Lets Create A Little Chaos

Y/n’s POV

The night air bit at my cheeks as we stepped out of the restaurant, but the cold barely registered. Minho’s hand was warm around mine, steady and sure, like an anchor. My pulse kept tripping over itself, skipping whenever his thumb brushed my wrist. That gentle little circle. The one that always made my shoulders drop, always made me feel like I could breathe. He was the one place my mind didn’t feel like a locked room with the windows nailed shut. And that was the problem. Because the only person who made me feel protected was also the only person I was terrified of losing.

“Let’s walk,” I said, and my voice came out thin, like it belonged to someone else. “I just… I need to move.” Minho nodded, his expression softening in that way that always made my chest ache. Concern. Patience. The kind of attention that made me feel chosen. If I looked at him too long, I started to believe I deserved it. We moved down the sidewalk beneath streetlights that smeared the world in gold. The city noise surrounded us, but it felt far away, muffled by the roar inside my head.

Minho slowed, turning to face me. “Y/n.” His voice was gentle. “Talk to me. What’s going on?” I stopped under a streetlight and let the glow paint me in someone else’s story. Someone fragile. Someone worth saving. I swallowed hard, feeling my stomach twist. “Well… you know.” I tried to laugh, but it cracked. “You know about my stalker. And for a little while he left me alone… until recently.”

Minho’s grip tightened, protective, immediate. His eyes sharpened in a way that made my skin prickle. My chest loosened with relief. Then tightened again, because why did relief come so easily when I talked about being hurt? “Y/n, what happened?” he asked.

I stared at the pavement, at the thin seam lines between slabs of concrete, as if I could fall through them and disappear. The memory hit like a wave. Darkness. My own breath. The sense of waking and knowing something was wrong before my mind could find the details. My hands clenched at my sides. Minho’s free hand lifted, fingers tipping my chin up. “Look at me,” he said softly. I did, because I always did. His gaze held mine like a promise.

Tell him. I forced the words out. “A few nights ago,” I whispered, “he… he came into my apartment while I was sleeping.” Minho’s face changed. Not explosive anger. Something darker. Controlled. I clung to it anyway. “What did he do?”

My throat burned. I could feel my body remembering before my mind finished the sentence. I hated that. I hated how my skin seemed to wake up like it had a mind of its own. “He tied me up,” I said, and my voice shook. “Red silk ribbons. Around my wrists. So I couldn’t move. Couldn’t—” My breath broke. “Couldn’t do anything.” Minho’s hands moved to my shoulders, firm and grounding. His thumbs pressed like he was holding me together. He was so close I could smell his cologne. I swallowed down nausea. And my shameful guilt.

“Did he—” Minho started.

“He touched me,” I cut in quickly, because if I didn’t say it fast I would never say it at all. I couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. “Not… not—” My tongue felt thick. “Not like that. Not completely. But he touched me through my clothes and I…” My voice died.

Because that was the cliff. Because on the other side of that sentence was the truth I couldn’t stand to look at. That my fear had been real, sharp, paralyzing. And that my body had still… reacted. Because my body didn’t care about morality. It didn’t care about terror. It didn’t care that I was frozen and humiliated and begging my mind to wake up and make it stop. It had still lit up. It had still betrayed me.

The worst part wasn’t the memory of hands where they didn’t belong. The worst part was remembering the heat that followed. The dizzy, exquisite thrill that twisted right alongside the fear. Like my skin couldn’t tell the difference between danger and desire. Like my body had taken something violent and turned it into something that felt— I squeezed my eyes shut. No. I couldn’t give that part a name. I couldn’t hand that ugliness to Minho and watch him see me differently.

Tears spilled hot down my cheeks. “I-I’m so sorry,” I breathed. “I should have told you sooner. And if I’m… if I’m tainted now, after what happened—”

“Stop.” The word snapped me open. Minho cupped my face in both hands, forcing my gaze up. His expression was fierce in a way that made my stomach flip. “Listen to me. That wasn’t your fault. None of it.” I trembled, my breath catching in short, uneven pulls. His thumbs brushed my cheeks, wiping tears with a tenderness that made me want to collapse. “It doesn’t make you complicit,” he said, his voice lower now, like he was trying to press the words into me. “It doesn’t make you guilty.”

My lungs stuttered. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what I was hiding. He was comforting a version of me that was easier to save. I nodded anyway, because I needed him to be right. I needed his certainty the way a drowning person needed air. But the shame didn’t move. It sat heavy beneath my ribs.

And beneath it, even deeper, a terrible, nauseating thought…could still feel it. The echo of that fear. The echo of that thrill. And standing here with Minho’s hands on my face, with his eyes locked onto mine, the same confusing heat stirred again. I hated myself for it.

“I’m scared,” I admitted, and this time it was pure truth, raw and stripped. “I’m so scared, Minho. I don’t feel safe anywhere. Not in my apartment, not at work, not even in my own head. The only time I feel like I can breathe is when I’m with you, and that terrifies me too because what if something happens to you? What if he sees us together and decides you’re a threat and—”

“Hey.” He started, Minho’s thumb brushed my lower lip, a quiet command to stop spiraling. The touch was intimate. Possessive in a way I pretended not to notice. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he said. “And nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m here.”

My chest cracked open with relief so intense it hurt. That relief was another kind of shame. Because why did his certainty feel like something I wanted to sink into? Why did it make my skin hum? “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whispered, and the words were a confession I didn’t fully understand. “You’re the only good thing in my life right now. The only person who makes me feel like maybe I’m not completely losing my mind.”

Minho’s gaze softened, and something in my chest twisted. “You’re not losing your mind,” he said firmly. “You’re dealing with something traumatic. And you’re still here. Still fighting.” His hand slid from my cheek to the side of my neck, his thumb settling against my pulse. My heartbeat jumped under his touch. And I hated that too. Because my body didn’t just remember terror. It remembered touch. It remembered being held. And it didn’t care why.

“Let me take care of you,” Minho murmured, voice low and intimate. “Let me keep you safe.” My throat tightened. The smart thing would have been to step back. The safe thing would have been to go home, lock my door, call the police, tell someone. But the idea of being alone in my apartment made my vision blur. The idea of being away from Minho made my lungs seize. “Okay,” I whispered. The word felt like surrender.

Minho closed the distance and kissed me. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. His hand tightened at my neck, not painful, but definite. My body reacted before my mind could argue. Heat curled low in my stomach. A tremor ran through my legs. And horror flooded me, sharp and immediate. Not now. Not after what I just said. Not after what happened. But his mouth moved against mine and my thoughts splintered. Because I wanted him. Because my fear and my need were tangled together so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Because part of me was desperate for him to overwrite that night with something I chose. Something safe. Something mine.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. “Come home with me,” Minho said, and it wasn’t really a question. “You’re not going back to your apartment tonight. Not alone.” Relief hit me so hard my knees went weak. “Okay,” I breathed.

We walked back in a charged silence. His hand stayed in mine like a promise I couldn’t afford to doubt. The elevator ride felt too small for the air between us. My thoughts kept skating toward the edges of memory and then jerking away.

When we reached his door and it clicked shut behind us, the sound didn’t just echo in the quiet. It sealed. The hallway outside vanished, and suddenly there was only Minho’s apartment—the hush of it, the soft lamp glow, the faint city hum through the windows, and the scent of him everywhere. Clean, expensive, familiar. The kind of smell that made my throat tighten with a need I didn’t want to understand.

The quiet here was different than mine. My apartment’s quiet always felt like it was waiting for the next intrusion. Like the silence itself had teeth. Minho’s place felt lived-in. Controlled. Safe. And that was the problem. Safe wasn’t supposed to feel like a cage I wanted to crawl into.

Minho turned to me, keys still in his hand. He didn’t move right away. He just looked—really looked, like he was taking inventory of everything trembling beneath my skin. “Y/n.” His voice softened, but there was steel under it. “If you want me to stop, you need to tell me now.”

My heart slammed so hard I tasted it. I stared at him, trying to find the line between comfort and danger. Trying to separate the boy who held my hand under streetlights from the shadow that haunted my sleep. Because the shadow didn’t wear a mask. It wore care. It wore patience. It wore that low voice that told me what things meant, told me what I was allowed to feel.

My shame pressed up like bile. If I let him touch me, would it prove something awful about me? Would it mean I was broken? Would it mean I liked what happened? No. No, it wouldn’t. But the fear didn’t listen to logic. And beneath it—beneath the fear, beneath the nausea—there was that terrible echo of thrill. Faint and undeniable, like a bruise that still hurt when pressed. I hated it. I hated myself for it. I hated the way my body still wanted after the worst thing had happened to it.

I wanted to erase it. I wanted to drown it in something I chose. I wanted to feel safe in my own skin again, even if I had to borrow someone else’s certainty to do it. “Don’t stop,” I whispered.

Minho’s gaze held mine, heavy and intent. For a moment he didn’t move, and the stillness felt like him forcing me to live inside my decision. Like he wanted me to own it. Like he needed me to say yes so he could tell himself he wasn’t taking. Then he crossed the space between us and kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rushed either. It was deliberate—like the kiss had been waiting behind his teeth all night and now he was finally letting it out. His hand slid to my waist, firm, anchoring. The other cupped my jaw, thumb pressing into the soft corner of my mouth like a quiet command to open for him.

My body reacted before my mind could argue. Heat curled low in my stomach. A tremor ran through my legs. And horror flooded me, sharp and immediate. Not now. Not after what I just said. Not after what happened. But his mouth moved against mine, warm and sure, and my thoughts splintered. Because I wanted him. Because my fear and my need were tangled together so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Because part of me was desperate for him to overwrite that night with something I chose. Something safe. Something mine.

Minho broke the kiss just long enough to look at me. His pupils were blown wide in the dim light, making his gaze look almost black. “Tell me again,” he murmured. My lips felt swollen. My breathing sounded too loud in the quiet. “Don’t stop,” I whispered, and the words came out like a confession.

