the captain’s bookshelf

CHAPTER EIGHT - BACKMARKER

It’s not until the next morning, when you hear the chime of a new message and see Yeosang’s name light up your phone, that you remember there are four more disasters waiting for you, each more beautiful and dangerous than the last.

You head to the paddock still trying to piece together the fragments of your heart, Hongjoong’s warmth lingering on your skin like an unshakable ghost. The night had felt fragile and healing—his lips on yours in the shower, steam curling around your tangled silhouettes, the simple comfort of ramen eaten in quiet laughter. For a few fleeting hours, you’d let yourself believe you could be whole again.

The drizzle spits softly against your umbrella as you round the corner, only to see a knot of people gathered tight outside the café. A hush of voices, low laughter, the kind of collective buzz that always means trouble.

At first, you think maybe a stray cat has curled itself into a cardboard box, drawing an unusual crowd. The thought even makes you smile for half a second. But then you get closer. The drizzle sharpens, and so does the picture.

The commotion isn’t over an adorable animal. It’s over you.

Your feet stall, but it’s too late—you’re already close enough to see it. On the table sits a neatly constructed shrine to your undoing. At its centre, a spread of glossy, fresh headshots. Yours. Yunho’s. Seonghwa’s. San’s. Wooyoung’s. And Hongjoong’s.

Around them, like some grotesque crown of thorns, are printouts—memes, doodles, scribbled captions, grainy screen grabs from old photos that should never have seen the light of day. The air reeks of cheap ink and cruel amusement.

Your stomach drops through the floor as you read them.

Yunho’s Secret Girlfriend?

Who is Seonghwa’s Mysterious Co-Driver?

Hongjoong’s Ex Caught With ALL OF THEM?”

And then—the final blow, printed in bold, chunky Comic Sans that feels like a slap in the face.

F1’s New Throuple? Polyamory Power Play or Major PR Disaster?

The laughter swells around you, overlapping, whispering, snapping camera phones flashing like daggers. Your dignity is splayed across a café table, turned into cheap gossip fodder. All you can do is stand there, sopping in the drizzle, heart hammering, wondering who set fire to your life this time.

“Y/N!”

Your head snaps up just in time to see Yeosang sprinting around the corner, his usually composed face twisted with something close to panic. You barely register him before his hand closes firmly around your arm, tugging you away from the growing crowd.

“Come on,” he mutters, low but urgent.

You stumble after him, heart pounding, the whispers and laughter nipping at your heels. Your phone buzzes in your pocket—you hadn’t had time to read his text this morning, but now you know. He’d tried to warn you.

Before you can even gather your bearings, he’s steering you through the compound doors, shoulders squared like a shield. The world blurs. The drizzle, the gawking faces, the sting of humiliation—until suddenly you’re dropped onto a couch inside Aston Martin’s lounge.

The quiet of the room feels almost surreal, muffled compared to the storm outside. You blink, disoriented, still clutching the strap of your bag like it might tether you to something solid.

Yeosang crouches in front of you, his hands braced on your knees, eyes searching your face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper hoarsely, hating the wet heat building behind your eyes.

“Y/N,” he says softly, steady, “it’s bad, I know. But we’ll figure this out. You don’t have to face it alone.”

“Of course this would happen,” you exhale, voice sharp with disbelief. “Another scandal, just like the first time.”

Yeosang doesn’t flinch. He stays crouched in front of you, his hand steady on your knee, thumb brushing a quiet rhythm. “This isn’t anything like that,” he says gently. “Things happen like this—well, not exactly like this…” The corner of his mouth twitches, almost self-deprecating, before he continues. “But there are always rumours floating. We’re in the public eye. It’ll die down. You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

A bitter laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Not sure the higher ups will agree.”

His gaze softens, though his voice firms. “Let them think what they want. They’ll be angry because they can’t control the story, not because you’ve done anything worth punishing. Don’t let them make you believe otherwise.”

The conviction in his tone almost steadies you—almost. But the knot in your stomach refuses to unravel, the weight of the printed words outside still pressing down like stones.

You sink further into the couch, Yeosang’s words circling in your head but refusing to settle. Your throat burns, your chest tight, like every humiliating headline outside has been carved straight into your skin.

Before either of you can speak again, the door creaks open. An Aston Martin staffer pokes their head in, eyes flicking nervously between you and Yeosang.

“Y/N,” they say carefully, “the execs are asking for you. Now.”

Your stomach lurches.

Yeosang rises instantly, jaw tightening. “She needs a minute—”

But the staffer shakes their head quickly. “I’m sorry. They want her in the boardroom immediately. They said it’s urgent.”

The air drains from your lungs. You push yourself to your feet, forcing shaky legs to steady beneath you. Yeosang’s hand hovers near your elbow, like he’s ready to catch you if you falter.

“Yeo,” you murmur, “it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says, low, but he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he presses the keycard for his compound lounge into your palm. “When you’re done, come back here. Straight here. Don’t face the paddock alone.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The staffer steps aside, and you force yourself forward, every step towards the boardroom feeling like a march to your own execution.

The boardroom is too bright, too sterile, all glass walls and polished steel. You slip inside, heart still thundering, and are met with the cool eyes of three executives seated around the long table. Their laptops are open, styluses poised, like you’re a case file rather than a person.

“Y/N,” the senior of the trio begins, tone crisp, “please sit.”

You lower into the chair at the far end, your palms damp against the smooth leather.

“We’ll keep this brief,” another says, glancing down at their notes. “You’re aware of the… display outside.”

The word display makes your jaw clench. They speak of it like it’s a marketing rollout, not a funeral pyre for your dignity.

“These are, of course, baseless rumours. There are no photographs, no tangible proof, only speculation.” The senior exec leans forward slightly, voice cool, even. “We can’t and won’t dictate how you spend your personal time. There’s nothing in your contract forbidding you from fraternising with drivers.”

Relief pricks—but it’s fleeting.

“However,” the third cuts in, tapping the table with their pen, “your role is one of proximity. As a mental and performance strategist, you’re responsible for monitoring their physical and psychological wellbeing. If you are involved romantically with any of them, that could present… a conflict of interest.”

The words hang heavy, slicing through the air.

“Which,” the senior continues smoothly, “means optics are as important as truth. Even if these rumours are groundless, perception can erode trust. Both internally and publicly.”

You inhale, forcing your shoulders to remain squared. “So, what happens now?”

They exchange glances—quick, precise, as though the decision has already been made.

“For now, we advise caution,” the second replies. “Be discreet. Professional. Do not give the paddock, the press, or the fans more fuel. If this escalates, we’ll have to intervene more formally.”

A chill runs through you, because the unspoken threat is clear; your job, your credibility, your place here. All hanging by a thread woven from rumour and innuendo.

“Understood?”

Your throat is dry, but you manage to nod. “Understood.”

“Good. That’ll be all.”

Dismissed like an agenda item, you rise, your chair scraping softly against the tile. Their eyes follow you until the door clicks shut behind you, and only then do you allow yourself to breathe again.

You slump against the cool wall outside the boardroom, your legs shaky beneath you. The weight of the executives’ words still presses on your shoulders like stone. With a sigh, you drag your phone from your blazer pocket.

Five missed calls.

Before you can even scroll, the screen lights up again in your hand. You swipe without thinking, ducking into the nearest side office. The door clicks halfway shut behind you, left ajar in your haste.

“Are you okay?” Hongjoong’s voice bursts through the speaker, ragged with concern. “I’ve spent the last hour going out of my mind.”

Your shoulders drop, exhaustion bleeding into your tone. “I guess you know now too, huh?”

There’s silence on the other end, heavy and raw.

“I can’t believe someone would do that. Do you need anything?”

You brace against the desk, your fingers tapping nervously against the edge. “I don’t know if anything would make a difference right now. I just need to keep my head high and continue doing my job. Someone’s obviously got some sort of vendetta against me.”

“Y/N,” he says softly, conviction steadying his words, “I’m here. Whenever you need me.”

Something in you unclenches. A small, genuine smile breaks through. “Thanks, Joong. You’ve been exactly what I need recently. I—”

The creak of the door cuts you off.

You whip your head up, heart plummeting, as Seonghwa stands framed in the gap. His expression is unreadable for a split second, then it shatters—eyes full of something you’ve never seen from him before. Wounded. Broken.

Your phone slips from your hand, clattering loudly onto the desk, Hongjoong’s muffled voice still spilling through the speaker.

“Seonghwa… wait!”

You rush forward, catching his arm before he can disappear. You pull him back into the room and slam the door shut behind you. Your chest heaves, words tripping over themselves.

“Hongjoong,” he breathes, his voice quieter than a whisper but cutting all the same. His eyes glisten, fixed on you like you’ve betrayed him in a way words can’t contain. “Really, Y/N? When I said you weren’t mine, I meant it. But him?”

The devastation in his features is almost unbearable. He looks shattered, stripped bare, and the sight cleaves through you sharper than any accusation. And all the while, the phone on the desk glows silently, Hongjoong still on the line. Still listening.

“Hwa, let me explain.”

Your voice comes out high and wild, panic cracking through it. Your hands flail helplessly, as if you could physically claw your way out of this mess. His silence cuts deeper than any words, the look in his eyes making your stomach hollow.

“I’ve been feeling terrible since I let Hongjoong back into my life,” you rush out, the words tumbling over each other. “I’ve felt terrible since I started forming connections with all of you—you, Yunho, Wooyoung, even Mingi. I didn’t expect or want this to happen. I’ve been trapped inside this web that I created myself and now I don’t know how to untangle it.”

Your breath comes ragged, but you force the next words through anyway. “But I like you. I really fucking like you, Hwa. The way you treat me with such care, the way you’ve never made me feel like I had to be anyone other than myself.”

His jaw ticks, eyes dark with something unspoken.

“But there’s history with me and Joong,” you admit, the confession scraping your throat raw. “A history I can’t ignore.”

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. You look away, ashamed. “I’m so sorry that I did this after he hit you. It wasn’t my intention to ever reconcile with him. I won’t betray his trust and tell you why, but he made me understand why he is the way he is. And I…” Your voice breaks, your chest tightening like a vice. “It’s my fault. Everything is my fault. I’m sorry, Hwa.”

The sobs come now, hot and unrelenting. Your shoulders shake as you fold in on yourself, a mess of grief and guilt spilling out.

Seonghwa’s heart fractures at the sight. He wants to reach for you, to pull you into his arms like he always has—but he’s hurting too. The betrayal coils tight in his chest, and the tenderness he feels wars violently with the ache of being made into someone’s second choice.

His hands twitch at his sides, torn between restraint and instinct. And for a long, terrible moment, he just watches you cry, his own silence louder than any scream.

“I need some time…”

His voice is quiet, flat, but it feels like a blade sinking into your chest. He turns, hand already reaching for the door.

“Hwa, please,” you whisper, stepping toward him, desperate.

It’s like those words snap something inside him. He whirls back, and for the first time you see him unguarded, stripped of his composure, every rational thought torn away.

“I love you, Y/N,” he blurts, the words raw and jagged. “God damn it, I’ve fallen for you. Hard.” His voice cracks under the weight of it. “I know it sounds stupid—I’ve only known you for just over a month. But I do. And I’ve been trying to fight it, telling myself I can’t be that selfish. But…”

He breaks off, swallowing hard, clearing his throat like the emotion is clawing its way up faster than he can contain it. His chest rises and falls, ragged, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

“But he—” his voice hardens, trembling with barely-checked fury— “he doesn’t deserve you. And I’m not saying I do. But I would never, never treat you the way he’s treated you.”

The confession rips out of him like it’s been buried too long, and now it can’t be stopped. He drags a hand over his face, as if trying to collect the pieces of himself before they scatter across the floor. His other hand clutches at the edge of the desk, knuckles white. When he looks at you again, his composure is gone. Only the truth remains, raw and aching in his eyes.

You close the gap in two short strides, your fists curling into the fabric of his jumpsuit like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t hold on. You drag him down to you, your mouths colliding in a rush of heat and desperation.

His response is instant—hands snapping around your waist, gripping tight, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is messy, frantic, all teeth and breath and unspoken words crashing together. You back him into the door, his spine slamming against the wood with a thud, and the sound jolts a breathy gasp from your lips.

In that split second—while your chest heaves against his, while Seonghwa kisses you like he’s drowning—your phone screen goes dark on the desk behind you.

Miles away, Hongjoong sits slumped in his apartment, staring at the call timer before his thumb presses end. The silence that follows is suffocating. He can’t bear to hear any more.

The echo of Seonghwa’s voice, of your gasping breaths, carves through him like a blade. He feels gutted—hollowed out from the inside—as if the very thing he’d been fighting to rebuild has been ripped from him once again.

The ache doesn’t fade. It festers, raw and unrelenting. Hongjoong is left alone with it, his apartment too quiet, the weight of it all pressing against his chest until it hurts to breathe.

Your mouth still moves against Seonghwa’s hungrily, your grip fisted into his jumpsuit, his hands crushing you to him like he never intends to let go. The door rattles under the force of his body moving against it, your gasp caught between you. But then clarity slices through the haze. This isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to you.

Seonghwa’s confession still hangs in the air, heavy and raw. It pulled at your heartstrings, cracked you open in the moment—but this kiss, right here, right now… it’s a promise you can’t make good on.

You press your hands to his chest, breaking the kiss with a shaky breath. “Hwa—wait.”

His eyes are dark, chest heaving, and the sight nearly undoes you again. But you shake your head, your voice trembling. “This isn’t the best move. I’m giving you mixed signals, and that isn’t fair. I am building feelings for you, but I’m also trying to navigate my feelings for four other men too.”

The words scrape as they leave you, guilt twisting like a knife. “I can’t stand here and pretend I have answers, because I don’t. And I won’t make you promises when I’m this tangled.”

He’s silent, his jaw clenched, but his eyes burn into you.

You swallow, forcing yourself to go on. “I’m sorry for the mess I’ve created, for dragging you into it. I need to explore what life has to offer right now, and I don’t know where that’s going to lead me. I understand if you don’t want to stick around for it.”

He chews his cheek, gaze dropping to the floor for a moment as if weighing his words. The silence stretches, taut, before he exhales a long, heavy sigh.

“I was the one who told you to experience being free,” he says finally, his voice softer than you expect. His eyes lift back to yours, steady but dimmed. “My feelings aside, I can’t be angry with you for taking my advice.”

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you.

“I’ll admit…” His jaw tightens, the words rough as they scrape out. “Hearing you tell Hongjoong he’s been exactly what you needed recently—” he breaks off, shaking his head with a humourless laugh— “that hurt. More than I want to admit. But if he’s making you happy…” His voice drops lower, quieter, like it’s costing him everything to say it. “Then that makes me happy.”

The sincerity in his tone shatters something inside you. Because he means it. Even through the pain etched into his features, the restraint in his body, he means it.

You steady yourself, wiping quickly at your damp cheeks before the words tumble out again.

“Things between Hongjoong and I are… complicated,” you admit, the word tasting bitter. “I’ve made it very clear to him too, that I need time to explore these connections. I don’t know when, or even if, I’ll come to a decision.” Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to keep going. “Right now, I just don’t want the burden of commitment. And I know that probably sounds just as awful hearing it as it does saying it.”

Seonghwa’s throat bobs, his gaze steady but unreadable.

“I care about you,” you continue, softer now, your chest aching with every word. “A lot. Which is why I need to be honest with you. You deserve at least that much from me.”

Seonghwa’s lips press into a thin line as he listens, and you can see the flicker of hurt cross his features no matter how carefully he tries to hide it. His chest rises and falls once, twice, before he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For being honest with me.”

Your stomach twists. It’s not the response you expected, and somehow that makes it worse.

“I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting,” he goes on, voice steady but gentled at the edges, “because it does. I meant every word I said to you. But if this is what you need—time, freedom, space to discover yourself—then I’ll respect that.”

Your throat burns, and you can’t look at him for fear of breaking all over again.

He shifts slightly, his eyes softening even through the ache. “I care about you too, Y/N. That doesn’t go away just because it hurts right now. If anything, it makes me want to step back and let you breathe.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze. The sincerity there nearly undoes you.

Seonghwa straightens his shoulders, pulling in a steadying breath. “So, explore. Figure out what you need. If I’m meant to be part of that picture in the end, I’ll be here. If I’m not… then at least I’ll know you found the happiness you deserve.”

His words are like a balm and a blade all at once—healing and wounding in equal measure. And it makes you realise, painfully, that this is what sets Seonghwa apart. Even when his own heart is breaking, he refuses to hold you back.

“Thank you. I appreciate you, Hwa.”

The words barely make it past the tightness in your throat. He nods once, composed again in that way only Seonghwa can manage, and then turns toward the door. You don’t stop him this time. The soft click of it shutting behind him feels like an echo in your chest.

You stay there for a few minutes, hands braced against the desk, dragging in shaky breaths until your heartbeat begins to slow. The silence feels cavernous after the storm that just passed. When you finally straighten, your eyes fall on your phone lying face-up on the desk. And then it all comes rushing back. Your pulse spikes.

You snatch it up, unlocking the screen with trembling fingers. The call log stares back at you.

Last call, Hongjoong. Duration: 20 minutes. Ended: 7 minutes ago.

Your stomach plummets. Seonghwa had been in the room with you for at least fifteen. Which means Hongjoong…

You cover your mouth with your hand, nausea twisting your gut. How much had he heard? Your panic claws up, thoughts racing faster than you can catch them—Hongjoong’s voice, Seonghwa’s confession, your own desperate admissions, all blurring together into one suffocating loop. But you have no time for this. Not now. Not when your first evaluation of the day is set to start in just over an hour.

Forcing yourself into autopilot, you smooth down your blouse, pinch your cheeks lightly to chase away the pallor, and square your shoulders. You tuck your phone back into your blazer pocket, burying the chaos with it.

Then you turn and walk out, every step measured, your face composed, as though you aren’t splintering inside. You head toward your office, repeating the same mantra under your breath. Focus. Work. Control.

You’re already seated when the knock comes, sharp and rhythmic. Before you can answer, the door swings open and in strolls Wooyoung, leaning casually against the frame with that grin that always makes your stomach flip, no matter how much you wish it didn’t.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says lightly, eyes glinting as they sweep the room before settling on you. “Guess I’m due for my turn under the microscope.”

You force yourself to maintain composure, smoothing an imaginary crease in your skirt. “Come in, Wooyoung. Take a seat.”

He obeys, but not without flair—collapsing into the chair opposite you, sprawling comfortably like this is his lounge and not a controlled evaluation environment. His arms fold across his chest, and he tilts his head at you. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk since… well.”

The silence thickens. Both of you know what “since well” means. The stairwell. His mouth on yours. The way Yunho and Seonghwa walked in.

Your stylus hovers above the tablet, but your throat is dry. “This is supposed to be a professional session, Wooyoung.”

“Professional?” His brows lift. He leans in slightly, smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry, I can play professional. Just thought maybe we’d… acknowledge the elephant in the room before we get started.”

His tone is teasing, but you see it in the way his knee bounces once, the way his eyes flicker a fraction too long over your face. He’s hiding nerves, same as you.

“We can talk after the evaluation.” Your voice is firm, though your eyes plead with him to understand.

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s testing whether you mean it. Then, to your surprise, he simply nods. “Ok.”

Just that. No grin, no wink, no remark to twist the knife. The most straightforward answer Wooyoung has ever given you. It throws you off balance.

He shifts in his seat, posture suddenly composed, almost stiff. The smirk vanishes, replaced with an expression you rarely see from him—focused, obedient. As you guide him through each section, he follows instructions fully, without a shred of sarcasm. The usual witty remarks that punctuate every conversation are nowhere to be found.

At first, you’re relieved. But as the minutes tick by, unease creeps in. It’s like the menace inside him—the gleam that makes him unpredictable, infuriating, magnetic—has taken the day off. He’s not needling you, not poking for a reaction, not circling you like he always does. He’s just… quiet. And somehow, that unsettles you more than any flirtation ever could.

The forty-five minutes feel more like forty-five hours. Each exercise ticks by with excruciating precision, Wooyoung sitting straight, following every instruction to the letter. No jokes, no sly glances, no double-edged comments slipping past his lips. Just silence and obedience.

You should be relieved—it’s the easiest evaluation you’ve done so far—but instead, the minutes crawl across your skin like static. The absence of his usual energy leaves the air heavy, almost suffocating.

Little do you know, Wooyoung isn’t doing this for the evaluation. He’s doing it for you.

He hadn’t realised it until that kiss in the stairwell; the taste of your lips seared into him like a brand. For most of his life, people had come and gone without weight—men, women, flings picked up like souvenirs and discarded just as easily. He never let himself care. Attachment was messy. Commitment was a chain.

But you… When he walked into the room today, it was like his heart stopped, stuttering in his chest. He wanted to be the version of himself you could trust, the one you wouldn’t immediately write off as a risk. For once in his life, he wanted to show he could behave.

And so, he does. For the entire session, Wooyoung keeps the menace tucked away, locking down every instinct to tease, to test, to push. He keeps it all buried, because he can’t stop himself from wanting more of you. Even if it means suffocating in silence for forty-five endless minutes.

You close the tablet with a soft click, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. “That’s everything. Thank you, Wooyoung—for how smoothly this went.”

He leans back in his chair, a faint, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “It’s the least I could do.”

When you glance up, ready for one of his usual quips, you’re caught off guard. His eyes aren’t playful—they’re sincere, steady, searching yours like he’s trying to read beyond your practiced composure.

“How are you anyway?” he asks, voice quieter now. “The stuff outside…” He trails off, shaking his head like the words taste wrong.

You straighten, schooling your features. “I’m okay. It’s just a gossip train.” You force a small shrug, though your heart is still hammering from earlier. “Although I am interested to know who planted it. Someone must be out for my blood.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tenses at that, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. He doesn’t press, but the way his eyes linger on you makes your skin prickle—as though he’d burn down the paddock himself if it meant protecting you.

“I’m sorry for kissing you.”

The words burst out before you can stop them, raw and clumsy, hanging in the air like smoke.

Wooyoung doesn’t even blink. “I’m not.”

Your eyes snap up to his, and he holds your gaze, steady and unflinching, as if he needs you to understand he means every syllable.

“I know you’ve got a lot going on right now,” he says, voice low but sure, “but I want to throw my hat in the ring.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“I’m no stranger to competition,” he continues, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. “And I know that with me, you’d never be bored. But I also know boundaries.” His mouth quirks, but there’s no humour in it—only conviction. “So, if you feel the spark between us—the one I know is there—why not try me for size too?”

The room feels suddenly too small; the air charged with the weight of his audacity. You’re left frozen, heart thudding, because beneath the cocky phrasing is something startlingly real. Wooyoung doesn’t just want to tease, or take, or play. He wants in, and that thought terrifies you almost as much as it thrills you.

“Woo… I have to be more careful now.”

“Then we’ll be careful.” His answer is immediate, matter-of-fact, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You inhale slowly, thinking it over. You do feel the spark. It’s electric, easy, impossible to ignore. With Wooyoung, things are fun, reckless, carefree. Another thread to the already tangled web you’ve woven, yes, but since when have you ever shied away from bad decisions?

Your thoughts are spinning when his voice cuts through, teasing and warm. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

You quirk a brow, narrowing your eyes just slightly. “And that is?”

He leans back in his chair, spreading his arms wide like he’s about to unveil a grand plan. “Come to mine later. I’ll cook for you, show you how much boyfriend material I have.” A sly grin spreads across his face, the familiar glint returning to his eyes. “Then… dessert is up to you.”

And just like that, the menace, the mischief, the Wooyoung you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world is back in front of you, smiling like he already knows you’re going to say yes.

Your lips press together in a half-smile, half-grimace, because the truth is—you just might.

“Will there be expensive red wine?” you ask, smirking over the rim of your tablet.

“Copious amounts,” he fires back without hesitation, his grin spreading like he’s just won something.

Then he bites his lip—slow, deliberate—and the small motion sends a shiver darting down your spine. He clocks it instantly, of course he does, and his smirk deepens.

“Then I wouldn’t miss it.”

The words slip out lighter than you intend, but the spark in his eyes catches them, fans them into something sharper. For a second, the room feels thick with promise, the air alive with the thought of what tonight might bring.

“See you tonight then, baby.”

Wooyoung pushes to his feet, smooth and unhurried, every inch the man who knows exactly what effect he’s having on you. He strolls to the door, hand already on the handle when he glances back over his shoulder.

“I’ll book you a cab. Wear something pretty.”

The fox-like grin that flashes across his face is gone in an instant, but it lingers in the air long after the door clicks shut.

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head as you rise from your chair. Stretching your arms above your head, you let out a long sigh. This is going to be… interesting.

Very interesting.

A few hours later you’re refuelling before your last evaluation of the day. Thank God there are only three left now—the whole process has tested your patience and your own mental resilience as much as theirs. You don’t have enough time to trek down to the paddock café, so you settle for the office coffee machine, watching the dark stream drip into a paper cup.

“Hey.”

You glance up to see Isla sliding in beside you, her blonde hair a little mussed from the long day.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Today feels like it’s dragging on, huh?” she sighs, reaching for a cup.

“You could say that,” you murmur.

Her face falls a fraction. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I forgot about this morning. I hope you know most of us have ignored it. It’s none of our business what goes on in your personal life.”

You nod once, moving aside to grab a stirrer and swirl creamer into your cup. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She fills her own, fiddling with the machine a moment before she speaks again. “I… I did want to ask you something though.”

You look up from your cup, cautious. “Yeah?”

She rubs the back of her neck, sheepish. “Is there something going on between you and Mingi? Because… I was going to ask him to go on a date with me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. A hollow silence stretches. You shake your head finally, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “No… we used to—” You catch yourself, biting down hard. “No. Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, acrid and sharp, but you manage to deliver them with something resembling composure.

“Thanks, Y/N.” She smiles, relieved, and you smile back—though yours doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

You snap the lid onto your coffee and walk back toward your office, each step heavier than the last. Steam curls from the cup in your hand, but it’s nothing compared to the quiet steaming in your chest. It shouldn’t matter what he does, not when you’re tangled up with four other men already. Not when you’ve told yourself again and again you don’t want commitment.

But it does, and that unsettles you more than you’re willing to admit.

You spend the next hour trying—and failing—to will Isla’s words out of your head. They buzz like static in the background as you prep for the final evaluation of the day, refusing to leave you in peace.

All the files sit open in front of you on your desktop, names highlighted neatly in a column. San. Seonghwa. Jongho. Hongjoong. Wooyoung.

Each one holds a different piece of your heart, scattered like shards of stained glass. Some platonic, some not. Some raw, some tender. Each evaluation a different battle—testing not just their resilience, but yours.

You lean back in your chair, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes until stars burst behind your lids. God, you’re tired.

You can’t help but wonder who will be the next through the door. It would be easy with Yeosang. He’s your anchor, your constant. He would sit there with his patient calm, let you breathe, maybe even let you laugh again. That’s exactly what you need today.

Yunho, though… Yunho would be harder. Especially with the way he looked at you in the stairwell, seeing you tangled with Wooyoung. The hurt he tried to hide. Facing him now would be like walking barefoot across glass.

And Mingi—your stomach knots at just the thought. You don’t even want to think about it.

You close your laptop with a soft snap, inhaling deeply as you force yourself upright. Whoever walks through that door next, you’ll handle it. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But of course, the easy option was never available to you. The knock comes sharp against the wood, and your heart stutters in your chest. You know, before you even say “come in”. You know.

The door creaks open, and there he is—Mingi. Almost as tall as the doorway itself, filling the room with his presence before he’s even crossed the threshold. It knocks the wind from your lungs, the careful composure you’ve been clinging to crumbling instantly.

He shuts the door behind him, unhurried, and takes the seat across from you. His movements are calm, deliberate, but his eyes—his eyes never leave yours. They pin you in place, a weight you can’t shrug off.

“Nothing between us, huh?”

The words are smooth, almost casual, but the bite beneath them cuts deep. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The accusation hangs in the space between you like smoke, thick and suffocating.

“No.” Your voice is steel, clipped and certain.

His mouth twists into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Then you won’t mind if I take Isla out, right? Not that I should even be asking you, considering you’ve slept with half the paddock.”

The words detonate between you. You slam your palm down onto the desk, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just leans back in his chair, eyes locked on yours, sharp enough to cut. “Oh, I know. We never got that far, did we?”

Your chest rises and falls violently, fury boiling in your veins, memories clawing at the edges of your mind. The late nights, the tension, the way it always almost was but never became.

“And whose fault is that?” you hiss, voice trembling with the weight of years unsaid.

Something flickers across his face—hurt, regret, something unguarded. But it’s gone as quickly as it appears, buried beneath the hard set of his jaw. The silence that follows is electric, the air thick with everything that could have been and everything that still burns, unresolved.

“Since when did you and Hongjoong swap places?” you bite out, chest still heaving. “What happened to you, Mingi? You’re not like this.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes widen—surprise flickering through the cracks—but then his scowl snaps back into place. “What’s that supposed to mean? Things back on track with you and wonder boy again?”

“Enough!” The word rips out of you, sharper and louder than you intended. It bounces off the office walls, reverberating in the silence that follows.

Mingi stiffens.

You lean forward across the desk, voice dropping into cold steel. “You’re here to undertake a mental resilience evaluation. If you choose not to take this seriously, it’ll go down on your record permanently and affect your stats. I suggest you tone down this newfound personality for forty-five minutes.”

The fire in your eyes pins him in place, and for the first time in the session, he doesn’t have a quick retort ready. His jaw works, shoulders tense, but he bites down on whatever he was about to say. The silence between you is jagged, fragile, but at least—for now—you’ve wrestled the upper hand.

“Alright, get on with it.”

His tone is clipped, flat, but the anger simmering under it ripples across his face in flashes—tight jaw, twitch of his brow, the muscle in his cheek jumping like a ticking clock.

You say nothing. Silently, you pull up the first exercise on your tablet, the instructions scrolling across the screen. You’ve barely managed a few words when his hand cuts through the air between you, palm up.

“I know how to do it.”

The dismissal stings, but you bite your tongue, leaning back in your chair. Fine. If he wants to get through this on autopilot, you’ll let him.

The session carries on like that. Little to no interaction, him glancing at the exercises, you quietly marking his progress. The only sounds are the scratch of your pen against the tablet and the occasional huff of breath from him.

But it doesn’t take long for the cracks to show.

Mingi is always tight. Precise. His movements in simulations are second nature—clean, controlled, like he was born to do this. But not today. Today, he fumbles. His grip falters. His focus slips. You watch him closely, noting each misstep. It’s obvious his mind is elsewhere. And though he’s trying to hide it behind scowls and clipped words, you can see it—the storm brewing just beneath his skin.

So, you let him finish. You don’t interrupt, don’t press, don’t even glance up when he falters. You simply note it down on the tablet, your expression unreadable. Every slip of his hand, every mistimed reaction—recorded without comment. If he wants to stew in his own storm, so be it.

The air between you is thick, prickling with words unsaid. His scowl deepens with each passing minute, and yours hardens in response. It’s not worth the fight—not today. You’re too tired, too worn down to wrestle with whatever this is, whatever grudge or wounded pride he’s clinging to.

By the time the forty-five minutes crawl to an end, the room feels suffocating. He completes the final exercise with a little more force than necessary, like he’s driving the point home, then leans back in his chair, arms crossed.

You don’t look up as you save the file. “That’s all.”

Silence.

He pushes back from the desk with a scrape of metal on tile, his chair legs shrieking across the floor. You slump back in your seat, dragging your hands over your face. You’re sick of it—this constant back-and-forth, the sharp edges and old wounds. You don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this.

“Do you really believe there’s nothing between us?”

Slowly, you look up. “No,” you admit, voice flat, “but I told you at the smoking shelter—we should keep things professional between us now.”

The silence stretches, taut and ugly. You can feel him bristling across from you, the words balancing on the edge of a blade. So, you twist the knife.

“Plus, you have Isla now.”

That does it. His hand leaves the door handle, and in two strides he’s looming over your desk, his shadow falling across you.

“You think I give a shit about Isla?” His voice is sharp, venomous.

“Well, if you don’t,” you snap back, refusing to flinch, “then you were just doing it to get a rise out of me.”

“Everything I do is for you!” His chest heaves, his voice rising, cracking on the edges of control. “I wish I could just get you out of my fucking head!”

You stare up at him, silent, the weight of his confession pressing down. His anger, his desperation—it thrums through the air like static, but you refuse to let it shake you.

Finally, you exhale, slow and steady. “Mingi, whoever this is you’re turning into, I don’t like him. I’m an adult. You’re an adult. It doesn’t matter who I’m fucking, or who you’re fucking.” Your voice sharpens; steel threaded through every syllable. “I don’t want to make any decisions right now. So, either you understand that… or you leave.”

The words hang between you, final and immovable.

“I—” His voice falters, the sharp edge of his anger giving way to something rawer. “I’ll call things off with Isla.”

“I don’t care about Isla.” Your gaze narrows, unflinching. “I’m not calling things off with anyone else, so why should you?”

His jaw works, teeth grinding, before the words tumble out. “Because I don’t want her. I want you. Even if that means watching you with… them.” His voice wavers, cracking on the final word, as though the admission itself costs him everything.

The silence that follows is suffocating, heavy with truths neither of you wanted to face here, in this sterile little office.

You nod once, slow and measured. “Ok.”

His chest rises sharply, as though he’s been holding his breath this entire time. “Ok,” he breathes, softer this time, almost like he’s trying to convince himself it’s enough.

The mission had been brutal. Not because the opponents were strong—nothing of the sort. It was the mess of it that soured Akaza’s temper. Weak humans clawing for survival, children screaming, blood soaking the wooden floors of their shrine.

He’d tried to make it quick. Efficient. He didn’t enjoy carnage. Not like some of the others.

Not like Douma.

The other Upper Moon had arrived late. As always. Glittering fan in hand, robes untouched by filth, a too-wide smile plastered across his perfect face. He made a spectacle of it—twirling through the chaos, laughing as he cleaved flesh from bone like a dancer pirouetting on a stage built of corpses.

Akaza had said nothing at the time. He’d simply turned his back once the deed was done, muttering something about Muzan’s commands, and vanished into the churning corridors of the Infinity Castle.

But the fury had followed him. Gnawed at him. It wasn’t just Douma’s cruelty—it was the mockery. The way he’d winked at Akaza as he dipped his hands into the bloodied altar. The way he whispered, “You missed a spot, Akaza-dono,” as if they were sharing some private joke. As if this—death, filth, demonhood—was something worth smiling over.

Akaza’s footsteps echoed now as he stalked down one of the empty wings of the castle, fists clenched, teeth grinding. He needed solitude. Space. Time to remind himself why he endured this—why he still held some fragile tether to control.

But he wasn’t alone. Of course he wasn’t.

The halls of the Infinity Castle were always shifting, but tonight, they seemed to bend around Akaza’s rage—doors slamming closed without cause, lights flickering, floors stretching long and lonely beneath his bare feet. His blood still hummed with battle, but it wasn’t the satisfying high of a clean kill. It was tainted. Polluted by the echo of laughter. His laughter.

Akaza came to a stop in a narrow corridor lined with paper doors and endless shadows. One hand braced against the wall, the other curling into a tight fist at his side. The scent of blood still lingered—iron-rich, cloying, wrong. Not from his own hands, but from the trail Douma had carved like an artist painting with viscera. And still, Akaza had said nothing. Just clenched his jaw and walked away. Again.

A soft rustle of silk broke the quiet. He didn’t have to look to know.

“You followed me,” he growled, not turning.

Behind him, Douma clicked his tongue. “Mmm, not quite. I simply appeared. The castle likes me better, you know.”

Akaza spun, sharp and sudden. “Get out.”

But Douma only smiled—lazily, almost bored. He leaned against the doorframe like he’d wandered into a conversation, not a confrontation. His robes were spotless, as always, and his fan fluttered idly in one hand like it held no weight at all.

“Come now,” he purred, tilting his head. “You seem upset. Did I do something to offend you, Akaza-dono?”

The mockery was barely veiled, laced with that eternal, infuriating sweetness. As if he wasn’t standing ankle-deep in the blood of innocents just an hour ago. As if he didn’t wear that hollow smile like armour.

Akaza’s fists trembled. “You—” He cut himself off. Words would do nothing. Not with him.

But Douma stepped closer, fan closing with a crisp snap. His eyes—those eerie, crystalline eyes—never left Akaza’s face.

“I saw the way you looked at me,” he murmured. “After I tore the priest’s spine out. You were practically burning, my dear Upper Three. Was it anger? Or…” His voice dropped lower. “Was it something else?”

Akaza’s control snapped like glass underfoot. In a blink, he closed the distance, seizing Douma by the collar and slamming him back into the nearest wall. The plaster cracked, but Douma didn’t flinch. Didn’t resist. He only laughed, breathless and delighted.

“There it is,” he whispered. “There’s the fire I wanted.”

“Shut up,” Akaza snarled, his face inches away, breath ragged. “Don’t speak to me like you know me. You don’t know anything.”

Douma’s smile softened. Just a little. “But I do. I’ve watched you for over a century, Akaza-dono. I know what makes you tick. What makes you ache.”

His fingers grazed Akaza’s wrist, featherlight.

“And I know,” he whispered, “that there’s more than hatred in the way you look at me.”

Silence.

For a moment, neither moved. The castle around them fell still, holding its breath.

Then—

Akaza shoved him harder, as if he could crush the words out of existence. But his hands didn’t leave Douma’s robes. His grip was tight. Desperate. Like a man holding back a flood.

“You’re sick,” Akaza spat. “You play at love and meaning, but you feel nothing.”

Douma’s smile faded, and that was new. Rare, even. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Perhaps. But that’s never stopped you from looking at me like you want something.”

Akaza’s chest rose and fell too fast. He could smell the cold sweetness of Douma’s skin—too close, too cloying. His fingers curled tighter in silk.

“Say one more word,” he warned, voice hoarse, “and I swear I’ll—”

“What?” Douma’s gaze dropped to Akaza’s mouth. “Kiss me? Kill me? I’ve been waiting over a century to find out.”

That was it. The final fraying thread of Akaza’s restraint snapped. He let go of Douma’s robes like they’d burned him, stumbling a step back, chest heaving. His hands hovered in the air as if they weren’t his own, as if he no longer trusted them.

“Don’t—” he choked, voice rough and jagged. “Don’t do that.”

Douma tilted his head, mask slipping back into place. “Do what, my dear?”

“Don’t pretend you understand me,” Akaza spat, each word like broken glass in his throat. “Don’t talk like this isn’t a game. Like you feel anything.”

He turned, running a hand through his hair, trying to claw his way back to clarity. But everything was too loud. Too close. The scent of blood, the lingering warmth of Douma’s body against his hands, the echo of that damnable smile behind his closed eyes.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Douma’s voice drifted from behind him, featherlight but sharpened at the edges. “Oh, Akaza. You’ve never been good at hiding yourself. You act like I disgust you, like you can’t stand to be near me. But you never leave for long, do you?”

Akaza turned sharply, fury blooming in his chest like a second heartbeat. “You want the truth?” he growled. “Fine.”

He crossed the space between them again, not touching, but close enough to suffocate.

“You make me sick,” he snarled, eyes blazing. “I see you and I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin. You twist everything—every word, every glance, like it’s some kind of performance. And I hate you for it. I hate you because…”

His voice faltered. Because the truth was a blade he’d never dared unsheathe. Douma watched him, quiet now. Unblinking. Waiting. Akaza’s fists clenched at his sides. When he spoke again, his voice was low. Raw.

“Get out of my sight.”

Douma blinked. Slowly. “Oh?”

“Now,” Akaza barked, every muscle in his body wound tight, as if he was holding back something far more dangerous than a punch. “Before I do something I can’t take back. Before I kill you. Because if you stay here—if you say one more word—I swear to Muzan, I will.”

He meant it… Or maybe he didn’t. He didn’t know anymore. The lines were blurring too fast. All he knew was that if Douma touched him, spoke to him, looked at him like that again, something would snap, and not even centuries of hatred could stop what would follow.

Douma’s eyes glittered in the dark. But for once, he didn’t smile. He bowed his head slightly, as if in mock deference—or maybe something else.

“I see,” he murmured, voice quieter than usual. “How tragic. You feel so much… and still think it’s only hate.”

Then he turned, fan fluttering open once more, and disappeared into the shadows without another word. Leaving Akaza alone in the corridor, fists trembling, breath ragged, heart racing with something far more dangerous than anger.

He didn’t know how long he walked.

The corridors stretched endlessly, rooms folding in on themselves, but Akaza barely noticed. His feet moved of their own accord—silent, sharp—like a hunter stalking prey. Only there was no one left to kill. Not really.

