Tsuki's library.

Everything should be okay, he’s probably just busy, you tell yourself. 

Everything should be okay, he’s probably just busy, you tell yourself. 

Everything should be okay, he’s probably just busy, you tell yourself. 

The message is still not delivered but something else is different now - his profile picture is gone, as if he has never selected one. Clicking on where the pic is supposed to be, your shaky hands soon after lay the phone aside.

It couldn’t be. What an asshole-kind and cowardly move.

You gather all your strength, as you click on the exit button on the screen and select his profile information instead. As your heart skips a beat, you realise now that none of the information on his profile is available for you anymore. 

Scrolling down even further, you find a sentence written down in red letters: This user has blocked you.

♡

“Come in”, an already tipsy Jisung tells you, gesturing with his empty hand for you to enter the apartment. You simply nod, as you walk through the door, while your friend toddles into the kitchen, bringing you a bottle of beer. “Thanks, but I can’t drink that”, you tell him.

“Why not? Chan told me you’ve had a rough day because this guy dumped you” - of course he did, this boy can never keep secrets to himself - “so you should drink.” Rolling your eyes back, disappointed your best friend didn’t shut up about your problems again, you answer: “First of all, great to hear everyone already knows what happened. Second, I don’t want to sound boring, but I don’t want to drown my issues in alcohol. Third, I can’t drink this beer, because you haven’t opened it yet, Jisung”.

The black haired in front of you is giggling now, as his palm meets his forehead, before he grabs a lighter and pushes the lid of the bottle aside with it. “Here you go”, he says and gives you back your drink.

You follow Jisung into the living room where all your other friends have already gathered around, sitting down on the floor next to Soyeon and Yeji. “Hey, how’s it going?” Taking a sip from your beer, you grab some of the snacks from the table, as you answer Yeji: “I’m good and you?” In the corner of your eye you see Soyeon giving you a compassionate smile, as both girls tell you they're good as well.

When Yeji stands up and uses the bathroom, Soyeon leans in and whispers in your ear: “I hope it’s a bit better now, this guy is honestly just a dick”. You giggle, finding her choice of words funny. “Well, literally and technically-“ you tell her, but your sentence is cut off from someone else beginning to speak.

“What’s so funny?” Changbin asks as he sits down next to you. “Ah, it’s nothing.” Changbin pouts and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’m always left out, why don’t you tell me? Or is it that you were making fun of me?” He asks again, his face now turning serious but you’re unsure if he’s just pretending.

“Not everything is about you, Binnie”, Soyeon says, rolling her eyes and taking another sip from her drink. “Well then why don’t you just tell me?” At that moment Chan enters the room and sits next to Soyeon and it’s soon clear that he listened to at least a remarkable part of the conversation. “She doesn’t have to tell you everything, Changbin”, he teaches his younger friend.

“Of course I don’t have to, when you’re already doing the job”, you tell Chan and get up from the floor, walking through the corridor to enter the kitchen. Pouring gin into a juice glass and adding tonic right after, you chug down almost the whole drink in less than ten seconds. Opening your eyes again, you turn around towards the door just to see a slightly confused Chan in the doorway. Your best friend approaches you, the look of guilt on his face, as he says: “Y/N, I’m sorry I told the others about what happened.”

“So who knows?” Chan looks away in order to avoid your piercing stare, as he places his hand on the counter. “Everyone to be honest”. Turning away now too, you scoff under your breath, disappointed in your best friend exposing you in front of your whole friend group. “Wow, thanks for nothing.”

Your best friend plays with the rings on his fingers out of nervousness, feeling awful about his actions, completely regretting breaking the promise. But can he blame himself? It’s never been his intention to make fun of you with it or that the others would. He feels even more disgusted about himself, when he finally admits - well for now just to himself - he’s been so glad to hear about the news.

Chan is probably the worst best friend in the world, who the hell jumps out of happiness when their bestie gets dumped and ghosted by a guy they’ve actually liked? But he soon realises, he doesn’t necessarily feel malicious joy, but is rather relieved it’s not this guy anymore who’s dating you. It’s not that he doesn’t want someone to date you, it’s just that it should be him instead.

But the curly haired isn’t ready for this conversation yet, neither with himself nor with you. On the other hand, Jisung and Changbin have known about his feelings for you for a very long time, always trying to convince him to finally make a move - complaining as well how oblivious you are, since it’s so obvious to them that Chan is head over heels for you.

One day, Jisung accidentally spilled that Soyeon said, you might have a crush on your best friend as well, but Chan just can’t believe it. There are so many people practically waiting in line for you, why would you go out with him? And the best part is, you don’t even realise how admirable you are.

His sadness always turns into anger when he hears other men talking about you - the same counts for this Hyunjin guy who’d just blocked you, he once overheard a conversation with him and one of his friends at university, instantly wanting to throw up and punch him in the face for saying he's only going out with you so he can get under your skirt. It's been like this with the most guys you've gone on dates with, they have only judged you based on your appearances and body, not appreciating your important features.

For Chan, you’re the most precious woman in this world, have always been and will ever be. Even though you’ve always struggled with insecurities just the way he does - which makes it ironic, that’s he’s now the one trying to convince you to become more confident about yourself - he knows you’re the most honest, reliable and tolerant person in this world. Never judging anyone, always searching for the tiniest good character trait even in the most unsympathetic people out there.

He notices himself daydreaming about you all the time, just like he’s doing now, so when you grab your juice glass filled with the poisonous liquid from the counter, he snaps out of his fantasies and comes back to reality.

“I bet they think I’m a total idiot now”, you say in conclusion, gulping down the rest of your drink. Chan takes a few steps in your direction, laying his hand on your upper back, as he explains: “No, they don’t. I don’t know why you would say something like that-“ you push his arm away, fierce eyes staring into his: “Obviously because I’ve been ghosted yet again and no one wants to date me.” Your best friend scoffs as well, before he turns around to make himself a drink.

“There are plenty of people who want to date you, believe me”, he says. “Yeah sure, you’re just saying that to make me feel better and distract from being such a gossip girl- xoxo can you make me a drink, too?” Rolling his eyes, your best friend grabs the bottle of gin again, pouring a good amount of the liquor in your glass and adding the soft drink after that. 

“Cheers”, you say and your glass clinks against his, right before you bring it to your lips. “You have to look at the other person, you know”, he informs you and you put your glass away, confused about what he’s trying to say. “When making a toast, we have to look in each other’s eyes or otherwise it means we will have bad sex”, he explains with a chuckle, but his intentions aren’t even meant in a suggestive way, even though no one would believe that. You follow his instructions, your glass meets his again and so do your eyes, before this time you actually take a sip from the drink. Just now he realises how wrong his words came out, but working to his advantage.

While gulping down the liquid, you try to escape his gaze, as his eyes are still on you. You stop yourself, not wanting to drink the whole glass and place it down on the corner again, seeing Chan open his mouth to say something, but you’re the first one to speak: “We should go back to the living room, the others are probably wondering where we are.” Nodding, a slightly disappointed look on his face, he says: “Sure”.

Unlike you predicted, the others are absorbed in their own conversations, but you still decide to sit down next to Changbin, as he’s only listening to what Jisung is talking about. Chan chooses the free spot on your left, eating some of the crisps. 

Deciding you want to be on the provocative side today, you engage in the conversation with Changbin and Jisung. When none of them is saying anything, you begin: “I was laughing about a joke from Soyeon earlier she made about this guy who ghosted me a few hours ago.” A visible shock on his face, Changbin turns towards you: “Oh- I’m sorry, are you okay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m fine, it wasn’t anything serious”, you lie. “Oh, okay”. From the corner of your eye you can see Chan shift in his seat, when you move even nearer to his friend. “And also, he couldn’t satisfy me anyway, if you know what I mean”, you whisper in his ear, this time telling him the truth. The boy gulps, clearly caught off guard by what you just admitted.

But he overcomes himself and decides to answer in the cheesiest way: “Well, if you ever need help with that, don’t hesitate to ask me.” A wink combined with his smirk follows, as his fingers crawl up your thigh. You sheeply chuckle, not having expected he’d actually act upon your words, surprising you with his boldness.

Thanks to everyone being busy with talking to each other, your not so innocent chatting gets unnoticed by the others, making it way more dangerous for you.

Chan is still playing cool, taking another sip from his beer, engaged in a conversation with Soyeon and Minho. So you decide as well to provoke a bit more, while trying to convince yourself you’re not doing this to get a reaction out of your best friend on the left.

“Can I be completely honest with you”, you begin, gaze on Changbin, but shifting a bit towards Chan, ‘accidentally’ brushing his fingers with yours in the process, in order to get him to possibly listen to what you’ll say to his friend, “I’ve never been with a guy in my life, who could actually satisfy me”.

Without a need of turning around, you feel your best friend’s eyes staring right at you, there’s no way he hasn’t heard what you’ve just said, since also only Minho and Soyeon are speaking to each other at this moment - Chan is completely occupied by what you're saying to the other boy on your right.

Changbin still gathers his thoughts, not wanting to miss out on his opportunity, so he opens his mouth to say something, but is soon interrupted by Yeji bringing shots for everyone. “So we’re all gonna get wasted?” Jisung asks, as he grabs one of the small glasses. “Yes, that was my plan”, Yeji says and everyone laughs.

Since your head is already dizzy, you try to sit upright again, not realising you shift further to your best friend. Looking at the shot of vodka in your hand, you mumble under your breath: “This one is gonna fuck me up”. 

Not expecting anyone to hear what you’ve just said, Chan murmurs something too, but you’re not able to understand him. Turning around, you look at him with a confused face, so your best friend bends towards you, grabbing you by the waist as he comes nearer and nearer to your neck. Feeling his hot breath on your skin, he whispers in your ear: “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, angel”.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, as you feel the blood tingling in your veins, visibly gulping as a reaction to what he promises. You simply nod your head, as you pour down the shot, just like everybody else in the room does.

♡

The night goes on, everyone’s engaged in different conversations, but your attention is only on your best friend - and his on you. You stopped drinking alcohol some time ago, not because you wanted to, but Chan didn’t let you anymore, judging by the fact you’ve had enough - at least in his opinion. If you were the person to decide, there would have been no limit. 

Sobering up soon, you feel an uncomfortable pressure on your bladder, realising just now you definitely need to pee, not surprising by all the drinks you’ve had throughout the night. Getting up from your seat on the floor, you toddle to the bathroom, while everyone else is still absorbed in their talking.

Feeling relieved, you wash your hands - the flowery smell of the soap in your hands and the cold tap water hitting your skin makes you become alive again. The bright white lights on the ceiling eliminating your surroundings also do a good job in waking you up. 

When you leave the bathroom, you’re greeted by your best friend standing in the hallway, almost scaring you to death. “Jesus- fuck, Chan, why would you scare me like that?” You almost scream at him, making the curly haired chuckle. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

You take a few steps towards him. “Chill- I was just going to the bathroom.” Also approaching you, your best friend now stands right in front of you and you can almost feel his breath on your skin again. “Remember, I promised to take care of you”, he states, while his hands seize around your waist, pulling you nearer to him, so he can look directly into your eyes.

“Then do so”, you tell him, while your gaze flickers down to his mouth. But he’s the faster one, already placing his plump lips on yours, the touching of his soft skin making your knees instantly go weak, as you get lost in passion. When his hands wander down even further onto your hips, he squeezes your soft flesh through the fabric of your clothing, as breathing gets heavy. Tongues fighting for dominance, saliva mixing together, you both stumble through the corridor in direction of his bedroom.

Kicking the ajar door open with his feet, he guides you inside, clumsily turning on the bedside table’s lamp, while never leaving either your lips nor your body. When his hands are both on you again, he guides them down onto your ass, grabbing your skin roughly, as a smirk appears on his lips, which you notice while kissing him.

You let out an uncontrolled moan, disappointed in yourself to give in that easily, still wanting to act bratty as you’ve been doing the whole night by flirting with his friend. The man in front of you is still hurt in his pride by your previous behaviour, that’s why he decides to slow down in pace, but not in his movements in general. Small kisses land on the area between your jaw and ear, while his hand captures your neck, the fingers putting pressure on the outside.

The sounds still escaping your mouth, now a bit muffled due to the restriction of air, are what makes him go crazy, not holding back anymore when he says: “Look at you, being all bold with Changbin out there but practicallyon your knees just from the smallest touches that I do.” Listening to his filthy words, you automatically respond to what he’s said, almost ironically, falling down onto the carpet and landing on your lower legs. The bed is not that far away, but looking up at him from the floor makes it so much more sinful.

Chan doesn’t complain, even though with you in this position he doesn’t get to kiss you anymore. Fumbling with his belt, you pull down his pants, underwear soon meeting after. You grab his length, which now seems even bigger in your hands and give it a few strokes. “Don’t play shy, angel, we both know, that’s exactly what you’ve wanted to do the whole night”, he says, while one of his hands finds your face, placing your chin between his thumb and index finger in order to make you look directly at him.

His words are everything it needs for you to place your lips on his tip, not soon after guiding yourself down, your own eagerness making you gag when he’s completely inside your mouth. Your movements start at a slow rate but increase immediately when he pulls your hair at the back of your head, helping you to achieve the pace he wants. “Yes- just like that, you’re such a good girl finally”.

Wanting to tease him some more, you slow down the speed again, when he lets go of your hair you take your opportunity to pull away, his cock hard now from all the sucking. “So you want to act like a brat again, is that right?” He asks, as his hand instantly finds its way around your throat again, making you look up to him to which you just smirk, provoking him even more.

“Stand up, brat”, he orders, getting another chuckle from you as a response. “If I was you, I wouldn’t challenge it, I know you’re a smart girl”. Giving in this time, you slide your head down his head again, continuing with the sinful movements, making him moan in pleasure. When you increase the pace again, his head falls back, almost unable to restrict the sensations. 

“Your mouth feels so perfect around me”, he groans, as his hand lays on the back of your head again, “if you go on like that, I’ll cum- fuck”. With that confession, your playful nature comes back to life, so you abruptly pull away, leaving him unfulfilled. A smirk appears on your face, a disappointed look on his. 

“What was that?” He asks with a strict tone in his voice. “Nothing”, is all you answer, still looking at him, while you're on your knees. “Get up, take off your clothes and lay down on the bed, face down onto the mattress and ass up”, he orders. This time you instantly follow suit, but not out of obedience but because you’re eager for what’s about to happen.

Getting up from the floor, you walk to the bed, hastitly getting rid of all your clothing in the process, hating yourself for choosing such boring underwear. But it doesn’t matter anyway, since you’re soon fully naked, as you crawl onto the bed. The outsides of your forearms help you stabilize your posture, while your on your lower legs - so practically on all fours.

Turning your head, you see your best friend completely naked now too, painfully slowly walking towards you, definitely knowing how impatient you are, as he sees it by the look on your face. He positions himself right behind you, grabbing you by your hips again, just to lift one of his hands immediately after, right before you feel a painful slap on one of your ass cheeks. The sound echoes through the room, a stinging feeling on your soft skin as well as a red hand print follows not soon after. 

His hands wander up your body now, momentarily disconnecting so that he can grab your hair at the back of your head again, creating a makeshift ponytail. You instantly understand what he wants, lifting your upper body upwards, as your back lands on his muscular chest. He places his lips on your neck, placing passionate yet rough kisses, while his free hand finds your waist. Gradually, his fingers wander down until they land where you need him the most.

Brushing your folds, one of his fingers instantly, but guardedly, dips inside, just so that he can pull it out right after in order to smear your precum over your folds. His middle and index finger now draw circles onto your bundle of nerves, his other hand lets go of your hair and finds your neck again. The movements increase until they’re at a pace you like, the pressure on your throat making it harder to breathe, while he slips two fingers at once inside.

You feel yourself getting lost in his touches, your mind is already gone, while you’re just a moaning mess only for him. He’s got you right where he wants you, finally stopping with all the teasing. Whimpering because of his thumb on your clit, you clench around his fingers inside you. “So, you really thought, you were the one in charge here, angel?” He asks, his hand around your throat wandering down to give you another slap on the side of one of your ass cheeks. Your words only come out as incomprehensible sounds, but you don’t even realise, since your brain is already far away.

“You were being so naughty back in the living room, flirting with my friend”, Chan whispers in your ear, “imagine him walking in on us now, seeing what a slut you are.” He feels you clenching around his fingers, your moans at a volume now, it would be surprising if the others didn’t hear you. “You like that, don’t you? I was hoping for you to be more of a good girl, but I’ll be honest- I like this slutty side much more.”

It’s impossible for you to resist anything he does at this point, thoughts completely shut off, when you get near to your orgasm. Chan feels it too by how much tighter you get around his digits, so he never stops his movements, keeping the same pace. “G-Gonna c-cum”, you can barely mumble, a devilish smirk on your best friend’s face, he just loves the difference in how obedient you are now.

“Awww, look at you, already fucked dumb just from my fingers”, he says, the tone in his voice almost evil, “let go, angel, don’t worry, I’ve got you.” It takes you less than a few seconds before you climax, creaming all over his fingers. When he pulls out of you, some of your liquids run down your inner thighs and Chan doesn’t hesitate to guide his fingers to your mouth. You obediently part your lips and allow them to enter, sucking your own juices off and tasting yourself.

“Good girl”, he says, another chuckle escaping his mouth in triumph. Finally letting go of your body, you fall down onto your forearms, now in your previous position again. Even though you came down from your high, your brain is still all mushy, mind occupied by him and only him. You’re not satisfied yet, that’s why you tell him: “Chan- just fuck me”.

Earning another smack on your already reddened flesh, he grabs you by the hips again with one hand, the other one busy with pumping his length. “Say please”, he orders, but at this point you don’t care anymore. You’ve completely given up, that’s why you answer: “Please, Chan, please fuck me-“ Your sentence is cut off by him pushing his cock inside you, still painfully slowly so you can adjust to his size.

After a few seconds, when you let him know you’re ready, he starts moving into you. Your ass crashes onto his lower stomach, as he grabs you by your hips again, so he can use even more strength to fuck into you. Completely lost in pleasure, you roll your eyes back and moan as loud as you’ve never done before, telling him over and over again how good he’s making you feel. All the attempts of teasing him, not only those in the living room by flirting with Changbin but also during your first touches in his bedroom, are by now meaningless, you’re okay with giving in, hoping the satisfaction will never stop.

His thrusting gets rougher and rougher, the boy behind - or rather over - you is a ruined moaning mess himself now, too. “I’m sure you won’t believe me”, he begins in between groans, “but I’ve been waiting for this, waiting for us, for so long-“ The boy in question doesn’t even realise what he accidentally just admitted. Could there be a chance, he likes you more than a best friend? Has he wanted this for so long, too?

The best part about it is, that his sentence is what drives you over the edge, the thought of him having feelings for you, makes you clench so hard around him, you’re not able to hold on for so much longer anymore. “Shit- Chan, I’m gonna c-cum a-again”, you stutter, grabbing onto the bed sheets. “Just a little longer, angel. C-Can you do this for me? I know you can”, he says, but his movements are getting sloppier too, implying he’s close as well.

“Chan- fuck”, is all you can say, moaning underneath him. “L-Let go one last time”, he orders and you instantly follow suit, reaching your climax again, while stars erupt in front of your eyes, completely overwhelmed from the pleasure. He reaches his high soon after, painting your walls white, some of the liquids mixed with your own running down the insides of your legs again, when he pulls out. 

Chan gets up from the bed and toddles outside his room, before he brings some wet towels from the bathroom. Helping you clean up, since your mind is still somehow gone, he gives you a glass of water and some of his clothes to wear, tugging you under his bedsheets. Your best friend slips under them as well, laying his arm around you in order to pull you closer to him.

Your noses meet each other, as his piercing gaze is on you. Getting warmer, you’re impressed how much the atmosphere has shifted in such a short time, but you just feel as secure as usual when you’re around him.

Now that you’re back in reality, you remember what he hinted at some minutes ago. But you’re just too insecure to ask, what he meant or if his sentence even had any deeper meaning. Possibly, he has just said it in the heat of the moment, since you so easily responded to anything he’s told you.

Surprisingly, you don’t have to overthink it anymore, when he’s the first to speak: “I can finally tell you this now, I’ve meant it by the way- I’ve been waiting for us to become something more for so long- hell, I don’t even know when I started falling in love with you, Y/N”, he says and you can see a tear rolling down his face. “At this point I don’t even care if you feel the same way, if you return what I feel for you- I’m in love with you- I love you, Y/N”.

For a moment you just freeze in place, having to remind yourself this is not a dream. When Chan’s look gets more confused and insecure, you decide to finally answer: “I love you too, Chan. I’ve been in love with you since who knows when- damn, I wish this had happened earlier.”

He places a small kiss on your forehead, squeezing you tighter and pulling you closer to him. “Don’t worry, we’ve got all time now.”

Being a lifeguard was a long time dream of yours from childhood. The beach was somewhere you grew up, holding many special and fond memories. It’s how you got to where you are now, head of the Bondi beach lifeguard association. Being in charge of one of the most famous beaches in the world was not an easy task. It involved hiring, training, firing and just maintaining lifeguard reputation and overall quality. It wasn't an easy job, nevertheless, you were grateful that you could be by the sea; that’s all that mattered to you.

You had your fair share of different lifeguards. The sweet ones who were very professional, sweet ones who had no idea, the average ones, and then the ones that were just plain arrogant, knew they were good at the job and just flaunted it. He was one of them. Always prancing around half naked ‘accidentally’ forgetting/misplacing his yellow shirt. He was incorrigible, but he was the best lifeguard at Bondi, apart from you ofc course. Hyunjin was a menace, and learning how to manage him might be your greatest task of all.

You had your fair share of different lifeguards. The sweet ones who were very professional, sweet ones who had no idea, the average ones, and then the ones that were just plain arrogant, knew they were good at the job and just flaunted it. He was one of them. Always prancing around half naked ‘accidentally’ forgetting/misplacing his yellow shirt. He was incorrigible, but he was the best lifeguard at Bondi, apart from you ofc course. Hyunjin was a menace, and learning how to manage him might be your greatest task of all.

***

The sea was choppy on a windy day like today, typical of a March weekend. Guards were on high alert, and the space between the two flags was very small, meaning that there wasn’t much safe area to swim in. Nonetheless, you sat happy in the watch chair, enjoying the way nature was such an independent, powerful body of its own.

“Y/n, good morning,” Chan smiled, taking a seat next to you, “how are you today?”

“Pretty good Chan, it’s nice to have you back.”

“Yes,” he chuckled, “time off is always good, but I can’t lie and say I didn’t miss it.”

That brought a rather large smile to your face. It was nice to hear that others shared the same passion for the ocean like yourself. Chan was one of the more senior lifeguards, having the most experience apart from yourself. Growing up a swimmer, it became advantageous during water emergencies, especially when things needed to be done quickly.

“That’s always good to hear, anything to report for today?”

“Nothing apart from the girl Hyunjin that was shoving her tongue down his throat in reciprocation to his tongue down her throat when I walked in this morning.”

An egregious eye roll followed after that. This was not the first time this had occurred. It was probably like the 20th time to be honest. Hyunjin liked to have fun, there wasn't a problem with that, you all did off duty, but it was the fact that he would bring them to work. You weren’t sure why, but everytime it made your blood boil. It definitely wasn't jealousy; no that couldn’t be it.

“If you have something to say, you are more than welcome to say it to my face rather than eye rolling behind my back.”

Ignoring his smartass comment you placed the binoculars over your eyes, refusing to even look in his direction. Chan suddenly felt awkward, realising he was about to be in the middle of a cat fight. Yep. There was a nickname for the interactions between you and Hyunjin. It was a scary day when the two of you were on duty together. You did everything you could in your power to work the least amount of time with him. It was just the nature of your relationship.

The rivalry began as soon as he stepped foot onto Bondi. He was the only lifeguard that could actually challenge you ability wise, knowledge wise, in every facet. He was confident, way too confident in your opinion, so when he got promoted to assistant manager you were still the same level, things just turned nasty. Hyunjin’s arrogance was tuned up all the way. Then you got promoted to head of association, and things just got worse. Though you felt no need to gloat, Hyunjin did everything in his power to undermine you, highlight that you were incorrectly promoted; he became a mega asshole. And you would rather drag your bare ass across a concrete road than spend more than five minutes with him.

“What do you want Hyunjin?”

“You wish I came here to talk to you, you’re so obsessed with me. I actually came to talk to my buddy Chan about last night.”

“Jesus Hyunjin, I already saw tongue wrestling her, no need to gloat that you’re getting your dick wet around here.”

“No but dude,” he replied, hitting Chan on the chest to make sure he got his attention, “she was like a freak, she went into a handstand as I went down on her, so flexible, doing cartwheels and shit completely naked.”

Your jaw clenched at hearing Hyunjin’s preposterous claims. Yes, it had been a while since you got some action yourself, so yes, it was kind of making you jealous, but it definitely had nothing to do with the idea of it being Hyunjin. Definitely not.

“Wow dude, that's crazy.” Chan nudged him smiling, almost forgetting that you were still next to him. He nudged him with his elbow, eyeing you before whispering to Hyunjin , “Maybe we should continue this convo at another time.”

“Why,” he scoffed, “are you worried about me hurting y/n’s feelings?”

This made you put your binoculars down, shooting daggers his way. Even though he got under your skin, continuously and consistently, it was usually easy to just ignore it. But the idea of him thinking that you're obsessed; it was just not something that you could just not let happen. The last thing you needed was rumors.

“For fucks sake Hyunjin,” you huffed, “can we just have one day where you spare us the details of your sex escapdes. First of all it’s just a massive HR violation and genuinely no one wants to hear it.”

He said nothing, instead, just laughing at your outburst.

“Aw y/n, y/n, it’s okay, not all of us can have mind-blowing sex regularly,” he paused, walking closer you and whispering into your ear, making sure Chan couldn’t hear. His lips brushed against the cartilage. A shiver running down your neck as he spoke.

 “I bet you’d be screaming my name if I had my way with you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, you were speechless, unable to speak as he walked away. It took you a solid two minutes to shake your head, stand up and leave, and head to the tea room to grab some water. You weren’t sure why, but as you took a sip of the icey beverage, you could still feel the weight of his words. Yes, Hyunjin was a douche and made sexual remarks numerous times, but never were directly about you. It was hard to admit, but there was a dull ache between your legs at this very moment. However, the fact that it was comments from what you classified to be the most repulsive man on earth was making you sick. You chugged the water down in one go, running to the bathroom and splashing your face. You definitely needed that. 

It wasn’t a long time of peace however, because your radio was on, and you could hear your name over the gentle static.

“Y/n, we’ve got a code T63.621A. Young girl stung by a jellyfish, parent is with them in the water. All on-duty units please grab the boat and head out to sea, girl is struggling to swim, over.”

“Copy that, Chan, Hyunjin, Seungmin, meet me at the shed to get the boat and let’s head to them, over.”

“Copy that.”

The three responded individually, meeting you at said shed. When it came to the beach and saving civilians, your issues with Hyunjin had to be put aside, and whether you wanted to admit it or not, he was a great lifeguard. It took a multiple person effort to lift the boat out and into the water.

“Update on the location? Over.”

“Y/n,” Felix replied, " must have been from the tower, “next to the south-west buoy 45 meters out. Be careful, the radar is showing for large volumes of blue bottles today, over.”

“No worries, I will keep you updated as much as possible.”

Chan turned the boat into gear, racing it out as fast as possible. It was somewhat hard to see, but the closer you got, the easier it was to see that the situation, while needed to be dealt with, was not an emergency.

“Hello, how are you today?”

The mother was responsive, helping herself and Chan grab her daughter and put her into the boat. The mother soon followed, resulting in a successful pickup of two civilians. Hyunjin hurried over to the child, giving her a small smile before asking for her name.

“Wow,” he gasped, patting her head, “that’s such a nice name.”

“Thank you,” she giggled, “what’s your name?”

“My name is Hyunjin, but you can call me Hyune, like the food.”

Her smile was greater than before, and you couldn’t help but follow yourself. You had no idea how good he was with kids, but he didn’t need to know that, knowing the compliment would go straight to his brain.

It was a short trip. Once you had arrived back to land, you got back on your radio to notify others that it had been sorted. 

“Attention, rescue was successful, Chan and Seungmin will return the equipment and Hyunjin and I will follow up and see if we can request a 907N, over.”

Hyunjin kneeled down to the little girl's height, that beautiful smile, wait beautiful, get ahold of yourself, still across his lips as he spoke to her again.

“Ok, so could you please point to me where it hurts.” 

The rescuing was the quick part, and there wasn't much time to determine on the boat especially since it was such a short distance out. She said nothing, tiny index finger pointing at her leg. You could see the bright red hue the sting the blue bottle had left behind. 

“Well we shouldn’t get you to walk on that, shall we?”

In one swift motion, Hyunjin lifted the little girl, carrying her bridal style to the first aid room. You couldn't help but stare at so many things. The patience he had for the child, how kind he was with children, the way his arms subtlety flexed while carrying her. The way he was making her laugh too. It was hard to not be distracted. 

The mother followed, closing the door behind her as Hyunjin closely inspected the sting. He analyzed it with much interest, making sure that it was not life threatening or just overall too serious. Your diverted attention made you completely forget how you treat a fresh sting. 

“Okay so, the first thing we like to do is apply pressure to it.”

On his knees to remain eye level with the child, Hyunjin lifted his arms above his head, out of all things he chose to use to apply said pressure was his yellow lifesaving shirt. Fuck, the other ways you could have him like this. It was so obnoxious, but you had to suppress the gasp that gurgled in your throat. God his body was fucking hot. So toned, so defined. He had such a lean, yet such a muscular torso. You could have sworn you saw Hyunjin smirk, him noticing your taking to his torso, but he knew better than to tease you while doing his job.

“Y/n, did you want to have a look at it before I apply some pressure?”

You raised your eyebrows, shaking your head to snap back into it before giving him a small “yes” and  kneeling down next to him. Hyunjin’s presence was as close as you have ever been before.The two of you all of a sudden were very near, faces separated by inches as you inspected the wound. He leaned in even closer before, ‘accidentally’ brushing your ear again before asking, “what do you think captain?”

The faint part of his breath lingering on your ear, and if you knew better, he was probably trying to set you off, and although you didn’t want to admit it, you knew that it was working.

“Okay so, it’s a pretty minor sting.” 

You stood up, running away from the nightmare that is being attracted to Hyunjin to speak candidly with the mother of the little victim.

“I would just monitor it for the next couple of days. If it gets worse at a rapid rate, head straight to the emergency at your nearest hospital, but-”

“It’s very rare for that to happen, we’ve never seen it here before.”

And he was back. The cocky, arrogant, overbearing lifegard you knew him for. The fact that he interrupted you made your blood boil. Here he was again, trying to undermine you because he simply thought he was too good for you, too good for everyone that works at Bondi beach.

“Yes,” you looked at him, shooting another dazzling death glare, “Hyunjin will get that bandaged up for you and then you guys should be good to go.”

“Ah ok thank you,” the mother replied, nodding as you exited and headed up to the communal lifeguard showers. You were not really wet, and yes the showers were to rinse off the salt water, but maybe a hot shower would help you rid yourself of the array of confusing emotions you were feeling. Stripping down to your bikinis, you closed the door to your stall, and let the steaming water pour over your body. A deep groan of bliss escaped your lips as the liquid hit your back, allowing you to self-reflect on how to remain calm. Today was just an off day, nothing else. I mean, if you’re attracted to Hyunjin, maybe it's a sign that you need to redownload tinder, get someone to jump your bones, and then come back to peace, again.

It didn’t take long, however, to be interrupted once again, hearing a phone call out in the hallway.

“Yeah, no Chan, it was chill, and y/n’s fine I think, she doesn’t seem off to me, does she seem off to you?”

You turned the water slightly lower, wanting to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Dude, I don’t like y/n, she gets on my nerves so bad, will you stop trying to be a wingman all the time and focus on your own love life?” The chuckle that followed was a nervous one, anyone could hear that.

You were about to lose it, turning the lock on the stall before you heard the voice getting closer. Covering your mouth, you turned it off, able to hear the slight textured sound of him dropping his duffle bag discarding his clothes, hopping into the stall next to you.

“Chan I’m telling you, she is the most irritating person I have ever met.”

That’s it. You barged out of your stall, aggressively knocking on his before banging on his. He opened with a confused expression, quickly followed by a smirk, like he already knew he had been caught. Seeing you in a drenched state, he put his phone into his bag, wanting to avoid any water damage for the outburst he was about to unwillingly observe.

“Oh y/n, what a pleasant surprise, you look good.” A slight hint of heat could be felt in your cheeks at his dirty compliment.

“Do you always talk behind the back of your coworkers, or is it just me?”

You shut the door behind you, not wanting anyone to get the wrong idea. The only response he had was to chuckle. He stood there, swimming shorts only, turning around and letting the water splash his face, trickling down his, now that you’re looking straight at it, very wide and toned back. You watched each intricate movement from behind, admiring the way each finger tip ran through each strand of now damp hair. Every impulsive thought was telling you to touch it, feel the darkened locks against your fingertips: but you knew better. One thing would lead to another, and the last place you wanted it to be was right here in this very stall.

“Definitely just you.”

He turned back around, leaving you hung up against the door, a large factor that was accounting for the lack of distance between the two of you. Silence filled the room as you waited for him to reignite another conversation. Your breathing was shallow, and you knew that if he came closer, you were going to be in trouble.

“You know what Y/n? I have to ask you something.”

He lifted an arm, placing it on the door, equivalent to your eye-level.. He looked down on you, almost like he was checking you out yet simultaneously wanting to intimidate you.

“Don’t you ever get sick of this?”

“Sick of what?” You were genuinely confused as to what he meant, scoffing a little too loud.

“The hatred, if you could even call it that, for me?”

You scoffed in response, again. You knew what he was trying to imply, but he was so far off. It was hatred. How could it be anything else?

“It’s definitely hatred, don’t get that wrong. I hate you, you hate me, we ignore each other and only interact when necessary.”

“Then why aren’t you moving away from me?”

His body followed his hand, hips almost pressing up against yours. Fuck, he was right. A sharp inhale pushed into your throat, you suddenly felt nervous. Looking up at him felt like a dream. Hyunjin was so fucking hot, and maybe, the closer he got to you, it was true that it wasn’t hatred at all.

“You’ve trapped me in, I can’t escape.”

He said nothing, watching your eyes as he leaned forward, letting his lips attach themselves to yours. Your eyes went wide at first, thinking that you should pull away, but the longer it went on, the more you wanted it. Your lips began to move with vigor themselves, Hyunjin groaned into your mouth, you following,  allowing his body weight to fall into yours. You lifted your leg, guiding his hand on the outside of your thigh to lift it up. Your core was already throbbing, and you could tell after he lifted your leg, that it was having detrimental effects on him also. His semi-hard on could already be somewhat felt between your core, and you rolled your hips a little creating enough subtle friction in the perfect spot; the zipper of his shorts.  It wasn’t until you needed breath that when you parted and your brain stopped short-circuiting, and you realized where you were and what you’d done.

“What the fuck was that?”

Hyunjin brought a tumb to his lips, wiping the outer corner before chuckling at you.

“I was just proving to you y/n, this so-called ‘hatred’ you have for me.”

“Wow,” you scoffed, throwing your hands in the air, “you think that you can just fuck around with any girl you want? Well news flash, I’m your fucking boss, and if you think you can ever do that again, I’ll destroy you so fucking fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

“Hah,” he chuckled, a smirk still painted on his pride ridden face, “Getting destroyed by you sounds like a dream.”

Too flustered to even respond, you stormed out,  forgetting to dry yourself, putting your clothes that stuck to your wet body and going back on duty. What the fuck was that? A shiver of nausea came over you, knowing that you will never live this down. Tucking your hair behind your ears, you attempted to compose yourself, heading to the lookout. Chan was sitting there too, for some reason avoiding your eye contact.

“Hey Chan,” you swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t notice, “how’s every-”

“I heard it.”

Your heart dropped into your ass. Surely he wasn’t talking about what you thought he was.

“What? How, I-”

“I think Hyunjin thought he hung up, but he actually didn’t.”

“Fuck,” was all you could say. This could ruin everything. Your job, your reputation, your well known hatred for him. You weren’t even sure what it was anymore. Part of you cared so much about what other people thought, especially the guards at the beach, but the other part, the bigger part in this moment, didn’t give a fuck. The only thought lingering on your mind was his hands, how they seared across your skin. How they already were able to significantly impact you in such a small period of time. If you knew better, you would have thought that his palms were already imprinted on you. You were reeling but, the logic of being rational was too hard to even fathom trying to do at this moment.

“Yeah, look I don't know what goes on between you guys, and y/n tell me if i'm overstepping, but you say you hate him, but I really don’t think you hate him at all.”

You scrunch your nose, knowing that maybe what Chan said was true after all.

“Look, whatever you think, can we just go back to before like nothing ever happened, please.”

He laughed, knowing that this would be the route you wanted to take, “secret is safe with me.”

This little chat did not calm you down or relax you at all. If anything, the thought of Hyunjin on you was becoming heightened burning into the back of your brain. You wanted him. You wanted to be touched, bad. It just happened to be convenient that Hyunjin, a very attractive man, happened to crave touch at the same time.

“Fuck this,” you mumbled, “Chan I’m going on my break, if anything really serious, just let me know via the radio.”

He nodded, eyes stuck in his binoculars overlooking the beach. You walked back inside, hoping and praying that Hyunjin was still in there. You became excited, craving that feeling of being touched, caressed, held by him. Your mortal enemy; it was crazy. 

And the craziest things of them all? When you walked back into the showers, he left the door open, back resting on the wall stall, cock in hand, absolutely pumping himself to the full capacity. He was too caught up to even notice your arrival. The sight instantly made you horny, and the fact that he was probably thinking about you while he did it drove you up the wall. Getting in the stall, you closed it behind you, undressing yourself completely this time, standing there, waiting for him to notice. His lids were heavy and it took him a decent 30 seconds for him to see you back. 

“Fuck,” Hyunjin jumped, covering his member with his hands, fuck his cock was hot, “you fucking scared me.”

At first, he didn’t notice your lack of clothes, giving you direct eye contact in his fright. It did not take long for him to notice tho, subconsciously biting down on the big fucking juicy bottom lip. God you wanted to suck it. Leave it longing in your mouth as he pulled away, length tipping you over the edge.

“Shit,” he huffed, “I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

Hyunjin takes you by the waist, wrapping his arms around your back and he pulled up against the hardness of his body. His lips crashed against yours, and he moaned at the rough contact, the immatureness of him reeling in the way your tits pressed up against his chest. You were just as hungry, arms around his neck, hands and fingers acting on prior impulsive thoughts; god his hair was so soft.

“Fuck,” he pulled away in between, pecking you, “you’re so,” peck, “fucking,” peck, “hot I could die.”

You pulled away completely, giggling at his eagerness. You couldn’t help yourself, the hunger was consuming you. Without thought, you dropped to your knees,biting down on your lip while looking at his throbbing length in front of you. My god was he girthy. A hand on his balls, you began to massage, Hyunjin’s hands instantly fisting your hair into a very messy pony, grabbing what he could before his jaw became slack, gasping at the way your lips became wrapped around him. Although he had a decent length, giving head was your specialty, it was one of your favorite things to do. You tested the waters, flicking your tongue vigorously against his tip, before letting your lips wrap around him completely, more and more of his cock engulfing your mouth. Bobbing up and down at an extremely slow pace, your eyes were glued to Hyunjin’s face, gratified in how easy it was to make him shut the fuck up and be grateful for something, in this case, the something being your mouth. Your tongue, all the warm parts of your mouth that made him rock hard. Made him jerk off thinking about you. A sigh of relief waved over you when you saw his eyes roll back, mouth very much agape the lower you sank into him.

“Holy shit baby,” he grunted, head still affirmatively back, hips gently rocking into your mouth, “you’re so good at that.”

You pulled him out of your mouth for a moment, a large ‘pop’ at the full release, your left hand quickly replacing your lips as you began to pump at a very slow pace. The arousal for yourself was increasing at a rapid pace, uncontrollable. You took your other hand off of his balls, index finger flicking your nipples for any kind of self stimulation. A tiny giggle escaped your lips, reaching Hyunjin’s ear and snapping him back to reality. He moved your hand off of him, reluctantly, before hooking his hand round your elbows, lifting you up and pinning you against the wall of the stall. This frustrated you, feeling like the power was being taken away from you. If only you knew that if you kept blowing him, he would have cum, and the fun would have been over way too quickly for you. He pinned you down, enclasping both wrists in one hand. Fuck. All control of your limbs was now in his hands, literally. His typical ego fueled, pride ridden glare was back on his face, and oh, was he ready to get his revenge on you.

“Slow and steady wins the race, right?”

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” you growled, core throbbing at the combination of condescending tone in his voice. Part of you felt bad for teasing as you enjoyed the way he submitted his body to your hand and mouth, but then, Hyjunin’s torturous teasing of his words triggered a playback of every single time that he was an asshole to you. Every single time he called you a name, undermined you to civilians and other staff, the shit talking to the junior guards especially. The fact that he used to so openly talk about all the women he fucked, how they had him begging his name, cumming all over his face. That was the last straw. 

Hyunjin shoved his tongue down his throat, generously lifting the restrain on your hands, his left hand now encompassing the circumference of your neck, other and dragging itself across your torso. The sting of his nails were already felt, but it only increased your arousal. Hyunjin somehow managed to be rough yet delicate at the same time. You knew that if you looked down, there would be a multitude of red streaks, but that was not what was important right now.

It was the way the hand around your neck immediately went to your mouth to muffle the crescendo of moans that escaped your lips when he pulled away and his calloused fingertips slipped underneath your waist, stretching your pussy lips before dipping his middle finger right along your clit. The circular motions, like yours, were long and drawn out. So petty he was. Nevertheless, it still made you moan just as hard, biting down on your bottom lip once more. Fuck, nothing had ever felt so good before.

“That shut you up,” he chuckled with a more sinister raspiness to it, “you’re lucky we’re in the shower and I can’t tell how wet you are.”

“Yeah, fucking right,” you huffed, gentle griding your hips on his fingers. It was easier to deny it than accept that he, Hyunjin, the one man you hate, was able to make you feel this good. He withdrew them for a moment, spitting on his own hand before removing the other from your muffled mouth, prodding them at your own. You opened eagerly, moaning at the taste of his bodily fluid. At any other point in time, you would repulse at the motion, but right now, nothing was as important as this. You bobbed your finger with ease against the long digits, but it wasn’t for long, because they went straight back into your folds, an index finger slipping almost too easily into your hole.

“Fuck Hyunjin,” you bellowed, “I fucking hate that you’re making me feel this good.”

An expression of satisfaction dripped across his face as he sped up the pace of his finger, adding a second as the sound of skin slapping increased. You reached around, reattaching your fingertips to his cock. A nervous laugh and a hip shudder came from the man next to you, not expecting you to be so bold, yet he expected it at the same time. He knew you couldn’t stand when someone attempted to be better than you at anything.

“Stop making this a competition,” he huffed, “you know you’re going to lose.”

“No, I’m-fuck, no I’m not.”

But that’s exactly what it was. Who could make the other cum first. A sharp whine escaped your lips, followed by a deep moan from himself, it was your goal to have him cumming all over you. Ropes of his seeds coating your stomach, tits, face, lips. You had never wanting something this much from a man. The two of you were at your loudest, but you simply didn’t care. If someone heard, it was just going to be a whatever moment. It’s not like anyone would know who it was anyway, or maybe not, because you were moaning his name every time he thrusted into you.

“You’re so path-shit, pathetic y/n, I knew you always wanted me.”

“Shut up,” you hissed back. He withdrew his hands from your cunt, placing them on your hips spinning you around, ass now facing him. His cock was pressed in between your cheeks as he began to slowly move, the slight sensation on your rim making your toes curl. Your hands were wrapped around his back. It would have looked awkward to an outside person, but you didn’t care. You needed to be close to him.

“You know when I realized it was the first time I wanted you?”

“When,” you breathed, heavy, almost like you were out of breath from running in to save a life, “when did you want to fuck me?”

He ignored, taking your hands off of him and pinning them together once more, above your head. He continued his teasing motions, but maneuvered himself intellectually, cock now slipping in between your folds, tip barely hitting your clit. Although it was painfully tortuous, it still felt so good, rewarding almost. You waited in anticipation, desperate to hear his answer. It made you curious, because you were asking yourself. What switched in his brain? What flip switched on your own? How your cognitions led you to this moment. It didn’t matter, because your brain was short circuiting. You couldn’t see him, but you were dying to. Wanted to see how he looked. Hin losing himself to the pleasure of your pussy. 

“The first time you yelled at me,” he grunted, taking a hand off your wrists and stroking his length, prodding at your entrance. He took no time to tease you though, sliding  effortlessly between your folds. The sound was immense, and there had to be an echo that traveled. You could see Hyunjin’s side profile, head bowing and licking a gentle stripe up the crevice of your neck, spine shuddering at the wet sensation.

“You know what I really thought?”

You said nothing, a giant fear that it would be only a surmount of broken words. Instead, you let his dick do the talking, whining when he pushed his hips back, pulling away from you completely. Your pussy was now aching, and you could definitely tell that you were dripping for more. Hyunjin was clearly merciless when it came to you, and not giving you what you wanted.  

“Oooh,” Hyunjin mumbled, lips buzzing on the skin along your shoulder, “this pussy is so sweet I just know it?”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, I wanna fucking taste that fucking cunt so bad.”

It was ironic how his cursing was getting you embarrassed, almost like you forgot that the was about to fuck you. He who you said you hated, who you would rather do almost anything else for than give Hyunjin that satisfaction. The gratification to know how you feel, what kind of lover you are, how your cunt felt against him. But things had changed, and there was nothing you wanted more than all of that. You were desperate trying anything and everything to increase the friction considering that Hyunin was moving painfully slowly.

The truth is, Hyunjin had been waiting to get this for a very long time. To get you. Yeah I mean, the few times the senior guards went out together and you hooked up with other guys, left early and went home with them was tough for him, but you weren’t together. Although a long time ago, he used to get so worked up, and he didn’t know why. He still found you almost intolerable, which is why it was easier to hate you, because if he did like you, he would fall down the rabbit hole at a world breaking speed. He knew that when, no, if the moment came, that it would be sweet, but he didn’t know it was going to be this good. You exceeded his expectations tenfold, especially the way you sucked his cock. His hips were gyrating faster unconsciously, and knew he could come right that second the more he thought about it.

“Hyunjin,” you whined, “harder, please.”

He ignored you, completely pausing before letting go of your wrists and flipping you around. The first thing he did was slide his body right against yours, thigh splitting your legs open, the gentle friction against your clit making you moan. Hyunjin had never looked so fucking hot in his life. You had seen him wet, many times, but this was different. The beads of liquid spayed his face, drenching his long hair, but his eyes, lips. They were so hungry, disheveled, like he was a predator hunting his prey. He reattached his lips to yours, crashing down as his hand snaked back around your neck. He didn’t even know if you were okay with it, but it didn't matter when you lifted your hand yourself, pushing your fingertips against his as he kissed you. The multitude of sounds that came from your mouth as the result of the tension between your core and Hyunjin’s thigh poured into his mouth, leaving him to wrap his free hand around his cock. He began pumping, pulling away and wasting no more time to plunge his cock deep inside of you. Oh my, it could be humiliating how easily he slipped inside of you.

“Say my name,” he growled, applying more pressure to your neck, “say it out loud.”

“Hyunjin,” you whined, tone pretty quiet as you concentrated on not clenching around him, “Hyunjin fuck.”

“So fucking sweet,” he continued to grunt, picking up his pace to an even greater speed, “that’s my favourite way to hear it.”

You brought your free hand up to his body, raking your digits over his washboard torso. My god he was fit. You wanted to slap yourself, wondering why you spent, no, wasted so much time hating him. He chuckled, the deepest he ever has, clearly enjoying how your fingers felt on him. Your mind, being a visual person, went back to the mental imagery of him jerking off in front of you. It was eating your mind up as he continued to fuck you unapologetically.

“Was it me?”

“What?”

“Fuck,” you chuckled, “I can’t speak. Were you-fuck, thinking of me?”

“When y/n,” he scoffed, rhythm getting distracted by your poor attempt at a question, “you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“When you were jerking your cock?”

“Yes,” he answered confidently, his cock was in you and it would probably be more awkward if he just denied it, “it was because of you.”

Your pussy clenched, The idea was so hot, Making a man that went out of his way to piss you off and vice versa became so enamored with you. So much so that he couldn't wait until he got home and had to relieve himself at work. You thanked the upper powers that nothing serious was happening at the beach, because you would have been a raging horny bitch, even more than what Hyunjin would consider you to be on a normal day.

He was moving at an unfathomable rate, and moaned softly each time you clenched around him. You knew you couldn’t last for much longer, and the thought of him getting off to you was accompanying you at this moment. Hyunjin took his hand off your throat, one hand on his hip for more precision, the other enclasping your nipples, and fuck, did he get your weak spot.

“You have beautiful tits,” he grunted, lips latching onto them like his life depended on it. He flicked his tongue back and forth, causing the most unholy of moans. Locking your hand into his scalp, you yanked him closer, back up to his lips before smashing them against his. You want to feel him now as close as you can, because once this was over, you weren’t sure if you would even be able to reenact the same feeling. 

When you pulled away, Hyunjin’s bottom lip caught between your teeth as you lingered, more than enjoying the way they were so big, they popped when escaping your teeth. You were getting closer, unable to control the clenching that your pussy was doing. Hyunjins hissed, the tight sensation doing so much for him.

“Fuck Hyunjin, I’m so close.”

“Me too baby,” Hyunjin whined, adjusting his hips, “fuck I’m gonna blow so hard.”

“Yeah baby?”

Your hands were across his face, once under his chin and the other on top of his chin, wrapped across his cheek. It was a sloppy placement, but it was the least of your concerns as the pit of your orgasm is brewing at the pit of your stomach.  

“Yeah Y/n, fuck,” he mumbled under your palm, sounding like he was on the verge of tears, “wanna blow in you.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” it was your turn to growl, knowing Hyunjin was slightly losing himself inside of you, “do it.”

His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. It was his biggest fantasy, especially when it came to you. The thought of you walking around at work, cum stuffed into your cunt, and he was the only one that would know it. He could not count the endless times he thought about it.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“No I’m fucking joking.”

“Fuck keep going,” he moaned, too fucked out to keep up with your sarcastic tone, “I’m about to cum so fucking hard.”

“Yes,” you sighed, “fill me up baby.”

“I’m gonna fucking fill you up.”

“Yes you are.”

“Shit, fuck yes I am,” he grunted, thrusts becoming very erratic, “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

He gave you one last peck, never breaking eye contact as he watched your jaw slack, the most gruesome moan falling from your lips as he watched your orgasm roll over you. Crashing like a tidal wave. Your hips bucked against him, increasing the pleasure for Hyunjin as he came in you momentarily, a similar sound coming from his lips as the two of you rode out your high. The feeling of his seed making you clench unfathomably around him. You ran your hand through his hair again, pushing the hair off his forehead to see his face in this form completely. You cooed him through it, wimping when you felt the loss of him inside of you as he withdrew himself.

Reality washed back over you and it hit you that you've just had sex, with a coworker (that you hate’), in the work environment. Hyunjin bends down and picks your bathing suit, two pieces, up from the floor, that intractable smirk covering his face. They hung of his index finger, a gentle reminder that you were very naked

“Fuck,” you laughed, unable to get rid the smile on your face, “I should be so mad at you, but you were really fucking good.”

“You don’t need to say anything, hearing you moan my name was enough.”

Rolling your eyes, you redressed yourself quickly, waiting for him to do the same. You punched him in the chest, interrupting him from putting his shirt back on.

“For fucks sake, you’re incorrigible, just take the fucking compliment and shut up.”

“Fine,” he replied sarcastically, coughing after to clear his throat, “we probably shouldn’t walk out together, might be suspicious.”

“Oh yeah,” your eyebrows furrowed, attempting to be serious, “good idea colleague.”

He let you out first, however you still waited for him, not really seeing the big deal in walking out to the lookout together.

“You know Chan heard the first part of our, you know, situation.”

“Fuck,” he cursed, “I thought I hung up.”

You laughed.

“It’s fine, he was already petrified of looking at me, imagine he heard the rest.”

It was a breezy day at police headquarters for the team. The holidays were over, meaning that crime rate was low, and mainly because today was an admin day for you; your least favorite. Stacks on top of stacks of finishing reports, filing said reports, making sure that it is impeccable shape. The last time you accidentally filed a case on August 21 instead of August 20, the captain gave it to you for days. 

****

That was years ago, during your rookie days. Now being a training officer, things were more fun. It was also easy to pick on the rookies that were assigned to you, feeling partly vindicated for what you had to experience during your own early days. However, without sounding too cliche, it also allowed them to become the best cops they could be, and it was fun to become friends with them, have them become your fellow colleagues and knowing that if you were in any high risk situation, they would have the training and rationality to have your back and do what is necessary.

***

Your eyes boggled as you sat at your desk, immediately noticing the way your fellow police officer, and best friend, Felix avoided eye contact when chucking the thick mound of paper onto the edge of your desk. The Sergeant was already out and about, checking and maintaining his authority by checking who was working and who was not. Sergeant Bang was not surprised to see you doing other things than what you were supposed to be doing; it was very obvious when you were staring at the large analog clock that was plastered on the wall, facing the opposite direction of your desk.

“How’s the paperwork going?”

“Pff,” you huffed, falling face first into the humongous pile, “Sergeant Bang, it’s a lot but I’ll get it done.”

“Good work y/n, I need at least half done by the end of the day, you need to take Hyunjin out on the street today, and you need to follow up on a house disturbance that occurred yesterday.”

“Yes sir.”

Your designated rookie, Hyunjin, was walking over to your desk, a large smile greeting his face as he took his seat next to you.

“Good morning Y/n, how are you today?”

“Can you not see the stack here? Get to work rookie, we need half of this done at midday so we can head back to that house we visited yesterday.”

“Got it,” Hyunjin replied, still smiling as he enthusiastically grabbed a quarter and clicked his pen, getting straight to it. You were lucky this year, taking on one of the rookies that was keen to listen, but also didn’t take it to heart when you criticized or made jokes. Most rookies understood that it was part of the process to earn your extra stripes.

Midday could not come fast enough. You were drowning in paperwork, and a coffee was definitely something you needed if your brain was not going to shut down. A large yawn fell from your lips as you rose from your chair, sluggishly making your way to the break room. The coffee pot had just been boiled, thank god, simply needing to just pour it in. Your arms moved slowly, sluggish movements following before a single drop touched your lips. Oh the feeling of sweet relief as the warm liquid ran down your throat, giving you enough energy to get back to your desk and into the swing of paperwork.

The pile descended bit by bit, but when the clock struck midday, a jolt of electricity sparked through your body as you nudged Hyunjin to get the tactical gear and prepare the shop. Felix was standing next to you, waiting for his own rookie to complete the same action.

“How is Hyunjin going?”

“Yeah good, kinda felt bad that he got stuck with my paperwork.”

A smirk came to Felix’s face, a playful punch coming into contact with your shoulder after.

“You made him do most of your own admin work? Damn, your harsh T.O y/l/n.”

A giggle came after Felix’s gentle criticism, “work hard play hard right? Got much on in the afternoon?”

“Not really, but we are only doing street patrol for a couple of hours today. Mr. Douchebag is coming in because I booked one of his clients yesterday.”

Fuck. When Felix said Mr. Douchebag, you knew exactly who he was talking about. Seo Changbin, the most scumbag defense attorney's known to mankind. Acted like he owned the place whenever he came into the precinct, treated sargents, captains, and police officers with little to zero respect. It’s people like him in the legal system that you simply did not want to make time for.

“For fucks sake,” you mumbled, “when is here not the fucking here?”

“Unfortunately,” Felix paused, covering his mouth to prevent anyone from hearing you gossip on the job, “and I hate to give him credit, but he somehow manages to represent every person in here, and most of them seem to get off. He’s trying to get me for unlawful captivity on the drug dealer we busted yesterday.”

“Pfft,” you scoffed, “of course he is. He-,”

Before you could continue, a sudden bubble of anger traveled across your fibers as you saw him walk into the precinct. Suited up, completely, that fucking brown leather briefcase he always carried. God. Even the way he held his chin up, facial expression showing nothing but arrogance because he knew that as soon as he saw you or Felix, he was going to be relentless. 

“God he’s such a douchebag.”

“Listen Y/n, I actually hate him, you on the other hand,” Felix paused, giving you an unimpressed look, “Try not to get your panties in a twist.”

“Dude,” you hit him, face heating up from his rather honest remark.

The two of you had a history. From the multiple times he got his clients to remain silent, released on bail when they should not have been. Having to testify as the officer on scene and he would do everything in his power to tear you down, make you look incompetent. Changbin was a menace, and if it was anybody else you would admire how smart and hard working someone like that was. But to do that, let’s just say you would rather get hit by a bus like Regina George. He always, for some reason that baffled you to try and work out, was always obsessed with proving you wrong. Felix’s ‘wrongdoings’ were ones he liked to point out too, but yours were tenfold. It’s like he thought that you should be fired not everytime you apparently did something against the law, but more specifically when it was something he didn’t like. Something that went against his own personal morals, and that’s what irritated you the most. The pompous lawyer only did what aligned with his morals and values, which to any normal person, would be the opposite of most. Every word that came out of his mouth gave you a headache.

But god, was he hot. There was always a tension, the strength of it based on how fiery the disagreements became,  that filled the room whenever a conversation (if you were putting your interactions nicely) was sparked between the two of you. It was easy for all the officers to see, and the amount of shit you copped for it was an understatement. Especially since you worked in a job where everyone’s observational skills were of high standard. Nonetheless, you would never let anything get in the way of your job, and that meant never mixing business with pleasure. I mean, not that you wanted to, because as soon as he opened his mouth, any feasible positive thought of attraction or whatever it was that made you feel drawn for him for a second flew out the window.

It didn’t take long for him to identify the two of you, a sly smile covering his lips as he strode over, expensive dress shoes, ones that he bought by most likely overcharging his clients ten fold to support his wannabe lavish lifestyle, clicked across the concrete floor and as soon as he was standing in front of you, his eyes gazed down then slowly back up, making sure to up his sleaziness by checking you out. If punching someone in the face wasn’t illegal, Seo Changbin would be knocked out cold.

“Officers.”

The two of you refused to look in the eye, the pompous lawyer very much undeserving of your respect, let alone your attention. He chuckled when he noticed, readjusting his suit in an attempt to gain control over whatever this interaction was.

“Long time no see,” you replied with the fakest smile, gritting your teeth in resistance.

“How fortunate,” he fake pouted, completely matching your energy, “I’m not here for you today, I’m here for him.”

Felix crossed his arms and stood strong to keep his high standard of authority with Changbin.

“My client hasn’t said a word in 48 hours, so you need to let him go.”

Your best friend rolled his eyes as he said nothing, allowing him to walk passed as headed over to the investigation room. You could tell straight away that Felix was flat, another defeat he had experienced at the hands of this ruthless, douchebag, absolutely cock of a lawyer. It got under your skin even more each time. Nonetheless, maintaining a high standard of professionalism meant having the communication skills required to result in efficient or necessary outcomes. You placed a hand on Felix’s gripped wrist, opening it up and hoping he would take a deep breath.

“Felix come on,” you whispered, easily able to feel the lawyer's eyes burning into the side of your head, “we’ll get him next time.”

He shrugged you off, heading back to his desk and engrossing himself in paperwork. You knew not to take it personally, seeing as his frustration wasn’t with you, but rather with how Changbin always seemed to have the upper hand on the two of you. 

**

Hyunjin was taking an awfully long time, especially since Changbin has already left the interrogation room, making a v line straight for you again. His stance was still cocky as hell, hanging up his phone call with the perfect timing so he could stand right in your face. His hair was parted on the side, bangs slicked back, exposing his forehead. His shoulders were wider than usual, arms bulging out of the jacket as his smirk sent a shiver down your spine. Fuck. 

You were lying if you said that he wasn’t attractive, objectively speaking of course. He always had some kind of smoothness about him, even if it was arrogant, on some days, maybe when you were feeling vulnerable or frustrated, he was always something to look at. Wearing clothes that were way too tight was clearly a staple, but it’s not like you were complaining. If anything, the cocky persona, sometimes, was a little arousing. But then as soon as he opened his mouth, all of that perceived charisma and attraction disappeared.

“God it feels good getting them out unscathed.”

“Find somewhere else to gloat Changbin,” you scoffed, eyes fixated in the way his tie arched across his chest, “I’m not the person who made the arrest.”

“Oh I know, it makes me sad,” he fake pouted once more, “I kind of wish you were the arresting officer, could have spent more time working together.”

There was a slight pang in your chest at his words. You knew that he was joking, his sarcasm was impossible to not notice. He took a step even closer, now in your personal space. He raked another peek up and down, another god evil smirk plastering his lips. His look definitely did not go unnoticed. You took no pleasure in cowering away from him, standing strong and face tough because you knew better than to give him any benefit of the doubt that he would turn around and treat you with any kind of decency.

“Yeah well I’m not and you should know better than to interact with me if there aren’t any pressing cases or charges that I am involved in.”

“Yeah I know, which is why I am talking to you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, mind scrambling as you had quite literally no idea what on earth he could be talking about. There were no open cases of yours right now, and even if they were, it had been passed onto detectives as the severity of the cases were too much for an officer. 

“Yeah, you know your T.O? How he was arrested for drug trafficking in front of the whole office last month? Yeah, well it turns out he asked me to defend him.”

The case sent you into a frenzy. Your T.O was the backbone on how you became the cop you were today. They got you through the trials and tribulations. Seeing a lot of gruesome things on the job was hard to conceptualize at first, but they were the first to comfort and assure you that things would be okay. When it was announced, 3 days before public knowledge, it broke your heart. Made you question everything that you thought you knew about policing. Therefore, for Changbin to bring up not only the arrest, but the fact that he was defending him was a low blow, even for him.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Of course. Earning the cop money is fucking great.”

You could feel the heat under the uniform rising rapidly, the mixture of stress at the mention of the anxiety induced name was not a good combination when standing in front of a person you already wanted to punch in the face solely for their existence.  

“You shouldn’t be defending them.”

Changbin’s expression changed, the cocky arrogant facade of Changbin to one more serious, like he was offended by what you said. Here you go, accidentally offending his so-called morals and beliefs. Always more important to him than the actual law.

“And what gives you the right to tell me who I can and can’t defend?”

You rolled your eyes at his question. “Look, I know you like to defend the scum, but this is the lowest.”

“That’s why I did it. Cops are just the worst, and defending an ex cop is great to me, but let’s not get brash and cut straight to the chase. I need you for the case.”

The look on your face was priceless. The shock was real, and you were too busy processing his words to realize his hardness dropped, the arrogance disappearing when he saw the hurt pouring from your eyes. The atmosphere changed, and it was more of one where Changbin, shocking himself, felt guilt toward you.

“Like hell I’m defending that piece of shi-”

“Wait,” he interrupted, another expression, this one different, more like concern as he heard the slight strain of hurt in your vocals, “I feel bad asking, but they want you as a character witness.”

Your frustration was reaching a new point, boiling point coming up much sooner than you would have liked. A tear threatened to spill from your eyes as you quickly flicked it away, not wanting the pompous lawyer to see any form of vulnerability, to know he beat you. Every conversation with Changbin was a competition; sometimes you won, sometimes you lost. He placed a hand on your shoulder, wanting to comfort you in a way that wasn’t too personal and suspicious in a public place. However, for you this was personal, and anyone with half a brain cell knew that this would strike a very sensitive cord within you. The tension was thick, and it was a relief that you could see your rookie coming back over to break up whatever this moment was.

“Here,” Changbin took out his business card, “it has my phone number on it. If you agree to do it, we will have to have a meeting to go over things. You don’t have to, but they would greatly appreciate it.”

You said nothing, a light smile across your face as you let yourself fall into the dream that was Changbin’s gaze. You weren’t sure if it was the sudden calming, friendly demeanor and lack of goblin behavior that you didn't know he was capable of expressing, or the idea that the buttons on his shirt were getting tighter and tighter, the spaces between them getting bigger the longer he stood there. It was hard to form a word the more time you spent with him.

Hyunjin was back, finished loading the shop before you could continue your shit talking conversation. You coughed to adjust yourself, not wanting for Changbin or your rookie to see that he was under your skin.

“All ready boot?”

He nodded, a friendly smile as he followed you, grin disappearing as he noticed your vulnerable demeanor. Hyunjin stepped in front of you, feeling the need to protect you from him, and to close the already small space that the two of you were sharing. You pushed him aside, a weak smile on your lips as Changbin waited for you to answer.

“Let me think about it.”

He nodded, allowing you to leave and head to the car with Hyunjin. As you got into the passenger's seat your mind continued to race with two things. Partly your T.O, but mainly Changbin. 

It was the first time that you had seen an almost human side to him. You weren’t sure what to call it, but it was encasing your mind, taking over all conscious parts of your brain. It was almost impossible to believe that a lawyer, especially a defense lawyer, actually felt bad for asking someone to help him with a case.

“Are you okay?”

Hyunjin snapped you out of deep thought, looking at you while driving to analyze your facial expressions.

“Eyes on the road boot, and yes I’m fine.”

A silence fell over the car, the lack of criminal activity responsible for that.

“Is something going on between you and the lawyer?”

You gave him a look of disgust, finding this a completely inappropriate question to ask a superior officer. Even though it wasn’t a completely ridiculous question to ask, it was obvious to a third party that there was something better. But you knew better than to have your rookie have the upper hand on you, especially when it came to your personal life.

“Why are you running your mouth, boot? You know who he is right?”

“Yes, I,” Hyunjin hesitated, worried that you were upset with him, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, adjusting yourself in the rather large seat. When it came to your personal life, especially when it wasn’t great it was easier to be this way. Cold, brash. It also seemed to be the way that Hyunjin learnt how to do things efficiently and easily.

“I’m sorry Y/n, I know I’m overstepping, but I saw the way he looked at you when your appearance changed. Like he really cared for you.”

“Hyunjin I swear to god,” you yelled, immediately getting defensive at his implication. Your tone was harsh, a prompt guilt coming over you as you continued to speak, correcting the tone of what and how you said it.

“He didn’t do anything that bad, and there’s nothing going on in between us.”

You paused again, looking around with the means of refusing any possible contact when talking about this sensitive subject.

“He asked me to testify in a case about my T.O.”

“The one that got arrested?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, feeling small even talking about it, “wants me to be a character witness for him.”

“That’s so rough, I’m really sorry.”

“Eh it’s not your fault. Enough about me, let’s focus on the road.”

The afternoon of patrol was easy, but your mind floated every once in a while to everything that surrounded Changbin. Hyunjin’s perception, Changbin’s own humane side coming out to comfort you, if you could even call it that. Whatever it was, it was something that you could not get out of your mind. On the contrary, you would never let something as miniscule as a mee defense lawyer get in the way of your high quality police work.

***

Patrol was over too soon, greeted by a smile from Felix once more as you saw him getting out of his shop and walking over to you.

“How was patrol?”

He said nothing, directing his hand to his rookie with one of the biggest drug dealers in the area. Your jaw dropped when you saw this large 6’5 300 pound man in cuffs.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“He was sleeping,” Felix smirked, “had no idea we were coming. God some criminals are so dumb.”

“Nice work boot,” you nodded, helping him carry the man to be processed.

The processing was the easiest part. Finger prints, photos, and paperwork assessing the individual. Making sure they had no weapons on them; catching the cops was the hardest part. Processing and putting them in a holding cell was the most relaxing part of the job. Even the paperwork was more stressful. 

The guy was being put in his cell, but it wasn't a rude surprise when you saw the man who was on your mind all day show up. He was bolting straight for the cops holding the perp, an agenda in his eyes as your irritation rose, knowing exactly what he was going to do.

“Woah Changbin,” you stepped in, standing between the struggling perp and Changbin, “what are you doing?”

“You need to let go of him, he is being unlawfully detained.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because my client is under the influence, he does not understand his rights and you cannot keep him.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement. He was dead serious, and there was no way you would stop this guy from being detained. He was well known for a while, and you weren’t going to let Changbin’s antics get in the way of this.

“This man is not showing any substances in his system, he needs to be processed.”

“And like I just said, he doesn’t understand his rights so uncuff him and let him go.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I was across the street after visiting another client and I saw them put him in the car. He barely said yes when asked if he understood.”

“Okay but he said yes so what’s the problem?”

“Do I have to repeat myself? You’re also using unlawful force on my client.”

“Unlawful force?” you scoffed, “the guy is over 300 pounds.”

The responses were back and forth, way too quickly to react and way too difficult for someone to step in and diffuse the situation. Tempers were running high, and the longer the argument went on, the louder your voices became. Any leniency that you felt prior towards the pompous lawyer was diminished in an instant. Another officer stepped in, attempting to continue to put this man in the holding cell.

“It doesn’t matter, you need to let him out or I will report this as unlawful and you will lose your job immediately.”

“Are you serious? I-”

“What is this ruckus?”

The two of your heads snapped simultaneously once you heard the Sargeants voice.

“We are trying to detain a perp but ‘Mr. fancy pants’ here is obstructing us from doing so.”

“With all do respect sir this is an unlawful arrest I-”

Sargent Bang took another step forward, putting a hand in front to stop Changbin from talking. Due to the significant height difference, the lawyer backed down, clearly intimidated by Chan's demeanor.

“Mr. Seo, do I come to your office and tell you how to argue in court?”

“No,” he replied, an obvious defeat in his tone, “I don’t.”

“Then you need to get the hell out of my officer's face and you can make a claim in my office.”

The lawyer nodded, no words needed to be said as he followed the Sergeant upstairs and you lost your view of him. The beads of sweat were scattered across Felix’s forehead, a huge sigh of relief as he swiped a hand across, happy to have got him in the cell.

“Nice arrest,” you smirked.

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” He smiled back. But you knew better. There was a second look in his eyes, one that had an underlying meaning, another implication if you will, “I wouldn’t have been able to complete it if it wasn’t for you practically barking at him.”

You laughed, hard at his statement.

“That’s not true, and I feel like you need to spit out what you’re thinking.”

A sarcastic look of shock appeared on Felix’s face.

“Me?” he questioned, placing a hand on his chest in surprise shock, “when do I have something ever to say?”

“Spit it out.”

“Fine,” he chuckled, “you held your own, don't get me wrong. It’s just, I can’t help but feel like there’s some tension between you.”

“Tension?”

At first you were confused. Obviously there was tension, the two of you were yelling at each other for five minutes. You were pissed. How dare he try to embarass you in front of your fellow officers. Accuse you of malpractice. You would never do the same in front of his colleagues. It wasn't until you realized what the smolder behind his lips really meant, and it shook you to your core.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“What,” Felix shrugged, mumbling under his breath, “it’s not the first time I’ve noticed it.”

You shook your head, the thought sending you into a head spin. He couldn’t be right. You repulsed the man, despised him on every level. 

Why was your head going straight to this morning, and the interaction before that, and the interaction before that. You had to walk away, space out in your office chair and involuntarily re-analyse every single conversation you had with this damn lawyer. God it was frustrating. Why was he playing so much in your mind? A man of such vulgar and despicable actions was clouding your judgment. It was impossible to do paperwork, concentrate on anything anyone had said. The thought of him, his face, hair, blazer jacket, shirt. That fucking white shirt. Your memory automatically scrolls to that one time the top button was undone. The way his jawline clenched when he took serious phone calls in the precinct. The way he was able to swoon other police officers into getting the information he needed. There was no reason for this, but it was becoming significant that all it took for you to spiral about the pompous lawyer was a gentle nudge in the direction from Felix.

“Hey.”

The voice, the last, yet first, person you actually wanted to even fix your eyes on was talking to you right now. This had to be a joke. It almost made you chuckle at the way he was standing over you at your desk; he probably loved it. Doing anything and everything he could to bring the worst out of you. And if he wasn’t going to apologize right now, he was going to do exactly that. His hand crept into your vision, veiny dorsal hands as his frame got closer and closer, hoping that you would acknowledge his presence, and not the other way round. You could see the look of Felix pretending to gasp at the lack of space between your bodies from the corner of your eye, leaving you even more reluctant to one, fuel your best friend and any other officers point, and two, actually converse with him.

“What do you want, Changbin?”

Your tone sounded very unenthusiastic, mouth, or throat, not having the energy to entertain the nonsense that was about to spew out of his mouth.

“I need an answer about testifying, for the other trial.”

“When do you need the answer?”

“Today at the end of shift.”

“Well then you’ll get my answer then.”

He moved away, running a frustrated hand through his hair at your stubbornness and unwillingness to cooperate. 

“Can’t you just give me an answer now?”

“Hmm,” you stood up, clasping your finger upon your chin, looking ‘very’ deep in thought, after the way he just treated you, attempting to embarrass you, it wasn’t really in your mind to treat him with any care, “I just don’t feel like giving you an answer right now.” 

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” you raised your voice, smacking your hand down on the desk, causing the surrounding officers and personnel to stare straight on.

“What the fuck is my problem,” you took a step closer, aiming to get into the lawyers face, “You have the problem, not me.”

The bickering was at an all time high today. This was normal. Changbin used to find at least one officer to argue with, but the intensity of your heated discussions with him were always ten fold in comparison. Voices were always raised to a peak, fingers gripped in fists, it was practically a show for the precinct, and the officers looked every time; sometimes they were sad because the only thing missing was their popcorn. 

The tension in this moment was high, but nothing you didn’t experience every single time this douchebag flashed his face in your place of work. Your eyes widened when you saw Sargent Bang standing behind Changbin from a distance, teeth gritted to end the conversation now, or there would be consequences for your actions. You gripped Changbin’s arm, dragging him around the corner, in front of the low-level weaponry kit room. The only people that walked past that part of the precinct in the middle of the day were police chiefs, and their visit was once a month; today was not that day.

“This is unlawful force on a civilian-”

“Shut up,” you interrupted, whispering as you finally let him go once you were out of frame from the others, “I don't want to make more of a scene and you are not going to be the reason I get fired.”

He scoffed at your remark, finding a sarcastic humor in it. He adjusted his suit jacket once more, patting down his suit and making sure he looked perfect as always. A single strand was out of place across his forehead, and you couldn’t lie, it was pretty adorable. Seeing him out of place in the slightest was like goosebumps on your skin. 

“Well it wouldn’t be a problem if you just answered my question.”

The shrug he gave made you want to kick him in the knees. Hands on your hips, you stood there, waiting for him to actually pay attention to what you had to say.

“Look,” he whispered, facial expression of friendlessness back, “I know this must be hard for you.”

He paused, wanting to sense your reaction. Your muscles related to posture softened, eyes avoiding his gaze, yet feeling the need to guard yourself suddenly unnecessary. Conversing with Changbin was like having a concussion, sometimes painful, sometimes blissful, but you couldn’t lie and stay in denial that there was meaning behind this. A gravitational pull that rushed your towards him, and the gentle moments where showed his non-demonic angle was poking out and taunting you made the force greater each time. The sprinkles of generosity he showcased were something that you ate up everytime, and you hated it.

“It’s not that I don’t want to testify, because knowing you, I will be subpoenaed into doing it anyway.”

“No,” he interrupted himself with a laugh, “wait yeah actually I probably would.”

“Yeah that would piss me off, but I understand you would be doing your job. I guess I am somewhat appreciative that you gave me a heads up on it.”

He nodded, taking your mumbled graciousness as a win. 

“What do you need me to do?”

He said nothing at first, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small card with his business, name, phone number and address to said business on it.

“Are you busy tonight after work?”

You followed through, fingers accidentally brushing fingertips with him when accepting the card. The two of you ignored the pull acting up once more. For some reason it felt better to not point it out. You shook your head in response, a small smile filling his lips as he was happy that he didn’t have to fight to get an answer he wanted.

“Great, swing past when you’re done here and we can move forward in your portion of the case.”

No reply was needed as he walked in a separate direction from yours, brain spinning once more as you sat down at your desk. It didn’t take long for your best friend to creep up on you and your rookie’s shared desk. An unwipeable smirk plastered his face as the two of them planned to gang up on you. Unfortunately for them, their plan was spotted from a mile away.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you smoldered, raising a hand to both of their faces in an attempt to silence them.

“I’m not saying anything,” Felix fanned himself as he spoke, “but the tension is hot hot hot.”

“Yeah I could feel it from-”

“Hyunjin, if you say one more word that contributes to this conversation I will write you up. Don’t forget I do daily evaluations on you.”

Hyunjin shrank back into his seat, a small ‘yes ma'am’ before he was back to focusing on his paperwork.

“He’s so into you it’s crazy.”

A small energy of satisfaction sparked through your body at his words. It had to be a joke. Why was a small part of you excited if that was the case?

“He’s not into me,” you brushed off, a smile threatening to spill across your face, “I have to testify as a character witness in the trial for my T.O”

“He’s representing them?”

“A check is a check, and I hate to admit it, but Changbin is one of the best criminal defense lawyers in this country.”

You got up, checking your watch and realizing that there wasn’t long until you had to head over. Yes it was a bit early, but what was the harm in going home, showering, fixing your hair, putting on some makeup and getting out of uniform?

“Hey,” Felix yelled, grabbing you by the arm to stop you from leaving for the day, “where are you going?”

“I’m going to Changbin’s office to get this over and done with. Don’t say anything, I’m just going to prepare for court and that’s it.”

“Mhm,” he nodded, not knowing it was possible for an action to be so sarcastic, “I’m sure it is.”

A frustrated scoff left your lips as you continued to go to the door. Felix was wrong, and you were determined to prove that his implications were false and just simply not the case at all. But not even you could convince yourself that Felix is wrong. Part of you didnt want him to be wrong, but the other part of you just wanted this to be in your past, and getting over and done with seemed like the first step in doing so.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“That isn’t much!”

**

You took a deep breath as your car parked. One more look at your appearance in the rearview mirror and you were good to go. You kept your outfit simple, jeans and a thin white long sleeve shirt with a small black leather jacket to accompany and counter the recent cold weather. Your hair was down, natural. The intention behind it was that it was a change. A calming nature and contrast to what he usually saw when at the precinct. The normal was hair slicked back in a bun as it was protocol to make sure all hair was out of your face, definitely not wanting your hair to obstruct any view while in pursuit.

The door was large, revolving, leaving you almost caught in between. The area was spacious, impressive, and looked like a big firm. You knew the other lawyers there, but not well enough to know by name. None of them were as much of a hassle as Changbin was. The guy at the reception looked concentrated yet approachable, giving you no trouble as his attention turned to you once your approach at the desk was certain.

“Hi, how are you today?”

“I’m great thanks,” you smiled, a sudden streak of nerves enticing your body, “I’m here for an appointment with Mr. Seo.”

It took a few clicks on his computer before he realized who you were.

“Ah, you must be officer Y/l/n. You really do a number on lawyer Seo hey?”

Your eyebrows furrowed in a polite way, “I do?”

“Every time he comes back from the station, and he’s spoken to you, it’s all he talks about.”

“And I’m going to fire you for saying false information like that.”

Your head snapped at his voice, smooth as honey, and fake, when talking to the receptionist. He shrugged, chuckling because he knew that Changbin had been completely caught; but he was too swift, and stubborn, to admit that it was true. His eyes, as per usual, were fixated up and down, moving back and forth as they glued to your figure, an extra second spent too long before he made eye contact with you. Changbin put a hand out, in invitation to lead you down the rather long hallway to his office. The room was nice. Marble desk, swirly chair, off white walls; if you ever had your own office, you would want it to look exactly like this. 

Changbin closed the door behind you, showing you to your chair as he stood behind it, patiently waiting for you to sit down. He lingered behind, thumbs grazing the clothed skin of your shoulder as he looked down over your head while taking your jacket off and pacing it behind your chair, easy access to your chest. You rolled your eyes; perv. His proximity made you nervous, and you didn’t know why, but that familiar gravitational pull was something you very much liked to deny from a cognitive perspective.

“So Ms. y/l/n, y/n, can I call you that?”

“Sure,” you replied sarcastically, looking down at your fingers, fidgeting as you became more restless the longer he took to reply, forcing the two of you to sit in silence. God this was uncomfortable. Why was he dragging this out? Every second was torture for you. This was supposed to be one and done. Go to court and never have to work with this prick or to never see your T.O again. If anything it was making you angry. He knew that this was painful for you, yet he refused to move ahead.

“Can we start?”

“Yes of course,” he nodded, maintaining a serious facial expression as he opened up his notebook on his desk, “do you have any questions before we start?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“As long as necessary.”

He paused, again, seeming to be for dramatic effect, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” you gulped, the sound of his pen clicking immediately making you anxious, “of course not.”

Your replies to the next few questions were short, but not abnormal as they were very closed ended questions. Changbin fixed his posture every few seconds, forearms flexing through his shirt while writing down his notes. It was somewhat frustrating that you had to multitask on so many things at once. His questions, making sure you were giving correct information. The way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to free up his caged arms. The veins. His lips. The deep voice coming out. Recalling events. To say you were getting overwhelmed was an understatement. He noticed your change in demeanor as soon as he freed himself, and for once in naivety, the emotion he felt was concern. He put the pen down, noticing that you needed a break from the lack of eye contact you were giving him. Although he hated your guts for most of the time, he didn’t want you to perceive him as a monster. It was sensitive stuff; everyone has a special relationship with a T.O. They show you the rope of everything, and they are there for you after intense crime scenes. The partnership was sensitive, and for it to blow up in your face was a shock to the system. He knew better than to rub salt in the seeping wound.

“We can take a break if you want. Can I get you anything?”

Your head snapped back up, a fake smile plastered on your face in an attempt to be polite and hide the discomfort that was going over the case with a comb, as well as the shock from his failure to make fun of you for once.

“Water and a break would be great.”

Changbin nodded, getting up from his seat and walking over to the water cooler in his office. Neat, but definitely obnoxious and just a ruse to show off how much money he made. And to think you were giving him the benefit of the doubt. Your impatience, and frustration was growing with each moment. Placing the water cup in front of you, he resumed his seat, taking a nice long sip of his cool refreshment.

“Right, where were we?”

His eyebrows furrowed, a sign of concentration as he thought about his next line of questioning.

“How many more things do we need to go over?”

He smirked, “already keen to get out of here?”

“Well,” you scoffed, “it’s kind of something that I want to get over and done with.”

His jaw clenched, “well it’s not that simple.”

“Yeah I know that I-”

“I don’t think you do. See, it’s my duty to give him the best possible case as he is paying me big bucks to get him the best outcome possible.”

“Yeah we know how much you love money,” you mumbled under your breath.

“What was that?”

“No nothing,” you shook your head vigorously, “well no not nothing. I just said we know how much you love money, you can’t help but always flaunt it at the station.”

He chuckled at your sarcastic yet honest response.

“Let’s just continue so we can get this over with.”

A pit of relief panged in your chest at his words, Changbin now finally has the same mentality as you. His phone rang, but he denied, quickly, shocking you in disbelief. He noticed your change in appearance, unsure why you reacted the way you did.

“What’s that look?”

“No nothing, you just, I’ve never seen you decline a phone call before.”

He smirked, nothing else.

“What can I say? You’re a special client.”

“I am?”

He immediately regretted the implications of those words. He really should have thought before he spoke, because the sentiment went straight to your head. Your ears felt hot, and suddenly the gravitational pull was very much noticeable again. You shifted in your seat, leaning forward; why not have some fun with it? Maybe it would ease the uncomfort you were experiencing. The white top you wore was low cut, something that you failed to mention, and remember, but sparked your memory once Changbin’s eyes dropped immediately. All you were doing was leaning forward, grabbing your cup, and sloppily drinking, a few droplets ‘accidentally’ falling onto your shirt. The white material helped you push your rebellion across, which ultimately did the complete opposite for him. He was now the one shifting in his seat, comfort somewhat observable as it was his turn to avoid your gaze.

“Ok so were you part of the drug trafficking ring?”

The smug expression on your face dropped instantly.

“Obviously not.”

“Well how is it obvious?”

“Through the evidence?”

“The evidence,” he paused, smug in his own arrogance, “is not in your favor. You know he has tried to pin a lot of it on you, right?”

His words triggered something in you; something ugly. You got up out of your seat, walking around and standing over him. How dare he say that? Even if he was just saying it to get your reaction, it was, for you, crossing the line.

“That’s why I’m not the one who got arrested. What are you trying to imply?”

He turned in his chair, legs spread open in the biggest manspread known to man as he continued to smirk. Fuck, you should be mad. You should be fuming at his accusations, smugness, cockiness. What was he trying to imply? Changbin tricked you into thinking that you would be a character witness. Silly you for thinking he actually was capable of caring for you, making sure you didn't get thrown under the bus when persecuted.

“Nothing?,” he scoffed, feigning ignorance laced in his tone, “What’s your problem?”

Your laugh was loud, indicating that your frustration had reached its boiling point. That fucking question again.

 “My problem? What is yours? You walk into the precinct, act like you know everything and treat the officers with little to no respect, then you obstruct a detainment? What makes you think you are so entitled that you can just talk to everyone the way you want? And to top it off, you want to switch the charges and pin me, a rookie at the time, for the crimes committed?”

Your breath was raised high, out of breath from the absolute serving Seo Changbin just got from you. A huge weight lifted off of your chest, finally getting what had been lying on your chest for years off of it. He got up and walked around his desk and stood in front of you, very much in your personal space; with an unimpressed look to say the least. How dare you question his practice, his ability to prosecute and defend as a lawyer. It was, in his eyes, this most abhorrent thing a person could do, especially an authority figure of similar position. You were, however, too stubborn to back down, chest puffed and fists pumped up, nails digging into your palms to prevent yourself from doing something you would regret.

“You think you know me so well huh?”

“I think I do.”

“If you did then you would know I’m not trying to get you convicted. I’m doing the opposite?”

Yeah right.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Of course I don’t want you to be a part of this, I want you to be as far away.”

“Why would you say something like that then? Accusine me? Do you just never think before you speak?”

The pompous lawyer didn’t answer straight away. The continuous cycle of confusion, anger, lust on repeat was sending you into a headspin. You couldn't keep up, but at the time, you were beginning to find the root of the reason you felt that cursed gravitational pull towards the man in front of you. As soon as his voice softened, so did you. Digits by your sides as opposed to dug in your palms, shoulders relaxed. Changbin was also standing very close to you. It was the first time you truly were able to take in his features. Thick, slicked up hair, tiny strands that had obviously been styled in a certain way that trickled over his forehead. The textureless surface area of his skin, the darkness of his eyes, you could have sworn his pupils were dilated, the color becoming darker and darker the longer he looked at you. His lips were in a whole different ball game. Very pink, very big, the hyperfixation was instant. Your eyes flicked between his lips and his own gaze, leaving you completely unsure where to look. 

“I,” he sighed, pausing before making sure what he said came out the right way, “I don’t want you to get hurt. Fuck,” he paused again covering his face with his hands for a brief moment before standing even closer to you, “I want to make sure you’re okay and you don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

The atmosphere of the room had suddenly changed again, and now, you could not keep your eyes off of the pompous lawyer. He was pulling you in this time, hard, but contrary to the other times you experienced a similar sensation, you were finding it really difficult to find a way out.

“So rather than criticizing me, help me. Help me get through this how you would if you were me.”

The telekinesis was impactful, and no scientific theory or rationale could explain what followed, because the next thing you remembered was Changbin’s grip on your hips, pushing you forcefully to sit on the edge of his desk as he leaned forward and crashed his lips against yours. The energy was magnetic, and the normal part of you was saying what is happening right now, you should pull away, and you had the thought to do so.

But it’s merely a thought that flies into your consciousness then back into the unconsciousness. His lips felt too good, hands now gripping your face as his tongue entered your mouth. The kiss was slow, the intention to envelop him, take in as much as possible. His movements were delicate, yet simultaneously precise as his hands traveled to your behind, grabbing as much ass as possible, breaking away before whispering a quick ‘wrap your legs around me’ and lifting you up, pinning you against the back of his office door. It did slip in your mind for a brief moment that you were in a public setting and not the luxury of your home. It was just that however, like the others, a passing thought as his hips pinned you against the wooden frame, fingertips soothingly soaring against the sides of your torso as he lips left your own, littering across your jaw, up to your ear lobe, a thick stripe of the pomppus lawyer’s DNA coating the skin from the base of your neck to the tip of your ear lobe. There was nothing organized about the movements that occurred, partly because the navigation was unclear and he wasn’t a usual partner. But the main rationale was the increasing desperation that filled the tiny, gaping air that was closed each moment your lips moved in unison. As soon as his hands gripped your body, traveling down your sides and back to your ass; god he loved your ass. 

Whether he would admit it or not, his mind went crazy everytime you walked away from him, mad or not. Conversation or no interaction at all. Changbin always wanted to see it, feel it, the texture of how the skin would feel in his hands, clothed or unclothed; he didn’t give a fuck. Changbin was grateful if there was any time in his life that he would get to experience it, and it was blowing his mind that it was happening. But, in the grace of it all, he was too stubborn, as per usual, to show that he wasn’t freaking out that this was actually happening. He wanted to be cool in front of you. He would rather get hit by a bus than admit that the feelings he had for you were something that were there every time he laid his eyes on you.

You could feel the subtle hard on across your groin, a gentle gasp escaping your lips and falling into his mouth as he acknowledged your reaction, gently grinding his hips against you, the friction only making your hornier as he pulled away, your hands leaching onto the buckle of his pants, the desperation clouding your efficacy to take it off in one swift motion. Changbin chuckled as he pulled away, unable to smirk as he was too desperate to worry about the lack of skill. His pants were off, and now it was your turn for a piece of clothing to be removed; and he wasn’t swift either. 

Fuck buttons and belts, buckles, zippers, anything that was put on clothes which, for you to in this moment, seemed to only be put onto clothing to makes things more difficult. Changbin was able to undo the zipper and button on your jeans, helping the thick material pool at your ankles before he dropped to his knees for a brief moment to lift your ankles to help you discard them completely. Both pairs of bottoms were in a pile on the floor mixed together, maybe a metaphor for what was about to happen. Changbin’s jacket was easy to take off, and he cared too little to be meticulous with a basic white dress shirt, biceps bugling barely as he effortlessly ripped his shirt, the noise of the buttons hitting the hard surfaces of the office, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. His chest was heavy, pecs already 4 dimensional on his chest but Changbin needed no time as he was just too fucking hungry for you. Yearning, lusting, you name it. Changbin being out of breath was such a barrier to pick you up again, your back now lying against the contrasting cool surface of the marble desk as he hovered over you, another sensual kiss against your lips as his trails extended. 

“Fuck,” he growled, primal like, “you have too many fucking clothes on.”

An annoyed sigh left your lips, “well that’s not my fault is it.”

He ignored your attitude. Changbin wanted to just rip it off, but he knew better than to let you leave with the clothing you did not come in with. His hands were now swift, wanting to focus on nothing else but your naked body. Changbin bit down on his bottom lip when he noticed your lack of chest undergarment. 

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Jesus,” he paused, an extended trail of kisses descending down your body, past your neck, lingering on your chest, a quick flick of the nipples with his tongue that involuntarily made your back arch as he continued, eyebrows furrowed with concentration as he got to your panties. Your breath hitched a little when he got there, teeth teetering on the edge as he pulled them down, legs straight and the gentle bumpy texture of his teeth dancing across your legs as he finally got off the last obstacle of clothing. Changbin couldn’t help but bring a hand to his length as he gently palmed himself, completely mesmerized and aroused out of control at the current view he was looking at you. The temperature of your face was immediately as his eyes ogled over your very naked body. