never really was.

Finally, she allowed her eyes to wander. As if she hadn't memorized every single dip and shadow of your skin.

"I've seen it." She finally retorted, quiet. Smoke escaped her lips as it curled under the light of the mirror.

"That one time, when you fell asleep in the bathtub after that mission in the city center. Your hair was a mess, wet, wild."

A pause.

"I didn't wake you up on purpose." She added, plastering a smile on her lips in hopes to hide just how much she meant each word.

"It was beautiful."

She tapped the butt of the cigarette against the poodle of bloodied water, a faint scent of burnt paper briefly filling the room before slowly dissipating through the humid air.

She turned back to you, your mouth parting to release one of those bratty retorts you never run out of. Only for a loud curse to fend the air instead.

"Shit!'

It hit like a flare in the dark.

She halted for an instant, reaching for her weapon (which she stupidly came to realize had been thrown somewhere across the apartment). She quickly made her way to your side. But as her frame stood beside yours, all she noticed was the sharp hiss of water touching burning iron. That's when she saw it, the straightener, knocked over, contrasting over the white porcelain of the sink. Steam slowly rose from your forearm, where heat had kissed skin.

You squirmed, a string of charming words escaping your lips as your healthy hand instinctively tried to slap over the burn. She stopped it before you could worsen the situation.

"Damn it, stupid."

In one smooth motion, —without panic, she grabbed your wrist, pulling it under the freezing tap water even as you weakly tried to pull away.

"You always do this."

She murmured, watching as the burn became more prominent under clear water. She didn't let go.

"Always rush into things."

The statement hung heavier than the smoke that still lingered the air. This wasn't about burns, nor about hair. It was about everything.

You didn't answer, she didn't expect you to. The mark on your arm seemed to have settled on a proper Vermilion shade, and when you tried once more to break her grip, she didn't relent.

She could see the tension in your jaw. You were probably clenching your teeth so hard they could break, but you didn't even choke out a surprised noise. Through your pain, your healthy arm reached for support. Finding it in her cotton shirt, bunching up the fabric as you gripped it like a lifeline. Your face falling soon after in the crook of her neck.

It was more contact than usual. You both knew it. Especially her, she'd grown close enough to you to recognize the pattern drawing itself before her eyes. Maybe it was because of how easily you almost died today. Maybe it was everything altogether, but she knew you'd bottled up enough.

She let the tap run, the steam rise, adjusting her hold on your wrist with silent authority.

"No," she sighed, her gaze stuck on the wet strands of your hair. "You don't get to pull away." Her voice wasn't loud, it didn't need to be.

"You can clench your teeth from getting the living daylights punched out of you, walk home with a broken rib, and make yourself coffee as if nothing—" a pause, "but one burn? You fall apart."

She turned slightly, placing herself between you and the sink. Blocking the view of the mirror as if this moment couldn't even be witnessed by the two of you. She looked at you, really did.

"…I saw you today." There, she said it. And regretted it instantly when she felt your body tense. The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop it. "When you went down, when I thought you—"

She cut herself off, chewing on her bottom lip as her fingers slowly released their deathly hold over your wrist to softly trace over a cut from last week. Sliding her hands down your forearm, fingertips dancing off ragged wounds. One from last month, another from a few days ago. Some healed, others not quite but each painted in the canvas of her mind.

Nuzzled in her neck, you didn't answer. Your grip over her white cotton sleep shirt never relenting. For a moment, or perhaps longer, none of you spoke nor moved. Not until you shifted and slowly rose your head from where it rested moments before.

Your damp hair hung over your face, hiding half of it from her view. But it did little to hide the downturn of your lips and the tightness around your eyes. You didn't pull away yet, your burnt forearm having long given up resisting the freezing cold of the water.

After a beat, you breathed out. Your sigh slightly shaky, a mix between a scoff and a laugh. As if you, yourself, couldn't decide whether to shrug it off or finally snap. She didn't know which she wished for, either.

When you finally parted your lips, your voice was rough. She'd go as far as to say hoarse, but that would be too close to admitting how dampness had met her neck. Dampness she knew that wasn't from your hair.

"I hate this," you finally whispered out, never lifting your gaze to meet hers but staring at the mirror instead. "Hate how you… always see it."

The pause stretched as she waited for you to elaborate without her prompting your words forward. She'd learned to choose her words carefully so as not to frighten you away from opening up, akin to a wounded animal.

One breath, then another.

"I saw its face when it lunged at me, and I swear, just for a second, I wanted to let it take me." You swallowed, the grimace on your face making her wince. "Not because I was scared," she begged to differ, "Because, what if we're already ghosts? Awaiting fate's judgment? Just walking around pretending we'll live long enough to get old?"

Your gaze shifted, from your reflection in the mirror to the straightener on the side of the sink. Dancing across the wrinkles that had formed on her shoulder before finally meeting her eyes.

"And then you pulled me back," you croaked, your voice uncharacteristically small,"…like you always do."

A pause.

"Why do you keep on saving me if we already know how this ends?"

Her breath stopped. For a second, she felt the way your words carved themselves in her ribs. Not because they were new, but because she knew. Knew the shape of that truth like a blade in her own palm.

Suddenly, she moved. Almost foolishly, her hands rose, letting go of your wrist and waist to reach up, to tangle in the back of your hair and pull. Not enough to hurt, God knew you both had enough of that today, but to force eye contact. To stop your gaze from fleeting hers. Her voice became lower with something embarrassingly close to desperation.

"Because I don't care about how this ends."

A beat, her thumb brushing over your pulse point, leaning closer to your weary face, the scent of ash and smoke blending with your sweet body wash.

"I only care that you keep breathing until it does, and I'll save you over and over again, just to witness you bathe beside me."

seoul at night is a different map. neon gutters into shadowed alleys; polite bows thin into curt nods. you move through it the way you learned to move through lives — measured, practiced, always a step ahead of panic. the private auction is in the basement of a club that pretends at decadence and specializes in commodities that shouldn’t exist. a mirrored staircase leads down, each step a promise you can’t quite believe you accepted.

the room smells of old money and cologne. men in tailored suits exchange smiles and certificates as if trading stamps. women lean like sculptures, eyes bored, pockets empty of conscience. the lot under the hammer tonight is not jewelry or art — it’s a crate of hardware with a label in a language you don’t need spelled out. moon baek likes his transactions framed as necessity. he calls them tools. others call them power.

you should leave. you tell yourself this twice before he finds you.

he emerges — not from the shadows — but from their clever absence, like a question that already knows the answer. he’s taller than people let themselves believe from a distance; close up, he’s all contained angles — a jaw that could split marble, a scar near his temple like a punctuation mark you can’t avoid reading. he watches the room the way someone reads a book he’s already annotated.

