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*Twenty-four years ago*

“Yoon Jeonghan!” His mother’s voice boomed through the small home, your full name quickly following, but it was fruitless. The two of you were already running out the door, giggling, both of you with handfuls of the cookies that his mother had spent hours making.

“This way,” you tell him, and the seven-year-old boy nodded, following you without any further questions. Just like you did him.

Pushing aside a broken board in a fence, you and him slipped through into an abandoned looking backyard. On the other end of the yard, there was an old wooden shed and exactly where you were leading him. The once fresh and crisp wood now weathered from age and the elements; the door barely held onto its hinges, and a window that had several cracks in it.

Your hidden oasis. Yours and Jeonghan's little hide out.

Inside the old building, cobwebs covered corners of the walls. There was an old lawnmower that was rusted and abandoned to time and a built-in table to one side that was already filled with other snacks and drinks you both swiped from each other’s home. There were also two small sleeping bags laid out to be able to sit on the ground without getting your bottoms dirty.

“I can’t believe she fell for that,” Jeonghan giggled, setting his share of the cookies onto a broken plastic plate, one your grandmother threw away and you dug out of the trash to use in your ‘hide out’.

“I told you, she would. She’s like my grandma when she is baking.” You tell him with ease. Your seven-year-old confidence was admirable, your share joining his on the plate, except for one that you were going to eat. Taking a bite of the soft warm cookie, you continued to talk with your mouth full, “It was all a matter of striking at the right moment. You know this, Hanni.”

“She is going to be so mad at me when I get home,” He chuckled, his own mouth now full of cookies. You roll your eyes, reaching up from your place on the ground to grab two juice boxes, because you knew Jeonghan’s mom wasn’t going to be that mad. Not like your grandma would be at least. “She will be!”

“She never stays mad at you,” You quipped, dropping your cookie to cross your arms, a pout already forming. “You hardly ever get in trouble.”

“That’s not true!” Jeonghan shot back, copying you exactly, but stuck his tongue out in the process. “You don’t know how often I get in trouble. Especially because of you!”

“I don’t tell you to join in! I suggest!” You could feel your body growing hot with annoyance, dropping your arms with your fists now clenched. “You are the one who gets me in trouble all the time!”

“Yes, you do! You pulled my hair the last time I didn’t go with one of your plans!” Jeonghan snapped, and you gasped like he had just insulted your entire doll collection. Then you hit his arm, and his face darkened. “See! You hit me if I don’t agree with you!”

“You pushed me in the mud the last time I disagreed with you!” You countered, your young voices rising as you both did, getting into each other’s faces. “And I was grounded for a week after that too! I couldn’t watch TV because of you!”

Somehow this turned into a little squabble, where you and Jeonghan grabbed each other. Your hand was in his short dark hair, while he was trying to swat you off, crying out to let him go. In the middle of it, one of your feet kicked the plate that held your stolen cookies, breaking the plastic further and the baked treats were now being trampled by your feet.

“Look what you did!” Jeonghan yelled,  pointing to the cookies when he finally was able to get your hand out of his hair while you stood there. Your face contorted into anger, and more offense that he would blame you when he was being the mean one.

“I didn’t just do that! You did too!” You retorted, and the young boy rolled his eyes. “Our cookies are ruined! And so is our little spot! You need to clean that up!”

“No, you!”

“You!”

In the end, the two of you ended up sitting on opposite ends of the sleeping bags. Arms crossed, backs facing each other, while the broken cookies and plate rested between you both. The silence was loud as you both refused to be the one to speak first, both of you too stubborn to break first.

In the end it was Jeonghan who broke the silence, standing to grab another juice box for you both and a packet of candies that you liked from the table. A peace offering in a way. You shot him a look, your eyes dropping to the candies and juice box before up to his face. His gaze was softer, with an apologetic expression on his face.

“Sorry,” He mumbled, and you tried to keep up being mad, but the way his bottom lip jutted out as he apologized made it hard. Instead, you reached out and took the offerings, and he sat down next to you.

“Sorry too...” You mumbled, sharing the candies with him before cleaning up the broken plate and ruined cookies.

*Thirteen years ago*

“Oh my god, Jeonghan, stop hogging the joint!” You whined, reaching for the rolled up paper that had your weed in it, but Jeonghan seemed to be trying to smoke it all to himself.

“Give me. Remember its puff puff give. I only did one puff.” He retorted, holding the joint just out of your reach so you were practically falling into the eighteen-year-old boy.

“Bullshit! That was more than one; hell it was more than two! It was like three!” You argued back, your arm still outstretched to grab the joint from him, “Yoon Jeonghan, if you don’t give me that joint now, I am beating your bitch ass up.”

“Please like you can take me,” Jeonghan laughed, attempting to put the burning joint back to his lips, his other arm trying to push you back while you fought to grab it from him.

You both were back at the shed again, the same old structure still holding out even after all these years, but things were different. The old lawnmower was now gone and sitting next to the it, collecting more rust and cobwebs in its new home, the webs in the corners no longer there, and the sleeping bags had changed to an old loveseat that one of your friends found. The juice boxes and snacks that were once on the table were replaced with a pizza box, a half empty bottle of Jeonghan’s dad stolen whiskey, a baggy of cheap weed, and some rolling papers.

And the two seven-year-olds who would hide away in it with stolen snacks, or other things to entertain were now eighteen. Freshly graduated from high school, stuck in that limbo stage where you both weren’t quite adults but not quite children anymore, and preparing for the next steps in your life. You were going off to a school abroad while Jeonghan was staying back in your hometown, choosing to go to a local college first.

“God, you’re so annoying,” You pouted, practically pushing him back and sitting on his stomach to grab the joint, but laughter was filtering out of you before you could stop it. Bringing laughter from the pinned man below you, a lazy smirk played over his lips like he was meant to win this no matter what. “Jeonghan, you’re going to smoke it all!”

“Then I will buy you more!” He argued, and you slapped his chest. Grabbing your wrist before you could hit him again, Jeonghan’s grip held you there as he lifted the joint to your lips. Like instinct, you took a deep inhale, letting the harsh herb fill your lungs and altering your non-sober state more. You try to free yourself from him, so you can smoke it how you wanted, but he wouldn’t let you.

Pulling back finally, you blew the smoke from your lungs into the air, and it was then that Jeonghan let you go, only to be smacked in the chest once more before you slipped off him and back to your seat next to him. Your leg tucked under you, your bare skin pressing into the old wood by your weight, but you ignored any possible splinters that may come from it.

“You suck, you know that?” You tell him, and this earned another chuckle from him.

“And you blow. We’re both whores here.” Jeonghan teased, placing the joint between his lips to rest his arms behind his head. Each breath inhaled the smoke from nearly finished joint into his lungs. His long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, but there were several strands that fell loose around his face.

His old Sublime shirt torn in a different place and showed off his stomach from the way he was laying, skinny jeans, and a gold chain with angel wings that was once yours laying against his throat. Skin glowing from the setting sun and the lantern behind you both, making him look ethereal.

You envied how beautiful your best friend was.

“Give me that,” You quipped, taking the chance to swipe the joint from him. A triumphant smile was playing over your lips before you realized that it was nearly gone. “You asshole, you smoked most of this.”

“And you drank most of my whiskey. Call us even.” He answered dismissively, closing his eyes briefly.

“Whatever,” you told him, taking whatever hit you can of the joint before putting it out, smashing it hard against the wood. Silence followed, the two of you sitting at the doorway of the shed, your eyes scanning the overgrown yard and the half burnt down house just feet from you.

It’d been like that for years, with no one coming to do anything about the destroyed home or the property it stood on, making it a haven for you and Jeonghan growing up, and a place of many things. Your first kiss with a boy that smelled like he used a whole can of body spray to cover that he hadn’t bathed, Jeonghan’s first kiss with a girl who tried to fight you over him.

You spent nights in the shed to avoid your grandparents and their old fashion but offensive words, many with Jeonghan right next to you. Refusing to leave you while you refused to crash at his place, because you knew his mom would call your grandparents. You got high and drunk for the first time with him next to you, and blasted music through a shitty speaker that neither of you could explain the origin of.

Hell, you two used it as a place to hide once when you had the cops called on you for stealing. You don’t think either of you had ever been so scared thinking you were caught, but it didn’t stop you because the thrill left you both laughing until your stomach hurts.

You laughed, cried, and felt every emotion you could think of in this shed, with Jeonghan beside you. In a week's time, you will be on a plane to a new country with a family friend willing to house you during your studies, and away from your home. Away from your life, away from the little shed. Away from the comforting blanket of your hometown.

Away from Jeonghan.

“You’re thinking too loud again,” His voice pulled you from your thoughts, turning your gaze toward your best friend. He was still laying back; arms folded behind his head as a pillow and prop, with his eyes on you. A small sad smile played on his lips, because he knew what you were thinking about too. “Talk to me, bug.”

"You're a bug. I should squish you," You answer back, matching his smile as you watched him let our a breathy laugh.

“I would like to see you try. You couldn’t even get the joint from me.” He then lifts his leg to nudge you with his knee. “Now, talk to me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“I mean, yeah your face is, but it’s at least pretty while being it.” He offered and you slapped his knee. He then sat up, giving you the famous lazy Jeonghan smirk you grew up seeing, but you could tell it was only a front.

“Just… growing up.” You told him, gesturing between the two of you, “We’re no longer kids anymore…”

“Debatable.” He murmured while you spoke.

“…we graduated high school and are preparing to be thrusted into the real world. We’re having to finally grow up and face life. I’m…” The words failed you then, and in its place was a soft choking sound. A sob that wanted to burst through, but you managed to swallow it back while blinking the sudden tears that wanted to fall. Jeonghan could see it all as he nodded. “I’m leaving… leaving everything I know…” This time your voice cracked, “Leaving you.”

“Please, the moment you agreed to marry me on the playground at five you were stuck with me.” Jeonghan answered, doing what he did best, trying to make light of something instead of showing what he’s really feeling. And you hated that it would work more times than it didn’t. “Just… there is going to be some distance between us. It’s not like I’m not a phone call or message away, and we’ll see each other again. This isn’t a final thing.”

“It feels like it is.” This comment made him tsk at you.

“It doesn’t to me.” He shook his head, watching through broken windows as a car passed by. The driver wouldn’t even know you were sharing one of the last times together before life took hold of you. One of the last times you would be free like this, this age, in the moment, and with the only person, besides your grandparents, who stuck by your side.

Someone you grew up with, someone you got into trouble with, someone who never was fake with you. Someone you saw every day and spent most of it with. Your best friend.

“It doesn’t?”

“Of course not. How could it be when we are still so young?” He asked simply and you could only listen to him, “It’s also not like you are leaving for good. Your grandparents are still here; your friends are here… I am here.”

“But what if our lives don’t allow room for each other anymore?” This earned another tsk, as well as an offending sounding laugh. Hurt flashed across his eyes before he looked away, like it was preposterous to even say something like that.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ll always have room for you in my life.” He said curtly, and you dropped your shoulders while making an over exasperated sigh. That wasn’t what you meant.

“Ugh, Hanni, I don’t mean it like that.” He turns his attention back to you, before flashing it toward the whiskey bottle. “I mean... what if even when I come home… we don’t have time for each other? We don’t get to see each other. You’re going to be working, going to school, and eventually you’re going to fall in love and have a partner. Same for me too.”

“I’m not sure how that sounds any different than your previous statement,” Jeonghan mumbled this, pushing his lip out in a pout. Reaching out, he caught a tear falling with his thumb, only to yank his hand away and shake it like he touched lava. This did what he wanted it to, which was to laugh.

“Hanni…”

“It’s okay. I forgive you for hurting my feelings. This is a hard time for us both,” There was so much honesty to his words, it was also written all over his face. He was trying to not think about the inevitable, which was you were leaving. Not the forever he had declared, but it was still hard. “It’s not just you losing something, I’m losing my best friend. My partner in crime. Who am I going to get into mischief with? Joshua?”

“I mean… at least he’ll keep you from getting arrested.”

“If he’s not too busy fucking anything that will let him.” Jeonghan rolled his eyes, “But I’m serious. You’re not the only one who loses something in this. Except I’m not accepting that this is it, because it’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do, I’m Yoon fucking Jeonghan. I can bend the will of others with a flick of my wrist, and this will bend to my will.” You still don’t look convinced, and he clicks his tongue before speaking again, “How about this? If life takes us on different paths that separate us further, then the year we turn thirty-one, we meet again. You and me… and any husbands, wives, fiancés, life partners or children we may have. Somewhere nice, somewhere where our busy lives can’t touch us. Where we can catch up, and remember that it’s always been us, and it will always be us.”

“Really?”

“Yes, now ask me what will happen if life doesn’t do that.” He smirks, and you giggle.

“What will happen if life doesn’t?”

“Then we do it still!” He announced throwing his arms up, before one found its way over your shoulder. “No matter what, no matter where life takes us, we meet the year we turn thirty-one.”

“Why thirty-one though?”

“Because it’s too cliché to meet when we turn thirty. Goodness, this isn’t one of those romance movies you make me watch.” He gave you a brief squeeze before getting up to grab the whiskey bottle. “So, what you say?”

“I can easily argue that the last three romances we watched was because of you, not me.” Jeonghan sat back down next to you, the bottle in his hand, but it remained unopen. His attention was on you, his eyes watching you as you try to find the words. Every part of him told you that he was serious about this, and it helped ease an ache that was building in you. “And let’s do it.”

“Perfect. Now let’s drink to the future.”

A week later, you were clinging to him at the airport as your grandfather got your luggage together. This time tears weren’t holding back, Jeonghan wasn’t able to say anything to help because he was busy fighting his own. Instead, he just held you as you gripped at the offensive SpongeBob shirt he was wearing, soaking it with not just your tears, but the mascara and eyeliner you had thickly drawn on. Only to have it cried away telling your best friend goodbye for now.

“Hey,” Jeonghan’s voice was soft when he pulled back, making you look at him. His eyes were shining, and red. Evidence that he’d been crying, though you knew he’d insist he’s actually high, and it nearly broke you. “Remember what I said. The year we turn thirty-one.”

You nodded, and he gives you a soft smile.

“I’ll send you the details, so make sure you have the entire year free.” He teased and you let out a soft laugh before jumping from him, pinching you. You break away from his grasp to hit his shoulder. This earned a soft laugh from you, your eyes dropping to the angel wing necklace that still rested around his neck.

“I’ll be sure to have all my information changed by then.” You laughed, and he pinched your side again. Your name then came from behind you both, your grandparents calling to you. It was time to go. Looking back at Jeonghan, you gave him a watery smile, “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” This was the first time his voice finally cracked, and a tear started to fall. It was real. It was happening.

“I’ll text you when I land.”

“You better.” He teased. “I will see you again.”

“See you again.”

**A year ago**

Your phone chimed right as you were cooking dinner, cutting off the music playing briefly, but you weren’t able to stop what you were doing to look. Too focused on making sure that you didn’t burn anything, but the couple that was in the kitchen with you noticed.

“Need me to check that?” You heard Celeste ask, and you looked over your shoulder, to her and Soonyoung grabbing the plates and cutlery for the table.

“No, it’s okay. I can check it later,” You waved her off, “Dinners ready, and we have a proposal to go over.”

“I thought there was no work talk at dinner?” Soonyoung teased, making you shoot your friend and co-owner a look, only to earn a playful wink back. He then turned to his fiancé with a smile, “If we’re working while we eat, you might as well open two bottles. One for us and one just for her.”

“Watch it Kwon, or I’ll run this company with Celeste instead” You warned him, grateful that Celeste was already stepping in to grab his collar to drag him out of the kitchen with everything to arrange at the table.

Twenty minutes later, the three of you were sitting around the table, two wine bottles open with one in front of you and one between the couple. You all were talking animatedly about the proposal that you and Soonyoung were putting together, hoping that the potential investor takes on your ideas and help launch your small business globally. Soonyoung had been right to have your own bottle open; it helped ease the tension that was building in your shoulders over all this, and there were more laughs than not.

“I think we should add some tiger imagery to the presentation; you think we can do that?” Soonyoung suggested a wine glass coming up to his lips, only for it to be stopped by his fiancé. He looks at her with confusion as she only shook her head. Celeste supported his love for tigers, but even she knew when to draw the line.

“I should hire you as our creative director,” You joked, tipping your own wine glass in her direction. “You can save me from a lot of tiger themed merchandise and advertising.”

“I love you, but if I took that, I probably would be canceling the wedding instead of planning a honeymoon,” Celeste laughed, and Soonyoung looked offended. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, I know how you are when you’re working. We met at work, remember?”

“Of course, I do. I barely was able to focus at meetings because all I wanted to do was look at you,” You actively rolled your eyes as the couple stared at each other like they hung the sun and the moon for each other, and it reminded you just how single you have been for the last few years. Happily single, but not when you were around these two being so sickeningly in love.

“Gag me.” You muttered making the two look at you. Celeste playfully stuck her tongue at you, and Soonyoung pretended to growl. That was when you knew that you had lost them both to being lovey toward each other. You took this chance to check your phone, remembering it had gone off while you were cooking.

It was a message. From Jeonghan.

Your eyes widened as your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass, or you were going to drop it onto the table and spill wine all over the place. Casting your eyes up, you were relieved to see your two friends were still too busy staring at each other to notice your reaction.

You and him hadn’t really spoken in nearly six years, not since you came home for your grandfather’s funeral. Of course, you would wish each other a happy birthday, send the occasional meme, or a quick hello, but other than that, you barely spoke. You didn’t want to admit that it was hard for you to respond because it made you want to go back to being that eighteen-year-old again.

But you knew what this was about. You had turned thirty recently, and his thirtieth was a few months away, which meant that the promise the two of you had made at eighteen, smoking and drinking in that abandoned shed, was also coming due. And he was reaching out to solidify the plans.

You should’ve waited to read and respond after your friends left, when you had time to yourself, but you didn’t. Clicking the notification, you unlocked the phone to read the message. Only to find it was confirmation for your plane tickets, and a set of dates. The first week of April next year, and for a week.

Back home. Where you hadn’t stepped foot in nearly six years.

A few more messages had followed.

Jeonghan: Told you to keep your schedule open. Jeonghan: See you in April, bug.

**two days before**

You might’ve been overthinking it. No, you were overthinking this as you stared at an empty suitcase, piles of clothes folded around it on your bed, bags of new clothes at the foot of the bed, and your toiletries all laid out on your bathroom counter. All waiting to be packed.

None of your clothes had felt right, the makeup you chose to bring felt too plain, and your nerves were starting to suffocate you. A part of you felt like you shouldn’t feel this nervous, because it was just Jeonghan, but another part felt you were justified because it was Jeonghan. You hadn’t seen him in person since your grandfather’s funeral, only ever seeing his life through photos that he posted online.

Picture of him traveling with Joshua, and with your other friends, and relationships that never seemed to last a few months before the person disappeared from his photos. You watched his success in becoming a pharmacist like he had always wanted and was making a life for himself. He owned his own home, and he appeared happy with his life.

You had done the same, but away from him. You made a life where you now were, and selfishly barely looked back; especially after your grandfather had passed. You made friends where you were, had relationships, started a business with Soonyoung, and you made a life for yourself. You had become a different person, like he had.

This fact wasn’t the only thing that had your nerves starting to settle uneasy in your gut. You were both different, and what if that difference was so great that neither of you could enjoy your time together again. Uncomfortable strangers the entire week instead of old friends looking to reconnect.Not only that, but what if also being back home made it worse? That being there was more painful than it should be, and it made you resent your oldest friend for bringing you back?

Then your phone chimed, with a message coming through.

Jeonghan: See you when you land. Jeonghan: And stop overthinking things. I can hear your thoughts all the way over here. Haha.

That made you burst out in a laugh, because of course this silly line he used to say to you growing up would help loosen some tightness in you. It didn’t settle your nerves though, it only unraveled them, so they weren’t making you want to throw up and cry at the same time.

You responded.

You: Too late, so deal with it.

His response was instantaneous.

Jeonghan: Gladly.

**April**

You swore this entire journey had been one big April Fool’s joke with the way everything had gone wrong. You managed to finally pack everything, though you still weren’t happy with your choices you couldn’t just go naked, but you overslept the morning of your flight. The ride you had ordered was canceled at the last minute, making you late to the airport and nearly missed boarding.

Checking in had been a nightmare, and then there was a delay taking off.

When the plane did finally set off, you thought you would be in the clear for now. It would be smooth flying after this, and the bad luck got itself out of the way now than following you the entire trip. You hoped that the long flight will go well and give you a chance to rest, or Jeonghan was going to see you have an absolute crash out over it all.

You managed to get enough sleep, so you weren’t as cranky when you landed, but it left you feeling stiff. You even tried to stretch some before unboarding, but it and the awkward shuffling didn’t help. Gripping at your carryon, your focus was to get your suitcase and out of the airport. There’s a bed somewhere calling to you, and you were ready to meet the call.

With your suitcase now secured, you checked your phone to see if Jeonghan was there yet after insisting on picking you up instead of ordering a ride. Except when you looked around the semi-crowded airport, you didn’t see him anywhere. There was no sight of the famous Jeonghan smirk, no sign being dramatically held up with your name, or anything like that.

Your phone started to ring in your hands.  

“Where are you?” You answered, pressing the device to your ear and skipping any and all pleasantries. This earned a chuckle on the other side, and your eyes immediately narrowed. Even with the time apart, you knew never to trust that chuckle.

“About that…” He started slowly, showing you were right not to trust it. There was no way he was going to try and fuck with you, but you should’ve known better, “I am running late, car troubles, won’t be there for a few hours. You’re going to have to wait until I get there.”

“Yoon Jeonghan…” You took in a slow breath, trying to fight the annoyance that was bubbling under the surface. No, he wasn’t going to do this to you after the trip you’ve just had, “You better not be fucking with me right now.”

“I wish, I could say I was,” There was a sigh to his voice, but before you could let him have it, he continued, “I am very sorry, bug. I wish I was there to see you right now. With your hair an absolute mess, your sweater falling off you, and the way you are pouting right now. It’s so cute.”

“Huh?” You blinked, looking down at your body. Your sweater had fallen from your shoulders and was resting right at your elbows while strands of your hair escaped the loose ponytail you had put up. How the hell did he know if he wasn’t there? Before you could question it, you felt a light tap on your shoulder. Twisting around, Jeonghan was standing there.

The phone still pressed to his ear, eyes shining with excitement and mischief, and that smirk that you once knew oh so well. His hair was shorter than the last time you seen him with it back to his natural dark brown. He was in a simple black t-shirt with a matching jacket and a pair of white pants, and you couldn’t stop the way your heart skipped at the sight of him.

“April Fool’s. Forgive me?” He teased, barely able to hang up the call before you were throwing your arms around his neck for a hug. The force of you jumping into him made Jeonghan stumble back slightly, but once he was able to catch his footing, his arms wrapped around your waist.

He pulled you so close your body was pressed against his like he had been desperate for this moment, but you were no better. Nuzzling your nose into his shirt, taking in the scent of his perfume and the way he held you tight. His own nose pressed to your hair, breathing in the faint smell of your perfume and shampoo, fingers flexing and squeezing gently at your sides.

Both of you forgot that you were still in the middle of the airport.

“You asshole!” You finally bursted out when the two of you parted, slapping his arm while he laughed at you attempting to scold him. He saw the smile forming over your lips, making the smirk he was wearing turn into a genuine smile. One that nearly stole the very breath from you, “That wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.” He still hadn’t let go of you, his hands resting on your hips like they always belonged there, his gaze drinking you in. Then he stepped back, withdrawing his hold on you to reach for your suitcase handle, “Now, let’s get out of here before you shove me into the cargo hold of one of these planes.”

“You would deserve it,” You retorted earning an eye roll from him. One hand placed firmly against the small of your back, and the other pulling your suitcase behind you. With cool precision, Jeonghan directed you out of the airport while chatting with you about his day and asking you about your flight.

Like it was all part of a daily conversation you would always have, and there was no time between your last full conversation that wasn’t in text.

“After you,” Jeonghan announced, making sure to open the passenger door for you while providing an overexaggerated bow that made you playfully swat his shoulder. A giggle escaped you as you got into the car, while he finished putting your suitcase in the back. Settling into the driver’s seat, he flashed you a lazy smile and you missed the way his hand twitched slightly to reach for yours. Instead he put the car into drive. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You know, you never told me where I was staying.” You told him, your eyes watching the way the town looked now. Businesses that were once there on the main street gone, replaced with franchise stores and popular food spots. Places that you once occupied with your friends or grandparents gone, showing that the town was growing and changing like you had.

It didn’t feel like your old home, but there was still something about it that told you it was. Just with a different look.

“Easy. With me.” He said with no hesitation, making you look at him. He had a pair of black sunglasses on, leaning back against the driver’s seat with one hand on the wheel while the other rested on his lap. Looking relaxed as he drove through the familiar streets. Stopping at a light, he cast a glance your way and you weren’t sure, but you thought that his relaxed smile faltered slightly. “Rather get a room? The old motel is still open, but you might have to cuddle with some roaches and a few rats.”

“I think I am good on that,” You don’t hide your look of disgust, and this made Jeonghan start laughing as the light turned. “I would like the bed I sleep on be free of other occupants.”

“Is that so?” He muttered, his focus on the road letting silence fall over you. The radio was playing quietly, and you started to notice the familiar names of the streets.

They were the same names you would see every day growing up, the same streets you used to run around growing up. You chance a glance toward Jeonghan, only to find his focus on the road but the look on his face told you that he was waiting for your reaction.

Especially once he turned on the familiar street that the two of you grew up on.

“I knew you moved close to family, but I didn’t know you…” The words stopped in your throat when you pulled up to a beautiful home. It looked newer compared to the others on the street. White with grey trimming and a neatly cut yard with a stone pathway that lead right up to a small porch with a planter next to the door.

It was beautiful and unfamiliar, but you knew this property. It didn’t matter how long it had been since you came back; you knew exactly where you were.

“Come on, bug. Let’s get inside.” Jeonghan didn’t give you a chance to process your thoughts before he was shutting off the engine and unbuckle both of your belts. He was out of the car, leaving you there staring at the empty seat that he had once occupied.

It was the sound of the trunk closing that you were able to kick start back up and rushed to get out the car to follow him up the small pathway to the front door. Your heart was pounding in your ears, eyes wide staring at the home and Jeonghan’s back.

Once inside, you didn’t stop to look around the home, instead your feet took you from the front door, through the open living room to a set of glass doors. If Jeonghan had said something to you, you didn’t hear it because your focus was getting to the backyard. You barely looked around the yard itself, just that it was well taken care of.

No, your focus was on the shed that was in the same familiar place. You could feel tears starting to burn your eyes, memories flooding back to you, your eyes flicking over to the fence that once had a broken board. It was fixed with forsythias and azaleas flourishing in front of it, but you could still see a young Jeonghan popping through it while you waited for him at the shed.

“It’s not the same one.” Jeonghan said softly behind you, but you didn’t look back, not wanting him to see a few tears fall. “The old owners finally sold the property four years ago to a realtor company. They rebuilt the house and tore down it before putting the place back on the market.”

“And you bought it.” You responded, finally looking at him. He had his hands in his pants pockets, balancing on the balls on his feet, while his eyes were on you, catching more tears starting to fall.

“Yeah, well, with the help from my parents. With conditions obviously,” Jeonghan continued, keeping his attention on you, “Moment I moved in, I had the shed put back in. It’s used to actually store shit, not a hang out like we used to have it, but just something didn’t feel right without it there.”

“What was the conditions?” You asked in a small voice, trying to wipe away the wetness from your face, when Jeonghan caught your elbow. Pulling you into a hug, he let out a soft tsk.

“Let’s not worry about that right now.” It was a clear deflection, but he wouldn’t let you wiggle away from him to call him out. Then his hands found its way to your sides and started to tickle you.

“Jeonghan!” You let out a small squeal, giggling while trying to get away from him. His own laughter mixed through yours in a sweet melody, helping you forget your tears.

“Come on, let me show you to your room.” His arm thrown lazily over your shoulder, directing you back toward the house. “And no roaches or rats to cuddle with.”

Jeonghan gave you a brief tour of his home, a kitchen and living room open floor style. Three bedrooms, the larger one with an ensuite on one side, while the two smaller ones with a Jack n Jill style on the other. Your room faced the yard, giving you perfect view of the shed, while Jeonghan had the larger room.

He left you to unpack and get cleaned up from your travels. The shower felt good, hot water helping you loosen the still sore muscles from your long flight and fight off the fatigue that you didn’t know was creeping up on you. By the time you had gotten out, your skin felt flushed from the heat with your hands and feet slightly wrinkled. The towel Jeonghan had left out was dark grey, soft and fluffy and felt like heaven against your skin.

It felt good to be out of your airport clothes and in a soft pair of leggings and oversized t-shirt. Your hair was still slightly damp, so you left it loose around your bare face Now that you were back around Jeonghan, the nerves you were feeling all but melted away and didn’t feel like you needed to look all done up just to lounge around the house.

“Hope you’re hungry.” He announced proudly when you finally emerged, setting two beer bottles on the table with a spread of take out. He wasn’t looking your way. “You took so long I managed to make us a feast.”

“Make us a feast huh?” You laughed, crossing your arms as you take in the sight before you. “Wanted to make sure it was authentically homemade by including the plastic containers?”

“I mean, only the best for…” His words died on his tongue as he went to look at you, his hand slowly dropping to his side. There was a flicker of awe and desire that went across his face before he shook his head, and it was replaced with a smirk. “…you...”

“I feel so honored,” You went to pull out of the chairs to sit, but Jeonghan had beat you to it by pulling it out for you instead, before taking a seat next to you, focusing on the containers. Grabbing both beers, you popped them open with ease and set them down in front of you both.

Dinner consisted of the two of you stuffing your faces, battling over the last pieces of meat, which he won by cheating at rock, paper, scissors. You drank several beers between you each while talking about work, friends, family, and life. You told him about meeting Celeste in college then later Soonyoung through her, the jewelry business that you and him thought up after too many bottles of wine, how it actually was doing well, and the couple’s upcoming wedding.

While Jeonghan told you about college, the trouble him and their friends got into, updated you on his parents and sister, and about the pharmacy he works at with Joshua. You laughed over stories, and it felt like no time had passed between you.

“What about relationships?” Jeonghan asked, leaning back in his chair with a beer close to his lips, watching the way you swirled your beer around in the bottle. “Anyone special?”

“Just a vibrator named Owini with two I’s.” This made Jeonghan raise a brow as he took a sip. “O.W.I.N.I. Orgasm when I need it.”

“Clever.” He coughed out after nearly choking on his beer, laughing at the name.

“What about you? Anyone in your life?” It was your turn to watch him, trying to gauge his reaction. Jeonghan was leaning back against the chair, looking forward with a half-smile playing over his lips.

“No one special. At least not for a long time.” He answered finally, finishing his beer with a smack to his lips. Licking them, he sat the beer down onto the table before standing and stretched. He ignores the confused expression on your face with his sudden movements, “Let’s get this all cleaned up bug and have a few more beers. Maybe watch a movie or something.”

You nod your head slowly, following suit to help throw away the empty containers and put away anything that you two didn’t finish. When you were done, Jeonghan grabbed a few more beers from the fridge and met you at the sofa to find something to watch. Picking some random movie that you couldn’t remember the name, both of you talked and laughed until all the beers were empty and Jeonghan was half asleep on the sofa.

**Day 2**

“Oh, it is so good to see you sweetie!” Jeonghan’s mother wouldn’t let go of you, hugging you tightly as if you were going to disappear on her if she did. The next day the two of you had gone to his parents’ for lunch on his mother’s insistence, “I missed you, my dear.”

“I missed you too,” You answered, giving Jeonghan a ‘save me’ look when she didn’t let go, only for him he didn’t come to save you, instead just watched with mild amusement from his place against the kitchen counter. Releasing you from the hug, she grasped your shoulders to look at you, making you turn your gaze back to her.

“You should not stay away so long,” She scolded, leaning forward like she was revealing a secret, “Our Hanni has not been the same since the last time you left.”

“Oh…” You let out a nervous laugh, looking back toward Jeonghan with a questioning gaze, but he was no longer looking at you. Instead, he was staring warning daggers into his mother’s back. It reminded you how he wouldn’t look at you the previous night either, but before you could say anything further, you were being lead to a table full of food.

“Sit, sit. I hope you are hungry, I made all of your favorites.” You were then gently pushed into a seat, with Jeonghan following and took a seat next to you, “Oh goodness, I forgot drinks. Let me grab those.”

“I told her not to do all this, but she insisted,” Jeonghan had muttered so only you could hear.

“I believe it,” You responded back, leaning toward him with a raised brow, “What did she mean by you haven’t been the same?”

“Nothing, just missed my best friend is all,” He answered simply. For a brief moment you thought his gaze dropped to your lips before he looked away to speak with his mother. Changing the subject all together as well.

The rest of the visit had consisted of more catching up, with Jeonghan’s father and sister coming by to join in, but you were barely able to pay attention. You couldn’t stop looking over toward Jeonghan, feeling that there was something more than ‘he just missed his best friend’.  Like true Jeonghan fashion, he didn’t give anything away.

There was a possibility that you might be looking too much into it, reminding yourself that before you left for college, the two of you were with each other every day, and were inseparable. Hell, every time you came home, you and Jeonghan would always be together. Then after your grandfather passed away, you just… stopped coming back.

It wasn’t that you had wanted to stay away, it just was harder to come back now that both your grandparents were gone. It was hard to come back when you no longer would walk into the home you grew up to them, and life just kept getting into the way. Work ended up taking precedence since you and Soonyoung were focused on your jewelry company, finding the time off had grew harder, or whatever excuse you gave to make yourself feel better for not coming back.

You had known that it had affected Jeonghan, going from having his best friend every day to a few times a year to sparse messages and social media posts, but you didn’t think that meant ‘he hasn’t been the same’.

After leaving the Yoons’, you went with him to run a few errands that he’d needed to run, and the entire time you still had his mother’s words playing in your head. Which he noticed, but like him, you wouldn’t give anything away, giving the excuse you were just in a food coma.

“I don’t believe you, just so you know.” He told you, pushing up his sunglasses with one finger while his other hand rested on the steering wheel. Casting a glance toward you, he noticed that you were looking out the passenger window. “You can keep your secrets for now, but I will get them out of you. I always do.”

“I can say the same for you.” You chirped back, your eyes on the different buildings passing by, taking in the different buildings. Some familiar, some different. You could hear him let out a breathy laugh. “You have your secrets, and I have mine. If I have to spill so will you.”

“Touche, bug.”

Once back to Jeonghan’s, you disappeared into your room to answer some emails and make a few calls for work. You may have been on a trip, but that didn’t mean that you were truly on vacation, and the workload never ends. Soonyoung was a great business partner and assured you that he had it all handled so you can enjoy your time away (since you would be doing the same when he and Celeste went on their honeymoon), but you needed a bit of a distraction.

“You hungry?” Jeonghan had asked at one point, knocking at your door as he opened it. A smile playing over his lips seeing you sitting cross legged on your bed, laptop open in front of you. You had changed into a pair of comfortable shorts and a baggy sweater, your hair pulled back out of your face (save for a strand that wouldn’t stay) and look of concentration on your face.

You didn’t hear the hitch in his breath when you looked up at him, that look of concentration melt away to a small smile as you shook your head.

“I’m still full from that feast your mom made us,” You answered with a laugh, looking back to the laptop and to the email you had been working on. “I’m almost done here, just need to send off a few more emails, and then call Soonyoung regarding a large order of smokey quartz for our Smokey collection. I shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“You do know the whole point of this trip was to also not worry about work?” Jeonghan teased, making his way to the bed and flopped down onto the empty space next to you. Rolling onto his side, he looked up at you with his dark round eyes, shining with mischief with his hand inching toward the laptop to shut. Which you reached out and took with yours, holding it as you placed it back onto the bed. Making him pout.

“I am almost done, I promise.” You told him, not expecting the sudden urge to lean forward to kiss the pout he was sporting, nor the way you were still holding his hand. Or that he had adjusted the hold so that your fingers were laced together.

“Well, when you’re done, I’ll be right here.” He responded, finally letting go of your hand to roll onto his back, pulling his phone out to scroll. You raised your brow at him, he didn’t even look your way when he added, “Don’t look at me like that. I’m lonely out there and you’re in here working.”

“Price to pay on owning your own business.”

Though you did manage to get some work done, you couldn’t really concentrate with Jeonghan lying next to you, now fast asleep with his phone resting face down on his chest. The soft clicking of your fingers against the keys had lulled him into a sleep and you found yourself watching him several times. Taking in the way he still looked like the boy you had grown up with, only older. Thick lashes kissing his skin, skin still smooth but with the hints of age coming through. The lips that were pouting at you earlier, soft and plush looking, partially open with a soft snore leaving him. He looked peaceful, he looked breathtaking, he looked like he was where he was meant to be. Next to you. Your Jeonghan.

Your heart fluttered at this notion, the words your Jeonghan felt different even in your head. Or was it always this way and you just ignored it since he was your best friend.

When you finished your emails and came time to call Soonyoung, you chose to take it outside to not disturb the sleeping man next to you. You also wanted to enjoy the evening weather, finding yourself sitting on the step of the shed to take your call and maybe clear your head some.

The shed wasn’t the same, but the memories were still there when you sat down on the newer wood. The years you and Jeonghan spent in the old rickety building that once stood there, doing things that looking back neither of you had any business doing as teenagers. Drinking, smoking, and everything else that came with being rebellious teens and too much freedom to do it all.

It shaped who you both were as adults, and still a part of who you were. Even if you tried to run away.

“There you are.” Jeonghan’s tired voice had pulled you from your thoughts and tore your gaze from a patch in the grass to him. His face slightly puffy from sleep, and a yawn escaping him as he made his way to you before flashing you a lazy half grin. “Was wondering where you went.”

“I had to call Soonyoung and you were snoring. I didn’t want to wake you or have him questioning if I was next to a walrus.” You teased, unable to stop the corners up your lips to twitch up, earning a chuckle from the slender man.

“So, kind of you.” He muttered reaching you, leaning against the wall of the shed. The sun had already dropped past the horizon, but there was still a glow to the yard, emphasizing the shadows and adding a hauntingly beautiful look to the spring evening. “Clocked out now?”

“I’m always clocked in.” This made him chuckle, before slipping into his pocket to pull out a lighter and a joint. With the rolled herb between his lips, he lit it with the lighter. Taking a deep inhale, you watched him blow the smoke out. Looking your way, he offered it.

“You still smoke?” He asked, and you looked at the joint then back to his face. A brow raised, “Vernon managed to find some for me. I haven’t smoked since the last time you were here…”

“I actually quit myself,” You told him reaching out to take the burning herb and took a hit of it. The paper was damp from his lips, and the smoke felt harsher than it had in the past, making you cough out the cloud of smoke instead of inhaling it. You managed to take another pull from it, filling your lung with the herbal smoke. Allowing the head change take effect.

A silence followed, just the two of you passing the joint between you. Leaning back, your eyes went up toward the sky to take in the darkening sky as the stars start to appear. While Jeonghan just watched you.

“What did you mom mean?” You asked softly, after a few minutes of feeling his gaze and the joint passing between you. Looking down at the nearly finished joint, now a roach at this point, flicking some ash handing off it. “How weren’t you the same?”

“Were you?” He returned your question with one of his own, reaching for what was left of the joint. You let out a scoff.

“Of course I wasn’t. I lost both my grandparents within a year of each other, had to watch my uncle stick that stupid for sale sign in the ground before the dirt settle so he could pay his debts…” You waved your hand in the air at nothing, before dropping it into your lap. Pushing your tongue into your cheek, you continued. “I was hurting, I was angry at my uncle, I felt like I had nothing here that was mine anymore, and I just wanted to run away.” You took a breath, closing your eyes to hold back the angry tears that were prickling behind them. Remembering that feeling ruined your high. “I left already not the same, but how were you?”

Jeonghan didn’t respond for a moment, the flick of the lighter making you look toward him to find that a second joint appeared and was lighting it. He took a quick inhale of the sweet herb, before handing it to you.

“You need this more than I do,” He muttered as you took it, making you tempted to throw it at him and tell him to go fuck himself, but you stopped yourself. He looked up toward the sky, crossing his arms and you took in how he looked. His baggy jeans, and a shirt that had enough room for the both of you, hair sticking up from sleeping in your bed, and a pair of wired glasses. Ones he had to of thrown on after waking up.

You were slow to take a hit of the herb, watching him carefully.

“You had me.” He finally said, not answering your question. It should’ve infuriated you and call him out if you didn’t look so confused. Licking his lips, he looked at you before repeating himself. “You had me here still. I thought I was home for you too.”

Maybe he was answering after all, in his own cryptic way.

“You were… you are…” You told him, before sighing, “I don’t regret how long I’ve been gone, but I do regret not keeping in touch better with you. I should’ve tried better for that.”

“Maybe, but you’re here now.” Jeonghan leaned forward and took the joint from you. “I plan to make sure you remember that you’re home with me.”

You watched as the joint pressed between his lips, the way his eyes closed slightly as he took a hit, unable to tear your gaze away. Slowly his eyes opened and you could see there was a sign of mischief there. Hiding away the vulnerableness that he’d been displaying. You watch the way his own gaze dropped to your lips then back to your eyes, blowing the smoke gently from the side of his mouth.

“Why do I feel like you are trying to make me fall in love with you?” You asked, meaning for it to be a tease but it came out breathier then you meant. Part of you thinking he might kiss you, but instead he let out a laugh, leaning back against the shed wall. Like nothing happened.

“Who knows, maybe I am.”

**Day 3**

To say you didn’t really do anything was a bit of an understatement. There has been no plans for the day, aside from the plans to meet friends later, so you just laid around. Collecting your energy for a night out drinking and spending time with old friends. Well, at this point they felt more like Jeonghan’s friends rather than your own, but he had insisted that wasn’t the case. That everyone missed you and were excited to see you again.

Jeonghan also continued on the day like the previous night didn’t happen, as if he didn’t look at you like he wanted to kiss you, or ‘joke’ about you falling in love with him. He just laid around with you, bugging you at random times about how bored he was, but wouldn’t get up to do anything. He would whine about how warm you were, but he seemed to scoot closer instead of away.

He would random poke you if you weren’t paying attention to him, complain about anything you turned on, but refused to choose anything. And the entire time used his pouty voice if you snapped at him.

 “That’s it!” You growled out, grabbing the hand that attempted to pull a strand of hair falling into your face, distracting you so his other hand could tickle at your side. With his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your tank that had ridden up, making you jolt and grab that hand as well. Wrestling to get him to stop.

You’d forgotten that Jeonghan was a lot stronger than he looked, and could easily break your hold, but instead he was letting you think you were overpowering him. Filling the room with laugher, and in your wrestle, you found yourself straddling him.

Then you both froze, realizing how close you were. The tips of your noses brushing, both breathing heavy from the exertion, eyes locked with a new emotion coursing through you. Deeper than desire. Your hold then loosened on his wrists.