He slammed his fist into a wooden pillar as he passed. The impact splintered it, sent shards clattering to the floor, but it did nothing to dull the ache in his chest. His head was a storm. A mess of fragments he couldn’t string together—expressions, touches, words that burrowed under his skin like splinters.

“Perhaps… but that’s never stopped you from looking at me like you want something.”

“You never leave for long, do you?”

“How tragic. You feel so much… and still think it’s only hate.”

He hated him. He hated him.

Didn’t he?

Akaza dragged a hand through his hair, claws digging into his scalp. It was easier to focus on the sting of that than the chaos inside him.

He’d spent countless decades hating Douma. No, more than that—despising him. Everything about him. His cruelty. His emptiness. The way he wore charm like a mask and dismemberment like an art form. Douma didn’t feel. He didn’t mourn, didn’t care, didn’t understand. He was hollow. A mockery of existence.

So why the fuck did Akaza still remember the exact pitch of his voice from moments ago? Why could he still feel the silk of his robes between his fingers, the frozen scent of him clinging to the air like fog? What was different about tonight?

He’d seen Douma kill before. Hundreds of times. Thousands. He’d been called to missions alongside him, listened to his sugarcoated nonsense, brushed him off like a nuisance. But this time—this time he couldn’t brush it off.

Because Douma hadn’t just been toying with him tonight. Not really. There’d been something in his voice—beneath the teasing, under the smirk. A flicker of something real. A break in the mask. A line crossed not for sport, but because something inside him had shifted, too. And that terrified Akaza more than anything.

Because it meant Douma might’ve been telling the truth. It meant this wasn’t one-sided anymore.

“Fuck,” he whispered, punching the stone wall hard enough to split the skin of his knuckles. Blood dripped down his wrist, but it was already healing. Always healing. The body repaired. The mind rotted. He sank to a crouch, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes burning. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t breathe.

For the first time in a century, Akaza wasn’t sure if what he felt for Douma was hatred or something else entirely. That was the difference. Tonight, Douma hadn’t just gotten under his skin. He’d gotten in.

The summons came in their usual way; sudden, wordless, and impossible to ignore.

Akaza didn’t hesitate. He could feel Muzan’s presence like a nail in the base of his skull—pulling, commanding. It always made his stomach twist, even after all these years.

By the time he arrived in the audience chamber, the other Upper Moons had already gathered. Kokushibo stood at the base of the steps, silent and unmoving. Hantengu’s echoes trembled in the shadows. Nakime plucked softly at her biwa in the corner, expression blank.

And Douma—

Akaza’s jaw tensed.

Douma was lounging at the far end of the chamber, golden eyes flicking toward him the moment he entered. No smirk this time. Just a subtle tilt of the head, a glint of something unreadable in his gaze. Akaza didn’t look twice. Didn’t speak. He took his place near the centre, eyes fixed forward.

Then Muzan appeared. The air turned colder, thicker. As though time itself held its breath. He materialised like mist congealing into flesh—flawless, inhuman, magnificent in his loathing.

“You disappoint me,” Muzan said, and his voice was quieter than a whisper—but it filled the room like a scream. “You bask in your ranks as if they are gifts. But you are weapons. Blades. Tools. And tools that rust are broken and replaced.”

None of them spoke.

“You will prove yourselves,” he continued, eyes cutting across each face. “Or you will suffer. That is all.”

Nakime plucked a final chord. A doorway opened in the air.

Muzan turned his gaze toward Akaza. “Upper Three.”

Akaza stepped forward without hesitation. “Yes, Muzan-sama.”

“You and Upper Two will go north. There is a slayer faction building beyond the mountain village of Kirisawa. Wipe it clean.”

The silence cracked like lightning. Akaza felt it like a blow to the chest.

You and Upper Two.

Behind him, Douma made a soft sound of delight. Akaza didn’t turn, didn’t flinch. Only bowed his head lower.

“Yes, Muzan-sama.”

Muzan’s voice dropped colder. “Fail, and I will make eternity a prison you cannot escape.”

Then he was gone. Just like that. The weight of his presence lifted, but the air didn’t ease. The tension remained, thick and blood-slicked, as Nakime’s biwa strings echoed into nothing. Akaza turned on his heel, already heading for the portal.

“Akaza-dono,” Douma called sweetly. “No congratulations? We’re partners again! I do so love our bonding missions.”

Akaza didn’t stop walking. “Touch me,” he growled, “and I’ll rip your arm off.”

Douma giggled. “You already tried that once. Maybe this time, I’ll let you succeed.”

They disappeared into the portal side by side. Bound by command, driven by violence, and stalked by something far more dangerous than hatred.

The air in Kirisawa was sharp with winter. A village tucked into the mountains, cloaked in snowfall and silence. The portal dissolved behind them as Akaza stepped out into the forest’s edge. Pines bowed under the weight of snow, branches creaking softly in the stillness. The moon cut through the trees in slivers, casting ghost-pale light across the frost-covered ground.

Douma followed leisurely, exhaling a dramatic sigh as his geta crunched against the snow. “Mmm, what a charming little place. So quaint.”

Akaza didn’t respond. He was already scanning the terrain—eyes narrowed, senses stretched wide. The scent of human fear hung faint in the air, trailing from the direction of the village below. Then came another scent. Stronger. Familiar.

Blood. Fresh. Not far.

Akaza turned sharply, boots cutting deep into the snow. He broke into a run, Douma trailing behind at a skip.

They found them just beyond the treeline: three humans, two of them barely adults. A man lay crumpled on the ground, throat torn. Beside him, a young girl sobbed into the chest of her sister—both wide-eyed, trembling, frozen in place.

Douma landed lightly on a nearby rock, crouching like a cat. “Ah. A family reunion gone terribly wrong, I see.”

Akaza was silent, jaw clenched. The younger girl couldn’t be more than fifteen. She stared at them both like she already knew death had come.

Douma tilted his head. “Shall I?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

Akaza glared. “Do what you want. Just don’t drag it out.”

He turned, already moving away—but Douma’s voice stopped him.

“You know,” he called, tone too light to be casual, “I’ve always found it fascinating how beautiful women bother you so much more than anyone else.”

Akaza froze.

Slowly, he turned back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Douma stepped down from the rock, fanning himself lazily. “You always get that tight, angry little look whenever I touch one. Like your teeth hurt. Like you’re about to vomit. Is it guilt, I wonder? A sliver of humanity left?” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Or is it because they’re women?”

Akaza’s fists curled. “Don’t push me.”

“But I must,” Douma sang, taking another step closer to the terrified girls. “Because I can’t tell if it’s a moral compass rattling around in there—or if it’s the ghost of your mortal life whispering that women are sacred, untouchable. Something to protect.”

Akaza said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

Douma looked back at the girls. The older one had stepped in front of the younger now, arms outstretched, eyes wide with defiance despite the tremor in her hands. He studied her for a long moment.

Then turned away.

Akaza blinked. “You’re not going to kill them?”

Douma smiled over his shoulder. Not his usual grin. Something smaller. More deliberate. “No.”

“You never leave survivors.”

“True,” Douma mused. “But tonight, I’ve already had my fun.”

He wandered back toward Akaza, brushing past him with a whisper of silk. “Besides,” he murmured, “I’m far more curious about what you’ll do next.”

The sound of the girls’ footsteps had long since vanished into the trees, swallowed by snow and silence. Akaza remained where he stood, jaw tight, breath leaving him in slow, heavy clouds. The cold bit at the back of his neck, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He’d just watched Douma let humans live. Two girls, no less. The Douma he knew—Upper Rank Two, devourer of beauty, collector of pretty little things until they broke—would have killed them simply for breathing too loud. But tonight? He hadn’t even raised a hand.

A few paces ahead, Douma adjusted his robes with a hum, unbothered by the blood drying at his collar. Then, without looking back, he spoke.

“Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder. “Muzan-sama would be dreadfully unhappy if we didn’t carry out his little task.”

Akaza’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You think this is a joke, don’t you?” he muttered.

Douma turned just enough to glance back, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “No. I think it’s fascinating.”

“Fascinating?”

“Yes,” he said lightly. “You. Me. This.” He gestured vaguely between them. “There’s something so thrilling about the unknown. You’ve never been predictable, Akaza-dono. But tonight?”

He took a few steps closer.

“You watched me let them go. And you didn’t stop me. You didn’t threaten me. You didn’t even snarl.”

Akaza’s teeth ground together. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“I don’t need to,” Douma said, almost gently. “You’re already unravelling on your own.”

He was too close again. Not touching—but close enough that Akaza could smell him. Cold lotus and blood and something else. Something he’d never wanted to identify before.

“You’re wrong about me,” Akaza said, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not like you.”

“I know,” Douma murmured. “That’s why I like you.”

For a long moment, they just stood there. Two monsters, centuries old, staring across a chasm that had always existed between them—until tonight. Then Douma turned again, this time more softly, his voice lighter once more.

“Come now,” he said, stepping back into the trees. “There’s still a village to burn. I promise I’ll leave the women untouched, if it makes you feel better.”

Akaza didn’t answer. But after a few seconds, he followed. Not because of Muzan. Not because of duty. But because he needed to know. What the hell was Douma doing? And worse—why did it feel like part of him wanted to understand?

They found the slayers just past the main road—huddled in the ruins of an abandoned shrine, armed with rusted blades and righteous delusion.

There were maybe ten of them. Young. Too young. Not a single Hashira among them. Not even a ranked slayer, from the looks of it. They didn’t even see them coming. One moment, the wind whistled gently through the broken beams of the temple.

The next—screams.

Akaza didn’t even bother activating his technique. There was no need. These boys hadn’t faced anything beyond the occasional feral, low-rank demon—and even then, half of them probably missed their strikes more than they landed them.

The first to fall tried to shout a command. His neck snapped before the word left his throat. The second aimed for Douma, blade trembling in both hands. He didn’t even flinch when it pierced his robe—just laughed softly and crushed the boy’s ribcage with one elegant motion.

From there, it was nothing but blood and silence. Two minutes. Maybe less. When the last one dropped to the snow, twitching in a widening pool of red, Douma exhaled a soft sigh.

“Well,” he said, shaking crimson from his fingers, “that was anticlimactic.”

Akaza said nothing. He stood near the edge of the clearing, breathing steady, arms slick to the elbow with blood. One of the hunters had tried to run—he’d caught him by the throat and slammed him into the shrine wall so hard the wood cracked like dry bone.

Douma stepped over a severed arm, hands clasped behind his back like he was admiring a painting.

“I almost feel bad,” he mused. “They were children, really. Not a drop of decent technique between them.”

Akaza’s voice was cold. “Then you should’ve left them.”

Douma raised a brow. “You didn’t.”

“They were slayers,” Akaza snapped. “That’s different.”

Douma gave a soft hum, unreadable. “If you say so.”

He knelt beside one of the bodies, brushing dark hair from a bloodied face. “No mastery of their breathing style at all,” he murmured. “Poor thing. They should have stayed home.”

Akaza turned away, jaw tight. There was no glory in this. No challenge. No reason for his heart to be pounding like this—but it was. Not from the fight. From him. From the way Douma moved through carnage like it was choreography. From the way he looked at Akaza afterward, all amusement and something else—something still.

“Are you satisfied now?” Akaza asked sharply, voice low.

Douma stood slowly, eyes meeting his. “Not even close.”

Snow still drifted lazily from the sky, each flake catching the faint glow of the moon. The scent of blood was beginning to thicken, turning metallic in the cold air—bodies already stiffening where they’d fallen. But Akaza didn’t look at them. He stood just outside the ruins of the shrine, gaze pinned to the treeline. Still. Sharp. Watching.

There was a gnawing sensation at the base of his spine, low and cold and steady.

This was too easy.

Ten untrained boys. No Hashira. No breathing forms worth naming. Not even a competent strategist among them. It hadn’t been a battle. It had been a clean-up. And Muzan didn’t send Upper Moons for clean-up. He knew that.

Muzan knew everything. So why? What was the purpose of this mission?

Beside him, Douma dipped one talon into the pooling blood at his feet, swirling it with an idle hum like he was drawing a sigil in the snow.

“Wondering why we were sent here?” he said without looking up.

Akaza didn’t answer.

Douma smiled. “You always get that look when something doesn’t make sense. Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that hasn’t even been handed to you yet.”

Akaza said nothing. His shoulders were tense, muscles coiled like wire.

Douma’s voice dropped lower. “I admit, I was curious too. Surely even Muzan-sama wouldn’t waste both of us on such a pitiful little task.”

Still, Akaza remained silent. Peering into the darkness. Waiting. Because he wasn’t convinced they were alone, not yet.

Douma stood, brushing his hands together delicately. “Perhaps it’s a test,” he mused. “Of our… cooperation.”

Akaza’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp.

Douma grinned. “We have been a little dysfunctional lately, haven’t we?”

Akaza’s silence stretched thinner. He didn’t trust this—any of it. Not Muzan’s orders, not the dead-end mission, and certainly not the way Douma was still watching him when there was nothing left to kill.

His eyes returned to the forest.

“Do you sense anything else?” he asked, low.

Douma tilted his head. “No. But then again, I’m not the one whose instincts are currently screaming.”

Akaza’s jaw tensed. The gnawing feeling hadn’t gone away, and Douma wouldn’t stop talking. The blood was still steaming in the snow, the moon high above casting silver shadows across the carnage, and he just kept talking. Casual. Cheerful. Cruel.

“…And really,” he mused, idly tossing a severed blade into a pile of limbs, “if we’re being honest, they were never going to survive. Poor little darlings. All that bravery, wasted. But I suppose it’s so fitting that you and I were the ones to end it. A poetic duo—death and frost, flesh and—”

“Enough.”

The word cut through the night like a blade.

Douma turned, still smiling. “Hm?”

“I said enough.”

Akaza’s voice was a growl now, low and ragged and rising with every breath. Douma made an amused sound, then opened his mouth to retort.

Enough.

With a blur of motion, Akaza was on him—shoulder crashing into Douma’s chest, driving them both down into the snow with a force that cracked the earth beneath them. But he should have never been able to land the blow. Although it pained him deeply to admit, Douma was faster. Stronger. He always had been.

But he let it happen.

Now Akaza hovered above him, breathing hard, his thighs straddling Douma’s hips, forearm braced against his collarbone. His other hand fisted in Douma’s robes, half-torn from the fall.

And Douma? He was smiling. Smiling like he’d just won something. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks, blood streaked beneath his eyes—and his tongue swept slowly across his lower lip.

“Well,” he purred, “this is new.”

Akaza’s heart was a war drum. His body a contradiction of instinct and shame and something darker, something clawing its way up his throat like hunger. He looked down and realised just how compromising their position was—bodies flush, Douma pinned beneath him, his own breathing laboured in the space between them.

Akaza flinched back, fury and confusion flaring in his chest. He moved to rise—but Douma’s hands snapped up around his biceps like iron shackles, fingers digging in hard enough to pierce his flesh. The pressure sent a jolt through his bones.

“Get off,” Akaza snarled, twisting.

Douma’s grin widened. “Funny,” he whispered, voice a silk-covered knife. “You were the instigator here.”

And in the blink of an eye—it changed. Akaza didn’t even have time to breathe.

Douma rolled, a sudden, fluid twist of motion, and Akaza’s world flipped upside down. His back hit the snow with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and now he was the one pinned, arms splayed, Douma straddling him like a throne. The shift was effortless. Humiliating. Intimate. Akaza bared his teeth, but Douma only tilted his head.

“See?” he murmured, leaning in just enough that his hair brushed Akaza’s cheek. “You play at control, but your body betrays you every time.”

Akaza thrashed, but Douma’s grip was unyielding. And still, beneath the tension, the hatred, the heat—something quivered in the air between them. A breath too long. A heartbeat too loud.

Neither of them moved, not yet. But then Douma leaned in. Closer. Closer still. His breath ghosted over Akaza’s cheek, warm and sweet, tinged faintly with blood and winter frost. His laugh followed—light and airy, like musical notes spun into the breeze.

“I can hear your heart thundering in your chest,” he whispered. “How delightful.”

Akaza scowled, thrashing beneath him, but Douma’s grip only tightened, fingers digging in like shackles made of ice.

“You’re imagining things,” Akaza growled, voice ragged.

Douma tilted his head. “Am I?”

Slowly. With deliberate grace. His mouth dipped to Akaza’s neck, hovering just above the racing artery beneath his skin. His lips didn’t touch—not at first. Just a whisper of presence. A promise.

Akaza went still. Not from fear, from something far more dangerous.

Then—he bit. Fangs sank into flesh with cruel precision, piercing deep, and Akaza’s breath hitched—a strangled, involuntary sound breaking from his throat as hot blood erupted against Douma’s tongue. His hips bucked beneath him, body jerking, betraying him in the worst possible way.

Douma moaned, low and soft, as if Akaza’s blood was wine and sin all at once. He drank slowly. Leisurely. Not out of hunger—but for pleasure. Akaza groaned again, this time through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut as pain mingled with something else—something he didn’t want to name.

He could feel Douma’s smile against his skin.

When the wound began to close, regenerating like all demon flesh does, Douma drew back. Blood stained his lips, his chin, the delicate white of his collar. And his eyes—those cursed, beautiful eyes—blazed. With mischief. With hunger. With something that looked dangerously close to desire.

In one smooth motion, he dragged a single claw along the fresh seam of skin—just enough to reopen it, to collect another bead of blood. Then, with maddening slowness, he smeared it across Akaza’s cheek—his mark, red against pale skin. He dipped the same finger into his mouth. Sucked. Lingered.

“Delicious,” he purred, lips wet. “I knew you’d taste like battle and heartbreak.”

Akaza snapped. He surged upward, teeth bared, forcing Douma back an inch—but still trapped. Still pinned. Still seething with something tangled between fury and heat.

“I will kill you,” he snarled, voice shaking. “I swear I’ll tear you apart.”

Douma’s smile softened—not mocking, but knowing.

“No,” he murmured. “You won’t.”

He leaned in once more, foreheads nearly touching.

“Because if you meant it, Akaza-dono… you wouldn’t be trembling.”

It happened in an instant. Akaza, panting, furious, humiliated, aroused, reached up with trembling hands then seized Douma by the back of the head and ripped him forward. His teeth sank into the pale column of Douma’s throat—deep, brutal, tearing—not like a demon feeding but like a beast claiming. Douma gasped, a sharp, high sound of pain-turned-pleasure as blood gushed into Akaza’s mouth. His claws responded instinctively, raking through Akaza’s scalp and tearing skin as they curled into his skull. Flesh peeled. Blood spattered. Neither of them stopped.

Akaza spat a thick chunk of flesh to the ground beside them, jaw slick, teeth red, breath trembling. And Douma… Douma moaned. Face slack, eyes fluttered shut, ecstasy etched into every line of him. He opened them slowly and stared back at Akaza like he’d been reborn.

Akaza’s chest was heaving. His mouth smeared with blood. His pride shattered.

Douma’s smile returned—fanged, feral. And then—with enough force to pulverise a mortal body into pulp—he shoved. Akaza’s back slammed into the earth with a force that cracked rock, creating a crater beneath his spine. His collarbone shattered, a sickening crack echoing through the forest. White-hot pain bloomed through his chest.

His hands flew upward, out of instinct, reaching for Douma’s throat. But Douma moved first. He dipped his head, slow and deliberate, and licked the blood from Akaza’s lips.

Akaza froze, and for one suspended moment, time fractured. In that brief flicker of hesitation, Douma struck. His lips parted, and he sucked Akaza’s bottom lip into his mouth. Bit down—hard. Blood welled again.

Akaza’s eyes rolled back. A strangled, broken sound tore from his throat—half snarl, half moan—and before he could even register it, his hands weren’t attacking anymore. They were pulling. Gripping.

Fingers curling around Douma’s waist, dragging him closer. His body betrayed him, and Douma didn’t let up. He kissed him like a predator—messy, possessive, tongue tracing the wound he’d just created, lips parting over Akaza’s with heat and hunger.

“You’re mine,” Douma breathed between kisses, voice hoarse, no longer sweet. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Akaza’s claws dug into his back, but he didn’t push him away. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to anymore. So, he kissed him back. Hard.

Akaza surged up, lips crashing into Douma’s with brutal force, hands tightening around his waist as if he could tear him apart or keep him close—he didn’t know which. Their mouths moved with frantic violence—biting, tasting, panting between kisses. The snow beneath them melted from body heat alone, steam rising between growls and gasps.

It felt wrong. So wrong it burned. So wrong, it felt right.

Akaza moaned low in his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Douma responded with a growl of satisfaction, grinding down into his lap like he wanted to fuse their bodies together. Fangs scraped lips. Nails clawed flesh. They were losing themselves.

Neither noticed the air splitting behind them. Neither felt the pull of space warping, a presence reaching through dimensions like a hand through silk. Not until the ground vanished beneath them.

And then—they were falling. Akaza tore from Douma’s grasp mid-descent, the cold suddenly replaced with dizzying, oppressive heat.

By the time they landed, the air was thick with power. Akaza hit the stone floor hard, knees digging into polished obsidian tile. He barely caught himself on his hands. Douma landed opposite, graceful as ever, spine perfectly straight, not a hair out of place.

The silence that followed was crushing. Then—a voice. Low. Terrifying. Patient. Deadly.

“So this,” Muzan said, “is what becomes of two of my most trusted creations.”

Akaza froze. Douma’s smile flickered, just for a second.

Muzan stood atop the stairs of the audience chamber, his gaze colder than the void beyond life itself. Unblinking. Unforgiving. Watching them both.

“You were sent to destroy a threat,” he continued. “Instead, you debased yourselves in the snow like rutting animals.”

Akaza’s breathing was still erratic, chest rising and falling far too fast. He tried to speak—but no words came.

Douma chuckled, softly. “You called us back so soon, Muzan-sama. We were in the middle of—”

Muzan was in front of him before he could finish. Douma’s face snapped sideways, blood spraying across the tile from a blow too fast to see.

“You forget your place,” Muzan said, voice like crushed bone.

Then he turned his gaze to Akaza, and it was worse. Because he said nothing at all. He just stared. Piercing, knowing.

Akaza dropped his eyes to the floor. His lips still burned, his hands still trembled. And inside, where no one could see, a terrifying truth pulsed like a second heartbeat. He’d wanted it. And he’d want it again.

The silence after Muzan’s blow was suffocating. Douma still knelt where he’d been struck, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, staining the pristine white of his collar. His head was bowed, golden hair veiling his expression—but the corners of his lips twitched upward. He was smiling.

Akaza hadn’t lifted his head once. He remained where he’d landed—on his knees, back rigid, hands pressed to the cold obsidian floor. His throat was tight. His breathing forced through clenched teeth. The taste of Douma still lingered on his tongue.

The echo of Muzan’s presence crushed against his spine.

“If you hadn’t carried out the task set, you would cease to exist.”

His words fell like ash.

“Get out of my sight.”

Akaza’s nails dug into his palms. He forced himself upright, head still bowed, and turned without a word, disappearing into the shifting hallways of the Infinity Castle. His feet were silent. His pride was in ruins.

Douma rose more leisurely, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He spared a glance toward Muzan—but didn’t meet his eyes. That would’ve been foolish. Still smiling, he bowed. Deep, elegant. And then followed Akaza into the dark.

Akaza sat on the stone floor, legs folded, hands resting on his knees. His breathing was controlled—but just barely. The edges of his vision pulsed with every heartbeat. He was still bleeding, somewhere beneath the skin. Not from wounds. From memory.

He kept seeing it. The glint in Douma’s eyes. The bite. The sound he made when their lips finally collided. The way his body had responded, traitorous and desperate.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t who he was. He was a warrior. A demon. A weapon forged by loss, hate, pain. He wasn’t someone who let his enemies crawl into his blood like a virus.

He wasn’t someone who liked it.

You’re mine. You just don’t want to admit it yet.

He inhaled sharply, deeper this time, grounding himself. Trying to remember who he was before tonight. The castle was silent around him. Endless stone, still air. A cocoon. A cage.

Until—

Tap.

A soft sound above.

Tap.

Something shifted in the darkness above the high ceiling. Barely audible. Like breath. Akaza’s eyes snapped open.

Douma dropped from above, silent as snowfall, landing in a crouch just a few feet away. Like a cursed bat, or a spectre summoned by desire and denial. Like he’d never left his side at all.

Akaza was on his feet in an instant, blood roaring back to life in his veins.

“You’re not welcome here,” he spat, voice low and cracked.

Douma rose slowly, fluid and feline, robes still stained from the mission, his hair tousled from the fall. He smiled, soft and dangerous.

“You say that,” he purred, “but your body said something very different earlier.”

Akaza’s fists clenched. “Get out.”

Douma stepped closer, unbothered. “You look shaken. Poor thing. Are you… meditating?”

He gestured lazily to the circle Akaza had left in the dust on the floor. “You were centring yourself, weren’t you? How precious.”

Akaza didn’t speak. His chest was rising too fast. His hands trembled.

“You can pretend this was nothing,” Douma continued, voice silken and slow. “That it was just blood. Just instinct. But we both know it wasn’t.”

He took another step forward.

“Come here.”

Douma stood in the low light of the chamber, robes darkened with old blood, his hair tousled from the fall, but his expression—his eyes—were crystalline control. His gaze pinned Akaza like prey. Still. Unmoving.

“I’m waiting.”

The silence between them stretched thin. Too thin. Akaza’s pulse was thundering again. Just like before. His body tensed—not in defense. Not yet. In something that tasted too much like anticipation.

He should say no. Should snarl, rage, lunge. But his feet didn’t move.

Douma tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward—not quite a smile. Not yet. Just the hint of one. As if he already knew Akaza was about to betray himself.

“I let you pin me earlier,” he said softly. “Do you want to see what it feels like when I don’t hold back?”

Akaza didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was dry, his fists still clenched. But his legs—

He took a step forward. Douma’s eyes flashed. Like a star refracting through broken glass.

“Good,” he murmured. “Again.”

Akaza’s jaw locked tight.

“I said,” Douma’s voice cracked like a whip, slicing clean through the stillness,

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command dressed in silk and steel.

Akaza moved before he could think—before reason could catch up to instinct. One step, then another, until there was no space left between them. They stood chest to chest, breath mingling, heat coiling between their bodies like smoke.

Then—snap. Douma’s arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around Akaza’s throat with crushing precision. Not enough to cut off air—just enough to remind him who held control. Akaza let out a low, strangled sound—half-snarl, half-moan—his hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to strike or cling.

Douma leaned in, breath brushing over Akaza’s cheek, his smile a blade sheathed in pleasure.

“You want me to show you, don’t you?” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “Oh, what a delicious turn of events.”

His grip tightened, just slightly, thumb tracing the rapid pulse at Akaza’s throat.

“Akaza,” he purred, “the proud, untouchable Upper Moon Three… now willingly and completely—” He dipped closer, lips nearly brushing his ear. “—at my mercy.”

“Please.” The word tore itself from Akaza’s throat—raw, rasping, broken. Crushed between Douma’s fingers, it barely made it out.

But it was there. Real, undeniable. And it was all Douma needed.

He froze for half a second, stunned into stillness—then let out a laugh so violent, so unhinged, it ricocheted off the stone walls like thunder cracking bone. His head snapped back, neck arched, muscles straining as the sound tore through him. Not delight. Not amusement. Euphoria.

“You begged,” he hissed through laughter. “Oh, Akaza, you begged.”

His smile returned, sharp as ever—wider now, feral, eyes glowing like fractured gemstones.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he purred, voice dripping with glee.

Then he crashed forward. His lips smashed into Akaza’s with bruising force—teeth clashing, blood spilling anew between mouths already split from violence.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was possession.

Akaza gasped against him, choking on breath and heat and shame, but his hands moved again—grabbing Douma’s sleeves, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away. Douma moaned into his mouth, delight blooming in every fibre of him as he deepened the kiss—tongue slick with blood, claiming every part of Akaza’s resistance and swallowing it whole.

The kiss shattered whatever was left of Akaza’s self-control. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t loving. It was violent, fuelled by over a century of rage, repression and something else neither of them had ever dared name. And Douma drank it all in. He pressed harder, teeth grazing split lips, tongue curling past Akaza’s as if to stake a claim. His hands—once so delicate, so composed—were everywhere now. One tangled in Akaza’s hair, yanking hard enough to draw another strained gasp. The other slipped beneath torn fabric, dragging claws down his spine, slicing through muscle with practiced care.

Akaza groaned, the sound low, guttural, desperate. He should have thrown Douma off. Should have fought, snarled, escaped. But instead—he leaned in.

His hands gripped Douma’s hips, claws biting through silk and skin alike, and pulled him flush. Their bodies collided—blood-warm, battle-scarred, trembling with hunger not fed by flesh alone.

Douma laughed against his mouth, breathless and electric. “There you are,” he whispered, voice a reverent curse.

He kissed him again—deeper now, less violent, but no less consuming. His hips rolled against Akaza’s with slow, devastating rhythm, and the groan it tore from the demon beneath him was involuntary.

Akaza arched up into him, neck bared without thought—offering. And Douma didn’t waste the chance. He dipped low, fangs grazing the already-healed wound at Akaza’s throat, then bit down again. Blood surged into his mouth, and he moaned, obscene and trembling, as if this—this—was the moment he’d waited 137 years for.

Because it was.

Akaza gasped, hands flexing against Douma’s back. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire, flooded with sensation, heat, shame, need. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to want this. But now, with Douma above him—on him—smiling like the monster he was, Akaza couldn’t remember why he’d resisted for so long.

“Say it,” Douma murmured against his throat. “Say you want this.”

Akaza’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Say you want me.”

A pause. A moment of silence. Then—

“…I want you,” he rasped. Barely audible. Broken.

But Douma heard it, and he lit up.

“Oh, Akaza-dono,” he purred, licking blood from his lips. “You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.”

And he dove back in.

Clothing shredded under clawed hands, torn from skin like it had no right to be there. Akaza barely registered the fabric scattering to the floor—his mind was fog, his body fire.

Douma was everywhere. Mouth against his throat, his collarbone, the curve of his chest—biting, licking, marking. Each scrape of fang pulled a new sound from Akaza’s lips; a gasp, a grunt, a helpless moan he’d never made in his existence as a demon.

He was on his back, legs parted by Douma’s knee, body writhing beneath him, and not once did he try to stop it.

“Look at you,” Douma whispered, dragging his tongue along the ridges of Akaza’s ribs, blood-slicked and gleaming. “The mighty Upper Moon Three… trembling like prey.”

He grinned, baring bloody teeth.

“And you love it.”

Akaza didn’t speak. His voice had been reduced to ragged breathing and curses slurred through gritted teeth. But when Douma dipped lower—tongue flicking, claws digging into his hips—Akaza arched, back lifting off the stone floor as his hands flew into Douma’s hair.

Douma groaned in return, delighted by the reaction, and shifted between his thighs—grinding down, slow and intentional. Flesh to flesh. Nothing between them now but heat and blood.

“Beg for it again,” Douma murmured against his stomach. “Say it like you did before. Say please.”

Akaza growled, twisting in frustration, but it wasn’t rage. It was desperation. It was need.

“Please,” he hissed, clawing at Douma’s shoulders. “Do something—”

Douma sank his teeth into the inside of Akaza’s thigh in response.

Akaza cried out, head snapping back, his body jolting under the sudden surge of pain and pleasure. The wound healed instantly, but Douma only laughed again, licking the blood from his lips as he moved back up.

“You’re exquisite like this,” he whispered. “All mine.”

Then he lined himself up, dragged the tip of himself along the crease of Akaza’s body—and thrust in.

Akaza howled.

There was no other word for the sound he made—raw and guttural, ripped from the deepest part of him as Douma seated himself fully, forcing Akaza’s body open with no pause, no mercy. His claws scraped the floor. His eyes rolled back. His lips parted in a snarl that dissolved into a moan.

Douma didn’t wait. He set a pace that was punishing, relentless, perfect. Each thrust sent Akaza’s body sliding against the stone, each drag of Douma’s hips angled to strike that one spot deep inside him that made his thighs twitch and his hands clench into fists. The pain was exquisite. The pleasure was worse.

“Say it again,” Douma demanded, voice breaking with lust as he leaned down, mouths inches apart. “Say you want me.”

Akaza stared at him, eyes glassy, lips bloodied—and said nothing. So Douma bit his lip—hard.

“Say it.”

Akaza gasped, bucking up to meet him, finally snapping—

“I want you,” he growled. “Fuck, I—need you.”

Douma snapped his hips forward at that, harder than before, and they both shuddered. Their bodies moved in perfect violence—matching rhythms, trading sounds, both monsters reduced to something primal and ruinous and so painfully alive. Blood smeared across skin. Teeth marked shoulders. Hands gripped hips and hair and anything they could anchor to while the world narrowed to nothing but this.

When Akaza came—loud, breathless, writhing—it was with Douma’s name on his lips. Douma followed with a moan that vibrated against his throat, fangs sunk into Akaza’s shoulder as he spilled inside him, shaking, lost.

The stillness afterward was worse than the storm.

Akaza lay beneath him, chest rising in jagged bursts, body twitching with the aftershocks of release. Douma didn’t move. He simply smiled—genuinely, for once—then licked the blood from Akaza’s cheek like it was the final touch on a masterpiece.

“Mine,” he whispered.

CHAPTER SEVEN - DOUBLE YELLOW

The first thing you notice when you wake is warmth. Strong arms looped around you, a steady heartbeat against your back. For a fleeting second, panic flares—until you catch the familiar scent of Yeosang’s cologne mixed with laundry-soft cotton. You remember last night, his quiet words, his promise.

You roll over to find him already awake, his cheek resting on the pillow, eyes blinking open lazily as you stir. He gives you a small smile—gentle, unassuming. “Morning.”

You stretch under the duvet, feeling safe in a way you haven’t in weeks. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.” He shrugs, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “Didn’t want to move in case it woke you. You needed it more than me.”

Yeosang slips out of bed first, tugging the hoodie back into place over your shoulders before heading into the kitchen. The sound of the kettle humming fills the silence, and a few minutes later, he reappears with two mugs.

“Black coffee for me,” he says, handing over the other with a tiny flourish, “and caramel latte for you. Just how you like it.”

You take a sip, the sweetness grounding you. “I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“Probably not,” he teases, a smirk tugging at his lips. But then it fades, and his tone softens. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

Later, when you’re finally ready, Yeosang takes your bag from you without a word and slings it over his shoulder. He drives you to the paddock, one hand steady on the wheel, the other drumming absently against the console in time with the music.

When he pulls up, he glances at you before you get out. “Text me if it gets too much today. I don’t care what time it is.”

You nod, throat tight. “Thanks, Yeo.”

“Always,” he says simply. And you know he means it.

The morning is strangely calm, no alarms ringing in your ears, no last-minute crises tugging you in five directions at once. You’re at your desk, scrolling through the evaluation prep notes for the day, highlighter poised in hand.

Yeosang is still there, perched casually on the edge of a chair opposite you. He’s not saying much—just idly tapping his fingers against the armrest, occasionally stealing glances your way. It’s comforting, and a little distracting.

Finally, you lower the highlighter and raise a brow. “You’re hovering.”

“Am I?” His expression is deliberately innocent.

“Yes.” You set the pen down, sighing. “You’ve got plenty to do with Aston Martin, and I’ve got prep to finish. You don’t have to babysit me.”

He doesn’t move, just tilts his head, studying you. “I’m not convinced you’re ready to be left on your own yet.”

The warmth of his concern makes your chest tighten. “I am. Yesterday was… a lot. But I’m here, and I’m fine. Promise.”

He hesitates, clearly fighting the instinct to argue, but then he nods. “Alright. But if you need me—”

“I’ll call,” you cut in softly. “Like I always have.”

Something flickers across his features—something fond, almost relieved. He reaches over, brushing his fingers against the cuff of his hoodie that still drowns your hands. You’d kept it on this morning, the weight of it grounding you. “Keep this, by the way. Looks better on you.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth lingers as he finally pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll see you later.”

The door clicks softly behind him, and silence fills the room once more. For now, it’s just you, your notes, and the looming weight of the evaluations.

The morning drags, your nerves prickling every time footsteps echo past the office door. You’re almost grateful when the knock comes, steady and polite, nothing dramatic about it.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and Jongho steps inside. A welcome weight lifts off your chest. His calm presence feels like cool water after fire. He closes the door softly behind him, then offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Morning.” His voice is even, warm. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make your life harder.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, slumping back into your chair. “Thank God. I don’t think I could handle another storm right now.”

He chuckles, settling into the chair opposite you. “I figured. That’s why I thought I’d make this easy.” He gestures to the tablet on your desk. “I know you’ve got all the official exercises lined up, but… why don’t we just talk for a bit first? No pressure, no tests.”

Relief washes over you. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course.” His tone is steady, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been through enough. Sometimes the best way to measure resilience is just seeing how someone holds themselves, not how many boxes they tick.”

You study him for a moment, realising how much you missed his grounding energy all these years. Jongho doesn’t play games, doesn’t needle or provoke. He’s honest, simple, steady. A rock in a sea of chaos.

You smile softly, a genuine one this time. “You always did know how to keep me sane.”

“Someone has to,” he replies with a faint smirk, but his eyes soften. “So. Why don’t you start with how you’re really feeling?”

“Oh, so now you’re evaluating me?” You let out a small laugh, trying to deflect, but Jongho doesn’t take the bait. He tilts his head slightly, eyes steady on you.

“Y/N,” he says, voice low and even, “talk to me.”

You drop your gaze to your hands, fingers worrying at the hem of your sleeve. You want to keep laughing it off, to keep pretending you’re fine. But Jongho’s tone doesn’t leave space for evasion. Not harsh. Not demanding. Just… patient. Unmoving.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you murmur.

“Then start with the truth,” he replies simply. “Whatever part of it you can manage right now.”

Your throat tightens. Of all people, Jongho feels like the safest to confide in—because you know he won’t repeat it, won’t twist it into something else. He just wants to understand. And maybe, deep down, you want someone to see through you.

“I’m… overwhelmed,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like I’m being pulled in eight different directions, and I don’t know which way is right anymore.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’ve always carried more than you should. You did back then, and you’re doing it now.”

That makes you laugh, watery and broken. “Guess I haven’t changed much.”

Jongho shakes his head. “No. You’ve changed. You’ve grown. But you don’t have to do it all alone this time.” His eyes lock on yours, unwavering. “Let us help you.”

For a moment, you want to believe him. Want to believe that leaning on any of them won’t send everything crashing down. But still, the guilt gnaws.

You sit in the silence for a while, letting the calm wash over you, until the faint tick of the wall clock draws your attention. You glance down at your watch and blink—the minutes have slipped by faster than you realised.

Clearing your throat, you shift slightly in your chair. “I, um… really appreciate this, Jongho. More than I can say. But—” you lift the tablet from the desk, tapping it awake—“we should probably get back on track. There’s still an evaluation to finish.”

A flicker of a smile tugs at his lips, small and knowing. “Fair enough.”

His tone is easy, no disappointment in it, no pushback—just acceptance. He leans back in his chair again, ready to shift gears without making you feel guilty for it. You find yourself grateful, not just for the conversation, but for the fact that Jongho never asks for more than you’re willing to give. He lets you set the pace, even here.

“Okay,” you say, scrolling to the next module, your voice steadier now. “Reaction drills first, then we’ll move to stress responses.”

“Got it,” he replies, his calm presence still anchoring the room as you both slip back into the professional rhythm.

You pass the tablet across the desk, the first exercise glowing on the screen. “Just tap the symbols when they flash.”

Jongho nods once, steady as ever. His hands are firm, deliberate, no hesitation in his movements. He’s not showy about it like San might’ve been, or competitive like Wooyoung always is. He just… does the work. Methodical. Grounded. The targets flash, and his rhythm never falters. Tap, tap, tap. Clean, precise.

“Your focus is impressive,” you note, logging the results.

He shrugs slightly, a wry smile tugging his lips. “Blocking out distractions is kind of my specialty.”

You don’t miss the way his eyes flick briefly to yours. He doesn’t press the point, though, and you’re grateful for it.

You scroll to the next module. “Stress response. Visual cues this time.”

He studies the screen quietly, his breathing even. When the prompts appear—flashing simulations of sudden obstacles, unexpected failures, pressure scenarios—he handles them the same way, with unshakable composure. Not unaffected, but unbroken. He acknowledges the difficulty without letting it control him.

“Doesn’t rattle you, does it?” you murmur.

“Of course it rattles me,” he says simply, glancing up at you. “But being rattled doesn’t mean I stop moving. You just keep going. Even when it hurts.”

