#wonu fluff

Wonwoo’s suit jacket and waistcoat are gone with the wind, hair tousled and spiking every which way—near inverse of the gelled, waxed and styled they sat earlier in the day; the first time you laid eyes on him standing at the altar with the sun in his eyes. The crisp of his shirt is now wrinkled from the dancing and the hugging and every other excessive movement he had to subject himself to today.  The final stragglers are your family, your sister already moving over to push you out of your chair. 

“I just sat down!” you whine, not caring for decorum with the absolute day you’ve had. 

“Go on with him, you have a flight to catch!” she stresses. “We’ll handle everything here.”

Wonwoo catches the last bit as he returns, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Blatantly, you stare. “Handle what?”

“You guys should go ahead first,” she says. 

“We have some time till we need to start rushing,” he responds, twisting his arm to look at the watch on his wrist. The lights are back on, so you can see him significantly clearer without the disco lights and low spotlights. His forearm is practically in your face, and if you weren’t so exhausted you would’ve taken a dive at the divot, teeth first. 

But you don’t, because what stares you both in the face right now is a month long getaway of blue sky, green waters and lots and lots and lots of completely alone time. Since your sister is already so keen to get rid of you both, Wonwoo decides for you as he excuses himself to grab his strewn clothes. 

She turns to you in his absence, and you immediately know there’s a grenade smoking behind her goading grin. “Well…?”

Brows raised, you’re defiant in your decision to remain nonchalant. “Well what?”

“Are you excited?”

“Of course I am, I just got married.”

“I mean the honeymoon.”

“Who isn’t dying to go Seychelles?” 

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun.”

You shoot her an equally infuriating smile, “You can’t be mean to me today.”

“I already have,” she responds. 

You don’t have a chance to be annoyed because Wonwoo is back, clothes draped over his arm as you are suddenly ushered into saying your last goodbyes. Flats on and heels in hand, ready to peacefully stroll out of the building you got married in. 

You hook your arm around his as you cross the threshold out, the wind pleasant in the pitch black night. Walking to the car, the one you bought together, you feel like the threat of your dangerously full heart might finally erupt. 

All day has been a rushing incline of adrenaline, from the moment you woke up, sticky eyed with bridesmaids over your head, to getting into your dress, to standing behind the giant oak doors that led you to the altar of your future. To the moment you heard the love of your life say I do for everyone who mattered to hear. 

It’s late, and your flats crunch under gravel, pressuring every sore point in your foot. But you don’t care. One of Wonwoo’s arms is draped by his coat, and the other by you, a pressing silence falling over your pair. At peace. 

“I’m glad we didn’t have a grand exit,” Wonwoo speaks your thoughts. 

“Mhm,” you reply. “I like this better.” You look up at him as he halts his steps for a minute, and he leans down to kiss you for the nth time that night. All smiles. 

The finality of an Exit felt like a staggering halt to your special day. You already knew you’d never want it to end, opting to let the night trickle out, ending it with just you left on the floor. 

Something told you this would be more memorable anyway. 

Everything’s packed and ready when you get home, a service to present you from past you. You turn to Wonwoo, who’s toeing his shoes off, who also was a horrendous sport when it came to packing early. 

“Aren’t you glad we did this beforehand?” you taunt, waving your hands at the packed bags near the door. He only smirks, leaning in to grab your face and kiss you again. 

“Of course, wife’s always right,” he mumbles against your lips, and the giddy feeling that’s been simmering all day gushes once again. 

Wife. 

“Welcome to the rest of your life.”

The dim bathroom light seeps into the bedroom, where you scratch your skin with makeup wipes to get the first layer off your tired face. It’s easy to slouch, wanting nothing more than to lay back against the pillows and fall asleep, fully dressed. You’re aware of all the outside germs you’re transferring onto your pristine sheets, but also cannot find the strength to care.

The water shuts off, and you take it as your cue to slug off the bed and take off your dress. Reaching over, your fingers grapple for the hook with no avail, arms already showing the first inklings of a very sore weekend. The zipper isn’t even within your vicinity, fingers aiming for nothing but skin and fabric. 

You smell Wonwoo before you can register he’s out of the shower, the humidity carrying the scent of his body wash to where you stood on the other side of the room. It takes no time for you to feel both his hands on your waist, pulling you towards him before you can open your mouth to ask. 

Cold fingers brush the skin above the hook of your dress, and it takes an effort to not melt into the carpet entirely. The dress is unhooked, the zipper pulled down as you feel the fabric release you into the bedroom air. He helps you push it over your hips, letting it pool onto the floor. 

The sigh you release lingers in the air, prompting him to put his hands on your shoulders, squeezing your shoulders, thumbs digging into the back of your neck to release all the pent up tension. Then your upper arms, where he pulls you even closer, bare back hitting his damp chest. 

“Tired?” he mumbles, arms circling around you and squeezing you tight. 

Leaning back is the easiest thing you’ve ever done, only humming in response as you close your eyes, head against his shoulder. Droplets hit your skin in a cold cascade, his hair still wet. His hands roam around any expanse of skin he can find without releasing his pressure on your form, squeezing and massaging. The weight is welcomed, nearly falling asleep by the time he’s mouthing at your shoulder, breathing in the sweat of your skin.  

“Are you gonna need help in the shower?” he asks. You know he’s not being cheeky, and you consider saying yes seeing as you’re five seconds from falling asleep standing up. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” you mumble. “I’ll keep the door open in case I crack my skull on the tile.”

“Can’t have you dying on our wedding night,” he says.

“Enjoy the life insurance payout,” you crack one eye open, staring up at him.

“How many hours have we been married?” he muses. 

You want to kiss him, suddenly slammed with a tsunami’s force of affection for the man that holds your leaning body against him like an ever-present pillar. Married. 

He lets you go, but not before helping you pick out every last bobby pin in your hair, during which he remains in nothing but the damp towel around his waist. At one point you face him, forehead on his chest as he unravels your hair from the crown. 

“Your towel’s inside, I’ll grab your clothes,” he says when he releases you, letting you walk into the bathroom to wash off the day. 

Simply raising your arms to shampoo your hair is turning out to be a conquest despite the fumes of the scorching water invading your vision. The door is half open, and you can hear Wonwoo shuffling about in the bedroom, no doubt fixing the last bits before you have to leave for the airport. 

Immediately, you sigh, the thought of loading and unloading the uber, going through security, checking your bags and then the god-knows-how-many hours of flight time settling in your bones like an additional phantom ache. By the time you’re done, towel wrapped around your chest and droplets of water still cooling your skin after a half hearted attempt at drying yourself, you’re spent. 

Wonwoo is zipping up a bag when you emerge, unfortunately wearing clothes now. 

“You wanna sit in the towel while I dry your hair,” he asks, already pulling out the hair dryer from the drawer. 

“Are you done packing?” you ask, frowning. 

“Just your toothbrush left.” He plugs it into the outlet. “I’ll grab it while you change.” 

Forehead leaning on his tummy, he tousles the wet mop of your hair as the dryer fills the room with its white noise. That, paired with the bed where you sit, once again, is turning out to be a seductor of a lifetime. 

When he’s done, and brushing out the tangles in your hair, you find the strength to ask him. “Why aren’t you as tired as I am?” 

He chuckles, eyes focused on a knot that’s giving him a hard time. “For starters I slept for five extra hours. You know, considering my side of the party didn’t need to cake their faces.” 

“You didn’t like my makeup?” you jab in jest. 

“I loved it,” he responds, leaning down to kiss you on the forehead. “We’ll talk about it on the plane, considering you don’t fall asleep before we can even take off.”

“Or in the car. Or in the lounge.” You yawn openly. “Or right now.” 

When you stand up, you wrap your arms around his neck, wanting to touch him for a little bit before attempting to put on clothes. His lips find the crook of your neck immediately, hands gripping you through your towel. 

“I love you,” you mumble against his skin. 

“I love you more,” he responds. “I know I already said it a thousand times, but this is still the happiest I’ve ever been.” 

You have to bite back a snarky reply, but you feel the pool in your eyes anyway. Inexplicably, you hold on to him tighter. Worried if you opened your mouth you’d begin to sob—again. 

He does let go of you, but only when his eyes land on the time. You’re dressed by the time he’s called the Uber and grabbed your toothbrush, shoving it into the front pocket of one of the bags. You’re quite useless the entire time, but Wonwoo doesn’t mind as he loads your limited bags into the trunk. 

You manage to keep your eyes open on the ride to the airport, manage to not be a nuisance as you check in, and make it to the lounge with limited hassle. 

“We only need to wait like twenty minutes, we were pretty on time,” he mentions, handing you a to-go cup of coffee the approximate size of your face. “We get to board first anyway.”

Months ago, while you were thick in the trenches of wedding planning, you went back and forth for a very long time about flight tickets. Not your destination, but the decision between business and economy was a conversation that stretched over weeks. 

Today, with your jelly arms and mushy mind, you thank your heavenly stars through bites of fancy lounge sushi for making the collective decision to splurge. Wonwoo is taking it upon himself to let your friends and family know you’d checked in, while you lean wholly against his arm, dreaming about the flat, comforter clad surface of your plane seat, and the joy you’re going to have for the hours to come. 

Inhaling the amount of coffee that you did in the lounge meant the prior sleep in your eyes had decided to evacuate for the time being, getting tucked into your seat soon after take off. 

To be clear, you were more than happy with your decision on the seat, but you realise quickly that you and Wonwoo are blocked out by a divider between you, closing you off. You assume you were pouting at the realization, because you hear him ask. 

“Don’t like the seat?” 

“No, I do,” you say. “But you’re so far away.”

He smiles, close mouthed, the one where it looks like he might be smirking. An arm snakes over the console, elbow towards you as his forearm rests against it. Immediately, like this was nothing but a usual drive in your car, you lean your head against his arm, your own two arms wrapping around his. 

There’s nothing in the air except the whirring of the plane's engine, the quiet chatter of the cabin as the crew prepares for turndown service. 

A realisation befalls you, that this is the first time you’ve been able to sit down with Wonwoo today, without the constant buzzing in your brain about everything that has gone wrong and what could go wrong. It might be your defeated conscious talking, but it may have even been months. 

Shifting your head so you can look up at him, you speak, “We have to stay married. ‘Cause I don’t think I can plan an entire wedding again.”

“So no vow renewals?”

You raise your brows, surprised this was something he’d be interested in. “Maybe when we’re sixty.”

“Oh,” he frowns. “I was thinking more like every five years.”

“God.”

“I’m glad we decided to do this,” he says. 

“The seats?” you ask. 

He looks at you, and you raise your head from his arm. 

“Getting married.”

“That sounds like an afterthought.” 

“I was nervy,” he says. “It’s like coming out the other side of a roller coaster. Took guts but you’re glad you did it.”

“Glad our special day was a vomit inducing experience for you.”

“Didn’t you cry five times while getting ready?” he jabs. 

Scowling, you turn away. “Who told you that?”

“So you can throttle them in their sleep?”

It was no use, since you were both crying at the altar, but you have a bone to pick with your sister once you’re back home. 

“Go to sleep,” you grumble, removing yourself from his arm. He only laughs, grabbing your arm with a force that pulls you back in. 

He leans into your ear, familiar press of his lips against the skin. “You looked beautiful today.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Similar to this, with his lips pressed against your ear, hours ago on the dancefloor, he said the same thing. Over and over and over. 

“I’m gonna confess something,” he whispers. For a wild moment, your heart is in your throat. 

“What?” you ask sharply. 

“When I went home after our first date—”

“You noted my drink order?”

He nods against your head, “That. And I dreamt of you.”

“Was I pretty?” 

“Prettiest. Big smile like it was the happiest day of your life. In a white dress.”

It’s silent for a moment as neither of you move. The lump in your throat is ever present, breath quickening as you brace for the waterworks. 

“Dang,” is all you say in a watery voice, one that earns you a laugh from him. The absurdity is not lost on you. “What other secrets do you possess?”

“Just that,” he responds. “Didn’t wanna tell you before. Thought you’d freak out and run away.”

“Idiot,” you mumble against his hoodie, tears wetting your lashes. 

You don’t get to continue, because a flight attendant hovers over your joint seats, asking if you’d like to turn down for the night. 

Wonwoo answers for both you and your aching bones. Fatigue would make you gloss over many things about the aftermath of your wedding night for years to come, but you’ll always remember the first night asleep next to your husband over rocky terrain in the sky, with so much changed, yet nothing at all. 

Your first night in Seychelles was a blur, mostly because you both ate room service in expensive robes and watched The Pitt before falling asleep again. 

Eyes closed, you know it’s sunny with the exceeding warmth in the room and the light against your eyelids. Opening them takes a minute, no desire to move in the morning light. At least you think it’s morning. 

Shifting around, you realise you fell asleep in your robe, the tie unravelled, turning it into a loose shrug over your naked form. Through bleary eyes, your eyes meet the linen curtains and how they blow in the wind that pours through the open sliding doors. Blue skies and hanging branches of deep green trees are all you see, and your husband, standing over the railing overlooking your private pool. 

Maybe it was the haze of being half asleep, but for a second it feels like a dream. He’s in a white T-shirt, messy hair indicating he didn’t wake too long before you did, basking in the sunlit glow of the morning. His back is to you, but it’s enough. 

He hardly notices you get up and walk to the bathroom, the rustling of the trees masking most of your movements. When you’re done washing up, robe tightened around your waist, you emerge onto the makeshift porch of your hotel suite. 

Arms immediately make their way around his waist, alerting him of your presence. “Morning,” you mumble into his shirt. 

“Morning, baby,” he shifts so he can hold you too, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead. “Sleep well.”

“As well as I could.” It was a frivolous question, considering he was well aware you could sleep well on pavement if he was next to you, presence inches away. 

“It’s so pretty in the day,” you comment. The private pool was one thing, but the way the trees and plants hovered over the open area, swaying in the breeze left the impression they’d situated the room in the middle of a jungle. 

“Mhm,” he responds, having had his fill of the view of the hotel, currently more interested in the bare expanse of your neck. His lips trail over the skin, leaving kisses and gentle nips, now caging you between him and the railing. “Pretty.”

