The Writing Rowlet

The pilots quickly get on their feet at the sudden notice, the shout silencing the murmurs and chatters. A deep cut scar slices the lieutenant general's left cheek as he paces the rows of fighter jet pilots. Every pilot holds their breath, unsure of where this summon is heading. The clacking sound of his boots is a metronome counting down to zero, each one carrying a sense of urgency. Captain Chael Flint―his fists clench so firmly that it almost hurts.

The elderly officer finally stops pacing, his eyes sweeping across the rigid line of pilots. He doesn't smile. He doesn't even blink. He stops directly in front of Chael, his shadow momentarily eclipsing the fluorescent light above. "The war is changing, ladies and gents," he announces, his voice not a shout but a low, dangerous rumble that still manages to fill the massive hangar. “The enemies are taking the fights to outer space―what options do we have but to meet them there?”

Chael releases his grip on the table, swallowing a dry gulp as the large monitor behind the General stirs to life, where a large, circular symbol is taking nearly the whole space. “The Cazador Program,” he thinks, recognizing the right-facing helmet that resembles that of ancient Sparta from a previous briefing. He’s heard of this initiative before, from his same-rank brothers and superior officers alike, but now that it’s about to manifest, to become more than just a whisper among soldiers―it sends a different kind of dread through him. This is the call-up he’s always wanted and feared. This is not a simple promotion; this is a transition to a new self.

“Captain Flint,” the old General shifts his attention, “you know why you’ve been summoned here, do you not?” Straightening his neck, Chael nods, his eyes locked with the General’s. “Sir, yes, sir,” he replies, his voice tight, his breath controlled. “As I’ve estimated, based on other personnel present in this room, we are the first initiates for this program.”

The General’s mustache twitches, a smile forming for a split second before it’s quickly erased. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, crowding Chael's space, the weight of his stare palpable. He slips his hands into his pockets, the casual gesture somehow more threatening than a salute. “And why do you think you are the first initiates, Flint?” he continues. “Sir, it is because we are the aces of the Generation 7 fighter jets, sir.”

The General’s eyes glitter with a cold satisfaction. "Aces. Yes, but that is the secondary reason." He glances at the large screen behind him, which now shows a dizzying, complex schematic of a strange war machine—something bigger, stronger, and more demanding than the Gen 7 jets everyone in this room is familiar with. “The primary reason, my son, is that Generation 7 fighter pilots are the only ones capable of handling a neural interface. You, in particular, are proven to be a natural with it―your records speak for themselves, Flint.”

Everyone knows the Gen 7 interface is taxing; it feels like holding lightning in one’s skull. Chael knows his aptitude is just a higher capacity for pain. Nevertheless, it is that high capacity that has helped him score fifty takedowns in four years of service, a record that is second only to the legendary Captain Mikhail Winstrom-Popov, promoted to Colonel posthumously, who accumulated a staggering record of seventy-one takedowns in five years. He did it in a Gen 3 jet, his beloved Maelstrom―a generation that looks ancient to current technology―during the peak of the War of the Nations.

“Sir,” Flint’s whisper cuts through the heavy silence, “may I suggest… getting to the point?” The General follows Flint’s eyes towards the large screen. Pushing off from Chael's space, the sharp clack of his boots returns as he strides toward the raised podium. He gives one last, searching look at Chael, a cold acknowledgment of the captain's mettle. "The words of a top ace are a command to all," he says, taking his place behind the black metal lectern. His eyes, however, are still on Chael. "And you’re going to love this, Captain. I can tell already. Now sit down and let’s get to the point."

The lights in the hangar dim until the only source of clarity is the glow from the massive monitor. “The point,” the General begins, his voice amplified by the podium’s mic, “is that we’re getting new war machines to crush our enemies with.” The screen shifts to a blueprint of strange, never-seen-before armor. His eyes glued to the design, Chael swallows hard; that thing stands taller than a Gen 7 jet if it were to stand vertically, its proportions so wrong his mind keeps trying—and failing—to fit it into the world he knows.

“This is the Cazador Frame, ladies and gents,” the General says, scanning the rows of current-gen fighter pilots before him. “You’re going from sitting in a cockpit with a neural interface connected to your head to…” He lets the pause stretch, long enough for the implication to settle. “To having an extension of your very body. Every step it takes will feel like your own. Every blow it lands will start as an impulse in your spine.” A few pilots shift in their seats. Flint doesn’t. He can’t stop picturing what it would mean to inhabit something that big—and what it would take to ever feel small again afterward. “And this… This is the future of warfare.”

“Enough talk,” the General says, stepping down from the podium. The monitor goes dark, leaving them in a sudden, disorienting gloom before the lights turn back on. “Blueprints are for engineers. Pilots need to see the steel.” He gestures towards the doors of the hangar as a couple transport trucks come to a stop outside. “Let’s go see it, then, hm?” One pilot after another leaves their seat, filing out the door and heading towards the trucks.

Just as he’s walking out the door, Chael’s steps are halted by a hand that suddenly finds his shoulder. “Captain Flint,” the General’s aide murmurs, leaning towards his ear. “Please stay for a moment. There’s a briefing reserved for you and only you.” The rhythmic thud of combat boots on the metal ramp fades, replaced by the distant, heavy rumble of the transport trucks idling outside. The hangar feels twice as large now that it's empty. “This way, please,” the aide says, his left arm pointing to a closed door, the sconce mounted over it the only source of light. He doesn't just point, though; he stands with his back to the exit, his posture stiff, blocking the path to the trucks like a human barricade.

“That orange door, Sargent?” His eyes flickering between the aide and the door, Chael’s hand hovers near his side, a reflex move towards a sidearm he isn't carrying, his fingertips trying to find the cold steel that isn’t there. “Can you at least tell me where that door leads?” Sargent takes a deep breath at his question, hesitation drawn all over his features. “Yes, Captain,” he glances at it before meeting Chael’s eyes again, “I was told that since you will be providing a demonstration, you will need special equipment.”

Chael stares at the orange door for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he moves, his rapid steps leaving Sargent behind. As he approaches, he glances over his shoulder; Sargent is still guarding the exit, as if afraid that Chael will turn around and escape. “What an odd fella,” he thinks. Arriving in front of the door, Chael knocks. The first knock gets no reply, so he knocks again―louder this time. Before he could knock the third time, the door parts open, revealing a woman in a mechanic’s suit. “Captain Chael Flint,” he introduces himself. “I was told I’m to get some special equipment for some sort of a demo?”

The woman chuckles, wiping her forehead with the back of her grease-stained glove. ”Special equipment? I mean, it is special in its own right―but is that what they really called it?” Stepping aside, she opens the door wider, letting Chael peek into the opulent room. The inside looks oddly clean and pristine with only a suit-wearing mannequin standing in the middle, a set of rolling shelves surrounding it. “Come on, then, Captain. Let’s take a closer look, hm?” With a nod, Chael follows the woman inside, inching closer towards the statue that has his measurements.

Chael stops a few feet away, his chest tightening. Seeing his own proportions rendered in cold plastic, draped in an experimental suit, feels like looking at his own coffin. The mannequin has no face, just a smooth, featureless head of white polymer, yet it stands with Chael’s specific, forward slouch―one he got from an bicycle accident over 20 years ago. It isn't just his size; it's his ghost. “You alright, Captain?” she asks, looking up and over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” he clears his throat, the dryness causing a sore, “it’s just that it looks too tight―that can’t be comfortable to wear.” As she closes the last few inches, the woman slides the glove off her right hand, her fingertips landing on the special fabric. “Well, actually, it can’t be any more comfortable than this, Captain.”

She takes a step back, inviting him to touch it himself. Chael hesitates but then reaches out. The moment his skin meets the fabric, he feels a faint, static hum—a vibration so low it’s more of a feeling than a sound. “It’s soft… and warm,” he whispers, surprised. “Like I said, it can’t be any more comfortable than this,” she says. “The goal is to make you forget where you end and the machine begins. Total sensory integration.” Chael pulls his hand away as if burned. The idea of forgetting himself is exactly what he fears most. “How do I get into it?” he asks, his voice barely a murmur.

Scanning him from top to bottom, she shrugs. “I mean, take everything off first and then put this on?” A chuckle breaks out from the thin gap of her lips. “Look, it’s just a suit. It’s not too different than your usual Gen 7 flight suit.” The woman reaches for a tablet on the shelf, her forefinger zipping across the screen, as if looking for something to show him. “Okay, look here,” she begins, her nail hovering over a specific part of the schematic. “This vertical gap... is intentional.” She taps the screen, and a simulated plate snaps into the spine. “Once that plate locks, Captain, you aren't just wearing this―the entire Cazador Frame becomes your suit. Hence the other name, mobile suit.”

“Mobile suit…” he echoes, his voice sounding thin in the pristine room. The woman points to the changing area—a small, recessed alcove with a frosted glass door. “Everything off, Captain Flint. No watch, no dog tags, no underwear. You want a perfect fit for optimal… performance.” His eyebrow rises promptly at the casual mention of no underwear, but Chael complies, nonetheless. “And make it quick, will you? The General would want to start the demo as soon as possible.”

-

Chael arrives at the demonstration site in an armored SUV, the viewing stands positioned around one kilometer away from a closed hangar, filled to the brim with spectators. As the car slides in via a side entrance, he finally gets the first peek at a Cazador Frame, but he can only see the bottom of its oversized feet. “Is it laying down?” he wonders to himself, but the driver hears him. “Yes, Captain. We would need to open the roof if we were to make it stand on its feet.”

The SUV comes to a smooth halt. The driver doesn't say a word, only hits a switch that releases the door locks. Chael steps out, his boots clicking against the polished concrete. Above him, the oversized feet aren't just feet; they are pedestals of steel, each one the size of a main battle tank. Suddenly, a siren blares—a deep, chest-rattling wail that signals the start of the demo. High above, the hangar’s ceiling begins to part with a tectonic groan. Beams of natural sunlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the prone titan like a god in a tomb. "Ready yet, Captain?" the General's voice crackles over Chael's earpiece. “One moment, sir,” he deflects, forcing his tone to stay flat, “still appreciating the scale of this thing.”

The General says something else, but Chael tunes him out. With his helmet in hand, he heads towards the gantry, the stomps of his heavy boots echoing throughout the hangar. Ascending the stairs, he’s approached by some engineers, each asking different questions, some of them can be answered by a yes or a no. Before long, he’s standing on a platform, where a seatless cockpit, suspended in the air by eight steel cables, is waiting for him.

“Captain Chael Flint,” an engineer lowers her tablet to her belly, “I’m honored to finally meet you in person. Especially since all I knew from you was your combat data.” “The honor is mine, miss,” he says, putting one palm on the glass door, trying to peek inside. “You know,” the engineer continues, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice, “it’s fascinating that you’re still alive―perhaps even a miracle―considering that your flight pattern seems to be a cycle of heading straight towards the enemies, fire your missiles, and running away fast.” Pulling his face away from the cockpit door, Chael shoots the engineer a puzzled look. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess it is a miracle.”

With a giddy giggle, the engineer taps her screen once more, the large pistons holding the door compressing with a cold hiss as the locks unlatch. She puts one foot in the interior, turning back towards Chael. “Come, Captain,” she offers an open hand, “let’s have the Frame recognize its master and get it to stand.” Taking the offered hand, Chael tangles his fingers with hers, grounding himself in her presence before taking full control of a machine―a very large one.

There’s only one structure inside the cockpit: a spinal interface that’s hanging off the ceiling, underneath that a pair of pads, likely used to house the pilot’s feet. “Alright, Captain. Put on your helmet and stand on those pads, please,” the engineer says, her focus returning to the tablet. Closing the distance to the structure, Chael puts on his helmet as instructed, lowering the visor due to force of habit. “Okay, then what―” Chael’s speech is interrupted as he feels the back support making contact with the metallic plate on the back of his suit. A series of heavy, magnetic latches fire in sequence up his spine—thunk-thunk-thunk—locking the suit’s plate to the Frame’s core. The pressure is immense, pinning him against the interface like a specimen on a board.

“Breathe, Captain. Breathe,” she soothes, her tone softer now. “You’re not fully connected yet. It’s just a biometrics verification.” Closing his eyes, Chael nods slowly, his fists relaxing from a tight ball. Each inhale he takes feels heavy, each exhale feeling the same―but he’s determined to control his nerves, assuring himself this is just newcomer’s anxiety. After all, he was on the verge of vomiting when he first took a seat in a Gen 7 cockpit. “Okay, I’m ready. Do whatever you need to,” he says, even as his heart races in his chest.

"Initiating full synchronization," the engineer whispers. A split second of total silence follows, and then Chael’s world is replaced by a tidal wave of electricity. It isn't a sound; it's a sensation of a thousand needles sewing into his subconscious. Sync: 20%... 40%... 60%... 90%. His visor is suddenly flooded with bright, nauseating graphics, but Chael doesn’t flinch, doesn’t buckle―he stands solid, letting his senses merge with the Frame’s. But there’s this urge to close his eyes that is growing irresistible, and he eventually relents to the pull. Finally, as the man and the machine successfully become one, Chael opens his eyes. “Pilot confirmed,” a robotic voice echoes in his head. “Welcome aboard, Master Captain Chael ‘Three-Strikes’ Flint.”

The engineer frantically taps the screen of her tablet, her fingers pacing across the glass surface. “Connection established, pilot identity confirmed,” she mutters to herself, her own heart starting to race. She’s about to press a button, but the realization that she’s still in the cockpit halts her at the last second. Rushing out, the engineer closes the door and locks it behind her, retreating a few steps for clearance. “Okay, okay,” she huffs, finally pressing the button, “embedding cockpit now.”

With a hydraulic hiss and a metallic whirr, the cockpit is taken away, slowly lowered into the cavity in the head of the Cazador Frame. As it’s finally settled, the steel cables detach, rolling up into the ceiling. Its head closing, the Frame begins to get power as the fission engine stirs. It stirs with a sound like a distant, captive sun beginning to burn. Finally, with a series of loud clicks and clacks, the head of the Frame fully closes, thus keeping its master inside, relying on him for control of every titanium alloy muscle strand.

Soon, the light on the forehead of the Frame turns on, the beam shining through the gap in the roof. The engineer gasps, almost dropping her tablet at the shock. Reaching for the radio on her waist, she yells into it. “This is Nicole Gage,” she begins, her fingertips turning white as her palm maintains a firm grip. “The Space Giant is awake. I repeat, Space Giant is awake. And Captain Chael Flint is its master.” The person at the other end acknowledges the report, but as a reply comes, Nicole isn’t paying attention, letting her radio dangle by the straps as she hops and screams.

However, Nicole’s hops and screams quickly come to a stop as the ground under the gantry begins to rumble. Panicking, she dives for the rail, gripping a bar firmly with her sweaty palms. “Easy, Captain, easy. Please, please, easy,” she begs, as if Chael could hear her pleas. With a thunderous stomp, Chael’s Frame fixes one foot on the ground, and with another stomp, it fixes the other. “Yes, yes, that’s it―but keep it nice and easy,” she adds, her grip around the rail relaxing slightly. As the palms of the Frame find purchase on the walls of the hangar, the reinforced concrete in them shrieks and crumbles. The sound is like multiple battle tanks slamming through one piece of wall. Having secured enough leverage, the Frame pulls itself to kneel in the hangar, low enough to still not be seen by the spectators waiting outside.

“Hey, get off that thing,” Chael’s voice booms, the walls trembling from the sheer volume. This isn’t a radio; his voice is being projected through the machine’s speakers, as though his voice is its. With a frantic nod, Nicole beelines for the steps, feeling ridiculously small compared to the kneeling Frame. But that’s the point; the war is heading to space. It’s inevitable that war machines will become bigger and bigger―even then, space will still have space for everything.

With Nicole clear of the gantry, Chael finally commits. “Alright, let’s put on a demo.” He starts pulling himself to his feet, the Frame following his exact movements, until he’s fully standing. The suit on Chael's shins tightens, compensating for the phantom gravity the Frame’s sensors are feeding his brain. He feels the sway of the wind against the Frame’s head as if it were a breeze against his own cheek. And the world looks smaller from up here; the scales are dizzying, to say the least. Because that APC next to the stands can transport 12 fully armed personnel at once, but it looks like it could crumble under one press of the Frame’s thumb.

The Frame’s long legs let Chael clear the hangar easily, taking small-but-gigantic steps. As he quickly closes the distance, his visor shows a notification: Weapon Systems Ready. “Oh, really?” he thinks, looking at the schematic right before his eyes, specifically the thighs that are blinking red and white. As the Frame’s hands settle right beside its thighs, hidden mechanisms cause the robot’s “flesh” to split open, pushing out two sticks that seemingly only function as something to be held.

Without thinking twice, Chael grabs the sticks, and suddenly, it activates. From each stick, an intense beam of light comes out. The energy is so intense that the air crackles around it―seems like this weapon isn’t meant to be used on Earth. Curious, he lifts one hand, trying to get a closer look. “Hey, hey,” the General’s voice echoes in his ears. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing, Flint.” Looking up, Chael’s eyes land on a helicopter floating nearby, its pilots looking at him with a frown. “Copy,” Chael says. “Apologies for that.”

-

Years have passed since Chael’s first run in a Cazador Frame. The Federation has gone from having a singular Frame, Chael’s―currently known as the Knightfather―to thirty of them, each one assigned to either a fighter jet veteran or a pilot specifically trained for the program. However, only a fifth of the fleet are special-made Frames; the rest are smaller, mass-produced units with limited combat and survival abilities. This often makes those Frames the primary target for enemy operations, and if not for these war veterans… the program―no, the Federation itself―would cease to exist.

The alarm in Chael’s quarters doesn't ring; it hums, a frequency only a Frame pilot can feel. He doesn't need to look at the monitor to know what's happening. Another "Green-Horn" squadron of mass-produced units has been ambushed in the debris fields of Sector 7, just a few clicks off Greenland. Getting off his bed, Chael’s joints pop with a mechanical stiffness that mirrors his Frame. He walks past the rows of gleaming, standardized suits of the new recruits, heading toward the corner of the hangar where the Knightfather waits surrounded by its gantry, awards and banners hanging off the rails. "Another run, Master Captain?" the AI’s robotic voice asks, sounding as tired as he feels. "Let's go," Chael rasps. "The kids are in trouble again―and get me Mom, hm?"

Even though the military is now more focused with mass-producing units as quickly and as many at a time as possible, it doesn’t forget the big guns that have allowed them to wake up on a new day time and time again. Their technology and arsenal consistently get upgrades, the current schedule being every 2 years, the upcoming one being a multi-stage rocketship that can be attached to the back of every Frame. The Knightfather is especially not forgotten. It has multiple weapons to excel in close- and long-range combat, with shoulder-mounted, collapsible missile batteries as the latest addition to its firepower.

As Chael’s cockpit is descending to enter Knightfather, the voice of Lieutenant Minatozaki, his aide, comes from his earpiece. “Master Captain,” Minatozaki says, the clicks of her keyboard seeping through her microphone. “Mom will deploy after you. She is, erm… she’s taking a bath, sir.” A chuckle slips through his lips, the sound echoing off the walls. “Sana, tell Captain Hirai to finish as soon as possible,” he says, shaking his head out of pure amusement. “The kids will need someone to fight for, and she is definitely someone to fight for.”

As his chuckle fades, his cockpit has attached to Knightfather, the sounds of whirring hydraulics and interlocking panels all too familiar in Chael’s ears. “This is Master Captain Chael Flint. Reporting for deployment,” he says, pressing some buttons on the instruments panel in front of him. “Syncing with Knighfather in 3, 2, 1.” At his countdown, Sana turns her attention to the monitor to her left, keeping close attention to the synchronization process. A status line causes her eyebrow to rise; Chael is under-rested after a quick series of back-to-back missions.

“Sir,” Sana puts the microphone right against her lips, “after this deployment, please visit the physio and infirmary for a checkup.” On her screen, the sync graph doesn't show the smooth, rolling waves of a healthy pilot. It’s a jagged, frantic line, riddled with the "noise" of Chael’s exhaustion. But he’s not saying anything, putting on a tough demeanor as usual. “Sir, please. I’m respectfully asking you to―” “Yes, Lieutenant, I heard you the first time,” Chael interjects, his tone accepting and understanding. “Please remind me later, though, hm?” Sana can only sigh and nod at her captain’s order, knowing better than to press him.

"The catapult is engaged, Master Captain," Sana reports. Chael closes his eyes, firing up the propulsors on his back with a practiced flick of his finger. “Ready for launch, Sana,” he announces, turning his head around to stretch his stiff neck. “Confirmed, sir. Launching in 3, 2, 1.” Right after the countdown ends, the catapult pulls Knightfather forwards, accelerating it to high-G in less than 15 seconds. Chael opens his eyes just in time to start flying with the propulsors, heading straight towards the problem, a habit that is prominent as ever.

Within seconds, the Knightfather pierces the stratosphere, the blue sky darkening into the cold velvet of space. Ahead, Sector 7 is a graveyard. Chael sees the flickering strobes of emergency beacons and the jagged silhouettes of enemy raiders circling the remaining Squires. His HUD begins painting targets, the "noise" in his sync momentarily suppressed by a surge of adrenaline. "This is Knightfather," he announces over the fleet-wide channel, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of panicked chatter. "Form up on my six, kids. The party’s over." He tilts the Frame's nose down, the shoulder missiles shifting as they track the first wave of pursuers, and as he lands with an Earth-shattering slam, they are turned to dust.

“Come on, kids. Let’s wrap this up before Mom gets here,” Chael urges, his wrist cannons shredding enemy armors like they were made of papers. “Sir, did you say Mom is coming?” says one of the Green-Horns, a girl named Lily Browning, desperation clear in her voice. “Yes, Browning,” Chael pauses to fire a missile at an artillery battery over yonder, “now get your asses over here and start shooting back, will you?” These mass-produced Warthogs begin to form around Knightfather that is towering over them like a literal father, taking as much advantage as they can from the natural cover of the hill.

The enemy raiders, rattled by the sudden appearance of the Knightfather, throw whatever plans they have out the window, shooting anything their targeting systems lock on to. Chael, being in the largest, deadliest unit, becomes the primary target, and he can only take so many cannon rounds before the neural link registers the hits as stabs. “Take cover, soldiers,” he calmly commands, the comms filled with the recruits’ short, ragged breaths. “We’ll be―”

The rest of his command is muffled by the loud, echoing series of explosions, confirming the turn of the tide to be on their side. “Denmother here,” Captain Hirai’s calm, soothing voice is smooth in everyone’s earpiece. “You guys alright down there? Knightfather?” The recruits’ cheers boom through the chatter, the burden of battle forgotten in the face of the Federation’s beacon of hope. “Took some damage, but nothing that can’t be fixed,” Chael answers, pulling out of the hill’s cover. “You’re welcome, Captain,” Hirai adds, her teasing smirk audible over the radio.

Looking up, Chael spots the slender, elegant Cazador Frame that is Denmother on its slow descent, a mobile suit that could not be more perfect for Master Captain Momo “Peach” Hirai. The callsign should fool no one; silly it might sound, but no one has ever laughed at it. She is on the program for a multitude of reasons, and someone as good as her can choose whatever callsign they want. Others will know that there are better things to do than laugh.

“Thinking about something?” Momo asks, switching to a direct channel to Chael. “No, not really,” he grits his teeth, a stinging pain sharp in his right thigh. “One of their tanks busted the plates on my thighs, and now it hurts.” On Chael's visor, the right thigh assembly is strobing a violent, angry red. Every time the Frame's leg shifts, a surge of electricity shoots through the neural link, mimicking the sensation of a hot lead against his flesh.

The direct channel is crystal clear, stripped of the static of the battlefield. In this private space, Momo’s voice loses its commanding edge, replaced by the worry of a partner who has seen him bleed too many times. “Disengage, Chael,” Momo urges, her heart clenching with concern. “I’ll call a Carrier over to extract us.” Adhering to her suggestion, Chael begins the disengagement protocol, starting with turning off the cannon and missile modules. The weapon modules tucking into its unarmed position, Chael notices a glint coming from the mountainside, but before he can react―

“FUCK!” He screams from the top of his lungs as a projectile pierce through Knighfather’s right shoulder, the neural link forwarding the acute pain from the impact to his flesh. Chael’s knees buckle as his pained grunts flood the communication channel, the Frame falling to its knees with a violent rumble. “Shit, shit,” Momo panics, hurrying to call an extraction Carrier to their position. “Denmother to all units, find the attacker—NOW!”

Chael can’t breathe. His right arm hangs limp at his side—both in the cockpit and on the Frame. The suit is pulsing with a frantic, rhythmic heat, emulating a wound that isn't physically there on his human body. "Warning, warning," the AI drones, sounding distant through the haze of pain. "Right arm actuator disconnected. Neural feedback reaching critical levels." Through the blurred vision of his HUD, he sees the Warthogs scrambling. He sees Browning’s unit rushing towards him. He wants to tell them to run, to save themselves, but all that comes out of his mouth is a ragged, pained gasp.

“B-Browning…” he manages through his heavy pants. “C-Cover me, dear. Don’t leave me.” Lily leaps to close the final few dozen meters of distance, covering Knightfather with the entirety of her mobile suit. She doesn’t care if hers is a smaller mass-produced unit; what matters is the heart and soul of the pilot―Master Captain Hirai’s words. “Disengage, sir. Disconnect from the Frame!” Drawing focus and strength from his aspirant’s ear-piercing scream, Chael lifts his healthy hand towards the control panel, continuing the disengagement protocol, this time to fully disconnect from the neural interface.

While Lily stands her ground, the air above them shatters. Momo has stopped being a protector and started being a hunter. "Found you, bitch," she snarls over the fleet-wide channel, her Frame's long-barreled railgun humming with a lethal charge. She doesn't wait for a lock; she pulls the trigger on the thermal bloom of the enemy’s last shot. The ridge a kilometer away disappears in a bloom of fire and pulverized rock. She doesn't stop to check the kill. She turns around, her thrusters screaming, to land in front of Lily and Chael. "Carrier is here! Browning, get the Knightfather onto the lift! Move, damn it!"

Lily rushes to latch the carrier’s hooks on the back of Knightfather, and right as it’s getting lifted to the sky, Momo secures Chael’s detached cockpit in the palm of her Frame. “Three-Strikes is secured. I repeat, Three-Strikes is secured,” she announces, igniting her calf rockets. “Denmother is boarding the Carrier now.” The Valkyrie-class Antonov Carrier sways for a brief moment when Denmother lands rather crassly on the platform. “Give me space,” Momo demands, her voice booming all over the place. But people are only looking around among themselves. “I said,” the Master Captain raises her tone. “Give. Me. Space!”

Getting her Frame down to its knees, Momo carefully places Chael’s cockpit on the platform. “If I don’t see an ambulance in the next minute,” she pauses, quickly thinking of a way to threaten every living soul on board, “I’ll personally tie each of you to a pole for 24 hours.” Much to her satisfaction and relief―she hates the idea of punishing people with her own hands―an ambulance speeds out of the med-bay, sirens blaring in utmost emergency. Quickly disconnecting from her cockpit, Momo jumps out of it with a parachute, landing right by the ambulance. “I’m going to tag along, and no one can tell me otherwise.”

-

Sana looks through the glass window of the door, the sight of her superior lying asleep in bed eating at her heart. Never before has she seen the revered Three-Strikes in such a weak position, and it reminds her that behind the accolades and medals… he’s a human. One who has limits. One who can get hurt. The silence in the ward is deafening. After hours of monitoring his jagged, noisy vitals throughout the battle, the steady, slow ping of his heart monitor feels terrifyingly fragile.

Sana yells when she feels someone’s hand on her left shoulder, her knees getting weak from the shock. “C-Captain Hirai,” she mutters, searching the captain’s eyes for signs of disappointment or anger. Finding none, she swallows a tight gulp, her throat burning from the dryness. “M-May I ask why you’re here, madam?” Momo only sighs at the question, her eyes locked on the neural-shocked pilot. “I’m here for him, Lieutenant,” she tilts her head towards Chael, “can you give us space?”

When Momo asks for space, it isn't a command from a superior—it's a plea from a woman who needs to let her guard down, away from the eyes of anyone’s aide. “Y-Yes, madam,” Sana lowers her head, looking down at her own boots, “I… I’ll be in the waiting room if you need me.” Momo waits until the sound of Sana’s boots dies down before pushing the door to Chael’s ward. Entering slowly, she locks the door behind her, covering the glass window with a curtain. “Alright, Chael. We’re alone now.”

As she closes the distance to Chael, Momo unzips her Skin suit, the cool, sterile air of the med-bay biting her bare skin. She stops right in front of his bed, she steps out of it, leaving it forgotten on the floor. Pulling his blanket off, she places her entire bare body on him, the contact of skin meeting skin warmer than any blanket could offer, and a soft sigh escapes her lips. “There we go…” she murmurs against his chest, her palms coming to rest on his shoulders.

As time goes on, exhaustion begins to settle, her eyes fluttering as the pull of rest grows irresistible. But suddenly, Chael stirs, a heavy grunt escaping through the thin gap of his lips. “Chael…?” She pulls away just enough to look at him in the eyes, her hands quickly finding his face. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?” A smile slowly spreading across his features, he nods, one hand settling on the back of her nape. “I’m okay, Momo,” he whispers, his voice a low timbre. “I overheard some nurses saying that it’s just a grade 1 neural shock.”

"Grade 1, huh?" Momo murmurs, her hands still framing his face as if afraid he might vanish if she lets go. "You always were a lucky bastard." She glances at his heart monitor and then turn to him quickly. "Sana is in the waiting room. She’s been watching your vitals like a hawk. I should probably let her know you're awake, but..." she pauses, her grip tightening slightly. "I'm not ready to be a Captain again just yet." Chael pulls her closer, the shared warmth finally chasing away the last of the Arctic chill. "Then don't be. Just stay. The Federation won’t turn to dust just because its best pilots are cuddling with no clothes on."

Momo rests her head on the broad plane of his chest, careful to avoid the bandages on his right side. “Momo,” Chael finally breaks the silence, “thank you for saving me. I think I would’ve slipped to grade 2 or 3 if not for your quick thinking.” She nods, her cheek rubbing against his chest. “You’re welcome, love.” The sigh that flies out of Chael’s lips just now is long and heavy. “Momo, not… not now, please.”

A sting of hurt crosses her features, and she quickly pulls away from him, fixing her palms on his bed, as a protest forms in her head. The bed frame groans under her palms, and the heart monitor gives a sharp, high-pitched chirp as Chael’s pulse spikes in response to her anger. “Then when, Chael, hm? You’re almost dead from neural shock, yet you still say this isn’t the time. So, when is the time? Once we’re too weak and frail to be in a Cazador Frame?”

Chael’s healthy hand finds the back of her elbow, his thumb tracing small circles on the smooth surface of her skin. “Momo…” he whispers her name like a prayer, begging her to calm down. “I understand where you’re coming from, my heart, but the war―” “Fuck the war!” Momo cuts the rest of his words, his pulse spiking once more at the knife-sharp scream. “I… I just want to be with you, Chael. Not on some battlefield watching each other’s back or babysitting some rookies. But somewhere where we can be ourselves. Somewhere we don’t have to be Master Captains, to lead assaults, to… to get shot at.”

Her words hang in the air, defiant and out of place against the hum of the Carrier’s engines and the cold, grey walls of the medical bay. And Chael doesn’t stop his thumb, trying his best to soothe her fire. “Momo, Momo,” he calls to her―not as a fellow Master Captain, but as a man. “I understand, love―I really do. But we are defending the future and sustenance of humanity. If we don’t fight today, we won’t have a place to call home tomorrow.” Fixing his palms on her forearms, Chael pulls her down, whispering her name softly, until Momo comes crashing down. “I know, love. I know,” he murmurs as she begins to break into tears, her entire body shaking with a dangerous mix of frustration, exhaustion, and longing. “I… I don’t want to deploy tomorrow,” she manages, her words barely comprehensible amidst the tears. “If… If the Green-Horns die in those Warthogs as they salvage a debris sector, I… I’ll let them die.”

Chael holds her head against his chest, letting her tears drop onto his skin. "You wouldn't," he whispers, his voice thick with a certainty she doesn't currently possess. "Because if you let them die, you'd never forgive yourself. And I won't let you carry that weight." He strokes her hair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could see through the hull to the stars they’re meant to defend. "We’ll go out together―” “STOP!” Chael grunts as her fist lands on his side, the impact echoing throughout his body, thus forcing him to cough in pain. “Just… just stop for a moment, Chael,” she begs, her vision blurry from the tears. “Please, I’m begging you.”

Momo’s fist slowly unfurls, her fingers splaying flat against his chest. The "STOP" she screamed seems to have drained the last of her energy. She sags against him, her head falling back onto his shoulder. “I’m tired―” A series of knocks interrupts her, and she quickly looks over her shoulder. “Identify yourself!” A brief moment of silence settles in the bay, but it quickly breaks as the person outside collects some courage. “T-This is Lieutenant Sana Minatozaki, m-madam,” she announces, her voice muffled by the door. “M-My apologies, I… I just wanted to check on… on Captain Flint.”

With an annoyed sigh, Momo pushes off of Chael, fetching her discarded suit from the floor. “One second,” she says, zipping it up to chest level, just enough to cover her cleavage. Approaching the door, Momo looks at Chael over her shoulder, checking if he’s presentable. She points at the messy blanket, and he fixes it just enough before the door is opened. “Come in, Minatozaki. Your Captain has missed you.”

Taking one step into the ward, Sana looks to her left. Momo is busy tidying her hair while her Suit skin hisses into place―it doesn’t make that sound unless it’s only put on recently. “Yes, Lieutenant?” Momo crosses her arms over her chest, her jet-black hair cascading down on shoulder. “N-Nothing, madam,” Sana dodges, turning her focus to the TV on the wall. Reaching into her back pocket, she fishes a tape with a wine-red casing―the program’s signature color. “I was given an order to check on the Master Captains before… before playing this tape.”

Sana inserts the tape with a trembling hand. The mechanical click of the drive sounds like a hammer cocking. The screen doesn't show a battlefield; it shows the President’s office, a pair of banners of the same color as the tape casing hanging in the background. "Greetings, honorable Cazador Frame pilot," the President’s voice is a low, gravelly rasp that seems to fill the small ward. "If you’re watching this recording, it means your General is no longer able to continue to serve, whether as a result of man-made or natural causes.” As the President finishes his line, Sana pulls out another tape, one with a purple casing, keeping it clutched in her hand for the time being. “Therefore, as Article 1 of Section 3 of the SHIELD Mandate states,” the President’s recording continues, “upon the absence of a General, the President may appoint a high-ranking pilot from the Cazador Frame Program to the position of Marshal. The Marshal will assume the authority of a General for an indefinite duration, albeit limited to only commanding the Cazador Frame Army of the Federation of Nations of Earth.”

Chael quickly finds the remote, pausing the recording right as the President was about to continue. The term "Marshal" hangs in the room like a heavy fog. It’s a title of desperation, not honor. It’s a title that screams “we are lost and in need of a leader” more than anything else. “Sana,” Chael rasps, cranking the back rest upright. “What has happened?” Easing her tense clutch on the purple-casing tape, Sana shows it to the two Master Captains. “At around 1400 hours, the Osprey that was carrying General Victor Johann was shot down by an unidentified long-range weapon. The General was on his way to meet us at sea, 5 kilometers southwest off Cape of Good Hope, South Africa, where the Federation’s Liberta Carrier had been standing by. The plan… The plan was for us to board the carrier, head to the Space Elevator south of Madagascar, and... and head to Near Orbit Station.”

Momo’s arms fall to her sides, her gaze drifting towards the floor. Johann wasn’t just a General; he’s a dear friend, a shield that has protected the program from out-of-touch politicians―those who thought the program and its Frames are a waste of money, even though they were only able to speak because the Federation had protected the capital from a missile strike the day before. “Momo,” Chael interjects, a hint of jealousy lying underneath his raspy voice. “You know what, nevermind―I won’t say anything.” Momo catches the sharp edge in his voice, a flicker of the man who used to compete with Johann for her attention when she was first initiated to the program. She doesn't argue; she just closes her eyes, the weight of the loss too heavy for a lovers' spat.

Chael watches the way Momo’s shoulders slump, and the jealousy in his chest instantly turns to bitter, acidic guilt. He knows Johann wasn't just a rival in romance; he was one of the few who knew exactly what it cost Chael, Momo, and every other pilot to be in their cockpits each and every day. He reaches out with his left hand, his fingers barely brushing Momo's wrist. "I'm sorry," he rasps, the petty fire gone. "He was a good man, Momo. And the President was right—we will need a new leader to carry the torch. We don't have time to argue. We need to move."

“Sir,” Sana begins, stretching out her arm and bringing the tape closer. “This is from the President himself. It wasn’t specified to be exclusive for you or Master Captain Hirai, so I’ll stay here and watch along―if that’s okay with you, of course.” Nodding, Chael gestures for Sana to swap the tape, the TV showing a brief static before the recording starts. Just before the first word leaves the President’s lips, Chael sits upright, the phantom pain on his shoulder brushed aside.

The static clears to reveal the President’s face, not in the polished halls of the Capital, but in a darkened, secure bunker. "Hello, Master Captain―whichever of you it is," his voice is devoid of its usual political flair. “By the time you are watching this, the SHIELD Mandate will have been activated. While the article says only one pilot could be promoted to Marshal, I have decided to promote two, as advised by the Secretary of Defense: Master Captains Momo Hirai and Chael Flint, callsigns Peach and Three-Strikes.” Chael’s eyes drift away from the broadcast to find Momo’s, finding her looking right back at him, biting her bottom lip in uncertain nervousness.

The recording continues, the President detailing the immediate relocation of the new marshals to the Near Orbit Space Station. Closing his eyes, Chael tunes out the rest of the announcement. Marshal is a non-combat role, something that he’s anything but familiar with. But a particular revelation from the President manages to capture his attention once more―after all, he’s a fierce predator whose ears are tuned only to the sounds of the hunt. “As your president, I certainly cannot tell you that you are still allowed to engage in combat when required, nor can I tell you that your Frames will be receiving upgrades earlier than scheduled.”

While Chael sits back with a sense of relief in his chest, Momo’s heart clenches with worry. Marshal is a non-combat role, something that should be safer by a few orders of magnitude. But since they’re still authorized to fight, it’s inevitable that they will have to dip their toes into the pool―after all, they are fierce predators whose every muscle is dedicated to the hunt. “Momo…” Chael’s hand finds hers, their fingers interlocking. “I know you’re worried, but this is better than a disarmament. Bad comes to worst, we won’t die in a silly office with pristine floors and white walls.”

"I just want one night," Momo whispers, her voice so low only Chael can hear it. "One night where nobody is hunting us." Chael pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers, the hum of the medical bay the only sound left. "We'll get our night, my heart. But it’s going to be on a station watching the stars, not in a hospital ward." He kisses her knuckles, the gesture light but reverent. "Now, let’s rest for a moment. We’ll officially be Marshals in the next few hours."

Making sure Sana is still tuning into the President’s recording, Momo leans down, planting a soft kiss on his lips. But she’s not content with just one, so she chases him for another, this one as sweet as the last. Noticing the odd silence, Sana turns around, catching the top brass pair of the Federation’s military in such an intimate tangle, and quickly turns around as a flush creeps to her cheeks. “He… he’s taken?” she wonders to herself, trying to figure out how she’s missed that after all this time. Often relied upon to catch the gaps in information, Sana is now the one getting caught missing a piece. “I mean, it makes sense for them to be together…” Sana’s memory races through the last few years of service as his aide—the way Momo always stayed on direct channels with Chael even with other Frames around, the way Chael would always jump between her and enemy fire, the way they would sit next to each other during debriefs. “It was all there,” she realizes. “The signs were always there.”

As she stands there, a specific memory from the Battle of Fort Copacabana flashes in her mind. She remembers Chael’s vitals spiking—not when his own Knightfather was hit by the enemy’s experimental incendiary round, but when Denmother’s fission output dropped below ten percent, thus slowing down the entire Frame. The "noise" on the telemetry had been jagged, frantic. It wasn't an error in the sensors, Sana realizes. Three-Strikes was genuinely in a panic. He hadn't been protecting a strategic asset; he had been protecting his world, the one person that had kept him going, hit after hit, blow after blow, one day after another.

Behind her, the sound of the second kiss breaks with a soft, lingering sigh. "Sana?" Momo’s voice is steady again, but there’s a new warmth to it that Sana never noticed before—or perhaps she just finally understood it. "Is there anything else you can tell us?" Sana takes a breath, smoothing her uniform and masking her flush. "No, madam. Just waiting for your confirmation before we head to the Space Elevator." She turns around, and for the first time, she doesn't see the Denmother and the Knightfather. She sees Momo and Chael.

“You’re holding something back, Sana,” Chael says, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “We both know you do.” Avoiding eye contact, Sana bites her bottom lip, holding back her thoughts from spilling out. They are her superiors, both in terms of age and rank, but she knows she can’t keep this forever. Inhaling a breath of the ward’s cold air, Sana begins. “Sir, madam,” she says. “I… I’m getting this urge to… to call you mom and dad.” The first sentence sends Momo and Chael’s eyebrows to space, lines forming across their foreheads as shock settles. “I’m sorry, Master Captains,” she bows profusely, “I know it’s weird, but I promise I mean no disrespect.”

The silence stretches long enough to make Sana’s heart hammer against her ribs. Finally, Momo lets out a breath that is half-laugh, half-sob. She looks at Chael, then back at the trembling Lieutenant. "Sana," she says, her voice thick with an emotion that the program doesn't have a label for. "You’ve spent over three years with us. If you haven't earned the right to call us whatever you want by now, nobody has." She reaches out her free hand, beckoning Sana closer. "Come here. A Marshal’s daughter shouldn't be bowing in a hospital ward."

Sana doesn't hesitate. She moves into Momo’s reach, and for a moment, they are far beyond gray uniforms―they are orphans of war, taking care of each other as if they share the same bloodline. “It’s… it’s not just me, Mom,” Sana adds, her lips trembling. “The Green-Horns… each of them sees the two of you as role models. Not just as pilots, but as people. Especially Browning. Browning wants to be you. She wears her hair in that same tight braid you used to wear at the Academy. She fights your AI in the simulators.”

Momo looks to the side at Chael, her features an unreadable mix of surprise, confusion, and everything else that cannot be labeled. “Momo, the Space Elevator. The mandate,” Chael says, begging for this topic to be discussed at a later date. She nods firmly, understanding the demand of the situation. “Sana, look,” he says, his hand finding her forearm. “We are touched by your words―we really are. But we’re still on duty.” He pauses for a second, letting the weight of each word settle in her head. “Make sure that we’re on schedule to reach Near Orbit. We have plenty of work to do.”

-

“Sir,” the head navigator turns to Chael, who is now sitting in the highest seat in the Carrier’s cockpit. “We are approaching the Near Orbit Station.” With a nod, Chael puts on a headset, initiating communications with the station’s traffic controller. “Near Orbit Station, this is―” He breaks, the word “marshal” almost slipping through his teeth, and so he clears his throat before repeating. “This is Master Captain Chael Flint, ID Echo-Foxtrot-Juliet-8-0-2-1-1. Requesting landing clearance for the Liberta Carrier.”

Outside the bridge's panoramic glass, the Near Orbit Station looms—a sprawling lattice of white polymer and solar arrays that look like a crown for the world below. “Liberta Carrier, this is Near Orbit Station. Identity confirmed, Echo-Foxtrot-Juliet-8-0-2-1-1. You are clear to dock in Hangar 4. Welcome aboard, Marshal.” Chael sighs―that woman did not have to say his new title like that. But he shakes off the annoyance, his mind focused on duty and duty alone. “Copy, Station. On our way.”

As the carrier slowly descends onto the platform, Chael leaves his seat, heading straight to the exit hatch. He crosses his hands behind his back as he waits for the large craft to settle on its landing gear. With a smooth compression of hydraulics, the door unlocks, thus allowing everyone to deboard. “That was smooth, Navigator,” he quips, taking the elevator off the carrier and onto the station.

Fast walking towards his left, Chael spots a welcoming party over yonder, immediately turning in the other direction. “No, I refuse,” he says to a deck operator. “I didn’t come here for a ceremony.” The deck operator freezes, his glowing landing batons halfway through a formal salute. He looks from the marshal to the waiting welcome party, caught in a confusing bureaucratic nightmare that is far beyond his pay grade. “I… I’m just an operator, sir,” he murmurs, unsure of what else to say.” A small smile plays on Chael’s lips. “And I’m just a pilot.”

As Chael swerves away from the main group, he nearly collides with a young pilot standing near a stack of cargo crates. It’s Browning again. She’s standing in solid attention, her eyes wide as the newly appointed marshal marches right past her. She sees the bandages peeking from under his uniform and the weariness in his eyes. The marshal doesn't look like a war hero; he looks like a man trying to find a place to hide. "Sir?" she squeaks out, her voice cracking. Chael stops, looking at her braid, then at her face. "Nice braid, Browning," he grunts. "You remind me of a certain someone―from when things were simpler."

Before Lily can respond, the rhythmic clack of dress boots approaches. The Secretary of Defense has caught up. "Marshal Flint, I see you've already begun inspecting the troops," the man says, his voice dripping with forced joviality. Chael doesn't turn around. He keeps his eyes on Lily. "I'm not inspecting troops, Mr. Secretary; I'm talking to a pilot―my pilot." He leans closer to Lily, his voice dropping to a quiet, conspiratorial whisper. "Find Marshal Hirai. Tell her to wait for me in the executive wing." As she races away to complete the order, Chael turns to the Secretary, his face a mask of stone. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Secretary?”

The Secretary sighs, his hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. “Marshal, I know the President said you could still engage in combat as a last resort,” he begins, looking as tired of bureaucracy as Chael is. “But we need you to be able to run the show, not just be a part of it.” Chael lets his eyes close―the only way he knows how to run the show is by being a part of it. “I’m a pilot, Mr. Secretary. I run the show by personally partaking in it,” he defends, no nonsense in his answer. The Secretary takes one step closer, leaning into his ear. "I know you are, Marshal. But we need you to be more than that now."

The Secretary pulls back, his eyes searching Chael’s face for a hint of understanding. “Marshal, the weapon that hit you and killed General Johann wasn’t fired from the ground―it was guided by a ground targetter, yes, but the weapon itself was fired from space.” Lines quickly form on Chael’s forehead at the revelation. “Excuse me? Fired from space?” Reaching behind him, the Secretary of Defense gets a report from an aide, handing it to Chael. “One of our satellites captured these images a few seconds before the arm of Knightfather was hit.” Chael hasn’t finished looking when the Secretary flips the pages over, the latter’s forefinger tapping the center of the new page. “And these were taken just before the General’s Osprey was shot down.”

The images are of a satellite that is seemingly innocent, its long, foot-like structure pointed towards Earth. The size and shape don’t look like typical military hardware―but perhaps that’s the point. It’s likely designed to be able to move quickly and adjust its aim to wherever the ground targetter is pointed at. “That looks like a thruster,” Chael mutters, the tip of his forefinger tracing a circle over the suspected part. “Maybe it is,” the Secretary shrugs, as clueless as he is. “Normally, we’d send a scouting crew and get a closer look, but that sector has a high Neo Umvukeli presence.”

“Umvukeli…” Chael’s gaze is long, a shiver running down his spine as the name hangs in the air. The old Umvukeli was a rebel group that was first established in South Africa, way back when President Simon Dlamini was in office. Their old domain, located a few kilometers north of the Cumberland Natural Reserve, was then turned into the Federation’s training center for aspiring Cazador Frame pilots. “I told your predecessor, Mr. Secretary,” he says, his sharp gaze holding unresolved grudge from years ago. “We should’ve given Willem van der Merwe the shooting squad. None of this would have happened.”

The Secretary sighs at the mention of Van der Merwe, but there was literally nothing he could’ve done differently back then. “Perhaps, Marshal,” he relents, understanding the weight of letting such a dangerous figure walk. “But not everything is completely doomed―we can get him and put Neo Umvukeli down now.” Stepping closer once more, the Secretary offers an open palm, inviting Chael to take it. Chael catches a glint of something shiny hidden in his hand, so he quickly shakes hands. “Marshal, in this drive are upgrade plans for both Denmother and Knightfather,” he whispers. “Also, there is a Silver Slip somewhere in there, courtesy of the President. You can unlock it by entering your biometrics data. Upon authentication, you and Marshal Hirai will have been given complete control of the Federation military, both on Earth and in space.”

Chael pulls his hand away, the drive disappearing into the specialized pocket of his marshal tunic. He looks at the Secretary, his eyes cold. “If I do have complete control, then my first order is to hand-select engineers and scientists for the Cazador Frame Program,” he begins, his tone steady, uninterruptible. “I want Denmother and Knightfather in optimal shape. The mass-produced Warthogs will serve alongside us, not drag us down.” The Secretary only lets out a chuckle at Chael’s words, pivoting on one foot away from him. “Of course, Marshal. Just be sure to win this thing, hm?” Chael clicks his tongue as the Secretary walks away. “I’m a pilot, Mr. Secretary. And pilots win,” he barks. “It’s politicians like you who like losing.”

As the Secretary disappears into the lift, Chael turns back to the hangar floor. Racing past the row of the welcoming party personnel, he grabs a radio from the holster on his waist, turning to a direct channel to Sana’s personal chatter. “Dad? Where are you?” she asks, her voice hurried. “On my way to the Executive Wing,” he simply says. “Are Mom and Browning with you?” The radio crackles for a moment―Sana must be pressing the mic piece against her lips; old habits truly die hard. “Yes, Dad. We’re waiting for you.” Picking up his steps, Chael jogs along the first hallway of the station. “Alright, good. I’ll get there soon.”

Chael tries his best to navigate through the maze that is the Near Orbit Station. Having never been this far deep into the structure itself, he finds himself relying on the direction panels that are scattered throughout the interior; some are attached to the walls, others hanging off the ceiling. His eyes eventually stumble on a double door, four fully armed personnel standing guard in front of it. Driven purely by intrigue, Chael approaches―even if he’s wrong, what’s the worst thing they might do? Shoot the Marshal for taking a wrong turn? As he moves closer, the guards snap into attention, lowering their standard issue magnetic rifles to the side. “At ease,” he commands in a light tone. “Is this the Executive Wing?” One of the guards, Kohler, turns his eyes towards the Marshal, a glance at his arms enough to confirm his identity. “Sir, yes, sir,” he answers firmly. “Would you like to be escorted inside, sir?”

Chael shakes his head at Kohler’s offer. "No escort needed. After all that, I think I can handle the last twenty yards." His hands planted on the doors, he looks at Kohler from over his shoulder. “Kohler, no one is allowed to enter this wing unless I say otherwise. Clear?” Kohler nods and offers a salute, assuring the Marshal that he will follow his order, and with it, Chael disappears into the entrance hallway of the Executive Wing.

The butterfly door on the other side of the hallway snaps open, revealing Momo in a Marshal’s coat, her Skin suit peeking from underneath. With no words exchanged, the two begin running towards each other, meeting halfway through with a soft bump. “Momo.” “Chael.” They wrap their arms tightly around each other’s body, as if trying to out-hug the other person. “Marshal…” Chael murmurs into her ear, testing the taste of the word. “No, Chael. Not to you,” she places peck on his cheek. “When I’m with you, it’s just Momo Hirai. Always have been, always will be.”

Chael pulls back slightly, his hands resting on her waist, looking deep into her eyes. “We’re dealing with something bigger than we initially thought,” he begins, his eyes searching hers for comfort, for understanding. “But I will try my hardest to see this through. For you, for us, for the Green-Horns.” Digging the tips of his fingers into her flesh―not out of aggression, but like a man clinging to a buoy in a storm. He leans closer, his nose almost touching hers. “Help me, my heart. I need you, more than ever before.” Momo’s hand comes up to his wrist, placing a tender peck to his pulse point. “I need you too, Chael. Today, tomorrow, and when all this ends―especially when all this ends.”

Through the gap in the butterfly door, Sana peaks her head through, but she quickly hides again. Catching her in the corner of his vision, Chael pulls away from Momo, whispering to her, “I think duty is calling, Momo.” Momo cups his face with her hands, still unwilling to let go. But she knows duty is important. Only by accomplishing it do they have a chance to wake up tomorrow. “Alright, okay,” she lets her hands fall to her sides, “let's go, then.” With hands tangled together, Momo and Chael walk together towards the other door, their hearts racing at the uncertainty of what duty entails this time.

As they cross the threshold, the room flares to life with holographic displays. Sana has already mapped the surrounding area of the Near Orbit Station. “Sir, Madam,” she greets, glancing at Lily who is standing in the corner. “These red squares indicate Neo Umvukeli presence, whether it be patrols or scouting parties. The darker the color, the heavier the presence―and yes,” Sana places a finger over the G3 square that is shaded light red, “that’s dangerously close to one of Federation patrol routes.”

Chael taps his finger on the line of the patrol route, looking at its fleet. It only consists of some light space cruisers, each armed with only a pair of beam cannons. He lets out a long sigh at the fleet information, rubbing the lines off his forehead. “I don’t know what the Neo Umvukeli has, but these cruisers won’t be able to handle it,” he concludes. A grim realization settling in the room, everyone falls silent, Momo biting her lip as she crosses her arms over her chest. “We will at least need the Warthogs,” Chael continues, looking at Lily over his shoulder. “But I’m not sending them as is―we’ll arm them better.”

Pulling the disk he’s got from the Secretary, Chael plugs it into the central console. The logo of the Federation of Nations of Earth flashes on the screen, as usual, but then, the colors change: the white perimeter circle turns to gold; the text “Federation of Nations of Earth” turns to a deep shade of silver. “Is that the Silver Slip, Chael?” Momo asks, stepping closer to the console, her finger pointed at the new logo. “Looks like it. Feels like it,” he replies, his heart thrumming in his chest. “Only one way to find out.” Chael places his palm on the counter when the disk prompts for authentication, and after a moment, the logo fades, the console now showing an arrangement of folders, each one possibly containing the key to winning the war.

Chael’s finger hovers over a folder labeled FRAME UPGRADES. With a tap, the wireframe models of the Knightfather and Denmother bloom into the room as holograms. Following them, an assortment of blueprints appears to the side: beam swords, beam rifles, jet packs, missiles―if it can be named, there’s likely a blueprint for it. “Repulsors, eh? Sounds like something straight out of Ironman,” he blurts. Not getting the reaction he wants, Chael looks around, the women looking back at him with a confused look. “Ironman? The rich narcissist wearing metal suits? You know what, nevermind―sorry about that.”

Momo chuckles at his failed attempt to lighten the mood, but beneath the laughter, there is genuine admiration for her co-Marshal. No matter how tough things get, Chael seems to always have a way to make it more bearable for others―and today is no exception. Closing the distance, she wraps an arm around his back, placing a soft peck to the side of his neck, her lips brushing his stubble. She doesn’t care that they’re not alone―that Sana and Lily are watching. “I know Ironman, Chael,” she murmurs, her hand tracing circles on his back. “I remember reading an Ironman comic in high school.”

The soft peck turns his cheeks soft pink, the upgrade plans briefly forgotten. Staring at each other, the couple exchange smiles, and if not for the two spectators, they would kiss right now. "Of course you get me," he grins, finally turning back to the console with renewed focus. “Alright, so how do we put this on Knightfather and Denmother, Sana?” Clearing her throat, Sana returns her focus to the blueprint, scrounging the folder for more information. “I have the manuals for both the development and installation here, sir,” she exclaims, her voice high with a mix of pride and excitement. “And I’ll issue a rush order to the engineering team right now.”

-

“Marshals Hirai and Flint,” the President says, hands clasped over his desk. “How are things in the Near Orbit?” Momo taps the console on her desk, sending a map of both Federation and Neo Umvukeli activities in the area. “We have been actively engaging the rebels, Mr. President,” she says, glancing over towards Chael. “Marshal Flint has been using these skirmishes as a way to sharpen our Warthog pilots.” A smile plays on her lips as she adds, “Their units may be mass-produced, Mr. President, but I assure you, their hearts aren’t. And I must thank you for the Silver Slip. We’ve been utilizing it to optimal use, as per our last few reports.”

The President leans forward, his image flickering slightly in the long-range transmission. "And what of the casualties, Marshal Flint? Blades sometimes chip when you try to sharpen them." Chael steps into the frame, his expression unreadable. “Three Warthogs were shot down, three more severely damaged, Mr. President,” he sighs, memories of seeing the casualties happen in real-time flashing in his mind. “But the pilots made it out alive, didn’t they, Marshal?” the President continues. Nodding wordlessly, Chael confirms their status, but the image of a Warthog exploding after taking a missile to the back still circles in his head. “Alright, Marshals. I think it’s time to change topics.”

The President clears his throat, and the tactical map on the screen is replaced by a high-resolution scan of the South Pole. “We are getting significant heat signatures, Marshals. Reports from long-range scouts suggest that the Neo Umvukeli is establishing a base on Earth after many years.” Chael clicks his tongue, his palm clenching under his desk. “Suggest, Mr. President?” he mocks the poor choice of words. “I’m not sending my pilots based on suggestions.” A flicker of huff crosses the President’s face. “Your pilots, Marshal? They belong to the Federation, just like you.” Chael’s palms ball up even tighter, veins popping on the underside of his wrists. “Yes, they are Federation pilots. But the Federation belongs not to you, Mr. President. Also, if I may remind you, you only have one more year in this second term. You might want to use it to cement a legacy, not ruin it by sending the Federation’s finest to die based on suggestions.”

Chael doesn't blink, his gaze locked on the projection of the President. "Look, Mr. President. If I go back to Earth, to the Pole, I’m taking the Knightfather and half the Warthogs. I’m not playing scout." Overriding the President’s map, Chael draws a flight plan on his console. "We’ll perform a high-altitude drop. If the Neo Umvukeli are there, we’ll know within five minutes of touchdown. But if this turns out to be a wild goose chase based on suggestions, I’m coming to HQ for more than just a debriefing. Are we in an agreement, Mr. President?"  The President leans back in his seat with a realization: Chael is the sharpest blade in the Federation’s military. But the blade is not just sharp―it has a mind of its own. “Yes, we are,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “I’m glad,” Chael keeps it brief. “See you at the South Pole. Marshals Hirai and Flint, checking out.”

As they walk towards the elevator, Momo grabs Chael’s arm, pulling him into a shadowed corner of the hallway. "That was a dangerous play, Chael. You backed him into a corner. And we know rats are the most dangerous when they’re cornered.” He sighs, understanding the danger of his angle. “I know, my heart,” he murmurs, cupping Momo’s cheek with one hand. “That’s why we’ll document everything that happens at the Pole. If there’s something there, we’ll adapt and overcome it. If not… that’s sabotage of the military on his part. That’s treason.”

They reach the elevator and ascend to their private quarters, where the air is cold without the intensity of the President meeting. “Momo…” he mutters, his hand searching for hers. “May I have you to myself for the next few hours? We haven’t caught up in a while.” Momo’s breath catches in her throat, knowing what kind of request he’s making, the kind of longing carrying it. “Sure, but…” she trails off, his dark irises screaming for her undivided attention. “Of course, love,” she revises, tangling her fingers with his. “Just… just remember that today isn’t a safe day, okay?” Chael tightens his fingers around hers, leaning in to place a peck on her temple. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, my heart.”

The lights in the quarters dim automatically, casting the room into a soft, amber glow. Chael leads her to the window overlooking the curve of the Earth. They stand there for a long time, not as Marshals, but as a man and a woman watching the world they are trying to save. "When this is over," Chael whispers, his chin resting on her shoulder, "I want to go somewhere where the air doesn't smell like recycled oxygen. Somewhere we can just… be. No giant mechs, no re-emerging rebels―just Chael Flint and Momo Hirai." Leaning back into his embrace, Momo lets her eyelids close, securing herself in his arms. “I… I want that too, Chael,” she echoes. “And that’s why you must survive whatever the South Pole hides.”

With a slow backwards step, Chael leads Momo away from the window and towards his side of the Marshal’s quarters, a dim chamber of beige and gray―such a stark contrast to Momo’s colorful and bright chamber. Turning around in his arm, Momo tucks her face into the side of his neck, filling her nose with his subtle scent. “Thank you, my heart,” Chael mutters, placing a peck on the top of her head. “But we haven’t done anything,” she protests, pressing her nose deeper against his skin. “It’s not a thank-you for just today, Momo,” he pulls back slightly, trying to meet her eyes, “we have been Marshals for just over a year now. We’ve been through a lot and put our troops through a lot too. I’m thanking you for staying by my side through it all.”

Momo frees herself from his embrace, jumping straight onto his bed and landing with a soft bounce. “Come here,” she mouths, her extended arm an invitation. Chael joins her on the mattress, draping an arm over her waist. Momo opens her lips only to close it right after, no sound coming out of them. But Chael doesn’t push, doesn’t rush―he stays with her, one arm supporting his head while the other stays on her. “Erm… I, uh…” she manages, and a patient, loving smile begins to bloom on his lips. “I… I don’t even know where to begin, Chael. I mean, things were moving so fast. I know I’ve been a pilot for a few years now, but looking back, it feels only like months, if not weeks.”

His hand finding the back of her nape, Chael pulls her in for a peck. “I understand that feeling,” he echoes, his thumb gently stroking her skin. “A few years ago, after four years of being a fighter jet pilot, I climbed into the first prototype of a Cazador Frame. It was heavy, slow, and closer to a tank with arms and feet compared to what we have today.” His eyes land on a miniature of Knightfather on the bedside table before returning to Momo. “Things often got really difficult, physically and mentally―I’ve lost count how many times I’ve gotten nosebleeds while testing various things. But I kept going, fighting to keep improving, even by one percent. And then, I woke up one day, and I was assigned to be your tutor. Believe me when I said it was life changing.”

Momo laughs softly, the sound subtly echoing off the metal walls of the room. “I must’ve looked so silly to you,” she jests, dragging a hand down her face. “No experience of real combat. No strategic or tactical skill, either. A rookie, driven only by the naïve, idealistic desire to make an impact, no matter how small.” Chael laughs at her description of Corporal Momo Hirai, the young, rough diamond she was back then. “Believe me, my heart. You might have been inexperienced, but you had the makings of a brilliant pilot and leader.” He pauses, letting Momo absorb his observation of her younger self. “And our first mission in the Brazilian airspace was particularly memorable to me,” he continues, his gaze long as he recounts the past. “You see, I had been given a memo, telling me I should let you off the reins a little bit. I’ll admit that I was initially hesitant to let you engage freely. But the moment you baited their countermeasures with missiles and immediately followed it up with a railgun shot, I knew you’d smash them―and smash them, you did.”

Rushing forward, Momo claims his lips in a ferocious, passionate tangle that leaves them both breathless. “Thank you for believing in me, my love,” she declares. There’s no hesitation in her voice, sounding like she’s attaching her success to his faith and trust in her. “And thank you for loving me,” she adds quickly. “I know we had to keep it a secret for a few years, but it’s worth it. You’ve been taking care of me in ways I never knew I needed, including sexually.” Chael chuckles, the mention of their sexual activeness catching him off guard. “That’s a two-way road, my heart,” he cups her chin with thumb and forefinger, “you gave me the profound honor of being your first, and I’ll always cherish that.”

Momo leans back, her hair a mess against the gray pillowcase, looking at him with fierce hunger. “A profound honor, you said? Then why don’t we bask in that honor right now?” Chael's heart begins to race in his chest as the sight unfolds: she’s splayed on his bed, her black Skin suit shining through the gap in the body of her Marshal coat. Her nametag, written as M. Hirai, now sits right over the curve of her bosom. Noticing his stare, she follows his gaze to her nametag. “Just so you know,” she says, her tone playful. “I’ll add your name to the end―Momo Hirai-Flint. I like my last name too much.” He chuckles at her tease, freeing his arms from the confines of his own Marshal coat. “Sure, my heart. Hirai-Flint sounds good.”

As Chael’s coat hits the floor, the heavy arrangement of his medals and rank clatters against the metal floor—a sound of a burden being dropped, even if only temporarily. Moving over her, his hands frame her head against the pillow. For a moment, the hum of the station fades, the sight of the Earth beyond their window forgotten. “Hirai-Flint,” he repeats, testing the taste of the name on his tongue. “I’ll make sure we live to see the name etched on the fence of our home. By then, we’ll have stopped being soldiers; we’ll have become husband and wife.” He kisses the space just above her nametag, his lips lingering on the soft fabric of the coat before moving to the warmth of her skin. “Now let us bask in the honor of lovemaking, shall we?”

Straightening his posture, Chael reaches for the zipper of his Skin suit, the fabric loosening its tight grip on his skin as the zipper’s teeth part. Guiding the pull downwards, he continues, until he’s completely bare before her. Momo bites her bottom lip at the sight of his hardened manhood, her eyes zipping between that and his eyes. With a rush, she reaches for her own zipper, propelled by the almost-primal urge to feel the warmth of his skin, wetness growing between her thighs. “I’m ready,” she pants, her chest heaving with anticipation. “Take me, my love. I’ve missed you so much.”

Momo gasps sharply when his fingertips graze her wet entrance, her back arching off the mattress. “Easy, baby, easy,” he whispers, dipping two fingers into her core. His movement is easy and relaxed, her walls lightly squeezing his wandering fingers. “You’ve missed me, you said?” he teases, getting knuckle-deep in her warmth. Momo forces a nod, whimpering under the influence of his touch. “Y-yes, sir,” she manages. “I… I’ve missed you so―oh, fuck!” Momo grips his wrist as he hooks his fingers upwards, the muscles in her thighs clenching hard. “Yes, yes, I’ve missed you―I’ve missed you so much!”