Something shifted in his face—relief, hunger, something possessive that he kept on a leash but didn’t hide from me. “Good,” he said softly, like praise. The word hit my spine and slid straight down. My stomach tightened. Shame tried to rise—why did that feel good?—but Minho kissed me again before I could drown in it. This kiss was slower, deeper, like he was tasting the panic off my tongue and replacing it with something else.

His hand at my waist tightened. Not painful. Just definite. Mine. The thought made me dizzy.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. “You’re not going back to your apartment tonight,” Minho said, and it wasn’t really a question. “Not alone.” Relief hit me so hard my knees went weak. That relief was another kind of shame. Because why did his certainty feel like something I wanted to sink into? Why did it make my skin hum? “Okay,” I breathed.

Minho’s thumb brushed my lower lip, and the touch was intimate enough to make my pulse jump. “Come here,” he murmured.

He guided me farther inside, past the entryway, past the dim living room where everything was neat in a way that felt like control. Like his home had no space for mess, no space for chaos, no space for someone like me to fall apart unless he allowed it. I tried not to notice how that thought calmed me.

Minho stopped near the couch, turning me to face him. “Look at me,” he said softly. I did, because I always did. His eyes swept over my face—my swollen mouth, the dampness still clinging to my lashes, the way my shoulders were drawn up like I was bracing for impact. His expression softened in a way that made my chest ache. And beneath it, that darker thing stayed—quiet, patient, waiting.

“Are you here?” he asked. The question sounded gentle. It wasn’t. It was a hook. A test. A way to pull me out of the memory and into him. I swallowed hard. “Yes.” Minho nodded like he approved. “Good. Keep breathing.”

His hands slid down my arms. His fingers paused at my wrists. I went still. It wasn’t a grip. Not yet. It was just his fingertips resting there, warm and careful. But my body remembered. Silk biting. The humiliating tug when I tried to pull away. The helplessness of being held still while my mind screamed and my skin—my traitorous skin—lit up anyway.

I flinched. Minho’s hands froze instantly. His voice dropped. “Too much?” I shook my head too fast. “No. I—” My throat tightened. “I don’t know.” Minho’s gaze sharpened, focus narrowing in the way that always made me feel like he could see through my bones. “That’s an answer,” he said calmly. “If you don’t know, we slow down.” He lifted his hands away from my wrists, open-palmed, letting me see him stop.

I exhaled shakily, and relief hit so hard it made my eyes sting. Not because I wanted him to stop. Because I needed him to prove he could.

Minho cupped my face again, gentle. “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” My shame rose like bile. If I said it out loud, it would become real. “I’m thinking…” My voice shook. “That I shouldn’t want this.” Minho’s expression tightened—protective anger directed at the thought itself. “Why?”

Because what if it means I’m dirty. Because what if my body wanting you proves I liked what he did. Because what if I’m the kind of girl who confuses fear with desire and calls it love. I couldn’t say any of that. So I said the easiest truth. “Because I feel disgusting.”

Minho’s eyes darkened. He leaned in, forehead almost touching mine. “No,” he said softly, but the word was absolute. “You feel ashamed.” The accuracy made my breath hitch. Minho’s thumb brushed my cheekbone. “Shame lies,” he murmured. “It tells you you’re the problem so you don’t have to look at what he did to you.”

My throat burned. Tears threatened again. Minho’s mouth brushed my temple—barely a kiss, more a promise. “You’re not the problem,” he said.

I shook, and I hated that the words didn’t fix it. Because shame wasn’t logical. Shame was a stain I could feel even if no one could see it.

Minho stepped back just enough to look at me again. “Do you want me to touch you?” he asked, careful. I swallowed. “Yes.” Minho’s gaze held mine. “Where is okay?” The question made my stomach twist with an ugly, grateful relief. He was asking. He was giving me the illusion of control. I hated how much I needed it.

“My waist,” I whispered. “My… my hair. Just—” I choked. “Just don’t—” “Your wrists,” he finished, voice low. My eyes snapped up. Minho’s gaze didn’t soften. It sharpened. Like he’d just found the exact place to be gentle and the exact place to take. “I won’t,” he said. Then, quieter: “Not unless you ask.”

The words landed like a brand. Not unless you ask. As if there was a world where I would ask. As if he wanted me to. As if he was planting the idea in my head and calling it consent. My stomach flipped—fear, want, shame braided together.

Minho’s hands went to my waist, firm and warm. He pulled me closer, and my body followed like it had been waiting for permission. He kissed me again, slower this time. The kiss wasn’t just lips. It was breath and pressure and the way his hand at my waist guided the angle of my hips like he was aligning me with him. Like he was deciding where my body belonged.

My skin hummed. I clung to his shirt. The fabric was soft and warm from his body, and the simple reality of it helped. Grounded me. Minho’s mouth moved to my cheek, then my jaw, then just under my ear. His breath warmed my skin, and I shivered.

“Tell me you’re here,” he murmured. “I’m here,” I whispered. “Tell me you want me,” he said, and the words weren’t a question. They were a demand wrapped in softness. My face burned. I wanted to refuse on principle. I wanted to keep some part of myself unsaid, unclaimed. But the truth was already in my body, already in the way my breath stuttered when he touched me. “I want you,” I whispered.

Minho exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured again, and this time the praise felt like a leash tightening. My stomach clenched, heat pooling lower, and shame tried to scream— but Minho kissed me and didn’t let me think.

He guided me down the hall with his hand at my back, gentle pressure that still made it clear which direction I was going. The bedroom was dim, lit by a lamp that turned everything soft and gold. His bed was made—neat, controlled—like even sleep was something he arranged. The sight made me feel small.

Minho turned me to face him again. “If you want me to stop,” he said quietly, “you tell me.” I nodded. My throat felt raw. Minho’s gaze swept my face, like he was reading the hesitation in my eyes, the way my body leaned toward him while my mind fought.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. The offer sounded sincere. It also sounded like a dare. Like he knew I’d choose him anyway. Like he knew I couldn’t stand the idea of being alone with the memory. My shame prickled. “I want to,” I whispered, and the words tasted like surrender.

Minho’s expression softened—care, real care—and then that darker edge slid back in underneath. “Then let me take care of you,” he said. His hands moved slowly, giving me time to flinch, to pull away, to stop him. I didn’t.

He kissed me again, and this kiss was different—less claiming, more… coaxing. Like he was pulling the panic out of my body one breath at a time. His fingers threaded into my hair, gently tilting my head. The angle exposed my throat, and I tensed instinctively. Minho felt it. He shifted immediately, kissing my jaw instead, then the soft spot beneath my ear where my pulse raced. My breath hitched. He murmured against my skin, “There you go.” The praise made my stomach tighten again. I hated the way it made me want to be good for him.

Minho guided me backward until the backs of my knees hit the mattress. I sat, then leaned back as his hand pressed lightly to my shoulder. He followed, bracing himself over me but not crushing me. His weight was warm, a shelter. His presence blocked the room, blocked the shadows, blocked the part of my mind that wanted to crawl into the past.

Minho’s mouth moved over mine, slow and deep, and my body responded helplessly—heat blooming, breath turning thin. He broke the kiss and looked down at me. His eyes were dark in the lamplight, hungry and careful at the same time. “Tell me what you need,” he murmured.

The question made my throat tighten. What I needed was impossible. What I needed was to go back in time and wake up before the ribbons. What I needed was to feel clean again. Instead I whispered the only need I could admit. “I need…” My voice shook. “I need to feel safe.”

Minho’s gaze softened like the words were a key. “Then look at me,” he said. I did. His hand cupped my cheek. His thumb stroked the corner of my mouth. “You’re safe,” he murmured. “You’re with me.”

With me. The phrase carried comfort and threat at once. As if safety was a place. As if safety was his arms. As if it didn’t exist anywhere else. My shame curled tight in my stomach.

Minho kissed me again, and his hand slid down to my waist, drawing me closer. The movement pressed our bodies together in a way that made my breath catch and my mind flash hot with want. I was painfully aware of him. Of the heat of him. Of the steady strength in the line of his body. Of the way his restraint felt like something he was choosing, not something he lacked. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.

Minho’s mouth moved to my throat again—not the center, not the place that would trigger me the hardest, but close enough that my nerves sparked. My breath stuttered. He paused instantly. “Look at me,” he said softly. I opened my eyes. Minho’s gaze held mine. “Stay with me,” he murmured.

The words weren’t about the moment. They were about everything. Stay with me. Choose me. Let me be the place you hide. My chest tightened. I nodded anyway.

Minho kissed the corner of my mouth, then pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re not dirty,” he whispered. “Do you hear me?” My throat burned. I nodded. Minho’s voice dropped lower, more intimate. “Say it.”

My breath trembled. “I’m not dirty.” The words tasted wrong in my mouth, like lying. Minho’s gaze sharpened, not cruel—insistent. “Again.” “I’m not dirty,” I whispered. Minho exhaled, satisfied. “Good.”

There it was again. Praise. A leash. My body responded like it understood the language better than my mind did. Heat pooled low. My thighs tensed. Shame flared so hot it made my eyes sting.

Minho kissed me, and his hand slid over my side, grounding. He kept his touches careful—sensual, slow, focused on closeness and warmth rather than anything rough. But the way he watched me… the way he paid attention to every breath, every tremor— he wasn’t just comforting me. He was learning me. Like he wanted to know exactly which strings to pull. The thought made my stomach flip in a sick, wanting way.

Minho’s mouth moved down my jaw again. He whispered, “You can tell me no.” I swallowed hard. “I know.” “Do you want to?” he asked quietly.

The question wasn’t just about stopping. It was about whether I could live without him. I shook my head. “No.” Minho’s hand tightened at my waist, and he kissed me like he’d been waiting for that answer all night.