Of course, the obvious connotations of a honeymoon hadn’t escaped you—in the weeks leading up to your wedding, there wasn’t a loved one who would let you. But it feels like a delayed reaction after the hectic 48 hours you’ve had, finally at peace in what feels like the most beautiful place in the world. 

You let him grope you over the fabric, let his mouth run over every sliver of skin he can find. Facing him, your hands find the back of his neck to pull him down towards you, mouth to mouth properly. 

You melt, sighing into his mouth as he moves impossibly closer, pressing you against the railing as your head moves further back. Mouthing at your jaw, he lets you push him back in through the open door. 

He understands when you’re being pushed right back into your unmade bed. Pulling at the mountain of comforters, he lets them drop to the floor. “God it’s been torture,” he groans, hands moving up your thighs, through the irregular folds of your robe, cool palms against your hot skin. 

“You wanted to leave right after the reception,” you tease. The robe remains tied, and you make no move to undo it yourself. 

“Didn’t realise I’d have to hold back for this long,” he says, hands reaching the knot. His mouth is back on yours as he undoes it, pulling agonizingly slow. 

Tucking his hands into the undone robe, he runs them over your naked body underneath, pulling the fabric away from your body. Migrating down your neck, his hot breath mixes with the wind coming through the outside, casting shivers down your spine. 

Mouth over your breast, his teeth graze over your skin as he sucks. His free hand gropes your other breast, fingers pinching and flicking over the erect nipple. Head thrown back, you can’t stop the way your hips gyrate on nothing, moving to feel friction of any sort. 

He only lets go when your hands grapple at his shirt, noises of frustration for every passing moment you couldn’t feel his skin on yours. Shirt thrown somewhere behind him, his shorts follow, before ripping the robe off you entirely, leaving you completely bare. 

Moving higher up against the bed, Wonwoo situates himself like he’s about to live there, hands pushing your thighs apart as wide as they could go. In the morning light, he stares his fill of the glistening swells of your core. Fingers grazing over the back of your thighs, he massages the skin closer and closer to where you need him most. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he mumbles, moving back up to kiss you one more time, deep and long. 

Distracted, his thumb pressing a stripe down your clit catches you by surprise, gasping into his mouth at the feeling. His thumb reaches your hole, catching the wetness at the entrance, dipping shallowly. Travelling back up, he presses into the centre of your clit beginning with tight circles around the area. 

Whining into his mouth, your hands travel to his shoulder, down his arms to grip the muscle. Your other hand grips the sheet as he presses harder into your clit, localising his torture to one tiny area, occasionally rubbing all over. 

“Wonwoo,” you moan into his mouth, hardly kissing anymore as you pant into his mouth. 

Two fingers push into your hole, the pads pushing up against your walls as his knuckles graze over them. He begins to pump in and out, scissoring his fingers to open you wider. The feeling has you throwing your head back, breathless. 

When he removes his fingers you nearly scream, but his hand is at the waistband of his boxers, just as desperate as you feel. The tent is obvious even as he pulls the fabric down, watching his painfully erect member slap against his stomach. Your hands wrap around his own that lay at the base, caressing past to pump him as he positions himself between you. 

It’s hypnotising, the redness of his tip, the way it leaks onto your fingers after just a few strokes. Wonwoo’s face is pained, and you realise he may have been serious about feeling tortured. 

Not that you were any less desperate, but the agony of needing to remain celibate for the weeks leading up to your wedding weren’t planned—you could hardly find time to eat and sleep. It flew over you, that it might've been a little tougher on him than it was on you, but when you pull him in closer, you make sure that changes. 

Knees bent, he pushes your thighs apart as he settles in. He sinks in slowly, “Oh this is gonna be quick.”

You don’t mind, because you’ve remained untouched long enough to not last very long either. “Right there with you,” you groan out, engulfed by the stretch. 

He’s slack jawed, hair falling over his eyes as he struggles to keep his eyes open. His fingers dig into the plump your thighs, gripping them like they were the only things keeping him tied down to earth. 

It’s bliss, even as he remains stationary for a moment, buried into you till the hilt. Slowly, he pulls out, rocking back in. He picks up the pace, folding your legs over as he watches the way he disappears into your wet pussy, milky white beginning to rim at the base of his cock, a mix of your slick wetness and his precum. He nearly cums at the sight. 

Your fingers play with your stiff nipples, head thrown back as you moan without a care of your volume or coherence, Wonwoo’s name on your lips like a mantra. His fingers find your clit, rubbing it in circles as you whine loudly at the feeling. 

“You feel so good,” he moans, hips snapping up to slap against the back of your thighs. “So good, you’re so good.”

Eyes blown open as he slams a hard one into you, his groaning and moaning ensuing another warm gush out of you. 

Wonwoo pauses for a moment, ducking closer to lay his forehead on yours, his spread legs keeping yours apart, hands coming up to cup the top of your head to protect you from the hard headboard. 

“I love you,” he whispers into your ear with effort. “I love you so much.”

“Fuck, I love you too,” half sobbing. 

“You’re amazing,” he blabs, words hardly coherent. “All mine. Mine forever. All of you.”

His words, paired with the hand that grazes over your tits, down to your swollen clit to rub it harsher than before, is enough to send you careening over the edge. 

“Won—oh my god, Wonwoo I’m cumming,” you moan so loud you’re sure it’s carrying over. But you don’t care, because you wonder how you went so long without clenching around his dick like this, gushing over him as he pounded into you like it was his last day on earth. 

He holds you steady as he rides you through it, the contracting of your walls pushing him into his own orgasm, shuddering in your hold as his thrusts become increasingly sloppy yet running with force. 

It’s euphoric, hot spurts of his cum painting your walls, leaving his traces where no one else could ever touch you. The thought sends him into overdrive, thrusting into you long past his release dripping out of you, pooling onto the pristine sheets, glazed over your gorgeous skin. 

Resting his head against your collarbone, he breathes in the salt of your sweat, mixed with the scent he calls home. 

It feels like an eternity, both of you silent as the wind blows into the room over your sweaty forms, laying there in each other’s arms. Wonwoo continues to keep his mouth on you, your shoulders, tummy, waist, worshipping every last inch of your being as you catch your breath intertwined in his heat. He’s at your knees where your legs fold, hand wrapped around your ankle as he caresses it with his thumb, leaving kisses above your knee. 

For a moment, he rests his head against your thigh, and the world becomes clearer. His silhouette against the light, the nature beyond your crystal windows. The weight of him now, the traces of his touch that persist, to lay here bare for your lover for life—a glimpse into the rest of time. 

The moment is ruined when you feel your stomach growl, and Wonwoo is close enough to hear the rumble. He shifts so he can look at you, “Shower time? I think I saw a restaurant downstairs.”

The shower went from quick to an extra thirty minutes, considering you’d hardly washed the shampoo off before he pushes you against the tiled wall to kiss you breathless, water going cold over you as he works you with his fingers again, the thudding of water hitting the shower floor paired with the squelching of his fingers dipping in and out of your already spent hole, and the pants and moans that fill your ears. 

He needs to help you into your clothes after that, which he chuckles through before pulling you to the hotel restaurant. Housing down everything in sight, Wonwoo remembers to keep your glass full in an attempt to keep you from choking on croissants of all things. 

“Do you wanna hit the beach after this?” you ask.

“I was thinking about a nap before that,” he says, belting out a burp that earns him a kick under the table. It shakes, earning you looks from the rest of the vacationers. He only laughs, “But I could nap on the beach.”

Wonwoo does not, in fact, nap on the beach and instead follows your example as you pack a book in your beach bag, realising very quickly he brought none of his own, choosing to snipe one of the many you brought for yourself. 

It’s you needing to turn your brain on this time, because the random book he’s grabbed has him so enraptured at the synopsis you have to pull him away from slamming directly into people and poles alike. There’s posters and notices as you walk through the connection that leads to the beach; cocktail classes, trivia nights, and tutorials on Seychellois cuisine. 

“Isn’t this that movie you watched on the plane?” he asks, reading the Crazy Rich Asians on the front cover. 

“Mhm, didn’t mean to pack that, I’m reading the sequel right now,” you hum as you look for the path that leads to the beach, hand in his. 

It’s a gamble as the view of the white sands and water come into view, visibly smiling as you see the near empty sands. It was the off season, which you expected to mean less of a crowd. 

Finding a double beach chair is easy, dumping your things as you make yourself comfortable. “Water’s nice.” Wonwoo comments, and you wonder if you did wrong with keeping your bathing suit away for today. 

Squeezing a generous amount of sunscreen onto your hands, you agree with him as you dot his face with sunblock. He lets you rub it in as he looks over the water, perfectly aware that he’d never willingly put sunscreen on his face if it were up to him. He’s done, and he settles in while you protect yourself. 

Leaning against Wonwoo’s arm, you’ve both grabbed your books under the giant parasol. The sun is out and warm just right, deep sounds of crashing waves, and the smell of salt—-you feel giddy. 

The beachside bar is seconds away from bringing you your cocktails when his hand finds your thigh, tracing his fingers over the skin, while his other holds open the book he’s reading, twisting the cover back like a heathen. 

It’s perfect. 

“These are good,” Wonwoo pauses to comment, brows furrowing at the flavour of your espresso martini and his cosmopolitan. 

“I think I saw something about a cocktail class at the hotel. We could try it later.”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, sipping his drink again. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, but both your glasses are now empty and Wonwoo seems to be growing distracted after a few hours. It’s still late afternoon upon you as he announces he’s going to dip his feet in the water.

You think about it, and walk to the shallow end behind him, leaving your flip flops near the chairs. The sand is plush beneath your feet, cool between your toes despite the warm afternoon. Walking closer, the water is almost blinding with the way the sun dances on its crystal surface, waves breaking and sending pleasant sprays as you walk closer. 

You gasp audibly as the water touches you, turning to look at Wonwoo wide eyed and giddy. Colder than you’d expected, washing over your ankles and shins as you walk further into the water, pulling up the hems of your skirt to keep it from getting wet. 

Wonwoo leans down to touch the water, fingers dipping into the clear, coming up to splash you with a handful. It earns him a yelp from you as he laughs, but you soon recover and send another one right back. You don’t panic till you see both of his hands cup enough water to practically drown you. 

“Wonwoo, I didn’t bring extra clothes!” you yell, already running away. 

The irony doesn’t escape you, considering sprinting through the water has wet your clothes more than his splashes. But you're laughing harder than your breath can catch, and even more so when his wet hands grab you by the torso and pull you back in a lurch, suspended in the air for a moment. 

“Wonwoo!” 

It’s funny for a few minutes, still encased in a fit of giggles as you kick at the water. Until it isn’t.

Wonwoo separates from you for a moment, venturing a little deeper into the water, swearing he saw a ring of colourful fish swim past the shallow end. You’re in the middle of convincing yourself to follow him when you hear him suddenly splash at the water with shocking force. 

Stunned, you hardly register what’s just happened, thinking you’ve just heard him yell. He’s out of the water before you, hunched over and grabbing at his calf. By the time you reach him, you can see it. 

An ugly red slash across his calf, long and thin. It looks like a chemical burn. 

“What—”

“Shit,” he curses. An anomaly, considering you’ve only heard Wonwoo curse about five times in the years you’ve known him. 

“What is that?” you ask, immediately on your knees to get a closer look. It’s growing redder by the second, the swelling clear. 

Wonwoo stretches over to try to see, “That might’ve been a jellyfish.”

“You weren’t even in that deep!” 

“Deep enough I guess,” he winces. 

Bringing him to the shallow end, you try to pour more seawater on his reddened skin, hoping your memory is serving you right and you aren’t just making it worse. 

A few minutes later, a life guard is applying a topical cream on the area and giving you instructions to let the wound soak in warm water, assuring him he can get back in the pool in a couple days. 

Once the shock wears off, it’s almost a little funny. “That’s a story we’re gonna be telling forever,” you mumble as he gets up from the table in the tiny lifeguard tent. 

The man turns to you, “It happens sometimes, people usually just sleep on it and have a great rest of their vacation. Don’t worry about it too much.”

You thank him as you mutually decide to call it a day, moving back towards the hotel. Wonwoo seems alright, walking fine as he holds your hand talking about dinner plans. You suggest room service by the pool so he can keep off his leg, but insists he wants to try the traditional spot just outside the hotel. 

Heeding, you let him pull you back into the hotel room to clean up and rest. Except this time he’s serious about the nap. 

Wonwoo doesn’t fight you when you suggest staying off the beach today, choosing to occupy yourselves with the cocktail class instead. 

It’s in the hotel so you don’t have to leave the premises, the venue moderately full when you enter the room. The instructor introduces himself as Marcus, taking the time to make small talk with you both as you wait for everyone else to file in. His face lights up when Wonwoo tells him this was your honeymoon, very outwardly enthusiastic about having a couple in the class. 

So much so, that when the class eventually does begin, you hear a loud call for congratulations from the room for the only newlyweds (you). Mortified a little, you both fluster in your thank yous, attempting to move the attention back to the front where Marcus remains jovial as ever. 

“I think that’s too much ice,” you comment, attempting to compare the pile in your glass to Marcus’ up front. 

“No, it’s one scoop. It’s what he said,” Wonwoo says, but he’s beginning to look a little lost. 

“Doesn’t that look like a lot?” you ask, not convinced. But there isn’t much you can do about it, because you’re suddenly being asked to find one of the syrups on the counter, still rummaging while Marcus is already two steps ahead of you. 

It’s hard not to giggle, the energy from your station overwrought. But as you finally make your first drink after 20 whole minutes, you stand with straight shoulders. 

It’s another two hours of this, spilling precious spirits on the counter, floor and yourself, hands stained with syrups and fingers numb from picking up the giant spill of ice courtesy of your husband. You have to duck under the table for a moment, knowing your chortles would disrupt the class even more than you’ve done unintentionally already. 

Making cocktails meant drinking cocktails as you made even more cocktails. Marcus only seems to encourage the class to get day drunk, but that only resulted in added chaos. 