The words strike deeper than you expect, a mirror to the mess inside your own chest.

The last section is reflection-based. Questions about coping strategies, mindset, emotional resilience. He answers thoughtfully, without embellishment, every word grounded in truth. When you ask what motivates him to keep pushing forward, he doesn’t hesitate.

“My team,” he says. “The people around me. And knowing that if I don’t keep steady, someone else might fall apart.”

Your throat tightens, because you know he’s not just talking about the track.

The timer dings softly on your tablet. Forty-five minutes gone.

You clear your throat. “That concludes your evaluation. Thank you, Jongho.”

He leans back, folding his arms across his chest, giving you that calm, anchored smile again. “Anytime.”

And somehow, you know he means it—not just the evaluation. Anytime.

When he leaves, the office feels quieter, lighter. You realise you’re breathing easier, shoulders looser than they’ve been in days.

The rest of your day slips by in a way that almost feels unreal.

The café near the paddock—usually a war zone of interns jostling for position, has no line. None. You step right up to the counter, and the barista hands you your drink exactly how you like it. The first sip is perfect, the kind of balance that usually takes three tries and a polite complaint.

Meetings are short. Emails are light. Nobody corners you in the hallway, nobody lingers with searching eyes or knowing smirks. Even your phone stays mercifully silent, no buzzing with half a dozen messages demanding pieces of you.

For once, you’re just… left alone. And it unsettles you.

You should be grateful—after yesterday, after the breakdown in Yeosang’s arms, after nearly combusting under the weight of your choices—you should welcome the quiet. But every hour that passes without a ripple only makes the pit in your stomach heavier. It feels too easy, too still. Like the world is inhaling sharply, just waiting for the exhale.

It all makes sense the moment the door opens.

You’re back in the same room, tablet in front of you, chair angled just so. The silence has been needling you, the easy rhythm of the day pressing heavier with each passing hour. And now you know why.

Because the person who steps through the door is Hongjoong.

Your breath hitches. For a second, all you can do is stare, your stomach twisting itself into impossible knots. He looks the same and not the same—his posture sharp, his eyes too dark, but his mouth set in something unreadable. He closes the door quietly behind him, the sound echoing louder than it should.

Neither of you speak at first. The tension in the room is thick, pulling tight around your ribs. The tablet in front of you suddenly feels like a flimsy shield. Of course, this is why the day had gone so smoothly. Of course, the universe had been waiting to cash in its silence.

“Hello,” he says finally, voice clipped, controlled.

It hits you like a punch, because it’s not angry or venomous—just careful. Measured.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice not to crack. “Hi. Please, sit.”

He does, sliding into the chair opposite you with the precision of someone who’s spent his whole life mastering control. But you can feel it—the storm underneath, barely contained.

This was always going to be the hardest one.

“You’ve not answered any of my texts,” Hongjoong says quietly. His hands are folded on the table; knuckles pale with how tightly he’s keeping himself in check. “I was worried. Are you okay?”

There’s something in his eyes you can’t place. Not the simmering fury you’ve come to brace yourself for, not the sharp sting of his words designed to wound. No—this is something softer. Hesitant. It disarms you completely.

You weren’t sure if after that night at your apartment he’d slip back into his old habits—lashing out, burning every bridge before it could steady itself. And yet… so far, he isn’t.

“I’m just…” You take a breath, steadying yourself. “Overwhelmed. I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

He nods, but the crease between his brows tells you he doesn’t believe it. His gaze lingers on you like he’s trying to see past the words to the truth underneath.

“Well,” he says finally, his tone even, deliberate, “I’m here for a reason. And I don’t want to make your life any harder than it already is. So just tell me what you need from me, and I’ll do it.”

The words land heavy in your chest. It takes everything within you not to gasp, not to give away how much it rattles you. Because it’s so… unlike him. Mature. Considerate. Controlled in a way that isn’t about shutting you out, but about meeting you where you are. It almost knocks the air from your lungs.

“Yes, okay.” You force a breath past the lump in your throat, straightening the tablet on the desk. “The mental evaluation. I’m sure you’re very used to these at this point.”

Hongjoong inclines his head slightly, wordless, and waits.

You run through the plan for the session, listing out the exercises, the modules, the reflections he’ll need to complete. He listens intently, his gaze fixed on you the entire time, sharp but not cutting. When you finally cue the first task, he follows every instruction with quiet precision.

Reaction drills, stress simulations, focus prompts—he handles them all with the kind of measured control that’s made him Ferrari’s golden boy. His movements are exact, unflinching, his results impeccable.

But it’s not the scores you find yourself focused on, I t’s him. The way his lip catches lightly between his teeth when he’s concentrating. The subtle crease etching deeper into his brow as he works through a scenario. The quiet steadiness of his breath. And his clothes—different, softer. Not the sharp red of his Ferrari jumpsuit, but a large black hoodie, the sleeves pushed just enough to reveal the veins running stark against his hands, disappearing into the fabric again. The kind of casual armour you’ve rarely seen him in.

Your eyes trace the lines of his wrists, the curve of his knuckles, the twitch of muscle when his grip tightens on the tablet. You don’t even realise how intently you’re watching until he clears his throat. You jerk slightly, heat flooding your face, because now he’s looking back at you. Direct. Steady. Like he’s caught you in the act.

You scramble to regain composure, sliding the tablet toward him again, your voice sharper than intended. “Next task.”

He doesn’t comment. But you swear there’s the faintest flicker of something in his eyes as he obeys.

The timer dings, signalling the end of the forty-five minutes, but it feels like you’ve been sitting across from him for hours, fighting not to stare. A heat creeps up the back of your neck, betraying you.

Hongjoong looks up from the tablet. “Do you have much else to do?”

“Not really,” you answer with a sigh. “I think I’m probably going to head off for the day. This week has already been… a lot.”

Hongjoong leans back slightly, his hands folding together on the table. There’s a pause before he speaks, like he’s weighing every word. “Let me take you home?”

The directness of it nearly makes you choke—but then he corrects himself, softer. “Would you mind if I took you home? I noticed your car wasn’t in the lot. And… I have to leave right away anyway, because of the suspension. But I don’t want you to have to get public transport.”

The look on his face catches you off guard. Sheepish. Careful. Bizarrely tentative. This is Kim Hongjoong—Ferrari’s untouchable star, the man who usually commands a room without effort. Seeing him like this, asking instead of assuming, feels surreal.

You hesitate, your thoughts tangling. If someone saw you with him—especially Seonghwa or Mingi—it could spiral into another storm you aren’t ready to weather. But then his eyes meet yours, steady and quietly pleading, and your chest aches with the weight of it. Against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding.

“Alright,” you murmur.

The relief that flickers across his face is subtle, but real. And for the first time in days, you’re not sure if you’re walking into danger—or if you’re finally glimpsing the man you used to know.

Thankfully, the paddock is quiet. The usual noise and chaos seem to have shifted elsewhere, drills keeping everyone occupied across the compound. You quietly thank whoever’s listening for giving you an easy way out this time. No eyes. No whispers. No risk.

You slip into the passenger seat of Hongjoong’s black Ferrari F8 Tributo, the door closing with a smooth, heavy click. The leather smells sharp and new, the console sleek and flawless, but your mind drifts elsewhere.

Back to when you used to slide into the front seat of his old, beaten-up Subaru. The paint was chipped, the air conditioning temperamental, the radio half-broken. And yet, it had been yours and his. Nights spent with the windows rolled down, air thick with summer, music blaring through tinny speakers. His hand always resting, casual but certain, on your thigh. A silent claim. A quiet comfort.

The ghost of that memory coils tight in your chest.

“You ready?” His voice pulls you out of it.

You glance over, and for a split second, he looks like that boy again. The one you fell into so easily, before the world complicated everything.

You nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah.”

The engine purrs to life, deep and throaty, and he pulls smoothly out of the space. The quiet hum of the car surrounds you as the paddock slips away behind you, leaving you with nothing but the weight of memory, the low growl of the engine, and the man beside you.

Neither of you speak for a while, the car humming low beneath you, the quiet lull of the radio filling the silence. It’s almost soothing—until fate decides to twist the knife. The opening chords of a song you haven’t heard in years spill softly through the speakers. The Middle by Zedd.

You freeze. Of all songs, it had to be this one.

2018 feels like a lifetime ago, but the memory is sharp. Nights in his battered Subaru, both of you swearing you hated the song when it first hit the airwaves, only to play it on repeat until it became yours. The irony of the lyrics hits differently now, almost painfully.

Beside you, you hear him laugh dryly under his breath. Your eyes flick to him.

“That’s nostalgic,” he sighs, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

Unconsciously, your hand drifts up to the volume knob. You turn it up just slightly, the familiar chorus flooding the car. “You used to scoff at me every time I played this, but I knew you secretly loved it.”

His mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I loved it because you loved it.”

The words land heavy, stealing the air from your lungs. You can’t bring yourself to respond, so you stare out the window instead, the city-scape blurring as the song plays on, carving open every memory you thought you’d buried.

The song fades into silence, another track following, then another. You don’t remember any of them. The rest of the drive slips past in a haze, your mind floating somewhere between memory and the present.

When the car finally slows, pulling up outside your apartment complex, the purr of the engine feels too loud, too final.

Hongjoong shifts into park, his hands lingering on the wheel as though steadying himself. He doesn’t look at you right away, his gaze fixed forward, jaw tight. Then he exhales, low and careful.

“I just want you to know,” he says quietly, “that I’m here. And I understand if you never want to talk to me again, especially after how I’ve acted. But I want you to be okay. I care about you, more than you may realise.” His voice catches slightly, but he pushes through. “I don’t want to be that person anymore. You don’t deserve it. So, if you ever need me… I’m just a call away.”

The sincerity in his tone nearly knocks the air from your lungs. You turn your head, and when your eyes meet his, you see it there too—etched raw into the lines of his face. He means it.

Something breaks open inside you. Your voice comes out smaller than you intend. “Come up?”

He blinks, startled, then turns toward you fully. “Only if you’re sure?”

Your throat tightens, but you nod. “Come up, Hongjoong.”

The plea in your whisper is all it takes. He cuts the engine, the hum fading into silence.

You both step into the building, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the soft hum of the elevator as it carries you up. When you unlock your apartment and push the door open, Hongjoong follows, but he lingers just inside the entrance, shoulders tense, hands shoved into the sleeves of his hoodie.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong, and the sight tugs at you.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say gently, turning to him. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’m going to make some tea—do you want any?”

His lips twitch in the faintest smile. “I’d love some, thank you.”

You move into the kitchen, switching on the kettle, but before you can reach for the cupboard, he’s already there. Wordless. Smooth. Pulling down the box of tea you always kept on the middle shelf, just where you used to tell him to look.

The familiarity lodges in your chest.

He crosses the space again, opening the fridge without asking, hand closing around the oat milk tucked to the side like he’d only grabbed it yesterday. He sets it on the counter beside you, his movements unhurried, natural. As if the gap of years never existed.

You pause, fingers curling around the edge of the counter to steady yourself. It’s such a small thing—him knowing where everything is—but it feels like something bigger. A thread pulling taut between who you were then and who you are now.

When you glance at him, he doesn’t look at you. He just measures tea into the mugs, quiet and deliberate, like being here is the most normal thing in the world. And your heart aches, because part of you wishes it was.

“You go take a seat; I’ll bring them over.”

Something about the quiet authority in his tone disarms you, so you do as instructed, sinking into the couch. You hear the faint clink of mugs against the counter, the shuffle of his steps across the floor.

Moments later, he appears, pulling a coaster from the neat stack on the table and sliding it into place with the same precision he brought to every corner of his life. He sets your mug down carefully—your favourite mug, the chipped one with the faint floral pattern he used to tease you about. Then he does the same for himself, setting his mug down with equal care before lowering onto the opposite end of the couch.

The distance between you is noticeable. Intentional. He sits with his body angled just away, like he’s giving you space, a silent promise that he won’t press where he’s not welcome. It should make you feel safer. Instead, it makes your chest ache.

Because all you want to do is close the gap. To curl into him like you used to, tuck your legs beneath you and let his arms fold around you until the world outside didn’t matter.

You wrap your hands around the warm ceramic of the mug instead, grounding yourself in the steam curling up from the tea. The silence stretches, heavy but not unbearable, filled with everything unsaid. And it leaves you torn between gratitude for his restraint—and longing for him to break it.

You don’t even notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until Hongjoong leans forward, his face tight with alarm. “Y/N? Did I do something? I—” His voice cracks, panic bleeding through. He shifts like he can’t decide whether to move to you or stay rooted where he is.

“I…” Your words stumble, raw. “Everything is just such a mess. I’m so confused. And then you come in here, remembering where everything is, making me tea in my favourite mug, and then you sit all the way over there.” You gesture weakly at the space between you. “All I want you to do is come closer. Hold me.”

He starts to move, but you throw out a hand, stopping him mid-shift. The words tear out before you can swallow them. “But I’m sleeping with your friends. Yunho. San. Wooyoung. And yes—” your voice shakes, “you were right about Seonghwa too. I don’t deserve affection from you.”

The look on his face is like you’ve just carved him open. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens, and for a moment you think he’ll retreat. But instead, he pushes past your hand, gathers you into his arms, and pulls you into his chest.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” His breath shudders as he exhales, one hand pressing your face gently against him. His heart pounds hard enough that you feel it. “I don’t own you. I never did. You’re free to do what you want. If that means… exploring connections with other people, then so be it.”

The words scrape out of him, his jaw clenched so tight you know he doesn’t believe them. But he says them anyway, like he’s trying to will himself into being better.

He swallows hard, his voice quieter now. “Whatever happened between us back then… we were stupid kids. We grew up, and now we’re adults. But I still lo—” He stops, cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His arms tighten around you as though afraid to let go. “I still care about you. So much. And like I said in the car… I’m here. I’m so sorry. For all of it.”

The words hang between you, trembling with everything unsaid.

Your voice comes back in fits and starts, trembling. “I don’t want you—any of you—to think I’m leading you on. The things I’m feeling… the connections… I don’t want to stop exploring them. But you’re going to start wanting answers soon, and I’m afraid I won’t have them.”

Hongjoong’s hand slides slowly over your hair, smoothing it like he’s trying to iron out every crease in your voice. “I can’t speak for the others,” he murmurs, “but as much as it may pain me, any time I get to spend with you is worth it. I understand what you’re saying. But I don’t want to lose you again.”

The conviction in his voice shakes you. You peer up at him, searching his face, your breath shallow. “Are you sure?”

He leans down, pressing the lightest kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second before whispering, “I’m sure.”

Something inside you crumbles at the weight of it. You look at him for a moment longer, then without thinking, you tilt your chin and close the distance. Your lips brush his in a tentative kiss, gentle but loaded with years of ache.

You feel his breath hitch against your mouth. His hands tighten, just slightly, gripping onto you like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers. The warmth of him seeps into you, and you can’t ignore the heat that blooms in your belly, low and insistent.

He kisses you back with a hunger that makes your head spin, and you slide your trembling hands under the worn cotton hem of his hoodie, over the solid planes of his abs—warm skin pulled taut over muscle. You feel those muscles jump and tense beneath your fingertips like a current is passing through him, and he softly groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating between you.

"Y/N... you're upset. Don't you think—"

You slide your hands up the ridges of his spine, nails lightly grazing against his feverish skin, and his words dissolve into a shuddering breath. He shivers violently, eyelids fluttering closed, head tilting back.

"Y/N." Your name leaves his lips again, but this time it's a ragged whisper, the last thread of his self-control unraveling.

"Hongjoong," you echo back, your voice barely recognisable to your own ears.

His breathing fractures into shallow pants as he threads his fingers through your hair, the gentle scrape of his nails against your scalp sending electricity down your spine. When you shift in his lap, seeking closer contact, he bucks his hips involuntarily, the hard ridge of him pressing against you.

"Shit... I'm sorry. We shouldn't—"

"Joong," you interrupt, your lips brushing his as you speak, "you don't have to treat me like I'm delicate china. If you want me," your voice drops to a whisper, "I want you. So please."

You kiss him again, this time harder, teeth grazing his bottom lip, punctuating your sentence. "Touch me."

His restraint is a lie—he always was good at pretending, but you can feel the war in his body, the tremors in his hands as they skate up your sides, slow but not hesitant, learning the map of you all over again. It’s softer than you expect, a reverence in the way his palms mould to your waist, as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he presses too hard.

You push forward anyway, desperate, reckless, taking his lower lip between your teeth till he flinches, and that’s all it takes; he kisses you back so fiercely it leaves you gasping, air gone from your lungs, a memory of every night you ever spent tangled together. The tea on the table cools, forgotten. His hands slide under your shirt, thumbs glancing over the skin beneath your ribs until you’re burning, unmoored. You let him pull the shirt over your head and toss it somewhere—he doesn't even glance away from you.

He just looks, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorising the moment. You think he might say something, but instead his hands are on your bare waist, gentle, searching. The heat of his palms burns through you. When he dips his head to kiss along the seam of your jaw, your chest constricts, a gasp throttled in your throat.

You want to say you’re sorry, or maybe thank you; instead, all you can do is claw at the hem of his hoodie until he helps you, peels it off with a wild, single motion. Underneath, he’s the same—slim, defined, the tattoo you remember stretching up his arm like a dark river.

But he suddenly pulls back, breath ragged. "Not here. Not like this." In one fluid motion, he lifts you against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you into your bedroom. The mattress dips beneath your weight when he lowers you onto the edge of the bed.

For a moment he hovers there, standing between your knees, staring down at you as if you’ve become some impossibly complex equation only he can solve.

Your hands find the cold buckle of his belt, and he doesn’t stop you. You work the leather free, undressing him with hurried, shaky fingers, and when you finally unzip his cargos, the inhale he drags in is long and shallow, like he’s swallowing every ounce of fear and hope in the room.

He pushes his cargos halfway down his hips and then reaches for you, both hands ghosting up your torso, his thumbs grazing the exposed lines of your collarbone and up the column of your neck. You recall how those thumbs used to tilt your jaw so delicately, directing every kiss, every shiver along your skin, before you ever knew how much it would haunt you later.

You part your lips for him, and this time, his mouth is hungry in a way you’ve never seen. He mouths over your chin, along your neck. His tongue flicks behind your ear, and you gasp. The sound drives him; his hands knead into the small of your back, and he grinds against you, rutting just once as if it might be enough to split you open. You arch under him, desperate, and your bare skin presses to his, heat melting the last distance between you.

The way he touches you is a paradox—reverent and greedy, at once familiar and astonishingly new. He slides his hands under your thighs, spreading your legs wider, and you shiver, pulse stuttering in your throat. His thumbs trace slow, purposeful patterns up and down the length of you, mapping everything, learning the places you've become and the places you lost.

He mutters your name, half a question, half a prayer, and you answer him in a voice you don’t recognise, the syllable dissolving into his mouth as he kisses you again.

You surge against him, a sudden wave of power coursing through you. His momentary vulnerability ignites something primal—a chance you never had before when he always controlled every touch, every gasp. You tear his cargos down his legs, then press your palm hard against the rigid outline straining his boxers. His eyes lock with yours as you shove him backward onto the mattress, his pupils blown wide with equal parts desire and shock.

"Y/N, let me take care of you," he rasps, voice cracking.

You slide your hand beneath the elastic waistband, wrapping your fingers around his length. He's so hard it must be agony, pulsing against your grip. When he bucks violently into your hand, a strangled sound escaping his throat, he tries to rise, but you plant your other hand on his chest, pinning him down.

"Let me," you command, the words tearing from somewhere deep and desperate inside you.

He lets you, like he’s waited years to surrender to this moment, like he’s wanted nothing more than to finally let you in, let you have him trussed up in longing and need. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, head thrown back.

“You want to take care of me?” he asks, voice trembling, thick with need. “Show me, then.” He bares his throat like a dare, like an offering, and you take it.

You shift your body downward, lips trailing down his sternum, your breath hot and shaky as you trace the outline of his ribcage, each dip and rise a memory you never thought you’d touch again. He’s shivering beneath you, and every time you press your fingers into his skin, he shudders, hissing out your name. There’s something holy about the way he never breaks eye contact, even when the pleasure crests and threatens to drag him under.

You work his boxers down, slow enough that he’s shaking, then lean in and take him into your mouth, feeling him pulse on your tongue. He groans, threading his fingers tight through your hair, not guiding, just anchoring himself to you as you drag slow, deliberate circles with your tongue along the underside of him. You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper, and he arches, gasping out a curse that ends in your name.

It’s messy and desperate, but you like it that way; the slick, wet heat, the salt of skin and sweat, the involuntary way his hips jerk when you graze your teeth along his tip. You aren’t gentle, but you’re not cruel either. You give him everything, swallow every sound, marvel at the taste of him, the trembling in his thighs, the clench of his knuckles in the sheets beneath you.

You never imagined him like this, never imagined he could even be like this—the Hongjoong you remember was always fire and iron, always in possession of himself. Always the one who set the tempo, directed the game. But here, now? He’s unmade, trembling, pliant beneath your touch. His pride dissolved into sweet, desperate noises you never thought he’d let you hear. He whimpers so softly it’s almost a secret, rasps your name and begs for more—for anything, for everything you’re willing to give him. You watch, mesmerised, as the walls he once kept so rigid melt away in real time. His hands no longer gripping for control but fisting the edge of the sheets, his hips lifting to meet your mouth without shame or apology. He is laid bare in a way that has nothing to do with skin and everything to do with trust, with the raw and reckless hope that maybe this time, you’ll stay.

It’s a power you never thought you’d want but now that you have it, it seethes through you, making you bolder. Hungrier. You’re the one unraveling him, the one making him gasp and keen and come apart on your tongue. You learn quickly which touches make him curse, which angle makes his thighs quiver, which rhythm makes him cry out and shudder so hard it threatens to break him. You look up and catch his eyes, wide, glazed, and brimming with the kind of need that obliterates everything else, and it sends a jolt straight through you. You want to see how much further he can go, how much more you can take from him before he has nothing left to give.

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper, and his back arches off the mattress.

"Y/N, fuck—stop—I'm close," he gasps, voice breaking. His hair clings to his forehead in damp tendrils, but you only increase your rhythm. With a strangled sound, he seizes control, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape to pull you away, leaving nothing between you but a glistening thread.

"Too good," he murmurs, breath ragged. In one fluid motion, he strips away the last of your clothing and descends. His mouth finds you with devastating precision—hot, insistent—while his fingers work inside you, curving to stroke that perfect spot. The pleasure builds so rapidly it steals your breath.

"Hongjoong—" Your voice fractures around his name.

Your body goes taut as lightning courses through you, reducing you to incoherent pleas. Yet he continues, relentless, as you writhe beneath him. When you try to escape the overwhelming sensation, his palm presses firmly against your stomach, anchoring you while your nails leave crescent moons on his shoulders.

"Give me another," he commands, fingers moving with merciless intent. The pressure inside you builds beyond anything familiar.

"I can't—" you sob.

The release that follows is violent and unexpected—a flood that pushes his fingers away. His responding groan vibrates against your skin.

You’re trembling, breath still broken and legs boneless, when he cups your jaw and brushes his lips along your hairline. His palm is warm and steady, thumb gentle as it traces the salt-slicked curve of your cheek. Your pulse stutters under his touch, nerves still overloaded with what he’s just coaxed from you—a pleasure so sharp and sudden it left you wrung out, fragmented, a creature of pure sensation.

He gathers you up carefully, pressed chest-to-chest, and you realise the trembling is not just your own. His heart thuds wild against your ribs, in sync with yours, and there’s a faint tremor in his breath when he whispers, “Are you okay?”

The question is so soft, so unguarded, it makes your chest ache. You nod, but he holds you tighter anyway, as if he could pin the pieces of you together.

You want to say something clever, something light, but the only word you can find is “yeah.” Your throat is thick with it, your voice hoarse and unfamiliar. When you try to laugh, it comes out as a ragged gasp, so you bury your face in his neck instead. There’s a moment where you just breathe, pressed to him, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his skin and the steady rhythm of his thumb stroking your nape.

He waits, patient, letting you gather yourself, and when you finally lift your head, he’s looking at you with an intensity that borders on reverence. “That was—” you start, but the words tangle up again. “That was insane. I’ve never—” You can’t bring yourself to say it, but the confession lodges somewhere between your tongue and teeth, burning.

His lips quirk in a crooked, self-deprecating smile. “Too much?” he asks, but you can tell he already knows the answer. He strokes your hair, tucking a sweaty strand behind your ear, and murmurs, “Do you want to stop here?”

You blink at him, incredulous, and then you’re laughing for real—soft, wild, a little unhinged. “Fuck no,” you snort, and the look on his face surprises you. It’s part relief, part hunger, part something raw and fragile you’ve never seen in him before. “I’m okay. I need you—now.” The honesty of it makes you reckless, makes you ache for more.

He grins, and it’s like the sun breaking open after a long winter. “Yeah?” he says, and his hands slide up your sides. The taste of your name on his lips is a promise, a challenge, and a benediction all at once.

You dig your fingers into his back, pulling him tight against you, and he kisses you like he’s been starving for it. His mouth is hot and open, tongue insistent, teeth catching at your lower lip until you moan into him. The aftershocks of your orgasm are still rolling through you, but the fresh rush of arousal is a wildfire, burning away everything but want.

He rocks against you, erection slick and hard against your thigh, and you reach between you to free him from the last of his boxers. He groans, low and guttural, when you wrap your hand around him, the sound vibrating through your teeth. You guide him to you, lining him up, and it’s your turn to whisper, “Please.”

He presses his forehead to yours, sweat prickling at the hairline, and looks you dead in the eye as he pushes inside. The stretch is delicious, bright-edged, and he buries himself in you with shaky control, drawing a long, shattered breath. You clench around him and he shudders, hands gripping your hips so tight you think you might bruise.

For a moment you’re both still, locked together, just breathing in the heat of it. He kisses you again, softer this time, and you realise you’re both shaking—caught somewhere between battle and surrender.

Then he starts to move, slow at first, grinding deep with each thrust as if he’s trying to memorise the way you feel. The rhythm builds, faster, harder, until you’re both panting, chasing the edge together. You bite into his shoulder, nails digging into his back, and he just moans, fucking you harder, desperate and wild and achingly vulnerable.

When you come again it’s sudden, overwhelming, and you scream his name into the crook of his neck. He follows a heartbeat later, pulse throbbing as he spills into you, holding you so close you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

The world goes very quiet for a while, except for the frantic drum of your hearts, the slow collapse of your bodies into a tangled, sticky heap. You’re the one to break the silence, eventually, with a soft, incredulous laugh.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say, and you feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening around you like a vow.

“Will you stay?” you whisper, burrowing into the solid warmth of his chest, your cheek pressed to the faintly damp skin just above his heart. The question is half a plea, half a dare, and you hold your breath waiting for the answer. Afraid, perhaps, that he’ll vanish, or worse, revert to the closed-off Hongjoong you once knew.

He doesn’t hesitate. His arm curves around your shoulders, palm spanning the width of your back, and you feel his breath catch as he tucks you closer still. The words come out low and certain.

“Anything for you.” There’s a weight to it that goes beyond the moment, a promise that rings in your ears.

He places a soft kiss to your hairline, lingering as if imprinting the texture of your skin to memory. Then another, and another, until you’re giggling into his collarbone and the ache in your chest is replaced by a different kind of ache—one made of hope, of tenderness, of all the things you’d forgotten you could want.

You bask for a while in the simple pleasure of contact. His fingers travel up and down your arm in gentle, lazy arcs, mapping the outline of your shoulder, the dip of your waist. Every so often, he murmurs your name as if reminding himself you’re real, that this is real. You answer with small gestures; tracing the edge of his jaw with the back of your knuckle, nudging your nose into the hollow of his throat, clutching his hand in yours and refusing to let go.

The room grows quiet except for your intermingled breaths, the steady thump of his heart, and the rhythmic creak of the mattress when either of you shifts. There’s nothing to fill the silence but your own contentment and the faint hum of a world that, for once, feels very far away.

Eventually, you both settle, fused together like two halves of a whole, and there is a peace to it you didn’t know you could find.

You must drift a little, because the next thing you know you’re waking to his fingers smoothing the sweaty hair from your forehead, his voice even softer than before. “You look so cute when you’re sleeping,” he says, barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the spell.

“Did I fall asleep?” Your words come out in a dreamy slur, a giggle blooming out of you before you can stop it.

Hongjoong’s smile is soft around the edges, eyes crinkling as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he says, “for a couple minutes. I didn’t want to wake you up.” His thumb traces your cheekbone, lingering in a way that’s almost shatters you. He looks at you like you’re something precious, breakable, and it’s so at odds with the way he’d just torn you apart that it makes you dizzy.

You’re not used to this, the vulnerability of being seen in the aftermath. Naked in the sticky, unguarded sense, with all your defences peeled back. But Hongjoong doesn’t look away. Instead, he watches you with a hunger that’s both sated and insatiable, a kind of awe reserved for miracles and car crashes.

You burrow into him, cheek pressed to his collarbone, letting the quiet spool out between you. “We should… probably shower,” you murmur, glancing down at the tangle of limbs, sweat, and memory drying on your skin.

He hums, the sound reverberating through his chest and into your bones. “Or we could stay here,” he suggests, half-serious, half-playful. But then he kisses the top of your head and shifts, disentangling himself so you both slide from the bed in a tangle of limbs and shared laughter.

The shower is a blur of steam, soap, and the heady aftermath of what you’d just done. He washes your hair with gentle hands, working the shampoo into your scalp in slow, careful circles, and you want to melt into the tile. Every time his hands graze your hips or the slope of your back it ignites something low in your belly, a hunger that hasn’t even begun to burn itself out.

You lather his back, fingertips tracing the whorls of muscle and the faint marks you’d left there. Evidence, you think, of everything you’re not quite ready to put into words. When he pulls you in for a long, slow kiss under the spray, you let yourself believe—for just a moment—that you could live in this kind of evening forever.

He makes you ramen, because of course he does. You sit on the kitchen counter in an oversized t-shirt, legs swinging, watching as he fiddles with the stove like it’s a delicate instrument. He stands between your knees, chopsticks clacking, and feeds you first bite with a grin. It’s all so heartbreakingly ordinary—this man who once held your heart in your youth, standing in your kitchen half-naked, crafting dinner with the ease of familiarity, as if the chaos of the outside world had never intruded. Each clatter of the utensils stirs a bittersweet ache within you, a reminder of the laughter and warmth you once shared, now tinged with the sharp edge of how it all unraveled. The memories float between you like ghosts, beautiful yet haunting, echoing the joy that was intertwined with the pain of loss.

You wonder, not for the first time, how much this will hurt when it ends. The thought is a shadow at the edge of your vision, constantly looming, never quite banished by the heat of his hands or the taste of his mouth. You aren’t anywhere near making a decision, not with him, and certainly not with the tangle of others orbiting your life. But the feelings—the ones you swore you wouldn’t grow for any of them—are evolving by the second, too fast and too dangerous to ignore.

You clear the table and gather the bowls, your steps quiet on the kitchen tile, but Hongjoong moves in tandem with you—rinsing, stacking, reaching over your shoulder with a gentle tease or a kiss to your temple. The rhythm of his movements are so familiar you barely have to speak, communicating in glances and small touches, in the silent choreography of people who’ve shared years of meals and messes and midnight snacks. You never thought you’d find yourself in this scene again, standing side by side as if the intervening ache and absence had been nothing more than a fevered dream.

Once the last dish is set to dry, you stretch, a pleasant exhaustion radiating through your limbs, and Hongjoong’s arm snakes around your waist. He tugs you toward the bedroom with a lazy, possessive ease, the kind that makes you feel like you belong to someone and—more terrifyingly—that someone might belong to you.

You both collapse onto the bed, the sheets still warm from the afternoon sun, and he gathers you against his chest. Your bodies mould together instinctively; legs tangled, arms wrapped tight, his chin nestled into the crook of your neck. For a moment, you just breathe—the rhythm of his pulse steady against your back, the hush of his exhale in your hair. Your heart slows; your muscles uncoil. You can almost pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist, that there aren’t lives, lovers, and mistakes waiting for you beyond this room.

CHAPTER SIX - WEAR AND TEAR

You wake to the pale light of morning cutting through your curtains. The space beside you is already cold, the sheets smoothed where Yunho must have pulled them back into place before leaving.

Your apartment is silent—too silent—until you catch sight of the folded slip of paper on your nightstand. Thanks for last night. I hope you slept well. It’s signed simply with his name, his handwriting clean and deliberate.

There’s no bitterness in the note, no suggestion of expectation. Just a quiet, considerate departure that leaves you with more questions than answers. You sit there, the paper between your fingers, and the contrast hits you.

Seonghwa handles you like spun sugar, every touch deliberate, careful, as though one wrong move might make you shatter. Yunho… Yunho is the same, but in a way that feels more dangerous. He doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile—he treats you like you’re worth the effort, like he wants to hold the entire weight of you without setting it down.

Then there’s Hongjoong—storm in a suit, equal parts chaos and allure, his love language written in fire and ruin. He crashes into you, sweeps you under, and leaves you breathless, wanting, furious. And Mingi—God, Mingi. Almost just as bad. He burns hot, he fights for dominance without saying a word, but there’s a reckless kind of vulnerability in him that makes it impossible to truly hate the way he pulls you in.

You realise, with a sick sort of clarity, that each of them gives you something the others don’t. And that’s the problem—your heart keeps cataloguing them like pieces to a puzzle that shouldn’t even exist.

The note is still in your hand when you push out of bed, the faint scent of Yunho’s cologne lingering in the room. You wish it didn’t make you ache the way it does.

When you get to the paddock, the air already feels heavier than usual—too many voices, too much movement, like the whole compound is vibrating under its own weight. You barely make it three steps inside before one of the programme coordinators intercepts you, clipboard in hand and an infuriatingly bright smile plastered across their face.

“Great news,” they chirp. “We’re starting the individual mental evaluations today.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just standard procedure. You’ll have two per day until we’re done. Forty-five minutes each, one-on-one with every driver.”

Your stomach drops clean through the floor. You can already picture the list in your head—Seonghwa, Mingi, Yunho, San, Wooyoung, Yeosang, Jongho… and Hongjoong.

The coordinator seems to anticipate your question. “Yes, Hongjoong will be joining for his slot. It’s a requirement for all contracted drivers, and the evaluations are considered essential to performance. Once his session is over, he’ll be leaving the premises due to his suspension.”

That doesn’t make you feel any better. Forty-five minutes. Alone. With each of them.

You plaster on something that might pass for a smile, but your insides are twisting so hard you feel queasy. “Perfect,” you manage, voice dry as bone.

“First one’s in an hour,” the coordinator says before disappearing into the crowd.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, the world moving around you while you silently try not to imagine what it’s going to be like—sitting across from Hongjoong under the weight of that storm, or from Mingi with his dark, searching eyes, or from Seonghwa and Yunho, who seem determined to treat you like porcelain even when you’re anything but.

You exhale slowly, but it doesn’t help. This is going to be hell.

You spend the next hour prepping for the evaluations, running through the checklist in your head like a mantra—test modules, mental exercises, reaction time drills, the questionnaire prompts you’re expected to weave into casual conversation. The hour blurs past in a flurry of notes, files, and the occasional deep breath meant to steady your nerves.

Before you know it, you’re in a private side office—a small, soundproofed room tucked away from the main paddock. A sleek tablet rests in front of you, your schedule glowing on the screen. Forty-five minutes for each session. No more, no less.

Two short raps sound against the door.

“Come in,” you call, voice more level than you feel.

The door swings open, and there he is—Choi San—leaning against the frame like he owns the place, a wolfish grin tugging at his lips. His eyes sweep over you once, deliberate, like he’s already turning this into a game.

“Hello, Princess.”

Not the worst person to kick things off… but certainly not the best either.

He steps inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, the sound sealing you in together. You can practically feel the mischief radiating off him, and it makes you very aware that forty-five minutes is a long time in a room this small.

San drops into the chair opposite you, all casual limbs and smug ease, leaning back like he’s here for a chat rather than a mental evaluation.

“So,” he drawls, eyes locking with yours, “what exactly are we testing today, princess? My reaction time? My patience? My self-control?” The last word rolls off his tongue in a way that’s far too loaded.

You narrow your eyes, tapping the screen of your tablet. “We’re testing your focus. And if you don’t actually take this seriously, I’ll have to write that down… permanently.”

He smirks but leans forward just enough to look at the first exercise. “Fine. Serious face on. No distractions.”

“Good.” You swipe to the first module and push the tablet across the table toward him. “Reaction speed. Tap the target when it appears. That’s it.”

“Simple enough,” he says, but his hand brushes yours as he takes the tablet—deliberately, you’re sure of it. His fingers linger for a heartbeat before he looks back at the screen.

The first few rounds, he’s flawless—quick, precise, all business. Then the next target flashes, and instead of tapping it immediately, he tilts his head, gaze flicking back up to you.

“You know,” he says, tapping the screen at the last possible moment, “it’s hard to focus when you keep looking at me like that.”

You exhale sharply, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to smile.” His grin turns sharp. “I’m very distracting, you know.”

“San,” you warn, “this is an official evaluation. So focus, or I’ll make your next module a full psych test.”

That gets an exaggerated wince out of him, but he still chuckles under his breath as he turns back to the tablet, knuckles brushing yours again in a way you’re pretty sure isn’t an accident. You swear he’s doing this on purpose—hovering right at the edge between professional and personal, and dragging you along with him.

San’s grin never wavers through the first half of the evaluation. Every time you think he’s finally focused, he throws in some sideways comment, a smirk, or the kind of look that makes your pulse hitch against your will.

By the twenty-five-minute mark, you’ve had enough. He’s leaning back in his chair after another module, stretching like he owns the room.

“San,” you say, setting the tablet down between you, “we need to clear something up.”

He raises a brow, still wearing that wolfish smirk. “Oh? This sounds serious.”

“That day,” you start, voice firm, “in your car. With Wooyoung. It was fun. That’s all it was.”

The smirk falters for a moment, and you catch it—the flicker of something in his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a lazy shrug. “Just fun,” he repeats, leaning forward on his elbows.

You nod. “Exactly what you asked for. No feelings. No mess.”

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, like he’s trying to read between the lines, then sits back. “Sure.”

The rest of the session passes in silence, the tension sitting heavier than it did before. When the timer on your tablet finally dings at forty-five minutes, he rises smoothly from his chair.

“Thanks for the evaluation, Princess,” he says, voice light but his eyes sharper than before. He’s almost at the door when he pauses, turning back to you with that slow, dangerous smile.

“Just for the record,” he adds, “if you ever wanna have fun again, you know where I am. No strings attached.”

You’re slouched in the break area with a half-eaten sandwich and a coffee so strong it could probably launch you into orbit, scrolling your social media feed without really seeing it.

A notification pings at the top of your screen.

Hongjoong

Just been told about the mental evaluations. I assume that’s with you?

You stare at the message for a beat, then sigh, pushing your coffee aside. The sandwich goes into the bin with a dull thud, appetite gone. You grab your coffee and head out to the smoking shelter, the chill of the metal bench seeping through your clothes when you sit.

Balancing the coffee on the steel table, you light a cigarette, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating your face. Without thinking too hard about it, you scroll to his name in your contacts and hit call.

He picks up on the second ring. “Oh… hey. Wasn’t expecting a call from you.”

“Easier to talk over the phone,” you murmur, exhaling a stream of smoke into the cool air.

There’s a pause on his end—too long—so you fill it. “Yes, it’s with me. So far, they’re not telling me who I have for which slot. Probably some kind of sick strategy.”

The second the words are out, regret prickles sharp and fast in your chest. You’d forgotten who you were talking to.

“What does that mea—” He cuts himself off with a low, sharp inhale. “…Y’know what, never mind.”

Your brows knit together slightly, because you were expecting bite. The acid tongue he’s used on you before. Instead, it actually sounded like he took a moment to compose himself.

Then he breaks you from your thoughts. Softer, almost hesitantly. “I miss you.”

Your throat tightens. “Hongjoong, I—”

Movement catches your eye, and your pulse jumps. Mingi. Striding toward the shelter, oblivious to your presence. For now.

Panic flares. “Me too,” you blurt, flicking the cigarette away. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you later?”

You hang up before he can answer, shoving your phone deep into your pocket just as Mingi steps into the shelter.

“Great,” Mingi says the second his eyes land on you, voice pitched somewhere between a drawl and a challenge. “Just who I wanted to see.”

You take a slow sip of your coffee, trying to steady yourself, but the bitter liquid does nothing to stop the rapid thud of your pulse. “That sounds ominous,” you reply, keeping your tone light, even though every instinct screams to brace for impact.