Chael watches the way her eyes roll back, the amber light of the room catching the sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. He doesn't let her wait any longer, shifting his weight to move between her trembling thighs. "Then let's make sure you don't have to miss me again for a long, long time," he murmurs. He enters her in one smooth, slow motion, his eyes never leaving hers, seeking a connection deeper than any tactical link. Burying himself to the hilt, Chael tightly wraps his arms around her, locking the heat of their bodies to the confines of their embrace. “Momo, my heart,” he groans, his breath searing her ear. “I love you. I love you so, so much.” Momo nods slowly, her breath now quick and ragged. “I-I love you more,” she manages between moans. “M-Move, please.”

Chael pulls his hips backwards slowly, moving them forwards again right after, almost testing if her body remembers his. Resting his forehead on hers, he maintains the relaxed pace, fully basking in the sensation of her snug, squeezing walls. “Yes, Chael,” Momo breathes, locking her ankles behind him. “Just like that, my love. Exactly like that…” He resists the urge to slam his hips into her―with the uncertainty of the South Pole mission, he wants this moment, this heat, to be as special as it can be. That way, should this be the last time they’re allowed to do this, it will be anything but regrettable.

Chael and Momo move together, his manhood gliding in and out of her soaked core. Each deep thrust is rewarded with a soft moan, undeniable proof of the all-consuming heat between their legs. Latching his lips on the soft skin of her neck, he growls against it. “I love you, Momo. I love you.” Momo’s moans only increase at his passionate declarations, both in loudness and frequency. “Yes, Chael, yes!” she screams, the volume testing their room’s soundproofing.

Time loses its meaning in the amber light. Minutes or hours pass as they move as one, a silent vow renewed with every thrust. When the inevitable peak finally comes, it isn't a scream, but a shared, breathless shudder that feels like breaking through the atmosphere. They lie there for a moment, hearts hammering against one another, his release filling her core to the brim. Her warning of today being unsafe is long forgotten, brushed aside at the peak of the encounter.

Chael pulls her impossibly close, his eyes searching the depths of her dark irises. “Whatever happens down there, Momo…” he begins, his voice clear, seemingly unaffected by the breathlessness she’s having. “Remember this moment, my heart. This connection we are so blessed to share. And I promise to return to your side alive.” Momo nods, cupping his cheek in one hand, caressing it softly. “Not just alive, Chael―you must return whole,” she corrects, her voice raspy from the lingering heat of their passion. “Your body, your mind, your soul―they all must be whole.” With a solemn nod, he places a peck on her pulse point, cementing his vow to return fully. “I will return whole, my heart,” he promises, tears pooling in his eyes and threatening to spill. “And when I return, we will leave all of this behind.”

-

Having fully redressed, Chael leads Momo out of their private quarters and towards a meeting room, where Sana and the Green-Horns are waiting for them. He finds her hand right as the elevator doors close, but she doesn’t look at him. “My heart, what is it?” he whispers, his hand finding purchase on the small of her back, just right over her butt. “Something is telling me that…” she pauses, squeezing his palm tightly, “that this mission might cost us too much.”

Chael is no stranger to dangerous missions, but when the Federation’s beacon of hope is shaking in her boots, even the most steadfast soldier begins to tremble. Lost in his own doubtful, fear-infected thoughts, he falls silent as he tries to find even the smallest spark of courage in his chest. “But I believe in you,” Momo interrupts, turning to him with a smile. Forced it may be, but a smile is a smile—and Momo’s smile is truly one of a kind. “You’re the greatest Gen 7 jet pilot of all time.” He chuckles, every muscle in his body relaxing at her remark. “Thanks for the assurance,” he chuckles one more time, shaking his head in pure mirth, “I haven’t been in a Gen 7 jet in years, but yes, I was quite the great pilot, if I do say so myself.” The smile Momo coerced becomes a genuine one. “And now you’re the greatest Cazador Frame pilot we have, love.”

Chael’s posture straightens at her encouragement, warmth spreading in his chest as he fully absorbs each word. “I’m great because you are, my heart,” he pulls her flush against his side, “and now, let’s end it all here, hm?” Momo leans in, placing a fleeting peck on the bridge of his nose. “For a chance at a normal life,” she declares. “Yeah. For a chance at a normal life,” he echoes, returning the peck to her forehead.

Releasing her hand right as the doors open, they walk out to two rows of Warthog pilots. “Attention!” They instantly snap to stiff attention at Lily’s notice. “At ease, pilots,” Chael commands calmly. He looks at them one by one, a mix of pride and caution swirling within him. “You all have heard about the mission, haven’t you?” he asks. “Sir, yes, sir!” they answer in unison, turning the heads of passersby. “I will count to three, and anyone who wants to opt out of the mission can walk away. One, two, three.” Momo and Chael wait, quietly expecting that at least one of them will chicken out―but no one does. “To the briefing room, pilots. We have plenty of work to do.”

Momo and Chael lead the pilots towards a briefing room by Hangar 1. Taking a glance at it, Momo sees only the Knightfather on a Crawler, getting carried towards a Carrier, boxes of ammunition piled high around it. “Where’s my Frame? Why isn’t Denmother getting loaded?” she asks Chael. “Because you’re not going to the South Pole, Marshal,” he answers, never breaking stride. “I know we haven’t talked about it, but my plan is to split the work.” Chael pauses momentarily, waiting for a tow tractor dragging a couple of trailers of Warthog missiles to pass. “As I was saying,” he quickly turns to her, “we can talk about the details later.”

With everyone seated in the briefing room, Chael locks the door with a push of a button, keeping everything confined to this room and this room only. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, not wasting any time. The lights dim as the screen behind him lights up, setting the vibes for a different kind of cinema. “We are gathered here right now to talk about the South Pole mission. You all saw my Frame on top of a Crawler on our way here, so you best believe the mission is real.” Chael pauses, scanning the face of the pilots, each one going to be tested and battle-hardened. “Look, I’ll be honest with you―I have my doubts about this mission, but we’re going to see this through, nonetheless. Anyway, I’ll let Lieutenant Minatozaki take the screen now.”

The large flat screen shows a brief static as Sana joins the briefing remotely, her image quickly taking the space right in the center. “Good evening, pilots,” she begins, her tone easy but sharp, relaxed but serious. “Welcome to Operation Shivering Steel.” Pilots look around at each other, murmuring among themselves at the mentioned operation. But Sana doesn’t let them breathe―she’s determined to lay everything out to the pilots, knowing how quickly the tide of war might turn based on the outcome of this operation.

“This operation involves splitting up the Warthog fleet into two groups, each led by a Marshal,” she continues, her image shrinking to make room for a display of two symbols. “Marshal Chael Flint will lead a squad of Rhinos to the South Pole to engage the enemy forces. In the meantime, Marshal Momo Hirai and the Dragonflies will provide aerial cover. If necessary, Marshal Hirai and her team will cover our ground forces against their orbital space weapon―the same one that damaged the Knightfather and killed General Johann.”

Sana taps a final command, revealing a new schematic. "To make this work, the Rhinos and Dragonflies will share a cross-linked neural-net. You won't just hear your teammates; you’ll feel their position. But there’s a catch." She looks at the pilots, her expression darkening. "The upgraded neural link technology from the Silver Slip is going to push your brains to the limit. If we lose a pilot, the feedback could battle-shock the entire squad. It is highly advisable to stay sharp, keep a clear head, and listen to orders."

Lily quickly rises to her feet, raising one arm to the ceiling. “Specialist Browning, volunteering for the Rhino squad,” she yells, fully propelled by sheer determination. The abruptness of her shouted declaration turns the heads of those present in the room. Unlike a high school, however, no one laughs or mocks her for standing up to volunteer. This is the army, the best of the best that the Federation has to offer, and no one shall laugh at a display of bravery. “Specialist Miyazaki, volunteering for the Dragonfly squad,” Mori exclaims, energized by her fellow fighter’s spirits. Each pilot quickly follows in their footsteps, screaming their name and pleading their allegiance to each squad. And as fate would have it, the Warthogs are split into two perfect halves, ready to follow their respective Marshal to the furthest corner of the world.

Chael slams his fist on the podium before him, a proud smile stretching across his lips. “Shut up!” he yells, but his voice carries no venom. “You’re not allowed to heckle a briefing, soldiers. But I’ll allow it this one time.” Glancing over at Momo, he gets her firm nod, her gaze shifting away towards the eager Green-Horns. “Alright, now let’s listen to Lieutenant Minatozaki again.” Straightening their posture in their seats, the pilots tune in to the rest of the briefing, taking mental notes of every detail, each one possibly the difference of life and death. Chael allows himself to smile occasionally, his heart touched by the bravery of his and Momo’s future successors.

-

Chael’s Warthog squad drops from the Perseus’ bay in pairs, igniting their upgraded thrusters to take them to the designated landing zone, a few kilometers southeast of the suspected Neo Umvukeli base. “Browning,” he calls to her as she’s about to jump. “Yes, Marshal?” she asks, her mobile suit looking down at the sea of clouds beneath. “Make us proud.” With a resolute nod, Lily moves her suit forward, staying aboard just on one foot. “Yes, sir. I’ll make you both proud.” Tapping the side of her helmet, Lily’s visor activates, projecting the trajectory of her flight over the endless clouds. “Specialist Lily Browning, deploying to combat.” With it, Lily drops out of the carrier, splitting the skies with the jets on the back of her mobile suit.

Chael watches the streak of Lily’s thrusters disappear into the clouds from inside of the bay. “Chael,” Momo’s voice passes through the direct channel. “Stay alive. Stay whole.” Closing his eyes, he steps closer tothe edge, his suit forwarding the wind’s rage from the Frame to his skin. “That is the main mission, my heart…” He walks off the platform, feeling every blow of wind as if he himself is freefalling. “And I won’t fail.” Pushing a button, he engages his own thrusters, the streak burning so bright that Momo can see it from the stratosphere. “I will not fail,” he repeats, a promise to his love.

Chael cuts through the cloud layer like a blade through silk, the gray mist exploding into a chaotic whiteout as he enters the Antarctic storm. "Rhinos, form up on my signature," he commands, his voice a steady anchor in the screaming wind. Around him, the heat-flares of Lily and the others begin to coalesce. The ground is rushing up at Mach 2—a jagged landscape of ice and hidden Neo Umvukeli turrets. "Prepare for landing. Three... two... one... Impact!" With a violent rumble that sends a rushing wave of ice and cold air combined, the Rhinos touch down on the surface of the South Pole, their eyes primed on the prize: the rebel’s base.

“Hunley,” he calls. “Send the drone. Find them for me.” Hunley launches the drone at the command, scanning high and low for enemy presence. The drone fights the 100-mph gusts, its rotors screaming as it battles to stay level enough to keep the thermal camera focused. On Hunley’s HUD, a single pulsing red dot pierces the gray static of the map—a ghost in the machine, one kilometer out. “Faint heat signatures detected, sir. one kilometer ahead,” he notifies the squad, putting a marker on the digital map on his cockpit panel. “One kilometer ahead,” Chael echoes. Moving his Frame one step at a time, he moves through the flat white, lowering the input rate of his Skin suit as to not freeze from the forwarded cold. “Move, pilots, but move slowly. And keep your eyes open.”

Hunley’s console beeps, casting information from the heat-seeking drone. “An object is approaching fast,” he quickly notifies the whole Rhino squad. “Northwest and northeast. The speed indicates missiles.” Chael lifts Knightfather’s arms, activating the wrist cannons underneath its forearms. While listening to the beeps of his own radar, Chael sees the shiny glint of the warheads approaching rapidly towards his squad. “Visual confirmed, intercepting missiles.”

Hunley and the rest of the Rhinos hover their thumbs over the countermeasures button, ready to confuse the missiles in the old-fashioned way. They watch on as Chael fires the 60-millimeter caliber Volkov guns, the projectiles exploding in the sky before they can begin to threaten the team. “Missiles down,” Chael announces, deactivating the cannons after the last missile is intercepted. “Find them quickly, Hunley. The quicker, the better.”

"The approach angle was too low for a ship," Chael mutters to himself, eyes tracking the dissipating smoke. "Those came from surface-level hidden tubes―the Dragonflies might have visual." Looking up, he sees the bright dots of Dragonflies’ boosters in the sky amidst the falling snow. “Dragonfly squad, requesting high-altitude visual support. We need help finding where those missiles came from,” he calls, his tone demanding. Tilting her Frame downwards, Momo looks through the scouting lens of the Denmother, looking for anything that looks out of place. “Knightfather, there’s an array of underground missile silos not too far ahead from your position,” Momo confirms, placing points of interest on the shared tactical map. “Copy, Denmother. Tell us when they fire again.”

Knightfather leads the Rhino squad forwards, splitting the group into two, each going towards a different point of interest. Getting close enough, Chael engages the calf rockets, lifting his Frame into the air, thus allowing him to fire his Volkovs directly at the closed silos. They explode into a burst of flame when the bullets shred the covers. As the silos detonate, a surge of thermal feedback heats his skin—a phantom burn that makes his breath hitch even as he stabilizes his hover. And from the east, Chael hears the same explosion in the distance, the inferno blazing high into the sky, almost catching one of the Warthogs in its searing wrath. From the stratosphere, Momo watches the twin blooms of fire piercing the whiteout like two angry orange eyes opening on the ice. “Removing targets from the tactical map,” she announces simply.

Momo’s screen suddenly turns blood-red as a high-priority warning overrides her scouting lens. “Rhino, multiple fighter jets are coming to pinch you. There’s movement dead north, too―keep your eyes open!” The radars on each Warthog beep frantically as the enemies approach quickly, threatening them with flanks from multiple sides. “Copy that, Dragonfly.” Chael activates one of his double-ended beam swords, the air crackling around its length. The frantic, high-pitched chirping of the proximity alarm is drowned out by the low-frequency hum of the beam sword as it ionizes the freezing Antarctic air. “Rhino squad, prepare to engage.”

From the Perseus, Sana watches the enemy's formation with a growing sense of dread. “Mom!” she screams into her microphone, panic starting to take over. “The Neo Umvukeli have mobile suits and battle tanks. The Rhinos need your help―now!” Momo increases the output of Denmother’s thrusters, nose-diving straight into the battlefield. “Denmother, heading in to provide assistance!” The Dragonfly squad is quick to follow their Marshal, activating their long-range weapons as they fly through the layers of atmosphere to reach the ground team. Piercing through the troposphere, the Denmother’s leading edges begin to glow a dull cherry-red as she slams into the denser air of the troposphere, the friction screaming against her cockpit glass. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she curses, the skin of her face burning from the simulated stimulation.

Momo feels a fresh breeze hitting her face around four thousand meters above ground, her body quickly relaxing after such a physically taxing flight. “Denmother, engaging bogeys,” she announces, her voice slightly murmured, switching her Mk-IV Talon Cannon to semi-auto mode. Focusing on the bigger targets, Momo commands her Dragonflies to deal with the fighter jets, one by one popping like firecrackers in the air at the hands of her subordinates. She doesn’t let up, hurling bolts at the enemies, only stopping to let it cool down before pulling the trigger again. If not for the literal freezing temperature of the South Pole, she would have to pause more frequently. It appears that fighting in such an element has its advantages.

Soon, however, the “low ammo” alert beeps―“15 rounds remaining.” That is ten percent of the initial reserve. “Denmother, calling drones for resupply.” With one press of a button, Perseus releases one supply drone, a claw-like mechanism on its belly holding a crate full of 100-milimeter caliber rounds that are suitable for both Denmother and Knightfather. Seeing that a supply drone is coming, Momo spends the rest of her ammunition, blowing a battle tank to the sky with the last one. As the drone finally arrives, it hovers right behind Denmother, and a click of a button on Momo’s panel exposes Denmother’s ammo feed module on the back. Momo requests half of the payload with the intention of saving the rest for Knightfather when he needs it, and after a few seconds of resupply, she’s now ready to start blazing again.

“Perseus to Mom, over,” Sana’s voice cuts through the rhythmic thumps of the cannon’s recoil. “Semi-auto isn’t sustainable, Mom. Full-auto would at least keep the barrel hot―this is thermal shock. It’s like you’re hammering it red for a split second and freezing it solid between shots.” Momo runs a quick diagnostic sweep of her entire weapon systems. The heat signatures don’t spread; they fracture. Semi-auto has been slamming the bore hot and cold too fast, and the steel is answering in whispers—micro-cracks spidering outward, invisible until the cold makes them speak. “What’s your advice, Perseus? Single-round mode? Melee?” she asks, removing her finger from the trigger. Sana takes a pause, the AI in her console hurrying to make a prediction based on the diagnostics. “You can use single-round mode for up to 24 shots,” Sana forwards the AI’s calculation result. “After that, melee combat is highly advised.”

Momo switches the Talon Cannon to single-round mode, the mechanical selector clicking with a heavy, final sound. “24 rounds―what did I resupply for, then?” she mutters to herself, but she knows this isn’t the time for doubt. Focusing her aim at ground targets once more, Momo continues to pick them out, counting the number of shots she has dished out. She’s oblivious to the fact that the enemy is preparing to take a jab at her, now that she’s alone and unguarded. And their first attempt at this isn’t too dissimilar to their attempt to hit the Rhinos―it’s just that they’re doing it with something bigger: a prototype missile launched from a submarine that has been swimming in the freezing waters, and they’re aiming it directly at the matriarch of the Federation army.

A kilometer out from the Rhinos, the ice shelf groans. A jagged lead-blue tip punches through the ice, followed by a roar of steam as the prototype’s boosters ignite in the sub-zero air. Sana’s console screamed a different tone—a wet, rhythmic pulse. "Mom! Cavitation detected! Something just broke the surface from the deep!" In the air, the missile doesn’t follow a standard ballistic arc; it’s twisting, its vectored thrust nozzles adjusting to every oddity in the wind with its predatory self-guidance system. "Momo, break! Flares! Do everything!" Chael’s voice roars through the link, his own combat forgotten as he watches the streak close in on the Denmother.

Momo slams the thrusters to maximum, the HUD screaming as her Frame forwards the g-force of a 9G turn. The missile misses her cockpit by meters, the heat of its exhaust burning her entire body. "It's coming back for a second pass," she gasps, her vision blurring. "It’s a loitering munition!" Punching the countermeasures button, flares launch from the back of Denmother and wrap around, shaping up to become a thermal shield that will confuse the missile’s guidance system―at least that was the plan.

The warhead shatters in the air above Denmother, its dispersal core vomiting a steel rain at point-blank range. Momo screams as the sub-projectiles punch through her Frame from multiple angles, each impact echoed in her nerves as if her own flesh were being flensed. The neural sync is too high—every rupture is hers to feel, her pain broadcast in front of allies and enemies alike.

On the Perseus, Sana is paralyzed by the sound of the matriarch’s scream booming through the comms. Her fingers hover over the "Emergency Cutoff" command, but she knows that at this altitude and speed, cutting the link would send Momo into a fatal coma―and send her crashing into the ice below. "Mom! Disengage! I’m initiating feedback dampening!" She slams a series of overrides, trying to inject digital morphine into the neural link before the battle-shock stops Momo's heart. “Mom! Disengage―right fucking now!” The biometric feeds on the main screen turn into a jagged landscape of red spikes, Momo’s heart rate dropping as the steel rain continues to flense the Denmother. But there’s a way. There's hope. “Dad! Save her!”

Chael doesn’t wait for a repeat, igniting the thrusters on his calves and back. Like a space rocket shooting for outer space, he leaves a trail of smoke behind that blinds everyone in the battlefield below. But he doesn’t care about anything else―his mind is locked on saving the woman who has his heart. The woman he trusts with his life. The woman in that frayed Cazador Frame. “Sana,” he calls, his groans filling the direct channel. “Override the sync. Disengage her from your side.”

Sana’s hands tremble. Disengaging now means Momo loses all automated stabilizers; it would turn the Denmother from a wounded bird into a falling brick of dead weight. “Do it, Lieutenant―that’s a direct fucking order!” The scream cuts through her cloud of doubt like hot knife through butter, and Sana fights with her console to disengage Momo from the neural sync. “Sync overridden, sir!” she screams back, brave enough to glance at the console’s glaring-red warning of Denmother’s rapid loss of altitude. “She’s losing altitude rapidly, sir! Catch her!”

Without her stabilizers, the Denmother begins a violent, sickening tumble, her limbs flailing as the wind shear catches the jagged edges of her punctured armor. Pushing the thrust of his rockets to maximum output, Chael soars almost perfectly vertically, his mind racing to find a way to safely save Momo―and an idea swiftly forms in his head. “Sana, listen to me!” he demands, his doubts of the idea burned away by the heat of his exhaust. “Eject Momo from Denmother. I’ll catch her cockpit!” Sana focuses her efforts to override the cockpit, and with the next push of her Enter key, Momo’s cockpit should split from Denmother. “Ready for manual ejection, sir!”

Reaching out the hand of Knightfather, Chael screams “now” into the direct channel. Momo’s cockpit is sent flying as the soulless Denmother free-falls from the sky. The explosive bolts fire in a sequence of blinding sparks, kicking the Frame’s mangled limbs away to clear a path for the core escape pod. And he’s quick to catch her, securing her in the palm of his Frame. “Marshal Hirai is secured!” he announces, changing direction quickly to avoid damage from the remnants of the falling Denmother. “Requesting personnel extraction at these coordinates,” Chael punches in the coordinates of his planned landing spot, beginning a controlled descent to it.

The Knightfather comes to a halt in the deep snow, its engines cooling with a series of metallic pings. Chael lowers the massive hand to the ground, gently depositing the detached cockpit pod. “Where’s the extraction, Sana?” he asks, looking for friendly IFF beeps on his radar. “It’s coming, sir―an Albatross craft has just launched from the Perseus,” Sana replies, her voice shaking but focused. Chael turns his Frame around towards the enemies, both the Rhino and Dragonfly squads fighting over yonder. The distant thunder of the Rhinos’ Impact Cannons and the shriek of the Dragonflies’ Vector Rifles provide a violent backdrop to the silence of the landing zone. “Sana, if I don’t see an extraction crew in the next 3 minutes, I’m shooting down the Perseus,” he threatens, even as his shoulder-mounted missile batteries are locked at the enemies and not the space carrier.

The scream of the Albatross’s engines finally breaks the silence, the VTOL craft kicking up a blinding vortex of snow as it hovers just meters above the ice. A team of extraction specialists in heavy thermal gear slides down the ropes before the struts even touch the ground. "Marshal, we have the perimeter!" the lead medic shouts over the comms. Chael doesn't move the Knightfather; he remains a statuesque sentinel, his missile batteries still aimed at the ridge line. "Get her out―now," he rasps.

It is only when Momo’s pod is lifted to board the Albatross that Chael moves to re-enter combat. Chael leans forward and the world follows. The Knightfather’s hesitation mirrors his own for a heartbeat, then the link tightens and thought becomes motion. Hydraulic muscles bunch, release, and the mech surges ahead, each stride slamming through his chest as if he’s the one hitting the ground. The battlefield rushes closer—not because he’s charging it, but because it’s time to break things. To smash, smash, and smash. Until the last fighter jet falls from the sky. Until the last mobile suit is torn limb from limb.

Chael reaches the frontline in a matter of seconds, Knightfather’s feet leaving cracks in the blue ice. Once past the Rhinos’ frontline, Chael leaps with a pop of thrust from the jets, reactivating the double-ended beam swords. The first enemy to fall to the violent rage of the Federation’s top pilot is a fresh mobile suit that seems to have only launched minutes ago, its midsection cut in one clean, swift slash of Knightfather’s saber. The violet blade doesn’t just cut; it vaporizes the cheap alloy on contact, leaving the edges of the enemy's torso glowing with molten slag as it slides apart. “Next,” Chael’s voice booms over the white-out, a taunting call to step up to the plate and take a shot at the revered Three-Strikes.

Staying perfectly still as a battle tank directs its main cannon towards him, Chael watches on as a mobile suit charges at him. The enemy mobile suit has an oversized axe as a left arm, the right a normal humanoid hand that holds a prototype energy pistol. They hope to start doing damage by shooting while running, perhaps looking to take a swing of the axe. “Even a Federation rookie knows better than that.” Chael spins the double-ended sword, providing momentary cover, as he looks to find the perfect moment to counter.

When the mobile suit gets close enough to Knightfather, it lifts its arm, the axe about to come down swiftly like an executioner. Moving to the side, Chael dodges the melee strike, and within the same second, stabs the side of the enemy with his sword. “You’re not like that, pal,” he insults. This mobile suit meets an end that’s not too distinctive from the previous one―it’s destroyed from the midsection area, looking anything but salvageable. To add insult to injury, Chael uses the severed torso as cover from the battle tank’s cannon round. “Alright, that’s enough fucking around―it’s time for you to find out.”

"Dad, the submarine is trying to run!" Sana's voice crackles with urgency. Chael ignores the remaining infantry, his eyes locked on the darkening water at the edge of the shelf. He switches off one end of the beam sword and reaches for his heavy-caliber Heinz-Andrews Pistol. "Rhinos, finish the rest. I'm taking a scenic break." He sprints toward the edge, the Knightfather’s feet carving a path of destruction through the snow. As he nears the ledge, Chael slams a command on his auxiliary panel; a heavy thrum vibrates through the Frame as the maritime seals lock into place, preparing the Knightfather for the unforgivingly crushing pressure of the deep.

Chael dives off the shelf, the Knightfather entering the water with the grace of a falling anchor. The silence of the deep is absolute, broken only by the groan of the Frame’s hull as it passes the hundred-meter mark. He spots the submarine’s propeller wash, a churning vortex of bubbles in his sonar. Leveling the pistol, he takes aim, steadying Knightfather’s firing hand―that submarine looks familiar, though. The shape of the propellers, the missile battery placed on top, the four torpedo tubes in the front… That is a Federation submarine.

But there’s no time nor space for doubt, so Chael fires―the allegiance of that ship matters little right now. All he knows is that the submarine launched a missile that took out Momo. The armor-piercing rounds scream through the water with a series of dull thuds as they punch through the sub's ballast tanks, forcing the deep-sea monster back toward the surface. “Knightfather to Perseus,” he says, watching the vessel losing its submersion capabilities. “Find out why a God-damned Federation submarine from the War of Nations era is in the hands of Neo Umvukeli.”

The submarine erupts through the thin ice sheets like a breaching whale, shattering the frozen surface in a spray of white slush and jagged floes. Chael follows it up from underneath. He fixes Knightfather’s hands on the submarine’s keel and heaves, lifting the vessel into the sky as every piston in his Frame’s joints fights the crushing weight. “Come on!” he growls, the strain from the sheer weight of the submarine seeping into his very muscles. The legend of Atlas has him holding up the celestial globe; the legend of Three-Strikes has him holding up a submarine that is supposed to not exist anymore.

With a final, explosive burst from his back thrusters, Chael slams the submarine down onto a thick shelf of blue ice. The impact sends a shockwave through the ground, causing the Rhinos to lose footing a kilometer away. Chael doesn't let go. He keeps one massive hand pinned to the conning tower, the Knightfather's fingers crushing the reinforced steel like a soda can. "Open the main hatch and come out with your hands in the air," Chael’s voice booms through the exterior speakers, distorted by the cold and his own exhaustion. "Before I decide to test how many bullets this submarine can take."

The main hatch on the conning tower finally hisses, a cloud of recycled air and condensation billowing into the sub-zero wind. A train of crew emerges, putting their hands high in the air as demanded, unprotected against cruel temperatures of the South Pole. They shiver not because of the freezing breeze―this oversized robot that’s threatening to shred them into nothing is more concerning than any wind. Then, the last person comes out of the hatch, clad in a long-sleeved coat dyed in red and black―Neo Umvukeli’s signature colors. “Zhao Wei-tsu,” he whispers, the name leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Knightfather’s AI activates the wrist-mounted Volkov guns at Chael’s spiking emotions. “You’ll get the firing squad, Zhao―after Willem van der Merwe.”

-

Having locked Zhao and his crew in the detention bay aboard the Near Orbit Station, Chael is present at every interrogation, sometimes getting his hands dirty by giving them punches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Zhao, cornered with nowhere to go, is the first to crack, each revelation more shocking and damning than the previous―and today is no different. “Flint, Flint,” he manages, his voice growing weak after taking three jabs to the ribs from the Federation’s Marshal-turned-hitman. “I… I swear to God. V-Van der Merwe got the ship from… from P-President Larssen. Please, man, just… stop. I’m begging you.”

Chael lowers his fist, leaning closer towards Zhao. "Say that again," he whispers, the name Larssen echoing in his mind like a proximity alarm. Zhao coughs, spitting copper-tasting phlegm onto the deck. "The Sentinel... it wasn't captured or stolen. It was a trade. Larssen's dossier was traded for the submarine…” Looking up at a security camera sitting in the corner of the room, Chael sees the blinking red dot under the lens. “Sana, are you recording this?” he asks. “Yes, Marshal―it’s just… I’m not watching you beat that guy,” she replies, the urge to vomit rising in her stomach. "Take this guy to the infirmary," Chael says, his voice losing its heat and turning into the flat, metallic tone of a commander filing a report. Grabbing his Marshal coat from the desk, Chael puts it on, taking one final look at Zhao before he leaves.

Taking the elevator to his quarter, Chael finds Momo in his room, looking out at the curve of the Earth. With bandage wrapped around her head, she has a tablet in her hand, scrolling through the leaked dossier Sana intercepted. She doesn't turn around when he enters. "I mean, I get it,” she lets out a long sigh, every muscle still aching at the phantom pain of the steel rain from days ago. “If I had secrets like this, I would trade a retired nuclear submarine for silence, too.”

Chael stops by the door, the scent of antiseptic and cold steel from the detention bay clinging to his coat, a sharp contrast to the familiar, worn scent of his own quarters. Shedding his Marshal coat, he lets it lie forgotten on the floor, approaching Momo from behind with small steps. “Hey, now,” he mutters, his left hand trying to free the tablet from her hold. “We’ll have Larssen answer to his crimes at a High Court. Our job is done for now.” Momo’s fingers slowly unfurl, her eyelids falling to a close, as she leans back into his embrace. “Larssen won’t walk free from this, right?” Momo looks over her shoulder, seeking assurance in his eyes. “No,” Chael promises, his hands coming to rest over her stomach. “He won’t see daylight after this.”

For a long minute, they simply stand there, watching the sun rise over the Pacific far below. The orange light bleeds into the room, catching the silver of Chael’s hair and the white of Momo’s bandages. "Tomorrow, we start the war for justice," Chael says softly, kissing the top of her head. "But tonight, we're just Chael and Momo." He leads her toward the bed, the hitman persona fading away as he focuses on the only person who still makes the world worth fighting for. As he guides her away from the window, the rigid tension in Chael’s shoulders—held tight since the first punch landed on Zhao’s face a few days ago—finally begins to dissolve into a heavy, honest exhaustion.

Settling into bed, Momo turns to face him. She takes his hand, caressing the skin of his knuckles. The surface is rough from 3 days of torturing Zhao. “When did you turn to a monster, Chael?” she mutters, her voice breaking, as tears pool in her eyes―she can only imagine what the other guy looks like. “Since…” Chael pauses, looking deep inwards to find an honest answer. “Since the moment I heard your scream piercing my ears when you got hit by that loitering munition missile.” His hand comes to rest on her cheek, his fingertips grazing the bandage around her hand. “That scream…” he gets shuddering goosebumps just from the memory, “that scream was the worst sound I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Momo pulls his hand closer, kissing the bruised knuckles as if she could draw the violence out of them. "I don't want a monster by my side, Chael," she whispers into the dark. "I want you. The man who taught me how to read the stars when I was a rookie. The man who taught me how to fly a Frame over the Malacca Strait." Chael closes his eyes, the image of Larssen’s face flickering in his mind. That damn smirk he has in the presidential portrait boils his blood, but Momo doesn’t want that. Momo doesn’t need that. "That man is gone, my heart―but I'll bring him back. I promise. Once this is over and Larssen is gone, I'll find him again." He sniffles, dabbing his eyes with the back of his free hand. “That man will come running to you, Momo. He will not look back even for a glance.”

Before they can move, a soft ping comes from the tablet now lying forgotten on the bedside table. With a deep breath, Momo turns to grab it, a notification flashing on the home screen. “The Department of Defense has agreed to summon Larssen before the Supreme Court. Signed, Sana,” the message says. Momo quickly puts the tablet back, her limbs guiding her to Chael once more. She begins sobbing in his chest, her body shaking violently. In a frustrated rage, she slams her fist against his shoulder, but Chael stays still, stays solid. The dull thud of her fist against his shoulder is the only sound in the room, a rhythmic, desperate beat that spoke of all the words she couldn't find. “I won’t ask what that ping was about…” he whispers softly, her reactions an irrefutable proof of the significance and weight of whatever that message was.

As Momo’s strength finally leaves her, she slumps against him, her forehead resting against the hollow of his neck. "It's over, Chael," she whispers, her voice a ghost of itself. "Sana did it. The dossier... it's in the hands of the Justices. Where’s that man now, then, hm? Where’s the man beneath the monster?" Chael looks past her at the tablet, the weight of the Marshal persona finally beginning to crumble. “The monster…” he murmurs, his grip on her wrist tightening. “The monster is in the cage, Momo. This is Chael Flint talking to you.” Momo doesn’t pull away; she leans deeper into the hollow of his neck, her breathing hitching as she recognizes the specific cadence of the man she has loved before the war began. “Chael Flint…” she echoes, pulling herself impossibly close to him. “He’s all I need. He’s all I want.”

They remain like that for a long time, the silence of the room finally feeling like peace instead of a ceasefire. Far below, the Antarctic ice shelf—the place where the monster was born—slips into the night side of the planet. "What happens now?" Momo asks, her voice steadying. Chael looks out at the stars, the ones he once taught her to read. "Now, we let the law do its work. And we find a place where Chael and Momo can be people―not Marshals, not pilots, not monsters. People.” She nods, her cheeks rubbing against his firm chest. “What… what comes after that, though?” she asks again. Planting a peck on her forehead, Chael airs a promise. “I’ll stay by your side, my heart, and you’ll stay by mine. Momo Hirai-Flint, isn’t it?” Momo chuckles, the first sound that is not gut-wrenching. “No, just Flint. Momo Flint sounds better.”

-

“The Supreme Court of the Federation hereby adjudges former President Mick Larssen guilty of treason in the third degree. Pursuant to statute, the court sentences the defendant to death by firing squad, the sentence to be carried out at a time and place determined by the Ministry of Justice.” Three slams of the gavel seal the fate of the disgraced president, brought down to the depths of hell by the unclassified dossier, Zhao’s testimony, as well as Momo and Chael’s attestations. Then, a ripple of motion passes through the gallery―people shifting, not in shock but in acknowledgment. There is no outcry after the sentence is read, either. Only the faint hum of the chamber’s HVAC system fills the silence, uninterrupted and impersonal.

The judges rise in unison, their robes whispering as they disengage from the bench, and somewhere, a clerk begins closing the files. The sound is small, almost apologetic or remorseful, yet it carries through the hall like a final punctuation mark. History, it seems, has already moved on, and so will those present. The fallen president sits still, armed guards covering his flanks in a disciplined stance. Chael only takes a glance at the back of his head before leaving, buttoning the coat over his dress uniform, both going to turn into a thing of the past in a matter of weeks. The harsh, overhead lights of the chamber glint off the gold Marshals' stars on Chael’s shoulders for the very last time, the metal appearing cold and drained of its luster.

Outside the courthouse, the air is thick with the scent of rain and damp earth—a far cry from the recycled oxygen of the Near Orbit Station. Momo is waiting outside by the car, leaning against the door with her long coat pulled tight, her dress uniform hidden from plain view. She doesn't ask about the verdict; she saw the broadcast. She simply reaches out and unpins the gold star from his left shoulder, dropping it into the palm of his hand. "Ready to go?" she asks. Chael looks at the heavy metal in his hand, his entire military career flashing in his mind, then tosses it into a nearby trash bin like the butt of a cigarette. "Ready."

Chael reaches for the door handle, the lock unlatching with a soft click. “Marshals! Sir, madam!” A collective scream stops them from entering the car. Turning their heads around, Chael and Momo see a familiar group of people rushing towards them with service caps tucked in their arms. Smiles stretch on the pair’s lips as the group approaches―the Rhinos and Dragonflies they fought with in the South Pole.

“You can’t be leaving already, sir,” Lily protests, smoothing the hem of her uniform. “You haven’t even said goodbye.” Chael chuckles, his breath blooming white in the cold. But before he can say anything, Momo interjects. “Chael owes me a honeymoon in the Maldives, Lieutenant,” she says. A surge of pride surges within her as she says Lily’s new rank―everyone was promoted to Lieutenant after the South Pole combat, each one now decorated with silver bars. “Oh, come on, Mom. Can’t we have Dad for a bit more?” Laughing, Momo shakes her head out of pure mirth, taking Chael’s hand in hers. “You can’t have Dad without Mom,” she turns towards Chael, a smile playing on her lips, “you’re all invited to our house tonight. But you’ll have to leave at 0500 hours before we leave for the honeymoon.”

-

Inside the house, the atmosphere is a chaotic whirl of packing and celebration. Chael finds himself in the corner of the living room, watching his subordinates argue over who gets to cook the first round of dinner. “Guys, come on, just let Hunley cook, huh?” he says, trying to break the playful scuffle with a tease. A proud smile spreads across Hunley’s features at his Marshal’s endorsement. “Yeah, guys, just let Hunley cook, huh?” he echoes, much to everyone’s annoyance.

As the crowd disperses, Chael heads out to the back garden, Sana and Momo already waiting for him. A mix of Rhino and Dragonfly pilots swim back and forth in the pool, the pace looking like they’re competing to pass a physical examination. Momo turns her head right as he steps outside, her ears tuned to the beat of his steps. “Hey,” she mouths, offering a smile and an open, inviting palm. Approaching his beloved woman, Chael takes her hand, placing a peck to her knuckles. “They’re having fun, aren’t they?” he murmurs, pulling her to his side. “They are,” Momo replies, one hand coming to rest on his chest, stroking it over his shirt. “And they deserve every second of this.”

Soon, Hunley calls from inside the house, his excitement to show off his cooking palpable in his booming voice. Those in the pool begin to come out, cleaning themselves off before entering the dining room. Taking initiative as the man of the house, Chael sits at one end of the table, Momo sitting at the other. Chael sits with his shoulders finally dropped, his back pressing into the soft upholstery of the chair—a luxury his cockpit has never afforded him. They wait until everyone is seated nicely, the long table filled to the max. “I get why you let Brad cook, Dad,” Lily jests, an approving smile forming on her lips. The table groans under platters of seared proteins and vibrant vegetables, the steam rising in lazy curls that catches the golden light of the dining room chandelier. “This spread looks like it comes from a restaurant.”

As the wine is poured and the first bites are taken, Chael taps his glass with a fork, the clear chime silencing the room. He looks from Lily to Brad, from Mori to Sana, then down the long table to Momo. "We’ve spent a lot of time talking about what we’re leaving behind," he says, his voice steady and warm. "But looking at this table, I realized what we’re heading toward. To the crew of the Perseus—the best family a man could ask for. May your next missions be half as exciting and twice as boring." A flicker of sadness crosses Sana’s features before she quickly schools it to calmness—the commander is raising his glass for a toast; this isn’t the time to frown. “To the Marshals! To all of us!” Mori’s exuberant shout seals Sana’s sadness in her chest. But she’s not letting it go just yet.

After the toast, the table quickly quietens, everyone focusing on their full plates. Sana wants to take advantage of the silence, glancing at Momo to look for permission to break the lull. With a small nod, Momo encourages her to speak her mind, knowing that this is as good a chance as any. “Dad,” she finally says, the nickname easily rolling off her tongue. “Are you… are you seriously retiring? What about us?” The pilots look among themselves―finally someone is asking the question everyone hesitant to ask. Smiling softly, Chael puts down his knife and fork with a gentle clink. “What about you, Sana, hm?” he says, the smile not fading from his face. “You’re all good enough to keep yourselves together. You all have experience, in and out of combat.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes finding Momo at the other end of the table, offering a small nod. “Look,” he sighs, his left hand coming to rest on Lily’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m retiring. Not because I’m tired or unfit for service―I’m retiring because I’m healthy.” He sighs deeply, the memory of the first nosebleed caused by a Cazador Frame prototype flashing before his eyes. “I don’t want to leave the military in a coffin, guys. I want to leave the military with full limbs and a sane mind. I want to leave so I can…” Pausing briefly, he taps his glassy eyes with a handkerchief on his lap. “I want to leave so I can be with the woman I love.”

Across the table, Momo’s hand tightens on her glass, her expression a mix of fierce pride and a soft, shimmering relief that the shadow of the Knightfather has finally passed. A stray tear falls on her cheek, and with a vehement, grateful nod, she lets another out. “I… I want to be with the man I love, too,” Momo repeats. The pilots put down their utensils one by one. The way the Federation’s top guns, the revered Marshals, can tap into the humanity aspect that is often sacrificed in the name of service offers them a different way of thinking, a different perspective on life. The Marshals are choosing the warmth of a hand over the cold, electric hum of the neural-link—a trade that every pilot in the room suddenly realizes they want for themselves.

Sana, Chael’s personal aide that has been steadfast and loyal in her service, isn’t fully satisfied with the answer. But she gets it. It’s better for them to leave all of this behind as people, not corpses. To leave all of this behind to chase something more meaningful than medals and accolades. “Yes, sir,” she finally speaks, her voice breaking from the weight of realization. The realization that Marshal Chael Flint will not be at the other end of a direct comms channel to ask for intel. The realization that the Federation’s future is in her and her fellow soldiers’ hands.

Lily looks from Chael to Momo, her own eyes misting. For years, she has chased the legends of Three-Strikes and Peach, thinking that to be great was to be untouchable. But looking at the two of them now, she sees that the ultimate strength isn’t in the Knightfather’s beam swords or the Denmother’s Talon Cannon; it is in the courage to walk away while they still know who they are, while they are still whole in body and soul. "We hear you, Marshal," she says softly, the title sounding more like a blessing than a rank. "We’ll make sure the Federation stays worth coming back to."

-

Fourteen hours later, the roar of jet engines is replaced by the rhythmic, emerald pulse of the Indian Ocean. Chael and Momo wake to the sound of water splashing against the wooden supports of their resort. Taking a deep breath, Momo turns to face him, a small, sleepy smile playing on her lips. “Good morning, my love,” she murmurs, her voice rough from slumber. “Mm, good morning,” he manages, half awake. “Did you sleep well?” Snuggling to the curve of his neck, she nods against his skin. “I did, thanks to you. And now I’m ready for anything you have in store, Marshal.” He pinches her side at the mention of his old rank. “I don’t see any Marshal out here.”

Looking up at him, Momo’s eyes shine brightly with a sense of clarity that has been missing for years. “So, Mr. Flint,” she says, her fingers tracing the outline of his cheekbones. “Now that we don’t have briefings to attend, what do we do first?” Without saying a word, Chael finds the smooth expanse of her thigh, pulling it to rest over his. “Mm, I like the idea,” Momo slides closer to him, wrapping her limbs around his body. “We don’t have to rush like usual, hm?” He leans in for a fleeting peck on the lips. “No, no rushing,” he confirms, his voice dropping to a gentle timbre. “Rushing to make love is such a thing of the past.”

Momo lets out a breath she feels like she’s been holding since the retirement ceremony. “I can get used to this,” she whispers against his lips. “To being present in the moment with you. To not rush to get to the next thing.” Leaning in, Chael claims her lips, pouring every bit of passion into the tangle. They break only for air before crashing into each other again, each pause shorter than the last. “My God, Chael,” she pants, her chest heaving with every short breath. “You’re killing me right now.” A naughty smirk playing on his lips, Chael places a peck on her chest, just right over her cleavage. “In a good way, I hope,” he teases.

Momo pinches his cheek, trying to erase the smirk he’s got. But this very smirk makes the man she fell for years ago. This is the man who she wants to protect her. This is the man who kept a clear head before the Supreme Court, one summons after another. And there was this specific picture that was taken from a balcony of the court building. In it, Chael was portrayed as having his marshal’s coat, deep gray in color, hanging off his shoulders, walking through the main hallway, while the Rhino and Dragonfly pilots were guarding him from reporters threatening to invade the marshal’s personal space. Momo had the picture framed as soon as she saw it, and she often looks at it whenever she needs a mood booster. Though the framed photo is left behind on the bedside table at home, the image is burned into her mind as a reminder of what they have gone through to get here.

Momo looks at the man before her, his shoulders now free of that heavy, decorated, wool-lined gray coat, replaced by the warmth of the sun and the salt of the sea. “In a good way, yes,” she confirms. With the very fingers that pinched him seconds ago, she caresses his face, wiping the tender ache off his skin. “In fact…” Momo guides his hand towards the growing arousal between her thighs. “You’re making me wet, too…” Chael’s breath catches—not from a high-G turn, but from the electric touch of her hand guiding his, the silence of the bungalow amplifying the honesty of their desire. “Take me, Chael…” she whispers, almost like a prayer for pleasure and intimacy.

Chael pulls away from her embrace, flipping Momo onto her stomach, his own arousal growing underneath his shorts. “You don’t mind doing it my way, do you?” he asks, muttering right into her ear. Relaxing into the mattress, she shakes her head. “Not at all. We’re here for a honeymoon.” Grinning, he pecks the back of her head, the scent of her shampoo smooth in his nose. “I like that answer, my love.” Without looking at him, she can hear that smile that he usually has when shown consent, and this morning is no different.

A soft sigh goes out through the gap of her lips when Chael hooks his fingertips into the waistband on her panties, sliding them down her silky thighs, all the way past her ankles. Teasing him, Momo closes her legs, triggering a confused “eh” out of her husband. She bites her lip as she fights the urge to laugh at his puzzled response―she can picture his grin instantly fading, and it’s not helping at all.

“Yeah, about that,” Chael pokes the flesh of her butt, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.” Unable to contain laughter any second longer, Momo bursts out laughing, turning onto her back once more. Clasping her hands on his nape, she pulls him down for a kiss. “I’m sorry, my love,” she says, the last breath of giggle leaving her lips. “Look, let’s do it like this for one round. We can do whatever you want after this.”

The smile blooms once more on Chael’s features, his peck on her lips fleeting but soft. “Sounds good, my heart,” he straightens his posture, removing his shorts and boxers and tossing them over his head. “I always love looking into your eyes as we make love.” Their eyes locked, he slides his stiff manhood into her soaked, eager core. Her walls slowly split open, accepting his intimate presence, the heat of the contact spreading through the both of them. Momo blinks slowly, a faint moan slipping out from between her lips. Finding his eyes once more, she smiles, another moan escaping her. “I bet I look so hot right now,” she breathes. “You do, love,” he groans. “You look incredible right now.”

Chael leans down, latching his lips on hers. His hips never stop or even slow down; they keep the pace, moving together towards a mutual goal. They’re no strangers to this concept―they used to do it on battlefields; now they do it in bed. Momo doesn’t keep her noises down, letting him know what his body is doing to her, what his presence means to her. Drawing strength from her passionate responses, Chael soon picks up the tempo, his manhood sliding in and out of her core, his girth stretching her in the best way possible.

“Come on, my love. Don’t stop―please, please don’t stop,” she begs, her peak approaching at an alarming pace. Chael notices the signs, gritting his teeth as he fights to take her to the finish line. “Yes! Yes! Oh, God, yes!” Her screams are the most enchanting music to his ears, each “yes” keeping the fire of passion stoked. With a final, ear-piercing scream, Momo’s walls clench around his length, her thighs shaking violently. This primal reflex triggers something just as primal in Chael, forcing his release to spill over. The heat scorches her insides in the best way possible, his semen finding its way to her waiting womb.

Rolling them over, Chael pulls her in, tucking her head under his chin. “I love you, Momo,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from the high of the climax. Momo is unable to say anything, still panting heavily. He continues to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, and with each passing second, her heaves gradually slow, her body relaxing into his embrace. She pulls away just enough to look him in the eyes. “I love you too, Chael,” she finally manages. “I’m glad we made it out in one piece. The South Pole. The military.”

He places a peck on the top of her head that was decorated with a snug wrap of bandage just months ago. “I’m also glad, my love,” he replies. “I always thought that my pilot career would’ve ended with me in a coffin with a flag draped over it. But here we are, making love in the Maldives.” Momo smacks the breadth of his chest, the touch soft and harmless. “Don’t,” she says, holding back a smile. “I’m not ready for round two yet.”

-

A soft chime comes from the bedside table, but it isn't a combat alert. It's a delayed, low-priority transmission from the Near Orbit Station. Chael ignores it at first, focusing on the way the sunset catches the amber in Momo’s eyes. But she nudges him with a smile. "See what she wants, Chael." He opens the message to see a group selfie of Sana, Lily, and Brad standing on the bridge, all of them smiling. The caption reads: The sky is clear. Stay as long as you want.

Chael wants to put the tablet back, but Momo stops his hand. “Send a reply,” she prompts. “Tell them you’re never leaving until I’m pregnant.” He swallows a nervous gulp―getting her pregnant will surely mark the point of no return, fully embracing this life as civilians with no chance to go back to the military. “Come on, love.” Typing a response, Chael’s thumb hovers over the “Send” button, and before he sends it, he looks deep into her eyes, seeking confirmation about her intent. “Please, just send it―send it right now, and I’ll let you take my anus.” With a chuckle and a growing arousal at her tempting offer, he sends the reply, rushing to put the tablet back on the table. He crashes into her, pinning her to the mattress beneath him.

“Did you say anus?”

Momo smiles, her tongue sneaking out to wet her lips.

Hanni stares at the half-empty desk, a single box of belongings the only evidence she’s ever been here. Approaching it, she feels a strange mix of bitter sadness and profound exhilaration. The desk, the chair, the mini-PC, the two 27-inch monitors—they've silently witnessed her breakdowns and triumphs, her highest highs and lowest lows. She runs her fingers slowly over the stained surface, a map of smudged markers and spilled coffee, each mark an indelible reminder.

A single tear spills onto her cheek as the memories come back. She remembers how those marks came to be. The coffee stain is from when she stayed at the office until midnight, pushing to finish a big project with every breath she had. The marker smudge nearby is from that time when Hanni was trying to organize her scrambled thoughts, the marker in her hand a furious blur as she tried to make everything make sense.

Initially lost in her own sea of memories, a knock from behind snaps her back to reality. Quickly wiping her tears, Hanni turns around. The door slowly parts, her manager and his assistant appearing behind it. A practiced, empty smile pulls at her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Astrid. Andreas. Their faces are familiar, but she pushes their names away, a reflex honed from years of repetition. No matter how hard she tries to keep them at a distance, they keep coming back, more insistent than a forgotten memory on a sleepless night.

“Hanni,” the assistant manager says, her voice unusually soft, almost brittle. “I… I’ll miss you, you know. We all will.” Hanni’s smile doesn’t falter, staying solid even when a flicker of hurt crosses her face. She simply lets out a short, cynical chuckle. “How touching, Astrid, when you know damn well why I’m leaving.”

The two women lock eyes, the fragile silence settling between them laced with hostility. Astrid did not expect Hanni to bite back, but someone who has nothing to lose―who is more than ready to move on―will never back down, and Hanni is a clear example of that. Amidst it all, the manager only stands there, doing nothing to lessen the tension. He simply shifts his weight, his gaze falling to the floor, a silent confession of his complicity.

With a sharp inhale, Hanni turns her back, picking up the box of belongings from her old desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she says, walking straight at them, unbothered with whether they’ll make way for her―she’s getting out of this place, one way or the other. Bumping Astrid’s shoulder with a thud, Hanni doesn’t flinch. “Oops,” she blurts, her tone laced with sarcasm, almost taunting Astrid. Turning her attention to the manager, she adds, “Until when will you let your assistant taint your reputation, Andreas, hm?”

Hanni keeps walking, putting more distance between her and the two-headed dragon that is her former manager and his assistant. The anger fuels her steps. “Hanni!” She registers someone’s voice calling her name, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t need to. She doesn’t want to. “Hanni, wait, please!” As the source of the sound gets closer, Hanni slows her step, letting this person catch up, but her gaze remains fixed on the ground, hiding her tear-filled eyes from unwanted eyes, until someone stops right in front of her, giving her no space to continue her steps.

She knows those shoes. Those black, pink-streaked basketball shoes that should never see the floors of an office building. She remembers laughing at them the first time she saw them, a moment that started it all. Hanni doesn't stop, but she slows her step, a silent invitation, her rigid body softening just slightly as he gets closer.

“H-Hanni…” the person whispers, hesitantly reaching for her hand. “I… Please let me say goodbye.” Lifting her chin, Hanni looks at this person, the only one she trusts, the only one with whom she lets her guard down. "C-Connor, I…” she trails off, her hand gripping the box harder, a physical barrier between them. “Goodbye, Connor. I… I’ll see you again someday,” she says, the words a promise and a plea. “And by then, I hope we will have become better people.” She finally looks at him―really looks at him―her eyes glistening, and gives him a small, heartbreaking smile, the kind that says more than any words.

Connor’s hands find her arms, his fingers gently stroking the soft fabric of her sleeves, finally getting the courage to make such intimate contact. “I’m sorry that it has turned out like this…” he murmurs. His words choke her. Not in a stinging way, but a way that twists her heart to the point of aching. “Always quick to take the blame for someone else, hey, Connor?” Taking a deep breath, Hanni forces a smile. She can’t let Connor see her sad like this. Connor doesn’t deserve it after everything he’s done for her. “This time, Connor, don’t,” she adds, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “You’re not part of the problem, so don’t act like it.”

Her words settle heavily on his chest, a muscle in his jaw twitching before a forced smile replaces it. “Alright,” he says, pulling his hands away. “Look, whatever you choose to do, wherever you go, remember the days we exchange food for lunch.” A genuine, warm chuckle escapes Hanni’s lips, a sound she hasn’t heard herself make in a long time. She remembers the joy of their daily ritual, the one bright spot in her miserable office life. "I will remember those days, Connor," she says, her words a solemn promise to herself as much as to him. "Anyway, I've got to go. The plane won't wait for me.” She gives him one last, sad smile, turns on her heel, and walks away, the last image of his crestfallen face already becoming a precious yet painful memory.

-

Stopping outside the airport, Hanni takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The stale, recycled air of the office is finally gone. She takes another, deeper breath, filling her system with the clean scent of the new city. Her shoulders and back relax. She feels the stress and anxiety from the old job flowing out of her body, carried away by the gentle wind. The breeze caresses her skin, a soft confirmation that she’s finally free. “Thank you, mother nature” she mutters under her breath.

As her eyes slowly open, a taxi pulls up in front of her, the driver offering a smile from the driver’s seat. Hanni nods, returning the smile that is twice as sweet, and as she approaches the trunk, the driver rushes out, eager to help her. “I’ve got this, miss,” he says, tucking her suitcase in the trunk with practiced swiftness. “Please, get in. I’ll get you wherever you need to be.”

Settling in the back row, Hanni lets her back rest against the leather-covered back support, the fabric firm yet comfortable. As the driver gets in his seat, he looks at her through the rear-view mirror, his ears primed to pick up the name of her destination. “Erm, one second,” she pulls out her phone, “106 Clearwater Boulevard, please.” The driver’s forehead creases as he blinks rapidly, his mind racing to find the quickest route to the destination. “Alright,” he says with a hint of a grin. “Clearwater Boulevard it is. I hope downtown traffic won’t be so bad.”

The universe seems to listen to the cabbie; the ride along downtown sees little traffic, aside from a few signalized intersections that have some queues. “Just a few more blocks, miss,” he says, his tone light with surprise. Hanni muses back, a small grin playing on her lips, "Yeah?" She feels a profound sense of relief, a big hope for a better life blooming in her chest. There is this sense of weightlessness in her chest, the kind she hasn't felt since she was a little girl with the whole world ahead of her. “We’ll be there in no time, then, yeah?”

The taxi smoothly slows into a stop in front of a six-story apartment building, no creaking heard from the brakes. “Here we are. 106 Clearwater Boulevard,” announces the cabbie, using one thumb to unlatch his belt, turning in his seat to face her. Pulling a bill from her pocket, Hanni places it on the empty seat next to him, rushing to get out of the taxi. “Hey, hey, wait!” The driver hurries out, his hand outstretched, a look of panic in his eyes. “This is too much, and I don’t have any change! I just started my day, you know.” Hanni chuckles, a warm, genuine sound, and shakes her head. She gently takes his hand and tucks the bill into it. "Please take it," she says, her voice soft but firm. "You deserve it after such a good ride.”

Leaving the stunned cabbie behind, Hanni enters the building, her ID and proof of lease safely settled in her hands. She approaches the empty reception desk, but before she can ring the bell, a woman comes out of a room in front of her, greeting her a wide smile that pulls her cheeks into dimples. "Hanni, right? We've been expecting you," the woman says warmly, her cheeks pulled into dimples. She holds out her hands, a gesture of both welcome and professional courtesy. “Yes, I am,” Hanni says, her hand trembling slightly as she hands the papers over. The smile on her lips betrays the quick, frantic beat in her chest. “I hope my new unit is ready. I’d love to lie down really soon.”

After a brief check, the woman rises from her seat, a keycard already in her hand. “Follow me, Hanni,” she says, her steps light yet quick as she leads the way. Hanni follows her into the elevator, leaning her back against the cold, metal wall. The chill is a stark contrast to the firm leather of the taxi, and she lets out a long sigh that seems to empty her lungs of every last bit of old air. "Long day?" the receptionist asks with a friendly smile. Hanni shakes her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "It feels so good to be free," she admits, her voice hushed. "To not have to worry about what kind of nonsense is lurking around the corner."

Stopping in front of a door, the woman turns to Hanni, holding the keycard in the air between them. “Try this on that,” she points at it. Hanni does as she said, pressing the card against the scanner, and the small light above it quickly turns green, the lock unlatching with a firm click. “Oh, thank goodness,” she murmurs, letting out a sigh of relief. “We’ve been having issues with this lock, and it seems that you’ve fixed it just by being here and looking at it.” A light giggle escapes Hanni. She feels the warmth of Chelsea's enthusiasm settle over her, lifting her spirits like a rising tide. The cynical armor she's worn for years finally feels ready to crack.

With a subtle tilt of her head, the woman signals Hanni to get in her new unit, and something just occurs to her: she hasn’t asked her name. “Erm, excuse me,” Hanni clears her throat quickly, “I haven’t asked your name?” The woman’s lips slowly curve into a wide, genuine smile. “It’s Chelsea. Chelsea Morgan,” she says, her voice bright and energized, as if she was hoping Hanni would ask. Hanni offers a smile and a nod, putting one foot in her unit. “Thank you for everything so far, Chelsea. You’ve been so helpful.” With it, she offers one more nod before disappearing behind the door, Chelsea’s footsteps fading away outside.

-

Wrapping a large, fluffy white towel around her drenched body, Hanni steps out of the steam-filled bathroom, tiny droplets of water falling behind her as she walks. She picks up her phone from the bed, the screen lighting up automatically, and her gaze spots incoming messages from ex-colleagues. Scrolling through the app, she sees the typical well wishes, then her heart leaps out of her throat at the sight of this one name: Connor. Her thumb hovers over his profile picture, blocking her mind from recognizing his face. “Sorry, Connor, but…” she whispers, the rest of the thought a silent, aching truth: but I can’t heal if you’re still within reach. She doesn’t finish the thought, sending his messages straight into the digital dumpster.

Tossing her phone onto the mattress, Hanni finishes drying off. She grabs some clothes from the newly arranged wardrobe, the inside so neat it mirrors the feeling of uncluttered space in her head. The stressful thoughts from the old job are gone, and for the first time in years, she feels completely clear.

As she takes in the sight of the night, the city glows outside her windows, a thousand diamond-bright lights spread out below, a vast, unknown landscape. Her stomach rumbles. Her head is empty and finally quiet, but her stomach demands attention, a much less fun kind of vacancy. Grabbing her phone again, she opens Maps to look for nearby food spots, her thumb instinctively dodging the messaging app icon. She scrolls up and down, looking for places worth her money, and her choice falls on this coffee and pastry shop: Bean There, Dough That. A genuine laugh escapes her. "What the hell is that name?" she wonders aloud, the silly pun already lifting her spirits. “Well, I guess I have to see for myself.”

With her phone in hand and her wallet in her back pocket, Hanni steps out, her thin cardigan her only shield against the chilly night air. Her gaze immediately roams the neighborhood. To her right, a 24-hour laundromat sits on the corner, flanked by a pharmacy and a convenience store, also open all night. "I wonder if they have the same owner," she mumbles, her voice hushed against the night air. Looking left at the intersection, she notes a row of restaurants: Chinese, Italian, and Middle Eastern. "Middle Eastern food after drinking is always a banger," she thinks, the small, knowing smile already a promise to her future self. "Good to know."

Before long, Hanni finds herself at another intersection, turning her head to the left as Maps suggests. There it is, the coffee and pastry shop with the silly name, its subtle brown neon sign hanging on the wall, a warm, glowing invitation. "Oh, I’m coming,” she muses, picking up her steps, the rapid pace making her watch think she’s exercising. As she approaches, the shop's details get exposed to her curious gaze: the dim lighting, the tidy seats, and the warm, rich scent of coffee and cinnamon that spills out onto the sidewalk.

Hanni pushes the door, the top corner of the frame hitting a bell hanging over it, turning the attention to her. A man pops out behind the counter, offering a big smile to his first patron of the night. He has dark, swept-back hair and a faint line of flour dusting his caramel-like brown apron. “Ah, the first customer. Welcome to BTDT!” he says excitedly, his positivity infectious, his palms planted on the smooth surface of the counter. His warm tone pulls her closer, a surprising warmth spreading through her chest, but Hanni immediately diverts her eyes towards the display rack, filled to the brim with steaming-hot pastries. She pretends the pastries are far more interesting than his welcoming face.

Realizing she can't hide from him forever, Hanni slowly turns her head, her eyes darting briefly to the high ceiling before settling on his beneath the menu board. “Erm, hi,” she manages, a flush creeping to her neck as her fingers fidget with the hem of her cardigan. “I… I just moved here from another city, so I’m totally new to the area…” she trails off, hoping that this man could finish her thought for her. “Oh, is that so?” he asks, genuine curiosity weaving in his voice. “Well, in that case, welcome to the city. I’m glad my shop is the first place—” He stops abruptly, a slight redness coming to his cheeks as he realizes how over-eager he sounds. “Wait, sorry, I mean, this is the first place you’re visiting, right?” After letting out a small chuckle, Hanni nods, an amused grin spreading on her lips. “Aside from my apartment building, this is the first place I’m visiting.”

Returning her gaze to the display, Hanni places her finger on the glass surface, right over a certain type of pastry that has been whispering her name. “What is this?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her. Following her finger, the man answers, “Oh, that’s the new tuna and corn pastry. It's still warm.” He giggles slightly, the sound carrying his pride with it. “That’s my mom’s recipe. I’m very biased, but I highly recommend it,” he adds. Hanni bites her lip; the pace at which she’s getting familiar with him is concerning, if not terrifying. She slides her finger quickly away from the glass, as if the contact has burned her. “Oh, really…” she murmurs, silently hoping some other pastry would call her name. Giving up, she places an order. “Alright, one of those, please. And… I guess, just coffee? If you have some specialty stuff, I’m down for it.”

The man shifts his attention to the tablet on the counter, scrolling through the menu to take her order. “One tuna and corn pastry and a special coffee,” he echoes, his finger hovering over the screen, hesitant to pick a type for her. “Sorry, but can I ask if you’d like something with high acidity, or do you perhaps prefer something lighter?” he asks, unfamiliar with this new customer’s palate. “Something light, please,” Hanni answers, perhaps too quickly, too tightly.

As he fiddles with his tablet, Hanni’s eyes roam over him, picking up small details. His tidy hair, his black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the brown apron. She prays to God his pants are a shade of white. Looking up, she spots some initials sewn in the top center part: LLM. "LLM? Large language model?" she says, letting her thoughts slip through her lips.

The man’s laugh makes her realize how loud she was, and Hanni quickly covers her mouth, her cheeks burning under her palm. “No, I’m not ChatGPT,” he says, shaking his head in amusement, no hint of anger showing at all. “It’s Levi,” he clarifies, his cheeks pulling into dimples that look familiar. "Levi Leonard Morgan. That’s my entire government name."

Hanni’s immediate embarrassment softens to surprise. “Wait, Morgan? The woman at my apartment building is also a Morgan.” Levi nods briefly, a knowing gesture. “Chelsea, yeah?” he confirms, a small printer to his right humming as it prints her order. “Chelsea is my twin sister.”

Leaving the counter, Levi grabs a pair of tongs and a small plate. He carefully places the pastry on it, the flaky crust looking perfect beneath the warm light. “Please, have a seat somewhere,” he says. “I’ll bring this to you.” Hanni blinks rapidly, wrenching her mind away from his eyes. She quickly turns her head left and right. Her finger points to the window. “Over there, please,” she says. Nodding, Levi follows her to the table. The plate is lowered onto the clean surface so slowly and carefully it might as well be fragile crystal. A gentle puff of warm air, rich with tuna and corn, reaches Hanni. “I’ll bring you your coffee after this, okay?”

Hanni lifts her gaze as soon as Levi turns his back, her eyes glued to his back as he rounds the corner. Crossing one leg over the other, she watches him move around the counter, a certain poetry woven in his motions as he prepares her cup of coffee. Noticing her attention, Levi meets her searching eyes occasionally. He offers a quick, unrestrained nod and a warm smile. “One second,” he mouths, his gaze softening even further. She nods to his whispered assurance. Her heart might be racing, but it’s not from fear or impatience. It races because he treats her attention like a treasure, and the taste of this stranger’s kindness is utterly intoxicating.