Now this wasn’t the first time you had ended up like this, you had many times in the past wrestling with each other. You’d done it since you were kids, with it always ending with you both laughing and unable to keep annoying the other.

This time…this time it was all different.

Your name fell from his lips before you were kissing him, which Jeonghan didn’t hesitate to return. His hands dropped down to your waist, pulling you closer until your chest was flushed against each other. A whimper left you at the desperation that flooded him, his tongue sliding over your bottom lip, wanting more—which you willing gave him.

His lips felt like heaven against yours, and the way his tongue teased yours it left you needing more of him. More and more. Your fingers pushing through his soft strands, while his dug into your hips to pulling them down to grind on him. Feeling him already hardening underneath the soft grey fabric of his sweats, making you grow hot with need and dampen your underwear.

Then you broke from the kiss, staring at your best friend in shock while he stared at you with desperate need in his heavy lidded eyes. His bottom lip swollen from your kiss, hands still holding onto your hips like a vice, and his arousal pressing against you. With your own body ablaze with the same need right down to your core.

“I…” You scrambled off him to stand, “I… we shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry… I… I need to get ready for tonight.”

Before Jeonghan could answer or stop you, you were already rushing to your room. Slamming the door behind you as you went, leaving him to stare at the space where you had been standing. Licking his lips, he slammed his fist onto the sofa cushion in frustration but stopped the frustrated groan that wanted to escape. Standing, he took off toward his room.

The ordered ride to the bar was an awkward one, with neither of you would speak or look at each other. You on one side of the backseat, playing with the pockets of your cargo pants before readjusting your tank and cardigan, the fabric not feeling like they fit right. While Jeonghan sat on the other side, looking out the window while his own hands were balled into fists on his lap.

The kiss hung between you, leaving you unsure how to approach it while Jeonghan was just unreadable. There’d been moments you thought he was angry with you, others he seemed frustrated, and then finally he appeared…sad. It ate at you, making it even harder to find the words.

The sound that erupted from the group when you entered the bar was almost deafening, and making others look your way. You were then showered with hugs, first by the girls and followed by Seungcheol, Vernon, and Joshua. Jeonghan had disappeared to the bar, leaving you to greet everyone.

“It’s been way to long,” Eunji couldn’t stop saying, hugging you for what felt like the nth time, “I thought you weren’t ever coming back.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just… needed to be away.” You answered, when she finally let go of you for good, but that was because her fiancé, Vernon, had pulled her back to his side.

“No need to explain to us. We understand.” It was Vernon who spoke up, a finger wrapped through a hoop of Eunji’s pants, keeping her in place. “What matters is that you’re back.”

“And me missing you all matters too, ya know?” You pointed out with a teasing smile, when a cold glass of beer was pushed into your hands, making you look up to see Jeonghan had rejoined the group. He didn’t look at you, instead moving to Seungcheol and Joshua, leaving the others to surround you. Looking down at the beer, you hoped that your friends didn’t pick up the tension between you. Which by the silence and looks everyone was giving each other, you knew better.

You could see the way Eunji was about to open her mouth, only for her fiancé’s hand conveniently found its place over it. Minnie, who had been waiting for her moment to give you a proper hug, gave you a questioning gaze, while Seungcheol, Joshua, and Joshua’s wife looked at Jeonghan.

“I see one thing hasn’t changed,” Minnie had murmured into your ear, taking the beer so she could get an actual hug from you, “We are going to be talking about this.”

As the night went on, the tension between you and Jeonghan had loosened with him eventually finding his way back to your side. Arm thrown over your shoulder, like he hadn’t been giving you the cold shoulder since running from him and the kiss you shared, as he talked and laughed with everyone. Poking, teasing, and smiling at you like you hadn’t just rejected him in one of the worst ways possible.

It had helped you relax outwardly, joining in with the talking, teasing, even leaning into him and his touch. It was easy to do, even with the tension burning between you, it was easy to lean into his warmth like he would you. Except inwardly, you had a war raging on. One that involved the very man you were leaning into.

“I’m going for a cigarette.” Minnie announced, lifting Seungcheol’s hand off her knee to stand, grabbing her designer bag in the process, “Who’s coming with me?”

“I will,” Eunji practically jumped out of her seat, looking around the table for anyone else, both of them stopping briefly on you and Lily, Joshua’s wife. Subtly hinting that you were to join them.

“I have to pass. I been trying to quit, and don’t want to be tempted, sorry.” Lily answered, sipping at the bright blue cocktail she had ordered.

“Never apologize for that. You got more will power than I do,” Minnie waved her hand, her eyes going back to you, “Anyone else?”

“I’ll go,” You announce, standing with Jeonghan’s arm falling from your shoulder as you did. Making him look at you with a confused expression, “Just need a bit of fresh air. I’ll be back.”

You barely make it out of the bar before you were being cornered by the two women.

“Okay, spill.” Eunji demanded as Minnie pulled out a pack of cigarettes, grabbing two and a lighter from the box. One for each woman.

“What are you talking about?” You attempted to feign ignorance, but it was clear the two didn’t buy it. The three of you were very close growing up, they witnessed how you and Jeonghan were, and still knew you better than you realized.

“Either one of three things is going on here. You two either have nothing to talk about, and it’s awkward as shit…” Minnie responded, placing the cigarette to her lips and lit it.

“Which is impossible with you two,” Eunji chimed in, taking the lighter from Minnie to light her own. “No matter how many years have passed.”

“You got into a stupid fight over something like the color of his socks, or…” Minnie walked closer, holding the cigarette out enough so the smoke wasn’t hitting your face, taking in how you crossed your arms and looked away. Leaning in, it felt like the last one was more of a secret, “Something happened between the two of you…”

“And you were the one to freak out.” Eunji finished for her, “And now it’s awkward.”

“Why would it be me?”

“Because it’s always you.” Vernon’s voice popped up behind you, causing the three of you to jump. He casually walks past you to Eunji, taking his cigarette in the process to take a drag, “I had a feeling they were doing that weird best friend gang up thing.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You answer, feeling your cheeks starting to burn.

“They kissed,” Vernon took another long drag of the nicotine stick, causing your jaw to drop opened, “Jeonghan told us in there.”

“Of course he did,” You muttered, watching the way Eunji and Minnie were ready to start jumping for joy.

“Finally?!” Eunji asked with excitement, but from the look on Vernon’s face, as well as yours, that Jeonghan didn’t stop there. Flicking the ash off the cigarette, the younger man took one more drag before handing it back to his fiancé.

“And that you freaked out and ran.”

“I didn’t run, I didn’t even leave the house.” You tried to defend yourself while your two friends excitement started to deflate.

“No, but you locked yourself in your room.” It was times like this that Vernon made you wonder how easy it was to get away with murder. Eunji will be able to find love again, she can move on, and you could disappear. Change your name, live in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere.

“Ugh,” Eunji let out a groan, dropping her head back and shoulders down in frustration. While Minnie could only stare at you, gaze unreadable as she pressed her cigarette to her lips, with one arm crossed her midsection.

“What?” You asked, your own frustration started to bubble over as it slowly started to occur to you that your friends knew something that you didn’t know. Something that Jeonghan clearly was aware of, but not you. Something about you and him. “I kissed him, yes. We were wrestling and it just happened, but it shouldn’t have. It just made things awkward and could just ruin our friendship.” You didn’t mention how much you wanted to do it again but couldn’t risk losing him for good. “What is with this ‘finally’ shit, anyways? Like shouldn’t you guys be worried that this could ruin our already fragile friendship.”

There was a silence as the three looked at each other. Like it dawned on them that you really didn’t know.

“You really don’t know?” It was Minnie who asked, taking another long drag as she moved her gaze to you again, followed by the couple behind her.

“Know what Min?” You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides, but there was something deep in you that told you that you already knew. Something that was sitting inside you for years, and you refused to acknowledge it, because it was easier than to face it.

There was a beat of silence between the four of them, with Eunji focused on her cigarette, Minnie watching you with an almost pitied look, and Vernon pushing his tongue into his cheek. Each of them waiting for the other to either come out with it, or for it to finally dawn on you. For you to finally see it.

“That he’s in love with you…” It was Vernon who said it, since neither of the girls spoke up, then his attention went to Minnie, “You think I can get my own smoke?”

You stood there in absolute silence while a pack of cigarettes exchanged hands, staring at your friends. It wasn’t that you had needed to process this, it wasn’t that at all. Instead, the words reached into your chest, into your heart and pulled out something you already known. Something he was trying to tell you, that he’s been trying to tell you.

“You guys are insane,” You finally spoke, looking away from them, pulling your cardigan around you when a cool breeze hit. “Jeonghan loves me, but he’s not in love with me.”

“Are you saying that to convince us, or convince yourself?” Minnie then asked, taking the pack back, her voice soft and understanding. You didn’t answer, still not looking at her, Vernon or Eunji, not trusting yourself to. “Did Jeonghan tell you what his parents condition was when they helped him buy that house?”

“No…” You had asked Jeonghan at least twice what this condition was, but he wouldn’t answer and would change the subject. Instead of pushing though, you just let him change it, so you didn’t have to actually hear it.

“The condition was that he settle downs like the rest of us,” She continued, and you could feel your mouth go dry, make your stomach churn uncomfortably. Unsure if it was from the alcohol, hearing all this, or both, “Or he would have to pay them back every penny.”

This made you look up to see her smiling at you, with it being as soft as her voice. Minnie flicked the ash off the near finished cigarette, your friends letting you take in what you were being told.

“What does that have to do with me, though?” You asked, feeling like you already knew the answer without it having to be said.

“Because.” Dropping the cigarette onto the ground, the taller woman hooked your arm with hers to walk back to the bar. Leaving Vernon and Eunji to finish their own smokes, “For him, the condition wasn’t just anyone, because to him, it only would be you.”

You’d barely made it back into the bar before Jeonghan had let out an overexaggerated yawn as he announced that he was going to order a ride home. This earned a chorus of groans from everyone, except for you. Your brain was already a buzz from the conversations outside, with the only thing you could do was stare at him. The bill of his hat pulled low, with it and his hair falling over his eyes. There was a deep frown playing over his lips, and body language reading that he no longer wanted to be there.

“You staying?” He asked you, making you blink out of your thoughts, already having his phone out to get a ride ordered. Several pairs of eyes turn to you, waiting for your response. Minnie had found her place back next to Seungcheol, leaning into her boyfriend, watching you with a knowing gaze.

Telling you to go with him.

“Nah, I’m getting tired myself.” You answered, letting out a chuckle, “I honestly am surprised I managed as long as I have. I’ve traded a night out at the bar with a bottle of wine at home, and most times in bed.”

Jeonghan nodded, already having the ride ordered, and the group advanced on you. Hugging you tightly, telling you to keep in touch, and to visit more often. With Minnie hugging you a little longer than everyone.

“Call me tomorrow, okay?” She whispered in your ear, “If you don’t plan to return his feelings, then let him down gently.”

Neither of you said anything on the ride back to Jeonghan’s, but this time the silence felt different. It wasn’t tense like it was on the way to the bar, it had shifted after being out for a few hours to something that you had a hard time describing. His tired silence, leaning back in the seat with his eyes out the window, watching everything pass by. One hand resting against his head while the other rested between you both.

Beckoning you to take it.

Except you didn’t, with your own gaze looking out the car window as well. Vernon and Minnie’s words heavy in your head.

“He’s in love with you.”

“…because to him, it only would be you.”

“If you don’t plan to return his feelings, then let him down gently.”

They left you with one of two choices by doing this. Finally face what was always between you and talk to Jeonghan, or you run away again. Get the earliest flight you can and leave before Jeonghan could wake up. Continue to run away. Destroy a lifelong friendship, one that you were meant to reconnect during your stay, because you were the coward.

You needed to make a choice. You needed to make one then.

“I’m going to head to bed, I am pretty tired,” Jeonghan announced once back, making sure the door was locked behind you before flicking his gaze to you. Taking you in, while he forced a smile to his lips and another beat of silence followed.

He was waiting for you to say something, anything. It was your chance, you either faced it or you ran away, but words failed you. They failed you in a way that never happened before with him, and it scared you.

“Goodnight, bug.” He whispered finally turning toward his room, nodding his head like he received his answer again. An answer to a question or a confession that he never said out loud.

It suddenly infuriated you.

“Are you in love with me?” You blurted out, causing Jeonghan to stop only a few steps away, watching the way his back straightened at the question. The accusation.

“Yes, I am.” He answered without hesitation, turning to look at you. That forced smile turning into a sardonic smirk when your eyes widened at how easy it was for him to say it, “I am in love with you.”

“For how long?”

“Does it matter?” The question as simple.

“Yes…no…just tell me.” You let out a frustrated sigh, shoulders dropping as you do.

“I’ve loved you since we were children, even when you would pull my hair,” He let out a chuckle, crossing his arms, “But realized I was in love with you when I had to watch you board that plane for school.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it was easier to watch you go not knowing than if you did.” Jeonghan’s voice was low, the words stripping everything away that he hid behind, letting you see the raw side of him. And he still held eye contact with you.

“And the condition with your parents…”

“I had no intention fulfilling it if it wasn’t going to be you.” You noticed that he had started to close the distance that as originally there, pulling off his cap in the process so you could see his face better. Looking at you in a way he never had before, or that you noticed.

“Why?”

“Because no matter how I pictured my future, when it came to who I would spend my life with…” Jeonghan was now in front of you, close enough that you could feel his breath against your face. His hand ghosting over your cheek. You couldn’t move, you didn’t want to move, you were scared to move, “It’s always you. It’s always been you.”

“Jeonghan…” His name came out in a whisper, tears starting to fall down your cheek and that was when you felt the coolness of his hand cupping your cheek. His thumb wiping away a few away. “You’re an asshole.”

A soft laugh left him, dropping his hand and taking a step back. Taking your comment as a rejection, but it wasn’t. It was far from it. You finally found a name to what that missing piece was when it came to Jeonghan. Your best friend, the boy who would be waiting for you in that run down shed every day, the teen who would get in trouble with you, the young man who let you go even though there was an ache in both your chests, and the man standing before you.

All these versions of him were one thing to you. Your Jeonghan.

“You’re an asshole for not telling me sooner…” You pouted, grabbing the sleeves of his shirt to stop him, refusing to look away from him. His stupid, assholish, beautiful face.

“Yeah?” Jeonghan countered back, inching closer to you, his eyes flicking to your mouth.

“Yeah.”

He then kissed you, heated and hungry, like something inside him snapped; unable to hold back any longer. He had a taste of you earlier, and now that he had you again, he couldn’t keep pretending. You returned the kiss with a fever, gripping at the sleeves of his shirt because if you didn’t, he’d disappear.

His hand finding their place at your hips, squeezing them when you deepened the kiss, greedy to taste him again like you had earlier. This time with the notes of beer still lingering, but you were sure you were just the same. Releasing the sleeves of his shirt, you traced them over your shoulders and up his neck, earning a low groan from him when you gripped at the soft strands of his hair.

Hearing this sound sent a wave of heat down your belly, right to your core, your thighs squeezing slightly and enough for Jeonghan to notice. Making him pull away from your lips, reluctantly since he attempted to dive back in to reclaim them, only to stop himself.

“You’ll need to stop me now, because I have no intentions on it.” He said softly, willing to step away if you didn’t want to. You laugh pushing him toward his bedroom, tripping over each other and pulling off clothes in the process. With your bra and top gone before you made it through his bedroom door.

His shirt following quickly after, giving way to a lean frame with smooth undefined muscles, but you could feel them under your touch. Your cargos off next, leaving you in a pair of grey lace underwear, and Jeonghan had twisted you so the he was the one guiding you to his bed. His mouth claiming yours right as you felt his bed hit the back of your knees, making you drop down onto it.

Looking up to see Jeonghan standing before you, his eyes roaming from your own down your body before returning to them. His expression one of disbelief, like he couldn’t believe you were on his bed, half naked. And just for him.

“Hanni…” Anything you had to say was stopped by his kiss, more heated than any of the others you had shared.

Your hands and mouths touching and kissing anywhere and everywhere you could. His mouth teasing your breasts, sucking at the hardened peaks, while your hands ran over his body. Feeling his hardened cock over his pants before they too were gone. Followed by his boxers, and then your underwear.

“Fuck…your mouth is heaven,” He moaned out when you took his cock into your mouth, swallowing him down your throat eagerly, savoring the taste of him. With a few expert movements, Jeonghan had to pull back to stop from cumming down your throat and ending it all too soon. “We are going to have to revisit this later.”

“But…” Your words were swallowed up by his kiss, tongue claiming yours, pushing your back against the bed, his hips pushing your legs apart. Moaning at the feeling of his saliva slicked cock pressing against your own soaked cunt, rolling your hips up against his. Needing more of him.

When you felt two fingers tweak at one of your nipples, you roll him onto his back, straddling him. Grinding down onto him while one of your hands slip between you to grip his cock. With a gentle squeeze, Jeonghan broke from the kiss to drop his head back with a groan, moving both hands to your hips. The head of his cock catching at your entrance, making you both gasp.

Then you sank down onto him, a silent cry leaving you while Jeonghan’s eyes rolled at the way he stretched your gripping walls, until you were completely onto him. Only you didn’t stay there long, not giving either of you the chance to adjust before you were moving. Planting your hands onto the bed, you lift your hips off him, leaving only the head of his cock in you before dropping down.

Jeonghan’s hands gripped onto your hips, his eyes glazed over from arousal and the sight of you. Seeing parts of you that he only imagined, your bare breasts bouncing with each movement of your hips, your mouth falling open in pleasure, right down to where your two were now connected. The feeling of your walls squeezing and gripping at him was better than any late night thoughts could compare.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long, but he also didn’t want this to ever end. There was no way he could ever go back after this, he wouldn’t be able to go back to anything with you that didn’t involve this. Didn’t involve you being his.

“Jeonghan…” You whimpered, grinding down onto him to get more friction, feeling yourself winding tighter. The knot deep in your core threatening to snap. Then one of his hands slide from your hip to between your legs, pushing his finger up to tease your clit. “I’m close…”

“Do it, baby. Don’t hold back.” He tried to play it cool with a smirk, but he was just as much of a whimpering mess like you are. Looking up at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered. You were the only thing that ever mattered to him.

“Shit, Shit…” You chanted, every muscle tightening as you came, “I love you, I love you.”

Then you were on your back, Jeonghan rolling you over without pulling out, taking over for you. Fucking into you with a vigor you never experienced from him.

“I love you…” He whispered into your mouth, cupping your face, his own release following quickly after. Neither of you moved, staying connected as you came down from your highs, with him now pulling back to look at you. Your well kissed lips, your hair a mess from running your fingers through it, and your still glazed over eyes. A scene that made him fall even more in love. “Please don’t leave… stay… I can’t let you go again.”

“Jeonghan…” You sigh, closing your eyes as you attempted to slip off him. Oversensitivity starting to take over, but he kept you there on top of him. “I have to though…” That was when you felt his hands loosen on your hips, and the look on his face nearly broke you, but still a small smile graced your lips, “I mean… If I plan to move back, I got to get everything in order…”

“No you don’t,” He pouted, and you leaned forward to kiss him. Soft, promising. “You can just start back over here… I am not letting you go.”

“Then I guess we need to buy you a plane ticket then.” You tease, brushing a strand of hair from his face. His stupid, assholish, beautiful face that you’ve loved for years. “Cause I do have to go back.”

“We’ll see about that,” He smirked, making you laugh. “I love you. Always you.”

Thank you so much for reading I seriously hope you all enjoyed this!

Reblogs, and comments are appreciated! It doesn't just let my fic reach more people, it also is great to know I am doing well!

JUNE 2012

The air in Jeju at five in the morning had a specific smell: a mixture of saltpeter and damp earth. For you, that smell would always mean home. But for Seungkwan, from that day on, that smell would be just a memory stored in a distant compartment of his mind.

You were both sitting on the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School. It was your spot, a blind one for the security cameras where the school wall meet the precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks with rhythmic violence.

A pair of wired headphones connected the two of you, and the music playing was an acoustic demo of Last Love he’d recorded on his phone. His voice, still hoarse from sleep — because he’d woken up in the middle of the night to record it so he wouldn’t forget and you could listen — filled the silence between you.

“You’re not going to need a stage name name,” you finally said, kicking your heels against the stone, the thought occurring to you all at once. “Seungkwan is great. It’s unique. Boo too.”

He let out a nasal laugh, the vapor of his breath condensing in the cold of the early morning, his heels mimicking the same movement as yours. Seungkwan studied your profile, not understating why you gaze was avoiding his.

“Why does it sound like you’re going to cry when you say that?”

You shrugged, sulking internally. “I’m not.”

You did felt like crying, way more than you liked to admit. You were incredibly happy and proud of him, but you couldn’t shake the fear in the pit of your stomach telling you everything was about to change. And as silly as it sounded, you were trying to hold on to that small part of who he was in that moment.

“Then are you already planning my marketing?” He bumped your elbow with his. “I haven’t even stepped through the company gate yet. I could be sent back in the first month if I can’t keep up with the pace of the other trainees.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Below you, the waves began to decrease in intensity as the day began to rise. “I saw you rehearse that choreography until your feet bled at the harvest festival. Pledis doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”

“You should come with me,” he says like if it were the easiest thing in the world, eyes locking with yours with a small sparkle.

You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion, turning to him. The bluish light of pre-dawn sculpted his profile, and you felt a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t name. It was pride, but it was also the anticipatory grief of a loss.

“And do what? I can’t sing or dance for the life of me, Kwanie.”

“You can be my manager.”

“I’m pretty sure they already have people for that,” you argued, like that was the only problem.

“Then you’ll be my producer,” he countered instantly, his voice dropping the playful edge. He shifted his weight, turning his body entirely toward you so that the wire of the headphones tugged slightly between your ears. “It’s only eight months, tokki.”

You want to tell him he’s not coming back in eight months. That there’s no way in hell they’ll let him go without turning him into something bigger than this island could ever hold. But instead, you take a deep breath and watch the waves below.

“Eight months is a long time. There’s time to have had a child in that time.”

He scoffed. “A child with whom?”

“I don’t know! Youngjae is cute.” You shrugged again, pouting just to annoy him before flicking his forehead lightly. “We’re sixteen, dummy.”

Cho Youngjae.

He’s a cool guy. Tall, looks like a baseball player or something equally appealing, even though he’s only a few years older than the two of you. He’s always announcing that he wants to be a surgeon. Seungkwan swears he thinks he’s a good guy. The problem is that everyone at school knows he has a big fat crush on you.

And so does he.

“Why are we suddenly talking about Cho Youngjae?”

“Well…” There you were, avoiding his gaze again. “He invited me to watch him practice and get banana milk after school the other day.”

Seungkwan’s entire posture stiffened, and even though he tried so obviously to hide it, you noticed. The rhythmic kicking of his heels against the stone parapet stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves and the soft hum of his own voice through the shared earbuds.

“Practice,” he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the melody it usually carried. “And banana milk. Wow. He really pulled out the big guns, didn’t he?”

He looked away, staring out the horizon where a thin, pale line of orange was beginning to bleed into the indigo sky. The jealousy he felt wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, a realization that while he was moving toward a future with the possibility of bright lights and crowded stages, he was leaving a vacuum behind.

And people like Cho Youngjae—people who didn’t have to leave, people who could stay and buy you a snack after school—were already waiting to take his place beside you.

“He’s just being nice, Kwanie. Don’t be like that,” you mumbled, though you secretly relished the way his jaw tightened.

“I’m not being like anything,” he retorted, though he finally reached up and yanked the earbud out of his ear. The silence of the morning rushed in to fill the space. “It’s just… you don’t even like banana milk that much. You like the strawberry one.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the dawn chill.

You didn’t even know Seungkwan cared that much about strawberry milk or banana milk.

He turned back to you, and the playfulness was gone. He wanted to tell you not to go with Youngjae. He wanted to ask you to wait the eight months. Or ten. However long it took for him to get settled. He wanted to promise he would call you every night. That he’d send you the demos of every song he learned. That you shouldn’t let some high school baseball player wannabe make you forget about him.

But that wouldn’t be fair to you.

So instead, Seungkwan exhaled deeply and softened his expression as he sat back down beside you, slipping his side of the earbud back in.

“And you?” he asked, changing the subject, as he always did when the conversation was about to get too serious. “Are you going to keep hiding your talent for communication behind the inn counter?”

You sighed, glancing towards the horizon, where the orange line was growing bigger.

“My mother needs me here, you know.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the sturdy warmth of him through his jacket. “Since my father passed away, the inn is all we have.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, Kwan,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “The women around here don’t retire, they just merge with their work.” You shrugged. “Plus, someone has to carry the sheets and check in the tourists who think the island is an amusement park.”

There was a melancholy in the way you spoke, even though you tried to be humorous about it, and Seungkwan noticed.

“It’s temporary, tokki,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Someday you’re going to be the voice everyone hears on their way to work. I’ll be in the back of a black van on the way to some show, and I’ll turn on the radio, and I’ll hear your voice.”

You smiled, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. The idea seemed like a perfect fairy tale. A few years back, you would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, you knew that the distance between Jeju Island and stardom in Seoul was greater than a few kilometers of ocean; it was an abyss of social classes, restrictive contracts, and a lot sleep deprivation.

“Just…” you said suddenly, voice lost its lightness. “Promise me.”

Seungkwan leaned closer, the headphone cord stretching between you. “Promise what?”

“Promise you won’t abandon me.” He looked rather confused, opening his mouth to argue that he wouldn’t, but you didn’t let him finish. “Not physically, I know you have to go. But don’t let whatever is waiting for you there… change you.”

“Tokki…”

“Don’t let them turn you into a product I can’t recognize. I want that, ten years from now, if we meet again, I can still see the boy who used to steal tangerines from the neighbor’s orchard with me.”

He held your hand. His skin was warm against yours, which was frozen by the wind. “I could never forget you, even if I tried. You are my anchor, tokki. Seoul can give me the world, but Jeju is where my heart is.”

Even if that were true, the two of you couldn’t help but laugh when Seungkwan fell silent.

“You’re so dramatic, Boo,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “Pledis really is going to love you.”

Silence returned, but now it was different, the sun finally breaking through the sea’s edge and bathing the volcanic rock in gold. It was your signal: Seungkwan will be leaving for the airport in less than three hours.

“It’s time,” you murmured, though you wished you could freeze time. “Your mother must be finishing her coffee. She’ll be furious if you leave on an empty stomach.”

You stood, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along toward the low houses of the neighborhood, your hands brushing against each other but never truly intertwining due the silent fear that the contact would be too painful to break afterward.

“Are you really sure about this?” you asked, voice faltering slightly. You kicked a small stone, eyes fixed on your own feet. “Seoul is… far. Like, really far. It’s not like going to the airport. It’s another world.”

Seungkwan looked out at the sea in the distance. In Jeju, the horizon seemed like the end of everything. In Seoul, he heard the horizon was made of skyscrapers.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay.”

As you reached his door, the smell of seaweed soup and grilled fish wafted through the cracks. It was his last breakfast as a nobody. Before entering, you paused under the stone portico. You held his shoulders, forcing him to look at you one last time without the distractions of the adult life that awaited you.

“Listen carefully,” you began, voice firm despite the urge to cry. “Don’t look back when you get on that plane, okay?”

“What—”

You covered his mouth with both hands. “Just… let me finish, please.” He nodded, looking between your hands over his mouth and your eyes. “Jeju will be here. I’ll be here. But these… these are your dreams now. They’re no longer our childhood plans, they’re your reality. Go and conquer everything you said you would.”

Seungkwan pulled you into a quick, tight hug. It was the kind of hug meant to hold on to the other person’s scent for long days.

“I’ll go,” he whispered against your hair. “I swear I will.”

You watched him go inside, his silhouette swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen where his family awaited him. You stood there for a minute, alone in the morning chill, knowing that from that moment on, your lives would never be the same.

Then you walked toward your mother’s inn, the battery-powered radio in your pocket weighing like lead. You had a shift to work, sheets to change, and an ordinary life to lead, while he was about to become a constellation.

PRESENT

Studio B at the Jeju City Broadcasting was roughly the size of a walk-in closet—practically a shoebox—and smelled distinctly of stale iced americano, sea salt drifting in from the open window down the hall, and Seungkwan’s ridiculously expensive cedarwood cologne, which had seeped into the walls over the months.

It was a chaotic, cramped little ecosystem, and for the last fifteen years, it had been you’re entire world.

“You’re tapping your pen again,” Seungkwan murmurs, not even looking up from his phone as he lounges in the squeaky host’s chair.

You immediately freeze your hand over the mixing console. “I am not tapping. I am keeping time.”

“You’re tapping,” he insists, casually reaching across the desk to steal the iced Americano you had bought for yourself and yourself only. “And it means you’re stressed about the timing of the transition for the second segment.”

You snatch the coffee back, glaring at him as condensation drips onto your meticulously highlighted run-of-show. You sigh. “I’m stressed because you went off-script yesterday and we had thirty seconds of dead air while you monologued about the emotional depth of a drama you watched in 2018. If you—”

“—miss the cue, Chief will throw a fit,” he finishes, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” He finally puts his phone down and shoots you a blinding, practiced smile that practically sparkles under the fluorescent studio lights. “Relax, tokki. You’re working with a professional.”

You roll your eyes so hard they actually ache. You hate that damn nickname he gave you when you were eight years old and your front teeth refused to grow no matter how long you waited and wished for them to, giving him endless fuel to tease you until you finally threatened to beat him to death.

After so many years apart, you would have expected Seungkwan to forget that damn nickname. Especially now that you were both already in your thirties. But no. Quite the opposite, actually.

Your phone buzzes against the console, vibrating so violently it nearly rattles off the edge. You don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is, and the familiar knot of dread tightens instantly in your stomach.

[Youngjae - 8:14 PM]: Are you seriously working late again? You told me you’d be done by 6.

You sigh, picking up the device. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, already drafting an apology you didn’t actually owe him.

You didn’t use to work late until six months ago, when Seungkwan arrived and the Chief reassigned you from the Non-stop Nostalgia show to the late-night slot. The workload had doubled now that his co-host had given birth three weeks earlier than expected and you were filling in for her because, of course, you didn’t find a replacement for her sooner.

[You - 8:15 PM]: I’m sorry, babe. The 9:00 PM live slot is still a mess. They still haven’t found anyone to replace Yoona and we’re scrambling. I might not be out until 11.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: Whatever. You always put that stupid station first. [Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: I don’t even know why I bother making plans with you. You need to figure out your priorities.

You lock the screen and set the phone face down. A heavy, exhausting silence settles over you, and you can feel Seungkwan’s eyes on you, studying you, even though he doesn’t ask anything.

You trace the edge of the promise ring Youngjae had given you six months ago; a silver band that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of affection. You are constantly walking on eggshells, constantly apologizing for having a career, constantly trying to shrink yourself to fit into the “normal, peaceful life” you thought you wanted.

Why were you with him? That was a question you didn’t like to ask yourself.

“Hey. Earth to PD-nim.”

You jolt, snapping your head up to see Chan, the junior writer, waving a hand in front of your face. “Sorry,” you blink, shaking off the lingering guilt. “What is it? Did we secure a backup for tonight?”

Chan’s eyes were wide, a mix of sheer panic and starry-eyed excitement. “Chief Kang is calling for an emergency meeting in the briefing room. Right now. And yes, we secured a backup. Apparently, he pulled off an absolute miracle.”

You push yourself out of your old squeaky chair, grabbing your clipboard and glancing in Seungkwan’s direction, who, for some reason, avoids your gaze.

“A miracle? Who did they get with three hours’ notice?”

“Just get in there,” Chan urges, practically shoving you toward the door and following right behind you.

The small briefing room was buzzing with frantic energy when you walked in. Chief Choi Seungcheol—a notoriously stressed, soft man who practically lives on black coffee —is pacing in the front of the room like he was trying to outrun whatever news he was about to deliver.

The small radio station belonged to his grandparents, and since you were hired after returning from university, you’d seen the ups and downs he’d faced trying to keep this little corner of Jeju running over the years as radio slowly faded for the younger generation. It had basically been on life support, kept alive mostly by the island’s elderly listeners… well, until Seungkwan arrived and the audience grew exponentially.

As soon as you take your seat, Seungcheol slams his hands down on the table.

“Alright, listen up,” he barks, though there’s a triumphant gleam in his eye. “We’re not going to hire someone to replace Yoona.”

Your eyebrows arch in shock as you set your clipboard down on the table. “What? But Seungkwan needs a co-host now!”

He’s smiling almost maniacally at you now. “Yes! And we’re giving him one.”

The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention, and when you look back, Seungkwan is standing there, his lips wrapped around the straw of your coffee as he stares at you with a mischievous glint in his deliberately wide eyes.

You look between Seungkwan and Seungcheol, taking exactly the amount of time it takes for a breath to pass before realizing what’s going on.

“Okay, no!” you say, immediately getting up from your chair to walk out of the room, but Seungkwan quickly steps toward you and places his hands on your shoulders.

“The listeners want this,” he argues. You grimace, pulling away from him as the condensation from his iced coffee brushes against your skin before sitting back down. “Yesterday Gyeonghee halmoni stopped me on the street just to tell me you should be the permanent co-host.”

Gyeonghee halmoni was the oldest woman in your neighborhood, and you knew she listened to the radio religiously, always insisting she was never too old to take love advice. You knew she was a particular fan of the Time Capsule of Love segment, where you only played very old love songs, mostly because she called almost every night to make a request.

It was at her eighty-ninth birthday party that you and Seungkwan reconnected six months ago.

“Gyeonghee halmoni is biased,” you say, shaking your head. “She watched us grow up.”

Seungkwan doesn’t just sit; he sprawls into the chair next to you, leaning in until the scent of that expensive cedarwood is all you can process.

“My mother said the same thing too,” Chan says from the corner of the room where he’s squeezed in, raising his hand slightly as if he were in a classroom.

“The ratings for the ‘PD-nim interjections’ are higher than the guest segments, and you know it,” Seungkwan adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive register he usually saves for the microphone. You liked to think you were immune to it.

“I am a producer,” you hiss, ignoring the way Seungcheol is nodding along like Seungkwan is delivering a sermon. “I stay behind the glass. I don’t talk into microphones. I manage the chaos you create, Boo Seungkwan. I don’t join it!”

Especially considering the program’s content: relationship advice and dating reality shows. What did you know about relationships? Nothing. Your own relationship was proof of that. Seungkwan, on the other hand, apparently knew a lot, which was exactly why he was perfect for the job.

You blamed only yourself for being in this situation, for not looking for a replacement for Yoona sooner, for leaving everything to the last minute. Now you were stuck in this position.

“But that’s exactly why it works!” Seungcheol interjects, pacing across the small rug in the center of the room. “Your chemistry, the bickering. It’s nostalgic.” Seungkwan is now the one nodding alone to the nonsense. “It’s Jeju’s childhood friends story, only now you’re both working together. It’s a goldmine. The sponsors are already asking about the girl who rage baites Seungkwan.”

“The girl has a name,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “And she has a boyfriend who is currently one text away from a total meltdown if she gets home any later.”

At the indirect mention of Youngjae, Seungkwan’s expression shifts. The mischievous glint doesn’t disappear, but now he also looks noticeably annoyed. You know his opinion of Youngjae inside and out. It isn’t news to you now, just like it wasn’t news when you were teenagers.

He glances at your phone, still gripped in your hand, and then back at your face. He sees the fatigue you try to hide behind your professional mask and the way your shoulders are slumped not from work, but from the weight of the apology you’re still drafting in your head for later.

“Think about it, Y/N,” Seungcheol insists, looking at you expectantly. “This could double our listeners.”

The room goes quiet as you close your eyes and bury your face in your hands to avoid the three pairs of eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to change your mind. Even Chan looks like he’s about to faint from the drama of it all.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Youngjae - 8:27 PM]: Don’t expect me to wait up. You’re being selfish.

The ring around your finger feels particularly heavy now. You look at Seungkwan. He’s annoying, he’s loud, and he’s currently trying to change your career for God knows what reason. But he’s also the only person in this city who looks at you like you’re the lead character in your own life rather than a supporting role in someone else’s.

You narrow your eyes. “This was your idea.” It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. It’s clear on his face, because unlike what he tries to convey, Boo Seungkwan is an open book.

He raises his hands to shoulder height in a guilty gesture, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. “You’re perfect for the job, tokki.”

You let out a grunt, throwing your head back. Fucking Boo Seungkwan. Fucking soft spot you still have for him despite everything, especially when he gives you that Boo-Poor-Little-Seungkwan look.

“One week,” you say, after a long sigh, pointing a finger at his chest. “A trial run. If the listeners hate it or if you go off-script about a drama for more than ten seconds, I’m going back behind the glass and you’re finding a new co-host yourself.”

You’re staring at each other, but out of the corner of your eye you can see Seungcheol and Chan celebrating while exchanging a high-five. Seungkwan’s grin is blinding, wide, triumphant, and fucking annoying. He reaches out, not to shake your hand, but to give your ponytail a playful tug, just like he used to when you were ten.

“One week is all I need,” he says, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes the small, cramped briefing room feel like it’s spinning at a different frequency. “Trust me, PD-nim. We’re going to give them a show they’ll never forget.”

6 MONTHS AGO

The neighborhood recreation center was loud, sweltering, and smelled intensely of freshly fried pajeon. Gyeonghee halmoni’s 89th birthday had essentially become a town festival, and you were already thirty minutes late.

Dodging wandering toddlers and plates of tteokbokki, you immediately spotted the one thing you were dreading: your mother. She was standing by the gift table, deep in conversation with Mrs. Boo.

They were huddled close together, holding paper cups of sweet rice punch, radiating the kind of synchronized, terrifying energy only two mothers who have known each other for over twenty years can possess. You tried to stealthily make you way toward the food buffet first, but your mother’s radar was unparalleled.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” your mother announced loudly, abandoning her hushed conversation to fix you with a pointed glare.

“Hi, mom,” you pratically dragged the word out of you. “Hello, Mrs. Boo,” you greeted, bowing respectfully to Seungkwan’s mother. “I’m sorry I’m late, the afternoon broadcast ran long and traffic was terrible near the—”

“Aigoo, look at you!” Mrs. Boo interrupted, entirely ignoring your excuse as she reached out to pat your arm affectionately. Her eyes crinkled in a warm smile. “You get prettier every time I see you. Are you eating well, sweetheart? You look a little thin.”

“Prettier?” you mother scoffed, though she was secretly pleased. She waved a hand dismissively. “She looks like she hasn’t in a week. All she does is work at that radio station. I tell her she needs to get out, make new friends, but does she listen to me?”

“Mom, please,” you hissed under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Not here.”

You knew this conversation by heart, but that didn’t mean Mrs. Boo needed to hear it too.

“Ah, let her be, she’s building a career!” Mrs. Boo laughed, though there was a sudden, distinct twinkle in her eye. She leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. “You know... our Seungkwanie is here.”

Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of his name. “Oh. Really? I thought he was still in Seoul.”

You knew he was back; he’d been the talk of the neighborhood all week. You’d just chosen to ignore the fact, and forget that you could run into him anywhere now, that it was only a matter of time until you did.

“He came back last week. Taking a break,” Mrs. Boo beamed, her pride evident. But then she share a very deliberate, conspiratorial look with your mother. “He was just asking about you the other day, actually. Wondering how his favorite childhood friend was doing.”

Funny, considering he never even bothered to call in the last twelve years, you thought, still holding a polite smile on your face.

Your mother’s eyes lit up with a terrifying gleam. She immediately reached out, grabbing your shoulders and physically turning you away from the buffet table and toward the back of the hall.

“Go say hi,” your mother ordered, giving you a firm push.

“Mom, I literally just walked in. Let me get a plate of food first, I haven’t eaten since—”

“The japchae isn’t going anywhere,” she interrupted, adjusting the collar of your shirt with quick, fussy movements. “He just got here too. He’s standing right over there by the punch bowl looking lonely. Go talk to him.”

“Yes, go catch up!” Mrs. Boo chimed in, shooing you with her hand. “Tell him his mother said to get you a drink.”

Seeing them together like that felt like a childhood flashback; like being forced to stay close to Seungkwan or made to do things with him all over again just because they wanted too. Like being forced to dance together at school events, or serving as ring bearers for the newlywed couple who lived three houses down.

Realizing you had absolutely no way out of this trap, you sighed, offering them both a tight, resigned smile. “Fine. I’m going.”

“Stand up straight!” your mother called out after you in a loud whisper.

You rolled your eyes, smoothing down your outfit as you navigated through the sea of relatives and neighbors until you finally spotted him.

He was standing by the punch bowl, looking both ridiculously handsome and slightly out of place in a crisp, white button-down. Even without the stage makeup and the flash of cameras, Boo Seungkwan had an undeniable glowing aura.

You took a deep breath, trying to push down the sudden spike of nerves caused by the realization that the moment you’d pictured in your head thousands of times was actually happening. Then, quietly, you sidled up beside him.

“Excuse me, sunbaenim,” you said, leaning in just enough to mock a polite bow. “Can I get your autograph?”

Seungkwan turned, a polite, probably practiced smile already forming on his lips, until his eyes met yours for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Then he completely froze.

The plastic cup in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, sweeping over your face, your hair, the way you stood there looking at him. You immediately started talking, rattling off a quick string of teasing remarks. He could see your mouth moving, but he wasn’t hearing a single word, almost like he was underwater.

Seungkwan was entirely captivated, his brain short-circuiting as the intoxicating, familiar scent of your perfume hit him. It was scent that instantly bypassed the last twelve years of his life, striking a match directly to the teenage hormones and memories he’d buried long ago.

You stopped talking, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sungkwan?”

He blinked rapidly, practically shaking himself out of the stupor. “You… wow. Hi. You look… you look really good.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh my God, Boo Seungkwan said I look good. I’m going to write a fanfic about it.”

You could see the moment the shock wore off, instantly replaced by the familiar, comfortable irritation he always fell into when you teased him all those years ago.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Please. I bet you’ve already written several where we end up in love.”

You clicked your tongue as your shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Actually, I think your friend Jeonghan is cuter.” You smiled broadly, watching his jaw drop and his eyes widen again. “He’s so handsome. Is he single?”

You emphasize the word deliberately, watching his face contort as he processes it. But all he says is:

“You think what?” Seungkwan choked out, his competitive streak flaring up in a millisecond. Or at least that was what you thought. Inside, Seungkwan felt a possessive pull toward you that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

You tried to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but you simply couldn’t, bursting out laughing as you stepped just a fraction closer to him to let two little boys run past you toward the playground.

“You’re still so easy to mess with, Boo.”

His face morphed into an outraged expression, though you could see a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still crazy, I see.”

“He is, indeed, handsome, they all are.” You paused, clearly enjoying his reaction. Your voice dipped playfully as you tapped your chest in a steady rhythm. “...but my heart still beats for Boo Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Old flame, you know. Right?”

If only you knew.