“you’re not from here,” he says, and it isn’t a question. his voice is quiet but certain, like a door closing.

you let park ji‑eun slide into place. “no,” you say, and your pronunciation is practiced enough to be believable. “just passing through.”

he does not smile. he studies the way your fingers curl around the clutch, the small tremor you mask with a practiced inhale. most people in this room don’t flinch at guns. they flinch at being watched.

“you don’t look like a tourist.” his eyes find you in that way that makes you feel naked and interesting at once. “you look like you’ve been rehearsing trouble.”

there’s a ledger of lies inside your head, and you index them. you give him one that fits — “consulting. a friend’s firm. i advise on risk.” it’s reasonable. it’s banal. and it is true enough to get you a foot in the door — a foot that will be bitten if you’re careless.

he watches you for a long moment, like someone tasting tea for poison. “risk is different from loyalty,” he says finally. “you understand that?”

you nod. you do. you learned it in classrooms that smelled like disinfectant and in hotel rooms that smelled like regret. “i understand.”

that’s how he lets you stay. it’s not trust — not yet. it’s curiosity, which is often the more dangerous currency. he assigns you small things at first — an inventory cross‑check, a logistical optimization. work that keeps your hands clean on paper but stains them on the inside. you move through his empire like a ghost with a clipboard; the higher you climb, the more of moon baek you see.

he tests you constantly. nothing theatrical — just crumbs that reveal wolves. a late‑night visit to a warehouse where the forklifts move like animals. a request to model a negotiation for a client who introduces a problem you know is a trap. he watches you as you handle each one — hands steady, face unreadable — and you keep your recorder waiting in your purse like a secret.

the first time you see him hand someone over, it’s not in the sorts of scenes movies love. no dramatic music, no shout. he lifts a sleeve and shows a bruise at a man’s ribs, calmly reciting the cost of betrayal in ledger tones. the man’s knees want to buckle; moon baek steps back, and the room breathes again.

then, with a quiet nod, he gives the order to kill — no flourish, no delay. the sound that follows is quick, efficient, final. there is no cruelty in his face when it happens, only precision. that small, surgical violence matters to him. it’s not for spectacle. it’s a message. he is brutal but never careless — every act of killing is a fold in policy, a line drawn and enforced.

you begin to notice the patterns — who answers him quickly, who lingers in corners, the way a secretary’s eyes flick to the door. you slowly start to notice him — the small rituals he keeps to himself. he pauses before certain deals, as if weighing ghosts. he touches the scar near his temple when he’s thinking — a habit you catch one night when the rain makes the warehouse smell like wet iron. the scar is pale, a white crescent that flashes when he tilts his head. it’s a map of a memory he doesn’t offer.

there are quiet moments, too. late at night, after ledgers have been balanced and the city above has narrowed to nothing but radio static, you find yourself across from him in a private office that smells of old cedar and cigarettes he refuses. he brings you tea. you bring him a lie.

“why did you come?” he asks once, not accusatory. curious — always curious.

“work,” you say. it’s the truth most nights. “and to see how things are run.”

he studies your face, the way your jaw tenses when you’re holding in something you think is important. “most people who serve my table are fearless.” his fingers tap a slow rhythm against the porcelain. “you’re not fearless. you’re… careful.”

there’s a softness to his gaze that unseats you. it’s small — a lowered eyebrow, a careless tilt of his head — but it matters. it is the first thing about him that is not a test. for the first time since you stepped off the plane, someone is not measuring you only for what you can do for him.

you convince yourself it’s nothing. you are here to expose him. you stick the pen recorder in your coat like a rosary and whisper numbers into the burner phone. you write code across margins of notebooks, a lifeline folded small. you watch him with a camera lens in your head — angles, habits, confidantes. you collect the shape of his days.

and then things slip. or rather, you find them slipping. a client with the wrong attitude stays at the club longer than he should. a shipment gets rerouted through a port named on an old list. you realize, with a stomach‑falling clarity, that your presence has not only given you access — it has changed the balance you were sent to observe. you think of the three‑hour limit on your pen and the slow burn of recklessness.

he sees the change in you before you do. one night, when the city is low and the rain writes long, horizontal lines across the windows, he walks you to the service elevator. there’s no performance now, no audience. the doors close and the light hums. he leans in, close enough that you hear the shallow intake of breath he reserves for things worth noting.

“you weren’t always like this,” he says. “you used to be easier. you used to be a little more… brutal when necessary.”

you want to tell him everything. you want to tell him you were trained to be like him for a week, and then trained to be his undoing the next. instead, you tell him, “maybe i learned to care.”

he lets the words sit between you. for a fraction of a second, his face unravels into something private — a hurt you imagine is older than both of you. then he smiles, and it’s not the smile of a man who believes in soft things. it’s the smile of a man surprised by an anomaly and deciding whether to exploit it.

“care is dangerous in our line of work,” he says. his voice is a velvet blade. “it does not keep you alive. it keeps you readable.”

there’s a hand against the elevator wall, a breath that smells faintly of the cigarettes he says he’s quit and the spice of whatever whiskey he keeps for bad nights. he steps close enough that his scar brushes your temple, a chill that is not entirely unpleasant. your throat closes on the recorder hidden beneath your blouse. you are a lie with a heartbeat, and he knows the rhythm like a song he’s been humming for years.

after that, nothing is small. you move from consultant to confidante by a sequence of favors and withheld truths. you are present at a negotiation where a shipment of parts are parceled into lots and sold to men who will use them without asking what will happen next. you pretend not to hear the phrase that makes your stomach drop — a codename, a route. you file it away in the little vault of your memory because that’s your job — to extract, transmit, disappear.

but the pen in your pocket catches something one night — a promise he makes, not to you but to the ledger, and a whisper that mentions a name you’d heard once before in a different file. you copy the recording with a hand that is suddenly steady, despite the way your skin prickles with ice. you think of the faces who will get this, the evidence you will deliver, the quiet satisfaction of a job done.

then you think about him, the way he falls silent before making a decision, the way his roughness is always a shield for something that looks, in a rare reflection, almost like sorrow. you think of the scar and the way his fingers trace it when he’s miles away in memory. you think of loyalty as he does — as religion, a doctrine enforced with both kindness and cruelty.

you are good at compartmentalizing. you are less good at being human in the margins. the mission and the man begin to overlap until their borders blur, and you have to ask yourself a question you were told never to ask — which of these truths will you kill for?

─────

the next night, the city feels too quiet. even the hum of the nightclub above seems to hesitate, as if the music itself is listening. you tell yourself it’s paranoia — that nothing has changed — but when you step into the corridor leading to his office, you notice the guards. two where there should be one. their eyes don’t linger, but they notice you.

inside, moon baek stands by the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faint blue of dawn outlining his silhouette. there’s a gun disassembled across his desk — not as threat, but as ritual. he isn’t a man who needs to brandish power to prove it.