With a grin that’s barely contained, Levi pads over to her table, the cup of coffee sitting in the center of a round wooden tray. “Here it is—the special blend for the lucky first-timer,” he muses, setting the white cup in front of her. He settles on one knee, hugging the now empty tray to his chest. “Is there anything you’d like to have, miss?” he asks. Hanni’s world shrinks to this small space, to the warm sound of his polite question, to the fragrant coffee on her table. “I... erm,” Hanni manages, her throat suddenly dry. She forces the words out, a terrifying leap into the unknown. “I know you’re working, and other customers might start coming, but I’d love to have your company.”

Rising to his feet, Levi swiftly steps to the entrance, his back to Hanni, and turns the door sign over with a firm clack—asking the world to be allowed some space and time. He returns to her, leaving his tray on an empty table, settling himself into the chair in front of her. "You want my company, yeah?" he asks, his palms coming to rest on his thighs. "Then you'll have it." A pleasant shiver runs down her spine at his declaration, her posture straightening in reflex―how can a man speak so warmly, act so calmly, and still make her feel like the only person in existence?

His eyes hold hers with quiet certainty, as if closing the shop for her is the most natural thing in the world, as if her request matters more than any customer who might have wandered in. “L-Levi…” she stammers, tears threatening to spill over from her eyes. “I… I don’t know what to say.” Hanni pauses, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her lips trembling―not from stress or pressure, but from the gentle warmth that he seems to exude so effortlessly. “I’m glad that you’re so kind, but… but I’m scared,” she forces herself to meet his eyes, “I’m scared that… that you’ll somehow hurt me. Like those people did.”

Levi nods slowly, his quiet certainty remaining, but a deep, empathetic sadness shadowing his eyes. He leans forwards, his stacked palms forming a bowl on the table, quietly inviting her to place a hand into them. “Miss,” Levi begins, his tone controlled, his volume measured, but stops when Hanni takes the invitation, suddenly placing her trembling hand into his warm, firm ones. “Alright, look,” he says, clearing his throat as his cheeks turn warm, his focus now solely on the soft warmth of her hand. “I won’t pretend like I knew what you’ve been through, and you might find it difficult to trust strangers, but… I just need a chance. A chance to show you I’m not like those people you’ve left behind.”

Hanni stays silent as his words settle in her mind, pulling her hand away before she becomes a sobbing mess. She lifts her chin, her eyes fierce and clear, and raises an index finger in front of him. “One chance, Levi,” she declares. “That’s… that’s all I’m willing to give.” A tender smile slowly blooms on his lips as he nods. “Sounds good, but I don’t think I’ve caught your name?” he teases, his eyebrows rising mischievously. Her jaw and shoulders drop, her eyes blinking rapidly as a different kind of realization sets in her mind. “Oh, it’s, erm… Hanni. Hanni Pham.” She looks down at her knees, just in time as her cheeks turn pink. The sound of his name, Morgan, echoes warmly in her head. “But who knows―perhaps I’ll be Hanni Morgan one day,” she mutters to herself, the thought a small, secret prayer.

Levi gently nudges the plate closer to her, silently urging her to take a bite. “Before it turns cold…” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly at it. Hanni nods, picking up the pastry off the plate carefully. As saliva pools in her mouth, she takes a slow bite, her teeth sinking into the crispy, warm layers of dough before reaching the savory, perfectly seasoned filling. Keeping his eyes on her, Levi waits for Hanni to react, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He prays that she’ll say something nice, that she’ll like it.

A small, involuntary hum of satisfaction escapes her lips, and her eyes drift shut for a blissful second as her body sinks into her seat. “Oh, wow,” she mumbles, a piece of pastry sticking to her top lip. “This… this is amazing, Levi.” His back straightens at her positive remark, a sharp exhale of relief escaping his lips as a wide, boyish grin breaks out on his face. “It is, isn’t it?” he asks, his eyes darting between her eyes, her lips, and the pastry in her hand. “My mom will be so happy if she hears about this.”

The smile on his face fades momentarily when Hanni puts the pastry down, but it quickly blossoms again when she reaches for the coffee. "Go on, Hanni. Tell me about that too,” he urges, leaning forward slightly on the table, his heart threatening to explode from the excitement. “Heh, how cute,” she thinks, right as the warm liquid grazes her lip. Taking a small sip, Hanni lets out another hum, her satisfaction evident in her gleaming expressions. “It’s so smooth, and… is there a hint of chocolate?” she asks. “Does that mean it’s good?” he pushes, his ears primed to hear a compliment. She chuckles, her nods clear proof of her delight. “It’s good, Levi. So good.”

Leaning back in his chair, Levi sighs, his palm coming to rest on his forehead. “Thank you, Hanni,” he murmurs, his voice catching with a fragile sound, a stark contrast to his earlier firmness. “I… I’ve gone so far, accomplished so much, but… but nothing could compare to this.” Hanni’s fingers dig into her thigh, her knuckles turning white from resisting the urge to rush over and hug him. Her heart twists at the sight of his tears. “Levi…” she whispers his name, her voice a steadying balm, hoping that it’s enough to soothe him. “I’m sorry,” he manages, the sound muffled by his palms. “But… hearing such words from you hits different. Like a validation I didn’t know I’ve been waiting for.”

Levi runs a hand down his face, taking a quick, shaky breath before meeting her eyes with a sheepish grin. “Look at me,” he begins, chuckling seemingly at himself. “A grown man crying over someone’s praise—hell, the praise wasn’t even for me personally.” Sighing briefly, Hanni allows herself to chuckle, to join him in the self-deprecating humor. Leaning forwards, Hanni rests her elbow on the table, offering him her full attention. “I mean, it’s clear that you care, and that means a lot to me,” she says, her words a gentle protest. “Now, why don’t we talk about something else—like how you’ve managed to come up with this coffee blend—you know, just so we could stop crying over things.”

Looking at the coffee with his red eyes, Levi scratches his temple, wondering how far back he should go to tell this story. “The short version is that it’s been my favorite since my corporate days. It was the only thing that tasted real in a day full of spreadsheets and documents.” He pauses, searching for something interesting to tell her. Finding none, he adds, “That’s about it, I think.” Hanni’s eyebrows rise, a flicker of recognition crossing her face—that’s one more ex-corporate she’s seeing, a confirmation that such a life isn’t the only option. “Sounds like you have a special bond with it,” she offers a guess. “I mean, my friends always seemed to buy different types of coffee every day.”

Her face drops, seemingly out of nowhere, the light behind her eyes instantly extinguishing. “Especially Astrid…” she mutters, her hands balling up into tight fists, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “Fucking Astrid.” Levi almost leaps out of his chair at the sudden curse, his jaw dropping in total shock. “Hey, now,” he chuckles, a nervous sound, “w-why are we angry all of a sudden? What happened?” Hanni quickly shakes her head, scrubbing her hands down her face as if wiping away the anger, trying to get Astrid out of her head. “No, nothing. Sorry,” she says. She forces a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. “It’s just… well, Astrid has always been a thorn in my ass. Pretty, very, but incompetent. At this point, there’s no other explanation that she’s an assistant manager because of her beauty, not her professional skills.”

Rushing out of his seat, Levi gets down on one knee in front of her, his fingers hesitantly reaching for her elbow, brushing against the soft fabric of her cardigan. “Hanni, hey,” he says, his eyes searching hers. "You're strong, and you made it out." His soft tone snaps her trance, pulling her back to the present. “I understand that you’re mad, but you’ve escaped that life, that company. Let’s just… I don’t know, enjoy this moment instead of frowning over the past?” He holds her gaze, offering a silent invitation for her to release the fury into the safety of his presence. “You’re right,” she lets out a heavy sigh, her entire body slumping slightly in defeat and relief. “But still, fuck Astrid.”

Her gaze softens as the last traces of fury leaves her mind. Her eyes then close, finding solace in his calming presence. “Levi,” she starts, a question forming on her lips. “Did you meet such people back then too?” Keeping his stance, Levi sighs, an unpleasant memory coming back to him. “My secretary,” he says, his voice hued not with anger, but with disappointment—perhaps also guilt. He looks down at his hands, remembering. “She was kind to me but evil to the others, especially those she deemed were below her.” Hanni turns her face to meet his eyes. “You had a secretary? You were an important person, weren’t you?” He gives a small, dismissive shrug like he was shedding a heavy coat. “Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t, but I did have a secretary.”

The furrows on Hanni's forehead form sharp lines, each one accusing him of the same debacle that has ultimately led her to move to a different city. She leans back in her seat, putting distance between them. “Explain, Levi,” she demands, her tone accusatory, lacking warmth. “Are you one of those… flirty men?” The adjective tastes bitter on her tongue, but she deems it necessary to get it out there―before it’s too late, before she’s too far deep into it. Levi sighs, a hint of hurt crossing his face before he quickly schools his expressions. “No, I’m not. I promise you, I’m not,” he defends himself, his voice low and fiercely sincere. He briefly closes his eyes, as if reliving the pressure that he once faced. “I didn’t have a choice, alright? She was the owner’s niece, and there was absolutely no chance I could have said no.”

Hanni’s gaze drifts away from his as her mind processes the information, her teeth briefly worrying her bottom lip as she considers the implications of his actions. Then, she nods slowly as the harsh lines on her forehead soften, saying, “Alright, Levi. I believe you. For now, at least.” Inhaling deeply, Levi also nods, a visible wave of tension draining from his shoulders. “That’s good enough for me, Hanni. For now, at least.” She looks up at him, her brows rising in mischief. “That’s my line,” she says, a genuine, joyful laugh escaping her lips. She lightly smacks him on the waist, the hit light and fleeting. “Don’t steal my line.”

-

“Thank you for your time today, Miss Pham,” Christina, the interviewer, says, grinning from ear to ear, her enthusiasm and satisfaction at Hanni’s interview palpable. Hanni doesn’t feel the usual knot of dread in her stomach, only light anticipation. "We will reach out to you in 3 to 5 business days." The two women exchange smiles and nods as they shake hands, the air in the room charged with good prospect. “I look forward to it, Mrs. Lane.” With a final nod, Hanni leaves the interview room, her back straight but not tense, her steps rapid but not rushed, until she’s out of the building. Once on the sidewalk, she takes a deep, lung-filling breath of the city air, a triumphant feeling rising in her chest.

In the height of emotions, a mind crosses her mind: Levi. A giggle bubbling from her stomach as she rushes to the bus stop, her excitement barely contained. She needs to tell him the news—now. Lucky as she is, a bus happens to be pulling into the stop, the front suspensions pressing down as the large hunk of steel slows. Jumping in, Hanni slaps her card against the scanner, drawing the attention of the driver. “Easy there,” he teases, his light voice carrying amusement. “In a rush, aren’t we?” She bites her lip, a subtle flush creeping up her neck. “Sort of,” she evades, a secretive, small smile playing on her lips.

For the entirety of the ride, Hanni hugs her bag, resisting the urge to grab her phone. Earlier, Levi texted her, wishing her luck and asking to be told about the result, and the notification light is a siren song of temptation. If she opens her phone now, it will prove very difficult to avoid replying to his text. She needs to hold onto this giddy secret, keeping this information to herself until Levi is right in front of her. He gave her hope for a new start, and she wants to celebrate this victory with the person who helped her believe in herself again.

Getting off at an intersection, Hanni thanks the driver without looking, her mind focused on one thing and one thing only: the look of Levi’s face when he hears this secret she’s about to share. She skims the corner, a huge grin threatening to split her face. The familiar sign of BTDT hangs over the sidewalk, shining warmly under the natural light of the day. A brief run is all it takes for her to arrive in front of the door. She skids to a halt. The interior looks dark and empty from outside, with the chairs stacked and not a single warm light spilling from the counter. But she knows Levi is in—a current of air carries the pleasant, nutty smell of freshly roasted coffee beans, and whose doing is that if not Levi’s?

Looking to test the lock, Hanni lightly pushes against the front door. Her heart leaps when the door slides open, a gasp escaping her lips in reflex. Making sure the bell over it doesn’t get startled, she slips between the gaps, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She takes slow steps, letting the faint sound of music and the smell of roasted beans guide her. The air gets warmer as she nears a door marked "Staff Only" near the back corner. Soon, the sound and smell grow stronger, the latter particularly overwhelming her senses. "Where is he, though?" she thinks, her heart racing with anticipation, taking quick glances to find him.

Hanni takes a deep breath, mustering up the courage to push this limited-access door. Finding out quickly that the door isn’t locked, she keeps pushing it until her head can fit between the opening. There he is: the man she’s been tiptoeing to find. e’s sitting on a steel chair with one leg crossed over the other, his head hanging heavy, his mouth slightly open as he’s lost in a deep, unguarded slumber.

Tears pool in her eyes at the sight, her heart almost aching for him. How can she not when he’s wearing an old T-shirt with stains seeping deep into the fabric? How can she not when his cargo pants have holes in different spots and are so thin in some others? Everything about him today is such a stark contrast to when she first met him that night. Then, he was a confident host with polished smiles; now, he is just a man consumed by exhaustion.

Putting her belongings on a nearby shelf, Hanni closes the gap, no longer concerned about sneaking around to surprise him. She gets down on her knees before him, the warm tiles scraping against the bare skin, and whispers, “Levi, it’s me…” Her hand comes to rest on his knee, giving it small squeezes, trying to rouse him as gently as possible. At the double stimulation, Levi’s head slowly rises, his eyes gradually opening along the way. “Huh?” he mumbles, still disoriented from his rest. “It’s me,” she repeats, her thumb still stroking his kneecap. He blinks the remnants of sleep away, forcing himself to catch up to the present. “Hanni?” he manages, creases starting to form on his forehead as his mind registers her details. “But… the café isn’t open yet.”

Hanni’s lips curve into a wide smile, her eyes radiating with positivity, holding her excitement back before this sleepy man. “I mean, I’m not visiting as a customer,” she shrugs, her teeth fleetingly grazing her lip before letting it go, “I just want to see you.” Levi’s wits come back to him as he rubs his eyes, the lingering traces of exhaustion chipped away. “Okay? Why do you want to see me now?” Rising to her feet, she tilts his head up, cupping his chin gently so his gaze is locked onto hers. “I think I got it, Levi,” she says, and even with the lack of details, Levi picks it up without issues. “You did?” he asks back, his eyes widening with instant, radiant enthusiasm. “Was the interviewer that impressed with you?” Hanni chuckles, a surge of pride rising within, her chest almost puffing out. “It would have been hard to not be impressed by someone with this sort of accolades.”

Levi jumps out of his seat, the chair clanking against the floor as it’s tipped over, and he pulls her into a tight hug, almost suffocating her with how tight it is. “Hanni…” he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear. “Congrats. I’m so excited for you, seriously.” Hanni lets her eyes close as he softly rocks her left and right, the pleasant aroma of roasted coffee mingling in the air. “Thank you,” she whispers back, her arms wrapping comfortably around his neck, letting herself sink completely into his support. “You... you gave me a reason to keep believing—in myself and in others around me.”

-

"So, what now?” Levi asks, running a towel over his wet hair. “How about―” Her speech gets involuntarily interrupted, her mouth parting slightly as her breath catches in her throat at the sight of him combing his hair into a tidy slick back, the hairstyle that she’s grown very fond of. “How about what, Han?” he asks again, a hint of tease woven in the words. The way he chops her name right at that spot, making it sound like an endearment, is anything but haphazard. He raises an eyebrow slightly, a small smirk playing on his lips, as he waits for a reply. “Stop,” she protests, looking away right as a blush tints her cheeks. “I… I was about to say that we should get lunch together. Before I was so rudely interrupted.”

Placing the towel on his left shoulder, Levi pads over, his hands sinking deeper into his pockets as the urge to bridge the gap and touch Hanni grows dangerously strong—physical touch is his love language, after all. “Hanni,” he mutters her name softly, his frame towering over the seated girl. “Let’s get lunch. I’m hungry after all that roasting and grinding.” Turning her face around, Hanni doesn’t meet his eyes, her stare falling to the silver buckle of his belt, using it as an anchor. “Levi, is your soft tone reserved for me or am I sharing it with someone else?” she asks, suddenly finding the courage to air such a bold question.

His jaw drops at the sudden query, his heart thumping against the ribs in his chest. A cold shiver swiftly travels down his spine, a contrast to the warm weather outside. “Hanni, what is that question?" he murmurs, his palms begging to be released from the confines of his pockets. “I just want to know, because…” she trails off, testing the taste of some words before she lets them spill. She raises her chin, finally locking her gaze with his. Taking a slow, steadying breath, Hanni commits herself to the risk. “Because I think… I think I’m falling for you, Levi.”

A lump immediately forms in his neck, and Levi swallows hard, his throat suddenly feeling so dry. He takes a small, hesitant step back, widening the gap she just tried to close. “You’re… falling for me?” he echoes, in disbelief of what he just heard. “But… I’m no longer an affluent corporate guy.” Tears prick at Hanni’s eyes—his self-deprecation hurts her more than it does himself. She shakes her head slowly, a sudden, cold disappointment hardening her voice. “Levi, what are you saying?” she demurs, the words sharp with sudden heartache. “Are you seriously attaching your self-esteem on your wealth?”

Lowering himself onto a chair, Levi’s gaze is distant, his mind recalling the events from a past he once tried to bury. “That’s… that’s not what I’m saying,” he eludes, an explanation―or perhaps a protest―shaping up in his head. “It’s just that… you know, someone left me right after I had resigned from my corporate job, and… and I thought maybe I didn’t deserve love if I couldn’t provide the money.”

Tears flow down Hanni’s cheeks as she rises from her seat. Closing the gap he just created, she raises her arm and swings her hand with the full force of her heartache, the sharp, ringing sound of the slap echoing throughout the café. “Wake up, Levi,” she demands, her voice trembling with hurt. She cups his face with two hands—one hand stinging from the force, the other tender―guiding it towards her, demanding him to answer. “Please say no, Levi. Tell me I’m not like that woman.”

Looking deep into her eyes, he sees the desperation for validation behind her dark iris. "No…" he murmurs, the sound catching painfully in his throat. He swallows again, and his voice steadies. “No, you’re not like Elise.” His throat suddenly feels so dry. He hasn’t said that name in front of someone for nearly 3 years at this point. He barely remembers her face. But this bitter taste on his tongue is familiar. The feeling quickly recedes, though, replaced by the fierce certainty of Hanni’s eyes which demands his full focus.

“Elise…” Hanni echoes, her thumb stroking the flesh of his cheek. “Such a beautiful name. Too bad she let you down.” His hands come to wrap around her wrists, slowly guiding them away from his face. He holds her hands in his own, a protective, possessive grip. “Let’s not talk about her,” he pleas, blocking his mind from thinking about the past before it’s too late, before the memories come flooding back. “Look, why don’t we head out and clear our minds, hm?” Chuckling, Hanni nods to the suggestion, gently tugging Levi by his hand to pull him to his feet. “Sure, let’s… get some terrible, distracting food, I guess,” she suggests, a true, easy smile finally replacing her tense expression.

Stepping out of their little bubble and onto the sidewalk, Levi looks to his left and right, looking for a good place to take Hanni to. His hand automatically reaches for hers, their fingers lacing together almost without thought. “Hanni,” he looks down at her, and his breath catches in his throat. The way he looks back at her with this flat yet endearing expression sends a flush up his neck and cheek. “Yes?” she asks back, a smile growing on her lips once more. “No, I was just about to ask if you… erm, if you have any preferences?” he manages, his grip tightening slightly on her hand as his free hand comes to the back of his neck. “Anything, as long as it’s edible and we’re together,” she declares, no hesitation in her voice, but the heat in her cheeks betrays the calm she’s feigning.

Looking over his shoulder, an excited grin spreads on his lips. “How does sandwich sound to you?” Before Hanni can express her opinion, Levi starts running, dragging her along with her hand in his. “Hey, hey, wait!” she yells, her steps quickening to match his pace. Ignoring her plea, he finally stops at an intersection, turning towards her while his chest heaves with each breath. Their interlaced hands are sweaty, a hot, tangible connection. "Hehehe," he giggles, almost satisfied with how ragged he’s got her breathing. “Tired already?” Hanni smacks him on the chest at the teasing question, bending over as her hands come to rest on her knees. Her lungs burn, but her eyes are bright with laughter. “I… I just… didn’t expect to run like that…” she manages, her chest tight and heavy from the sudden cardio.

Levi lowers himself onto his knees, trying to peek at her sweat-covered face. “Hanni, honey,” he whispers, his tone dropping into a soft timbre. “We’re not too far now. May I carry you the rest of the way?” As her eyes widen, the tightness in her chest shifts from being one of exhaustion to being one of profound surprise. A dizzying, wonderful heat rushes through her, and her voice wobbles with the force of the feeling. “C-carry me? I... I don’t know—I mean, I’m... heavy.” A chuckle breaks out from him, the corner of his eyes creasing slightly as the grin reaches them. “I mean, I don’t think you’ll be heavy, but if you don’t want to let me, I won’t push.”

Straightening her posture, Hanni rests her palms on his shoulder, biting her lip nervously as she considers his offer. With a sigh, she eventually nods, but Levi isn’t satisfied with just a gesture; he wants to hear her say it. “Yeah, I… I’m okay with being carried―that is, if you promise to be careful.” Agreeing with her condition, Levi lifts her into his arms, sweeping her smoothly off the ground. Hanni’s hand instinctively finds purchase on his chest, feeling the subtle rhythm of his heart under her palm. She sighs, a quiet, soundless exhale of all her remaining tension. The pavement drops away, and she is suspended, weightless in his strength. “Look, I won’t even run, Hanni,” he assures her, his expression free of signs of stress from her weight. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure she's secure, their faces only inches apart. His gaze is fixed only on her face, only occasionally looking forward as each step takes them closer to the sandwich shop.

Along the way, Hanni keeps one arm anchored around Levi’s neck, her other hand never moving from his chest. As if lost in the moment, she doesn’t register how far or close they are from the shop, her world narrowing to a bubble of this 6-foot-something man and herself. But then, when her name leaves his lips, said in a soft whisper, she looks up at him. “We’re here,” he says, no complexity in his words. He glances past the window at the counter, acknowledging the attention with a slight, unconcerned smile, before returning his gaze to her. “Do you want to get off, or?”

Scanning her surroundings, Hanni’s eyes land on a woman attending the counter, whose amusement is evident in the way her hand covers her mouth to stifle a giggle. “I-I don’t know,” she says, her cheeks turning deep red. “Help me hide my face, Levi―please!” Levi’s arms stay solid as she shakes rather violently, letting out giggles at her mortification. He tightens his hold just slightly and presses a quick kiss to the crown of her head. "Okay, okay, relax now, girl," he murmurs, his tone soft but laced with amusement. Hanni’s jerks slow to a stop, like a mantra has been cast over her, and with a deep breath, she manages to meet his gaze. "Y-Yeah, sorry," she whispers, a final, rueful smile touching her lips.

Slowly dropping onto his knees, Levi help Hanni get on her own legs, his never-fading smile soothing her nerves. “Are we ready?” he asks, his hands cupping one of hers. “Yes,” she answers, fully settling on the ground, physically and mentally. “Yes, we are.” With a firm nod, he guides her into the shop, never letting her small hand go—not like she wants him to anyway. The bell over the door jingles lightly, announcing their official entrance into their first date. Perhaps this time, it'll be the start of something everlasting.

-

With their bellies and hearts full, Levi and Hanni hit the street once again, sharing laughter as they return to the only place they both know: BTDT, the silent witness to every moment they have shared. Keeping her attention to him, she often overtakes him with those light strides, twisting her head back to laugh at him, only returning to his side when he gives her a gentle tug of hand. “Careful, Hanni,” he says every single time, sounding more and more like a broken record with each repetition.

The walk back to BTDT is anything but long and exhausting, and Hanni is quick to settle on the seat by the window, the one spot that has become her new favorite. “Thank you, Levi,” she begins, the smile on her face unfaltering, as if etched on it permanently. “Food was good, and your company made it even better.” Levi falls silent, wondering if this is a good time to lay everything bare, if this is a good time to take his chance. The way his hands slip into his pockets is eerily similar to the way his mind is slipping into the depths of swirling thoughts. “Erm, Levi?” Hanni prompts, her head tilting to the right in confusion. “You… you okay?”

Blinking rapidly, Levi pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind; there’s something more pressing right now: BTDT needs to open in around an hour. He forces his gaze away from her eyes and toward the clock on the wall. “Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand, feigning ignorance to the blush on his cheeks, "I just realized that we need to open soon." A flicker of disappointment flashes on her features before Hanni masks it with a nod. “Do you think I can help around?” she asks, biting her lip nervously, her fingers fiddling with the end of her sleeve. “I can take people’s orders and serve them. I can clean up too. I won’t be dead weight, I promise.”

Levi’s crisp laugh bounces on the walls of the café, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes out of amusement. “I mean, sure,” he concedes without thinking twice. “I’d love to have an extra pair of hands around here.” Going around the counter, Levi pulls an apron from one of the shelves, the text “CLM” embroidered in the center of the chest. “You can borrow Chelsea’s apron,” he says, holding it in the air with a grin.

Hanni closes the gap, reaching for the brown apron that looks basically the same as his, her fingertips testing the feel of the fabric. Soft yet firm. Comfortable yet neat. Simple yet fancy. “So, Chelsea L. Morgan, huh?” she mutters, her forefinger grazing over the initials. “Mm-hm. Chelsea Lily Morgan,” Levi confirms, handing the apron over. “Dad wanted to give us the same middle name, but as you can probably tell, Leonard isn’t typically a girl’s name―nor is Lily a boy’s name.”

He steps closer, his presence warm and solid against her back, circling her to take the apron straps. “Maybe you’ll have your own apron one day, but for now, this is good enough, isn’t it?” Tilting her head back slightly, Hanni allows her neck to rest against his shoulder for a moment. “It will say HPM,” she murmurs, looking up at him over her shoulder. “Hanni Pham-Morgan.” Levi's hands, reaching for the straps, freeze mid-air. He looks down at her, the smile fading into a stunned, breathless astonishment that speaks volumes more than any laugh. “I like the sound of that. I really, really do, so God help me,” he says, no hint of doubt lingering under his voice.

Watching on as Hanni puts on the borrowed apron, Levi waits until he can have her attention again. “Hey,” he whispers, turning her around to face him. His hands rest gently on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her beneath his fingertips. “Call me slow, but… but I need to make sure that…” He trails off, looking deep into her eyes, searching for certain signs. “You need to make sure that… what, Levi?” she urges, her hands coming to clasp behind her back. “That you have feelings for me, the way I do for you,” he replies quickly, the words leaving his lips before anything can stifle them.

Her steady eyes slowly close, contemplating an answer, and eventually she simply replies, “I think I do.” There’s no nonsense behind it. There’s no unnecessary convolution. Only four words that don’t push the doors wide open but still give enough room for possibilities. She leans forward slightly, a silent promise in the gesture. “But… but I need time, Levi. I won’t give my heart to anyone else, but I need time to think―really think―about us.”

Levi feels joy draining away from his face, but he doesn’t press, doesn’t push. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “That sounds good, Hanni,” he says, forcing an understanding look. “Let’s take it one day at a time, hm?” Taking his hands off her shoulders, he takes a step back, looking around the interior over the crown of her head. “I’ll get some stuff sorted. Can you help me wipe the tables?”

Levi leaves right after Hanni offers a nod, but then she freezes in her spot, looking down at her blurred reflection on the floor tiles. “Hanni Pham-Morgan,” she says to herself, as if testing the sound of the name. “But… I’m not sure―” Metal clanking sounds barraging her ears yank her out of her momentary stupor. It sounds like someone knocked over an entire shelf of jugs and pans. “Sorry!” Levi yells over yonder. Keeping her eyes glued to the general direction of the sound, she yells back, “Careful there, love!”

The word slips out before her mind can process it. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in stunned realization. Much to her horror, the closed pantry door slowly opens, giving space for Levi to slip his head between the gaps. “My elbow hit the handle of a pan, and it sent things flying,” he explains, a silly, embarrassed grin taking root on his face. “Anyway, I’ll get this mess sorted. Start cleaning the tables, will you, love?”

Hanni lets her hand drop from her face, her pink cheeks laid bare before his eyes. “Y-yes, sir,” she manages, the blush burning her flesh. “Erm, where… where's the cleaning stuff?” Opening the door wider, Levi tilts his head towards a cabinet behind him. “In there, love.” With a sigh to ground herself, Hanni takes small, eager steps towards it, her heart pounding in her chest as she gets closer to him.

As she grabs a spray and cloth, Levi catches her trembling hand. “You’re eager to wipe everything spotless, aren’t you, love?” he teases, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Avoiding his kidding gaze, Hanni answers, “Yes. I’ll make sure everything is nice and shiny for our customers.”

-

One customer after another fills the café as Hanni and Levi find themselves lost in service, their world narrowing down to the ample space of the interior. The air hums with the hiss of the espresso machine and the low chatter of voices. Attending the counter with undivided focus, Hanni takes orders from the café patrons, stiffness now completely gone from her movements. A polite, practiced smile warms her voice. “Sorry, but we’re running low on the beef and cheese pastry―I think we only have, like, 6 left,” she says to a group of customers, looking at the warming shelf to her left.

Rushing towards the counter, Levi bends his knees behind her, his lips inches away from her ear. “Love,” he whispers, his warm tone carrying urgency. “Chelsea is on her way with more pastry. If they’re willing to wait, they can get some.” With a nod, Hanni forwards the message to the customers, their faces lighting up at the news of restock. Moving behind her, Levi places a peck on the back of her head, the scent of her perfume filling his nose as he pulls away. “Alright, I’ll get going now,” he whispers again, leaving her to fight the urge to blush in front of customers on her own.

Before long, Chelsea comes to the rescue, her hands full with two large containers of fresh-baked pastries, carrying them through the back door. She maneuvers through the narrow space, the clatter of the containers momentarily cutting through the low roar of the cafe. “My God, Levi, you’re doing happy hour or something?” she huffs, her forehead shining with sweat, her chest rising and falling with each quick breath. Chuckling, Levi shrugs, a satisfied warmth in his voice. "I think the new person at the counter called all the customers over.” Chelsea’s forehead furrows―a new person at the counter? Who?

Right as Chelsea is reaching for the door to the front, it suddenly swings open, Hanni stepping through the narrow gap. The two women scream in reflex, stumbling back a step as they cover their mouths and their eyes widen in shock. “H-Hanni?” Chelsea stammers, the surprise palpable on her face. Glancing at Levi, she quickly turns to Hanni again, her hand dropping from her mouth. “You’re dating Levi? You are, aren’t you? Oh my God, you’ve fallen for him already?” she barrages, her fingers digging into the latter’s shoulders.

Hanni can only wiggle along as Chelsea shakes her frame, her eyes curving into half-moons as she laughs freely. “Chelsea, I’m just helping him around the café,” she deflects, feigning ignorance to the blush on her cheeks. “Look, I’d love to explain everything, but the customers are waiting for the pastries.” Releasing Hanni, Chelsea rushes back to the pastry containers, her head turning left and right with abandon. “I’m looking for tongs and my… my apron,” she says, her forefinger lifted in the air, a habit that has persisted since childhood. “Tongs are in front,” Hanni replies, fidgeting with the end of her apron. "As for your apron…" she trails off, pointing at Chelsea’s initials on her chest. Chelsea follows Hanni's finger, looks at the "CLM" on Hanni's chest, then looks back at Hanni with her jaw slightly slack. “Okay, okay,” she laughs, almost nervous with the pace at which things are unfolding, “you guys need to slow the f down.”

Chelsea calls Levi over with a flick of her forefinger, and the twins immediately switch into work mode, their blue eyes radiating a similar kind of focus. They exchange a quick, silent look that relays an entire plan. “Twins don’t need to say words, huh?” Hanni wonders. “You, sister-in-law,” Chelsea points at Hanni, pulling her out of her trance, the tease hiding behind her intense gaze, “here’s what we’re going to do: I’ll attend the counter; you and Levi can run around the café. Does that sound good?” Hanni quickly nods, taking mental notes of the instructions, her probing hand finding the handle to the front. “Let’s go, then.”

The trio emerges from the backroom, and Chelsea is quick to put on a smile for a waiting customer. “Sorry for the wait,” she says, the tablet in front of her lighting up as it recognizes her thumb. “What can I get for you?” While she takes one order after another, Levi and Hanni travel around the interior of the café, their steps quick and nimble, moving around each other without collision, distributing coffee and pastry to patrons who are growing impatient.

“Sorry, Andrew. The pastry just arrived,” Levi says to a regular, his smile exaggerated. Behind him, Hanni places two beef and cheese pastries on a couple’s table, hugging the empty tray as she retreats. Not paying attention to where she’s heading, she bumps against Levi, yelping as she recoils from the impact. His hands immediately steady her waist before pulling away. “Careful, baby,” he whispers, his voice tight with a mixture of work-stress and affection.

-

The smile on Levi’s face doesn’t fade as one customer after the other leaves the café, and before long, the trio find themselves alone, the smell of coffee and pastry still thick in the air. “I’m going to the bathroom,” Hanni says, thus leaving Chelsea and Levi alone. Exchanging quick glances, the twins meet at the counter, crossing their arms over their chests.

“So,” Chelsea begins, pausing to choose the question to ask first. “She’s good, huh?” Levi chuckles, nodding to her question. “She is,” he admits, his shoulders holding no tension. “But is she good enough for you, Chels?” Sighing deeply, she lets her eyes close, her arms falling to the sides. “She is―but I don’t want her to be Elise all over again.” A pang of hurt twists his heart at her words, his lips twitching at the name she just mentioned, falling quiet and unable to answer. “I don’t have to remind you, do I?” she chases, seeking validation and confirmation.

Levi doesn’t need a reminder. The mention of Elise is enough. His breath catches in his throat, and the joyful, promising partnership he’s been sharing with Hanni is instantly clouded by the ghost of his past. “No,” he finally manages, his voice strained and hurt. “And I get what you’re saying―I really do. That’s why I want to… you know, be sure before I jump headfirst like before.”

Losing his focus, the painful memory of seeing his ex-fiancée walk out returns to him. He remembers everything she wore. He remembers everything she said. He remembers them all. “Elise wanted stability,” he forces out, the words catching. “And I couldn’t provide it for her,” he adds, the joy from earlier fully draining off his face. “Stop it with the self-admonishing,” Chelsea protests, her fist landing square on his chest. “Okay, I shouldn’t have brought up Elise―and I’m sorry for that―but you have to move on, man. The rear-view mirror is for glancing, not staring. We both know that.”

Fixing her grip on his arms, Chelsea looks deep into his eyes. “Look, Hanni is here for you, okay?” she begins, her sympathy for her twin brother clear in her voice. “She’s good for you, Levi―but you have to fight for her. Show her you mean the best. Show her you’re committed.” Right as the last words leave her lips, the backroom door splits open, Hanni stepping through the gaps, her eyes glassy under the interior’s warm lights.

“That’s true,” she says, her lips trembling slightly. “I… I’m here for you, but you have to fight for me.” A cold shiver runs down Levi’s spine, the admission reminding him of the “one chance” she’s willing to give him. “I only have one chance, right?” he asks, turning his face towards her. Hanni nods, the small gesture carrying immense weight, her eyes gleaming with hope. “One chance, yes, but I won’t wait forever.”

Hanni’s words hang in the air, a challenge to his commitment, but Levi doesn’t hesitate. Gently pushing his twin sister out of the way, he takes two steps towards her, closing the distance between himself and Hanni. “No, you won’t wait forever,” he mutters, his hand coming to rest on her arm, anchoring himself to the fragile hope of a relationship. “I… I’ll try to move quick for you, Hanni…”

Levi slowly leans in, quietly hoping Hanni won’t push him away. Catching the glimpse of Chelsea turning her back, he continues until his lips brush against her forehead, the contact sending jolts of electricity throughout their bodies. “I’m sorry, but… I had to,” he mutters, his racing, thumping heart betraying his whispered voice. “I know,” she whispers back, her fingers reaching for his face. Her thumb brushes against his lower lip. “But… my lips are down here, Levi…”

He hears the words, but his only response is a rush of heat and a sharp, sudden clarity. Levi finally drops his head the last few inches. Her lips are soft, unusually familiar, and taste faintly of the pastry that she took a bite in between service earlier. Their world narrows down to the gentle yet passionate contact of flesh. Everything else that happened within the last hour―Chelsea’s warning, Elise’s ghost, the rush of customers―fades to the background, laid forgotten in this moment of… rightness.

Chelsea can only watch as her twin brother latches on Hanni’s lips like they’re his lifeline, a small smile touching the corner of her lips―but they can’t kiss forever. “Ahem,” she fakes a cough, trying to get them to break apart. “Guys, I’m still here, you know.” Getting her wish, Levi pulls away from Hanni, his face slightly flushed, his hair just a little ruffled. He turns his head around, catching the sight of his sister. “Thanks,” he mouths. Flashing him a nod and a smile, Chelsea offers assurance that he’s making the right moves to the right person at the right time. “Anytime, dear,” she mutters back. “I’ll go now.”

Levi watches on as Chelsea steps out of the café, putting a lolly in her mouth as she begins to disappear from his vision. “What did she just put in her mouth?” Hanni asks, peeking around him to look at her. “A strawberry milk lolly―her all-time favorite,” he replies, staring at his sister’s receding figure. “That was my favorite, too, but I think I grew out of it.” Cupping his chin with a palm, Hanni turns him to face her, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. “Yeah, well, my lips are sweeter than any lolly in this world, wouldn’t you agree?”

Levi can’t help the slow, delighted grin that spreads across his face. Dropping his face once more, he kisses her again, quick and confirming. “Undoubtedly,” he murmurs, his lips hovering closely over hers. “And since you clearly win…” he trails off, piecing together a sentence in his head―something that leaves no doubt of his stance but also doesn’t press her. “Can we take a walk to the park? Maybe we can, I don’t know, sit on a bench by a pond and have a conversation.”

Hanni sighs contentedly, nodding to his suggestion. “I’m going to need a jacket, though,” she says, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Surely you won’t let me freeze in the night.” Leaving her side, Levi quickly snatches a sweater from under the counter, tearing up the plastic cover with ease. “This is fresh out of the laundry, I promise,” he says, offering the white sweater with a BB-8 graphics on the chest. A chuckle escapes her lips. “Is this your favorite co-pilot?” she asks. As he holds it open for her, she puts it over her body, the pleasant perfume from the laundry filling her nose. “A bit too big for me, but I like oversized sweaters,” she adds.

Slipping into the sizable sweater, Hanni lets the sleeves down her arms, her palms hidden beneath the cuffs, immediately feeling cocooned and safe. “It’s perfect…” she states, her voice soft but firm. She gives him a sweet, grateful look, confirming that this small gesture of warmth means a lot to her. As a sense of protectiveness rises within him, Levi nods, saying, “I’m glad you like it. That sweater is special to me.” Reaching a cuffed hand out, Hanni finds his forearm, her nails gently scraping his skin. “A special sweater for a special person, yeah?” Chuckling at her teasing remark, Levi nods, offering an open palm, inviting her to take it. “Let’s go, Hanni, before it gets too late.”

-

Levi leads Hanni to a steel bench by a small pond with water lilies floating around, the park light behind them casting a long shadow over the water. “Come here, please,” he taps the empty spot next to him, his eyes pleading, his tone gentle. Wrapping her arms around herself, Hanni takes the vacant spot, her knee brushing against his. Shaking off the initial shock from the contact, she scoots closer until their thighs meet, the sizes similar side by side.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Levi murmurs, his right palm finding a grasp on her thigh, gently stroking it over the fabric of her pants. Holding his hand steady, he takes a few deep breaths, settling himself in the comfortable, meaningful silence that is stretching between them. “So,” he begins, his eyes searching hers, seeking permission to state his mind. Finding it, Levi continues, steadying himself to finish his thoughts. “I… realize that we should start our relationship with a conversation, not a grand gesture that leaves us blushing. So, please tell me what you need to see from me, Hanni, because I want a relationship that we both design, not something that I force myself into.”

Hanni falls silent momentarily, only able to cover his resting hand with hers, her long gaze aimed at the calm surface of the pond. Sinking into her puddle of thoughts, she taps the back of his hand with her forefinger, buying herself some time. Levi doesn’t push, doesn’t repeat his words―he just sits there, waiting patiently, never straying his eyes elsewhere. The evening seems to narrow to a bubble with only the two of them, sharing a bench at the park with their shadows cast over the water. That frog croaking somewhere distant is the only guest in their microcosm.

“Levi…” she finally breaks the silence, finding a steady voice. “I need you to show up. That’s the number one priority for me.” Turning her face, Hanni holds his gaze, looking deep into him. “No matter how big or small something is, I want―no, I need you to consistently be there for me―be there with me, Levi. That’s the type of stability and security that I’m looking for. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” She squeezes his hand firmly, seeking assurance that it’s indeed not too much to ask, that he promises to always be by her side.

In her eyes, Levi sees not a demand for perfection; he sees a plea for reliability. Levi sees not an impossible challenge; he sees a sincere invitation.

In her eyes, Levi sees not a burden to bear; he sees a bridge to cross together. Levi sees not a test of his current worth; he sees a testament to her trust in a shared future.

In her eyes, Levi sees not a judgment of his past shortcomings; he sees a recognition of his efforts for the future. Levi sees not a mirror of his inadequacy; he sees a window to who he could become.

In her eyes, Levi sees not a weight that will crush him; he sees a purpose that will shape him. Levi sees not an expectation he must meet alone; he sees a partnership he can grow into.

In her eyes, Levi sees not the end of his freedom; he sees the beginning of his meaning. Levi sees not a loss of himself; he sees a discovery of who he's meant to be.

Levi wraps an arm around Hanni, pulling her flush against his side, leaning in closer until his warm breath softly caresses her ear. Taking a deep, steadying breath, the cool park air fills his lungs, no longer tasting of fear. "I'll be there for you, my love," he declares with no hesitation, no second-guessing, no shadow of doubt crossing his face. “I’ll always be there for you. I’ll be the man you can rely on, the rock you can anchor yourself to, the arms that will catch you if you stumble.”

Hanni's breath catches in her throat, and tears spill from her eyes before she can stop them—all because of the promise he's made. His voice, that gravelly low timbre of whispered assurance, is the most comforting sound she’s ever heard. She doesn't care that he's the reason for these tears; she'll gladly shed a thousand more if it means they can be happy, together, and happy together.

She quickly burrows her face into his shoulder, soaking his shirt with her unexpected tears. Levi presses his lips against her scalp, his free hand patting her back in a soothing rhythm. “I love you, Hanni,” he murmurs, a stray tear falling on his cheek. “I love you so, so, so much.” Grabbing a fistful of the fabric, Hanni lets it all out into his chest, her body shaking violently as each sob wrecks her. “I know, baby. I know,” he adds, his pats keeping their cadence. “You’re alright, love. You’re safe and cherished with me.”

Taking a final, shuddering breath, Hanni steadies herself, the tension leaving her body in a rush. “K-Kiss me, Levi Morgan,” she manages, lifting her head to offer her lips. Levi slowly leans in, his lips claiming hers in a tender kiss that tastes faintly of caramel. It’s not a kiss of desperation or hunger―no, it’s not that at all. It’s a kiss of profound peace, a quiet communication that seals every word and every promise that has been made on that very bench. The silence stretches, long and satisfying. When they finally break apart, Hanni rests her forehead against his, both of them breathing in the same, easy rhythm.

The cold, dampness of the steel bench finally begins to intrude, a gentle nudge back to reality. Levi squeezes her hand. “Come on, love,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you home. I think we’ve accomplished everything this bench has to offer tonight.” He stands up, pulling her gently to her feet, but Hanni tugs back at his hand in resistance. “Get me home? You meant ‘get us home,’ right?” A smile quickly grows on his lips, a flush of cheeks following closely behind. “Sure, if you think we’re ready for that stage,” he says. He tries to pull her again, and she complies this time. “We are, Levi. I know we are,” she confirms.

Once she’s on her feet, Hanni swiftly steps into his space, her body language confirming her words. “So, whose place is it? Mine or yours?” she pushes, crossing her arms over her chest, the gesture anything but menacing. “Mine for tonight,” Levi answers confidently. He knows his place is clean and presentable, and Hanni will have no problem settling into it. “Oh, but before we go―do you want to get a new toothbrush first? I think we’re skipping the ‘packing an overnight bag’ stage and jumping straight to the ‘sharing closet space’ stage.” Hanni bursts out laughing, the sound bright and clear in the quiet night air. “Surely you keep fresh toothbrush at your place, hm, Levi? I think we’ll be fine.”

-

Placing his keycard against the scanner, Levi takes a deep breath as the lock unlatches, slowly pushing the door open. The lamp on the ceiling switches on automatically, the nature-identical glow warm. He steps to the side, showing Hanni a glimpse of his apartment. It is tidy, minimalist, and smells faintly of lemon. “After you, love,” he says, his hand on her back encouraging her to take a step inside. As Hanni mutters a thanks, she puts one foot through the door, quickly kicking off one shoe before kicking off the other.

She steps onto the cool, polished floor―it’s not wood that she’s stepping on; it’s made of concrete, molded and painted to look like wood. The surface feels dense and incredibly solid beneath her socked feet. Turning her head towards him, she lightly stomps on the floor, as if testing the solidness, asking, “Levi, is this not expensive?” Levi grins, shrugging it off as the door closes behind him. “Normally, yeah, but I got a discount. I think it was around 50% off―the company was about to go under, you see.”

Leading her further into the apartment, Levi’s palm finds the familiar, comfortable spot on her back, but he slides it downwards a bit more, finding purchase on the curve of her spine. “The kitchen is over there,” he points his forefinger, “and next to it is an extra bedroom for when Chelsea comes over.” Nodding along, Hanni takes in the sight of the interior―it’s clean and relatively organized, the scent of lemon slightly stronger now. “That…” Levi continues, his eyes aimed at a closed door across the space, “that’s my bedroom. Perhaps it’ll be ours soon, though.”

Hanni smiles, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder in acceptance. “Your place looks good, Levi,” she mutters, her breath evening out as the quiet comfort soothes her. “But you know what can make this better Pulling away, she looks up at him, their faces only inches apart, her eyes wide and inviting. “What?” Levi asks back, the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. “We can make this better if… we could lie down somewhere…” she adds, her whispered words almost alluring. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nods, his eyes never leaving his. “You want to lie down somewhere?” he echoes, lost in her gaze. “What about... lying down in our bedroom?”

He doesn’t wait for a verbal answer; he leans in, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. Hanni’s wide eyes crinkle with an undeniable, satisfied smile. She doesn’t need to speak. Levi takes her hand, the grip tender yet sure, and slowly leads her toward the closed door across the space—to the room he has just renamed "ours." The simple act of walking together feels monumental, the start of their new, stable rhythm.

Levi releases her hand just long enough to turn the handle, letting her see inside. The dim light confirms that the room is just as tidy as the rest of the apartment. As she steps inside, he follows behind her, gently nudging the door closed behind them. Wrapping his arms around her from behind, Levi rests his chin on her shoulder, his ears noting the quick rhythm of her heart. “Are you nervous, love?” he asks, his arms tightening slightly, offering an anchor to attach herself to. “I am, yeah,” Hanni admits. “How can I not? This is my first time doing something like this.”

The silly smile drops from his face. “First time?” he thinks, cold sweat breaking from his forehead. “Hanni, dear,” he calls, trying to not sound surprised. “Did you say this is your first time?” Turning around in his arms, Hanni hooks her arms around his neck, nodding solemnly, her request for him to be gentle and patience loud in her silence. Levi’s racing heart slams against his ribs, but he maintains his steady grip on her. “Yeah, alright,” he finally breaks the silence. “We’ll take this slow, okay? Let's make this about us.”

Lowering his head, Levi rests his forehead gently against hers, paying acute attention to the pace of her breath. Hanni is getting calmer by the minute, the tense nervousness draining out of her body, and she eventually lets out a sigh, the sound entirely relieved. “Yes, love, that’s it,” he assures, placing a quick peck on her lips. “Now, let’s take a few steps backwards and get in bed, hm?” With her consent, Levi shifts his weight, moving them towards the large bed.

As they close in to the destination, Levi releases Hanni from his arms, giving her space to climb into bed on her own. Putting one knee on the mattress, she looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes asking for permission. “Go ahead, love,” he mouths. “From now on, it’s ours.” With a deep breath, she puts her other knee on the mattress, the springs compressing slightly under her weight, before… letting everything go and face-planting herself. Levi’s heart leaps out of his throat at the sudden sight, but when her laughs start to echo throughout the bedroom, the relief is quick to replace the shock. “Okay, maybe not like that,” he blurts, shaking his head in amusement, even as his heart is still pounding in his chest.

Rolling onto her back, Hanni reaches her arms out in invitation, her legs also rising from the bed. “Yes?” he teases, a playful smirk playing on his lips. “Hmph,” Hanni grunts, her pout frivolous. “This is our day one, and you’re already so insensitive.” Shaking the jacket off his shoulders, Levi climbs onto the mattress, the springs compressing under their joined weight. With a peck to her forehead, Levi fills the space between her spread limbs. “Is this what you want, baby?” he whispers, his breath soft on her skin. “Physical touch is your love language too, isn’t it?” Hiding the subtle blush on her cheeks, Hanni presses her face into the crook of her neck, the collar of his T-shirt still smelling like coffee. “Well, that looks like a yes.”

Gently settling his weight, Levi envelops her fully, letting the comfortable silence stretch in this dim bedroom. Hanni pulls him closer by his shoulders, her body finally relaxing completely against his. “Levi…” she whispers, one palm coming to rest on his cheek. “You’re making this so easy, you know…” Touched deeply by the praise, Levi’s eyes simmer with unshed tears, the urge to release them growing strong in his chest. “It’s only easy because of you, baby…” he whispers back.

Pulling back slightly, Hanni looks deep into his eyes, as if searching for clues or directions. With a slight crease on his forehead, Levi hums a question. “Are we… calling it a night?” she manages, her eyes darting all over his features, taking in every detail. “We’re not doing anything else?” The creases on his forehead deepen, but they quickly fade when Levi catches on to the true intention behind the question. “Are you… are you thinking about… about making love?” His question is whispered, reverent―not demanding, not entitled.

Looking deep into his eyes, Hanni slowly nods, her teeth grazing her bottom lip, a clear sign of her nervousness. He takes a deep breath at her silent confirmation, blood rushing down to his manhood, but before he lets go of the controls to the growing urge within, he asks once more, “Are you sure, love?” Again, Hanni nods, this time looking more convincing than before. “No, say it, please. Let me hear you―let me hear what you’re really thinking about,” demands Levi. Her hand coming to settle on his chest, Hanni’s lips slowly part, the confirmation he’s yearning for ready to spill out. “Yes, I am,” she states, leaving no room for doubt. She doesn’t look away, her eyes shining with profound trust and desire to connect at a deeper level. “But I need you to be slow and careful, Levi. This… this is my first time.”

He carefully lifts her hand from his chest and presses a gentle peck to the back of her hand. His stare, usually so light and expressive, now shine a darker shade with tenderness and devotion to the woman who has captured his heart in a way that no one else has. Leaning in, he claims her lips, not with hunger, but with the simplicity of a promise. A promise to be slow and careful as she asked. A promise to fully be present in the moment. A promise to cherish every breath, every trembling heartbeat, every whispered confession that passes between them—to honor not just her body, but the fragile trust she's placed in his hands. The conversation is now over. The future has now begun.

Carefully freeing himself from her embrace, Levi sits up, pulling her along with him. “Love,” he mutters, the rumbling timbre of his voice warm in her ears. “Do you need help to undress, or?” The question hangs heavily in the air, each person hanging on to each other by their hands. Letting go of his hand, Hanni grips the end of the sweater, slowly pulling it up and over her head. As his eyes begin to catch the sight of her bare waist, Levi’s hands move to claim it, his fingertips digging lightly into the flesh. “Easy, baby. Take it easy,” he whispers, his voice low and controlled.

As Hanni continues to expose herself to his gaze, her breath hitches, but she does not stop. She keeps pulling the sweater up until her bra becomes the only thing providing cover for her top. “Levi…” she rushes, searching for comfort and assurance in his eyes. “Is… is this okay?” Ducking his head, his lips brush against her forehead, the touch feather-light. “You’re okay, love,” he murmurs against her skin. “You’re more than okay.”

She tucks her head under his chin, hooking her fingers into the waistband of her pants and pushing them downwards. Levi’s eyes widen as his eyes capture a tantalizing peek into her underwear, his heart bumping against his ribs. He swallows hard, his hands coming together on her back. Feeling the quickening, deep beats of his heart, Hanni presses her cheek firmly against his chest, as if emboldened by his reaction. Inhaling the comforting scent of him, she lets his quick heartbeat guide her, and before long, she’s down to her underwear.

Taking a ragged breath, Levi slips his hands down, pulling his own clothes over his head, letting them join hers on the floor. He pulls her closer, the bare skin of his chest warm against her cheek. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his arms beginning to tremble around her body. “We are, Levi,” she gently corrects him, her lips finding his Adam’s apple. “We are beautiful. This love is beautiful.” Levi closes his eyes, pressing his cheek against her hair, and whispers, “I agree, and we can make this more beautiful.”

He carefully lowers her onto the soft mattress, following her down, and the bed accepts their joined weight with a soft sigh. Levi doesn’t speak again. He looks into Hanni’s eyes, conveying every promise of patience and reverence in a single, profound gaze. Pressing a final, slow kiss to her lips, signifying the start of the next, most sacred and intimate chapter of their commitment, Levi frees himself from the confines of his pants, shivering slightly when the cold bedroom air blows by him.

Hanni clasps her hands on the nape of his neck as Levi settles between her thighs, her unspoken trust loud in the quiet air of the bedroom. Her breath catches in her throat when his fingers hook into the waistband of her underwear, but she doesn’t freak out, doesn’t even move an inch―she stays still underneath him, even when her heart is slamming in her chest. Levi lifts his head slightly, his gaze seeking hers for one last, silent confirmation before he moves. She answers by tightening her hands on his neck.

With a deep breath, Levi steadies himself in her presence, fully focusing on the sacred moment of their first time. Slowly, carefully, he moves his hips forwards, the tip of his manhood poking at her untouched womanhood, the contact sending jolts of electricity through both. Hanni bites her bottom lip as she waits for him to claim her―to be her first and last. When her flesh begins to part for him, she grits her teeth, bracing herself in front of uncertainty, as the only fact known to her right now is that it’s going to hurt. Her hands, still clasped on his nape, tighten their grip, anchoring her fear to his strength. Seeing the strain on her jaw, Levi whispers a word of comfort against her temple, a plea for forgiveness for the pain to come.

Closing his eyes, Levi guides himself deeper into her core, his left hand squeezing the pillow her head is resting on, a testament to his struggle to maintain control of his body. His heart aches at her whimpers, each one feeling like a stab to his stomach, but he’s determined to see this through. For Hanni. For himself. For a shared future for which they yearn so deeply.

Finally, her flesh relents, letting him take her innocence, marking the honor with an ooze of crimson. Levi goes completely still, his entire focus returning to Hanni's face. Her whimpers slowly subside into small breaths against his neck, and his grip on the pillow quickly releases, his hand moving to gently cradle her cheek. “I love you, Hanni,” is the first thing he says, each word accompanied with a small, testing push of hips.

He presses a tender kiss to the side of her temple, waiting for her body to accept his presence. “I… I love you t-too…” she manages, tears falling down the sides of her face, the overwhelming pain of a first time gradually getting replaced by the sheer joy of utmost intimacy. Shifting her head just enough, Hanni meets his gaze, and though her eyes are still wet, they are shining with a profound mix of gratitude, love, and admiration for the man between her legs.

Fighting through the lingering discomfort, Hanni makes a decision for them, sliding her hands from his nape to his lower back, gently urging him forwards. Levi understands. With a reverence that never wavers, he begins to move, their bodies finally finding the slow, careful, and perfectly stable rhythm they have been fighting all night to design. Her pained whimpers are now gone, replaced by pleasured moans that flow oh-so-effortlessly at every rock of hips.

As they continue to lose themselves in the sea of intimate pleasure, something begins to coil in Levi’s stomach, each passing second making it tighter and impossible to bear. “H-Hanni… I―” he stammers. Hanni nods in both understanding and urgency, a similar thing building up within. “Inside,” she whispers against his lips, no hesitation in her muffled voice. With an intense shudder that ripples through his entire frame, Levi lets everything go, his essence flooding her insides. The heat from his release has Hanni’s eyes rolling backwards, her hips jerking beyond her control. The powerful rhythmic movement fades instantly, leaving only the sound of their gasping breaths.

With a final, ragged groan, Levi collapses forwards, his weight settling heavily atop her. Hanni arches against him one last time, a long, tremulous sigh escaping her lips. Shifting his weight, Levi uses his elbows to keep his weight from crushing her, his forehead resting on the pillow next to hers. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. He simply holds her close, feeling the slow, satisfying thrum of their shared exhaustion. Hanni reaches up, her fingers gently tracing small circles on his temple, a silent confirmation that the future has truly begun.

Noticing Levi’s attempt to remove himself from her core, Hanni squeezes his cheek. “Don’t―please, don’t,” she begs, unwilling to feel emptiness after such fullness. “I’m just worried that it still hurts,” he reasons, but she doesn’t accept it. “Please, Levi, just… just stay with me for now.” Each word striking deep in his heart, Levi yields, keeping his manhood sheathed in her freshly deflowered womanhood, each pulse of flesh so deeply intimate. “Alright, love, we’ll stay just like this, okay?” he confirms while offering a smile, and Hanni accepts this one.

-                                 

Waking hours later, Hanni finds herself lying atop Levi, still intimately connected exactly like how they went to sleep. She wiggles her waist slightly, testing her own body, and gets a faint sting of ache between her legs. At the tingling sensation, Hanni quickly presses her face into his chest, hiding her blush from her sleeping lover.

His arm, draped securely around her back, immediately tightens in response to the movement. “Han―” he murmurs groggily, the last syllable of her name disappearing in the huskiness of his voice. “Levi…” she whispers back, waiting for his sleepy eyes to find hers. His grip on her tenses, pulling her flush against his chest. "Mm, are you alright, love?" Hanni nods her head against his chest. “Just… just full… you know, down there…” she says, her blush deepening with each word.

Levi chuckles, a low, warm sound rumbling in his chest. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, anchoring her there. “Good,” he murmurs against her hair. “That’s good. But we should clean up soon, no?” Knowing there’s no other card she can play right now, Hanni simply nods. “Y-you’ll take care of me, right?” He smiles, the gesture simple but enough to answer her question. “That looks like a yes,” she thinks. She’s safe. More than safe.

Securing his arms around her body, Levi sits up and slips out of bed, his movements careful and unhurried, his legs awake enough to take them both to the bathroom. Sensing the way her walls are letting him slip out, Hanni pushes herself down, keeping him snug in her core and thus eliciting a soft sigh from him. “You love me so much, don’t you?” he teases, stealing a peck from her temple. “Or perhaps you just love my―” Hanni’s palm on his lips smothers the rest of his razz, her flushed cheeks subtly visible under the dim lights. “I just… I don’t want to let go,” she defends. “I know, baby," he murmurs, his voice soft. "But I need to get you clean, and we can’t do that if I’m always inside you like this."

Pushing the bathroom door open, Levi takes the final closing steps towards the dry bathtub, carefully lowering himself to his knees on the smooth surface. With a soft, slow slide that’s neither painful nor jarring, he finally slips free from her warmth. “Oh, baby…” he muses, his eyes landing on his manhood. The tender mark, the undeniable proof of her first time, coats his length. A flicker of ache crosses his features, but he quickly schools it away. “That must’ve hurt a lot, hm?” With a deep breath, Hanni nods slowly, her empty core feeling like a physical hole in her frame. “That… that was necessary, Levi,” she counters gently. “For what we’re about to build together.”

He leans her back gently against the cool, smooth wall of the tub. “And we’ll build it strong, love,” he promises, his hand finding the skin of her thigh. Finding his wrist, Hanni guides his hand towards her freshly taken womanhood, a quiet request to be taken care of. Levi notices a speck of ruby on the tip of his forefinger, and a resolute resolution quickly forms in his head. “Alright, love. We’ll get you cleaned up, okay?” She watches on as he leaves her in the tub, her gaze fixed on his straight, firm back as he moves to find something to clean up with. "My God, what a man to fall for..." she muses to herself.

He wets a small towel and returns to the tub, dipping his hand between her legs. “Excuse me, love…” he carefully taps her entrance, his hand shaking as he fights to control his movement, “tell me if it hurts, okay?” A soft moan escapes her lips at the first contact, her thighs flexing before quickly relaxing again. “It… it doesn’t hurt, love…” she confirms, letting her legs spread wider. “Keep going, please…” With a small nod, Levi continues his care, tapping at her flesh with feather-light touches, making sure he doesn’t use the part that has been marked by the carmine.

When he is satisfied, he gently dabs the last of the moisture away. "There you go, love. All clean." He kisses her knee, a soft, final gesture of care. “I don’t think it’s wise to shower while it’s so cold, so let’s rest first and shower later, mm?” His jaw drops, his heart sinking even deeper, when tears break out of her eyes. “Erm, l-love?” he stammers, his limbs freezing at the sight of her tear-streaked cheeks. “No, no, it’s okay,” she assures, patting her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s just… I’m overwhelmed. In a good way. In the best way.”

Levi melts. He gently pulls the back of her head to his chest and holds her tight. “It’s okay, my heart. Thank you for telling me.” He then reaches down and, with the ease of a man lifting his most precious, most cherished treasure, scoops her into his arms. Locking her limbs around his solid frame, Hanni rests her head on his broad chest, the way back to the bedroom fading to the back of her mind. She doesn’t have to worry about anything else―not when she’s in his arms. This is stability. This is safety. This is love.

At his whispered words, Karina stirs, a sigh―of relief and perhaps of something more―escaping her lips. Her eyes flutter open, finding him staring back at her with a smile. “Ollie…” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. Lacing her fingers with his, she brings his hand to her lips, pressing a peck to the back of it. This is it. The life he always imagined, the love she always craved, right here in the chilly bedroom, on this peaceful morning.

Her giggle breaks the comfortable silence, and her sudden touch on his cheek sends a small jolt of electricity through him. “Ollie, why did you wake me up?” she teases, mischief in her voice, eager to take another step in this new intimacy they’re sharing. “You know I need a good reason, like breakfast.”

A soft flush rises on Oliver's cheeks. He looks past her, toward the window, a chuckle escaping his lips. He can't believe how easy she makes it to be vulnerable, to be happy, and he can’t believe he let this wonderful woman walk away five years ago. “I mean, breakfast is definitely due,” he begins. “But for now, I just want to… you know, lie here with you―well, unless you’re that hungry already.”

As Karina stretches languidly, a wince of pain crosses her face, a sharp ache from the previous night's passion echoing through her. “Ow, ow, ow,” she grimaces, cupping her butt with both hands. “You alright, love?” Oliver’s voice is soft with concern. “It’s just… my ass hurts, Ollie,” she grumbles, pressing her face into the pillow. “And it’s all your doing.” Oliver's lips twitch. A soft groan escapes his own throat as he recalls the passion of the previous night. It was so pleasurable, yes, but now that she’s hurting like this… it makes his chest ache, a sharp twist of guilt for causing her discomfort, his hand hovering over her lower back as if he could somehow soothe the ache.

Oliver's gaze drops, his eyes blurring as he gets lost in his own guilty thoughts. “Ollie, my love…” Karina whispers softly, her hand finding his, their fingers tangled together. “Hey, I regret nothing. I wanted it, and you gave me exactly that. No need to blame yourself for the… aftermath.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nods, letting her words lift the burden off his shoulders. “Alright, love. I’ll take your word for it,” he relents, letting himself smile in front of her. “But next time, we’ll prepare better. I don’t want to hurt you like this again.”

A soft smile touches her lips. “And how would we prepare next time?” she asks, playfulness and curiosity mixing in her voice. “A pre-lovemaking stretch routine?” Karina winks at him, and Oliver laughs, the rumble rich and warm in the room. He leans closer to her, placing a peck on her temple. “That’s a sound idea,” he whispers, using one finger to brush her hair back. “Maybe we can take things slower too―you know, savor the sensations and all that. What do you think?” The mischievous glint in her eyes fades, replaced by something softer, a look that tells him she understands the full weight of his concern. Instead of answering with words, Karina lifts herself off the mattress and kisses him, a gentle touch of her appreciation for his patience, his commitment to prioritize her comfort. “Yeah, we can take things slow, love,” she confirms, placing another peck to his lips. “Now, you owe me breakfast.”

Hooking his arms underneath her body, Oliver carries Karina out of the bedroom, her body only covered by the blanket they shared last night. She tightens her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his chest. “You smell so good, Ollie,” she murmurs. A blush quickly makes its way to her cheeks, realizing that she’s never been this close to him; to feel his skin on hers, to inhale his scent, to feel his heart beating against her cheek.

He freezes for a second, a flash of surprise giving way to a warmth that spreads through his entire body. She's so open, so completely herself with him. It's an honesty he never expected, and it makes his chest ache with a kind of overwhelming affection. He bites his tongue, holding back a laugh. “You smell good too, love,” he whispers. “You know, considering the fact that you were sweating like crazy last night.” She grunts, her voice muffled against his neck, then pulls back to look at him with an exaggerated pout. “How could I not sweat like crazy, Ollie—it was my first time taking a man in my ass.”