Seungkwan stared at you, his ears turning a violent shade of red. He tried to scowl, to muster up some kind of witty retort, but the sheer relief and joy of realizing you hadn’t changed at all completely overwhelmed him. He let out a breathless, defeated chuckle, running a hand through his hair before dragging the tips of his fingers down his neck.

“You’re terrible,” he muttered, though his eyes were painfully fond. “A decade without seeing you, and within two minutes you’re already giving me a headache.”

“It’s a gift, really,” you replied, finally grabbing a cup of punch for yourself.

The silence was slightly awkward — but only because it’s been twelve years of radio silence —, not uncomfortable, though. In fact, you had a million questions that could fill it, but since starting with Why haven’t you contacted me in twelve years, you stuck-up idiot? was probably a terrible opener, you settled for something lighter.

“So. You’re really back, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting the glass to your lips mostly to keep yourself from saying anything out of spike. “The neighborhood aunties have been gossiping all week. They said you’re officially retired from the idol life.”

“Taking a very long, very permanent hiatus,” he corrected with a dismissive hand, leaning against the table so he could fully face you. “I needed a break from Seoul. Plus I heard my favorite childhood friend was running the local radio station now.”

You quickly built your defenses back up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Favorite feels ironic, again. You’re almost certain it doesn’t fit what happened between you two over the past years; if anything, it feels like the opposite.

“Not running it. Producing.” It was your turn to correct him. “The afternoon slot. It’s chaotic, and I practically live in the editing booth. But I love it.”

Seungkwan watched your face light up as you talked about the station. The way your eyes sparked—the genuine passion in your voice—was entirely real. It was the same look you used to get when you figured out a particularly difficult math problem in high school, or when you finally beat him in a volleyball match.

“Producing,” Seungkwan repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. A small, genuine smile broke through his initial shock. “I’ll be honest. I’ve tuned in a few times since I got back.”

You nearly choked on your rice punch. You lowered the paper cup, staring at him suspiciously. “You did? You listened to my show?”

“Of course I did,” he said, shifting his weight. He looked down at his shoes for a split second before meeting your eyes again, his gaze suddenly much heavier. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

The casual confession hit you right in the chest, entirely unbalancing you. This was the danger of Boo Seungkwan. He could flip the switch from annoying childhood best friend who hadn’t spoken to you in twelve years to a devastatingly sincere, loving man without even trying.

Holding a grudge against someone like that isn’t easy.

“I always knew you’d end up bossing people around for a living,” Seungkwan laughed, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. One smile, and suddenly the years between you don’t feel so large anymore. You hate that most of all.

“Someone has to keep things in line,” you countered, taking the last sip of your punch. You looked up at him, letting the teasing persona slip away for just a moment, offering him a sincere smile. “But really... it’s good to see you, Boo. I’m glad you’re back.”

And you meant it with all your heart, far more than you’d ever imagined.

Seungkwan’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over his features. He had been so nervous about how you would react to seeing him after so much time had passed, but standing here, falling right back into your easy, comfortable rhythm, he felt an anchor drop.

“It really has,” he agreed, his voice dropping into a more earnest tone. He glanced around the chaotic recreation center, at the aunties dancing and the kids running around, before his gaze settled back on you. “I missed this. And,” he paused, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “I missed you.”

The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but you weren’t going to ruin this moment by saying them.

You bumped your shoulder playfully against his arm. “Don’t get soft on me now, sunbaenim. You have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’d prefer it if you just called me oppa,” he said playfully, bumping his shoulder against yours in return.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Back then, it had always been a running joke between the two of you. “Apparently not all your dreams came true.”

Before he could formulate a comeback, a loud voice shattered your comfortable bubble.

“Look at them! Didn’t I tell you?” your mother crowed, suddenly appearing at Seungkwan’s elbow with Mrs. Boo right behind her. Both women looked like cats who had just cornered a very plump canary.“Like no time has passed at all!”

You immediately stood up straighter, shooting a panicked look at Seungkwan. “Mom, please. We’re just catching up.”

“Well, keep catching up!” Mrs. Boo cheered, clapping her hands together. “Seungkwanie, why don’t you get Y/N a plate of food? The poor girl is starving, her mother said she practically lives at that radio station.”

Seungkwan cleared his throat, stepping back into his polite and respectful persona with practiced ease, though he threw a quick amused glance your way. “Of course, Eomma. I’ll take good care of her.”

As the two mothers linked arms and walked away, practically vibrating with matchmaking glee, Seungkwan turned back to you, the smirk firmly back in place.

You let him lead you toward the food, shaking your head even as a smile spread so wide across your face that your cheeks began to ache. In just a few minutes, you realized how effortlessly he could slip back into your life. Boo Seungkwan was home, and suddenly, everything felt a whole lot brighter.

PRESENT

They were right. The number of listeners had increased exponentially in less than a week, and although you hated to admit it, Seungkwan was right. You were happy with what your presence as co-host was doing for the station, more than happy, actually. Even on the street, people stopped you to say how much they loved the show, how they tuned in every night.

Everyone at the station was celebrating the results, and it felt as though everything had come back to life. Besides, you couldn’t deny it: the show really was that good.

Pulled out of your daydream by the sound of someone lazily tapping on the glass, you see the only other person you trust in your control booth: Hansol. He point his indicator at both of you and flashes up three fingers. Thirty seconds to air.

You nod, keeping your eyes locked on the console. The ON AIR sign bleeds neon red across the studio glass, emitting a low, sixty-cycle hum. You push the faders up, and the bright, tropical synth-pop intro of your show, Love Is on the Radio, fills the booth. You slide Seungkwan’s mic fader up first, then bring yours up a second later.

Instantly, the annoying best friend vanishes out of him. His posture straightens, his chin tilts to the perfect angle for a camera that isn’t even there, and he leans into the microphone.

Seungkwan is usually a very confident man, but watching him in his element always feels like seeing a whole new side of the boy you once knew, or the man you found six months ago in his childhood bedroom at his mother’s house, quietly moping and counting the petals on her hydrangeas because he was bored out of his mind.

“I was meditating, not moping,” he defended himself when you brought the subject up two weeks ago, a hand placed over his heart, looking personally wounded.

You were the one who suggested to Seungcheol that he could offer Seungkwan the position after you ran into him at the party. So now, because of your brilliant idea, if the people of Jeju don’t buy into Seungkwan’s “revolutionary ideas” about love and romance, your reputation is going down the drain right along with his.

“Good evening, Jeju! You’re back with your favorite duo,” you say, leaning into your mic with a practiced, bright energy, settling into your radio voice. “I’m your temporary host, Kang Y/N, and sitting across from me is the man who spent forty-five minutes this morning debating whether or not he’s a Taejoon or a Jungwoo: it’s Boo Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan let out a soulful chuckle that rumbles smoothly through your headphones. “Listen, the new season of Single’s Inferno is a sociological study! It’s about the raw human condition! Hello everyone, I’m Seungkwan. And for the record? I’m definitely a Taejoon. I’m loyal, I’m funny, and I look great in a vest.”

When Seungkwan speaks, his voice drops an octave, dripping with the velvety, honeyed charisma that had made him the nation’s beloved vocalist for more than a decade. By now, you’re trained to ignore the things it does to you.

“You’re a Eunseo at best, dramatic and prone to crying in the back of a van,” you retort, checking the monitor. “But we aren’t here to talk about your identity crisis, my friend. We’re here to talk about the Paradise dates. Kwan, as our resident romance expert, what did you think of the bonfire confession?”

You already knew what Seungkwan thought about them, considering the two of you had watched the episodes together on your couch the night before. Your mom and grandmother had spent the entire evening pampering him so much that, at one point, you found yourself wondering whether he was the real member of the family and not you.

“It was amateur hour, Y/N. If you’re going to confess your feelings, you need atmosphere. You need a build-up. You can’t just blurt it out between bites of grilled sea bream!”

You both move like a well-oiled machine. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s a masterclass in broadcasting. The two of you debate the new episodes of the latest season of Single’s Inferno, practically disagreeing with everything the other says for no reason at all, just for the fun of arguing and rage-baiting each other.

“Spoken like a man who has watched exactly three hundred dramas and participated in zero actual dates,” you tease after he describes how perfect one of the dates in Paradise was.

Not that you knew anything about Seungkwan’s love life, considering the two of you hadn’t reached that topic of conversation yet, even if you had already spilled your heart out to him during one drunken night.

Honestly, the less you knew, the better.

“I am a scholar of the heart!” he defends, a hand over his heart, even if you’re the only one who can see him. “Anyway, before we get to our first caller of the night, it’s time for my favorite part of the show. Let’s open our Time Capsule of Love.”

You hit the transition, a nostalgic, grainy vinyl crackle. “Tonight’s request comes from a listener in Aewol who wants to remember their first summer love,” you announce. “Here’s Perhaps Love by HowL & J.ae.”

As the classic track starts playing, you slide the faders down.

“We’re clear for, like, three minutes,” you mutter, stretching your arms as you stand to refill your water bottle and grab a cookie from the box Chan had left earlier, sometime before the show started.

Seungkwan also stretches back in his creaky old chair. You can feel his eyes following you around the room, tracking your movements, and it doesn’t take much to realize he has something sitting right on the tip of his tongue to comment on or ask you.

It was funny how inseparable the two of you had become since reuniting, how effortlessly you’d slipped back into your old rhythm. How well you still knew him and all his mannerisms, like the back of your hand. But there was still one massive elephant in the room: neither of you had said a word about those twelve years of silence.

You wouldn’t say you were exactly okay with it, but at the same time, you were terrified of bringing it up and ruining everything the two of you had rebuilt over the past six months. You could only hope it wouldn’t all come crashing down around you somewhere in the future.

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms, the water sloshing softly inside the bottle as the music continues to play. “What?”

“Are you going to Youngjae’s place after this?” Seungkwan asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he pretended to examine his fingernails.

“Don’t know yet. Why?”

Seungkwan spins his squeaky chair a half-inch to the left, leaning his elbows on his knees. The playful, broadcast-ready smile he wore just a minute ago completely dissolves, replaced by a tight, familiar, almost sulky frown.

“Just wondering if you’re parking in his driveway tonight,” Seungkwan says, his tone dangerously passive, “or if you’re still relegated to the visitor’s spot three blocks down so his neighbors don’t start asking questions about the mystery woman sneaking in after dark.”

You almost choke on your piece of cookie. You swallow hard, shooting a panicked glare through the glass to make sure Hansol isn’t paying attention to the booth or your conversation, only to find him lost in his own world as always.

“Keep your voice down, tattletale,” you hiss, tossing the rest of the cookie onto a napkin and sitting back down in your chair. “And for your information, he has a very strict building policy. It’s not about me or our relationship. It’s about his privacy.”

That’s a lie, but you won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of being right. And he seems to know it, a scoff slipping past his lips.

“Right.” He drags the word out. “The notorious anti-girlfriend bylaws of Jeju real estate,”

“Kwan, don’t start—”

Seungkwan reaches out, tapping the edge of your console. “Are you listening to yourself, Y/N?Privacy is keeping your relationship off Instagram. What he’s doing is hiding you.”

You were past that stage. Past thinking too much about it. Past pretending you didn’t know that Youngjae was hiding your relationship from his friends, family, and even his neighbors. You knew he was. And it was complicated. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling you ever since you rekindled your relationship a year ago.

Seungkwan, unlike you, had called it what it was the moment you told him you were back with Youngjae, but that only a small number of people knew. At the time, you thought it was just because Seungkwan hadn’t liked him back in your school days. Now, you were starting to have doubts about… well, everything.

But you wouldn’t discuss that here, much less in the middle of a broadcast with Perhaps Love playing as the soundtrack to this conversation.

“We have an arrangement that works for us. He’s a private person, Seungkwan. Not everyone wants their life broadcasted to the masses like you do.”

It’s a low blow, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth. Seungkwan flinches, just barely, but his dark eyes stay locked onto yours. The air in the tiny studio suddenly feels impossibly thick.

You close your eyes, dragging a hand down your face.

It comes and goes. The resentment you feel toward him for never calling or reaching out, for never answering your letters or your calls. It comes and goes.

“I didn’t meant to.”

You see Seungkwan swallow, his lips pouting slightly like he’s choosing his next words.

“I spent ten years hiding every single aspect of my life to survive in the industry, tokki.” His voice drops into a quiet, raw register that makes your chest ache. It’s worse because he calls you that. “So I know exactly what it looks like when someone treats you like a liability instead of a partner.”

“Why do you even care?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively to hide the way your hands are shaking. You really, really want to know why. “You’re my friend, Boo. Not my life coach.”

“I care because it’s pathetic watching you settle for him!” he fires back, leaning closer until his face is just inches from the mic stand. “You sit here every night, teasing me about my expertise on romance, but at least I know how to treat a girl.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. He’s looking at you with that same fierce, frustrated intensity he had behind the school, in your spot, all those years ago, when Youngjae invited you out for banana milk. And it makes something strange shift inside your chest.

It has been happening a lot ever since Seungkwan came back into your life.

When you look away to avoid meeting his eyes, the digital clock on the monitor catches your attention. 0:15 seconds until the song ends.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for the faders.

Seungkwan lets out a quiet, nasal laugh that makes it clear he expected you to avoid the subject. You hate that he still knows you so well—just as well as you know him—and you hate even more how easily the two of you slip back into old habits.

“You’re going to have to eventually,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair as he adjusts his headphones. The hard edge in his eyes softens into something that looks dangerously like pity, and you hate that even more. “Because if he doesn’t figure out how to treat you right, someone else will.”

You want to ask him what he means by that, but there isn’t enough time.

0:03 seconds.

Hansol pops up behind the glass again, pointing a finger again. You take a shaky breath, give him a thumbs-up, and force the lump in your throat down as you slide the faders up and put your headphones back on.

4 MONTHS AGO

It had barely been a month since Seungkwan had reentered your life like a localized hurricane, and the boundaries of your resurrected friendship were still painfully blurry. You had survived the initial shock of his return, the awkwardness of not speaking for so long, and the surreal reality of seeing a former national idol casually drinking cheap instant coffee in the station’s break room.

That night, however, was the first time the two of you had gotten drunk together.

You were both sitting in a small, slightly dingy pojangmacha tucked away in a narrow alley behind the station. Inside, the air smelled of fried pork belly and spicy rice cakes, cut through by the almost clinical smell of spilled soju. Rain lashed relentlessly against the thick orange plastic tarps surrounding the tent, the sound creating a surprisingly cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the city.

“Watch and learn,” Seungkwan slurred slightly, holding up a fresh, condensation slicked green bottle of soju. He grabbed a stainless steel chopstick from the tin cup on the table.

“One of your many new talents?”

He nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t teach me this in idol training. I had to learn this in the trenches of company dinners.”

With a flick of his wrist that was entirely too aggressive, he brought the chopstick up against the cap of the bottle. Instead of cleanly popping off, the cap flew violently into the air, ricocheting off the plastic tent wall and landing squarely in your bowl of complimentary radish soup.

You stared down at the floating metal cap, and then slowly raised your eyes to look at him.

Seungkwan froze, his hand still suspended in the air, a sheepish, incredibly boyish grin spreading across his flushed face. “Ta-da?”

“You’re paying for my next bowl of soup, Kwan,” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You fished the cap out with your spoon and flicked it at him. “And you’re a menace to society. It’s a miracle you survived Seoul.”

“Seoul was easy,” Seungkwan retorted, pouring the soju into two tiny glass cups, his coordination slightly compromised by the three bottles already sitting empty at the edge of the plastic table. “Jeju is the real battlefield.”

You laughed, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Yesterday, an auntie at the market smacked me with a leek because I couldn’t remember her dog’s name,” he said with a laugh.

“To be fair, Dooboo is a local legend. You disrespected an icon,” you pointed out, picking up your glass. “Cheers to Dooboo.”

“Cheers to Dooboo,” Seungkwan echoed, clinking his glass against yours.

You both threw back the clear liquid. The burn was sharp but grounding, loosening the tight, perpetual knot of anxiety that lived at the base of your spine. You set the small glass back down on the table with a soft thud and exhaled sharply.

The alcohol was doing its job. The twelve-year gap between you was dissolving with every shot, the comfortable, relentless bickering of your childhood sliding right back into place.

For the last two hours, you’d been trading war stories. He filled you in on the absurd reality of dorm life, grueling tour schedules, and the bizarre diets the agency forced on him. In return, you regaled him with the unglamorous chaos of university life and local radio with callers determined to debate the existence of sea monsters, power outages during live broadcasts, and the time you accidentally played a funeral dirge instead of the morning weather jingle.

It felt incredibly and dangerously good. You hadn’t felt this seen, this entirely yourself, in a very long time.

And that was exactly why his guard didn’t just come down, it plummeted.

Your phone, sitting face up next to your chopsticks, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the sticky table. The name Youngjae flashed across the glass.

The comfortable warmth in your chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold wave of dread. You were supposed to meet Youngjae for dinner tonight. He had canceled an hour before you got off work — a vague text about “overtime” and “not wanting to push it at the hospital” — leaving you stranded.

That was when Seungkwan had popped his head into the editing booth and dragged you out into the rain.

You quickly reached out, flipping he phone face down with a dismissive motion. Then you reached for the soju bottle, carefully avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes.

“Who was that?” Seungkwan asked, his tone casual, though his inquisitive eyes tracked the defensive stiffness in your shoulders.

“No one,” you lied smoothly, pouring yourself another shot. “Just spam.”

“At one in the morning?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow, skeptic. He reached across the table, his fingers gently tapping the back of your phone case. “You looked like you just saw a ghost. Is it work? Did Chief Choi find out you’re the one who broke the coffee machine?”

“I didn’t break the coffee machine, it was a structural failure,” you protested automatically, knocking the shot back. The alcohol hit your stomach, loosening your tongue just a fraction too much. “And it’s not work. It’s just Youngjae.”

Seungkwan’s hand stilled. He swallowed a laugh, and you noticed it immediately in the silence that followed.

“Youngjae?” Seungkwan repeated, the playful lilt completely draining from his voice. No, he thought, not again. “Cho Youngjae?”

You just nodded, and he simply couldn’t string together a complete sentence anymore. You took a long sip of soju straight from the bottle, and Seungkwan exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying not to let it show anymore that the mention of Youngjae’s name had bothered him. With any luck, you’d be too drunk tomorrow to remember it.

“Why is he texting you at 1 AM?”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. The soju was making it incredibly difficult to maintain the unbothered facade you usually wore.

“I didn’t know you two were still together,” Seungkwan said before you could answer, in what he hoped was a casual tone, though he couldn’t quite tell if his expression helped sell it.

Shortly after Seungkwan left, you and Youngjae started dating. At the time, you were still in contact with Seungkwan, trying to keep up with him as much as you could. During your phone calls, he kept insisting that Youngjae wasn’t the right guy for you. But when you finally decided to listen to him and broke up with Youngjae, Seungkwan disappeared from your life not long after.

“We dated, broke up, got back together, broke up again, and then got back together and—”

“Are you together now?” he interrupted.

You nodded. “We’ve been dating for eight months.”

Seungkwan blinked, the information processing slowly through the alcohol haze. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“That’s the thing,” you muttered, staring down at your empty shot glass. “It’s… a secret. He doesn’t want the hospital to find out. He says it could ruin his chances of getting a spot at this big hospital in Seoul next year. So we don’t tell anyone. We just… sneak around.”

The silence that fell over the table was sudden and deafening, save for the rain hitting the tarp.

When you finally looked up, you physically flinched at the expression on Seungkwan’s face. The boyish, flushed, drunken demeanor was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his dark eyes were blazing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.

“He hides you,” Seungkwan stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.

“It’s not like that,” you backpedaled, suddenly overcome by the desperate need to defend a relationship you weren’t even sure you wanted to be in anymore. “It’s just practical.”

A frown creased the middle of his forehead. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him treat you like you’re something to be ashamed of?”

Because you were terrified of being left behind again. Because Youngjae, with his cold, distant, and conditional affection, felt safer than risking your heart on someone who could truly break it by leaving.

But you couldn’t say that to him. Not yet. Not ever.

“Drop it, Seungkwan,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. You grabbed the green bottle and practically slammed it onto the table between you. “I mean it. If we are going to be friends again, you drop it. We are not talking about my pathetic love life. We are getting drunk.”

Seungkwan stared at you for a long, almost agonizing moment. The tension between you crackled, charged and unresolved. He looked at the bottle, then at your fiercely guarded expression. Slowly, he reached out and took the bottle from your hand.

“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes dark. He poured you both a brimming shot. “We’ll drop it. For tonight. Drink up, PD-nim. We’re going to a noraebang.”

By 2:30 AM, the combative emotional atmosphere of the pojangmacha had been thoroughly obliterated by a lethal combination of cheap beer, more soju, and the aggressive, blinding neon lights of the noraebang.

You were currently standing on top of a sticky faux leather sofa, clutching a plastic tambourine. The disco ball above you cast spinning, dizzying patterns of purple and green across the tiny, enclosed room. Below you, standing in the center of the room with the microphone cord wrapped twice around his wrist, Seungkwan was giving you an exclusive performance.

“TEARS!” Seungkwan screamed into the microphone, his head thrown back as he unleashed the impossibly high notes of the song.

His vocal control, even while completely blackout drunk, was infuriatingly perfect. He hit the high note, dropped to his knees on the sticky linoleum floor, and pointed dramatically at you.

“Hit it!” he yelled over the instrumental break.

You aggressively smashed the tambourine against your hip, totally off-beat, screaming the background vocals with zero regard for pitch or human decency.

“You’re pitchy!” Seungkwan shouted, scrambling up from the floor. He grabbed a second microphone off the table, and tossed it to you. “Get down here and sing, you coward!”

“Your stage presence is lacking, Boo!” you yelled back, refusing to step down from the sofa. “Give me some emotion!!”

Seungkwan gasped in mock offense. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, jumped onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the room — the table groaning ominously under his weight — and struck a pose better suited to a sold-out stadium than a fifteen-dollar-an-hour karaoke room.

The track switched. The dramatic synth intro of a classic early 2000s heartbreak ballad filled the room.

Seungkwan closed his eyes, clutching the mic with both hands, and began to sing with such exaggerated and theatrical grief that you immediately doubled over laughing. He sank to his knees on the table, reaching a hand out toward you as if you were a lover drifting away on a life raft.

“Why did you leave me?!” he wailed, completely off-script, making the lyrics up as he went. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me a broken tambourine!”

“It was a metaphor for our friendship!” you shrieked back into your mic, tears of laughter streaming down your face. Suddenly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that hard. Probably not in years.

You stepped off the sofa, stumbling slightly as the alcohol hit your equilibrium, and marched right up to the table. You pointed your microphone directly at his chest, looking up at him with a defiant, breathless grin.

“You just don’t appreciate my genius!”

Seungkwan dropped the theatrical act, though he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached down and grabbed your microphone hand, pulling you close

For a second, the ridiculous facade completely shattered. You were suddenly entirely too close. Because he was kneeling on the table, you were perfectly at eye level. His chest was heaving, his hair messy and damp with sweat, flushed cheeks, his eyes completely blown out and dark in the spinning neon lights.

“You’re staring, tokki,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the smooth tone vibrating right through the microphone and out into the small room.

“You’re in my space, Boo,” you shot back. You tried to sound authoritative, but your voice came out a little breathless, and you made absolutely no move to pull your hand out of his grip.

He tilted his head, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips. His thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles. “I think you like it.”

“You’re so arrogant, Boo Seungkwan,” you mumbled, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until your knees were practically brushing the edge of the glass table. “You’ve always been arrogant. When we were younger, it drove me absolutely crazy.”

Seungkwan let out a smug, nasal laugh. “Is that why you were always trying to beat me at stuff?” he teased, leaning in a little closer, the scent of soju and expensive cologne suddenly intoxicating. “Because you couldn’t handle the charm?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, your eyes tracing the elegant line of his jaw. The spinning purple lights caught the flush on his cheeks. “I was trying to beat you because I was overcompensating. I had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you, and you were completely oblivious.”

The words slipped out with the terrifying ease of a drunken confession, made possible only by the fact that you were, in fact, very, very drunk. And maybe a little carried away by the thought that so many years had passed that none of it mattered anymore.

Or maybe still did… a little.

Seungkwan froze. The playful smirk vanished instantly. His fingers tightened around yours, his entire body going completely still on the table. The karaoke track blared on in the background, a saxophone solo filling the silence, but the air between you had turned to a vacuum.

“You... what?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the music.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” you scoffed, waving your free hand dismissively, though a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment was rising up your neck. “We were fifteen. We spent a lot of time together. It was a statistical inevitability.”

You thought you’d read a article about it somewhere. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to convince itself.

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. “You had a crush on me. Back then. Before I left.”

“Massive,” you confirmed, leaning back against the edge of the sofa behind you for balance. You let out a self-deprecating laugh, looking down at your boots. “And then you got on a plane and ruined my entire life. Tragic, really.”

You expected him to laugh. You expected him to tease you, to use it as ammunition for his ego, to make a joke about how he had always known he was irresistible.

But Seungkwan didn’t laugh.

When you looked back up, the expression on his face made your breath catch in your throat. He looked absolutely shattered. The boyish amusement was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing realization that seemed to physically pain him. He slowly scrambled off the table, standing right in front of you, entirely ignoring the microphone he dropped onto the couch.

“Are you seriously telling me you never realized I had a crush on you back then?” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Jesus Christ. And I actually thought all that fame would’ve made you a little less clueless by now.”

Seungkwan stepped into your space, his hands coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher, staring down at you with desperate intensity. “If I had known... I swear to God, if I had known...”

Right then, Seungkwan wanted to kiss you. Desperately.

The urge hit him so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, that it stole the oxygen from his lungs. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical ache. He wanted to close the distance, press his mouth to yours, and prove to you with absolute certainty that if he’d known, everything would have been different.

For years, Seungkwan had learned how to deal with girls. He had lived his life in a boy group, surrounded by beautiful actresses, stunning idols, and thousands of screaming fans. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to charm. But there was something about you that completely paralyzed him.

Maybe he would never be able to do it. The fear of ruining this—of crossing a line he could never uncross—was paralyzing. And maybe, he thought frantically, that was a good thing.

You were friends, weren’t you?

You had just barely managed to salvage this friendship from the wreckage of the last twelve years. He shouldn’t want to ruin that. He shouldn’t risk terrifying you away when you had just finally let him back in. He should just be profoundly grateful that you were willing to let him be a part of your life again.

But his gaze dropped to your lips, the air practically crackling with the electric, terrifying pull between you. He leaned in, the gap between you closing, his breath warm against your skin.

BEEP.

The song ended with an abrupt, jarring electronic shriek. The machine loudly announced your score in a cheerful, computerized voice: 42.

The spell shattered like a broken mirror.

You both jumped, practically flying apart. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. You immediately spun around, grabbing your coat off the back of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you thought you might actually faint.

Seungkwan cleared his throat loudly, busying himself with untangling the microphone cords, though his hands were visibly shaking.

“The machine is rigged,” he declared, his voice rough and uneven. He refused to look at you, staring intently at the plastic tambourine on the floor. “Forty-two? This machine is completely broken.”

“You were flat,” you lied, your own voice breathless as you practically sprinted for the door, desperate for oxygen. “Completely flat."

By the time you stumbled out onto the streets at 4 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the streetlights. The freezing sea air hit your flushed face, sobering you up just enough to realize the massive, catastrophic mistake you had just made: you had just confessed your teenage feelings to the man who had just came back to your life.

You stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi Seungkwan had hailed, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. He stood right beside you, a heavy, suffocating silence settling over the sidewalk. He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close enough to drape it over your shoulders without asking. The fabric was warm, heavy, and smelled devastatingly like him.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it together, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I meant what I said,” Seungkwan said quietly into the night air, staring straight ahead at the empty road. “At the tent. Even if you’re mad at me. You deserve better, tokki. You always have.”

You looked up at him, at the profile of the boy who had once broken your heart, who had only just realized he could have had it all those years ago, and who was now systematically trying to win it back, even if you didn’t seem to realize it yet.

“I know,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.

PRESENT

“I just don’t know,” Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair, turning on his heel to pace back the other way. “Her profile says she likes hiking and eye contact. What does that even mean?”

The lights in the break room hum with that same high-pitched whine that usually drives you crazy. Tonight, though, you barely notice it, drowned out by the sound of Chan pacing a hole into the cheap linoleum floor.

He glances between your faces, not breaking his pacing for a second. “Is she going to stare into my soul while we eat? What if she’s a serial killer who uses dating apps to harvest organs?”

You lean back in the rickety plastic chair, nursing a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee. Across the small table covered with crumbs, Seungkwan is meticulously trying to free a bag of Honey Butter Chips from the machine’s coils, stubbornly jammed.

“I have great kidneys,” Chan continues. “They’re pristine. I drink so much water.”

Your phone, sitting face up next to your coffee can, buzzes violently against the table. The screen lights up, illuminating the dim space with a harsh white glare, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. You don’t pick it up, but you see them glowing on the screen.

[Youngjae - 9:14 PM]: Where are you? [Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: You ignored my call. [Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: I left my spare keys at my hospital and I’m locked out. Bring me your set ASAP.

Your heart rate skips, a familiar, ugly knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You massage your temples, quickly turning your phone off and pointedly ignoring the messages. He knows you’re at work, for crying out loud. He knows your schedule. He knows you can’t leave right now.

“Are we really having this conversation?” you ask.

“If she harvests your kidneys, I get your green leather jacket,” Hansol chimes in from the corner sofa. He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling. “Put it in your will.”

“I don’t have a will, hyung!” Chan practically shrikes, stopping his pacing to glare at Hansol. He turns his desperate gaze toward the table. “Look, I’m begging you guys. I haven’t been on a blind date since… well, ever. I don’t know the protocol. I need security.”

Seungkwan finally gives the vending machine a solid hip-check. The coil shudders, and the bag of chips drops with a satisfying crinkle. He scoops it up, tossing a triumphant look your way before turning to Chan.

“Security?” Seungkwan echoes, popping the bag open and immediately offering it to you first, a habit you try not to think too hard about. You take a chip. “What are we supposed to do? Tackle her if she reaches for a steak knife?”

“No! Just… be there,” Chan pleads, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward. “Saturday night. That Italian place near the marina. Don Capri.”

“Wow, that sounds expensive,” you say, entirely off-topic, but not wrong. The restaurant is one of the most expensive in the city. You’ve never been there. Not on a date, anyway. “How much is Seungcheol paying you as a junior writer?”

“It’s dimly lit. Romantic.” Chan throws his hands up in the air. “The point is, if you guys are sitting at the table next to us, I’ll feel safe. If she turns out to be crazy, you swoop in and pretend there’s a work emergency.”

“What if the things go well?” you ask, resting your chin on your fist.

“Then, you just eat your free pasta and leave me alone.”

“Free pasta?” Hansol suddenly looks up, his interest momentarily piqued, before his eyes drops back to his screen. “Actually, never mind. I have plans tomorrow.”

Chan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping his head onto his arms on the back of the chair. He looks up at you through his bangs, deploying a pathetic, puppy-dog pout he knows works on you, because it always does.

“Noona? Please? You’re practically my boss. It’s a liability issue if I get murdered.”

You sigh, taking another sip of the terrible coffee. “Chan, I don’t think—”

“We’ll do it,” Seungkwan interrupts smoothly.

You snap your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”

Seungkwan pops a chip into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks ridiculously unfairly handsome in his oversized vintage knit sweater. “We will absolutely do it. It’s perfect. It’s fieldwork.”

“Fieldwork?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes.

“We host a romance advice show, Y/N,” he points out, a mischievous glint in his eye. Hansol suddenly looks very interested in the conversation, and you’re dying to know why.

“And that should justify us going on a date with Chan because…?”

Seungkwan looks at you like the answer is obvious. It’s not. And deep down, you know he’s not saying everything.

“How are we supposed to advise the lonely hearts of Jeju if we aren’t out in the trenches, observing modern dating in its natural habitat?” He chews a chip theatrically and far too loud for your liking. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You need a good meal. My treat.”

“I don’t need fieldwork, and I don’t need you to buy me dinner,” you shot back, though your stomach traitorously rumbles at the mention of good meal. “And what if Youngjae—”

You stop yourself, but the name hangs in the air like a bad smell.

Seungkwan’s playful demeanor instantly evaporates. The warmth in his eyes hardens into something piercing and unreadable. He slowly sets the bag of chips down on the table.

“What if Youngjae what?” he asks, an eyebrow raising. “Doesn’t want you going out in public with your friends now?”

Here we go again.

“Shut up, Boo,” you mutter, looking away.

“It’s a favor for Chan, tokki” Seungkwan continues, leaning closer across the table, his voice low enough that Chan and Hansol can’t hear. “A free meal. And you get to spend two hours pretending to be my date. I know you’ve been dreaming of the opportunity.”

If only he knew.

In moments like this you wonder whether he really doesn’t remember the night the two of you got drunk and confessed having crushes on each other when you were younger. That maybe he’s just pretending not to remember, exactly like you are.

You scoff, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts. You won’t giving him the satisfaction. “In your dreams, and maybe in my nightmares.”

If only you knew.

Contrary to what you believed, Seungkwan remembers that night perfectly. He remembers wanting to kiss you in that moment, and every day that followed. He remembers catching himself wishing, with everything he had, that you still felt the same way, even if he doesn’t believe you do.

And if he had to take you on a fake date under the excuse of keeping an eye on Chan, then hell, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make you feel that way about him again.

“So it’s a yes?” Chan asks, completely oblivious to the sudden tension vibrating between the two of you.

Seungkwan don’t even let you open your mouth. “It’s a yes,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll be your security.”

Chan lets out a massive sigh of relief, jumping up to grab Hansol by the shoulders. “You hear that, hyung? I’m going to survive! Now, let me show you her profile.”

As Chan drags a deeply reluctant Hansol toward the corner to inspect the photos on the girl’s profile, you let out a long breath and reach across the table to steal another chip. Seungkwan watches you chew, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he defends himself, throwing his hands up in surrender.

The break room door swings open, and Seungcheol pokes his head in, looking frazzled. “Five minutes to air, you two. Let’s go, the board is already lit up with callers.”

You grab your notes and your phone, practically sprinting out of the break room to escape the look in Seungkwan’s eyes. You make it down the hallway and push through the heavy double doors into the station’s main lobby, heading for Studio B.

But you stop dead in your tracks.

Standing by the reception desk, drenched from the rain and looking absolutely furious, is no one other than Youngjae.

He is wearing an expensive trench coat, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The poor nighttime receptionist looks terrified, shrinking back behind her monitor as Youngjae taps his fingers aggressively on the glass partition.

“Youngjae?” you gasp, your voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.

He turns, his eyes locking onto you with laser precision. The relief you would normally feel at seeing him is entirely absent, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He marches across the lobby, closing the distance in seconds, rainwater dripping from his clothes onto your shoes.

“I told you to bring me the keys,” he hisses, keeping his voice low but laced with venom.

“I go on air in five minutes,” you stutter, taking a subconscious half-step back. “I can’t leave the building, Youngjae. Why didn’t you just wait for me to bring them to you after the show?”

“Because I don’t want to sit here for three hours while you play radio host!” he snaps, stepping closer, his imposing frame crowding your space. “This is ridiculous, Y/N. I have a major surgery tomorrow morning. You think your little late night advice segment is more important than my career?”

“It’s not a little segment, it’s my job,” you defend, your voice trembling slightly. “I have responsibilities here.”

“Responsibilities,” Youngjae scoffs loudly, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You play music and talk to lonely housewives.” He holds out his hand, palm up, expectant and demanding. “Give me the keys.”

You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the spare keys, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of humiliation. You are the lead producer of the most popular late night show on the island, yet here you are, being scolded like a disobedient child in the middle of your workplace.

Before you can pull the keys out, a solid figure steps up right beside you.

“Is there a problem here?”

Seungkwan’s voice is completely devoid of its usual warmth, the one he usually reserves for you. It’s cold, flat, and carries a quiet authority you’ve rarely heard him use. That’s a side of him you don’t often see. Seungkwan has always been gentle and soft-spoken with everyone, especially you, despite your usual bickering. So for him to speak like that, you know he’s really not having it.

Youngjae blinks, momentarily taken aback, before his expression curls into a sneer. He looks Seungkwan up and down, taking in the knit sweater and the casual stance. “This doesn’t concern you, Boo. Stick to your silly script.”

“It concerns me when you show up at my workplace screaming at my producer five minutes before a live broadcast,” Seungkwan replies, not moving an inch. He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself so that his shoulder overlaps yours, creating a physical barrier between you and Youngjae. “You’re disrupting the station.”

“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Youngjae snaps, his voice rising in volume. He tries to step around Seungkwan to get to you, but Seungkwan mirrors the movement, blocking him flawlessly.

“She’s working,” Seungkwan states simply.

“I don’t care if she’s working! She’s my—”

“If you don’t lower your voice,” Seungkwan interrupts, his tone dropping to a whisper, his eyes locked onto Youngjae’s, “I will have security escort you out. And trust me, I know exactly how to get someone thrown out of a building.”

The silence in the lobby is deafening. The receptionist is staring openly now. You can hear the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Youngjae scoffs, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado, but he takes a step back. “You think you’re still a big shot, don’t you? You’re just a retired idol playing host at a local station.”

Seungkwan don’t rise to the bait. He don’t even blink. He just stares Youngjae down with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.

“Youngjae, enough!” You finally find your voice, and it surprises you how steady it sounds. The humiliation burns away, leaving behind a sharp, clean anger at the way he’s speaking to Seungkwan.

You step around Seungkwan, pulling the keys from your pocket. You don’t place them in Youngjae’s waiting hand; instead, you drop them onto the small glass coffee table next to him. They land with a loud, metallic clatter.

“I am at work,” you say, your voice ringing clear and authoritative in the quiet lobby. “You don’t come here and disrespect me. You don’t disrespect my colleagues. And you certainly don’t belittle what I do.”

Youngjae looks at the keys, then back at you, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? You’re making a scene over this?”

“No,” you correct him. “You made the scene. I am ending it. Take the keys and leave, Youngjae. Now.”

He stares at you, genuinely shocked. You’ve never spoken to him like this before. You’ve never pushed back. But standing here, with Seungkwan’s unyielding presence at your back, you feel a sudden, powerful surge of clarity. You are tired of shrinking.

Youngjae snatches the keys off the table, his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.

He shoots one last, venomous glare at Seungkwan before turning on his heel. “We are talking about this later,” he throws over his shoulder, pushing through the front doors and disappearing into the rain.

The heavy doors swing shut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.

Your adrenaline spikes, then immediately crashes. Your knees feel a little weak. You let out a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that.”

Seungkwan turns to you, and the intimidating aura is gone. What replaces it is soft, immediate concern. He reaches out, his hands hovering around you as if he wants to pull you into his chest, but instead he settles for gripping your shoulders, his thumbs pressing reassuringly against your collarbones.

“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely, his voice rough. “Don’t you ever apologize for him, Y/N.”

“He was so loud,” you whisper, humiliated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Everyone heard.”

“Good,” Seungkwan says stepping closer. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, the touch shockingly gentle. “Let them see that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. You were incredible just now.”

You look up at him. The lobby lights catch the deep brown of his eyes, turning them into something almost golden with protective pride that makes your chest ache. He isn’t looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

You want him to kiss you.

And normally, you would say it’s because you were feeling vulnerable, but you know that isn’t it. Being with Seungkwan just inches away from you like this makes you feel like the teenage girl who was hopelessly in love with him. Honestly, you’ve been feeling this way ever since he came back into your life.

“Two minutes!” Seungcheol’s voice booms from down the hallway, echoing through the corridor.

Seungkwan lets his hands slide down your arms, giving your hands a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. You just nod to yourself, taking a deep breath, but as you turn toward the studio doors, he caught your elbow.

“Tokki, wait,” he starts, his voice dropping to a serious register. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. “We need to talk about what just happened. About the way he treated you.”

You pull your arm back, shaking your head so hard your hair whips around your face. “I can’t, Seungkwan. Not now. I have a broadcast to get through.”

“You’re just going to pretend he didn’t try to dictate your entire life in front of your colleagues?”

“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking. You look at the studio doors, desperate for the sanctuary of the booth. “Just… leave it alone. For tonight. If you care about me, just leave it alone.”

Seungkwan watches you, jaw tight, clearly wanting to push it further. Frustration and aching sympathy flicker across his face. He finally gives a short, stiff nod. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later.”

You don’t answer, just turn and walk toward Studio B, the weight of the night pressing down on you.

FIVE MONTHS AGO

Seungkwan’s house was entirely too quiet when you arrived. Usually, his home was a chaos of neighborhood gossip, the television blaring something, his sisters’ friends coming and going, and the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove. But today, the air felt subdued.

His mother met you at the front door with a deep, exhausted sigh. “He hasn’t left that room in three days. Ever since the official press release about his retirement hit the news cycle on Tuesday, he’s just been lying there. He won’t eat. He barely talks. It’s like all the light just drained right out of him.”

“I’ll handle it,” you promised, offering her reassuring smile. You gripped the manila folder in your hand a little tighter. “He just needs a push.”

You marched up the familiar wooden stairs, your socks padding softly against the floorboards. You knew exactly the kind of existential dread Seungkwan was currently drowning in. For eleven years, his entire identity had been tied to a grueling, relentless schedule. He was an idol, for crying out loud. He was a performer.

Now, standing on the other side of that massive, terrifying decision to walk away, the silence was probably deafening. He had jumped off the cliff, and he was currently waiting to see if the parachute was going to open.

You were here to be the parachute.

You pushed the door to his childhood bedroom open without knocking. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room a gloomy and artificial twilight despite it being two in the afternoon.

Seungkwan was lying flat on his back in the center of his bed. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, his arms resting limply over his stomach. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, looking so profoundly lost and exhausted that it made your chest physically ache.

“Is this a wake?” you asked, your voice cutting through the stale air. “Because I’m not wearing black.”

Seungkwan jolted slightly, his head snapping toward the door. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the red, puffy evidence of a sleepless night. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“Intervention,” you announced simply.

You walked straight past his desk, didn’t bother to take off you oversized cardigan, and threw yourself unceremoniously onto the mattress right next to him.

The bedsprings groaned in protest as you landed flat on your back, your shoulder practically brushing against his. You crossed your ankles, folding your hands over your stomach, and mirrored his exact posture, staring up at the ceiling.

For a long moment, Seungkwan was too stunned to speak. He just turned his head, staring at your profile in absolute bewilderment.

“You’re invading my misery,” he finally muttered, his voice raspy and completely devoid of its usual bright energy.

“Well, misery loves company,” you countered easily, keeping your eyes on the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “Besides, we used to do this all the time. Remember? We spent half of our freshman year lying on this exact bed, staring at those stupid plastic stars.”

Seungkwan let out a hollow, humorless breath, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Yeah. Usually because you were having a meltdown about a chemistry exam.”

“We used to lie here for hours,,” you continued softly, the memory bringing a bittersweet tightness to your throat. “Just talking. Planning out how we were going to conquer the world. We had it all figured out.”