But even when you’re back in your hotel room, tipsy and giggly, you’re glad you did it. 

Wonwoo is spread eagle on the bed, still laughing about tripping over air in the hotel lobby. You join him, tucking yourself into his arm. Head lolling over to look at you, he dips his head down to kiss you, lips over your own in a close mouth peck. He doesn’t stop, lingering with every press to your mouth, still slightly smiling against your lips. 

“It’s been a day and this is already the best trip of my life,” he mutters against your lips. You’re very aware of it this time, a habit he’s had forever. 

You flashback for a moment, and suddenly you’re both a lot younger, alot less wise with constantly flushed cheeks in each other’s presence. It’s at the door of your old apartment, the same one where he would take you in more ways than one in the following months and years. 

But for now, it was your third date, and you were shifting your weight between your feet, trying not to feel disappointed as he bid you a goodnight with nothing but a smile and a wave. Mustering a smile of your own, you unlock the door and begin to walk in. 

Except instead of descending steps, there’s a pause. And Wonwoo was back before you could even cross the threshold. He didn’t ask when he cupped your face and planted one on you, mouth to mouth for the very first time, one hand over your door handle and the other on his wrist. 

“Sorry that took so long,” he mumbled against your mouth, the first time of many, sheepish smile on his face. 

But your heart felt like it was about to burst, so you went in for another one, opening your mouth to kiss him properly. And then the door had shut behind you both, and you’d dragged him inside. 

Tipsy haze and a little love drunk in your hotel room, on your honeymoon, you laugh against his mouth. “What,” he asks, laughing with you over nothing. 

“I’m glad you didn’t chicken out that night. After the drive in.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t need any more information, because the events of the day were ingrained into his mind like a brand. Not your first date, but your third, where he almost didn’t kiss you, where he almost never took the steps back up the stairs, where you almost slammed the door in his face. 

“I don’t think I would’ve wanted a fourth if you didn’t do it,” you say, eyes locked in on him. 

The thought scares him, that tiny mistake that never happened, how it would have altered the trajectory of his life. It’s terrifying, dread settling into his stomach. To this day he’s unsure why he’d hesitated as much as he did, especially considering he dreamt of your wedding the first night after he’d laid eyes on you. 

“You looked sad,” he says. “Disappointed. Just, not happy. I thought that meant you didn’t enjoy yourself, but…I was on the staircase when I realised I felt sad too.” 

He leans into you, lips planting kisses on the apples of your cheeks, to your fluttering eyelids, “Didn’t think much after that. Glad I didn’t, because I probably would have chickened out in the end.”

“We’re married,” you whisper like it’s a secret. “Can you believe that?”

“I can’t. Sometimes I still wake up and think I dreamt you up.”

“Are you calling me unreal?”

“Because you are,” he says. “I’m not sure how you exist.” 

That sticky feeling engulfs you again, and you know it’s because you’re a little drunk, but you’ve been teary enough to last you a lifetime just these past few days. Before you turn into a blubbering mess, you push yourself up. 

“Well,” you clear your throat. “I’m gonna go ahead and be unreal and not exist in the pool we are yet to use.”

He stares as you get up, walking to your open suitcase to rummage around for your stack of bathing suits. He remains on the bed, head propped up with his arm as he watches, content. 

You don’t bother with going to the bathroom, stripping off your shirt and shorts in the room. You fish out a green piece, only to hear a refute. 

“Where’s the yellow?” he asks, and you fish around to come out with the butter yellow two piece you didn’t realise he even knew you had. 

“Actually,” he slips off the bed, walking over to open the sliding doors that lead to the outside, glancing around. “Do you really need it?”

You only give him a look, proceeding to go to the bathroom to change out of your underwear anyway. He makes a noise of disapproval, but you respond with the loud sound of the door locking shut. 

When you emerge Wonwoo has soothed himself by taking a dip into the pool himself. You have to laugh, watching him paddle through the water with his swim goggles on. 

“Does it hurt? The sting?” you call out as you sit by the edge of the pool, dipping your feet in the water to start yourself off. 

He breaks the surface, hair flat over his head like a bowl. He spits out a mouthful of water before calling out, “No! I put the topical on this morning, I think it’s working.” 

If that were you, you’d probably be out of commission for the rest of the holiday, but as he dives back in to check how long he can hold his breath for, you want to applaud him. You jump in after a few minutes, finally getting yourself wet. 

Wonwoo comes over to you, letting you wrap your legs around him as you float as one. You do, however, rip the goggles right off his face. He doesn’t refute, letting them sink to the bottom of the pool. 

“Don’t you think I’m so strong?” he asks. 

“I’d say the water’s doing most of the work,” you note. 

“I meant my fatal injury.”

“Hardly fatal if you’re making jokes about it,” you snort. “Do you feel like a man?”

“Yeah.” He’s smiling a dumb smile, and you know he can hardly see a thing without his glasses. “Are you impressed?”

“So impressed,” you sigh, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. 

You let him go for a little bit, wanting to float by yourself for a while. As the sky breaks through branches of low hanging trees and giant green flats of leaves, you realise your not-soberness is probably contributing to how psychedelic the view looks. 

But you aren’t complaining, content with the weightless feeling. 

Wonwoo can’t help himself from meddling for too long, because suddenly you're being lifted off the surface just to be dunked under the water, flailing for a moment before breaking the surface. 

“Wonwoo!” you screech, but he’s already on the opposite end of the pool, laughing maniacally. You’re rethinking your stance on drunk Wonwoo, because you aren’t liking him too much. 

He’s unfortunately a faster swimmer, but you have him cornered in the pool. He makes to go below, escaping your wrath of you and your dripping wet hair, but instead you hear him yell. 

Through the water, you watch him grab his calf, face contorted like he banged the sting wound on the wall of the pool. Immediately, you move forward to check on him.

“Does it hurt?” you ask sharply, mind already racing to where the topical was inside the room.  

But you should’ve known, because as soon as you’re close enough for him to grab, you’re being snatched off guard and caged between him and the pool wall. 

You want to stay mad at him, but it’s difficult when you note how his shoulders are blocking the entire sun from view, casting you in a shadow shaped like your husband. 

“What was that for?”

He only shrugs, hands roaming the expanse of your skin in the water. “I missed you.” 

Rolling your eyes, you attempt to break free. He blocks you, whining as he buries his face into your neck. “I said I missed you.” 

Another thing about drunk Wonwoo—his sex drive shoots for the clouds. 

Even now as he’s mouthing the side of your neck, you can feel him through his swim trunks, pressing you against the pool wall, water spilling over the edge. His input on your choice of swimwear should’ve been your sign, but as he fiddles with the straps of your bottoms, you decide to resign into him. 

Water is Wonwoo’s biggest enemy as he finds out how difficult it is to create friction like this, the tent in his bottoms pressing against your stomach. You decide you’re going to be nice, palming him through his trunks. Your other hand is around his middle, roaming to his front as you let them wander over his skin. 

He groans contently into your neck, coming up to take your mouth. His tongue pushes in, and you let him lick and suck on your tongue, pulling away only to go right back in. It seems your hands aren’t enough, because he’s suddenly gripping you by the sides and pulling you out of the water, finding yourself sitting by the poolside. 

There’s water everywhere as you get a headstart, but he’s enthusiastic even while tipsy, lifting you off the ground at the steps. To your surprise, he doesn’t head for the bedroom, and instead places you on one of the beach chairs on the porch. 

“Wonwoo,” you begin, slightly scandalised. 

“It’s just us,” he says, nipping at the shell of your ear. 

It was sheltered enough, canopied but exposed enough to have you giggling through it. Wonwoo is an efficient man, not a second wasted as he rids you of your bottoms, his own swimming trunks coming off, landing somewhere on the floor with a wet thwack. 

He’s sinking into you within seconds, hovering over you as he mouths your cleavage spilling out of your bikini top, licking and dragging his tongue over your skin. You move to take it off, but he stops you. 

“No,” he says sharply, pinning your hands in front of you. “Stays on.”

So maybe you underestimated how much he liked it, but you can’t bother to think about it when he picks up his pace, slamming into you so hard the chair rattles and shakes beneath you. Your wrists remained tied with his hand, reaching out as far as you can to touch his stomach, needing to feel him somehow. 

The noises you're making are only fueling him, hand coming up to squeeze your breast through the wet fabric, slipping his fingers underneath to play with your nipple, erect from the cold. His knees are in place steadfast on either side of the beach chair, and you have to ask.

“Isn’t that–humph–burning?” you ask through pants. 

“Don’t,” he thrusts up hard, “care.”

Taking a moment, you look up at him, and he’s enamoured with the sight of your wet body in front of him, but all you can see is how he manages to encase you with his body alone, the flop his hair over his beautiful eyes, How pretty he looks in the partial shade. How in love he looks with you. 

His thrusts are getting sloppier, and you’re moaning so loud it’s beginning to hurt your throat. “Wonwoo, I think—”

“Me too, me too, me too,” he babbles as he feels the familiar clamp of your walls around him, the mesmerizing arch of your back, the way you rip your hands from his hold, only to seize his arms to ground yourself as you ride out your high. He doesn’t fail to abuse your clit, fingers pressing and rubbing just hard enough to send you to a place so far away from here. 

“Oh…Wonwoo, fuck, that’s so–so good.” It sounds like a sob, and maybe you are crying a little bit. 

He follows you on your descent, hips harried and face contorted like he’s forgotten how to hold himself back. He cums inside you, and you can’t help moaning at the feeling. 

He’s hardly brought himself down to Earth when you’re being yanked towards the side of the beach chair, legs over the edge. There’s a loud groan from the chair as it's yanked to the side so Wonwoo can sit on the floor in front of you. 

Legs thrown over his shoulder, he watches as the white of his cum leaks out of your raw hole, the sight nearly giving him another erection before he can even dry off. His mouth meets your cunt, lapping at the mix of his cum and your release off your thighs, your hole, spilled over your clit. 

You’re overstimulated, but you only prop yourself on your forearms to watch him suck on your clit like he was starved, tongue flat on the muscle as he rubs against your folds. His finger pushes through your entrance, the sound downright sinful as he pumps his cum in and out of your hole. The second orgasm hits you like a truck, shaking like you’d lost yourself on the chair as you finish hard. Seeing stars in daylight, painting the blue sky. 

When Wonwoo emerges, eyes dazed and a slight smirk on his face, he’s panting, leaning against your thighs. He places one last open mouthed kiss against your thigh before dealing with your jellied form, slumping against the chair as you attempt to relearn how to breathe. 

“You–” you pant. “We need to get drunk more often.”

He only grins at your suggestion to turn into alcoholics for the sake of mind blowing sex.

“I love you,” he says as he scoops you up into his arms, and you want to ask what ounce of superhuman strength he even had left to pull you into a sitting position, seeing as your own muscles are of no help whatsoever. 

Your legs are swung across his thighs as you sit on his lap till you can recover. His mouth is covered in your bodily fluids, but you’re reminded what love feels like when you let him kiss you all over regardless. 

“I love you too,” you say. “And I’ll keep loving you if you keep eating me out like that.”

“What happened to unconditional love?” he laughs. 

You push back the wet mop of his hair, letting his face come into full view. 

“Still unconditional,” you respond. “Always unconditional.”

He leans in to kiss you, and you immediately taste the salt on his tongue, but all you want is to move deeper. 

“Unconditional,” he mumbles into your mouth, and you're immediately smiling. 

He pulls away for a moment, staring at you for a moment. “I think you’ve recovered.”

“Hm?” you question. 

You know the answer when you’re suddenly being yanked by the hand back inside. “Wonwoo,” you scream as he gives you no room to prepare, pulling you indoors while the sliding door slams shut behind you. 

Yeah. You like how forever is turning out. 

It's not bad—state-of-the-art, as far as these things go. Hyunjoo University Medical Center has claimed the top spot among Korea's teaching hospitals five years running, with buckets of funding and endless charity galas to show for it, and that means private sleeping stalls. Plush mattresses. Closets that you get to keep for an entire year, with doors that lock. Fancy skincare products in the bathroom (which you still have to share with the dozen other surgical residents, to be clear, but it's an upgrade nonetheless).

Still, something about it depresses you. You still pay rent on the pathetic gosiwon two blocks away, but you spend every interminable, waking hour in this place as is. You know this place better than you know your childhood home, having traversed every inch of it in your orthopedic sneakers. You've touched every gurney, stopped inside every single med/surg room for pre-op rounds. Sat in every operating gallery to witness surgeries, with the reverence of a new believer in church. You swear that your skin has taken on a grayish tint in your years here from the lack of sun, a regrettable development that no amount of Vitamin C serum can reverse.

Anyway—every time you lie down to sleep at night, eyes dry and heels throbbing, you're not sure you'll make it to see the next day. And if you're going to die, you sure as hell won't be doing it in an on-call room. Mere feet away from the attendings' lounge, where you're certain your superiors congregate each morning and conspire to make your life as hellish as humanly possible.

So, you won’t sleep in here…. But that doesn’t mean you'll let the privacy locks and memory foam mattresses and clean sheets go to waste.

“You know, I have slept here before. It really isn’t that—“

You clap a hand over Wonwoo's—Dr. Jeon's—mouth, eyes going wide. "Shut up," you hiss, back pressed against the door.

He grins against your palm. Pulls your hand away. "Oh, relax. No one's rolling up here at seven in the morning. Everyone's on rounds.”

"Yeah, and I've got ten minutes before Dr. Oh comes looking for me. Better make it quick."

You don't need to tell Wonwoo twice. He leans down to capture your mouth in his. Hungry. Raw. The minty bite of hospital-issued mouthwash works its way onto your tongue. The remnants of acrid drip coffee from the communal break room makes its way onto his.

It's not fair, really. Both of you have been up all night, monitoring ICU patients and finishing up post-op notes over the graveyard shift, but he manages to come out of it looking unscathed. No dark circles under his eyes, skin as milky and poreless as ever. You reach up and run your fingers through his hair, hoping to mess it up a little—purely out of spite. 