Oliver finally lets out a laugh. The hallway, usually only filled with his tired groans and frustrated laments, is now filled with echoes of a softer sound. Stopping before reaching the dining table, he looks down at her, his gaze full of gratefulness for the woman in his arms. “Thank you, love. For everything. I love you so, so much,” he declares, his tone loving yet firm. There’s not even a flicker of doubt that Karina is the perfect woman for him―not after spending 4 years together in university and 5 more looking for her, chasing her ghost. “And I know actions speak louder. I’ll always show you how much you mean to me.”

A gasp escapes her. No one has ever said anything like that to her—not like this, with so much history and so much hope. She looks up at him, her eyes blurring with tears, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb. “Ollie…” she murmurs, her voice trembling with emotions. “I… I’ll show you how much you mean to me too. T-that’s―” As her dams finally break, Karina trails off, unable to finish her words.

She clings to him while her body shakes violently, letting everything that’s been weighing her down for the past five years. Finally, after five long years, she can stop wondering if she could find someone who truly cares about her, if she could find someone with whom she feels safe, if she could find a love that can conquer all. The answer is Oliver, in whose steady arms she’s crying, in whose hands her heart rests, in whose mind her future is a constant focus.

The sobs wrack her body, but Oliver just holds her, his arms staying solid for her, letting her release five years of pain and doubt. When her tears slow to a stop, he offers a smile, the gentle curve of his lips enough to soothe the frayed chords of her heart. Blinking the single tear away, Oliver refuses to let his own emotion derail her moment of peace. “You have such good intentions for us, don’t you, love?” he asks, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. Karina takes a deep breath and nods, the gesture short but genuine. “You deserve the best of me, Oliver,” she says, her voice still a bit shaky. “The same way I deserve the best of you.” She quickly wipes her cheeks, removing wet traces her tears have left behind. “Breakfast now, please, before I break down crying again.”

Oliver nods, his smile widening into a relieved grin. "Breakfast it is, my love.” As he takes the final few steps, the weight of her body now becomes a comfortable ache in his arms. He gently lowers Karina onto a kitchen chair, putting a cushion underneath for her stinging private parts. He gets down on one knee beside her, and says, “I have some leftover mac and cheese in the fridge, love. I can heat it up and make some garlic bread. How does that sound to you?” Karina squeals as a wave of excitement rises within her; those two items are her all-time favorites. “’Mac and cheese’ is my middle name,” she lets out a light chuckle, “and my new last name is Drake. Isn’t that right, Mr. Drake?”

Oliver laughs, the sound filling the kitchen with an easy warmth. He pushes off his knee and stands, leaning over the back of her chair to kiss the top of her head. "Damn right, Mrs. Drake," he murmurs, his voice full of promise. "Now, let me get to work, hm? I’ll be done before your next heartbeat." Turning towards the refrigerator, he pulls open the door but then stops, glancing back at her. The air feels different, as if charged with possibility. "Seriously though," he says. "Is this real? Are we really doing this?"

Karina quickly takes a breath. “Look at me, Oliver,” she demands, her voice steady and clear, and he slowly turns to see her. “You found me again after five years. You saved me from a bad relationship. You took my ass for the first time in my life. And I’m here, sitting in your kitchen with nothing on my body but your blanket. Yeah, we’re real, and we’re doing this. We’re absolutely doing this.” A shiver runs down his spine at her bold declaration, his lingering hesitation swept away by her words. “I like the sound of that, baby. I really do,” he answers, his tone regaining the usual firm edge.

With her confirmation in his mind, Oliver returns to the task at hand of cooking for her, pulling a large container of mac and cheese from the fridge. "Okay," he says, setting the container on the counter with a purposeful thud. “We’re doing this, and that means you’re staying―you know, like actually staying.” Karina leans back into the chair, a wave of calm sweeping over her. No protest or rebuttal even forms in her head; she is fully, finally prepared for this. “Yeah, I’m actually staying,” she confirms. “But we’ll need to go shopping soon. I don’t have clothes. Left them all at Minjoon’s place.”

He shrugs, a wide, easy smile on his face. "I don't mind you not wearing anything, honestly. If anything, it makes things easier for when I’m… you know, hungry for you." Karina smiles, finally getting that type of want she’s been craving from a partner. “Sure, Ollie. If you say so.”

Soon, the hum of the microwave begins, filling the comfortable silence. Oliver walks over to the bread drawer, pulling out a loaf and a stick of butter. He starts slicing the bread, his movements efficient and familiar. Karina just watches him, the steady rhythm of his hands and the simple act of him preparing food for her settling deep into her bones.

A faint meow steals her attention. She turns to the sound: a fluffy, perhaps also fat, cat pawing at the glass door to the back garden, its tail twitching impatiently. “You have a cat, love?” she asks, the endearment rolling off her tongue with no hassle. “No, that's the neighbor's cat,” Oliver says, his brow furrowing in concentration. He looks up at the ceiling, then back at the cat. “His name is...” He snaps his fingers. “Ah, Alfred!”

Karina giggles. "Alfred?" she repeats, the name sounding ridiculously dignified for a cat so clearly in need of attention. With the blanket still draped around her, she slides off the chair, and tiptoes to the glass door. As soon as the door slides open, Alfred wastes little time to head straight in, acting like a homeowner and not a guest. "Hello, Alfred," she greets him, her voice a gentle murmur. Stopping his steps, the cat falls on its side with a broken meow, wiggling his paws, as if calling Karina over.

Kneeling, she sinks her fingers into his fluffy, sun-kissed fur. “Mm, needy, aren’t you? You love attention, don’t you?” she muses, making a mess of his fur with her hand. Alfred closes his eyes in pure bliss, enjoying the touch of this stranger, perhaps already thinking about replacing Oliver with Karina. Squealing at his positive reaction, Karina presses her fingertips deeper into the cat. “Oh my God, you’re so cute!”

Oliver watches her from the counter as Karina plays with Alfred, a wave of affection washing over him. It's so simple, this domestic scene: her, him, the scent of mac and cheese, and a very demanding neighbor's cat. "You know," he begins, his voice a little strained. "I heard something crazy once. That a cat's fur can... well, that it can make a woman infertile." A frown quickly takes root on her forehead as she turns towards him. “Ollie, Professor Reiss had 2 cats and 4 children,” she protests, her pout exaggerated. He chuckles, shaking his head as the memory comes back to him. “You’re right, actually.”

As Karina rises to her feet, Alfred rolls into a loaf, tucking his feet under his belly, his round eyes never leaving her. “Oliver, love…” she mutters, taking light steps towards Oliver, her mind racing with the idea of being a parent. “Are you… do you think we will have children one day?” His heart swells in his chest. This is it. The conversation he didn't even know he was waiting for. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulls her against him as if to absorb the full weight of her question. He holds her tight for a moment before placing a tender kiss on her temple. “I hope so, baby,” he whispers back, his warm breath gracing her cheek. “You’ll be a good mom. I just know it.”

She leans into his chest, the warmth of his body comforting. "Really?" she murmurs, her voice muffled against him. "You think so?" He nods, a firm, sure movement. "I know so, Rina. It won’t be easy, obviously, but we’ll always try our best." He pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands coming up to cup her face. "But that’s for the future, yeah? Right now… right now, we just have each other.” Nodding slowly, Karina steals a peck from his lips. “We are all we’ve got; we are all we need. That’s what we used to say,” she says.

-

Sliding off his seat, Oliver rushes to the other side of the car, offering a hand to help Karina get out. “Mm, what a gentleman,” she quips, taking his hand, her movement easy as if practiced. He grins, his eyes curving into half-moons. “For you, always,” he says.

He takes her to the front, the ruined lobby still a disarrayed mess. “Never knew a Mustang could destroy a building this bad.” Oliver sighs, rubbing his forehead, stress etched into his features. Quickly turning to Karina, he looks deep into her eyes. “Can we sue him, baby? I could use some millions to fix all this.” A cold shiver runs down her spine at his question—the thought of possibly having to face Minjoon in court is simply unsettling. “Sure,” she squeezes his hand firmly, seeking comfort, “just… get some good lawyers, love.”

As they ascend the steps in front, they see the ruined floor of the lobby—the tire marks, the shattered glass covering it, the chandelier that's barely hanging from the ceiling, and Drake Defense’s “restricted access” tape stretching across two pillars. “It’ll take so long to repair everything,” he mutters, tiny pieces of glass crunching under his shoes.

She swiftly moves in front of him, looking up at him with genuine sadness. “Ollie, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.” Clinging on to his blazer, Karina lets out quiet sobs, guilt threatening to swallow her whole. “I… I should have not given him a chance.” Oliver closes his eyes, a wave of hurt washing over him. “No, baby. You did what you thought was best for you. It's not your fault that things didn't pan out,” he whispers, his quiet tone offering reassurance. “We’ll sue him, take his money, and get things back together. Meanwhile, Drake Defense will relocate somewhere else.”

Having had enough of his solid chest, Karina lifts her face, catching a shadow on the pavement over yonder. “Someone’s here,” she murmurs. A muscle in her jaw twitches, and she instinctively tightens her grip on his blazer, her heart beginning to pound a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Oliver pushes Karina to hide behind him as he turns around. Putting on a serious face, his gaze scans the figure. He can't make out the features under the mask, but the way she holds herself—so still and silent—is more unsettling than any overt threat.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice measured. The woman pulls her mask over her head, the sight makes Oliver’s jaw go slack, a cold shock hitting him. It’s Minji. She has found her way back to him after just one night. Compared to how fast she is to find him, his 5-year journey to reunite with Karina looks embarrassing. “Is that really you, Minji…?” Minji’s lips slowly curve into a smile, nodding with glee, seemingly relieved to see Oliver again. “Yes, Oliver. I, erm… I wanted to find you as soon as I could,” she says.

Oliver can feel Karina trembling behind him, her grip on his blazer a silent testament to her nerves. He keeps his gaze locked on Minji, not daring to look away. “You look okay,” he begins, hesitating for a moment. “The club didn’t hurt you for last night, right?” She lifts one sleeve up her arm, the fresh bruise on her wrist indicating a blunt impact. “Got a little souvenir from my manager,” she answers, her voice breaking slightly. “But other than that… I’m okay. "Would’ve been better if you had enjoyed my company, though. Maybe then I wouldn't have had to get this." She gestures to the bruise, the implied meaning hanging heavy in the air.

Sighing heavily, Oliver guides Karina out of hiding, still not letting go of her hand. “Love, this is Minji. The… erm… lady companion from Minjoon’s club,” he starts, his palm pointed at Minji. “Minji, this is Karina. My university sweetheart.” The two women exchange hesitant smiles and brief nods, their eyes, however, searching and sizing each other up, unsure of what to make of the other. Minji's smile is tight, a fragile mask that doesn't quite hide the pang of jealousy in her heart. Karina’s smile is also tight, an unsteady veil that doesn’t quite hide the tingle of confusion in her head.

Oliver’s hawk slices through the awkward silence, turning the women’s heads to him. “Rina, my love, may I have a minute with Minji?” he asks, his words carefully selected. She nods wordlessly, offering one last smile before heading out of the ruined lobby. As Karina walks by her, Minji looks down at her feet, unease twisting in her stomach―the last thing she needs right now is an enemy, and Karina is the last person she would like to have as an enemy. She wraps her arms around herself, a silent attempt to make herself smaller. “Minji,” Oliver calls to her, his voice almost devoid of affection. “Follow me, please. Let’s talk.”

Oliver leads her to a corner of the lobby behind the elevator, where the broken glass is less of a threat. He stops, turning to face her, giving her his undivided attention. "Minji," he says, his voice softer now. "I saw the bruise on your arm. I'm sorry about that." Minji looks at him, surprised by his shift in tone. "It's… fine," she mutters. “You shouldn’t be concerned about me anyway. You have that lovely lady, and I’m just… a nobody.” A pang of guilt, sharp and sudden, twists in his gut. A nobody she claims to be, but no one is ever just “a nobody.”

“No, you’re not a nobody, Minji,” he grips her shoulders firmly, “you saved me from slipping into a hole, and for that, I owe you.” A shiver runs down her body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. For years she’s been in the nightlife industry, the darker side of society, and every person she’s met, man or woman, always speaks of her like she never matters. But now, in this wrecked lobby, a man she barely knows offers her an assurance like no one else ever did.

Her eyes, wide and startled, search his face, as if trying to find a hidden motive. “Oliver, you…” she begins, a protest forming in her head, her voice trembling. “You can’t say that. You can’t say that to a stranger. You can’t say that when you already have someone by your side.” Words tumble out of her lips, her mind rushing to get everything out before she breaks down. “Please, Oliver, don’t give me too much hope―I can’t have the world crash down on me again.”

He releases her shoulders, taking a small step back. The sudden distance feels immense. "You're right," he says, his voice soft. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." Minji looks up, surprised by his apology. "I'm not asking you to trust me or hope for something that isn't there," he continues, his gaze steady. "I'm just saying... no one deserves to be hurt. Not by a manager, and not by life. And I'm sorry that's been your experience." He gestures to the lobby around them, a sad smile touching his lips. "It's all a mess, isn't it? All this shit just to find my sweetheart again…"

Her gaze sweeps over the wrecked lobby as if seeing her own emotional devastation reflected in the shattered glass and debris. “Karina, is it?” she murmurs, wiping her teary eyes in a rush. Chuckling, she continues, “I wish I had a name that cool.” Turning her blurry gaze back to him, Minji swallows a gulp, desperately holding her tears back. “Anyway, I think my time is up. Karina might want to have your attention soon," she says, her voice now flat and professional, as if flipping a switch.

Oliver rushes to grab her hand as she turns away, gripping it harder than intended. “Before you go,” he says. “Can I offer you a job at Drake Defense?” Letting her eyes close, Minji lets out a heavy sigh. “What about Karina? She might think you’re fooling around with me behind her back,” she protests, looking at him over her shoulder. “I… I, erm…” Oliver stammers, the question catching him with his pants down. “Heh, I knew it,” she blurts. “You’re quick with words, but perhaps you should think as quickly too.” Minji turns to him fully, staring deep into his befuddled eyes. A flicker of something unreadable—perhaps pity or exasperation—crosses her face. “I appreciate the offer, though. I’ll think about it.”

Oliver's cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he doesn't let go of her hand. "You're right," he admits, his voice low but firm. "I didn't think it through, but I'll make this clear: I'm not trying to mess around with you, Minji. I'm trying to help you. The job offer is real, because I would love to have a secretary. And if you take it, I'll be completely open with Karina about it. Every step of the way. She deserves that, and you deserve a chance at breathing some fresh air.” At his pleading gaze, Minji nods one last time, pulling her hand away from his, as if the warmth of his touch was too much to bear. “I’ll think about it, Mr. Drake. I promise you that,” she says. He watches her go, the feeling of her hand, of her promise, lingering in his.

Minji soon disappears from his vision, leaving Oliver in this ruined lobby surrounded only by the shattered glass and sunlight that’s slipping through the cracks. As his eyes roam the scene ahead of him, they land on a woman sitting by the window at a café across the street. “Karina,” he thinks. “Need to talk to Karina.”

Slipping his palms into his pockets, Oliver walks out of the lobby and heads towards the café across the street. Sensing his approach, Karina looks to her left, offering a small, hesitant smile as she watches him crossing the street. She puts one leg over the other as he pads over to her table, clasping her hands on her knee rather demurely.

“That was more than a minute, Ollie,” she quips, her eyebrows rising in teasing mischief. She smiles, a soft, unwavering smile that holds no anger or jealousy, only a quiet certainty. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. We… erm, we had some things to talk about, but things have been addressed as necessary,” he explains, his tone gaining that corporate-like edge.

He immediately regrets the stilted language, feeling the distance it creates between them. “I’m sorry. You’re my partner in life, not some secretary at Drake Defense,” he sighs, rubbing the creases on his forehead, “anyway, let’s not think about Minji anymore. I’m not in the mood for this.” Karina chuckles, the sound almost sarcastic. “I mean, I wasn’t thinking about Minji,” she protests. “It’s just you, Ollie, and you’re projecting.” Leaning forward, she adds, “Some things just never change, huh?”

He sighs, a low, defeated sound, and sits down in the chair across from her. He doesn't say anything, just reaches across the small table and takes her hands in his. He lifts them to his lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against her skin, the words a quiet promise. He looks at her, the woman who sees right through him, and feels a wave of pure gratitude. With her, he can always be himself. With her, he can always be honest. “It’s okay,” she mouths, her calm smile not just for him, but for herself. She can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight of the day—and the past five years—lifting from him with this small act of honest affirmation.

-

A ding of specific tone, reserved for the closest people at the company, rings from Oliver’s phone. He blinks rapidly, shaking off the lingering remnants of sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning, director. Your new assistant is waiting for you in front of your office.”

A shiver of nervousness, the same feeling that kept him sleepless last night, runs down his spine. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. The chauffeur’s eyes, visible in the rear-view mirror, flicker with a silent question. “Everything okay, sir?” he asks, his voice a quiet, concerned rumble. “Yeah, yeah. Just… get me to the office quickly, please.” The chauffeur nods, turning his attention back to the road, his foot pressing down harder on the gas pedal. “Of course, sir.”

The car soon pulls to a stop in front of the sleek, glass building, a replacement of the old, ruined one. He takes a deep breath and steps out, his corporate demeanor already in place. As he walks through the lobby, he sees her waiting by the elevators. She’s wearing a crisp, professional-looking blazer, a stark contrast to the clothes she had on a few months ago. He walks up to her, feeling the weight of the moment. "Good morning, miss," he says, his voice flat. "Welcome to Drake Defense. My name is Oliver Drake, but you already know that."

Minji offers a small, tight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Drake," she says, her voice as crisp and professional as her blazer. "I'm ready for my first assignment. Tell me what you need, and I'll get it done." She keeps her gaze steady, her posture unyielding. She is no longer a woman whose world revolve around liquor and drunk men; she is a woman who is ready to prove herself. “Oh, and my resume is on your desk, might I add,” she adds, offering another smile. A resume. A symbol of a life she never had, now offered as a testament to the new one she's building.

Tilting his head to the side, Oliver invites Minji to follow him, having her chase his rapid, trained steps until they reach the elevator. She stands beside him as the elevator descends from a higher floor, biting her lips as she keeps her eyes glued to the number above the door. “Nervous, Minji?” he whispers, stealing a glance, trying to gauge her emotions. “I mean, yeah,” she admits, letting a long sigh escape her lips. “How can I not? I mean, working a new job at a new place… I’m allowed to be nervous, I think.”

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. They are not alone. A small group of employees is already inside the elevator, their faces a mix of surprise and curiosity. Their eyes dart between Oliver and the new woman with the professional blazer, and they just stand there. The air, already thick with tension, becomes even more so. Oliver feels the weight of the moment, the unspoken questions in the tiny space.

“Good morning, everyone!” he quickly greets them, diverting their attention to him and only him. The employees make awkward nods as they get off the elevator, giving Oliver and Minji some private space. “I wonder where they’re going,” he murmurs under his breath, his quiet tone betraying his thumping heart. “Erm… g-getting breakfast, perhaps?” she stammers a guess, her fingers twisting the end of her blazer as if trying to physically ground herself. “S-some people need food to… erm, to kick their day off.”

Oliver leans against the elevator wall, the polished surface throwing his image—one of anxiety and tenseness—right back at him. “What about you, sir?” Minji asks, suddenly getting so formal, perhaps looking to calm herself behind a sense of professionality. “Do you prefer having breakfast before work?” He chuckles, nodding to her question. “I do, but as you probably also know, someone already takes care of that every morning,” he answers, his hint at Karina’s presence in his life anything but cryptic. “Although, maybe I’ll ask you to get me breakfast. Who knows if Karina might not be in the mood to prepare breakfast for me?”

A small, bitter smile touches Minji’s lips, so brief it’s almost gone as soon as it appears. She looks down at her new shoes, shiny in all their glory, then back at him. “Oliver, do you think I deserve such a… domestic life? Do you see me living a life like that?” Shifting his stare from his reflection to her, Oliver nods, his hand coming to rest on her back. “Of course. You have to find the right person to share that life with, though. Not everyone can appreciate domesticity,” he answers.

Noticing her slumping her posture, accepting his reply, Oliver continues. “You deserve a life with quiet mornings and shared breakfasts. You deserve to be seen, to be cherished, to be loved. Everyone does. Again, you just have to find the right person.” He looks at her, his gaze holding hers. “Just promise me, Minji, that no matter what happens, you will never work at a club or any shithole like that ever again.”

A shiver of surprise runs through her, but she doesn't pull away, doesn’t try to separate herself from him. Instead, she looks at him, her eyes searching his for any hint of dishonesty. “You're serious about all this, aren't you... Mr. Drake?” she mutters, her voice trembling as her eyes begin to water. “I’m just keeping it real with you,” he affirms, his tone steady, his palm dropping to the small of her back, the warmth of his hand a comforting weight against her. “If that equals to being serious, then yes, I’m serious.”

The elevator dings, signaling their arrival to their destination, and as the doors slide open, Oliver offers one more uplifting remark. “I know you can do this, Minji,” he says, moving his hand from her back to her shoulder. “I know you’ll do well. All I ask is that you try.”

Finding a new sense of resolution in the depths of her heart, Minji nods, a new firmness in her expression. She raises her hand to cup his, holding it steady on her shoulder as if to anchor herself in his unwavering belief. “I will, Mr. Drake. I will always try my best. I owe you that much,” she replies, a stray tear slipping out of her eye. He smiles, a deep and genuine smile that finally reaches his eyes. “Good,” he says, and he lets his hand fall to his side, letting her face her new life on her own terms. “Let’s go, then. We have things to do.”

Minji follows Oliver out of the elevator, her steps carrying not only her body, but also a profound sense of responsibility, of a chance to change her life, of an opportunity to simply do and be more, her chin held just a little higher than it had ever been. Whenever she sees him nod to a passerby, she nods too, like a pupil following her master. She doesn’t concern herself with potentially raising questions or starting rumors; she knows they will, but for the first time, she doesn't care. She's here to do her best, and people will learn to respect her the way she deserves to be respected.

Oliver leads the way to his office, the large double doors swinging open to reveal a clean, minimalist space with floor-to-ceiling windows. He gestures at the desk and chair opposite his own. "This is your space," he says, his voice now fully professional. "My calendar and inbox are synced to yours. I have a call in twenty minutes with management, but after that, we can go over your duties. Oh, and by management, I meant my dad. This is a family business, after all."

Minji nods, her gaze taking in her new space. Padding over to her desk, her new shoes clack on the polished floor, and she feels a sense of belonging for the first time in years. “Wow…” she mutters, her fingers gently grazing the back support of her chair. “Everything looks so… new and shiny…” Oliver keeps his eyes glued to her, his lips curving into a soft, amused smile. “I had someone take some unused monitors from the storage, but other than them, everything is indeed new,” he explains, tracing the shape of the thin bezel with his index. “Well, I’ll leave you to check out your things. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

Minji nods once more, her hands finding the desk and tracing its smooth surface. "Thank you, Mr. Drake," she says, her voice full of quiet resolve. Watching him walk to his desk, her gaze lingers on his back for a moment before she turns her attention to the two computer monitors. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and she begins setting up her computer, placing shortcuts on the main screen as she so desires, her past now just a distant memory. This is her new life. This is her first day. She is going to make it count. For dear Mr. Drake. For herself. For the “more” that she will become.

Heading out to the balcony, Oliver pulls out his phone, finding the only number that is important to him right now. Just before pressing the dial, he glances at Minji over his shoulder, chuckling at the sight of her: her forehead is furrowed, her eyes are darting across the screens, and her lips are stuck open. Everything serves as proof that he’s not misplacing his trust. “You’re almost adorable, Kim Minji,” he murmurs. “Almost.”

Oliver presses the dial button, the tone ringing in his ear as he looks out at the city skyline. Karina answers on the second ring, her voice a calm, welcome sound. "Hey, you," she says. "Everything okay?" He takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says. “Everything's perfect, my love, but I have to tell you something." He doesn't hesitate, launching into a full explanation of everything, from Minji’s display of vulnerability to her genuine wow at her new workstation. He leaves nothing out, and as he speaks, the weight of the moment gradually lifts from him, replaced by a profound sense of honesty and relief.

“Sounds like things are going well for the former lady companion,” Karina assesses, a hint of jealousy lingering underneath her controlled tone. “It looks like it, yeah,” Oliver answers, perhaps a little too quick, too eager. “What about you, love? Anything interesting in the…” he pauses, glancing at his watch, “in the past two hours?” He tries to open another topic, to steer Karina away from asking more about Minji, to make it about her and only her. “Honestly, I went back to bed after you left.” A laugh vibrates through the call, the sound warm in his ear. “I’ll look to clean around the house. I promised to do at least one thing every day, didn’t I?”

He laughs, but the sound feels hollow, even to him. "That's great, baby. I'll see you for lunch, maybe?" he offers, trying to sound casual. "No," she answers, her tone clipped, devoid of the warmth he needs. “Go have lunch with Minji. I’ll order food online.” He knows he messed up. He knows she sees through him, always. "Karina, my love, I'm sorry," he says, the words a quiet confession. "What are you sorry for, Ollie?" she asks, the coldness in her voice nearly enough to freeze the blood in his veins. “You know I hate empty apologies.”

Oliver takes a deep breath; yeah, Karina does hate empty apologies. “At this point, just everything,” he begins, his racing heart pushing him to be completely honest. “I’m sorry for going to that club. I’m sorry for not finding you sooner. I’m sorry for hiring Minji as an assistant.” The rapid-fired apologies hang heavy, no other sound heard from either of them apart from their own beating hearts. For a minute, Oliver stays silent, his grip on the phone loosening, a testament to the true weight of the situation.

“We’re going to talk later, Ollie,” Karina finally breaks the silence, her tone softening. “Yes. Yes, we are,” Oliver replies hastily, his spirit lifted at the offered chance of honesty and clarity. “I’ll tell you everything. No secrets, only truth and accountability.” A soft giggle is heard from the other end of the call. It's the laugh he remembers, the one full of easy warmth. It's the sound of a woman who is ready to forgive, but only after she gets the truth she deserves. “I’m looking forward to it, my love,” she says. “By the way, you’ll make it easier for you if you bring two large pizza home.”

Oliver lowers the phone from his ear, a slow smile spreading across his face. She’s giving him a chance. He knows what he has to do. He can already picture it: her, sitting on the couch, waiting for him, and the two of them eating pizza while he tells her everything. He tucks his phone into his pocket and walks back into the office, his step lighter than it’s been. He glances at Minji, who is still hard at work, and an idea crosses his mind.

“Baby―wait, no, that’s―” Oliver clears his throat, raking a hand through his hair as if to dislodge the words, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Minji, order two large pizza for me to take home and one more for our lunch, please.” Minji stays silent, her eyes peeking over her monitors, the implication of his instruction hanging in the air. “Our lunch?” she thinks, but her thought is derailed by his voice. “Minji, did you get that or not?” he asks, hoping that she’ll let the slip of tongue slide, that she’ll pay it no mind. She blinks rapidly, scrambling to find a pen and a sticky note. “Erm, yeah, I got it. What pizza do you want, sir?” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Oliver answers, “one tuna and corn, one beef pepperoni, and one artichoke, please.”

Minji finally finds a pen and scribbles furiously on a sticky note. "One tuna and corn, one beef pepperoni, one artichoke," she recites, her voice now flat and professional. "And that's three pizzas total, for... for lunch and… home," she says, her gaze flickering to his for just a second. He just nods, a tense silence hanging in the air. He knows she saw his red cheeks. He knows she heard the slip. But for the sake of their new professional relationship, they are both choosing to pretend it never happened.

-

The landline on Minji’s desk rings… and rings… and rings―she’s not registering the sound, too deep into her own little world, too detached from her surroundings. “Minji,” Oliver calls her, capturing her attention, and she instinctively straightens her posture. “Yes, Mr. Drake?” she asks, her eyes gleaming with clueless innocence. He simply points at the device. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.”

Minji promptly glides her chair over, looking at the flickering screen. “507? JSW? Who?” she thinks, blinking emptily, completely unfamiliar with the number and initials. Pushing her doubts to the side, she picks it up, barely doing so in time before the other person hangs up.

“Good afternoon. This is Kim Minji, secretary to Mr. Oliver Drake,” she says, her mind now primed to hear instructions or announcements. Oliver leans back in his chair as Minji continues the call, dropping what he’s been doing for the past few hours to watch her. He catches her eyes darting around, her lips twitching at random intervals, but he lets her be―he lets her cook, as today’s kids say.

After a train of “alright” and “okay”, the call ends with Minji placing the handset back in its initial place, drifting her chair away from the phone. Rising to her feet, she hugs herself, a puzzled look on her face as if she's holding a riddle she can't solve. “Yes?” he says softly, lowering his tone as to not stress her. “The pizza is here, sir. You know, the two for home,” she informs him. “But can I ask whose number is 507, because it only said JSW?” A warm, genuine chuckle escapes his lips, a sound of pure amusement. “You didn’t bother to ask, Minji?” he asks back, his eyebrows rising almost teasingly. “Well, since you didn’t ask, that’s Jung Suwon, head of general affairs.”

Oliver's smile softens. "It's okay," he says gently. "Next time, don't be afraid to ask questions. You're not just a voice on the phone; you’re my secretary. You represent the face of the company. So, if you don't know something, ask. Asking questions isn’t forbidden at Drake Defense, Minji." Minji's eyes widen slightly at the unexpected reassurance. A sense of relief washes over her, a quiet understanding that she is in a place where it's okay not to know everything, where it's okay to still be learning. “I understand, sir,” she offers a brief half-bow, her hands clasped politely on her stomach, “I’ll go get the pizza now.”

Before long, Minji returns with two cardboard boxes of pizza stacked on top of one another, her expressions more relaxed than earlier with a small smile playing on her lips. “Mr. Drake?” she calls to him, her tone light with a cutesy rise at the end. Oliver shifts his attention to her and nods; she’s taking steps in the right direction. “Thank you, Minji. Place it over there, please,” he directs, pointing at a shelf on which his bag rests.

Having placed the pizza on the shelf, Minji goes not to her desk, but to Oliver’s, her hands clasped so tightly behind her back that her knuckles are white. “Mr. Drake… Oliver…” she murmurs, the name feeling foreign on her tongue, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “May I… have a bit of your time?” He scans her expressions, his gaze settling on her eyes, which are wide and earnest, looking for any sign of mischief, and finding none. He can see a hint of the same woman from the club, but there’s a new… vulnerability he hasn't seen before. “Sure. What do you have in mind?” he asks, turning his chair to face her.

Minji undoes the bun of her hair, letting it fall freely over one shoulder, all shiny and smooth, before sinking onto her knees before him. “Hey, hey, what is this?” Oliver keeps his eyes on her, his heart racing in his chest, each bump sending shockwaves through his entire body.

“Oliver…” she begins, murmuring his name like a prayer. “I don’t know if this is a good start, but I’d like to thank you. For pushing me to leave that club. For hiring me and giving me a chance to rebuild my life.” Oliver stays quiet as her hands find real estate on his thighs, caressing his flesh through the smooth fabric of his trousers. “Can I thank you... in a special way?”

Inhaling sharply, Oliver lets out a heavy, shaky exhale. His mind is urging him to say no, but his heart, nearly entirely consumed by curious desire, is urging him to let things play out. She looks up at him, her eyes dark and unreadable, and her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “You’re not rejecting, Mr. Drake…” Minji continues, her fingers inching dangerously close towards his pelvis.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Oliver's breath hitches. He looks down at her, at the raw hunger in her eyes, and a different kind of hunger stirs in his own heart. He thinks of the five years of loneliness, of the time spent in the dark. He wants to say no, to be the man he promised Karina he would be, but in this moment, with her kneeling before him, his resolve wavers. He closes his eyes, a defeated sound escaping his lips, and he whispers, "Minji... what’s your plan, really?"

Minji's smile widens slightly. "My plan?" she whispers, her fingers finally resting just below his belt. She looks up at him, her eyes dark and serious. "My plan is to give you what you deserve, Mr. Drake. What you’ve earned for helping me turn my life around." She cups his covered bulge, her fingertips tracing the shape of him, and she murmurs, "Don’t worry, Mr. Drake. I might be aroused, but I’m not cruel. I won’t ever use this against you.”

Oliver's breath hitches, his mind and heart locked in a desperate, silent battle. He looks down at her, at the darkness in her eyes, and a different kind of surrender settles over him. He lets out a defeated sound, his body going slack. He closes his eyes, thinking of the five years he spent alone, the years of cold silence. He tells himself it’s just this once, a quick moment that can be forgotten. "Just this one time, Minji…" he breathes, his voice barely a sound, his body a silent confession of a momentary defeat. “No more after this…” Minji's knowing smile spreads wider. “Sure, Mr. Drake. Just this one time and no more,” she echoes, her whispered voice dripping with lustful venom.

His belt unlatches with a click, the sound bouncing off the walls of this opulent space, signaling the point of no return. Leaning back in his chair, Oliver tries to relax, to let her do her thing. That is, until her fingers graze his covered manhood, the sudden contact forcing a groan out of him. “So big…” Minji murmurs, tracing the shape of him, putting pressure to the strained flesh. “I bet your missus screams when you fuck her. Shit, who wouldn’t, right?”

Her provocation angers him, and as if a switch in his mind has been flicked, Oliver grips her head firmly, his fingertips turning white on her scalp. “Don’t talk about Karina like that, you dirty―” Slut. That’s what he wants to say, but the word isn’t coming out―only an empty grunt that carries no weight slip through his lips. “Dirty what, Oliver?” she taunts, a hint of teasing in her tone, almost relishing his outrage. “Say it. My ears are open for you.”

Silence stretches in this vast office. While his words fail him, his actions don't. A cold fury consumes him, and with controlled strength, he shoves her away. "Out," he snarls, his voice low and guttural. "Get out, now." Minji stumbles back, a look of pure shock on her face. Her wide eyes stare at him as if she's looking at a stranger. He stands up briskly, his chest heaving, his body shaking with rage. His palms are tucked deep into the pockets of his trousers―for her safety more than anything else. The silence in the room is deafening, filled with the violence that just took place.

Closing his eyes, Oliver takes a slow deep breath before releasing it just as slowly, repeating it multiple times to lift anger off his own chest. “I’m sorry, Minji,” he begins, his lips shaking with remnants of his emotions. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.” He kneels before her, offering an open palm and a smile. “May I help you get up?” Minji’s eyes flicker between his hand and eyes, the shock of getting the brunt of his fury. She slowly reaches for his hand, her own trembling, and as his fingers wrap around hers, she realizes it’s not a gentle grasp—it’s a vise. A yelp of surprise and fear escapes her lips as he yanks her forward. “We will pretend this never happened, and no one will hear about none of this. Am I understood, Kim Minji?” he whispers, his breath searing her ear. “Y-yes, Mr. Drake. N-nothing happened between us.”

Oliver slowly rises to his feet, and with her hand in his, helps Minji stand up. She looks down at his shoes, not daring to look into his eyes, fidgeting with the end of her sleeve, while he straightens his suit. “Minji, hey,” his hand comes to rest on her shoulder, his touch losing its edge and weight, “go home, hm? It’s late already, and my lovely woman is waiting for me at home.” She nods wordlessly, a single stray tear flowing down her cheek. “I will pretend I didn’t see that,” he says, perhaps too quickly, too tightly. “Good evening, Minji. See you tomorrow morning.”

-

With a heaving chest and sweating hand, Oliver turns the knob of the front door, the light from inside filtering through the gap. “I’m home, and I have pizza,” he murmurs as he comes in, closing the door behind him with a click. Hearing the sound, Karina peeks out of a corner, welcoming him with a smile. “Hi,” she mouths, a smile gradually blooming on her features. “Welcome home, my love.”

Karina walks towards him, her smile unwavering, and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a gentle hug. He closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of her embrace, but the memory of Minji's touch is a ghost between them. He has to tell her. He pulls away, his eyes filled with raw sincerity. "Karina," he says, his voice low and serious. “We need to talk.”

Taking a deep breath, Karina nods. She knows that Oliver wouldn’t demand an audience unless it’s serious. “Okay, Ollie, but surely we can have dinner first?” she says, glancing at the stacked boxes of pizza in his hand. “Or we can talk while having dinner?” Her willingness to give him the time and space for a conversation warms his heart, the heavy guilt feeling lighter already. “Sounds good, love,” he agrees, getting a jolt of energy to renew his promise of honesty. “I’ll tell you everything about today.”

They sit on the couch, the pizza boxes open between them, the aroma of pepperoni and cheese filling the air. He takes a bite, but the food tastes like ash in his mouth. He puts the slice down and looks at her. "Love," he begins, his tone measured, careful, hesitant. “I think… I should begin by telling you why I came home an hour late.” His mind begins to race, but the words get stuck in his throat. He just stares at the forgotten pizza on the table, his fingers tracing a pattern on the cardboard box, a desperate attempt to find a starting point for his story.

Karina’s hands come to rest on his wrist, her touch bringing him back to her, saving him from drowning in his own sea of thoughts. She applies light pressure on his knuckles, making them pop under her skilled fingers. “Just tell me, Ollie. I promise I’ll listen, but you know I might still lash out,” she says, a promise and a warning mixing into one. “I’m ready when you are.”

Oliver looks at her, the panic in his eyes slowly subsiding, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude. She is his anchor, his safe harbor in a storm. He doesn't say a word―he just reaches for her hand, intertwining their fingers, and brings it to his lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. He doesn't need to speak. She already knows. He can see it in her eyes—the sadness, the fear, and the unwavering love. Most importantly, the unwavering love. It was for this love that he spent 5 years chasing her ghost, anyway.

He takes a deep breath and begins. "It was Minji..." he shakes his head, as if physically shaking off thoughts about Minji, “she tried to give me a blowjob.” Stealing a quick glance at her, Oliver tries to gauge her reaction, only finding her staring blankly at his hand. While her fingers don’t stop massaging his knuckles, the movements feel… weightless. “But she talked trash about you, and that triggered me to push her away,” he quickly adds, trying to clear his name while hiding the part where he thought about letting her suck him off.

Eventually, she stops, her hands slowly moving away from his. Reaching for his chin, Karina turns his face towards her, searching for something to cling to from his features with her shiny eyes. “Ollie…” she mumbles, her whispered voice so fragile, so hurt. “Are you… are you interested in Minji―you know, in that type of way?” Pulling her hand away from his cheek, Oliver places a peck on her palm. "No, I'm not. Not at all," he rapidly fires his denial, each word tight and firm, a desperate attempt to cement his own loyalty to her, “you’re my first love, and I’m never going to replace you with some woman I barely know.”

With a heavy sigh, Karina rises from the sofa, quickly pulling her cascading hair into a tight bun before settling on her knees before him. “Did she tie her hair into a bun like this? Did she kneel between your legs like this?” she asks, her hands coming to rest on his knees. “Y-yes, my love. J-just like this,” he stammers out of pure nervousness, perhaps also fear. He feels his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his chest tight with panic. Karina keeps her eyes locked with his as she reaches for his belt, undoing it with a sharp click that cuts through the air. “Did she undo your belt too?” she asks again, her fingertips digging into the waistband of his trousers.

Karina leans closer, her face now inches from his, her eyes never leaving him. “So, when did everything go wrong, Ollie? When did you decide that the line must be drawn, because this is pretty fucking far already?” she asks, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, her fingers tracing the shape of him over his boxers. Oliver’s body goes rigid, a shiver, not of desire but of cold fear, running down his spine. He feels like a cornered animal, with no escape. But she doesn't wait for him to respond. "Tell me exactly what she and you said, word for word. Tell me everything, or I’m leaving." The words are a direct challenge to his incomplete confession.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and the words, once stuck in his throat, now begin to flow. “M-Minji said something about my size and that she thinks you… erm… scream when we have sex,” he answers, his voice an unsteady murmur. “T-that’s… that’s when I pushed her off, and she landed on her butt on the floor.” Oliver lets out a pained grunt when her hand suddenly grips his testicles, a cold, unyielding pressure, his body going rigid with a shock of pain that makes his vision blur. “L-love, please…” he begs, gritting his teeth while holding back his reactions. “T-that’s everything, I swear―p-please…”

Karina's grip on him tightens, a chilling, final act of control, before loosening immediately. She then begins to gently massage him, almost as if she is apologizing with her touch. “Okay,” she says, her touch on his manhood now gentler. “I believe you, Oliver, but you might not believe me.” His brow furrows in a puzzled look, his mind too scattered to comprehend her sudden change in demeanor. “Excuse me?” Karina just shakes her head, pulling his trousers and boxers down at once. “Whatever Minji can do, I can do better, and I’m going to prove that to you. Starting with a blowjob.”

Stroking his length, Karina shifts her focus away from being angry at Minji to proving her own worth. “This… this will be the best blowjob you’ll get from me, Oliver. Enjoy it, hm?” Without waiting for his response, she captures the tip of his manhood between her lips, comfortably accommodating his girth in her mouth, before slowly, almost agonizingly, taking more and more of him, until the tip of her nose touches his pelvis. Oliver's body goes rigid, a mix of fear and confusion washing over him. He wants to stop her, but a part of him, the part that is still terrified of her, can't. Besides, this is pleasurable for him, even if the situation is less than desirable.

Oliver’s eyes flutter at the restless waves of twisted pleasure washing over him, his breath growing short and ragged, yet he tries his best to not look away from her, as if by looking at her, he can find some shred of intimacy in this act of spite. “K-Karina…” he mutters, his hand cupping the back of her head, his thumb caressing her hair, the movement hesitant but carrying hope―of forgiveness, of understanding. For a moment, Karina lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyebrows rising in a befuddled look. “Nothing, baby. You’re just doing amazing right now,” he adds, offering a tight smile.

With each pass of her lips along his length, a knot coils tighter in his core, his orgasm approaching alarmingly quickly. “Karina…” he calls to her, panic rising within him, warning her of the impending release. But she pays no mind to his words―she redoubles her efforts, her tongue lapping the underside of his manhood. “Oh, fu―” With half a curse, Oliver explodes in her mouth, releasing endless ropes of semen into it, possibly sending them straight down her throat. Karina doesn’t yield, diligently, patiently, accepting his release until it stops on its own, as if trying to put an exclamation mark to her claim of him.

Karina slowly rises, her eyes never leaving him. He can feel the possessive hunger in her gaze, and he knows, with a cold certainty, that she's not just interested in him. She’s interested in winning. "Don't worry, my love," she murmurs, her voice a low, chilling whisper. "I’m not angry anymore. After all, I’ve just won you over again, haven’t I?” Wiping the lingering traces of his exertion, Karina places a fleeting peck on his lips. “Well?” Oliver nods frantically, his chest still heaving as the last jolts of ecstasy run through him. “Y-yes,” he quickly swallows a gulp, “y-you’ve won me over. Minji… she doesn’t compare to you at all.”

Taking his hand, Karina leads him to the bedroom, making the time to fully undress him and herself before settling on the mattress together. Oliver keeps his hands clasped on his chest, afraid to let them roam her curves like usual. “Love, no,” she protests, her hand settling on the top of his own. “I told you, I’m not angry anymore, and I meant it.” He lets out a shaky sigh, his eyes turning shiny, guilt’s firm grip dragging him down. “I… I know,” he mumbles. “I just… I can’t help but think that I don’t deserve forgiveness. You know, after all that shit I put you through.”

Karina takes his hand and places it on her chest, her touch now gentle and warm. "Ollie," she says, her voice a quiet, sad murmur. "I know, but I still forgive you." A single tear rolls down her cheek. "Not because you deserve it, but because I love you. This heart beats for you, love." Leaning in, she presses her lips against his, pouring her heart out into the gesture, desperately trying to open the gates to his heart that he has shut himself. Breaking the kiss, Karina smiles, a stray strand of hair cascading over one eye. “I love you, Oliver Drake, and I’m holding on to this―to us,” she declares, her faith in this relationship steadfast. “We didn’t go through all those years, all that separation, just to break up right now.”

He slowly opens his arms, silently inviting her to take her rightful place in his embrace, opening himself for a chance to rebuild. “There you go,” she whispers, crashing her body right onto him with a satisfied sigh. Oliver slowly traces the soft curves of her body, as if rewriting every contour, every dip, into memory. Tightening his arms around her, he adds, “I love you, Karina. And I’m sorry for everything.” She nods against his chest, her fingertips running softly on the flesh. “I love you more, Oliver,” she says. “But I don’t want to take any chances. I’m coming with you to work tomorrow, and that’s not negotiable.”

-

Minji knocks on the glass part of his office door, her mind still a jumbled mess―she hopes this double espresso in her hand can fix it. As the lock unlatches with a click, she turns the handle and pushes the door open. Minji’s wits quickly come to her as her jaw falls: Karina is here, sitting in Oliver’s chair, her presence a silent, immovable wall between Minji and the man she came to see, to work with. “I’m so fucking dead,” she thinks, her grip on the coffee cup loosening, nearly dropping it.

“Good morning, miss,” Karina greets her, offering a smile, warm like the morning sun filtering through the curtains. “You’re…” she pauses, taking a quick look at her watch, “early by exactly 37 minutes. Impressive.” Minji nods slowly, her gaze falling to the floor, the light bouncing off the tiles suddenly so captivating. “Oliver will join us after peeing,” Karina adds, trying to make herself look less hostile with a little humor. “Please, feel free to take a seat at your table.”

Minji walks to her desk, her back rigid, not daring to look at Karina. The silence in the room is deafening, filled with the unspoken accusation hanging in the air. She places the coffee on her desk, her hands trembling slightly as she does so. She then turns around towards the shelves behind her chair, but a sharp, commanding voice stops her. "Minji," Karina says, her voice a low, chilling whisper. "Why don't you tell me what you tried with my man?" The question is not a question at all; it's a cold, final verdict―a test of honesty.

Rising to her feet, Minji takes slow, hesitant steps towards Karina, her gaze still aimed at the floor as her mind races to assemble an answer. She stops right in front of her, hands clasped politely over her stomach. I… I just wanted to thank Mr. Drake, madam,” she begins, her voice a thin, shaky whisper, her own resolve crumbling. Ironic―Karina is not even standing up, yet Minji feels as if she is towering over her, a silent, immovable judge. “He… he was so patient with me on my first day. All day long, he kept guiding me, showing me how to navigate through corporate life.”

Noticing the silence, Minji decides to continue while she can, before Karina stops her, before Oliver walks through that door. “I understand that there would have been better ways to show my appreciation instead of trying to suck his dick, but…” Minji pauses. Her shoulders, which were rigid with fear, suddenly sag, a quiet surrender as a sense of relief starts to wash over her. She looks at the floor, her eyes filled with a raw, brutal honesty. She is no longer just a liar; she is a person who is broken. “I don’t know, it just felt enough, if not necessary, just so he could have an idea of how thankful I am for him, for this chance.”

Karina doesn't say a word. She just looks at Minji, her eyes filled with a mix of shock, sadness, and a quiet, weary understanding. She can see it all now: the desperation, the loneliness, the brokenness. She can see a version of herself from a long time ago. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I see,” she says, her voice a low, steady murmur. “I suppose I should forgive you too, then. I mean, clearly, the both of you happened to get caught up, unsure of what to do, until Oliver pushed you away.” She rises from his chair, her warmth lingering on the cushion, and offers her open arms, inviting Minji for a hug. “Come here, please.”

Minji takes a step forward, her body trembling with a mix of fear and relief. With a deep breath, she closes the last few inches of distance and fills the space between Karina’s arms, clinging to her like a lifeline. “I-I’m so sorry, Mrs. Drake. I… I just… I wanted to―” Minji breaks down to tears before the rest of the sentence could leave her lips, sobbing uncontrollably in the embrace, her mind overwhelmed with Karina’s gentle touch and assuring words, a sense of relief so profound it makes her knees weak. "Easy, easy…” Karina whispers, her voice a low, soothing murmur that has no trace of the fury she felt just moments before. As the office door slides open, she catches Oliver coming in. “I got this,” she mouths to him, tightening her arms around Minji.

Minji's sobbing slowly subsides, and she pulls away, her face wet with tears that smudge her makeup. She looks at Karina, her eyes filled with a mix of shame and gratitude. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice raw with emotion. Turning her face around, she offers a nod to Oliver, who is only able to smile. “T-thank you to you too, Mr. Drake.” With it, she returns to her desk, her butt crashing into the cushion of her seat. “I… I don’t deserve any of this. Especially from the two of you,” she bashes herself, running her fingers through her hair, nearly pulling it off her scalp, before Karina stops her. “At the very least, we’ll learn from this, won’t we?” she says, her hand firmly yet softly gripping her wrist. “That’s what matters right now, Minji.”

Minji finally looks up at Karina, and for the first time, she sees her not as a judge, but as a person who has just saved her. She nods slowly, a single, silent tear escaping her eye. “Yes,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. She then looks at Oliver, who is still standing in the doorway, and a small, sincere smile touches her lips. She knows, with a sinking heart, that he’s way beyond her reach. “I… I wish eternal happiness to the two of you.”

-

Lunch time rolls around before they know it, as Oliver and Minji are busy working mostly silently, aside from the brief exchange between a boss and his secretary. Sitting on the side, Karina lets them be, secretly, wishing she could disappear behind a curtain as to not make things so awkward in this office.

“Hey, guys,” she says, breaking the uneasy silence, her voice carrying a hint of lightness. “What are we getting for lunch?” Oliver turns his gaze to her, catching her biting her lip―a gesture of unease that she can’t get rid of. “Well, I’m down for anything,” he answers, offering a neutral answer, leaning back in his seat. ”If it’s okay, though, I think I want to have food delivered here. It’ll be nice to have lunch as a trio.” He knows he's pushing his luck, but he's desperate to get them to just talk, to just be normal. A bead of sweat breaks from his forehead at her brief glare, making him regret suggesting such a controversial thing.

Closing her eyes, Karina decides to relent. Besides, it will be a good opportunity to properly make peace with Minji and this whole situation as whole. “Alright, that’s decided, then,” she turns her attention to Minji, who has been fiddling with the tip of a pen, “Minji, please order some… pizza for us.” Minji's eyes widen at her command, the memory of her kneeling before Oliver, the smell of pizza and shame filling the air, flashing through her mind. Pizza. Just the thought of its smell sickens her. But a command is a command, and she’ll prove how good she is at following them. After all, she’s a secretary. “Y-yes, madam. I… I’ll place the same order as yesterday, if that’s okay.”

Before long, the pizza arrives, the same three kinds as ordered yesterday, sitting stacked on top of one another on a table. No one makes a move, as if afraid that the events of yesterday will reenact themselves. “Hey, uh,” Oliver’s voice cuts through the silence, turning the heads of Karina and Minji towards him. “Those things aren’t going to fly into our mouths, you know…” He steals brief glances from the two women, hoping deep inside that they won’t take his words wrong.

Minji is the first person to approach the pizza, looking at it blankly, as if waiting to be told to grab a piece, but that order comes not from Karina or Oliver―her rumbling stomach gives her that order. “If… if you’d excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Drake…” Opening the box with a hesitant move, Minji takes a slice, taking a slow bite from the tip of the triangle. “Mmh…” she mumbles, the warmth of the melted cheese and the savory edge of the beef pepperoni coating her tongue deliciously.

“Good, huh?” Karina’s sudden question makes Minji jolt, her body tensing up before quickly relaxing, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. “Y-yes,” she answers, swiftly turning her focus back to the slice in her hand. “Unlike love, pizza is always good when shared.” Karina breaks into a laugh, shaking her head seemingly out of amusement. “Oh, what am I yapping about―come, love, let’s eat,” she says, calling Oliver over.

Taking a seat at the end of the table, Oliver wastes no time to pick up a slice of pizza, promptly taking a bite―from the crust. “What a maniac,” Karina quips, shaking her head out of pure mirth. “I bet you didn’t know you’d get a crazy boss like him, Minji.” A giggle escapes Minji, covering her full mouth with a palm. “No, Mrs. Drake,” she blurts, letting herself relax, the friendly air chipping at her fear. “But that’s what makes him so attractive, no?”

Minji falls silent as soon as the last word leaves her lips. She could’ve picked a different adjective to describe him, and a cold dread runs down her spine at the poor choice. “I… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Drake. I didn’t mean it like… like that,” she says, the shame so profound it makes her wish the earth would just split and swallow her whole. Karina scoffs, a playful sound that holds no real malice, and waves her off. “Nah, I’ll let that one slide,” she replies. “Besides, his odd habits do make him attractive.”

One slice after the other fills their bellies, until only the empty boxes are left. “That was―” Oliver’s sudden burp interrupts his speech, the smell of pepperoni thick in his breath. “Oh, sorry,” he says, a subtle flush creeping up his cheeks. “Anyway, as I was saying, that was good. Thank you, ladies.” He stays quiet as Karina flicks her finger to Minji, his mind silently wondering what mischief she’s about to pull. “Uh, ladies?” his eyes flicker between the two women, getting nervous at the change of vibes, “what are we thinking?”

Karina moves to sit on his left thigh and tells Minji to sit on the right, their bare knees bumping with a jolt of electricity. “Oliver…” she whispers, her fingers playing with the end of his collar. “I’m thinking about giving your little secretary a little taste of your… strength.” Minji’s eyes widen as her jaw drops, but she quickly schools her features to hide her shock. A knowing smile plays on Karina’s lips, biting her bottom lip as she leans closer to his ear. “She thought I scream when we have sex, right? Why don’t you smash her like you do me, hm?”

Oliver looks at her, a mix of desire and confusion swirling in his mind. “You sound oddly okay with this,” he offers an assessment, his tone neutral and careful. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t slit our throats by the end of this, hm?” Karina breaks into laughter, doubling over as if genuinely entertained by his reaction. “No, no, I won’t slit your throats,” she manages between laughs, “I won’t slit your throats because I consent. It’s just up to you and Minji.”

“Minji, hey, look at me,” Oliver calls to the other woman, his voice a low, steady murmur that has a demanding edge to it. “Just so you know, you don’t have to agree to this. Just say you don’t consent and walk away.” Minji’s gaze darts between Karina and Oliver, hastily swallowing a lump that’s stuck in her throat. “I… I’m… uh…” she stammers, her fingers fidgeting the end of her skirt. “I… I’m hers to command, Mr. Drake. I… I owe her that much.” Throwing his head back, Oliver closes his eyes, seeing no other way out other than to give Karina the show she wants. “Alright, fine, let’s do this,” he says, a hint of defeat woven in his voice. “But let’s not twist this any further―this is pretty fucking twisted already.”

Karina guides Minji to her feet, her fingers already reaching for the first button of her blouse. “Minji…” she whispers, a sense of calm coating the name. “I’m not angry, I swear. I’m just trying to make sure something like this never happens again.” Minji nods slowly, her cheeks turning red as more and more of her buttons are undone. “I understand, Mrs. Drake. T-thank you for… for being lenient.”

Making quick work of Minji’s clothes, Karina lets them scatter forgotten on the floor of his vast office, guiding her to bend over his desk, making her bountiful bosoms press against the cold surface. “Come on, Ollie. She’s not going to fuck herself,” she beckons him over, her own heart bumping with excitement at the scene that’s about to unfold. With a heavy sigh, Oliver rises, dragging his heavy legs across the room to the women. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath. Never before has he been this reluctant to touch a woman, but there’s always a first time for everything.

Oliver looks down blankly, a wave of revulsion washing over him at the sight of Minji’s bare butt, the disgust a stark contrast to the betrayal of his own body―his manhood is growing hard beneath his trousers, straining so hard against his boxers that it almost hurts. “Let’s get this over with, Minji, okay?” With it, he quickly undoes his belt and frees himself from the confines of his pants, his boxers and trousers pooling together on the floor.

Aiming himself at Minji’s entrance, Oliver gives Karina an order. “Make her look at me, Rina.” With a wicked smirk, Karina does as commanded, tilting Minji’s head towards him, her stomach fluttering at the way he suddenly takes control. “Good fucking girl,” he growls, each word ripped straight from the darkest depths of his heart. You got us here, Rina, so you better fucking watch," he hisses.

With a strong push, Oliver parts the flesh of Minji’s entrance, lodging his member deep into her core. She screams at the sudden intrusion, her forehead scrunched. “F-fuck…” she murmurs, her fingers desperately seeking for grip on the sleek surface of this desk. S-slow, Mr. Drake,” she begs, her voice a raw, unsteady whisper that is barely a sound. “P-please let me enjoy it too…”

Oliver gives her what she asks for, setting a relaxed pace that he desperately tries to maintain, savoring the way her muscles stretch to accommodate his girth with every sway of his hips. “Like this, Minji?” he rasps, his voice rough as she grips him like a vice. She nods weakly, biting her lip to stifle a moan, seriously trying to look neutral, not to look like she’s enjoying it this much. “Just so you know―oh, God, fuck,” a curse flies out of his lips after a deep thrust, “fuck it, we’re not taking this slow.”

Sitting on the desk, Karina lowers her panties, a moan escaping her lips when her fingertips brush against her bare pussy. “Yeah, Oliver, don’t fucking take this slow,” she urges him, her voice a low, throaty whisper, laced with a growing want, pouring gasoline on his fiery lust. “Fuck her like you fuck me. Make her scream like you make me.”

Reaching to the side, Oliver’s hand finds Karina’s, cupping it over her pussy, pressing it firmly against her drenched entrance. “If you don’t come when I do, I’m fucking your ass next,” he threatens, his voice laced with a different kind of venom―one of twisted eroticism―his hips never stopping to snap against Minji’s butt. “Y-yes, sir,” she stammers, letting out a strangled moan as his touch sends endless shocks through her frame.

The women’s moans reach fever peak, the sounds mixing uncontrollably, echoing endlessly off the four walls. “Fucking lucky this office is fucking soundproofed―fuck!” Curses fly out of Oliver’s lips one after another, concreting with the erotic sounds the women are making, the smell of sex anything but subtle in his office. Gone are the thoughts of staying in control, of keeping his mind clear. “Who needs a clear mind when you have sexy women?”

The urge of finishing coils tighter and tighter in his stomach, growing unbearable by the second, his mind laser-focused on one thing and one thing only: to reach the peak of orgasm and take these women there with him. “Come on, come the fuck on,” he growls. His manhood slides back and forth at a dizzying pace in Minji’s core, all while his fingers work the depths of Karina’s.

Eventually, with a scream ripped from the pit of his stomach, Oliver explodes, painting Minji’s inside white with his seed, his curled fingers making Karina’s walls convulse wildly, as if desperately seeking for the load Minji is having. With her eyes rolling backwards, Karina falls backwards, her back landing on his desk with a thud, Minji sliding off the edge, falling on her knees.

Oliver stands proudly, the last bit of semen leaking out of the tip of his member that is still half erect, dripping down to the floor. “Heh,” he chuckles, his ego bloating at the sight of the two women, out of breath and thoroughly taken and claimed. “What now?” His question goes unanswered; no one has the air in their lungs to answer him. “No?” he asks one more time, scanning Karina and Minji for any lingering signs of desire―he would hate it if one of these women is left unsatisfied, their desire unquenched. “We’re done, then.”

-

Karina stirs slowly, feeling the pressure and warmth of human body beside her. Forcing her heavy lids to open, her blurry vision picks up the sight of Minji, subtle snores slipping through her parted lips. “Huh…?” She looks around, her mind instinctively looking for Oliver, finding him seated in an armchair with one leg crossed over the other, his clothes different than earlier. “O-Oliver…?” she murmurs, her hand trying to reach him.

Getting up from his seat, Oliver approaches Karina and Minji, kneeling in front of the extended sofa, offering a calm smile. “Good morning, my love,” he whispers, his fingers gently petting the top of her head, no sign of residual lust in his tone and touch. “You and Minji basically passed out, so I laid you two on the sofa for some rest.” He briefly turns his attention to Minji, placing a tender peck on her temple, before tapping her waist to wake her. “Come on, ladies, we need to wake up,” he says, his tone returning to the usual soft and pleasant warmth.

His easy touch wakes Minji, the sight of Karina the first thing she sees. “Karina…” she murmurs, her voice rough with exhaustion. “W-what happened?” Karina chuckles lightly at her sleepy grogginess, leaning in to press a peck on her lips. “Ollie fucked us too hard, Minji. That’s what happened,” she jokes, the fire of jealousy and fury fully dissipated from her eyes, her hand coming to rest on the curve of Minji’s waist. “He made us sleep here, in each other’s arms.”

Gathering her strength, Minji turns her head to the side, seeing Oliver in the corner of her vision. “I-I’m right, aren’t I, Mr. Drake?” she begins, a knowing smirk gradually forming on her lips. “Your sweet Karina screams when you fuck her, the same way I screamed when you fucked me.”

Oliver bursts into a frantic laugh, one he almost can’t control, palming his forehead as he doubles over. “Just stop it with this ‘I scream, she screams’ bullshit,” he pinches her tender bicep, the gesture more lively than harsh. “Look, we really have to get sorted soon. It’s almost 3, and people will start coming to ask me to sign stuff.”

Swiftly, Oliver helps the two women get organized, giving them their clothes back and combing their hair, removing traces of debauchery off their images. “Karina, my love, you sit there,” he points at the empty chair by his desk, “Minji, you go back to your desk. We’ve got to look normal before people roll in.” Following his orders, the women find their seats. Karina offers a wink at Minji as she settles in her seat, and she does the same, no longer feeling that fear from a few hours ago.

“Oliver,” Karina purrs, her hand finding purchase on the inside of his thigh. “Can we invite Minji over for dinner?” She glances across the room, biting her lip as a plan to continue this sensuality forms in her mind. “We… could use an extra person, couldn’t we?” Oliver’s eyebrows rise at her question, his fingers stopping its dance on the keyboard. “Are you sure?” he asks, but the burning desire in her eyes answers the question. “Well, if everyone consents, then so do I.”

A surge of warmth, as vibrant as the sunset’s hues, blossoms within Karina, chasing away the evening’s chills, and a smile tugs at her lips. “Alright, to the park now. He must be waiting.” She hugs herself more tightly, battling the relentless wind that whips at her. Behind a bank's sturdy pillar, she ducks, seeking a momentary reprieve from the gale. With a small, deliberate act, Karina pulls her hair into a tight bun, as if physically steeling herself for the final two blocks of the walk.

The wind, momentarily forgotten, seems to urge her forward. She rounds the final corner, the familiar silhouette of the park gates appearing through the dimming light. There he is, a solitary figure near their usual bench beyond the pond, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the fading horizon. A wave of unexpected relief, potent and sweet, washes over her. He’s here. He’s always here.

Each step she takes brings her closer, pulling more of him into focus. His perfect-fit brown—or “alloy orange,” as he always insists—trousers are the perfect match for his deep blue cardigan and sharp white shirt. “Ollie…” The familiar, intimate curve of his name forms on her lips. It's a name reserved for a precious few, a secret handshake between them, but her voice isn't loud enough. Karina clears her throat, physically shaking off the cold from her vocal cord. Then louder, “Ollie!”

He turns around, his swept-back hair catching the sunset's golden-brown light, tidy as always except for a stray strand. “Hey,” Oliver mouths, a smile starting to spread on his lips. With a few light steps, his hands still in his pocket, Oliver closes the gap between them, looking down at Karina with a calm and steady gaze—but she can sense something hiding behind it. “You look… cold,” he begins, offering an observation. His fingers land on the back of her hand, a small jolt of warmth passing between them as if taking a measurement of her temperature. “Oh, you are cold.”

"Just a bit," Karina manages, pulling her hand away slowly, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. She shivers again, a genuine shiver this time, and watches as Oliver's gaze drops to her arms. Without a word, he shrugs off his cardigan, the fabric still warm from his body heat, and drapes it carefully over her shoulders. “I know you’re already wearing a coat, but an extra layer wouldn’t hurt, would it?” he teases, his eyes shining with a knowing glint. “No, it wouldn’t,” Karina confirms, her system picking up the faint scent of his perfume from the cardigan. “Now, what am I here for, Ollie—this better be good, by the way.”

Oliver steps aside, letting the spread rug be exposed to her vision, a collection of snacks, bottles of water, and blankets arranged neatly on it. “I think this is good enough,” he announces, his half-moon eye smile crinkling with pride. Karina’s gaze lands on a bag of chips: Russell’s smoky maple bacon chips—her top favorite. “Oh, it is good enough, if I do say so myself,” she blurts, immediately snatching it from the rug, the satisfying crinkle of the packaging loud in the quiet evening. “We’re off to a good start, Ollie. I have a good feeling about this.”

Oliver laughs, a soft, warm sound that echoes in the crisp air. "I knew that would get your attention." He settles onto the rug, gesturing for her to join him. Karina drops down beside him, the chips clutched to her chest possessively. The warmth of his cardigan still clings to her, mingling with the fresh scent of the park. They fall into a comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that only old friends can share, but tonight, something feels subtly different, a quiet hum beneath the surface of their easy companionship.

“Rina…” Oliver’s voice is soft as he leans back on his hands, his gaze drifting to the golden curtain in the sky. “Are you really going back to Korea?” With a faint sigh, Karina nods, fully understanding where this conversation is heading—they’re about to say goodbye, and a cold dread settles in her stomach at the thought of losing him to distance. “Yeah, soon,” she offers a simple answer. “How soon are we talking about?” Oliver asks again, his gaze long with a sense of longing. “I… I’ll fly to Korea on Friday.”

Taking his gaze off the sky, he turns to her, searching her eyes for something to hold on to, even if it’s fleeting. “That’s… tomorrow,” he murmurs, his heart aching at the thought of losing her so quickly. He sits up straighter, turning fully towards her. “Why didn’t you say anything, though?” Karina diverts her gaze; guilt is weighing down on her, and she knows Oliver doesn’t deserve such a treatment—not after the last four years they have powered through together. “I… I’m sorry,” her eyes close, tears slipping out from the corners of her eyelids, “I… I swear I was about to tell you.”

His gaze softens at the sight of her tears. For four years they have known each other, and the sight of her crying for reasons unknown to him, yet clearly tied to him, twists his gut. Never have her tears been shed for him before. “Rina…” Oliver lifts his hand to her face, wiping her tears with care and patience—maybe a hint of guilt too. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just so sudden…” he whispers. She leans into his gentle touch, wishing this conversation wasn't taking them to a place of parting, wishing these “things” between them, these unspoken feelings, could finally be named and explored, not left behind. “I know, Ol,” Karina forces a smile, hiding her sadness behind it, “I just never thought I’d get the brunt of your... erm… disappointment.”

With a soft chuckle, Oliver scoots closer, his arm finding its way around her back like it’s a routine, a comforting, familiar weight that suddenly feels charged. “No, not disappointment,” he deflects, his soft tone warm in her ears. “It’s just that I can’t imagine a life without you.” He looks at her—really looks at her—while desperately holding his tears back. Never before has he been this exposed, not like this. He’s been vulnerable in front of her before, but it has always been about other girls, not… her.

A small chuckle bubbles up from Karina's chest, laced with surprise and a warmth that spreads through her at the raw honesty in his voice. That's quite the confession from Oliver. “You’ll be fine, trust me. Oliver Drake will always be fine, come hell or high water—is that not what you always say?” Oliver slaps her on the knee, a playful gesture they are very familiar with, frowning slightly for more mischief points. "I only said it because I’ve always had you by my side, and we both know that,” he argues, leaving no room for misinterpretation of her importance in his life. He lets out a small huff of laughter as his gaze drifts away, a faint blush creeping up his face. "Heh," he murmurs, "look at us. Only four years, right, but I talk like you’ve been here my whole life."

Karina's smile falters, the playful mood dissolving as his words truly sink in. Always had you by my side. Talk like you've been here my whole life. The easy banter hides a truth that now feels overwhelmingly clear. She watches the blush deepen on his cheeks, a tenderness she rarely sees directed at her in this way. "Four years is a long time, Ollie," she begins, her voice softer than she intends, testing the waters. "Long enough to know someone inside and out, I guess." She waits, her heart pounding, for him to take the next, terrifying step.

“I’ll find my way to you again, Karina. We’re not done here. We’re far from done.”

Her eyes widen imperceptibly, her breath catching in her throat, in shock of his promise. “Oliver…” she mutters, her voice shaking again. “Why, Oliver? Why are you making these promises? Why does it feel so hard to leave? Who am I to you?” she barrages him with questions, those that she yearns to be answered. Turning his face, his glassy eyes meet hers, holding them steady despite the blurriness the tears are causing. “You’re everything I need in my life, Karina.”

His answer, delivered in such a firm tone, plus the glistening tears welling in his eyes, seems to have them both suspended in time; they can only look at each other, their lips stuck open, but no confession is coming out. She sees the truth in his tear-filled eyes, the depth of emotion she has been too afraid to acknowledge. She reaches out, her hand trembling, to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear that finally escapes his eye. This isn't just about tomorrow; it's about all the yesterdays they let slip away.

“Oliver…” Karina manages, her lips trembling with emotions. “If you’re that certain about us, then please let me go—let me go and then find me again.” Taking her hand off his cheek, Oliver pecks the back of it, a soft, reassuring press, nodding solemnly. “I will. Just wait for me, please,” he replies, his resolve slowly regaining its strength. With a smile, Karina pecks the back of his hand, content with his determination to fight for a shared future. “I will wait for you, but don’t take too long, please.”

-

Oliver stands by the window of his new office at the new headquarters, the clouds hovering over the vast city expanse offering a deceptive sereneness to his uneasy heart. For five years, he's worked restlessly, climbing the corporate ladder, and finally, his turn has come. It's his father's company, sure, but the ascent was anything but easy. If anything, it felt like every rung demanded a new sacrifice, a deliberate, grinding test of his resolve.

The view from his top-floor office is commanding, a testament to his relentless drive. He surveys the distant haze, the countless buildings shrinking into insignificance, and a hollow ache settles in his chest. Each promotion, each win, came at a cost, chipping away at the softer edges of his character, the ones Karina always teased him about. He made a promise under a fading sunset, a vow from a younger man in love, a lifetime ago. He said he’d find her. Now, though, amidst the sterile gleam of corporate success, he wonders if he still knows how to. He wonders if he will be welcome.

“Hold that thought.”

His computer sings a familiar ringtone—a jarring summons that pulls him from his thoughts. Reality is calling. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees the caller on the screen: Christian Drake. Management. “What is it this time?” he groans. Oliver clears his throat as he prepares to answer the call, shedding all lingering distractions.

“Good morning, Dad,” he greets him, his calm voice hiding the subtle hint of anxiety in his heart. “Good morning, Ollie. Everything okay so far?” Oliver chuckles dryly at his father’s question—what’s his definition of “okay,” anyway? “I’d say it is. Just a few more things to be smoothed out, and we’ll be golden.” We'll be golden, he says, but the whiteboard across the room, crammed to the last centimeter with sticky notes and frantic scribbles, dissents.

"Good to hear," Christian's voice crackles through the speaker, devoid of genuine concern, just efficiency. It feels like this is just an opening conversation for another topic, a thinly veiled transition. “By the way,” Christian continues, his voice suddenly lighter, losing that focused edge. “Have you had the chance to see Jennifer again?” A heavy sigh escapes Oliver's lips. Not this again. Not Jennifer Huh. “No, Dad, I haven’t. Haven’t even had the time to take a shit,” Oliver dodges. “Besides, I don’t think she’s that interested in me.”

Christian's laugh is hearty, unaffected by Oliver's bluntness. "She's very interested, Ollie. Also, her father is a vital connection for the next phase of the expansion project, and we both know that the fastest route to a partnership is through marriage." Oliver rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before rubbing a hand across his forehead. His father never misses an opportunity to combine business with his son's nonexistent social life. “Dad, I'm here to build Drake Defense’s presence in Asia, not—” Oliver cuts himself off, a wave of familiar defeat washing over him. “Alright, you know what, I’ll think about it. How does that sound?”

Christian's laugh booms through the speaker again, a sound of triumph. "That sounds excellent, son. You won't regret it. Jennifer is a remarkable young woman." The call ends, leaving Oliver alone in the quiet hum of his office. He stares out at the city lights, the image of Karina's smiling face from five years ago flashes through his mind. A bitter taste fills his mouth. He made a promise under a sunset, a vow to find her, but now, his father's relentless ambition, embodied by an arranged relationship with Jennifer, threatens to tie him down in a way he never anticipated.

Slamming his fist on his desk, Oliver huffs, his heart racing as a dangerous mix of anger and frustration flows through his system. “Where the fuck are you, Karina? Why aren’t you here right now? Isn’t this your home country?” These questions, each one ripped from the deepest spot in his heart, echo in his sparse office. “Whatever,” Oliver mutters, his shoulders still tense as he sinks back into his seat, taking deep breaths to calm himself. “If we’re meant to find our way back, we will. If we’re not… I mean, that Jennifer girl is indeedattractive.”

Oliver opens some slides on his computer, trying to rally his mind back to work. He runs his hands into his hair multiple times, as if desperately trying to scrub these women off his head. “Ah, fuck,” he mutters a curse, unable to regain his focus—how can he focus when Jennifer's meticulous design fills his screen? “I really hate you sometimes, dad—why not have Luca be with Jenny? It's not like he's getting anywhere with Giselle,” he airs.

He leans back in his chair, his hair as disheveled as his mind. Picking up his phone, Oliver scrolls aimlessly—doom-scrolling, as today's kids say—until his thumb stops over a promising escape: a new high-class bar in downtown, kicking things off with a grand opening. “Oh?” His eyebrows rise; escaping to drink sounds like a good outlet, even if it's not exactly the best. He taps the screen, the details of the grand opening promising an indulgent distraction. The thought of liquor dulling the sharp edges of his regret, of silencing his father's expectations, is a powerful pull. He knows this isn't a solution, barely even classifying as a delay, but for now, a temporary reprieve from his own racing thoughts is all he craves.

Pocketing the fob to his new McLaren—that he got along with the new job title—Oliver rides the lift to the ground floor, his mind already clouded with thoughts of what liquor to buy and how much. “I guess I can flex a little bit,” he thinks, a naughty smirk spreading across his lips. The idea of being seen in such a lavish way excites him—he’s new to this sort of life, after all.

As the lift continues its descent, the polished steel walls throw back his image: a young man in a sharp black suit, a limited-edition watch hugging his wrist. A prime example of corporate success. The lift’s doors glide open, releasing him to the lobby. The calm overhead lights reflect softly on the marble floor as he slips on a pair of shades, plucked from the inner pocket of his blazer. Oliver continues making his way out of the building, his steps echoing throughout the lobby, causing both guests and employees to stop what they’re doing and turn their heads. “Who is that?” “Is that the boss?” These whispers drift past him—if only he spoke the same language as them.

A security guard, his own black suit perfectly pressed, offers a polite bow as Oliver emerges through the parting glass doors. He accepts the gesture with a smile, offering a small nod in return, acknowledging the guard’s presence. “I’m heading out, mister,” he says with a smile. The man blinks rapidly a few times, his surprise at a foreigner as his superior still raw, but he quickly masks it with another firm nod. “Please stay safe, sir,” he replies, his accent warm in Oliver’s ears. The simple yet sincere goodbye catches him off guard. Oliver stops and lowers his shades, his right leg already in the car, and turns back to the man. “Thank you. Please continue your incredible work.”

Oliver turns back to the car, his shades now firmly back on, and gets in. He starts the engine, the McLaren’s deep growl a sudden contrast to the quiet moment he just shared. As he pulls away from the curb, he watches the security guard in the rearview mirror, a solitary figure returning to his post. “Being able to say goodbye so well is a precious skill,” he thinks, remembering Karina's final, brave smile from five years ago. “Time it well, and it might give someone enough drive to go to the edge of the world for you.” As the distance between them grows, Oliver re-focuses on the road ahead. The club, the promise of distraction, and the terrifying, exhilarating thought of finding his way back to Karina fill his mind.

-

Oliver parks himself on the sofa in the private room he's just booked, allowing a moment to relax before his system gets filled with liquor. The music from the club is a faint hum here, but the thin walls do little to muffle the sounds from the next room. Whoever is moaning must be having a great time. He lets out a hollow laugh, wondering if he'll end up like that within the next few hours. “I wonder what kind of girl I can pull.” That thought is both unsettling and oddly appealing.

A waitress arrives, a bottle of expensive whiskey and four glasses on a tray. Quietly wondering why there are so many glasses, Oliver lets the waitress arrange the items on his table. "You will have guests,” she says, her tone a delicate mix of certainty and polite inquiry. She offers a respectful smile. He blinks, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. Is that a question, or a statement—her tone makes it impossible to tell. “Uh, yeah, maybe I will,” he swallows hard, his throat tight, unsure of what else to say. “Anyway…” Oliver's eyes drop to her name tag, a blur of graceful, unfamiliar symbols. He has no clue what those letters say. “Erm, thank you, miss.”

The waitress offers one last respectful smile and retreats, leaving Oliver to stare at the four glasses. The space feels too big, too empty. He pulls out his phone, a flicker of his earlier desperation returning, scrolling through his contacts. He almost calls Karina, his thumb hovering over her name, when the door to his private room slides open again, a sharp interruption to his thoughts. It's not the waitress. It's a woman with a confident stride and a warm, assertive smile, a tight-fit dress highlighting her curves.

“You must be Oliver Drake,” the woman says in a steady tone, sounding more like him than anyone he’s spoken to today. "That depends,” Oliver chuckles, a bitter shake of his head at this absurd turn of events. “What are we? An arranged date? A business meeting?” Padding deeper into the room, the woman closes the door behind her, a practiced gesture. “I can be whatever you want me to be, Mr. Drake. So long as you… keep an open mind,” she says, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. She bends forward, palming his knee, her cleavage exposed to his gaze. The move is masterful, and it disarms him, a knot of genuine discomfort tightening in his gut.

“I don’t think I’ve caught your name,” Oliver whispers back, trying to stay in control of the conversation, fighting the manly urge to peek into her chest. “They call me by many names—puppy, cookie, sweetie,” she purrs, leaning even closer. “But for you, big boy… it’s Minji. Kim Minji.” He nods slowly, her name, a whisper of a promised good time, seared into his memory. “Minji…” he murmurs, testing the taste of her name on his lips. “That’s a beautiful name for such a beautiful person.” A chuckle escapes from Minji’s lips, her curving eyes shining with amusement. “Easy, honey. There’s no need to start flirting so soon.”

Unable to look away from her, Oliver takes a shaky breath. It’s been so long since someone, anyone, has left him this breathless—not with fear, but with a different kind of dizzying anticipation. “Too early, huh?” he manages, lowering his guard before this mysterious woman. “Then what do you suggest we do before we… get to the flirts?” Minji circles around, approaching him from his uncovered left side, keeping her eyes on him the whole time. “We can start with this…” She perches on his thigh, the sudden weight a jolt to his system, wrapping an arm around him for stability, her cleavage more open to his stare. “Mm, this is nice.”

Oliver is frozen. The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her body, the deliberate pressure of her on his thigh—it's all a sensory overload, a potent distraction from the regrets that brought him here. Her gaze never leaves his, a silent challenge in her eyes. "This is nice," she purrs again, and with her free hand, she reaches out, her fingers gently tracing the lines of his face. The contact, cool and feather-light, finally breaks his stupor. He knows what's happening. He knows this is a mistake, but the temptation of forgetting, just for a moment, is overwhelming.

“Baby…” A whisper escapes his lips, the pet name almost a reflex. He's letting it all go for the night. Minji gasps slightly at the whispered endearment, a knowing smirk spreading across her lips. “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you, darling?” Minji whispers back, her embrace tightening around him, the pressure of her body a potent distraction. “Just say it, baby. What is it you want from me?” Oliver groans, a deep guttural sound. He's never had a woman openly surrender to him like this, and in this moment, after a life of control and demands, this type of attitude is one he never knew he needed. “I want you by my side. All night long.” Still smiling, she leans closer to him, their lips almost touching. “I’m yours, darling.”

Minji's words hang in the charged air between them, a silent promise. She closes the final inch of space, and her lips meet his. The kiss is intoxicating—a rush of expensive whiskey and her unique perfume, a potent mix of practiced passion and raw surrender. This isn't a kiss of love or longing, but of distraction and need. As her hand moves from his back to the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into the moment, Oliver closes his eyes, trying desperately to lose himself in the sensation, to forget everything that has brought him here tonight.

“Minji…” Oliver rasps, breaking the kiss before he completely loses it to her allure. He pulls back, his breathing ragged, the room a sudden, terrifying blur of reality. “Humor me with one last question?” Minji pulls back, her smile returning to form. “What is it?” He gestures vaguely at the table before them, waving his hand over the formation of bottle and glasses. “I’m still not sure why there are so many glasses here. Is this the custom?”

Glancing at the table, she nods slowly, her smile faltering a bit. She lets out a deep sigh, a brief glimpse of genuine weariness in her eyes. “Yes and no,” she says, her professional façade cracking. “I mean, people could tell you’re rich, and… they were about to throw some women at you, hoping that maybe you’d lose control and give them something that can be used as, say, leverage.”

The words hit Oliver like a cold wave, instantly shattering the intoxicating haze. The kiss, the music, the allure—it all feels like a cheap trap. He looks at the four glasses, a symbol of the cynical world he's been thrown into, a world where even loneliness is monetized.

"I need to get out soon, don't I?" he whispers, the realization of underlying danger hitting him with full force. “If you care about your own well-being, yes,” Minji says. “Otherwise, you can stay here and engage with the company I'm paid to provide.” He falls into a heavy silence, his gaze locked on her, searching her eyes for signs of deception or fakery. He finds none. Only a stark, weary honesty. "I can tell you're not like those men,” she adds, her voice softer now. "Please get out, Oliver." She says it just as he's about to open his mouth, her words cutting his protest clean before it can even form.

Oliver gently taps her back, a signal for her to get off him. "Will you be okay, though? You won't get hurt if I leave, right?" he asks in a whisper, a sudden sense of care surging within him. Minji's eyes drift to his shoes, a flicker of genuine shame in them. She crosses her arms on her chest, pushing her breasts up slightly. "Honestly, no," she begins, her muttered words barely audible, formulating a more complete and coherent answer for him. "This… this is my last chance to prove my worth as a lady companion, and… I think I should get out too before things take a worse turn." Initially busy tidying himself, Oliver freezes. Last chance. Before things take a worse turn. His heart races as he pieces together the chilling consequences of her failure to “perform”.

Oliver reaches for her arm, his touch gentle but firm. "Minji, listen to me," he says, his voice low and urgent, the corporate leader returning, but this time with a moral compass. "I'm not leaving you here. You're coming with me." He doesn't know what he's going to do or where he's going to take her, but the thought of abandoning her, of leaving her to face a "worse turn," is unthinkable.

She looks up at him, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and a flicker of hope. He needs to get them both out of this club, and fast. “O-Oliver…” Minji pauses, swallowing a nervous gulp that is lodged in her throat. “We can’t leave together. T-the club… it strictly bans staff from leaving with a customer.” She glances nervously toward the door, a woman on a clock. "And they're watching―they're always watching. Please, just go first. Go first and find me again."

Oliver freezes once more, the past and present colliding in his mind. “No, no, no, not this ‘find me again’ bullshit again.” He stays completely still, like a statue, except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. His gaze is blank, distant, as if she isn't even there. “Why? Why do I have to lose someone first before finding them again?” Minji snaps her fingers before his eyes, then gently shakes his arm. “Oliver, Oliver,” she calls to him, her voice rising in panic, her hands now gripping his shoulders, trying to pull him back to the present. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

He gives her a final, earnest look before turning away, his mind now clear and focused on leaving this dark hole. Slithering past the sea of drunken people and packed tables, Oliver quickly makes for the exit, the overhead signs guiding him. Suddenly, as he turns a corner, a man pops seemingly out of nowhere, blocking his path. The man yells something at him, a rapid-fire burst of syllables in a language Oliver can't understand. Oliver just stays there, completely still, waiting for the man to budge. He's learned that in these moments, the first person to move loses. That is, until the man's hand flashes behind his back. He pulls out a knife, a glint of steel appearing seemingly from the crack of his butt. “No, you don’t want to do that," Oliver parts his jacket with a slow, deliberate movement, the club’s dim lighting bouncing off the grip of his handgun.

At her rather abrupt waking, Oliver reaches for his rear pocket, fishing out a business card with his name and number on it. “No, you find me,” he says, gripping her wrist as he hands the card over, pressing it firmly into her palm. “Can you do that, Kim Minji?” Minji’s eyes dart between him and the card, her ragged breath feeling tight. “Y-yes, I-I can, sir,” she stammers, the title a habit she can't break even in this unexpected moment. His hold on her loosens; finally, he’s not the one doing the finding. “That’s good, baby. I’ll be waiting for you.”

The man’s face, a mask of bravado moments ago, contorts in fear. He drops the knife, its clatter muffled by the club's thrumming bass, and slowly retreats, his empty palms raised in a gesture of surrender. Not wanting to take stupid chances, Oliver keeps his eyes on the man as he walks past, his hand ready to pull out his firearm and shoot within a second’s notice. With a turn of the handle, the door parts, the cold night air seeping through the gap, a welcome change for him. “Thank you for your cooperation. And this is for the drink.” He tosses a band of cash to the floor without looking, a final, dismissive gesture, before he jolts toward his car.

-

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The first curse is a low growl, the second a louder scream, the third an peak of fury . A man slams his fists on his table, his face as red as his eyes from the whiskey. “We didn’t fucking get him—fuck you, Oliver Drake!” More and more curses fly from his lips as his fists continue to smack the table, the noise echoing throughout his home office.

Initially busy in the kitchen, a woman, with whom he shares a house, puts her knife down with a deliberate clatter. She turns off the stove, her hands trembling slightly, before heading to the source of the commotion—that name, Oliver Drake, sounds familiar to her too, for reasons she'd rather not think about. “Love,” she softly calls to him, knocking on his door carefully. “Love, are you okay in there?” Waiting for a response, the woman puts her ear closer to the door, and that’s when a screamed response is heard, “Shut the fuck up, bitch! No one is talking to you! Hey, fuck you too!”

Stunned. Stung. Heartbroken. The woman's world shatters at the searing curse from the man who always claims to love her. She loses her strength, dropping to her knees outside his office, the carpet softening her fall. “You heard wrong—there’s no way he’d yell at you like that.” Still on her knees, the woman tries knocking again, her vision blurry because of the pooling tears. “Just stop it already, you fucking bitch! Leave me the fuck alone, Karina!”

Karina clutches at her chest, trying to stifle the sobs that threaten to escape. The molten curses replay in her head, a tormenting loop. She can't breathe. This is not her life. This is not the man she loves. The man she loves is gentle, kind, and wouldn't ever call her such names. As her tears begin to fall, a jarring buzz from her forgotten phone on the kitchen counter interrupts the moment, the sound almost comforting in the midst of her despair.

Her legs tremble with every step she takes, but she pushes on—if this call is her lifeline, then there’s no way she’s going to miss out. Her trembling hand reaches the phone and flips it over. Her eyes, still blurry with tears, struggle to focus on the screen. The name of the caller burns itself into her mind: “Drake, Oliver.” She quickly wipes her tears, taking short breaths to calm her wits before picking up. After all, this is the only person, man or woman, who can tell her everything is fine, even if everything around her was ablaze, and in this moment, that promise is all she has left.

“H-hello?”

“Karina, hi, hello. Hey, uh, where are you?”

“I'm... I'm at home.”

“Oh, erm, am I interrupting, then?”

Karina quickly glances over her shoulder—getting caught being in a call with another man will guarantee getting the brunt of that man’s wild rage. “No, Ollie, you're not interrupting. Your timing... it's perfect,” she offers an assurance, her heart pounding with the desperate hope that Oliver will offer her the same very soon. “Oh, really? Can we meet, then?” Oliver’s voice is a strange mix of hopefulness and uncertainty. "Where are you? I'll come to you." Karina’s heart leaps into her throat. He'll come to her. No, that's not safe. Not with the man in the other room. She has to find a way to get out first. "No, Ollie, don't worry about it," she says, her voice gaining false strength. "I'll come to you. Just... just send me the address." She hangs up before he can protest, the dial tone a final, desperate plea for escape. Her mind, now shockingly clear, is solely focused on one thing: getting out, and getting to Oliver, before it's too late.

Karina shoves her phone into her pocket, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She needs to move, and she needs to move now. She glances toward the closed office door, the muffled curses a fresh, terrifying reminder of the man inside. She tiptoes into the bedroom, snatching her purse and the first jacket she can find. She won't pack, she won't hesitate, and she won't look back. As she reaches for the front door, she allows herself a single, shaky breath of hope. Oliver is here. He’s waiting for her, and she’s finally, finally running toward him.

Quickly jumping into her car, Karina turns it on. The V6 engine roars to life in the quiet night, its sudden sound a betraying testament to her escape. Sensing his approach, she puts the car in reverse, slamming her foot on the pedal to get out of the driveway as swiftly as she can. “Oh, shit!” Karina manages to drive away just as he lunges, a shoe hitting the rear window with a dull thud before she disappears into the dark. Now, her mind is fixed on the single, terrifying, exhilarating mission that lay ahead: re-finding the man who might just be the light in her life—Oliver Drake.

The address Oliver sent is to a luxurious office building in downtown. She pulls into the underground parking, her hands trembling as she turns off the engine. The silence is deafening, a stark contrast to the blaring curses and roar of her engine from moments ago. As she gets out of her car, she feels a sudden, profound sense of vulnerability. She's here. She's really here. Taking a deep breath, she makes her way to the lobby, her heart pounding. The man who has been a ghost in her life for the past five years is about to become a reality again, and she has no idea if he will still be the lifeline she so desperately needs.

“Karina!”

A man emerges from the shadows, a figure she recognizes from a thousand dreams and a million regrets. He's no longer the playful college student she remembers. His suit is sharp, his shoulders broader, and a haunted look lingers in his eyes, but it's him.

“Ollie!”

She watches him close the distance between them, his face a complex mix of relief, panic, and raw emotion. He takes a shaky step closer, his hands hovering over her as if afraid she's an illusion. His thumb grazes her cheek, a feather-light touch, before he pulls back in a flinch. "Karina—oh, God, you’re actually here," he mumbles, his voice thick with unspent tears. The man who had once been her anchor is now a stranger, but his eyes, filled with a tenderness she remembers from another life, are the lifeline she’s been searching for all this time.

Oliver closes the final distance between them, his hesitation gone, and pulls her into a tight, desperate hug. His arms are strong, protective, and for the first time in five years, Karina feels truly safe. The scent of him—expensive cologne mixed with the faint, familiar scent of him she'd never forgotten—is a powerful reminder of a life she thought was over. She buries her face in his shoulder, her own unspent tears finally falling, and clutches his suit jacket as if afraid to let go. He's a stranger, but he's also home.

“Karina…” he whispers very, very softly, saying her name like it’s a sacred prayer, holding her trembling form firmly in his embrace. “Ollie, fuck!” Karina sobs, a furious, frustrated whisper against his chest. She smacks him, the blow more an expression of her own internal turmoil than an act of violence, unleashing everything she’s been burying for the past five years. “I know, baby. I know,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. He gently runs his hand along her back, his own body trembling slightly with the desperate need to calm her. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry for taking so long.” He pulls her tighter, his words a fierce promise. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Karina clings to him for a long, quiet moment, his warmth and strength a comfort she had forgotten existed. As her sobs subside, she finally pulls away, her fingers still clutching the lapel of his suit. “You… you’re here,” she says, the words a miracle. Her gaze falls on the faint, dark circles under his eyes, the subtle lines of stress etched around his mouth. “Ollie… what happened to you? You look so tired.” He looks at her, then runs a hand through his hair, a gesture she remembers from a time of frustration and confusion. He lets out a single, shaky laugh. “I... Honestly, I think I just dodged a damn bullet. The kind of bullet that would have kept me from you forever. And I don’t think you’ll believe it.”

Karina’s brow furrows, the last of her tears forgotten. “Dodged a bullet? What are you talking about?” Oliver drags her to a nearby sofa, the sudden motion a jolt of energy. The memory of doing the same from their college days comes back to him—he feels like he's about to spill the tea on someone's dating rumor, and in a way, he is. “I went to a club earlier and met this… erm… lady companion, as she called herself,” he begins, his hands waving around as he assembles an explanation. “I… I almost made some terribly wrong moves, but this woman, Minji, she saved me from them. And in a crazy, roundabout way, talking to her gave me the courage to finally pick up the phone and find you.”

Karina listens to him, her fingers still clutching his suit jacket. She hears the honesty in his voice, the raw vulnerability, and she feels a profound sense of gratitude to this woman, Minji, for bringing him back to her. “But… what club was that, Ollie? What kind of shithole you went to?” she asks, always curious when it comes to Oliver and his adventures. Oliver’s forehead furrows, trying to remember the full name, but he only remembers a part of it. “Something-something Chamber,” he says, snapping his fingers as if trying to grasp the name. “That’s all I can remember.”

Her eyes widen in a sudden, icy fear. Her mind flashes back to the man in the office, his furious red face, the curses, and the club he so often boasts about—the one with “Chamber” in the name. “What, is it the Sovereign Chamber?” Blinking a few times, he nods. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, a final nod of confirmation. “The Sovereign Chamber.”

Karina's grip on his jacket tightens, her knuckles white. "Ollie," she says, her voice a terrified whisper, "that's... that's his club. That's the club he owns. And… and you… you were at his club. He cursed you out like you owed him a gazillion dollars, you know." The words hang in the air between them, a chilling confirmation of the danger she's in. Oliver's confusion immediately gives way to a cold, hard resolve as the pieces fall into place—the hurried goodbye with Minji, her stammers over the phone, the man who wanted leverage. Everything is turning out to be a single, unified threat. "Karina," he says, pulling her close, his voice now a low, dangerous growl. "Who is he? Tell me everything."

Karina looks at him, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and relief. The name she's about to say feels like a curse, but in this moment, with Oliver's strong arms around her, she knows she has no choice. "His name is Minjoon. Gong Minjoon," she whispers, the name a chilling sound in the quiet of the empty reception lobby. "And he's a powerful man." The words hang in the air for a moment, a moment in which Oliver doesn't speak. He just holds her, his warmth a comfort she had forgotten existed. He knows he can’t save her alone, not with a man as dangerous as him. For now, though, he just holds her, taking in her scent, reminding himself that she's real, she's here, and that he will do everything in his power to keep her safe.

As they sit in uncomfortable silence, their ears register an interruption in the quiet night: the wild, furious roars of an engine echoing from a distance, growing louder with every passing second. Someone’s speeding out there, and that could very well be Minjoon tracking Karina down. “That’s him—that’s his Mustang,” Karina confirms, endlessly smacking Oliver’s thigh in a full-blown panic. “What do we do, Ollie?” Looking to the left, Oliver sees a way to take on this Minjoon bastard: an automatic rifle, sitting idly in a safe underneath the receptionist’s desk. “He’s not bulletproof, is he, Rina?”

Karina's eyes widen, her hands now clutching his arm, her fear a palpable thing. "Ollie, no!" she yells, her voice a plea. "You can't do that. This is not you!" He turns to her, his gaze cold and steady. "It’s us or him, Karina," he says, his voice a low, determined growl. "And I’m choosing us. He can’t tear us up like this ever again." He then quickly gets up, moves toward the receptionist's desk, and kneels, his hands working quickly to open the safe.

With the rifle in hand, Oliver takes cover the receptionist desk, the barrel pointed straight at the door. “Oh, shit, Oliver!” As the engine roar gets closer, Karina scrambles away from the sofa, her feet fumbling, and dives behind the desk, her body pressed against his back. “Fuck, Oliver, don’t kill him. Just get him arrested or something,” she pleas, her forehead now pressed firmly against his back as if to anchor herself to his strength. “I will shoot if he puts even a foot in this lobby. Whether he dies or not is beyond my control,” Oliver spits, his eye staring down the entryway through the scope.

The time seems to slow down as Oliver waits for Minjoon to do something, and in this moment, Karina’s plea, torn out from the deepest point in her heart, echoes in his mind: “This is not you!” “Oliver, don’t kill him.” “Just get him arrested or something.” He knows she's right. He's about to make a choice that would betray not just the man he was, but the man he wants to be for her. There are other, smarter ways out.

He takes his eye away from the scope and glances over his shoulder at Karina. "I'm not going to kill him," he says, his voice now calm and reassuring. "But he’s going down. Just not with a bullet." He takes out his phone and quickly records a message to his father, a final, desperate plea for help. “Danger, danger. Send the Peacekeepers. Now.”

Oliver turns to her, his face a mask of calm resolve. "Rina, my love, we're going to be okay," he says, his voice a low, reassuring whisper. He takes her hand, pressing a tender peck to the back of it. "Whatever happens, please know that I love you with everything I have." Karina looks at him, the man who was once a playful, carefree, silver spoon-fed boy is now a hardened, decisive man of action. The memory of Minjoon’s drunken curses and the shoe hitting her car window fades. All the fear, all the pain, all the years of waiting… It all dissipates, replaced by the simple, profound truth of his touch. He's here. Right in front of her. And at this moment, with the roar of the Mustang outside, that's all that matters. “I love you too, Ollie. And please… stay with me forever.”

Oliver hugs her tightly, keeps her in his arms, when the Mustang suddenly crashes into the building, the glass doors shattering into a billion pieces, the abrupt sound slicing through the night air. Whimpering in his embrace, Karina presses her face deeper into his chest, grounding herself in his rock-solid presence. “Shh, baby. Shh,” Oliver whispers, his voice faint. His mind, however, is a ticking clock, silently counting the seconds until the Peacekeepers arrive.

“Yu Jimin, I know you’re here!” Minjoon’s hoarse scream echoes throughout the lobby, his eyes scanning the room.“That’s her other name—she let him use that name,” Oliver thinks quickly, a hint of jealousy sparking in his chest. He pushes the feeling down immediately, his focus pulled away by the subtle buzz of his watch—a message from his father: “Help is coming.” Nodding to himself, Oliver tightens his arms around her, shielding her from any potential harm.

“Yu Jimin, where the fuck are you, you fucking bitch!? Show yourself!” Minjoon screams once more, but this time, his voice is much closer—Oliver can see his shadow moving erratically on the marble wall in front of him, a looming, angry presence. As Minjoon's mumbled words of rage continue to pollute the air around them, a sharp screech of tires and the blare of sirens cut through the night. Drake Defense's very own security team, newly assembled for this Asia expansion project, has arrived, their presence a final, decisive answer to Minjoon's threats.

The lobby is flooded with bright, tactical lights as the security team, a dozen men in all-black uniforms, enters the building. They form a shooters line, their rifles trained on Minjoon, who stands frozen in the middle of the ruined lobby, his rage giving way to a sudden, dawning terror. Oliver, with Karina hiding behind him, emerges from behind the desk. "He's all yours, gentlemen," Oliver says, his voice cold and steady, the protector's work now done. "Take him, but don’t kill him, please. Just put him to sleep or something."

Two of the security men move forward, their movements quick and practiced. They apprehend Minjoon and drag him out of the lobby. “God, he smells like he showered with liquor,” Oliver blurts, grimacing as he waves a hand in front of his nose “Whatever this is, it smells cheap.” Karina chuckles, a small, genuine sound, and smacks him lightly on the back. “Believe me, Ollie,” she says, a shiver running through her. “You would hate to be around him after a ‘bad day.’ Hell, I hated it.”

Oliver turns to her, a genuine smile replacing his grimace. "We're going home, Rina," he says, a promise in his voice. “I think… now that Gong Minjoon is out of the picture, Minji should be okay. She’ll need a new job, though. I think that club will be shut down shortly.” Karina looks at him, her face a mix of love and relief, and in her eyes, she sees this reliable man, tempered by the pressure of his career, but with the body of someone who used to be so nonchalant about almost everything. "Karina, my love, are you listening?” he asks, his voice soft. The question snaps her back to the present, and the endearment—a stark contrast to Minjoon's venomous curses—draws a smile to her lips. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I was just… admiring the view.”

Oliver smiles, a genuine, relieved smile that reaches his eyes. He takes her hand in his, and for the first time since he found her, he lets himself just be with her. The sirens are gone, the violence is over, and the ruined lobby will soon be rebuilt. “Come on, let’s go home, my love.” He leads her out of the building and into the quiet underground parking lot. “I have so much to tell you, Rina," he says, a playful glint in his eye. "Jennifer, Minji, all of it." Leaning into his touch, Karina lightly nudges him on the side with her elbow, eliciting a genuine groan of pain from him. “Really? You’re going to talk about your flings right now, after all that?”

-                                                                                                                                          

After a quick rinse, Karina slips on one of his hoodies, the familiar fabric a comforting weight against her skin. The university's wordmark, a welcome nostalgia of a happier, simpler time, is adorning the chest area. Checking her looks in the mirror, she catches Oliver peeking from the slim gap of the door. “Ollie,” she calls to him. “You don’t mind me taking this, right?” Pushing the door open, he looks at her through her reflection. “No, but… you still have yours, right?” A cold shiver runs down her spine; Minjoon burned her university hoodie in a raging fit some time ago. "No," she says, her answer a little too quick, a little too tight. "It's... it's lost."

Oliver's smile falters, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by a quiet sorrow. He closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. "It's okay, baby," he whispers, his voice low and comforting. "We'll get you a new one. A hundred new ones if you want. Meanwhile, feel free to wear this hoodie." Karina closes her eyes, leaning back against his solid frame. “Thank you, Ollie. It means a lot, especially coming from you.”

Moving to the living room, Oliver invites her to join him on the sofa, the soft cushion caving slightly under their joint weight. “I want to hear everything you have to say, up to the point where you ended up with that guy,” Oliver says, his tone demanding, but the hand he rests on her knee is gentle, and his heart is patient. Karina looks down at herself, the loose thread on the hem of her hoodie suddenly so interesting to look at. “Gong Minjoon was… my attempt at replacing you, Ollie,” she begins, twisting the thread on her finger. "It’s stupid, I know…" she says, her voice a fragile whisper. "But I needed someone to lean on, and you were a ghost, and he was a man in front of me."

Karina waits for his anger, his judgment, but all she feels is his gentle touch, so she decides to continue. "I... it wasn't supposed to be like that," she continues, the words coming out in a rush, as if a dam has broken. "At first, he was kind. He was charming, he was handsome, and he was there. He knew my name, my favorite coffee, and he always picked up the phone. He was everything I thought you had forgotten. Then, as time went on, the kindness faded. He started to get angry whenever I talked about our college days. He said I always found a way to bring up your name. And then…” Karina pauses, taking a deep breath to steady herself for the last piece of her story. “And then I said your name in my sleep.”

Oliver's gentle hand on her knee moves to her wrist. He doesn't say a word, doesn't show his anger. He just pulls her a little closer, his arms wrapping around her in a silent, protective hug. He presses a soft kiss to her hair, a simple gesture of comfort and a quiet vow that he's not a ghost anymore, and that he will always be by her side, come hell or high water.

“Karina, I—”

Her sudden tears stifle his tongue, his words never leaving his lips. “Fuck!” she sobs, her voice a raw, broken sound. Her fist lands square on his thigh, the impact a desperate, furious demand for him to feel her pain. “Oliver, I hate it. I hate him. I hate giving him my first time. I hate everything!” Oliver slips deeper into silence, his mind unable to string words together. “Her first time?” he wonders to himself. The thought of that monster, Minjoon, having that honor… It's unbearable. Disgusting.

Oliver doesn't say a word. He just holds her, letting her tears soak his chest, his own heart breaking with every sob. He knows there are no words to fix this, no words to take away her pain—but there are actions, things he can try. He pulls back just enough to look her in the eyes, his own eyes filled with a raw, honest emotion. "Karina," he says, his voice a low, painful whisper. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I promise you, with everything I have, that I will never let anyone hurt you ever again. We're going to get through this. Together."

"No," she whispers, slowly pushing him away. "No, Ollie. Do you remember? You used to say you'd only marry a virgin… and I always thought that one day, I'd be that woman for you." Oliver's eyes close as the memory comes back to him, sharp and cruel. He said it, yes, but only as a foolish jest between friends. How would he know how heavy that casual, thoughtless comment would weigh one day? “You remember, don’t you?” she whispers, her hands still on his chest, a barrier between them. “I’m not that woman anymore. I can’t be.”

Oliver's eyes, when he opens them, are filled with tears. He reaches for her, his hands gently taking hers. "Karina, my love," he says, his voice thick with a raw, honest emotion. "It was a joke. It was a stupid, zero-brain joke that doesn’t matter at all. What matters is that you're here. What matters is that you're safe. What matters is that I love you. You are that woman, Karina. You are my woman, and I don't care about anything else."

Karina looks at him, the raw, honest emotion in his eyes a stark contrast to the quiet devastation in her heart. She sees his tears, his guilt, his love, and in that moment, the shame and pain that have shackled her for five years begin to loosen their grip. She squeezes his hands, a small, fragile act of trust. “I… I want to believe you, Ollie,” she says, her voice a little stronger now. “Please, don’t betray me. You never did, so please don’t start now.”

“Never,” Oliver declares, pressing a soft peck to the back of her hand. “I'd take a bullet in the face, my love, before I would ever betray you.” The words hang in the air for a long moment, a new kind of silence settling between them. He then pulls back, a new kind of resolve in his eyes. “I’m going to do everything to keep you safe. Not even a fire ant will be able to touch you.” Offering a hand, Oliver pulls Karina to her feet, pressing himself close to her. His face is hovering merely centimeters away from hers, but safety and comfort are all she feels. “We’re going to start over, and we’re going to do this the right way.”

Karina’s eyes shine with tears of both sorrow and relief. She reaches up, her fingers gently tracing the lines on his face—the face that is no longer a ghost from her past but a real, loving presence in her present. "Thank you, Ollie," she whispers, her voice filled with a profound sense of gratitude. “I love you so much,” she adds, her voice thick with emotion. “And I’m ready for everything. I’m ready for whatever is ahead of us.”

Oliver's face, a second ago filled with sorrow, breaks into a wide, joyous smile. He pulls her close, his arm wrapped snugly around her. Closing the remaining centimeters between their faces, he whispers his proposal. “Will you marry me, my love?” A single tear escapes her eye, leaving a wet trail on her cheek. With a smile that is fueled by pure joy, Karina nods, quickly claiming his lips in a kiss. A simple kiss, it may be, but all her heart is poured into it. “Yes, I will. Give me your last name, Ollie, and I will give everything I have for us.”

Oliver pulls back from the kiss, his eyes shiny with unshed tears, his breath getting short and quick. “May I…” he pauses, staring deep into her own glassy eyes. “May I take you to the bedroom, Mrs. Drake?” Her breath hitches, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. She never realized how deeply a simple question could heal. A man is asking for permission, not giving an order. A man is showing respect for her body and her heart, a stark contrast to the life she just escaped.

“What… what will we do in the bedroom, Ollie?” she asks in a whispered voice, her ears yearning for a kind answer. Oliver smiles at her question, placing a soft peck on her cheek. “I’m going to tell you a story, my love,” he begins, his voice shaking slightly. “A story about a boy who once lost his college sweetheart to distance. And a story about a girl who thought she was unworthy of love, even though she always did. Does that sound like a good story to you, Rina?”

Karina's eyes, still glistening with tears, soften with a profound sense of peace. "Yes, Ollie," she whispers, her voice a soft, fragile sound. "That sounds like a wonderful story." As he leads her toward the bedroom, a new kind of memory floods her mind—not of that guy who used to track her location all the time, but this one, in whose hand her fingers are softly grasped. The boy who would carry her on his shoulder along hallways to avoid being late—the boy who would buy her favorite Russell’s chips every chance he got—is turning into a man whose shoulder is steadfast, whose mind is sharp, and whose heart is patient.

Oliver gently leads her into the bedroom, the soft light of the lamp a stark contrast to the harsh, violent night they just escaped. He sits on the bed, pulling her into his lap.

“Rina.”

“Mm?”

“I love you. And I’m sorry for… everything.”

“I love you too, but you know I don’t like that. What are you sorry for? You don't have to carry all that.”

Oliver takes a deep, shaky breath, his mind racing with could-haves and should-haves. "I don't know where to begin, honestly," he admits, his voice breaking. "But I keep thinking that if I had just ignored my father and followed you to Korea five years ago, none of this would have happened."

Karina listens, her heart breaking for him. Finding his empty hand, she takes it, tangling her fingers around his. "Ollie," she says, her tone one of love. "You can't blame yourself for this. None of this was your fault. You were far away, but you were always in my heart.” She reaches up, her hands gently framing his face, forcing him to look at her. “Besides, nothing could guarantee that we would’ve been happy had we stayed together. And that’s what makes this even more special.”

Nodding solemnly, Oliver feels a single tear escape his eye, tracing a path down his cheek. He knows she's right. He can’t change the past, but he can change the future. He pulls her a little tighter, pressing his forehead against hers. "You're right," he whispers, his hoarse voice thick with emotion. "Can we do it, my love?" he asks, his voice a low, tender whisper, looking deep into her eyes. "Will you do it with me?" A gasp escapes her lips. The man who she always thought would have been her first is finally asking to be granted the honor of becoming one with her.

Karina doesn't hesitate. She leans in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that is a promise of a new beginning. Finding his hands once more, she guides them towards her bosoms, letting out a soft whimper into the kiss as his fingers gently, but firmly, cup her flesh. Breaking away from the kiss, she whispers his name, her voice a soft, desperate plea. It's not just an invitation, it's a request to be fully desired, fully claimed, by the man she loves—truly loves.

“Make me yours, Ollie. All those wasted years, all that waiting… Make me forget anything else but you.”

"You've always been mine, my love," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "We went off track a bit, but we’re back on it now.” Softly caressing her chin, Oliver gazes deep into her eyes, his own image reflecting back at him. Again, he whispers, “Say something, my heart. What’s bothering your beautiful mind?” As a soft laugh escapes her, the last of the regret and the pain of the past five years dissipates, replaced by the pure hope of a brighter future. "Honestly," she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I'm just wondering when you'll actually get to the good part."

Oliver takes her to the center of the mattress, carefully getting her to settle on her back. “Right now, my love.” Leaning down, he plants fleeting pecks on the skin of her neck, each one eliciting moans from her. “Beautiful…” he mumbles, his fingers treading through her hair. "O-only for you, Ollie…" she manages, her voice a breathless whisper, his pecks igniting a slow, burning flame of desire within her. "Mm, I like that…" he whispers back, his lips returning to her own.

In the gentle heat of the kiss, Karina finds the string of his jogger pants, undoing the simple tie with a tug. “Eager, huh?” She chuckles at his question, her fingers fiddling with the fabric of his waistband. “You bet I am—you know why?” Oliver’s eyebrows rise, asking the question on behalf of his lips, wondering what she will say. “Because I want to be Mrs. Drake, Oliver. And I’m not talking about Olivia Drake.” He laughs, a deep, joyful sound. He then leans down, his lips mere inches from hers. "You're a handful, Mrs. Drake. I love you."

Oliver lifts her hoodie over her head, tossing it to the side, and its friends will join it soon. Resisting the urge to cover herself, she keeps her hands on the mattress, gripping the sheets until her fingertips turn white. “Y-you like my body, Ollie?” she asks, her eyes searching for comfort in his. She yearns to hear his validation, his assurance, that she’s worthy of being admired, of being wanted, of being desired. “I do,” Oliver whispers, his stare fixed on the curves of her body. “But I want your heart too. Because you’re much more than a pretty face and a hot body.”

As he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her pants, her heart races, each beat bumping against her ribs. With each passing second, she tries to calm herself, putting trust in her safety and well-being in his hands. “My love…” His murmured words serve as a prologue while he slides her pants down her legs, the wet spot on her underwear exposed to his hungry eyes. “Beautiful…” he whispers, desire and gratitude mixed in his voice. “You are so beautiful.”

Oliver pulls her closer, and her legs instinctively wrap around him, his body a gentle, comfortable weight against hers. “I know I’m not your first, but I will be your last, my love. Let me be your everything.” Not waiting for a reply, his lips crash into hers, a kiss of possession and promise, a kiss meant to erase any lingering traces of a past that wasn't theirs.

Karina’s eyes shimmer with tears when they finally break apart. She’s content at his assurance, but her heart desperately aches to give him something that is only his, a part of her body that no one, not even Minjoon, has ever touched. “Ollie…” she begins, fighting to push her hesitation to the side. “W-would you… would you like to take my… my anus?” she whispers, the words almost lost in the silence. Unable to maintain eye contact, she quickly diverts her stare away. “Minjoon… h-he never touched me there,” she adds, her cheeks burning hot with a mix of shame and a desperate, hopeful plea for him to understand.

Oliver's eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and profound love, soften. He gently places a finger under her chin, coaxing her to meet his gaze. "Karina…" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you sure?” Taking a deep breath, Karina nods, hiding her nervousness behind the gesture. "Take it, Ollie. Let me give you a piece of myself that is yours, and yours alone." His manhood stiffens at her submissive offer, straining against the fabric of his joggers, and he decides to relent to a desire that is now a profound blend of love, lust, and a deep need to heal her. "Let's do it, my love," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I will be so careful, so gentle. I promise."

Freeing herself from his embrace, Karina rolls onto her stomach, pulling her panties down to her thighs. “Please, Ollie. Take me. Make me yours. I need you. I need you so bad,” she rapid fires her begs, suppressing her nerves with every word. Oliver freezes, his gaze blurring. Never has he heard someone say anything so raw, so desperate, so trusting. He's not just hearing her; he's feeling the full weight of her trauma, and it's a deep, overwhelming honor. “Oliver, please...” Her plea registers in his mind, but his heart is still trying to catch up, still trying to find a way to meet her in this space of vulnerability.

The shaky whimpers from Karina finally snap him out of his stupor. He understands it now. He won’t just take her. He won't just be her first. He will heal her. He will love her. He will make her whole again. Bending down, Oliver softly slides his fingers on her spine, his touch light and soothing. “I’m here, my love…” he offers a soothing message, a promise to forever be present for her. “I’m right here, and I love you.” He continues the tender gesture until her whimpers turn to soft, peaceful sighs. “There we go. That’s my girl,” he murmurs, a loving smile spreading across his features. “I love you, Karina.”

As she has calmed down, Oliver settles on her thighs, his knees sinking into the delicate mattress. “My heart,” he begins, caressing her butt with a hesitant move. “Mm?” Karina mumbles, her voice muffled by the pillow she’s hugging. “This will hurt so much, don’t you think?” She lets out a sigh, nodding slowly, gradually getting a grip on the potential pain. She remembers the pain of her first time, a memory she has pushed to the back of her mind for five years, but she will not let this be a memory of pain. She will make this a memory of love. For him, and finally, for her too. “First times are meant to hurt, Ollie,” she says, determination woven in her soft whisper. “But I'm willing to push through it. For you.”

Oliver frees his body from the confines of his clothes, throwing them onto the floor, no space in his mind to worry about the mess. “Alright, love,” he takes a deep breath, steadying himself in the face of a first time, “we’re doing this, and I promise to be careful and gentle.” Turning her head to the side, Karina catches his loving stare, seeing his hunger and desire hiding behind his brown iris. “Okay,” she says, reaching behind to spread her butt for him. “I’m ready.”

Oliver spits on his palm, covering his manhood with his saliva, the skin turning shiny because of it. He carefully guides it to her forbidden rear, slowly nudging the tight ring with the tip. “Will it fit?” he wonders quietly. A soft, almost inaudible, moan escapes Karina's lips. It's not a sound of pain, but a sound of surrender, as she eggs him on to enter her, to claim her, to finally make her his. “Let’s do this, love.”

Using the tip to apply pressure to her pucker, Oliver pushes forward, maintaining a careful, measured force—and her muscles finally relent, but not without pained grunts. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he blurts, his head spinning at the snug grip around his length. “Oh my God, my love…” he whispers, his voice thick with a raw, honest emotion. Karina grits her teeth as more and more of him slides into her, tears pooling in her eyes. Not just those of pain, but also of joy. Joy of finally returning to his side, of finally sharing a first time with him, a first time that is theirs and theirs alone.

As Oliver pushes, pushes, and pushes, he’s eventually completely sunk in her anus, her muscles stretching to accommodate his member. “I love you,” he manages, his deep, guttural groan hot against the skin of her back. "I-I love you too—God, you’re so deep…” In this moment, in his arms, in his touch, in his love, she undoubtedly becomes his, at last. Her admission, delivered in the deep heat of the moment, ignites a flame of desire within him. A flame that threatens to consume all and leave them breathless after.

Oliver pulls his hips backwards before pushing again, gauging her reaction to his testing thrust. “Oliver… Yes, that’s it…” Satisfied with her response, he thrusts one more time, putting more strength into it. “Yes, love, that’s it…” Karina echoes, losing herself in the taboo act. “Take me, Oliver. Take everything,” she sobs, her voice thick with a mix of pleasure and pain. “I-I’m yours.”

Karina yelps when he suddenly pulls her backwards, haphazardly settling on her arms and knees. “O-Oliver!” she chokes, the feeling of him in her anus suddenly very acute. “I know, baby. I know,” he whispers, offering a peck to her back to soothe her. “We’ll try this position for a moment, okay?” he whispers, his voice thick with a mix of desire and need to protect her. Taking a deep breath, she nods, gripping the sheets hard as she braces for a stronger impact. “L-let’s do it,” she whispers, her voice a mix of pain and surrender.

Oliver slams his hips into hers, forcing a high-pitched scream out of her, and as he quickly assembles an apology, Karina shouts, “Yes, Oliver! Take me!” He starts moving again, hitting the deepest spots in her anus, the memory of first time searing into his memory and hers. “Fuck, fuck, yes!” Her ragged curses, mixing with almost angelic moans, spur him on, as if pouring fuel on his wild fire.

He maintains the ruthless pace, filling the bedroom with sounds of skin crashing into skin, of his heavy growls and her blissful wails. “I love you, Karina. I love you so fucking much.” His fingers dig deep into her waist, gripping her possessively as his hips keep moving seemingly on their own. “I-I love―OLLIE!”

A sudden wave of orgasm crashes into her, her thighs shaking wildly as her anal muscles pulsate, squeezing him hard. “OLIVER, FUCK!” she screams. Her arms give out, sending her face first onto the pillow, the cushy softening her abrupt landing. Oliver doesn’t stop, giving hard, deep thrusts in the final stretch before his inevitable peak that is inching closer at a dangerous speed. Karina screams and screams into the pillow, straining her vocal cords, until―

“Rina!”

Burying himself deep in her anus, Oliver explodes, painting her anal walls with his hot seed, filling her until overflowing. “Oh, baby…” he groans, his voice hoarse from the remnants of his passion. Without pulling out, he leans down, resting his torso on her back, peppering the back of her head with pecks. “You’re amazing, my love. So amazing. Thank you so much,” he whispers, as the last drops of his release floods her insides.

Oliver jolts in panic at the sound of her sobs, as if he just heard a cracking thunderstrike in the middle of the night. He quickly removes himself from her anus, catching a glimpse of it winking at him before his attention is shifted elsewhere: to Karina herself. “Baby, baby―oh, I’m so sorry.” He frantically rubs her back, his touch rushed, a contrast to his previous. “Baby, are you okay? Was I being too rough?”

Gathering strength, Karina rolls onto her back, her trembling hand reaching for his face. “Y-you… you were…” she manages, her breath short and ragged. “But… first times are… they are meant to hurt.” A weak smile slowly blooms on her features, offering a light pinch to his cheek. “I regret nothing, Oliver. It was special. And it was ours.” He cups her hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “It was special, yes,” he echoes, his eyes turning glassy as the true weight of the act settles in his mind. It’s not just about being her first―no, it’s more than that. It’s about erasing traces of the past to embrace a better, happier future. “You’re special, my love. I love you so much.”

Oliver lifts her off the bed with a small grunt, hooking one hand on the insides of her knees while the other supports her back. She instinctively wraps her arms around his neck, his solid presence comforting. No longer is he a ghost from a simpler time; he’s here, and he’s here to stay for good. “I’m here, love,” he mutters, as if able to hear her thoughts. “I’m here for you, and I’m not leaving you wander off ever again.”

He keeps his eyes on her as they inch closer towards the bathroom, placing pecks on her forehead along the way. Opening the glass door of the shower, Oliver lowers Karina onto her feet, guiding her to plant her hands on the wall. “You’re alright, love. You’re alright,” he places another peck to the back of her head, “can I take care of you?” She nods, whimpering shakily when his fingers graze her puckered ring, a wave of shock traveling throughout her already weak body. “Y-yes, take care of me, Ollie.”

-

Clean and refreshed, Oliver carries her back to settle in the sacred haven that is their bedroom, the new space in which more heated moments will happen, in which more memories will be made.

“Ollie…”

“Yes?”

“No. Ollie…”

“Yes, my love?”

A soft giggle escapes her, painlessly swiping at his chest. “I’m not Karina from Millbrook U, Oliver. I’m Karina from the bottom of your heart,” she says. “And I don’t want anything less than a pet name at the end of every sentence you say.” A pleasant shiver runs down his spine, warmth rising in its wake. Karina from the bottom of your heart. Nothing less than a pet name at the end of every sentence.

He turns towards her, pulling her close, her bare bosoms pressing against his chest. “You are. You’re Karina from the bottom of my heart. And I promise to never forget a pet name ever again,” he says, his weary eyes suddenly burning with pure, sincere love for her, his fingers digging possessively into her side. “I like that, Oliver.”

She leans closer for a kiss, releasing soft moans into the tangle. “Now, let’s sleep before your little one wakes up again.” Oliver pinches her cheek, drawing out a surprised yelp out of her. “Oi, I’m not little!” he barks, exaggerating his pout. “Okay, okay, damn.” Karina chuckles, shaking her head out of unadulterated glee. “I mean, yeah, you’re not little. You were literally stretching my―” He cuts her off with a finger to her lips, his ego bloating in the depths of his heart. “You can stop there, my love. That is, unless you want to be taken again.” She bursts out laughing, the sound echoing in the bedroom.

Looking out the airplane’s window, Sohyun envelops his hand with hers, absentmindedly squeezing his fingers, her ears ringing from the altitude, a buzzing counterpoint to the quiet thrill thrumming through her. “Mrs. Han…” Sunwoo whispers, the new surname tasting sweet yet still unfamiliar. “You look a little tense. Just nerves, or are you secretly wishing for more legroom?” he teases gently, his thumb brushing her cheek. She offers a small smile, but he sees the slight worry in her eyes, even as excitement bubbles beneath. "It's just... a lot," she whispers, a happy sigh escaping. “We’re going to be okay, love. More than okay,” he adds, his whispered promise a joyful secret shared just between them. "I will always be here for you," he reaffirms, his gaze full of bright future.

Sohyun leans closer against him, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes, hugging his arm tightly. "Thank you, oppa," Sohyun murmurs, pressing her face into his shoulder. "You always know what to say." Her voice is muffled, but her sincerity is unmistakable. Her words send a pleasant shiver down his spine—oh, to be thanked in such a sweet manner. As his eyes turn shiny at her heartfelt praise, Sunwoo plants a soft peck to the top of her head, right on the dividing line of her hair. “Thank you, love. Life with you has never been short of amazing.”

Sohyun shifts, tucking her head more comfortably into the curve of his shoulder. The hum of the engines becomes a backdrop to the quiet rhythm of their breathing. She feels the familiar strength of his arm around her, a steady presence that has seen her through everything. This new beginning, this incredible journey, feels right, simply because he is by her side. She closes her eyes, a small, contented smile playing on her lips. They are soaring, not just through the sky, but into a future built on trust, laughter, and love—lots of it.

A tiny, private giggle escapes her as she remembers Sunwoo's frantic, last-minute packing this morning, stuffing two left sandals into the same bag. Yes, a future with him means plenty of laughter. Yes, that sounds like a future worth diving into.

As the cabin speakers crackle with an announcement they barely register, Sohyun opens her eyes, a renewed spark of excitement replacing the earlier contentment. The plane banks, offering a first glimpse of the island below—a vibrant tapestry of emerald green and turquoise blue, fringed with white sands. She squeezes Sunwoo's hand, an unspoken question in her wide gaze. He meets her eyes, his own shining with anticipation. "Almost there, Mrs. Han," he whispers, a playful challenge in his tone. "Ready for our paradise?"

She turns to him, a beautiful, calm smile blossoming on her lips, her fingers tangled around his. “I am,” says Sohyun, no trace of lingering nerves on her face. “We’re going to have so much fun. I just know it.” A sense of warmth surges within Sunwoo; it’s so fulfilling to see her so happy, so excited for life, especially after the challenging months they've navigated, months that have tested their new, fragile marriage. “You’re right, love. We are going to have fun. Just you and me.”

The plane touches down with a gentle bump, a collective sigh of relief and excitement rippling through the cabin. Sohyun’s heart leaps, a joyous flutter mirroring the gentle descent. Through the window, the island comes into sharper focus, the palm trees swaying in a warm breeze she can almost feel. Sunwoo squeezes her hand again, his thumb tracing patterns on her knuckles. "Welcome to paradise, Mrs. Han," he murmurs, his voice thick with contentment. As the seatbelt sign dings off, a surge of eager passengers pushes toward the aisle, but Sohyun and Sunwoo linger, savoring this moment, a quiet bubble of happiness amidst the bustle.

Sohyun lifts her hand, gently cupping his chin, and leans in, her intention clear to Sunwoo. His arm, initially wrapped around her, pulls her closer, closing the gap between their bodies. As if stuck in time in their own little bubble, her lips meet his, a soft exploration that deepens into a shared breath. They stay connected, exchanging quiet promises to be each other’s unwavering strength, to love and be loved, until the end of time. Eventually, they pull away, but only because a stewardess, with a polite cough and a knowing smile, asks them to deplane.

-

The trip to their resort is a short one. How can it not feel brief, when their eyes get treated to the beauty of the Maldivian natural landscape. Every turn of the vehicle reveals a new masterpiece: water so clear it seems to vanish into the air, brilliant coral reefs visible just beneath the surface, and skies that stretch in an impossible gradient from soft azure to deep sapphire.  They exchange light, harmless pinches, asking for each other’s attention, at every enchanting view they catch. “Love, love, look at that,” he nearly leaps in his seat, his hand urgently finding her arm, “the sea, the clouds… so beautiful, no? It’s even more incredible in person.” Sohyun leans over, her gaze following his pointing finger, and a soft sigh escapes her. “Thank you for bringing me here, my love,” she whispers, her tone thick with gratitude and love for him. “You could’ve taken me to Jeju, but you’ve brought me to paradise instead.”

"Only the best for my wife," Sunwoo replies, his voice warm with satisfaction. Sohyun leans her head against his shoulder, letting the rhythmic hum of their transport and the gentle breeze wash over her. Their driver, a local man with a kind smile, points out a family of herons fishing gracefully in the shallows nearby, then indicates a row of vibrant hibiscus bushes lining the path. It’s these small, perfect details that make the journey feel like a dream, each turn revealing a new facet of the island's untouched beauty. Sohyun finds herself already falling in love with this place, not just for its stunning vistas, but for the peaceful simplicity it offers, a stark contrast to the busy city life they’re escaping from.

Moments later, the buggy pulls into a beautifully open-air reception lobby, where the air hums with quiet elegance and the distant splash of a water feature. They are greeted with warm smiles and soft-spoken welcomes. While Sunwoo handles the quick check-in process, Sohyun’s eyes are drawn to a glass-bottomed section of the floor, revealing schools of colorful fish darting beneath. The simple act of signing a few papers feels like the last official hurdle before true relaxation. A staff member hands them chilled towels and a welcome drink, the tangy sweetness of fresh fruit instantly refreshing. "This is it, love," Sunwoo murmurs, taking her hand and leading her to their accommodation. "Our actual escape begins now."

In the privacy of their overwater villa, its cool interior a welcome respite from the tropical warmth, Sohyun opens her suitcase. As if checking things off her mental checklist, her finger traces lines over the neatly folded swimsuits, the wide-brimmed hat, the sunscreens Sunwoo had insisted on. Her lips murmur the names under her breath, a quiet inventory.

“We have everything we need, don’t we?” Sunwoo asks, unzipping his suitcase next to her. “We’ll see.” She slips her hand under a pile of T-shirts, and a blush creeps up her cheeks; her fingers are brushing against a bag of contraceptives and pregnancy test kits. “Y-yes, I… I think we have everything we need, and then some,” she confirms, hiding her hot cheeks behind the curtain of her hair. Sunwoo catches the subtle shift, a knowing glint entering his eyes. “Good to hear, baby,” he teases, his face gleaming with mischief.

Sohyun rises to her feet, her gaze roaming the interior, looking at anything but her husband. “O-oppa…” she mutters, the loose thread at the hem of his shirt suddenly so captivating. “What, erm, what do you think we should do first?” With an amused smile, Sunwoo gets on his feet, his palms finding purchase on her waist, slightly digging into the soft flesh. A familiar warmth spreads from his touch, igniting a flush that reaches her ears. “I’m down for anything, baby. Sexual, non-sexual—just anything, as long as I’m with you,” he whispers, his lips brushing her temple, his tone calm and calming.

Sohyun finally lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes, and the last of her shyness melts away under his comforting warmth. A genuine smile blossoms on her face. “Then… can we…” she trails off, her finger pointing at the mattress covered in clean white sheets. “Sure, baby,” he confirms. With his hand joined with hers, Sunwoo guides her towards their destination—oh, these are some silky, impossibly soft sheets.

They settle in bed together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the mattress caving slightly under their weight. “Comfortable, love?” Sunwoo asks, keeping Sohyun close to him. She simply nods to his question; with her face sinking into his chest, a brief nod is enough. Looking over her, he notices a view she wouldn’t want to miss: the clear sea and blue sky, visible straight from the bed. “Baby, I think you should turn around. I think you’ll like the view,” he whispers. Following his suggestion, Sohyun shifts, turning around without leaving his comfortable embrace, gasping softly as the limitless expanse of turquoise, merging seamlessly with the cerulean sky, appears before her eyes.

Sohyun simply stares, mesmerized, the vibrant colors outside painting a living picture frame for their shared moment. She leans back against Sunwoo, nestling deeper into his side, his warmth a perfect contrast to the cool air of the villa. "It's... beautiful," she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Thank you, oppa. This is just… unbelievable.” Sunwoo tightens his arm around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. "What I wouldn’t give for you, my heart," he murmurs back, his voice thick with contentment. For a long while, they lie in comfortable silence, occasionally broken by soft hums and giggles, soaking in the peace of being exactly where they're meant to be, together.

The peaceful silence stretches, filled with unspoken tenderness. Sohyun’s fingers, still idly tracing patterns on the back of Sunwoo's hand, drift slowly upwards along his arm. She feels the warmth of his skin. The gentle sway of the water beneath their villa, combined with their close proximity, ignites a different kind of heat within her. She feels his intense gaze, a palpable weight on the back of her head, a type of intensity that sears, as if his eyes could ignite her skin. When she finally looks behind, the playfulness in his eyes has deepened, mixed now with a tender longing. He leans down, not for her forehead this time, but for her lips, a slow, deliberate approach that promises a new kind of paradise.

The cool air of the villa now feels insignificant against the heat building between them. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes never leave hers, a silent question passing between them. Sohyun’s heart hammers a joyous rhythm, and she presses closer; her answer is clear in the way she presses her lips to his once more, a soft, affirmative gesture. “Come on, my heart,” he urges, his breath hot against her face. “Let’s not waste any more time.” She nods, already reaching for the hem of his shirt, while he reaches for the waistband of her skirt.

The soft rustle of clothes sliding to the floor is the only sound apart from their quickening breaths. Sunwoo’s hands glide over Sohyun’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He lifts her slightly, positioning her more comfortably beneath him on the yielding mattress. Through the large window, the setting sun casts a fiery orange glow across the water, painting their skin in warm hues, but it's the internal fire that consumes them now.

“Take me…”

Her soft, whispered words send his heart into overdrive, each deep pulse rippling through his body. Sunwoo leans down, his head invading the crook of her neck. “You’re mine,” he growls, the possessiveness in his voice searing her ear. “You’re mine and only mine.” Swallowing a gulp that is stuck in her throat, Sohyun nods, her heart bumping in her chest under the pressure of his firm torso. “Y-yes. I-I’m yours, oppa…”

Sunwoo slides his hips forwards, but her sudden pinch on his arm stops him right away. “O-oppa…” she whispers, her eyes searching for signs of annoyance or perhaps anger on his face. “I… I’m sorry, but can we take this slow—just this round, I promise.”  With a soft smile playing on his lips, he nods, stroking her cheek softly, his thumb gliding on her face, just below her eye. “Of course, my love. Let’s do it like it’s our first time again,” he confirms. His features soften completely, a profound tenderness in his gaze, radiant with sincere, unconditional love and care for her.

Sunwoo leans down once more, placing a peck on her forehead and the bridge of her nose, soothing any lingering apprehension. “Like it’s our first time…” she repeats in a whisper, the memory of their first night together flashing in her mind. “I was scared, oppa, but you were patient—very patient,” she continues, her eyelids slowly closing, a fond smile tugging at the corners of her lips. A soft, almost disbelieving chuckle escapes him; never had Sunwoo known he had that level of patience, but Sohyun truly brought the best out of him.

Momentarily lifting her head off the pillow, Sohyun offers a quick, urgent peck to his cheek, the stubble sending small electric jolts through her body. “Let’s do it, oppa. I won’t bleed like that time, but you know I would if I could.” Without a word, Sunwoo moves, guiding his member towards her core, both exhaling sharply as his tip brushes against her intimate folds. “Come on—oh, God, yes…”

He hesitates for only a breath, allowing her words and the significant memory of their first night to settle between them. Then, with a slow, deliberate push, Sunwoo eases into her, a soft groan escaping his throat as her body stretches to accommodate him. Sohyun gasps, a sharp intake of air, her nails lightly digging into his shoulders.

“Claim me all over again, oppa.”

“I’m yours, my love.”

“Yes, just like that, baby.”

“I love you.”

Their whispered words of passion mingle in the air, joining her soft moans and his deep groans. The pace, relaxed and unhurried as it is, feels comfortable and appropriate, a dear reminder of their precious memory of lost innocence.

He begins to move faster, establishing a deliberate rhythm that offsets the quiet, deep pulse of the ocean beneath their villa. Each thrust is a sweet rediscovery, each familiar curve and plane of her body a landscape he knows by heart yet feels brand new. It's a profound journey back to a cherished beginning. Sohyun’s breath hitches with every measured retreat and advance, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still.

“Oppa…” she mutters, her deep voice soft in his ear. “I’m… I’m grateful for you—oh, yes, that’s good…” Sunwoo’s peck lands on her lips, a wave of tenderness washing over him, the warmth in his heart growing along his arousal. “More than you know, baby,” he murmurs, groaning slightly. “God, you’re so hot, so good.”

Sohyun lifts her hips, meeting his deep thrusts at a better angle. “Come on, oppa. Harder,” she urges, lost completely in the exquisite friction, with only him and this sensation in her mind. Planting his knees into the mattress, Sunwoo picks up the pace, his hands gripping down on her wrists. As the pace grows, so do her moans, the sound filling their bedroom—no one better be staying in the next room.

The rhythm builds, a frantic, accelerating drumbeat that consumes them both. Sohyun’s body tightens around his, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the pressure inside her coils tighter and tighter. Sunwoo’s grunts become ragged, his eyes fixed on hers, a silent, desperate plea for release. Then, with a shuddering cry from Sohyun and a deep, guttural roar from Sunwoo, they shatter, exploding into a shared, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. He collapses onto her, heavy and spent, their skin slick with sweat, the only sounds now their ragged breaths slowly calming in the quiet hum of the villa.

With the last bit of energy she has, Sohyun locks her ankles behind his back, keeping him lodged snugly in her core. “That’s new,” Sunwoo teases, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Trying to get pregnant?” Chuckling, she lightly smacks him on the back, hiding her genuine interest in carrying his child behind the gesture. “Just savoring the warmth,” she dodges. “Sure, baby. Just savoring the warmth,” he whispers back, a smile now fully present on his lips.

After a few more minutes of blissful silence, Sunwoo stirs, gently disentangling himself. “How about a shower, my love?” he suggests, his voice still thick with recent passion. “Then, we can head out. Maybe take a little walk or hang out at the entertainment area.” Sohyun stretches, a soft groan of contentment escaping her, her body feeling pleasantly heavy and relaxed. "Sounds good, oppa," she agrees, slowly sitting up, the glow of their shared intimacy still radiating from them both as they begin to gather their wits for the next phase of their paradise.

After the relaxed, laughter-filled shower, their skin still prickling with warmth from the steaming water and shared giggles, the pair heads to the entertainment area, their fingers tangled together in a warmth that mimics the setting sun. Sohyun’s eyes widen at the sight of an arrangement of musical instruments, and she bounces slightly on her toes, tugging his hand as excitement bubbles in her chest. “Oppa, oppa,” she frantically calls to him. “Can we sing to each other—you know, like that time?” She looks at him from the side as a smile spread on his lips, the corner of his eyes creasing. “Yeah, we sure can. I have some songs I’d like to sing to you,” he agrees.

With the exciting thought of being sung to in her mind, Sohyun nearly tumbles onto the sofa, her butt landing on the cushion with a soft bounce, a joyful jolt going through her. “Come on, come on!” she urges, already so eager to listen to what he has in store for her. Chuckling slightly, Sunwoo heads to the mic on a stand, grabbing a guitar from the nearby stand on his way. He flicks the small switch on the side and taps the head a few times. A soft pop echoes from the speakers. “Is this thing on?” he murmurs, his voice amplified and clear, coming out in confirmation.

Oh, I hope you know I will carry you home, Whether it’s tonight or fifty-five years down the road. Oh, I know there’s so many ways that this could go. Don’t want you to wonder, darlin’, I need you to know.

The soft, almost whispered opening sends a shiver down her spine. Not because this is a hit song, no—this is about the promise of staying together through the ups and downs, a melody echoing the quiet fears she sometimes harbors and the unwavering hope he always brings. When he flashes her a smile, a silent affirmation of every lyric, a soft gasp escapes her, her vision getting blurry by the unshed tears threatening to spill out.

We were talking to the sunset. Throwin’ dreams against the wall. I know none of them have stuck yet, But I bet it on you, honey. Oh, I would risk it all.

Sunwoo stops to take a breath, his heart racing as he prepares for the chorus. Flashing the teary woman another smile, he returns his wit back to the song, his fingers ready to strike the chords and shake her heart, perhaps also the walls.

These days, these nights are changing. Mama, my mind is set on you. I’m not afraid to say it, to say it’s true. Oh, I hope you know I will carry you home, Whether it’s tonight or fifty-five years down the road. Oh, I know there’s so many ways that this could go. Don’t want you to wonder, darlin’, I need you to know, In this and every life, I choose us every time.

Sohyun can only look at him as the song continues. No, this is not just a song. This is his heart laid bare before her in such a beautiful, private display. Her tears finally spill over, leaving wet trails down her cheeks. He continues to sing, his own eyes growing shiny with emotion, the raw honesty of the moment filling the space between them. The guitar chords resonate deeply, each strum echoing the earnest beat of his heart. By the time the last notes fade, a profound silence falls, thick with unshed tears and an overwhelming sense of love that needs no further words.

His gaze leaves her, drifting to the side, and a hint of a proud, playful smile touches his lips as if acknowledging someone else’s presence. A sharp gasp flies out of her lips when she sees what's up: a dozen pairs of eyes, soft with admiration, meet hers from the dimness behind the sofa. There’s a crowd, watching Sunwoo sing his heart out. “My wife,” Sunwoo says, introducing her to the crowd with a proud smile on his face. “We’re having a honeymoon here.” Covering her mouth, Sohyun offers some polite nods while desperately trying to blink her tears back. “You have a good husband,” an elderly woman says to Sohyun, her thick European accent adding more warmth to the praise.

Sohyun offers another rapid series of bows and nods, her face burning, desperately wishing the sofa had a trapdoor. Sunwoo, however, is beaming, reveling in her discomfort and the admiration of their impromptu audience. He presses a quick kiss to her forehead. "Come on, love," he whispers playfully, his arm gently guiding her up from the sofa. "Let's find some dinner before they ask for an encore." He leads her away from the admiring gazes, her hand still tangled in his, their shared laughter echoing softly through the lounge.

Sunwoo leads her through the resort’s gently lit pathways, the scent of grilled seafood thick in the evening air. Sohyun, still giggling softly, occasionally glances back, half-expecting applause, before turning her attention fully to him. They find a table at the quiet, open-air restaurant overlooking the ocean. She sits next to him, cradling his hands in her lap, stroking them gently.

“Thank you, oppa,” she whispers, her gaze drifting to the distant waves in the sea. “You’re welcome, my love,” he whispers back, pulling her closer. “You liked the song, didn’t you?” With a chuckle, Sohyun pinches his wrist lightly, her eyes turning shiny again. “I did, but what do you think will happen in 55 years?” Sunwoo sighs, the smile on his lips fading, caught off guard by her question. “I don’t know, honestly, but whatever it is… I hope I’ll still be with you.”

Sohyun tightens her grip on his hands, a sense of quiet comfort settling over her at his honest vulnerability. "Me too, oppa," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "I hope we'll be those old people… still bickering playfully, still holding hands as we watch the sunset, just like this." Sunwoo's smile slowly returns, a tender, wistful expression. "That sounds like a future worth fighting for, my heart.” He lifts her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Now, why don’t we get some food in our belly, hm?”

-

The pair heads out of the restaurant hand in hand, fingers tangled tightly, their faces bright with contentment of the moment they are sharing. As they walk through the entertainment area once more, a familiar flutter rises within Sohyun, the fresh memory of being sung to coming back in a rush, turning her cheeks warm. “You alright, love?” Sunwoo catches on to her sudden change of attitude. Biting her lips, she nods, only able to lift her gaze as high as his lips. “Yeah,” she mutters. “Just… still getting the butterflies, right here," she whispers, pressing his hand against her chest.

Sunwoo’s smile is gentle, understanding. He stops their walk, turning fully to face her, his hands coming up to cup her face softly. "Even after all this time?" he teases, but his eyes are serious, full of adoration. Sohyun leans into his touch, her own smile blooming. "Especially now," she whispers. They stand there for a moment, simply holding each other's gaze, the soft glow of the lanterns casting long shadows around them. A few resort guests walk past, offering soft smiles, sensing the quiet, profound bubble of intimacy that surrounds the newlyweds.

“Let me sing for you, oppa. Let me show you just how much you mean to me.” Her spoken intent sends a shiver down his spine. Knowing Sohyun, she’ll pick a song with tender lyrics and pour her heart into singing it, possibly leaving Sunwoo in a wet-eyed mess. "Go on, then,” he slowly pushes her to the piano, the sleek, dark wood gleaming under the soft lights, his breath already getting shaky. “Sing for me and make me cry.”

Settling on the same cushion she sat on, Sunwoo looks at her intently, his eyes turning glassy simply from the anticipation in his chest. He takes a few deep, shaky breaths, his chest rising and falling visibly, as Sohyun starts pressing different keys, filling the room with soft notes. “Are we ready?” she teases, not looking at her husband initially. Turning her head towards him, she finds his eyes, and recognizes the raw vulnerability shining in their depths, signs of sincere emotions clear for her to see. “Ah, I think we are.”

Maybe it’s the way you say my name. Maybe it’s the way you play your game. But it’s so good, I’ve never known anybody like you. But it’s so good, I’ve never dreamed of nobody like you. And I’ve heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime. And I’m pretty sure that you are that love of mine.

Sohyun closes her eyes, tears slipping through the lids and flowing down her cheeks. She’s sung this song to a man who once held her heart, but to finally sing this song again, after this many years, for this man who holds her heart now and forevermore, feels… heavier.

‘Cause I’m in a field of dandelions, Wishing on every one that you’d be mine, mine. And I see forever in your eyes. I feel okay when I see you smile, smile. Wishing on dandelions all of the time. Praying to God that one day you’ll be mine.

Fighting through the flood of tears, Sohyun plays on, the melody weaving through the air, her voice clear. Her eyes remain closed, lost in emotion, pouring her entire heart into every note, every word. This very song, sung in this precise moment, in this exact paradise, feels like a culmination of everything they've been through, everything they are, and everything they hope to be. Sunwoo, utterly captivated, feels a lump in his throat, unable to speak, only able to witness this raw, beautiful outpouring of her soul through his wet eyes.

Dandelion, into the wind you go. Won’t you let my darling know? Dandelion, into the wind you go. Won’t you let my darling know that, I’m in a field of dandelions, Wishing on every one that you’d be mine, mine. Oh, and I see forever in your eyes. I feel okay when I see you smile, smile. Wishing on dandelions all of the time. Praying to God that one day you’ll be mine. Wishing on dandelions all of the time, all of the time. I’m in a field of dandelions, Wishing on every one that you’d be mine, mine.

Sohyun continues to pour her heart into the final chorus, her voice a raw, beautiful testament to her love, the words hanging in the air like a sacred vow. When the last, lingering note of the piano finally fades into the quiet evening, the silence that follows is profound, broken only by the soft, rhythmic lapping of the ocean waves outside. Sohyun keeps her eyes closed, still lost in the afterglow of emotion. Sunwoo, still unable to speak, pushes himself from the sofa and walks to her, gently kneeling next to her, his own tears finally tracking paths down his cheeks as he reaches out to cup her face.

Sunwoo's thumbs gently wipe away her tears, his touch tender, reverent. "My love," he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion, barely a whisper. "My beautiful, beautiful Sohyun." She leans into his hands, her own gripping his wrists, feeling the strong pulse beneath her fingers. "I’m yours," she whispers back, her voice still hoarse from the song and tears. "Always yours." His lips find hers then, a soft, tear-salted kiss that speaks not of passion, but of profound understanding, of promises kept and futures secured.

For a long moment, they remain like that, intertwined in the quiet hum of the villa, the gentle lapping of the ocean a distant, soothing rhythm. Sunwoo's hands cup her face, his gaze holding hers, a universe of unspoken words passing between them. Sohyun feels a sense of complete peace settling over her, a deep, warm contentment that fills every cell of her being. Finally, Sunwoo gently helps her to her feet. "Let's head back, my heart," he whispers, his voice still a little husky. "And just… bask in this feeling." Hand in hand, they walk slowly, the resort lights blurring around them as they head to their haven in heaven.

-

Sohyun grabs his hand and pulls with surprising strength, dragging Sunwoo to bed, her tears replaced with a calm, serenade smile. “Oppa,” she calls, her voice gaining a playful edge. “Did you like the song? You liked the song, right?” Nodding, he offers a peck to her lips. Fleeting it may be, but that doesn’t take anything away from the gesture. “I did. I’ve always liked listening to you singing,” he assures, squeezing her arm lightly. “It was a beautiful song too.”

“A beautiful song, sung by a beautiful woman,” she muses, locking eyes with him. “How about I give you some beautiful children?” Swallowing the lump stuck in his throat, Sunwoo maintains his calm demeanor, but it would be a blatant lie to say he doesn’t want to have children with her. “Children, love? This soon?” he asks, his eyes searching for mischief in hers but only finding honesty. “Yes, children. Plural.”

While Sunwoo’s grip on her wrist tightens, his gaze softens, moving from her eyes to her lips, then sweeping across her face, scanning for any sign of doubt one last time. Finding none, he sighs, a sound of profound delight. "You think we can have twins?" he teases gently, his thumb caressing her cheek. Sohyun giggles, leaning into his touch. "I mean, maybe we can? You’ll never know if you never try."

Feeling a sudden surge of strength, Sunwoo climbs on top of her, his breathing growing quicker as his arousal level rises. “Oh, we will try, sweetheart,” he growls, his face hovering dangerously close over hers. “Yeah? How many times will we try?” she counters, a hint of playful rebellion woven in her voice. “As many times as we can, until one of us passes out.” Sohyun nods, agreeing to indulge him in this attempt to not only conceive, but conceive twins. “Alright,” she takes a deep breath to steady herself, “let’s do it, oppa.”

Sohyun undoes the three buttons of her cardigan, exposing the white undergarment that barely contains her plentiful bosoms. “These,” she palms her breasts, her fingers digging into the flesh, “these will feed our twins, oppa.” Sunwoo bites his lip slightly, his eyes turning dark with desire. “But can they feed me first?” he quips, but lust is clear in his tone. She smirks, infected by his arousal. “Why don’t we see for ourselves, hm?”

Grabbing the hem of the undergarment, Sohyun tries to lift it over her head, but Sunwoo manages to tear it down the middle first, the intrusive sound slicing through the evening air. “Oh my God, oppa…” she mutters, her heart racing at his action. “You’re crazy…” With a chuckle, he pecks her on the lips, pulling away with a naughty smirk on his face. “I am. I’m crazy for you.”

Sohyun laughs breathlessly, a wild, delighted sound that echoes in the villa. "Crazy for me, huh?" she whispers in a deep voice, her hands reaching up to cup his face, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss. Her fingers, still tingling from the shock of the torn garment, now eagerly explore the bare skin of his neck and shoulders. "Well, oppa," she murmurs against his lips, her voice laced with challenge. "If you're that crazy for me, then make me pregnant." Her body presses against his, urging him onward, ready to be consumed by his passion.

He doesn’t say anything back, going straight to claiming her lips in a searing kiss. As Sunwoo gropes her tits, Sohyun places her hands over his, egging him on to keep going, to keep playing with her assets. Her moans, released into the kiss, entice him even more, pulling him deeper into the temptation of lust. “I’m going to be sore all over,” she quickly thinks, already seeing the outcome before even starting.

Eventually, Sunwoo pulls away from the kiss, registering Sohyun’s flushed, breathless face right away. “Heh,” he chuckles lightly, “I can’t tell if you’re tired or aroused—surely you’re not tired already, are you?” She chuckles back, shaking her head as both an answer and a gesture of amusement. “Not tired, no,” she says. “But still, I need some air.”

Giving her some breathing room, Sunwoo gets off the bed, giving her a quick peck to the lips before leaving to grab a bottle of water for the post-coital care. When he returns, Sohyun has already taken everything off, the torn garment joining its friends on the floor. Lying on her belly, she wiggles her plump rear from side to side, urging him to come and take her. She really knows how to tempt him.

Sunwoo grips the bottle harder at the alluring sight before him, a physical testament to his attempt at maintaining grip on his self-control. “Look at you, oppa. So tense and horny, like you can’t wait to put your child in me—no, seriously, look at yourself in the mirror.” Following her finger, Sunwoo spots himself in the mirror: straight posture, erect manhood—the man is indeed tense and horny. “It’s just the things you do to me, baby girl,” he mutters, his voice a low groan. “Just the things you do to me.”

Placing the bottle on the bedside table, Sunwoo comes in for a kiss, his fingers landing on her back, just below her nape. “Love, hey,” he begins, finding clarity of mind amidst the storm of desire. “I know we’ve been teasing each other about getting pregnant and all that, but know that if we don’t conceive tonight, I will hold nothing against you.” His hand moves up, gently pressing down on her nape, as if soothing some frayed nerve endings. “After all, getting pregnant is a two-person dance, isn’t it?” Sohyun smiles, content with both his words and his tender ministration. “Yes, it is, and I really want to dance with you.”

Climbing onto bed, Sunwoo mounts her thighs, his knees sinking into the mattress. “Let’s dance, my love,” he murmurs, his steady voice carrying promise of a pleasurable time. With one hand around his member, he slides himself into her waiting, willing core, his breath taken away by her warmth. “Oh, baby…” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering as he moves his hips back and forth, testing the shared position. “You’re so hot, so good…”

Sohyun closes her eyes, a sigh of bliss escaping her lips as he settles into her. Resting her chin on her pillow, she lets out soft, whispered moans, loud enough for his ears but not for the next-door tenants. “Only you deserve to get me pregnant, my love.” Different iterations of this thought fill her mind, each one unspoken testament to her devotion to him and their shared journey.

She can only obey when Sunwoo pulls her hips up, instinctively supporting the rest of her body with her arms. “N-nothing too rough, please,” she begs, looking at him over her shoulder with pleading eyes. “I’ll try not to—just hang on, baby,” he replies simply. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Sohyun grips the sheets hard, bracing for the impact his hips are about to deliver. “I… I’m ready.”

Sohyun's breath hitches as he moves, not with the explosive force she braced for, but with a deep, consuming pressure that is both intense and exquisitely controlled. “He listens,” she thinks briefly. A wave of tenderness washes over her, mingling with the rising tide of pure sensation. This is their dance: his strength meeting her vulnerability, his control meeting her trust. The bed creaks softly beneath them, a rhythmic testament to their intertwined bodies and the deep, silent conversation they were having, each movement a word, each breath a shared confession.

Her arms fold beneath her, her body slumped over the mattress, fully trusting him to not be overly rough with her. “Yes, oppa, just like that,” she mumbles, her voice thick with need. The moans continue to spill out of her lips, mixing with his groans in the bedroom air. “You got it, baby,” he replies, his fingers digging comfortably into the flesh of her hips. “Exactly like this for round one.” Sohyun gasps; the implication of his words—that it’s just the beginning—fills her with excitement, quietly promising him that she will do her best to keep up until the end.

Soon, his member twitches inside her, triggering her core to spasm around him. “Mmh! Mmh!” Her moans turn to gasps, her orgasm closing in rapidly. Sensing the same thing, Sunwoo picks up the pace, his hips snapping with urgency. “Oppa! Oppa, fu—” Sohyun plants her face into the pillow, stifling herself from cursing; he doesn’t like it when she curses too much during sex. “Just let go, baby. Let go for me!” he growls, his groans getting louder by the second. Finally, with a deep grunt, Sunwoo lodges himself as deep as he can in her, filling her core to the brim with his potent seed. “Oh my God, Park Sohyun…” he mutters, his voice raspy.

After he pulls out, Sohyun settles on her side, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her skin shiny with sweat. “Thank you, baby. That was amazing,” he spoons her from behind, his hand tracing circles on her belly, as if stimulating it to rise, “I hope you don’t mind going again after this.” Smiling softly, she places her hand on his, joining him in rubbing her belly. “No, I don’t. I want to have your child, and there’s only one way to make sure it takes.” Sunwoo chuckles, both amused and touched by her unshakeable willingness to conceive. “Alright, baby, we’ll go again after this, okay?”

-

Having regained strength, Sohyun moves to sit on his thighs, his half-erect manhood hovering over her belly. She looks down at it, her eyes turning darker with reignited want, and a smirk starts to spread across her features. “What are we thinking, love?” he asks, his brows rising with intrigue. Her sharp, dark gaze meets his, the smirk of arousal prominent on her face. “I’m thinking about giving you my last innocence, but anal sex cannot make me pregnant.”

The mention of such an proposition sends blood rushing to his manhood, making it fully hard and erect in a split second. “Anal sex…” Sunwoo echoes, his mind clouded with lust once again. “Mhmm, anal sex,” Sohyun confirms, teasing the head of his member with her fingers. “Giving you that would mean the ultimate submission, oppa.” His hands grip her hips hard, a contrast that cannot be starker; his grip on self-control is slipping quickly.

Sohyun's smirk widens, pleased by his palpable loss of control. "Getting hard just from thinking about it, oppa?" she taunts, her fingers moving lower, caressing the throbbing shaft, drawing another low groan from him. "But imagine the reality for a second, hm?" She leans in, her lips brushing his ear. "It won't make us those twins—or any child for that matter," she whispers, her voice laced with wicked promise. "But it will make me yours, in a way you've never been before." Her provocative words, combined with her touch, are the final push, shattering the last semblance of his self-restraint.

Sunwoo beckons her closer with a flick of his finger, the true depth of his lust lying beneath his sharp gaze. Sohyun bends down, getting her ears ready to hear his demand to surrender her forbidden crevice. “Give it to me, Park Sohyun. Give it to me, and I’ll make you mine in every way possible.” Her breath hitches at his demand; she’s got him exactly where she wants him to be, yes, but his size meeting her tightness… that sounds rather intimidating—but she’s not backing down. “Yes, sir…” she whispers, her voice laced with submission, her breath hot against his ear.

Sohyun gets off of him, settling on all fours and exposing all her private parts to his exploring gaze. “Remind me, baby—what is it you’re offering me?” he taunts, his finger tracing a line over her previously filled slit. Fighting back a moan, she manages to stammer out an answer for him, “M-my… my ass…”

Feeling a subtle pressure of his index finger on her tight, untouched rectum, Sohyun gasps loudly, her grip on the sheets tensing imperceptibly. “This is going to hurt, though,” Sunwoo traces the circular shape of her forbidden entrance, “are you sure? You still have a chance to back out.” She shakes her head firmly, driven only by her desire to fully surrender to him. “I-I think first times are meant to hurt—erm, t-that’s what make them special, o-oppa.”

Sohyun's last stammered words, though laced with a nervous tremor, spark a new fire in Sunwoo’s eyes. He pulls his finger away, letting the air cool the sensitive spot for a moment—but Sohyun doesn't wait. Driven by her earlier declaration of complete surrender, she subtly shifts her hips, a slight tilt that is all the invitation he needs. "Please, oppa. Take me," she whispers, her voice barely audible, pushing through the fear, desperate for the profound intimacy she's offering.

Sunwoo perches on his knees behind her, the sight of her most sacred parts helping him stay hard as a rock. He covers his erect manhood with as much spit as he can, hoping the wetness will ease the pain of first penetration. Satisfied with the coat he’s got, he lines up his member with her puckered opening—all he needs now is a green light. “Are we ready?” he asks, lust woven in his tone. Sohyun takes a few deep breaths, steadying herself before giving up the last innocence she has, before giving into the taboo. “Make me yours, oppa.”

Gritting his teeth, Sunwoo pushes forwards, the tip of him fighting to stretch her tight ring, to get past the snug muscle. “Oh my God, fuck…” he lets a curse slip through his lips, his eyelids flitting at the sensation of her impossibly taut grip. He moves his hips forwards in a testing manner, gauging her reaction while also adapting to this feeling. “Oh, fuck, you’re so fucking tight, baby…” he mumbles, truly lost in her.

Sohyun's breath hitches, her body trembling beneath him, but she lets out a soft moan of surrender, signaling her willingness. Sunwoo groans, the sound deep and primal, as he pushes more of himself into her, slowly but surely, until he’s completely buried in her. A collective gasp escapes both their lips as he fills her to the brim, the searing burn replaced by a new kind of exquisite pressure. He pauses, allowing them both to adjust to the profound invasion, his entire body shaking with the effort of holding still. "All mine," he rasps, his voice raw with triumph and overwhelming possession. “All... all yours, daddy.”

Sohyun turns her head to the side, showing him a nod—that’s another green light to him. Sunwoo pulls back, until only his tip is in her rear, before plunging forwards once more, hitting the deepest spot and drawing out another soft moan from her. “You like that?” She nods breathlessly to his question, still adjusting to the intrusion. “One more time, then.” Repeating the movement, he puts more strength into it this time, his head spinning at how tight her anal muscles are hugging his member. “Oh, fuck, that’s fucking good, baby,” he growls, the deep tone burning her ears.

Sohyun's fingers dig into the sheets, her back arching slightly with each powerful, deliberate thrust. The initial, burning discomfort is now a distant memory, replaced by a deep, throbbing pleasure that resonates through her entire body. She starts to move with him, a primal, instinctive sway of her hips that matches his rhythm perfectly. Her moans grow louder, more uninhibited, a symphony of sheer delight that spurs Sunwoo on, driving him deeper, harder, lost in the exquisite, forbidden dance they were now expertly performing.

Sunwoo's focus sharpens, every nerve ending alive to the way her body moves with his, the way her moans rise in exquisite delight. A deep satisfaction, far beyond mere physical gratification, blooms in his chest. He pushes deeper, harder, driven now by the sheer joy of providing her with such profound pleasure. "That's it, my love," he rasps, his voice ragged with desire and triumph, his rhythm becoming a relentless, insistent claim, demanding every ounce of sensation from her, from them both.

Gathering her might, Sohyun lifts her torso, leaning against his chest as they keep moving together. “Fill my ass, daddy. Claim me, ruin me, use me,” she mumbles, lost in the sea of eros, just like he is. At her urging voice, Sunwoo ruts into her with more fervor, his length fully disappearing in her anus at every thrust. “Look at you, baby,” he gropes her full bosoms, squeezing them wildly, “one session of anal, and you’re already addicted.” A wicked grin, fueled with his praise, blooms on her face. “H-how can I not? Y-your cock is fucking perfect for me.”

Sunwoo’s grin widens, a dangerous gleam in his eyes at her raw confession. "Perfect for you, huh?" he growls, his voice deep and thick with satisfaction. He fastens his grip on her tits, pressing hot kisses to her skin as he continues to drive into her, relentlessly claiming her. "Then let's make sure you never forget it," he murmurs against her ear, his every thrust a potent reminder, his hands kneading her breasts, confirming his ownership, pulling her deeper into the delicious, all-consuming addiction she just admitted to.

Sunwoo lets out another guttural roar, his body trembling as the mind-numbing tightness pushes him closer to the edge. “Go on, say it,” he barks. “Say you want your ass filled.” Quickly taking a breath, Sohyun barks back, “Fill my ass with your seed! Please, daddy!” With the last bit of energy he has left, Sunwoo lodges himself fully in her anal crevice, releasing a load as big as the one he shot into her womb earlier. “Fuck!”

Drained, both collapse together, falling back into the mattress with no energy left in their tanks. “Sohyun, baby,” he whispers, his voice shaky from exhaustion. “Thank you so much. You’re amazing.” She nods weakly, her heart warm for two reasons: her taboo purity is his, and he’s satisfied by it. “T-thank you, oppa,” she manages, her entire body humming with remnants of the intense cherry-taking. “I-I’m truly yours now…” Another devilish smirk spreads across his lips, his ego bloating at her submissive admission, but it’s quickly replaced with a smile of gratitude. “You are, baby, and I’m yours. Never forget that, please.”

Sunwoo shifts slightly, pulling the sheet up to cover them both, though the Maldivian heat means it's more for comfort than warmth. He presses a soft kiss to her shoulder. "No regrets?" he whispers, a playful note in his exhausted voice. Sohyun giggles weakly. "None, oppa," she whispers back, tracing patterns on his arm. "Just… wow." He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Yeah. Wow. You were incredible, baby girl. Every single part of you."

Minjun nods, heading through the suggested door with urgency. His head is held high, his steps are quick, his gaze sharp. Moving through the sea of people and weaving through the bodies swiftly, his eyes sweep over faces, assessing—perhaps judging. His sharp gaze eventually lands on a woman in a tidy blazer, surrounded by others in matching attire. Minjun’s eyebrow rises, his lips curving into a demeaning smirk. "Azure." The name alone tastes like cheap, fleeting trends on his tongue, a company synonymous with a lack of tradition, of principles. The pin glinting on her blazer confirms it, and a knowing amusement flickers in his eyes. “Daddy's girl is here, huh?”

Minjun legs lock, his heels clacking loudly as he stops, and his escorting group stops behind him. Sensing the shifting tensions, the people from Azure cut their chatter, turning around slowly, as if physically bracing to face the big daddy of the industry. “Hi there,” he greets them dryly, his voice nearly completely devoid of respect. “Welcome to The Flavors Expo, ladies and gents.” They exchange glances, unsure of what to say to the man wearing a golden leaf pin. Eventually, a woman—the daddy’s girl, the heiress—emerges, facing Minjun with an unwavering resolve. “The Azure Taste Limited is humbled to be here,” she says, a calm, confident smile decorating her face, not a single tremor in her voice.

A ripple of hushed whispers spreads through the nearby booths. Seasoned industry veterans exchange knowing glances. This isn't just a polite introduction; it's the opening salvo in what promises to be a very public and very personal war. No one dares to intervene, mesmerized by the clash of two young, formidable wills. The air in the expo hall, already thick with the scent of competing flavors, suddenly crackles with raw, undiluted tension.

The woman extends an open hand, holding onto her coffee with the other. “My name is Lee Chaeyoung. May I ask what yours is?” Minjun’s expressions soften, not wanting to look too hostile right off the bat. “Park Minjun. Golden Leaf International,” he introduces himself, shaking her hand firmly, perhaps a fraction longer than strictly necessary. “Mister Park Minjun,” she echoes, the name instantly solidifying in her mind as both a benchmark and a formidable obstacle. “Would you like to have a sample, Mister Park?” He smiles, stifling a chuckle from leaving his lips, almost disgusted at the idea of having a taste of Azure’s flavor—but he must play nice, at least for now. “That would be amazing. What do you have?” he asks, carefully building a façade of friendliness.

Chaeyoung leads him towards a table lined with pre-filled pods, each one filled to the brim with her company’s flavors. “These are the fruity ones,” she traces a line over a row of bright-colored pods, “and those are our creamy ones. Please, have a taste.” Being a fan of dessert-like flavors, Minjun reaches for one labeled simply as caramel. He then takes a long puff, closing his eyes as the rich, buttery sweetness washes over his tongue, perfectly balanced and utterly familiar. For a fleeting moment, a sense of pure, unadulterated pleasure fills him, a recognition of true mastery—and his stomach twists with unease. It’s more than a passing feeling, though; it’s a jolt of alarm. Azure’s caramel tastes not just similar, but nearly identical to Golden Leaf’s top-selling Salted Silk.

Minjun's eyes snap open, the pleasant haze from the flavor vanishing. Pulling the pod away, his fingers tighten around it. A flicker of raw surprise, quickly masked, crosses his face. Chaeyoung, watching closely, catches the fleeting shadow that crosses his features before his practiced mask slides into place. He clears his throat as the last bit of cloud leaves his lips, offering Chaeyoung a tight, almost forced smile. "Remarkable," he states, the single word carefully neutral, but his mind is already a whirlwind of questions. How did they get so close? Is this a coincidence, a direct challenge, or worse, a leaked secret?

“This caramel blend of yours has quite the depth to it,” he continues, holding up the pod for a moment, “say, Miss Lee, what was your inspiration for this?” Chaeyoung looks away for a moment, hiding her satisfied grin behind the curtain of her hair. “I've always had a particular fondness for well-crafted caramel notes,” she confesses, her voice tinged with excitement. “And our team drew from a wide array of top-tier references when developing this blend.”

Minjun keeps his eyes on her. “References, huh? Like Salted Silk?” he wonders to himself, the words burning like an accusation in his mind, accusing her of copying the result of his team’s hard work. Cutting short the interaction, he takes a deliberate step back, putting distance between himself and the booth, even as he offers her a pair of curt, almost dismissive nods. “I think your R&D team deserves a pat on the back, Miss Lee.” Chaeyoung's hand comes up as she chuckles, covering her mouth in a gesture that is both demure and subtly triumphant, fitting for an heiress of an evolving empire. Even if he perceives it as built on shaky grounds—a new brand standing on no tradition, trying to make a name for themselves—Azure can still pose a threat, and emperors like the Golden Leaf don’t like threats.

Minjun turns abruptly, signaling his escort with a sharp gesture. "We have a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce in five minutes," he states, his voice low and clipped, devoid of the earlier feigned pleasantries. Walking away, his gaze flicks back to Chaeyoung and the Azure booth one last time, the image of that perfectly replicated caramel flavor burning behind his eyes. This isn't just competition; it's an insult to the throne.

-

The initial jolt of alarm from The Flavors Expo morphs into a cold, hard resolve for Minjun. He dedicates the next few weeks to dissecting Azure's market entry, commissioning detailed reports on their supply chain, their patent filings, and even their recruitment strategies. The sheer audacity of their caramel clone still chafes. Golden Leaf's legal team is put on high alert, meticulously reviewing every flavor profile, every branding choice for potential infringement or reverse-engineering tactics. Minjun isn't interested in a public skirmish; he's mapping out a strategic blockade, finding every possible leverage point to corner Azure before they can truly establish a foothold.

“Mr. Park, sir,” a manager calls to him, his gaze darting around the room, his fingers fiddling with his pen as he speaks. “May I suggest hiring some private investigators to look into this?” Minjun exhales, leaning back in his sleek, leather-wrapped chair, the vapor cloud of Salted Silk hovering over his head, a cold reminder of Azure’s brazen challenge. "Keep talking, Mr. Shin," Minjun says, his voice a low rumble. “Sir, we have a reason to believe there might have been a breach,” Mr. Shin replies, his voice gaining a nervous confidence. “There is no way anyone could make something this similar to our stuff without someone leaking the development recipe.”

Minjun’s sharp gaze stays locked on the manager, taking another puff of Salted Silk as he considers the idea. “Does anyone else have another idea, because I don’t see any other way?” he asks the other managers who remain glued to their seats, their faces carefully blank, unwilling to risk suggesting a flawed alternative and igniting the wrath of the big boss. A heavy silence fills the room, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning. "No?" Minjun's voice drops, a dangerous edge to it. "Well, ain't that disappointing." He points his vape pod at Mr. Shin. “Can you assure me that your investigators can be discreet?” Mr. Shin nods slowly, understanding the weight behind his question. “Certainly, sir. They operate outside the usual corporate channels, thus minimizing direct risk to Golden Leaf's reputation.”

Minjun abruptly rises from his seat, slamming the pod onto the table. “This,” he points at it, “is a fucking insult to us.” His fiery gaze scans the faces of the managers before him, each person not daring to look back at him. “I expect everyone to do their part in finding the root of this. You're dismissed—and please excuse my language.”

One person after the other leaves, and as Mr. Shin prepares to join his fellow managers, Minjun grabs his wrist, his fingers wrapped firmly around the sleeve of his suit. “Get me Lee Chaeyoung’s number, Mr. Shin,” he demands. The man simply nods, knowing better than to ask twice, already thinking of ways to get what the boss wants. “By the way,” he continues, “make sure security always checks everyone when they enter and leave the building. Refusing to comply will result in immediate dismissal.”

Settling back in his seat, Minjun pulls out another pod from his pocket: Tiramisu Twist. He grips the pod hard, imagining what it would be like if someone were to clone this flavor. The one he created with his own hands, back when he was serving as the Head of R&D under his father. The one he spent countless hours perfecting until it was deemed good enough for the big boss. The one he keeps coming back to whenever he yearns for comfort.

“Clone this, and I’ll burn Azure myself, Lee Chaeyoung,” he murmurs, staring right into the empty seat across from him, imagining Chaeyoung sitting in it—just the image of her grin makes him hot. He takes a slow, deep puff of the Tiramisu Twist, basking in the gentle sweetness covering his tongue, the slight hint of bitterness the perfect closing note of the flavor. “No one gets to insult the Golden Leaf, and definitely not a company without tradition like yours.”

-

The scorching heat of summer has now been replaced by the calm, more soothing breeze of autumn. The heat in Minjun’s heart is still as fiery as before, though. If anything, it's burning even hotter; the confidential report, detailing how one of his R&D personnel stole Salted Silk's base formula and sent it to competitors, lies scrambled on his desk. It ignites the beast sleeping in his chest.

The report's findings replay in his head: "Former R&D Lead, Kim Dongho, terminated due to insubordination, accepted a position with Azure two weeks prior to their 'Caramel' launch." The name burns. Minjun doesn’t say a word, his gaze drifting out of the window of his office. This is him; mild irritation will make him run his mouth, but one that is deeper, heavier will stifle it. The silence stretches long, only broken by the sound of his pod’s puffs. He was hoping that the chilling sensation of menthol from this Watermelon Whirl could help his mind relax, but it doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

A fleeting image flashes through Minjun's mind: Kim Dongho, years ago, a bright-eyed, eager R&D intern, nervously presenting a flavor concept. Minjun had mentored him, seen his potential, trusted him. The betrayal cuts deeper than any corporate espionage; it's a personal wound. “What happened, Dongho-yah? Is this about that second-grade mango I told you to make, the one you had come up with—we didn’t have the materials for that, though,” he mumbles, wondering what could have made Dongho to stab him in the back.

He shakes his head, dispelling the ghost of the past. The lingering phantom taste of second-grade mango fades, replaced by the bitter tang of betrayal. "It doesn't matter," Minjun mutters, his voice devoid of emotion. What matters is the present. What matters is the enemy now holding a piece of him. He pulls out his phone, the screen already illuminated with Lee Chaeyoung’s contact, courtesy of Mr. Shin.

Minjun presses the call button, closing his eyes as he waits for her to pick up, taking another long puff for good luck. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long. “That’s brave,” he thinks quickly; CEOs don’t usually pick up calls from unknown numbers. “Good morning, Miss Lee,” he greets her, his voice flat and controlled. “Good morning. Is this Mr. Park Minjun from Golden Leaf?” she asks, her voice calm, almost too calm, without a hint of surprise.

Minjun’s eyebrows furrow, but his voice remains flat, staying solid. "Indeed it is, Miss Lee," he replies, his gaze fixed on the cityscape outside his window. "I'm calling about that caramel flavor you were showcasing at The Flavors Expo." He pauses, stringing together a sentence to continue. “I won’t waste your time, Miss Lee, so let me ask you this: did you or did you not receive the development recipe for Salted Silk from a certain Kim Dongho?”

A beat of silence, heavy with unspoken tension, stretches across the line, each side trying to be one step ahead of the other. “Mr. Park,” she replies, her calm voice suddenly carrying a sharp edge. “I’m not sure what gives you the idea that Dongho-oppa gave Azure any development recipe.” Minjun’s eyes blink rapidly, and soon, his lips stretch into a smirk—he’s caught her lacking.

“Dongho-oppa, hey? Is that what you call him over there?” he taunts, keeping his voice controlled despite the urge to burst out laughing. "A cute nickname for a corporate spy, wouldn't you say, Miss Lee?" He pauses, letting the silence twist. "Here's what's going to happen. You can either cooperate with our investigation into your... acquisition of our intellectual property, or Golden Leaf International will make sure the name of Azure Taste Limited becomes synonymous with corporate theft. Your choice, Miss Lee. Oh, and I don’t give a piss about Kim Dongho,” he adds, his fingers gripping his phone hard, a testament to the fire in his heart.

The line hums with the weight of Minjun's ultimatum. For a long moment, Chaeyoung says nothing, her breath catching. Then, her voice, though strained, comes back with surprising force. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Park," she states, the sharp edge now a hardened blade. "Azure Taste Limited operates with the highest ethical standards. We have nothing to cooperate with, and we will defend our reputation vigorously against any baseless accusations. Good day." The click of her phone hanging up slices through the silence.

His grip on the phone tightens until his knuckles whiten, but he quickly relents; she’s hung up anyway. "Fool," he mutters, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He expects a fight, but not a surrender. “Oh, Lee Chaeyoung, surely you’re not this stupid.” Minjun shakes his head, amusement growing in the midst of frustration. “Time to get some lawyers, I guess.” He doesn't waste another second. His thumb flies across his phone screen, dialing his head of legal. "Get a cease-and-desist order drafted for Azure Taste Limited, immediately," he barks, his voice now devoid of any pretense. "And prepare for a full intellectual property lawsuit. I want every single breach documented, every piece of evidence ready. We’re going to war, Mr. Oh."

Within hours, Golden Leaf International's legal department becomes a whirlwind of activity. Mr. Oh, a veteran of countless corporate skirmishes, mobilizes his team, their faces grim but determined. Cease-and-desist letters are drafted, injunctions prepared, and evidence files on Kim Dongho's employment, his proven breach of contract, and subsequent actions meticulously compiled. Minjun leans back in his chair, still looking out the window, taking puffs of Watermelon Whirl while his legal machine churns. This isn't about winning money; it's about making a statement, about crippling Azure and sending a message to anyone else who dares to challenge his empire.

Soon, the legal whispers quickly become industry-wide murmurs. News of Golden Leaf International's aggressive legal maneuvers against Azure Taste Ltd. spreads like wildfire through trade publications and discreet industry forums. Other CEOs, old heads and new bloomers alike, lean back in their chairs, a mix of apprehension and schadenfreude on their faces. The big daddy is making an example out of Azure, and everyone knows it. The question isn't if it will fall, but how hard.

Days later, a thick, official-looking envelope arrives at Azure Taste headquarters, delivered by a grim-faced courier. Chaeyoung reads the cease-and-desist order, her fingers tightening around the heavy paper. The accusations are damning: intellectual property theft, corporate espionage, and a specific mention of Kim Dongho. Her calm facade, usually so impenetrable, wavers. This isn't just a threat; it's a declaration of open war, designed to crush Azure before it can truly bloom.

Later that day, in a tense, closed-door meeting at Azure Taste headquarters, Chaeyoung sits across from Kim Dongho, the cease-and-desist letter spread between them like a battle map. Dongho avoids her gaze, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a sullen silence. Chaeyoung's voice is low, strained with barely controlled anger. "Dongho-oppa," she begins, the informal address cutting through the heavy air. "The Golden Leaf just accused you of stealing his company's formula and giving it to us. What exactly is going on?”

Dongho sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his forehead, as if trying to wipe the stress away. “I had a feeling this day would come,” he mutters, his voice carrying defeat. “Okay, I’ll confess: I did steal GLI’s intellectual property.” The room falls into a deafening silence, executives trading glances with each other, stunned by such a grave revelation. Leaning back in her chair, Chaeyoung's breath catches in her throat, her initial anger replaced with disbelief. “But this flavor—this blend of caramel—is mine,” he continues, his voice rising in a desperate attempt for understanding. “I made this with my own hands, back when I was with Golden Leaf.”

Chaeyoung closes her eyes, stopping the tears from falling out. She takes a few seconds of silence, her heart aching—perhaps even bleeding—at Dongho’s actions. “If… if it's yours, then how did you ‘steal’ it, oppa?” she asks, her voice shaking slightly. Dongho opens his mouth, a protest or an explanation forming in his mind, but her fist slamming on the table interrupts him. “Do you know how bad this is, Kim Dongho, to get in a fight with Golden Leaf?” Chaeyoung presses on, her glassy eyes a proof of her hurt. “And the worst part is, we're not even trading blows,” she ends, the weight of the IP theft crushing down on her.

The head of legal, who has been watching the exchange with growing alarm, clears his throat, shifting the attention to him. “Miss Lee,” he begins, carefully stringing words together in his head. “I understand your frustrations, but we need facts.” He glances to his left, at Dongho; he doesn't look like he's in the right mind, but legal is about facts over feelings. “Mr. Kim, can you please elaborate on why you decided to… take GLI’s IP here?” he asks, his tone controlled.

Dongho takes a shaky breath, his hand running through his disheveled hair. Not daring to look at his CEO, he turns his gaze to the head of legal. “Okay, you want facts, right, so here they are,” he starts, formulating a defense. “I was the one initially tasked with coming up with the recipe for this caramel flavor. I've done many revisions on the recipe under the directions of Park Minjun and his father. Eventually, we arrived at a roadblock: one of the key materials was a substance that's restricted in this country, but the Parks insisted that we had to use that material, saying that I was a coward for not trying to slither through the holes in regulations.”

The room falls silent once more; this is quite a revelation from Dongho. The idea that Golden Leaf is possibly using restricted chemicals to make their caramel can shake the grounds upon which the giant is standing. Should the giant fall, a race to take the top spot is guaranteed to happen.

“A restricted substance, Mr. Kim?” the head of legal presses, his ears imperceptibly perking up like an excited puppy. “That's… quite the bold accusation you're making.” Dongho sighs deeply, slightly regretful of having to resort to such a level of whistleblowing. “I think… I think they have managed to lobby legislators to lift the restriction, though,” he continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. Borrowing a pen from the head of sales next to him, Dongho writes the name of the substance—something that sounds like a magic spell to outsiders—on a piece of paper. “Here's the name. You might want to confirm it yourself.”

Chaeyoung takes a slow, deep breath, steadying herself. The room feels charged, the air thick with unspoken possibilities. She looks at her legal head, then to Dongho, a cold, fierce glint in her eyes. "Verify everything, Mr. Jeon," she commands, her voice unwavering. "I want us to hit back, and we can’t do that without a solid ground to back our claims." The head of legal nods firmly, tucking Dongho’s small note in his pocket. “We will get back to you soon, Miss Lee. We will definitely hit back,” he offers an assurance to the CEO.

They leave one by one, heading out her office in a line, and here Chaeyoung is, sitting alone in her office. She leaves the conference desk and sits on her desk, grabbing a pod of Red Apple—this flavor is an original, by the way; she commissioned it to her RND  team last year. She takes a long puff, letting the apple’s sweetness and the subtle cool from the menthol fill her mouth. “Still not perfect, but this will do,” she mutters to herself, taking a small, personal victory amidst the chaos.

-

A ding from her computer, signaling an incoming email, steals her attention. Her eyebrows furrow as she skims through the content; an invite to visit Golden Leaf International, a stark contradiction to the legal threats she had just received. Attached to the body is a handwritten letter, signed by Park Minjun himself. “Wait, what? What the hell is this?” she whispers, the unexpected invitation throwing a fresh curveball into her escalating war with Minjun.

Chaeyoung's hand hovers over the attachment icon. Despite the logical urge to consult Mr. Jeon, her professional curiosity, combined with a potent dose of defiance, wins out. With a swift click, the handwritten letter unfolds on her screen. Minjun's elegant, precise script fills the page, a stark contrast to his recent verbal barrage. The message is brief, yet potent, a single line requesting her presence at his corporate headquarters for a 'private discussion,’ leaving her with more questions than answers “Alright, I’ll bite,” she grabs her phone, calling her driver, “please prepare the car. We’re going to Golden Leaf for… a friendly visit.”

The sleek Continental glides through the city's bustling streets, but inside, Chaeyoung's mind races. She takes another puff of Red Apple, the flavor doing little to soothe her nerves. This is Minjun's territory, his fortress where his throne sits. Is this a trap? A calculated intimidation tactic, or does he genuinely believe he has something that will make her surrender? She presses her lips into a thin line, straightening her jacket. Whatever it is, she won't show weakness; Azure’s future lies in her hands, and if she’s truly to take them to the top, there is no room for hesitation.

Her car pulls silently into Golden Leaf International's sprawling underground parking, a sterile, brightly lit cavern that feels like the belly of the beast. Chaeyoung steps out, her heels clicking crisply on the concrete. The elevator ride to the executive floors is swift and silent, amplifying the sense of anticipation. When the doors finally part, a stern-faced security guard—a woman, Chaeyoung notes—stands waiting, a tablet in hand. "Miss Lee Chaeyoung?" she asks, her voice flat, clearly expecting her. This isn't a welcome; it's processing. “Can you please empty your pockets on the table?”

Chaeyoung moves to the side, her lips tightening as she fishes things out of her pockets and leaving them scattered on the table. “Your phone, please,” the guard adds, opening her palm to receive it. With a sigh, she pulls her phone out of her rear pocket, handing it over to be kept in a small safe. “Do you want my bra too, perhaps?” she teases the guard, her irritation lying beneath the sarcasm in her voice. The guard's expression doesn't flicker, her eyes staying cold and unreadable. Without breaking eye contact, her hand moves, with practiced efficiency, to her radio. “Miss Lee Chaeyoung is clear. I repeat, Miss Lee Chaeyoung is clear.”

The butterfly doors in front of her part, revealing another security guard—a man, this time. He signals Chaeyoung to come closer, not bothering to say anything. “Quite insulting. I’m a damn CEO,” she says to herself, her jaw clenching at the treatment she’s getting. It’s like everyone is trying to tell her she doesn’t matter, but her ego doesn’t squish that easily.

The guard leads her through a corridor lined with closed doors, each bearing a simple, gold plaque: Legal Affairs, Global Marketing, and— “What the hell is ‘Treasury Management?’ Is that not just ‘Finance and Accounting?’” she wonders quietly. Beyond another set of glass doors, Chaeyoung catches a glimpse of a sprawling office space, buzzing with a small army of employees. Having this many people on the executive wing is a testament to the sheer scale of Golden Leaf's operation. It's a stark reminder of the colossus she's challenging, a company whose resources dwarf her own.

The guard leads her past rows of impressive offices until they stop before a large, obsidian door, subtly set apart from the others. No nameplate adorns it, but the aura of power radiating from behind it is palpable. The guard simply nods towards the door, his duty fulfilled. Chaeyoung takes a final breath, the faint, lingering taste of Red Apple a quiet rebellion against the overwhelming presence of Golden Leaf.

Chaeyoung steps closer to the door, but before she could knock, it opens by itself, as if eager to welcome her. Inside, Park Minjun is seen standing by the big glass wall, its tinted surface softening the scorching afternoon sunlight. Stepping inside, the guard closes the door behind her, the subtle sound of the lock latching confirming the lack of an escape route.

Minjun turns slowly from the window, his expression unreadable, a single Salted Silk pod held loosely in his hand. His gaze sweeps over Chaeyoung, an almost clinical assessment in his eyes. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken power. "Miss Lee," he finally says, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seems to fill the vast office. "Thank you for accepting my invitation." He gestures to a minimalist chair placed pointedly opposite his sprawling desk, a subtle challenge in the invitation. “Please, have a seat. I assure you, you’re safe within these walls.”

Chaeyoung meets his gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. She steps forward, her heels clicking softly on the plush carpet, and deliberately takes the minimalist chair. It's surprisingly comfortable, its appearance hiding a clever practicality. A subtle smirk touches her lips. "Safe, perhaps, or simply… contained" she acknowledges, her voice calm. "Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Park. I'm sure you didn't bring me all the way to your... 'fortress' just for pleasantries.”

Minjun’s expression softens as his lips curve into a smile, perhaps hiding his hostility behind a momentary façade. “Miss Lee,” he pulls a chair for himself, settling into it, “believe me, I didn’t invite you here to bash you. I meant it when I said I wanted to see you in private.” Placing his Salted Silk pod on the table, he gently pushes it closer to her. “Please, allow yourself to relax. I’m not trying to put you in danger.”

Chaeyoung's gaze flickers to the Salted Silk pod, then back to Minjun's surprisingly soft expression. She raises an eyebrow, a subtle challenge in her eyes. "Relaxing seems an ambitious goal, given the circumstances," she notes, her voice dry. She leans forward, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, but makes no move towards the pod. "However, I'm intrigued. What exactly is it you wish to discuss, Mr. Park, that couldn't be covered by a lawsuit?"

Minjun smiles once more, falling silent for a few seconds as he eyes the pod lying idly on the table. “I’m dropping the lawsuits, Miss Lee,” he mutters softly, his tone dropping to a gentle timbre. “In fact, I’ll also sell you the patent for Salted Silk—cheaply, might I add.” Chaeyoung’s jaw drops, disbelieving what she has just heard, surprise drawn all over her features. “Pardon me, Mr. Park, but what did you just say?”

Minjun’s smile stays solid, his expression softening further, almost appearing benevolent. "I said, Miss Lee," he repeats, a subtle emphasis on his words. "I am dropping the lawsuits and offering you the patent for Salted Silk." He gestures vaguely with the hand holding his pod. "Let's just say... Golden Leaf is about to embark on a new grand venture, one that requires our full attention. We prefer to clear the deck, streamline our focus, and honestly, Azure has given us enough sleepless nights.” His gaze drifts toward the pod before chuckling. “I promise I’m not trying to flirt with you, but thinking about you makes me lose sleep, Miss Lee.”

Chaeyoung's eyebrows raise slightly, her initial shock now laced with deep suspicion. His words hang in the air, a strange mix of business acumen and a thinly veiled, almost unsettling, personal remark. She ignores the flirtation—quite the poor attempt by her standards—her mind rapidly sifting through the implications. Golden Leaf never acts without incentive, let alone sell one of their best-selling IPs. There's a hidden cost here, a trap far more intricate than she can yet discern. “Mr. Park, can you please jump to Azure’s role in all this?” she presses, starting to lose her patience over the circling conversation.

Minjun's chuckle deepens, his eyes still holding that unreadable quality. "Let's just say, Miss Lee," he replies, leaning forward slightly, his tone becoming more serious. “I want Azure to stay in its own lane while Golden Leaf paves the way for the future. Let us pursue this in peace, and in return, enjoy the money that our Salted Silk brings in.” Chaeyoung stays quiet, the room now filled with a tense silence, but eventually, she breaks the brief silence. “Any other terms to your offer, Mr. Park?” she asks, familiar with how Minjun operates. “Oh, of course there is,” he answers quickly. “Develop your own flavors from now on. If we catch you stealing again, we’ll make sure Azure turns to dust.”

Chaeyoung's gaze drifts from Minjun's unreadable eyes to the Salted Silk pod, then back to the expansive view of the city. The offer is tempting: an end to the lawsuit and a profitable IP, but the terms he’s giving are shackles. She thinks about Dongho’s revelation about the restricted material used to make Salted Silk, and a grim smile takes root on her face; Park Minjun is trying to buy her silence, her complicity.

“That thing,” she points at the pod, “that thing contains a banned substance, does it not?” Minjun chuckles, looking almost amused by her question. “Did Kim Dongho tell you that?” He shakes his head, rubbing his forehead as he prepares to reveal his side of the story. “Miss Lee—oh, God, how do I say this,” he looks around the room, stringing words together in the air, “look, if you’re accusing us of breaking the law, then allow me to show you some proofs that we imported the material legitimately.”

Rising from his chair, Minjun grabs a folder from a safe buried in the wall. After making sure he has the right one, he hands it over to her, letting her assess things herself. The first few papers talk about how Golden Leaf got blocked multiple times even when they were trying to import samples. Some others talk about how Golden Leaf paid a fortune in fines for putting too much of the material in the finished product. Finally, the rest talk about an order from the government saying that Golden Leaf are only allowed to import a certain amount lest they are sanctioned.

Chaeyoung sighs but quickly masks it with a tight smile, placing the folder back on the table. “We’re no outlaw, Miss Lee,” Minjun says, his voice now confident. “No matter how hard it is to follow them, Golden Leaf operates within the boundaries of law. Sure, we try to bend it sometimes. After all, those politicians are only good for that.” She offers a small chuckle; her father once tried to lobby those crooks to lower the legal smoking age from 21 to 17. “I don’t disagree with you on that part, Mr. Park.”

Chaeyoung's smile fades, replaced by a colder expression. “Now, about your… suggestion,” she continues. “You want us to stay in our lane in exchange for Salted Silk, but what guarantee do I have that your new venture won’t hurt us?” Minjun taps his chin, his gaze drifting to the ceiling, as if really thinking about the answer to her question. “That’s a good question,” he murmurs. “I mean, so long as you won’t try stealing our IP again, we will also stay in our lane. Isn't that how things were, before all this?”

Chaeyoung's jaw tightens. He conveniently forgets the accusations against Dongho, the initial legal threats, and now, the restricted substance. It’s like he’s trying to paint Azure as the sole aggressor. "So long as we don't steal, you won't hurt us," she echoes, a dry sarcasm in her tone. "That's hardly a guarantee, Mr. Park, especially when your definition of 'your lane' seems to shift with the wind. What concrete assurances can you offer that this 'new grand venture' won't simply be a different method of encroaching on our market, or that your 'peace' isn't just a prelude to a stronger attack?"

Minjun puts his palm on his forehead, dragging it down on his face, his patience running dangerously thin. “Okay, fine. We’ll register Azure as a key account, and as a key account, not only can you have Salted Silk, but you can also buy materials from us. As you’ve seen for yourself, we can get even the most restricted materials to our front door.” Minjun chuckles; he can’t believe he just said these words, but he will get Azure to stand on the side, away from the path Golden Leaf is chasing. Also, for a company like Azure, access to such resources could revolutionize their production. “I know that sounds silly, but I can’t think of any other way—well, aside from buying Azure, that is.”

Chaeyoung blinks, taking a moment for the full weight of his words to settle. "A key account," she repeats slowly, testing the phrase on her tongue. "And this would entail... what, exactly, Mr. Park? Preferential pricing? Guaranteed supply? And what are the specific expectations for a 'key account' when it comes to competition, or, as you put it, 'staying in our lane'?" She keeps her voice steady, attempting to mask the seismic shift his offer has just created.

Minjun leans forward again, his features beaming slightly; Chaeyoung is cracking. She forces her face to remain neutral, even as a jolt of alarm, then interest, shoots through her. “Preferential pricing, yes. Guaranteed supply, yes. Hell, you can even have my heart if you desire. However, most importantly,” he continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “You’ll be the first to join us should this venture succeed. After all, Golden Leaf always takes care of its friends.”

Chaeyoung watches him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Your generosity is... noted, Mr. Park," she replies, her voice carefully neutral. The implications of his offer—access to restricted materials, guaranteed supply, a share in a successful future—are staggering, but the word "friends" echoes oddly in the opulent silence of his office. She doesn't miss the subtle power play, the implied allegiance. “Please humor me with one last question: what is it you’re seeking from this… friendship, as you call it?”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across Minjun's face. "Transparency and trust, Miss Lee," he states, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “The kind that’s forged between parties who fully understand the nature of this industry. If you commit to pursuing your path honorably, without resorting to... unoriginal methods, then Golden Leaf ensures your prosperity. You will be encouraged to build your own empire, protected from threats of any kind, but poke the lion again…” he trails off, letting Chaeyoung complete his sentence.

Chaeyoung holds his gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily in the opulent office. The "lion" metaphor is clear. She thinks of Azure's lean resources, the relentless grind to survive. This offer, for all its veiled threats, promises a path to power, a shortcut she hadn't dared dream of. "I understand the terms, Mr. Park," she finally says, her voice low. "Transparency, integrity... and no 'poking the lion.' A rather unique definition of friendship, I must admit, but I believe Azure Taste Limited can thrive, even within such... clear boundaries."

“Wonderful!” Minjun claps his hands, jumping out of his seat to grab a bottle of champagne from the shelves behind his desk. “Miss Lee, would you please kindly join me for a glass or two?” Chaeyoung chuckles, rising from her chair to join him by his desk—oh, whose photo is that next to his monitor? She quickly diverts her gaze, pretending to have missed the picture.

As Minjun pops the champagne, the photo by his monitor burns an image into Chaeyoung's mind. It was only a glimpse, but enough to register a soft, almost vulnerable quality that clashed sharply with the ruthless businessman before her. A sister? A lover? The detail sits uncomfortably, a tiny crack in the seemingly impenetrable facade of Park Minjun, making her wonder if there's more to his "grand venture" than just market dominance.

Minjun pours two flutes of bubbling golden liquid, handing one to Chaeyoung, his smile confident. "To new understandings, Miss Lee," he says, raising his glass. Chaeyoung takes the flute, the cold glass a stark contrast to the warmth of her hand. Her gaze meets his, but her mind is still on that photograph, searching for clues. "To new ventures, Mr. Park," she replies, her voice smooth, masking the sudden shift in her perception of him. The champagne tastes of triumph and a lingering, unsettling question.

Chaeyoung empties her glass, the last bubbles dissipating on her tongue, leaving behind that unsettling aftertaste, but her mind keeps coming back to the portrait. “Mr. Park, may I ask who that woman is?” she asks, her tone careful, almost too quiet for him to hear. Minjun turns his head, smiling rather softly as he looks at the framed photo—a beautiful woman with a vibrant, gentle smile—she can sense a deep, lingering pain beneath it, though. “This is Park Sieun, Miss Lee. She was my fiancé,” Minjun hands the photo over to her, letting her have a good look, “she passed away two weeks before the day of our wedding. A drunk trucker took her life, Miss Lee.”

Chaeyoung takes the framed photo, her fingers brushing the cool glass. The vibrant smile of Park Sieun stares back at her, radiating a warmth that now feels heartbreakingly poignant. The ruthless CEO before her suddenly transforms into a grieving man, and the weight of his personal tragedy settles heavy in the opulent office. All of Minjun's ambition, his drive to pave the way for the future, suddenly takes on a new, more profound meaning. She hands the photo back, her voice softer than before. "I... I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Park."

Minjun takes the photo back, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame. "She believed in a future, Miss Lee," he says, his voice distant, lost in memory—a stark, raw departure from the controlled executive.. "A world where… everyone is happy.” He blinks his tears back, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “It sounds cliché, I know, but… but I want to believe in that future too, so please help me, Miss Lee.”

Chaeyoung watches him, the sudden shift from ruthless CEO to grieving man pulling at something deep within her. His raw honesty, even if clichéd, gives a chilling new context to his drive. His empire-building isn't just about money; it's about a desperate need for control, for a legacy for the woman he lost. She nods slowly. "I see," she says, her voice measured. "So, this 'new venture' isn't just about market dominance; it's about... fulfilling a promise." She pauses, her gaze hardening slightly as the businesswoman reasserts herself. "If your vision for this 'happy world' is truly innovative and adheres to ethical boundaries, then yes, Mr. Park. Azure Taste Limited can play its part."

Minjun places his flute on his desk, slowly opening his arms, his eyes searching hers with raw vulnerability, hesitation drawn all over his face. “Please?” he whispers, begging her to come closer. With a soft step, Chaeyoung closes the gap between them, her arms wrapping snugly around him; he’s quite warm, too. “I hope my Sieun is proud of me,” he murmurs, his voice shaking quite violently. “She is, Mr. Park, and she loves you too,” she replies, whispering right into his ear.

Minjun's body trembles against Chaeyoung's for a long moment, a lifetime of grief contained in the brief, fragile warmth of their embrace. Slowly, he pulls back, his eyes still red-rimmed but holding a new, softer light as he looks at her. The corporate masks are gone, replaced by the weight of shared humanity. The terms of their "deal" now feel different, imbued with the silent understanding of his personal pain and her unexpected compassion.

Minjun clears his throat, a soft, almost shy sound, and glances down at his hands, then back to Chaeyoung. "Thank you, Miss Lee," he murmurs, his voice still a little hoarse. "That... it means a great deal, especially coming from you." He manages a small, genuine smile, utterly devoid of the calculated charm from moments before. The tension hasn't vanished, but it has transformed, replaced by a delicate understanding that hangs between them. Chaeyoung holds his hand firmly, her fingers itching to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Please, it’s just Chaeyoung-ie…” she mutters, her voice getting tender. Minjun's eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the familiar, almost intimate, suffix, a new warmth spreading through them. “Thank you for being honest. I appreciate honest men, even if they’re scary like you.”

Minjun takes a shaky breath, the unfamiliar warmth of the informal nickname settling deep within him. He squeezes her hand gently before releasing it. The silence stretches, no longer tense with animosity, but with a complex mix of vulnerability and burgeoning respect. "Chaeyoung-ie," he repeats softly, testing the name on his tongue. "Perhaps... perhaps we can make this 'new venture' something we both can be proud of, a legacy that transcends simple profit."

Chaeyoung watches him, the lingering sting of his grief in her own eyes. The image of the powerful, ruthless CEO has shattered, replaced by a man driven by profound loss, its weight unimaginable for her. Her initial strategy of countering his every move now feels inadequate, perhaps even cruel. This isn't just about business; it's about a shared understanding, a fragile thread woven between them. The Salted Silk patent, the access to materials, the "lanes"—all of it now holds a different meaning.

Minjun offers her another small, almost hopeful smile, a stark contrast to the calculating grin he wore just moments before. The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the unspoken weight of their shared understanding. The opulent office, once a battleground, now feels like a space where something entirely new has begun to take root. They stand there for a long moment, two former adversaries, now connected by grief, ambition, and the faint, unsettling taste of a future yet unwritten.

Chaeyoung holds his gaze. Not in a tense, hostile way, but rather a relaxed, cordial one. “I don’t mean no disrespect to Miss Park Sieun, but if you keep acting this kind and gentle, I might actually fall for you, Mr. Park.” Minjun chuckles, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “Has anyone ever told you how funny you are, Chaeyoung-ah?” he quips, a genuine grin spreading across his face, delighted by her admission.

Chaeyoung grins back, the earlier tension completely dissolved. "Only when they're truly caught off guard," she replies, a playful glint in her eyes. "But it seems I've found my audience." The air in his office now feels strangely intimate, filled with the unexpected warmth of shared laughter. They stand there, the head of a titan and an aspiring empress, connected not by legal battles or corporate maneuvering, but by a sudden, profound understanding that transcends business.

Minjun shakes his head, still smiling. "Well, consider me thoroughly off guard," he says, a softness in his voice that was unimaginable an hour ago. He gestures back towards the door, acknowledging the need for Chaeyoung to continue her day as a CEO. “You’re free to leave, Chaeyoung-ah,” he says. Looking over her shoulder at the door, Chaeyoung’s forehead furrows; she thinks the door is still locked. “I thought you had me locked in here?” Minjun explodes in laughter, doubling over slightly, shaking his head out of pure mirth. “Oh, no, no. The lock is for keeping those outside, outside. Just turn the handle and you’ll be on your way.”

Chaeyoung can't help but crack a genuine smile herself, the lingering tension from earlier conversations finally dissipating completely. The sheer absurdity of her assumption, paired with Minjun's uninhibited laughter, creates a strange camaraderie. "Well, that's certainly one way to control the flow," she quips, a genuine lightness in her tone. Making her way to the doors, she turns the handle as he suggested, and they part for her. “Oh, you’re not lying.”

Minjun watches the doors close behind Chaeyoung, his laughter fading into a soft smile. He walks back to his desk, picking up the framed photo of Sieun. "She's an interesting one, isn't she, love?" he murmurs to the smiling face, his voice devoid of tears now, replaced by a calculating satisfaction. “But still; she’s not you.” He sets the photo down, his gaze falling on the Salted Silk pod lying forgotten on the table. The first step of his grand venture is complete; Azure is now precisely where he needs them to be.

-

A quarter later, the tension that once filled Minjun’s vast office has truly faded, replaced by a comfortable quiet. Chaeyoung sits across from his sprawling desk, not in the minimalist chair of their first encounter, but on a plush sofa, a half-empty mug of her favorite herbal tea steaming beside her. The Salted Silk patent now sits securely in Azure's vault. The "key account" status has indeed revolutionized their access to premium materials, and the legal battles are a distant memory.

Typically a whirlwind of activity, Minjun now leans back in his executive chair, a genuine, unburdened smile on his face as he listens to Chaeyoung recount a humorous struggle with a particularly stubborn supplier. The framed photo of Sieun still sits on his desk, but his gaze no longer carries the raw, aching pain. Instead, when he looks at it, there’s a quiet tenderness, a sense of peace that wasn't there before.

"So, you finally managed to get them to budge?" he asks, his voice warm, a stark contrast to the intimidating rumble she first knew. "You’re good at being stubborn, Chaeyoung-ah—and I mean that as a compliment." Chaeyoung laughs, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoes softly in the room. "I learned from the best, oppa," she quips, her eyes twinkling. "Though I think my methods are slightly less... aggressive than yours."

Chaeyoung feels a warmth spread through her, and it’s not about the tea. "Good at being stubborn," she repeats softly, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I suppose that's true. Sometimes, you just know a fight is worth it, even if it seems impossible." Her gaze drifts, lingering on his hand resting casually on his desk, then flickers back to his eyes. “Okay, just so you know, I’m not going to fight Golden Leaf again,” she adds. Minjun bursts out laughing, shaking his head in amusement. “Yeah, let’s not do that again,” he agrees.

As the laughter dies down, the comfortable quiet deepens, filled with an unspoken awareness, a delicate thread forming between them that feels both fragile and profoundly real. "What about you, oppa?" she asks, her voice softer now. "What impossible fights are you still determined to win?" Minjun sighs, promptly reminded about a material that is quite difficult to get his hands on. “I mean, it’s not impossible necessarily, but importing Raspberry Ketone has been… quite challenging. If only we didn’t need it so bad.”

Chaeyoung's brow furrows in thought. Raspberry Ketone. A whisper of a substance, found only in trace amounts naturally. "Raspberry Ketone, huh?" she mouths, leaning slightly forward. “Let me guess; raspberry isn’t in season right now.” Minjun pouts as he nods, exaggerating his reactions a bit. “I guess we can go back to selling Salted Silk—oh, wait…” Her eyebrows rise at the mention of Salted Silk, her lips curving into a light smile. “Wait, Salted Silk is yours now, isn’t it,” he muses, a smile of similar lightness blooming on his face. Chaeyoung giggles, the warm and bright sound bouncing on the glass walls. “Hey, you gave it to me, remember? Something about making peace, if I recall correctly.”

Leaning back in their respective seats, their gaze drifts aimlessly, another silence settling in the room. “Oppa,” she calls to him, breaking the peace. “Why not try selling something Azure makes instead?” Staying silent, Minjun blinks a few times, thinking about the offer. “Something that Azure makes…” His gaze drifts to the ceiling, then back to her. “Such as what, Chaeyoung-ah?” She grabs her phone, checking the list of new items that Azure’s RND team has created recently. “Erm, I don’t know—graham crackers, maybe? The materials for this are easy to get, you know.”

Minjun's eyes, wide with thought, settle on Chaeyoung. "Graham crackers," he repeats, a slow, intriguing smile spreading across his face. The idea is so outside Golden Leaf's current trajectory, yet, coming from her, it sparks a genuine interest. "Can I have a sample, please? I think this might work out well for us." His emphasis on "us" implies a shared future, not just his own. With a smile, Chaeyoung reaches for her handbag, pulling out an amber bottle packed in a plastic bag. “100 milliliters of graham crackers flavor, all for you.”

Minjun takes the amber bottle, his fingers brushing hers as he accepts it. Uncapping it, he inhales deeply, a surprised hum escaping him. “Oh, this is… different,” he murmurs. “This is ready-to-use, right?” Chaeyoung nods to his question, but she also warns him that it might taste a bit chemical-like, since it’s quite fresh from the lab. “I mean, if it’s good, it’s good,” he says, grabbing an empty cartridge from the drawer of his desk. She keeps her eyes on him as he fills a pod to the brim, biting her lip to stifle a grin; she doesn’t want to celebrate too early.

Minjun inserts the pod into his device, taking a cautious draw. His forehead furrows slightly as he exhales, but he quickly relaxes into a surprised smile. “This is a good starting point, Chaeyoung-ah,” he confirms, never one to shy away from offering praise. “Not sweet enough for my taste, but still very good. How did your team make this, by the way?” Chaeyoung grins, her heart soaring with pride. Her R&D team has done a wonderful job, and to have the head of the giant praise them warms her heart. “I just told them to try mixing some flavors together, and they came up with some new flavors, including this one.”

“Oh? Some new flavors, you say?” he asks, already considering about commissioning Azure to produce stuff for Golden Leaf. Chaeyoung pads over to the sofa, fishing out some more bottles of newly created flavors, and returns to him with a handful of amber bottles, each one labeled concisely. “Oh, now we’re talking.” Minjun grabs a bottle—strawberry shortcake, the label says—and inspects it closely. “These samples are meant for a customer, but you’re more important than them.” As soon as those words leave her lips, Chaeyoung quickly looks away as heat rises on her cheeks, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. “Anyway, let me know what you think.”

Minjun's eyes flicker to her averted face, a knowing glint appearing in them, but he doesn't comment on her sudden shyness. He shakes the strawberry shortcake bottle gently, his focus returning to the task at hand, though a quiet amusement plays on his lips. "Strawberry shortcake," he repeats, pulling another empty cartridge from his drawer. "Let's see if your R&D team can make me blush, too, Chaeyoung-ah." He winks, a playful challenge in his tone, then proceeds to fill the pod, letting her anticipation build.

Minjun takes a slow puff, his eyes closing shut as he savors the flavor. It’s a touch sweeter than the graham crackers one, and combined with the hint of sourness, it’s surely something that is right up his alley. “Can you do a production trial?” he asks, his voice crisp with intent. “P-production trial? Like… right now?” she stammers, slightly taken aback by his sudden (yet gentle) demand. “Well, yes, please.”

Chaeyoung stares at him, her initial surprise quickly giving way to a thrill of excitement. A production trial? She doesn’t even know what her team is occupied with at the moment. It's exactly the kind of audacious move she's come to expect from him, now simply softened by his current demeanor. "Yes, oppa," she affirms, her voice gaining its usual confident edge. "Let’s do a production trial. How quickly do you need the first batch, and what specific quantities are you thinking?" Her eyes gleam with a mixture of challenge and shared ambition.

Minjun glances at the clock sitting on his desk. There’s half a workday left, and as much as he wants to test Azure, he doesn’t want to push too hard. “At least 25 kilograms. Of course, it goes without saying that I want them quality-tested and ready to be used immediately.” Chaeyoung swallows a gulp; 25 kilograms isn't what Azure usually does for a production trial; it's usually around 2 kilograms, 5 tops. Her eyes dart rapidly as she cycles through her team’s current projects, the inventory levels, and the lab’s open slots for quality testing. “Azure Taste Limited accepts the challenge, oppa,” she says firmly, putting her worries to the side. “You will have 25 kilograms of strawberry shortcake e-liquid at your front door before 7 p.m. tonight.”

Minjun's intense gaze softens slightly, a hint of something akin to awe flickering in his eyes. "7 p.m., you say?" he murmurs, a quiet respect in his tone. "Then you might want to call someone soon, sweetheart, because this man in front of you doesn’t like lateness, and those mixers aren't about to move on their own,” he adds. Chaeyoung blinks rapidly, the hint of his urgency settling in her mind, and runs to the sofa to grab her phone, frantically browsing through the contacts to find department heads.

Minjun watches her as she makes one call after another, giving brief yet concise orders to each person. “Cute,” he thinks, an adoring but regardful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. This isn't just about the flavor anymore; it's about the woman cranking the gears of production, thus bringing the flavor to life. When she finally drops the phone, a slight flush on her cheeks, he speaks. "That's quite a symphony you conduct, Chaeyoung-ah," he says, his voice laced with genuine awe, completely devoid of his usual corporate edge. “The things I do for you, oppa…” she muses, crashing into the sofa once more, her heart still racing with a mix of excitement and panic.

Chaeyoung closes her eyes for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain from her limbs. The weight of the 25-kilogram promise still hangs in the air, but Minjun's praise, his soft tone, and the easy way he now uses her informal name, settle something deep within her. She opens her eyes, meeting his warm gaze. No more is he a scary CEO that runs the industry; he’s more akin to a demanding customer, a confidant, or perhaps something more. The thought sends a new kind of warmth through her, one that has nothing to do with panic and everything to do with him.

Minjun watches her, a gentle smile playing on his lips as her eyes open, meeting his. He sees the softness there, the lingering wonder, and a warmth spreads through him that mirrors her own. "Everything alright, Chaeyoung-ah?" he asks, his voice low, filled with a gentle understanding. He doesn't press, just holds her gaze, letting the new, delicate understanding settle between them. The office, usually a place of sterile deals, now hums with a different kind of energy. “If you need fresh air, that door is open,” Minjun adds, pointing to the tinted glass door to the balcony.

Chaeyoung holds his gaze for another moment, feeling the undeniable pull of his presence. The offer of fresh air is tempting, but for now, the quiet intimacy of the office, filled with this new energy, feels enough. "I think I'm alright now, oppa," she murmurs, a soft smile gracing her lips. "Just... processing. Twenty-five kilograms of strawberry shortcake e-liquid by 7 p.m. It's a lot to process. I mean, the recipe was only validated yesterday.” A chuckle escapes her lips, as she thinks about how bold he is to buy something so new, so much.

-

Chaeyoung and Minjun sit together at the loading dock gate, their legs dangling off the edge. Minjun scrolls through his phone, not catching the way she keeps biting her lips, anxiously waiting for Azure’s truck to enter through Golden Leaf’s front gate. It is only when he glances at her that he sees the signs of nervousness; tense posture, lip-biting, and long gaze. A sense of protectiveness washes over him, but Minjun quickly diverts his attention back to his phone. “She’ll be okay,” he thinks.

Minjun carefully places his phone beside him on the concrete. "Something wrong, Chaeyoung-ah?" he asks, his voice soft, cutting through her anxious thoughts. He doesn't need to ask if it's about the delivery; he knows. Chaeyoung sighs, letting some of the tension drain from her shoulders. "It's a big order for something so new, oppa," she admits, her voice a low murmur. "I just... I really want it to be perfect for you."

Minjun's gaze warms further, understanding the unspoken weight of her desire to impress him. Scooting closer to Chaeyoung, he musters up the courage to wrap an arm around her, offering comfort. “It’s the effort that counts, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone warm in her ear. “Even if the e-liquid isn’t commercial-ready right away, we can tweak the recipe and try again.”

Chaeyoung leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder, finding solace amid nervousness. “You know, sometimes I wish we had been friends from the start. I wish I hadn’t fought you over Salted Silk. I wish—” Minjun places a finger on her lips, tenderly deadening her voice. “This is how it’s meant for us, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaving no room for her to rebut.

A bright white truck, emblazoned with Azure Taste Limited's subtle logo, finally turns the corner and rumbles towards Golden Leaf's front gate. Chaeyoung lifts her head from his shoulder, her eyes still soft as they meet his. The hum of the engine, the squeal of the brakes—oh, it's the beautiful sound of a delivered promise. Minjun squeezes her shoulder gently, his gaze filled with shared anticipation, no longer just for the product, but for the future they are undeniably building together.

The truck grinds to a halt before them, its engine still humming. A Golden Leaf security guard approaches, ready to open the gate. Minjun rises, offering Chaeyoung a hand as she stands. "Let's see the fruits of your team’s labor, Chaeyoung-ah," he states, a note of genuine excitement in his voice. As the gate slides open, the truck backs into the loading dock, ready to offload the 25 kilograms of strawberry shortcake e-liquid.

Standing next to each other on the side, Chaeyoung’s fingers snake around his own, seeking comfort to calm her racing heart. “You’re okay. You’re totally okay,” he whispers, squeezing her hand firmly. She nods slowly, taking his affirmation to heart, but the urge to keep biting her lips proves irresistible. “Good or bad, we’ll think about it together,” he adds, offering closure to Chaeyoung.

The Azure trucker grabs a 30-kilogram jerrycan from the truck, placing it on the concrete floor before the two CEOs. “I was told to give these things to you, Miss Lee,” he says, handing a folder, presumably containing quality testing results, and a commercial-sized, 100-milliliter bottle of e-liquid. After handing those items over, the trucker scratches his head, seemingly puzzled about something. “Miss Lee, pardon my curiosity, but… why the rush order, and why did no one give me proof of delivery to be signed?”

Chaeyoung smiles, squeezing Minjun’s hand stoutly as she addresses the trucker’s question. “This man right here wanted to test us from all kinds of aspects, Mr. Koo,” she tilts her head towards Minjun, as if shifting the blame to him, “as for the proof of delivery, I think it’s an oversight, but we can fix that tomorrow. You’re free to head back.”

As Mr. Koo retreats to his truck, Minjun's gaze locks onto the jerrycan. He kneels, the weight of the container undeniable, and with a grunt, manages to pry open the cap. A rich, sweet aroma, unmistakably strawberry shortcake, wafts into the evening air. He dips a clean, sterile stick into the liquid, brings it to his nose. Chaeyoung watches him, her breath held, every muscle in her body taut with anticipation.

Minjun closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the complex notes of strawberry and cream fill his senses. A slow, beatific smile spreads across his face, not the calculated grin of the CEO, but the unburdened joy of someone who has found exactly what they've been searching for. He opens his eyes, a glint of pure triumph in them as he looks at Chaeyoung. "This," he murmurs, his voice filled with reverence, wiggling the smelling stick in front of her eyes, "this isn't just good, Chaeyoung-ah. This is the next big thing—the next Salted Silk, perhaps.”

Chaeyoung's taut muscles finally relax, a wave of profound relief washing over her as Minjun's words sink in. A warm, triumphant smile matches his own. "The next Salted Silk, oppa?" she muses, her voice soft with pride. "That's quite the compliment." She steps dangerously close to him, the gap between their bodies barely able to fit a sheet of paper. Chaeyoung asks, “You’re not playing with me, are you?” Shaking his head firmly, he answers, “No, not at all. I meant every word I said.”

Chaeyoung holds his gaze, a quiet awe blossoming within her. His sincerity, his close presence, the weight of his words – it all solidifies something profound. The cool evening breeze ruffles her hair, but the warmth between them is undeniable. She simply nods, a soft, contented smile on her face. The new flavor, the successful trial, the enormous potential... it all pales slightly in comparison to the man standing so close, the one who no longer plays games, the one who sees her, truly sees her. The future stretches before them, no longer a battlefield, but a shared, exciting horizon.

-

A quarter later, the strawberry shortcake e-liquid is not just a success; it's a phenomenon. It dominates the market, its unique, natural flavor profile captivating consumers across the world, not just Asia. Sales figures for both Golden Leaf and Azure Taste Limited surge, shattering all previous records. The "next Salted Silk" has truly arrived, and then some. It’s particularly strange for Azure; they have never seen numbers this big.

Chaeyoung’s eyes remain glued to her tablet as her Continental takes her to Minjun’s house. “That forecast graph looks like a mountain,” she thinks, her finger tracing a line along the graph. “And to think that Azure is in the center of all this…” Her gaze leaves the screen as she leans back in the back seat. “Is everything okay, Miss Lee?” her chauffeur asks, glancing at her through the rear-view mirror. “It is. If anything, everything is great,” she states, no hesitation in her voice.

The Continental glides silently through the opulent gates of Minjun's private estate, a place Chaeyoung has only visited a handful of times, always for a high-stakes, exclusive meeting. Tonight, however, feels different. As the car pulls to a stop, Minjun stands waiting at the entrance of his grand house. A casual shirt, the sleeves folded to his elbows, replaces his usual sharp suits, and a soft, welcoming smile is already gracing his lips. He extends a hand to her as she steps out, his eyes warm with an unspoken congratulations that goes far beyond just business.

Chaeyoung takes his outstretched hand, her fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. The subtle contact sends a pleasant shiver through her. "Oppa," she murmurs, her voice soft with a mixture of awe and contentment as she takes in his relaxed form. The scent of his subtle cologne, familiar from their close encounters, now seems to linger more intimately in the evening air. He squeezes her hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of their shared journey and the profound success that now links them.

“Tell your chauffeur to leave you with me, sweetheart,” Minjun mutters, an invitation to a special night lying beneath his voice. Chaeyoung nods, signaling to her chauffeur to leave her at Minjun’s estate. As the car disappears into the night, she turns to face him again. “I’m yours now,” she whispers back.

Minjun's smile deepens, a profound tenderness replacing the earlier gleam in his eyes. He laces his fingers through hers, the warmth of their joined hands anchoring them both. "Come inside, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low, inviting hum. He guides her across the grand threshold, the heavy door closing behind them with a soft click, sealing them within the intimate warmth of his home. The quiet opulence of the foyer feels less imposing now, less a symbol of power and more a backdrop for the shared, undeniable connection that pulses between them.

Chaeyoung’s eyes land on the massive, plush sofa in the center of his grand living room. “Can we sit there, please?” she asks, pointing at the sofa, eager to sink herself into it. With a small nod, Minjun leads her to the pointed furniture, letting her sit down first before settling next to her. He turns to her, his hand gently finding hers again, lacing their fingers together. His thumb softly traces the back of her hand, a simple gesture that speaks volumes.

She leans closer to Minjun, to the point where he can feel her breathing on his face. “Kiss me, oppa.” Without hesitation, he gently takes her lips, taking her invitation to intimacy right away. Closing their eyes, Minjun and Chaeyoung stay connected, filling the air with a charged intimate tension. When the kiss eventually breaks, both are left breathless; gone are the CEOs—they are simply Lee Chaeyoung and Park Minjun, two souls finding their way to each other.

Minjun's eyes flutter open, dark with a shared emotion, as he rests his forehead against hers. "Chaeyoung-ah…" he breathes, the name a soft prayer on his lips. His hand moves from hers to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroking her skin. “This feels right, doesn’t it, oppa?” He nods to her question, the small gesture carrying more weight than any words he can say now. The world outside, the new success they have built together, fades into insignificance. All that exists is the soft warmth of her against him, the gentle rhythm of their breaths, and the undeniable truth of this moment.

Chaeyoung crashes into him once more, claiming his lips as hers, pouring everything she has into the connection. “I… I want to be with you, oppa. Not just as a business partner, but as a partner in life,” she confesses. Minjun takes a deep breath as her words settle in his mind, but before he can say anything else, she presses on. “Would you let me take the space in your heart that Miss Park Sieun once owned?”

Minjun's eyes hold hers as he rests his forehead against hers. "No one could ever replace my lovely Sieun, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice thick with the enduring grief. "But you, my incredible Lee Chaeyoung... you don't need to replace her. You've carved out a space in my heart that is uniquely yours. A space that makes me want to live again—truly live. Not just for the past, but for a future with you." He pulls her into another deep, reaffirming kiss, sealing his words.

When the kiss finally breaks, they remain intertwined, foreheads resting together, breathing each other in. The silence of the grand living room wraps around them, not empty but rich with unspoken promises and the gentle thump of two hearts beating in sync. Chaeyoung lifts a hand, tracing the line of Minjun's jaw, a soft, amazed smile blooming on her lips. "A future with you, oppa," she whispers, the words tasting like hope.

Pulling away, Minjun’s palm lands on her knee, softly caressing it. “May I entertain you with some shrimp carbonara fettuccine?” he asks, a hint of excitement woven in his voice, seemingly eager to flex his cooking skills. Chaeyoung giggles; shrimp carbonara fettuccine sounds heavenly to her rumbling tummy. “Yes, you may, oppa. Please make it spicy too.” His eyebrow rises at her request. “Spicy, you say? How spicy?” She leans closer towards him, the idea of personal space non-existent. “As spicy as tonight will be.”

Minjun's eyebrow remains raised, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "As spicy as tonight will be," he echoes, his voice a low, husky rumble that sends another shiver down her spine—this one is purely of anticipation. He squeezes her knee gently before pushing himself off the sofa. "Consider it done, sweetheart. Come, let's see if your palate can handle Golden Leaf's executive chef's spiciest creation." He extends a hand, inviting her to join him, his eyes sparkling with a promise of culinary, and perhaps romantic, adventure.

Chaeyoung settles on a stool at the kitchen, her hands resting on the clean marble countertop, while Minjun begins to prepare the fettuccine dish. She watches on silently, as if stuck in a stupor, as he moves around the kitchen with practiced fluidity. “Was he a chef in a past life or something?” she wonders quietly. “You know, I’ve always liked cooking for those I hold dear,” he says, as if able to read her mind. “Seeing people enjoy my cooking brings me joy.”

Chaeyoung’s ears perk up like an excited puppy. “Those you hold dear, oppa? Am I part of that exclusive circle now?” she muses, a flush creeping up her cheeks at the idea of being held dear. Minjun glances at her over his shoulder, a small grin peeking out the side. “You are, and once you're in, you can't get out—well, unless you do something very, very… uh, stupid.” She laughs, the sound filling the spacious kitchen. “Like stealing your most precious IP?” Minjun laughs with her, the clash over Salted Silk a distant memory. “Yes, like stealing my most precious IP.”

Soon, two plates of shrimp carbonara fettuccine lands on the counter, the smell of garlic and butter poignant. “I put 4 bird’s eye chilies in yours. I hope that's spicy enough,” he says, his gaze still locked on her plate. Holding his chin with her fingertips, Chaeyoung turns his face towards her—wait, since when is her cleavage exposed? “I can handle spice, oppa, and I'm not talking about chilies.”

Minjun's eyes widen slightly at her directness, the playful challenge in her gaze mirroring his own. A slow, consuming heat rises within him, far more potent than any chili. His hand, initially resting idly on the counter, slides towards hers, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her wrist. "Oh, you're not talking about chilies, are you, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his voice filled with a desire he no longer bothers to hide. He leans in, closing the remaining distance between them, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Chaeyoung's breath hitches, her eyes fluttering closed as Minjun's lips finally claim hers. The kiss is deep, urgent, a declaration of all the unspoken words and desires that have simmered between them for months. His hand tightens on her wrist, pulling her closer until no space remains. When they eventually break apart, both are breathless. The scent of garlic and chili on the air are now mingling with something far sweeter and more intoxicating.

Minjun pulls away, a triumphant, tender smile gracing his lips. "That’s definitely spicier than any chili," he murmurs, his voice raw with emotion. “But whatever it is we’re about to do tonight can’t be done on an empty stomach.” A fond, knowing smile tugs at the corners of Chaeyoung’s lips. “I know, oppa, and just so you know, I want to be treated with grace and tenderness.”

Minjun's triumphant smile mellows into something deeply tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch light and reverent. "Grace and tenderness," he repeats softly, his gaze holding hers. "You deserve nothing less, my heart." He then gestures to the plates of pasta. "Come, let's get some warmth in that stomach of yours. We have all night for... everything else." His eyes twinkle, a playful promise of the passion to come, wrapped in careful respect.

As they begin to eat the fragrant pasta, the air between them remains charged with that electric awareness. The meal is delicious, a testament to Minjun's unexpected talent, but it feels like a prelude. Once their plates are clear, Minjun reaches across the counter, taking her hand. "The living room, perhaps?" he suggests, his thumb gently caressing her palm. Chaeyoung shakes her head; she wants something more… private. “The bedroom?” he suggests once more, looking for a yes from her. “The bedroom, yes,” she confirms, leaning forward a bit, giving him a peek into her exposed chest. “Grace and tenderness, remember?”

He rises from his stool, pulling her gently from hers, their joined hands never breaking contact. He doesn't need to ask again; the answer is clear in her gaze, in the slight flush on her cheeks, in the undeniable pull that now binds them as he turns and leads her deeper into the quiet vastness of his home.

A shiver, this one purely out of exhilaration, runs down Chaeyoung's spine as Minjun leads her towards what feels like the sacred, yet hallowed, sanctuary of his bedroom. Her mind races with all kinds of thoughts; she is about to enter the room where Minjun and Sieun have shared nights of raw, unbridled passion. The idea that she’s replacing Sieun is almost unsettling.

The door looms, dark wood against the soft light of the hallway. As Minjun's fingers tighten around hers, Chaeyoung's steps falter for just a moment. She looks up at him, her eyes wide with a sudden, raw vulnerability. "Oppa," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Park Sieun..." She doesn’t need to finish the sentence; the unspoken question, the ghost of comparison, hangs heavy in the air between them.

Minjun's gaze, usually so sure, softens even further, acknowledging the profound weight of her hesitation. “No, baby, this isn’t about replacing her with you. This is about us, about the future we’re building together,” he assures her, pulling her into his arms. “I think… I think my Sieun would want me to look forward and move on, so please help me.”

Chaeyoung melts into his embrace, her arms tightening around his waist. The lingering doubt from Sieun's ghost begins to dissipate, replaced by the profound warmth of Minjun's honesty and his raw plea. She rests her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "I will, oppa," she whispers, her voice firm, filled with a love that now understands the depths of his. "I'll help you. Every step of the way." Together, they take that first step towards the bedroom door, no longer a sanctuary of the past, but a threshold to their future.

The soft light of the bedroom spills into the hallway as Minjun pushes the door open further, holding it for her. He steps back, allowing her to enter first, a silent gesture of respect and invitation. Chaeyoung walks into the room, her eyes taking in the subdued elegance, the large, inviting bed. She turns to him, a soft, confident smile on her lips, and reaches for his hand again, pulling him fully into the room. The door clicks shut behind them, enclosing them in a private world where Lee Chaeyoung and Park Minjun exist as who they truly are, no façade of professionality in between.

Chaeyoung pulls him closer, her free hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. “Oppa…” she mutters, her eyes fluttering close, beckoning him to fully close the gap. Without a word said, Minjun leans down, capturing her lips with his in an unhurried kiss, unattached to the world beyond these walls.

As the kiss deepens, she takes his hand, guiding it towards her bountiful bosom. “Mm…” Chaeyoung softly moans into the kiss, savoring the sensation his fingers are offering. They break the kiss momentarily, looking into each other’s eyes. “You like my assets, oppa?” she teases, pressing her body into him. “I do,” he whispers back. “You’re perfect, baby…”

Minjun's fingers gently explore, eliciting another soft gasp from Chaeyoung. He leans down, tracing the curve of her neck with his lips, his breath warm against her skin. "Absolutely perfect," he adds, the words vibrating against her as he lifts her into his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist, instinctively clinging to him as he takes a step, then another, moving them closer to the inviting expanse of the bed.

Minjun settles on the edge of the bed, keeping Chaeyoung seated on his lap, her red cheeks a proof of her unspoken desires. He sneaks his hands to the second button of her blouse, his gaze meeting hers, searching for permission. “Yes, you may,” she breathes, knowing what is on his mind. One button after the other swiftly gets undone, thus allowing a glimpse into her physique. “Goodness me...” Minjun is in awe at the sight before him. “You’re absolutely beautiful, baby…”

Minjun's fingers continue their gentle work, pushing the soft fabric aside as his eyes devour the sight before him. His gaze, filled with reverence, slowly travels upward, meeting her own. Chaeyoung's hand, which had been resting lightly on his shoulder, now reaches up, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. "This is me, and I’m yours and only yours," she murmurs, her voice husky, a playful challenge in her eyes that promises further submission.

Minjun's eyes darken, reflecting the fervent desire in hers. He doesn't need to speak; her words, her touch, her gaze, convey everything. He leans in, closing the final distance, and captures her lips in a deep, consuming kiss that tastes of promise and absolute surrender. “Baby,” he calls to her, his whispered voice husky. “Can you do something for me?” Chaeyoung takes a deep breath, bracing to hear her first order from him. “Say it, oppa. What do you need from me?” Taking her hand, Minjun guides it towards his growing erection. “Can you help me… get ready?”

Chaeyoung's gaze drops to his hand on hers, then follows to where he guides it. A blush deepens on her cheeks, but her eyes sparkle with understanding and eager consent. Without hesitation, her fingers curl around him, feeling the warmth and impressive size. "Anything for you, oppa," she murmurs, her voice a low, confident whisper.

Chaeyoung sinks into her knees, feeling the soft carpet through the fabric of her trousers. Without breaking eye contact, she swiftly undoes his belt and zipper, sliding Minjun’s pants down his legs. “Oh my…” Slowly, hesitantly, she reaches for his manhood, the shape and size apparent from the bulge on his boxers. She looks up at him again and asks, “May I, oppa?” At his approving nod, Chaeyoung lowers his boxers, not bothering to take them off entirely; she’s stunned by the sight of his asset.

Not wasting time, Chaeyoung parts her lips, taking the first few centimeters of him in her mouth. Minjun inhales sharply at the first contact, his breath catching at his throat. “Oh my God…” he mumbles. “You could’ve warned me first, baby, but… please go on.” Relaxing her muscles, she tries to take him deeper, fighting the reflexive urge to gag. His breathing begins to pick up tempo; it’s been so long since someone has touched him like this.

Minjun's hand, which has been resting on her shoulder, tightens, his fingers subtly guiding her head, urging her deeper. A low, guttural groan escapes him, a sound of pure, unbridled pleasure that vibrates through her. Chaeyoung focuses, pushing past her own discomfort, her movements becoming more confident, more rhythmic. The taste, the feel, the sheer intimacy of it all washes over her, a thrilling tide.

Chaeyoung closes her eyes, letting her movements be guided by his hand planted on the back of her head. At every pass, she moans around him, the vibration sending shivers down his spine. “Baby…” he whispers, his breath quick and ragged, and she’s quick to meet his gaze. “Goodness me, you’re… amazing.” She offers a wink before taking more of his length, making him groan her name. “You’re… killing me, Lee Chaeyoung.”

Eventually, Minjun’s hips buck, a desperate, uncontrolled rhythm taking over his body. His fingers clench tightly in Chaeyoung’s hair, pulling her head slightly back as a final, raw groan tears from his throat. A powerful tremor shakes his entire frame, and he collapses back onto the bed, utterly spent, his breathing ragged. Chaeyoung pulls away, breathless, looking up at him as he lies there, wiping the remnants of his release off her lips. Curious, she takes a lick; Minjun tastes so… manly.

A soft chuckle rumbles in Minjun’s chest as he catches the look on Chaeyoung’s face. He reaches for her, pulling her gently up so she’s lying beside him on the bed, his arm coming around her waist. Chaeyoung rests her head on his shoulder, listening to the steadying beat of his heart. The silence that settles between them is comfortable, filled with the warmth of shared release and the undeniable, tangible proof of their newly forged intimacy.

“That was just the opening act, though, right?” Minjun chuckles at her question, pressing a fleeting peck to her forehead. “It was. It was quite… explosive, might I add,” he adds. A satisfied grin blooms on her face, proud of herself for her performance. Her hand slides from his chest to his crotch, her fingers brushing against his manhood, the tip shiny from his earlier release. “Come on, oppa. Let’s get ready for the main event,” she urges, stroking him to full hardness again.

Minjun groans, a sound of pure pleasure rumbling in his chest as her fingers work their magic. His body responds instantly, hardening beneath her touch. He pulls her closer, shifting his weight. "You’re not one for intermissions, are you, baby?" he murmurs, his voice thick with raw desire. He lifts her, repositioning her over him, their gazes locked, ready for the main event to truly begin. “Go on, then; you know what to do.”

She lifts herself off his lap, quickly shedding every layer of clothes from her body, tossing them over her head, not bothered by the mess. Minjun watches her undress with a dark, excited gleam in his eyes, his cock pointing straight to the ceiling, ready for action. “Wow…” he murmurs, taking in the sight of her shape; she’s simply breathtaking. “You’re so beautiful, baby.” A flush creeps up her face at his admission, turning her cheeks red hot. “Thank you, oppa. You’ve said that before, remember?”

“Anyway…” Chaeyoung’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she positions herself over Minjun’s rigid length, her slick folds teasing the sensitive head. She takes a moment to admire the sight of him, spread out beneath her, his chest heaving with anticipation. “Like this, handsome?” she asks, her voice a sultry purr as she slowly sinks down, taking him inch by delicious inch until she's fully seated on his thick cock. “Mm, so big and hard...” She sighs, her inner walls clenching around him as she starts to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles. She sets a leisurely pace, savoring the sensation of being filled to the brim by her new lover's potent manhood.

Minjun’s hands instinctively rise, gripping her hips, his fingers digging in slightly as she rolls. A deep, guttural moan rumbles from his chest, a sound that vibrates through Chaeyoung and eggs her on. His head tilts back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss etched on his face. "Yes, baby… just like that," he rasps, his voice thick with raw desire. He begins to thrust up, meeting her every downward slide, finding a powerful, intoxicating rhythm together.

Minjun groans, his fingers digging into Chaeyoung’s hips as she sets a relentless pace, her velvety walls gripping him like a vice. The sight of her bouncing on his cock, her tits swaying with each thrust, is almost too much to bear. “Fuck, baby, you're killing me.” He pants, his vision blurring at the edges as he struggles to maintain control. “So hot, so tight... You were made for me, weren't you?” Desperate to prolong the pleasure, Minjun reaches between us to rub circles around Chaeyoung’s sensitive nub, hoping to push her over the edge and into a screaming orgasm. His own climax builds rapidly, threatening to overtake him at any moment.

A low cry escapes Chaeyoung as Minjun's fingers work their magic, sending waves of pleasure through her that mirror the mounting tension within him. She clenches around him, her hips bucking wildly, abandoning all control. "Oppa!" she screams, her voice raw, as an intense wave of pure sensation washes over her, pulling a guttural roar from Minjun as he, too, shudders into his release. His body goes rigid, a final, powerful tremor shaking his frame, and they collapse onto the bed, utterly spent, their bodies slick with sweat, the last echoes of pleasure vibrating between them.

Chaeyoung moans as his hot release pools in her core, filling her to the brim, a testament to his claim over her. “I… I’m sorry; I should’ve asked first,” he breathes, regret swirling within him for being careless. “Nonsense,” she rebuts, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “This cannot be any more perfect.” She shifts slightly, eliciting a deep groan from Minjun, and looks right into his eyes. “You’re perfect for me, Park Minjun.”

Minjun's arm tightens around her, pulling her closer against his damp skin. He presses his face into her hair, inhaling her scent, a soft sigh escaping him. The grand bedroom, once a symbol of his solitary world, now hums with the warmth of their shared presence. They lie intertwined, the steady beat of his heart against her ear a comforting lullaby, proof that they are truly, finally, home in each other’s arms. The night stretches before them, no longer a series of acts, but a continuous, tender embrace.

-

Hours later, the first hint of dawn paints the vast room in hues of soft grey and rose. Chaeyoung stirs in Minjun's arms, nestled perfectly against him, a warmth spreading through her that has nothing to do with the sun. She opens her eyes to find him already awake, watching her, a profound tenderness in his gaze. "Good morning, my heart," he murmurs, his voice still heavy with sleep. “Mm, good morning, my king,” she replies, stretching languidly next to him.

Minjun's arm tightens around her waist, pulling her even closer. He presses a soft kiss to her temple, savoring the feeling of her warmth against him. "Sleep well, my love?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in his chest. Chaeyoung hums in agreement, tracing patterns on his bare arm. ”It was the best sleep I’ve had in a hot minute,” she muses, her mind going back to the sleepless nights when they were fighting over Salted Silk. “And the fact that you filled me to the brim… it’s like getting a hug from the inside.”

Minjun chuckles softly, pulling her even tighter against him, burying his face deeper into her hair. "A hug from the inside, huh?" he murmurs, a contented smile in his voice. He shifts slightly, reaching for her hand, lacing their fingers together. "I like the sound of that, baby. If you need another hug, just let me know; I’ll fill you until overflowing." Chaeyoung smacks him on the chest, more playful than harmful, giggling out of pure mirth at his teasing offer. “That’s a generous offer, but I think I’d give it some time before we go again.” She shifts in his embrace, her lips brushing against his earlobe. “If we’re lucky, maybe my belly will rise after a bit of rest.”

Minjun freezes, his laughter dying in his throat. His head lifts from her hair, and he pulls back just enough to look into her eyes, searching for a hint of jest, but finds only earnestness mixed with playful hope. His breath hitches. "Your... your belly?" he whispers, the words barely audible, a profound mix of disbelief and overwhelming joy dawning on his face. She smiles from ear to ear, her eyes creasing into half-moons. “My belly, yes. I will give you heirs—that’s my promise to you.”

A familiar ease settles over her as she observes him. There's a subtle rhythm to their mornings now, a comfortable dance perfected over years of shared space and silent understanding. They don't always need words; sometimes, it’s the quiet presence of the other that speaks volumes. Lately, however, a new kind of quiet has crept in—not bad, not unsettling, just… different. A little less spark, a little more routine, like a well-worn bridge that's still sturdy but perhaps less exciting to traverse.

Hyeonjun, sensing her gaze, looks up, catching her eye. His lips curve into a relaxed smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he gestures with the knife towards the bowl of fruit. "More berries, baby?" he asks, his voice soft, a hint of sleep still lingering in its depths. Saerom shakes her head, a quiet affirmation of contentment. No, no more berries, but perhaps more of this, this gentle connection that feels like a forgotten melody humming back to life.

Pushing off the counter, Saerom makes her way around the island. As she approaches, Hyeonjun sets the knife down, his hands instinctively reaching for hers. Their fingers intertwine, a simple touch that sends a surprising, tender warmth through her. It’s just a morning, just a quiet moment in their kitchen, but in the familiar press of his palm against hers, Saerom feels a tiny, fragile bloom of something new, or perhaps, something wonderfully old and rediscovered.

Hyeonjun presses a tender peck to her knuckles, his lips softly grazing the ring on her finger. “We haven’t had time to talk much, have we?” he mutters, his tone heavy with regret, his wish for more time together lying beneath the question. “We haven’t,” she echoes, her tender gaze staying locked with his. Her heart is filled with warmth at his recognition of their trajectory, his understanding that they haven’t spent much time with each other.

“And to think that we used to do so much together…” he trails off, unable to finish his sentence, a sense of guilt pressing down on him. “I’m so sorry, my heart.” Saerom shakes her head. Not denying his apology but rather telling him that it’s not his fault. None of this is anyone’s fault. “No, please don’t,” she murmurs, her hand squeezing his harder, her eyes turning glassy at his words. “It’s just how life is, love.”

Hyeonjun's thumb strokes the back of her hand, a silent conversation passing between them. He nods slowly, accepting her quiet absolution, but his gaze remains weighted with the unspoken. "Still," he continues, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze distant. "It feels like we've been running on autopilot." Saerom's eyes soften, a mirror of his own understanding. She leans in closer, resting her head gently on his shoulder, the familiar scent of him ‒ coffee and something uniquely Hyeonjun – filling her senses. It's a comfortable silence, different from the recent "quiet," this one filled with the soft promise of shared realization.

“If you want, though, we can go to that ramen shop tonight,” she offers. “Maybe a bowl of spicy ramen could help us unwind.” Hyeonjun smiles at the mention of the special restaurant, his mind replaying the evenings they shared with warm bowls of ramen, but that smile is quick to falter. “But you’re going to work overtime tonight, no? Because of the audit and all?” Saerom sighs; his reminder lands with a soft thud, a well-meaning truth that still feels burdensome. “You’re right…” she mumbles, the small spark of excitement dimming, replaced by the reality of her professional responsibilities.

Hyeonjun's hand, still cradling hers, tightens almost imperceptibly. He doesn't press the point; he never does. Instead, he simply brings their joined hands up, pressing a soft kiss on her palm. "It's alright, my heart," he murmurs, his voice a balm. "We can always do it another time," he adds, a new thought brightening his expression, "Besides, maybe a quiet night in is exactly what we need. I can whip up some pasta for dinner, and we can finally watch that series about that nuclear reactor meltdown."

A small smile takes root on Saerom’s face, a warmth spreading through her at his easy willingness to adapt, his endless patience always touching her. She accepts his idea with a peck to his cheek, resting her head on his shoulder after. “I love you. For everything that you are,” she utters, her voice shaking from the rise of emotions within. Slowly, her fingers trace lines on his arm, her nails digging oh-so-slightly into his skin.

Hyeonjun's arm slides around her, pulling her into a gentle hug. He rests his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair, a comforting anchor in their often-hectic lives. "I love you too, my Saerom," he murmurs against her hair, his voice deep and warm. It’s a quiet moment, the kind that used to be plentiful and effortless, and now feels like a precious rediscovery. The sun has risen higher, painting the kitchen in brighter hues, but inside their embrace, the warmth feels deeper, more profound than any light.

“Go take a shower, baby. I’ll clean up here,” he says, a loving nudge to get her moving. Saerom nods, a fond smile gracing her lips. She frees herself from his embrace and heads off, smiling all the way to the bathroom. As the sound of the shower starts, Hyeonjun turns his attention back to the kitchen. The familiar task of wiping down counters and putting away dishes feels less like a chore and more like an extension of their shared morning. The air still hums with the recent tenderness, reminding them kindly that even in their usual routine, new sparks can ignite, transforming the mundane into something quietly profound.

With a satisfied sigh, Hyeonjun puts away the last of the breakfast dishes. He glances towards the bathroom, a soft smile on his face as the shower continues to run. “Maybe I can join her in the shower,” he considers, looking to kick off the day with a bit of intimacy. He pads over to the bathroom, knocking on the door softly. "My love?" he calls, raising his voice slightly against the rush of running water. “Can I join you, please?”

The shower cuts off, and a momentary silence stretches before Saerom opens the door for him. “Did you say something?” she asks. Hyeonjun’s eyes roam her body; water clings to her hair and skin, the light bouncing off making for quite the spectacle. Not wanting to get caught up in his own thoughts, however, he shifts his gaze to meet hers. “Can I join you, please?” he repeats, looking for her permission. A smile, brimming with understanding, blooms on her face. “Of course, dear.” As the door widens, Saerom extends a hand, inviting him to join her in the second-most sacred place in the house.

Hyeonjun steps inside, the warm, steamy air immediately embracing him. Saerom's fingers, cool and soft from the water, close around his, guiding him past the threshold. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing them into their own private world of steam and soft light. As the water begins to spray again, warm rivulets tracing paths down their skin, he pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist. Her head fits perfectly beneath his chin, and the quiet comfort of their joined bodies, enveloped by the cleansing steam, feels like a forgotten luxury, now rediscovered and deeply cherished.

“Saerom-ah,” he whispers, his fingers gently running on her belly. “Do you remember the first time we showered together?” Saerom turns, her adoring smile meeting his eyes as a fond memory replays. “We showered together after our first time,” she completes his thoughts, guiding his hand towards her private part, as if looking to recreate that moment. “There was so much blood, and you were so… nervous,” she adds.

Hyeonjun plants a soft peck on her nape, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks as his initial cluelessness resurfaces. “I mean, I had never known anything about sex,” he reasons. Saerom giggles, her hand sneaking around to find his manhood. As she touches him, her mind takes her on a quick trip to the past; the sight of him coated in her blood—a testament to her lost innocence—is such a precious memory. “Yet, you somehow managed to take me to cloud nine,” she reflects.

Hyeonjun's own hand finds hers, intertwining their fingers as the warm water streams over them. "You were so brave," he whispers, his voice thick with a renewed admiration, his lips brushing her wet hair. He remembers the mix of fear and tenderness, the overwhelming desire to be gentle and kind. "And you were so kind to me," she ponders, remembering how bare and exposed she felt, and how his gentle touches were so soothing.

He pulls her closer, their bodies fitting together perfectly in the small, steamy enclosure. This shared history, this raw, unfiltered memory, isn't something to hide from; it's a foundation, a deep root that makes their love, and this rekindled spark, feel even more profound. “Thank you, Jeon Hyeonjun. For everything that you are. For everything that you’ve done for us.” His eyes turn wet, not because of the water washing over them, but because of her affirmation, her recognition of his efforts to make her feel loved and cherished. “Thank you, Lee Saerom,” he echoes, his heart warm at her assertion. “It’s you and only you, my heart.”

The water continues to fall around them, a soft, steady rhythm accompanying the beating of their hearts. They stand there for a long moment, simply holding each other, allowing the warmth and the weight of their shared history to settle deep within them. The world outside the shower fades away, leaving only the two of them, rediscovered and irrevocably bound. Slowly, reluctantly, Saerom reaches for the faucet, turning the water off with a soft click, drawing out the precious intimacy for as long as possible before the practicalities of the day call to them.

“I want to give you a little present. Something to remember me by during the day,” Saerom says. “Oh?” His eyebrow rises with intrigue, wondering what she has in store for him. “And that would be…?” Hyeonjun keeps his eyes fixed on her, as she slowly sinks onto her knees, a teasing smirk playing on her features. “Oh, yes, please…” he murmurs, his fists balling up in eagerness, fully aware of where this is headed.

Saerom's fingers, still cool from the shower, wrap around him, a gentle yet firm touch that steals the breath from Hyeonjun's lungs. His eyes flutter for a moment, savoring the feeling, the renewed intimacy that fills the steamy bathroom. Her lips ghost along his skin, a soft whisper against him, and he lets his head fall back against the tiled wall, completely at her mercy.

Hyeonjun gasps, his body shuddering in pleasure, as she takes him so far down. “That’s… that’s illegal, Lee Saerom.” He can only chuckle when she repeats the movement, not heeding his warning, if it can be even called that. Placing his hand on her head and stroking her tenderly, he looks on with a satisfied expression as Saerom continues her ministrations. “Just… take everything you need from me, my love,” he adds, happy to let her do her thing.

Saerom feels the subtle tremor that runs through his body, a silent testament to her effectiveness. The warmth radiating from him, the soft pressure of his hand on her head, fuels her own desire to please, to give him this moment of pure, unburdened pleasure. She continues, her gaze fixed on his closed eyes, seeing not just the man she loves, but the history they share, the quiet promise of their future. This isn’t just a physical act; it is a reaffirmation, a tangible rekindling of the profound connection that has always been there, waiting to be rediscovered.

He trembles violently, and Saerom closes her eyes, his warmth still filling her mouth. Eventually, he comes undone, flooding her warm mouth with his virile seed. “Mmph…” Her moan is muffled by his intruding fullness, her eyes fluttering like his. Eagerly—perhaps also greedily—she swallows his release, not letting any bit leak out. “Oh, God, you’re amazing,” she hears him say. Wiping her lips, she pulls away, smiling in pride at her undeniable success in making him finish. “I will surely remember you during the day.” Saerom chuckles, rising to her feet, and plants a peck on his cheek. “If you can stay awake during the show tonight, I’ll reward you even more,” she promises.

Hyeonjun's arms come around her, pulling her into a slow, post-intimacy hug. He rests his chin on her head, inhaling deeply, still a little breathless, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Your love is stronger than any coffee, baby," he murmurs, his voice warm with affection. The steam in the bathroom slowly begins to dissipate, but the warmth between them lingers, a pleasant hum of shared pleasure and profound connection. It's a sweet, silent agreement that this newly ignited spark will continue to warm their everyday routines.

He unwraps his arms, though his gaze lingers on hers, full of peaceful, reawakened adoration. "Time to face the world, I suppose," he says, his voice still soft, a gentle tease in his eyes. Saerom smiles, a genuine, radiating smile that feels like a new dawn breaking. She reaches up, pressing a quick, firm kiss to his lips, a silent promise of more to come. They step out of the shower, the cool air of the bathroom a stark contrast to the heat they just shared, but the warmth in their hearts is more than enough to carry them through the day.

-

Hours later, as dusk settled over the city, casting long shadows across the streets, the memory of the morning's intimate surprise was still a soft hum beneath Saerom's skin. She steps into their apartment, shedding her work bag by the door with a sigh of relief. The apartment is quiet, but a warm, inviting aroma already drifts from the kitchen. Hyeonjun is there, just as he promised, stirring a pot on the stove, the soft glow of the range hood light illuminating his concentrated profile. A profound sense of belonging settles over her, like coming home to exactly where she's meant to be.

Not bothering to remove her coat, Saerom crashes into him from behind. “Oppaaaa,” she whines, tapping into the cutesy side. “Yes, baby. What is it?” he murmurs, his free hand instinctively coming up to stroke her arm, ready to hear whatever she has to say. She presses her face into his back, filling her system with the familiar scent of his perfume. “I love you,” she mumbles. “Aw, I love you more.”

"Rough day?" Hyeonjun asks, his voice soft, his hands gently covering hers where they're wrapped around his waist. He shifts slightly, making them both more comfortable in the embrace. Saerom sighs, nodding into his back. "Just long—like, very long," she admits, the weight of the day pressing down but already feeling lighter now that she's home.

Hyeonjun chuckles softly, carefully turning down the stove with his free hand. He leans back into her embrace, content in her warmth, feeling the day's stresses melt away with her presence. "Dinner's almost ready," he says, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "Just needs a minute or two more." He turns in her arms, pulling her gently until she faces him, his eyes sparkling with the same tenderness that had filled their morning. “Let’s unwind with some creamy carbonara, baby.”

Hyeonjun taps the back of her hand, a soft signal for her to release, but her grip only tightens, clinging to him. His heart aches: Saerom is clingy, but something bigger, likely also heavier, is causing her to be extra clingy. “What’s wrong, my Saerom?” he asks, genuine concern carried in his voice. “Nothing; it just feels so safe to be with you,” she answers. Sighing, he asks once more. Not because her answer doesn’t satisfy him; he’s simply sympathetic. “Love, please. What’s wrong?”

Saerom's grip tightens again, a small tremor running through her. She buries her face deeper into his back, and her voice comes out muffled, thinner than before. "It's just... the audit. It's more complicated than I thought, and my boss is really pushing for impossible deadlines." She sighs, a tired, defeated sound. "I just want it to be over. I just want to relax."

Freeing himself from her clenching grip just enough, Hyeonjun turns, pulling her flush against his body. “Baby…” he mutters, his voice hushed by her hair. “With hardship comes ease—we’ve proven that many times over.” He strokes her back tenderly, his hand running softly along her spine. “I’m proud of you, and I will always root for you, because I know you always bust your bum-bum for everything," he adds, giving her lower back a gentle, affectionate squeeze.

He holds her tighter, feeling the lingering tension in her shoulders. His gaze softens, filled with a desire to protect her from the pressures of the world. " My poor baby. Let's not talk about work anymore," Hyeonjun decides, his voice firm but gentle. "Tonight, you just focus on unwinding. Let me take care of dinner, and then we'll just... be." He pulls back slightly, tilting her chin up so their eyes meet, but Saerom just breaks down in his embrace. She just lets everything be bare before him, the only one who can comfort her.

“Oh, Saerom, no…”

Hyeonjun's heart clenches at the sight, his strong arms tightening around her, holding her fast. He says nothing, offering only the solid warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. His hand rises to stroke her hair, a soft, soothing motion. He lets her cry, letting the tears wash away the day's pressure, knowing that sometimes, all a person needs is a safe harbor, a place where they can truly fall apart without judgment. The only sound in the kitchen is the soft murmur of her sobs and faint bubble of the idling carbonara pasta.

He continues to hold her, patiently waiting for the storm to pass. After what feels like an eternity, Saerom's sobs soften, becoming quiet sniffles. Hyeonjun gently pulls back enough to look at her, his thumbs tenderly wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Better?" he murmurs, his voice filled with gentle inquiry. She nods, and then, seeking further comfort, presses her cheek into his chest. “Thank you, oppa. I-I know I shouldn’t have cried, but… I felt like there was no other choice.”

"Never apologize for feeling," Hyeonjun says, his voice a soft, soothing balm, as he wraps his arms around her again. “After all, feelings are what make us humans.” He rocks her gently, letting her find her grounding in his embrace. He understands that sometimes, the strongest people need to release the pressure, and he is her chosen release valve, a role he accepts without question.

Slowly, carefully, Hyeonjun unwraps her arms from around his body, their fingers tangling between them. “Can I feed you, baby?” he offers, thinking only about making her feel better. Saerom nods, so he gently guides her to sit at the dining table before returning to the kitchen to prepare a full plate of creamy, warm, and slightly spicy pasta for her.

He returns to the dining table, a fork already laden with creamy pasta. Saerom watches him, a soft, weary gratitude in her eyes. He lifts the fork, gently blowing on the steaming strands before guiding it to her lips. She opens her mouth, accepting the bite, the warmth and familiar taste a welcome comfort. Each slow, deliberate movement from him is a quiet act of devotion, a testament of his promise to be her anchor.

As more and more pasta fills her tummy, the color begins to return to her face, a faint, contented hum replacing the lingering tension. “Love, I want to do something.” Saerom takes the fork from him, directing his free hand to wrap around her instead. “I can eat, and you can, I don’t know, pet me or something.” Giggling mirthfully, Hyeonjun does as she asks, his hand softly tracing paths on her back, sometimes also on the back of her head, pouring his heart into the light actions. “Like this?”

Saerom hums softly, the combined comfort of the warm food and Hyeonjun's gentle touch melting away the last remnants of the day's strain. She leans back against his hand, eyes half-closed in bliss. "Perfect," she murmurs, her voice thick with contentment. The rhythm of his fingers on her skin, the soft clink of the fork against the plate, and the quiet presence of the man beside her, all combine into a symphony of peace. She sighs in relief, no trace of stress in the sound at all. “Absolutely perfect…”

Hyeonjun smiles, a soft warmth spreading through him as he feels her complete relaxation. He lifts his hand from her back, a reluctant farewell to the comforting contact, then gently helps her rise from the table. "Shall we take that peace to the living room?" he murmurs, already envisioning them curled up on the sofa, the soft glow of the lamp creating their own little haven.

Letting the empty plate sit forgotten in the sink, Hyeonjun takes his wife to the sofa, but only after shedding the outer layers of her clothes do they curl up on it. “Oppa, thank you, seriously,” she says, punctuating it with a tender kiss to his knuckles. “I know you’re tired, but you’re always so patient with me.” A peck lands on the back of her head, him accepting her gratitude with a warm heart. “What I wouldn’t give for you, Saerom-ah…”

Saerom snuggles deeper into his side, feeling completely at ease, all traces of the day's stress finally gone. Hyeonjun reaches for the remote, his movements slow and unhurried. He finds the streaming service, navigating to the series discussed this morning, the one about the nuclear reactor. The screen flickers to life, casting a soft glow over their faces. He drapes a soft, worn blanket over them, his arm tightening around her, content in the quiet hum of the television and the steady beat of her heart against his.

As the dramatic opening credits roll, Saerom glances up at Hyeonjun, finding his gaze already on her. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Rest, my love," he whispers, his voice a gentle caress. Saerom sighs contentedly, closing her eyes for a moment before turning back to the screen, already feeling the pull of the story. More importantly, however, she feels the profound, unwavering warmth of his presence beside her. “Don’t worry about falling asleep. We can always watch it again some other time,” he adds, inviting her to relax. Something that she yearns for.

Hyeonjun fights to keep his eyes open, taking in as much detail as he can so they can talk about it tomorrow. However, against all his good intentions, his eyes grow heavy, Saerom’s subtle snores adding to the allure of rest. “3.6 roentgen is 400 chest x-rays, huh?” he wonders silently.

His silent thought echoes in the quiet room, unheard by her, who remains peacefully asleep against his side. Hyeonjun's gaze drifts from the screen to Saerom, her reflection illuminated softly by the flickering light. He presses a soft kiss to her hair, then gently adjusts the blanket around her shoulders. Just as his own eyes threaten to close for good, Saerom stirs slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

“Shh, easy, baby. Just relax and…” he trails off, his speech interrupted by a yawn he can’t stifle. She snuggles closer, her hand finding his, and their fingers intertwine in the darkness, an invitation to join her in the peace. “I know, I know,” he murmurs. “I’ll turn off the TV now, and we can move to the bedroom.”

-

A subtle shift in the mattress stirs Hyeonjun from a deep sleep. His eyes open slowly, adjusting to the sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains, signaling the start of a new day. Beside him, Saerom stretches languidly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. He watches her for a moment, a wave of tenderness washing over him in the calmness of the morning. The events of their day, the earlier intimacy, feel like a warm ember glowing softly beneath the surface of their sleep.

“Hi,” Hyeonjun whispers, his voice rough from the sleep. Saerom sighs contentedly, whispering back, “Hi.” She scoots over, closing the gap that was created at some point in the night, pressing her body into him. “I don’t want to go to work, oppa,” she complains, already getting a headache at the thought of facing those auditors. “I mean, you can call in sick,” he offers an escape route.

Saerom sighs, the idea of calling in sick a tempting idea for her weary spirit, but the weight of her responsibilities presses down. "I can't," she murmurs into his chest, her voice muffled and tinged with frustration. "It's too important. A key account’s request." Hyeonjun's arm tightens around her, a comforting anchor. He understands, of course, but a part of him aches to shield her from all stress. "Just lie with me for a bit then,” he suggests, his hand gently tracing a path along her spine. “Even a short break can make a difference.”

A small, grateful smile touches Saerom's lips, unseen by Hyeonjun. She closes her eyes, relishing the soft pressure of his hand on her back, the comfortable weight of his arm around her.

“Don’t let me fall asleep again, though.”

“I’ll try, baby.”

The silence then stretches, broken only by their breathing and the distant sounds of the city beginning to stir. They lie there, two bodies perfectly intertwined, finding a profound stillness in the heart of a burgeoning day. It's a stolen moment, a precious fragment of peace, before the responsibilities that await them pull them inevitably apart.

The tranquility holds them captive for a few more minutes, a tiny rebellion against the world outside. Saerom feels the gentle quickening of Hyeonjun's breath, a subtle sign that his mind is already turning towards the day's tasks. She tightens her grip on his hand, not wanting to let go, not yet. He squeezes back, a silent understanding passing between them. The peace, though profound, is fragile and fleeting, already beginning to fray at the edges as the sun climbs higher.

“Oppa,” Saerom calls to him, her whispered voice barely audible. “I want to take a leave after this. Can you also take a leave?” Hyeonjun hums quietly, counting how many days of paid leave he has left. A slow smile touches his lips. “Actually, the company owes me five days of leave,” he murmurs, a hint of surprise in his voice. She sighs in relief, satisfied with the small revelation. “Great. We can stay at home for a whole week,” she says.

A wave of quiet excitement washes over them both, chasing away the last vestiges of morning grogginess. "A whole week," he repeats, the words a soft promise, a luxurious thought. He imagines lazy mornings, slow cooking, perhaps even staying in their pajamas all day. The stress of the audit still looms for today, but the prospect of a full week of uninterrupted togetherness feels like a balm already settling over their hearts.

-

Three days into their leave, the apartment feels transformed—not by some grand renovations, but by the simple luxury of unhurried time. Saerom finds herself waking up naturally, without the blaring intrusion of alarms, her body slowly surfacing from dreams to the soft morning light filtering through their bedroom curtains. Beside her, Hyeonjun sleeps peacefully, his face relaxed in a way she hasn't seen in months. The harsh lines of workplace stress have melted away, replaced by the gentle vulnerability of true rest.

Placing a hand on Hyeonjun’s bare chest, Saerom watches, feeling his heartbeat pulse gently against her fingertips. “My love…” she murmurs, not exactly calling to him, but rather expressing her admiration. “We deserve this, don’t we?” she asks her sleeping husband.

Hyeonjun stirs slightly at her touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but his eyes remain closed. His hand finds hers instinctively, fingers intertwining over his heart as if even in sleep he seeks that connection. Saerom marvels at this unconscious gesture—how many times had they fallen asleep holding hands in their early days together, only to wake up on opposite sides of the bed in recent months? Now, even his sleeping self seems determined not to let her drift away.

She traces lazy circles on his chest with her free hand, mapping the familiar landscape of his body as if seeing it for the first time in ages. He finally wakes, his hand gripping hers more firmly as his consciousness returns. “Good morning, my heart,” he mutters, his rough voice thick with calmness rather than the usual grogginess of rushed mornings.

Moving with languid grace, Saerom climbs onto him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. “Mm, someone’s eager,” she quips, noticing his morning wood pressing against her abdomen. Hyeonjun laughs softly, his manhood growing even more at her tease. “I mean, last night, we fell asleep before… you know…” he trails off, but the unspoken words are clear to her.

Saerom lifts her head to meet his gaze, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "We have all the time in the world now," she whispers, her voice carrying a promise that makes his breath catch. There's no rush, no clock ticking in the background, no mental countdown to when they need to shower, dress, and scatter to their separate worlds. Instead, there's only this—the weight of her body against his, the morning light dancing across her skin, and the luxury of desire without urgency.

Their gazes hold, deep and searching, as if each waiting for the other to voice what they both already know. Eventually, Saerom straightens her body, her hair catching golden highlights in the morning sun. “Okay, I concede; I want you, oppa. Right now.” Hyeonjun’s fingers dig deeper into her waist, her whispered admission sending heat through him. “Tell me how much you want this, baby,” he teases, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties, ready to pull them down swiftly.

A soft blush spreads across Saerom's cheeks at his playful challenge, but her eyes never leave his. "I want this so much it aches," she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with raw honesty. "I want to feel us again, the way we used to be." Her admission carries more weight than simple desire; it's about reclaiming something precious they'd nearly let slip away in the chaos of their busy lives. She lifts herself slightly, allowing him to slide the delicate fabric down her thighs, the simple act feeling both familiar and thrillingly new after their recent distance.

The morning air kisses her newly exposed skin, but Hyeonjun's warm hands quickly follow, tracing paths he knows by heart. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion that goes far beyond physical attraction. It's appreciation, gratitude, love—all wrapped into those simple words. His thumbs trace gentle circles on her hips as she settles back against him, both of them savoring the unhurried intimacy they'd forgotten was possible.

"No rushing," Saerom whispers, though whether she's reminding him or herself isn't entirely clear. Her hands find his chest again, palms flat against his heart, feeling its steady rhythm quicken beneath her touch. “Yes, no rushing,” he repeats.

Saerom lifts her hips before slowly sinking back down, savoring the gentle intimacy of their connection. “Oh, God…” she breathes, still maintaining the relaxed tempo. “I’ve missed this… I’ve missed us, baby,” he murmurs, his hands guiding her movements. She nods, her eyes clouding briefly with the memory of too many nights when exhaustion won. “Me too, my love…”

Saerom leans into his touch, her body swaying with languid grace as she continues to set their pace. The morning light paints shifting patterns across their skin, illuminating every curve, every shadow. The world outside the bedroom feels distant, irrelevant. There's only the exquisite friction, the soft sounds of their breaths intertwining, and the overwhelming sensation of two souls reconnecting on the most fundamental level. This wasn't just intimacy; it was a conversation, a healing. A profound reaffirmation of their unwavering love.

Minutes blur into each other, unmarked by any urgency or countdown. Saerom's movements become more fluid, more instinctive, as if her body remembers exactly how they used to dance together in their early days. "Look at me, my heart," Hyeonjun whispers, his hands cupping her face gently, thumbs brushing away tears she didn't even realize had fallen. When their eyes meet, there's something raw and vulnerable in his gaze—not just desire, but a kind of desperate gratitude, as if he's afraid this moment might slip away if he doesn't hold onto it tightly enough.

"I'm here," Saerom whispers back, understanding instinctively what he needs to hear. "I'm right here with you." Her words seem to unlock something in him, and she feels his body respond beneath hers, his breathing becoming more ragged, more urgent despite their commitment to taking their time. She increases her pace slightly, still maintaining that leisurely pace, but with more intention now, more focus on the building sensation between them. The morning light has shifted again, casting longer shadows across the rumpled sheets, but neither of them notices anything beyond the space they're creating together.

“Give it to me, my love,” she urges, looking to cross the finish line together. “Just let go and give me everything.” With a deep, guttural groan, Hyeonjun explodes, a rush of heat blooming deep within her. Saerom’s eyes flutter close, satisfied and sated, basking in the sensation of intimacy.

Saerom collapses onto him, their heartbeat matching as they ride the last waves of pleasure. Hyeonjun holds her close, pressing his lips onto her temple, his heart swelling with affection and gratitude. “Perfect,” he mutters. “You’re perfect, baby.” Saerom hums in agreement, her body heavy and relaxed against his. The thought of getting out of bed holds no appeal; instead, they simply lie intertwined, letting the warmth of their connection and the quiet joy of their leisure-filled week wash over them.

Saerom lifts her head slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss to the warm skin of his collarbone. She can feel his steady breath against her hair, the rhythmic beat of his heart against her ear. "Mm," she murmurs, a sound of utter satisfaction. Hyeonjun tightens his embrace, not wanting this moment to end. They lie there, connected in the most intimate way possible, two souls mending into one.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

The cheerleading squad bursts into an energetic routine on the sidelines, a blur of motion and color. He hears Yoona's clear, bright voice leading the chants, her presence a steady, familiar beacon in the exhilarating chaos. As he backtracks towards his team’s side of the court, Jihoon catches a glimpse of her, her features beaming with pure joy. Jihoon allows himself to smile back at her, acknowledging her support and momentarily clearing space in his mind.

After the game, a hard-fought victory, the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and elation. Jihoon is toweling off when Jinsol appears, seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes sparkling with what she clearly thinks is triumph. "Oppa, you were amazing! We have to celebrate tonight. My treat." She leans in too close, her perfume filling his nostrils.

Jihoon forces a polite smile, already formulating an excuse while also wondering how she’s managed to get in the locker room. “I’m sorry, Jinsol-ah, but I’m kind of exhausted,” he replies, opting to be as honest as can be, careful to not hurt her feelings. “Are you serious, oppa?” Jinsol asks, her fists planted on her hips, her expression turning sour. “You don’t have even an hour or two for me?”

Jihoon sighs, feeling pressured both by Jinsol’s demanding presence and his teammates’ gaze, trying his best to stay calm and not say anything regrettable. “Please, let me get some rest, sweetie,” he whispers, begging her to understand, using a pet name for good measure. “Oh, erm, o-okay,” Jinsol’s cheeks turn a pink hue, getting butterflies in her stomach at the endearment, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow, oppa.”

Jihoon watches Jinsol retreating, a sense of relief washing over him, quickly replaced by a weary sigh. He hates being rude, especially when someone is clearly trying to be kind, but Jinsol’s brand of affection feels more like a demand; she’s constantly seeking him, looking for ways to be close. He just wants some space, especially now, with the national final looming. He glances at his teammates, some still laughing, others already heading for the showers. Jihoon wants to escape the locker room, find a moment of peace.

Looking for some fresh air, Jihoon heads out of the locker room, dragging his tired, aching legs to find somewhere to sit, and his choice lands on a bench under the lights. “Ugh.” He grunts as his butt settles on the cold steel bars of the bench. It’s not the most comfortable, but this will do for now.

As he closes his eyes to relax, a commotion is heard nearby. When Jihoon opens his eyes again, his gaze lands on Yoona, following behind her the rest of the cheerleading squad. She stops in her tracks and gives him a small nod, immediately looking away after, her cheeks starting to burn from shyness. He chuckles a little, amused by her little gesture, and that chuckle grows into a laugh when some other cheerleaders start teasing Yoona for it.

“I think you guys should leave her alone,” Jihoon says, his voice gentle with no trace of anger, trying to save Yoona from further embarrassment. “Yeah, well, I think you guys should start dating,” one of the girls manages to counter, causing Jihoon to regret intervening.

Jihoon's ears burn, a blush creeping up his neck. "Hey!" he calls out, though his voice lacks any real bite. The cheerleaders just giggle, high fiving each other as they walk away, leaving Yoona still standing there, face a deep crimson. She avoids his gaze, fiddling with the pom-poms in her hands as if they hold all the secrets of the universe. He feels a strange mixture of embarrassment and... something else. An unexpected flutter in his chest. Dating Yoona? The thought is foreign, yet not entirely unpleasant. He's never really considered her in that way, not seriously.

Jihoon rises from the bench, slowly approaching the girl who is rooted to the spot. "Don't listen to them," he says, trying to sound casual, but his voice feels a little too loud in the sudden quiet. "People say stupid things sometimes. There's no reason to be embarrassed." He clears his throat, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness from the cheerleader’s comment. “My name is Min Jihoon. Can I ask what yours is?”

Yoona finally looks up, her eyes wide, still shy but meeting his. Her nervousness is endearing. He realizes he's never truly looked at her like this before, not really taken in her bright eyes and the way her hair catches the lights of this little park. “I-it’s Yoona. Seol Yoona,” she answers, her whispered voice barely heard. “N-nice seeing you, s-senior.” A warm smile blooms on Jihoon’s face, a similar sense of warmth rising within. “Please, it’s just Jihoon-ie. If you want, you can call me ‘oppa’ instead.”

Yoona's eyes widen, her cheeks flushing even deeper at the suggestion of calling him by “oppa” or even his name. She bites her lip, a shy smile finally breaking through her embarrassment. "Okay... oppa," she manages, testing the name on her lips. The moment stretches, filled with unspoken questions and a newfound awareness. Jihoon finds himself drawn to her quiet vulnerability, a stark contrast to the demanding attention he usually receives. He feels an unexpected urge to protect that shyness, to keep this moment separate from the noise of the tournament.

“Hey, erm, you’re coming next weekend, right?” Jihoon asks, the words leaving his lips before he can think. “I mean, with the rest of the cheerleading team, of course.” Yoona nods, clutching her pom-poms to her chest. “Yes, I am. Erm, there will be a new routine for the finals.” Her voice is still soft, but there’s a spark of excitement in her eyes at the new routine. Jihoon smiles again, genuinely. He realizes he's completely forgotten about Jinsol, about the lingering stress of the game. For the first time all day, his mind feels truly clear, focused only on the girl in front of him. "Good luck with your routine, Yoona-yah. I'll be watching."

A soft blush blooms on Yoona's cheeks at his use of "Yoona-yah.” The way he says it in that calm, steady tone feels rather tender. "Thank you, oppa," she murmurs, her gaze still fixed on him, a quiet warmth emanating from her. The air between them hums, thick with unspoken possibilities. Jihoon finds himself wanting to extend the moment, to simply bask in her serene yet alluring presence. The fatigue in his legs seems to lessen, replaced by a light, hopeful energy. He realizes he's rarely felt this centered, this... simply good.

"I… I should head back to the dorms," Yoona says, finally looking away, her eyes briefly scanning the area around them. "It's getting late." A small pang of disappointment registers in Jihoon's chest. "Right," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "Get some good rest." He watches her as she turns, her steps quick and light as she moves in the other direction. “I’ll see you around, sweetie,” he mutters, his low voice making him confident that he won’t be heard.

-

Upon arriving at her room, Yoona slams the door behind her, the thud echoing through the quiet hallway. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she chants frantically, her chest rising and falling rapidly, still unable to shake off the shock from meeting Jihoon. “What… what just happened?” she asks herself, the furniture in her room offering no clarity.

Yoona jumps onto the mattress, landing on her belly, not concerned about changing out of her cheerleader uniform. “Aaaaah!” she whines, her pillow muffling the sound. “Seol Yoona, you are out of your mind, talking to the captain like that,” she bashes herself, rambling nonsense as her mind races with possibilities. Future encounters, ones where they might actually be open with each other.

Yoona kicks her legs in the air, a giddy laugh bubbling up from her chest, quickly stifled by her hand. "He called me 'Yoona-yah'!" she squeals silently. The tenderness in his voice, the way he looked at her—it was all so much more than she ever dared to dream. She needs to write this down, capture every detail before it fades. She scrambles off the bed, rummaging through her backpack, searching for a small journal bound in a soft, navy-blue cover. This is where her deepest hopes and most embarrassing confessions live.

She clutches it to her chest for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle, before flipping to a fresh page. Her pen hovers for a second, then dances across the paper. “June 1st,” she begins. “The day I actually talked to oppa.” Yoona doesn’t bother writing down his name, her heart already feeling very comfortable about him. “HIS SMILE!” Yoona writes in all uppercase, punctuating the lasting impression with an exclamation mark, her writing untidy because of the giddiness flowing through her.

Yoona’s pen flies across the page, recounting every detail of their brief interaction, filling the page with every little detail she's picked up. It's exhilarating and terrifying, putting these profound feelings into concrete words, etched in a physical medium, making them feel undeniably real. She can't believe it actually happened. Jihoon, the basketball captain, the one everyone looks up to, actually engaged her in a real conversation, a connection far deeper than she'd ever dared to dream.

As Yoona writes, a new determination stirs in her, her mind coming up with ways to get close to him, to get his attention, even if it’s fleeting. “I can use those,” she thinks, her gaze locked on the stack of sticky notes before her. “I can just… leave him notes…” she mumbles.

Yoona picks up a sticky note, her thumb rubbing against its smooth surface. Anonymity is the name of the game. It allows her to say what she's too shy to express face-to-face, to offer the kind of genuine support she knows he needs without making him uncomfortable. He's been distracted by Jinsol, oblivious to the deeper connection he might be craving. Yoona closes her eyes, picturing his face, the subtle lines of stress she'd noticed even through his post-game smile.

“Oppa,” she pens, letting her hand be led by her heart. “I know how hard you work for us, but please stay safe and don’t get injured. I’m rooting for you.” Yoona falls silent as she finishes writing, the radiance dissipating from her face as she feels the pull of something deeper. “Oppa…” she mutters softly. “Please win. For us and everyone who believes in you. I know you can do it.”

Yoona reads the note once more, her fingers tracing the neat, heartfelt script. It's more personal than anything she’s ever done before, imbued with a new kind of urgency. She folds it carefully, tucking it into a small, decorative envelope she keeps for special occasions.

Tomorrow, she'll find the perfect moment. She knows his routine: early morning shots at the gym. She can slip it into his bag or maybe tuck it under his water bottle while pretending to do something else. A nervous excitement flutters in her stomach, pushing away the earlier giddiness. This isn't just a crush anymore; it's a profound wish, a silent promise.

Yoona finally rises from her chair. Her earlier uniform forgotten, she slips into something more comfortable for bed, but sleep feels distant. She climbs back under the covers, but sleep feels distant. As she lies on her side, her stare remains fixed at the note she’s prepared, a fond smile playing on her lips from imagining his reaction to it. She hopes that he will feel the sincerity in the words, the true meaning of the gesture. Tomorrow, when he reads it, she will still be a cheerleader, practicing the new routine for the grand finals, but after that, Jihoon will know that someone is cheering him on from his corner.

-

Yoona approaches the arena carefully, her light steps betraying the heavy pounds of her heart. Pushing the glass door, her ears pick up some familiar noises: the squeaks from shoes that skid against the court, mixed with the subtle thuds from a bouncing basketball. She peeks around a corner, and there he is, pacing along the width of the court, his fingers controlling the ball with ease as if attached to strings.

Yoona watches on as Jihoon stands just beyond the three-point line, his eyes locked on the rim before him. Suddenly, with an explosive burst of energy, he sprints towards it, dribbling the ball with focused intensity. When Jihoon gets close enough, he lifts the ball, letting it bounce softly against the glass backboard—but he misses.

When he turns around, Yoona sees the frown on his face, his own mind admonishing him for his failure to perform a supposedly simple task: to score from that close of a range. Her heart clenches as she starts to grasp the kind of pressure that’s he’s carrying on his shoulders.

Jihoon sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. He retrieves the ball, bouncing it once, twice, then sends it arching towards the hoop again. This time, it swishes cleanly through the net. He nods, but the frown lingers, a testament to his own high expectations. Yoona watches, her resolve firming. This is why he needs her note. She takes a silent breath, pulling the decorative envelope from her pocket. Jihoon heads towards the water cooler, briefly setting the ball down by his gym bag on the sidelines.

This is her chance. Her heart pounds a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her steps are light, almost soundless, on the polished court. She moves with the practiced stealth of a cheerleader during a surprise routine, gliding towards the sidelines. In a swift, practiced motion, she kneels by his bag, slipping the note inside before he even turns from the cooler. She rises just as quietly, her gaze sweeping the empty gym, and then, with a final, quick glance at Jihoon's back, she sprints away before—a voice, sharp and sudden, cuts through the echoing gym.

“Who is that?”

Yoona’s legs lock, coming to a dead stop. She is stunned by his voice, unable to take even one step away from him. “I-it’s me, oppa. S-Seol Yoona,” she mumbles, not daring to turn around to face him, her stare stuck on the floor. Jihoon drops the ball, letting it roll away, wiping off most of his sweat to make himself presentable. He stops closely behind her, towering over her petite frame. “You’re not even facing me. Is that how you speak to your senior, Seol Yoona?” he asks, his voice gaining quite the sharp edge, a contrast to last night's.

Mustering up the courage, Yoona turns around but still can’t look him in the eyes, her body trembling slightly with fear. “I’m so sorry, Yoona-yah,” he takes a few steps closer towards her, getting down on one knee to get on her eye level, “did I scare you? Was I being too mean?” She manages to shake her head, hiding her shaken heart behind it. “Please forgive me, Yoona-yah. I was just… frustrated.” He pauses, gauging her reaction to his apology. “I mean, that’s no reason to be mean, but please understand where I’m coming from.”

Yoona offers another hesitant shake of her head, still unable to meet his eyes, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Even with him kneeling, his presence feels immense, dominating the quiet space. He's so close, she can smell the lingering scent of his sweat, clean and sharp, mixed with a faint hint of his body wash. The note, now tucked away in his bag, feels like a live wire, burning a hole through the fabric. Did he see? Does he know? The questions scream inside her head, but she can't find her voice.

Jihoon watches her, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. He reaches out a hand, hesitates, then gently brushes it against hers. "Yoona-yah, really, it's okay. I didn't mean to snap. Just... rough practice." He pauses again, his gaze drifting from her downcast face towards his gym bag, then back to her. He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "What are you doing here, anyway? Do you have practice too?" The question hangs in the air, innocent on the surface, yet loaded with unspoken implications.

“I just wanted to see you, oppa,” she answers, not mincing her words. “I… I wanted to see you,” she repeats, this time in a whispered, low tone. Her entire body flushes, burning hot with a potent mix of embarrassment and excitement. “You wanted to see me?” Jihoon confirms, his tone taking on a similar soft tone. “I’m honored, Yoona-yah. Thank you,” he adds.

Jihoon rises slowly, his gaze still soft, but a flicker of something new—intrigue, perhaps—dances in his eyes. Yoona keeps her eyes fixed on his chest, her cheeks still burning. The weight of his acknowledgment feels both overwhelming and deeply gratifying. She curses her own impulsive words, yet a part of her is also relieved they're finally out. She braces herself for what he might say next, a knot tightening in her stomach.

“Yoona-yah, please listen to me,” he says. Yoona lifts her chin, ready to listen intently, her glassy eyes meeting his. “Thank you for the support, seriously, but… Bae Jinsol won’t take this kindly, and I don’t want to put you in the crossfire.” Tears begin to pool in her eyes, expecting to hear a rejection from the man she admires so. “Oh, sweetie, please don’t,” he hurries before tears begin flowing down her cheeks. “I’m not shutting you out, I promise, but let me figure things out with Jinsol-ie first.”

Yoona swallows hard, the tears receding, replaced by a fresh surge of embarrassment and a quiet understanding. He's not rejecting her, but he's acknowledging the complicated mess Jinsol represents. It's almost worse, knowing he cares enough to protect her from that. "Okay," she murmurs, the word barely audible.

Jihoon reaches out, his fingers hovering over her wrist. "Are you heading back to the dorms now?" he asks, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as if gauging her reaction. "It's still pretty dark. I could walk you back?" His offer is a lifeline, a gentle invitation to extend this charged moment, despite the unspoken barrier. Yoona nods, her lips curving into a small smile. The path forward feels clearer, yet also far more difficult than she'd ever imagined. “Yes, oppa. Please walk with me,” she says.

Jihoon's hand lightly takes her arm, and he steers her gently towards the wide glass doors of the gym. The cool air outside is a stark contrast to the humid warmth of the court, but Yoona barely notices. Her focus is entirely on the man beside her, his presence a comforting anchor. They walk in silence, the rhythm of their footsteps echoing faintly on the deserted pathways. Yoona glances at him from the corner of her eye. He looks tired, the subtle lines of strain still etched around his eyes despite the victory. The urge to help him, to truly be his support, swells within her.

“Oppa…” she calls to him, her tone gentle and careful. “Are you okay? Is there any way I can help?” Jihoon offers a small, tight smile, hiding the depths of his burdens. “I’m okay, Yoona-yah. Just a bit tired and stressed, but that’s nothing new to me.” Yoona sighs, wishing he would open to her more, let her look into his life just a bit more, but her heart insists: such a time will come eventually. “Okay,” she concedes. “But… but please know that I’m here for you, oppa.”

Jihoon nods, his gaze softening further. "I know, sweetie," he replies, the endearment slipping through his lips, his voice carrying a warmth that makes her heart flutter. "I appreciate that, really." His thumb lightly brushes against her arm where his hand rests. It's a small gesture, but to Yoona, it feels monumental, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort she offers. The early morning chill seems less biting now, replaced by the warmth emanating from his touch.

Reaching the big intersection, Jihoon stops, turning towards Yoona, his towering presence more comforting than intimidating. “Yes, oppa? Is everything okay?” she asks, unsure as to why they have stopped here and now. “Seol Yoona, I…” he sighs, the cool air making his breath visible, “I don’t know, I just want to… be with you just a bit more.”

Yoona stares at him, her mind struggling to process his words. "Be with me... just a bit more?" The question hangs in the air, fragile and precious. A slow, undeniable smile spreads across her face, mirroring the hope she sees in his eyes. Her cheeks flush, but this time it's from pure, exhilarating joy. "Okay, oppa," she breathes, a soft confirmation of agreement. "Why don’t we take a seat somewhere and, you know, be with each other just a bit more?"

Jihoon’s shoulders drop, the tension releasing from his body, as Yoona leads him towards a nearby bench, the steel bars cold from the early morning breeze. His gaze drifts to the right, taking in the sight of the female dorm buildings that are standing strong despite their age. “You know, I’ve actually never been to the girls’ dorms,” he admits. Her eyebrows furrow: there’s no way he’s never been there. “You can’t be serious,” she protests. He chuckles, not taking any offense from her counter. “I mean, I’ve never dated anyone in university, so I basically have zero reason to go there.”

Yoona's eyebrows remain furrowed, a thoughtful expression on her face. "So, you've just been... focusing on basketball?" she asks, a genuine curiosity woven in her tone. It's a stark contrast to her own life, where cheerleading is important, but there's still room for friends, for quiet moments, for crushes. Jihoon nods, his gaze fixed on the dorms. "Pretty much. No time for anything else, really." He gestures vaguely, as if explaining a complex play. "It's all consuming. Especially with the finals coming up."

A quiet hum settles between them. Yoona realizes that despite his popularity and his obvious talent, there's a part of him that's incredibly innocent, perhaps even a little lonely, in his relentless pursuit of the game. He's never experienced the awkwardness or the thrill of young love. This thought sparks gentle protectiveness in her. "I’m… willing to take a chance with you, oppa.”

Jihoon turns his head slowly, his gaze shifting from the distant dorms to Yoona's face. Her words hang in the cool morning air, clear and utterly unexpected. His eyes, usually so focused on the court, are wide, reflecting a mix of shock and a dawning comprehension. The easy rhythm of their walk, the comfortable silence, all of it shatters under the weight of her declaration.

“Seol Yoona…” he says her name in this tranquilizing tone. “Look at me, please.” Following his request, Yoona turns her head towards him, holding his gaze despite her burning cheeks. “Are you serious about that? About giving me a chance?” he asks, his eyes searching for signs of dishonesty but finding only the truth. “Yes, but there’s a condition,” she says. “I don’t want to see you hang out with Bae Jinsol.”

Jihoon blinks, processing her words, a subtle shift in his posture suggesting he's moved from surprise to problem-solving mode. He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. "Bae Jinsol," he murmurs, more to himself than to Yoona. "She's... persistent." He looks back at Yoona, a hint of a wry smile touching his lips. "It won't be easy, Yoona-yah. She's not exactly subtle when she wants something." He pauses, his gaze locking with hers, a serious, determined glint in his eyes. "You're right, though. That's a fair condition."

A wave of relief washes over Yoona, making her almost dizzy. He understands. He's not dismissing her; he's simply acknowledging the difficulty. "So... you'll do it?" she asks, her voice a hopeful whisper. Jihoon nods, a firm, decisive motion. "I will," he promises, his voice low and steady. "Just... give me a little time, sweetheart. I’ll figure it out. For us."

Yoona nods, a slow, happy nod that reflects the profound relief settling in her chest. The early morning chill, which had seemed so sharp just moments ago, now feels irrelevant, replaced by the warmth that blooms from Jihoon's promise. “Thank you, oppa, and I like it when you call me sweetheart.” Jihoon chuckles, shaking his head out of amusement. “I mean, your heart is indeed sweet—ow, what’s that for?” He rubs the spot on his thigh where her fist landed, playing up his reactions. “You’re going to give me diabetes, Min Jihoon,” she quips, her voice laced with playful annoyance.

Jihoon rises from the bench, his relaxed shoulders a proof of his lessening stress. “Come, baby. Let’s get you indoors.” He opens his palm, offering it for Yoona to hold. With a big smile, she takes his hand, her fingers wrapping tightly around his. “Yes, please.”

After the gentle slope of the brick path, they reach the steps to her dorm building. Jihoon stops, still holding her wrist. "I'll see you soon, Yoona-yah," he says, his voice softer now, the teasing gone, replaced by a quiet earnestness. “By then, I hope I will have cut ties with Jinsol-ie.” His thumb brushes gently against her pulse point, adding weight to his promise. Yoona's heart thumps. "See you, oppa, and please be kind to Jinsol-ie" she replies, her voice barely a whisper, already anticipating their next encounter, a future that feels suddenly, beautifully, real.

-

The last day of practice before the finals is here, and according to the wind carrying the rumors, the cheerleading team will be practicing their new routine at the other basketball court, next to the court in which Jihoon’s team will be practicing.

Jihoon stretches at the edge of his team's court, his muscles already protesting the rigorous practice ahead. “Oh, God,” he grunts, bending his back too far backwards, his joints making these popping sounds. As he stretches other parts of his body, music with uplifting, fast beats begin filling the area, the cheerleading girls moving around to find their practiced spots.

“Look,” Siwoo nudges Jihoon’s elbow, “the girl wearing 26 is cute, no?” Jihoon’s eyebrows furrow; 26 is Yoona’s number. “Why, you like her or something?” he asks, covering his irritation with a question. “I mean, who doesn’t?” Siwoo shrugs, thinking it’s simply a fact that Yoona is crush material. “Don’t let me catch you drooling over 26, Siwoo-yah,” Jihoon threatens, the weight of his words not truly reaching Siwoo, who is thinking it’s a normal banter.

Jihoon glares at Siwoo's retreating back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “No one is drooling over Yoona but me—that’s my Yoona”, he thinks, the possessive thought surprising even himself. His eyes instinctively drift to the adjacent court, finding Yoona among the blur of motion. She's at the front, leading the complex movements, her focus absolute. The new routine is indeed intricate, demanding. He watches her, completely absorbed, warmth spreading through him that makes him forget the protesting muscles and the impending rigorous practice.

The sound of Coach Kang’s whistle breaks his concentration. “Come on, let’s get this started already,” he shouts. Jihoon snaps his attention back to his own team, but the image of Yoona, graceful and vibrant, remains etched in his mind. “Captain, stop ogling those girls, will you?” Jihoon clicks his tongue and shakes his head, downplaying his interest in front of his coach.

Jihoon throws himself into the drills with renewed fervor, the basketball a familiar extension of his will. Unlike other practices, however, his focus isn't solely on the rim or facing the opposing team. Every explosive sprint, every precise pass, every powerful jump feels infused with a new, quiet purpose. He knows Yoona is just meters away, and the thought of her watching, or perhaps even glancing, adds a subtle fire to his movements. He can still hear the faint, rhythmic pulse of the cheerleading music, a comforting counterpoint to the squeak of his shoes.

He pushes himself harder, imagining her new routine, the dedication it must take, comparing her struggles with his own. He promised her he'd figure things out with Jinsol. Watching her now, so full of grace and determination, only solidifies his resolve. This upcoming final isn’t just about the championship anymore; it is about laying the groundwork for them. He glances quickly towards the adjacent court during a water break, catching a glimpse of her laughing with a teammate, and a genuine smile, unbidden, touches his lips.

As he puts down his bottle, Jihoon catches a familiar figure sitting in the empty stands: Bae Jinsol. “Oh, hell no,” he thinks, staring at her blankly. Thinking he’s excited to see her, Jinsol waves at him, grinning ear to ear, seemingly excited to have him notice her presence. Jihoon offers her a small nod, not wanting to be caught reacting too much when Yoona is just meters away from him.

Jinsol rises to her feet, waving at Jihoon with more fervor. “He must be shy around his teammates,” she thinks, clueless to the actual reason of his reservations. Jihoon gives her one last smile before turning around, redirecting his focus back on the practice. As she settles in her seat again, Jinsol’s heart soars with pride, as if she just claimed him before this crowd. On the other hand, Yoona, who has been watching Jinsol’s antics, can only wipe her glassy eyes before the tears spill out.

Yoona quickly turns her head, pretending to adjust her hair, her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the gym floor. She blinks rapidly, trying to force the tears back, a bitter lump forming in her throat. “He promised,” she thinks, clinging to the memory of his quiet words on the bench, but seeing Jinsol's brazen claim, Jihoon's subtle nod, and her own hidden tears, the promise feels fragile, easily broken under the harsh light of public display. Her stomach churns with a mix of despair and a fierce, unfamiliar anger. The new routine suddenly feels meaningless, her dedication hollow. All she can do is bite her lip, trying to hold back the sob that threatens to escape.

“Don’t betray me now, my love.”

Yoona forces her head back up, her jaw clenched tight. The music for their routine swells again, the familiar upbeat tempo now feeling like a mocking echo of her own internal turmoil. She blinks once, twice, forcing back the burning wetness from her eyes, and takes her place, ready for the next sequence. Her movements are stiff at first, mechanical, lacking the usual grace. Every synchronized step, every energetic jump, feels like a performance she's putting on for herself, a desperate attempt to ignore the ache in her chest. She glances over at Jihoon's court, but he's a blur of motion, absorbed in his own practice, seemingly oblivious. “He can't betray me,” she repeats, a silent, desperate mantra, pushing through the routine with a newfound, rigid determination.

The minutes fly by, and now, both Jihoon and Yoona are finished with their practices. Jihoon sits down in the middle of the court, leaning backwards and supporting himself with his arms, his legs let straight. Across him, Yoona also sits in the middle of the court, albeit a bit hidden by one of her teammates—Jihoon can only see her face, not the rest of her body. He notices that she’s glaring at him, her burning gaze drilling a hole between his eyes. As an attempt to defuse the situation, Jihoon offers her a tentative smile, hoping that she will calm down.

Jihoon's smile falters under the unwavering intensity of Yoona's glare. It's not just frustration; it's betrayal, raw and painful. He realizes, with a cold jolt, that she must have seen Jinsol, must have misinterpreted his subtle nod. "Oh, hell no." The thought from earlier reverberates in his mind, now tinged with acute regret. He glances quickly towards Jinsol, who is still beaming from the stands, oblivious. He needs to fix this, and fast.

He pushes himself up, his muscles stiff, but his mind is racing. This isn't just about his promise anymore; it's about the trust he's already inadvertently broken. Yoona's gaze never leaves him, a silent, burning challenge. He knows he can't approach her now, not with Jinsol watching. He has to handle the immediate problem. He takes a deep breath, his decision firm, and with a determined set to his jaw, he heads straight for the stands, ignoring the questioning glances from his teammates.

“Can we talk, Jinsol-ah?” he whispers to Jinsol, urgency lying beneath his question. “Depends,” she says. “Do I or do I not have your attention?” Jihoon exhales deeply, trying to stay calm in front of the difficult girl. “Please, sweetie. Let’s… head somewhere else and talk.” She smirks, satisfied with both the pet name and his soft demand. “Aww, okay. Let’s head out for a bit, yeah?”

Jihoon nods, his jaw still tight, and gestures towards the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, a place where they can have more privacy. Jinsol's smirk widens, and she playfully grabs his arm, a move that makes him inwardly flinch. As they walk away, Jihoon risks a quick glance towards Yoona's court. Yoona is still there, her head now turned away, her posture rigid. He knows she saw—she must have. A fresh wave of urgency washes over him. This conversation with Jinsol will not be easy, but he has to make it clear, once and for all, where he stands at this crossroads of attention.

Meanwhile, back on the cheerleading court, Yoona's eyes burn with unshed tears. She sees them walk away, Jinsol clinging to his arm. It is everything she fears. The promise, about him cutting ties with Jinsol, from this morning feels like a cruel joke now, a false hope offered. She bites her lip, trying to steady her breathing. The new routine, the finals, everything feels overshadowed by this sharp, sudden pain of perceived betrayal. All she can do is hope that Jihoon is indeed "figuring things out" and not just playing into Jinsol's hands.

Jinsol pulls Jihoon towards a curve at the far end of the sports complex, the pillars providing privacy for the pair. He quickly frees his wrist from her grip, not wanting to make physical contact more than needed. “What's wrong, oppa? You look so stressed,” Jinsol wonders, noticing his perceived odd behavior.

Jihoon takes one step forward, closing the distance without being too close. “Look, Jinsol-ah. I appreciate your support for me and the team, but… it's starting to feel…” He trails off momentarily, unable to find the correct word for it. “I don't know, it's distracting, I guess.” Her eyebrows furrow, the joy melting away from her face, her heart flinching with hurt at his choice of adjective. “What is that supposed to mean, oppa?” she protests, her voice laced with irritation. “Just get to the point, please: are you going out with someone else and looking to leave me?”

Jihoon sighs, but unlike when he was with Yoona, it's not out of relief. Rather, it is a product of his tension that is growing heavy. “Sweetheart, please,” he murmurs, hoping that the pet name will reach the soft spot in her heart. “There isn't no one else right now. It's just that I need to focus on the finals, and as much as I'm honored to have your support, I can't afford to be distracted.”

Jinsol's lower lip trembles, and her eyes, which moments ago were sharp, now fill with a wounded glint. "Distracted?" she whispers, her voice quivering, as if deeply hurt. She shakes her head slowly, a tear welling up and tracing a path down her cheek. "I thought... I thought we had something special, oppa. After all this time, all my efforts... you're just going to throw it away because of a game?" She reaches out, her hand gently touching his arm, her gaze pleading. "Don't you care about—mmph…”

Before Jinsol manages to finish her pushing sentence, Jihoon interrupts her, stifling her lips with… with his. She melts into him, reactively putting her hands on his chest, but he's quick to break away. “I'm sorry, but this is for the best. Please remember me by the taste of my lips,” he says, his voice deep with a sense of finality, of closure. “I’ll go back to practice now, and please, go find something else to do. I'm begging you, Jinsol-ah.”

Jinsol falls onto the floor, covering her mouth as sobs begin to flood out, deeply struck by his rejection. The kiss did very little in terms of providing comfort, but it was certainly final. “Oppa…” she mutters between sobs. As her cries grow, Jinsol leans against the pillar, hugging her legs in a ball. “Please don't forget about me,” she pleads.

Heading back inside the gym, Jihoon rushes towards the other court, his steps thumping against the smooth surface. “Where is Seol Yoona?” he asks the crowd of cheerleaders. Surprised by his sudden appearance and demanding voice, one of them simply points at the restroom. “Great. Thank you,” Jihoon says with no tenderness in his tone.

Jihoon turns to make his way towards the restroom, unwavered by the thought of possibly having to enter the female’s section. As luck would have it, however, Yoona is walking out. Her fresh makeup gives him the idea that she likely just finished crying and re-applied it.

Yoona gasps as her gaze lands on him. “Hi there,” he says. “We need to talk.” Unable to say anything else, she simply nods, walking behind Jihoon as he leads her away from the gym.

Jihoon leads Yoona down a quiet corridor, away from the echoing sounds of the gym, stopping at a secluded alcove near a rarely used exit. He turns to face her, his gaze intense. The earlier brusqueness in his demeanor fades, replaced by a deep concern as he sees the lingering hurt in her eyes.

"Yoona-yah," he begins, his voice softening, a stark contrast to moments before. "I saw you. I saw you watching us, and I know what it must have looked like." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "But you have to believe me, it's not what you think. I wasn't... I wasn't trying to be with her. I was cutting ties. Just like I promised you this morning, and I have done exactly that." He searches her face for any sign of understanding, any flicker of the trust they built hours ago.

Yoona’s stare towards the ground, his purple shoes suddenly very attractive. “But… you were kind to her, right?” she asks, more concerned about Jinsol than herself. “What did you say to her, oppa?” Jihoon closes his eyes, the taste of Jinsol’s lips still lingering on his. “I said I couldn't afford to be distracted,” he answers.

“Distracted…” she echoes. “What about me? Am I not distracting you?” Jihoon shakes his head, firm in his stance about her presence in this trying time. “No, you're not. I mean, you never demand my attention, do you, dear?” he answers.

Yoona finally lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting his. The lingering hurt is still there, but a flicker of something else—hope, perhaps—begins to fight through it. "So… you really meant it?" she whispers, her voice fragile. "About… us?"

Jihoon reaches out, his hand gently cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "Every word, sweetheart," he says, his voice a low, earnest rumble. "Especially the part about you."

Yoona nods, her resolve gaining strength again, her cheek rubbing against his palm, and that's when Jihoon quickly removes his hand. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” he exclaims, only remembering that his hand is dirty after touching basketballs for so long. “Oh, no, your face is dirty, baby,” he adds, guilt rising within him for ruining her fresh makeup. She giggles, smacking his arm lightly. Not out of anger, of course; just… playful frustration. “Don't worry about it, oppa. If anything, that's proof of my belonging to you.”

-

Settling in the front seat of the bus as usual, Jihoon puts on his headphones, tuning in to some piano to clear his mind before the final game. This game means much, much more to him; not only is this his final season as a collegiate player, but he now has Yoona. It is her that has been steadfast by his side, offering comfort and affirmation when he needs them most, a steady beacon for him to cling to.

Leaning against the window with his eyes closed, he doesn’t catch Yoona slipping into the empty seat next to him, taking her rightful spot. “Oppa,” she pokes his shoulder, a grin spreading across her face, “I’m here too, you know.” Seeing the beautiful smile of hers warms Jihoon’s heart, prompting him to smile. “I can see that, sweetie,” he says, his hand snaking around her waist, pulling her close. It’s no secret that the cheerleading team always travels together with the basketball team, but now that they’re more than strangers, it matters more.

Yoona settles comfortably into his side, nestling her head against his shoulder. The soft piano music from his headphones is a gentle hum against her ear, creating a private bubble around them amidst the low chatter of their teammates. "Nervous, oppa?" she whispers, her fingers gently tracing the lines of his arm.

Jihoon nods, a faint smile playing on his lips. He shifts slightly, pulling her even closer. "A little," he admits, his voice low. "But in a good way. Like everything's leading up to this, and... now that you're here, it feels different." He squeezes her gently. "Are you ready for your new routine?" His question is soft, filled with genuine interest, reminding her that his attention is fully on her now, even as the biggest game of his life awaits. Yoona nods against his shoulder, drawing strength from his solid presence. “Yes, and I’m going to make sure you don’t have anyone else to watch but me,” she replies, radiating the confidence that Jihoon loves the most.

The bus starts to roll, and the cabin is filled with the soft rumble of its engine. Jihoon takes a deep breath, collecting himself for the upcoming game, his arm tightening around Yoona’s body. She follows afterwards, taking a deep breath to steel herself before the grand performance, her body melting into him more, seeking comfort that only he can provide. Jihoon takes off his headphones, placing them over Yoona’s ears to help her relax. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ll wake you when we arrive.” Yoona hums softly, her eyes closing as she drifts to dreamland.

The rhythmic sway of the bus and the comforting warmth of Jihoon's arm around her pull Yoona deeper into sleep. It feels like moments later when a gentle tap rouses her. "We're here, sweetheart," Jihoon's murmurs, soft as the piano music that lulled her to sleep. Yoona blinks her eyes open, feeling refreshed, and straightens up as the bus comes to a complete stop. She glances at Jihoon, whose gaze is already fixed on the massive arena looming outside the window, a blend of intense focus and quiet anticipation on his face.

“Oppa…” she calls to him softly, her gaze following his, taking in the sight of the arena. “We’re going to be okay, right?” Jihoon turns his face towards her, looking at her with a tranquilizing expression. “Yes, we are. I’m going to give this everything I have. For you, and for me.” Yoona presses a gentle peck on his cheek, her heart filled with warmth that is most welcome. "For us, oppa.”

Players and cheerleaders get off the bus in a line, immediately met with a bunch of cameras that are aimed at them, the reality of the national grand final settling in the heart of each person. “It’s called a ‘grand final’ for a reason,” Jihoon thinks, somewhat familiar with the exposure that comes with it. Yoona’s close proximity to him makes him want to hold her hand as they walk towards the arena but doing so before these cameras might do more harm than good.

Jihoon's hand aches with the unspoken desire to reach for hers, but he keeps his arms stiffly at his sides, his jaw tight. He maintains a calm, focused expression for the cameras, accustomed to this kind of scrutiny. Beside him, Yoona walks with a quiet grace, her eyes forward, her steps in perfect sync with his, as if they're still moving as one, even without physical touch. He can sense her awareness of his proximity, a silent understanding passing between them that this public restraint is necessary, for now. The flashes of light, the murmuring crowd, and the sharp questions from reporters attempting to break through the security line are a dizzying blur, but he navigates it all with a singular focus: getting them both safely inside the arena, where their private world could re-establish itself.

After settling their things in the locker room, the players and cheerleaders gather, forming a big circle in the center of it. “Guys, listen to me, please,” Jihoon starts, taking point as both the captain and the senior. “First of all, please remember to stay safe at all times, and I’m talking about you girls,” he adds, his index finger tracing a line across the row of cheerleaders. Yoona bites her bottom lip to stop herself from blushing; even if his attention isn’t focused on her, being addressed by him as a part of a crowd still gives her the butterflies.

"And to my team," Jihoon continues, his gaze sweeping over the basketball players, his voice firming. "We’re here as champions, and everyone has been gunning for us, giving us a run for our money, but we came out on top every single time. So, let's come out on top one last fucking time." He pauses, letting his words sink in, then his gaze softens slightly as he looks back at the cheerleaders. "We couldn't do this without your energy and support. So, let's go out there and show them what we're made of. All of us." A unified roar of agreement ripples through the circle, a powerful surge of collective determination. “Win on three. One, two, three, win!”

The unified roar reverberated off the locker room walls, a tangible wave of shared adrenaline. Jihoon's eyes met Yoona's across the circle, a silent acknowledgment passing between them—a flash of their private promise amidst the collective energy. Then, the huddle breaks, each person taking a spot to form two lines to head out together. With a subtle tilt of head, Jihoon gestures to Yoona to stand at the end of their respective queue.

An event coordinator signals to the cheerleaders to head out first, and as the line begins to move, Yoona gives him one last squeeze of hand, an unspoken promise that she’ll be there, pouring everything she has into supporting him, and by extension, the basketball team. Jihoon watches as she walks away from him, hypnotized by her wiggling ponytail, smiling like a fool in love. Well, he is a fool in love.

Soon, the same coordinator gives the signal for Jihoon’s team to enter the arena, but as he steps closer towards the end of the tunnel, he is stopped. “Captains enter last—you know, for the TV,” he says. Jihoon chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. “It wasn’t like this last year,” he quips. The coordinator chuckles with him. “We’re trying out new things each year, captain.”

The arena announcer’s voice grows louder, more excited, as he calls for the captains of each team to come out. “I guess that’s my cue.” Jihoon straightens his posture, fixing the jacket hanging on his shoulders, only hanging by a small rope connecting each end of the collar. He gets a few taps on his shoulder, confirming that it’s time for him to walk out of the dark tunnel and into the brightly lit court.

Jihoon walks out at the same time as the other team’s captain and a fellow senior, Park Taehyun, offering a nod to acknowledge his presence, the crowd bursting into energetic screams at the sight of the two. As he joins his team, Jihoon’s gaze roams the stands, indicating to those present that he acknowledges their overwhelming presence, offering smiles and nods where he can.

Jihoon's eyes finally land on the cheerleading section, a familiar warmth spreading through him as he spots Yoona. Her bright smile and energetic waves are unmistakable for him, and he feels a subtle surge of confidence that has nothing to do with the roar of the crowd. He gives her a quick, almost imperceptible nod and a private, genuine smile before turning his full attention to the center court. The referee blows the whistle, signaling the start of the coin toss, and the anticipation in the arena becomes a tangible force, ready to erupt with the game's first play.

Jihoon’s team win the tip-off thanks to the center’s quick reaction. The ball gets passed to him right away, music resembling a countdown playing over the speakers as he navigates across the court, the bouncing ball an extension of his controlled will. His calculated passes cause chaos in the defense, creating separation all over the floor. Eventually, the ball finds its way back to Jihoon, right as he’s closing in towards the hoop, and with practiced movement, he scores the first basket of the game, thus earning excited screams from both the crowd and the cheerleaders, not excluding Yoona.

The game intensifies, the scoreboard ticking steadily, yet the tension in the arena only grows. Jihoon is everywhere, a blur of blue and white, orchestrating plays, sinking shots, and denying the opposition. The other team, however, desperate to close the widening gap, pushes back with aggressive drives and tight defense.

Mid-second quarter, the opposing team's power forward, a burly player named Kim Donghwan, drives hard to the basket. Jihoon meets him as he jumps, a fierce battle for the rebound ensuing as the shot clanks off the back board. Donghwan, off-balance from the collision with Jihoon and the sudden shift in momentum, stumbles wildly out of bounds. He trips over the baseline advertising, his massive frame tumbling awkwardly. Before anyone can react, he crashes directly into the cheerleading line, specifically into Yoona.

Panicking at the sight of his girlfriend sprawling, Jihoon quickly rises to his feet, rushing towards her. Jihoon grabs Donghwan by the hips, pulling him to his feet with all his might, more concerned about Yoona than anyone else. “Get out of here,” he snarks, his hand, planted on Donghwan’s chest, pushing him backwards. “Get your fucking hand off me,” Donghwan barks back, slapping his hand away in anger. Nine times out of ten, Jihoon would crash out, but this one time, he doesn’t take the bait; Yoona needs help, and anger isn’t going to help her.

A wave of whistles immediately shrills through the arena, cutting through the sudden, stunned silence that followed the collision. Jihoon ignores them, his gaze fixed on Yoona. She's still on the floor, one hand pressed to the back of her head, her eyes squeezed shut in pain. He drops to his knees beside her, his earlier aggression vanishing, replaced by profound worry.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" he asks, his voice tight with concern, gently cradling her head. Around them, chaos erupts. Teammates from both sides rush forward, referees try to separate the players, and the crowd murmurs anxiously. Donghwan, still seething, is being pulled away by his coach. Jihoon barely registers any of it; his world has shrunk to just Yoona, lying still on the cold, hard court.

“Baby, please say something,” he says, his stomach clenching with worry. Yoona’s free hand scrambles, trying to find him, her anchor in this sea of pain. “It… hurts,” she manages. “I know, I know,” Jihoon hurries, carefully rubbing the back of her head, trying to ease the sting. Realizing he can’t stay for long, he turns to one of her teammates, asking her to call the medics. “You’ll be fine, baby.” With a heavy heart, Jihoon lets go of Yoona, returning to his duties as a basketball player, his mind replaying the scene of the tumble.

Jihoon forces his attention back to the court, the referee's whistle a sharp demand for order. His teammates gather around him, their faces etched with concern, but he waves them off, a grim determination setting his jaw. The game clock has stopped, leaving the arena in a thick, uneasy silence broken only by the distant murmur of the crowd. He glances back quickly, seeing the medical team rushing towards Yoona, a small circle of worried cheerleaders already surrounding her. He has to trust them. He has to play. The adrenaline that had surged with panic now channeled itself into a cold, hard resolve. Every dribble, every pass, every shot in this game would now be for her.

A referee heads to the scoring table, a microphone being brought to him for an announcement. “A technical foul is called for player number twenty from Juwan University. Two free throws for Yeonseo University,” he announces, making appropriate gestures as he does. Jihoon’s teammates choose him to take those free throws, but he declines; his mind is not fully in the game, still distracted by the incident involving she who holds his heart. “Just take it, man,” he says.

Minjun, their shooting guard, steps forward without a word, picking up the ball. He knows Jihoon too well, understands the unspoken weight of his captain's gaze on the medical team. Jihoon watches as Minjun calmly stands in the spot, focuses on the rim, and sinks both free throws with a satisfying swish. The scoreboard shifts, adding two precious points to their tally, but Jihoon barely registers it. His eyes are still fixed on the sideline, where Yoona is now being carefully helped onto a stretcher, a white neck brace stark against her cheerleading uniform. He watches her, his heart clenching with every slow, deliberate movement of the medics. He can't go to her, not yet, but he feels every ounce of her pain as keenly as if it were his own.

Noticing the distracted captain, Coach Kang calls for a substitution, giving someone else, who is more focused on the game, to take Jihoon’s spot on the court. As he’s signing off, Jihoon gets a smack to the back of his head; Kang is expressing his disappointment. “Focus, or you’ll regret it,” he threatens. Jihoon offers a nod, but his mind barely grasps the coach’s words; there’s simply no space in his head for the game.

The whistle signaling the end of the first half blows, the players clearing out of the court to give room for the cheerleaders to perform their routine. Jihoon joins his team, retreating to the locker room for a half-time pep talk, a towel covering his head. Passing through the tunnel with his eyes aimed at the ground, he notices a girl rushing out—those shoes look familiar too.

“Oppa!” Jihoon hears her yell and reactively lifts his head: it’s Yoona, no longer showing signs of being hurt, her energetic form returning as if she didn’t hit her head less than ten minutes ago. A pleasant shiver runs down his spine, opening his arms to welcome her. “Later, oppa,” she declines, zipping past him. “I need to perform first!” His eyes follow her as she disappears into the light. “She’s not giving up, is she?” he thinks, his resolution regaining strength at the face of Yoona’s unwavering spirit.

Jihoon walks into the locker room, his stride now imbued with a different kind of energy. Coach Kang looks at him, a questioning glance, and Jihoon offers a confident nod, the towel still draped over his head but his eyes blazing with renewed focus. The image of Yoona's fierce determination, her confident, steady attitude, burns bright in his mind. He pulls the towel off, wiping his face, and steps into the huddle, ready for whatever the second half throws at them. The championship, and everything Yoona represents, feels within their grasp now.

Jihoon concentrates, putting everything that the coaches are saying into his mind. Their instructions to “find space” and “move the ball around” tell him just enough about his roles in the second half, his basketball mind primed. “And you,” Kang points at him, “are you ready to play, or are you still mourning your girl?” Jihoon chuckles, almost insulted by the question about his readiness. “I am ready,” he answers firmly, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Put me in, and I’ll do everything you want me to.”

Jihoon and company return to the court, standing in the sidelines as they wait for the cheerleaders to finish. His eyes quickly find Yoona among the crowd, performing with everything she has. Each smile and movement remind him of her promise: “I’m going to make sure you don’t have anyone else to watch but me.” Jihoon’s smile grows bigger, drawing strength from her presence, admiring her strong resolve to always give her best in everything she does. “You’re amazing, Seol Yoona,” he praises her silently.

Soon, the ref's whistle for the start of the second half pierces the arena, and Jihoon explodes from the bench, his feet already moving with a purpose that wasn’t there moments ago. He takes the inbound pass from Minjun and quickly takes the ball over to the other half, already finding the mismatch he wants; the player guarding him is bigger—and therefore slower—and he is about to put him in the wringer.

With a chain of precise dribbles and crosses, Jihoon manages to make his opponent trip on his own feet, creating a mile of separation, and he exploits it right away. With the ball settled in his hands, Jihoon rises to take a shot from beyond the three-point line. The crowd, initially amazed by the ankle-breaker, explodes into deafening cheers. With a cocky smirk, Jihoon puts a finger on his earlobe, riling up the crowd to scream louder for him.

As he returns to his team’s side of the court, Jihoon spots Yoona. She’s cheering him on, bouncing up and down on the spot, her pom-poms skipping along with her, and the sight sends his heart soaring with pride. He points right at her. “For you,” he mouths.

-

When the final horn pierces through the arena, Jihoon drops to his hands and knees, the depths of his exhaustion finally settling in his mind. He tunes out the sound of the erupting crowd, focusing only on the back-to-back championship and what it means for him. The captain, in his last year of competition, signs off with a parting gift that is most sweet.

As he stays on the floor, someone crashes into him, demanding his attention. “Yoona-yah…” he murmurs, pulling the crying girl into his arms. “This one is yours, baby.” Yoona hides her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing out of control in his arms. “This one is yours,” he repeats, punctuating it with a tender peck to the top of her head, smiling in pride at this achievement.

-

Nestling in the front seat of the bus once more, Jihoon immediately pulls Yoona closer to him, closing the little gap between them. “We did it, baby,” he whispers, his voice nearly gone from screaming too much during the celebration. “Yes—yes, we did,” she confirms, her hand finding purchase on his chest, rubbing it tenderly. “Congratulations, my love,” she adds, looking at him with glassy eyes, threatening to break down crying again.

As the bus starts rolling to take them home, Yoona rests her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his like they were hours ago. “Oppa, can we celebrate a little?” she asks, looking for a reason to be with him longer. “Yeah, we can. What are you thinking, Yoona-yah?” Yoona shifts around, positioning her lips right beside his ear. “We can… try having sex.”

Jihoon's breath hitches. The soft rumble of the bus, the distant cheers from outside, all fade into a blur. His grip on Yoona's waist tightens reflexively, his mind reeling from her whispered words. He pulls his head back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes, which are now wide and earnest, reflecting the dim light of the bus cabin. A slow, warm smile spreads across his face, a mix of surprise, tenderness, and an unmistakable excitement.

"Yoona-yah," he murmurs, his voice still hoarse, but now filled with a different kind of intensity. "Are you serious?" He searches her gaze, not for doubt, but for confirmation. Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, but her eyes hold steady, a silent, confident affirmation. "Yes," she whispers, her hand pressing more firmly against his chest. "Be my first, oppa."

Jihoon's smile softens even further, becoming purely tender. He gently moves his hand from her waist to cup her cheek, his thumbs stroking softly. "Yoona-yah," he whispers again, his voice now a low, husky rumble, filled with overwhelming emotion. "You trust me with that?" A smile forms on Yoona’s face as she nods to his question, her trust in him immense. The trust that tells her, in his arms, she will be safe and loved. “Then yes,” he breathes, leaning closer to her. “I will be your first, and I’ll cherish every single moment, my heart.”

Yoona pecks him on the cheek, her heart warm with his promise to cherish the monumental moment they will share. “We’ll be happy, right, oppa?” she asks, hope lying beneath her pleading voice. “Of course, baby. We’ll be happy together.” Jihoon pecks her in return. Not on her cheek, but on her head, his nostrils filled with the subtle scent of her shampoo.

The soft hum of the bus engine became a comforting lullaby as Yoona settles deeper into Jihoon's side. With his arm securely around her, and her head resting on his shoulder, the weight of the championship, the earlier scare, and the boldness of their shared confession all seem to melt away, leaving only a profound sense of rightness. Jihoon looks out the window, watching the city lights blur past, a contented smile playing on his lips. This is more than just a victory; it is a new beginning, a quiet promise of a future he is now more than ready to embrace, hand in hand with his Yoona.

The bus arrives back at the university after what feels like a moment, as Jihoon and Yoona get lost in their own world where peace is the name of the game.  “Yoona-yah…” he taps her shoulder gently, whispering her name as to not startle the exhausted girl. “Wake up, baby. We’re here.” Her eyes flutter open, looking around the bus to find it nearly empty. “W-where’s everyone?” she asks. “Well, they got off moments ago. It’s now our turn,” he says, pressing a light kiss to her forehead to kick-start her body after the slumber.

“Oppa, I can’t walk.” Jihoon’s eyebrows furrow, concern etched in the lines of his forehead. “Are you hurt?” Yoona shakes her head, a playful, teasing smile starting to form. “No, but… I do want to be carried—you know, like you’re abducting me,” she teases. He bursts out laughing, shaking his head simply out of mirth. “Yeah, let’s do that. I hope no one thinks I’m actually abducting you.”

As his laughter dies down, Jihoon gets down on one knee beside her, tapping his shoulder a few times. "Hop on, my little abductee," he jokes, flexing his shoulders playfully. Yoona giggles, getting on his shoulder, her belly pressed firm against it. Even exhausted, Jihoon feels a surge of strength at her light weight. As he stands, adjusting his grip on her back, he looks around the near-empty bus, then out the window at the quiet university grounds. "Ready for your grand abduction?" he whispers, his voice filled with tender amusement. Yoona buries her face in his neck, the soft rumble of his laughter echoing in her ears. "Lead the way—ah, oppa!”

Yoona yelps when Jihoon suddenly runs out of the bus. As if not feeling the weight of the duffel bag in his hand or the girl on his shoulder, Jihoon darts across the parking lot, really getting in the act of pretending to be abducting her. “Oppa, oppa, slow down!” she protests, whacking his back while giggling, not actually scared about any of this. “I can’t slow down. The cops are on me,” he jokes, his voice steady despite running. Yoona laughs even more at his quip, so much so that her saliva drips out of her lips.

Just as Jihoon rounds a corner past the main dormitory, a familiar voice calls out. "Min Jihoon? Is that you?" He skids to a halt, Yoona letting out another surprised yelp. It's Coach Kang, walking briskly with one of the assistant coaches, clearly just leaving a late meeting. Kang's eyes widen, first in surprise, then amusement, as he takes in the sight of his star player carrying the cheerleader captain like a fugitive. Yoona immediately buries her face deeper, trying to become one with Jihoon's back.

"Uh, Coach," Jihoon manages, trying to stifle a laugh and regain some composure. "Just... an emergency escort." Coach Kang simply shakes his head, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Right. Well, try not to get too abducted, Miss Seol—and you, my boy, try not to get a speeding ticket. Well, see you both bright and early for team photos!" He walks past, chuckling, leaving Jihoon and Yoona in a fresh wave of embarrassed laughter.

Jihoon stands still as Kang and the other coach walks away, his cheeks burning with after getting caught frolicking with Yoona. “God, that’s so embarrassing,” she sighs, her cheeks also burning, “can we… I don’t know, get to our destination soon?” He chuckles once more, getting ready to start running again. “Alright, baby. We’re almost there.”

Jihoon tightens his grip, and then, with a renewed burst of energy, he sprints the last hundred meters. He veers off the main path, cutting through a small, shrub-lined shortcut leading directly to the back entrance of his dormitory. The building lights are mostly out, indicating the late hour and the general quiet. He slows as they reach the door, fumbling for his keycard with one hand while still holding her securely with the other. "Home sweet home, my abductee," he whispers, a hint of something deeper in his tone now. Yoona lifts her head from his shoulder, her eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“Wait, this… doesn’t feel like a regular student’s dormitory,” she blurts, offering the result of her brief observation. “No, not really,” he replies. “Student-athletes don’t live like other students.” Her jaw drops, surprised by the revelation. Yoona never knows that people like Jihoon get special treatments. “You’re joking,” she says, but he just shrugs. “College sports bring in loads of money, and we get our privileges for bringing in that money,” he adds.

Stopping in the middle of the hallway, Jihoon carefully lowers Yoona onto her feet, straightening her crumpled jacket and hair. "Seriously? So, you guys have, like, private rooms and, like, better food?" Yoona asks, her voice still laced with disbelief, momentarily forgetting their playful pretense. "Something like that. Think of it as a thank-you for all the blood, sweat, and tears we put in for the good name of the university."

He reaches a door with a discreet number plaque, tapping his keycard on the scanner. "Anyway, we can discuss the economics of collegiate sports later." He nudges the door open with his elbow, revealing a meticulously kept room, the interior full of shiny furniture. "For now," he whispers, his voice dropping to a tender murmur as he guides her inside. "How about we focus on that celebration you mentioned?"

Yoona steps into the plush carpeted room, her eyes widening slightly at the tasteful, minimalist decor and the sprawling view of the university grounds outside the large window. The door clicks softly shut behind them, muffling the last distant sounds of campus. The air inside is cool and still, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the arena and the bus. She turns, her gaze meeting Jihoon's, and the playful teasing from moments before completely vanishes. His eyes, warm and earnest, are fixed solely on her. Without a word, she steps forward, her hands finding his chest, and comes in for a kiss.

Their lips meet softly at first, a gentle exploration filled with the weight of the day's events and the unspoken promise of the night. It's a kiss that speaks of gratitude, relief, and a burgeoning intimacy. Jihoon's hands instinctively land on her waist, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, holding her with utmost possessiveness. Yoona's arms tighten around his back, pulling him closer, seeking the solid comfort of his presence. The world outside their private sanctuary fades away, leaving only the feel of each other's lips, the warmth of their embrace, and the quiet beating of their hearts.

“Seol Yoona, my heart, I promise to always prioritize us,” he murmurs when they finally break apart. Yoona presses her face against his chest, basking in his manly scent, taking his promise to heart. “Lead us, oppa,” she says, her voice muffled. “Not because I can’t, but because I trust you.” Her words strike deep in his heart, her expectations of him, of their future, crystal clear for him to see. “You promise to always support me, right, baby, because I need you.”

Yoona pulls away, looking up at him, her eyes gleaming with determination. “Of course, oppa,” she says. “I’m giving you my first time as… say, proof of my commitment.” Jihoon inhales sharply at the mention of her innocence, the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but he’s committed to this relationship as much as she is.

“I’m giving you my first time too, baby,” he replies. Yoona nods, remembering his confession about never having a girlfriend, understanding the implications of this encounter. Tonight isn’t just about her giving him the honor of being her first, but she’s also getting the honor of being his first. “You’ll be my first and last, because I don’t want no one else but you,” he adds.

Jihoon's gaze, filled with unwavering devotion, searches her eyes once more, confirming the powerful connection now binding them. He then gently takes her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "Come on, my heart," he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness and anticipation. He doesn't need to ask if she's ready; her presence, her words, everything about her radiates a resolute willingness.

He leads her towards the bed, taking slow steps along with her. “Lie down, please,” he whispers. “I promise you; this bed is far superior to yours.” Yoona giggles as she lies flat on his bed, the mattress sinking slightly at her weight. “It is comfortable,” she confirms. “But… I want you to be with me, oppa, and I’m not talking about lying next to me.” Before joining her, Jihoon takes off his hoodie, revealing his toned physique that she hasn’t seen before. “Goodness me…” she mumbles, her eyes darting around his torso, taking every little detail of him. “No wonder Bae Jinsol fell so hard for you.”

Jihoon places his finger on her lips, bothered by the name she just said. “Please don’t, baby,” he warns her, his voice still soft, only mildly aggravated. “No one else matters like you do.” Yoona closes her eyes, silently scolding herself for saying another name so carelessly. “I’m sorry, my heart,” she says. “That… will never happen again.” He presses a soft, fleeting peck to her lips, as if permanently stifling them from mentioning Jinsol’s name. “You’re forgiven, my love.”

Jihoon's eyes, now clear and focused only on her, move from her lips to her eyes, then down to the simple uniform she still wears. He offers a tender smile, a silent question in his gaze. "Relax, my love," he murmurs, his fingers gently reaching for the zipper of her jacket, beginning to undo it. Yoona takes a shaky breath, a shiver running through her that has nothing to do with cold, but everything to do with anticipation and trust. She watches his hands, then meets his gaze, a silent surrender in her eyes as he slowly, deliberately, begins to strip away the layers that separate them.

“Take me, my love…”

Jihoon's hands tremble slightly as he finishes unzipping her jacket, letting it fall open. Yoona's breath hitches, her chest rising and falling with quickened anticipation. He pushes the jacket from her shoulders, then the thin fabric of her top, revealing the soft curve of her collarbones, then the delicate lace of her bra. His gaze is reverent, taking in every detail as if seeing her for the very first time. He leans in, his lips finding hers in a slow, deep kiss that speaks of awe and unwavering devotion, a silent promise to honor the incredible trust she places in him.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against her lips, "My heart, are you sure?" Yoona's eyes, wide and filled with a luminous trust, meet his. She nods, a silent, resolute affirmation. Her hands find the hem of his joggers, pulling them down with a shaky determination that matches his own. Their clothes fall to the floor in a heap around them, the last barriers between their bodies. He shifts above her, supporting his weight on his forearms, allowing her to adjust, to breathe.

Their skin meets, a rush of warmth and undeniable friction. Jihoon moves slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving hers, seeking permission in every subtle shift of her expression. Yoona arches into him, a soft gasp escaping her lips as their bodies align, becoming one. He listens to her reactions, to her soft moans, to her pained grunts, guiding their movements with a tenderness that seeks only her pleasure and comfort. The air in the room thickens with their shared breaths, with the growing intensity of their connection.

“My love…” she murmurs, her chest rising and falling quickly, the acute pain subsiding to give way to stellar pleasure. “I’m… I’m yours.” Jihoon presses his lips against the skin of her neck, his hips still moving steadily. “And I’m yours, my heart…” he replies, his gentle voice akin to music to her ears.

The world outside the private dormitory room ceases to exist. There is only the rhythm of their bodies, the whisper of skin against skin, and the profound intimacy of two souls merging for the very first time. Jihoon moves with a deliberate, loving pace, ensuring that each sensation is shared, each moment cherished. Yoona clings to him, her fingers digging into his back, her earlier tension melting into a pure, incandescent pleasure. In this sacred space, amidst the quiet hum of the night, their unspoken promises culminate in a profound act of love, marking a new, indelible beginning for their hearts.

“I… I won’t last long like this, my love,” he murmurs, hoping she will understand his inexperience. Amongst her moans, Yoona nods, acknowledging the quick pace at which this encounter is progressing. “You don’t have to, oppa,” she replies. “Just let go and give me everything you have. Show me your love.”

Jihoon's body tenses, a low groan escaping his throat as he pours every ounce of his being into the moment. Yoona's grip on his back tightens, her fingers digging into his skin as her own pleasure surges, meeting his. The air crackles with their shared intensity, their breaths ragged gasps that mingle in the quiet room. Then, with a final, shuddering release, Jihoon collapses against her, his weight heavy but comforting. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, his body still trembling, their skin slick with sweat.

“I love you, Seol Yoona,” he whispers, his voice rough from his release. “I love you more, oppa—oh, you’re so… warm…” Jihoon chuckles a little, but it’s not amusement; it’s an innocent person’s reaction to someone else’s innocence—or rather, the loss of it. “Let’s lie still and… savor this for now, baby.” Yoona nods, content in the knowledge that she’s loved and cherished, but her eyelids are getting heavy. “You can sleep a little if you want,” he says. Jihoon pecks her forehead, as if pressing a button to send her to sleep.