The heat built, heavy and constant, turning my shame into something dizzying and sharp. I wanted him. I wanted the closeness, the weight, the warmth. I wanted to be held so tightly that the memory couldn’t reach me. And beneath it—beneath the want—was the darker truth I didn’t want to admit: I also wanted to be kept. To be claimed in a way that meant no one else could reach me. To belong to someone strong enough to stand between me and the world.

Minho’s voice brushed my ear. “Mine,” he murmured, so quiet I almost thought I imagined it. My stomach clenched. I should’ve recoiled. Instead my body shivered, and the shame that followed was immediate and vicious.

Minho lifted his head, studying my face like he’d felt the reaction. His eyes darkened with something hungry—and then softened with care again, as if he knew exactly how to frame it for me. “You don’t have to fight wanting me,” he murmured. “You don’t have to punish yourself for being alive.”

Alive. As if wanting was proof of survival. As if my body responding meant it wasn’t broken. My throat tightened.

Minho kissed me again, and his hand slid into my hair, steadying me. He kept me close, kept me present, kept me from drifting. The world narrowed to heat and breath and his voice, low and steady, talking me through the worst parts of myself as if he could rewrite them.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “Look at me.” “Stay.” “That’s it.” “You’re safe.” Each word was a hand. Each word was a thread. He was wrapping me up in him until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

And I let him. Because the alternative was being alone in the dark with a shame that felt like teeth. Because in Minho’s arms, the shame didn’t disappear—but it dulled. It turned into something I could survive.

He held me until my breathing slowed. Until the shaking eased. Until my eyelids felt heavy and my body felt wrung out from the intensity of wanting and resisting and wanting again.

Minho shifted carefully, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, firm and protective, like a barrier. I pressed my face into him, inhaling the scent that meant him, grounding myself in it. His hand stroked my hair, slow.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured into my hair.

I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. “Thank you,” I whispered, voice small against his skin.

His arms tightened like a promise.

And I closed my eyes, letting exhaustion drag me under, because being awake meant remembering. And remembering meant shame. And shame was a monster I wasn’t ready to name.

But as sleep crept in, one last thought flickered, ugly and honest…I didn’t know if Minho was saving me… or if he was quietly, carefully teaching me to need him so much I’d never leave.

Tags: @atetheluck @firstdivisiongirl @ayedomino008 @tsumiyaa @skepticalvoidhedgehog @mar1511 @meelbarnes @rylea08 @mrsleeknowsaurus @straysmuchi @angelwings-fly @hearteubeateuxz @nvuueas @king-of-knives @imelteverytimeihearminniesing @soupslvt @nerdypuppylover7 @itsraininghyunebuckets @stargazexo @iseulkm @hollyn1729 @a4bangchan143 @angstylittleb1tch @beppybeesnuggets @barbie-girl84 @compersian @siacb97 @pokalunolino @coramiiore @intrikatie @yakuislove @shynotded @matchaafterhours @springs-tales @bleepracha @velvetmoonlght

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Please keep in mind that…

All pictures used belong to their rightful owners (e.g., Pinterest and RealStrayKids).

I do not condone any inappropriate attractions, actions, or thoughts towards Stray Kids in real life. This is purely fiction and is not true.

Anything written about these men is entirely fictional. It does not reflect how they act, react, or talk in real life, nor is it meant to portray them that way. Nothing written here suggests they do, say, or act these ways.

Y/n's POV

The afternoon light streams through the windows of my room, bright and unforgiving, casting everything in sharp relief. Chris hasn’t left yet. His presence fills the small space like he's taking up all the air, all the oxygen, leaving me breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

We're sitting on the edge of the bed, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. The silence between us is charged, heavy with everything we just said and did, everything we just admitted. His shirt is still on, but his hair is disheveled from my fingers, and there's a faint mark on his neck from where my lips were moments ago.

I can't quite look at him directly. The daylight is too honest, too revealing. It strips away the darkness that usually shields us, makes everything feel less real, less exposed. In the brightness, I can see the conflict written across his features...the war between what he wants and what he thinks he should do.

"I shouldn't be here," he says quietly, but he doesn't move. Doesn't make any effort to leave.

"But you are," I reply, my voice barely audible.

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration or maybe just trying to ground himself. "The crew—"

"Is downstairs. Doing whatever it is they do." I shift slightly closer, and I see him tense. "We have time."

The word time hangs between us like a promise and a threat. Time is something we don't have. Time is something that's running out. But right now, in this moment, with the sun painting everything gold and the rest of the world feeling very far away, it feels like we might have just enough.

Chris's stomach growls, loud and sudden in the quiet room, and I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. It's such a human sound, so at odds with the intensity of everything else.

He looks almost embarrassed, which is somehow endearing on someone so dangerous. "When's the last time you ate?" he asks, deflecting.

"I don't know. Early this morning?" I realize I'm not actually sure. Time has become strange and slippery since he came to my room…since he stole me away to this place. "You?"

"Longer." He stands abruptly, like he needs to put distance between us before he does something he can't take back. But his hand finds mine, pulling me up with him. "Come on. We should eat something."

It's an excuse to leave this room, to break the spell that's been cast over us. But it's also practical, necessary. And maybe it's safer to be around other people right now, to have witnesses to the fact that we're not tearing each other apart.

He doesn't let go of my hand as we move toward the door.

The kitchen is brighter than I expect, all white marble and stainless steel catching the morning sun. It smells like coffee and something sweet—maybe cinnamon? When we walk in, I freeze. Changbin, Seungmin, and Felix are already there, sitting around the island with plates of food and mugs of coffee. The conversation dies instantly.

The silence is suffocating. Heavy. I can feel their eyes on me...assessing, judging, remembering everything I've done. Changbin's expression is carefully neutral. Seungmin looks away, focusing intently on his coffee. And Felix... Felix is watching me with kind eyes.

Chris's hand finds the small of my back, a subtle gesture of protection that doesn't go unnoticed. "Sit," he says quietly, guiding me toward a stool at the island.

I sit because I don't know what else to do. Because my legs feel weak and my heart is pounding too hard and I'm acutely aware that I'm surrounded by men who have every reason to want me dead.

Chris moves to the counter, pulling out bread and deli meat with practiced efficiency. The domesticity of it is jarring. Christopher Bahng, crime lord and killer, making me a sandwich in his kitchen while his crew watches in uncomfortable silence.

"So," Felix says suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Sleep well?"

I look up sharply, expecting cruelty or sarcasm. But his expression is... kind. Almost teasing. Like he's talking to the girl he met five years ago at that bar, not the traitor who destroyed everything.

"I—" My voice catches. "Yeah. I did."

Felix grins, that familiar boyish smile that used to make me smile right back. "Good. You look less like a ghost today. More like an actual person."

Changbin snorts softly into his coffee, and I see the corner of Seungmin's mouth twitch. The tension doesn't disappear, but it... shifts. Becomes something slightly more bearable.

"Felix," Chris warns, but there's no real heat in it.

"What? I'm being nice." Felix takes a bite of toast, still grinning. "Remember nice, Chris? That thing you used to be before you became a brooding asshole?"

"Fuck off," Chris mutters, but I catch the ghost of a smile on his face as he sets a plate in front of me. Turkey and cheese on wheat, cut diagonally. Exactly how I used to like it.

My smile widens at the fact that he didn’t forget. "Thank you." I said softly.

He nods, his hand lingering on my shoulder for just a second too long before he moves to make his own sandwich. I take a bite, and it tastes like something close to normal. Like maybe, there's a version of this where I'm not just a prisoner, a tool, or a ghost haunting their lives.

Changbin clears his throat. "You know anything about the new security system Ruiz installed at the estate?"

It's a test, I know it is. But it's also an olive branch, an acknowledgment that I could maybe become one of them, that I might be more than just the girl who betrayed them.

"He upgraded to biometric scanners last year," I say carefully. "Fingerprint and retinal. But he kept the old keypad system as a backup. He doesn't trust technology completely."

Seungmin looks up, interest flickering in his eyes. "Backup codes?"

"Changed weekly. But he uses a pattern. Birth dates, anniversaries. He's sentimental in the worst ways."

They exchange glances, and I can see the gears turning. They're warming up to me, slowly, cautiously. But it's happening and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me excited.

Chris sits beside me, close enough that our thighs were touching; the guys instantly noticed. I see Felix's knowing smirk, Changbin's subtle nod, Seungmin's quick glance between us. They're seeing something different in Chris—something softer, more human. And they're not saying anything, but the silence speaks volumes.

We eat in a silence that's no longer quite so suffocating. For the first time since I was taken, I feel something that might almost be hope.

After breakfast, Chris takes my hand, fingers lacing through mine like it's the most natural thing in the world...and leads me outside for privacy from the many prying eyes lurking about the house. The beach stretches out before us, endless and grey under the overcast sky. The wind is cold, biting, but I don't care. I'm outside, I'm walking freely, with Chris beside me, not behind me, or in front, not guarding me either, just... with me.

We walk in silence for a while, our footsteps sinking in the sand. The waves crash rhythmically, filling the space between us with white noise that somehow makes it easier to think..to breathe.

"I'm sorry," I say finally, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. "For everything. For what I did. For—"

"Don't." His voice is rough. "Not right now."

"But I need you to know—" I begin but he cuts me off.

"I know." He stops walking, turning to face me. The wind whips his hair across his forehead, his eyes are dark and intense and full. "I know you were trapped. I know he used you. I know you didn't have a choice. I remember everything you told me. You don’t have to repeat it."

"I did have a choice," I whisper. "I could have told you. I could have—", the words died in my throat as I looked away.

"And he would have killed you." Chris's jaw clenches as his dark eyes lift to look into mine. The light peaking through random breaks in the clouds makes them look almost chocolate brown. "Or worse. I know how your father operates, Y/n. I know what he's capable of."