He steps closer, not crowding you, but close enough that the scent of his cologne curls through the crisp air. “Depends on how you look at it.” His gaze sweeps over you—too deliberate, too searching—and then fixes on your face. “You’ve been… busy lately.”

The cigarette you’d dropped earlier still smoulders faintly in the ashtray, and you focus on that instead of meeting his eyes. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means,” he says slowly, “you’ve got half the grid looking at you like you’re some kind of… prize.” A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “And I’m just wondering how much of that attention you’re… encouraging.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “You make it sound like I’m holding open auditions.”

“Aren’t you?” The words are light, but there’s a flicker of something darker underneath—something that feels a little too close to jealousy.

You finally meet his eyes, narrowing your own just slightly. “If you’ve got something to say, Mingi, just say it.”

He tilts his head, smirk fading into something unreadable. “Not here. Not now. But soon.”

“Y’know, Mingi,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended, but you don’t bother softening it. “I don’t think I ever have time for this conversation.”

You look up at him fully now, eyes narrowing, letting him see the edge that’s been simmering beneath your surface. For a moment—just a heartbeat—he falters. The flicker in your gaze catches him off guard, like he didn’t expect you to stand your ground.

“I think we should keep this strictly professional from here on out,” you continue, the words crisp, final. “You do your job, I do mine.”

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to retort, to throw something back at you—sharp or clever, you’ll never know. But you don’t give him the satisfaction of getting it out. You turn on your heel, your strides purposeful, leaving him rooted to the spot with his words caught in his throat.

The sound of your footsteps fades against the concrete, and all that lingers is the weight of what you didn’t let him say.

Once you’re back inside, you don’t have much time before your second evaluation. You push down the burn of frustration left by Mingi, forcing yourself to compartmentalise. For now, this is about the job—just the job. As long as he isn’t the one who walks through that door, you’ll survive this next round.

You regret thinking that the second the handle clicks. Seonghwa slips inside with his usual quiet composure, every line of him precise and controlled, his smile polished into perfection.

“Hi,” he says, voice low, steady, like it was crafted to settle nerves. “Hope your day hasn’t been too demanding so far.”

The laugh bubbles out before you can stop it—small, under your breath, half a release of nerves, half disbelief at how easily he disarms you. You catch yourself quickly, clearing your throat and straightening in your chair, trying to pull your expression into something neutral.

One eyebrow arches ever so slightly, catching the shift. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask. He simply takes the seat across from you, folding himself into it like he has all the time in the world. That restraint of his—steady, unshakable—is exactly what makes your pulse skip.

Seonghwa settles into his seat; posture immaculate, hands folded neatly on the table as if even that simple gesture has been rehearsed. He offers that calm, courteous smile again. “Shall we begin?”

His voice is even, professional, but it carries that undertone he can’t quite hide. A warmth that seeps in despite his best attempts.

You nod, tapping the tablet in front of you to bring up the first set of questions. You’re supposed to be in control here, guiding him through resilience exercises, assessing his responses. But the truth is, you can barely string your own thoughts together.

Because it’s him. Seonghwa, who carried you through the chaos outside the gala. Seonghwa, who tucked you into his own bed and let you fall apart without asking for anything in return. Seonghwa, whose touch lingered on your skin long after you left him. And now he’s sitting across from you as though nothing happened, composed and respectful, like you’re both still operating within the safety of your professional roles.

But you’re not safe. Not from him. Not when you can still feel Yunho’s lips from just last night, still hear the ragged crack in Hongjoong’s voice when he whispered, ‘I miss you’, still catch the flash of betrayal in Mingi’s eyes whenever you shut him out. It’s a carousel of men, each one pulling you in a different direction, and you can’t get off.

“Everything alright?” Seonghwa’s voice cuts into your spinning thoughts, soft, laced with a concern he’s trying to keep tucked beneath professionalism.

“Yes,” you say too quickly, focusing on the tablet screen, pretending to be absorbed in the first exercise. “Let’s start with a grounding activity.”

He watches you for a moment too long, the faintest crease between his brows, before obliging. He follows every instruction to the letter—breath control, recall scenarios, pressure-point exercises—because of course he does. That’s Seonghwa; precise, reliable, the embodiment of discipline. And it should make this easier. It should keep a clear line between what’s professional and what isn’t. But instead, every quiet inhale he takes, every moment his gaze lingers just a second too long, only makes it harder to keep your own walls intact.

You’re supposed to be evaluating him. But all you can think about is how much you want to reach across the table, lace your fingers through his, just to feel that steadying calm again.

For the next forty-five minutes, it’s as if nothing else exists but the structure of the evaluation. Seonghwa answers every question in measured tones, never faltering, never giving you anything but what is required. His self-awareness is almost startling—the way he articulates his stress responses, the methods he employs to regulate under pressure, the honesty he maintains even when the answer might not flatter him.

And yet, beneath the polish, there are glimpses of something else. The way his gaze holds yours a fraction longer than it should. The subtle shift of his posture whenever your voice softens. The slight quirk of his lips when you tease him about overthinking an answer.

If you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it. But you are paying attention. Too much.

Because while he’s the picture of professionalism, you’re barely keeping your own mask intact. Every time his eyes meet yours, the memory of his body tangled with yours in the early hours flashes through your mind. The way his hand had brushed over your cheek, tender in the sunlight. The way his lips had lingered against yours, unhurried, like devotion itself.

And yet here he is, sitting across from you like nothing happened. Like he doesn’t ache in the same way you do.

The ache is dangerous. Especially when you’ve already given in to Hongjoong, to Yunho, to San, to Wooyoung. When Mingi’s shadow still looms over you. You don’t know if it’s guilt or longing twisting in your stomach, but it leaves you dizzy all the same.

“Very good,” you murmur at the end of one of his longer reflections, forcing yourself back into the role you’re meant to inhabit. You type a few notes into your tablet, pretending the act of recording keeps you steady. “That concludes your evaluation.”

Seonghwa inclines his head slightly, the smallest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. This was… clarifying.”

You nod, unable to form anything more coherent.

He stands, straightening his jacket with practiced precision, and for a moment you think he’s just going to leave. But then his gaze flickers to you one last time, softer now, almost unguarded. A silent acknowledgement of the storm neither of you are naming.

“Have a good rest of your day, Y/N.” His voice is gentle, steady, but it carries weight.

And then he’s gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

You exhale, realising you’ve been holding your breath for minutes. You tell yourself it’s just work. Just an evaluation. But deep down, you know something has shifted. Not only in you—but in him.

You’re gathering your things for the day, intent on retreating to the silence of your apartment, when a familiar voice cuts through the corridor.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite strategist.”

You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Wooyoung is leaning against the wall just ahead, arms folded, his grin equal parts mischievous and disarming. Normally, you’d roll your eyes at him, maybe even play along with his teasing. But you just don’t have the energy today.

Still, you muster a small smile. “Hi, Wooyoung.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing in that way that makes him look far too perceptive. “That’s it? No sarcastic comeback? No dramatic sigh about me being in your way?” He steps closer, peering down at you. “Something’s off.”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Mm. Liar.” His grin softens into something almost unrecognisable, concern. It throws you off balance. “Come on.”

Before you can protest, he’s gently taking the strap of your bag from your shoulder and slinging it over his own. Then he tugs your hand, leading you down a quieter corridor, away from the buzz of voices and slamming doors. You let him guide you, because you’re too tired to resist—and maybe, deep down, because it feels good to let someone else take the reins for once.

He stops when the two of you reach a tucked-away stairwell, empty and quiet. He sets your bag down on the step, then leans against the railing, looking at you with an openness you’ve never seen in him before.

“What happened?” he asks, voice lower now, stripped of its usual playfulness.

Something in your chest twists. You didn’t expect this from him—not the cheeky flirt of the paddock, not the joker who hides behind bravado. This Wooyoung feels… safe.

You swallow, hugging your arms around yourself. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then don’t,” he says gently. “Just… tell me what’s weighing on you right now. One thing.”

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. You blink rapidly, fighting back the sting of tears. He doesn’t press, doesn’t crowd you, just waits. Patient. Still.

You shake your head, a broken laugh slipping out. “I didn’t think you could be serious.”

He smirks faintly, but his eyes don’t waver from yours. “Surprise. There’s more to me than bad jokes and good hair.”

And for the first time, you see him differently—not just as the playful spark of the group, but as someone who could hold space for you, someone who could catch you if you fell.

“Okay.” You breathe out slowly, pressing your back against the cool stairwell wall. “First of all, tell me what you know. I’m not just going to spill everything for the sake of it when I know all eight of you see more than you let on.”

Wooyoung nods, lips quirking. “Fair enough.” He tilts his head, studying you like he’s building a list in his mind. “Well… I know you’re fucking Seonghwa.”

Your jaw drops. “Wooyoung!”

He holds up his hands, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What? You asked. Don’t look at me like I’m the villain, it’s obvious.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Go on then, genius.”

“Alright.” He leans back against the railing, arms folded. “I know things are… complicated between you and Mingi. I know that whatever’s happening there, it’s making him reckless.”

His eyes flick to yours, sharper now, and you wonder just how much he’s really seen. “And…” his grin returns, a shade more wicked, “I know we had a three-way in San’s car.”

You smack his arm so hard he winces, laughing through it. “You’re impossible.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He rubs the spot, though his grin doesn’t falter. “I’ll behave. Sort of.”

Your glare softens, but your voice is steady. “And Hongjoong?”

Wooyoung’s smirk fades into something smaller, quieter. He hesitates, then shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t quite know what’s going on there. But I know there’s something. I can see it.”

You bite your lip, heart thundering in your chest. Slowly, you nod.

“So, what is it that’s bothering you?” His eyes lock onto yours, steady in a way that unsettles you. It coils heat low in your stomach, and you hate how much you feel it.

“All of it, Woo.”

“Be more specific,” he presses gently, cocking his head. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

You pause, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Your pulse thuds in your ears as you try to line your thoughts up in some kind of order. Finally, you exhale, words sharper than you mean them to be. “You’re the paddock gossip, Wooyoung. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he closes the space between you, sliding his hand into yours. The warmth of it makes your breath catch, your heart stumbling over itself.

“Y/N,” he says quietly, so unlike his usual self. “I say this with the utmost sincerity. I do run my mouth a lot, yes.” A tiny smirk ghosts his lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, tender. “But if you want to confide in me about anything, I promise I’d never break your trust.”

The weight of his words lands heavy in your chest. For the first time in years, Wooyoung doesn’t feel like the trickster, the gossip, the one who never takes things seriously. Right now, he feels safe.

“Yes,” you finally whisper, voice shaking. “I’m sleeping with Seonghwa.” The confession tastes bitter and sweet at once. You don’t stop there. “I also slept with Hongjoong. And Yunho.”

You grimace, your shoulders curling inward as though you can shield yourself from his reaction. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Just when I think I’m done, another one of you sweeps me off my feet. I’m drowning, Woo—drowning in emotions I never planned on feeling, in the mess I’m building for myself. It’s overwhelming.”

Your arms start to tremble against your own chest, and before you can tuck them away, Wooyoung slides his hands gently down your forearms. The warmth of his palms steadies you, coaxing your breath into something less ragged.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you push on, the words spilling faster now that the dam has cracked. “And I don’t want to hurt myself. I’m not that girl I used to be anymore. I broke Hongjoong’s heart once, and… yes, I know I’m not committed to any of you, but the thought of ruining the friendships I’ve just begun to rebuild—”

Your voice splinters. You tip your head back, desperate to keep the tears from spilling, but your chest rises too sharply, too unevenly.

And then Wooyoung is wrapping his arms around you. No teasing remark, no sly grin. Just a firm, steady embrace that anchors you to the here and now. His chin rests lightly against your hair as his hold tightens, not suffocating but grounding. Slowly, the weight crushing your ribs seems to ease. The noise in your head quiets. For the first time in days, you allow yourself to simply breathe.

You pull back just enough for your eyes to lock on his. The world narrows to that look, the faint crease in his brow as he studies you like you’re fragile glass. His hand lifts, brushing your hair gently behind your ear, fingertips ghosting against your cheek as he dabs away the few tears that escaped.

The warmth of his touch, the steady weight of his arm still holding you close, the way he listens without interruption—it sparks something dangerous inside you. Something you can’t quiet.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and press a tentative kiss to his lips. He freezes for a heartbeat, startled, but then his mouth moves against yours with a quiet urgency. He tastes faintly of sweet, fruity gum, and the woody curl of his cologne wraps around you until you’re dizzy.

Your hands tangle into his hair instinctively, pulling him closer. He responds in kind, pressing you back until the wall cools against your spine. You gasp softly when his hand slides down, curving around your waist, fingers skimming the sliver of bare skin where your top meets your waistband.

The sound that escapes him is low, almost a growl, vibrating against your mouth as he deepens the kiss. Your eyes flutter closed, your body thrumming with the heat of it, the air between you thick with the weight of everything unspoken.

You’re pulled from your haze, lips swollen, heart pounding in Wooyoung’s arms, by the sharp metallic click of the stairwell door opening.

Wooyoung instantly steps back, but it’s too late—anyone standing there would have seen how close you were. Your breath catches as your gaze shifts over his shoulder.

Yunho’s eyes flick to your face, then away again, but not fast enough. You catch it—the brief, raw flash of hurt before he buries it beneath a practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Seonghwa, by contrast, is a wall of composure, his expression smooth, unreadable. Somehow, that stoicism cuts deeper than Yunho’s visible wound.

Heat rushes to your cheeks, shame clawing at your throat. You want nothing more than for the ground to open beneath you and drag you out of sight.

Wooyoung clears his throat, his usual cheek replaced with a surprising steadiness. “Today’s been a bit much for her,” he says, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give her a moment to breathe.”

The silence that follows feels suffocating, thick with all the things none of you are saying.

Seonghwa is the first to break the silence. His voice is steady, but soft. “Are you okay?”

You nod quickly; eyes fixed on the floor.

“Are you sure?” he presses, the faintest crease in his brow.

Before you can answer, Yunho takes a hesitant step forward, his tone gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “Yeah, are you? You don’t look fine.”

Your throat feels tight. “I’m okay. I think… I think I’m just going to head home.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before all three of them speak at once—offers of a ride home tumbling over each other. The noise makes your head spin, your chest constricting.

“No, no.” You shake your head frantically, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I’m all good. Thank you. I really have to go, sorry.”

You don’t wait for their responses. You grab your bag off the floor and bolt down the stairwell, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing in the hollow space—running from them, from yourself, from the mess you’ve made.

~

You slam your apartment door shut and lean back against it, chest heaving. For a long moment you just stand there in the silence, the stillness deafening compared to the chaos of the paddock.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Then again. And again. By the time you drag it out, the screen is lit up with a string of notifications.

Seonghwa

Did you get home safe? Please let me know.

Yunho

I’m sorry if I did something to upset you. Can I bring food over?

Wooyoung

Text me when you’re okay. Please, Y/N.

You scroll, your thumb trembling. Another buzz, and your heart lodges in your throat when you see his name.

Hongjoong

Did your first evaluations go okay? Call me when you can.

It’s too much. Your lungs burn, your chest feels like it’s caving in. Just an hour ago you were telling Wooyoung how much of a disaster you’d made, how you didn’t want to hurt anyone, didn’t want to be that girl again. And then you kissed him. Pulled him into the mess you swore you were trying to untangle.

You drop the phone onto your coffee table like it’s poison and stumble to the couch, burying your face in your hands. Their affection—their patience, their concern—you don’t deserve any of it. Not after tonight. Not after everything.

Your chest tightens as tears push at your eyes. You can still feel Wooyoung’s fingertips brushing your cheek, Seonghwa’s calm voice asking if you were okay, Yunho’s careful step toward you, Hongjoong’s name lighting up your phone like a ghost from the past.

You’re drowning. And it’s all your fault.

The anxiety in your chest coils tighter and tighter until you realise you can’t breathe. Your hands tremble, useless against the pressure crushing your ribs. It’s been years since your last panic attack, and the memory of it makes this one so much worse. You claw for something solid, anything to hold onto.

Your phone.

You scramble, nearly dropping it twice before you manage to dial. The only number you can think of.

“Hey, everything oka—” Yeosang’s calm voice breaks off when your sobs rush through the receiver, jagged and wet.

“Y/N? Y/N, listen to me. Where are you?”

Your throat burns as you try to force words out. “H-home,” you manage.

“Good. I’m coming now. Don’t move, okay? Just stay where you are.”

The next ten minutes are a blur of shaking hands, shallow breaths, and tears that won’t stop. Then the sound of your lock clicking open jolts you.

Yeosang doesn’t hesitate—he bursts in like the world is ending, and in a way, yours is. He’s across the room in seconds, crouching in front of you, his warm hands closing firmly around your arms.

“You’re freezing,” he mutters, voice lined with worry. He strips his hoodie off in one motion, gently lifting your arms so he can pull it over your head himself. The fabric is soft and warm, and the faint scent of his cologne envelops you immediately.

Before you can collapse in on yourself again, he gathers you into his lap, wrapping both arms around you with unshakable strength. You cling to his shirt, burying your face against his chest as the sobs rack through you.

“What happened?” His voice is soft, patient, not demanding but coaxing.

You only manage a frantic shake of your head, tears smearing into his t-shirt.

“Okay,” he soothes, pressing his cheek against the top of your head. “Okay, it’s alright. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, grounding you. Every shuddering breath you take is matched by his slow, deliberate ones, as if he’s willing you back into your body just by breathing for you.

And for the first time all day, the storm inside you loosens, just slightly.

You aren’t sure how long you sit like that, folded into him, his palm moving in slow circles between your shoulder blades until the rhythm lulls your body into something close to calm. The next thing you realise, you’re no longer on the couch—you’re in your bed. A steaming cup of chamomile tea waits patiently on the nightstand beside you, and Yeosang’s arms are still around you, holding you steady as if you might drift away otherwise.

You blink, disoriented, tugging the duvet higher up your chin. His hoodie still clings to you, smelling of him—clean cotton, warm spice, something comfortingly familiar.

You twist slowly in his hold until you’re facing him, your breath catching on a shaky inhale. “You… still have the key I gave you when I first moved in?”

A small smile curves his lips, soft and unwavering. “Of course I do.”

That answer undoes you. Tears spring back to your eyes, and you swallow hard, trying to keep them down. He notices immediately—he always notices—and presses a tender kiss to the crown of your head.

“You’re my best friend, Y/N,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice steady in a way you wish yours could be. “I never stopped thinking about you. And I’m so sorry… so sorry that I kept my distance.”

The words settle heavy in your chest, bittersweet. He’s always been your anchor—the one who held the quiet parts of you without judgment. And here he is again, after everything, still holding you together when you’re at your messiest.

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead lightly against his chest. “I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, but he only tightens his arms around you, as if daring you to believe otherwise.

“I don’t know what happened,” Yeosang says quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “And you don’t need to tell me. But I’m here, and I always will be. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

You tuck yourself further into his chest, his heartbeat steady against your ear, grounding you. Your voice comes out small, broken. “I love you, Yeo.”

His arms tighten around you instantly, like he can hold your words safe. “I love you too.”

Your throat thickens as you clutch the fabric of his shirt, terrified that if you let go, he might vanish. “Please stay with me tonight,” you whisper. “I need you here.”

CHAPTER FIVE - TRACK LIMITS

You’re halfway through organising telemetry reports when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. The floor is quieter than usual. Most of the drivers are in a briefing, but Mingi is still here.

He’s leaned against the edge of a colleague’s desk, posture loose, lazy, but there’s an edge to his grin. The woman—Isla from the comms team—laughs at something he’s said, twirling a pen between her fingers. He’s too close, his arm brushing hers as he points at her monitor.

You’re not watching, but your attention keeps dragging back to them, like a tide you can’t fight. Mingi tilts his head, says something low in her ear. She smiles, cheeks flushing.

You force your eyes back to the numbers on your screen, but your pen freezes mid-note. You don’t want to care. You don’t want the heat in your chest to mean anything. But Mingi knows you’re watching—he glances up briefly, catches your eye for the barest moment before looking back at her like you’re nothing but background noise.

It’s deliberate. Punishment wrapped in charm.

You press your lips together, jot something down that doesn’t even make sense, and push away from your desk. If he wants to play, fine. You just haven’t decided whether you’ll ignore him… or give him something to really stew over.

You fix your eyes on the spreadsheet in front of you, but the numbers blur. Your mind drifts, not to work, but to the last few weeks—the chaos you didn’t see coming.

You came back expecting professionalism, maybe some awkward reunions, nothing more. But instead, you’ve been spun into something you can’t control—a web of glances, touches, and confessions that never should have happened. Hongjoong’s fury and fragility, Seonghwa’s unwavering care, Mingi’s unresolved bitterness, San’s flirtation, Wooyoung’s audacity.

You’ve been kissed in bathrooms, cornered in meeting rooms, tangled in bedsheets, and caught in storms that have nothing to do with the weather. It’s exhausting. The lines between strategy and survival are blurring.

Your gaze flickers toward Mingi again, laughing at Isla’s desk, his hand brushing hers. It shouldn’t matter. But the sharp twist in your chest says otherwise. He’s doing it for you to see. You know it.

And then, out of nowhere, you remember Jongho telling you once—half-joking but entirely sincere—that the Haas garage always has snacks and a quiet corner if you need to breathe. A safe zone, away from prying eyes and simmering tensions.

You stand, gathering your things in one slow, deliberate motion. You don’t look at Mingi as you pass. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You just walk straight toward the paddock exit, heels clicking against the floor, making it clear you’re leaving because you want to, not because of him.

Out of sight, you can’t see the way his easy smile falters. The way his jaw tightens. The way the laughter drains from his eyes. You’ve left him mid-game, and that infuriates him more than anything you could have said.

You stride through the Haas threshold without so much as a glance over your shoulder, refusing to give Mingi the satisfaction. The air in here feels different—lighter, quieter—and you cling to that small relief.

You’re not expecting to find Yeosang already perched on a chair beside Jongho, the two of them mid-conversation. They both look up as you enter, heads tilting almost in unison like curious puppies.

“What’s happened now?” Jongho asks, already sounding weary.

You drop your bag onto the table with a thud and reach for a packet of candy ropes, tearing into it like it’s responsible for all your problems. “Fucking Mingi.”

Yeosang’s gaze sharpens. “What did he do this time?”

“Flirted with Isla. Loudly. In my line of sight,” you bite out, yanking a length of candy free and chewing like it’s a stress exercise.

Jongho leans back, arms folded. “Classic Mingi—doesn’t know whether to apologise or pick a fight, so he does… whatever that is.”

Yeosang hums, expression unreadable. “Or maybe he does know. And he’s just trying to get a reaction.”

You shoot him a flat look. “Well, he’s not getting one.”

Yeosang raises a brow. “You walked in here chewing sugar like it’s a coping mechanism. I’d call that a reaction.”

You sigh, tossing the half-empty packet onto the table. “I’m not here to play his games.”

“Too late,” Yeosang murmurs. “You’re already in them.”

You don’t reply. Instead, you let the candy’s sharp sweetness dull the edge of your mood while Jongho slides a water bottle toward you in quiet solidarity.

“Just stay here a while,” Yeosang says more softly now. “Haas is neutral ground. No one comes in here to fight.”

For now, you’ll take the sanctuary—even if you can practically feel Mingi’s irritation from somewhere outside these walls, stewing over the fact you didn’t so much as glance back.

Fifteen minutes later, your shoulders have finally eased, the tight knot between them unwinding bit by bit. The three of you drift into easy, pointless conversation—memes Jongho saw last night, Yeosang’s deadpan commentary on them, the ridiculous price of coffee in the paddock. You’re smiling again, letting the earlier scene with Mingi dissolve into the background.

You’re so wrapped up in Jongho’s animated retelling of a pit crew mishap that you don’t even notice your phone buzzing beside you, screen lighting up with each new vibration. The noise blends into the room’s low hum, barely registering in your mind.

Yeosang, mid-sip of water, glances toward the sound. His eyes flick to the glowing screen for just a second—and then widen. The bottle pauses halfway to his lips.

“Y/N…” His tone has shifted, cautious now, pulling your attention.

You look at him, confused. “What?”

He sets the bottle down slowly, like he’s weighing his words. “I don’t mean to pry, but… why is Hongjoong texting you?”

Your stomach plummets, a cold rush replacing the warmth you’d only just let in. You glance down at the screen, the string of messages glaring back at you like a warning siren.

Your throat tightens. “It’s… complicated,” you manage, though you know that won’t be enough to stop the questions that are coming.

Jongho and Yeosang just stare at you, their eyes glued to you like they’ve forgotten how to blink.

“Complicated… how?” Jongho finally asks, his voice low but steady, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth, but the words tangle somewhere in your throat, refusing to come out. “He… he…”

Yeosang shifts closer, placing a warm, grounding hand on your arm. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his gaze softer than his tone.

You drag in a shaky breath, willing your pulse to slow. And then, like a dam breaking, the words come rushing out.

“He turned up at my apartment. He was crying. Actually crying.” Your voice falters, a tremor slipping in. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry before. I didn’t even think it was possible.”

Their eyes are locked on you now, unreadable, and it makes your next words harder.

“And…”

They exchange a glance, then lean in almost imperceptibly, voices overlapping in quiet urgency. “And…?”

Your stomach knots. You bite your lip, but the truth pushes past your teeth before you can stop it.

“And I slept with him.”

The confession leaves you hollow, and you immediately bury your face in your hands as though you can hide from it. The silence that follows is deafening.

Both men exhale at once, the sound heavy, loaded with things unsaid. You can feel the weight of their stares on you, but neither seems to know what to say—whether to comfort you or question you.

Slowly, you pull your hands away, meeting their eyes with a raw, unguarded look.

“All of those feelings I had for him… they came flooding back. I remembered the boy he used to be. Before… everything.”

Jongho is the first to break the silence.

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive here—I know you’re dealing with a lot—but… you slept with him, after he punched Seonghwa… for sleeping with you?”

You almost choke on air, your eyes flying wide. “You know about that?”

A faint, almost guilty smile tugs at Jongho’s mouth. “Y/N… it was kind of obvious.”

Mortification slams into you like a wall. Your mind races, images of knowing glances, sidelong looks, half-smiles exchanged between people in the paddock flashing through your head.

“So, the whole paddock must think I’m some kind of whore, right?” The words are out before you can stop them, edged with rising panic. Your pulse is already spiking, the walls of the room seeming to tilt in around you.

In an instant, both men are moving—dropping down to kneel on either side of you, their hands finding your arms, solid and steady.

“Hey, hey, breathe,” Yeosang says softly, his thumb pressing gentle circles into your palm, grounding you. “There are no rumours, just… intuition. And that’s only between people who’ve known each other for years.”

His tone is calm, deliberate—each word a rope thrown out to stop you from spiralling. You slump back into the chair, the fight draining out of your shoulders.

“I just… can’t seem to stay away from them,” you admit, voice low. “Any of them. I didn’t think things would happen like this.”

Jongho studies you for a moment, then pats your arm. It’s a small, solid gesture that somehow steadies you.

“As long as you aren’t being hurt in any of this,” he says evenly, “I don’t see the issue. You’re all adults. None of you have any commitments to each other.”

His gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering.

“This isn’t the same as back then,” he adds, the quiet conviction in his voice telling you he means it.

Yeosang shifts beside you, leaning forward until his elbows rest on your knees.

“But,” he says carefully, “just because this isn’t the same as back then, doesn’t mean it’s without risk.”

Your brows pinch together. “Risk?”

He nods, his tone soft but pointed.

“You’ve got history with some of these men, and… feelings, whether you want to admit it or not. If you’re not careful, that’s the kind of thing that can spiral out of control—fast. People will get hurt. Maybe even you.”

He gives you a small, rueful smile. “I just don’t want to see you pulled under because the current feels good right now.”

The words linger, threading through the quiet that settles between the three of you.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, eyes dropping to the half-empty packet of candy ropes in your hand. “I know,” you say quietly. “I need to be more careful… with all of them. But—” you lower your gaze to meet his, steady despite the churn in your chest. “I can’t just ignore this. Any of it. I need to see where it goes, even if it’s dangerous. Even if I get burned.”

Yeosang studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Then at least promise me you’ll keep your eyes open while you’re chasing the fire.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “Promise.”

~

Your afternoon is nothing but an endless carousel of meetings—one bleeding into the next, all orbiting around the same topic. How to reschedule press events until Hongjoong is back.

The hypocrisy gnaws at you. This was supposed to be a punishment for physical assault, a statement that no one—no matter how famous—was above consequences. But in practice? It’s a carefully crafted PR manoeuvre. A two-week “suspension” for optics, while the machinery behind the scenes bends and reshapes itself to accommodate him. The golden boy, the legend, the sponsors’ darling.

They need to be seen disciplining him, but not in a way that actually costs them anything. A tick-box exercise dressed up as accountability.

By the time the last meeting wraps, the air in your chest feels stale. You step into the corridor, scanning for the fastest way back to your office—and that’s when you spot Seonghwa at the far end of the hall, his tall frame instantly recognisable even with his back to you.

You turn sharply, heading the other way before he can glance over his shoulder. The thought of facing him again makes your stomach twist—part guilt, part longing, part something you don’t want to name. You know you can’t avoid him forever, but right now, cowardice feels like the only way to breathe.

You’re too focused on your escape route to notice the figure coming around the corner until it’s too late. You collide hard, the impact jolting you back a step—only to find a pair of large hands steadying you.

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

It’s Yunho. His warm gaze scans your face with a depth that lingers too long to be casual. There’s an unspoken question there, one you’re not ready to answer. His hands are still on your arms, gentle but firm, and the heat of his touch makes it suddenly, acutely hard to remember what direction you were going in.

You take a small step back, mindful of just how fast gossip spreads in the paddock. Yunho’s eyes scan your face, reading you with ease.

“You look frazzled,” he says, his tone light but knowing.

You exhale, raking a hand through your hair. “Yeah… I’m actually just about to pack up for the day.”

A slow grin tugs at his lips. “What a coincidence, so am I. Wanna grab a coffee?”

You open your mouth to decline, but then he tilts his head. That impossibly endearing, puppy-like charm disarming you in seconds. Against your better judgement, you nod.

Since you’d opted for public transport this morning, it’s easy to slip into the passenger seat of Yunho’s McLaren 750S without anyone noticing. The scent of leather and something woody fills the cabin, and you let out a low whistle.

He chuckles as he buckles himself in. “Figured I needed to let her out of the garage. Weather’s too nice to waste.”

The engine purrs beneath you as he eases the car into gear. Then, with a flick of a button, the roof begins to fold back, the sky spilling in above you.

“I hope you’re not too worried about your hair getting messed up,” he says, glancing at you with a teasing grin.

You can’t help the giggle that escapes you. The sound feels lighter than you’ve been in days.

A short drive later, he pulls up outside a small café tucked between a row of flower shops and bookstores. Before you can reach for the handle, he’s already out of the driver’s seat, rounding the car to open your door.

“After you,” he says with an easy smile, offering his hand like you’re stepping out of a limousine rather than a sports car.

The café smells like roasted beans and warm pastry, the air-conditioned chill a welcome break from the sun outside. Yunho holds the door open for you, his palm warm against the small of your back as you step in.

“Go grab us a table,” he says, already moving toward the counter. “I’ve got this.”

You pause. “Don’t you want to know what I’m having?”

He just flashes you that easy grin, the one that makes it hard to argue. “Already do.”

You find a table by the window, curiosity pricking at you as you watch him at the counter. He’s relaxed, leaning one elbow against the display case while chatting with the barista. Whatever he says makes her smile, and you can’t help but notice how comfortable he looks everywhere he goes.

A few minutes later, he sets a condensation-beaded cup in front of you.

You blink up at him. “How did you—”

“You mentioned it the other day,” he says casually, sliding into the seat opposite you. “Hot day, iced vanilla matcha. It stuck.”

Something warm flickers in your chest, unexpected and a little dangerous. “That was… weeks ago.”

He takes a sip of his own drink, eyes holding yours. “Doesn’t mean I forgot.”

The straw feels cool between your lips as you take a sip, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in the way he’s watching you. His legs stretch under the table until one knee just grazes yours—light enough to pass as accidental, but deliberate enough that you know better.

“You’ve been… different lately,” he says, leaning back in his chair like he’s testing you. “Not in a bad way. Just… there’s something in your eyes.”

You smirk faintly, resting your chin on your hand. “And what’s that?”

“Like you’re thinking about something you probably shouldn’t be thinking about.”

Your laugh is soft, almost swallowed by the hum of the café. “Maybe I am.”

His grin is slow, like he’s just won something. “Guess I’ll have to stick around and figure out what it is.”

There’s something about Yunho that disarms you completely. It’s infuriating, really—how his presence smooths over every jagged edge in your mind. Like the second you’re in his orbit, the noise quiets, the heaviness lifts, and you’re just… here. Present.

You should be thinking about Yeosang’s warning from earlier. You should be building walls, not opening doors. You should be untangling yourself from the mess you’ve already made, not weaving yet another thread into the web. But instead, you lean into it.

The banter flows easily. You flirt; he flirts back. There’s no calculation to it—just a steady, effortless rhythm. Your knees brush under the table more than once, his eyes locking with yours like it’s a game neither of you is willing to lose.

Charged glances pass between sips. Laughter lingers too long. Every little moment feels like it’s feeding something you probably shouldn’t let grow.

By the time you both rise from the table, the café’s once-bustling crowd has thinned to a quiet trickle. The sun hangs low, spilling molten light between the buildings as you walk side-by-side back to the McLaren.

When you sink into the leather passenger seat, the air feels thicker somehow. You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy, deliberate, full of things neither of you is saying. And then you’re pulling up outside your apartment building.

The words leave your lips before your mind catches up.

“Did you wanna… come up?”

He blinks, as if weighing something in the space between you. Then that slow, devastating smile curves his mouth.

“Of course.”

The lobby is quiet when you step inside, Yunho’s hand pressed lightly against your lower back as the doors glide open. It’s barely there, but you feel it everywhere. An anchor and a spark all at once.

You press the call button for the elevator, your reflection catching in the mirrored doors. His does too, standing just behind you, tall and easy in his stance, though there’s a flicker of something sharper in his eyes when you glance back at him.

The ride up is almost too still. The low hum of the elevator fills the silence between you, and your pulse thrums in your ears. You can feel him watching you, not in a way that’s invasive, but deliberate—like he’s memorising the slope of your profile, the way your fingers curl loosely around the strap of your bag. Your eyes meet in the reflection, but you look away first.

When the doors open on your floor, you step out, the soft thud of his shoes behind you echoing down the hallway. You unlock your apartment door with slightly clumsy fingers, your breath catching as you realise just how close he’s standing now—close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of him at your back.

The click of the lock disengaging sounds too loud in the quiet corridor. You push the door open and step inside, turning just in time to see him following you in. He doesn’t rush forward, doesn’t make a move, but the air between you feels stretched thin; like a wire strung tight, waiting for the smallest touch to snap it.

You drop your bag onto the side table, glancing over your shoulder.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you say, your voice coming out softer than you expect.

He leans against the doorframe instead, watching you with that same calm focus. Then, slowly, a faint smile tugs at his mouth.

“Only if you do the same.”

You pad into the kitchen, the cool tiles under your bare feet a sharp contrast to the thick heat pooling low in your stomach.

“Water? Wine? I think I’ve got a couple of beers somewhere,” you call over your shoulder.

“Water’s good,” Yunho replies, his voice warm and unhurried. You grab two bottles from the fridge, tossing one to him as you settle on the sofa.

For a while, it’s casual. The two of you talk about harmless things—mutual friends, ridiculous stories from old races, the time you managed to convince a rookie that the paddock was haunted. You’re laughing, your guard down, and it feels so natural that you almost forget how complicated things have been lately.

Almost.

Somewhere between a sip of water and an offhand joke about the past, Yunho leans back, his eyes softer now, more thoughtful.

“You know,” he says slowly, “when we were younger… I had a bit of a thing for you.”

You blink, surprised. “You did?”

He smiles faintly, almost self-conscious. “Yeah. You were… different. You never treated me like the tall awkward kid I felt like back then. You actually saw me.”

The warmth in your chest shifts, takes on a heavier weight. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I figured you wouldn’t be interested. And I was right—you were with Hongjoong then. But…” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I hate seeing you hurt now. I hate knowing you’ve been caught in all of this. I care about you, more than I probably should admit.”

You look at him, and the honesty in his expression disarms you completely. No games, no edge—just him.

“I care about you too,” you say quietly, and you mean it.

The moment hangs between you, stretching thin. His hand drifts, hesitant but certain, until it rests over yours on the cushion. The warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, grounding and electrifying all at once.

When you don’t pull away, he shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. “Can I—?” he starts, but doesn’t finish the question.

You lean in, brushing your lips over his in a kiss that’s soft but loaded, like it’s been waiting years to happen. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, deepening it slowly, like he’s still giving you every chance to stop him. You don’t.

The kiss is unhurried at first, each press of his mouth testing the boundaries between you. His thumb strokes along your jaw, the slow, deliberate motion making your breath hitch. He’s not rushing. If anything, it feels like he’s memorising you—how your lips part, the way you tilt into him, the faint hum in your throat.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath fan over your skin.

“I don’t want to be another complication in your life,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pained. “But I don’t think I could walk away right now if I tried.”

Something in you snaps at those words—not anger, but recognition. Because you feel the same. You don’t want him to walk away either.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes.

His restraint fractures. One hand slides to your waist, pulling you into his lap in one smooth movement. You gasp softly at the shift, but his mouth is already on yours again, hungrier now. His fingers splay against your lower back, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

Your own hands find his shoulders, the firm line of muscle beneath his shirt, then the back of his neck. He groans into your mouth—a deep, warm sound that sends a shiver down your spine—and you feel his pulse racing under your palm.

When he breaks the kiss this time, it’s only to drag his lips along your jaw and down to the hollow of your throat. You tip your head back, your breath coming faster now, his name slipping from your lips like a confession.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before meeting your eyes again. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head without hesitation. “Don’t stop, Yunho.”

He kisses you again, but this time it’s deeper—more certain, more claiming—like the moment he realised you weren’t going to stop him, something inside him clicked into place. His hands map you slowly, fingertips brushing over the curve of your waist, sliding up to the edge of your shirt as though asking permission without words.

You nod, breathless, and he slips his hands beneath the fabric. His palms are warm, calloused just enough to make your skin tingle as they glide up your sides. You feel the careful strength in every touch—how easily he could pull you tight against him, but how deliberately he doesn’t.

When he finally peels your shirt over your head, his eyes linger—not in greedy hunger, but in something closer to awe.

“You’re… even more beautiful than I imagined,” he murmurs, the sincerity in his tone making you flush.

Your fingers tug lightly at the hem of his shirt, and he lets you pull it off, his gaze never leaving yours. You trace the lines of his chest and shoulders, the way his breath stutters under your touch, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm before guiding it to his heart.

“You feel that?” he asks softly. You nod, the rapid thrum beneath your fingertips making your chest ache in the best way.

“That’s what you do to me.”

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his lips find yours again, slower now, almost reverent. He eases you down onto the couch, his body covering yours, but even then, his weight is carefully held so you feel cocooned rather than trapped. His kisses trail down your neck, across your collarbone, each one unhurried, every shift of his mouth making you melt further into him.

When his fingers skim the waistband of your trousers, there’s a pause—a question suspended in the air, unspoken but broadcasted in the gentle way his hand stills, in the dark earnestness in his gaze. You hold his eyes, let him see every answer you could possibly offer, and lift your hips in invitation. The tension that breaks in him is palpable, a rush of heat and relief; he exhales, almost a laugh, then bends to press a grateful, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat. The room is so quiet that you can hear the rasp of fabric against skin, the soft click of the zipper, and the way his breath catches when your hipbones are bared to him.

When you finally lie back in nothing but your underwear, he just looks at you for a moment, hands buried in his hair, eyes drinking in every inch like he’s afraid he’ll be asked to forget it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, so softly you almost miss it. “You’re going to ruin me.”

You reach for him, wrap your legs around his waist and let him settle between your knees, and there’s a moment’s hush while he strokes your thigh, then the slow, claiming way his lips find your skin. He kisses the inside of your knee, your hipbone, the faint curve of your stomach. Each one lingers. Each one feels like a promise not to rush past any part of you. Your hands tangle in his hair, and you marvel at the way he’s built—long and lean and surprisingly gentle when he kneels over you, bracing one forearm to the couch beside your head.