You tug, he moans, and then he's spinning you around, fingers digging into your mint scrubs, walking you backward toward one of the sleeping cubicles. Admittedly, they're a positive development. Even if the twin bed is laughably narrow, just large enough to accommodate his lanky frame—the two of you maneuver around each other, giggling, before you settle on his thighs encasing yours and your back sinking into the mattress.

"You know," you whisper, tugging on the hem of his teal scrub top, "I used to think it was so dirty."

Wonwoo obliges, pulling off his shirt in one fluid motion. Adjusts his glasses, bends his head down to fumble with the knot on his pants. "What? Me? Give me a break, you can only shower so many times on a seventy-two-hour—"

"No," you sigh, slipping out of your own top, and then your bra. "Doing this. Having sex in an on-call room. I used to respect the sanctity of medicine, you know. Used to treat this place like a place of worship. Now you've gone and defiled it. You've ruined my innocence."

He doesn't speak for a moment, just blinking at you. It takes you half a second to realize what he's looking at, and then you roll your eyes.

"What are you, twelve?"

"Sorry." He swallows, catching his thumbs on your nipples, and you press your lips together to trap a moan. "They're just—you just have, like, really great boobs."

"Wonwoo.”

He leans down, stripped completely bare. Pure Wonwoo. So much Wonwoo, you think you'll drown in it. "I mean it." He kisses you sweetly. Murmurs against your mouth, "you're beautiful," and you fight not to choke on your own breath. 

Funny, you think, letting him breathe your air, letting his hands press cool patterns into your skin, everywhere, all over. You can't imagine what would possess him to call you beautiful, because he's heartbreakingly angelic. A sharp, cutting beauty. An intimidating kind, but beauty all the same. 

You're glad you stuck around long enough to see the warmth in it. Glad that, among all the residents and attendings vying for his attention, haggling their way onto his service and into his Alzheimer's research lab, he fell for you—chose you, the resident who drew his name out of a cup on day one.

Felt inevitable, almost. Cosmically destined.

It doesn't take long for him to work his fingers into you. Doesn't take long because you've been aching for him all night, watching him check in on his patients with his characteristic patience, walk around the hospital with his white coat straining over his broad shoulders. In fact, you've been made acutely aware of the absence of him inside of you. (Occupational hazard, you suppose.) There's zero resistance to the intrusion, blinding sparks flying instantly from his touch. 

Wonwoo groans, your slick coating his fingers. "So fucking wet," he sighs. He curls them up, presses right where he needs to, hits the spot that crushes the breath right out of your lungs. Except—

"No time," you decide, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. "Need you inside."

"Really."

"Yes, really. In case you've forgotten, I am a completely disposable cog in the machine." You reach down, work the curve of your palm over his semi. "Not to mention Dr. Oh has it out for me."

He pouts, just a little bit. He might as well have punched a hole through your ribs and macerated your heart—your pathetic, fluttering heart—the way it ruins you. "You shouldn't even be on Dr. Oh's service this week. You should be on mine."

You take his now-hard cock and align it with your opening. "Don't go neglecting the virtues of a well-rounded medical education, Dr. Jeon."

He starts to press into you. Slower than usual, because he hasn't prepared you the way he wants to. 

God, he's big. Third-leg big. Bad porno big. Your breath catches, pain pulsing at the stretch, and he freezes. 

"Too much?" he whispers, tracing his finger over your cheek.

This. This is what gets you, at the end of the day: To so many people in this building, you're doctor. You break your neck bending over a patient's open brain, cramp your hands clutching surgical instruments, scrub your skin until it cracks like arid earth. You flew through college, then medical school, like this: sacrificing pieces of your body to the altar of success, cutting away parts of yourself until there wasn't anything left to keep. There are an infinite number of people whose needs supersede yours. Without realizing it, you’ve become an expert at forgoing sleep. At skipping meals. At saying yes when you ache to say no.

Here, though, in Wonwoo's arms... you're a glass ornament. A rosebud. To him, you're a treasure to be handled with care. Second to no one.

You shake your head. "Keep going. Mmh—I'm good."

He kisses you, over and over, as he slips inside of you. His way of easing you, dissipating the residual tension locking your muscles in place. Slowly, slowly, and then all at once he fits himself to the hilt, broken breath fanning across your neck.

"You know," he murmurs, his tenor rippling through your skin, "I have a glioblastoma resection later today. You can scrub in, if you're free."

Whatever sick, deeply unwell surgery junkie is living inside of you and chewing holes in your brain takes over, because the next thing you know you're clenching. Hard. The resulting pressure draws the sweetest groan from Wonwoo. A sound that catapults you to a new dimension, one you want to hear forever.

"Fuck," he rasps. "Don't tell me the idea of a fatal brain tumor turns you on."

"Potentially fatal," you murmur, wiggling your hips, and you feel the way his limbs go taut—straining to hold himself back. "Not if you have anything to say about it."

"Oh, baby. I love it when you talk dirty to me."

Your cackle is cut short by a gasp as he pulls back, then thrusts back in—a movement so swift that it knocks the breath right out of you, sends shockwaves down to your toes. He pauses for the briefest second, examining your features, and then does it again. And again. And again.

"Oh, yes," you whine, when he bends his head to tongue at your nipple, sucking the pearl of it into his mouth. Your hands fly up of their own volition to twist into his hair, chest heaving, desperate for oxygen. "Oh, fuck, Wonwoo—"

Mouth occupied, Wonwoo responds with a pleased hum, his hand coming up to thumb at your neglected breast. The flames burst from you, spark up from your core and light up everywhere your body meets his, the drag of his cock so dizzying it drives you to delirium.

"Faster," you choke, locking your ankles at the base of his spine. "Faster, Wonwoo, please—"

“It’s going to be an awake craniotomy.” He presses the words into your sternum, into the hollow between your collarbones, into the spot behind your ear. God, his voice. It finds every bit of emptiness inside you, fills it with honey. “Patient’s going to be talking to us the whole time.”

You clench again, mostly to tease, and he emits a noise somewhere between a groan and a chuckle.

“Freak,” he mutters. Affectionately.

“Just eager to learn, Doctor. Oh, shit—“

“Close?” he asks. Doesn’t have to. He’s been inside you enough to know your tells—the dig of your nails into his shoulders, the way your breath hitches for longer like you’ve forgotten how to exhale—but you nod anyway.

“I’m—god, oh god, I’m—“

“I’ve got you, baby.” He drops his hand to where your bodies meet and finds your clit with ease. Starts thumbing at it, and the stars melt in your lower belly. All the heat and light in the world pull together inside of you, building and intensifying, until you have no choice but to burst with it. 

So you do. You let go, legs shaking, whimpering his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, and it might as well be. You’re cold, always cold because the hospital runs its air conditioning on full blast, but in this moment you’re impossibly warm. Sweat beading at your hairline, sticking your body to your lover’s.

Wonwoo groans at the sensation of your cunt pulsing around him, at the flash of pain when your nails dig into his skin. He’s a masochist like that—has to be, has to relish in the pain. He wouldn’t have been able to endure med school and residency and boards and fellowship otherwise. 

You pull him down against you, press breathless kisses to his jawline. “Gonna come for me?” you mumble, dragging your nails down his back. 

You hope they’ll leave a mark. You hope that, when he’s changing his scrubs in the attendings’ lounge, people will see. That people will know he belongs to someone, even if the someone they’re imagining isn’t you. 

Anyway. The added lick of heat on his shoulder blades pulls Wonwoo toward the edge. He shudders against you, can’t even find the words to speak. Lets out a pathetic, shattered moan when he comes, warmth spilling into and out of you, and it feels so euphoric—so perfect—that it almost makes you come again.

He stays inside of you for a moment, unmoving. The two of you exist in a bubble, the thinnest swirls of soap and water separating you from disease and sterilized tools and patients shouting for painkillers. The hard edge of his glasses digs into your temple, but you don’t mind. Not when he’s like this—all vulnerable, the competent, razor-sharp, highly sought-after Dr. Jeon nowhere to be found. 

In this moment, he’s just Wonwoo. Your Wonwoo. The Wonwoo who kisses you every chance he gets. Who looks at you like you’re a miracle he never expected.

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand, and the bubble bursts. The hard edges of your case pummel the wood before you have a chance to grab it.

“Fuck. It’s Hyojin.” You sit straight up, shoving him aside, and scramble out of bed. Cum trickles down your thigh—you look up, panicking, but Wonwoo’s already holding out a tissue with one hand and your underwear with the other.

“Four PM,” he reminds you, digging around in the tangle of sheets for his own scrubs. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” you promise. You turn toward the door, tugging the neck of your scrub top down over your head. “See you then!”

“Wait.”

You turn back, anxiety buzzing in your veins, then crack a smile. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, shirtless and forlorn. Hair sticking out in all directions, glasses askew, that pout poking out again. “Yes?” you ask innocently. Just to make him say it.

“You’re forgetting something.”

A goodbye kiss. One last bit of minty mouthwash, and then you’re flying out the door to your first patient, the heat of his mouth still lingering on yours.

Wonwoo's POV I always thought SEVENTH HEAVEN was loud enough without outside interference.

People see the highlight reels and think we’re this cool, clean, icy “top 1 in the league” machine. What they don’t see is Seungkwan screaming at Mingyu because he missed one peel (“YOU LET ME DIE LIKE A FARMING KRUG, YOU MENACE”), Vernon quietly typing notes about ward timers like some vision-obsessed librarian, Mingyu throwing himself at me every time his ganks work, and Seungcheol conducting all of us like we’re his personal orchestra and he’s both the conductor and the guy who built the concert hall.

We were chaos. Controlled, competitive chaos.

And then Y/N entered our orbit and the volume dial didn’t just go up.

It snapped clean off.

The first time I ever heard her say my name, she didn’t know I was listening.

We were in the team lounge at 1 AM, which is pro player for “we’re tired, stubborn, and pretending we don’t have scrims in the morning.”

I was eating instant noodles, trying not to think about the last VOD we watched. Seungkwan was on the couch, yelling at a random montage.

“That is NOT a good trade,” he shouted at the TV. “WHO EDITED THIS? JAIL. LIFE SENTENCE. THROW THE WHOLE BOT LANE AWAY.”

Vernon rolled over with the remote. “Okay, okay, let’s watch something that doesn’t raise your blood pressure.”

He flicked through channels, then opened YouTube on the console.

That thumbnail was already familiar to me.

Bright colors. A stylized League map behind her. Her logo in the corner.

Hextech Hot Takes w/ Y/N “THIS DRAFT HURT MY SOUL (LITERALLY)”

My chest did a weird little stutter.

“AYO, CLICK THAT,” Seungkwan demanded, jabbing a finger at the screen. “MOTHER.”

Vernon clicked.

She appeared on the screen, headset on, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyeliner sharp enough to be classified as a weapon. In the background was her streaming setup: LED lights, a floating “DON’T FF AT 15” sign, shelves crammed with champ figurines and a giant stuffed poro in the corner.

“Okay,” she said, grinning at the camera, eyes bright. “We need to talk about this draft, because I don’t know what the coach was smoking, but it wasn’t vision control.”

Her chat flew past on the side.

Mingyu perked up from the floor, half-buried in a beanbag. “OH, THIS ONE,” he said. “She roasted the hell out of that team for locking four melee tops.”

“She did what?” Seungkwan asked, instantly invested, already sitting up.

“Four melee tops,” Vernon confirmed. “In pro play.”

“Queue the funeral,” someone muttered. Might’ve been me.

Footsteps padded in and Seungcheol joined us, steaming mug in one hand. “Who are we flaming?” he asked.

“Not us,” Vernon said.

“Sadly,” Seungkwan added, clutching a pillow.

I tried not to look too eager. Tried and failed.

She broke down the game, frame by frame. Pulled up drafts, painted over the screen with her words.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, circling champions with her cursor. “Aggressive drafts are hot. We love to see it. But this is not aggression, this is self-harm with extra steps.”

The team cackled.

I watched her more than the game. The way her mouth curled when she found a particularly bad decision. The way her eyes sharpened when she talked about vision. The way she kept dragging the analysis back to players’ mental and burnout like it mattered more than views.

And then the screen switched.

A screenshot of SEVENTH HEAVEN appeared.

She paused the frame, zoomed in.

On me.

My heart did something stupid.

“This is Jeon Wonwoo,” she said, tone shifting into that dangerous blend of fond and forensic. “Mid laner for SEVENTH HEAVEN. Mechanically cracked. Probably knows every jungle path in this region by heart. Emotionally? I’ve seen turrets with clearer expressions. If he ever smiles on stage, I’ll host a charity stream.”

Seungkwan screamed. Actually screamed.

“NO WAY SHE SAID THAT—PLAY IT AGAIN, PLAY IT AGAIN, I’M CLIPPING THIS IN MY SOUL.”

Mingyu practically folded in half. “BRO, SHE READ YOUR SOUL AND YOUR TAX RECORDS.”

Vernon side-eyed me. “…you are kind of stiff sometimes.”

I slurped noodles and pretended my ears weren’t burning. Judging by how hot they felt, I was failing.

Y/N kept talking.

Her voice was warm, but it never softened the truth.

“SEVENTH HEAVEN has insane potential,” she said. “Especially their mid. When he commits, he looks unstoppable. But if he freezes, even for a second, everything collapses around him. He needs to stop second-guessing his reads in mid-game.”

Seungkwan gasped like she’d just leaked state secrets. “NOT HER READING YOUR ANXIETY ON MAIN.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

“She’s not wrong,” Seungcheol murmured, taking a sip of tea.

I watched myself on screen, frozen mid-replay, and I had that weird, dizzy feeling of being seen and dissected and… understood, all at once.

It felt invasive. It felt accurate. It felt… good.

Which was annoying.

I remembered that game: the slight hesitation at a dragon fight, the way I didn’t take a flank I knew was right because I was too busy calculating what would happen if I was wrong.

Apparently, she caught that in one VOD.

“She’s kind of terrifying,” Mingyu said, sounding impressed.

“She’s hot,” Seungkwan corrected. “Terrifyingly hot. Like, respectfully-your-honor hot.”

“Please stop talking,” I said.

They didn’t.

Later that night, lying awake with my phone dimmed, I searched her channel, found the video, and watched it again.