The way he says it, with such certainty, such understanding, breaks something inside me. Tears burn my eyes, and I refuse to look at him, turning my entire body away from him to focus on the grey horizon.

"I loved you," I say, my voice barely audible over the wind. "I still—" I can't finish. Can't say it out loud because it feels too dangerous, too raw.

But Chris hears it anyway. I feel him walk up behind me, tugging me back to face him again. His hand comes up to cup my face, forcing me to look at him. "I know," he says again, and this time there's something almost like forgiveness in his voice. "I know."

We stand there, the wind howling around us, the ocean raging behind us, and for the first time in five years, I let myself believe that maybe we can survive this.

"What happens now?" I ask, wanting to know what we are doing with us…or is this it?

Chris's thumb traces my cheekbone, I see the conflict, the pain, the love hiding in the depths of his eyes. That same constant war waging in his mind. I can tell it was wearing him down. "I don't know," he admits. "But we'll figure it out."

After a moment we kept walking, then gradually, we began to talk. About the past, about the things we lost, about the people we've become. The fear, regret, and the impossible weight of loving someone you're supposed to hate. It's not easy. Some of it hurts so much I can barely breathe.

As we walked I could see this quiet vulnerability in the depths of his eyes whenever I looked over at him. Whatever was running through his mind was making his body tense again, that easiness was gone. “What’s going on in that mind mind of yours?” I asked softly, my fingers moving to lace through his. Chris didn't answer right away so I pressed on, “You forget..we still know one another really well. I can see it—that thing eating you alive. I can see it.”

Chris’s voice drops like he’s scared the ocean might overhear. “I’m… I’m trying not to show it,” he admits, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the grey water like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. “But inside I’m losing my mind, Y/n. With you—” he swallows, and the sound is rough, almost embarrassed by how much he feels. “I want you safe, I want you mine, and I hate that those two things don’t always look the same. And with the guys… I keep waiting for the moment they decide I’ve finally gone too far. Like they’ll look at me and see I’m choosing you and they’ll walk. Even after everything I’ve done for them, even after everything we’ve bled through together.”

He finally turns to me then, and there’s something raw in his face, like the truth is scraping him open. “But I realized something today,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “Even if they did leave… it still wouldn’t be enough to make me give you up. I can’t. I won’t.” My throat tightens, and I step closer until my shoulder brushes his arm, grounding him.

“They’re not leaving you,” I tell him, steady as I can be, because I can feel how hard he’s shaking under his skin. “They love you too much to do that—even Hyunjin. They might be pissed, yeah, they might say shit they don’t mean, but they’re not going to abandon the one person who dragged them out of the mud when nobody else would. You’ve all survived too much together for them to turn their backs on you now.”

This seemed to settle the chaos under his skin just a little, but I could still see it in his eyes. We kept talking as we circle back toward the house. By then something had shifted between us. Something fundamental and irreversible. We're not the same people we were five years ago. But just maybe we can be something new.

Not wanting to go back to my cage of a room end up in the gym with Chris. He mentions needing to grab something, and I follow him without thinking. The space is all dark wood and mirrors, weights and punching bags and mats covering the floor. It smells like sweat, leather, and something distinctly masculine.

But then I notice it—a literal armory on the other side of the gym. A gun case full of black weapons. A wall full of sharp, glinting knives, and a few other things that look dangerous but I have no clue what they are.

My feet move before my brain catches up. One step, then another, drawn toward the weapons like a moth to flame. The curiosity is almost magnetic, pulling me across the gym floor. My footsteps echo softly against the mats, and I'm very aware of Chris's presence somewhere behind me. I can feel his attention shift, tracking my movement.

The gun case is cold under my fingertips when I reach it. The glass is smooth and pristine. Through it, I can see the weapons arranged with military precision. Black metal, sleek, deadly, and something about it was a bit sexy to me. I've never held a gun before. Never really wanted to, but standing here, looking at them, something stirs in my chest. Power. Control. The ability to protect myself instead of always being protected…or imprisoned.

I move along the wall of knives next, my eyes tracing the different blades. Some are small and delicate, others are massive and brutal. I reach out, my hand hovering over one of the larger ones, imagining the weight of it in my palm. The balance. The potential.

Behind me, I hear Chris moving, gathering his things from the gym. His presence is palpable even from across the room, and I can feel his gaze tracking my every movement. He's watching me intently, cataloging my interest in the weapons with that sharp, analytical focus that never quite turns off. I can feel it, his gaze burning against my back.

I turn slowly, and our eyes meet across the gym. The air between us crackles with something electric. His expression is unreadable, but there's a question in his eyes. A challenge, maybe. Or a warning.

"You know," I say, trying to sound casual as I step away from the weapons, "you could teach me."

He pauses mid-movement. "Teach you what?"

"To fight." I step closer, a playful smile tugging at my lips. "You said I could learn to defend myself. Might as well start now."

Amusement flickers across his face, before he lets out a soft chuckle. That little laugh he use to do indicating he thought I was joking. "You want to learn to fight?"

"I want to be ready." I meet his eyes, and the playfulness fades into something more serious. "For when I go back."

The temperature in the room drops. Chris turns fully to face me, the bright smile on his face fading almost instantly. "You're not going back."

"Yes, I am." I cross my arms, feeling my spine straighten with defiance. "I need to help take him down, Chris. Not just for you. For me. For everything he's done—"

"No." His voice is flat, absolute. "You're not going anywhere near him."

"You don't get to decide that. Not anymore." Anger flares hot in my chest. "This is my fight too. He's my father. He used me, manipulated me, destroyed everything I—"

"And you think I'm going to let you walk back into that?" Chris takes a step toward me, his eyes blazing. "You think I'm going to send you back to him so he can use you again? So he can hurt you?"

"I'm not asking for your permission!" My voice rises, echoing off the walls. "I'm telling you. I'm going back. I'm going to help you destroy him, and you can't stop me."

"The fuck I can't." He's in front of me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Chris’s face is growing red with annoyance. "You're not going back, Y/n. You forget I run things around here. Just because you’re by my side now doesn't change that. End of discussion."

"This isn't your decision to make!" I shove at his chest, and it's like pushing against a wall. "You don't own me, Chris. As much as you’d like to, you don—"

"I'm trying to protect you!" His voice raises louder than I’ve ever heard it before. It cracks, raw with a desperation he has kept to himself. "Don't you understand that? I can't lose you again. I can't send you back there knowing what he'll do if he finds out you've been helping us."

"Then don't send me back as a spy." I'm breathing hard now, my heart pounding. "Send me back as a weapon. Teach me to fight. Teach me to be dangerous. Let me be part of this instead of just a tool you use and discard."

"You're not a tool." Chris looks at me, his dark eyes turning soft at those words.

"Then stop treating me like one!" The words explode out of me, years of frustration, pain, and helplessness pouring out all at once. "Stop deciding what's best for me without asking what I want. I want to take him down, Chris. I want to make him pay for everything he's done. To you. To us. To me."

Chris stares at me, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. I can see the war raging behind his eyes, the need to protect me battling against the understanding that I'm right. That this is my fight too.

"You don't know what you're asking," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yes, I do. I want to be your equal, the queen next to you" I step closer, closing the distance between us until we're almost touching. "I know exactly what I'm asking. And I'm not afraid.”

"You should be." His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive and threatening and intimate all at once. "You should be fucking terrified."

I look up at him, "I want to be your equal, not the little girl standing behind you."

Something snaps. I see it in his eyes, the moment his control breaks, the moment the anger and fear and desperate need collide into something explosive. Chris pulls me or him by my throat and his mouth crashes against mine, brutal and claiming, and I kiss him back just as fiercely. My hands fist in his hair, pulling hard, and he groans against my lips.

He walks me backward until my back hits the wall, the impact stealing my breath. His hands are everywhere, gripping my hips, sliding under my shirt, rough and demanding. I arch into him, needing more, needing everything.

"You're so fucking stubborn," he growls against my neck, his teeth scraping over my pulse point.

"And you're so fucking controlling," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild. "Tell me to stop."

"Never." I say it back breathlessly.

His hands move to my pants, yanking at the waist band with rough urgency. I do the same to his, our movements frantic and desperate. We don't bother fully undressing, there's no time, no patience. He shoves my sweatpants and underwear down just enough, and I kick them off one leg, my hands already working his zipper.

When he lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist instinctively. The wall is cold against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against mine. He positions himself right where he needs to be, and then he's pushing inside me, slow and deep and devastating.

I gasp loudly, my head falling back against the wall, my mouth open. He's so deep like this, filling me completely, stretching me in a way that's almost too much. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel so god damn good, Y/n"

He doesn't finish. Just starts to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, hard and deliberate. The angle is perfect, hitting something inside me that makes my vision blur. I tighten my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans.

"Chris—" His name is a curse on my lips. Something dirty I would only say in the dark, beneath my sheets.

His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my moans as he sets a rhythm that's both agonizingly slow and brutally intense. Each thrust is deep, purposeful, claiming. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place as he fucks me against the wall.

I can feel everything…the stretch and burn of him inside me, the rough fabric of his pants against my inner thighs, the cool wall at my back, the heat of his breath on my neck. The sounds we're making fill the room, skin against skin, harsh breathing, broken moans and whispered curses.

"You drive me fucking insane," he growls against my ear, his hips snapping forward harder. "You know that?"

"Good," I gasp, my nails raking down his back. "You deserve it."

He laughs…actually laughs…dark and breathless, and the sound sends shivers down my spine. His lips trail down my neck, teeth grazing over my collarbone, tongue soothing the sting. Every touch is possessive, claiming, like he's trying to mark me as his in every way possible.

The tension coils tighter in my core, building with each deep thrust. I'm close and he knows it. He can feel it in the way I'm clenching around him, in the way my breathing has gone ragged and desperate.