“you’re early,” he says, without turning.

you adjust the strap of your bag, careful, composed. “you said you wanted the new projections by morning.”

“i did.” he looks over his shoulder, gaze glinting like the edge of a coin. “and here you are. always on time. always prepared.”

the silence lingers between his words, stretching like a finely tuned instrument, ready to snap. he advances, each step measured and purposeful, the air thickening with anticipation. his cologne envelops you — a blend of sophistication and subtlety, reminiscent of fresh rain on polished steel, evoking a sense of both comfort and tension.

“you’ve been with me for… what, three months now?”

“four.”

“four.” he tastes the number like he’s rolling it across his tongue. “and in that time, you’ve learned things most people don’t survive knowing.”

his tone carries a relaxed, almost gentle quality — yet the atmosphere shifts. it’s palpable, the transition from innocent inquiry to intense examination.

“i reward loyalty,” he continues. “you know that.”

you nod.

“and i remove what doesn’t serve the structure.” he’s close enough now that you can see the scar near his temple more clearly than ever — pale, ridged, a quiet reminder that survival has rules.

“you’ve been careful,” he says softly. “almost too careful.”

your pulse stumbles. you keep your voice level. “i like order.”

his lips twitch, a ghost of a smile. “so do i. but order hides things. and lately, things around you have started to move differently.”

he steps past you, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to make your breath catch. you can feel his attention slide over you like the scrape of a blade testing its sharpness.

“yesterday,” he says, “one of my men went missing. a good one. no enemies. no debts.” he turns back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

you shake your head, calm, precise. “no.”

he studies your face — not like a man looking for lies, but like one memorizing what truth looks like before he decides whether to ruin it. then, without warning, he laughs once — quiet, breathy, humorless.

“i didn’t think so,” he says finally. “still… you’ll understand if i start watching a little closer.” he reaches for the gun parts on the desk, assembling them with the same focus most men reserve for prayer. metal clicks against metal — efficient, rhythmic, final.

when he’s finished he turns around, the gun in the other hand as his fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, slow, deliberate. your pulse stumbles. you want to move, to step away, to remember the mission — but his nearness feels like gravity. you don’t kiss, but the air between you feels like you already did. when he speaks again, his tone is lighter, but the softness is a lie. “stay close, ji-eun. i trust better when i can see someone.”

you nod, throat tight. “of course.”

he gives you a look that could mean anything — dismissal, warning, affection — and then returns to his work. the conversation is over.

you step out of his office, palms slick, and realize the music from above has started again — a low, relentless beat that feels exactly like what it is. a countdown. you walk down the corridor with your heart in your mouth and a recorder full of evidence burning through your bag.

a sound behind you makes your heart seize. you spin — but it’s not moon baek coming out to slyly chide you more. it’s min, one of baek’s lieutenants. younger, sharper, eyes like broken glass. he lingers in a doorway, smirk curling as his gaze flicks between you and the half-open bag clutched in your hands.

“working late?” he asks, voice lazy, too casual.

you shut the bag with a snap. “couldn’t sleep, so i did tomorrow morning’s numbers.”

“funny,” he says, stepping inside, “baek-hyung said the same thing about you.”

your stomach tightens. he’s testing you — or delivering a message. maybe both. you straighten, every nerve on edge. “if you’re here to watch me, at least make yourself useful and get coffee.”

min chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “you talk brave for someone he doesn’t trust.”

you let the words hang. he’s trying to provoke you, to see what kind of reaction you’ll give. instead, you give him nothing. just a faint smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

finally, he shrugs and turns for the door.  “watch yourself, ji-eun. in this place, curiosity can be fatal — even if it’s accompanied by beautiful eyes.”

when he’s gone, you finally let yourself breathe again. the hallway feels smaller now, shadows thicker. you cross to the narrow window and press a hand to the cool glass. outside, neon rain streaks the streets, the city pulsing like a heartbeat you can’t escape.

you think of baek again — the scar, the quiet exhaustion in his gaze, the gentleness that shouldn’t exist in a man like him. you tell yourself it’s just part of the job. that the warmth you felt wasn’t real. that when the time comes, you’ll do what you have to.

but, after returning to your apartment, when your phone buzzes and his name flashes across the screen with a message commanding you to stay in tonight, you don’t hesitate before replying.

you type back, wasn’t planning on leaving

the truth is, you couldn’t — even if you wanted to.

you set the phone down, its glow casting pale light across the table. the message burns brighter than it should, though it’s only three words. stay in tonight. it could mean anything — a precaution, a threat, a habit of control. but something in the way he said it, in the quiet after, makes your pulse skip.

you move through the apartment, every sound amplified — the hum of the mini-fridge, the creak of the windowpane, the muffled thud of music still bleeding from the club across the street. the city never really sleeps; it just shifts its weight and watches.

you unclip the recorder pen from your bag and set it on the counter beside the burner phone. the weight of both feels the same — necessary, dangerous. for a long moment, you stare at your reflection in the dark window. the woman looking back wears someone else’s face — sleek, composed, a mask built out of lies and discipline. but underneath, there’s that flicker again. want. fear. something between them that makes your hands shake.

you cross the room and pull open the drawer under the desk. inside are spare clips, a folded map, and a photograph — one you shouldn’t have kept. it’s grainy, caught from a security feed weeks ago. baek, walking through a corridor, head turned slightly toward someone out of frame — you. tracing the edge of the photo, you then snap the drawer shut before you can think about it.

the knock comes soft — too soft. you go still. one hand slides back to the recorder, flicking it on with a quiet click.

“ji-eun?”

it’s a voice you recognize — hyun-soo, baek moon’s driver, who rarely speaks unless it’s to deliver orders. loyal. efficient. unsentimental.

“open up,” he calls out, low, urgent. “it’s important.”

you move to the door. the metal feels slick in your palm. “tell me,” you say through the crack.

“there’s been movement at headquarters. someone asking questions about you.”

every nerve in your body snaps to attention. “who?”

“didn’t get a name,” he says. “but they weren’t one of ours.”

you open the door halfway, enough to see the strain in his jaw, the sheen of sweat at his temple. “did baek send you?”

a pause. “he said to make sure you were still here.”

the air between you hums with that single word — still. you nod once, sliding the pen back off. “let’s go, then.”

hyun-soo shakes his head. “he said you stay put.”

“that’s not an option.”

before he can stop you, you grab your jacket and the burner phone, tucking the jacket under your arm. “if someone’s asking questions, it’s not random. it might be the same people from the docks last month.”

you were referring to a tense encounter you and moon baek had with an undercover police officer who was attempting to infiltrate the corrupt corporation baek managed. during that incident, you both successfully identified and eliminated the traitors within his ranks, and since then, there had been no further communication from them.

his jaw tightens. “you don’t know that.”