His hands are everywhere, mapping the lines of your body with careful precision, as if he’s learning a song by touch alone. You feel the way his thumb circles your waist, the way his palm cradles the small of your back when he lifts you to him, the way he searches your expression with every new sensation he offers. It’s as if he’s waiting for the smallest flicker of doubt, the faintest tremor of uncertainty, and ready to stop if you so much as blink the wrong way. Instead, you gasp his name, let it break over your tongue, let it fill the spaces between you.

He isn’t shy, but he isn’t greedy. Every touch is measured, every kiss considered; he explores the line of your collarbone with his mouth, hovering there until your breath shudders in your chest. When you arch into him, his arms gather you up, and he groans as though he’s been wound too tight and only you can unspool him.

“You okay?” he murmurs, trailing a hand through your hair, the tips of his fingers warm against your scalp.

You nod, too lost for words, and he kisses you again, slower, with the kind of care that makes your whole-body ache. He’s patient in the way that matters. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take more than you’re willing to give. You run your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. He shivers, then catches both your hands in his and pushes them above your head, pinning you lightly to the couch cushions. His grip isn’t forceful, but it’s inescapable, and you realise with a fluttering shock just how badly you want this exact thing—to be held here, like this, as if nothing else in the world matters.

He holds you there, one hand spanning your wrists, the other sweeping down the curve of your side and up, up, until his fingers curl into the delicate strap of your bra. He moves so slowly that you want to scream. “May I?” he asks, voice suddenly quiet. You nod, and he gently unclasps the hook, letting the fabric fall from you. You’re bare before him now, and for a moment, time stops.

Yunho’s eyes widen, dark and stunned. He reaches out, brushing the backs of his knuckles along the soft curve of your breast. You shudder, mouth gone dry. He bends and kisses your sternum, then the inside of your arm, every inch an act of worship.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, and when he finally takes your nipple into his mouth, you gasp so loudly it startles you both. He laughs, low and rough, but doesn’t stop. His tongue toys with you, learning what makes your breath catch, what makes your hands twist in the fabric of the couch. He lingers, never dismissing a single inch, and everywhere he touches feels like a new centre of gravity.

You become a mass of nerve endings, aware only of him and the friction building, the pressure pulling you higher. His hand leaves your wrists and skims down to hook at your waist, pulling your hips up to meet him. You can feel him, hard and insistent, pressed against your thigh, and it’s almost enough to undo you. You reach for the waistband of his jeans, fingers trembling, and he lets you, groaning your name as you fumble with the button. He helps you, laughing again when the denim refuses to cooperate, and when you finally manage it, he kisses you like a thank you.

He sheds the last of his clothes with a careless grace, and in the dim light, he looks almost mythical—something carved from hope and longing. You let your fingertips trace the ridges of his stomach, the v at his hips, the trembling line of his thigh as he lays over you. He watches your face every second, as if your pleasure is more important than his own.

When he finally settles between your legs, he pauses, searching your expression for any hint of regret.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice ragged but clear. You answer by drawing him closer, legs locking around his waist, your answer loud in the way you can’t keep your hands off him.

He enters you with careful consideration, slow enough that you feel every inch, every moment of him becoming a part of you. The stretch is sweet, almost painful, then settling into a fullness that makes you dizzy. He cradles your face, kissing you through the first trembling moments, staring into your eyes as if he could see right through to the parts of you that have never been touched before. Your hands roam his back, his arms, the sharp line of his jaw, desperate for more of him, for all of him.

Yunho doesn’t rush. He sets a gentle rhythm, moving inside you with a patience that borders on worship. Every thrust is met with a careful, grounding touch—a sweep of his thumb over your cheek, a press of his forehead to yours, a murmur of your name that sounds like a prayer. The world outside your apartment ceases to exist; it’s just the two of you, a single point of focus, a single shared breath. Time dilates, stretches out, becomes meaningless except for the rising pressure, the burning pulse at the base of your spine.

He listens to your every sound, adjusting to the smallest shift in your body. When your breath hitches, he slows. When you arch into him, he moves deeper, chasing the place that makes you cry out. He’s meticulous, utterly focused, and when you break apart beneath him, it’s with a sense of shattering so complete you can only hold on and ride the wave.

"Yunho!" His name tears from your throat—half plea, half revelation—as pleasure shatters through you like lightning striking water, your body arching beneath him, fingernails digging crescents into his shoulders, the world behind your eyelids exploding into white-hot stars.

He keeps moving, gently, coaxing you through the aftershocks, never letting you go. His own climax is quieter but no less intense—the way his whole body tenses, the way he buries his face in your neck and breathes your name against your skin. He shudders, then goes very still. For a long, quiet minute, neither of you speak.

He withdraws, but only far enough to kiss you, softer now. He strokes your hair back from your face, murmuring sweet, thoughtless things as your heartbeat settles. You’re both sweaty and boneless and tangled together, but neither of you seem to mind.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, as if the world might shatter if he speaks any louder.

~

~

It burns. Not fire—but betrayal. A jagged, venomous thing that slithers through Hongjoong’s chest, coiling tighter with every breath.

He hears footsteps. Your voice.

But it’s warped, distant, as if you’re speaking to him through a storm. He can’t make out your words. Only that you’re here. And so is it.

Ezkirion’s presence oozes through the cabin like rot, curling at the edges of his vision, feeding him stories that thrum like truth in his ears.

You let him die. You gave your flame away and warmed yourself with another. Mingi—his brother, his blood—took his place in your bed.

He tries to blink it away, tries to see you clearly, but all he can feel is the tearing sensation in his chest. The weight of everything you said you’d be—burned to ash.

The shadows crawl deeper. His knees hit the floor. Ezkirion’s claws ghost over his jugular. The pain vanishes, swallowed in a cold, merciful void.

“You’ve suffered long enough,” it whispers, smooth as silk over a blade. “Let me take it from you.”

And then—he looks up. Red eyes meet yours. Your heart drops.

No, no, no.

“Joong?” you whisper, barely audible. Your voice breaks on the syllable. You take one slow step forward. “It’s me.”

He tilts his head. The crack of it is sickening. “Is it?”

Wooyoung reaches out, grabs your arm as if to hold you back, but you shake him off.

“Please,” you say, louder now. “You don’t have to do this. Whatever Ezkirion promised you—”

“Promised me?” He laughs, but it’s all teeth. The kind of sound that scrapes across your bones. “You think this was some sort of deal? No, no. This is destiny. My blood always belonged to it.”

He steps closer now, slowly, unhurried, the flickering lantern light catching the eerie sheen of his crimson eyes. “And yours… was wasted on me.”

You recoil like you’ve been slapped.

He doesn’t stop. “You lied, Fireborn. You said you loved me. But Ezkirion opened my eyes to what really happened. I watched the man I trusted most sleep beside you, while I was barely clinging to life.”

Your knees nearly give out.

“That’s not what happened,” you rasp. “I never—nothing happened. I thought you were—Hongjoong, you were dying.”

“I was dead.”

“Then I brought you back!”

“You gave it your fire.” His voice splits, echoing—one part his, one part Ezkirion’s. “And now it burns in me.”

Silence falls like a guillotine.

Wooyoung’s still frozen beside you, face pale. You can hear the rush of your own blood in your ears. The light in your palms threatens to flare, but you don’t dare move. He’s faster than you’ve ever seen him before. Sharper. Inhuman.

Your breath hitches as Hongjoong—what used to be Hongjoong—takes another step forward. That thing inside him is watching you. He is watching you. Not with recognition, or pain, or even hate.

But hunger.

His grin widens impossibly as he tilts his head, sizing you up like prey. “You tremble,” he croons, taking one slow, deliberate step closer. “Is it fear? Or guilt?”

Your lips part to speak, but the words never leave you. Because in the next instant, he lunges. He moves with terrifying speed, his body a blur, claws outstretched, teeth bared. You barely have time to react before he’s on you, and for the first time in your life, you’re frozen. Not from weakness, but from heartbreak. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him.

And then—he stops. Mid-strike, only inches from your throat, something pulls him back. He jerks violently, limbs spasming as if caught in invisible chains. A shadow coils around his wrist like smoke-turned-solid. He snarls, thrashing.

“Not yet, my child,” comes a voice from everywhere and nowhere.

The room darkens. Even the candles flicker and die.

Then it appears behind him—Ezkirion. Or at least, the semblance of it. Not fully formed, still half mist, half nightmare. But enough.

Enough to make the air freeze and the boards beneath your feet groan in protest.

“You’ll get to have your fun,” it whispers, its voice like knives dragged over bone. “But patience. She must suffer first. You remember suffering, don’t you?”

A flicker of agony flashes behind Hongjoong’s red eyes. His face twists. Just for a second, you see something—someone—break through the void. And then it’s gone.

He steps back, composure returning like a tide of bile. Straightening, smoothing his coat as if he hadn’t just tried to kill you.

Ezkirion’s shadow leans in close to your ear. “Soon, sweet thing. Soon you’ll watch him destroy every part of what you love.”

And then they’re gone. The shadows scatter. The light returns. And you’re left with the silence.

CHAPTER FOUR - BLACK FLAG

The drive is silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires—they hold you together like thread. You barely register when the car slows, when the unfamiliar cityscape gives way to his building.

You’re still staring at the dashboard when Seonghwa unbuckles your seatbelt.

“Come here.”

Before you can protest, he’s out of the driver’s seat and already opening your door.

You blink. “Hwa—”

But he doesn’t let you finish.

He lifts you out of the car like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Strong arms under your knees and around your back, your body folding into his instinctively. His chest is warm beneath your cheek, steady. You smell the lingering hints of cologne, clean sweat, city air.

Your arms circle his neck loosely, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t say anything, he just walks. Past the security desk. Past the elevator. Through the door of his apartment. No questions. No expectations. Just care, quiet and unconditional.

The hallway light spills across your skin as he nudges the bedroom door open with his foot. He lowers you onto the bed with exquisite gentleness, like he’s afraid you’ll crack open if he moves too quickly. Then, quietly, he disappears into the walk-in.

You sit up slowly, the room spinning slightly.

He returns with a soft, oversized black T-shirt and a pair of his boxers, folded neatly. He places them beside you on the bed and then fetches a bottle of water, setting it on the nightstand without a word.

His voice is calm. Controlled.

“I’ll let you change. I’ll be in the guest room if you need anything.”

But your voice catches in your throat. You look at him, eyes wide and brimming.

“No. I don’t want to be alone. Please… stay.”

He stills in the doorway. For a moment, all you hear is the tick of the clock on the wall. Then he nods once.

“Okay.”

He steps out long enough to give you privacy. You change slowly, peeling off your dress, replacing it with the weight of his cotton shirt. The fabric falls to mid-thigh, warm with his scent. The boxers sit comfortably on your hips.

You slip under the covers just as he returns, freshly changed, hair slightly tousled. He hesitates at the door again, as if making sure this is really what you want.

You lift the duvet in answer.

He climbs in beside you, the mattress dipping gently. You turn toward him, and he opens his arms. You sink into them like you were made to be there.

His hand rests lightly on your waist, the other smoothing gently down your spine. You breathe in, and his scent—soap, woodsmoke, something unmistakably Seonghwa—wraps around your lungs like silk.

He presses his lips to your temple.

“You’re safe now.”

You don’t reply. You just press closer, eyes fluttering shut.

~

You’re woken by the soft spill of sunlight, thin and dappled, slipping through the slats of Seonghwa’s blinds.

At first, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it. The warmth of his body behind you, the gentle pressure of an arm still lazily draped across your waist. Your heart skips, not with panic, but with something else entirely. Something quieter. Stranger.

You turn slightly, careful not to wake him, and your eyes land on his face. His features are soft in sleep. His jawline, bruised and slightly swollen, seems even sharper in the hush of morning, and you hate that it happened. Hate that he was dragged into something he never asked for and still didn’t hesitate to protect you from.

You reach out, slowly, fingertips brushing the bruise like an apology you can’t quite say out loud.

He stirs. A soft exhale, a faint twitch in his brow, and then his eyes open—still hazy, still blinking against the light, but locked on yours almost immediately.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. Then his hand lifts, warm and gentle, fingers brushing your cheek like he’s making sure you’re still real.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

You nod, eyes on his. There’s something in your throat; a lump of unshed emotion, of things you don’t know how to name yet.

Before you can stop yourself, your lips brush his. Just once. It’s a soft kiss. Careful, testing the weight of it. But he doesn’t pull away. He leans in.

And suddenly you’re kissing again. Deeper now, slower, his hand cradling the back of your neck, your own fingers curling into his shirt. There’s no rush. No frantic grasping or lust-fuelled fire. Just the burn of everything unsaid, everything you both felt last night but never voiced. The kind of kiss that feels like breathing.

His thumb strokes over your hip, anchoring you to him, and you melt into the space between his arms.

There’s a softness in him that feels addictive; a grounding warmth that you’ve craved more than you ever realised. His lips move slowly, carefully, like he’s memorising the shape of you all over again, and it stirs something deep in your chest.

But just as your body starts pressing more insistently into his, as your fingers begin to drag up under the hem of his shirt, he pulls back. His breath is uneven, eyes dark with restraint, but still, he speaks—always putting your comfort first.

“I’m not saying I don’t want this,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “I really do. But… I don’t want you to feel any pressure. A lot happened last night, so—”

You press your index finger to his lips, silencing him. His eyes widen slightly. You lean in, so close your foreheads nearly touch.

“I want to, Hwa,” you whisper. “Please.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Like he’s searching for hesitation, like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear if he looks too long. But then he nods, pulling you into him again.

This time it’s different, urgent in a quieter way. Like he’s been waiting a lifetime for permission to touch you like this. His hands slide up your back, slipping under the fabric of his own shirt draped over your body. His palms are so warm against your skin, and they anchor you, one at your spine, the other sliding along your ribs, careful, reverent.

Your legs tangle together beneath the sheets. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss feels deeper. More certain. You arch into him, your body responding without hesitation, fingers threading into his hair. He sighs into your mouth, a soft sound that sends heat surging low in your belly.

When he rolls you gently onto your back, his weight settling partially over you, it’s feels worshipful.

“Let me take care of you,” he breathes.

And you do. Because there’s something in the way Seonghwa touches you; like he knows every wound you’re hiding beneath your sharp edges. Like he’s tracing the blueprint of your pain just to show you it can still feel like home.

He makes you feel like every inch of your skin is worthy of attention, every gasp, and every tremor something to be learned, and cherished. All of it new, all of it slow, all of it so unhurried you want to sob from the relief of not being devoured—for once—but allowed to bloom.

You press your face into his neck as he settles over you, his breath warm at your ear. He whispers your name like a secret, over and over, until it doesn’t feel sharp anymore—but syllabic velvet, muffling the jag of memory. You let your hands map his shoulders, the fine slope of his back, the ridgeline of his hips, feeling the goosebumps that chase beneath your palm.

He moves inside you with the same focus he brings everywhere else. Intent, measured, but so present you feel stripped bare. He kisses every corner of you, the curve of your mouth, your sternum, the shallow just above your navel, in the hollow of your knee. He whispers breathless secrets into your skin, each one an antidote to everything that had ever made you untouchable.

And when you reach your climax, it’s on nothing more than the sound of his voice and the gentle insistence of his hands, coaxing you open and apart, then piecing you back together with the kind of care you never let yourself want.

Afterwards, he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time. He tucks you against his chest, fingers drawing lazy circles up and down your arm, your thigh, the inside of your wrist. You lay like that for what feels like a whole season—his heart steady in your ear, his breath warm on the back of your neck, his hand holding yours beneath the sheets.

Eventually, you murmur. “Thank you.”

You don’t mean just for the night. You mean for staying, for seeing you.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, barely more than a breath.

“Anytime.”

After what feels like hours of just being, laying in his arms and drinking in his presence, his hand finds the curve of your hip under the covers. “I was thinking of making breakfast. You hungry?”

You hesitate. Not because it isn’t tempting, not because you don’t feel safe. But because everything feels a little too much, and not in the way it did last night.

You shift, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes are fixed on you, watching you closely, like he’s already read the answer in the space between your breaths.

“Thank you,” you say again, brushing your hand across his chest. “For last night. For everything. But I… I think I need to head home. Just for a while. To be alone. Clear my head.”

He nods, without a trace of disappointment. If anything, he seems to understand.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Let me drive you—”

“No, it’s okay.” You offer him a small, grateful smile. “Really. I’ll get a cab.”

You sit up slowly, gathering the clothes he lent you—the oversized shirt, the pair of boxers. You change back into your dress in the adjoining bathroom, and when you emerge, he’s waiting by the door with your bag and a bottle of water in hand. Always thinking ahead. Always considerate.

He walks you to the elevator in silence, your hand brushing his briefly as you step in.

“You know where I am,” he says quietly, as the doors begin to close.

You nod, unable to say more. Because you do know, and that’s what makes it all the harder to leave.

Back at your apartment, the silence is heavier than usual.

Your coat is draped carelessly over the arm of the sofa, your heels abandoned near the door. You step out of your dress and pull on something familiar. Comfortable. Yours.

You linger by your laptop for a moment, fingers hovering over the lid. You know what you have to do. You’ve known since last night. Since the moment Hongjoong’s fist flew and shattered what little calm was left in the courtyard.

He can’t keep getting away with this.

Not because you want to punish him, or because you’re angry—though you are. But because you’ve built your entire career on being someone who doesn’t flinch in the face of pressure. Someone who steps in when others won’t. Someone who holds the line, even when her heart is breaking behind it.

And this—what happened last night—crossed it.

You open the laptop. The light from the screen washes over your face, and for a moment, you just stare at the blank report template. Then, you begin to type.

You keep it factual. Professional. You write about what was seen, who was involved, and what followed. You leave out the history, the emotions, the ache in your chest. There’s no room for that in official documentation.

But when you finish and hit send, your fingers tremble. Because you know what’s coming next. Suspension. Formal investigation. Fallout.

You close the laptop, press your palms to your eyes, and exhale through your teeth.

There’s no going back now.

You spend the rest of your Saturday with a tight, unrelenting knot in your stomach. It curls behind your ribs and settles low in your gut—a queasiness that food can’t fix and sleep won’t ease.

You clean the apartment twice over, fold laundry you’ve already folded, reorganise the fridge for no reason. Nothing helps. So, when your old friend Anya texts Sunday morning inviting you to brunch, you finally say yes.

You need the distraction. You need to remember what it feels like to exist outside the paddock.

By noon, you’re seated in a sun-drenched corner booth of your favourite spot, a lazy jazz cover of Beyoncé playing softly in the background. There’s a half-drunk mimosa in your hand, a plate of ricotta pancakes in front of you, and two of your oldest friends across the table.

Anya is in the middle of a very animated retelling of how her co-worker got caught cheating via a smart fridge notification, and Rita is doubled over in laughter. You manage a laugh too; but it’s thin, a poor imitation of real joy. Because all you can think about is tomorrow.

Your phone buzzes in your bag. You fish it out, expecting Yeosang—and you’re right. A sweet message. Just checking in. But then a call lights up your screen, and it’s a number you don’t recognise.

You frown, declining the call before holding the screen in your palm. It lights up once more. Same number. Your thumb hovers, then you sigh and shut the whole thing off, burying it in your bag like it might burn you if you let it.

Rita raises an eyebrow. “Work already?”

You shake your head. “Spam, probably.”

They nod, satisfied, and dive back into conversation—the latest gossip from the studio Rita manages, the trainer Anya’s been seeing who may or may not be a catfish. It’s warm, it’s familiar, it’s everything you’ve been missing. But it feels like you’re watching it all through thick glass, detached and distant.

Eventually, they turn to you.

“Enough about us,” Anya says. “What’s going on in your world?”

“Still wrangling those egos in jumpsuits?” Rita adds with a smirk.

You smile. A smile that feels too polished, too forced.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Same old.”

You don’t tell them about the bruises you kissed on Seonghwa’s jaw. You don’t tell them about the cigarette Mingi lit for you. You don’t tell them about the venom in Hongjoong’s voice, or the tremble in your hand as you filed that report.

You sip your mimosa and pretend your world isn’t one misstep away from combusting. And pray that Monday doesn’t swallow you whole.

Hours later, the quiet of your apartment feels unnatural.

Your TV hums softly with the final scenes of a film you haven’t really watched. The dishes from dinner still sit in the sink, untouched. The sun set hours ago, but you’ve left the lights dim, cocooned in a kind of stillness that’s not quite peace.

You reach for the remote to turn everything off when a knock startles you. You freeze, not expecting anyone.

You glance at the clock. It’s late. Too late for social visits. Maybe it’s Yeosang, checking in after your radio silence. Maybe Rita or Anya forgot something at brunch.

The knock comes again—louder this time, more urgent. The kind of knock that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that demands attention.

Your stomach drops.

Still, you cross the room, peering through the peephole, breath shallow. But when you open the door, your heart skips, and not in the way it used to.

There, standing under the low hallway light, is Hongjoong. Not the composed, cold-blooded driver the paddock knows. This Hongjoong looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, damp at the edges like he’s run his hands through it too many times. His eyes are wild, rimmed red—like he hasn’t slept since Friday night.

“What… what are you doing here?”

Your voice is small, too soft. You hate that it sounds like a squeak.

But he doesn’t answer. He just walks past you, into your apartment like it still belongs to him, like five years didn’t pass between now and the last time he did exactly that.

He stops in the middle of your living room, turns on his heel, and begins to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. A storm barely contained.

You stay by the door, heart thudding.

Finally, he stops. Turns to you.

“I’ve been suspended,” he says, the words dropping from his mouth like a stone in water.

“Pending investigation.”

You don’t say anything for a moment, you just look at him. He looks… smaller, somehow. Not in stature, but in presence. Like the flame that made him unbearable and unforgettable in equal measure has been snuffed out.

“What did you expect?” Your voice is quiet, a mutter. No bite, just tired.

Hongjoong’s jaw clenches.

“I—” His voice falters. “I don’t know.”

That stops you cold.

You were bracing yourself for fire—a verbal lashing, blame, denial, the same cycle he’s always spun when backed into a corner. But this? This is something else entirely.

His shoulders sag. His eyes flicker down to the floor, like he can’t bear to meet your gaze anymore. And for a split second, he looks like a kicked puppy.

“I didn’t come here to yell,” he says, finally. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, arms folding across your chest like armour. “Not tonight.”

He nods. Not in agreement—more like he’s acknowledging a truth he knew before he even knocked.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I just… when they told me, when they read the suspension out loud, it hit me. That this was it. That I’d really burned it all to the ground.”

You swallow hard. You don’t want to feel sorry for him. But God, it’s hard not to when he looks like this. All storm damage and sharp edges dulled by guilt.

“You did this to yourself, Hongjoong.”

“I know.”

Another silence blooms, thick and heavy.

“You broke my heart…”

His voice is thin, rough like gravel underfoot. You look up, expecting fury. The usual venom, blame, bite. But it’s not there. He’s standing in the centre of your apartment, shoulders slumped, eyes glassy.

“I’ve never said that out loud before,” he continues, barely above a whisper. “But you did. And I think—no, I know—I’ve been running from that fact ever since.”

Your breath stills.

“I was just a kid. We both were. But that doesn’t take away the fact that my best friend and my girlfriend were the only people I ever trusted. And when that trust shattered…” He trails off, pressing his knuckles into his forehead like the pressure might force the words out. “It broke me in ways I didn’t know I could break.”

He finally looks at you again, and the weight in his eyes is unbearable. Not anger, not hatred. Just loss. Years and years of it.

“And when you came back… and I saw you again. With Mingi. With Seonghwa. With them.” His voice cracks hard on that last word. “It tore open everything I’d spent years trying to bury. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I lashed out. I acted like I didn’t care. Like I hated you. But the truth is…”

He takes in a shaky breath.

“I really loved you, you know. I did. I know we weren’t easy. We were oil and fire more often than not. But you were my home. For a long, long time.”

Your lips part. And when your voice returns, it’s softer than it’s been in years.

“I loved you too.” Your eyes sting with tears. “But it became harder and harder to keep loving you.”

He takes a cautious step toward you. No longer storming. No longer trying to control the narrative. Just a boy—the boy you once loved—standing in the ruins of what he destroyed.

His hand reaches up, trembling as he brushes a tear from your cheek. His touch is warm, delicate. Like the memory of something that once brought comfort.

“Hongjoong.” You whisper his name like a wound, a prayer, a truth you’ve tried too long to bury. Your cheek presses into his palm, and despite everything—the fire and ash of your past, the fury still smouldering under your skin—you lean into the heat of his hand.

His eyes flicker, the raw edge of him exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, like the words hurt coming out. Like they’re being torn from the deepest part of him.

Then he steps back. Turns toward the door, shoulders rising like he's gathering what little strength he has left. You hear the soft sound of him sniffling, barely controlled, and it undoes you, cracking something wide open in your chest that you thought had scarred over years ago.

Without thinking, you move.

Your hand catches his wrist just as he reaches for the handle. His skin is fever-warm, pulse hammering against your fingertips. When he turns, his eyes are glassy pools that reflect five years of regret. You see the boy who once promised you forever, now a man hollowed out by his own mistakes.

You kiss him, your lips meeting his with the gentle collision of two stars that were always meant to destroy each other. He tastes like salt and whispered apologies.

He doesn't hesitate. His arms engulf you, crushing you against him until your ribcage aches with the pressure of everything unsaid. His heartbeat thunders against yours—the same rhythm it always had, like your bodies remember what your minds tried to forget.

"Please," he whispers, though you aren’t sure what he's begging for.

His tears fall hot against your cheeks, mingling with your own until you can't tell which grief belongs to whom. You feel each silent sob rack through his body like aftershocks of an earthquake that began the day you left.

"I've missed you," he breathes against your mouth, the words breaking between syllables. "Every day. Every single day."

The kiss deepens with the desperation of drowning people finding air. Not passion, but salvation. Your tears stream faster now, tasting of all the birthdays, holidays, and ordinary Tuesdays that should have been yours together. You don't bother to wipe them.

Hongjoong pulls back slightly, his hands trembling as they cup your face. His thumbs catch your tears, but they keep coming, relentless as the tide. His eyes—those eyes that once held galaxies for you—are drowning now. "Please, don’t cry." he whispers, the words splintering between you like broken glass.

You shake your head and pull him back to you. Five years of silence collapses into this single point of contact. Your lips find his with the desperation of someone who's forgotten how to breathe on their own.

You stumble backward together, neither leading nor following, just falling in the same direction as you always have. When your knees hit the couch, you both tumble down in a tangle of limbs that remember each other better than they should.

He hovers above you, chest heaving, one hand braced by your head. The other cradles your hip with such reverence it hurts, like he's touching a photograph that might crumble beneath his fingers. His body settles against yours, and for one stolen moment, the broken pieces of you both align.

"When you said it meant nothing," he murmurs, voice scraped raw, "that day in your office... I felt it here." His hand presses against his heart, fingers curling into his shirt like he's trying to hold something inside that's threatening to escape.

"It did mean something. Deep down. I just—" your voice breaks, the truth lodging in your throat like shattered glass. "I wanted to bury it. Pretend it didn't exist because it hurt too much to remember."

You open your mouth but only a small, wounded sound escapes. Years of carefully constructed walls crumbling with one touch.

Your chest aches with the gentle way he holds you now—so different from before—like you're something precious he thought he'd never hold again. When your lips part for him, you feel the tremor in his breath, the slight shake in his hands as they frame your face.

He makes a sound against your mouth—half-sob, half-groan—that vibrates through your bones. His fingers trace your cheekbones, your jaw, your neck, with such care that it makes your eyes sting. Like he's memorising you in case this is the last time.

You clutch his jacket, desperate, a drowning person grasping at salvation. The fabric tears slightly as you push it from his shoulders. It falls forgotten as you press closer, needing to erase the years between you, the emptiness that's lived in your chest since he left.

"I've spent five years trying to forget the way you feel," he whispers, voice breaking as his forehead presses against yours. His hips move against you with heartbreaking restraint, like he's afraid you'll shatter. Your name on his lips sounds like a forgiveness you don't deserve.

This is dangerous. This is the match that burned everything down before. But the way he looks at you now—eyes shining with unshed tears, holding you like something sacred—you'd risk burning again just to feel warm.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers again, breath warm against your skin, almost like a confession between kisses.

You nod, your forehead resting against his, fingers weaving into his hair, pulling him closer. “Me too.”

A silence envelops you both as he pulls back just enough to gaze deeply into your eyes. His hands cradle your face gently, thumbs softly brushing away the tears lingering on your cheeks. His eyes bore into yours; haunted by past regrets, yet filled with hope.

“I should’ve told you all of this sooner,” he breathes, the words heavy with vulnerability. “I was scared. That I’d still want you. That I’d never stop.”

Your heart tightens with emotion.

“I never stopped,” he confesses, the words hanging in the air between you.

You guide his hand from your cheek, pressing it to your chest, over your heart, letting him feel the steady thrum beneath. “Me either.”

He kisses you again, and this time it deepens slowly—intentionally. As if you’re both rediscovering each other in this new, tender light. He undresses you with deliberate patience, his touch trailing over your skin as if you’re made of porcelain, something precious and irreplaceable.

Your clothes slip away, one piece at a time, falling to the floor. You mirror his actions, gently removing his clothing, and he allows you, his gaze never leaving yours. His eyes remain locked on yours, as though he’s trying to anchor himself in this moment, in you.

The way he touches you now is nothing like before. It's not wild, teeth scraping skin, fingers digging bruises into your hips. Not angry, not the kind that left marks you'd trace in the mirror later, wondering if passion was supposed to hurt.

It's slow. Steady. Intentional. His fingertips map constellations across your body, lingering at the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breast, the soft plane of your stomach.

He presses into you with a precision that feels almost holy, slow at first but then shuddering with the force of everything he’s been holding in for years. His body curves over yours, both sheltering and exposing you. He hovers at the edge, trembling, breath stuttering against your lips, as if afraid that one wrong movement will shatter the fragile peace you’ve managed to reconstruct in the last few minutes.

His hand finds yours immediately, seeking, and insistent. You feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers entangle with yours, squeezing so tightly your bones creak in protest. The other hand gently cups the base of your spine, encouraging you to arch closer, to meet him halfway, to bridge the gap that years of silence carved into the geography of your bodies. His thumb traces slow, hypnotic circles on your lower back, grounding you even as he threatens to pull you apart.

He moves with a kind of reverence you never expected from him. Every thrust is deliberate, unhurried, a silent plea for forgiveness and understanding. There’s no rush, no anger, none of the frantic energy that used to define your collisions. Instead, he takes his time, learning the new language of your body, listening intently to every gasp and moan that escapes you. His mouth is everywhere—your jaw, your throat, the hollow behind your ear—lips lingering as if to imprint this moment, this second chance, onto your skin.

He whispers your name like a prayer, syllables fracturing around the edges. In the brief pauses between movements, he looks at you, really looks at you, as if cataloguing every change in your face, every new freckle or line. His eyes are wide, desperate, almost young again. When you blink up at him, you see the boy you loved—the boy you lost—fighting for air beneath the surface of the man he’s become.

You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re here, that you never really left, but your voice is lost in the tidal pull of sensation. So, you squeeze his hand in yours, letting your body do the talking, the forgiving, the remembering. Your legs wrap around him instinctually, drawing him deeper, closer. The friction is almost unbearable, every nerve ending raw and awake. You feel the way his chest shakes with effort, with restraint, and you know he’s holding back—he always did, at least the parts that mattered.

The world telescopes down to the heat where you’re joined, to the slick slide of skin, the rising tension in your belly. He feels it too, you can tell in the way his rhythm falters, the groan that rumbles from his chest, the sudden urgency in his hips. He’s close, and so are you, and for the first time in a long time it doesn’t feel like falling apart. It feels like coming home.

He buries his face in your neck as he lets go, body trembling with the force of release. You follow, shattering around him, every muscle tensing and then going soft, pliant. He doesn’t leave you—not for a second. He stays pressed tight against you, his entire body curved around yours, as if he can shield you from the world with only his own presence.

You lie there together, breathing in tandem, sweat cooling on your skin. It’s quiet, but not the uneasy quiet of old arguments and unsaid words. This silence is different—full, almost sacred. You trace lazy patterns over his shoulder blade, feeling the old scar from a childhood karting accident, the one you used to kiss before bed. He shivers, and you think of all the things you meant to say over the years but never did.

When you finally shift, he moves with you. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he wraps his arms around you more tightly, as if anchoring himself in the here and now. His lips find your hairline, your temple. His breath is warm and steady on your scalp.

Somewhere in the next room, the clock ticks forward. You know the morning will bring regret, or at least a new reality you’ll both have to face. But for right now, he just holds you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath warm against your neck. Like he used to, before the fights and the distance. Like he never stopped, never left your body to remember the shape of his absence.

Hongjoong doesn’t stay the night. He waits until your breathing evens out against his chest, then he carefully lifts you in his arms. You don’t stir as he carries you to your bed. He lays you down, tucks the covers around you, and lingers for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the ghost of a touch to brush your hair from your face—before he’s gone.

When you wake, sunlight bleeds across your sheets. Your first thought is confusion. How you’re back in bed, still in last night’s clothes, a dull throb between your legs, but your phone plugged in neatly on the nightstand. You definitely didn’t plug it in.

The screen lights up with a single unread message from the number that had called you over and over yesterday.

Unknown

I’m sorry.

You stare at it until the words blur, until there’s no denying it. Hongjoong.

By the time you arrive at the paddock, the atmosphere is a storm—charged, tense, impossible to ignore. The incident has officially become an incident. One by one, everyone who saw Hongjoong’s fist connect with Seonghwa is pulled in for questioning.

You’re first. Then Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yunho, Yeosang, San, and Jongho. Each of you emerges from that room with the same tight expression, the same stiff posture, like you’ve all been wrung dry. No one speaks much, not even Wooyoung.

By the afternoon, the executives have locked themselves away, deliberating behind closed doors while the rest of you are left in limbo.

You end up slouched deep into the sofa in the shared break area, knees pulled up slightly, head tipped back. The other six are scattered around—some sitting, some leaning against the wall, some with arms crossed and eyes far away. It’s the kind of silence that weighs heavy, where no one needs to say out loud that they’re all thinking the same thing.

You battle with yourself, the weight of last night pressing into your chest like a stone.

On one hand, there’s no question. What he did was inexcusable. The way he stormed in, the words he hurled, the swing he took at Seonghwa… none of it can be erased or excused. Actions have consequences, and if there’s any justice in this sport, he’ll face them.

But on the other… Now you know. Now you’ve seen. The rawness in his voice, the cracks in the armour you always thought was impenetrable. For years, he wore that mask so well—sharp smirks, quick wit, the air of someone untouchable. Like nothing could pierce him.

But last night… last night, you realised that under all that polish and bravado, he’d been falling apart quietly. Slowly. And no one saw it—maybe no one wanted to.

It doesn’t erase the hurt he’s caused, to you or to others. But it makes the knot in your stomach tighten in a way you can’t quite untangle.

The decision comes just as everyone is packing up to leave. No formal announcement over the speakers, no email blast. Just a quiet word passed through the ranks like gossip that spreads too fast.

Hongjoong will be suspended. For two weeks.

The reaction is immediate. Outrage flares in the air like static—sharp, crackling, impossible to ignore. San curses, loudly and without caring who hears. Seonghwa’s jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he exhales slowly through his nose. Jongho just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about rules meaning nothing anymore.

Because you all know the truth. Any other driver would be done for the season, maybe longer. But this is Hongjoong. The golden boy. The legend. The one whose face still fills billboards and headlines. Of course, Ferrari won’t keep him out of the programme for more than a fortnight.

Yeosang appears at your side, quiet but grounding.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Are you okay? That decision was… interesting.”

All you can do is nod, forcing the smallest smile you can muster. You can’t tell him yet.

You can’t tell him what happened between you and Hongjoong—not now, not when the air is still thick with judgment. You don’t want to see disappointment flicker in Yeosang’s eyes. Not yet.

You’re slinging your bag over your shoulder when your phone buzzes.

The name on the screen freezes you in place—Hongjoong. It’s just one line.

Two weeks.

You’re still staring at it when footsteps approach. You lock the screen so fast it’s almost reflex.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than the noise of the paddock around you. “How are you doing?”

That small, careful smile Seonghwa offers twists something sharp in your gut. You feel the weight of the mess you’ve made—the web you’re tangled in, threads pulling from every direction.

“I’m okay… I think,” you manage, trying to keep your tone steady. “How about you?”

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, a sigh that says more than his words ever could. “I can’t say I’m pleased with the outcome,” he admits, eyes holding yours for just a beat too long. “But… it is what it is.”

You nod, but the phrase echoes in your head.

It is what it is.

A neat, simple bow to tie over something messy and raw.

Seonghwa shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

You fall into step beside him, the quiet between you strangely comfortable after the chaos of the day. The evening air outside the paddock is cooler, a relief against your skin after hours under the pit lights.

Beyond the chain-link boundary, a dark car sits parked under the shadow of a tree. Engine off, windows tinted. Inside, a figure leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel.

Hongjoong.

He doesn’t move. Just watches.

You don’t see him. You’re too focused on keeping your own steps even, not letting the mess of the day weigh your body down. Seonghwa holds the gate open for you, and your hand brushes his as you pass.

The moment is small, fleeting. You smile faintly, mutter a quiet thank you, and head towards your car—never once glancing in the direction of the shadows where Hongjoong sits, eyes tracking every step you take.

Hongjoong hadn’t planned to come here. He just wanted to see if you were okay; to check for himself that the day’s fallout hadn’t broken you entirely. But when you emerge with Seonghwa at your side, his stomach drops.

The easy curve of your smile, the way you tilt slightly towards him as you walk, the comfortable swing of your linked steps—it makes something sharp coil in his chest. His hand tightens on the wheel, knuckles paling.

He draws in a long, tight breath, his eyes fixed on you until you’re out of sight.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - DEVIL IN DISGUISE

The door to Seonghwa’s quarters slams open with a crack that echoes down the corridor.

Seonghwa straightens instantly, half-dressed and applying a fresh bandage to a healing wound on his chest. “Captain?” he says sharply. “Why are you—”

“We’re leaving,” Hongjoong snaps, his voice sharper than steel.

Seonghwa blinks, caught off guard. “Leaving? Forgive me, but where is this coming from? You are barely recovered and the council—”

“We don’t belong here, Hwa,” Hongjoong cuts him off, stepping deeper into the room. His coat is half-fastened, boots muddied from walking the grounds at sunrise. “This place… it was never meant for us. It’s time we stop pretending otherwise.”

“But—”

“We’ve lingered too long. This is a war of gods. Let them fight it.” His tone is final, unreadable, the edge of something bitter curling beneath every syllable. “We’ve done what we can. Now it’s time to go back to the sea. Where we belong.”

Seonghwa watches him closely, brows drawn. “Captain… is this about Y/N?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer. Not directly. His jaw ticks, and his gaze flickers—just for a moment—toward the open window, where sunlight breaks across the sky.

“This is an order, First Mate. Ready the Halcyon. Gather who you can.”

Seonghwa hesitates. “Sir, not all of the crew are fit to sail. Jongho’s shoulder still needs reinforcing. Yeosang should not be moved. Yunho only just began walking without aid—”

“Then we leave without them. For now.”

The silence that follows is stunned.

Hongjoong doesn’t flinch. “They will follow when they can. You and I both know they will. But I’m not staying here another damn day.”

Something unspoken hangs in the air between them. Grief, perhaps. Guilt. Heartache disguised as strategy.

Seonghwa inclines his head slowly, his voice quiet but firm. “Understood, Captain. I will gather who I can.”

Hongjoong nods once, already halfway out the door. “We leave before nightfall.”

The door closes behind him, the sound like a seal of fate.

Seonghwa stands in the stillness for a long while, looking out at the golden horizon. And then, with a sigh, he begins to prepare.

Back in the clearing, beneath the soft-filtered light of morning, you and Wooyoung sit shoulder to shoulder on a moss-covered stone.

The tears have dried on your cheeks, leaving tight trails on your skin. The sunlight no longer pulses from you in erratic bursts—now it glows low and steady in your palms, golden and warm.

You glance at Wooyoung, who is watching you quietly, his expression unreadable for once. He hasn’t moved from your side since you collapsed into him. You take a breath, trying to push past the lump in your throat.

“I need to tell you something,” you whisper, fingers curled into your lap. “About… who I am. Who I really am.”

Wooyoung blinks slowly, giving a soft nod. “Alright.”

You stare ahead, past the curve of the trees. “My father… he wasn’t Fireborn like my mother. He was born from light. Sunborn. Their union was forbidden. He disguised himself for her protection, for mine. I’m not just of flame. I am—”

You look down at your hands, and with a focused breath, open your palms. Warm, golden light begins to pour out, not in a blaze like fire, but in radiant beams—soft like sunrise, gentle but commanding. It dances across the moss and stone, catching the shimmer of the morning dew.

Wooyoung’s breath catches.

“I’ve been training,” you add. “Alone. I don’t even know what I’m doing, not really. But it’s in me. I feel it. He—my father—he’s been guiding me.”

Wooyoung’s throat works. “Sunborn,” he murmurs. Then he turns to you, jaw clenched with something that feels like both awe and pain. “You shouldn’t be alone in this.”

“I don’t want to endanger anyone else,” you say softly, voice trembling.

He exhales harshly. “You think being alone will stop people from getting hurt? That didn’t work last time, Y/N.”

Your eyes sting again. But then he softens. His hand reaches over, gently covering your own glowing one.

“I think your father would be proud of you,” he says. “I am proud of you. You’re doing this. And I’ll help, okay? You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Meanwhile, within the marbled halls of the Isle, Seonghwa speaks in hushed tones with San and Mingi.

The sun had only just begun to rise, casting long slats of pale gold through the arched windows of the council chamber when Seonghwa gathered them—his posture straight despite the lingering stiffness in his shoulder. The tone of his voice is clipped, efficient, but carries an urgency the others hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Captain Hongjoong has made his decision,” Seonghwa says firmly, addressing both San and Mingi, who stand in the corridor outside the chamber. “We are to return to the Halcyon. Today.”

San’s brows knit together. “Today?” He glances down the corridor, toward the infirmary wing. “Joong isn’t strong enough. He still needs—”

“I am aware of his condition,” Seonghwa replies. “But he is not asking. He is ordering. And if he says we leave, then we leave. You and Mingi are to help him return to the ship.”

“And what about the others?” Mingi asks, clearly rattled. “Yeosang can’t walk. Jongho still needs help breathing properly.”

“They stay. For now,” Seonghwa replies. “We will ensure their return, once they are well enough.”

Mingi nods, already halfway turned toward the wing. “Understood.”

“Make sure he gets aboard safely,” Seonghwa says, his gaze flicking between them. “We’ll meet you at the docks. I’ll begin assembling the others who are fit to sail.”

San claps Mingi’s shoulder. “Let’s go get him.”

The infirmary is quiet. Hongjoong is already half-dressed, pulling a thick coat over his shoulders with a grimace, refusing help from the healers. The moment he sees them enter, his expression flattens.

San raises both palms. “Don’t worry, we’re not here to coddle. Just to make sure you don’t topple down a stairwell on your way to the ship.”

Hongjoong doesn’t smile. He only nods. “Good. Let’s move.”

Mingi steps forward instinctively, moving to offer support beneath his Captain’s arm. But Hongjoong stops short, the shift in his tone sharp enough to cut.

“Not you.”

Mingi freezes. “…What?”

“Find Wooyoung,” Hongjoong says, eyes like flint. “He’s missing. We’re not leaving without him.”

Mingi’s throat tightens, his stance rigid. “…Aye, Captain.”

There’s a heavy pause before he turns and walks away without another word. San watches him go, eyes narrowing, then turns back to Hongjoong.

“What the hell was that about?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer. He simply adjusts the strap of his coat, each movement deliberate, as if forcing himself to stay upright through sheer will alone.

“We don’t have time to waste,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

~

You’re smiling. Actually smiling.

For the first time in weeks, the heaviness on your chest loosens as you and Wooyoung walk the winding paths of the palace gardens, the morning sun warming your skin. He’s in the middle of an elaborate and utterly nonsensical theory about how the palace cats are secret agents for the council—animatedly flailing his arms like he’s orchestrating a military strategy.

You laugh, the sound surprising even yourself.

“So I’m just saying,” he continues, deadpan, “if one of them shows up with a little scroll tied to its tail? Run.”

“You’re impossible,” you giggle, nudging his shoulder.

“Ah, but I made you laugh,” he says, grinning.

And then—it shatters. Mingi barrels around the corner at a sprint, breathless, eyes wild until they land on the two of you.

“There you are,” he pants. “We have orders. We’re heading back to the Halcyon.”

Wooyoung blinks. “What?”

“We’re leaving,” Mingi says, voice strained. “Today.”

Wooyoung’s brow furrows. “Back to the Halcyon? Are you taking the piss? You must be having me on, Min.” He chuckles nervously, going to walk past him. “Come on, you almost had me.”

But Mingi blocks him with a firm hand across the chest. “I’m serious. It’s the Captain’s orders. I don’t understand it either… but you know we have to follow.”

You step forward, the laughter gone, replaced with cold disbelief. “He knows we can’t just leave. We’re on the brink of the end of the world. I can’t just—”

Mingi cuts you off softly, his gaze falling to the cobblestones beneath your feet.

“He didn’t mention you.”

A beat of silence passes—like the world pausing for breath.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. He’s just requesting Wooyoung.”

Something twists violently in your chest. You clench your fists at your sides, blinking hard as your heart punches your ribs.

“So he’s just leaving?” Your voice shakes. “Without a word? He’s taking my family, my crew, and just… going?”

“I don’t know why,” Mingi murmurs. “Maybe he thinks it’s to protect you. Or maybe—”

You lift a hand sharply, silencing him. The hurt crawling up your throat tastes like iron. You turn on your heel without another word, storming toward the edge of the garden path, fury and betrayal colliding in your veins.

“Y/N—where are you going?” Mingi calls after you, already moving to follow.

“I’m going back to the Halcyon,” you snap. “To have a chat with our Captain.”

Wooyoung lets out a low whistle behind you, shaking his head with a grin, though there’s sadness in his eyes.

“Well… guess we’re doing this,” he mutters, before falling into step behind you.

~

The Halcyon groans beneath his boots as Hongjoong makes his way back to his quarters, the creak of timber echoing like a metronome to the storm gathering behind his eyes. He’s just given San the order—round up the lower ranks, get the ship ready to sail by dusk. No hesitation, no questions. Just movement.

The door closes behind him with a heavy thud, and then he’s alone. The stillness wraps around him like a noose.

He lowers himself into the chair beside his desk, his jaw tight, hands trembling. He can’t stop replaying it. The moment he opened the door. Mingi. Fast asleep. Your bed.

The image is burned into the backs of his eyes.

You said you loved him. That you’d be by his side. That none of this—the demon blood, the compass, the fire—none of it changed how you saw him. But you weren’t there.

Not while he was broken. Not when he could barely lift his own head. Not when he woke screaming from dreams soaked in fire and blood. You wee gone, slipping further out of reach with every day.

And Mingi…

A boy he’d taken in. Raised alongside him. Someone who once cried into his chest when he couldn’t save a slave girl during a rescue in Nivarra. A boy he’d trusted with his ship, his crew—with you.

He was supposed to be family.

Hongjoong’s chest twists, stomach turning to rot. He runs a hand over his face, ragged. The thoughts keep circling. Darker. Meaner.

What if she never really loved you?

What if she pitied you?

What if this was all just the cost of your survival? A trade. A debt.

His breath catches. Something feels wrong. Off. The shadows in the corners of the room have… thickened.

He blinks, once. Twice.

There’s a stench now. Acrid. Like burning sulphur and rotting meat. The kind of stench that slithers up your nose and sticks to the inside of your lungs.

He turns, slowly. Smoke clings to the walls like oil. It pulses. Alive. And then—

A voice. It drips like venom into the space behind his neck, deep and elegant, as if carved from centuries of ruin.

“Captain Hongjoong. At long last, I meet your acquaintance.”

Hongjoong stands too fast, nearly knocking over the chair.

A shape begins to materialise from the thick black at the far edge of the room—not walking, not slithering, but becoming. Tall, vast, wrong. Limbs that shouldn’t bend the way they do. A form more felt than seen, the eyes absent, and yet somehow watching.

“I must admit,” it croons, voice curdling the air, “you are more… exquisite than I imagined. The demon in your veins sings, Captain. So sweetly.”

Hongjoong’s pulse is thunderous in his ears. He reaches instinctively for his blade—

“Ah, ah,” it whispers, something like a grin curling through its voice. “You would not want to cut what you do not yet understand.”

The smoke coils tighter, pressing in.

“You are a key, you see. A vessel. A bloodline forged to keep the gate open, should the fire-born fail. And fail she did. You are the contingency. My collateral.”

The compass at his hip hums, thrums so violently he almost yelps, as if burning through the leather pouch.

Hongjoong’s eyes are wild, breath ragged. “What do you want from me?”

The shadows leer, swirling like ink in water.

“Only what was always promised.”

Ezkirion steps closer—or perhaps it doesn’t step at all, but moves, like mist on water, like decay spreading through a wound.

“You ache,” it says gently, the words curling like smoke through Hongjoong’s chest. “So much pain in such a small body. And yet, you’ve endured. Carried so much. Lost so much.”

Hongjoong snarls, though the fire in his eyes falters. “You know nothing about me.”

“Oh, but I do.” Its voice softens. “I see it all. I feel it. The weight. The betrayal. The girl who promised to stay, and left. Who gave up her fire for you, yes, but who no longer belongs to you. She’s found someone else now. Someone whole. Someone strong.”

His fists tremble. “Shut up.”

“Your Master Gunner.” Ezkirion hums, delighted. “You saw it yourself, you must remember. The way she clung to him. The way he touched her. And she let him. You were right to leave, Captain. Right to question her love. She chose him.”

A breath catches in his throat. His mind screams no, but his heart cracks. He… saw them. That was real. Wasn’t it?

“She waited until you were broken. Until you were no longer the man she loved. And then she left. Just like they all do.”

The room warps, shadow swirling tighter. The compass at his hip shakes violently now, the markings glowing faint red.

“You needn’t feel this anymore, Captain. You needn’t carry her love, or its absence. Let me take it from you. Let me ease your grief. You’ve done enough. You’ve bled enough.”

The weight of it all bears down—betrayal, heartbreak, pain. He drops to his knees. Ezkirion leans in, it’s voice curling into his ear like the edge of a scream.

“You are bound to me, dear boy. Not by chains, but by blood. When I rise, you rise. When I fall, you fall. That is the truth of your lineage. But I offer you peace. Let me awaken what sleeps inside you. Let me give you freedom.”

Hongjoong’s vision swims, heart pounding so hard it feels like it will burst. “And what happens… after?”

“All of this,” Ezkirion whispers, “will be forgotten. No more pain. No more love. No more lies. Just purpose.”

A thick silence falls over his quarters. And then, almost silently— “…Yes.”

The shadows rush in. The compass bursts with light, searing red, and then vanishes from sight. And the Captain of the Halcyon is no longer alone.

~

Your boots thunder across the deck, each step a crack of fury echoing over the waves. The Halcyon groans beneath your feet like she, too, is confused by what’s happening. You barrel past crew, rage guiding you like a current.

How dare he try to leave without facing you.

You find San on the quarterdeck, reinforcing the rigging with furrowed brows. “Where is he?” you snap.

San flinches. “How did you even get here—? Mingi, for fuck’s sake. You were told to find just Wooyoung.”

Behind you, Mingi stiffens, his fists curling at his sides. He opens his mouth, but it’s Wooyoung who answers, voice hard as iron. “He’s leaving without even explaining why to Y/N? She deserves that much. Where is he?”

San sighs, defeated. “Quarters.”

That’s all you need. You’re moving before the words even fully register, Wooyoung following on your heels. Mingi lingers behind, guilt heavy on his frame.

You slam the door open.

“Hongjoong! Were you planning on just—”

Then you stop.

The scent hits first. It’s not fire, not salt, or steel. It’s rot. Decay. The sulphuric reek of something ancient and wrong. The kind of smell that curls around your lungs and tightens until you can’t breathe.

And then, from the far end of the room, it manifests.

Ezkirion.

It bows—or something like it. The movement is too fluid, like watching flesh ripple across bone in the wrong direction. Its form tears slightly as it folds, yet does not bleed. The very air hums with dread.

“Oh, lovely Fireborn,” it hisses, it’s voice like oil sliding across glass. “You’re here. I see you’ve been using the time I gifted you with your love wisely.”

Your heart lurches.

Then it speaks again—cruel and theatrical.

“I must admit, your taste is peculiar. Your Master Gunner? A bold choice. All those nights you clung to him like a frightened child. You burn for him now, not for the one you once gave everything for.”

“What—?” you whisper, voice hoarse, confused—then you understand. The blood drains from your face.

“No. No, that’s not—nothing happened—it wasn’t what it looked like!” you stumble, breathless. You look toward Hongjoong, eyes pleading.

He’s on his knees. Kneeling before Ezkirion.

“Hongjoong!” you cry, stumbling forward—but it’s already happening.

With a grin that tears its face unnaturally wide, Ezkirion extends a twisted finger—blackened, clawed—and draws it across Hongjoong’s throat.

You scream. A choked, raw sound that breaks your soul open. Wooyoung is frozen beside you, horror etched deep into his features. Hongjoong collapses forward, a pool of blood leaking slowly across the floor. He doesn’t move.

But then—violently—he jerks.

Like a marionette pulled by broken strings. His back arches, contorting. Bones snap. Flesh cracks. The sound is wrong. His spine bows backwards, folding in a way no human body should ever bend.

The only sound in the room is a sharp inhale. A ragged, vicious breath that hisses through clenched teeth. Then he stands, slowly. And turns.

Your world breaks in half.

His eyes are glowing—not the rich espresso you know, not even the golden ember they sometimes turned when kissed by firelight. No, now they shine blood red. Pupils gone.

He smiles, but it’s not his smile. It’s inhuman. Too wide. Teeth too sharp. Something else is behind that expression, wearing his skin like a trophy. He cracks his neck to the side—once, twice—with such force it should’ve broken.

And then he speaks.

“Hello, Y/N.”

It’s his voice. But twisted, laced with something deeper. Like Ezkirion is inside him, leeching off his soul.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance…” The corners of his mouth twitch, the smile turning violent. “But I must apologise…”

He takes one step closer.

CHAPTER THREE - GHOST SECTOR

The sun rises like it’s mocking you. Warm. Golden. Unbothered.

Another day at the track. Another chance to pretend like the night before never happened.

Hongjoong arrives earlier than usual, helmet tucked under one arm, his expression as unreadable as ever. He moves like clockwork, every step calculated, precise. No wasted motion. No room for weakness.

He nods to the mechanics. Mumbles something to the engineer. Glances once at the setup screen and then disappears into his own little world.

The others arrive in staggered bursts—Yunho, cheerful as ever, already cracking jokes. Yeosang and Jongho, quietly professional. Seonghwa with his usual calm presence. San, cocky and animated, bouncing on his heels. Wooyoung trailing in behind him, already sipping an iced coffee like this is just another day in paradise.

And you. You arrive last. Not by design, not deliberately. But it still feels like fate has arranged it that way.

Your eyes skim over the group, sweeping quickly past him. Your expression gives away nothing, but inside you’re all grit and tension.

And Hongjoong? He doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

Today isn’t about speed. It’s about synergy.

Pair drills. Formation runs. Pit stop practice. Simulated technical failures and live team adjustments. The officials are watching. The sponsors are watching. You are watching.

But Hongjoong doesn’t care, he just wants to drive. And for a while—he does. He hits every cue. Follows the plan. Communicates when necessary. Doesn’t bark. Doesn’t sulk. Doesn’t snap.

From the outside, he’s perfect. Unshakable. Focused. Back to his usual self. But inside? He’s numb. Because the only thing worse than you being gone… is you being right here, acting like nothing happened.

He hasn’t slept. Barely ate. His body aches from more than just the simulation rig. He knows he’s falling apart—but not today. Today, he’s driving like his dignity depends on it.

He completes his final run of the afternoon, pulling into the pit with the precision of a professional. The team claps. The chief gives him a thumbs-up. Someone says, “That’s the Hongjoong we know.”

He smiles for show. Lifts a hand in return.

And then disappears into the back of the paddock before anyone else can corner him.

~

To your surprise—and cautious relief—the day goes off without a hitch. No raised voices. No tension. No crash and burn.

Just smooth execution. Professionalism. The faintest shimmer of what this whole damn thing could’ve been, if only time had been kinder.

The rotations work. The strategy simulations are sound. Even the ones who had previously butted heads—Hongjoong and San, Mingi and Seonghwa—find a rhythm. Not warm, not friendly, but efficient. And that’s more than you ever hoped for.

By the end of it, the officials are full of praise. Your name gets mentioned specifically, and your boss catches you just before you duck out of the debrief.

“Impressive work. Whatever you’re doing to keep them in line? Keep doing it.”

You smile, tight-lipped, but thankful.

She doesn’t know that last night, one of them fucked you on your desk. And another looked at you like you held his whole world in your hands. And one more is slipping through your fingers again.

You keep smiling. Because it’s working.

For now.

“DRINKS!” Wooyoung bellows the second the garage clears out.

San grins. “I’m in.”

You blink. “You are?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Why not? We didn’t kill each other today.”

“New record,” Yeosang says under his breath.

You glance around. Hongjoong is already gone. Slipped away the moment he stepped out of the cockpit, like he couldn’t bear to be in the same airspace as any of you for a second longer.

Mingi declines quietly, offering a nod, but no excuse.

But the rest? San, Yunho, Wooyoung, Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Jongho. All game.

Wooyoung claps his hands once. “No more cheap tequila. I’m taking us somewhere fancy this time. You can all thank me later.”

“You’re not paying,” Seonghwa notes.

“Semantics,” Wooyoung winks.

You end up at a sleek rooftop lounge, all gold lighting and glass walls, the kind of place that makes you feel like you should’ve worn heels. But somehow, it suits.

There’s laughter. Clinks of glasses. The comfort of shared triumph, even if it’s temporary.

San chats animatedly with Jongho about braking calibration. Yunho steals fries off your plate and grins when you slap his hand. Wooyoung is already two cocktails deep and attempting to charm the bartender. Yeosang sits beside you, close but not stifling—his quiet presence still the anchor it’s always been.

And Seonghwa… Seonghwa watches you, just enough to notice. Not too much to be obvious.

“It’s nice,” he murmurs when you catch his eye. “Seeing you laugh.”

You feel the words more than you hear them.

You nod, lifting your glass. “Yeah,” you lie. “It is.”

But even as the night blooms around you, a part of you remains elsewhere. With the man who left without a word, and the fire he lit that still hasn’t burned out.

Jongho is the first to leave, as usual. His tolerance for loud social situations is shorter than the rest of the group.

He offers you a warm smile, a quiet “Well done, Y/N,” and then slips out into the night like the steady, grounded presence he’s always been. The one who never stayed too long in the fire, never threw matches, never asked for more than peace.

The others scatter into smaller clusters.

San and Wooyoung are deep in animated conversation by the bar, arguing over some memory from five years ago, their bickering laced with laughter instead of venom for the first time in years.

Yunho is teaching Yeosang how to play pool properly with dramatically bad commentary.

Seonghwa stays close. Not possessive, just aware. The way only someone who’s paying attention can be.

You’re three drinks past tipsy when a man corners you at the bar. Unfamiliar. Too loud. Too confident. Leaning far too close.

“C’mon, pretty girl, just one drink—”

You start to pull back, but your reflexes aren’t at their sharpest. The world tilts slightly, and your words come out fuzzier than intended.

“I’m not interested.”

“Doesn’t sound like a no.”

Before your heart can even spike, before the adrenaline can properly hit your bloodstream, a hand slides between you both.

“She said no.”

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s Seonghwa. His stare is level. No fury. No dramatics. Just steel.

The man stammers, trying to save face, but Seonghwa doesn’t budge. He’s taller. Sober. And completely in control.

Eventually, the stranger backs off, muttering something under his breath. You let out a shaky exhale, hands trembling on the rim of your glass.

Seonghwa turns to you slowly. “Are you alright?”

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

But when you meet his eyes, your voice falters. Something slips. Because the space between you now is too narrow, and you’ve had just enough tequila to forget caution.

Later, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—heart pounding, pulse unsteady. The weight of everything presses on your skin like a second atmosphere. In your daze, you push open the door to the larger, accessible stall. You need space, need distance, need—

A hand stops the door. Seonghwa slips in behind you, silent. Calm. Eyes molten.

Click. The lock turns.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “you aren’t feeling what I’m feeling.”

The words barely leave his mouth before something inside you detonates. You reach for him, fists curling into his collar, and then your mouth crashes to his. The kiss is fast, hot, uncoordinated. Desperation over precision.

He groans into you, hands flying to your waist as you stumble back together into the small counter. His lips drag down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp, and then he’s lifting you with startling ease, setting you down on the cool marble surface like you weigh nothing.

You part your legs to pull him closer, knees brushing his hips.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” you murmur, fingers carding through his hair. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His lips crash back to yours, deeper this time. Hungrier.

“Then stop fighting it.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your skirt—slow, cautious, trembling just enough to give him away. For all his control, for all his calm… Seonghwa is burning. And this is the first time he lets it consume him.

His hands spread your thighs, gentle but commanding. He steps in close, crowding between them, eyes never leaving yours.

“I need you to look at me,” he whispers.

You do, and it undoes you. Because the heat in his gaze is molten, but it’s laced with something deeper. A reverence you weren’t expecting. A question he doesn’t voice, but still asks.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers slide beneath your panties, curling into you slowly, carefully. He watches your face—eyes flicking from your lips to your lashes as they flutter shut. Your head tips back against the mirror, a soft moan escaping your throat.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “God, you’re beautiful.”

You shudder, thighs twitching around his wrist as he strokes just right. Slow, deep, deliberate. He leans in, kissing the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, your jaw, all while his fingers work you toward the edge with maddening precision.

“Seonghwa—”

Your voice cracks as your climax crests, slamming into you harder than you were ready for. He kisses you through it, one hand steadying your hip, the other dragging every last tremor from your body.

You’re still shaking when he drops to his knees.

“What are you—?”

But your breath catches when his mouth finds you—soft, warm, unrelenting. He devours you like he’s starving, like the taste of you is the only thing that’s ever made sense. His tongue moves in languid, devastating strokes, and your hands shoot out to grip the edge of the sink.

You come again with a sharp cry, thighs trembling, breath ragged. And still, he doesn’t stop. He holds you through the aftershocks, kisses the inside of your thigh as if it’s sacred.

You reach for him, but he gently pulls your hand away, rising slowly to kiss your cheek.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “I just wanted… to take care of you.”

You freshen up in silence, hands trembling, cheeks still flushed. He waits by the door, then opens it just enough to check the coast is clear. Together, you slip back into the bar. Unnoticed. Or so you hope.

But everything has changed now.

There’s a gravity between you. A hum beneath your skin that wasn’t there before. When your eyes meet, it’s with a quiet understanding neither of you dare put words to.

You take a seat again. The others are still busy, drunk, and distracted. Seonghwa leans close, his voice so low only you can hear it.

“You’re not mine. And I’m not here to claim you.”

You turn to him, startled. But he smiles—soft, sad, and so very Seonghwa.

“I want you to enjoy what life has to offer. I know you have connections… with the others. And I would never want you to miss out on exploring those.”

You blink, heart thudding.

“But whenever you need me, in whatever capacity—” He reaches out, brushing his fingers against your hand. “I’m here.”

And just like that, he shifts back—laughing politely at something Wooyoung shouts from across the room. But his hand lingers near yours on the table.

~

Monday morning hits like a slap to the face. Rude. Unapologetic.

You barely remember Sunday—a hazy blur of dehydration, introspection, and the low hum of regret you couldn’t quite name. You’d curled into your couch like it was a lifeline, ignored your phone even when it buzzed endlessly, and binge-watched three seasons of a trashy series just to drown out the noise in your head.

But today? Today is about control.

You arrive ten minutes early.

Your sunglasses sit low on your nose, the oversized black lenses hiding the carnage behind your eyes. Your outfit is surgical; a tailored black vest, double breasted, cinched at the waist. High-waisted suit trousers, sharp enough to cut glass. A sleek high ponytail that screams don’t speak to me unless your life depends on it.

You don’t look like a woman who whimpered for Park Seonghwa in a bar bathroom. Or fucked Kim Hongjoong on your desk two nights ago. Or ran from her feelings like they had teeth.

You look like a threat.

Your heels click across the floor with the kind of cadence that makes people straighten in their seats. A few heads turn. Some murmur greetings you don’t bother to return.

Let them talk.

You sweep through the bullpen like a blade, depositing your bag beside your desk. The first email is already open before your coat hits the back of your chair. No coffee yet. No chit-chat. No patience.

The screens reflect your stoic expression, a polished war mask you’ve perfected over years of needing to be untouchable. The armour is heavier now—but necessary. After the week you’ve had? You need to remind them, and yourself, who the fuck you are.

You barely notice the time passing. Emails answered. Data logged. Sim stats reviewed. A quiet rhythm, cold and efficient. Just the way you need it.

Until your name pings in your inbox. Meeting. Executive floor. Now.

You know the room before you even enter it. Boardroom glass. Chrome finishes. The kind of sterile modernity that pretends to be warm with indirect lighting and fake succulents. Five faces await you—all smiling. Too wide. Too rehearsed.

You sit, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Y/N,” the Director of Programmes begins, “I won’t waste your time. The initiative’s landed harder than any of us predicted.”

You nod, politely. “I’ve seen the data.”

“Well, the data says you’ve done the impossible.”

A few chuckles. Someone sips their overpriced bottled water like this is casual.

“Sponsors are thrilled. Media interest is exploding. Social engagement’s off the charts. We’re making waves—the good kind. So…” A pause. A shared glance between suits. “We’re extending the programme. All summer.”

Your smile doesn’t budge. Not even as your stomach twists.

“More performance trials,” he continues. “Long-form simulation schedules. Public showcases. A whole PR run. We’re calling it ‘All-Star Summer.’ Catchy, right?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. Just enough to keep your jaw from locking.

“We need you at the forefront, Y/N. You’re the reason this worked in the first place.”

You nod again. You have to nod. Because you can’t say what you’re thinking out loud.

“I’m balancing eight ticking emotional time bombs.”

“I kissed two of them.”

“I slept with one.”

“And the one I never got over might destroy himself trying to pretend I no longer exist.”

“Of course,” you say instead. “I’ll handle it.”

And just like that, you’re dismissed—with smiles and handshakes and promises of support that will evaporate the second the door closes. You walk out of that boardroom with your spine like steel and your stomach like glass.

All summer. More time with all of them. More chances to burn.

You step out of the elevator, jaw still clenched from the meeting. The echo of “All-Star Summer” still rings in your ears like a curse disguised as praise.

You need air. You need silence.

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other than I first thought.”

You look up.

San. Sweat-slicked hair curling against his forehead. A towel slung around his neck. Tracksuit zipped halfway down, revealing a glimpse of sculpted collarbone and damp black t-shirt.

He’s just finished some sort of physical training session. Strength testing, maybe, or reaction drills. Whatever it was, it’s left him buzzing, a little too charged.

His smirk is effortless.

“Plenty of chances for us to have some fun?”

Your eyes narrow. “San…”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, grin widening.

“Relax. I meant on the track. Unless…” He leans closer, voice dipping just enough to curl into something suggestive. “You want to make it interesting off-track too?”

You scoff. Try to step around him.

He doesn’t block your way—but he does tilt his head, eyes sweeping over your all-black ensemble with clear appreciation.

“You always dress to kill, or is it just Mondays that get you this riled up?”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not wrong. You look like war.

He shifts, lowering his voice as he walks a step behind you down the corridor.

“I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t notice the way you looked at me the other night.”

You stop walking. Turn.

“San,” you say, tone sharp, low. “Do yourself a favour and don’t start what you’re not ready to finish.”

He meets your stare with a fire of his own. Not angry, just hungry.

“Oh, sweetheart. I never start what I’m not planning to finish.”

Your breath catches—just a little—before you scoff again and keep walking.

Behind you, he chuckles, quiet and smug.

“See you soon, Y/N.”

~

The rest of the day is a blur.

Meetings, proposals, revised schedules, PR outlines. You’re pulled in every direction at once. No time to think, no time to breathe. You don’t even notice the sun dipping low behind the building until your screen dims with the dusk.

Your fingers ache. Your jaw’s sore from clenching.

You finally log off.

A hand drags through your hair, loosening strands from your tight ponytail. Your blazer feels heavy on your shoulders. The silence hits as soon as you step outside. The real kind, not the sterile hush of the office.

You walk slowly toward the parking lot. It’s almost empty now. Except for one car. A black G-Wagon, paint glinting like oil beneath the twilight.

Your steps slow. Then stop.

San is in the driver’s seat. He’s got one arm slung casually over the steering wheel, the other resting across the passenger seat like it belongs to no one but him. Sunglasses pushed up into his glossy hair. Windows down. That signature smirk already forming as he watches you approach.

“Want a ride?”

You almost say no. You drove here today, so there would be no need.

The word’s already forming in the back of your throat—professional, polite, and detached. The version of you you’ve spent so long building back up.

But then—

“I want you to enjoy what life has to offer. I know you have connections… with the others.”

Seonghwa’s voice cuts through your resolve. That soft look in his eyes when he said it. And something inside you shifts. Just a little. Just enough.

You exhale through your nose.

“Fuck it,” you mutter, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat.

The leather is warm. The door shuts with a heavy click. San doesn’t say anything right away, just glances over at you with a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The engine’s rumbling. Your seatbelt is still untouched. But you’re not looking ahead.

You’re looking at San. And he’s already looking at you.

You tilt your head slowly, eyes raking over his profile—the cut of his jaw, the flex of his fingers on the steering wheel. The subtle twitch of his brow as if he can feel the storm coming.

“You wanted to have some fun,” you say, voice smooth, low, dangerous. “So, let’s have it.”

He glances over, surprised by the shift in tone. His lips part slightly.

You lean closer.

“Unless…” You let the word hang, sweet and sharp. “You’re all bark and no bite.”

That’s all it takes. He doesn’t even blink.

One second, he’s sitting back like he’s got all the time in the world—and the next, he’s lunging across the centre console, hands fisting into your waist, mouth crashing into yours with a force that knocks the air right out of your lungs.

Your back hits the door with a soft thud. His body is halfway over the seat, pressing into you like he’s waited years for this moment. His kiss is hungry, open-mouthed, and hot, tongue sliding against yours with reckless precision.

“You have no idea,” he growls against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted to shut you up like that.”

You grin into the kiss, nipping his bottom lip just enough to make him groan. Your hands are already tugging at his hoodie, dragging it up just enough to touch skin—warm, taut, and trembling beneath your fingertips.

San lifts you, his hands sliding beneath your thighs. You straddle him, barely fitting between the wheel and the seat, but neither of you care. You’re both burning now, too far gone.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like this is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

His palm trails up your thigh until your breath catches again. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you to him, and he whispers in your ear.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you whisper. “That makes two of us.”

San’s fingers move with unexpected care as he unbuttons your vest, peeling it from your shoulders like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

He tosses it into the back seat without looking.

You sit there—half in his lap, breath shallow—clad in nothing but your high-waisted trousers and a lacy black bra that might as well have been made for this exact moment. His mouth finds the skin just above the cups, tongue warm, lips dragging along the dip of your collarbone. You feel his hand begin to slide toward your waistband, fingers teasing at the hook—

Tap tap.

You freeze.

Another tap. Louder.

Both your heads whip toward the window.

Outside, staring like he’s just stumbled into a fever dream, is Wooyoung. Mouth open. One brow raised. His voice muffled through the glass, but unmistakable.

“And what the fuck is going on here—without me?”

Your pulse skips. San mutters a curse.

You lean over him with the most casual grace you can manage and crack the window open an inch.

“Why don’t you come join, then?”

Wooyoung reels back, eyes wide, like you’ve just short-circuited his entire brain.

“Wait—are you serious?”

You glance at San, who’s looking at you like you’ve grown another head. His brows rise, lips parted, a wild little smile curling at the edges.

“You game?” You ask, voice dark and buzzing with challenge.

San tilts his head, his smirk wicked. “Sure. I did ask for fun, after all.”

Wooyoung doesn’t need a second invitation. He’s yanking the back passenger door open a moment later and sliding in with the excitement of a teenage boy.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already pulling off his jacket. “I was just coming to ask if you wanted to grab some food. But this? This is so much better.”

San chuckles, low and throaty.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

“Only if I get a turn,” Wooyoung grins.

You shift back onto San’s lap, turning to face Wooyoung over your shoulder.

“Oh, you’ll get more than a turn.”

The air inside the Mercedes crackles with new energy. Three people. One car. And no brakes.

San shifts beneath you, still holding you firm on his lap, but something in his gaze changes—darker now. Competitive.

Wooyoung leans forward between the front seats, his breath ghosting against your shoulder.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “You started this. Let us finish it.”

You feel San’s fingers tighten on your hips, a quiet possessiveness simmering beneath the heat. He doesn’t like sharing. But he’s not backing down either.

“She wants fun,” San says, voice gravel. “Let’s give her all she can handle.”

You let your head fall back between them, caught in the gravity of it all. Four hands now on your body, mouths trailing fire across your skin.

The interior of the G-Wagon turns molten.

The leather seats creak beneath shifting weight. Clothing is dragged away piece by piece—a slow burn of dominance, worship, and utter surrender. You lose track of who’s kissing you where. Who’s gripping your thighs, your waist, your throat. Who’s whispering filth in your ear and who’s coaxing moans from your lips.

It’s dizzying, in the best way. San is rough, desperate, the way his teeth graze your jaw, how his hands leave fingerprints on your hips. Wooyoung is sly, greedy, his fingers already working you apart before San has even released his grip, his mouth hovering a hair’s breadth from your ear. Every single nerve ending in your body is on red alert.

Wooyoung bites your shoulder, and you jerk, laughing into the edge of the window, the glass fogged with your breath. San grins into the curve of your neck, tongue flicking to chase the salt of your skin.

“Look at her,” Wooyoung purrs, tracing the edge of your bra with one finger. “Never thought I’d get to see you like this.”

You turn, and he’s right there, bold as ever, his lips already parted for the kiss you’re just dazed enough to let happen. San watches, one hand at the base of your spine, the other knotting through Wooyoung’s hair, dragging his mouth to yours until you’re all tangled three ways—jealous, messy, breathless.

Wooyoung groans as San bites his lip instead, then turns those teeth to you, grazing just behind your ear. “You like that?” he whispers. “You want more?”

You can’t answer, not with the way San’s hand is sliding under your waistband, undoing the zipper with a practiced flick, exposing enough that Wooyoung can slide his own hand in, hot and searching. The two of them work in tandem—San’s mouth low and rough on your clavicle, Wooyoung’s voice velvet in your ear.

You gasp when Wooyoung’s fingers slip beneath the lace, stroking, teasing, almost too much. San nips at your shoulder, then pulls you up to his mouth and devours you.

“Good girl,” Wooyoung purrs, like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it. You hate how much it turns you on.

San laughs, breathless, then finally lifts you off him—just far enough to lay you flat across the passenger seat, head angled back, legs draped over his lap. Wooyoung is already unzipping his own jeans, but it’s San who lowers your trousers the rest of the way, baring you to the warm night and their hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” San groans, dragging two slow fingers between your legs, parting you for Wooyoung’s gaze.

“Perfect,” Wooyoung says, voice gone dark. “Just like I pictured.”

“Talk less, put those fingers to work,” San grunts.

Wooyoung grins, and you nearly whimper when he slides two fingers inside with no pretext, curling them expertly, thumb stroking your clit with the kind of rhythm that rewrites your brain. San grabs your ankle in his grip and bends your leg over the console, exposing you even further. He kisses up your calf, tongue wicked, leaving a line of chills on your skin.

“Don’t get shy now,” San says, his other hand bracing against the headrest as he leans over you, all muscle and heat, his thigh locking your hips in place. “You look so fucking hot like this.”

Wooyoung’s fingers work you with merciless precision, slow at first, then faster, until your head swims and your thighs tremble. You can barely breathe, let alone curse them both, but you try.

“Fucking hell,” you gasp, nails scraping at the leather, at San’s hip, at Wooyoung’s hair when you seize him and drag him up for another kiss. He tastes like peppermint and sin, and you hear him moan when San’s hand slides down to join his, their fingers moving in tandem, filling you, stretching you, coaxing helpless little sounds from your throat.

San bites your earlobe, his voice a rattling whisper. “You gonna come for us, or do we have to work harder?”

The world narrows to their hands, their mouths, the sting of San’s teeth, the honey-smooth taunts of Wooyoung in your ear. The Mercedes is a sauna, glass beading with the condensation of three uneven heartbeats and the thrum of your pulse in every muscle, every bone.

You convulse around their fingers with little warning, a shockwave of pleasure that rips a full-throated moan out of you—so loud you almost worry security might stroll by and catch the show. But you’re too far gone to care. Wooyoung works you through it, slower now, milking every tremor, every aftershock, until you’re boneless in the seat, sweat cooling on your skin. He pulls his hand out with a flourish, licking his fingers clean, and San takes the wheel next. He’s unzipping his jeans, his cock already hard and heavy in his hand as he fists you down harder over the gearshift. He spreads your thighs wider and lines himself up without so much as a warning—he just pushes in with one slow, brutal stroke, and your back arches up off the seat, eyes going wide.

The thickness of him, the blunt stretch, is almost too much all at once. You gasp, grabbing for purchase on his forearm, and then it’s Wooyoung’s mouth at your throat, his lips greedy, tongue tracing where your pulse hammers frantic and wild.

“Christ,” San hisses, burying himself to the hilt. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts to move, heat and friction and the hot leather beneath you rapid firing through your nerves. Wooyoung trails kisses down your chest, pausing to nip at the lace, hands splaying over your ribs to hold you steady.

San fucks you hard, holding your hips in place as the car rocks on its shocks, engine trembling with each deep thrust. He’s all muscle, sweat, and force, no hesitation, no patience left now that he’s got you—only a raw, reckless pace. Each time he buries himself, you gasp; each time he pulls out, you want him back harder. He gives it to you. He wants you to remember this every time you look at him, every time you walk back into the paddock like you own the place. You do. But right now, he does.

Wooyoung watches the way you shudder, the way San’s thrusts shake your whole body, the way your moans grow hoarser and more desperate. He likes an audience. He also likes a show. “Give her another,” he murmurs, sliding in beside the two of you, tongue dipping along the cup of your bra, lips closing hot around your nipple as San pounds you. You fist your hand in Wooyoung’s hair, tugging him closer, biting your own moan into his scalp as his lips roll and suck, sending another wave through you. San doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow—until he feels you seize, your walls clenching so hard around him he curses, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks you through it, deeper, sharper, chasing his own breaking point.

Wooyoung kisses up your neck, grabs your chin, and turns your mouth to his just as San groans and slams into you, shuddering hard as he comes, the heat of him flooding you in a way that makes your whole body burn even hotter. He rides it out, breath ragged, pumping with each pulse, and only then does he slow.

He pulls out with a gasp, slumping back in the driver’s seat, sweaty and spent, grinning like a devil. You’re still shaking. But Wooyoung is undeterred.

He’s tugging down his boxers now, desperate. “My turn.”

The next thing you know, you’re on your knees in the footwell of the Mercedes, San’s warmth still pulsing inside you, Wooyoung’s hands fist in your hair as he guides you down over him. The city floats by in neon streaks, your reflection flickering in the tinted glass, your cheek pressed to the back of Wooyoung’s hand as he steadies you against every ragged thrust.

He tastes clean, sharp, eager. He’s not gentle, not today. He uses your mouth, groaning praise and curses in equal measure, hips rocking, eyelids fluttering as your tongue drags along the underside of his cock, lips swelling around every inch he gives you. You choke once—he doesn’t let up. He likes the sound, the way your nails dig into the leather, how you fight to swallow him down.

From above, San gathers your hair back into the ponytail that’s long since fallen loose, holding it out of your face, mouth brushing your ear as he whispers encouragement—filthy, delicious things about how good you look, how much you’re making Wooyoung lose his mind, how much the sight of you on your knees has rewired something in his chest.

You glance up, eyes watering prettily, and Wooyoung nearly comes from the sight alone. He fucks your mouth faster, deeper, holding your gaze with the kind of fire that says he’s wanted this longer than you’ll ever believe. “Take it,” he pants. “Just like that.”

The edge comes quick; you feel the throb, the hitch in his breath, the way his thighs tense beneath your palms. He pulls you down and finishes hard, a gasp swelling into a drawn-out, helpless moan. He doesn’t move for a second, just lets you milk every last drop, tongue swirling lazily, mouth swollen and aching.

You wipe your lip with the back of your hand. San leans down, kisses your forehead, and helps you back into the front seat. Wooyoung slumps, boneless and dazed, but recovers enough to lean over and kiss your jaw, your temple, the shell of your ear.