"That's my good girl," he murmurs, his voice rough and strained. "Cum for me, baby.” I clench my walls as tight as I can around him just to torture him a little. Chris lets out a deep moan that echo’s off the empty walls of the gym, “Fucking hell."

His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit. His callused fingers begin to rub smooth circles over my most sensitive area. “I love how wet you are for me. Only me.” and that's all it takes. I shatter, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through me in waves. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps fucking me through it, prolonging the pleasure until I'm trembling and gasping.

"Chris, please..” I whimper against his swollen lips.

"Be my good girl,” His voice is commanding, absolute. "Give me another one."

And impossibly, I do. The second orgasm hits even harder, stealing my breath, making my vision go white. I feel him tense, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming too, burying himself deep as he groans my name against my neck and then the words I never thought I would hear him say slips out of his mouth, "I love you."

I can barely hear it, but it's there…

We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, trembling, holding onto each other like we're afraid to let go. Slowly, he lowers me back to the ground, but his hands stay on my waist, steadying me. My legs are shaky, barely able to support my weight.

Chris's forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing still uneven. One hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

"You're killing me," he whispers, and there's so much in those three words. Frustration, affection, fear and resignation all tangled together.

I look up at him, my own breathing still ragged, and I see the conflict written all over his face. The war between wanting to protect me and understanding that I need this. That I need to be part of taking down my father, not just for Chris, but for myself.

"I will be going back to help," I say quietly, firmly. "I don't care how, but I want to help take him down."

For a long moment, he just stares at me. I can see him fighting it, see him wanting to argue, to refuse, to lock me away somewhere safe where I can't get hurt. But he also sees the determination in my eyes. The resolve.

Finally, he nods.

It's barely a movement, just a slight dip of his chin, but it's enough. It's acknowledgment. It's him letting me have agency in my own life, even though it terrifies him.

He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me, holding me against his chest like he's trying to absorb me into his skin. His lips press against my temple, and I feel him exhale shakily.

"You're killing me," he says again, softer this time. Almost broken.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him just as tightly. "I know."

And in that moment, pressed against each other in the aftermath of anger, passion, and desperate need, I understand something fundamental…this is what love looks like when it's been shattered and its being slowly pieced back together. It's messy, complicated,and painful. But it's real.

We're still tangled together against the wall, as we both try to catch our breath. The gym smells like sweat and sex. My sweatpants are somewhere on the floor to the side of us, my shirt pushed up over my breasts, Chris's hands still gripping my thighs like he can't quite let go yet.

His breathing is slower yet, still a bit ragged against my neck, warm puffs of air that make my skin tingle. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. We're suspended in this moment, this fragile bubble of intimacy that feels too raw, too exposed…

The gym door swings open.

"Hey, Chris, I was thinking we could—oh fuck—"

Jisung's voice cuts off abruptly, strangled and high-pitched. My entire body goes rigid. Chris's grip on me tightens reflexively, and I feel him tense, his muscles turning to stone beneath my hands.

Time seems to freeze. I can't see Jisung from this angle, Chris's body is blocking my view…but I can hear him. The sharp intake of breath. The shuffle of feet as he presumably stops dead in his tracks. The mortified silence that follows.

"Shit," Jisung stammers, his voice cracking. "I…fuck…I'm sorry, I didn't…I'll just…"

I hear him spin around so fast he probably gave himself whiplash, his footsteps stumbling toward the door. My face is absolutely burning with humiliation. I bury my face against Chris's shoulder, wishing I could disappear into the wall behind me.

Chris moves immediately, his protective instincts overriding everything else. He shifts his body to shield me completely from view, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head, pressing my face firmly against his neck. His other arm wraps around my waist as he moves carefully keeping himself between me and the door where Jisung disappeared behind.

My legs are shaking as I immediately drop into a crouch, frantically reaching for my sweatpants. My hands are trembling as I grab them from where they're crumpled near the weight bench. I can hear Jisung in the hallway, hopefully still facing away, and the sound of him clearing his throat awkwardly makes me want to die.

I yank my sweatpants on as quickly as possible, nearly falling over in my haste. Chris is adjusting himself, zipping his pants back up, tucking his shirt back in, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His jaw is clenched tight, but I catch the faintest flicker of embarrassment, though he'd never admit it.

When I'm finally decent, Chris takes my hand, his grip firm and possessive. We move toward the door together, and I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look at Jisung even though I can see him in my peripheral vision as we draw near.

We begin to pass by but Chris stops. Jisung is standing there, his back still turned, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. His neck is flushed bright red, the color creeping up to his ears. He's staring intently at the wall like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

Chris doesn't let go of my hand. Instead, he turns to face Jisung fully, and I feel the shift in his energy, from protective to predatory in an instant.

Jisung must sense it too, because he immediately blurts out, "I saw nothing." He clears his throat again, the sound strangled and uncomfortable. His eyes dart to the side, to the ceiling, to literally anywhere that isn't us. "Absolutely nothing. I wasn't even here. I don't even know what a gym is."

The corner of Chris's mouth twitches…not quite a smile, but close. His voice, when he speaks, is dark and smooth, laced with threat but somehow edged with dry humor. "Good." He pauses, letting the word hang in the air. "I would hate to have to gouge your eyes out."

Jisung's eyes widen, and he nods frantically, still refusing to look at us. "Yep. Understood. Crystal clear. Eyes? What eyes? I'm basically blind."

Chris tugs me forward, and we start walking down the hallway. I can feel Jisung's mortification radiating behind us like a physical force. As we turn the corner, I glance back just once and see him still standing there, one hand covering his face, his entire body rigid with embarrassment.

Despite everything…despite the humiliation still burning in my cheeks…I feel the tiniest smile tug at my lips.

Chris catches it and squeezes my hand. "Not a word," he mutters, but there's no real heat in it.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I whisper back.

Behind us, I hear Jisung finally move, his footsteps retreating rapidly in the opposite direction, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Copyright: do not copy, translate, repost, or edit my work in any way. If you do, I will publicly call out the violation and pursue legal action, including a DMCA takedown and cease and desist letter.

Please keep in mind that…

All pictures used belong to their rightful owners (e.g., Pinterest and RealStrayKids).

I do not condone any inappropriate attractions, actions, or thoughts towards Stray Kids in real life. This is purely fiction and is not true.

Anything written about these men is entirely fictional. It does not reflect how they act, react, or talk in real life, nor is it meant to portray them that way. Nothing written here suggests they do, say, or act these ways.

Any necessary warnings will be labeled accordingly. If anything is missed, please let me know.

Chris's POV

The ceiling above the bed in one of the many guest rooms has exactly 24 small fissure cracks in the white plaster. I've counted them seventeen times now. Eighteen. The number keeps changing because my eyes won't focus properly, won't stay still, won't do anything except burn with exhaustion I can't afford to give in to.

I've been lying here for—what? Six hours? Seven? Time stopped meaning anything around 2 AM when the nightmare came back for the fourth time and I gave up trying to sleep altogether.

It's always the same.

I send Y/n back to her father. She walks through those gates, past the security I built, into the house that used to be mine. And he's waiting for her. Emanuel Ruiz with that cold smile, that calculating look in his eyes that says he knew she was coming all along. That he's been waiting for this moment.

She tries to explain. Tries to tell him she had no choice, that I forced her, that she's still loyal. But he doesn't care. He never cared. She was always just a tool to him, just like she was supposed to be a tool to me.

The gun appears in his hand. I can see it so clearly in the dream, can identify the exact model, the weight of it, the way his finger curls around the trigger with practiced ease.

Y/n's eyes find mine across the distance. Across the impossible space between us. And there's no anger in them. No hatred. Just betrayal. Just the devastating realization that I sent her to die. That I knew this would happen and I did it anyway.

The gunshot is deafening. It echoes through my skull, through my chest, through every nerve ending in my body. I see the impact...the way her body jerks backward, the way her hand comes up to her chest like she can somehow hold herself together. The blood blooms across her white shirt, spreading fast.

She falls...

And I'm running. I'm always running in the dream, my legs moving through molasses, through concrete, through the thick weight of my own failure. I can't reach her. I'm never fast enough. Never strong enough.

By the time I get to her, she's already dying. Her blood is hot on my hands..I can feel it, sticky and warm and wrong. It soaks into my skin, under my fingernails, staining everything it touches. Her eyes are still open, still looking at me with that terrible understanding.

She tries to speak. Her lips move, forming words I can't hear over the ringing in my ears, over the sound of my own heart shattering. But I know what she's saying. I always know.

You did this. You sent me here. You killed me.

Then she takes her last breath. A small, rattling exhale that sounds like forgiveness and damnation all at once. Her eyes go empty. Her body goes still. And I'm left holding her corpse, screaming her name into the void, knowing that I destroyed the only thing I ever loved.

That's when I wake up. Every single time. Gasping for air, my heart trying to break through my ribs, my hands shaking so badly I have to grip the sheets just to make them stop. Sweat soaks through my shirt, cold and clammy against my skin. And for those first few seconds, I can't remember if it was real or not. Can't separate the nightmare from reality.

Then it all comes crashing back. She's here. She's alive. She's sleeping somewhere in this house, breathing, existing, still mine for a few more hours before I have to let her go.

So I gave up on sleep. Decided the nightmares weren't worth the brief moments of unconsciousness. I've been lying here instead, listening to the waves crash against the rocks below, counting the cracks in the ceiling, trying not to think about her.

Failing spectacularly.

Because she's all I can think about. All I've been able to think about for days now, weeks, fucking years. Even when I was in prison, even when I thought I hated her with every fiber of my being, she was there. Living in my head rent-free, taking up space I couldn't afford to give her.

I wonder if she's asleep right now. Lying in my bed down the hall, her hair spread across the pillow, her breathing slow and even. If she's having nightmares too. If she sees my face when she closes her eyes the same way I see hers.