“i do.” your voice is sharp, steady — the voice of the agent you’re supposed to be, the uncertainty in your mind unrecognizable in your tone. “and if they find me first, our mission’s over.”

you halt, stunned, unsure which mission you were thinking of — moon baek’s or your own.

hyun-soo exhales hard, glancing down the hall before returning his gaze to you. “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

the tension in the room is thick enough to taste as you turn away. then, the sound of the front door closing reaches you. hyun-soo’s gone. you realize you haven’t even processed his words yet — his presence had been a buffer, a reminder of another world. without him, the quiet feels sharper, more exposed.

your stomach twists. the city outside waits, humming with danger and neon light. the text still glows faintly on your phone, though you’ve read it enough times to know it by heart: stay in tonight.

you tell yourself it’s just caution. a man like baek never moves without calculation. but the words feel too close, too personal — like something meant for someone he can’t afford to care about.

you sink into the worn leather chair by the table, letting your back press against the cracked leather. the air hums faintly with distant bass from the club above, but the sound is background now, a rhythm that mirrors the pulse in your chest.

the pen sits in your bag like a heartbeat, each second a reminder of the truth you carry — the story that could destroy him and elevate your name. you should be writing your report, framing your notes, sending encrypted drafts to your editor before the window closes. but you don’t. instead, you replay the sound of his tone within the text, the way it’s low, deliberate, a warning disguised as care.

a shiver runs down your spine. you know the danger is real. hyun-soo is gone, leaving you alone in the apartment with the knowledge that the walls might have ears, that baek’s enemies could be closer than you think.

and yet… you find yourself accepting it. accepting that you should stay in, not for the mission, not for hyun-soo, not even fully for the story. because part of you — the part that’s been trying to ignore it — knows you’re already tethered to him, to the dangerous gravity of moon baek.

you set your bag on your lap, fingers brushing the pen. the words on your phone glow faintly in the dim light, a reminder, a promise, a warning.

stay in tonight.

you exhale slowly. quietly. almost reverently. another knock from the door interrupts your thoughts — two sharp raps, then silence. you freeze, listening. you don’t answer, not at first. but then a voice comes through the door, low, familiar.

“open up, ji-eun. it’s me.”

you hesitate; baek never visits after hours at the office together, and especially not after demanding you stay in tonight. you’re nervous as your mind chants, he shouldn’t be here.

when you finally unlock the door, he’s there — still in the same black coat from earlier, rainwater catching on the collar, hair damp from the street. his gaze flicks over your face, the room, the half-packed bag on the chair.

“you were going to leave.” it isn’t a question.

“i was considering it,” you reply, truthfully.

“considering,” he repeats, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “that’s an expensive habit around here.”

you cross your arms. “is this another test?”

“no.” his tone softens, almost imperceptibly. “this is me making sure you stay alive.”

he moves closer, the air between you tightening with something unspoken. the scent of smoke and rain clings to him; the kind of scent that shouldn’t feel comforting, but does.

“someone tried to follow me tonight,” he says. “a reporter, maybe. someone who thinks they’re clever.”

your heart stumbles at the mention of your occupation, but you keep your face still. you study him. “and you came here because—?”

“whoever’s asking questions won’t stop until they find you.” he steps closer, his voice almost soft. “you keep your head down, but your eyes don’t lie. you see too much, and you act like it doesn’t touch you. that’s what makes you hard to trust.” a beat. “—and impossible to ignore.”

you force a breath. “do you think i’m the threat?”

“i think,” he says quietly, but his expression dripping earnestly, “you’re lying about something.”

silence stretches. you should deny it. you should laugh, deflect — it’s what a journalist with a false name and a fabricated past is trained to do. but the way he looks at you — as if the lie itself offends him — makes the words stick.

“what would you do,” you ask softly, “if i was?”

baek studies you for a long moment. the storm outside deepens, lightning slicing briefly through the glass.

“depends on what the lie costs me.” his voice lowers, almost gentle. “or who.”

he’s close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the tension wound tight beneath that perfect stillness. the recorder in your bag feels heavier by the second — the proof that everything he’s built is real, that the crimes are real, that the man standing inches from you should be nothing but a headline. and yet, when his hand lifts — slow, hesitant — and his fingers brush your jaw, you don’t move.

his touch is deliberate, a question disguised as something softer. you can feel him watching you, waiting for the smallest betrayal of truth in your eyes.

you whisper, “you don’t trust me.”

moon baek’s thumb traces your cheekbone — not affection, not yet. something closer to recognition. “no,” he says. “but that’s what makes this interesting.”

the words hang there, charged and impossible. you scold yourself to pull away. instead, you stay — caught in a silence that feels like the edge of everything you’ve been pretending not to want. when he finally steps back, mask sliding into place, it feels almost like loss.

he reaches for the door. “pack light,” he says over his shoulder. “if i’m right about who’s asking questions, you won’t want to be here by morning.”

the door closes. you stand there, still and burning. the story was supposed to be about him. but somehow, somewhere in the dark between questions and answers — it’s starting to feel like it’s about you.

─────

the rain hasn’t stopped by the time you finish packing. it hammers against the window, relentless, swallowing the sounds of the city below. you move quickly, practiced — essentials only. phone, files, the flash drive hidden inside a tube of lipstick.

you pause once, eyes catching on the cracked mirror above the sink. the reflection looking back is no longer the one who walked into this assignment three months ago — idealistic, stubborn, sure of the line between truth and danger. now the line blurs every time he looks at you.

a sharp knock interrupts your thoughts — not hesitant this time, but decisive.

you open the door to find baek waiting, coat unbuttoned, hair damp, his expression carved from focus. behind him, the corridor hums with quiet urgency. two men stand guard near the elevator, armed but silent.

“you said morning,” you say.

“it’s morning somewhere,” he replies. “move.”

you sling the bag over your shoulder, trying not to let your pulse betray you. “where are we going?”

“somewhere no one can find you.” his tone is calm, but there’s a flicker beneath it — something he’s not saying.

the elevator ride is silent. the hum of the machinery, the faint scent of cologne and gun oil, the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside you — it’s all too intimate for what this should be.

when the doors open, the world outside feels wrong. empty. the club’s usual noise has been swallowed by the storm. a black car waits at the curb, engine running, lights off.

baek opens the passenger door for you himself. you hesitate for only a heartbeat before getting in. inside, the air is warm, tinted faintly with smoke and leather. he slides in beside you, shutting the door, and the car glides into motion.

you glance out the rain-streaked window — the streets melting into neon ghosts — before turning to him. “you’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”

he doesn’t answer at first. instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a phone — your phone. you freeze, your stomach plummeting as you subconsciously move to check your obviously empty pockets.

“i had min check your things,” he says quietly. “standard procedure.”

he turns the screen toward you. it’s unlocked, but not on your messages. on a secure app you thought was hidden — the one connected to your editor.

“are you ready to share with me,” he inquires, his tone unwavering, “who you’ve been confiding in?”

your breath hitches in your throat, a wave of panic surging through your chest like a sudden storm. he doesn’t sound furious, which only amplifies the tension in the air. the calmness in his voice feels like a trap, tightening around you as you struggle to find the right words. you try to think — deflect, explain, lie. but the car is too quiet, the air too heavy with truth.

“i told you before,” you manage, your breath shallow. “you don’t trust me.”

“and you told me,” he murmurs, his gaze still fixed on the glowing screen of his phone, “that you weren’t like the others.”

he places the device down between you, the distance suddenly feeling like a taut wire, ready to snap at any moment. then, to your astonishment, he says — his voice barely above a whisper — “you should’ve told in me first.”

you blink rapidly, uncertainty flooding your mind as you question whether you truly heard him correctly.

“i—”

“i would’ve shared the story with you,” he interjects, his tone firm yet laced with disappointment.  “on my terms. not like this.”

you can’t tell if he’s bluffing, if this is manipulation or something real. his hand rests on the edge of the seat — not touching you, but close enough that your entire body feels aware of it.

“i wasn’t—” you stop. the lie sticks. you try again. “it wasn’t supposed to be you.”

he exhales slowly, almost a laugh, but one without humor. “it’s always me.”

the car turns sharply, heading toward the industrial edge of the city — warehouses, cranes, the wet gleam of container lights. the place where everything he built began. you can feel the story burning in your chest, every instinct screaming to record, to write, to remember. but there’s something else now, too — a gravity pulling you off course.

the car stops beneath an overpass. rain drums hard against the roof of the building. he opens the door, motioning for you to follow. “you’ll stay here until i say otherwise.”

you step out into the downpour. the air smells of oil and iron. baek follows, standing just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him even through the storm. you meet his gaze. “if you already know what i am,” you say quietly, “why keep me alive?”

moon baek’s expression doesn’t change. for a long moment, the rain fills the space between words. then, he says, almost gently, “because, ji-eun…” he leans closer, voice a whisper meant only for you. “i can’t decide whether i want you gone — or whether i want you to stay.”

lightning flashes, catching the faint, fractured vulnerability in his eyes — gone almost as soon as it appears. before you can speak, he turns away and answers his phone, giving orders to his men. the storm swallows his voice, leaving only the echo of what he didn’t say.

you press a hand to your bag — feeling the hidden flash drive, the proof of everything. for the first time, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to use it.

when he comes back, baek leads you inside without a word as you trail behind him. the concrete floor glistens with a thin sheen of rainwater, and a single light burns above an old office space carved out by glass walls. it isn’t much — a table, two chairs, a cot, a heater humming low in the corner.

“this’ll do for now,” he says, scanning the shadows. “no one knows this site except me and a few of my guys.”

you gently place your bag on the floor, taking care to avoid any noise. the soft, steady hum of the heater envelops the room, creating a warm cocoon that contrasts with the relentless patter of rain against the corrugated roof above. each drop seems to dance in rhythm with the heater's low buzz, filling the air with a soothing melody that momentarily eases the tension in your shoulders.

he removes his coat, drapes it over the chair, and turns toward you. even stripped of his usual control, he carries that same quiet intensity — the kind that fills a room without raising a voice.

“you should get some rest,” he says. “it’ll be a long night.”

“i doubt either of us will sleep,” your voice just above a whisper.

something flickers across his expression — amusement, maybe. “probably not.”

he leans against the table, folding his arms. the distance between you is barely a few feet, but it feels charged — like the air before a strike of lightning.

“you’re still here,” he says after a moment. “even after i took your phone.”

“i’m not stupid enough to run when i don’t know what’s waiting outside.”

“you’re not stupid, no,” he agrees quietly. “but you are brave — or reckless. i haven’t decided which.”

you meet his heterochromatic eyes. “maybe they’re the same thing.”

he studies you then, and it’s unbearable — the way he looks without speaking, as though he’s cataloging every unspoken word. you want to step back, to remind yourself who he is — the story you came for, the empire built on blood and stolen shipments. but instead, you stay still.

“why did you come here yourself?” you ask finally. “you have people for that.”

“because i don’t trust anyone else to keep you alive.”

the words land heavier than they should. you swallow, pulse jumping. “you don’t even trust me.”

“i trust you to lie,” he says, a faint curve touching his mouth. “but even liars need protection.”

silence again. the heater hums louder, its warmth seeping into the cold air between you. the light overhead flickers once, throwing his shadow across your face. you say, softer than you mean to, “you don’t have to protect me, moon baek.”

he pushes away from the table, closing the distance until you can see the rain still clinging to his hair. “you’re right,” he murmurs. “i don’t have to.”

his hand lifts — slowly, hesitantly — and for a heartbeat you think he’ll touch your face again. but he stops just short, fingers brushing a strand of hair that’s fallen across your cheek.

“tell me something,” he insists. “why did you really come into my world?”

you should lie. you’ve lied before — smoothly, easily. but this time, your voice comes out too soft, too raw. “maybe i wanted to understand what kind of man hides behind all this.”

“and?” his eyes don’t leave yours.

“i still don’t know,” you whisper.

baek’s breath catches, a barely audible sound. he steps back before either of you can cross that invisible line completely. “get some rest,” he says again, tone back to steel. “you’ll need it.”

he moves toward the doorway, pausing only once. “ji-eun…”

you look up.

“if you were anyone else, i’d have already decided what to do with you.” his voice lowers, almost regretful. “be grateful i haven’t.”

then he’s gone, leaving the air vibrating with everything unsaid.

you sit on the edge of the cot, staring at the door long after it closes. the rain outside doesn’t stop. neither does the sound of your heartbeat, stubborn and too loud, in the quiet of the room.

and somewhere in the middle of the night — between fear and desire, duty and ruin — you realize you no longer know which side of the story you belong to.

you don’t know how long you sit there after he leaves. the rain has softened to a steady whisper on the roof, and the heater’s hum fills the space with a dull, hypnotic warmth. every sound in the warehouse feels magnified — the tick of metal expanding in the cold, the distant groan of the docks shifting under the tide.

you try to focus on your notes in your lap, but the words blur. the truth you came to expose feels weightless compared to the single, dangerous fact taking shape in your chest. you don’t want him to be the villain you came here to write about.

the door creaks open again. you glance up — he’s there, no coat this time, just a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. the tattoos on his forearm catch the low light. he looks different now —  tired, unguarded.

“couldn’t sleep?” you ask.

he shakes his head, crossing the room. “neither could you.”

you offer a faint, ironic smile. “you make a terrible host.”

“i’m not trying to be one.” he sits on the edge of the table, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of smoke and rain on his skin. for a while, neither of you speaks. the silence feels fragile, almost like a truce.

then, quietly, he says, “you said earlier you wanted to understand what kind of man hides behind all this.” his gaze lifts to yours. “so tell me. what do you see now?”

you meet his eyes, your heartbeat skipping once. “someone who’s tired of pretending he doesn’t care.”

his jaw tightens. a small exhale, almost a laugh, escapes him. “you shouldn’t say things like that.”

“why not?”

“because i might believe you.”

the heater clicks off, leaving only the soft hiss of rain. the quiet between you deepens.

baek studies you again, the way he does when he’s trying to decide whether you’re a threat or a secret. finally, he asks, almost too softly, “ji-eun… is that even your real name?”

you freeze.

the question lands heavier than a weapon. he doesn’t sound suspicious now — just tired, maybe even a little curious. like he’s asking for something he already knows he won’t get.

you look down at your hands. “does it matter?”

“everything about you matters.” the words come out before he can stop them. his tone is quiet but certain, and it feels like a confession disguised as control.

you lift your eyes to his. “if i told you, what would you do with it?”

“i don’t know,” he says. “maybe keep it. maybe use it.” a pause, then softer, “maybe say it like it means something.”

your throat tightens. “you shouldn’t want to know me.”

“too late.” he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on yours. the sound of thunder rolls through the distance, long and low. you can’t look away from him, not even when you know you should.

he straightens, breaking the moment first. “get some rest,” he says, quieter now. “we’ll move again before dawn.”

as he turns to leave, you find your voice, however fragile. “yah.”

he pauses in the doorway.

“if i tell you my name,” you say, “promise you won’t use it against me.”

he doesn’t turn around, but you hear the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “i never make promises i can’t keep.”

then he disappears once more, engulfed by the raging storm outside — leaving you alone in the dim light, haunted by the lingering echo of his question, and the truth searing within you like a hidden flame. a secret you find increasingly difficult to hold onto.

─────

the rain doesn’t stop. it falls like static against the old windows, muting the world outside. you don’t sleep. instead, you sit on the edge of the cot, watching the shadow of water crawl across the concrete floor, replaying every word he said.

everything about you matters.

by the time the clock reads 4:17 a.m., you’ve stopped pretending you can rest. you pull on your jacket and step out into the hallway. the building hums faintly with generators. somewhere below, you can hear baek’s voice — low, commanding, calm.

you follow the sound until you reach the control room. the door is slightly ajar. inside, monitors glow pale blue, washing his face in cold light. he’s on the phone, speaking in that deliberate tone you’ve come to recognize — the one that sits on the knife’s edge between power and restraint.

“no. delay the transfer. if they move before sunrise, it draws attention.” a pause. “because i said so.”

he ends the call and sets the phone down, sighing through his nose before he realizes you’re there. 

“still couldn’t sleep?” he asks without looking up.

“you said we were moving before dawn.”

“plans changed.”

you take a slow step closer. “because of me?”

now he looks at you — really looks. the air shifts, heavier. “because someone’s feeding information to the people we’re after,” he says quietly. “and until i know who, nobody moves.”

your pulse spikes. you school your expression, but he notices anyway; he always does. “you think it’s me.”

“i think you’re good at pretending,” he says, standing. “but not that good.”

you cross your arms. “then why haven’t you turned me in?”

he walks toward you, stopping just close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. the low light catches the wet shine of his hair, the faint stubble on his jaw.

“because,” he says, voice low, “i want to be wrong.”

for a moment, the silence between you is unbearable. the rain outside is just background noise; all you can hear is the echo of your heartbeat.

“you shouldn’t want that,” you whisper.

“too late for that too.”

he steps past you, brushing your shoulder as he moves to the door. but before he leaves, he adds, “if you’re lying to me, ji-eun… whatever your real name is — leave before sunrise. i won’t stop you. after that, i can’t protect you.”

a long, trembling breath leaves you as the door clicks shut behind him. you should leave — he gave you the chance, the last clean exit you’ll ever get.

but your feet don’t move. your pulse won’t settle. and the thought of walking out of this place — walking away from him — feels more dangerous than staying.

─────

the minutes slip by in a slow, restless drag. you don’t pack. you don’t sleep. you hover in that dim room lit only by monitors, replaying every word he said… every look he’s ever given you. the rain quiets, but your thoughts don’t.

at some point — maybe around 6 a.m. — you move.

not toward the exit. but deeper into the building. you find him exactly where you knew he’d be — in the lower operations room, lit only by the glow of a single desk lamp, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a mess of files that look more like war maps than intel.

he hears you before he sees you. his voice is rough, low. “i told you to go.”

you step inside anyway. “i’m still deciding.”

he exhales once, sharp through his nose, a sound that could be frustration or relief — you’re not sure which one scares you more.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says without looking up. “if you stay, and you are lying… i won’t give you another warning.”

you walk closer. slow. deliberate. “if i were lying,” you murmur, “why would i come straight to you?”

that makes him look up. his gaze is darker than the surrounding room, sharp in a way that feels like it could cut through pretense and bone alike. he rises from the chair, pushing it back with his knee.

“you think coming here makes you innocent?” he asks quietly.

“no.” you stand your ground. “but it means i’m not running.”

his jaw flexes. his fingers curl against the edge of the desk, like he’s forcing himself to stay rooted in place instead of reaching for you.

“why?” he asks. not demanding. not accusatory. just… raw. before you can answer, he crosses the room. not fast. not slow. just with the heavy, inevitable gravity of a man who’s done fighting something inside himself. he stops inches from you.

“tell me the truth,” he says. “not the name on your id. not the story you rehearsed. the truth.”

your breath trembles, but your voice doesn’t. “i’m not here to hurt you.”

“not good enough.” his hand lifts — stops just short of touching your jaw. “give me something real.”

“so you can decide whether to trust me?” you whisper.

he shakes his head once. “so i can decide whether to keep you close,” he murmurs, “or cut you out before it destroys us both.”

your heartbeat stutters. he’s not threatening you. he’s warning you. and for the first time, not for his sake — but for yours. you swallow, your fingers twitching for the pen you’d decided to leave in your bag. “i’m scared,” you admit quietly. “but i’m not lying to you. and i’m not leaving.”

his eyes close, just for a second — a fleeting crack in the armor he wears like a second skin. and when they open again, something in him has shifted. darker. clearer. decided. he steps even closer, his breath brushing your cheek.

“then you stay,” he says roughly. “but understand this…” his fingers finally touch you — a slow, deliberate trace along your jaw, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “if you betray me, ji-eun — whatever else we are…”

he leans in, voice whisper-dark. “i won’t survive it.”

the confession hangs between you like a loaded weapon. and instead of pushing him away, you whisper, “then don’t let me go.”

his hand slides to the back of your neck, his forehead lowering to yours, the air between you tight, hot, dangerous. the choice is made. not safe. not smart. but real.

and neither of you steps back. he doesn’t kiss you at first. he just hovers there — his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, his hand at the back of your neck holding you in place like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip even slightly.

your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt without thinking. you feel the tension in him, coiled tight under your palms, every muscle caught between restraint and something far darker.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

you don’t. you tilt your chin a fraction instead — not enough to bridge the distance, but enough that he feels the shift, the intent. a low sound escapes him, almost like a curse swallowed halfway. his nose brushes yours, barely there, but the spark it sends down your spine is sharp enough to steal your breath. he closes his eyes, like the smallest touch is already too much.

“you’re making this very difficult,” he says against your lips — not touching, but so close it’s almost painful.

“for who?” you whisper.

“for both of us.”

his thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, deliberate, grounding and undoing you in the same breath. he leans in that last impossible inch — but stops again, hovering with a restraint that feels like it’s burning him from the inside.

“baek…” you whisper his name like it’s a confession.

his fingers tighten in your hair, just enough to make your pulse jump. “if i kiss you,” he says softly, “i won’t be able to pretend it’s nothing.”

you breathe him in. “i’m not asking you to pretend.”

that does it.

he inhales sharply, a tremor running through him — the kind of tremor a man has when he’s losing a battle he never meant to fight. his mouth brushes yours. barely. a ghost of a touch. a promise and a warning tied together.

you shiver, lips parting on instinct, but he holds you still, not fully kissing you, just tracing the shape of your mouth with his. a slow drag of lower lip against yours. a breath that catches in his throat. a sound you can’t name slipping out of yours. he pulls back a fraction — just enough that you’re forced to chase the space he leaves, and he sees it. he feels it. his eyes go darker, softer, hungrier.

“you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispers.

“then show me.”

for a beat, nothing moves. and then— he presses his forehead to yours again, breathing hard, like the only thing keeping him from kissing you properly is sheer, fraying control.

“not tonight,” he says, voice rough. “if i taste you now, i won’t let you walk out of this room.”

he doesn’t mean it as a threat. it sounds like a plea. his thumb sweeps your cheek one last time before he steps back — slow, deliberate, shaking with the effort.

the space between you feels cold the moment he leaves it.

“stay where I can see you,” he murmurs, nodding toward the door. “and don’t disappear on me again.”

then he turns away — because if he looks at you any longer, you both know exactly what will happen.

─────

the drive is quiet.

not tense — not exactly — but weighted, as if every unsaid thing sits in the narrow space between you and him.

the safehouse is gone behind you, swallowed by night. he didn’t tell you why you had to move, only that the location was “compromised.” you didn’t ask how. you didn’t ask who. you just grabbed what little you had and followed him into the rain-slick dark.

now you sit in the passenger seat, watching the blur of streetlights slides across his profile. one hand on the wheel. jaw set. eyes forward. he hasn’t looked at you in miles.

you clutch the small flash drive in your pocket — the last piece of leverage, of evidence, of the life you lived before him. before you learned the truth about the man you were sent to expose. before he looked at you like everything inside him was coming apart.

your chest tightens.

“baek,” you say softly.

his knuckles tighten just slightly on the wheel. “you okay?”

you swallow. “can you… pull over? just for a minute.”

he glances at you then — sharp, searching, the way he always does when he’s trying to see if you’re hurt. “why?”

“i just… need a moment.”

a beat. then he signals and pulls into an empty stretch off the side of the road, where the trees hang low and the night feels like it’s holding its breath. the engine idles. he doesn’t speak.

you open your door before you lose your nerve. he doesn’t stop you. but when you step out, you feel his eyes on your back like a hand between your shoulder blades. you walk a few feet into the trees, the damp earth soft beneath your shoes. the air smells like rain and pine and endings.

you take out the flash drive. it’s such a small thing — light, fragile, almost easy to snap between your fingers. but your hands shake anyway. all the secrets the drive holds, all the proof you gathered against him, all the reasons you were supposed to ruin him…

you break it.

the plastic cracks. the tiny metallic heart inside twists. you drop the pieces into the mud, covering them with your heel until they’re gone. your throat burns, and there, in the quiet, you make your choice. not because he earned it. not because he deserves it. but because somewhere along the line, he became the one person you couldn’t lie to anymore.

when you finally return to the car, you expect questions. but baek doesn’t ask a single one. he just watches you approach, eyes fixed on yours through the windshield. his expression unreadable, but his shoulders too still, too tense — like he already knows exactly what you did.

you open the door. slide inside and close it softly. he looks at you. not down. not at your hands. not at the remnants of rain on your clothes. at you. for a long second, neither of you breathe.

“what did you—” he starts, then stops himself. his jaw flexes. his eyes soften in a way that hurts to look at.

“you got rid of it,” he says quietly, not a question, not an accusation. a fact.

you nod once. “yes.”

his throat works, like he’s swallowing words he doesn’t trust himself to say.

“you shouldn’t have,” he murmurs. “it was your protection.”

“i don’t need protection from you.”

something breaks in his expression — subtle, but there. then he leans across the console. not fast or hesitant. just inevitable.

his hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw with a carefulness that feels like reverence and desperation tangled together.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers to you again, voice rough, giving you the chance to decline his advances. 

you shake your head. “i won’t.”

that’s all he needs. he kisses you, and it isn’t the ghost-touch from before, the almost-kiss he forced himself to pull away from. this one is full, deep, consuming. his mouth claims yours like he’s been holding back for months, like he’s terrified and relieved and undone all at once.

your hands fist in his coat. his other hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to give. his breath mixes with yours, tasting like rain and restraint finally breaking.

he pulls back only when breathing becomes unavoidable, resting his forehead against yours, both of you still shaking.

“you’re out of your mind,” he whispers, voice low, trembling. “doing this. choosing me.”

you touch his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “then we’re both out of our minds.”

a humorless, breathless laugh leaves him. then he kisses you again — slower this time, but deeper, like he’s memorizing you, sealing something spoken and unspoken both. when he finally draws back, he cups your face in both hands.

“no more lies,” he murmurs. “not between us.”

“no more lies,” you echo.

he starts the car. but this time, he holds your hand on the console as he pulls back onto the road — as if letting go might make you disappear. the rest of the drive to the new safehouse feels different after that.

he’s still gripping your hand with quiet intensity — thumb brushing once in a rare, unguarded motion he probably doesn’t realize he’s doing. the world outside is a blur of dark forest and distant city lights, but in the small, warm space of the car, all you feel is him.

he parks beneath a canopy of shadow, in front of an abandoned-looking cabin swallowed by trees. no lights. no neighbors. no noise. perfect for disappearing.

he steps out first, circling around to your door without letting go of your hand until the last possible second. when you stand beside him, he keeps close — not touching, but hovering with a vigilance you’ve never seen from him, as if one wrong move might take you from him again.

inside, the cabin is sparse — a few crates, a cot, and a small table with a single hanging bulb. temporary. transitional. a place meant for survival, not comfort. still, when he shuts the door behind you, it feels like the world narrows to just the two of you.

“we won’t be here long,” he says, voice low. “just until i confirm who leaked our location.”

you study him in the dim light — the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he stands like he’s bracing for a hit that hasn’t come yet. he turns to you slowly.

“you okay?”

you nod, but he gives you that look — the one that sees too much. the one you can’t lie to anymore.

he steps closer, lifting your chin with his fingers. “you’re shaking.”

“you’re not exactly steady, either,” you whisper.

his breath leaves him, uneven.

“come here,” he murmurs.

he doesn’t pull you into a hug. he just sets his forehead against yours, hands slipping to your hips as he exhales like holding you is the first real breath he’s taken all night.

the room is cold. his body is warm. and when his thumb slides under the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin, it’s instinct — not desire. a way to reassure himself you’re real. that you stayed. that he didn’t lose you.

he doesn’t say anything more. he just stands there, forehead to yours, breathing you in like he’s relearning how.

─────

it happens later — after you settle your things, after he secures the doors and windows twice, after the quiet stretches between you like a thread pulled tight.

he sits at the small table, staring at a map and a stack of red-marked documents he isn’t really reading. you approach, stopping beside him, your fingers brushing the edge of the table.

“baek?”

he doesn’t look up and hums, “mm.”

“you’re angry,” you say softly. “not at me. at something else.”

this time he lifts his gaze, and there it is — the storm behind his eyes. he leans back in the chair, jaw tense. “you don’t understand.”

“then explain it.”

he drags a hand across his mouth, wrestling with something he doesn’t want to say, something he’s been holding in since the moment you walked back to the car, and he realized the choice you’d made.

finally, he looks at you — really looks. “i had the order written,” he says quietly. “for them to take you in. interrogate you.” a beat. “and if necessary… make you disappear.”

your breath catches. he watches it happen.

“i told myself it was precaution. protocol.” his fingers tap once against the table, slow and controlled. “but the truth is, i was stalling. putting it off. because every time i looked at you…”

he stops, jaw tight.

“every time i looked at you,” he forces out, “i hoped i was wrong.”

you step closer, heart in your throat. “baek…”

“when you asked me to stop the car,” he says, voice moving toward a whisper, “i thought it was because you were running.”

he doesn’t blink. “i almost went after you.”

“and if i had?” you ask, with morbid curiosity. he stands, and the moment he rises, the room shifts — thickens with something heated, raw, dangerous. he comes toward you slowly, each step heavy with the weight of words he never intended to say.

“if you had run,” he says, stopping inches from you, “i would’ve dragged you back.”

a breath.

“not because of the intel.” his hand lifts — hesitates — then cups your cheek. “because losing you would’ve destroyed me.”

the confession hangs between you like a pulse. you feel your breath tremble. “you didn’t lose me.”

his fingers slide into your hair. “not yet.”

and then he kisses you again. not the desperate, shaking kiss in the car. this one is deeper, slower. certain. his lips move against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the taste of your choice, the promise embedded in every breath you give him.

one of his hands braces against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. the other slips into your hair, guiding your head as he deepens the kiss, hungry but controlled — the kind of hunger that’s been burning for far too long.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, voice barely a murmur.

“don’t give me another chance to lose you,” he whispers. “i don’t think i’d survive it.”

you slide your hands up his chest, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath your palms.

“you won’t,” you say softly. “not as long as you keep holding on.”

You have no idea how shocked Trigger was when she looked up at the scoreboard and saw a name unknown to her. Not to mention that you beat her high score with flying colors. Her goal now was to beat the high score that you had. It took her only one try to get over your score, she couldn't help but smile.

Little did she know, you were watching her the entire time. As soon as she left the range, you beat her high score again. The next day, she beat your high score and then you beat hers. It was a brutal cycle but very entertaining for the people in the shooting range to watch.

"Wow, she's good."

Trigger peeks over the shoulder of one of the soldiers that had spoken. There you were, on your belly, shooting at the targets and obtaining a higher score than her. She pushed past people to stand right in front of the surrounding crowd. You picked up your custom sniper rifle and put it back on your back. You and Trigger made eye contact as soon as you stood back up.

"Mornin' Trigger. I beat your score...again."

"Not for long." Trigger crosses her arms and looks you over.

"The cycle's going to get boring after a while. Why don't we hang out?"

She thinks to herself before nodding back.

"But I get to pick the place."

That ladies and gentlemen is how you start a beautiful friendship!

>───⇌••⇋───<

You and Trigger have been hanging out for a while now. Occasionally, you'd both come to the range and just see who can beat each other's scores. Trigger noticed something about herself, her heart would beat faster every time she saw you. At first, it was uncomfortable and then she asked Belle about it.

"My shots are off every single time they're there or if I hear them, even if someone says their name."

Belle starts to smile and then chuckle softly to herself. Trigger looks at her with a confused expression, Belle knows something she doesn't.

"What is it?"

"You might have a little crush on Y/n, Trigger."

Trigger's cheeks heat up at the thought of you both together as a couple and even kissing. She comes to the realization with shock evident on her features as she plops herself next to Belle on the couch.

"What...What should I do now?"

"Do you want to date Y/n?"

She thought deeply about her feelings and came to the conclusion that she really wanted to be with you.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Then...take them out on a date. Something you both enjoy."

Trigger lips twitch upward into a small smile. She gets up and leaves immediately but not before thanking Belle for helping her with the feeling that's been inside her chest.

>───⇌••⇋───<

"Trigger, why did you make me get up so early?" You rub your eyes and walk sluggishly to the shooting range.

"It's something special that I want to do. We'll be competing and I'll track your shots first and then you'll track mine."

You sleepily nod along and get into a comfortable position. Sometimes Trigger would coach you through your shots and make little jokes about it, making you tiredly laugh.

"You did, pretty good. Your accuracy rate was a 95%."

You hum out a thank you and then stand where Trigger stood while you were firing your weapon. You watch on until she had her final shots left and looked on at the paper in the range.

"Are you spelling something?"

She didn't respond but you saw how her lips slowly upturned for a quick smile. You shook your head with a smile in disbelief, that's why she woke you up early. When she finished, you looked at the paper again and you couldn't help the big smile that appeared on your face.

"Of course. Who wouldn't want to go on a date with their beautiful rival."

"I'll pick you up around 12:00. I'm giving you enough sleep."

"Great, I'll see you then." You press your lips against her cheek before happily running out of the range, ready to get back in your warm comfortable bed. Her hand reached up to her cheek and she could feel the warm tingle from it. She smiled.