All three of you sit there for a minute, panting, sweat cooling in the thick air of the Mercedes.

“Well,” Wooyoung says after a long silence, voice hoarse but bright. “That was definitely not what I thought was going to happen when I woke up this morning.”

You laugh. San grins and wipes a thumb over your cheek, his own breathing still ragged. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he admits. “But I fucking loved being proved wrong.”

Wooyoung grins, still half-stunned. “You’re going to ruin every man in this city.”

You fix your vest, tug your trousers back up, and turn to Wooyoung. “I’ll start with the paddock.”

He catches your meaning, a silent challenge burning between you.

You don’t say goodbye; you just slide out of the car silently. Your heels click softly against the asphalt as you walk away.

Behind you, two pairs of eyes stay fixed to your back.

And the game? It’s only just begun.

~

You don’t expect to feel anything the next morning. Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Not even the bruising ache in your thighs when you sit down at your desk.

But it’s there.

You chew the inside of your cheek and bury yourself in reports. Strategy memos. Performance reviews. Anything that reminds you that you’re still here to work, not unravel.

Still, the memories trickle in like smoke through a cracked window. San’s low moan in your ear. Wooyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair.

Even Seonghwa’s voice, soft but sure— “Whenever you need me, in whatever capacity…”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes and sigh. Professional. You have to stay professional.

But then San leans on your doorframe around midday, his damp hair falling over his brow, a post-training glow clinging to him like sin.

You glance up, arching a brow. “Don’t you have track work to do?”

“I’m multitasking.” His eyes scan you, slow and heated. “Always happy to make time for you.”

“Be professional, San.”

He throws his hands up, winks. “Just saying hi, Boss.” And strolls away, whistling.

You hate the twinge in your stomach. You hate that it feels good.

The paddock is abuzz with whispers of the upcoming Sponsors’ Gala. Dress codes. Seating charts. Media partners. It’s all anyone talks about.

You bury yourself in telemetry, only for Wooyoung to flop into the chair beside you like a cat claiming ownership.

“So. Black-tie chaos is nearly upon us. Can I wear a harness and call it fashion-forward?”

You don’t look up. “If you want to get blacklisted.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already been.” He pulls out his phone and flashes you three selfies in different tuxedos—white with a silk lapel, blood red velvet, classic black with a sheer undershirt.

“Which one makes me look like the most trouble?”

You glance at the screen.

“All of them. I’m afraid.”

“Good.” He winks and wanders off again like nothing happened.

Jongho, sitting nearby, doesn’t even lift his eyes from his tablet.

“He’s going to get us all banned.”

“He’s already trying,” you mutter.

From across the room, Yunho catches your eye. He’s just come from the gym, hair tousled, neck glistening. He offers a lopsided smile, eyes crinkling with warmth.

“Don’t worry. I clean up well.”

You remember that photo from last season. He looked devastating in a tux. You also remember zooming in and staring at it for longer than you’d care to admit.

The espresso machine hisses violently as you fill your cup, bone-tired. You sense a presence behind you, not close enough to startle but familiar in its quiet.

Yeosang.

He pours his own coffee without a word, stirring it slowly. The silence sits companionably for a moment. Then, he breaks it.

“You’ve got the whole grid twisted around you.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, glancing at him. “I didn’t ask for that, y’know.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

He sips.

“You’re the only one who sees me,” you admit, voice barely audible.

He nods once, then adds quietly. “Someone has to.”

And with that, he leaves. No drama. No flirtation. Just truth. It grounds you in a way nothing else has all week.

Later that day, you’re walking through the south corridor when Seonghwa passes you heading the other way.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch you. He just lets his fingers skim the air too close to yours. It’s not accidental. You feel it like a wire pulled taut.

“You look exhausted,” he murmurs as he passes.

You stop. Turn.

“Are you offering to fix that?”

He looks back, a slow smile blooming like firelight.

“Only if you ask nicely.”

And then he’s gone.

The rest of the week passes by in a flash.

You’re in the temporary media office when the garment bags arrive. Three dresses, two backup options, one made just for you.

Backless. Midnight black. Sleek and cut like sin. The kind of dress that turns cameras. The kind that could cost you your job if you wear it too well. The fabric clings like it knows your shape. You turn in the mirror, toe pointed, then slowly pivot back.

You could destroy hearts in this.

You’re so deep in thought that the knock on the door startles you. You open it halfway, still distracted—and nearly collide with him.

Hongjoong.

He doesn’t glance at the dress. Doesn’t look you over. Just meets your gaze like he’s trying to tear through it.

“You’re wanted in the media room,” he says, cool and clipped.

“Right. I’ll be there in five.”

“Make it three.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

No mention of the kiss. Or the desk. Or the thunderstorm you left in your wake. But you feel it in your chest, the way his presence swallows the air.

You should’ve worn armour instead.

By the time Friday finally hits, the paddock is chaos.

PR assistants are running on triple shots of espresso, engineers are barking into phones, stylists are trying to chase down drivers for final measurements, and everyone’s pretending they’re not slowly losing their minds over tonight’s gala.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, you find quiet.

A small café tucked just around the corner of the venue’s admin wing. Neutral space. Pale wooden countertops, sunlight spilling through big windows, the faint hiss of milk being frothed somewhere out of sight.

Yeosang’s already there.

Two coffees on the table. One black, one iced oat latte—your go-to. You didn’t even have to text it to him.

He looks up, and offers that same soft, steady smile.

“Figured you’d need a break.”

You slide into the seat across from him, exhaling through your nose. “You figured right.”

For a while, you don’t talk. You sip your drink. He scrolls on his phone, occasionally typing something. There’s something grounding in just being here. No loaded looks. No flirtation. No games. Just Yeosang. Always Yeosang.

But you’re unravelling, and eventually it spills out. Quietly at first. Then faster.

The G-Wagon. The bathroom. The desk.

The look in Seonghwa’s eyes. San’s touch. Wooyoung’s kiss.

The weight of it all.

Yeosang doesn’t flinch. He just listens, one finger resting gently on the rim of his coffee cup. His expression never shifts to judgement, just mild disbelief as you reach the part about Hongjoong slamming you into a desk before accusing you of ruining his life.

When you finally finish, you’re flushed, out of breath, shoulders curled in like you’re bracing for impact.

But all Yeosang says is, “Shit.”

You huff out a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

He leans back, gaze flickering across your face, more serious now. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I know.”

“And you’re getting burned.”

You say nothing. Just take another sip. Let the silence sit.

“Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

He looks you dead in the eye.

“No. But I think you’re trying really hard not to feel anything.”

“It’s not working,” you admit.

He nods. Slowly. “You want my advice?”

“Always.”

“Do what you need to do. Just… be honest with yourself when it stops helping and starts hurting. And if it gets too loud in your head, you call me.”

You blink. Swallow. “You always say the right thing.”

He shrugs. “It’s a gift.”

You smile into your cup.

“You sure you don’t want to kiss me, too? Might as well make it a clean five.”

Yeosang snorts. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude.”

He raises a brow. “You’d break my heart. And I’m not built for that.”

For a second, the air feels a little lighter. Like maybe it’s okay not to have all the answers yet.

“See you tonight?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He taps his cup against yours.

“Good. Because I think tonight’s going to change everything.”

~

The dress fits like it was made from melted shadow—ink-black, backless, silk that shimmers under light and disappears in darkness. You’ve never felt more visible. Or more exposed.

You adjust the clasp on your earring for the third time, fingers trembling slightly.

It’s just another event. Just another red carpet. Just a sea of lenses and flashes and too many men watching you like they know your past, like they want to be your future.

You take a deep breath, step out of the car—and nearly crash into him.

Seonghwa. Tall. Elegant. Devastating in a perfectly tailored tux. He looks like something carved from obsidian and restraint, and when he turns to face you, his jaw slackens—just for a second.

“You look…” His voice drops. “You look like you’re about to ruin everyone here.”

You smile, a little wry. “That’s the plan.”

His hand comes up, palm facing you, an invitation. “Let me walk you in?”

You hesitate for just a second. Then you slip your arm into his, fingers curling gently around the crook of his elbow.

The flashes begin the moment you round the corner—a wall of white light, cameras screaming for attention, reporters calling names into the night air.

But none of it touches you. Not really.

Seonghwa leans in ever so slightly, the whisper barely brushing your ear.

“You take my breath away, Y/N.”

You glance up at him, startled by the softness behind those words. By the way he’s looking at you—not like a prize, not like a game, but like a moment he doesn’t want to end.

You don’t respond. You just hold onto him a little tighter as you glide through the sea of light, ignoring the storm you’ve already sewn into the threads of this night.

You step through the tall, arched doors of the ballroom, Seonghwa still on your arm, and for a moment you allow yourself to take it in. The golden light, the symphony of chatter and crystal, the soft hum of an orchestra tucked into the corner.

And then your eyes land on the seating plan.

You trace the letters of your name, find the table number beside it, and feel your heart sink through your ribcage.

Table Eight. And seated with you—every name that makes your pulse race and your stomach churn.

Seonghwa notices the way your hand stills on the board.

“Something wrong?”

You shake your head. Lie through your teeth. “No. Just… love a full table.”

You walk together through the maze of silk gowns and tailored suits. The murmur of conversation grows louder with every step.

And then you see them.

Mingi. San. Wooyoung. Hongjoong. All already seated. All already watching.

Mingi’s eyes go wide for a split second, then fall flat again—a mask you know too well.

San’s grin is crooked, amused, his eyes flickering between you and Seonghwa like he’s trying to piece together just how recent your latest sin was.

Wooyoung doesn’t even try to hide it. His brow arches sky-high, a flash of mischief in the smirk tugging at his lips.

But it’s Hongjoong that makes the air leave your lungs. His gaze snaps to your arm looped through Seonghwa’s, then up to your face. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. The flash of emotion is there and gone—replaced by cold neutrality, like he’s iced over from the inside out.

You want to run. You want to vanish. But your heels are glued to the marble floor.

“Well,” Seonghwa murmurs just under his breath, “this should be fun.”

You finally unlatch your arm from his, more abrupt than you mean to be, and move to your seat. It’s right between Wooyoung and Yunho, who arrives just as you sit down, apologising for being late and looking completely unaware of the minefield he’s walking into.

Yeosang and Jongho follow shortly after, both clocking the tension but saying nothing.

It’s like the calmest disaster ever orchestrated.

Wine is poured. Plates are served. Conversation starts in fractured bursts. You can feel it—the weight of every stare. The unspoken claims. The bruised egos. The memories too fresh to fade.

And right in the middle of it all… you. The eye of the storm.

The champagne is crisp, the food exquisitely plated, and the atmosphere at Table Eight could cut glass.

You’re mid-conversation with one of the sponsors across the table, nodding and smiling through a question about performance strategy, when Wooyoung leans just a little too close to your ear.

“Tell me, do they always drive you that crazy, or was it just the G-Wagon?”

Your fork pauses mid-air.

San, seated across from you, chokes audibly on his wine and coughs into his napkin. He lifts his head, smirking.

“I was just about to ask if you’re still finding Mercedes a comfortable ride.”

Your warning glare could sear skin.

“Boys,” you say through a tight-lipped smile, still fully facing the sponsor, “maybe wait until dessert before saying something that’ll get us all banned from these events.”

Wooyoung snorts into his drink, utterly unrepentant.

San leans back, drapes his arm over his chair like he owns the place. “Spoilsport.”

Beside you, Seonghwa doesn’t speak. But you feel it—the subtle shift. The slight stilling of his hand on his wine glass. His head turns a degree, eyes sliding from Wooyoung to San, then finally to you. He doesn’t look upset. Not angry. Just… aware.

He sets his glass down carefully. Leans just enough to murmur, voice quiet and low.

“I don’t need to know everything. But I’m not blind, Y/N.”

You stiffen.

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in.

Hongjoong.

His knife slices into the roasted duck like a warning.

“Some of us are trying to enjoy dinner. Do keep your voices down.”

His tone is even, but the underlying venom is unmistakable.

Wooyoung raises both brows and gestures toward Hongjoong with his wine.

“Apologies, Captain Serious. We’ll whisper next time.”

Mingi clears his throat beside him, speaking for the first time all evening.

“Maybe we could all just… tone it down. For one night.”

You meet his eyes, just briefly. He’s reading the room. He always was the best at that. And he’s not liking the story it’s telling.

The table lapses into tense silence. A few murmured thank-yous to waitstaff. The clatter of silverware on china. The low hum of a jazz trio in the corner.

You reach for your water, steadying your hand before it can shake, and feel Seonghwa’s fingers brush lightly against your thigh beneath the table. A silent anchor. A steady reminder that he sees you.

You exhale quietly and raise your glass again.

Just get through tonight.

The conversation begins to flow again. Or at least, it pretends to. There’s laughter now, mostly courtesy of Wooyoung, who’s in full storytelling mode, recounting a PR stunt gone wrong with so much flair you can’t help but giggle along.

You’re mid-sip of water when Hongjoong cuts in, voice cool.

“You always did have a thing for clowns.”

The smile dies on your lips.

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his glare like a hand at the back of your neck.

The air thins.

You set your glass down quietly, excuse yourself with a practiced smile, and rise from the table. No one tries to stop you—not even Seonghwa, though you feel his eyes track you the whole way.

You cross the ballroom floor, weaving through sequins and silk, until you reach the champagne tree. Gold-draped, glinting, obscene in its elegance. You hook a flute from the branch, tilt it back, and swallow a mouthful too quickly. The fizz burns down your throat.

You inhale. Try to steady the tremble at the edge of your control.

“You always did need air when you were about to explode.”

You blink.

Mingi. Standing next to you, in that same dark navy tux that fits too well, with too much history in his voice. He’s watching you, gentle but unreadable. And for once, not pretending not to notice.

“Come outside with me,” he says softly. “You look like you could use it.”

You follow him silently, your heels clicking softly against the stone path as the door shuts behind you. The cool night air greets your skin like a balm, peeling away the suffocating heat of the ballroom.

Mingi doesn’t say anything at first. He just reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulls out a crushed-looking cigarette packet, slides one between his lips, then taps the box once more and holds it out to you.

You take one.

He lights his own, then leans forward, shielding the flame from the wind as he brings the lighter to yours. For a split second, he’s too close—the smell of him, the memory of it, the things left unsaid between you. Your breath hitches.

The tip glows amber. You step back. Distance, even if it’s only physical.

For a while, the only sound is the faint clink of glasses from inside, the gentle crackle of burning paper. Then, without warning, his voice cuts through the dark.

“Are you sleeping with Seonghwa?”

You almost choke. The cigarette falters between your fingers. You glance at him sharply, lips parting in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

His eyes don’t waver.

“I saw the way he looked at you tonight. Like he’s already half in love with you.”

You take a long drag. Let the smoke fill your lungs before answering.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Mingi’s jaw ticks.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s not.”

He looks away, exhales smoke toward the night sky.

“I just thought maybe it would hurt less if I heard it from you.”

You stare at him. For a moment, all you can see is the boy who used to guard your heart like it was his own.

“Why would it hurt at all, Mingi?”

“Because I still give a damn.”

“You lost that right, years ago.”

The words are calm. Brutal in their clarity. You watch them land, watch the way his breath catches in his throat, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact. But he doesn’t look away.

“And I spent that entire time regretting it,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “I spend every day regretting it.”

You open your mouth—to say what, you’re not sure—but then he takes a step toward you. Just one, and it’s like gravity itself shifts with it.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me just like that,” he murmurs. “I know I fucked it all up. I know I didn’t fight for you the way I should have.”

His eyes glisten under the low amber light of the patio sconces, the kind of hurt etched so deep it looks physical.

“But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. Not for a second.”

Your heart is thudding against your ribs, too loud, too fast.

“Mingi…”

“I thought—” He exhales sharply. “I thought if I ever had the chance again, I’d do it right this time.”

You say nothing. You can’t. Because part of you wants to shove him away, scream at him for opening this wound again, and part of you wants to take that step toward him. Close the gap. Pretend like time hasn’t ruined everything.

But you just stand there. Cigarette long dead in your fingers. Eyes locked on his.

“Say something. Please.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now—frayed, desperate—but it slices straight through you. He takes another step, and now he’s close enough for your breath to catch.

Your mouth parts, words trembling on the tip of your tongue.

“I—”

But you don’t get the chance to finish. Because suddenly he’s there. Right in front of you.

His hand finds your waist, firm but trembling, the other rising to cradle your jaw like it’s something precious. You freeze. Not in fear, not in protest, but in shock. Because this is Mingi. The boy who shattered you. The man who’s haunted you.

And now he’s kissing you.

His lips are warm, a little frantic. He tastes like champagne and smoke and every damn memory you’ve tried to bury. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, anchoring you to him, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.

You don’t move at first. But then something deep inside you breaks.

Your hand fists into the front of his shirt. And you kiss him back.

It’s not soft, or sweet. It’s messy and hungry and years too late. It’s anger and longing and what ifs burning your mouth. He groans against your lips like he’s drowning in it, like he never expected you to let him in. And now that you have, he’s terrified to let go.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless. His forehead drops to yours.

That’s when you hear it. A soft sound—the clearing of someone’s throat. Muffled. Awkward.

You and Mingi both freeze, then turn toward the doorway.

Seonghwa stands beneath the arch of light spilling from the ballroom, casting a faint halo around his silhouette. His expression isn’t angry, not even remotely. It’s one of quiet surprise, his brows slightly raised, lips parted as though he didn’t mean to interrupt anything at all.

“I was just coming to check on you,” he says gently. “But… I see someone beat me to it.”

The warmth in his voice makes it worse somehow. He isn’t jealous, or cold. He’s just… kind. As he always is.

That’s what undoes Mingi.

You feel the shift beside you. His jaw tenses, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He steps back—once, twice—as though distance can undo what was just seen.

“Of course,” he mutters, bitterly now. “Perfect timing.”

“Mingi—” you start, but he cuts in before you can finish.

“You don’t need to explain. He’s always right there, isn’t he?”

There’s a sting in his voice now, hurt wrapped in accusation.

“This was a mistake. I knew it the second I kissed you.”

That lands too hard. Your heart stumbles in your chest.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper. “You said you wanted a chance.”

“Yeah. I did. But you’ve already given it to someone else.”

The heat behind your eyes wells too fast. You blink it away, but the tears come anyway—burning, unwanted.

“Mingi, that’s not fair.”

“Neither was losing you the first time.”

And then he’s gone. You don’t even remember him walking away, just the cold. Just the way your shoulders shake when you finally let the tears fall—standing alone in the dark with mascara smudging under your eyes, pain catching in your throat like smoke.

But you’re not alone for long. Soft footsteps approach. And then a jacket drapes around your shoulders. Seonghwa’s, still warm.

You don’t look up, but you don’t pull away either.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just… breathe.”

And so you do. Slowly. Shakily. You feel his presence beside you like an anchor. Not a demand, not a threat, just something solid to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.

You don’t realise your shoulders are still trembling until you feel his hands, gentle and sure, brush against your cheeks.

He’s standing so close now, wiping away the tears with the pad of his thumb. Not hurried. Not asking questions. Just… there.

You try to speak, but no words come. So instead, you fall forward. Collapse into him like the weight of the night has finally won. His arms come around you instantly, one hand curling around the back of your head, the other holding you firm against his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his suit. Warm. Reassuring.

You don’t remember the last time someone held you like this.

He lowers his voice, stroking your hair with slow, rhythmic movements. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You press your face into his shoulder and let the tears fall. Let it break open. Let it be ugly for a moment. And still, he holds you. Arms strong around you, fingers combing through your hair, his own breath calm and even like he’s willing you to match it.

You wonder what you’ve done to deserve this. This softness. This care. This man who offers it without condition or agenda.

There’s commotion near the door—the shuffle of dress shoes, a quick intake of breath, voices rising in hushed confusion.

You lift your head from Seonghwa’s chest, dazed.

Three silhouettes enter the courtyard light. Yeosang, Yunho, and Jongho.

Yeosang spots you first. His gaze flicks from the tension in your posture to the tears still clinging to your lashes. His brows knit immediately.

“Mingi just barrelled past us,” he says, tone low, controlled, but laced with worry. “Muttering something. He’s gone. Are you okay?”

He’s already walking toward you before you can answer.

Yunho and Jongho hover behind, both visibly concerned but giving you space. Jongho’s jaw tightens slightly—not with judgment, just… readiness. The kind of unshakable stillness that’s always defined him.

Yeosang reaches you and pauses, eyes sweeping from your flushed cheeks to Seonghwa’s coat draped over your shoulders, to the faint tremble in your arms. He places a hand softly against your skin.

“What happened?”

You open your mouth, but again, nothing comes. You shake your head instead, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s all too much.

Seonghwa shifts beside you, his voice gentle.

“She just needed a minute. Mingi said some things.”

Yeosang’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods, keeping his voice even.

“Okay. Then we’ll give her whatever she needs.”

Yunho steps forward, quietly offering a water bottle. You didn’t even notice he had one. It’s cold in your palm. Grounding.

“Take your time,” he says softly. “You don’t have to go back in. We’ll cover for you.”

Jongho offers a small nod. That steady, anchoring presence.

And in this small bubble of calm, in the company of the only people who don’t ask for anything from you, you manage the smallest breath of relief.

But, as always, the relief doesn’t last. Not for you. Not for anyone.

The courtyard door bangs open.

You flinch at the sound.

Hongjoong storms out like a bullet from the barrel, sharp and deadly. His jacket is half unbuttoned, his chest rising and falling like he’s been holding in rage for hours. Wooyoung and San are close behind, both calling after him—trying to reel him in.

“Joong, don’t—!”

“Stop—just stop—”

But he doesn’t stop. Not until he sees you. His eyes rake over the scene—you in Seonghwa’s arms, Yeosang beside you, Yunho, and Jongho nearby like quiet sentinels.

And then it comes. A bitter, broken laugh.

“You’re really just letting them all pass you around now, aren’t you?”

The words punch through the silence like a gunshot. You feel your knees wobble.

Seonghwa’s voice comes, cold as steel.

“Enough, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong scoffs, walking closer, his stare burning. His pain makes him reckless. Dangerous.

“No, go on, Seonghwa. Play the knight. You weren’t even around back then, but look at you now, saving her. Must be your turn, huh?”

“You need to walk away.”

“Why?” His voice rises. “So you can tuck her into your sheets next? Is that how it works?”

Yeosang moves instantly, peeling you gently from Seonghwa’s arms and pulling you against him. He steps back, creating a barrier with his body. You feel his heartbeat thudding where your cheek presses against his chest.

But it’s too late.

Something in Hongjoong snaps. And then—he swings.

Crack.

It connects right into Seonghwa’s jaw.

You gasp.

The silence that follows is deafening. But it doesn’t last.

Chaos erupts.

Jongho and San grab Hongjoong. San wrapping both arms around his chest, Jongho pushing back hard with all the strength he’s built from years of brute precision.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Let me go!” Hongjoong spits, writhing in San’s grasp.

“You’re losing it, hyung—”

Wooyoung shouts, trying to wedge himself between Seonghwa and the others. Yunho curses under his breath, checking Seonghwa’s face for damage. Blood at the corner of his lip. A bruise already blooming.

But Seonghwa doesn’t retaliate. He doesn’t even flinch. He just looks over his shoulder, to you.

His eyes soften. Flicker with something wordless. Regret. Frustration. Pain. He hates that this is happening. He hates that it ever got this far.

You’re trembling in Yeosang’s arms, staring back at him like your entire world is coming apart at the seams.

Because maybe it is.

The next thing you know, the world has shrunk down to soft leather and muted engine hum.

You’re in Seonghwa’s S-Class. Passenger side door still ajar, the seat already warm beneath you. Your body feels like a wire, pulled tight, moments from snapping.

He’s crouched beside you, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other fastening your seatbelt. His fingers brush against your ribs, your collarbone. So gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter at the slightest pressure.

You stare straight ahead. Can’t speak. Can’t even blink too hard without your vision swimming.

He hesitates. Then quietly, he closes the door. Slides into the driver’s seat without a word.

You turn your head slowly, and when you see him—the cut on his lip, the faint flush blooming along his jawline—something inside you twists painfully.

Your hand moves before your mind does. Soft, tentative. Your fingertips graze his skin, feather-light over the damage Hongjoong left behind. He exhales shakily under your touch, his shoulders lowering just a fraction.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, rough-edged.

You shake your head instantly.

No. He has nothing to apologise for. Absolutely nothing.

“Let me take you home.”

Your throat is raw when you finally manage words.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper. “Please.”

He turns to face you, properly now, one hand still on the wheel.

“You won’t be.”

He flicks on the ignition, smooth and unhurried. The car pulls away from the curb like nothing happened. Like the world didn’t just tilt sideways.

But you both know better.

You sit in silence for a few moments, the city lights casting fleeting gold patterns across the interior. His hand is still tense on the wheel. Your hand is still trembling in your lap.

You scroll aimlessly through the app, thumb flicking over unfamiliar usernames and profile pictures that blur together. It’s supposed to be for language exchange—half dictionary, half dating app if you’re being honest—and though you’ve been in Seoul for a few months now, your Hangul is still shaky at best. Enough to order coffee or ask for directions, but not nearly enough to live the life you imagined when you decided to move here.

Most of the profiles have grainy selfies, group shots, or something random like a cat or a coffee cup. But one catches your eye for the opposite reason—there’s no photo at all. Just a blank avatar and the name “HJ”.

It makes you pause. A little sketchy, maybe. The internet has taught you well enough to be cautious, and usually you’d skip straight past. But curiosity wins out, because the short bio underneath is written in clean, careful English. ‘Looking to improve my language skills. Let’s help each other.’

You hover for a moment, then swipe. Minutes later, a notification pings.

HJ

Hi. Nice to meet you. Want to practice together?

You narrow your eyes at your phone. No picture, no real details. Still, the message is polite, direct. Nothing like the pushy or awkward greetings you’ve gotten from others on here. You type back, testing the waters.

You

Hi. Sure, I’d like that. My Korean isn’t great though, so please be patient.

His reply is almost immediate.

HJ

That’s okay. My English is… basic. I want to learn more for my job.

You hesitate again. Job? He doesn’t say what, and without a photo it’s hard to imagine who’s on the other side of the screen. Still, something about his tone feels genuine. Careful. Respectful.

You tell him why you moved here—that the culture felt beautiful to you, rich enough to pull you across the world.

HJ

I like that. Most people say K-pop or K-dramas.

You laugh, and the sound surprises you. It’s easier talking to him than you expected. He doesn’t push, doesn’t overshare, but offers just enough. Enough to make you want to keep going.

And so you do—slowly, cautiously, but with a flicker of curiosity you can’t quite shake.

Over the next few days, his name becomes a fixture on your phone screen.

The little notification always makes you pause, thumb hovering just a moment before you open it. He asks a lot of questions—where you’re from, what drew you here, how you’re adjusting—and it’s clear he’s genuinely curious, not just making small talk.

When you tell him where you’ve been so far in Seoul, his responses are laced with surprise. You don’t just mention the palaces or the neon-lit districts influencers swarm to. Instead, you write about the old hanok villages, the tucked-away tea houses, the quiet museums that most tourists overlook. You talk about standing on the banks of the Han at night, watching the city lights ripple across the water.

HJ

You’ve been to more places than most people I know. You don’t sound like someone who just moved here.

The words make your chest warm. You explain that you didn’t come for glossy snapshots; you came because you wanted to understand the culture. That seems to matter to him.

Slowly, he shares pieces of himself, too. Music. Producing. Long nights where he loses track of time, chasing a sound until dawn. You picture him in front of a glowing screen, headphones on, a quiet dedication in the way he types about it.

But the more you learn, the more questions linger. What kind of job demands he be so fluent in English? And why, when his messages are already nearly flawless?

When you mention that you teach private English lessons, his reply comes fast.

HJ

Maybe I should have some lessons. In person. What do you think?

You stare at the screen, heart skipping. Meeting. The thought is equal parts exciting and unnerving. He seems genuine—careful, even—but he’s still a stranger. You type back cautiously.

You

I think… that could work. As long as it’s somewhere public.

He doesn’t hesitate.

HJ

Of course. You choose the place.

So you do. A small café near your apartment, one you know is always busy but never too loud. Enough people around that you’ll feel safe, but enough quiet that you’ll be able to talk.

When the day arrives, nerves hum beneath your skin. You check your phone for the hundredth time, smoothing your hands over your jeans. You remind yourself that this is just a meeting. Just a language exchange.

But the thought doesn’t stop your pulse from racing.

You arrive early—much too early, really—but your nerves wouldn’t let you stay home a second longer. The café smells like roasted beans and warm pastries, the low hum of chatter doing little to steady your heartbeat. You pick a booth in the corner, the safest vantage point you can find, and sit with your hands wrapped around a glass of water that’s already sweating onto the table. You ensure that your side of the booth is the one facing the café, with a clear view of the exit and the other customers.

Ten minutes crawl by, each second punctuated by the thought that maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to this at all. But then the door chimes, and your eyes flick up instinctively.

A figure steps in. Cap low, mask in place, jacket cut neatly to his frame. At first it’s nothing unusual—you’ve seen plenty of men dressed like that in Seoul. But then he starts walking towards you. Step by step, straight for your booth. And the closer he comes, the faster your heart hammers, until your palms are clammy and you’re sure your pulse is written across your face.

Those eyes. That gait.

No, it can’t be.

But when he stops in front of you, when he extends his hand in greeting, the truth crashes down like ice water.

“Hongjoong,” he says simply, voice low, controlled.

Your breath catches. Your brain scrambles for rational excuses, some way to explain this away—but none come. Because there’s no mistaking it. Sitting here, reaching for you, is the captain of Ateez. The man you’ve admired from afar, followed for years, plastered across screens and stages.

You must look as if you’ve seen a ghost, because his brows lift with faint amusement. He pats your arm gently, grounding you.

“You’re aware of me?”

It’s almost laughable, the understatement of the century. Somehow, you manage a jerky nod.

“I think… a warning might have been preferable,” you whisper, finding your voice at last, “but I guess you need to be careful.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges, a smile hidden behind the mask. In the dim, secluded light of your booth, he tugs the fabric down. And for a moment, the café, the world, everything blurs—because he’s even more beautiful in person than you ever allowed yourself to imagine.

Your breath hitches, betraying you.

And he notices.

You’re aware—painfully aware—of how long you’ve been staring. Heat creeps up your neck, so you force your gaze down, focusing on your trembling hands wrapped too tightly around your glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, words spilling before you can swallow them back. “I’m just… very thrown off. I didn’t expect… you. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

There’s a small pause, and when you finally risk a glance upward, he’s watching you with the faintest curve to his lips. Not the dazzling idol smile you’ve seen a hundred times through screens, but something quieter. More real.

“I’m not that guy today,” he says gently, his voice warm and low. “I’m just me. A guy who wants to learn English.” His fingers drum once on the table before he adds, softer still, “But I am sorry for surprising you like this.”

The sincerity in his tone takes the edge off your nerves, settling something frantic in your chest. You nod, exhaling slowly, trying to gather yourself. He’s right. This isn’t a stage, and you aren’t in a crowd. It’s just him.

And somehow, that’s even more disarming.

He reaches for his mask again, looping the straps over his ears as he pushes himself up from the booth.

“Alright,” he says smoothly, slipping back into that easy confidence, “so I’ll grab us something to drink first before we get started. What’s your order?”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

He cuts you off with a gentle but firm raise of his hand, the kind of gesture that leaves no room for argument. “What’s your order, Y/N?”

The sound of your name rolling off your tongue makes your brain stutter, short circuiting for a split second. It’s nothing special; just your name. But the way he shapes it, steady and deliberate, sends a tiny shiver through you. You shake yourself out of it quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“Iced americano,” you answer quietly. “Thank you.”

He nods once, satisfied, but before turning away he leans just slightly closer, eyes sparking with something playful.

“Maybe you should respond to me in Korean,” he suggests. “Let me see how much you already know.”

Your throat goes dry. It’s a simple request, harmless even, but the thought of stumbling through broken syllables under his gaze makes your stomach twist with nerves. Still, you nod, determined not to shrink back.

“Ne.” you murmur, the blush already creeping up your cheeks.

For a moment, his eyes linger on you, a smile tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth. Then he straightens, leaving you with the sound of your own heartbeat as he walks toward the counter.

You watch him at the counter, ordering with easy confidence, shoulders relaxed despite the cap pulled low. Even masked, even disguised, he draws the faintest glances from others in the café, though no one seems to pay him special attention.

When he returns, he sets your iced americano in front of you, then slides into the booth with his own cup.

“Here you go,” he says, unwrapping a straw. “Now… try again. Say it in Korean.”

Your mind blanks for a second, then you force the words out. “Ah… aiseu amelikano juseyo.”

His eyes light up. “Good. Almost perfect. A little smoother on ‘amelikano,’ though.” He leans forward slightly, repeating it slower, drawing out the syllables for you. “A-me-li-ka-no.”

You mimic him under your breath, cheeks heating with every repetition. He chuckles softly.

“Better. Don’t worry—you’ll get it. We’ll practice.”

You nod, clutching the cup in both hands like a shield. “Gamsahamnida,” you murmur.

“You’re welcome,” he replies easily, then quirks a brow. “Or—you can say ‘gomawo.’ That’s a little more natural here, more casual.”

You try it—“Gomawo”—and his grin widens, the kind that makes you wonder if he’s more proud of your attempt or just amused by your flustered state.

You switch back to English, your curiosity outweighing your nerves. “I’m sorry if this seems like I’m probing,” you begin carefully, “but your English is already pretty perfect. Why did you want help?”

He leans back in his seat, arms folding loosely, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. For a moment, you think he might deflect. But then he leans forward again, voice softer.

“There’s still a lot to learn,” he says. “And I find that English comes more naturally when it’s in a casual environment. I wanted to find an English speaking friend I could spend time with… without any pressure.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of his gaze making it suddenly difficult to swallow. You nod quickly, reaching for the only Korean word that fits. “Geuleohne.”

He blinks, then his mouth curves into the faintest smirk. “Impressive,” he teases lightly, and though you know he’s half-joking, the warmth that rushes through you feels like victory.

The conversation stretches easily between sips of iced coffee. You tell him a little about your life here so far—your teaching work, the small routines you’ve settled into—and he listens intently, like every word matters. Occasionally he tilts his head, repeating something back in English, almost testing the phrasing on his tongue.

When you pause, he leans in. “Okay, your turn. Try something in Korean.”

Your stomach flips. You scan your brain for anything simple, and you settle on ‘I like this café’.

“I… joahae…” you begin, fumbling, “…i kape?”

He laughs softly, not unkindly. “Close. ‘Naneun i kapega joh-ahae.’” He says it slowly, breaking the sentence apart, his mouth shaping each word like he’s handing them to you piece by piece.

You repeat after him, cheeks hot. He nods once, satisfied. “Better. Good job.”

His praise makes your pulse race far more than it should.

You try again, this time pointing to his drink. You like americano?

He raises a brow, waiting. You piece it together clumsily. “Neoneun… amelikano joa-hae?”

“Mm,” he hums, lips twitching into a smile. “See? You’re better already.”

The banter continues, little exchanges that grow bolder the longer you sit together. Sometimes you slip, reverting back to English without meaning to, and every time he gives you that look—half challenge, half encouragement—that makes you want to try harder.

At one point, he repeats your name slowly in Korean, tasting the syllables like he’s testing their weight. Then he glances up, eyes catching yours. “Sounds nice like that,” he says, almost casually.

You look away quickly, your face burning hotter than the sun filtering in through the windows.

The longer you sit across from him, the less your nerves coil so tightly. Each attempt in Hangul feels smoother than the last, his gentle corrections building your confidence instead of tearing it down. By the time you manage a full sentence about how you came to Seoul by yourself, he actually claps softly, eyes bright with approval.

“See? You’re doing well. I told you, it comes faster when you’re relaxed.”

You’re about to argue that relaxed isn’t exactly the word for how you feel in his presence, but then he leans back, fishing out his phone. “Alright, my turn to ask. There’s something I don’t understand.”

He tilts the screen toward you, revealing one of his Instagram posts—millions of likes, comments flooding the feed. He scrolls until one catches his eye. “‘Slay king.’ I see this a lot. What does it mean?”

The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “Oh, wow. Um. Okay. That’s… Gen Z slang. ‘Slay’ basically means you did something amazingly. Like—you crushed it. You killed it. But in a good way. And ‘king’ is just…” You wave your hands vaguely, cheeks pink. “It’s like hyping you up. They’re praising you.”

He blinks at you, expression carefully neutral. “So they are… calling me a murdering king?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “No! No, not like that.” You giggle, shaking your head. “It’s a compliment. Trust me.”

He narrows his eyes, suspicion painted across his face, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile. “Strange. English speakers are very dramatic.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” you tease. “Wait until you hear about ‘rizz.’”

He tilts his head. “Rizz?”

The word feels ridiculous coming from him, his accent wrapping around it so earnestly that you dissolve into laughter again. “It means… charisma. Like, if someone has ‘rizz,’ they’re smooth. Charming.”

“Ah.” He nods slowly, gaze locking on yours for a fraction too long. “Then maybe I should learn that one.”

Your cheeks burn, the playful undercurrent sending your thoughts scattering. You duck your head, muttering a quick ‘ani’ under your breath just to hide the way your smile keeps tugging wider.

Eventually, the cups sit empty, and the café begins to thin around you. He glances at the time, then back at you. “I should go soon. But… this was good. We should meet again.”

Your chest tightens, but you nod quickly. “Ne.”

His smile is small, genuine. “Good answer.”

When you step out into the evening air, the city buzzing around you, you realise the nerves that had nearly chased you away earlier are gone. In their place is something warmer. Something that makes you want to see him again—not just as a student, or a stranger, but as him.

Just Hongjoong.

A few days slip by, threaded together with the buzz of your phone. You and Hongjoong have exchanged numbers now, and somehow that feels bigger than it should. More personal. The app was one thing, a middleman with walls, but his number? That’s his trust in you—his choice to let you in just a little closer. Every time his name lights up your screen, your chest warms.

You’re sprawled on your couch when you type the question, thumbs hesitant at first. When do you want to meet again?

His reply is almost instant. When are you free?

The easy back-and-forth settles into rhythm, until something in you stirs—braver than usual. Maybe it’s the way he always makes you feel seen, or maybe it’s the loneliness that clings after long days teaching. Whatever it is, you find yourself typing before you can overthink it.

Feel free to say no, but I was wondering if you wanted to come to my apartment this time? I can make us some food and you can just relax, out of the public eye.

The second you hit send, your stomach lurches. Your thumb is already flying across the screen, scrambling to undo what you’ve done.

I’m sorry, that was way too forward.

The bubbles of panic still fizz in your chest when your phone buzzes again—seconds later.

I’d love to.

Your breath stalls. You stare at the words, reading them again and again just to be sure they’re real. Heat rises to your cheeks, your pulse stuttering wildly.

He wants to come. To your apartment. And suddenly, everything feels far less hypothetical.

The moment you put your phone down, the reality of who you’ve just invited sets in. Hongjoong. In your apartment. The words sound foreign, surreal, and yet your brain is already whirring into overdrive.

You spring off the couch, suddenly seeing your place through new eyes. The throw blanket tossed carelessly across the armrest looks sloppy. The dishes in the sink feel glaring. The faint trail of laundry near your bedroom door? Absolutely unacceptable.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re moving—straightening cushions, shoving clothes into the hamper, wiping down counters that were already clean enough. The little details matter, you tell yourself. They have to.

In the kitchen, you pace in front of the fridge. Food. You promised him food. But what? Something simple feels lazy, but something elaborate might scream I’m trying too hard. You hover between choices, finally settling on a few dishes you know you can pull off without risking disaster.

As the ingredients pile up on the counter, your nerves do too. Every chop of the knife, every stir of the spoon is punctuated by the thought. He’s really coming here.

By the time the apartment smells faintly of garlic and sesame oil, you’re darting into your bedroom, rifling through your closet for something—anything—that feels casual but not careless. Comfortable but not boring. You settle on something soft and simple, hoping it looks more ‘effortlessly relaxed’ than ‘agonised over for twenty minutes’.

When the buzzer finally goes, your heart nearly leaps into your throat. You freeze in the middle of the living room, breath caught, palms suddenly clammy.

This is it. He’s here.

You smooth your hands down your sides one last time before pulling the door open.

He’s there. Cap low, mask tugged down just enough to reveal his smile. Somehow, the sight of him in your doorway makes your apartment feel smaller, the air denser.

You bow quickly, the words tumbling out before you can stop yourself. “Annyeonghaseyo, Hongjoong-nim.”

His smile deepens, soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Annyeong.” Then his tone shifts, light but firm. “Drop the formalities.”

You nod meekly, heat already prickling across your face. “Ah… yes.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your breath hitch. “Please feel free to speak casually with me.”

The request lodges in your chest, fluttering like wings. Casual. As if that’s something you can do with him standing here, real and impossibly close. Still, you manage a faint, stammered “Ne…” before stepping aside, motioning for him to come in.

As he passes, you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, subtle, laced with something warm—and it takes everything in you not to sway into it. When he slips his shoes off neatly and steps into your living room, the space feels different somehow. Like he’s left an imprint just by being here.

And still, all you can think is… Hongjoong is in my apartment.

He steps further inside, eyes drifting around your space. They linger on the little details—books stacked neatly by the sofa, the blanket folded over the chair, the faint steam curling from the kitchen. His lips curve, a quiet smile tugging at them.

“When you said food, I wasn’t expecting you to be making a full meal.” His gaze flicks back to you, earnest. “This is… really…”

He trails off, brows furrowed as though the word has slipped just out of reach. And suddenly you see why he’s been so intent on practice—his English is strong, but sometimes not quite enough.

You nod gently, urging him on without pressure. “Nice…?”

He shakes his head slightly, searching. “No, uh. Thought.”

You take a small step closer, the word coming to you easily. “Thoughtful?”

His eyes brighten, relief softening his expression. A chuckle escapes him, low and warm. “Yes. Thoughtful.”

And the way he shapes the word—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting it—makes your stomach flip.

You swallow, glancing toward the kitchen to steady yourself. “Well… I figured you’d want somewhere quiet. And I like cooking for people, so…”

He watches you for a moment too long, then nods once, sincere. “I’m glad you invited me.”

Your cheeks warm under the weight of it, and you busy yourself by motioning him toward the table. “Come on, sit. Let me feed you before you regret saying yes.”

He laughs softly, the sound so disarming it follows you like a shadow as he takes a seat, cap set neatly on the table beside him.

You set the plates down carefully, the rich aroma of soy and sesame filling the air. He leans forward slightly, humming in appreciation, eyes scanning over the spread.

“You know what this is called?” he asks, curiosity flickering in his tone.

You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before pointing to each dish in turn. “Bulgogi, bibimbap, banchan.”

His lips curve upward, eyes glinting as he nods. “Mm. Correct.”

Gathering your courage, you bow your head slightly, hands folded in your lap. “Masitke deu seyo.”

The words roll clumsy but clear off your tongue, and when you lift your gaze, his smile has widened into something brighter.

“Very good,” he praises softly, and it makes your chest flutter. He mirrors your small bow, sincerity written in the lines of his expression. “I will enjoy. Thank you.”

He picks up his chopsticks, pausing just a moment before tasting, and the silence between you feels charged—not awkward, but thick with something you don’t quite dare name.

Then he takes a bite, eyes closing briefly as he chews. “This is… really good,” he says in English, but slower than usual, careful with each word. “You cook well.”

Your face heats instantly at the compliment, and you duck your head, hoping the steam from the food hides the way you’re smiling.

Dinner drifts by in easy conversation, the kind that surprises you with how natural it feels. He coaxes more Korean out of you, never pushing too hard—just gentle prompts here and there, slipping corrections into his sentences so they don’t feel like corrections at all. And somehow, somewhere between it all, you find yourself relaxing.

When the last bites are gone, he sets his chopsticks down neatly and looks at you with that small, genuine smile. “Gomawo.”

Before you can stop him, he’s already gathering plates, carrying them into the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You move beside him, drying dishes as he rinses, the quiet domesticity making your chest ache in a way you don’t have a name for.

It isn’t until you’re putting the last dish away that you notice him drift into the living room, towards your media centre. It doesn’t surprise you—music is his language, after all. He moves toward your shelves with practiced ease, fingers gliding over the spines of vinyl records. Every now and then he hums in approval at an artist he recognises.

But then he crouches lower. To the CDs.

You freeze mid-step, blood draining from your face as you watch him tilt his head. You know what’s there. You should have hidden them. Far away.

The quiet laugh that escapes him confirms it.

You don’t even need to look to know exactly what he’s looking at. Your entire Ateez discography, stacked proudly between Stray Kids and Enhypen, the glossy covers catching the light like a betrayal.

He glances up at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You listen to other groups?”

The question is deliberately cruel—he skips right over his own albums, plucking a Stray Kids CD instead, holding it between two fingers like evidence.

Your lungs collapse. “Oh my god.” The words spill out, strangled, and you cover your face with your hands.

His laugh grows louder, genuine this time, spilling into the space between you.

“Who’s your bias?” His smile turns wicked, sharp with amusement, and you feel your stomach sink.

“Are we really doing this?” you groan, but he only raises a single eyebrow in challenge.

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. “Uhh… Hyunjin.”

“A dancer is your type?” His tone is sly, but his grin makes it impossible to be truly offended. He tucks the Stray Kids album neatly back into place before letting his gaze fall on the shelf again. His eyes trail along the spines, scanning slowly, until they stop.

“Ahhh,” he hums under his breath, plucking something free.

A sweat breaks out across your forehead.

“No—no, put it back!” You rush forward, panic sparking in your chest, but he’s already standing, arm extended to hold you at bay.

The album cover gleams in his hand. Golden Hour: Part 2. His version. His face staring back at you with a smoulder you know all too well.

“Hongjoong!” you cry, half mortified, half desperate, but he only laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained. He wiggles the album teasingly before finally handing it back.

“Maybe dancer isn’t your type after all.”

You’re sure your face has gone scarlet as you slide the CD back into its place, muttering something incoherent.

Then comes the final blow. “I am your bias?” His voice lilts upward in mock innocence, but his smirk gives him away.

You bury your face in your hands, wishing for the floor to swallow you whole.

But he doesn’t let up. “Who is your favourite?”

The words hang in the air, playful on the surface, but laced with something else—something that makes your pulse skip. Because the way he’s watching you now doesn’t feel like a joke.

Your pulse is a drum in your ears, his smirk daring you to answer properly. You can feel the heat in your cheeks, the way your fingers twitch nervously at your sides.

“Naneun Ateez joh-ahae,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His brows lift, unimpressed, the corner of his mouth tugging into something sly. He tilts his head, waiting. You know that’s not what he was really asking.

Your chest rises and falls with one steadying breath. You will your hands to stop trembling, force yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes are steady, burning, patient in their quiet demand.

And then you say it. Soft, but clear.

“Naneun Hongjoong joh-ahae.”

For a heartbeat, the world stills.

His smirk fades, replaced by something gentler—something deeper. His eyes soften as though the weight of your words has settled into him, grounding him.

He doesn’t laugh this time. He doesn’t tease. He just lets the silence sit, charged and fragile, before he speaks.

“…Good pronunciation,” he says at last, voice low, a hint of warmth curling beneath the words.

But you see it—the flicker of something more in his expression, the way his lips part like there’s something else he could say if only he dared.

The air between you hums, heavy and waiting. You can feel it in your chest, in the way your hands twitch at your sides, in the way his gaze doesn’t waver.

Then he takes a slow step toward you, closing the space like it costs him nothing. His voice is low when it comes, deliberate. “You want to learn a new phrase?”

Your throat is dry, but you nod.

His lips shape the words carefully, each syllable weighted. “Nega pil-yohae.”

Your breath catches instantly, your mind translating without effort. I want you.

Heat floods your skin. You don’t need to ask if he knows what he’s just taught you—because the glint in his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth, tells you he absolutely does.

He tilts his head, gaze locked to yours. “Say it.”

Your pulse skitters wildly, but the demand in his tone pulls the words from you anyway. “Nega… pil-yohae.”

The moment they leave your mouth, his eyes darken, the air tightening between you. He nods once, slowly, as though sealing something unspoken.

“You do?” His voice is rougher now, barely above a whisper.

The truth leaves you in a single, shaky breath. “Ne.”

And in the space of a heartbeat, he moves. One moment he’s standing in front of you, the next your back hits the wall, his body pinning yours, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that steals every ounce of air from your lungs.

The taste of him, the heat of him—it’s overwhelming. His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up as though he needs every angle, every part of you. The kiss deepens, urgent, messy in a way that feels like surrender, like a dam breaking. All you can do is cling to him, because there is no room left in the world for anything else but this.

“You already knew that phrase. Didn’t you?” His words are a low murmur against your neck, the warmth of his breath making your skin prickle.

You can’t bring yourself to answer. Not when your body is betraying you so openly, shivering beneath his touch.

He doesn’t push for words. Instead, his lips find the soft skin just below your ear, and when he sucks gently, your whimper breaks free before you can stop it.

“What else do you know?” His voice is husky now, threaded with something darker, and the question coils through you, dizzying.

Your mind is swimming, caught between heat and the intoxicating closeness of him. The answer slips from your lips without thought, soft and shaky. “Meomchuji ma.”

The casual phrasing rolls easily, and you feel him pause—then smirk against your skin.

“You don’t want me to stop?”

“Ani,” you breathe, the word torn from your chest. Your pulse spikes, boldness surging with your need. “Ani, juseyo.”

His quiet chuckle rumbles against you, low and approving. “Good girl.”

You feel a flood of heat rush to your core as the words leave his mouth.

“Chimsil?” he asks against your lips, the word roughened by his breath. Then he pauses, his eyes dark as they search yours, and he rephrases slowly. “Your bedroom?”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, nervous and giddy all at once. “I know what that means.”

His smirk is quick, wicked. “Of course you do. You are better than you first thought.”

Before you can respond, his mouth finds yours again, urgent and consuming. Your fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, pulling him with you as you guide him toward your room. Each step feels heavier than the last, the air charged with the inevitability of it all.

When you push the door open and back into the dim quiet of your bedroom, he stops long enough to ask one more time, his voice stripped down, raw. “You want?”

The way two words can reduce you to trembling is beyond your comprehension. A sound escapes your throat—half moan, half plea—and you nod, desperate.

That’s all it takes.

He backs you up until your calves hit the edge of the bed, and then you’re falling, the mattress dipping beneath you. He follows immediately, weight and warmth pressing you down, his mouth reclaiming your neck like he can’t stand to be apart from you for even a second.

His lips trail lower, lingering at the edge of your collarbone, and all you can do is arch into him, every nerve alive beneath his touch.

His mouth is hot against your skin, each kiss lower than the last, stealing more and more of your control. You fist the sheets at your sides, your breath catching in sharp bursts when his teeth graze over the curve of your collarbone.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word so soft you almost miss it. Then his lips are back on you, tracing fire down your throat, across your chest, leaving you trembling beneath him.

You reach for him instinctively, sliding your hands over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the taut muscle beneath the fabric. The urge to pull him closer, to have him everywhere, consumes you. You tug at his shirt, breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, intense. “Say it again. Tell me you want.”

“I want you.” you whisper, voice breaking.

The shirt is gone in seconds, tossed somewhere into the dark. His skin is warm beneath your hands, the rise and fall of his chest quick, mirroring your own. When he leans down again, his kiss is different—slower, deeper, like he’s savouring every second.

Your body arches into his as he presses you down into the mattress, his weight grounding you, surrounding you. His hands trace your sides, steady and sure, pulling you apart piece by piece until you’re nothing but shivers and soft sounds against his lips.

When he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, his forehead rests against yours.

“Say it in Korean,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

Your lips part, trembling as the words slip free. “Nega pil-yohae. Juseyo.”

The sound of your voice breaks something in him. His mouth claims yours again, fierce and hungry, and you melt beneath him, every nerve ending lit. His hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward slowly, deliberately, as though waiting for you to stop him. You don’t. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, and the rush of cool air against your skin makes you shiver.

He pulls back just enough to take you in, gaze lingering over every inch, his lips parting as though words have abandoned him. “God…” he breathes, before lowering his head, pressing hot kisses along your chest, down the line of your stomach. Each one makes your body arch, restless for more.

Your hands find his hair beneath the cap, pushing it away, tangling your fingers into the strands as his mouth works lower. When he pauses to look at you, his lips shine faintly, and the glint in his eyes makes your breath stall. “Say geuman, if you want to stop.”

Your voice cracks, desperate. “Meomchuji ma.”

His smirk is quick, sharp, and then he’s tugging the rest of your clothes away, leaving you bare beneath him. The sight alone makes him groan softly, his hands skimming down your thighs before spreading them wide. “Perfect,” he whispers, and you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin before he lowers his mouth to you.

The initial brush of his tongue draws a sharp gasp from your lips, your back arching like a taut bowstring. His strong hands grip your hips firmly, anchoring you in place as he explores you with a slow, devastating precision that leaves you breathless. Each deliberate flick, each teasing suck, sends tremors through your legs, your fingers gripping the sheets so tightly they scorch your palms with heat.

“Say it,” he murmurs against you, his voice a blend of muffled insistence and raw desire. “Say my name.”

“Hongjoong,” you manage to whisper, your voice fractured and filled with longing. “Please—”

His response is immediate and electrifying, his tongue moving with greater urgency, his lips forming an unyielding seal around you. The mounting pressure is a symphony of tension, building to an unbearable crescendo. Your cries, unrestrained and fervent, fill the room, rising and falling like a desperate prayer until release finally overtakes you. It crashes through you in a tidal wave of sensation, leaving you quivering beneath his touch, your body unraveling in a cascade of ecstasy.

Even as aftershocks ripple through you, he draws back, his lips glistening, a self-assured grin playing on his mouth. With a lazy swipe of his thumb across his chin, he gazes down at you with eyes darkened by satisfaction. “Good girl. You taste even better than I imagined.”

You can barely breathe, but when he starts to push his jeans down, your body jolts with fresh anticipation. He leans over you, capturing your lips again, letting you taste yourself on him, his hand guiding yours down to feel the hard evidence of how much he wants you.

“Still want?” he asks against your mouth, voice raw.

“Ne,” you whisper, desperate.

He groans, a deep, guttural sound that echoes like thunder. With deliberate precision, he aligns himself, pressing forward with an agonising slowness. The stretch ignites a fierce burn, your gasp swallowed by his devouring kiss, but he steadies you with whispered reassurances—“Gwaenchanha, just breathe.”

When he finally plunges completely into you, both of you release a moan in unison, a raw, primal cry that reverberates through the room. He pauses, forehead resting against yours, allowing you a brief moment to adjust before he pulls back and thrusts into you again—harder, deeper, each movement more demanding than the last.

Your nails rake down his back, leaving trails of fire as his relentless rhythm takes hold, every powerful thrust rocking you into the mattress with a force that leaves you breathless. Your body clings to him as if he’s the only anchor in a storm, while he sets a pace that’s devastating, his hips driving into you with a ruthless, unyielding control.

“Say it again,” he growls, breath ragged, lips brushing your ear. “Nega pil-yohae.”

Your voice breaks, tears springing unbidden at the sheer intensity of it. “Nega pil-yohae—”

His thrusts falter for half a second at the sound of your desperate confession, his pupils blown wide with desire. Then he drives into you with renewed intensity, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Each savage thrust sends the headboard slamming against the wall, your bodies slick with sweat as he claims you completely, whispering filthy promises against your ear in a mixture of Korean and English that makes your skin burn.

And when your release hits again, it's shattering—your inner walls pulsing violently around his length, milking him as wave after wave of pleasure tears through you. Your back arches off the bed, a scream ripping from your throat as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm.

"Fuck... where—where do you want it?" His rhythm grows erratic, desperate, his fingers digging crescents into your hips as his thighs tremble against yours.

"Inside, I'm on the pill. Juseyo—" The plea barely leaves your lips before his head falls back, exposing the straining column of his throat. He lets out a broken whimper that cracks into a moan, then buries himself to the hilt with such force the bed frame creaks beneath you. His release pulses hot and deep, each throb of his cock matched by the shuddering tension that ripples through his sweat-slicked shoulders down to where your bodies remain locked together.

He collapses over you, his weight deliciously heavy, his cock still twitching inside you. For a long moment, neither of you move, limbs entangled, hearts thundering against each other's ribcages. The air is thick with the scent of sex and salt, your bodies fused together. His breath comes in ragged pants against the curve of your neck, where you can feel the ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

For a while, all you can do is breathe. His weight is comforting on top of you, his skin damp with sweat, the steady thud of his heartbeat pressed against your chest. Your hands find their way into his hair, gently pushing damp strands back from his forehead as he nuzzles against your neck.

Eventually, he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at you. His hair is a mess, his lips swollen from kissing, but his eyes—dark, softened now—search your face like he’s memorising every line.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his English a little rough around the edges again, like he’s let his guard down.

You nod, a tired laugh slipping out of you. “Better than okay.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not his usual smirk. It’s smaller, warmer, the kind of smile you’ve only ever imagined before now. He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, tender in a way that makes your chest ache.

The silence is comfortable this time, your bodies tangled together, the air humming with a closeness that feels almost fragile. Then, suddenly, he chuckles low in his throat.

“What?” you ask, suspicious.

His grin grows. “I was right.”

“About what?”

“You learn fast.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands, but his laugh follows, soft and teasing. He catches your wrists, tugging them gently away to kiss your forehead.

“Don’t hide. Not from me.” His voice is quiet, but the words sink deep, threading through your heart until you can’t help but smile back at him.

And as you lie there, curled into him, you realise that somehow—between the language lessons, the teasing, and the fire that sparked the second he kissed you—this doesn’t feel like a mistake.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - REBORN FROM LIGHT

You don’t sleep much after that night.

Not because you’re afraid—but because something within you has changed.

When the rest of the palace settles into silence, when even the tides grow still and no moonlight cuts through the clouds, you rise. Always alone. Always silent.

You slip through the empty halls of the palace with bare feet, navigating by instinct. Your fire might be gone, but this new force—the Sunborn power that pulses just beneath your skin—responds to your will like it’s been waiting for you.

You find a clearing in the high courtyard, where columns of ivory marble stretch like fingers into the night sky. No one follows. No one knows.

Here, you begin to test it.

At first, the light only flickers—small, hesitant beams that pulse through your fingertips or hum in your palms. But over time, it grows. It warms the air around you. It listens.

You don’t try to command it the way you did your flame. It isn’t like fire—it doesn’t rage or lash out. It expands. It reveals. It feels like truth itself, turned into light.

You begin to move with it, pushing your body to its limits. Each motion more deliberate than the last—strikes, pivots, footwork honed through memory and pain. But now, the sun answers your movements. It crowns your limbs, arcs behind your motions like golden halos.

And when you focus—when you breathe—the light doesn’t just follow. It shields. It cuts. It bends to you.

Night after night, you grow stronger. More precise. You train until your muscles burn and your legs shake beneath you. Until your hands tremble from the weight of your own power.

You scream sometimes—into the wind, into the dark. Letting the grief pour out. Letting the guilt crack and shatter in the stone around you.

But always, you rise. Always, you stand. Because now, there is no fire to cradle you. Only light. Only you.

But for days now, Wooyoung has been keeping watch.

Not in the way he used to, hovering around you with spiced biscuits or teasing smiles. No, this watchfulness is different—quieter, more careful. Ever since the night Hongjoong opened his eyes again, you’ve been… changing.

At first, it was relief. He saw it in your eyes—saw the way your shoulders dropped, like you could finally breathe again. But that only lasted a few days.

Then came the silence.

You stopped attending the morning check-ins. Ate in your quarters. Smiled less. Spoke even less than that. You drifted through the palace like a phantom.

But most telling of all?

You started waking up at the exact same time each morning. Not with the sun, but a little before. Before the kitchens stirred. Before the dew even dried from the stone paths of the Isle.

And you slipped away. Every time.

He noticed it first when he passed your chamber in the early hours and found your bed empty. Then the next day. And the next.

So he began to count the steps between his room and yours. The time it took you to reach the door. The way your shadow moved through the corridor. The direction you headed—always northeast.

And this morning, he can’t take it anymore.

When your door creaks open, Wooyoung is already laced into his boots, his dark coat thrown over his shoulders. He doesn’t hesitate. He waits just long enough for you to pass, and then follows.

You move swiftly, but not like someone who’s afraid of being seen. There’s purpose in your steps. Familiarity.

You’re leading him somewhere you’ve already been.

The path carves through the trees, winding higher, until it opens to a clearing shrouded in mist. And there, bathed in quiet dawnlight, you stop.

Wooyoung ducks low behind the brush, breath caught. You don’t know he’s there.

And then you begin.

Light hums beneath your skin, golden and delicate. It bleeds outward from your chest, along your arms, threading through your veins like living sunlight. Your feet lift an inch from the ground, barely noticeable, but he sees it.

Your hands rise. A single breath escapes your lips. And the world blooms around you. Golden arcs of solar energy spiral outward, forming patterns in the air like sunfire dancing across invisible strings. It is silent. Controlled. Beautiful.

But it’s not just power. It’s pain.

Wooyoung can see it now—in your jaw, in the tension in your shoulders, in the way your eyes close too long between each movement. You’re holding something in. Or trying to.

You’re breaking.

He forgets to breathe.

And in that moment, he knows this isn’t just training. This is survival. This is you trying to keep from coming undone.

His chest aches, but he stays hidden. You need this, he knows. But he also knows the time will come soon—maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day—when he’ll step out from behind that tree and finally ask.

Why didn’t you tell me?

But not yet. Not today.

Today, he lets you believe you’re alone, and he memorises the way the morning light bends around you. Like it remembers you were born of the sun.

The next morning, the sun is still low on the horizon—casting long, golden slats through the trees by the time you return from the clearing.

Your tunic clings to your skin with sweat. Your hair is a mess, sticking to your brow. You ache—everywhere. Muscles trembling from overuse, your fingertips still tingling with light.

You barely notice the scent of fresh bread until you round the final corner to your quarters.

He’s there. Leaning casually against your doorway, a plate in one hand, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t startle when he sees you.

He’s been waiting.

“Rough morning?” Wooyoung asks, lifting a brow, as if you’ve only been out for a stroll and not dragging the weight of a godless legacy behind you.

You pause, startled by his presence, wiping a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

He doesn’t let you answer before holding up the plate—steamed rice, salted fish, a sliced peach. “Brought you breakfast. Thought maybe you’d want to eat with someone who doesn’t talk like a scholar or walk around like they’re floating.”

A tightness crawls up your throat. You try to play it cool.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching for the plate, but he doesn’t give it up right away.

He’s watching you now, closer. Eyes trailing over your sweat-soaked collar, the dirt smudged across your arm, the wild look still haunting the edges of your gaze.

Then comes his smile. Small. Crooked. Not the one he wears when he’s causing trouble, but the one reserved for when he wants to make you feel safe. Seen.

“So,” he says, casually, “what’ve you been up to this morning? You know… before you came crashing in like you wrestled the sun?”

Your grip tightens around the plate.

“I just went for a walk,” you say lightly. Too lightly.

Wooyoung’s smile falters—but only for a second. He nods, looks down at his boots, then back up.

“Right. Walks do that to people. Leaves them looking like they just came out of a sparring ring with a wildfire.”

You force a chuckle. “Maybe I tripped over a few branches.”

“Mmm. Sure. Happens to the best of us.” He pushes away from the doorway.

You step past him, your back tense, waiting for him to say something more.

He doesn’t.

He just walks a few paces behind you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. And when he hands you the plate again, this time he lets go. But something in him sags, and you feel it.

You don’t look back until you’ve reached the door. “Thank you. For breakfast.”

He gives you a short nod. “Anytime.”

And that’s it. He walks away without asking further. Without pushing. But behind his easy smile and slow steps, his chest is tight.

Because he knows you’re lying. And he just doesn’t know how to help… if you won’t let him try.

~

You can’t face the council today.

Not with Wooyoung’s voice still lingering in your head. Not with the hollow ache growing behind your sternum like rot.

Instead, you end up in the one place that doesn’t feel like it’s watching you.

The library.

It’s massive—cathedral-like in size and stillness. The air smells of aged paper and sandalwood. Golden light streams in through tall arched windows, glancing off shelves that stretch higher than you can see, stacked edge to edge with volumes too old to name.

You run your fingers across the spines. Some books look untouched, others worn at the corners like they’ve been passed from hand to hand for generations. A world written in ink and ideas—stories you never had the luxury to know.

You hadn’t thought about books during your time on the Fang. There were no stories there, only commands. Only cages. And now, when you could have everything, your heart still feels starved.

A soft knock pulls you from your thoughts.

Yunho’s head peeks through the carved doorway, his smile tentative but warm. “Hope I’m not interrupting your… literary awakening?”

You force a breath through your nose—close to a laugh, but not quite.

He steps in carefully, towering even in his soft-footed gait, carrying a wrapped bundle under his arm. “Brought some tea,” he offers, setting it down on a nearby table. “Thought you might want company. Or, at the very least, hydration.”

You don’t know how to say thank you. Not without breaking. Instead, you nod and glance back toward the shelves.

“I’m not great at reading ancient god texts either,” he says. “Yeosang tried to explain one to me and I think I aged five years.”

Your chest tightens again.

Yeosang.

You haven’t seen him. Not once since the day he was brought in, barely holding onto life.

Yunho clears his throat, softer now. “He’s still recovering. Healing slowly. He’s… missed you.”

Your fingers curl around the edge of the bookshelf.

“I know it’s been a lot,” he continues gently. “But just seeing you for a moment might help him.”

You blink hard, throat aching. “I can’t.”

Yunho tilts his head. “Can’t… or won’t?”

Something cracks inside you.

You whirl on him, harsher than you mean to be. “You don’t understand, Yunho. None of you do. You think this is something I can just… step back into? That I can look them in the eyes and pretend I didn’t destroy everything trying to fix it?”

His expression falters. Not because he’s angry, but because you’ve hurt him.

“You didn’t destroy anything,” he says softly.

“You weren’t there,” you snap. “You didn’t see what I became. What I gave up.”

His jaw shifts—just slightly. “No, I didn’t. But I am here now. We all are. We’ve all been trying to be.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he agrees quietly, “but you needed it anyway.”

You go still. And then, you say the words you wish you could claw back the second they’re out.

“You should’ve stayed in the hospital wing. Maybe then I’d have five minutes of peace.”

It’s cruel. Unfair. You know it even as it falls from your lips. Yunho blinks once. And then his gaze drops, all that warmth retracting like the tide.

“Right,” he murmurs, nodding to himself. “Of course.”

He doesn’t say anything more. He just turns and walks away—shoulders heavy, hands tucked deep into his coat. And when the door closes behind him, the silence left in his wake is deafening.

You sink down against the wall, a book clutched tight to your chest. You’ve never felt more like a stranger in your own skin.

Hours pass, or at least it feels like they do. The light shifts in golden slants across the marble floor, catching on the gilded spines of books you can’t read—books you don’t even have the will to try and understand.

Your thoughts are louder than anything now. Louder than reason. Louder than breath.

You think about visiting Yeosang. About stepping into that sterile room, about seeing the remnants of the crew you once knew. The family you abandoned in the name of love, only to lose both.

But your limbs stay locked in place. Because what if you see Yunho again? Or Wooyoung? Or worse—Hongjoong.

His name cuts through your mind like broken glass.

Hongjoong. The man who changed everything. The man you gave your fire for. The man who now… surely hates you.

You try not to cry, but the weight in your chest presses heavier, like something ancient has settled inside you. You’re not sure what hurts more—his silence, or the idea that he might never forgive you. That he might be alive now, but only because you destroyed every piece of yourself to bring him back.

And even that… might not be enough.

Your fingers twitch. The sunlight hums softly beneath your skin. You glance down, and it’s there again—light threading across your palms, dancing across your fingertips in pulsing gold. But it’s brighter now. Sharper. It’s growing.

You try to steady yourself, to breathe through it, but your thoughts are spiralling. Too loud, too fast.

He hates me.

They all do.

I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong anywhere. I should have died instead.

The light answers. It flares. Blinding. It floods the chamber—washing over walls, books, the ceiling. Everything turns white. Too much. Too bright.

You hear your name. Once. Twice. A dozen times. Echoing. You want to respond, but your throat won’t work. You’re locked in place as the light bursts like a supernova around you.

And then, silence. Darkness.

Nothing.

The world extinguishes.

You collapse, unconscious against the marble floor. You don’t know it yet—but somewhere beyond the veil of time and death, he is watching.

Your father. The man of sunlight and softness. The one whose blood you carry. Whose love for your mother was powerful enough to defy the heavens, even if the world called it forbidden. Even in death, he guards you. Even without form, he reaches for you.

Because your light is his light, and he will never let it go out. Not while he still has even a sliver of power left to give.

~

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Heavy and sure, but picking up speed.

Mingi had only been heading to the mess hall, grumbling something about needing a late-night snack, when the light stopped him cold. It poured like molten gold beneath the doorframe of the library—a blinding burst, unnatural in every way.

He doesn’t hesitate. His boots thunder down the corridor, sword drawn before the door even finishes creaking open.

“Y/N?”

His voice rumbles with urgency as he scans the room, heart hammering against his ribs.

There you are. Crumpled on the floor, barely breathing, skin glowing faintly as if touched by something not of this world.

He drops to his knees beside you.

“Y/N? What happened, are you ok?”

But your eyes are distant. Glazed. You don’t respond, not really. You’re caught somewhere between here and somewhere far, far away. Gently, he scoops you into his arms. You don’t resist—too light, too quiet.

His sword clangs softly against the marble floor as he stands, carrying you with careful, protective strength through the halls and into your bedchambers.

He lowers you slowly onto the bed.

“I’ll call for help,” he mutters. “Just give me a few minutes—”

“No.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but your hand clutches at the sleeve of his shirt.

He stills.

“Please… no.”

His throat tightens at the sound of you breaking. A single tear escapes your eye, trailing down your cheek.

“Y/N, I need to go and get someone… I—”

“Min… just stay.” The name trembles on your lips. “Please… don’t leave. I can’t—”

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s faced monsters. Fought hand-to-hand in the bloodiest battles. He’s carried cannon fire and seen death at sea more times than he can count. But this? This cracks him open.

You look so small. So unlike yourself. So fragile, where once you burned. Not the Fireborn girl he met. Not the god-touched force of nature he followed into battle. it’s something else now. Something deeply, achingly human.

Slowly, Mingi sits on the edge of the bed. Your body folds into him instantly, desperate, trembling. Your sobs are guttural—raw grief spilling from you in shudders.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, unsure but trying, his voice low and soothing. “It’s ok. I won’t go. I’ll stay.”

He presses a hand gently to your arm, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And in that moment, maybe he is.

And Mingi, for all his bluster, just sits there quietly. Holds you. Anchors you.

As the night drapes itself around the Isle, and the fireless girl lets her grief take shape in the arms of someone who’s never seen her fall.

You wake to the sound of your own breath; shallow, tight. And the unfamiliar weight of an arm across your shoulders. Your heart jumps—but it settles almost immediately.

Mingi.

He’s fast asleep, his broad chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. His arm draped around you in a way that’s protective, not possessive. His lips part with every slow, steady exhale, soft puffs of air ghosting across your brow.

There’s nothing intimate about this. No romantic undertone, just comfort. A friend who saw you break—and held the pieces without question. But still… You know how it would look, should anyone open the door.

You shift carefully, easing his arm off you with slow, deliberate movements. He stirs, once, a low hum in the back of his throat, but doesn’t wake.

You slip from the bed. The floor is cool beneath your bare feet as you move, quiet as a shadow. The door clicks shut behind you, and the corridor greets you with soft silence.

Your body moves on instinct now. Guided not by thought, but by feeling. That feeling leads you to the hospital wing.

The hour is painfully early—still draped in that ghostly grey before sunrise, when the world feels paused, waiting to exhale.

You pause at a door. Familiar. Unbearably so. You pull in a breath, then—click. The handle turns under your hand.

The room is dim, aglow with candlelight and the faint flicker of the oil lamp resting on the table beside the bed.

Yeosang looks up from the book in his hands, eyes catching yours in the quiet. He’s propped up by a wall of pillows, bandages still peeking beneath the collar of his nightshirt. His skin is pale, but his gaze is sharp as ever.

One brow arches. “Why are you up at this hour, sneaking in here?”

You almost smile. Almost.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come and see you.”

There’s a quiet pause. Then, he closes the book gently, resting it on the quilt beside him. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“You’re here now,” he says simply. “That’s what matters.”

But it doesn’t feel like enough.

You cross the room slowly, your voice smaller than you mean it to be. “You almost died.”

“Yes,” he replies, like it’s just a fact. “But I didn’t. We didn’t.”

He pats the edge of the mattress beside him. You hesitate—then sit. For a moment, neither of you speak. The candle crackles faintly. The light throws golden shadows on the walls.

Yeosang watches you with that same unreadable stillness. Like he already knows what you’re about to say, but is giving you the space to say it anyway.

“Everything feels wrong,” you whisper. “Like I’m here… but not really.”

His voice is soft. “You’ve been carrying too much on your own.”

You don’t deny it. Your shoulders sag under the weight of truths unspoken, regrets unvoiced. He reaches out—just slightly—and places a hand over yours.

“Let me help,” he says quietly. “Let us help.”

“I don’t know how to let you anymore.”

~

Hongjoong winces as he fastens the last of the clasps on his coat, fingers trembling slightly against the worn leather.

Every step without aid feels like hell, his muscles screaming, ribs still not quite settled. But he’s done hiding behind bandages and candlelight.

If he’s going to fight for you, it has to start now.

The corridor stretches ahead of him like a gauntlet—endless, echoing, lined with polished walls that feel more like a mausoleum than a sanctuary. His boots thud with each step, uneven but steady. Determined. He doesn’t bother to disguise the limp. He’s earned it.

When he reaches your door, he hesitates only briefly. A breath to settle the chaos twisting in his chest. Then he raises his hand. Three soft knocks.

No answer.

He frowns. Waits. Still, no sound. His fingers curl around the handle, and it opens easily. The door swings in with a soft creak, and he stills.

Mingi. Fully dressed. Boots laced. Laid horizontally across your bed, fast asleep.

It’s like a gut punch. Sharp. Deep. Unexpected.

Hongjoong stares, the world narrowing in on this one, impossible frame. His first instinct is to feel—rage, betrayal, confusion. But none of it comes. Just… silence. Numb and absolute.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. There’s no confrontation. No accusations. Just a long moment, stretched tight as a wire.

Then, without a word, he steps back. Quiet as he came. He closes the door behind him with a gentle click, the sound final in a way that cleaves through bone.

And then he walks away.

Alone. Again.

~

You part ways with Yeosang just as the faintest blush of dawn spills over the horizon, the corridors of the palace quiet as the world begins to stir.

Your thoughts are heavier now—guilt mixing with exhaustion, and something else. Something like… clarity.

When you reach your quarters, it’s empty. The room is still warm from Mingi’s presence, his scent still clinging faintly to the pillows. But he’s gone. Left before first light.

You freshen up quickly, ignoring the pull of fatigue in your limbs. You need to move. To train. To push the ache down before it swallows you whole.

So you slip out silently, dressed in linen and leather, your boots whispering against the marble as you disappear into the lower halls toward your usual training space, tucked away where no one goes.

Elsewhere in the palace, Mingi is pacing.

He retraces his steps from your quarters, his mind an unsettled mess of fractured sleep and the image of you—shaking, tear-stained, fragile in a way that still unsettles him.

He doesn’t know what he’s searching for exactly. Just that something shifted last night. And he can’t shake it.

Rounding a corner too quickly, he nearly collides with Wooyoung.

“Woah—easy,” Wooyoung mutters, catching Mingi by the arms. “What’s the rush?”

Mingi’s jaw tightens. “Have you seen her?”

“No,” Wooyoung says, but his eyes narrow, already knowing who he means.

Mingi hesitates. “Something weird happened last night. She asked me not to tell anyone but… she was completely out of it. Like something drained the life from her.”

Wooyoung stiffens.

“Did she say anything?”

“She just wanted me to stay. Begged me not to leave. I’ve never seen her like that before.”

Wooyoung chews the inside of his cheek, then nods once. “I haven’t seen her yet, but I’ll look.”

Mingi watches him go, not entirely convinced. Because Wooyoung walks off with too much purpose. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll be.

~

The weight of last night comes crashing down on you like a landslide.

Every movement—every strike, every pivot, every burst of light summoned to your palms—carries the ache in your chest, the sharp twist of shame in your gut. You don’t hold back. You can’t. You lean into the fury, let it drive each motion until your muscles burn, until your lungs scream.

Until you do.

A raw, feral sound tears from your throat—something between anguish and rage, a scream that feels like it might shatter the sky.

And then—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound cuts through the stillness. Mocking. Slow. Unmistakable.

You whirl.

Wooyoung stands a few hundred yards away, arms crossed loosely, a crooked smile twisting his lips. His hair is windswept, lips still pressed into the remnants of amusement—but his eyes… his eyes are unreadable.

“Very impressive,” he drawls, letting the silence stretch between each word. “I see the training is working.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, sweat clinging to your skin. You don’t speak—because what could you say?

He starts toward you, deliberate, steady. And with every step he takes, your heart tightens. Not from fear. From something worse.

Shame.

“Is this what you’ve been hiding?” he says, softer now. “Secret sunrise sparring sessions while the rest of us are trying to figure out how to save the world?”

You swallow, jaw clenching. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“That’s the problem,” he replies quietly. “You never do.”

The silence between you crackles—tense, charged like a storm about to break. Wooyoung’s usual half-smirk falters. His arms fall to his sides.

Then he snaps. Not piece by piece. All at once.

“No, Y/N. No more.” His voice lashes out, sharp and sudden, striking through the training field like a whip. “I’m sick of this. Of you shutting us out like we’re strangers. Like we haven’t fought beside you. Bled beside you. Loved you.”

Your lips part, but no words come out.

His hands ball into fists at his sides. “You think you’re the only one hurting? The only one who lost something?” He gestures wildly, stepping closer. “Every single one of us would’ve died that night if it wasn’t for you—and you think that means we didn’t feel it? That we don’t still feel it?”

You flinch at his words, but he doesn’t let up.

“I watched Seonghwa fight with one arm. I watched Yeosang nearly bleed out in front of me. I watched Hongjoong die, Y/N.” His voice breaks, throat tight with emotion. “And when he came back, he asked for you. Not himself. Not the crew. You. And you weren’t there.”

The sting is brutal.

His breathing’s ragged now, his chest rising and falling. “You’re falling right back into the hole you crawled out of—and I can’t watch it again. I won’t.” His voice lowers to a bitter murmur. “You’re not on the Serpent Fang anymore. You have people now. A family. And you’re pushing all of us away again.”

The ache in his chest is visible, etched into every line of his face. You freeze, limbs locked in place. He starts walking toward you, each step measured.

“You really thought we wouldn’t notice?” His tone tightens, something sharp and unfamiliar lacing his words. “The way you vanish at dawn, how you’re quieter than a shadow, the way you come back with your clothes wrinkled and your hands trembling?”

You look away.

“I thought—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply. “You didn’t tell anyone, Y/N. Not even me. Especially not me.”

The silence hangs heavy. You say nothing. Can’t say anything.

“I’m your best friend. Or I thought I was.” His voice wavers. “You didn’t think we’d want to help carry the weight? Did you think we’d just… stand by, again, and watch you break yourself?”

You keep your eyes on the ground, the burn of shame rising up your throat like bile.

“Say something. Please, just say something!”

His voice cracks, and when you finally dare to glance up, his expression is raw—more wounded than angry.

“I see you,” he whispers. “And I miss you. I miss her. The real you. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that it doesn’t hurt watching you tear yourself apart.”

Still, you say nothing. Your throat is tight. Your heart is heavier than ever.

Wooyoung blinks, and the unshed tears finally crest the edge of his lashes. He breathes in sharply, stepping back.

“I see how it is.”

He turns, shoulders squared, starting to walk away. But your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You sprint, grabbing him and throwing your arms around him from behind, pulling him into you like it’s the last thing tethering you to the world.

“I’m sorry.”

It breaks out of you like a sob, fractured and frantic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Sunlight spills around you both; radiating from your skin, from your fingertips, from your very soul. It glows warm against his back, wrapping the two of you in golden light, gentle and all-consuming. It’s more than heat. It’s grief, and love, and everything you’ve held back crashing into the open.

Wooyoung stiffens, but only for a moment. Then he turns in your arms, and holds you tight.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice catching. “It’s okay. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

Your face buries into his chest, the tears falling harder now. He presses your head into his shoulder, resting his cheek against your hair as the golden light pulses softly around you.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I lost my best friend.”

You shake your head against him, clinging tighter. “You didn’t. I’m still here. I just—forgot how to let you in.”