And again.

I told myself it was for “review.”

I was lying.

Two months later, I knew too much about her.

Not personal things. Not gossip.

The important things.

Her channel schedule. Her analysis style. How she’d call a coach “bold” and somehow make it sound like both an insult and a compliment. How she defended rookies from chat pileups. How she always ended her videos with:

“Remember: draft wins games, wards save lives. Go drink water.”

Every time SEVENTH HEAVEN played a big match, I checked if she covered it.

Not for the clout.

For the review.

For the way she could take my messiest mid-game and say something like, “He panicked. That’s not bad mechanics, that’s fear.” And somehow, instead of feeling exposed, I felt… relieved. Like someone had given the mess in my head a name.

I didn’t know her.

But I felt like she knew me a little.

Which is why, when I saw her in person for the first time at a tiny gaming café, my brain completely lagged.

We’d gone there on an off-day.

The café was cramped, lit by cheap neon airing out its last few lumens. The chairs wobbled. The PCs were weirdly powerful for such a small place. The kind of place you only find if someone tells you about it in a Discord server.

Mingyu insisted they had the “best instant ramyun in the city.”

He might’ve been right.

We were mid-cup—me, Mingyu, Vernon—when the bell over the door rang.

She walked in.

No headset, no overlays, no chat exploding on the side.

Just a hoodie, jeans, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Hair down this time, curling a bit at the ends. She looked softer and somehow more dangerous without the armor of production.

She stepped up to the counter, ordered an iced americano, thanked the barista with a small smile that hit me harder than it had any right to, and scanned the room.

Her eyes lingered for a second on the row of PCs where we sat. I ducked my head instinctively, like an idiot, even though there was no way she’d pick me out from this distance.

“Is that…?” Mingyu whispered.

“Yes,” I muttered.

“That’s Y/N,” he hissed, eyes wide. “Bro. Say hi.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because you already watch her videos at 2 AM. Because she already peeled a layer off your brain in a ten-minute analysis. Because if she looks at you in person the way she looks at drafts, she’ll see right through you.

“Because no,” I said.

“That’s not a reason,” he protested.

“It’s my reason.”

Vernon glanced between us and then at her. “She looks smaller in person,” he observed. “Still scary though.”

“Sexy scary,” Seungkwan’s voice popped in from behind us; he’d just returned from the counter with bread. “Like she’s going to ruin your draft and then your life.”

“That’s enough out of you,” I muttered.

She chose a table by the window. Sat down. Opened her laptop. Pulled out a tiny notebook, full of scribbles and little color-coded tabs.

I watched her flip to a page with “META – SUPPORT BUFFS?” written in too-neat handwriting and a tiny doodle of a ward in the corner.

“Bro, you’re staring,” Seungkwan said around a mouthful of bread. “Do you want me to go ask for her autograph? Or her hand in marriage? I can do either.”

“Play your game,” I said.

“I am playing,” he replied. “It’s called ‘are you going to talk to your YouTube crush or not.’”

I queued a game. And another. And another.

Every time I told myself, after this one, I’d get up, walk over, and say something normal, like, “Hi, I like your breakdown on jungle pathing,” and not something insane, like, “You live rent-free in my VOD review mind palace.”

Every time I ended a game, she frowned a little at something on her screen, bit the end of her pen, scribbled another note. Her concentration was so complete it felt like a shield. I didn’t want to break it.

So I stayed put.

She packed up eventually. Slid her laptop back into her bag. Slipped her notebook into the side pocket. Wrapped her fingers around her iced americano, now mostly melted.

The café door chimed behind her.

I stared at the door for a full minute.

“Wow,” Seungkwan said finally. “We just witnessed a love story almost start and then not. Tragic. Ten out of ten, would cry again.”

“Do you ever shut up?” I asked.

“No,” he said cheerfully. “Especially not when my mid laner is in emotional denial.”

Later that night, Mingyu posted some blurry story of our café outing on Instagram. In one frame, way in the back, barely visible, there she was at the window.

Some fan commented:

“wait, is that Y/N in the bg??? HELLO????”

I saw it.

I turned my phone face down.

Fast forward to the pre-finals press conference.

The air in the room is heavy with lights and bad perfume. There’s a stage at the front, branded backdrop behind the table, rows of chairs for reporters and analysts and camera operators. Microphones everywhere. Noise everywhere.

We’re seated in a line.

Seungcheol in the middle: perfect posture, steady gaze, captain aura turned to 11. To his right, Seungkwan and Vernon: bot lane chaos incarnate. To his left, Mingyu and me: jungle and mid, the so-called “brain” of SEVENTH HEAVEN, which is terrifying when you think about how often our brains decide to do stupid things.

The host runs through the usual questions.

“How do you feel about finals?” “What does SEVENTH HEAVEN mean to you?” “Are you preparing anything special against Silver Aegis?”

We answer on autopilot. I’ve done enough of these that my mouth moves while my mind drifts.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I spot her.

Y/N.

Press badge hanging from her neck. Tablet in one hand, stylus in the other. Glasses today. Simple ponytail, a few strands falling loose around her face. No LED lights, no animated overlays, but she still looks like she’s in 1080p when the rest of the room is stuck in 480.

She looks… serious. More serious than she does on stream. The easy banter is gone; in its place is a sharp, focused stillness.

She taps something on her tablet, glances up, assesses us like we’re another draft she’s about to tear apart or defend to the death, depending on how stupid we are.

My heart does that weird, too-fast thing again.

Next to me, Seungkwan follows my line of sight. I can feel his grin without even looking.

“Ohhh,” he hums under his breath. “Mother has arrived.”

“Don’t call her that,” I mutter.

He ignores me. “You’re staring,” he whispers. “Should I wave? I’ll wave.”

“Don’t—”

He waves. Big, stupid, enthusiastic.

To my horror, she sees it. She raises a brow, then gives a small, polite nod. Her gaze flickers past him. Lingers on me for half a second longer than it needs to.

My pulse spikes.

She looks back down at her tablet.

“And we’re blushing,” Seungkwan sings quietly. “Ladies and gentlemen, we got him.”

“Focus,” Seungcheol says mildly, eyes still on the reporters.

I drag my attention back to the front.

Then there’s him.

Her ex.

Manager of Silver Aegis, king of inflated self-image. Hair too slick, smile too wide, voice too loud. He’s laughing with someone near the back, gesturing theatrically with his hands like he’s narrating a movie where he’s the main character and the plot.

He’s positioned himself just close enough to her that he can pretend any interaction is “coincidental.”

My jaw tightens.

The host asks something about “biased coverage in the scene.”

“Some fans feel that certain analysts are harsher on specific orgs,” a reporter says. “Any thoughts on that?”

Someone’s gaze flickers briefly to Y/N.

Of course it does.

Seungcheol keeps his tone neutral. “Analysts are free to do their jobs. We focus on ours.”

Textbook answer. Good captain. Nothing to clip out of context.

We get through the rest.

We stand, bow, exit the stage. The lights feel too bright; the air feels too thick.

That’s when I hear it.

“She’s still obsessed with me,” he says to a nearby journalist, intentionally too loud. “You can hear it in the way she talks about my team. It’s sad, honestly.”

My jaw tightens so hard it hurts.

Across the room, Y/N’s back goes a fraction straighter. Her shoulders rise and fall once, controlled.

She doesn’t turn toward him.

She keeps typing.

“She’s really living in his head rent-free, huh,” Vernon mutters beside me.

“Yeah, but he’s trying to convince everyone it’s the other way around,” Seungkwan says. “Delulu is the solulu, I guess.”

“Please never say that again,” I say.

When the press conference clears out, we’re filing toward the side exit in a loose line when I see him angle his body and step right into her path in the hallway.

She stops short, forced to look up at him.

“Doing another ‘Aegis is trash’ segment?” he asks smoothly. “You know, people are starting to notice how bitter you sound.”

She looks at him like he’s a bug she can’t believe she still has to deal with.

“I literally praised your early game yesterday,” she says calmly. “I flamed your Baron call because it was a grief. That’s not bitterness. That’s accuracy.”

He laughs. Too loud. Fake.

“Oh, come on. You’re so sensi—”

His hand lifts like he might touch her arm.

I move.

So does the rest of SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Seungcheol gets there first—rock-solid, expression cool, not even bothering with words yet. He doesn’t have to. He stands just close enough that the manager would have to physically acknowledge him—physically step around our captain—to keep going. A wall without saying “I’m a wall.”

Mingyu drifts to Y/N’s other side, hands in pockets, smile gone. Vernon hangs back a bit, but his eyes are ice.

Seungkwan stands just behind them, arms crossed, jaw clenched, expression somewhere between “I will tweet about this” and “I will commit arson.”

Y/N doesn’t step back.

She steps closer.

“Touch me,” she says quietly, but every syllable lands like a hammer. “Go ahead. I dare you. Then my next upload won’t be analysis—it’ll be evidence.”

His hand freezes mid-air.

Her expression doesn’t change.

She tilts her head, gives him a smile so bright it’s almost cruel. “Tell your friends I love the drama if you want,” she says. “But stop using my name for views. It’s embarrassing.”

She turns.

Walks away.

Doesn’t look back.

The hallway temperature drops.

Seungkwan exhales like he’s seen God. “Queen,” he whispers. “Absolute queen behavior. That’s my mid laner-in-law right there.”

“Stop,” I say automatically.

“I will not stop,” he says. “If you don’t marry her, I’m unsubscribing from our own team channel.”

“I run the YouTube backend, I can actually see that,” Vernon adds, deadpan.

“I’ll unsubscribe twice,” Seungkwan insists.

“I’m in love,” Mingyu mutters, staring after her.

I look at him sharply.

“WITH HER BRAVERY,” he adds quickly. “Respectfully. Very respectfully.”

We start walking again.

I glance down the hall where she disappeared. My body is still buzzing from the way she said, “It’s embarrassing,” like it was the final nail in a coffin he’d built for himself.

“Everything okay?” Seungcheol asks quietly, catching my look.

“Yes,” I say.

No, I think.

Two days later, she’s buried in work and slander.

Not “busy.” Not “booked and blessed.”

Buried.

Livestream clips. Tweets. Reddit threads twisting her analysis into “emotional bias.” Random dudes with anime icons calling her obsessed. Thinkpieces by people who have clearly never watched an entire Hextech Hot Takes episode, much less the ones where she’s bent over backwards to be fair to teams that don’t deserve it.

Her ex is clearly feeding it. Little “sources say” mentions, vague subtweets, liking posts that paint her as “unhinged” and “still hung up.”

I see it all. I’d like to uninstall the internet.

I find her at a folding table in a quiet backstage corner, tucked behind a stack of promo boxes and a dying plant. There’s a cluster of half-empty coffee cups around her like a ritual circle. Notes spread everywhere. Her laptop is open with emails, her tablet shows a half-finished script, and her phone face-down keeps buzzing every thirty seconds.

“What’s the crisis?” I ask, gripping a spare chair and dragging it over.

She doesn’t look up. “Org wants a ‘balanced’ segment,” she says, air-quoting with one hand without pausing her typing. “Silver Aegis doesn’t want me covering them at all. My subscribers are fighting each other in the comments. And a fourteen-year-old in my DMs told me I’m ‘ruining esports.’ You know. Thursday.”

Her tone is flippant. Her shoulders are tight.

I grip the back of the empty chair opposite hers a little harder. “You know it’s all bullshit, right?”

“I know,” she sighs, eyes still on the screen. “Knowing doesn’t make it less loud.”

Her voice dips on that last word.

Loud.

I don’t think she’s just talking about notifications.

I stare at her for a moment. At the tightness in her jaw. The faint shadows under her eyes. The way her leg’s bouncing under the table, restless, like she’s holding herself together by motion alone.

Whatever filter usually exists in my brain fails.

“I could help,” I say.

She finally looks up, eyes wary and curious. “Help how?” she says. “Are you going to become my emotional support jungler?”

“No.”

“Hack the algorithm?”

“No.”

“1v1 my ex?”

“Yes,” I start, already picturing it, then abort. “No. I mean. Don’t tempt me.”

Her mouth quirks, some of the tension in her face easing for the first time today.

“Careful,” she says. “He’d probably leak your DMs and call it ‘evidence.’”

“I don’t DM clowns,” I mutter. “I’m talking about helping the narrative.”

She raises both brows. “Go on, mid king.”

I take a breath. My heart does an unnecessary little crit in my chest.

“If we were… publicly together,” I say, choosing each word like it’s a skillshot, “people would stop buying the narrative that you’re still thinking about him.”

Silence.

She blinks once. Twice.

Then she laughs.

Actually laughs. A short, sharp burst that startles both of us, her shoulders shaking slightly as she drops her head for a second.

“Wonwoo,” she says, wiping the corner of her eye with her thumb. “You want to pretend-date me to fix PR?”

When she says it out loud, it sounds incredibly stupid.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “When you say it out loud, it sounds stupid.”

“That’s because it is stupid,” she says.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where I can feel the idea hovering between us like a dangerous buff.

Her gaze turns thoughtful. She leans back, studying my face like she’s trying to see if I’ll flinch.

“You’d do that?” she asks. “Knowing how your fans are? Knowing SEVENTH HEAVEN’s brand? Knowing my channel is literally built on me talking shit about drafts for money?”

“Yes,” I say. Too fast. Too sure.

Her eyes search my face. I hold still.

“You’d deal with our comments section?”

“I already do,” I say. “I see everything people tag us in.”

She snorts softly. “Condolences.”

“You’d let me flame you if you grief lane?” she pushes.

“You already do that too,” I say. “You called my Azir pick ‘an act of spiritual warfare’ last split.”

She huffs a laugh. “It was.”

We look at each other.

Both of us know this is insane.

Both of us also know it might work.

“Ground rules,” she says finally, sitting up straighter, business mode snapping into place. “No real feelings. Public-facing only. We control the narrative; they react to us. The second it stops being useful or comfortable, we stop.”

There’s a weird pinch in my chest at “no real feelings.”

I ignore it. Like an idiot.

“Obviously,” I say.

We shake on it.

Her hand is warm. Steady. Like she’s shaking on a contract she intends to honor, not a joke.

I walk away telling myself it’s just a strategy patch. A meta adjustment. A tool.

Deep down, something knows I’m lying.

The fake dating meta drops Week 1.

We take one backstage picture. One.

It’s after a scrim. Everyone’s half-dead, hair damp, jerseys wrinkled. I’m mid-sip from a water bottle, tilting it back. Y/N’s next to me, half-laughing at something Mingyu said off-frame, body angled slightly toward me like we’re in our own little pocket of the hallway.

She snaps it, barely looks at it, and posts it to her story.

Caption:

“Carried by my mid laner. Again.”

Tagged: @7th_wonwoo

My phone buzzes once. Twice. Then becomes a grenade.

I don’t even have to look at the team to know what’s happening.

“YAAAAAAAAH!” Seungkwan screams from across the room, waving his phone over his head like it’s on fire. “YOU’RE DONE. IT’S OVER FOR YOU. RIP MID KING. WE HAD A GOOD RUN.”

Mingyu barrels into me full force, nearly knocking the bottle from my hand. He grabs my shoulders and shakes me like a malfunctioning monitor. “CAN I BE YOUR FLOWER BOY AT THE WEDDING? I HAVE THE TALENT. I HAVE THE RANGE.”

Vernon glances up from his screen, calm as ever. “You’re going to get clipped in every compilation for the next decade,” he says. “Try not to look constipated.”

From the corner, Seungcheol: “TF is this.”

Our manager appears at the door, eyes wide. “Why is our engagement rate spiking—”

I want to sink into the floor.

Instead, I unlock my phone, open her story, double-tap it, and repost with one simple caption:

“Analyst diff.”

If I’m going down, I’m going down clean.

The comments go feral within minutes.

“PARENTS?????” “THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE SHIP I DON’T CARE IF IT’S REAL OR NOT.” “NO ONE TALK TO ME I’M BUSY SOBBING OVER THIS.” “HE SMILED. Y/N WE EATING GOOD TONIGHT.”

They’re not wrong. I am smiling a little. Which is rude of my face.

In the corner of the room, I hear furious tapping.

“Group chat time,” Seungkwan mutters. “This is emergency content.”

He makes a new GC right in front of me. I can see the name over his shoulder.

[GC: WONWOO & HIS WIFE (NO INPUT FROM HIM)]

Members: – Seungkwan – Mingyu – Vernon – Seungcheol (added against his will)

He starts spamming screenshots of the story and my repost.

Seungkwan: MID KING IS A LOVER BOY CONFIRMED Mingyu: I CALLED IT. ENERGY NEVER LIES Vernon: ship name ideas? Seungkwan: WONY/N. Y/NWOO. I’M WORKSHOPPING IT Seungcheol: Please focus Seungkwan: FOCUS ON THE FACT THAT OUR MID HAS A GIRLFRIEND

I mute the chat. They add me back in. I mute it again.

We do a short interview for a regional channel later.

The host smiles too wide. “So, fans are wondering—” he says, turning the mic toward us, “are you two… actually dating?”

Y/N crosses one leg over the other and smiles sweetly, like she’s about to ruin someone on air.

“Define dating,” she says.

I choke on my own breath.

She continues smoothly. “We spend time together,” she says. “We talk about drafts. He listens when I say his mid-game is scuffed. That’s commitment.”

The host laughs awkwardly. “So… you’re… official?”

She leans just a bit closer to my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her, the faint brush of her sleeve against my arm. “We’re in the same patch,” she says. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”

Back at the base, the segment gets clipped, edited, put to dramatic music and heart emojis. SEVENTH HEAVEN’s social media manager is one meltdown away from a nervous breakdown. Our metrics skyrocket.

I catch her watching the clip later, smirking at the comments.

“You’re trending,” I say.

“We’re trending,” she corrects. “Congratulations, boyfriend.”

My brain error codes for a full three seconds at the word.

Later, she releases a thirty-minute video titled:

“TEACHING MY ‘BOYFRIEND’ HOW TO EXPRESS HUMAN EMOTION (NO, SERIOUSLY)”

The thumbnail is me looking confused while she points at a whiteboard that says:

“FEELINGS ≠ FF @15”

She plays old interviews of me.

“There,” she says, pausing one, zooming in on my deadpan expression. “That’s a man who just answered a perfectly normal question like someone asked him to confess tax fraud.”

Her chat spams laughing emotes, crying emotes, hearts.

She adds, “In his defense, he’s very good at League and very bad at eye contact. We’re working on it.”

I watch the video.

I should be embarrassed.

Instead, my stupid heart feels… lighter.

Like the weight of being “MVP,” “stone-faced mid king,” “emotionless robot” has been turned into a bit we’re both in on, instead of a cage I’m stuck in.

Week 2, she starts coming to scrims.

“For content,” she tells Seungcheol.

“For intel,” she tells me with a smirk.

“For drama,” Seungkwan whispers loudly.

She sits behind us with her tablet and a notebook, jotting down timestamps and notes. Sometimes she mutters to herself. Sometimes she mutters about us to herself.

“The way you said ‘mutters’ is hurtful,” she comments once without looking up.

I’m not sure if she read my face or my soul.

The first time she speaks up during review, we’re watching one of our messier games. One of those scrims where we win, but ugly.

“Pause,” she says from behind me.

Our analyst hits spacebar immediately. He’s as curious as we are now; no one ignores a Y/N “pause.”

She walks up, stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the brush of her hoodie against my arm, and points at the minimap. Her perfume is faint—vanilla, something warm.

“You had priority mid and bot,” she says, “but you drifted toward river, hesitated, then backed off. Why?”

I follow her finger on the screen.

“If I hard-commit, their jungler can flash in from fog,” I say. “I didn’t have vision on top river, and TP advantage was theirs. We could’ve gotten collapsed on and lost the whole fight.”

“So you backed for vision?”

“I backed because the risk wasn’t worth the reward yet,” I say. “Renekton had item spike. If we throw there, we lose tempo and they get dragon for free.”

She studies the screen. Then me.

“The casters said you played scared there,” she says. “They were wrong. You played patient. You’re not a coin-flip mid.”

I blink.

Behind us, Seungkwan makes a soft offended sound. “AND WHAT ABOUT ME—”

“You’re a casino, you don’t get to talk,” she says, without looking at him.

He gasps theatrically. “I’M SENDING THAT TO MY THERAPIST.”

Everyone laughs.

The review moves on. I try to pay attention, but part of my mind replays one line on a loop:

“You’re not a coin-flip mid.”

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

It does anyway.

Later, in the hallway, I hear her ex talking to another manager.

“I mean, of course she’d hype him,” he scoffs. “She’s clinging to the ‘genius mid’ narrative to stay relevant. She always attaches herself to someone.”

I feel my hands curl into fists.

I don’t confront him.

Yet.

But the jealousy is a hot, unpleasant knot in my chest. Not because I think she likes him.

Because he still dares to talk about her like that. And because I hate that part of her career is constantly cleaning up after his ego.

The almost-kiss happens at the end of Week 2.

Everyone else has gone home. The building is quiet in that echoing, late-night way where you can hear your own thoughts too clearly.

We stay back to review one more VOD because I asked, and she said yes too quickly.

She’s beside me, both of us standing in front of the projected screen, the room lit only by the bluish light from the replay. It’s one of our better games this time, but she pauses at a mid-game fight anyway.

“Here,” she says. “This moment. You know you’re stronger. You know you win if you go in. You hesitate anyway.”

I squint at my tiny champion on the screen. Hesitating. Stutter-stepping around the edge of a fight I could have blown open.

“I was tracking flank TP,” I say. “If I go too early and they collapse, we lose.”

“You were also tracking Seungkwan’s position,” she says. “You hesitated because you were waiting to see if he survived. You always hesitate when you’re protecting someone.”

I go silent.

She glances up at me, eyes reflecting map colors. Closer than I realized. Little pixels of blue and purple flicker over her skin.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she says, softer now. “It just means you care.”

My throat feels tight.

The projector hums.

My pulse feels louder than the fan.

Then the timer on the projector hits whatever mark it was set to and shuts off with an audible click.

The room is plunged into dim dark.

We’re still standing close.

I can just barely see her silhouette, the faint outline of her face, the glimmer of her glasses catching the exit sign’s glow. Her perfume is subtle but suddenly it’s the only thing I can smell.

“Guess that’s our cue,” she says quietly.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

My brain runs calculations I don’t have names for.

Risk vs reward. Game vs everything else.

Do I step back? Turn on the projector? Say goodnight?

Or do I lean in?

“Do you want the lights back on?” I ask, voice lower than I expect.

“Do you?” she echoes.

I don’t.

I turn slightly, facing her fully. She tilts her head up in the dark, like she’s meeting me halfway already.

The air between us feels thin.

I lean in.

She leans in too.

Her breath brushes my lips.

Her hand moves, reaching, fingers just barely brushing my wrist in a touch so light it makes my skin spark—

The door slams open.

“Yo, I brought ra—”

Vernon stops dead.

He stands there in the doorway with two convenience-store ramen cups and the haunted look of a man who opened the wrong door in a horror game.

We freeze.

He freezes.

The silence is so heavy I can hear the boiling broth in those cups.

Vernon makes the slowest, most respectful retreat I’ve ever seen, backing out and closing the door as gently as he can like if he moves too fast, reality will notice.

Silence crashes back down.

My face is on fire.

Hers is a shadow, but I can hear the way her breath catches, then steadies.

“We should… review pathing tomorrow,” she says, voice very carefully neutral, like the last thirty seconds didn’t just detonate both our nervous systems.

“Yeah.”

We leave together.

We don’t talk about it.

But when I get home and check the team GC, there’s one new message from Vernon:

Vernon: I almost died tonight

No context.

I throw my phone on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

I think about it constantly.

Week 3 is when everything fractures.

Her ex escalates. Of course he does.

He files a formal complaint to the league, saying she’s “too emotionally involved” to cover our matches and his fairly. Claims she’s “compromised.” Uses big words and bigger lies. Drops words like “conflict of interest” and “unprofessional attachment,” conveniently leaving out the part where he’s the one who can’t move on.

I hear about it from our manager first. From the legal team second. From chat third.

From her last.

By the time I find her, she’s half-sitting on a crate backstage, one leg bouncing, scrolling through emails with a blank face that I now recognize as “one millimeter away from snapping and still holding it together.”

“Is it true?” I ask.

“That my ex is weaponizing professionalism to try to silence me?” she says dryly, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah.”

“You’re not—” I search for the word, “—furious?”

She exhales slowly.

“I’m tired,” she says. “Fury is expensive.”

Something in my chest twists.

I stand there in front of her, helpless, hands hanging uselessly by my sides.

“We can say something,” I blurt. “SEVENTH HEAVEN. We can back you publicly. Or I can. I can talk in interviews. I can—”

“Wonwoo,” she cuts in gently. “Finals are in three days.”

“And you’re being attacked now,” I snap.

She finally looks up.

Her gaze is sharp at first—defensive, tired. Then it softens. Just barely.

“I appreciate it,” she says. “I do. But if you throw your focus away on my battles, then he wins twice. He gets to mess with me and ruin your season. I’m not giving him that.”

She stands, stretching her legs, rolling her shoulders like she’s easing armor into place.

“For once in my life, I want my presence near a team to be the reason they succeed,” she says quietly. “Not the excuse for why they fell apart.”

That hits me harder than anything she’s said on stream.

Because I get it. Too well.

How many times have analysts blamed “outside noise” when a team chokes? How many times have they implied it was a girlfriend, a fight, a distraction? How many times would people love to blame her for any mistake we make because it’s easier than admitting we messed up alone?

“I’m not—” I start.

“Please,” she says.

Just that.

Please.

I shut my mouth.

She walks off. Back straight. Shoulders squared.

I feel like I failed some hidden objective.

In the GC, a few hours later:

Seungkwan: I WILL BITE THAT MAN Mingyu: which man Seungkwan: PICK ONE Vernon: don’t get banned Seungcheol: Practice in 10. Be on time. Seungkwan: YES DAD

My gameplay dips.

Not spectacularly. Not enough for the average viewer to notice.

But Seungcheol notices.

He always does.

He pulls me into the review room after one particularly messy scrim.

No one else. Just us, the glowing screen, and too many paused replays.

He queues up a series of clips, mid-game moments where I should’ve taken an angle and didn’t. Fights where I played too safe. Calls I didn’t make.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Caution,” I say.

“Fear,” he corrects.

I fold my arms. “It’s finals. I’m allowed to be careful.”

“This isn’t careful,” he says. “This is you trying to play two games at once. One on stage, one in your head.”

He looks at me steadily. “Is this still fake?”

The question hangs there.

The correct answer is “yes.”

I don’t give it.

I say nothing.

He sighs, but it’s not annoyed. It’s more like he’s adjusting a strap that’s digging in.

“You care about her,” he says. “Fine. Good. That’s not a weakness. But you don’t trust her right now.”

“That’s not true,” I say sharply.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be playing like she’ll break the second you stop looking,” he says. “She’s not glass. She’s probably stronger than half the orgs in this region.”

He’s right.

Of course he’s right.

“She doesn’t need you to fall apart to prove you care,” he says more softly. “She needs you to win. If you love how she’s always honest, then be honest with yourself too.”

The word love hangs in the air like a bugged tooltip I’m not ready to click on.

I look away.

He claps me on the shoulder. “Fix it,” he says simply.

I try.

It goes… medium.

The fake break-up happens the day before finals.

Our PR teams coordinate. Statements approved, wording checked, timings synced.

We both post the same thing—clean, polite, distant.

“With finals and projects coming up, we decided it’s best to focus on our careers right now. We still respect and support each other. Please don’t send hate.”

Fans wail.

“MY PARENTS BROKE UP 😭” “I KNEW IT WAS PR BUT IT STILL HURTS” “HOLD ON I NEED TO LOG OFF AND TOUCH GRASS”

In the GC, it’s worse.

Seungkwan: I’M AT THE DIVORCE OF THE CENTURY Mingyu: I feel like I should get visiting rights Vernon: joint custody of the streams Seungcheol: All of you. Enough.

In person, it’s not clean at all.

We meet in a quiet corridor, just out of view of the main staircase, away from cameras and mics and anyone who might turn this into content.

She’s in a simple black hoodie, hair in a low ponytail. No glasses. No makeup beyond a hint of eyeliner. She looks tired. And beautiful. And tired again.

“This is probably for the best,” she says, arms folded loosely in front of her. Her voice is steady. Her eyes are not.

“Yeah,” I say. “For focus.”

Her mouth twists faintly. “Right. Focus.”

There’s an ache under my ribs I don’t have a name for.

I want to say, I don’t actually want to break up with you, even pretend-wise.

I don’t say it.

“Good luck,” she offers instead, forcing a small smile. “I’ll still roast your draft if it’s bad.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” I say.

She smiles at that. Small. Real. A flicker of what we had when this was just a joke and not a line we’re both suddenly scared to cross.

Then she nods once and walks past me.

She smells faintly of coffee and vanilla.

I stand there in the empty corridor, phone buzzing in my pocket with notifications about a breakup that isn’t even real, and try to breathe around the stupid, heavy feeling in my chest.

For something fake, it feels a lot like getting dumped.

Finals.

The arena is a riot of noise and light.

SEVENTH HEAVEN vs Silver Aegis.

Storylines stacked on storylines: revenge matches, redemption arcs, narratives about discipline vs ego, about “boys vs men,” about “this might be their last run with this roster.”

I sit at my PC. Adjust my mouse. Flex my fingers. The keyboard is familiar and foreign at once.

I should only be thinking about one thing: the game.

But she’s in my head.

Not him. Her.

The way her voice sounded last night in that video.

“The Truth About This ‘Narrative’ | My Story.”

She didn’t use his name in the title. She didn’t need to.

I watched it alone at my desk, lights off, hood up like I could hide from how hard it hit.

She laid it all out. Calm. Precise. No theatrics.

Screenshots. Emails. A timeline of behavior that went from “barely acceptable” to “you need a lawyer” so gradually that you could almost miss how bad it got unless you saw it stitched together like that.

She added context. Admitted where she stayed longer than she should have. Never painted herself as perfect. Never weaponized tears.

She didn’t rant. Didn’t drag. Didn’t perform.

“This isn’t about a breakup,” she’d said, looking straight into the camera. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve stayed where I shouldn’t. But this is about professionalism. About boundaries. About weaponizing narratives to silence criticism. If you want to say you don’t like my analysis, say that. Don’t rewrite history to make me your villain.”

At the end, she’d looked almost tired. But steady.

“I’m not thinking about you,” she’d said. “You’re the one telling that story. I’m done being part of it.”

She’d posted it. Turned off monetization. Pinned it. Then gone to sleep.

By morning, it was #1 on trending.

The league announced an investigation. Silver Aegis rushed out a statement about “taking allegations seriously.” His socials went suspiciously quiet.

She still went to work. Still showed up as an analyst for the finals.

Of course she did.

So now I’m here, on stage, hands hovering over my keyboard, with her words lodged somewhere under my ribs like a new, sharp truth.

We draft.

We load in.

For the first fifteen minutes, the game feels like synchronicity.

Mingyu’s pathing is clean, sneaking vision deep where they don’t expect it. Vernon’s roams are surgical. Seungcheol absorbs pressure top like he was born under a turret. Seungkwan positions aggressively but controlled, that thin line between “carry” and “throw” walked with terrifying elegance.

I track everything.

Timers. Lane states. Summoners. Flashes. Ult CDs. Enemy mental.

And then, during a short lull in action, the broadcast cuts to the analyst and press section.

I see her.

Headset on. Professional outfit. Tablet in hand. Eyes glued to the screens in front of her. She looks composed, clean-lined, like the Y/N that first burned herself into my brain through a monitor.

Then I see him.

He shouldn’t even be near her. The league told him to keep his distance until the investigation wraps. But there he is, hovering just behind the analyst row, leaning on fake casualness like it’s a crutch.

He moves behind her chair. Too close.

He leans down, says something near her ear. I can’t hear it, but I can see his mouth curl on one side.

Her shoulders stiffen. She leans slightly away.

Just a little.

Like she’s refusing to give him more of a reaction than that.

My hand forgets to move.

My champion takes an unnecessary hit.

“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol’s voice snaps in my ears. “Focus.”

I blink, jarred, and re-center myself. We recover the play. Barely.

The crowd doesn’t know what happened. The casters chalk it up to “a rare misstep from the mid laner.”

I know exactly why it happened.

I want to get up and drag him away from her by the collar.

Instead, I kite a wave and call for a reset.

Time-out is called a few minutes later for a tech issue. A reset request from their side.

We head backstage.

The second our headsets are off, I feel a hand clamp onto my arm and drag me to the side.

“What was that?” Seungcheol says, eyes sharp. Not angry. Focused.

I rub the back of my neck. “He was in her space.”

“And?” he says.

“And I—” I stop. Try again. “I hate it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So does she.”

He looks me dead in the eye.

“She can handle him,” he says. “She has been handling him this whole time. You not trusting that? That’s the real insult.”

I go quiet.

He lets that land, then pushes once more.

“You don’t get to turn her into something fragile just because you care,” he adds. “She’s not your early-game lane to babysit. She’s her own late-game monster.”

A sharp, unwilling laugh punches out of me. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the true way,” he says. “You want to help her? Win. Make sure the story tonight is ‘SEVENTH HEAVEN stomped’ and not ‘Y/N ruined them.’ She already set fire to his narrative with that video. Don’t burn your own for free.”

He’s right.

Of course he’s right. Again.

I inhale slowly. Exhale.

“Okay,” I say.

In the corner, Mingyu is pacing.

“He’s so dead, bro,” he mutters. “Did you watch the video? That was a clean 3–0 callout. He’s gonna come back with a Notes app apology.”

Seungkwan is leaning against a water cooler, phone in hand, reading comments. “Chat calling him ‘gaslight gank main’ is sending me,” he says. “Also, someone edited your face over her shoulder in the thumbnail. Not sure how to feel about that.”

Vernon looks up from his own phone. “Video hit ten million views,” he says. “Mostly support. Some trolls. But the narrative flipped.”

“Good,” I say.

“Also,” he adds, “your name is in the top ten related searches now.”

I grimace.

“Celebrity boyfriend era,” Seungkwan sings. “You better not fumble.”

“Can we focus?” I say.

Seungcheol claps his hands once. “All right,” he cuts through. “Reset. We fix the early mistakes, punish their overconfidence, and we finish this. Got it?”

“Got it,” we chorus.

We go back on stage.

This time, when the broadcast cuts to her, I don’t flinch.

I see her, headset on, posture straight, eyes sharp. A quick graphic flashes on screen:

“Special Analyst: Y/N – Hextech Hot Takes”

It’s surreal seeing her brand under the league logo.

She looks calm. Untouchable.

In my chest, the jealousy cools down, turned into something else: pride.

Game three starts.

This time, my hands don’t shake.

I stop thinking about what’s happening off-stage.

I think about the game.

Our comp.

My reads.

My team.

We play clean.

We play mean.

We play like SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Mingyu secures every crucial objective like a man possessed. He steals one Baron with a Q-Smite combo so disgusting even the opposing crowd groans.

Vernon hits impossible engages that crack their comp open. Twice he finds their ADC through fog, and I follow up without thinking.

Seungkwan turns into a pentakill waiting to happen. He doesn’t get it, but every fight feels like it’s three autos and one crit away.

Seungcheol leads calls like a general. Calm, firm, exact. “We don’t need to chase. Take tower. Reset. Breathe.”

I see the windows, and I don’t hesitate.

I go.

I trust myself.

I trust them.

I trust her too, weirdly, even though she’s not in the game. I trust that while I’m doing my job here, she’s doing hers out there, and I don’t have to fix her world for her. We’re playing different maps, but we’re on the same side.

We win.

The nexus explodes in a bloom of color.

Our logo flashes across the screen.

The crowd detonates into shouting, confetti, songs, chants.

We’re champions.

People are hugging me.

Someone’s yelling in my ear.

Mingyu’s got me in a headlock, yelling something incoherent about “WORLD BUFFS” and “FIRST ROUND MY TREAT.”

Seungkwan is sobbing into a SEVENTH HEAVEN flag, tears mixing with glitter. “WE DID IT, YOU EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED KING!” he bawls. “YOU DESERVE LOVE AND A GOOD SLEEP SCHEDULE!”

Vernon is laughing, breathless, eyes crinkled. “We actually did it,” he keeps repeating like he doesn’t believe it.

Seungcheol has that rare, almost private smile on his face, the one he only lets slip when something truly lands. “Good work,” he says, pulling us into a group hug whether we want it or not.

Through all of it, a thought cuts through the noise like a clean objective ping.

Find her.

I scan every visible corner of the stadium. The analyst desk. The press section. The green room door.

I don’t see her.

“Go,” Mingyu says suddenly, releasing me and giving me a shove towards the tunnel.

I stumble. “What?”

“Go find her,” he says. “We’ll stall.”

“I have media—”

“We’ll tell them you’re overheating,” Vernon says.

“You are overheating,” Seungkwan adds, fanning me with a towel. “Your ears are the color of infernal drake. Also, if you don’t go, I will.”

“I’ll bench you,” Seungcheol says mildly.

It’s unclear who he’s talking to.

Probably all of us.

I don’t wait to find out.

I run.

The city outside is cooler, quieter, but my head is loud.

I don’t check my phone. I don’t check socials.

My feet know where to go.

The café.

Of course it’s the café.

The little one with the wobbly chairs and too-strong ramyun. Where I first saw her in person and did nothing.

I spot her through the window first.

Same corner table by the glass. Laptop open. Hoodie on. Hair down, half-tucked behind one ear. A half-finished drink next to her, condensation dripping slowly down the plastic.

Her expression is relaxed for the first time in weeks. There’s still a faint tightness around her eyes, but she looks more like herself.

I push the door open.

The bell chimes.

She looks up.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

“You’re supposed to be on a stage somewhere covered in confetti,” she says.

“I did that already,” I say, stepping closer. “Confetti’s overrated.”

She huffs a little laugh. “How does it feel? Champion?”

“Strange,” I say honestly. “Good. Loud. Also…”

I trail off.

She waits.

“Incomplete,” I finish.

Her brows lift. “Incomplete?”

I sit down across from her. The chair wobbles a little. I steady it with my foot.

“There’s something I didn’t say,” I tell her. “And if I don’t say it now, I’m going to be thinking about it during every interview, every stream, every solo queue game until I lose my mind.”

She closes her laptop halfway, her full attention switching to me.

“All right,” she says softly. “Say it.”

I take a breath.

“The fake dating,” I start, “stopped being fake for me a long time ago.”

Her fingers still on the edge of the laptop.

“At first, it was strategy,” I say. “Smart. Clean. Efficient. It helped kill the narrative and boosted both our platforms. It was about controlling the story.”

I swallow, throat dry.

“Then you started coming to scrims,” I continue. “Sitting behind me in review. Roasting my interviews with love, not content. Watching my VODs and seeing things in my play that even I hadn’t fully articulated.”

Her eyes stay locked on mine.

“Last night, I watched you post a video that could’ve blown up your career,” I say. “You told the truth anyway. You chose clarity over comfort. That’s… who you are. You don’t weaponize the narrative. You straighten it.”

The words come easier now.

“I like you,” I say. “Not the idea of you. You. The way your brain works. The way you refuse to punch down. The way you tell the truth even when it hurts. The way you looked at me on that VOD and said, ‘You’re not a coin flip.’ I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that since.”

A breath, shaky.

“I thought I could keep it fake,” I admit. “I was wrong.”

Silence.

For a second, I think I’ve misplayed my entire life.

Then she exhales, very softly.

“Good,” she says.

I blink. “…good?”

“You’re finally caught up,” she says.

My confusion must be obvious, because she smiles—small and a bit disbelieving, like she’s surprised she’s saying this out loud.

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” she says. “Not once. Not really.”

My chest tightens.

“Everyone kept asking if I was bitter, obsessed, out for revenge,” she goes on. “But I was thinking about you. About SEVENTH HEAVEN. About how this mess would bleed into your games, your focus, your mental. About how it would feel for you to have my entire drama pinned to your name, when all you ever did was exist near me.”

I stare at her.

“You cared more about my mental than his storyline,” I say quietly.

“Obviously,” she scoffs. “He doesn’t have any mental to protect.”

It makes me laugh, sharp and helpless, some tight knot finally loosening.

She leans forward, elbows on the table.

“I like you too, you idiot,” she says. “Have you not noticed me risking my subscriber base to publicly thirst over your gameplay?”

I blink. “You—what?”

“I literally called your flanks ‘art’ in my last analysis,” she says. “Do you know how feral my chat gets when I praise you? I had to delete four edits. Four.”

Something in my chest expands, painful and light all at once.

I stand.

She does too.

We meet halfway around the table, space between us suddenly small, charged in a new way that’s not pretend, not scripted, not for anyone else.

Up close, I can see the faint smudges under her eyes, the way her lips tilt when she’s trying not to grin too wide.

My hand hovers for a second.

“Can I?” I ask.

“You better,” she says.

That’s all the permission I need.

I cup her jaw gently.

She slides her hands up my hoodie, fingers curling at the back of my neck.

We kiss.

It’s not cinematic. Our noses bump. Someone in the back snorts. My heart is beating so loud I’m pretty sure she can feel it through my chest.

But it’s real.

Warm and steady and grounding in a way no win, no trophy, no title has ever been.

When we pull back, we’re both slightly breathless.

“Tell Seungkwan he’s not allowed to monetize this,” she murmurs.

“He already has,” I say. “In his mind. There are probably emotes.”

She laughs, the sound soft and bright and alive.

“Let him,” she says. “As long as we get to write the patch notes.”

“Deal,” I say.

She brushes a thumb over the corner of my mouth, gaze dropping to my lips again.

“Come here, champion,” she says.

I do.

And for once, I’m not thinking about the game.

Just… us.

Finally.

A few weeks later, she sets a camera down on the table between us and says, “Okay. No backing out. We’re doing this.”

We’re at a tiny ramen shop this time, not the café. Late night, post-scrim, both of us in hoodies and caps. Real date, actual food, no PR manager pacing outside.

The camera’s red light turns on.

“Hey guys,” she says, voice slipping into that familiar intro cadence, but softer somehow. “Welcome back to Hextech Hot Takes, but today’s episode is… different.”

She glances at me, grin tugging at her mouth.

“Today,” she announces, “I’m finally filming my FIRST REAL DATE VLOG.”

She flips the viewfinder so we’re both in frame. I raise a hand in a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” I say. Smooth as always.

“This is Jeon Wonwoo,” she tells the camera. “Mid laner for SEVENTH HEAVEN. Previously known as my ‘fake boyfriend’ slash shield against nonsense narratives.”

“And currently?” I ask.

She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Currently known as my real boyfriend,” she says. “Who is going to let me interview him on this date and not run away.”

“I agreed to this under duress,” I inform the lens.

“You agreed to this because you love me,” she corrects.

My ears heat up. “Don’t say that on camera.”

“Too late,” she chirps. “Clip it, chat.”

There is no chat, but I know there will be later.

We film.

She asks me stupid questions like, “When did you realize you liked me?” (I lie and say “somewhere around Week 2,” not “the first time you roasted my Azir on YouTube.”)

I ask her questions like, “When did you realize you liked me?” (She says, “When you didn’t argue with me calling your draft grief, you just said ‘I’ll do better.’ That was hot.” I have no response to that.)

We eat. We tease. She makes me rate the ramen like it’s a champion skin. I call it “Legendary-tier.” She dabs broth off my chin with a napkin while the camera’s still rolling.

Later, she edits the footage with her usual chaotic precision. Cuts away right as I’m about to say something too soft. Adds dumb captions over my face like:

“MID KING, SOFT BOY EDITION”

The video goes up on her channel a few days after that.

“FIRST REAL DATE VLOG (ft. SEVENTH HEAVEN’S MID LANER)”

The views climb fast.

I scroll through the comments, half-dreading, half-curious.

Fan edits. Capslocked screaming. People saying things like “THERAPY IS CURED.”

And pinned at the very top, with a little blue check next to the username:

SEVENTH HEAVEN – SEUNGKWAN: “he better treat u right queen 😤 if he doesn’t i’ll steal him and treat BOTH of us right”

Vernon replied under it:

“this is a threat and a promise”

Mingyu added:

“i was the flower boy in this relationship from the start”

And from the official team account, clearly hijacked by our captain for thirty seconds:

SEVENTH HEAVEN – OFFICIAL: “As long as both of you are happy and we still win, this is captain-approved.” – S.Coups

She screenshots the comments and sends them to me with:

“your team is insane.”

I reply:

“yeah. but they were right about one thing.”

“what?”

“i really do have to treat you right.”

“good answer, mid king.”

The next time she hits record, there’s no fake label to hide behind. No “pretend.” No “for the narrative.”

Just us.

In the same patch.

There are many kinds of rulers in this world.

There are those who command with words, whose voices stir hearts and ignite revolutions. They are the ones who walk among their people, speaking their names, promising change, vowing to carve a future from the echoes of their declarations.

There are those who lead with steel, standing shoulder to shoulder with their warriors. They do not hide behind castle walls or dictate orders from gilded thrones. Instead, they wade into battle, blood and dirt staining their armor as they fight not for their people, but with them. Their respect is earned through sacrifice, their loyalty forged in the crucible of war.

There are those who crave power, who see a crown as a means to indulge in riches and decadence. They rule for themselves, their subjects nothing more than a means to an end, a source of wealth, labor, or entertainment. Their reigns are often short, for greed invites downfall, and the people will only endure so much before their patience runs thin.

There are those who manipulate, spinning webs of deceit and secrets, ensuring they remain atop their throne not by brute strength, but by outmaneuvering all who seek to dethrone them. They are the masters of whispers and veiled threats, the ones who turn allies into enemies and enemies into pawns. Their rule is precarious, but their cunning makes them dangerous.

And then, there are the strategists—the ones who do not seek the throne but ensure it stands. They are the quiet architects of empires, fixing problems before they become catastrophes, moving pieces in a game only they can see in its entirety. Their victories are not sung in ballads, but without them, there would be no kingdom left to rule.

Among these rulers stands a warrior. A ruler who sees themselves not as a sovereign above their people, but as one of them. You fight because you must, because you know too well the cost of trust misplaced, the sting of betrayal buried deep in your bones. Your kingdom flourishes not because of fear or blind obedience, but because your people believe in you. A belief earned not by words, nor by political maneuvering, but by action.

And standing in opposition—or perhaps, beside you —is a strategist. A man who does not understand why his betrothed insists on throwing herself into the chaos of war when you have an army to fight in your stead. To him, a ruler’s duty is to command, to make the decisions that win wars before they are fought, not to risk her life on the front lines. Yet, despite his disagreements, despite the frustration that burns beneath his carefully composed exterior, he will ensure one thing above all else.

That you will always return home to him.

The war drums thundered in the distance, their rhythmic beat echoing through the valley. Soldiers stood in formation, banners fluttering under the weight of an approaching storm. At the front of the army, where a ruler should not be, you sat atop your steed, eyes fixed on the battlefield ahead.

"You should not be here," came the calm, measured voice from beside you.

Wonwoo’s horse moved in perfect step with your own, his dark eyes unreadable as he studied the scene before him. He was dressed in practical armor, unadorned but effective, his sword sheathed at his side. Unlike you, he had no intention of drawing it today.

"And yet, here I am," you responded, not sparing him a glance. Your fingers tightened around the hilt of your weapon. "Where else would I be?"

"In the war room. Behind the walls of your stronghold. Anywhere but in the path of a blade meant for another."

Your lips curled in something that was not quite amusement. "And leave my people to bleed while I hide behind stone and parchment? I am no coward, Wonwoo."

"Cowardice and wisdom are not the same," he countered smoothly. "A leader’s duty is not to die for her people but to ensure her people do not die at all."

You turned to him then, eyes burning with something fierce and unyielding. "And what would you have me do? Sit idly by while my people pay the price of my decisions? I will not lead from the shadows, Wonwoo. I will not rule from fear of death."

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, barely restraining the sigh that threatened to escape. He had known this argument would go nowhere. It never did.

"Then at least allow me to ensure you return home in one piece," he said at last, his voice quieter now, steadier. "If you insist on standing in the fire, I will be the one to pull you from the flames."

Your gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before you turned back to the battlefield. The war horns sounded. The battle was upon you.

And just as always, Wonwoo would ensure you came back alive.

The first clash of steel rang through the air, drowning out the war drums. The battlefield erupted into chaos—shouts of soldiers, the sickening crunch of metal against flesh, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. You wasted no time, urging your horse forward into the fray, your sword flashing in deadly arcs as you cut down the first enemy in your path.

Wonwoo remained close behind, his movements precise, controlled. He did not fight with reckless abandon, nor did he lose himself in the battle’s frenzy. Instead, he watched—analyzing, predicting. Where you fought with passion, he fought with calculation.

And still, his eyes never strayed too far from you.

A flash of movement—a blade aimed directly at your exposed side. Wonwoo reacted before he could think, his own sword meeting the strike with a sharp clang. With a swift, efficient motion, he dispatched the attacker, his grip tightening around the hilt.

"You are reckless," he muttered under his breath, stepping closer as you turned to him, expression unreadable.

"And you are predictable," you shot back, breathless but smirking. "I knew you would cover me."

Wonwoo didn’t answer, only letting out a soft exhale. Of course you had known. You always did.

The battle raged on for hours, long enough for the sun to bleed into the horizon, staining the sky in hues of crimson and ash. The once-green valley was now a sea of churned mud and trampled bodies, the earth slick with blood.

It happened fast—too fast.

You were locked in combat with a soldier twice your size, blades clashing in rapid succession. You didn’t see the second soldier closing in behind you.

But Wonwoo did.

“Behind you!” his voice rang out, sharp and clear, but he was too far.

The second soldier lunged.

You spun, blade meeting the strike—but too late. The enemy’s sword carved a thin, shallow line across your side, slicing through leather and grazing flesh. You hissed sharply, pain blooming white-hot across your ribs.

Wonwoo was already there.

His sword cut through the first soldier with cold, lethal precision, then struck down the second attacker in a single blow. His movements were swift, practiced—but his eyes were wild, dark with fury.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. His hands were already on you, gloved fingers brushing against the torn leather at your side, seeking the wound.

“It’s nothing,” you gritted out, trying to shake him off. Your hand was still tight around your sword, blood still staining your knuckles. “I can still fight.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed, dark with barely restrained anger. His voice was low, sharp.

“Enough.”

The word cut through the battlefield noise, cold and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Before you could protest, he caught your wrist and yanked you close. Your chest collided against his armor, and before you could react, he was hauling you onto his horse.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you snapped, struggling in his grip.

“Getting you off the battlefield.” His tone was unwavering, unyielding.

“I swore I wouldn’t leave my—”

“I swore I would bring you home,” he bit out, his voice low but fierce. His arms tightened around you, firm and protective, refusing to let go.

And you knew, despite your protests, he would always keep that vow.

The ride back was silent.

You sat stiffly in front of him on the horse, your back pressed against his chest, but neither of you spoke. Wonwoo’s arm was a steel band around your waist, keeping you secure despite your attempts to squirm free in the beginning. Eventually, you stilled, the throbbing ache from your wound making you lean ever so slightly into him.

You could feel the tension in his body—the rigid line of his shoulders, the sharp edge of his jaw pressed against your temple when the horse jolted forward. He was furious, you knew. Not at the enemy. Not at the battle.

At you.

When you reached the stronghold, he dismounted first, gripping your waist firmly as he helped you down. His hands were steady—too steady. Wonwoo was always composed, but you could feel the storm barely restrained beneath the surface.

He didn’t say a word as he guided you inside. His grip on your wrist was gentle, but unyielding, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“Wonwoo—” you started once you were in the privacy of your chambers, but he cut you off with a look.

“Sit.” His voice was low, rough. A command.

You blinked, startled by the sharpness in his tone. He was never this curt with you. You parted your lips, ready to argue, but something in his eyes made you pause. So, without another word, you sank onto the edge of the bed.

He knelt before you without hesitation, pulling off his gloves and setting them aside. His fingers were steady as he unlaced the buckles of your leather armor, but he refused to meet your eyes.

The metal plates clattered softly to the floor as he removed them piece by piece. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching. Only when he peeled back the torn fabric of your tunic did he pause, inhaling sharply.

The cut wasn’t deep, but the sight of blood against your skin made something dark flicker in his eyes.

“You said it was nothing,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-rough.

You winced slightly as he pressed a damp cloth against the wound. The sting made you hiss, but you bit your lip, refusing to pull away.

“It is nothing,” you insisted quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

Wonwoo’s fingers stilled for half a second.

Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours. And it was only then that you realized the depth of the fury he had been holding back. It wasn’t loud or explosive. It was sharp and quiet—a barely restrained storm, threatening to break.

“That’s the problem,” he said softly, but his voice was like iron. “You’ve had worse.”

Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but he wasn’t finished.

“You’ve had worse because you’re reckless. Because you don’t think. You rush in without hesitation, without care for whether or not you come back.” His voice was calm—too calm. That sharp edge of control only made it more cutting. “And you think it’s noble. You think it’s brave.” His fingers curled slightly around the cloth in his hand, knuckles whitening. “But it isn’t.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“It’s foolish,” he muttered bitterly, voice barely above a whisper. “And one day, it’s going to get you killed.”

There it was—the truth he had been holding in, the words he hadn’t spoken on all the battlefields before this one.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound in the room was your unsteady breathing.

Then, softly, you reached out. Your fingers brushed over his knuckles, curling around his hand.

“I know it’s foolish,” you admitted quietly, surprising even yourself with your honesty. “But I’m not afraid.”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened. “I am.”

The confession fell from his lips before he could stop it. His voice was so soft, so raw, that it felt like a blade against your chest. You felt the weight of it—the fear he had never spoken aloud, the quiet dread he carried every time he watched you ride into battle.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

“You’re afraid of being a coward,” he muttered. “And I’m afraid of losing you.”

The words hung in the space between you, fragile and heavy all at once. You stared at him, your chest tightening with something you weren’t sure you could name.

For once, you had no retort.

You watched as he set the cloth aside, his fingers trembling slightly when he pressed them over the bandage he had placed over your wound. His touch was light, almost reverent, as though he feared you might break beneath his hands.

“Don’t ask me to watch you die,” he whispered, voice barely audible. His eyes found yours—dark, pleading, stripped bare of the careful mask he usually wore. “Don’t ask me to be strong enough for that.”

You stared at him, breathless. His eyes were steady but filled with so much restrained emotion that it made your throat tighten.

You reached up slowly, cupping his face in your hands. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and for the first time since the battle, he let out a shaky exhale, closing his eyes briefly at your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, brushing your thumb gently over his cheekbone. “Not without you.”

His eyes opened slowly, dark and searching, and something in them softened ever so slightly. His hands came up, trembling slightly as he cradled your face in return.

“Swear it,” he muttered softly. “Swear you’ll come back. Every time.”

You held his gaze, your voice steady despite the rawness in your chest.

“I swear it.”

And then, before either of you could speak again, he was kissing you.

It was not a soft kiss. It was desperate, rough-edged with fear and longing, his lips pressing against yours with a fierce, unyielding tenderness. His hands framed your face, holding you there as though you might disappear if he let go.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic, pulling him closer. You could taste the salt of his sweat, feel the ragged edge of his breath against your lips.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut. His breath was uneven, but his hands never left your face.

“I will bring you home,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and steady. “No matter what it takes.”

You pressed your lips against his again, softer this time, but no less sure.

“I know.”

And somehow, you knew that no matter how many battlefields you walked into, no matter how reckless or stubborn you were, he would always be the one who brought you back.