“Now I’m almost thirty, unemployed, hiding from the paparazzi in my childhood bedroom, and you’re running a local radio station on an island we swore we’d escape.”

“Hey,” you admonished gently, shifting your weight so you could bump your shoulder against his. “My local radio station happens to be the second highest rated afternoon program in the district. And that is exactly why I’m here."

You reached over, slapping the manila folder onto his chest. He grabbed it instinctively before it slid off.

“What is this?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the logo on the cover.

“That is a job offer,” you declared, turning your head to look at him. “Yoona’s co-host is transferring to the morning news division next month. We need someone who can talk endlessly, who understands the entertainment industry, and who is incredibly desperate for a distraction.”

He frowned, his nose scrunching slightly in protest. “I wouldn’t call myself desperate.”

“Maybe not,” you shrugged. “But you do need a reason to get out of this bed, Kwan. And I need someone who won’t trip over the microphone cables. Help out your oldest friend, will you?”

Seungkwan stared at the folder, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. You could see the gears turning in his head, the terrifying prospect of a new routine warring with the safety of his depression.

Before he could overthink it and hand the folder back, you let the tough-love producer persona drop entirely. The anger and the resentment from the past eleven years had been quietly eroding ever since he showed up at the recreation center, and seeing him like this—so broken and unsure—wiped out whatever was left of your pride.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out of you before you could stop it.

You closed the remaining distance between you, turning on your side and resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his sweatshirt was soft, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the familiar scent that was just him.

Seungkwan froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching audibly in his chest, though his voice still sounded playful when he spoke. “Well, don’t go soft on me now.”

“Okay, forget it,” you said, struggling to stand as you pulled the folder off his chest.

But then, Seungkwan’s arm came up. He wrapped it securely around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer until you were tucked perfectly against his side. His other hand reached over, his long fingers finding yours in the space between you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.

He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a long, lingering kiss.

“I missed you every day,” he murmured into your hair. “Every single day, Y/N.”

You squeezed his hand, a sad smile touching your lips. “Liar. You forgot me.”

“And how could I forget you, tokki?” he asked softly, using the childhood nickname that instantly made your heart skip a beat.

You tilted your head up just enough to look at his face. “Are you still calling me that?”

“Always,” Seungkwan replied without a second of hesitation. He finally looked down, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the bedroom. The exhaustion was still there, but the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze took your breath away.

You stared at him, the weight of the last decade hanging in the six inches of air between your faces. You had spent so long building walls to keep him out, but lying here, tangled up with him in the quiet sanctuary of his room, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Promise you won’t disappear this time,” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a plea. A genuine, terrifying surrender.

Seungkwan looked into your eyes, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip, the fearful hope shining in your gaze, and his heart physically violently hammered against his ribs. Swallowing down the desperate, burning need to kiss your lips, Seungkwan tightened his grip on your hand and forced a soft, reassuring smile.

“You’re going to get tired of me,” he said, his voice incredibly gentle. “I promise.”

He leaned down, carefully, deliberately, and kissed you on the forehead again. It was sweet. It was safe. It was the absolute maximum amount of restraint he was capable of mustering.

“I’ll take the job, PD-nim,” he whispered against your skin, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”

PRESENT

The reservation at Don Capri was for 8:00 p.m. By 8:05, you’re huddled in a corner velvet booth with a perfect line of sight to Chan’s table, holding a leather-bound menu high enough to hide your face but low enough to keep table four in view.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper, adjusting the menu slightly. “I can see a bead of sweat on his temple from here. He’s going to dehydrate before the appetizers arrive.”

Across from you, Seungkwan let out a soft, amused hum. He didn’t bother hiding behind his menu. Instead, he sits perfectly relaxed against the velvet, looking entirely in his element.

“He’s fine, tokki. She just laughed at whatever he said,” Seungkwan observes, taking a slow sip of his water.

The second he shuts his mouth, something metallic crashes to the floor.

Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Though he just knocked over the salt shaker. Give him ten minutes, if he drops his fork, we trigger the station emergency text.”

“Well, at least she doesn’t look like a serial killer,” you note, peering critically at Chan’s date again. She’s pretty, with an easy smile and, to her credit, she seems genuinely charmed by Chan’s nervousness.

“See? Fieldwork. I told you it would be fine.” Seungkwan reaches across the table, his fingers catching the top edge of your menu and pushing it down, forcing you to look at him. “Now stop spying. We are supposed to be blending in. If you keep staring at them, people are going to think we’re private investigators.”

You scoff, though your voice comes out a little breathless. “Blending in? We are sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, hiding behind potted ferns. We look ridiculous.”

“We only look ridiculous because you’re acting like a spy,” Seungkwan corrects. “If we want to be convincing, we need to act like we belong here. Like we’re on a actual date. So stop slouching.”

And you don’t know it yet, but Seungkwan is fully intent on turning this into a actual date. Or at the very least, showing you how you deserve to be treated on one.

You straighten up, reflexively pulling your jacket tighter. “I am not slouching. I’m trying to be inconspicuous. Which is hard to do when you’re dressed like that.”

Seungkwan looks impeccable, actually. He’s wearing a navy lightweight sweater layered over a striped button-down, the collar and cuffs peeking out; a look so effortlessly devastating it made at least three women trip over their own feet on his way to the table. Your heart had done much the same when he showed up at your door dressed like that.

Not that you would say that out loud, anyway.

“Like what?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye as he leans back, looking entirely too relaxed for a stakeout.

“Like you’re going to a premiere, not babysitting a blind date,” you counter.

“If we’re going to be security, we have to look the part. If I look like a scrub, they’ll think we’re just two random people loitering. If I look like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “we’re a couple enjoying a nice, expensive dinner.”

You do your best to ignore him referring to the two of you as a couple.

He caught your eye and held it, the playfulness fading into something more deliberate. “Besides, you look beautiful tonight. Even if you are trying to hide behind the menu.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse skips. “Stop flirting with me, Boo Seungkwan.”

“Trust me, tokki,” Seungkwan says, a smirk tugging at his lips. You’ve never seen this side of him. “You’ll know when I’m flirting with you.”

A waiter approaches the table before you can say a word. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering on Seungkwan’s polished attire before softening when it lands on you.

“Good evening,” the waiter greets in a hushed tone. “Can I start you two off with a bottle of wine? We have a beautiful Sangiovese that pairs perfectly with the chill in the air tonight. Are we celebrating a special occasion?”

You open your mouth to stammer out a polite refusal, to explain that you were just friends having a quick bite, but Seungkwan beats you to it.

“We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, if that's what you mean,” Seungkwan smiles, the warmth in his expression entirely genuine as he looks at the waiter, and then at you. “But it is a special occasion. I finally convinced her to let me take her to dinner.”

The waiter chuckles. “Well, then, congratulations are in order for the gentleman. And for the lady, I promise the food will make the wait worthwhile. Shall I bring the wine?”

“Please,” Seungkwans nods. He don’t look at the menu; he keeps looking at you, eyes searching. “And we’ll put out food orders in now, too. We’ll start with the burrata, please. And for the main… Tokki, you still love the mushroom risotto, don’t you? With the truffle oil?”

You blink, startled. It’s been years since you mentioned that preference, during a crowded high school lunch, of all things. “I... yes. I do.”

“Two orders of the mushroom risotto,” Seungkwan says, turning back to the waiter. “And please, hold the olives for the lady. She hates them.”

The waiter beams. “Coming right up. A wonderful choice for such a lovely couple. I’ll be right back with your wine.”

As the waiter glides away, you stare at Seungkwan, your mouth slightly parts. Your fingers nervously curls into the heavy linen napkin on your lap. You could probably dwell on the fact that the waiter keeps referring to you as a couple, but only one thing is on your mind right now.

“You remembered that?” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “The mushroom risotto?”

Seungkwan leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fingers. “I remember everything about you,” he says simply, shrugging slightly. “Besides, you always look at the past section first, but you invariably order rice dishes when you’re stressed. And right now, you’re tapping your foot against the table leg.”

You immediately still your foot, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. He is paying attention. He is always paying an agonizing amount of attention to you.

“You didn’t have to put on the whole performance for the waiter,” you murmur, looking down at the flickering candle to avoid the heat of his gaze. “He probably thinks we’re together now.”

“That’s the point of blending in,” Seungkwan says softly. “But it wasn’t a performance. If I am taking you out to dinner, I’m going to do it right. You deserve to be taken out to a place with real tablecloths and good lighting.”

He doesn’t elaborate more. He simply picks up his water glass, clinks it against yours, and smiles. It’s the closest he has come to referencing your love life all evening, but he doesn’t cross the line. He keeps the focus entirely on the present, on the two of you in this dimly lit booth, slowly forgetting why you came in the first place.

The waiter returns, pouring two glasses of the dark red wine. Seungkwan picks his up, holding it out toward you.

“To fieldwork,” he toasts, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

You pick up your glass, the crystal clinking softly against his. “To Chan keeping both his kidneys.”

You take a sip. The wine is incredible, rich, complex, and warming you from the inside out. For the first time all week, the perpetual knot of anxiety in your chest begins to loosen. You lean back into the velvet booth, allowing yourself to actually look at the man sitting across from you.

“So,” you start, feeling a sudden urge of liquid courage. “If this were a real date, what would the great Boo Seungkwan talk about?”

Seungkwan laughs, a sound that rumbles over the ambient noise of the restaurant. “If you really want the full experience, you have to know the fine print.”

You arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The fine print?”

“Yes. I’m incredibly demanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Seungkwan roll his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances across his features, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.

“I require a lot of attention, tokki. You should know.” He winks at you. “I’m the guy who wants to know exactly what made you laugh on your dive to work, and why you always steal my pens during per-production eve though you have five of your own.”

“Yours are better and more expensive.” You lift a shoulder in your best you-got-me shrug.

Seungkwan doesn’t care. He’d buy a million pens just for you to steal if it made you happy.

He reaches across the table, his index finger lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. “And if this were a real date, I wouldn’t be looking at Chan right now. I’d probably tell you that the candlelight makes your eyes look absolutely incredible.”

Your breath hitches. The banter had shifted gears so smoothly you almost got whiplash. God, you’re supposed to be here to babysit Chan and his date, but right now the only thing you can think about is Seungkwan. You’ve practically forgotten table four exists.

“And then,” he continues, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine, “I’d spend the rest of the appetizer course trying to figure out if you’re actually as unaffected by me as you’re pretending to be, or if I’m allowed to hold you hand across the table.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, completely betraying your cool facade. “And what’s your conclusion, Boo?” you challenged, though there’s far less bite in your voice than usual. You can’t believe you’re actually flirting with your best friend right now.

“My conclusion,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back up to hold you stare, “is that you’re definitely not unaffected. You’ve been shredding your napkin for five minutes.”

You are affected. More than you want to admit, and definitely more than you want him to notice. You’ve been like this ever since Seungkwan came back, maybe even before that, when he existed only through blurry livestreams and phone screens.

You look down. The linen napkin in your lap is indeed thoroughly twisted between your tense fingers. You drop it immediately, clearing your throat, but you refuse to let him win that easily.

“You’re very confident in your methods,” you note, leaning forward so that you are mirroring his posture. You tilt your head, letting a slow smile cross your lips. “But I’m curious. You’ve laid out your entire strategy. What makes you think you’d survive my moves?”

Seungkwan pauses, the confident smirk faltering just a fraction as his eyes widen slightly. “Is that a challenge, tokki? What exactly are your moves?”

“Well,” you start, dropping your voice to match his intimate volume. “If this were a real date, I wouldn’t need to put on a performance. I’d just use what I already know."

You reach across the table, your fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his striped button-down, ostensibly to brush away a piece of invisible lint. You feel him tense under your touch.

“I’d tell you that you don’t need the expensive sweater to impress me, even though navy looks undeniably good on you,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes. “I’d point out that you always rub your thumb against your index finger when you’re trying to play it cool. just like you’re doing right now.”

Seungkwan’s hand stills against the table, his breath catching audibly. You bite your lip without thinking, and immediately watch his eyes drop to the movement.

“And then,” you continue, imitating him and thoroughly enjoying the sudden, flustered darkening of his eyes, “I’d remind you that I know exactly what you sound like when you’re genuinely caught off guard. And I’d make it my mission for the rest of the night to hear it.”

Seungkwan visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The playful banter vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that completely short-circuits his brain. You can practically see the gears jamming as he stares at you, completely charmed and entirely at your mercy.

“You know, I’m just... invested in the mission,” you whisper, pulling your hand back and offering him an innocent, victorious smile.

“Right. The mission,” Seungkwan breathes out, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago. He looks thoroughly wrecked by your counter-attack, and thoroughly entertained by it, too.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing your wrist as you reach for your water glass. The fleeting contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your heart.

“Well, for the sake of the mission, I think we should keep up at the act. In fact, if the waiter comes back, I might just to lean in a little closer.”

“Don’t push your luck, Boo,” you warn, though a traitorous smile brakes across your face.

The burrata arrives, but neither of you pays any attention to it. The air inside the booth feels electric, every glance and teasing smile tightening the tension between you. The complicated reality of your life outside the restaurant fades into the background, replaced entirely by the thrill of Seungkwan’s undivided attention.

He’s flawlessly attentive, anticipating your needs before you voice them, teasing you gently, looking at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the restaurant seems to disappear.

Once again, you’re laughing more than you have in months—maybe even years. You feel beautiful, interesting, completely captivating under Seungkwan’s gaze. It feels like you’re on an actual date. A hell of a good one, if you’re being honest.

By the time the waiter brings the check—which Seungkwan immediately snatches up before you can even think about reaching for your purse, shooting you a look that brooks absolutely no argument—you feel like you’re floating.

“Chan survived,” Seungkwan notes as he signs the receipt, subtly gesturing toward table four, where Chan and his date are bundled into their coats, flushed and smiling. “No organs harvested tonight.”

“Mission accomplished,” you agree, sliding out of the velvet booth.

As you stand, Seungkwan is already there, holding your coat open for you. You blink, faintly stunned, but slip your arms into the sleeves anyway. His hands linger lightly on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary, and the weight of his touch steals your breath all over again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to look up at him.

“Anytime, tokki,” he smiles, stepping back to let you lead the way out of the restaurant.

TWO MONTHS AGO

Your mother’s inn was perched on a precipice, a jagged, flat-topped plateau of rock where the wind always smelled of salt. You could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs all night long, a rhythmic, slightly violent lullaby that had soundtracked your entire life.

The inn felt like a stubborn relic by now, while most of the city had sprouted sleek, glass-fronted luxury hotels and neon-lit resorts. It was weathered by the sea spray, its white paint peeling in places to reveal the sturdy, dark stone beneath, but there it stood: strong, and holding on.

You family quarters were tucked away at the back on the ground floor. That night, Seungkwan had insisted on walking you home after the show ended.

It started raining all of a sudden, and your mother was outside taking care of her plants when the two of you reached the door, soaking wet. She immediately insisted Seungkwan stay the night instead of walking home in the rain, even though he lived just down the street.

“Aigoo! Look at you both!” she shrieked, dropping a small trowel. “Y/N! Why didn’t you use an umbrella? And Seungkwanie! You’ll catch a cold and lose that voice of yours!”

“It’s just a little water, Auntie,” Seungkwan panted, trying to wipe his eyes, though he looked like he’d just climbed out of the ocean.

“Absolutely not,” she commanded, grabbing both of your elbows and hauling you inside the kitchen. “You are not walking home in this, Seungkwan. It’s pitch black and the wind is high enough to knock you off the cliff.”

“Mom, he lives five minutes down the street,” you reminded her, shivering as the air conditioning hit your wet skin.

“Five minutes too long! The road is slick, and your mother would kill me if her only son got pneumonia on my doorstep.” She was already rummaging through the linen closet, tossing a thick, oversized towel at Seungkwan’s head. “You’re staying. We have the guest room made up, and I’ll find some of your brother’s old clothes. Go, shower! Both of you!”

Seungkwan caught the towel, peeking out from under the white terry cloth. He looked at you, a hesitant, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew, as well as you did, that staying the night meant more than just avoiding the rain, it meant being back in the intimate, domestic bubble of your childhood, with sleepovers and everything that came with them.

You just shrugged. “You heard her.”

“I don’t want to be a burden...” he started, though his feet were already moving toward the hallway.

“The only burden is your chattering teeth,” your mother countered, already heading toward the stove to put on a pot of ginger tea.

You stood in the center of the kitchen, watching him. Seungkwan looked so out of place in your home, yet he smiled at your mother and thanked her with an ease that didn’t belong to the image you had of him. You didn’t know it, but he felt more at home there than he ever did in his apartment back in Seoul.

“Well,” you sighed, wringing out the hem of your shirt. “I guess we’re watching something here tonight.”

Seungkwan grinned, the water dripping from the tip of his nose. “Then hurry up, tokki. I’m not starting our study without you.”

Thirty minutes later, you left your room with a towel wrapped around your head, already dressed in your pajamas as walked down the hallway toward the living room, listening to your mother and grandmother’s voices as they talked to Seungkwan.

“Honestly, Seungkwanie, you look so thin. Does Pledis not feed their retirees?” your grandmother clucked, setting down a platter of golden-brown pajeon and a bottle of strawberry milk for him at the coffee table.

“Halmoni, you’re the only one who truly understands my nutritional needs,” Seungkwan chirped, his eyes crinkling into that sweet smile that had weaponized fans for more than a decade. He was already very comfortably settled on the sofa.

“Halmoni, stop,” you protested, placing a hand against her back in an attempt to guide her away. “He’s going to get an ego, and I’m the one who has to work with him tomorrow.”

“Oh, hush,” your mother dismissed you with a wave. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat on the edge of the armchair, fixing Seungkwan hair with a look that was equal parts maternal and deeply intrusive. “Leave the poor boy alone, Y/N.”

You could see it in her eyes as the gears in her head turned at terrifying speed, preparing whatever invasive question she was about to ask next. Your mother rarely believed in delicacy, privacy, or minding her own business. Especially when Boo Seungkwan was involved.

“Now, Seungkwanie, answer your Auntie honestly.” You squeezed your eyes shut the second a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, already bracing yourself. “A handsome, successful man like you, finally back home in Jeju... you must have girls throwing themselves at you. Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere in Seoul?”

Your grandmother nodded enthusiastically, not missing a beat as she sat down next to your mother. “Yes! We were just talking about this in the kitchen while you were showering. You know, when you two were teenagers, constantly attached at the hip, we always used to say it was only a matter of time. We always thought you and Y/N would end up together.”

God, that was worse than you could’ve imagined. Even if you actually agreed with her.

Your jaw practically unhinged. You froze right behind the sofa, your hands tightening their grip on the towel wrapped around your wet hair. “Halmoni! Mom! What is wrong with you?”

Seungkwan, to his credit, didn’t choke on his bite of pajeon. But a slow, blooming red flush crept up the back of his neck, visible even under the collar of the borrowed sweatshirt. He looked up at you over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amount of amusement, before turning his polite smile back to the two women.

“No girlfriend, Auntie,” Seungkwan said politely, though his voice had dropped into that smooth tone that always made your pulse jump. “The group kept me pretty busy. I never really found anyone who could put up with me.”

He paused, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. His gaze drifted back up to catch yours, a thoroughly devastating smirk playing on his lips.

“But...” he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, “I have to admit, Halmoni has excellent intuition. I always thought we made a pretty perfect pair, too.”

You let out a strangled gasp, your face immediately burning hot. You grabbed a small embroidered throw pillow off the back of the sofa and chucked it directly at his head.

“Aigoo!” your mother scolded, though she was trying and failing to hide a massive grin as Seungkwan easily dodged the pillow with a laugh. “Y/N! Where are your manners? You don’t throw things at our guest.”

“He’s not a guest, it’s Seungkwan!” you shot back, completely flustered as you marched around the sofa to grab a piece of pajeon, avoiding Seungkwan’s entirely entirely too-smug expression. “And both of you need to stop encouraging him.”

“We’re just stating the facts,” your grandmother stated placidly, patting Seungkwan’s knee. “It’s nice to have you back, Seungkwanie. It feels like things are finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”

“You know, Seungkwan,” your mother turned back to Seungkwan, her eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous memory. “Y/N was always your biggest supporter. Even when you weren’t here to see it.”

A cold spike of dread shot through your chest. “Mom. No.”

“In fact,” she continued, ignoring your frantic eye signals, “she kept a little... archive. In the back of her closet. It’s still there. All those albums and the rare photocards—”

This had to be a nightmare.

“Mom, I swear to God—”

“Photocards?” Seungkwan’s head whipped toward you again, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face. “Rare ones?”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” you muttered, your face heating to a shade of red that could rival the ON AIR sign back at the station.

“I’ll go get the binder!” you mother chirped, already scurrying toward the hallway.

“Mom! Don’t you dare!”

You scrambled after her, but it was too late. Within seconds, your mother returned, triumphantly hoisting a thick, plastic-sleeved binder and a dusty box. She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.

Seungkwan leaned forward, his eyes wide with delight. He flipped the binder open. It was a chronological history of his career: rare photo cards you’d traded for, newspaper clippings from his first win on Music Bank, and even a crumpled receipt from his first fan meeting in Seoul.

“Is this…” Seungkwan traces the edge of a photocard where he's sporting a questionable bowl from his first studio album. “Y/N, even I don’t have this one.”

He looked at the box, pulling out a lightstick that had been carefully preserved, its battery long dead but the diamond inside still gleaming. He looked from the collection to you, his expression shifting from teasing to something much softer, much more complex.

“You kept everything,” he whispered.

You stood by the TV, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with radio broadcast. You felt like the teenage girl again, sitting on the parapet, watching the boy you loved walk away toward a life you couldn’t follow.

“It’s just... memorabilia,,” you lied, your voice tight in your throat. “For the history of Jeju’s most famous export.”

Another lie. That entire collection had been your way of staying close to Seungkwan after he cut you out of his life without a single explanation. You didn’t just want to support his career, you wanted to feel close to him somehow, no matter how ridiculous it made you feel.

And honestly, you’d owned far more than what was left in that box. At one point, you even bought a life-size cardboard cutout of Seungkwan. But after one particularly angry night, you threw half of it away. The remaining pieces were only there because your mother had saved them.

Seungkwan stood up, the binder still open to a page of his handwritten lyrics you’d printed out years ago. “Y/N. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

The frustration that had been building for months — of the twelve-year silence, of Seungkwan sliding back into your life as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole behind — suddenly boiled over.

You looked him dead in the eye, your chin trembling just slightly. “Well, you left, didn’t you?”

The silence that followed was terrible. Heavy. Your mother and grandmother, realizing they’d accidentally stepped into a minefield, quietly retread to the kitchen.

Seungkwan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The smugness was gone. His glow was gone. He looked down at the binder, at the version of himself that had been a start while you stayed behind.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before a word could leave his lips. “Let’s just watch, okay?”

PRESENT

The drive back to your house is suspended in silence. It isn’t the uncomfortable, suffocating quiet you’re used to sharing with Youngjae after an argument; it’s a warm stillness. The ambient glow of the dashboard illuminates Seungkwan’s profile as he navigates the winding coastal roads, the faint sound of a lo-fi track humming through the car speakers.

As the tires crunch onto the familiar gravel of the inn’s precipice, the sound of the ocean immediately rushes in to fill the space. Waves crash violently against the rocks below, creating a wild soundtrack for the storm brewing in your chest.

Seungkwan shifts the car into park but leaves the engine idling. The heater blows softly, maintaining the comfortable, intimate bubble you’ve been trapped inside all night. He doesn’t immediately reach to unlock the doors. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts in his seat, turning fully toward you.

You stare out the windshield at the peeling white paint of your mother’s inn, suddenly completely unwilling to open the door. Opening it means the “fieldwork” night is over. It means stepping back into the cold reality where you are the secret girlfriend of a man who doesn’t respect you.

“So…” you start, voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. You turn you head, sinking slightly into the leather set to look at him. “We’re successfully completed the dinner portion of our research.”

Seungkwan rests his arm along the back of your seat, eyes tracing the line of your face in the dim light. “We did. I’d say the data we collected was highly successful.”

And the more e you tried to piece everything together, the more confused you became. Was Seungkwan actively flirting with you? Was he serious about what he confessed that night when you were both drunk? Or was this all just concern disguised as something else, his way of trying to save you from Youngjae?

You couldn’t tell anymore, and that uncertainty was driving your thoughts into complete chaos.

You let out a soft, nervous breath, your eyes dropping to Seungkwan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “What happens now, then? In the spirit of a comprehensive study... what are your moves at the end of a date?”

“My moves?” he echoes, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“Yeah,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware of the small space between you inside the car. “Do you just... say goodnight and drive away?”

“No,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning a little closer. The faint scent of expensive wine and cedarwood wraps around you. “If it were a real date, I’d walk her all the way to her door. I’d wait until she got inside safely. And I’d still ask her to text me after, just so I could be absolutely sure.”

“And then?” you press, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird desperate to be set free.

Boo Seungkwan’s gaze drops to your lips. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “And then, if she were looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now...” His voice lowers even more, rough around the edges. “I’d kiss her goodnight.”

The air in the car vanishes at the same time it does in your lungs.

Every rational thought—the fact that you are still technically dating Youngjae, the fact that you work together, the fact that this could shatter the fragile equilibrium of your friendship—is completely eclipsed by the magnetic pull of the man sitting beside you. Your best friend.

You had spent a year starving in the dark, and Seungkwan was suddenly offering you a feast in the light.

Your gaze drops to his lips, slightly parted, before lifting back to his eyes, darkened and blown wide with anticipation.

“Then kiss me,” you breathe, barely believing the words have left your mouth.

Seungkwan freezes. For a single, agonizing millisecond, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours frantically, as if trying to confirm he heard you correctly, making sure it isn’t a joke or a mistake.

Whatever he finds in your expression broke the last remaining thread of his restraint.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand rises, long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he pulls you forward just as his lips crash against yours.

There isn’t a hint of hesitation in the way his lips move against yours—only certainty. It’s fifteen years of waiting, of quiet longing, yearning in high school hallways, on parapets, and in agonizingly small radio booths, finally shattering wide open.

His lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly of wine and the chapstick he’d applied before driving you home. The hand on the back of your seat rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you gasp against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound. Seungkwan takes it as permission for his tongue to swipe between your lips.

You melt against him completely, your hands flying up to grip his navy-blue sweater, afraid that if you don’t, you might dissolve into a puddle in his passenger seat. Seungkwan’s kiss is mind-blowing, addictive, and so much more than you ever dreamed it would be when you were a teenager.

The center console digs uncomfortably into your side, but you don’t care. You pull yourself closer, your fingers sliding from his chest up into his soft hair, tugging gently at the strands. Seungkwan groans, a low, incredibly attractive sound that vibrates against your lips as he grows bolder, pulling you over his legs to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding up considerably.

You don’t hesitate, practically throwing yourself into Seungkwan’s lap, his arm flying to your hips as you giggle when your head lightly hits the car ceiling. Seungkwan likes the sound of your laughter, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with the little gasp and moan that slip out when he kisses you again.

It’s dizzying, entirely consuming; you feel like your head is spinning. For the first time in months, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking; you feel like you’re the absolute center of the fucking universe.

When you finally pull apart to catch your breath, neither of you moves very far. Seungkwan keeps his forehead resting against yours, your chests rising and falling unevenly in the quiet interior of the car. But when you open your eyes again, his expression isn’t blissful. It’s troubled, worried.

Your stomach drops instantly. Scared of what he might say next, you whisper: “What’s wrong?”

“Y/N,” Seungkwan says softly, his breathing uneven. “I’m not strong enough to pull away from you right now. So if this was just a kiss for research... I need you to be the one to stop this before I—”

You silence him with another kiss, your arms winding around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Seungkwan make a soft sound against your mouth when you catch his lower lip between yours, your hips rolling against him involuntarily.

Both of you let out shaky groans at the same time when you feel the hard press of him where your bodies meet. Seungkwan’s head tips back instinctively, exposing the long line of his throat, and you immediately take the invitation, kissing your way along his neck while his hands slide down to your exposed thigh.

His fingers give light, lingering squeezes as they slowly travel higher, dangerously close to where you want him the most. The anticipation alone is enough to make you shiver, unsure if you’ll survive the moment his hands finally reach the place you’ve bee aching for him to touch.

You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent enveloping you in a dizzying cloud of desire.

Seungkwan’s fingers dance along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the light touches leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you entirely. Your hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact with the hard length pressing insistently against your core.

“Please,” you whimper against his neck, your voice ragged with need. “Touch me, Seungkwan.”

He groans at your words, his fingers inching higher until they brush against the damp fabric of your panties. You gasp at the contact, your head falling back against the steering wheel as he begins to rub slow circles over your clothed sex. The thin barrier of your underwear does little to dull the sensation, and you can feel your arousal soaking through the material, coating Seungkwan’s fingers.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. “You’re so wet for me already. I can feel you throbbing against my fingers.”

Emboldened by your moans, Seungkwan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the car. He wastes no time before running a finger along your slick folds, gathering your arousal before bringing it to his lips. His tongue darts out to taste you, his eyes fluttering shut as he savors your flavor.

“God, you taste divine,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I could eat you out all night long.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself rocking your hips forward, desperate for more of his touch.

Seungkwan takes the hint and slips a finger inside your heat, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles. You cry out at the intrusion, your walls clenching around his digit as he begins to pump it in and out of you slowly.

“Look at you,” Seungkwan growls, his eyes locked on where his finger disappears inside you. “So tight and perfect. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”

The thought of him inside you sends a wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself fisting his hair, tugging him closer as you grind down on his hand. Seungkwan responds by adding a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to stroke your clit with his thumb.

“Seungkwan,” you gasp, your hips bucking wildly as you chase your impending orgasm. “Don’t stop, please.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss as his fingers continue to work you over. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours as he swallows your moans and whimpers. You can feel your release building, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

With one final thrust of his fingers and a particularly hard press of his thumb against your clit, you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you scream your pleasure into Seungkwan’s mouth. He holds you through it, his fingers continuing to stroke your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.

As you come down from your high, Seungkwan slowly withdraws his fingers from your still-throbbing core. He brings them to his mouth once more, licking them clean of your juice before pulling you into one more kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor a heady mix of sweet and tangy that has your core clenching with renewed desire.

But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. You’re still in Seungkwan’s car, parked outside of your mother’s inn. At any moment, someone could come looking for you, catching you in a compromising position with your best friend.

The realization hits you not as a gradual dawning, but as a visceral, physical blow. It starts in your stomach, a sudden, plummeting sensation of nausea. You aren’t just exploring a connection. You are cheating. You are cheating on the man you are still technically tethered to, and in doing so, you are dragging Seungkwan into a mess he doesn’t deserve.

You look at Seungkwan’s face—open, hopeful, glowing with the anticipation of what comes next—and the guilt that floods you is suffocating.

You can’t do this to him. You can offer him a fragment of yourself while you are still tied to someone else. You see the way he shifts, his hand moving down to find yours, his fingers interlacing with your own, a silent offer to take this further, to stay, to bridge the final gap between you.

No.

The word echos in your mind, sharp and final.

You pull your hand away as if you’d been burned.

Panic begins to set in, and you pull away from Seungkwan, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “We can’t... We shouldn’t have done this,” you pant, your eyes wide with fear.

Seungkwan frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by a jagged, sudden uncertainty. “Y/N? What is it?”

“I...” Your voice fails you. You try to speak, but the words stick in your throat. The air in the car suddenly feels too thick to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in, the tinted windows transforming from a shield into a prison.

“Did I... did I cross a line?” Seungkwan asks, his voice dropping, stripped of its earlier confidence. Hurt is already beginning to cloud his features. “I’m sorry, I just—you asked me to—”

“It’s not you,” you gasp, fumbling for the door handle. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely get a grip on the lever. “It’s not you, Seungkwan. It’s me. It’s everything.”

“Y/N, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab your arm, his touch gentle but firm, trying to ground you. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me. We don’t have to do anything else. We can just sit here. Just talk.”

You can’t look at him. If you do, you know you’ll shatter. You know you’ll stay. You know you would trade your sanity for the feeling of his lips on yours, for the way his hands roam over your body, touching you in ways you’d only ever dreamed about, and that is the most dangerous part of all.

You jerk your arm back, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The engine is still idling, the low hum vibrating through the floorboards, matching the frantic, uneven thudding of your heart.

“I can’t,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.”

Seungkwan’s expression falls, his brow furrowing in concern and hurt. “Y/N, wait—”

But you don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. In a moment of sheer panic, you scramble out of the car, not even bothering to fix your skirt as you flee up the path to the inn’s front door. You can hear Seungkwan calling after you, but you don’t dare look back.

Your hands are shaking as you fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and slip inside. You lean against it, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process what just happened.

And for hours, you just stand there, trapped in the hallway of your childhood home, the silence pressing in on you from all sides.

A MONTH AGO

It was Seungkwan’s birthday that night. And despite his repeated protests that he wanted a quiet night in with you and his parents, his group members had blatantly ignored him, flying in from Seoul that afternoon and bringing with them a overwhelming wave of noise, expensive gifts, and a decade’s worth of inside jokes you knew nothing about.

You had been invited—or rather, Seungkwan had threatened to drag you out of the radio station by your ankles if you didn’t show up.

“Here, Y/N, you need to try this cut,” Seokmin announced loudly over the sizzling of the grill, leaning across the table to drop a perfectly cooked piece of pork belly onto your plate. “Seungkwan used to burn the meat all the time when the for of us lived together, so I had to learn how to cook to survive.”

“My cooking skills are great!” Seungkwan defended himself immediately, grabbing his tongs and glaring at Seokmin.

You laughed, covering your mouth as you chewed. Sitting there with them felt surreal, you spent years watching these men on television or through a tiny phone screen, but in person, they were just loud, fiercely loyal brothers who clearly adored Seungkwan just as much as you.

“Don’t listen to them, Y/Nie,” a soft voice chimed in from the end of the table.

You looked over to see Jeonghan resting his chin on his hand, offering you a smile that was practically lethal. He was wearing a simple black shirt, but he somehow still look like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square.

“Seungkwan has many talents. Though, he is notoriously bad at sharing.”

You opened your mouth to reply, fully intending to agree with Jeonghan, but before you could even form a syllable, Seungkwan shifted his chair. He moved a full six inches to the left, strategically placing his broad shoulders directly in your line of sight, entirely blocking Jeonghan from your view.

“Okay, hyung, that’s enough,” Seungkwan said, his ears turning a faint shade of pink. He furiously flipped a piece of meat on the grill. “Eat your pork.”

You leaned back, trying to peer around Seungkwan’s arm. “I was just going to say—”

“No, you weren’t,” Seungkwan interrupted, tossing a piece of lettuce onto your plate with entirely too much force. “You don’t need to talk to him.”

You bit your lip to suppress a massive grin.

Ever since they arrived, Seungkwan has been doing everything he can to keep you far away from Jeonghan. All of it because of the comment you made months ago about thinking he was handsome, inflamed by you bring it up a few more times just to annoy him, insisting that Jeonghan’s face belonged in a painting.

An as soon as you were introduced, you didn’t miss the opportunity to announce that Jeonghan was your bias when asked, something the oldest member of the group took full advantage of, delighting in the sight of Seungkwan’s ears burning with jealousy every time he spoke to you.

It was a very, very fun night.

“Funny that it’s not a collection of his you have shoved in the back of your closet,” Seungkwan whispered, just loud enough for you to hear as he squeezed your waist.

You rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away. “Shut up.”

That was another one of those things you hadn’t talked about yet, and you had no intention of discussing it there with his members watching.

“Are you hiding her from me, Kwan-ah?” Jeonghan teased, his voice dancing with amusement as he leaned sideways to catch your eye again. “Y/N, did he tell you I was dangerous?”

“He’s blocking my view of the painting,” you agreed playfully, thoroughly enjoying the way Seungkwan’s jaw clenched, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

“I am going to throw you both into the ocean,” Seungkwan threatened, pouring himself a shot of soju. He pointed his stainless steel chopstick at you. “And you. Stop encouraging him. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s my birthday.”

“I’m on the side of objective beauty,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.

Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was more than happy to see you getting along well with his friends, even if he was quietly sulking for your attention.

He leaned in closer to you, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear over the sizzling meat. “You’re terrible. I fly my friends down here to meet you, and you immediately try to run off with the visual.”

“You’re a visual too, Boo,” you whispered back, patting his chin, the playful banter suddenly dipping into something much warmer. “Don’t be so jealous.”

Seungkwan’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the easygoing atmosphere. “I’m not jealous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “I just know what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched, the ambient noise of the restaurant suddenly fading into the background.

After the night you got drunk together and traded teenage confessions, Seungkwan had started being flirty with you more and more. Your mother and grandmother certainly weren’t helping, constantly fueling the idea that the two of you belonged together.

But before you could unpack that, Joshua clapped his hands together from across the table, catching both of yours attention.

“So, Seungkwan,” Joshua said, raising his glass in a toast. “Now that the escrow officially closed on the Gangnam apartment last week, what’s the plan? Are you buying a place here in Jeju?”

You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth. You turned your head slowly, staring at the side of Seungkwan’s face.

He had sold his apartment? The massive, luxury penthouse in Seoul that he had spent the last five years decorating? The apartment that anchored him to the capital, to the industry, to the life he had built away from you?

Seungkwan’s entire body tensed as he slowly lowered his tongs. He didn’t look at Joshua or his members. He only looked at you, reading the absolute shock radiating across your features.

“You... sold your apartment?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, entirely oblivious to the other four men at the table.

“Ah,” Jihoon winced softly from across the table, realizing the sudden, drastic shift in the atmosphere. “He didn’t tell you.”

“I was going to,” Seungkwan said quickly, turning fully toward you. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, clearly bracing himself for you to be angry. “Y/N, I swear I was going to tell you. The paperwork just finalized.”

“You sold it,” you repeated, the reality of the situation settling heavy and absolute in your chest. Selling that apartment wasn’t just a financial decision. It meant his retirement wasn’t a temporary hiatus to clear his head. It meant he was not going back.

It meant he was staying for good. That the boy you loved all those years ago—the one who broke your heart by leaving and not speaking to you for the twelve years that followed—was actually back, and he wasn’t going anywhere, just like he promised while lying beside you in his childhood bedroom.

It was too much to process in a room full of people and five pair of eyes on you.

“Excuse me,” you managed to say, your voice breathless as you pushed your chair back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”

You didn’t wait for his response. You slipped out of the private room, the noise of the restaurant hitting you like a physical wall as you navigated the crowded hallway toward the back exit. You didn’t go to the restroom; you pushed through the heavy metal door that led to the quiet, dimly lit alley behind the building.

The cold night air hit your flushed face, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beating of your heart.

He was staying. He was actually, permanently staying.

The heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel his presence, the familiar, grounding gravity that had always pulled you in.

Seungkwan stepped into the alley, letting the door click shut, cutting off the noise of the restaurant. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, stopping a few feet away from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice apprehensive. “I shouldn’t have let you find out like that. I wanted to tell you properly.”

You turned to face him, leaning back against the brick wall of the restaurant. You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad, Kwan. I’m just... stunned. That’s a massive deal. Your whole life was in Seoul.”

Seungkwan visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he realized you weren’t upset, just overwhelmed. He took a slow step closer, the faint light from a nearby streetlamp catching the sharp angles of his face.

“My career was in Seoul,” Seungkwan corrected softly. “My life... my life hasn’t been there for a very long time.”

“But why?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “You loved that penthouse. You worked so hard for it. Why would you give it all up?”

Seungkwan stopped right in front of you. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at you with a raw, terrifying honesty that made your knees weak.

“Because I found a reason to stay here,” he said, his voice a vibrating hum that went straight to your bones. “Because everything I have ever actually wanted is right here. On this island.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.

“I’m staying for good, tokki,” he promised, his eyes entirely focused on yours. “I told you that you’d get tired of me.”

You shook your head, not understanding why your eyes were suddenly burning, threatening to fill with tears. “I could never.”

A smile spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Well, then, great. Because I plan on keeping you as close as I can.”

A lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating. You wanted to throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him that you were terrified, but that you wanted him to stay close to you more than you wanted to breathe. That you wanted to close the distance between you right at that moment.

But then, your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, and you flinched as if you’d been burned, the spell cast over you shattering.

Once again, you knew exactly who it was without even looking. Youngjae had texted you ten minutes ago to say he was waiting two blocks down, parked near the pharmacy to reduce the possibility of someone known see his car.

The ugly reality of your secret life came crashing down, entirely ruining the beautiful thing Seungkwan was offering you. You were still trapped in the dark, and you couldn’t drag him down into it with you.

You gently, painfully pulled your wrist out of his grip. “I have to go,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “My ride is here.”

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened again. He looked down the street, toward the dark corner where he knew, and you knew, Youngjae was hiding. The disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He just took a slow step back, giving you space.

“Right,” Seungkwan grumbled, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

You couldn’t leave him like this. Not on his birthday. Not after he had just implicitly confessed to altering the entire trajectory of his life for you.

You stepped forward, closing the distance he had just created. You placed your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He froze, his breath catching as you tipped your chin up.

“Happy Birthday, Kwan,” you whispered.

Before he could react, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the tip of his nose. It was an old habit, a childhood gesture of pure, unfiltered affection that you hadn’t used in more than a decade.

He sharply inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you.

But you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled away, abandoning the warmth of his orbit, and turned on your heel. You walked back into the restaurant to say goodbye to his members, leaving him standing alone beneath the flickering streetlamp. Then you slipped into the passenger seat of Youngjae’s waiting car and disappeared into the night.

PRESENT

You didn’t show up to work for the two days that followed the events in Seungkwan’s car.

Yesterday, you called Seungcheol, claiming a sudden, violent stomach bug. Today, it was a vague text about a “family emergency,” and Seungkwan knows exactly what the emergency is: you’re hiding from him.

He had sat in his idling car for five minutes that night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, fighting the overwhelming urge to get out, walk to your door, pound on it, and demand answers to why you ran, what you were thinking, and how he could make you stop worrying.

But he didn’t. Seungkwan had promised himself he would never be the reason you felt cornered, so he stayed in the car a moment longer, than turned the wheel and drove away instead.

Now Seungkwan sits at the desk in Studio B, his hands resting flat against the cool surface as he stares at your empty chair, the digital clock on the monitor blinks relentlessly: 8:45 PM.

Normally, this was the time the tiny broadcast room would be vibrating with frantic, pre-show energy. You would be shuffling through your printed notes, chewing absently on the end of a blue ballpoint pen, and shooting him exasperated looks as he deliberately tried to distract you. The air would be filled with a comfortable banter.

Tonight, the silence is deafening.

He reaches across the console, his fingers brushing lightly over the tape marker that designates your microphone levels.

He misses you. He misses your laugh; he misses the way your eyes crinkle when he finally manages to catch you off guard. He spent twelve years running from his feelings, and now that he has finally stopped running, the object of his affection is sprinting in the opposite direction.