Y/n was always on my mind even though I tried not to show it. Had to keep the men happy, had to show no mercy to no one, had to maintain the facade of the ruthless leader who didn't let emotions compromise operations. But it's Y/n. She's not just anyone. She's never been just anyone.

The one thought that keeps constantly plaguing my mind, the one I can't escape no matter how hard I try, I can't let her go.

I can't send her off now that I have her. Not back to her father. Not back to anything that might take her away from me permanently.

She's mine. I don't give a damn what she's done, what she's taken from me, how thoroughly she destroyed everything I built. Y/n is mine in a way that goes beyond possession, beyond ownership, beyond anything rational or sane.

She's woven into my DNA now. Into the fabric of who I am. I don't know where I end and she begins anymore. Don't know if I ever did.

When I close my eyes, I see her. When I open them, I'm looking for her. When I breathe, I'm wondering if she's breathing too. It's pathological. Obsessive. The kind of thing that would terrify me if I had any capacity left for self-preservation.

But I don't. She burned that out of me five years ago when she looked at me across that cage with guilt written all over her face. When she destroyed me so completely that there was nothing left but this consuming need to have her, to keep her, to make sure she never escapes again.

My hands are shaking. I notice it when I run them through my hair, when I press my palms against my eyes trying to block out the images that won't stop coming. The tremor is subtle but constant, a physical manifestation of the war raging inside me.

Logic says I have to send her back. Strategy demands it. The mission requires it. We need access to Ruiz's operation, and she's the only key we have. Every tactical bone in my body knows this is the right move, the necessary move, the only move that makes sense.

But the thought of actually doing it—of watching her walk away, of putting her in danger, of potentially losing her forever—it's destroying me from the inside out.

My chest feels tight. Has felt tight for days now, like someone's wrapped steel bands around my ribs and keeps tightening them incrementally. Sometimes I forget to breathe. Just stop breathing entirely until my body forces me to gasp for air, reminds me that I'm still alive even though I don't want to be.

I can't function like this. Can't think straight. Can't make decisions with the clarity I need. Every choice I make is filtered through this lens of how does this affect Y/n and how do I keep her safe and what if I lose her.

It's compromising everything. My leadership. My judgment. My ability to see the bigger picture.

And I don't care.

That's the terrifying part. I don't fucking care anymore. Let the empire burn. Let Ruiz win. Let the whole world collapse into chaos. As long as she's alive. As long as she's breathing. As long as I can keep her.

The alarm on my phone starts going off. 6 AM. Time for our last strategy meeting before we buckle down and commit to this insanity.

I sit up slowly, my body protesting. Every muscle aches from tension I can't release. I need a cigarette. Need something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the panic clawing at my throat.

I pull on my pants and walk out onto the balcony, feeling the cool morning sea breeze against my bare chest. The ocean stretches out endlessly, dark and churning under the pre-dawn sky. I pull out the pack of cigarettes I only keep around when I need them most—when the world gets too heavy and I need something to ground me.

But just before I light one up, there's a knock at my door.

I turn around, stuffing the cigarette back in the pack and tucking it into my pants pocket. My heart rate spikes. For one irrational second, I think it might be her, but she can't leave. I've treated her like a prisoner.. maybe for far too long now.

"Come in," I say, walking back into the bedroom and grabbing my shirt from the chair, tugging it on. The fabric feels wrong against my skin, too rough, too confining.

When I look up, Felix is opening the door and stepping inside.

"Can I have a word, Chris?" he asks softly, walking inside a bit more, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sounds too loud in the silence.

I simply nod and step up to my little brother, patting him on the shoulder. He looks tired—dark circles under his eyes, his usual brightness dimmed to something more somber. Like he didn't get any sleep last night either.

"What's the matter, you okay?" I say, squeezing his shoulder a little, trying to inject some normalcy into my voice. Trying to be the leader he needs me to be.

Felix looks hesitant. His eyes search mine, and I can see him weighing his words, deciding how much truth to speak. He's always been perceptive, always known too much before he actually knew anything at all. It's what makes him dangerous. What makes him valuable.

What makes this conversation inevitable.

"What are we doing?" he finally says, and the question hangs in the air between us like an accusation.

I feel my jaw tighten. "We're executing the plan. You know this."

"No." He shakes his head slowly. "What are we doing? You and me. This crew. Because this—" He gestures vaguely, encompassing everything. The house. The mission. Y/n sleeping down the hall. "This isn't us. This isn't how we operate."

"Felix—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Why aren't we helping her?" The words come out rushed now, like he's been holding them back for too long. "I know she couldn't have fucked us over on her own free will. I know her, Chris. I knew her before you did. And the Y/n I knew wouldn't—couldn't—"

"You don't know what she's capable of," I say, but my voice lacks conviction. Because he's right. Because I know he's right.

"Neither do you," Felix counters. "Not really. You're so busy being angry, being hurt, being—" He stops himself, his eyes widening slightly like he's said too much.

"Being what?" I challenge, taking a step closer. My heart is pounding now, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

Felix meets my gaze steadily. "Terrified. You're terrified of her. Of what she makes you feel. Of what it means that you still—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp, dangerous. A warning.

But Felix doesn't back down. He never does. That's why I love him. Why I hate him right now.

"The Chris I know would have burned this entire place down by now just to make sure she didn't go anywhere," he says quietly. "Would have found another way. Would have protected her while still getting revenge. You're the smartest person I know. The most strategic. The most capable. And you're telling me this is the only option? Sending her back to her father? Putting her in danger?"

My throat feels tight. "It's the mission—"

"Fuck the mission!" Felix's voice rises, and I've never heard him sound like this. Desperate. Angry. Scared. "What's wrong with you? This isn't about the mission anymore. This is about you being too afraid to admit that you love her. That you've always loved her. That losing her would destroy you more completely than anything she did five years ago."

The words hit me like physical blows. I take a step back, my breath coming faster, my vision tunneling.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I manage, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.

"Don't I?" Felix moves closer, his eyes boring into mine. "I've watched you for days now. Watched you fall apart piece by piece. You're not sleeping. You're barely eating. You can't focus in meetings. You look at her like she's the only thing keeping you alive and the only thing killing you at the same time."

I want to deny it. Want to tell him he's wrong, that he's seeing things that aren't there. But I can't. The words won't come.

"You're in love with her," Felix says, and it's not a question. It's a statement of fact. "You're so in love with her that it's breaking you. And instead of dealing with that, instead of finding a way to keep her safe while still getting what we need, you're sending her to die. Because that's easier than admitting the truth."

"She betrayed us," I say, but my voice cracks on the words. "She destroyed everything—"

"And you forgave her the second you saw her again," Felix interrupts. "Maybe even before that. Maybe you forgave her five years ago and just couldn't admit it. Because admitting it would mean admitting you're human. That you're vulnerable. That you need someone."

I feel something breaking inside me. Some carefully constructed wall I've been maintaining, some facade I've been hiding behind. My hands are shaking worse now, and I can't make them stop.

"I can't—" I start, but I don't know how to finish. Can't what? Can't love her? Can't save her? Can't be the person she needs me to be?

"You can," Felix says softly. "You're Christopher Bang. You've built an empire. You've survived prison. You can figure this out. But only if you stop lying to yourself about what she means to you."

I close my eyes, and immediately I see her. Y/n sleeping down the hall. Y/n looking at me with those eyes that see too much. Y/n dying in my arms in the nightmare that won't stop coming.

"What if I can't protect her?" The words come out barely above a whisper. "What if I send her back and he kills her? What if this is the last time I see her alive?"

"Then don't send her back," Felix says simply. "Find another way."

"There is no other way.." I say, letting my words trail off.

"There's always another way." His hand grips my shoulder, firm and grounding. "You taught me that. You've always found another way. But you have to want to find it. You have to admit that keeping her alive matters more than revenge. More than the mission. More than anything."

I open my eyes and look at him. Really look at him. At this kid I pulled off the streets in Australia, who became my brother, who knows me better than anyone.

"She's everything," I hear myself say. The admission tears out of me like a confession. "She's everything and I don't know how to—I can't—"

"I know," Felix says gently. "I know, Chris. But you have to figure it out. Because if you send her back like this, if you let her go without a real plan to keep her safe, you'll never forgive yourself. And neither will I."

He's right. God, he's right. But the weight of it feels crushing.

I look him in the eyes for a long moment, the impact of what he just said to me really registering. I nod at him, "Gather the others. We have our last meeting to handle."

Felix doesnt say anything else, just gives me a silent nod before he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. And I'm alone again with my thoughts, with my fear.

She's mine. Not in the way I've been telling myself. Not as a prisoner, not as a tool, not as revenge.

She's mine because I'm hers. Because somewhere along the way, she became essential. Became the thing I can't live without. Became the only thing that matters.

Moments later I'm making my way to the dining room. The door is already open. I can hear voices inside—Minho's calm tactical tone, Seungmin's clipped analysis, Changbin's steady presence. They're already going over it. Already planning how to send her back a few nights from now.

My stomach turns violently, and I have to stop just outside the doorway, press my hand against the wall, force myself to breathe. The nightmare is still too fresh. Her blood on my hands. Her eyes going empty. The sound of that final breath.

I can't do this.

The thought comes unbidden, unwanted, undeniable.

I can't send her back.

I push off the wall and step into the room.

All conversation stops immediately. Seven pairs of eyes turn to me...Minho, Seungmin, Changbin, Jisung, Jeongin, Hyunjin. And Felix, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

No. That's a lie. I can read it perfectly.

He knows. He knows exactly what's happening to me. What's been happening. And there's something in his eyes...not judgment, not concern. Something softer. Something that looks almost like relief.

A small smirk plays at the corner of his mouth as our eyes meet. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

"Chris," Minho says, gesturing to the table covered in maps, surveillance photos, security schematics. "We were just going over the final timeline for tomorrow night."

I nod slowly, moving to the table. My eyes scan the materials without really seeing them. There's a photograph of the auction house. Another of Ruiz's estate. A detailed floor plan with entry points marked in red.

And there, in the center of it all, a photograph of Y/n.

My chest constricts painfully.

"The auction starts at eight," Seungmin is saying, his finger tracing routes on the map. "Y/n will arrive at seven-thirty. And Emanuel should be there well before seven. We've confirmed he'll bring minimal security inside—only two bodyguards. The venue's own security will handle the rest."

I'm barely listening. My eyes are fixed on her photograph. On the curve of her jaw. The defiance in her eyes even in a still image.

I would choose you...

"She'll need to get us access through the service entrance here," Minho continues, pointing. "Changbin and Jisung will enter as catering staff. Once inside, they'll plant the surveillance equipment in Ruiz's private viewing room."

"What about extraction?" Jeongin asks. "If something goes wrong—"

"Nothing will go wrong," Hyunjin cuts in sharply. His voice is cold, clinical. "As long as she does exactly what she's told. As long as she doesn't fuck us over again."

My jaw clenches. My hands flatten against the table.

"The real question," Hyunjin continues, and I can hear the edge in his voice now, the barely contained anger, "is whether we can actually trust her not to run straight to daddy the second she's back in his house. Whether she'll actually go through with this or whether she'll sell us out the moment it's convenient."

"Hyunjin—" Felix starts, but Hyunjin talks over him.

"She's a liar. She's always been a liar. She destroyed everything we built, got Jeongin locked up, got Chris locked up for five fucking years. And now we're supposed to believe she's suddenly on our side? That she won't—"

"Enough." The word comes out low, dangerous. Deadly quiet.

The room goes silent.

I lift my eyes from the photograph to Hyunjin's face. He's staring at me with that familiar intensity, that righteous anger that's been burning in him since the moment we brought her here.

My voice harder now. "I won't hear another fucking word against her."

Hyunjin's eyes narrow. "Chris, we need to be realistic about—"

"I don't give a fuck what you think we need to be." I straighten up, my full height suddenly feeling like a weapon. "You will not speak about her that way. Not in front of me. Not ever. Do you understand?"

Something flickers across Hyunjin's face—surprise, maybe. But he doesn't back down. "So what, we're just supposed to pretend she didn't betray us? Pretend she's trustworthy now because you—"

"Because I what?" I challenge, taking a step toward him. "Say it. Finish that sentence."

Hyunjin's mouth snaps shut. The tension in the room is suffocating.

I can feel it building inside me. The decision I've already made. The choice that's been inevitable since the moment Felix walked out of my room this morning. Since the moment I realized I'd rather burn everything down than watch her die.

My hands are still shaking. I press them flat against the table again, staring down at all these carefully laid plans. All this strategy. All this tactical brilliance that's supposed to get us everything we want.

"We're not doing this," I hear myself say.

The words fall into the silence like stones into still water.

"What?" Minho's voice is careful, controlled. "Chris, what do you mean—"

"I mean we're not sending her back." I look up, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "The plan is off. We're finding another way."

The room explodes.

"Are you fucking serious?" Jisung is on his feet. "We've been planning this for weeks—"

"There is no other way!" Seungmin's voice cuts through, sharp with frustration. "We need access to Ruiz's systems. We need someone on the inside. She's the only—"

"We don't have time to start over!" Minho slams his hand on the table. "The auction is in four days. We've already committed resources, made arrangements—"

"I don't care." My voice is flat, final. "Find another way. We're not using her."

"This is insane," Hyunjin says, and there's something almost like betrayal in his voice now. "You're compromising the entire operation because you can't handle sending her back? Because you're too fucking weak to—"

"Watch yourself," I warn, my voice dropping to something dangerous.

But Hyunjin doesn't stop. He never knows when to stop. "This is exactly what I warned you about. She's gotten into your head. She's making you soft, making you stupid, making you—"

"I said watch yourself!" I raise my voice just a bit.

"No." Hyunjin stands up, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Someone needs to say it. You're letting your feelings for her destroy everything we've worked for. Everything we've sacrificed. You're choosing her over us, over the mission, over—"

"Yes." The word cuts through his tirade like a blade. "Yes, I am. I'm choosing her. And if you have a problem with that, there's the fucking door."

The silence that follows is absolute.

I can see the shock on their faces. Minho's carefully controlled expression cracking. Seungmin's analytical mask slipping. Jeongin's eyes wide with something that might be understanding or might be disbelief.

Changbin just looks sad.

And Felix—Felix is still leaning against that wall, still wearing that small, knowing smirk. Like he's been waiting for this moment. Like he knew it was coming all along.

"We've spent weeks on this plan," Minho says finally, his voice strained. "We can't just—"

"Then spend weeks on another one," I snap. "I don't care how long it takes. I don't care how difficult it is. We're not sending her back to that house. We're not putting her in that kind of danger. End of discussion."

"Chris—" Changbin starts gently.

"I said end of discussion!" My voice rises, again filling the room, echoing off the walls. The authority in it is absolute. The voice of someone who's led men into war, who's built empires, who's survived things that should have killed him.

"I am still in charge here," I continue, my voice deadly quiet now. "I am still the one who makes the final calls. And I'm telling you...we find another way. We do not use her. We do not send her back. We do not put her in a position where she could get killed."

I look around the room, meeting each of their eyes.

"If any of you have a problem with that—if you think I'm compromised, if you think I'm making the wrong call, then get the fuck out. I won't stop you."

No one moves.

"But if you stay," I continue, my voice hard as steel, "you follow my orders. You trust my judgment. You do what I say, when I say it, without question. That's how this works. That's how it's always worked."

I can see Hyunjin's jaw working, his hands clenched into fists. Can see the war raging behind his eyes—loyalty versus anger, trust versus betrayal.

"We don't have time.." Seungmin tries again.

"Then we make time!" I slam my hand down on the table, and the sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. "We make fucking time. We find another angle. We use different resources. We get creative. That's what we do."

I straighten up, my eyes hard. "Or have you all forgotten who the fuck I am? What I'm capable of? I didn't build an empire by giving up when things got difficult. I didn't survive five years in prison by accepting the only option presented to me. I found ways. I always find ways." My voice drops lower, more dangerous. "And I will find a way to destroy Emanuel Ruiz without sacrificing her in the process."

The last words come out rougher than I intended. More raw. More revealing. I can see the understanding dawning on their faces. The realization of just how far gone I am. How completely she's consumed me.

"So here's what's going to happen," I say, my voice returning to that cold, controlled tone. "You're going to go back to your research. You're going to find me another way into Ruiz's operation. You're going to use every resource we have, every contact, every piece of intelligence. And you're going to present me with options that don't involve sending her back."

I pause, letting the weight of my words settle.

"And if you can't do that, then maybe you're not as valuable to this operation as I thought you were." It's a low blow. I know it is. But I need them to understand. Need them to see that this isn't negotiable. That I'm not changing my mind. That I would rather lose everything than lose her.

"Meeting's over," I say flatly. For a moment, no one moves. They just stare at me like they're seeing a stranger. Like the Chris they knew...the strategic, calculating, ruthless leader...has been replaced by someone they don't recognize.

They're not wrong.

"I said get out," I repeat, my voice dropping to something lethal.

Minho is the first to move. He gathers his papers slowly, his expression carefully neutral. Seungmin follows, then Changbin. Jeongin hesitates, his eyes searching mine for something...understanding, maybe, or reassurance that I haven't completely lost my mind.

Jisung mutters something under his breath as he heads for the door. Something that sounds like "fucking insane" but I don't call him on it.

Hyunjin is the last to move. He stands there, staring at me with those intense eyes, and I can see everything he's not saying. Every accusation. Every disappointment. Every fear that I've chosen her over all of them. He's right to be afraid.

"Hyunjin," I say quietly, and he stops halfway to the door. "If you ever speak about her that way again...if you ever question her loyalty, her intentions, her worth...I will put you down myself. Brother or not. Do you understand?"

His jaw clenches. His hands ball into fists at his sides. But he nods. Once. Sharp and angry. Then he's gone. They all are.

Except Felix. He's still leaning against that wall, still wearing that infuriating smirk. Still watching me like he can see straight through every defense I've ever built.

I close my eyes, my hands gripping the edge of the table hard enough to hurt. "I'm compromised," I say quietly. "I'm making decisions based on emotion instead of strategy. I'm putting her safety above the mission. Above everything."

"Yeah," Felix agrees, his smirk turning into a soft smile. "You are."

"I'm going to lose their trust. Their respect. They're going to think I'm weak." I turn my head to look at him.

"You wont lose their trust. They may act like spoiled little bitches right now but, they will come around." He walks over and slaps a hand on my back to reasure me.

"I'm destroying everything we've worked for." I say with a sight before straightening up.

"Possibly." Felix said nonchalontly

I give him a confused look. "You're not going to try to talk me out of this?"

Felix reaches down and picks up the photograph of Y/n from the table, studying it for a moment.

"No," he says finally. "Because you're right."

I blink. "What?"

"You're right," he repeats, setting the photo down carefully. "We'll find another way. We always do. And sending her back, it was always a shit plan. We just didn't want to admit it because it was the easiest option."

He meets my eyes, and there's something fierce in his expression now.

"But easy doesn't mean right. And you know what? I'm glad you finally admitted what she means to you. I'm glad you're choosing her. Because the Chris I know—the real Chris, not the one trying to be some emotionless tactical machine—he would never sacrifice someone he loves just to make a mission easier."

The word hangs in the air between us.

Love.

I don't deny it. Can't deny it. Not anymore.

"They're going to hate me for this," I say quietly.

"No," Felix says. "They're going to be angry. Frustrated. Scared, maybe, because they don't understand what's happening. But they won't hate you. They'll follow you. Because that's what we do. That's what we've always done. And...we all love you. Even Hyunjins dramatic ass."

I look over at Felix and shake my head at him in disbelief of what just happened. "Thank you," I say quietly.

Felix just smiles. "That's what brothers are for."

Then he's gone too, leaving me alone in the room with maps and plans and photographs that don't matter anymore. Because I've made my choice.

The walk to her room feels endless.

Each step down the hallway echoes too loud in my ears.

What the fuck am I doing?

The question loops through my mind on repeat. I just fractured my entire operation. Threw away weeks of planning. Risked losing the trust of men who've followed me through hell. And for what?

For the woman who destroyed me five years ago.

My chest feels tight as I stop outside her door. I can hear movement inside, soft footsteps, the rustle of fabric. She's awake.

What am I supposed to say to her?

I don't have an answer. Don't have a plan. For the first time in years, I'm walking into a situation without knowing exactly what I'm going to do or say.

It's terrifying...

I raise my hand to knock, then stop. Lower it. Raise it again.

Get it together.

I knock twice. Sharp, controlled.

"Come in," her voice calls out, cautious and uncertain.

I push the door open slowly.

She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of the oversized shirts I'd left for her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's holding a book in her lap, one of the few I'd brought to the room days ago.

When she sees me, her eyes widen slightly.

"Chris," she says softly, setting the book aside. "I didn't expect..."

"We need to talk," I interrupt, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

She nods slowly, her hands folding in her lap. Waiting.

I step inside and close the door behind me. The click of the latch feels too loud in the quiet room. For a moment, I just stand there, looking at her. Taking in the curve of her lips, the way her fingers twist together nervously, the guarded expression in her eyes that doesn't quite hide the vulnerability beneath.

This is the woman I just chose over everything.

The thought should terrify me. Should make me turn around and walk out. Should make me reconsider every decision I just made.

But it doesn't.

Because looking at her now—sitting there in my shirt, in this room, alive and safe—I know I made the right choice. Even if it destroys me.

I clear my throat, trying to find the right words. My hands slide into my pockets with a practiced ease.

"Starting now," I say finally, my voice carefully controlled, "you'll have more freedom. You can move around the house. The kitchen, the living room, the patio. The beach."

She blinks, surprise flickering across her face. "What?"

"You heard me," I continue, forcing myself to maintain eye contact even though every instinct is screaming at me to leave this room. "You're not confined to this bedroom anymore. You can go where you want.

"I don't understand," she says slowly, her brow furrowing. "Why now? What changed?"

My jaw clenches. Everything changed. I changed. I can't send you back to die.

But I can't say that.

"It's a security decision," I say instead, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "Keeping you locked in one room creates... complications. If something happens, if we need to move quickly, you need to know the layout of the house. The exits." It's not entirely a lie. But it's not the truth either.

She's staring at me like she's trying to read between the lines. Like she knows there's something I'm not saying.

"Someone needs to be with you at all times. One of the men. Or me." I add quickly.

Preferably me.

The thought comes unbidden, possessive and dark.

"Supervision," she repeats, her voice flat. "So I'm still a prisoner. Just with a bigger cage."

"It's for your protection," I snap, then immediately regret the harshness in my tone. "And ours. We can't have you wandering around unsupervised. Not yet." I add a little more softly.

"Not yet?" she challenges, standing up now. "When, then? When will I have earned enough trust to walk around without a guard?"

Never. Because I can't let you out of my sight.

"That's not the point," I say, my voice harder now. "The decision is made. You have more freedom than you did yesterday. That should be enough."

The silence that follows is heavy, awkward. She's looking at me like she doesn't recognize me. Like I'm acting strange.

I can feel my control slipping. Can feel the obsession creeping in at the edges, threatening to break through the careful facade I'm trying to maintain.

"What's really going on?" she asks, her voice softer now but no less probing. "You're acting different. Something's wrong."

The question catches me off guard. "Nothing's wrong."

"Chris—" She starts.

"I said nothing's wrong," I snap, then immediately see her flinch.

Fuck.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to regain some semblance of control. My chest feels tight. My hands won't stop shaking.

"Are you okay?" she asks suddenly, genuine concern in her voice.

The question nearly breaks me.

No. I'm not okay. I'm falling apart. I'm choosing you over everything I've built, and I don't even know if you'll ever forgive me for what I've done to you.

"I'm fine," I lie, my voice rough. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

She doesn't look convinced. I can see the doubt in her eyes. The questions she's not asking. The silence stretches between us again, uncomfortable and tense. I should leave. Should walk out before this gets worse. Before I say something I can't take back. But I can't make myself move.

Something magnetic and undeniable that makes my feet feel rooted to the floor. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to walk away, to leave this room before I do something I can't undo. But my body won't listen. It never listens when it comes to her.

I take a step forward without meaning to. Then another. Like there's an invisible thread wrapped around my chest, tugging me closer to her. My hands are still shaking, but now it's not just from the adrenaline or the fear of what I've done. It's from the sheer force of wanting her. Of needing to be close to her in a way that has nothing to do with revenge or strategy or any of the bullshit I've been telling myself for the past five years.

She notices. Of course she notices. Her eyes widen slightly as I move toward her, and I can see the confusion there, the wariness. But there's something else too. Something that looks almost like hope, and that fucking destroys me.

"Chris?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

I don't answer. Can't. Because if I open my mouth right now, I'm afraid of what might come out. Some pathetic confession that will shatter whatever's left of my dignity. So I just keep moving toward her, drawn like a moth to a flame that's already burned me once before.

She stands slowly, carefully, like she's afraid any sudden movement might break whatever fragile thing is happening between us. And then she's walking toward me too. Closing the distance I've been trying so desperately to maintain.

When we're close enough to touch, she stops. Her eyes search my face, looking for something I'm not sure I can give her. Her hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, and I watch as her fingers reach toward my face. I should pull back. Should maintain the distance. But I don't. I let her touch me.

Her fingertips brush against my jaw, feather-light and impossibly gentle. It's such a stark contrast to the violence between us before—to the way I used her, degraded her, tried to break her. This is something else entirely. Something soft and tender and so fucking dangerous I can barely breathe.

"You're trembling," she whispers, her thumb tracing along my cheekbone.

"I know," I manage, my voice hoarse.

Her other hand comes up to cup my face, and I close my eyes against the sensation. Against the overwhelming feeling of being touched with kindness. When was the last time someone touched me like this? Like I was something worth caring for instead of something to be afraid of?

You don't deserve this. You don't deserve her gentleness after what you've done.

But I'm too weak to pull away. Too fucking weak to do what I should do.

I feel her step closer, feel the warmth of her body against mine. My hands move of their own accord, finding her waist, pulling her against me. Not roughly like before. Not with violence or possession. Just... holding her. Like she's something precious. Something I'm terrified of losing again.

"Chris," she breathes, and there's so much in that one word. Confusion and longing and something that might be forgiveness, though I don't know how that's possible.

I open my eyes and look down at her. Really look at her. At the girl I loved five years ago. At the woman who destroyed me. At the person I can't seem to let go of no matter how hard I try.

My forehead drops to rest against hers, and we just stand there, breathing each other in. This moment feels stolen. Like something we're not supposed to have. Like the universe is going to realize its mistake and rip it away from us at any second.

"I hate this," I whisper, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside me. "I hate that I still—" I can't finish. Can't say it out loud.

But she knows. I can see it in her eyes. She knows exactly what I'm trying not to say.

Her hands slide from my face to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. The gesture is so familiar it hurts. How many times did she touch me like this before? How many times did I let myself believe this was real?

You're pathetic. You're choosing her over everything. Over your mission. Over your crew. Over your own goddamn self-respect. The thoughts tear through me like a chainsaw.

I pull back abruptly, my hands dropping from her waist. The loss of contact feels like a physical wound, but I force myself to step away. To put distance between us before I do something even more stupid.

"I should go," I say, my voice rough and unsteady.

I turn toward the door, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. This is wrong. Leaving feels wrong. But staying feels even more dangerous.

I make it three steps before I feel her hand wrap around my wrist. "Chris, wait—"

I stop. I shouldn't, but I do. And when I turn back to look at her, the expression on her face nearly breaks me all over again.

She doesn't say anything. Just pulls me back toward her with a gentle insistence that I'm powerless to resist. And then her lips are on mine.

It's not like before. Not rough or punishing or filled with years of rage and resentment. This kiss is soft. Tender. The kind of kiss that speaks of forgiveness and second chances and all the things I don't deserve but desperately want anyway.

I kiss her back without thinking, my hands finding her face, cradling it like she's made of glass. Like she might shatter if I'm not careful. The taste of her is familiar and devastating, and I pour everything I can't say into this kiss. All the love and hate and desperate, consuming need that's been eating me alive.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark and searching, and I can see the vulnerability there. The same vulnerability I'm trying so hard to hide.

"Stay with me," she whispers against my lips.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Every rational thought in my head is telling me to say no. To walk away. To maintain whatever shred of control I have left. But standing here, with her hands on my face and her lips still tingling against mine, I can feel that control slipping through my fingers like sand.

Say no. Walk away. Don't do this to yourself.

But when I open my mouth to refuse, to do the smart thing, the safe thing...

I hesitate.

And in that hesitation, I can feel everything I've built, everything I've fought for, everything I've tried to become in the past five years, beginning to crumble.

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Copyright: do not copy, translate, repost, or edit my work in any way. If you do, I will publicly call out the violation and pursue legal action, including a DMCA takedown and cease and desist letter.

Please keep in mind that…

All pictures used belong to their rightful owners (e.g., Pinterest and RealStrayKids).

I do not condone any inappropriate attractions, actions, or thoughts towards Stray Kids in real life. This is purely fiction and is not true.