The soundproof door clicks open, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Hansol and Chan step into the studio, bringing a sudden wave of chaotic energy with them. Hansol looks entirely unfazed, a pair of oversized headphones resting around his neck and a half-empty iced matcha latte in his hand. Chan, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking to his own execution, clutching your production clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest.

“Hyung,” Chan starts immediately, his eyes wide with panic as he stares at the massive audio console. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t know what half of these buttons do. If I hit the wrong slider, are we going to accidentally broadcast submarine sonar across the entire island?”

“You’re not going to broadcast sonar, Chan,” Seungkwan sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just touch the faders Hansol marked with the green tape. Don’t touch the red ones. The red ones drop the delay.”

Chan shifts his weight, still staring nervously at Seungkwan. “What if I need to drop the delay?” he presses. “What if a caller starts swearing? What if someone confesses to a crime? Do I hit the red button then?”

Hansol claps a hand down on Chan’s shoulder, unfazed. “If someone confesses to a crime on a local romantic advice show, you let it ride, man. That’s just good ratings.” He shrugs. “Just breathe. You survived a blind date where you thought your organs were going to be harvested. You can survive pressing a plastic button.”

Chan visibly grimaces at the mention of the date, the very date that had been the catalyst for Seungkwan’s entire world tilting off its axis.

The solution Seungcheol had found for your absence was to put Chan in your place, with Hansol supervising him. Yesterday, Seungkwan had tried to manage on his own, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing without you there, aside from talking nonstop, trying to hide that he was lost.

“You guys don’t have to do this,” Seungkwan says, finally looking up at them. His voice lacks its usual bright edge. “I can try run the boards myself again. Cheol hyung said it was fine if we just played an acoustic set for the second hour.”

Hansol takes a slow sip of his matcha, his observant eyes scanning Seungkwan’s face. Hansol is famously quiet, but he misses absolutely nothing. He’s seen the way Seungkwan has been pacing the halls like a caged animal for the past two days without you there, and Seungkwan knows he understands—without needing to ask—that something happened between the two of you, even if he chooses not to intrude.

“We’re doing it,” Hansol says smoothly, pulling out your chair and nudging Chan into it before taking a seat on the tiny sofa against the back wall.

“Hansol, we—”

Buy he shakes his head, raising a hand to make Seungkwan stop talking. “You look like you haven’t slept since Saturday,” Hansol says calmly. “If you try to run the boards and talk at the same time tonight, there’s a high chance of a catastrophe. Just focus on the mic. We’ve got the tech.”

Seungkwan offers a tight, grateful smile. He pulls his headphones over his ears just as the clock hits 09:00 PM.

Seungcheol taps at the glass, giving a thumbs-up, while Chan—holding his breath and looking absolutely terrified—slides the green-taped fader up. The familiar intro of Love on the Airwaves floods Seungkwan’s ears.

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling every ounce of his professional training to push the heartbreak down into his chest. He opens them again, leans into the microphone, and forces his smooth, charismatic radio voice to the surface.

“Good evening, Jeju,” Seungkwan purrs into the mic, though the usual playful lilt is tempered by a softer, more melancholic undertone. “Welcome to Love on Airwaves. It’s just me again tonight. Our lovely, brilliant producer and co-host, Y/N, is taking a well-deserved couple of days off. So you’re stuck with just my voice, and a very nervous Lee Chan running the boards behind me. Be gentle with him, folks.”

He pauses, letting the instrumental track swell for a few seconds. “It’s chilly tonight. The kind of night that makes you want to stay inside and think about the people you miss. The lines are open. Talk to me, Jeju.”

The first thirty minutes of the show are a blur of standard calls. A college student stressed about finals, a husband looking for anniversary gift ideas, a girl who can’t decide if she should text her ex. Seungkwan navigates them all with his usual empathy and wit, but it feels hollow.

He keeps instinctively turning his head to his right, waiting for you to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a grounded piece of advice, only to find Chan staring back at him in sheer terror.

“Alright, our next caller is on line four,” Seungkwan prompts, motioning to Chan.

He frantically presses the glowing yellow button. “Let’s welcome Yujin from Seogwipo,” Chan says clicking the mouse to patch the caller through. “Yujin, you’re on the air with Seungkwan.”

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I got through,” a youthful, slightly breathless voice crackles over the studio monitors. “Hi Seungkwan-ssi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thanks for tuning in, Yujin-ssi,” Seungkwan replies, his tone dripping with honeyed warmth. “What’s on your mind tonight? Is there a boy giving you headache?”

“Actually, I have more of a personal question to you Seungkwan-ssi,” Yujin says, her voice stabilizing.

“Oh? Ask away.”

“Well,” she begins, and there’s a slight pause. “You’re always giving us such amazing advice about love. But you’re so private about your own life! So my friends and I were debating, and we wanted to call in and ask the expert himself.”

Seungkwan feels a slight prickle of apprehension, and he sees Chan freeze, his hand hovering over the equalizer dials, waiting for Seungkwan to give him a signal to cut the call.

But Seungkwan just keeps his voice light. “Yeah?”

“What is your ideal type, Seungkwan-ssi? And don’t give me the standard PR answer about someone with a good heart. We want the details!”

The jazz music in the background suddenly feels very loud, and the timing is almost ironic. It feels like the universe is playing a trick on him. In the corner of the room, Hansol lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. Chan looks between Seungkwan and the control board as if wondering which button he could press to save his ass.

It was a softball question. An easy and harmless prompt. The standard protocol was to describe a vague, generalized concept: someone who likes the same music, someone who enjoys long walks, someone kind. It was the answer he had given in a hundred different magazines and a thousand different interviews.

But as Seungkwan looks at your empty chair, at the blue pen abandoned on the desk, his media training completely vanishes. The exhaustion, the longing, and the absolute certainty of his feelings override his filter entirely.

“My ideal type,” Seungkwan repeats softly. The radio-host persona drops away, leaving his voice raw, deep, and devastatingly sincere.

He leans closer to the microphone.

“She’s… stubborn,” Seungkwan starts, his eyes fixed on the tape marker on the desk. “Incredibly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that makes you want to pull your hair out, but also makes you respect her more than anyone else in the world.”

Through the glass, Seungcheol sits up a little straighter. Hansol stops drinking his matcha, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realizes exactly what Seungkwan is doing.

He knew about Seungkwan’s feelings for you. He was the only person, besides Seungkwan himself, who knew. Now you’ll finally know too, or at least now you’d be sure, in case Seungkwan hadn’t made it so painfully obvious on Saturday night.

“She works too hard,” Seungkwan continues, his voice wrapping around the words with a tender reverence. “She’s super tough to the others, but really, she has the softest, most fiercely loyal heart I’ve ever encountered. When she’s stressed, she taps her foot against the table leg and clicks her pens.”

Over the line, Yujin and the room go completely silent.

“She smells like lavender,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes glazing over slightly as the memory of the car engulfs him, the heat of your skin, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “She has this laugh she tries to hide behind her hand, but when it slips out, it’s the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s brilliant. She’s so much brighter and more capable than she gives herself credit for. But sometimes… sometimes she forgets her own worth. Sometimes she lets people treat her like she’s ordinary, and it breaks my heart, because there is absolutely nothing ordinary about her.”

The studio is dead silent. Chan’s jaw has practically on the ground, his hand hovering frozen over the faders, his brain still trying to process that Seungkwan is, in fact, talking about you.

“Wow,” Yujin finally breathes over the line, her voice trembling slightly. The playful, gossipy tone is completely gone, replaced by something closer to awe. “Seungkwan-ssi… that doesn’t sound like a type. That sounds like a very specific person. You… you sound like you’re already in love.”

Seungkwan doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t try to backtrack, or laugh it off, or play it as a joke. He stares directly into the microphone, his heart completely exposed to the airwaves. “I am,” he confesses, the two words falling from his lips with staggering, undeniable weight.

Seungcheol stands on the other side of the glass, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes wide as his hands hover near his head in disbelief. Chan lets out a shocked grunt Seungkwan is certain has just gone out over the broadcast, and Hansol chuckles softly in his corner. Seungkwan already knows he’ll never hear the end of it once the dust settles.

“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” Seungkwan says, the emotion finally cracking in his voice, turning it thick and rough. “Since before I even knew what the word meant. I spent twelve years away, and I never—not for a single second—found anyone who could replace her. I came back here for her.”

He swallows hard, his fingers curling into tight fists on the desk.

“I think I pushed too hard recently,” he admits softly, not just to Yujin, but to the thousands of cars, kitchens, and lonely bedrooms tuned in across the island. “I think I scared her. I wanted so badly to pull her into the light that I didn’t realize how blinding it might be. But I just want her to know…”

Seungkwan leans in until his lips are nearly brushing the foam of the mic.

“I just want her to know that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how messy it gets. She is the only person I want. And I am just… I am really hoping she’s listening right now.”

He pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. Then he nods at Chan.

Chan, looking as though he had just witnessed a religious awakening, frantically pushes the fader up, cutting the call and flooding the airwaves with the slow, melancholic intro of a piano ballad.

Seungkwan rips his headphones off and buries his face in his hands, the adrenaline crashing out of his system, leaving him completely drained.

From the sofa, Hansol lets out a low, slow whistle. “Well,” he mutters, setting his matcha down. “If she wasn’t listening, half the island is definitely going to text her about it in the next five minutes. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He just stares at the glowing dials of the soundboard, the echo of his own confession still ringing in his ears, praying to whatever universe is out there that somewhere, in the safety of your bedroom, you had heard him.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

It was early October, the magical pocket of time on Jeju Island when the humid heat finally broke, replaced by a cool, salty breeze that carried the sweet, earthy smell of impending autumn. The orange groves that defined Seungkwan’s neighborhood were heavy, the green fruit just beginning to tip into shades of sunset, preparing to blaze a golden-orange trail across the island.

But Seungkwan, at ten years old, was currently less interested in the cooperative biology of citrus and more interested in beating you to the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School.

“Slowpoke!” he yelled over his shoulder, his small legs pumping hard through the deep, black volcanic sand. His feet, caked in wet earth and salt, left flying arcs as he ran. “I’m going to get the best spot!”

You were ten paces behind him, gasping and laughing in equal measure. He always did this. He’d start the race before you even agreed to it. “Seungkwan, stop! We said we were just going to gather shells!”

“Winner decides the game!” he shouted back, and that was when disaster struck.

It happened in slow motion. The sand shifted beneath his feet, right where a small cluster of driftwood lay buried. He tripped. Hard. His center of gravity vanished, his body pitching forward, landing with a heavy thud right where the wet shore began.

The laughter died in your throat. “Seungkwan!” You scrambled toward him, your heart pounding.

When you reached him, he was sitting up, staring down at his knee with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. The fall had split the skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, the bright red of blood oozing through a coat of dark sand.

Then, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a full-blown dramatic event. He gasped for air, his face crumpling, a sound that started as a moan ascending into a loud, wet sob. He wailed. He howled.

“Shh, shh!” You panicked, throwing a glance back toward the street, convinced the entire village would think you were trying to kidnap him. “You’re okay! It just stings. You’re fine!”

He pointed at the knee, his finger shaking, but the only sound he could make was a high-pitched, stuttering breath. The tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the sand, and he was getting so loud he couldn’t even hear you trying to comfort him.

You tried the logical approach. “Seungkwan, look! I’ll run to your aunt’s cafe. I’ll get a bandage. I’ll get a frozen yogurt! I’ll get two!”

He shook his head violently. He wouldn’t let you leave, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound was slicing right through your nerves.

“Seungkwan, listen to me,” you said, getting closer. “Stop crying. Please.”

His mouth was still wide open, and he was inhaling for another monumental wail when you made an impulsive decision. A split-second, desperate choice to save both of your eardrums and your reputation as his responsible friend.

You grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and slammed your mouth over his.

The impact was clumsy. It was sandy, salt-stained, and a little wet. His nose was in the way, and your teeth clicked. But it worked.

His crying stopped instantly. The air rushed out of him in a stunned huff.

You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with an intensity that rivaled the mid-summer sun. You didn’t look at his knee. You stared straight at him.

His eyes were wide, round saucers. The tear tracks were still wet on his face, but his wailing was gone, replaced by a stunned, blinking silence. He was staring at you like you’d just manifested wings and turned into a seagull.

For what felt like a lifetime, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves and the faint buzz of a passing Vespa on the road far behind you. The sand felt cold beneath your hands.

“You...” he started, his voice a whisper, the wail having vanished without a trace. “You just...”

You were blushing so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. You grabbed your shorts, jumped up, and immediately started dusting the sand off your knees, incapable of meeting his eyes.

“You were too loud,” you said quickly, your voice unusually high. “I didn’t know how to make you stop.” You pointed toward the main road. “I’m going to get that bandage. Stay here.”

And then you ran. You ran without looking back, away from the beach, away from the confused boy with the scraped knee and the silent stare.

That was the only time you ever spoke about it. When you returned with the bandage, he didn’t mention it. When you walked home, holding two frozen yogurts and not talking, you didn’t mention it. The moment became a shared secret, sweet memory tucked so deep into the closet of your friendship that you eventually convinced yourselves it never really happened.

PRESENT

The static from the radio filled the silence of your bedroom, a low, buzzing hum that mirrored the frantic noise in your own mind. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed for several minutes, phone clutched in your hands, its screen glowing with the digital dial of the radio station you had worked at for the last seven years of your life.

He had done it. He had actually done it.

Boo Seungkwan had just broadcasted his heart to the entire island of Jeju, stripping away every ounce of his private life to lay his soul bare on the airwaves. Every word he spoke had been a precise strike against the walls you had spent the last decade building.

A tear slipped free, hot and fast, tracing a path down your cheek before falling onto the screen of your phone. You had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in guilt and confusion, suffocated by the reality of your secret, toxic relationship with Youngjae, and the terrifying, blinding light Seungkwan was offering.

But hearing his voice crack over the radio, hearing him publicly, fearlessly claim you in a way Youngjae never would, snapped something inside you. It was like waking up from a decade long fever dream. The paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate clarity.

You didn’t even bother changing out of your sweatpants. You grabbed your thickest coat, shoved your feet into your boots, and ran out the door.

The walk to his house was a blur of cobblestones and the erratic rhythm of your own heartbeat. When you reached the door, his mother told you he hadn’t come home yet, that he had called to say he’d be late.

Your chest tightened with a brief spike of panic before instinct took over. You knew exactly where he went when his mind grew too loud. It was the same place you went, too.

You park the car near the edge of the cliffside path and begin the steep descent toward the hidden cove behind the school.

The wind whips your hair across your face, carrying the biting scent of sea salt and freezing rain. As you reach the bottom of the path, moonlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating the jagged volcanic rocks that bordered the crashing ocean.

And there he is.

Seungkwan is sitting near the edge of the water, a solitary silhouette against the dark expanse of the sea. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Seeing him sitting on those exact rocks sends a violent jolt of memory straight through your system of the morning you said goodbye all those years ago.

You take a deep breath, the freezing air burning your lungs, and pick your way carefully across the uneven terrain. He doesn’t hear you approach over the roar of the waves until you are right beside him. You don’t even hesitate, sitting down on the cold stone next to him, close enough that your shoulders are nearly brushing.

Seungkwan jolts, his head snapping toward you. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, catching the fractured moonlight. For a moment, he only stares at you, as though afraid you’re a mirage conjured by his own desperate mind.

You don’t let him say anything before you do. “You left.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of the ocean with absolute precision.

Seungkwan flinches as if he’s been physically struck. He opens his mouth, a panicked apology already forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand to stop him.

“Let me finish,” you plead, your voice trembling but resolute as you pull your legs close to your body and rest your chin on your knees. “Please.”

You look out at the churning black water, unable to meet his eyes yet. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding for you to continue.

“You left. You got on a plane, and you became a star. And I need you to know… I understand that. I know you had a dream, and I know the industry is a meat grinder. I watched you on television, and I was so incredibly proud of you. I am proud because you listened to me, and you didn’t look back. You did everything you said you were going to do.”

You pause, swallowing hard against the tight knot forming in your throat. Right now. This is the moment when everything comes crashing down around you both. You just hope you can put it all back together afterward.

“But understanding it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t speak to me for twelve years,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. You finally turn to look at him, letting him see the raw edges of your wound. “You didn’t just move away, Seungkwan. You completely erased me. You made me feel like the years of friendship meant absolutely nothing to you.”

Seungkwan closes his eyes, a tear escaping the corner of his lashes and tracking down his cold cheek. He bites his lip hard, forcing himself to listen, to take the hit he knows he deserves.

“I had whiplash from it,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. “I developed this horrible… this complex. I spent the rest of high school feeling completely disposable. If the person who knew me best, the person I loved most in the world, could just drop me without a second thought, then I must not be worth keeping.”

You let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “I was a ghost. I was so incredibly sad, Seungkwan. I didn’t start breathing again until I went to university in Busan and forced myself to become someone else, someone who didn’t care, someone who didn’t get attached.”

Someone who would settle for a man like Youngjae just because he promised he wouldn’t leave. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air between you, but you don’t need to say them. Seungkwan understands.

“And now you’re back,” you say, seeing that he wants to interrupt, but you can’t stop now. “And it’s like those twelve years never happened. Telling everyone I’m your favorite childhood friend, confessing and kissing me as if you never broke my heart. How am I supposed to react, Seungkwan?”

You shake your head, your lips pressing into a thin line as you fight to hold back more tears. You know he promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’s was back for good. But that doesn’t lessen the fear you felt that night he kissed, much less erase the twelve years of radio silence.

“You can’t blame me for being afraid that one day you’ll wake up and decide that being here isn’t enough again. Because this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive being without you.”

“Y/N,” Seungkwan whispers, his voice shattering on your name.

He shifts, turning his entire body toward you. He reaches out, his hands trembling violently as they hover over yours, terrified to touch you, terrified you’ll run away again. Everything makes sense to him now. He understands it all with painful clarity, he sees that you weren’t running from him, or rejecting his feelings for you; you were just scared.

“I am so sorry,” he chokes out, the devastation in his eyes making your breath hitch. “I am so, so desperately sorry for what I put you through. You were never disposable. You were the only thing that kept me sane.”

“Then why did you stop calling?” you ask, the question that has haunted you for a decade finally tumbling free. “Why did you cut me off?”

Seungkwan lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I first debuted, the attention was… completely unmanageable. The sasaengs were relentless. They hacked our phones within the first three months. The company did a sweep of all our personal belongings, our contacts, everything, to see where our vulnerabilities were.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a worn, dark leather wallet. His fingers are stiff from the cold as he flips it open.

“They found this,” he says quietly, holding the wallet out toward you.

Tucked into the clear plastic window, its edges frayed and its colors slightly faded, is a photo strip. It’s the two of you in a cheap photo booth at the Jeju summer festival. You’re laughing, your head thrown back, while a fifteen-year-old Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded adoration that it makes your heart stop.

“I carried it with me everywhere,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “It was my anchor. But when the management team found it, they panicked. They thought you were my secret girlfriend. They told me that if the fans found out who you were, they’d destroy your life.”

You stare at the photo, your vision blurring with a fresh wave of tears. He hadn’t forgotten you. He had been carrying you in his pocket across every continent, for twelve years.

“They gave me an ultimatum,” Seungkwan went on, his voice hardening with residual anger. “Cut all contact, change my number, and pretend you didn’t exist, or they would pull me from the debut lineup. They told me it was the only way to protect you.”

He looks up from the wallet, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“I was a terrified kid,” he confesses, the guilt heavy and absolute in his voice. “I believed them. I thought breaking my own heart was the price I had to pay to keep you safe. But I was wrong.”

He reaches out then, his warm hands finally closing over your freezing ones and drawing them into his lap.

“I should have fought for you,” he says, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “I should have fought the company. I should have found a way. I spent a decade completely miserable because I was too much of a coward to demand the one thing I actually wanted. I let you think you didn’t matter to me, and that is the greatest failure of my life.”

The silence returns, but this time it isn’t a chasm. The resentment and anger you’ve carried for so long simply dissolve, washed away by the crushing weight of his confession. He hadn’t abandoned you. He had martyred himself.

You look down at his hands holding yours, the warmth seeping through your skin and thawing the ice that has encased your heart for years.

“I called Youngjae,” you say suddenly.

The words are abrupt, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Seungkwan stops his movements for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth before darting back up to your face, terrified of what’s coming next.

“I called him from the car on the way here,” you explain, your voice steady now, carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. “I broke up with him.”

Seungkwan’s grip on your hands tightens slightly, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “Y/N…”

“I told him I couldn’t do it anymore.” A profound weight lifting from your chest with every word. Your breath turns to white mist in the cold air. “I told him I was done hiding in his shadow. I told him I deserved better.”

You pull your hands from Seungkwan’s grip, but only so you can reach up. You frame his face with your palms, thumbs gently wiping away the dampness on his cheeks. His skin is freezing, but his eyes burn with a desperate, wild hope.

“And I told him,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads rest together, “that it has always been you. Even when I was furious with you. Even when I hated you. It was always you, Seungkwan.”

A ragged, beautiful sound escapes Seungkwan’s throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh. The tension that has been holding him together for weeks finally snaps.

His hands fly up to grip your waist, entirely abandoning restraint as he pulls you off the cold stone and practically onto his lap. “Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, your name completely saturated with devotion.

When he kisses you this time, it isn’t the frantic, hot and overwhelming collision of the car. It’s a homecoming. A deliberate, agonizingly slow sealing of a promise.

His lips are soft, warm, tasting of salt and absolute relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to pour eleven years of unspoken love directly into your veins, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you against him, as though you are the only thing tethering him to the earth.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you, melting entirely into the embrace. The cold wind, the crashing ocean, the messy reality of the radio station, and the fallout that will inevitably come tomorrow, all of it fades into insignificance.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your faces flushed despite the freezing temperature. Seungkwan keeps his arms locked securely around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, burying his face in your coat.

“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs against your skin. “I don’t care who finds out. We’re doing this. We’re doing it in the light.”

You close your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of his head, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest. For the first time in a decade, the phantom ache of abandonment is entirely gone.

“I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know we are.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

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He does not notice them at first. The path is narrow, the terraces crowded with green growth, and his attention is momentarily occupied with locating the correct house of the elderly widow he has come to visit on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He steps forward—there is a soft, devastating crunch beneath his shoe—and he stops. Slowly, he looks down. A small green sprout lies bent sideways in the dirt. He moves his foot, and there is another crushed stem.

He blinks once. Then twice. “…Oh dear.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

There is a voice that comes from behind him, and Morax turns. You stand just a few steps away, staring at him in horror as though you have just witnessed a murder in its cold-blooded glory. (Perhaps murder is not far from the truth, of course—the plants are surely dead now.)

Your gaze drops to the ground. Then back up to him. Then back to the ground again. “You stepped on my jueyun chilis,” you say flatly.

Morax follows your gaze again, taking in the small row of plants he has apparently trampled with great efficiency.

“Ah, yes,” he says after a moment, looking only slightly apologetic. “It would appear that I have—my apologies for my carelessness.”

“These were only just sprouting,” you cry, crouching down to inspect the damage. “Now I’ll have to restart these sprouts,” you look up at him, utterly unimpressed.

“My apologies,” Morax says sincerely. “That was not my intention.”

You stand, brushing dirt off your hands, and look him up and down. Morax watches your eyes as they assess him properly—he can practically see the way you pick apart his appearance right before his eyes as you make your deductions. (He is dressed far too nicely to be a farmer or a villager. Too clean. Too proper. He can see it written plainly all over your face that you have already figured he is from the more urban parts of Liyue.)

“You’re not from here,” you say. “Liyue Harbor?”

“That is correct.”

“I can tell.”

He inclines his head slightly. “I am here on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”

Your expression shifts immediately.  “Oh.” The irritation does not disappear entirely, but it softens. Dare he say, your expression even saddens some. “You’re here for Madam Lu, then. For her late husband,” you say.

“Yes.”

“She’s been expecting someone.”

Morax nods as he explains, “I’ve come to discuss the funeral services she seeks. However,” he adds, glancing down at the damaged plants again, “I appear to have caused some trouble before arriving.”

You cross your arms at that. “Yes. You did.”

“I will compensate you for the loss,” Morax offers.

Your brows lift slightly, unimpressed—you are deeply, wholly, entirely unimpressed by him. It is a fascinating change of pace. Morax (or, perhaps sooner or later, he will have to grow more used to Zhongli) is not someone people look at so disdainfully. So dismissively. So irritably. The only individuals who have ever cast a look at him in such a manner are foes long fallen, long since taught the power of the Geo Archon and slain for daring to stand against him in battle.

“Do you think you can simply just pay for the damages you have caused to my agriculture?” you huff at him.

He hums, nodding as he says, “If that is what is required of me, I certainly can.”

You study him for a long moment, then snort softly. “You really are from the Harbor.”

“I take it that is obvious.”

“Painfully.” Then, you look down at the plants again and sigh. “Well, they’re not all dead,” you say. “You only destroyed…several. Not everything.”

“I am relieved to hear the damage is not total.”

You give him yet another look. “You’re very calm for someone who just committed agricultural sabotage to a small, humble villager’s plants.”

“I find panic rarely improves a situation,” he says honestly. 

You stare at him for a second longer. Then, much to his surprise, you laugh. He blinks, slightly taken aback. (Where goes all your agitation from just a few moments prior, he wonders.)

“You’re rather strange,” you tell him. 

“Am I?” he asks, slightly amused. 

You crouch again and gently press some soil back around one of the bent sprouts, trying to prop them upright. “Yes—quite strange indeed. You said you’re from the funeral parlor?” you ask.

“Yes. I am here to help Madam Lu arrange her husband’s funeral.”

Your hands slow slightly at that. “Right,” you say quietly. That sad look is back on your expression. You must have known him, Morax surmises—though, of course, that would not be all too surprising. Qingce Village is a small place, after all. “Master Lu was a good man. He passed last week. His wife is not taking the news well.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Morax replies evenly. “That is why I have come in person. Aside from the fact that she is grieving, it would be difficult for her to travel to Liyue Harbor at such an old age.”

Your gaze softens at his words—something…rather grateful seems to replace the earlier traces of resentment as you look up at him.  “That was kind of you.”

“It is only part of my duties at the parlor. Nothing worthy of praise.”

You stand again and wipe your hands on your skirt. For a moment, Morax locks his eyes with yours—they are rather easy to get lost in, he thinks to himself. Time is preserved so simply when he is looking into them, so effortlessly that he almost feels the eroded fragments of his soul settle down and rest. (This is all he has ever hoped to have for quite some time—just the chance to simply rest his old, eroding soul and enjoy something outside of the divine. How frightening that it is as simple as looking into the eyes of a village girl.)

“Well,” you say, gesturing up the path, “whether you can complete your duties to be worthy of praise or not, we will never know if you insist on going the wrong way, Mister…”

Morax, he itches to say. Instead, he smiles politely, says “Zhongli,” and introduces himself before continuing, “and I had suspected as much.”

You answer him by murmuring your name. It’s a beautiful name, he decides as he tests it on his tongue—as is everything else about you. Your smile, and the simple way you are dressed under the gold cast of light the sun coats you in, are easily the most breathtaking parts of Qingce village. Despite the lush patches of grass and the soft petals of glaze lilies in the distance, Morax finds he cares little for the sights of the village when you are in his line of vision.

“You’re heading toward the terraces,” you tell him. “Madam Lu’s house is in the other direction.”

“I see.”

You start walking off, and he stands there, partly stunned and partly not. Something about you makes it so that he is not entirely shocked by the abrupt way you saunter away, but he finds that being kept on his toes is not all that terrible. Especially not if he gets to watch you walk away, either—you are not a poor sight from behind, that is for certain. Then, just a moment later, you glance back at him.

“Come on, you fancy old harbor man. I’ll take you there before you destroy anything else.”

Morax huffs a small, amused laugh. Harbor man. When was the last time someone addressed him so casually? So carefree? His memory fades to long, distant times. Times he does not forget, of course, but times that are long enough into the past that he cannot help but lose his grasp on what it feels like to enjoy his days the way he once did. 

“I appreciate your assistance.”

“You can repay me by not stepping on any more plants,” you wave a hand off dismissively. 

“I will make every effort.”

He walks in silence alongside you for a few moments through the village. He eyes the terraces and takes in the breathtaking view of such simplistic beauty. The waters are clear, and the petals of the blooming flowers are wide as they face the sun like open arms. It has been a long time since Morax has come to this village—a long, long time, indeed. The last he remembers of this place is the great battle he’d fought before that wretched serpent god had fallen. They seem to be doing fine, he notes in satisfaction. Of course, that is not a surprise to him—he would surely hear about it, perhaps even make an appearance himself, had they not. 

But the villagers of this small, peaceful patch of land are doing well. And Morax is faced with the haunting proof that he has done his duties once again. Quite exceptionally, too—exceptionally enough that he wonders if he truly has any duties left for much longer. 

It’s not long before you glance sideways at him. “So…do you do this often?”

“Do what?” He hums. 

“Travel all the way out here to help people arrange funerals,” you say as you lead him over a small, wooden bridge. He is mindful not to trample a stem of jueyun chilis that grow along a patch of grass on his way. 

“Yes,” he nods, “if the director asks it of me, I tend to travel to clients.”

“That sounds…like a rather depressing job. It must suck the excitement out of the travels when you are working so closely with the dead.”

“On the contrary,” Morax says calmly, “I work with those still living. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.”

You glance at him with a slight scoff. “That is a very funeral-parlor thing to say.”

“I imagine it is,” he chuckles, “but it is true nonetheless.”

You walk a little farther before suddenly saying, “You know, you talk like an old man.”

Morax does not react immediately. He’s certainly heard that phrase before—how many times has he been called old? It’s…not exactly false, if he were to be technical about his age. “…Do I?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you snort, eyeing him in amusement. “Very philosophical. You sound like you’ve been alive far longer than you look.”

“I assure you that is not the case,” is all he says. If only you knew. 

“Mm,” you say skeptically. “I don’t believe you.”

He almost smiles.

Morax, as he follows you, reaches a small house near the edge of the village. Smoke curls faintly from the chimney, and the grass is perfectly trimmed with glaze lilies neatly sprouting along a line beneath the front window of the house. You eye them for a moment before sighing as you murmur, “The old woman hasn’t been watering them again—it can only be expected.”

Morax says nothing. He’s an observant person at his core—he has not reigned over Liyue for a short period of time, and that reign of power did not come to him overnight. Such is his nature as a god, as an adepti, as a warrior, to be observant. It’s easy to see that this old couple—this old widow, now—means something to you. That alone would not be a shock. Qingce village is a small place, and it would not be hard to piece together that a small village and its people are well-connected. 

But the grief on your face, coupled still with that familiar, fond expression as you sigh over the neglected flowers, suggests that there is more to your relationship with Madam Lu (and by extension, her late husband) than the average villager. Morax almost wants to pry, but if there is anything that being a funeral parlor associate—and, of course, a god who has seen many battles—has taught him, it’s to never pry when the grieving grieve.  

“That’s Madam Lu’s house,” you gesture at the door, “she’s home, so you should be able to take care of business rather swiftly.”

“Thank you,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “And again, I apologize for your plants.”

You roll your eyes as you wave a hand dismissively. “You should be. But, I suppose they’ll survive. Well—probably.”

“I am most hopeful that they do,” he nods. 

Morax watches as you start to turn away, walk to the flowers and inspect the slightly dry soil beneath them, and reach for the watering can abandoned at the side with a sigh. 

“You know,” you say, glancing back at him, “you’re not what I expected for someone from a funeral parlor.”

“In what way?” he raises a brow. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I thought you would be gloomy. Or cold. Maybe a little creepy.”

“I see,” he smiles in amusement, “I would hope I am none of those things, lest director Hu receives complaints.”

“Hurt no more of my chilis, and I will allow you to leave Qingce village with no complaints, harbor man.” You grab the watering can and start walking away towards a well in the distance.  Then, you pause and call over your shoulder: “Do try not to get lost on your way out—I cannot escort you every time.”

“I will try my hardest,” Morax hums. He watches you go for a moment before turning toward the house.

────────────────────────

You end up seeing plenty of the harbor man for the next few weeks to come as you help plan Master Lu’s parting. 

Master Lu was a well-respected man in the village, and his doting wife strives for nothing less than a proper tribute for his send-off. Qingce village is a simple place. The people here lead plain, straightforward lives—most are those who seek something quiet and easy after retiring. They are people who have aged and feel the tug and pops of their aching muscles and bones. They are people who know that life is something to cherish before it is easily taken from you, before you are ready. 

As such, funerals are done properly. There are traditions to honor, respect to pay, and well wishes to part the dead with before they are off to the afterlife. 

You don’t know what is waiting for you in the afterlife—nor do you even really know if you believe in one at all, but you do know you cherished Master Lu. He took you in, after all, when you were nothing but a young child—too much of a responsibility for your adepti father, who had enough as is to do, evidently. And too much of a burden for your mortal mother, who could not bear the so-called injustice of having a non-human lover and child. 

So, following the abandonment of your parents—two different reasons for the same betrayal—you end up dumped in Qingce village because that is where it is safest to abandon young children, apparently. And that is where Master Lu, alongside many others in the village, finds you, at your tender age of ten, with your helpless, bitter distrust of adults around you. Slowly, but surely, he is but one of the many who rebuilds your image of the world you are surrounded by, much like he rebuilds practically anything with those adept, carpenter hands of his.

Your first bed, and the swingset in the grass that you played on, and that little bench where you’d sit and watch Madam Lu water her crops in the distance. He had built them all for you with his own callused hands, much like he’d built that easy trust that mended your wounded child-heart. 

And now Master Lu is gone. But he has helped build you a stable enough, sturdy enough foundation that even without his cunning smile and his crinkled eyes, you trust the world around you despite it all. And you trust that funeral consultant, too—clumsy as he may be around your precious plants. 

“Madam Lu tells me you have arranged for a florist to bring flowers from Liyue Harbor,” you hum, walking with him through the terraces. 

He nods, inspecting a glaze lily. “Yes, but there will be glaze lilies supplied by the village itself—we do not often see glaze lilies bloom like this in Liyue Harbor. Not so naturally, that is. They are artificially sprouted by modifications, but they lack the same fragrance.”

“Qingce village didn’t always have glaze lilies as full as these,” you say proudly, “it was only after I came to the village that they grew so fresh and full—it brought Madam Lu lots of business, you know. No one seems to be able to tend to them the same way as I, no matter the effort.”

“I see,” Zhongli says thoughtfully. Almost like he sees through you. 

You quickly change the subject—you wouldn’t want him to realize you aren’t human quite yet. (Not that it’s a dark secret that you keep, of course. But you find mortals tend to feel more at ease around you when they believe you, too, are yet another mortal.)

“Have you trampled any more chilis on your way here?” you huff, “don’t even consider lying because I will find out in due time. I will be deducting the damages from our final bill, you know.”

“I assure you all of your chilis are fine,” he chuckles, “and I have already informed director Hu of the discount you will be afforded for my mistake.”

“I hope your position is still intact,” you tease. “I’d hate for your livelihood to be at stake for such a simple mistake.”

“Well,” he smiles with what you can only describe as a bit of a devious grin, even despite how proper and polite he holds himself, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cost the funeral parlor a mora or two. Such is the risk of running a business—some losses are to be expected.”

At the start, Zhongli left immediately after his weekly visits with Madam Lu to plan the funeral services. Master Lu has already been buried, of course, but the funeral itself won’t be held until the following month to ensure that all the proper traditions are seen through. But, well…Madam Lu is a lonely woman, and Zhongli is good at conversing with the elderly. Almost too good. She has grown rather fond of his presence, and you think that Zhongli is equally as fond of her cooking as he is shirking off his duties for a bit, so he puts up little argument when she asks him to stay for lunch. 

And that is how you end up entertaining him for the time it takes for her to cook her meals. 

Couldn’t you cook your meals ahead of time, you’d asked the old, nagging woman, it’s not as though you don’t have the time to spare.

And how often do you see such a handsome, young face in this village, she’d tutted, giving you a disapproving look, I have to stall for time somehow, so you can charm him. He is a fine man, you stubborn child—make sure you waste no opportunities. I want grandchildren.

You’re already an old granny, you’d huffed, fighting back the flustered look that threatened to make itself apparent on your face. 

That damned old lady and her damned need to meddle where she didn’t have any place meddling. But you suppose that is why you grew up the way you had—so loved and well looked after, despite being practically an orphan in function. And you suppose that Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not…the worst candidate for a man, should you choose to settle down. 

Not that you would choose. 

Your life span is too long for that of a mortal lover, and adepti are difficult enough to come by as it is. Never mind the fact that they are likely all too old to settle for someone like you—you are still a young lady in mortal years. Surely, if a strong, capable adepti man were looking to settle down, he would spare little time with someone like you who does nothing more than tend to crops with your days. 

You have never dreamed of settling down and loving a man—not when mortals such as your mother can see the true curse that it is to fall in love with a long-lived being such as yourself. Mortal men, especially gentlemanly, smooth-talking, and granny-pleasing funeral consultant mortal men from Liyue Harbor of all places, would waste little time with you. 

But you shake the thought off as you turn to look at the old lady’s house in the distance, and see her waving by her front door to indicate that lunch is ready. You nod before turning to Zhongli to bring him along with you—

—and the world is suddenly shifting. Why is it shifting? Why does it feel like gravity is no longer keeping you firmly cemented in an upright position on the ground, and why does it feel like air is rushing past you all too fast? Surely…surely you couldn’t be falling?

Except you are. If your poor luck as a half-mortal, half-immortal being wasn’t enough to deter you from charming a man, your clumsiness sure is. And you had the gall to call him clumsy, you think. Not…not that you care to charm him of all people anyway because…well, because why would you? You do not. 

But if you were to care, well then. This would be your sign to swiftly put those dreams behind you. It’s a good thing you never cared for such silly fantasies anyway. 

But, just as quickly as you are falling over the edge of a terrace and onto the ground a hefty distance away, the earth beneath you is shifting. It shakes and rumbles, and then it lifts so that soft soil reaches your back faster than heavy impact can. It isn't long before you are carefully raised to the terrace once more, where Zhongli is waiting for you with a polite, respectful hand outstretched just close enough that you don’t have to stretch to reach it, but just far enough that it doesn’t impose on your personal space, giving you the option to decline it. 

You take it. Because you are shaken, and not because you would like to hold his hand, of course. And he gently pulls you, where he steadies you easily as you shake on your wobbly legs when they take your weight. 

“What…” You furrow your brows, confused. Dazed. Still a little shaken. 

“You slipped on some of the wet soil,” he says calmly, “and lost your balance over the edge. I caught you using Geo.”

“Geo?” You furrow your brows deeper.

“My vision,” he explains simply, “I made a construct to catch you.”

“Well, thank you,” you nod slowly. 

Geo…you think to yourself. Undoubtedly, his power certainly was Geo. But…but you have felt the sensation of Geo around you before from a vision wielder, and…this power is different. More powerful? No—more concentrated. Like it is the source of Geo itself. Like it is where it all stems from, with how fierce and deep the energy runs through it. You know little of your lineage or of how the elements work, but you know that for a vision wielder, he seems abnormally strong. Almost…almost like his power is not that of a vision at all. Almost like he is the power—he and he alone. 

And then you blink, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“When did you get your vision?” you ask, hoping to sound casual. 

He hums, looking at you. And there it is again—that look. Like he sees right through you. “Perhaps I will tell you in due time,” he chuckles, still holding your hand as he pulls you alongside his steps forward. “Come, Madam Lu is waiting.”

He is not human, you think—no, you know. And for a short, brittle, fleeting moment, you dare to hope that perhaps Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not a mortal, and that he might have enough time to spare in this life to waste it with you. 

────────────────────────

Morax values those who follow traditions closely. It is sacred and ancient, the culture of Liyue. And Liyue is a richly cultured nation, indeed. Qingce Village, he is pleasantly surprised to find, pays its respect to the dead properly and does the culture of this nation justice.

You are standing in front of Master Lu’s grave, holding your offering with trembling fingers as he watches in the distance.

“You don’t have to worry about the old lady,” you mumble, voice oddly shaky. Morax never hears your voice shake—you are always so sure of yourself and what you say, so at peace with your existence and the way that your life is. But you are so different now, faced with grief.

For a while, you almost didn’t seem to be grieving at all. You spoke so easily to him—so casual and at times, playful with banter. All that really hinted that this passing was a tragedy to you was just a small, sad smile when you’d think about or mention the late Master Lu and his lonely, widowed wife. Just a tiny, long look like you’d been parted from an old friend rather than lost a dear loved one. 

Morax has seen loss and the many different shades it comes in. It’s a devastating color—it washes out all of the other colors that paint life. But you seemed almost like this passing was just any other passing in the everyday world. Just a natural occurrence that you couldn’t help. You’d been strong when Madam Lu couldn’t—spoke with a strong, steady voice as you continued the discussion on the services when the poor old lady broke down in sobs or simply couldn’t bring herself to speak at all. 

For a while, Morax almost wondered if you were grieving at all. If you were simply at peace with an inevitable goodbye.

But he sees your grief now—here, as you are kneeling on soft yet cold soil, clinging to your offering like it’s the last piece of Master Lu you will ever have. 

“I’ll watch over her. Her and those flowers she doesn’t water anymore—that old granny. Always insisting she isn’t aging,” you scoff—fond, exasperated, sad. “It’s like she doesn’t look in a mirror at all. Doesn’t see the way her skin is sagging more and more. It's like she thinks she’s immortal or something—can you believe it? You’d think losing her… her husband would make her take a look at herself for a second and worry about her own health, but she’s still… still that same old meddling old woman. But I’m going to… t-to take care of her—the stubborn old thing. Don’t you worry.”

Your voice breaks off into a quiet sob as you press a small wooden box into the soil before covering it carefully with dirt to keep it buried in place. It’s worn—Morax had only gotten a small glimpse of it as he’d walked with you to the grave. As the overseer of this funeral, it’s his duty to make sure the offerings made to the deceased are appropriate and respectful, to keep the dignity of those who have passed on intact.

He hadn’t asked you what the box meant to you, nor what was in it, but the way you clutched onto it so tightly, so desperately, could only mean that it was important.

“That old lady keeps talking about joining you soon,” you sniffle, rubbing your chin free of the tears that have collected there. “Says you’ll get lonely over there, dead all by yourself. She’s not alone, even if you’re not here—she has me. And Madam Yundan. And Master Hanfeng is still eyeing her, too—too bad you’ve gone ahead and died and can’t keep an eye out for his advances anymore, you fool. He’d still try to match me with that son of his at Liyue Harbor if he could, I bet. But the old lady needs me here, yeah? So I have to stay. And I need her, so you’ll just have to wait over there for a while before anyone joins you. You…you’re the one who left after all, so that’s on you. You old man.”

You sniff again, quieter this time, and brush some loose dirt from the top of the grave, patting it flat with absent care, like you’re smoothing down a blanket.

“Don’t go wandering off too far, alright?” you mutter. “If there’s an afterlife, you'd better stay where she can find you when she gets there. Don’t go gambling, or go drinking, and don’t go getting into trouble like you always did. You always did say she kept you in line, so you’d better behave until she gets there to do it properly again.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh that turns into something breathier, something that almost sounds like another sob before you swallow it down.

“She keeps pretending she’s not lonely,” you continue quietly. “Says the house is only quieter now, that’s all, without all your hammering and sawing and nonsense. Says she sleeps better without you snoring. But she sits by your chair, you know. Still sets out two cups when she makes tea sometimes. Then she gets mad at herself and puts one back.” You wipe roughly at your eyes, like you’re frustrated with the tears that won’t stop. “So you’d better be waiting for her. I doubt it’ll be too long before…before she comes and finds you. Maybe a few years. Maybe a decade, if she’s stubborn. She always is, so who’d be surprised? I’ll probably take some more time,” you say—it almost sounds bitter. Resigned in a way Morax almost…almost understands. You’ll probably take plenty more time. 

“I only have the people of this village, you know,” you say after a long silence. “So that old lady is stuck with me. And I’m stuck with her. So you don’t have to worry about her being alone. I won’t let her be. I’ll fix the roof before the rainy season, as you showed me. I’ll carry the buckets of water so she doesn’t try to do it herself and hurt her back again. I’ll make sure she actually waters those flowers she keeps talking to like they’re people. I’ll listen to her complain about the heat every morning like she always does. So you don’t have to worry. I’ll handle everything here. So just…rest, alright? You worked enough already—worked until the day you died, you stubborn old man. What’s all that you said about retiring? And to think, you live where people come just to retire, you old fool. But anyway…don’t rush her to come find you. Let her stay here a while longer.”

Your hand lingers on the soil for a moment longer before you finally pull it away.

“…Goodbye, Master Lu,” you murmur, all too quietly. “Don’t be lonely over there. We’ll come visit you—I know you love to hear that old woman babble, anyway.”

You stand slowly after that, brushing the dirt from your hands, but you don’t leave right away. You stay there for just a little longer, staring at the grave like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re trying to make sure he knows you really did come.

“You must see this plenty,” you mumble finally, looking over your shoulder to Morax. He stays silent, so you continue. “Still, sorry you had to see such a sorry display.”

Morax does not answer immediately. He stands with his hands folded behind his back, gaze resting not on you, but on the grave, the disturbed soil where you’d buried your offering. Only after a long moment does he speak.

“There is nothing sorry about grief,” he says at last, “a funeral is not a display of composure. It is a contract between the living and the dead.” You blink at him, a little confused and a little exhausted, too. “The living bring offerings, words, remembrance. The dead leave behind their names, their stories, perhaps a legacy, even. Both sides fulfill their duty. That is what gives a life a fair and just ending. Grief is proof that the departed were loved. Tears are an offering no less valuable than incense or mora. There is no shame in them.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You really do talk like a funeral consultant.”

He inclines his head slightly, smiling just a little. “It is my profession, after all.”

“Do you ever hear people say the wrong things?” you murmur. “At funerals.”

“All the time,” Morax replies without hesitation. “Well, I suppose wrong and right are subjective—but there is always a time and place, most would agree. But thankfully, the dead never show they are offended.”

That pulls a small, real laugh out of you, quiet and brief as it is. 

“That’s good, at least,” you murmur. “I called him an old fool at least three times.”

Morax looks at the grave, then back at you. “Then I am certain he departed this world feeling accurately remembered.” You snort softly at that, wiping under your eye again. After a moment, Morax speaks once more, voice softer now, less like a consultant and more like the old man that he is (not that you would know, of course). “It is the belief of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and many, I’m sure, that farewells do not end at the funeral. The living always continue to speak to and of the dead. In this way, the dead are not yet forgotten, nor are they truly gone—they are simply living somewhere else, where we cannot yet follow.”

You stare at the grave for a long moment after that. And he wonders if you perhaps do know that he isn’t the young mortal that he appears, as you say, “You sound especially like an old man now…but I’ll come visit and complain to him a lot,” you huff. “He always liked to gossip.”

“A good plan,” Morax agrees.

You nod once, satisfied with that answer, then brush the last of the dirt from your palms.

“Alright,” you mutter. “Let’s go, harbor man. The old lady will knock me with a watering can if I’m late for dinner.”

Morax turns to walk with you, but before you leave, you glance back at the grave one last time. As if to make sure the old man knows you really did come.

-- — --

Dinner with you and Madam Lu is as pleasant as it is heavy. Both of your eyes are red and slightly swollen from the crying that comes with a funeral service (as to be expected), but there is also the silent, but oh so obvious reality that this is Morax’s last meal with you and the elderly woman.

He will have no reason to return to Qingce village again after this, and as a result, this is the final time he will eat (such lovely) cooking by Madam Lu and converse with you over his food. 

He takes his time eating. 

The goodbye comes all too quickly, and your face is mortified as Madam Lu brings Zhongli down to her height by his cheeks as she says, “Young man, do come and visit! Such a handsome face like yours is rarely a sight we get, you know! You’d keep my stubborn child good company. Think about it, alright?”

“M-madam Lu!” you hiss, quickly intervening as you pry her hands off of him and give her a withering look. “Mister Zhongli is here for business—you mustn’t make him uncomfortable!”

“I assure you,” he grins, just a little too amused, he’s sure, for your comfort, “it is quite all right. I’m flattered you think so highly of my presence, miss.”

Your glare extends to him, then, too. 

And then you are both leaving the old lady’s residence, you on your way to your own home, and he on his way to leave the village and return to the harbor as always after a hearty meal from the woman. 

It just so happens to be the same direction, so you both walk together.

“You could always stay the night, you know,” you murmur. 

“Is this your way of offering your residence?” he raises a brow. 

You sputter, giving him another heated look before you hiss, “No, you sneaky little schemer! I meant there are inns for passing travelers in this village, and the journey to the harbor is surely more risky at night as opposed to during the day. That’s all.” 

He chuckles. “I appreciate the thought, but I assure you, this isn’t my first time making a journey at this time of day.”

“Yes, well, it only felt right to offer, that’s all,” you shrug petulantly, still flustered by his earlier comment. 

Morax keeps his chuckle at bay for your sake, but you seem to know he is holding back a laugh anyway, so you send him a sulky-looking warning glance before continuing to look ahead as you walk to your home. 

You reach it in no time. And now…now Morax must say goodbye to you properly. For the last time, likely. Unless there is yet another death in Qingce village that requires his travels, but he doesn’t think that is an appropriate circumstance to hope for in order to be in your presence some more. 

Your presence—what a fascinating reality it is, now, that he wishes for it more and more. He has taken to thinking of you when he is back at the parlor, and he often finds he leaves earlier than necessary when it is finally time to come make his journey to the village. Almost as often as he pushes back his time to leave. 

Morax turns to you as you stand by your door, unwilling to look into his eyes. 

“Well,” you mumble, “I suppose this is the last time you will have to come to his boring old village, isn’t it, harbor man?”

“Yes, for now,” he nods, “but boring is perhaps not the word I would use for this village.”

“Is that so?” You finally look up, raising a brow as you afford him a smile, “Do tell, what is so interesting about a small farmland?”

“For starters, those who tend to the crops are exceptionally skilled at creating difficult walking paths,” he murmurs, “therefore, I must always be alert when wandering this village. It’s as though they are trying to make it difficult—perhaps for a discount or two from wandering businessmen.”

You laugh, bright and free, and back to that steady version of yourself he is so used to. The grief is gone, even if only for a moment. That is how grief works, he supposes—it comes and goes as it pleases. Chokes and releases when it is feeling particularly punishing or merciful, depending on its mood. But grief is not all bad, he has learned. Both from experience as a warrior and a funeral consultant. 

It is grief that tethers people to the memories of loved ones. Grief that makes it so that life is not just a constant forward-moving force. There are still old, stubborn rocks that stay still, refusing to rush along with the current. That isn’t so bad—sure, the pain is there, but so is the preciousness of old memories. Memories that have no business being forgotten, no matter how much time passes. Memories that make it so that a life is not merely just a life, and an existence is not merely just an existence. 

He wonders then, if he died, how long his memory will go on. How long he will be grieved for, and how long the grieving will keep his memory sitting stubbornly in that stream that pushes forward, so willing to move on with or without him. 

You look at Morax with a soft, delicate look. You are fond of him; he is not a fool. He has lived thousands of years, and he has learned what a look of fondness looks like, even if he has never quite understood what it feels like to be so fond of someone, or to be the object of it himself. 

But you look at him like that, and he finds he enjoys the simplicity that comes with the way life is when you live like a mortal. When you live like you do not have enough time to leisurely be in the same place for hundreds of thousands of years. When you live as if you may pass on to the next life, and must move on from one thing to another, so that you may experience enough. 

Morax has been alive for so, so long. And yet, he wonders if the mortals have lived more than he has. 

So, when you fiddle with your fingers as you murmur, “Perhaps I made it difficult to walk along this village so it would take wandering businessmen longer to leave. It’s not often that they make their company known in a place like this,” he steps closer. 

“Is that so?” Morax asks. 

You don’t meet his eyes as you nod. You’re a funny being, he thinks—so sure of your existence, yet so unwilling to step beyond what you have deemed yourself worthy of. You are confident with your life. Happy with your place and sure that you belong where you are. So certain that you are deserving of what you have and what has been given to you, but you never dare ask for more or take beyond the scope of what you allow yourself. 

Even if you want it. 

But perhaps you are starting to change, he thinks. Because you step closer as you nod, looking at him as you say, “I have never wished for a businessman to stay until now. But there is always a first time for everything.”

He laughs. Low and amused as he says, “I have never felt compelled to stay the night anywhere on my journeys—but there is indeed a first time for everything, you are correct.”

And that is how Morax is kissing you. 

He has yearned for it for some time, he thinks. He has yearned for you for some time, and there is no point in denying it. You and your chilis and your flowers and your simple ways of life. You and your soft smile to the villagers and the gentle way you play with the few children that reside here in this far, distant, yet peaceful land that he saved so long ago. He is glad he saved it—of course, he would never regret this deed, whether or not you existed here. But he is especially glad for it now. 

He has done his duty—hasn’t he? Then isn’t it only fair that he rewards himself with the luxury of enjoying his accomplishments? 

Morax is kissing you, and you are kissing him back, and he thinks you have wanted this for just as long. Your lips are soft, and the lip balm you use is sweet and sticky against his own mouth. He swallows down the taste with a low hum, fingers grasping at your hips as yours latch onto his coat. You are so small against him—he towers over you even in his human form, and you have to crane your neck up just as much as he needs to bend his down to end the gap between you for your lips to touch. 

Your breath is hot against his as you exchange it between every kiss, and he tastes you on his tongue with every time they swipe against each other. He has never felt desire like this—never felt his cock twitch like this between his legs or press so tightly against his pants. (Oh, how he aches, he thinks, to take you in his proper form, and satisfy…both of his endowments. But for now, he must settle for this much, in this form, and that is if you even allow him to take it that far. He is not a scoundrel, after all.)

He is grateful that the front of your home is angled so that there are no nearby houses to see you both this way. The path that people walk along faces the back of your home, and that gives him all the encouragement he needs to shamelessly press you against your own door and kiss along your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin and sucking as you let out a soft cry. 

The sound shoots straight to his growing member—and he is reminded just how lonely he is from these duties as a god. Just how lonely it is at the top. 

He is hard between his legs, and you are aware of it, too, because you boldly move your thigh to slot between his. The first brush of you against his clothed cock, and he lets out a low, satisfied groan that makes you shiver. You are encouraged, it seems, by the sound to keep going, rubbing against his bulge and creating that sweet drag from the friction. 

It’s so good, he thinks deliriously—so, so good. He feels the way blood rushes to his cock, the way it makes him ache with how he swells, and then there is a jolt of something so pleasant and mind-numbing when there is pressure against his girth. 

Morax has been alive a long, long time. Longer than some of the mountains and trees shape Liyue, and longer than some of the villages that make up the nation for what it is. He is no stranger to pleasure, and he is no stranger to what it feels like to grind against something when he is fully hard and aroused.

But he is a stranger to carrying affection for the person responsible—at least, affection of this kind. So he groans, loud and uncaring in a way only someone inexperienced might, and you seem to find pleasure in that with the way you smile against his lips as you tilt his jaw and bring him back to your mouth and away from your neck. 

“My, my, harbor man,” you tease, “it’s as though you wish for the old lady to hear us from here. Are you trying to get her attention or mine?”

“A fine one, you are to talk,” he bites at your bottom lip, smiling smugly when you whimper, “you are touching me so freely out here in the open, where anyone may wander by and hear closely. Tell me, do you wish that they do? Perhaps you are even, dare I say, excited by the prospect.”

You stiffen under his arms before you give him a (weak) glare as you huff. “Alright then, you loathsome man,” you say indigantly, reaching behind you to open your door as you fiddle with the lock, “if you insist on doing this properly, then so be it.”

 Morax pushes you into your home as soon as that door opens. It shuts behind him, and he pushes you and pushes you and pushes you—keeps on going until there is a hard wall behind you, and something to keep you in place as he quickly closes the gap and kisses you again. 

You’re not mortal—he has known that as soon as he met you. How could he be considered the prime of adepti if he did not recognize his own kind? But here, under him, pinned and dripping and so pliant for him, he can smell it. The sweet, lingering scent of adeptal blood in your veins and the way it radiates off of you between your thighs.

(How kind the greater divine has been to him, if they are in charge of destiny, to grant him the luxury of developing these affections for a non-mortal. For someone who will not die in what is considered a small fraction of his time. He will have proper time with you—to explore you and this world that he will now live in as his new self if he allows it to be. And oh, how he wants it to be.)

“You smell sweet,” he grunts, “so ridiculously sweet, I wonder how I’ve held myself back all this time.”

“So you’ve been lusting for me for some time now, is that it?” you hum, and edge of cockiness to your voice. He smiles despite himself, exasperated. “What a shallow businessman you are, indeed. What, the meals didn’t satisfy your fill?” 

“Is it so wrong to hope for seconds?” he chuckles. 

Then he is crouching down, and your eyes widen as you register the loss of him against your upper half, pressing his heat against you. When you blink, looking down, he is already hooking a leg over his shoulder as he kneels between your legs, lifting your skirt and pulling your panties aside. 

Wet—you are, for lack of better words, fucking dripping down your thighs, and Morax is having simply a ball. He grins, trailing his nose along the wet trail along your inner thigh, inhaling the scent of you before pressing his tongue to get a taste of your essence. You let out a mortified, choked sound, squirming, and he tightens his grip along the plush of your leg.

“Don’t move too much,” he says lowly, “that is the agreement we are to have, if you want this.”

Evidently, you do want this—and badly, with the way you still immediately. He chuckles before pressing his lips to your clit, kissing it sweetly once, twice, a third time just to tease and swipe his tongue against the sensitive nub while you whimper. Your walls clench around nothing, and he hums in amusement at the sight. 

“You are a foul businessman,” you huff, “loathsome. You ought to hold your end of the deal, seeing as I am.”

“My apologies,” he grins wickedly. 

And then Morax latches onto you, hungry and thirsty and unwilling to be satisfied until he’s turned an inch into a mile, a drop into a stream. He sinks his tongue into you, tasting your sweetness and exploring between your folds. You whine, throwing your head back against the wall, gripping onto his shoulder tightly as your one knee, not thrown over his shoulder, buckles from weakness. 

He hums, pausing only for a moment as he says, “Put your full weight against me. I can take it.”

“But—” you try to protest, but he cuts you off. 

“I said,” he all but growls, “put your full weight against me. I can take it.”

Morax—Rex Lapis—the warrior, the god, who shaped mountains and slayed more gods than you could ever imagine existed. The strong, fierce divine being who could not be crushed by even the largest of boulders, and you are worried by the weight of your body. How laughable—how ridiculous. You hesitantly lean some of yourself on him, and he grips your thigh, digging his fingers into the meat of it as he pulls the rest of you in. 

You squeal—it cuts off into a high-pitched moan when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking while he rolls it back and forth along the swollen bundle of nerves. It’s a nice sound—the way you wail. He likes the way it makes him feel powerful. He almost wonders if there is more power now, when you are crying for the mercy of his tongue, than there is when opponents are crying for the mercy of his stone spears. 

His fingers sink into your cunt, feeling your walls close around his digits as he stretches you open—you are so tight. So impossibly tight, he feels his cock twitch between his thighs at the thought alone of sinking past them. He thinks for a moment about how warm it would be when you clench around his fucking aching cock instead of his fingers, and then he is groaning against your heat as he feels a wave of desire burn at the pit of his stomach. 

You seem to like that—you shiver at the vibrations he makes against you from the sound, and he hums in appreciation at that. His fingers sink deeper into you, pressing against the back of your walls until he feels you tense before humping into his hand and letting out a desperate cry when he hits a particular spot. 

So you like him there, he thinks. He can certainly do that. After all, a skilled fighter such as Morax is adept at pinpointing exactly where his blows will land. Striking his fingers is infinitely easier than striking large spears of stone or giant boulders, so his fingertips bully mercilessly into that sensitive spot over and over again as his tongue flicks back and forth along your swollen clit. 

Once, twice—and then you are rolling your hips into his face, completely abandoning your worries about him holding your weight (which he is taking exceedingly easily, thank you very much) while you come undone on his tongue, on his fingers, on his face. 

There is the wet essence of you smeared around his lips, partially on his cheek and his chin, sweet and sticky and delicious. Like a sweet sunsettia that he has devoured without care for having an ounce of shame. There is no shame in tasting you, he would argue—only a fool would savor his taste of this nectar instead of devouring it. 

He works you through the entirety of your orgasm, until you are quivering from the aftershocks and whimpering, squeezing your legs to get away from his hungry lips that stay latched to your cunt. 

“S’too much,” you whine, “s-stop.” 

(It’s a cute plea. He’ll entertain it for now.)

Morax is fucking throbbing between his legs. His cock is hard enough that he knows there is a wet patch on his pants against his crotch—he can feel the dribble of precum even before he has freed himself from the confines of the tight fabric. When he stands, keeping your steady with an arm around your waist, he is burying his face into your neck as he groans deliriously into your neck. 

“I have little patience, if not, little sanity left,” he says, voice gruff and low. “Tell me now if this is what you want because it won’t be long before I will be in no position to stop what you are starting.”

“You are starting this,” you have the gall to argue, even after he has fucked you so thoroughly with his fingers alone, “and I will finish it, so don’t even consider the idea of stopping—not unless you intend to be a coward.”

A coward. Oh? What a fierce, stupid little thing you are. He wonders if allowing yourself to have what you have always denied yourself the possibility of has made you bolder than ever. Maybe now, you consider the possibility that you may take as you please if what you wish for is right there in your reach. 

Morax, the god of Geo, has never been known for being a coward, and he will not start today. So he grabs you easily, bringing your legs to wrap around his waist as his hands dig into the plush roundness of your ass. 

“Which way to your bedroom, then?”

“Down the hall, first door to the left,” is all you can say before his lips are immediately on yours. That lip balm you use—the taste of it will drive him to madness. You will drive him to madness. 

When you are tossed onto your mattress, there is only a second’s interval he bothers to allow you to catch your breath before Morax is impatiently hovering over you. He is raking his eyes over your form hungrily. You, and that skin that he has committed to memory under the sun, and those delicate fingers that tend to plants and pull weeds that are now fisting the sheets. He is going to take you, sink into you inch by inch, and mold you onto his cock, and you are going to look beautiful as he does it. 

And when he is done, he will ask you if there is anyone else better suited to fuck you like that. (The answer, he is confident, will be no. No one could hope to fit you better than Morax himself—and you are only seeing one of his cocks tonight.)

Stripping you fully is easy enough—you are eager, very eager to shed your clothes, and even more eager to pull his own off of him. You marvel at the size of him—first his torso and the sheer broadness of him and his muscled physique, and then his cock and the thickness of him at full mast. His hands toy with your breasts, squeezing and groping as his thumbs roll over your nipples, and you impatiently gasp while trying to roll your hips lower to rub against his hard cock. 

You succeed for a short second—and that short second is enough to make him pause as the wet friction brushes against him. He shivers, lets out a low groan—and then whatever patience he had left snaps. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says bluntly, “and you are going to take me fully. Here.”

His finger draws a line against your belly where his cock lies flat against you, long and thick and fucking swollen with desire. Your breath hitches as his fingertip trails over his tip, right along your skin, and then you whimper as you breathe, “P-please.”

“Say it again,” he grunts. “Say please—I want to hear you want me.”

“Please, Zhongli,” you sob.

Morax, he wants to correct—for a tense, fleeting second, he almost does. He debates it, decides against it, and grits his jaw in frustration. Frustration that he can only be rid of if he sinks into those tight walls of yours, he’s sure. 

So he does. 

He grips your jaw, pulls you into a hot, searing kiss, and presses his tip to your entrance, rubbing along your folds, coating you in his precum while coating himself in your own arousal, and when—and only when—you are sobbing out an incoherent plea of how badly you need him, how hard you want him to fuck you, how deep you need him to be, does he sink into you. 

Because Morax is still Morax. And a god is still a god. He is to be worshipped before he will answer. 

“Zh-zhong—li,” you whine the latter syllable of his name when he sinks fully into you, fully bottomed-out and pressed into your wet, hot folds. You take him well, he thinks—so good and pliant and obediently accommodating for the less than humble size of him. 

(He did take his time preparing you, of course, but he isn’t one to skip out on giving credit where credit is due. You are good—so good. Good to him and good for him. He will reward you accordingly for it.) 

“Yes, yes,” he chuckles, “worry not, I will answer your little prayers.”

“You loathesome, arrogant man,” you hiss, still filled to the brim with him. And yet, that does not stop you from speaking so freely. He’s amused, really. 

“You certainly are not one to sweet-talk those whom you bed,” he notes. 

“And you’re not one to be humble with those whom you bed,” you argue back.

“No, I suppose not,” he laughs. 

And he will prove it to you, he is certain, that he deserves to be at least a little arrogant when he starts to fuck you. His hips pull back, almost fully slipping out of you, before he snaps them forward and buries himself all the way again, rolling and thrusting with a steady rhythm that angles the blunt head of his cock exactly against that same spot he found earlier. The stretch this time, of course, hits harder, hits spots his fingers couldn’t reach, drags along areas that he didn’t press into then. But he does so now, and you clench around him in response, welcoming him in, gripping him hard and tight and so fucking hot, his mind blanks for a second. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuck you’re tight.”

“Yeah, and full, too,” you whisper into his ear as his face buries into your neck, “feel that? I’m full of you—all of you.”

Oh. He’ll get you for that. Get you for the way you make him moan so shamelessly at your words, for the way he loses his rhythm a little and fucks into you a little more desperately, for the way you giggle as he twitches inside of you. 

He’ll get you, so he brings his lips lower, to your breast, and latches onto a nipple, rolling his tongue over it and sucking harshly so that your back arches into his touch when you feel it. 

“Indeed, I do feel it,” he murmurs, switching over to the other breast, not leaving one nipple neglected in favor of the other, “I feel how needy you are around me, squeezing. I can hardly move, you know—are you really that desperate to be fucked?”

“B-be quiet, you awful thing,” you hiss. 

He laughs. Chuckles as he finally lets go of your breast with a pop, before his lips are on yours. Kissing you, he finds, is the only thing that makes it even a little bit possible to lose consciousness of that tight, pleasant sensation of you around him. Kissing you is the only thing that could hope to distract his mind a little bit from you. Kissing you is the only thing that could be more important than this—than you, taking him, fitting him, and making yourself his just as much as he is yours right now. 

He snaps his hips faster, and you drink in the low groans he lets out just as much as he drinks in the high mewls you feed him. 

And when you cum again, erratically clenching around him as your walls spasm with the force of your second orgasm, he can hardly breathe as he feels his own high approaching. He tries—Morax tries, to his credit, to pull away and spill elsewhere, but you insist as your legs wrap tightly around his hips and pull him in closer, deeper. 

“Inside,” you babble, “p-please inside!”

“Are you…” He pants, head spinning and vision blurring as you squeeze around him yet again. He’s so close—and it aches so good. “Are you sure?’

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry, still babbling away as you ride out the final waves of your pleasure. 

You finish, and Morax starts—the end of your orgasm triggers the beginning of his, like the ebb and flow of the tide, one wave retreating only for another to roll in and take its place.

Hot, thick ropes of his seed spill into you, and he tenses as the force of his pleasure crashes over him, hard and brutal and dragging him into the depths of some hazy, incoherent place in his mind where he can hardly breathe. Your hands are on him—distantly, he’s aware of that. One is in his hair, and the other is shakily gliding over his back, like you’re trying to soothe him while he’s gone—so far gone into the throes of pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he barely registers his own voice, “fuck—th-that’s…good.”

When he’s done—when his hips are finally finished rolling and give you a break from the extra stimulation, he collapses beside your body, and you instantly shuffle closer to cling to him, resting against his chest. 

He lets you—happily, he lets you. His arms are tight and wrapped around your body, and you are so close that he can feel your erratic heart right against his. 

“I don’t think this is what the old lady meant,” you mumble into his chest as you curl into his side, “when she said to keep me company.”

“I don’t believe she specified that this was what she didn’t mean,” he grins tiredly, and oh, you are so beautiful. So breathtaking when you are so small and vulnerable against him, and only him. “So we have not breached any agreements.”

“You are a bothersome businessman,” you yawn.

He chuckles, and then you sleep. 

────────────────────────

When dawn comes, he awakens you with a kiss to your temple, and a soft promise of, “I will return when time allows it of me, this I promise if you will be waiting.”

“I’ll be waiting, harbor man,” you mumble sleepily. 

He hums, presses yet another kiss to your temple, before he says, “Then we have an agreement.”

He is gone by the time you are properly awake, his clothes gone, and his scent lingering. The only proof that he truly was there, and that your mind is not playing tricks on you, is the simple qingxin he leaves on your bedside table and a note that reads, a flower that is not from your own fields, from a wandering businessman who hopes to evade incurring any further losses.

Perhaps time is not wasted, you think with a smile, if time is well spent. And perhaps Zhongli would not mind spending some of his abundant time with you. 

-- — --

Zhongli keeps his word and returns not long after that. 

And then he leaves, and then he comes back again. It goes on like that for some time. He never stays for long, but he comes and goes at least once or twice a month. For now, that is enough—you have a long life ahead of you, after all. What’s a few weeks to you? You can wait. 

The more he visits, the more thrilled Madam Lu gets, much to your dismay—and worse, the more he visits, the more attached the two seem to be with each other. You cannot spare yourself from her horrifyingly embarrassing words now and then, nor can you save yourself from his thoroughly amused looks as she says them. 

Zhongli, you think, could cut your long life span into a quarter of what it is at this rate. He starts every trip he makes, first, with a visit to Madam Lu—who, without fail, insists he stay for breakfast every time (and, of course, she does not have to insist for long because he agrees to her meals so easily), before sending you both off afterwards. Not without giving you a pleased, knowing smile as you leave, of course. 

You shoot her a glare before tugging Zhongli along by the wrist, hissing something like, come—before that old lady says any nonsense that will fry your brain. He chuckles every time, eyeing you with mirth, before following you without much argument.

In the time that you wait for his next return, there is news that the god of Geo has fallen. Rex Lapis is dead, they say. 

You are shocked to hear it—you are part adepti, after all. The Geo Archon is of your kind, and though you were never a devout worshipper, you have heard of the deeds he has done for your village, your people. You glance at Madam Lu as she sighs heavily, shaky and bony fingers watering her plants. 

You grab the watering can from her hand, and she lets you. 

“So much loss as of late,” she murmurs sadly, “how will people deal with so much grief, I wonder. At the very least, I hope they honor the lord well with a proper funeral.”

“I’m sure they will,” you hum, “after all, a funeral is for the living, not the dead—and the living cherish the Geo archon well, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’ve spent an awful long time with that funeral consultant,” she grins, eyes gleaming with excitement—with a certain glint that tells you she knows more than you’d like. “When is he next returning, then?”

“I’ve not a clue,” you huff, “he’s a busy man. He’s no reason to come spend all his free time here.”

You walk off, swiftly crossing over to another side of her garden to water flowers a distance away, but Madam Lu already has heard what she wants to—what she needs to. 

“Not a clue, hm? So you do expect him?”

“Leave me alone, you nagging old lady!” you hiss over your shoulder. She only laughs, and even if it’s at your own expense, you are glad to finally hear the sound from her. 

-- — --

There is much to catch up on with Zhongli the next time he comes—the most current update of the Geo Archon’s passing at the harbor, the investigation and the controversy surrounding it, the rite of parting he is handling on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor with the aid of some wandering traveler passing by and her odd, floating companion. 

You listen closely, feeling an unfamiliar, unsettling weight on your chest as he tells you about all the progress she has helped him make with the many, many ceremonies. And by contrast, there is little to tell him—nothing more than the idle gossip the older women conjure up in all their free time in the village, or the disagreements there have happening between merchants who purchase and transport the crops you grow and sell here. 

He tells you of all the knowledge he has on Liyue and its history, on its late Archon, on all of the duties he is so graciously carrying out, and you listen with interest—you do. But there is still an acrid taste lingering on your tongue as you swallow down his stories. 

“This traveler friend of yours,” you mutter, “she seems very capable—what a stroke of luck it is that she’s helping you.”

“Yes,” he agrees easily. You are self-aware enough to know that there is a pout on your face—you cannot help it. And he chuckles as soon as it curls onto your lips. “Why the long face?”

“I’ve no long face, you bothersome man,” you huff, “this is my everyday face. You don’t like it?”

“I like your face enough to tell it apart from your everyday one and your sulky one,” he teases with an amused smirk. 

He enjoys this, you realize—enjoys the way you are…well, what are you, exactly? Jealous? Insecure? Bitter? Or simply scared? Or are you everything all at once? You don’t know. 

When the shift occurs on your face, the one where you are deep in thought, he gently pulls you by the hand and laces his fingers with yours as he walks up to your home. You are pressed against the door—and suddenly, you are getting deja vu from very different yet similar times where you were pressed against this very door by this very body.

“There is no need to sulk,” he murmurs. 

“I am not sulking,” you huff.

“Well, in that case, if you were,” he laughs, “then there would be no reason to. I’ve come to keep you company—it was an agreement I made, after all. I am a businessman of my word, you see.”

Your chest is lighter as you look up at him with a small grin, and when he kisses you, you let him back in past your doors again, and into your bed. And you afford him some of your abundant time, just as he affords you some of his. 

You’ll tell him, you think to yourself as you free his cock from his underwear—he groans when your hand wraps around him, and you watch the way his lips tug between his teeth as you stroke him slowly. You’ll tell him that you’re not just a mortal, just like he isn’t either, and that you have plenty of time to spend with him if he’ll spend it with you, too. Time that won’t be a waste.

“You can go faster, you know,” he says tensely, chest falling and rising rapidly as he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you shift on his lap, looking down at the way his girth makes your hand look so small. You marvel at the weight of him in your hold, giving him a small squeeze, teasing your thumb along his slit as he leaks pre cum, and he throws his head back with a choked gasp. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, “then this will all be over before we’ve begun. Surely, you have better patience than that.”

“I don’t see you enough to have much patience,” Zhongli says flatly, unimpressed by your teasing. Still, he lets you have your fun, as much as it seems to pain him, sitting patiently under you while he waits for you to get him off. 

You kiss his jaw, his chin, his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, before finally moving your hand again, gently squeezing around the tip with every upward tick of your hand. Zhongli likes it that way—you’ve learned that when you touch him with the intention of making him cum, he likes it when you squeeze at the tip and when you slow down when he’s close and drag it out a bit longer, even if he might complain. He likes showing off his stamina—for such a polite and polished man, he can be a bit of a show off when he wants to be. 

You watch as his face slackens, as it morphs beautifully into that look of raw and pure pleasure. You admire the way he bites his lip and parts his mouth and says your name when he feels particularly good. You admire the way he looks when his abs clench, his hips buck, and his brows crease when he’s getting close. 

“You came to spend time with me,” you murmur against his cheek as you nuzzle your nose into it, kissing it softly. “Right?”

“Yes,” he pants, giving you a flat look even despite the way he is teetering so close to the edge, so worked up. “Of course I did, or do you think I let just anyone touch me so freely?”

“Just making sure,” you giggle. “Businessmen are known for being greedy.”

“I think the real greedy one is you,” he breathes. 

You kiss him softly, quickening the pace of your hand, and with a twitch of his cock, he spills into it. You drink in the low moans and gasps he lets out as he cums, smiling when he croaks your name in between ragged breaths. It tastes so lovely when you drink in the sound of your name from his tongue. So sweet and decadent and rich. 

“I’m the only one who waits so patiently for you, you know,” you peck his lips as he catches his breath when he’s finished coating your hand with his seed, “so you should only keep me company.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is that the new term of our agreement?”

“Yes,” you huff. 

“Well, as I said, I am a businessman of my word.”

“Good.”

You’ll tell him, you think resolutely. Soon, you’ll tell him the truth of who, of what, you are, and perhaps he will tell you the truth of his in return. And you can continue to spend more time in abundance together, you can finally stop wasting your days and simply passing them by—they’ll have meaning soon. 

────────────────────────

“Qingce village was ruled by a terrible god once,” you murmur to him one day, “or so the legends say.”

Morax feels your fingers trace aimlessly along his bare chest. He breathes steadily under your wandering little digits. For a moment, he tries to decipher what pattern it is you are tracing into his skin. He comes up with nothing. Another intricate design on the cloth that is mortality, he thinks—such seemingly frivolous acts of touch. Shapes drawn without thought, wandering lines with no meaning in mind, and yet they are not meaningless at all. There is something tender in it, regardless. Affectionate, perhaps, and expressed by the small comfort of touch alone.

He wonders if such things will become natural to him if he tries his hand at this life for long enough. They are natural to you—and you are far from mortal. He knows you are, even if you don’t tell him. Surely, if it were possible to become natural for you, then there is no such thing as impossibility for him. 

“Ah, so you are familiar with the legend of Chi,” he murmurs, “though I suppose it’s to be expected of someone who was raised in this village.”

You pout, gaping at him in shock. He smiles at the sight. “Is there anything of Liyue’s history you don’t know?” you huff. “Just when I think I can teach you something.”

He chuckles at that—you feel it rumble under your cheek against his chest where you lie. The deep, fond sound alone washes away any lingering trace of irritation you had just a moment prior. “Very well,” he hums. “Teach me.”

“You already know the legend,” you point out flatly.

“Teach me anyway,” he insists. “Hearing the same story told by numerous people is advantageous still. One comes across many different viewpoints, you see.”

“You still talk like an old man, huh?” You snort. “Imparting life lessons one after the other—I suppose working at a funeral home and seeing so many losses has all but turned you into one.”

“A terrible fate,” he says mildly.

You huff again, though there is little heat left in it. Your fingers continue their idle wandering over the warm expanse of his chest as you begin.

“Well,” you say, “the people of Qingce say there was once a great demon called Chi. Some sort of dragon-like creature that forcefully took over this place. They say he was powerful enough to challenge the gods themselves.”

Morax listens silently beneath you.

“But he was defeated,” you continue. “Slain by the Geo Archon long ago. Afterward, his body was broken apart so he could never rise again. Each of the parts was sealed away in different places—hidden in the mountains and fields around Qingce so that none might gather them. Rex Lapis even taught the people of Qingce Village to make Geo statues to crush the Chi’s remaining power.”

Your fingertip traces a slow circle over his sternum as you think.

“Oh—and the villagers say those ruins scattered around Wuwang Hill? Those are the seals. Old mechanisms the Archon left behind to keep Chi’s remains locked away. If they were ever undone…” You pause, wrinkling your nose faintly. “Well. I imagine that would be rather bad.”

“That would be a reasonable conclusion,” he murmurs.

“And the old stories say the people of Qingce protected those seals for generations,” you go on. You tilt your head, glancing up at him. “That’s why the village values its stories so much. They’re not just stories. They’re warnings told through traditions, you could say.”

His gaze lowers to you.

“An admirable tradition,” he says quietly. “I did not realize the people of this village looked at it that way.”

Your finger pauses against his chest as you beam. “Ah, so I did teach you something.”

He smiles faintly—fondly. Yet there is something hollow in his eyes as he says, “Yes. You did. You’ve taught me quite a lot more than you realize, you know.”

“How so?” You raise a brow, reaching over to poke the tip of his nose. “I taught you the joys of bedding an easy woman, is that it?”

He laughs at that, bright and warm as his arms tighten around you. There is something akin to affectionate exasperation in his expression as he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Your breath hitches at that. He notices it so easily. Morax notices so much about you. He cannot afford to give you such physical affection as often as he’d like, given how little you see of him. He holds these small, fractional moments close to his heart the same way you do, as well, whenever they come—they are few and far between, after all.

“You have taught me the joys of sharing a bed,” he agrees, pinching your hip teasingly (and he makes sure that he is rather careful to remain gentle, too), “the joy extends elsewhere, too, however. Not just the bed.”

“Mister Zhongli,” you gasp, “dare I say a businessman such as yourself has turned sentimental on me?”

“Ah, yes. A most strange development indeed,” he plays along, shaking his head in amusement. 

────────────────────────

When you awaken in the morning, your bed is empty. Zhongli has already made his departure for Liyue Harbor. Before disappointment can claw its way to your chest and make you bleed, however, you pause as you sit up and look to your bedside table. 

A single qingxin is laid carefully there, waiting for you, along with a single coin of mora. 

You smile to yourself—time is not wasted. Zhongli will afford you more time. 

-- — --

The next time you are visited by Zhongli—or rather, this time you suppose it would be more accurate to say he hunts you down—he is desperate to touch you. You have never seen him this way.

You are tending to the crops when you notice him striding toward you across the fields, his pace unusually hurried. You straighten, brushing dirt from your hands as a smile pulls at your lips.

“Back so soon?” you call lightly. “Don’t tell me your bed was so lonely you had to come all this way just to see—oh!”

He catches your wrist before you can finish, his grip firm but not painful, and immediately begins pulling you along behind him.

“Zhongli—?” you protest, stumbling once before matching his pace. “Where are we—?”

He does not answer. Instead, he guides you away from the fields, away from the paths the villagers usually take, toward the rocky edges of the mountains that loom behind Qingce village. The ground grows uneven beneath your feet, tall grass giving way to weathered stone and uneven ground. There is a small opening for what seems to be a cave of sorts at the base of the mountains, and he leads you inside. 

You recognize the place soon enough. And then your eyes widen.

“Zhongli,” you hiss, tugging slightly at his hand as he finally stops inside the cave. Moss-covered stone walls and old mechanisms greet you, and you shiver just from looking at them.

The ruins. The seals. This is one of the places, you are certain—one of the places where, according to the stories, remnants of Chi still lie, dormant and fragile.

“What are you doing?” you whisper sharply. “We cannot—” Your protest cuts off when he pulls you close. The movement is sudden enough to steal the breath from your lungs as his hand finds your waist, and his other settles against the back of your neck. “Zhongli—!”

Your words dissolve the moment his mouth finds yours. It is not the slow, measured affection he usually affords you. This kiss is urgent—desperate, almost. He pulls you flush against him like he fears you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

For a moment, you are too startled to respond. Then you melt and kiss him back. Then, when your senses return, your hands brace instinctively against his chest as you pull back just enough to stare at him.

“Have you lost your mind?” you whisper, scandalized. “We cannot do such…such indecent things here!” You gesture vaguely toward the ruins around you. Of all places. “Do you not see all this around us? This has to be where the seals are, Zhongli!”

He does not release you. If anything, his hold tightens slightly, amber eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your irritation falter.

“I am aware,” he says quietly.

You sputter at how calm he seems to be. “That does not make it better!” 

But he is already kissing you again, slower this time, though no less needy. His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist as if grounding himself. The mountains around Qingce stand silent, but it feels strangely like the ancient stone is watching over the two of you.

You are weak to Zhongli, however. Not even ancient deities and the thought of awakening them to wreak havoc on your home is enough to change that. He presses you against the hard wall of stone, and you let him, angling your head so he can kiss your neck.

He hums in appreciation. “Allow me to make it better then,” he tells you. And your resolve crumbles instantly.

────────────────────────

Morax knows exactly what sleeps beneath this place. After all, he is the one who sealed the parts of Chi away all those years ago. And his memory is exceedingly good—he does not forget such things so easily. In fact, he does not forget them at all.

He also knows what is coming to Liyue.

Soon, the sea will rise, and soon, an old god will stir. Morax knows what such god lies beneath the seas, pinned by his own stone spears. Osial has never been anything short of a tyrant—he remembers those days well. How tall and unforgiving the tsunamis were, and how easily Osial tormented the mortals of this land with such harsh waves, all for the sake of his own gain. The people of Liyue will not suffer at the hands of such shameful deities. Whether it is because they have fended off this threat alone or because of Morax himself, he will have to see soon enough.

But oh, how Morax longs for the day that he will step away from this role he has carried for millennia. How he longs for a time when he is nothing more than a wandering man in the streets, living peacefully among his people in bliss. And how he longs for the simplistic joys indulged in by the lifestyle of mortals—of affection and delicate touches and fond smiles.

So he kisses you again—because in this moment, with your hands fisted in his coat and your breath catching against his lips, he needs to know that choosing this life will be enough. That stepping away from being a deity, should his people succeed, is a proper choice and not a foolish mistake. Morax is not known for being a fool. He is a wise god and a capable fighter. He has led his people to prosperity, and in return, he is worshipped sacredly by the people of Liyue.

Morax does not make mistakes. Not when his decisions involve Liyue.

But then he wonders—what god leaves his people to fend for themselves during an oncoming disaster? A disaster that they are unaware of is on the horizon, no less. What god would step in only when his people are at the brink of defeat, and not simply from the beginning to ensure they are always guarded? That is his role, is it not? And such roles surely do not expire, do they?

But erosion has chipped away at his heart of hard stone—until the unyielding bedrock of it has worn thin, leaving something far more fragile beneath.

Morax, after so, so long, yearns for a life outside of what he has always known. What he has fought and slain countless divine beings for. What he has always thought to be his fate forever. 

You break his kiss once more, breathless. And he, when you gently cup his cheeks with those tender hands, feels weak to his knees in a way he has never felt. The Geo Archon called Morax has never felt weak. (What a laughable choice in word, in fact. And yet…that is the unbearable truth. You have weakened Morax—far more than any erosion is capable of doing.)

“I still think this is a terrible place to do this,” you mutter weakly.

His quiet laugh brushes your lips. “Noted.”

And yet he does not move away. If anything, he makes sure to settle his hands more firmly at your waist, drawing you closer until there is scarcely a breath of space between you. 

“You are impossible,” you murmur, though, he notes, your protest lacks conviction now. Your fingers remain curled loosely in the front of his coat, as though you have forgotten to let go.

“Am I?” he hums.

You open your mouth to retort, but the words falter when he leans in again—not quite kissing you this time, but close enough that your breath mingles with his. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, searching your expression with intensity. He finds exactly what he is looking for—want, need, desire. Love, dare he say. 

Do you love him? Morax knows he has grown to love you. You have taught him what it means to be human, after all—or at least live like one, and he has never wanted to live like a human more than he does now in all of his long, endless life. 

“I know you are aware how dangerous this place is,” you scold him softly.

“Mm.”

“That should concern you.”

“Perhaps.”

You huff faintly, glaring. “You are not taking this very seriously.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that—at the way you so easily make his heart squeeze with something as simple as an expression on your face. Everything he has sought you out for has fallen into place. You are the clarity he has searched for. His people will prosper, he thinks—a new age of Liyue has grown for years now. The age of the mortals. No longer do they need him to guide their way of life, and perhaps…perhaps Morax can take his place alongside them. As an equal and not a deity. 

And perhaps he can take his place alongside you, as well. 

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you a fraction closer, until your body presses fully against his. Your breath catches.

“Zhongli—”

Your warning dissolves when his lips find the curve of your jaw instead, slower now, lingering in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. The sensation steals the rest of your protest before it can form.

“You said this was a dangerous place,” he murmurs softly against your skin.

“Yes,” you manage.

“And yet you have not left.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his coat. Your heart pounds traitorously in your chest.

“Well,” you say, attempting dignity and failing somewhat, “that is because you have not given me the opportunity to.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles against your throat. 

“Ah,” Morax says gently. Then his hand slides higher along your back, and the rest of your protest fades into another kiss. “Alright then.”

He steps away. Your fingers tighten their clutch along his coat for a moment before letting go, and you stare at him incredulously. Like you cannot fathom that he has pulled away. 

“What—”

“Go on then,” he challenges. Rather smugly, too—Morax is a god, sure, but he is not without his own flaws. He remembers his less-than-humble days during the era when he was a much younger deity. “You may leave if you so desire. I won’t stop you.”

“You are a loathesome man, you know,” you grumble. And then you pull him back in, and he hums in satisfaction against your mouth. You kiss him—just as desperately as he does, and this is how Morax knows that his place has changed. 

His place is no longer on the throne of the divine, watching and guiding a nation that has evolved to survive without him. No, his place is here. With you. Where you will make his old, aging heart feel young and new again, learning and experiencing the joys of a life he has never thought possible for himself. 

“So you’ve said,” he murmurs in between kisses. 

His hands work at the bottom of your skirt, gently lifting it to trail his fingers at the thin hem of your panties. He slowly pulls them down along your thighs, just midway, and enough to expose your heat to allow his fingers to sink in. And sink in they do, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around his digits. 

That familiar scent of yours invades his nostrils—that scent that he finds he can no longer ignore. 

“...You are not human,” he says thoughtfully.

You freeze. For a moment, you simply stare at him, utterly incredulous, breath still uneven and labored from his fingers working your folds apart, pressing into your deepest, most sensitive parts. 

“Y-you…you cannot possibly be bringing that up right now.”

Morax’s expression remains maddeningly calm. “I felt it best to confirm.”

“Confirm?” you repeat, aghast. “You choose now to confirm?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you, clearly referencing the rather compromising position he has put you in. His thumb brushes idly along your hip as though he does not find the timing nearly as outrageous as you do. You glare at him for that, and Morax is all too pleased by your expression. 

He only smiles in amusement. 

“I have known since the beginning,” he says.

Your eyes narrow. “…You have?”

“Yes.”

“And you are only saying something now?”

“It seemed the appropriate moment.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “This is the least appropriate moment imaginable!”

You are just adorable, he thinks as a chuckle escapes him. “I happen to disagree.” 

And then, because Morax cannot help himself, and because he has decided that leaving his divine duties behind means that he can allow himself a moment or two to be utterly distasteful, he thrusts his fingers into you faster, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow circles. He watches as your mouth falls open, a soft, ragged moan tearing from your lips as you breathe his name. 

“U-unbelievable,” you stutter, “have—oh, fuck—have you no sense of shame?”

“You are half adepti,” he continues calmly, with his fingers still inside of you. “It is not difficult for one such as myself to recognize.”

“Oh, is it not?” You glare at him between your panting.

“No.”

You squint up at him. His fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot in the back of your walls, and your eyes flutter shut as you let out a long, wanton moan. Then, slowly, your eyes blink open. A faint, unimpressed smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you say breathlessly, “that makes two of us.” His brow lifts a fraction. “You think I h-haven't figured it out by now? You—ngh—are n-not…human either, Zhongli.”

For the first time since this conversation began, he actually pauses. The pace of his fingers in your cunt does too, and for that, you give him a hard glare as you whine in protest. But he cannot bring himself to care. 

“…Oh?”

You snort softly. “Please. Your eyes glow when you use elemental energy. Humans do not do that—I had my suspicions you were also some sort of adepti.”

A quiet laugh escapes him then—low, warm, and thoroughly entertained. “How perceptive,” he murmurs, “I did not realize you noticed me so closely.”

You huff, flustered. “And for the record,” you add dryly, “most people would have this conversation before putting their hands where yours currently are.”

Morax hums thoughtfully at that, resuming his earlier movements along your folds. “…Duly noted.”

You cum on his fingers not long after, and once you have just barely caught your breath, he pulls you into a deep kiss. 

Morax, despite all the growth and wisdom he has accumulated in his…well, thousands of years' worth of growth and wisdom to accumulate, still has his moments where he is nothing but an arrogant, cocky bastard. 

And that is exactly why he is going to fuck you here, in these ruins, where there is a god laid to rest. A god that could easily awaken if these ruins were to be tampered with too carelessly. He needs to see it for himself—as fucking pompous as it is—that he has done an undeniably good job at his duties. That he can disrespect a god by fucking the woman of his affections in their ruins, and still risk nothing. Still worry not one bit about the safety of his people. Still exist and live his life exactly as he wants it now—with you and only you, and not deal with the headache of a threat. 

“You always take me rather well,” he murmurs, groaning as he pulls his fingers from your cunt, as your pussy flutters around the digits while he unburies them from your heat. 

He means it when he says that—you always do. You take him in so easily, so effortlessly, so readily. Of course, he’d like it if he could take you properly here—and if he could have it his way, he’d strip you completely, pin you against this wall, fuck you from behind as he glares smugly right at the vault that holds Chi’s spirit, and make you cum before he fills you to the brim with his seed so you can walk out of here with the evidence of his accomplishments. 

But he doesn’t have that time nor patience, and something tells him that being that zealous would perhaps break you from your own need-filled trance and force you to draw the line. 

He doesn’t want that. 

He wants to feel you—he wants to watch you fall apart on his cock, feel himself fall apart as he kisses you senseless, and then leave knowing that he’s making the right decision for the right reasons. 

You are his reason. And you could never be a mistake. 

And now, with the fact that neither of you is a mortal acknowledged and out of the way, he can fuck you how he really wants—with both of his cocks. He pulls his own slacks down just enough to free two hard, aching cocks, giving one of them a few slow strokes and gritting his jaw as his breath grows labored, before staring down between you both as he brings the tip to your entrance. He watches as his tip sinks into you, disappearing with the slow press of his hips forward. This much, you’re familiar with, of course. 

What you’re not familiar with is the second hard, curved length that mirrors the one buried inside of you. Your eyes widen, and you stare at it in awe—maybe, dare he even say, a little bit of fear that shoots right to his crotch and makes his second length twitch. 

“Two…?” You breathe out, “what—”

“Surely this much is not hard to believe if you know I am not a mortal,” he chuckles lowly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you quiver beneath him, itching for him to move already as he stays perfectly still while buried to the hilt inside of you. 

“But…th-they won’t…they can’t both fit,” you breathe out in alarm. 

Morax laughs—low and smug and amused enough that you fix him with a sharp glare as you flush under his slightly egotistical gaze. 

“Maybe not today,” he agrees, “but I know you’re good—good for me, good at taking me. With a little patience, I think you’ll handle them just fine, don’t you think?”

You shiver, swallowing thickly as you stare at his second, well-endowed arousal before slowly nodding in a trance. Morax grins—because of course, of course, you would be so perfect for him. So pliant and easy to agree to his whims and requests, with how plainly good you are to him. And he is, as he always has been, a generous, giving deity, so he will reward you well for it, as he always does. 

For now, though, he focuses on gently grabbing your hand, bringing it to the cock that isn’t pressed deep into your dripping cunt, and watches as you instantly, obediently make a fist and wrap your hand around him, slowly stroking just the way you know he likes. You’ve done this plenty of times before, but he never gets used to how well you know him—how easy it is for you to do all the right things and touch all the right places in all of the right ways and make him feel so fucking good. 

“Fuck,” he curses, “you have always known too easily how to drive me mad, you twisted woman.”

You huff, using your free hand to tug him close by his jacket, pressing his forehead to yours, “And you have always known too easily how to do the same, you loathesome man.”

That’s all it takes for him to decide that he wants you now. Needs to feel you good and proper. Needs to watch you as he sinks in and out of you, and watch as you struggle to concentrate as you pump the cock in your hand while the one in your cunt drags along your sensitive folds and presses deep into all the right places. 

The first roll of his hips, you hiss. The second, your jaw slackens, and you whimper his name. The third, you squeeze your fist around him without realizing it, and he feels his mind fucking blank for a moment as he feels the tightness of you around him—whether that’s your hand or your cunt—not once, but twice. 

Morax groans, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he snaps his hips and fucks you, and you mewl when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles mercilessly against the delicate, swollen bundle of nerves. 

“You—your company was a dangerous agreement to make,” he breathes against your shoulder, “do you realize that? How easily you have taken over my head. Every thought I have, every agreement I make, every contract I sign—it all reminds me of you. You, your smile, your annoying chilis, your stubborn words.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you argue. 

He chuckles, disbelieving and out of breath. You drag your hand up along his cock, squeezing around the tip before quickly dragging it down and twisting at the base—he moans. Loud and uncaring, giving that damn vault (the one with Chi’s defeated spirit, he likes to haughtily remind himself) a smug look because, well fuck—he can simply just do that if he pleases. And he does. And he will continue to. 

“No,” he hums—it comes out more like a low rasp. “No, I suppose not. I suppose I only think you are stubborn because you will not leave my thoughts, and perhaps that blame is on me to bear, not you.”

He snaps his hips once, twice, a third time—by the fourth, you’re already clenching around him as you come undone, letting out a soft cry of, Zhong…li!, while he chokes on the feeling of you squeezing so tight and so fast around him like that. 

Morax wants this life. You. The easy, simple knowledge that he can step down, spend his days freely with you, beside you, (and yes, perhaps in you, too), all without breaching the contract he has with his nation, with his people. He wants to tiptoe around your chilis, and leave qingxins on your nightstand, and tell you stories of Liyue’s history, and laugh when you are flustered by that old woman whom you love so much. 

He wants this easy, simple, mortal existence after so long. The one where affection and endearment are so simply woven into his being, where power is not the reason he is here, where wisdom is not the burden he must bear. He wants you and the life you make him fantasize about. And he wants it badly. 

As badly as he wants to cum and fill you up right now—and one final thrust of his hips, sloppier in pace now that he’s so close, and he spills into you. You pull him into a kiss, and he thinks about what it would be like to kiss you like this every day, and he feels himself spill onto your hand at the thought as you continue to pump him through his high. 

“You—” he gasps, cutting himself off with a low, needy moan, “you are the one I want to keep me c-company. Always.” 

You smile against his jaw at that, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he finishes riding out the last few waves of his orgasm before murmuring into his skin, “I’ll keep you company if you keep me company, too. Deal?”

“Deal,” he breathes, cradling your cheeks like you are gold as he brings your lips to his. 

And Morax, if his people pass this final test, he decides, will have his answer for good this time. 

-- — -- 

The crisis of Osial’s summoning ends not with the drowning of Liyue, but with its salvation.

The sea recedes. The waves calm. And the people—his people—stand victorious. From afar, Morax watches the harbor where mortals and Adepti come to a truce. He watches proudly. Watches in relief. Watches with a quiet ache, despite it all, as the end of his era as the Geo Archon is finally, after so long, solidified. 

And almost immediately after he takes care of the loose ends, he leads his feet away from the harbor and up the narrow paths toward Qingce village.

Toward you.

────────────────────────

You find him near the edge of the fields just as the sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky burns amber, turning the terraces gold. Zhongli stands where the path curves, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for some time.

You slow down when you see him.

“…You’re okay,” you say gently.

Zhongli tilts his head faintly. “I was not aware my well-being had been in question.”

You cross your arms. “Oh, forgive me for worrying,” you mutter. “There was only a sea god trying to drown the entire harbor.”

At the mention of the event, his gaze shifts briefly toward the distant horizon.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “So there was.”

You study him for a moment. Something is…different. Not in his appearance. Zhongli still stands as composed and elegant as ever—still in such fine silk, even with little mora to his name. (How he has such poor finances, you will never understand.) But there is a strange ease to him tonight, as though some invisible weight has finally been set down from his chest.

“You didn’t come all this way just to stare at the sunset,” you say eventually.

“No.”

“Then?”

He is quiet for a moment. Long enough that you begin to wonder if he may not answer at all.

Then he says, “There is something I have not told you.”

You snort at that. “Well, that’s not unusual,” you reply flatly. “You are a very secretive man.”

“This matter,” he says carefully, “is somewhat…larger than most. And not one I could evade in good conscience if…I would continue to pursue you in this way.”

That gets your attention.

Pursue you. 

You have not discussed the details of this…arrangement between you and Zhongli. Not outside of when you might next see him, or if either of you will be particularly busy in the coming weeks to meet at all. Hearing him say so candidly that he considers himself to be in pursuit of you brings a delicate ache to your heart—an ache of longing. 

You want him. All of him. And you have avoided asking him all this time if that might be a possibility for fear of losing him altogether—but he has handed you your desires so easily with one sentence—confirmed he wants it just the same as you do, even. That he has been seeking you out all this time and not just the familiar convenience of your body. 

You smile at the idea and look at him with bright eyes. 

“Alright. Pursue me properly then, Mister Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.” He winces at that title a little. Your brows furrow. 

“You are aware,” Zhongli begins slowly, “that I am not human.”

You blink at him like he has grown two heads. “…Yes. We have established that, or did you forget? And neither am I, so there is no need to be concerned that I would worry over something as meaningless as that.”

“That is not the issue,” he sighs. 

“…Okay,” you say slowly, a bit more cautiously now. “Then what exactly are we talking about here?”

Zhongli exhales slowly. “I…am Rex Lapis,” he says bluntly. 

You stare at him. Blink once. Then twice. And then you break out into a fit of giggles as you look at him incredulously. 

“No, you are not. What a silly thing to say—now tell me really what this is all about.”

“I am,” he insists, almost mildly offended.

“You absolutely are not.”

“I assure you—”

“Rex Lapis is the Geo Archon,” you interrupt, pointing vaguely toward the harbor far in the distance. “The god of Liyue. The one who—”

Your voice falters as you take a look at his face.

You know that face. You have studied it over the course of weeks. How it looks when it is sleeping and peaceful, how it looks when it is tired and glum, how it looks when it is bright and joyed, how it looks when it is lax with pleasure and need, and how it looks when it is painfully serious and honest. 

You know him. You know how to read him inside and out. How to tell when he is telling the truth or evading it altogether. You know him because he is yours—he has been for quite a while. And you know that he is being truthful. 

Your stomach drops.

“…Oh. I see. You are not lying, then,” is all you say.

Zhongli inclines his head slightly. “No, I am not.”

“Fascinating.” You nod slowly. 

“You are taking this rather well.”

“Let’s not be so hasty to assume—I am still deciding if I should throw something at you.”

“That would be understandable.”

You run a hand over your face. “Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You are telling me that the man I have been—” you pause and clear your throat, “—um…spending time with is actually the god of Liyue?”

“Yes,” he says easily. His eyes flash with a momentary fit of amusement. 

“Well, disregarding the matter of why the Geo Archon would be parading around as a representative of a funeral parlor—you thought it would be appropriate to mention this only now?”

“There were…complications.”

You stare at him. “Complications,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

You let out a long breath. Then you gesture vaguely at him.

“Well, go on then, Your Divinity. Explain.”

Zhongli does not react to the sarcasm. Instead, he looks out toward the distance. “For thousands of years,” he says quietly, “I have ruled Liyue as its Archon.”

You huff, “Yes, I am aware of the history.”

“But Liyue is no longer the nation it once was. Mortals have grown. They have built their own institutions, their own systems of governance. Trade flourishes without divine intervention. Contracts are honored by people who no longer require a god to enforce them.”

Your expression softens slightly. “Your people still have reason to need you,” you say, stepping closer, “there is no need to doubt your purpose as their god—”

“It is not about what they need,” he shakes his head, staring down at the grass as he sighs. “It’s about what…what I need. What I want. I have longed for ages now to know that I have done my duty. And perhaps rest this old, eroding soul of mine. Osial’s defeat has given me the reassurance that I may step down without worry.”

“So the sea god…”

“Was a test.”

You stare at him again. “…You let a sea god attack Liyue as a test?”

“Well, I was not the one to summon it,” he defends, smiling faintly with mirth at your bewildered look, “I was simply aware it would happen. But I was prepared to intervene if necessary.”

“Well, did you intervene?” You ask.

“No. I was pleasantly impressed to see the Qixing and the adepti handled it swiftly.” 

Silence settles between you again. Then you let out a soft, delicate sigh. “Well,” you mutter, “that explains things, I suppose.”

“Does it?”

“Only a little.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Erosion is not the only reason,” Zhongli says quietly.

You look back at him. “Oh?”

His gaze returns to you. “I have carried the role of Archon for millennia,” he says. “Longer than most living beings can even comprehend. And yet, in recent years, I have begun to wonder whether there is more out there to experience than simply being a powerful deity.”

“Being a powerful deity is no simple matter,” you scoff in disbelief. 

“No, it isn’t, I suppose,” he chuckles. “But, still, there are more things to experience in life—I learned that when I met you.”

You blink. Your chest tightens slightly. “Meeting me hardly seems that relevant.”

“But it is. You…” he says quietly, “your chilis and your flowers. Your laughter. Your skin under the sun. Your voice. Your stubbornness. You have altered my perception of what it means to be alive as opposed to simply be living. Even your scolding,” he hums with a pointed look, and an endeared smile. 

You pause as it sinks in properly who he really is, and how you’ve been engaging with him—and then, your breath hitches before you gasp in horror. “Oh—I insulted the Geo Archon.”

“Yes, it would appear you have. Repeatedly.” He gives you a slightly cheeky look as he says, “Some would consider that an unforgivable sin, you know.”

You cover your face. “I am never showing my face around you again.”

“That would be unfortunate.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “…Why?”

“Because I would miss you.”

The words are spoken so simply that it takes you a moment to process them. Your hands slowly lower. “What do you wish to gain from such easy flattery?”

Zhongli—or perhaps Morax, you should call him, maybe even Rex Lapis—meets your gaze, laughing softly. “I stepped down because Liyue no longer needs its Archon,” he says. Then, more softly: “And because I wish to live as a normal man. To walk among the people I once ruled. To learn their customs not as a distant observer, but as one of them.” His voice grows quieter. “To experience the small joys of mortal life.”

“You will not be mortal,” you scoff, “even if you step down.”

“But I can live like one,” he says easily. “There are many joys to the mortal way of life.”

Your throat tightens. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And I find,” he says gently, “that many of those joys seem to involve you.”

You stare at him. “Me?”

“Yes.”

You look at him a little longer—cautious, careful. You think back on all the little moments that led you here—that first damn day he came to your quiet, small village, stepping on your sprouting chili plants as he walked confidently in the complete opposite direction of where he needed to be. That easy, effortless way he’d helped your grieving heart fill the empty place left behind by Master Lu’s passing before you’d even realized something was missing at all. The kind, thoughtful way he spoke to Madam Lu and ate her cooking, talking with her like an old friend, like someone who understood her loneliness without her ever having to say it aloud. And that soft, delicate way he slowly made you realize that your existence, outside of this small, gentle village, could belong beside other people. That you, with your half-adeptal blood and that quiet, lingering sense of abandonment you had buried down all those years ago, could still be worth something to someone beyond the only place you had ever believed you were allowed to belong.

You love him—oh, you think, how you love him so easily and desperately and hard and deep and fierce. You love him with that mixed blood in your veins and that broken part of you that has always wondered, somewhere in the back of your mind, if you truly, really belonged anywhere at all. You love him because he keeps you company, and you love him because keeping him company is the easiest thing you have ever known how to do.

You want to keep loving him. When years and years and more years pass—ten, then twenty, then fifty, then one hundred—you want to love him still. And you want him to love you, too. You want to spend your long, endless days with him and watch time pass slowly and steadily at your side. He has so much of it to spare, and so do you, and you want to spend that time believing that not one day is a waste if you spend it together.

You love him, and you want to dare to believe that he could, after all this time, grow to love you the same way.

“This sounds like a confession,” you whisper. 

He looks at you with a small glint in his eyes. “I believe you could call it that, yes.”

“You are the former god of Liyue.”

“Yes.”

“And you are confessing to me.”

“Yes.”

You let out a long breath. It’s relieved. It’s joyed. It’s fucking exasperated and annoyed. “Well,” you mutter, “be that as it may, you have deceived me, deity or not. And any man who deceives a lady must make up for such egregious wrongdoings.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. “Then I will do that. I hope it will be satisfactory. Do offer me some leniency, if you will—I have only been living as a mortal for so long.”

You study him for a long moment. Then you sigh, stepping closer. “…You are still a loathsome man.”

“I have been told.”

“But,” you add reluctantly, stepping closer, “you are the loathsome man I have grown fond of, nonetheless.” 

He steps closer, too, invading your space so freely and easily, as if he exists simply to do that. Like it is his right to do so, no questions asked. He grabs you by your wrists, pulling closer and flush against him, pressing his forehead to yours as he studies your eyes. You love him, you think, oh, you love him so much, it could kill you—it could rob you of all the endless time that you have. 

And if he knows that, then he decides to spare your poor heart and your poor life span, too, as he murmurs, “I have fallen in love with you. Won’t you let this old, eroding man settle down in your company and pass his days in peace?”

You laugh (and it’s a watery little thing) as you shake your head in disbelief. “Say that again—and then I will believe you.”

“I love you,” he chuckles, raising a brow, “must I write it in a contract before you believe me?”

“I love you too, you loathesome, bothersome man,” you sob, “I’ll keep you company too if you stop deceiving me like the shady, untrustworthy businessman you are.”

He brings you into a deep, desperate kiss, cradling your face like it is the precious remainder of his long, endless lifespan pressed into his palms. You kiss back. It’s familiar. It’s new. It’s weird and odd and frightening, all at once—and yet, somehow, it is the most effortless, and correct thing that you do. 

“It’s a deal,” he murmurs, “yes?”

“Yes.”

-- — -- 

“Does that traveler girl know that you are Morax?” you ask against his bare chest, tracing your fingers along his skin. He is still catching his breath as he pulls your naked body against his, sighing as he gives you a look. Like he already knows where this is going. 

“Yes,” he says, warily. 

“So she knew before me, then,” you narrow your eyes. 

“Technically, that is the case, yes. But that is only because—”

“Perhaps you should seek her company, then,” you say petulantly, huffing as you dramatically roll away from him. 

Zhongli—after much questioning from you over whether he should be Morax now, or perhaps Rex Lapis, he has firmly insisted that this is the name you are to call him by—sighs as he takes your wrist and tugs you back against him. He gives you an exasperated look (and yet, despite it all, there is unmistakable fondness beneath it) before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Do not sulk.”

“I am not sulking.”

“And don’t be so stubborn all the time.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you say defiantly. 

He gives you a flat look. “Seeking out your company is not for the weak, is it?”

You give him a smug, bright grin at that—and you almost think you watch him fall in love with you all over again. “Get used to it, then, old man—you have a long, long time of my company ahead. And it certainly is not for the weak, you’re right.”

He laughs—low and warm and quietly endeared, but above all, certain. “Good,” he hums. “That is fine by me. I have always been known to be rather strong, you see.”

You curl into his chest, and he holds you close, and you and Zhongli have all the time in the world.

(And no—none of it is a waste.)

Your birthdays. Your exams at school. When he had his first crush. And first heartbreak. And you had yours. When he gave his first kiss and came all giggly to tell you about how it felt. When he told you he would audition to become a trainee and you accompanied him to the small company. When you told him you'd pursue a career in arts much to your parents dismay and he supported you all the way through.

There wasn't a moment when you haven't been by each other side.

Even after he debuted and he had a terrible schedule and concerts and tours, he'd still make time for you, even if meant take you to the mess that was the dorm for you to unwind about life.

Years and years of friendship was hard to break. Some have tried though. There were girls he was talking to that the moment they expressed their dislike on you or your friendship he would cut ties immediately. "No girl is worth to end a friendship for".

After you finished college and got a home office job, you started to spend more and more time at his house and, because of that, spend more time with his friends than before. Especially Woozi.

The boys would often let you crash at their apartment to work since you'd frequently feel alone at your own apartment, the silence too loud to let you work. Each one of you would be doing your own stuff, you working on your computer, Hoshi mindlessly scrolling through his phone and Jihoon locked at his studio working on a new song or something.

Occasionally, you and Jihoon would work together, he'd allow you to enter his sanctuary of a studio and work from there, just to make him company. The boy would ask you opinions on lyrics and beats and, even though you didn't understand much of music production, you'd still gave him your opinion and perception as an outsider, which he always appreciated, thanking you with a shy smile.

More you'd spend time with him, more you realized you started to develop feelings for the boy. But you kept quiet because maybe it was just because it had been a while you've met new people, and he treated you so well and you felt seen every time you two would talk. Maybe it was because he always let you have the last piece of pizza on movie nights or tucked you to not feel cold after you fell asleep on their couch. Maybe you just were love deprived.

It was another one of those days, you and your best friend in the living room and Jihoon stuck in his studio until he left for a meeting or something at the company.

The door clicked close and Soonyoung lifted himself from the sofa and sat in front of you on the table, face propped in his hands while he stared at you. "What?" you asked without even take the eyes out of your screen.

"When are you planning to tell me?"

"Tell you what exactly?" you half-closed the lid of your laptop to look at him, he held a mischievous grin.

"That you like Woozi" you widened your eyes but soon went back to normal hoping he had seen nothing. He did see. "Oh c'mon, yn" he rolled his eyes and leaned closer to you. "It's not like you're the most discreet person I know"' you sighed and turned to the side to uselessly hide your burning cheeks. "So… you do like him?"

"I-I don't know for sure" you turned to finally look at him again. "I think it might be a stupid little crush because it's been a while, you know?" he nodded. "It's nothing, don't think too much into it" he nodded even though he wasn't convinced, but he let it slide.

»»——⊙——««

The days that followed Hoshi watched you two closely and tried his best to play matchmaker.

Incredibly so, it worked. You and Woozi found yourselves getting closer than before, talking more than usual, even hanging out without the presence of the third friend.

You'd enter the apartment, say hi to your friend and go straight to Jihoon's studio to work by his side. Sometimes there would be barely any work done, you two would spend the entire time talking, laughing and sharing stories about each other and Hoshi.

One particular day, you ended up sleeping at the sofa the boy kept in his studio, curled up in his hoodie and softly snoring. You woke up with him crouched by your side, fingers gently caressing your cheeks with a soft smile that you had never seen him give you before. He gently lowered his face until his lips touched yours. Gentle. Caring.

You felt your cheeks heat at the contact but kissed him back, closing your eyes and lifting yourself from the sofa. Jihoon held your face between his hands as he stared into your eyes as if he searched for any sign of resistance or that you didn't want him. When he found none, he kissed you again, this time it wasn't a simple peck. He moved his lips and angled his head so he could have more access and control over you. You felt like floating, eyes fluttering while shut at the touch of his lips on yours, of his hands on you.

The two of you kept kissing slowly and gently like that for a while, until your lungs gave up and begged for you two to break the kiss. A small and almost inaudible whine leaving your lips.

The boy kept kissing you though, going down to your jaw and neck, making your mouth open looking for air and eyes shut again, enjoying the moment. His left hand held your waist tightly, while his right hand was holding your neck possessively, grabbing the hairs on the nape and making you almost whine at the sting. He left a trail of butterfly kisses down to your neck, pulling the neckline of his hoodie down so he could have access to your shoulder. You whined the moment he bit into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, back arching into him.

That was all he needed to grab you fully by your waist and pull you straddling his lap. The position making your whole body warm up in both shame and need. Before you could even think further he pulled you back to kiss him, this time with more hunger, more need. You felt like he was trying to eat your lips. And still you wouldn't complain. He licked your lips and you opened them, having your mouth instantly being invaded by his warm tongue, that found yours and invited it to a dance.

The kiss got heated quickly. Your bodies got heated quickly. And the air-con in the room was doing nothing to soothe the burning sensation all over your bodies.

Woozi started to play with the hem of his hoodie you were wearing before pulling it up and taking it off of you, your cute little shirt hugging all your curves that the big thick piece was hiding. He started to kiss your neck again and you threw your head back, giving him more access to your throat.

You two were so entranced on each other that he didn't realize he was moaning against your skin and that you were grinding against his clothed length slowly.

It was just when you felt his hands slipping under your shirt and touching your skin, and that you felt his hard on starting to poke between your legs that you finally came back to your senses and frozen in place, holding him away from you.

His breathing was erratic, his lips red and swollen from kissing, eyes glassy and dark. You felt bad. "Is… is everything ok? Did I do something?" He asked worried, voice low and growly, too sexy for your own good.

You denied with your head and took a deep breath. "No! No! It's just… I… aren't we going too fast?" You asked, trying to pry away from the real problem in your head.

"If you think that's fast then that's fast" he caressed your back and kissed your forehead, you melted. "We'll go by your rhythm, ok?" You nodded and gave him a half smile.

"Thank you" you whispered and gave a weak peck on his lips before lifting yourself from his lap. The bulge in his pants very visible and you suddenly felt bad for leaving him like that. "I… I gotta go" he nodded and you waved goodbye before grabbing your stuff quickly and leaving.

You didn't even say your goodbye to Soonyoung. All you wanted was to go home and take a cold shower.

»»——⊙——««

It had been more than a week since the studio happening. You didn't have the courage to show up at their apartment again. You gave excuses of having too much work and they were distracting you, that your company was doing a series of meetings for the new event they were organizing and you were working on. You were starting to run out of excuses.

Jihoon would send you messages almost everyday, even if it was just to send a good morning or a have a great day at work. You felt bad running away from him like that. But you panicked.

You needed help and there was only one person that you could trust enough to help you in that situation.

As soon as you entered the apartment, Hoshi came running to you and engulfed you in a tight hug, lifting you from the ground and spinning you. Giggles left you as you welcomed his warm hug.

"I thought you had forgotten about your best friend" he pouted looking at you, arms still at your waist.

You rolled your eyes and left his embrace, moving to sit on the couch. "Are you sure Jihoon is not home?" You asked and he shook his head.

"He went to visit his family this weekend" you nodded and he sat by your side. "Why? Are you running from him?" He chuckled but you bit your lower lip in anxiety. "Wait, really?"

"It's not exactly running" you answered and turned yourself to fully look at him. "It's just…" you sighed, looked at your own fiddling hands and looked back at Soonyoung, that was watching you with intent, head slightly cocked like a curious puppy. "Last time I was here we kissed"

Hoshi put his hands on his mouth in surprise, a smile on his face "omg really? Like, kissed kissed?" You nodded.

"And we kinda started making out a little"

"With me in the house? You nasty little freaks" he joked but stopped when he saw your serious face. "But what's wrong? Did you not like it? Is he bad? Does he have a bad breath?" You chuckled and shook your head. "Then what is it?"

You fiddled with your fingers. "You know how I was never able to have a real relationship?" You looked at him and he nodded. "Well…" his eyes widened and he grabbed you by your shoulders.

"Wait! Are you still a virgin?" You flew your hands to hide your face, embarrassment taking over your entire body. "No! No! I didn't meant like that, babe!" He pulled your hands away from your burning face. "I just thought that you never told me"

"Soonie, we are best friends, I'd tell you about my first time if had happened. Like you told me about yours" he nodded slowly. "It's just… I never got the opportunity, ya know? And when me and Jihoon started making out and he tried to take my shirt off I freaked out and ran away" he couldn't help but laugh a little at you.

"I can't believe you are almost thirty and still acting like a teenager" he smiled and ruffled your hair.

"Can you blame me tho'?" He denied with his head and you looked at your nails again, the little skin lifting up at your cuticles more interesting than anything else. "That's why I kinda need your help"

He straightened his back and stared at you like he was staring into your soul "my help? Like… like what?"

"C-can you… like… teach me?" His eyes widened "only because I don't want to look like a loser to Jihoon and I trust you with my life and… I don't know what else to do. We don't have to do anything, just… tell me… about… sex" you shied at the end.

"But what about porn and stuff like that? Have you touched yourself at least?" You nodded.

"I don't believe in porn, I think it's too fake, too in the face, you know? And yeah, I touch myself from time to time, I'm a virgin not a prude" you slightly punched his shoulder and laughed, trying to ease the tension and the mood. "You obviously can say no if you don't want to"

"It's not that" he assured you, his shoulders slumping. "I'm worried about after, will it change us? Because I don't want it to change us"

"Me neither" you assumed. "Think about as two best friends helping each other"

"What do I get from that?"

"I don't know?" You laughed and threw your head back into the couch's back. "It's crazy isn't it? Forget about it. I was just desperate. I will tell Jih-" you barely could finish the sentence when you felt your friend's lips on yours.

It was quick, almost like a test. But his plush lips felt so soft against yours.

You two looked at each other and he kissed you again. It felt weird to kiss your best friend yet it felt good too. His lips were soft, kind, gentle. The plushness of his involving yours and taking you to this alluring dance that was his kiss. He tasted like coffee, candy and something uniquely him. It was odd. In a good way.

You kept kissing gently and slowly, almost as if you two were scared to take even further. To make it real.

Soonyoung hands slowly rose to your thighs, squeezing gently the plushness of the skin and earning a huff from you directly into his lips. He used the moment to deepen the kiss, using your open mouth to explore it with his tongue. You hummed low when you felt his wet muscle entangle with yours, his taste now intoxicating you.

Your body instinctively move forward, searching for his. Your hands running through his soft locks to keep him close to you. Moving his own from your thighs, he slid to your waist, pulling your torso towards his and gently laying you both on the sofa, with you on top of him.

The kissing kept going and going until you both were left nothing but panting messes with lips red and puffy from the friction. Just like Jihoon did, as soon as your lips left each other, his were connected to your neck, leaving feather-light kisses, making you shiver in anticipation. His touch was careful, trying not to overwhelm you, even though he was using all his self control to not bend you in half and fuck you in that couch. Your sweet little noises and whines spurring him.

"How about we go to my room, hm?" you nodded through half lidded eyes and got yourself up, suddenly feeling shy about the situation. Hoshi held your hand and guided you to the room you've been countless times before. Yet this time it was completely different and you could feel the blood pumping in your ears.

The boy sat in the bed, back resting against the headboard. He gently guided you to straddle his hips and comfortably sit on top of his already growing hard on.

He put a stray piece of hair behind your ear and joined your foreheads. "I'll say what you said to me earlier: you don't have to do anything you don't wanna do, 'Kay?" You nodded and kept staring at his eyes, that always so soft, were now dark and dilated. "What do you want to do? Because I can see that you know how to kiss pretty well" you lightly punched his shoulder, making you both chuckle and ease the tension.

"I… I think I want to learn how to, you know, give… pleasure" the last word came as a whisper, your head hanging low in shame for asking this to your best friend.

He hooked a finger under your chin to make you look at him again "are you sure? I can teach you if you really want, but only if you really want, you don't have to give head to all the guys that you have sex with and they can't force you to do that" you nodded slowly, the way he talked to you about it making your stomach twitch with something unknown. "I need a verbal sign that you want me to teach you that, use your words, princess" the nickname went straight to your core and you held a gasp from leaving your lips.

"I do. I want to learn how to give a blowjob" Hoshi left a noise akin to a growl, his eyes almost rolling into his skull. Hearing you all so innocently saying those filthy words did something to him.

He caressed your hair before crashing your lips together again. This time the kiss was fiercer, stronger, needier. His finger dug into the flesh of your waist and started to rub you against his clothed erection eliciting a low moan from you into his mouth. You held yourself in his shoulder as you kept kissing and grinding, the wet patch in your panties only growing uncomfortably. And the press of his dick growing more and more against your core.

After what felt like forever but not enough, your best friend detached from your lips and made you stop the grinding. "Are you ready?" you nodded, eyes hooded with pleasure and ready to do anything he asked for. "Good, now I want you to lower yourself until you're face to face with my bulge" you did as you were told, slowly crawling downwards until you were facing his clothed member.

Before he could give any instructions, you started to rub your hand against the fabric of the sweatpants, earning a low groan from him. The sound only spur you into rub him harder, the fabric grinding against his impossibly hard dick and making him throw his head back and put one of his hands on your hair, gentle, just a weight to remind you of his presence.

You slowly started to play with the strings of the pants before opening it and starting to pull it down. He raised his hips so you could free him from his confines. And so you did. You pulled his sweats and underwear together, his member jumping the moment it left the insides of the clothes, earning a low gasp from you.

You finished taking his pants and underwear from him and went back to your position. You knew Hoshi was big, you saw when you were on the beach together or when he'd walk around the house with just sweatpants and no underwear. But seeing it in front of you, fully erect, angry red and leaking precum was totally different. He was big in every sense of the word, not only he was long, but also girthy, curving slightly upwards, the veins you would see in his arms whenever he trained or danced could be seen all over his shaft as well.

Your mind started racing. At the same time you felt your mouth water and your cunt clench into nothing, you started to panic of how it would enter you. Would it fit?

Sensing your nerves, Soonyoung pulled you up back to him and kissed you, melting you against his lips again. "You don't have to do it"

"I know. I do. It's just…" you looked down at his dick and back at him, your cheeks burning even more than your body. "It's so big" he chuckled and caressed your hair and cheek, kissing the tip of your nose.

"We'll go slow and gentle, okay? No need to worry" you nodded and bit your lower lip. "Besides, we don't have to do it all today, we don't have to do it all at all. Today, this," he motioned between you and him, "it's all about you, okay?" you nodded and smiled, closing your eyes as you enjoyed his gentle caress on your cheek, leaning into his palm.

"Thank you, Soonyoung, for doing this for me" he smiled and shook his head.

"I know you would do the same for me"

After a while of just being like that, you finally took a deep breath and lowered yourself again, this time with regained confidence. To say you weren't salivating for his dick was a lie, because you were. You wanted to know how it tasted, how it felt inside your mouth.

Gently you grabbed the member into your hand, giving a gentle squeeze to the base and eliciting a moan from Hoshi.

"Fuck" he gasped before regaining his composure back. He was supposed to guide you. "Use your hand to masturbate it, up and down. Do you wan- Oh god!" He moaned when you spit into his shaft so you could use as a lubricant just like you saw some girls in porn do it. And from his reaction, he enjoyed. "That's right, baby, keep going like that. You can play with-oh! With the tip. Rub your thumb into the tip" you did as he said and he threw his head back, his hand fisting the sheet underneath him.

With now regained confidence, you started to move your hand up and down, stopping from time to time to rub his tip with the pad of your thumb. He was a moaning mess above you, his eyes never wanted to leave your form and how right you seem to move.

Without waiting for his instruction, you kissed his tip and he jerked his hips up in surprise. "Shit. Fuck. Yn, I'm sorry. I was caught by surprise" you giggled at his reaction, his face completely flustered and red. He looked delightful.

Without taking your eyes from him, you wrapped your lips gently around his head. The salty taste invading your taste buds, but it wasn't unpleasant. You sucked his head like a lollipop, putting pressure into your sucking motions before leaving it with a pop. Seeing Hoshi so fucked out for nothing spurred something dark inside of you. You wanted to please him, to make him moan and groan for you. You wanted to make him lose his composure and just become putty into your hands and mouth. You knew that wouldn't be possible in the first time. But a girl could dream.

Putting your tongue out, you licked the underside of his cock, his vein rubbing your muscle as you went from base to the tip before putting him back inside your mouth.

"Watch your teeth, baby" he finally managed to speak, placing a hand on your head, a gentle reminder he still was the one in control. "Go slow, little by little, you don't have to fit everything in the first try, use your hands where your mouth can't reach" you nodded and hummed and the vibration went straight to his length, earning another low groan from him and a few curses to leave his lips.

You slowly started to bob your head, careful not to rub your teeth into his sensible skin. Your tongue was flat under his dick feeling the delicious weight of him on your mouth. It was a new feeling, a little strange, but empowering somehow.

You started slow, trying your best to breath through your nose and to take as much as could of him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks every time you pulled back up. But soon you were so caught up in the feeling and the noises he was making that you started to move faster, bobbing your head up and down with a practice that you don't know where it came from but you welcomed nonetheless. Your hands were wrapped in the base of his cock and applied pressure while accompanying the movements of your head where you couldn't reach.

The tip of his member started to hit the back of your throat and you felt your gag reflex come a little, making you cough and drool all over his dick and down your chin. Hoshi growled like an actual animal at the sight of you, all wet from your own spit mixed with his precum, eyes glassy and teary from the action. You looked heavenly.

You dived right back into sucking him with renew force and need. You were determined to make him cum in your mouth. And he wasn't so far from it. You looked so good on all fours, ass perked up as you sucked him like you needed it to breath. You started go deeper, letting his tip hit your throat repeatedly, your bach arching every time as you gagged around his girth.

"Fuck, baby, I'm close" he tried to take you away from him but you kept going. "Oh my god, yn! Fuck! I… I will" before he could even finish his sentence you gave a particularly strong squeeze on his base and a lick on his tip and he came down your throat. The salty sour white liquid landing on your tongue. He tried to tell you that you could spit it but when he saw you had swallowed it all, making him almost get hard all over again.

You lifted yourself from him, cleaning your mouth and chin with the back of your hand and looking at him expectantly. "Did I do well?" you asked, genuinely curious. You heard that it didn't take much for men to orgasm, so you could still had done a terrible job.

"Are you kidding right now?" he laugh humorously and threw his head back before coming back to caress your face and wipe some drool from your chin. "You did amazing, I almost didn't believe that this was your first time doing this" you shied, cheeks warming. "Now is my turn, baby" he smirked and lifted from his position on the headboard and took his shirt off, getting completely naked.

He pulled your face close to his again and kissed you, deep, hungry. You wondered if he could taste himself on your tongue and the idea aroused you even more. Hoshi slowly maneuvered you so you were the one laying on the bed, chest rising and falling with your uneven breath from both the kiss and anticipation. Slowly, he started to take off your own shirt, feeling your soft skin under his calloused fingers, goosebumps rising in his trail.

"You chose this one just for me, huh?" he teased as he saw you in a tiger print bra. You bought it as a joke a while ago but thought it was the perfect one for the occasion. He softly grabbed your mounds, squeezing them under his palms while he kissed your neck. His lips leaving light love bites all over the place. "As much as I loved your choice, I rather see you without it. Can I?" he asked for permission before taking your bra off as soon as you agreed. "God, you're so beautiful" he whispered to himself but you still could hear it, making your heart race even more in your ribcage.

Soonyoung lowered his kisses to your chest, slowly approaching your boobs before wrapping one of your nipples into his mouth and earning a low whine from you. The sensation was completely new. Overwhelming. Your mouth opened as nothing came out at the feeling of his hot breath on your nipple, licking, sucking, bitting. It was oh so good. You could get used to it. Your other boob was receiving a different treatment, being squeezed and pulled and pinched with fingers.

Your whines started to get louder and your legs to writhe under him searching from something. Anything. He noticed your impatience and smiled against your boob before leaving it with a pop. He started lowering himself, peppering kisses down your tummy until he reached the waistband of your pants. He looked at you searching for your confirmation and he started to open it as soon as you nodded.

Hoshi slowly pulled your pants and panties together, the cold air hitting your wet warm pussy making you hiss. You suddenly felt very aware of what was happening. You and your best friend were fully naked in front of each other. You had just sucked his dick. And he was about to do god knows what to you.

He noticed your reaction and went back to hovering over you, his eyes meeting yours with that gentleness he was holding the entire time. "Are you okay?" The boy asked, his fingers softly caressing your cheek and making you look at him. "Do you want me to stop?"

"I…" you stuttered, voice weak. "I just became too self aware of our situation" you chuckled and he smiled nodding. Hoshi planted a kiss to your forehead then on the tip of your nose, your eyes fluttered shut.

"We can stop if you want. It's up to you" you nodded at him. "You wanna stop?"

"No, I trust you, Soonie" he smiled at you and nodded, his heart squeezing on his chest at the way you looked at him with uttermost trust and something he couldn't name.

"Tell me to stop if I do something you don't like, ok?" You nodded.

The boy kissed you again, all your worries vanishing into his tongue as it tangled with yours, tasting his reverence to you.

He started to lower himself again until he was in front of your mound. He slowly opened your legs so he could be in between them. You sucked a sharp breath when you felt the air hit you and the sensation of being too exposed. But soon the thoughts started to leave when his plush lips started to trail light kisses inside your thighs. His teeth gently grazing the skin before leaving love bites on his way up to where you felt like you needed him the most.

The moment his warm tongue touched your vulva you thrust your hips up, the sensation foreigner yet delightful. His tongue was flat against your labia making up and down movements and gathering some slick. He hummed against your core and the vibration send shiver straight to your spine.

Gently, he used the tip of his tongue to open your labia so he could taste you better, licking from your entrance to your clit. You moaned when you felt him touch your clit, back arching. It was completely different from touching yourself. He noticed how you were responding to his ministrations and decided to give extra attention to your clit, licking it in circle motions before sucking the nub.

In a natural reaction, you flew one of your hands to his head and grabbed a fist out of his hair and brought him closer to your core. He smiled at it. Cute.

He kept the attack on your button before detaching himself - much to your dismay - so he could speak to you. "I'm going to put a finger inside, ok?" You nodded eagerly, mind clouded with pleasure already. You'd take anything he'd give to you. "It can sting a little but we need to stretch you little by little. Tell me if it hurts, ok?" You nodded again, mouth agape and eyes cloudy.

Hoshi went back to give attention to your clit. His mouth wrapping around it and sucking so he could arouse you even more. You felt the tip of his finger rub at your folds to collect your wetness before nudge at your entrance.

His middle finger slid slowly inside of you, easier than you expected. The sensation was weird but in a good overwhelming way. Without taking his eyes out of you, and paying attention to every single one of your reactions, Hoshi started to move his finger in and out of you. A loud moan left your lips and you quickly covered your mouth ashamed of how high it came out.

The boy smiled against your core and kept his assault, fucking you with his single digit while his mouth worked on your clit.

Your mind was clouded and hazy, and all you could think of was the pleasure that your best friend was providing you. Whines, moans and strings of his name left your lungs while he held you in place on the bed. You could feel your legs shaking, trembling, with pleasure.

"Do you think you can handle a second finger, Princess?" you barely registered what he said, you just nodded. "Are you sure? It may hurt a little" he asked while still pumping in and out of you at a torturous pace.

"Soonie~" you moaned, "please" you're not sure of what you were asking for but it was all you could muster in your state.

"Fuck yn, you look so cute begging" he bit his lower lip while savoring the image beneath him. He would never imagine that he would be the one to make you look like that. That you looked like that. But he wasn't complaining. Far from that.

He took his finger out of your pussy before joining with his index finger and slowly started to ease into your entrance. You whined loudly and tried to close your legs around his face and hands but he kept you open for him. Soonyoung went back to stimulating your clit with his mouth so you would relax your muscles.

"Sh… it's ok, I know I know" he cooed when he heard your little pained whines. "Want me to stop?" You shook your head no. It hurt, yes, but at the same time it was a pleasurable pain. And you trusted Soonyoung, you knew he wouldn't hurt you.

He started to draw figure eights with the tip of the thumb of his other hand while he slowly eased his digits inside your tight walls. Your eyes were closed and head thrown back into the pillows, back arched up.

A loud guttural almost pornographic moan left you when he pushed his fingers knuckles deep inside of you. "That's it. You did great, such a good girl" the praise made your walls squeeze his fingers and he smirk. "Oh someone likes being praised, doesn't she?" you didn't answer, you couldn't trust your voice at the moment.

The boy started moving his fingers slowly, testing the waters, the thrusts shallow and slow. The digits curling inside of you at every drag and making you see stars. If just his fingers felt like this, how would his penis feel? The thought made you squeeze his fingers in again.

He started to take more of them out before putting back in, picking pace when he noticed how your moans changed and your body started to search for his fingers. Soon enough he was fingering you fast, his digits greedily being sucked in by your count just to be taken out.

His mouth went back to your clit and that's when you felt it. A squeeze in the pit of your belly, something feeling like it was pressing against you and trying to rip. Your moans became more desperate and by the way your walls were trying to hold Hoshi's fingers in he knew you were close.

"You wanna cum, baby? Are you close?" you just nodded, that's all you could do for the past minutes he's been between your legs. "Go on, let it go, you deserve it, you did so well for me" he praised before diving back to your nub to give a final suck that led you to your orgasm.

You're pretty sure you screamed. Legs trembling against his ears and gummy walls squeezing impossibly tight his fingers while he slurped away every drop of your orgasm. He kept fucking you even after you rode down, overstimulation starting to seep into your body.

"Ho-hoshi" you whined before pushing him away from you.

He was a sight to behold: eyes hooded and glassy from lust, nose, mouth and chin completely drenched in your juices while he held the most satisfied grin on his face.

"Sorry baby, you just tasted so good" you hid your face behind shaking hands.

"Don't say things like that" you whispered and he chuckled.

He moved his body up back to hover you and took your palms away from your face. "Don't hide from me now, we're far from that at this point" he was right but it didn't change the fact that you still felt shy about it all.

He leaned down to kiss your lips again and you could taste your lingering taste on his tongue. Sweet and sour. As you kept kissing, and your heart rate started to go back to normal, you felt his member poke your belly. You broke the kiss to look down at his already hard again cock.

Noticing where your eyes were he tilted your chin to look back at him "don't worry about it, I'll take care of that"

"Can… can we?" You cut yourself, too shy to actually say it and he thought it was absolute endearing.

"We don't have to do anything, we already went pretty far today" he assured, kissing your forehead with a smile.

"I know but" you looked at his hard member before looking back at him again, eyes dark and glossy, pleading, "but I want to. I asked you to help me with sex and we still haven't had sex" he chuckled at your pouty lips. You were danger. He never imagined seeing this side of you. But he wasn't the one complaining.

"Sex it's not just penetration" he mused, his fingers gently playing with your sweaty hair and putting it behind your ear. "Sex it's about intimacy, about two, sometimes more, people exploring their sexuality and what makes them feel good. It's the before, during and after" you nodded, eyes focused on him. "Besides, how would people without dicks have sex if sex was just penetration?" You two chuckled and he pecked your smiling lips.

"But still, I want to, I want the full experience" you played with the hairs at the nape of his neck where your hands were wrapped. "I trust you, Soonie, I want you to fuck me" the boy groaned at your words, he was discovering a new side of you that he wasn't sure if he could forget so easily. But that was a problem for later.

Hoshi momentarily left his place on top of you to grab a little metallic package on the bedside table. He ripped it open and expertly rolled the condom down his shaft and pumped it a few times before going back to his place on top of you.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked one last time, cock painfully throbbing between both of your legs.

"Yes, I'm sure" you lifted your torso so you could meet his lips once again.

He deepened the kiss and you felt his member rubbing up and down your core, making you whine against his mouth and thrust your hips searching for more friction.

"I'll go slow and gentle, ok? Tell me if it hurts and need me to stop" you nodded and bit your lower lips waiting for the sting to come.

Soonyoung lined his tip with your entrance and very slowly started to push inside. You opened your mouth and grabbed his arms, nails digging into his soft skin. The feeling was completely different from his fingers. He moved one of his hands between your folds to rub your clit to help subdue the pain and turn into pleasure as he eased his tip in.

It was painful, overwhelming and pleasuring all at once. Your head and body were a mess of feelings and sensations. The feeling of your best friend rubbing your clit deliciously in contrast with the overwhelming sensation of being ripped open by his cock was fogging your brain and making your eyes roll back.

"Hey! Hey! It's alright, princess" he shushed you seeing how you were reacting to it all. He peppered kisses all over your face while whispering comforting words for you. "I'm just the tip in. Do you want me to stop? Does it hurt?" You shook your head. "I know it must be hard but I need your words now, baby, how are you feeling?"

You whined and took a deep breath. "D-don't stop…" you managed to say in almost a whispered whine. "Feels weird but good" Hoshi nodded and caressed your face before kissing your lips again, earning a low moan from you.

"I'll try to go again, ok?" You nodded and finally managed to look at him and he had to hold himself to not bury it all in one go, your eyes completely gone, dark, glassy and teary, half lided with pleasure as you looked at him with the upmost trust and borderline reverence. "Fuck, you look so hot right now, yn" he confessed and you managed to chuckle. "Remember to tell me to stop if anything, ok?" You nodded again.

Soonyoung took a deep breath before he started to slowly push more of himself inside of you, meeting a little resistance from your tight walls. He went back to stimulating you clit to help ease the pain.

You bit your lip so hard that you could feel the tangy taste of your blood. Your nails digging hard into the hard muscles of his arms. Toes curling and legs' muscles tensing beside his own legs as you allowed him to enter you fully.

Soonyoung let an almost animalist growl out of his mouth the moment he bottomed out inside of you. He was doing his best to not nut on the spot from how tight your walls were hugging him, pulsating around his painfully hard dick.

You let your body fall down the mattress and relax a little, you didn't even realize how hard you were holding yourself onto him until you let yourself go. You felt the beat of your heart match with the throbbing of your core around his shaft and you chuckled to yourself.

The sensation of having something, him, inside of you felt weirdly good. It was something that you could see yourself get used to with time and practice. You could feel the warmth and pulsing of his member inside of you and that made your chest fill with pride, he was like that because of you.

Hoshi allowed you to get used to the feeling of being completely full, playing with your clit slowly and monitoring your facial expressions and reactions. He felt your pelvis started to move against him after a while, searching for more. Aching for more.

"Hoshi~" you moaned softly, voice whinny and almost desperate.

"What is it, sweetie? You want me to move?" You nodded eagerly, eyes wide and teary looking at him, lips pouty as if he was torturing you. He chuckled at your antics and pecked your pout. "I'll move, ok? Tell me if anything hurts" you nodded eagerly.

He slowly slid a little from you before coming back in equally slow. You gaped your mouth in a silent gasp at the sensation and fisted the sheets underneath you. The boy made the same movements a few more times, slow and shallow, to make you get used to the feeling. When you started to make pleased noises and your brows furrow, he tested to take more out, leaving just the tip in, before slowly putting it all back in.

You moaned at the feeling, back arching towards his chest and eyes basically rolling out of your skull. A faint of a curse leaving your lips. Your best friend smiled before starting repeating the movement over and over again. The tip of his cock hitting a spot that you only ever heard of.

You were a moaning mess underneath him. Your hands, once fisted against the sheets, were now running his back, leaving red marks wherever they passed by. Hoshi was sure you were drawing blood out of him but he couldn't care less, not when you were leaving the cutest of moans against his ear.

"Soonie~ more! Please!" You begged for something, anything. His cute little nickname sounding like a fuel to him as he started to fuck you harder.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and almost wrapped yourself around him as he fucked into you in a pace that made you see starts printed into your eyelids. All you could do was moan and scream his name against him as he moaned with you. He was sure he'd get noise complaints but fuck it! It was worth it.

"Ho- I" you tried to say something but the coil in your stomach was starting to tighten at a rapid pace once again.

"I can feel that you're close, baby" he moaned at your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Give one more, can ya? One more before I cum too" you nodded against his shoulder.

The boy kept his movements, determined to make you come before him. With a little difficulty due to how glued your bodies were, he managed to snake his hand between you two and add stimulus to your clit too, earning a loud moan from you.

A few more thrusts and circles from his fingers, you came undone around him, even stronger than the first time, your body convulsing against him as your toes curled. You let your body fall against the mattress again as he kept his movements going.

"Just a little-fuck! More" he moaned on top of you and you nodded.

He felt your oversensitive walls flutter around him and a few thrusts more he came undone inside the condom.

Soonyoung wasn't sure when was the last time he came like that, so hard, so much, but he was certain that was the most intense orgasm he had in a while, perhaps in his life.

He slowly caught his breath again, watching you as you watched him with those intense eyes of yours. He smiled fondly at you, putting away from your face stray pieces of soaked hair and kissed your forehead.

The man slowly removed himself from you, that hissed both from sensitivity and emptiness. With still wobbly legs, he discarded the used condom in his en suite bathroom and grabbed a wet cloth to clean you.

He slowly and gently rubbed the soft fabric between your legs, cleaning the excess wetness remaining there. Your body welcomed the cold feeling against the burning skin there. He discarded the cloth somewhere in the bathroom before coming back.

Your chest was still heaving and you looked absolutely divine glistening with post sex sweat under his warm light. "Do you want to take a bath? Take the sweat out of your body and relax your muscles?" Hoshi asked gently, his naked body standing next to the bed as you both looked at each other, now at a new light.

You nodded with a smile, which he reciprocated before going to the bathroom to run the bath. You faced his ceiling as your heart hammered inside your ribs, both from all the intense action and from this strange feeling in your gut that you didn't dare name it.

The realization of what you two just did hit you like a truck. You just had sex. You and your best friend of a lifetime. He helped you lose your virginity. Because you asked to. Did you regret? No, not at all. You loved every single second of it and you couldn't think of someone better than Soonyoung to do that. But what would it be now? You promised not to let it change anything but could you?

Before you went spiraling further into your own head, the man came back from the bathroom and helped you get on your feet. You insisted you could stand on your own but you underestimated how weak your legs would feel, making you two laugh at you almost falling. "It's all your fault" you mockingly fought with him, hitting his shoulder next to you. "Like you didn't enjoy" he replied smugly. Yeah, you did enjoy.

He helped you to move to the bathroom and enter the bathtub, the warmth of the water and the bubbles of the bath bombs and salts soothing your aching body. You let a satisfied sigh as soon as your body was fully submerged under the sea of bubbles. Hoshi entering behind you and pulling you to lay on his chest.

The scene felt domestic, like it was something you two were already used to doing together. The limbs tangled together as your breathings matched their pace, heartbeats syncing without noticing. It was all so natural for you. Something you could get used to.

"How are you feeling?" Soonyoung was the first to break the silence, his voice a little hoarse from all the moans and talking you through it.

One of his hands was rubbing your arm up until it reached your shoulder and then he would go down again. The other held your torso closer to him, hand splayed on your belly. Your back was flush against his chest, head thrown back into his shoulder, eyes closed and enjoying his proximity. One of your hands was caressing his thigh that was tangled to yours and the other held the one that was on your stomach.

You hummed at him with a smile. "I'm feeling light and heavy all at once" you chuckled and he nodded, leaving a kiss at your temple. "It's a weird sensation down there but not bad I guess"

"You'll eventually get used to it, the more you have sex, more your body get used to the sensations. Over time you'll even learn more things that you may like or not" he explained with care, his voice soothing against your ear. A known calmness and grounding you got used to.

"Like what?" You asked genuinely curious, now both hands playing with the one in your stomach.

"Like if you like fast, slow, shallow, deep, soft or rough, vanilla or do you have any kinks" you nodded thinking about the possibilities to explore and what he might like. "I know Jihoon likes taking his time with his partners and he is more of a traditional guy with a hint of roughness" he left a humorous laugh and you chuckled.

Jihoon, the reason all of this happened. For some odd reason you were feeling guilty, like you betrayed the boy. It's not like you had anything. But he liked you. And so did you. Right?

"And what do you like?" You asked before you could stop yourself, cheeks burning out of shame as if you two haven't just had sex minutes ago.

He thought for a while. "It depends on the person I'm with and my mood really" he answered, his hand that was on your arm now playing with your hair. "I might go rough with someone and vanilla with next, enjoy a certain kink with another, I'm up to experiment as long as me and my partner are comfortable with" you nodded.

A comfortable silence fell upon you two again. The hum of the city under the building being the only sound until he spoke again.

"Did you enjoy it?" You turned to look at him. "The sex, I mean. Your first time" he brushed the back of his neck a little bit expectantly of your answer.

You nodded with a smile "I couldn't have wished anything better, Soonie. It was perfect" he blushed hard as he smiled, his eyes crinkling and closing with the act. "You took such good care of me and always made sure that I was enjoying it and I was having fun and being pleasured. I know that not anyone would do that, so thank you" you kissed his cheek, the warmth of his skin radiating through your lips.

"I'm glad to hear that, Princess, for real, you were my number one priority tonight" he hugged you and you two enjoyed the bath a bit longer until the water ran cold.

There was something comforting on him. Sure, he was your best friend. Sure, you shared intimacies before and talked about these type of things before. You had cuddled, hugged and kissed each other's cheeks and temples and foreheads before. But now it felt different. There was a new level, a new layer of intimacy added to it. Something new that you couldn't name it yet. But it was there, looming in the air.

After drying yourselves, you put on some of his t shirts and a pair of his underwear so you could be comfortable not to lay in damp panties and jeans. He put on the same thing and laid by your side in bed, pulling you into his chest.

The warmth of his body and the tiredness were starting to settle into your body and lure you to sleep. You hugged his torso tighter unconsciously, as if you were afraid of him to let you go.

He chuckled and kissed the crown of your head. "Good night, princess"

Even in your half asleep state you smiled and answered "good night, Soonie"

Requests | Main Masterlist | Random Masterlist

“You are. You’ve got that little crease between your brows and everything.” You reached out and poked the spot lightly. He swatted your hand away, but there was no real heat in it.

“You talked to Bang Chan the entire night,” he muttered, looking away again. “Like… non-stop. Laughing, leaning in, all that. I was right there, you know.”

You tried not to grin, but it was impossible. This six-foot-something man, who commanded stages and led twelve other chaotic boys, was jealous because you spent time with a mutual friend.

“Cheollie…” You climbed onto the couch and straddled his lap without warning. His hands automatically went to your waist, even as he tried to maintain his grumpy expression. “Chan and I were catching up. We haven’t seen him in months. You know he’s just a friend.”

Seungcheol huffed, tilting his head back against the couch. “Didn’t look like ‘just a friend’ when you were showing him that video on your phone, heads practically touching.”

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. His pout was devastatingly adorable up close—full lips pushed out, eyes avoiding yours even as his fingers tightened on your hips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose.

“I’m not jealous,” he grumbled, but his ears were turning pink. “I just… missed you. We barely got to talk all night.”

Your chest warmed. You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your forehead to his. “I’m sorry, baby. I got carried away catching up. But I’m here now. All yours.”

He stayed quiet for a second, then let out a long sigh, his body finally relaxing under you. His arms slid fully around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re mine,” he mumbled against your shoulder, nuzzling in like a big puppy. “Should’ve been next to me the whole time.”

You laughed softly and carded your fingers through his hair. “Next time I’ll stay glued to your side, okay? No more leaving my big strong boyfriend alone to fend off boredom.”

He made a small, contented sound and tilted his head up, silently asking for a kiss. You gave it to him—slow and sweet, pouring in all the affection he’d missed. Seungcheol melted instantly, one hand sliding up your back, the other squeezing your waist like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

When you pulled back, his eyes were softer, the sulk completely gone.

“Better?” you asked, brushing his hair off his forehead.

He nodded, a shy little smile finally breaking through. “Yeah. But you owe me extra cuddles tonight. And maybe breakfast in bed tomorrow.”

You grinned, kissing him again. “Deal. Anything for my cute, sulky boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t sulking,” he protested weakly, but he was already pulling you down, tucking you against his chest.

You let him. After all, making it up to Seungcheol was one of your favorite things to do.

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

The living room lights were dimmed low, the city humming faintly beyond the windows. Seungcheol was still sprawled on the couch beneath you, his sulky mood long gone, replaced by that warm, hazy look in his eyes after several deep kisses. Your fingers traced lazy circles on his chest as you straddled him.

“Let me make it up to you properly,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “I want to take care of you tonight.”

His breath hitched. “Baby…”

You slid down his body with purpose, kissing every inch of his chest and abs before settling between his thick thighs. Seungcheol’s cock was already heavy and leaking when you freed it, veins pulsing under your fingers as you stroked him slowly.

“Fuck, look at you,” you purred, licking a long stripe from base to tip. “So hard and desperate already. All because you got a little jealous?”

Seungcheol groaned, fingers gently threading into your hair. “Yes—shit. I hate seeing you give anyone else that much attention. This cock is yours, baby. Only gets this hard for you.”

You took him into your mouth without warning, sinking down until he hit the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, eyes watering as you held him there, then pulled back with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting your lips to his throbbing cock.

You started slow, swirling your tongue around the tip, tasting the salt of his skin as you sucked lightly. Seungcheol’s hips twitched, but he stayed still, letting you set the pace. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, working your hand around the base where your mouth couldn’t reach.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, hips twitching. “That throat is sinful. Choke on it again—let me feel how deep you can take me.”

You moaned around his length and obeyed, bobbing your head faster, sucking harder. Filthy, wet sounds filled the room as you worked him—hollowing your cheeks, twisting your hand around the base, and massaging his balls. Every time you took him to the hilt, Seungcheol cursed loudly.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Seungcheol groaned, head tipping back against the couch. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. Look at me, baby.”

You lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him while your lips stretched around his thick shaft. The sight made him curse, hips bucking shallowly into your mouth. You hummed encouragingly, stroking him faster with your hand while your tongue flicked over the head on every pass.

You bobbed your head faster, relaxing your throat to take more of his impressive length. Spit slicked his cock, dripping down to his balls as you worked him with steady, filthy rhythm—sucking hard on the upstroke, then swirling your tongue along the sensitive underside.

“That’s it, baby. Suck my cock like a good little slut. Fuck—your mouth is better than any pussy. I’m gonna cum down your throat if you keep doing that.”

You pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Then do it. Fill my mouth, Cheol. I want to taste every drop.”

He lost it. With a guttural moan, he held your head steady and came hard, thick ropes of cum shooting straight down your throat. You moaned louder in response and swallowed every drop, milking him through it until his body shuddered and he gently tugged you off, oversensitive.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with a satisfied smile and crawled back up. Seungcheol pulled you into his chest immediately, arms wrapping around you tightly as he caught his breath. His heart hammered under your cheek while he stroked your back, pressing soft kisses to your hair.

“God… that was mind-blowing,” he murmured, voice hoarse and blissed out. “You spoil me too much.”

You nuzzled into his neck, cuddling closer. “You deserve it. My big, cute, jealous boyfriend.”

He chuckled weakly, still floating in the afterglow, body limp and warm beneath you. You stayed like that for long minutes—skin to skin, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your hip—until you felt him twitch against your thigh again. His cock was hardening once more, insistent and ready.

“Already?” you teased, grinding lightly against him.

Seungcheol groaned, hands gripping your ass. “Can’t help it when you’re on top of me like this.”

You sat up, stripping off your clothes until you were completely bare. His eyes darkened with hunger as you positioned yourself over him, guiding his cock to your entrance. You were soaked from pleasuring him, and he slid in easily as you sank down slowly, taking every inch. He stretch you perfectly, filling you so deep you moaned loudly.

“Fuck… you feel so tight,” he hissed, hands flying to your hips, gripping enough to leave marks. “So perfect around me.

“Ride me, baby. Use this cock. It’s all yours.”

You braced your hands on his chest and started bouncing, taking him fast and deep. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed as you rolled your hips, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke.

“You’re so fucking big,” you gasped. “Splitting me open every time. I love how you fill me up, Cheol.”

His eyes were glued to where you were connected, watching his cock disappear inside you. “Look at that greedy pussy swallowing me. So wet and tight—made for my cock. Faster, baby. Fuck me like you mean it.”

You rode him harder, thighs burning, pleasure building fast. Seungcheol met every bounce with powerful thrusts from below, hitting that perfect spot inside you relentlessly.

“That’s it, baby,” Seungcheol growled, thrusting up to meet you. “Ride me harder. Use my cock.”

You leaned forward, changing the angle so he hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. “You’re so deep like this… filling me up so good, Cheol. I love how big you are.”

His grip tightened, fingers digging into your flesh as he helped guide your movements. Sweat slicked your bodies. You rode him relentlessly, grinding down on every downstroke, chasing your own pleasure while pushing him toward another peak.

“You gonna cum on my cock?” he panted, eyes locked on where you were joined. “Let me feel you, sweetheart.”

“I’m gonna cum—” you cried out.

“Cum on my cock baby” he demanded, voice rough. “Let me feel you squeeze me.”

Your orgasm hit hard, walls pulsing around him. Seungcheol groaned loudly and followed right after, burying himself deep as he pumped you full of cum. Thick, hot spurts painted your insides while he held you down on him, hips stuttering up until he was spent..

You stayed seated on him for a few moments, both of you panting. Eventually you lifted yourself off slowly, his cock slipping out of you. As you moved, you felt his cum start to drip from your pussy—thick white streaks sliding down your thighs.

Seungcheol’s eyes locked onto the sight and something feral flashed across his face.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice suddenly dangerous. “Look at that… my cum leaking out of your pretty hole.”

Before you could respond, he surged up, flipping you onto your back on the couch in one powerful motion. He pushed your legs wide open and slammed back inside you in a single brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out at the sudden fullness, still sensitive from your orgasm.

“Mine,” he snarled, hips snapping forward hard and fast. “This pussy is fucking mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else makes you drip like this.”

He fucked you with raw, possessive need—deep, punishing strokes that made your back arch off the couch. The wet, filthy sound of his cock driving through his own cum filled the room. Every thrust pushed more of his cum out around his shaft, making a mess between your bodies.

“Cheol—oh my god,” you moaned, nails digging into his back.

“You feel that?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild. “Feel how deep I am? I’m gonna fill you up again. Pump you so full you’ll be dripping my cum for days. No one else gets to have this. Only me.”

His pace was relentless, hips slamming against yours, the couch creaking under you. He reached between you and rubbed your swollen clit in tight circles, pushing you toward another peak.

“Cum for me again, baby. Want to feel this pussy milk my cock while I breed you.”

The combination of his filthy words, deep thrusts, and skilled fingers sent you spiralling. You came hard, screaming his name as your walls clenched around him. Seungcheol followed with a broken groan, burying himself as deep as possible and flooding you with a second load of cum.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling and covered in sweat. His cock stayed buried inside you as he caught his breath, pressing soft kisses on your lips now that the intense wave had passed.

“Fuck… I lose control with you,” he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse. “Can’t help it. You’re too perfect.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his damp hair, body still buzzing. “I love when you do.”

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the bedroom. You stirred first, nestled against Seungcheol’s broad chest, his arm draped heavily around your waist even in sleep. His breathing was deep and even, but the moment you shifted, he tightened his hold and let out a sleepy grumble.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice husky from the night before.

You smiled and tilted your head up, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You said that an hour ago, Cheol.”

One eye cracked open, then the other. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face as memories clearly flooded back. “Morning, troublemaker.”

“Troublemaker?” You propped yourself up on one elbow, tracing a finger down his chest. “I believe I was the one making things up to a certain sulky boyfriend last night.”

He groaned, but it was playful, pulling you fully on top of him so you were straddling his waist. “I wasn’t sulky. I was… strategically quiet.”

You laughed, brushing his messy bed hair out of his eyes. “Strategically quiet? You mean pouting like a big baby because I talked to Chris for twenty minutes.”

Seungcheol’s ears flushed pink, but his hands slid down to squeeze your ass possessively. “Twenty minutes too long. You’re mine. Should’ve been sitting on my lap the whole time.”

“Oh my god, you’re still jealous.” You grinned and leaned down to nip at his bottom lip. “It’s cute. Really cute. Especially when it ends with me on my knees for you… and then riding you until we both saw stars.”

His eyes darkened instantly, hands roaming up your bare back. “Keep talking like that and we’re not getting out of this bed today.”

You rocked your hips teasingly against him, feeling him start to harden beneath you. “Is that a threat or a promise, Mr. Jealous?”

“Both.” He flipped you suddenly, pinning you beneath his warm, solid body. You squealed with laughter as he attacked your neck with kisses and playful bites. “You owe me breakfast in bed, remember? For all that emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” You dissolved into giggles, squirming under him. “You big dramatic baby. Fine—I’ll make you pancakes. But only if you admit you were sulking.”

Seungcheol lifted his head, pretending to think about it while his fingers tickled your sides lightly. “Counter-offer: I admit I was a little jealous, and you make pancakes… naked.”

You raised an eyebrow, still laughing. “Bold request after last night. You sure you’ll even let me leave the bed to cook?”

He kissed you deeply, slow and sweet, before pulling back with a mischievous glint. “I’ll help. I’ll be your personal chef assistant. And if you bend over to get something from the fridge, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully, both of you grinning like idiots. “Deal. But if you get distracted and burn the pancakes, I’m telling the members you sulked like a kicked puppy over a mutual friend.”

Seungcheol gasped in mock offense. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, sulky boy.”

He rolled off you with a dramatic sigh, but immediately pulled you up with him, wrapping you in his arms from behind as you both headed toward the kitchen. His chin rested on your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to your neck the entire way.

“Love you,” he murmured against your skin, voice soft despite the playful energy. “Even when you torture me by existing near other people.”

You leaned back into him, heart full. “Love you too. Now come on, sulky baby. Let’s make breakfast before we get distracted again.”

Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.

Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.

His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.

“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”

He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.

“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”

His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”

You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.

You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.

“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low.

“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”

He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.

You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”

A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”

The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.

“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”

He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.

“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.

“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.

Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.

He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”

“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”

“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”

Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.

His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.

Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.

“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.

Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.

“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”

“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”

You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.

“I said hold still.”

“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.

“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”

You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”

“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”

“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”

“Ooh, would you—”

“No.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”

“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.

“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”

“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”

“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”

“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”

He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”

You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.

“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.

“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”

The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.

“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”

“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”

“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”

“No promises.”

He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.

“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”

“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.

“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”

“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”

Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”

“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”

“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”

He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”

“Really?” you sniffle.

“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”

A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”

“But am I prettier?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”

Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”

“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”

“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”

“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”

“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”

“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”

“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”

“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”

You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”

“That’s not how marriage works.”

“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”

Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”

“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”

“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”

You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.

“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.

“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”

“We’re literally married.”

“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”

“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”

“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”

He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”

“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”

He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”

“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”

“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”

He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.

“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.

You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”

“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.

You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.

“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.

“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Cheol?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know.”

“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”

“Woman, I swear to—”

“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.

“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”

You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”

You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.

“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”

Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.

“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”

“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.

“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.

“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.

“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”

“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”

His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.

“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”

“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.

“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”

“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”

“Third date,” he repeats faintly.

“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”

Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.

“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.

“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”

But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.

Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”

“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.

“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.

“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”

His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”

“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”

There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”

You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”

He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”

“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”

“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”

“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”

“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.” 

But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.

But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.

But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.

Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.

He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.

“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.

Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—

Your eyes fly open.

“Oh no.”

The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.

“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.

He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.

“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.

“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”

“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”

His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Cheol.”

“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”

You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”

“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”

“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”

“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”

“I was a disaster.”

“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”

“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.

“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”

“Seungcheol.”

He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”

“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”

Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.

“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.

“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”

“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”

“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”

Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”

“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”

“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…

“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”

The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,

“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”

“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”

Your breath catches.

“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”

“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”

“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”

“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.

Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.

You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.

“Cheol?”

“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”

You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.

“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”

“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.

“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”

Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.

“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”

“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”

It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”

He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”

You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,

“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.

“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”

“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”

He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”

You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.

“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”

When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”

You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”

This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.

His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”

You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”

“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”

His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.

“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”

You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.

“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”

“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.

“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”

“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”

Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”

“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”

“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.

“What’s not fair?”

“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”

“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”

Your breath catches. “Are we?”

“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”

“Seungcheol—”

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”

You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.

“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”

“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”

“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.

“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”

“Yes, god, yes—”

His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”

“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…

“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”

His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.

“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”

“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”

“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”

“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”

You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”

So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.

About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.

“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.

“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”

“You’re a fein.”

“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”

“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”

“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”

“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.

“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.

“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”

You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.

“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”

One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”

“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.

“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”

“Need what, baby? Use your words.”

“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”

He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.

“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.

“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”

“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”

His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.

“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.

“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.

“You really did research.”

“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”

Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”

“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”

“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”

His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”

“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.

“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”

And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.

Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.

Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.

“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”

And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.

“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”

“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”

“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”

“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”

“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”

The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.

“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.

He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.

“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.

“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”

“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”

“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”

“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”

“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”

“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.

You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“And if not?”

“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”

His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”

“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”

“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”

Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”

“And then?”

“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”

“Again?!”

“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”

You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.

“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”

“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.

After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.

The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”

“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”

“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”

“That’s not—oh—”

His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”

“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”

“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”

“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.

This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.

“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”

“Cheol, baby please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”

You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.

The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.

You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.

You made it halfway through your sandwich.

“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“I’m eating—”

“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”

“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.

“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”

“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.

The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.

“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, god, anywhere—”

“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”

The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.

“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”

You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.

“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.

When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.

“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”

“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.

“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”

The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.

“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”

You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.

When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.

You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.

“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.

“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”

“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”

He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”

“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”

“Into what?”

“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”

He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”

“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”

“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”

“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”

You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”

“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”

And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?

Well.

You’d had worse problems.

“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”

“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.

Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.

You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.

“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”

“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.

What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.

You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.

The office after hours? Check.

The car in the parking garage? Check.

The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.

But this—this was a new level, even for him.

“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”

“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”

“That’s not the point—”

“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”

“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”

“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”

You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”

The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.

It was romantic. Just also obscene.

“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”

There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.

“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”

“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.

“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”

His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”

The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.

“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.

“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.

“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”

You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”

“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”

“You’re counting?”

“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”

His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.

“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.

“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”

His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”

“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”

He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”

“We literally just finished—”

“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”

It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.

“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.

“Anything.”

“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”

His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”

“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”

He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.

This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.

“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”

He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”

“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”

“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”

“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”

But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.

Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.

You didn’t make it to dinner.

Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.

“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”

“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”

He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”

“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”

“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”

“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”

“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”

His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”

“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”

“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”

“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”

“You’ve been planning this.”

“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”

And he did.

You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.

Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.

“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”

“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”

“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”

Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.

“Cheol, this is going to tip—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.

“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.

“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.

His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.

“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”

“Cheol! You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”

“Someone could see—”

“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”

“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”

His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.

“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”

You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.

“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”

You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.

The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.

“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”

“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.

“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”

“Kids, plural?”

“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”

“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”

“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”

“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”

You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”

“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”

“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”

“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”

“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”

The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”

“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.

You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.

“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.

You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”

“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.

“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”

His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”

He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?

Totally worth it.

The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.

You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.

“Did I forget something?”

You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.

“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”

“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”

His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”

“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”

Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”

His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”

“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”

“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.

“You’ve been counting?”

“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”

“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”

“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”

“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”

“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”

“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”

“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”

“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”

Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.

Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”

“To seduce me before dinner?”

“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”

His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”

“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”

He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”

“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”

“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.

“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”

“We haven’t even finished dinner.”

“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”

You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.

“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

“About the baby thing.”

That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”

You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”

“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”

“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”

“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”

He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”

“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”

“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”

“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”

“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.

You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.

Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat.

And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.

Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.

Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.

“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.

“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”

The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”

“Que?”

You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.

“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”

Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…

“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”

Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.

“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”

Your own heart seems to stop entirely.

“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”

“How early were you testing?”

“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”

“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”

The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.

Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.

“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”

Your baby.

“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”

“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”

“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”

“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”

“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”

Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.

“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”

“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”

Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.

“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”

“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”

“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”

“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”

“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”

“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”

“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”

“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”

“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”

The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”

Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”

“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”

“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”

“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”

“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.

“Little bit. You?”

“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.

“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.

“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”

“So spoiled.”

“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”

“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”

“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”

“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”

“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.

“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”

“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”

“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”

“Planning what?”

“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”

You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.

“Let’s go home,” you say softly.

Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.

“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”

“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.

All those months of trying.

All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.

Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.

Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.

You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.

Pure, overwhelming joy.

You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.

Best surprise ever.

You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.

Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.

“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.

“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”

You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”

“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”

“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”

“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”

“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”

“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”

You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.

“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”

Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.

His baby. The thought still makes him feral.

“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”

And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.

“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.

“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.

“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”

“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”

You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.

“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.

“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”

“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”

“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.

“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”

“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”

“You just…we literally just—”

“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.

Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.

He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.

You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.

He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”

His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.

“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”

“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.

He does.

“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.

“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”

“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.

“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”

“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.

“I look pregnant.”

“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”

You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”

“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”

“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”

Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”

“Cheol.”

“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”

“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”

“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”

“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”

“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”

“Exactly, very responsible.”

“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”

“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.

“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.

The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.

This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.

This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.

Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.

Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.

after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked – who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.

"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.

"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, you—"

the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon – a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.

varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:

"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"

older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.

a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.

"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.

the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."

"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"

he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.

a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.

varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.

but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.

no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos – make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.

that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.

he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.

like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.

"hon! over here!"

you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.

"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.

you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.

"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy – ah, here let me.."

varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.

"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.

he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile – one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs – letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.

eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.

he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.

jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.

varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.

he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!

but he loves you.

he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .

it's different with you, it always is.

fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .

while writing.

he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.

he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper – and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.

sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something – he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.

perhaps long expeditions change people.

or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters – as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.

varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?

you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.

his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?

you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.

. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.

you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant – you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.

with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.

because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.

"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.

"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.

varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."

you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.

he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."

finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."

varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.

"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.

the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.

varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.

"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.

"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.

you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.

varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.

But you didn’t say anything. In fact, you just kissed him harder, with more purpose, and told him dinner could wait. You pawed at his clothes and told him to take you hard and rough. You wanted to feel, but you forgot that your mind is really not strong enough today to handle what you were asking your boyfriend to give you.

Because, you see, Seungcheol has rules.

You had always been a fan of more spice in the bedroom, and you truly feel like you met your match when you got with Seungcheol. For every submissive tendency in your body, for all the times you wanted zero control over your own senses, Seungcheol was more than happy to take the reins. He loved it, basked in it, knew how to play your body like a stringed instrument. His dominance in the bedroom came with only one, all encompassing rule: you don’t do anything he doesn’t give you explicit permission to do. And that includes every single one of your innumerable orgasms.

Usually, you love it. Your job is taxing and overburdening, and sometimes, you want someone else to take charge and just tell you what to do. For years, you have been perfect, the epitome of submission. You’re his good girl, always, disciplined and in-line. There’s only a smattering of brat in you, which Seungcheol tolerates in small doses, but otherwise, you are perfectly pliant, suited for his needs the way he is suited to yours. There’s a harmony here, established by many years of communication and understanding. So you should’ve known. You should’ve said something, told him to take it easy. But you stupidly kept your mouth shut, and hence began your current predicament.

He’s fucking you into the mattress just like you asked, his sweats pulled down just enough to let him pound his cock into you. You’re naked from the waist down, arching, chest constricted in your pale, buttoned up blouse. You hadn’t even let him fully undress you. You didn’t want to take your time, you just wanted him in you. Even when he tried to tighten his grip on you, tried to mumble a ‘slow down’ into your mouth, you didn’t let him, begging, pleading, promising to be good for him if he would just fill you up, and so he complied.

That was the mistake, and it became your undoing when, just minutes later, you are clamping up around him, your body already so stiff and wound up, so glaringly exhausted, that no amount of self control can stop you. You clench hard and come, writhing on the mattress fisting the sheets, wailing as it washes over you in scattered, broken waves. You haven’t even come down from it when tears coat your eyes and you realise what you’ve done.

Seungcheol slows to a stop, still throbbing inside you, but jaw dropped in shock. This might be the first time in years that you’ve come without slurring out your usual ‘please’ or ‘let me’ or ‘can I?’, waiting for his permission. You’d always listened, always done what you were told, never once stepping even a toe out of line.

This is incredibly out of character.

Immediately, he can see it weigh heavily on you. You’re panting, legs still trembling, but your body is stiffening, he can feel it around his dick, and your face is crumpling. He knows you regret it, but he also knows why this happened. He should’ve known. God, he should’ve spotted it the second you walked in through the door. The hard plane of your shoulders, the tight line of your lips. But he had gotten barely two words out of his mouth before you were smothering him with yours, begging in that cute, whiny voice of yours that you need this bad. He had stupidly agreed, and now he’s watching you fall apart.

He needs to fix this.

“I’m-” Your voice is pitched and wobbly. Your arms tuck into your body, legs pulling together as much as they can with him between them. You’re trying to shrink yourself. “‘M sorry. Cheol, I’m so-”

This isn’t on you, he knows this. This isn’t your fault at all. If anything, it’s his. He should know you well enough by now to estimate what you need and give it to you. But now is not the time to beat himself up. You need to forget this happening, or you will do what you always do; think about this to the point of spiraling and making yourself sick with guilt. He also knows that no amount of reassurance is going to make you forget it.

Through your teary vision, you hear a tut of disappointment, and then your boyfriend pulls out. You’re filled with dread, because you don’t want him to step back. You know you’ve fucked up. This is one of his most important rules. There’s just no conceivable universe where you’re allowed to cum without Seungcheol telling you to, and already, guilt is striking your chest like stab wounds from knives.

“That wasn’t like you, sweetheart.” His voice is rough but soft. “I’m very surprised.”

You sniffle, resisting the urge to curl into yourself. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” You feel his hands on your bare knees, closing them and sitting back on his haunches. You sit up shakily, blinking hard to try and see him in the relative darkness of the room. The golden light from the lamp hits the side of his face. His expression is blank. You can’t tell what he’s thinking.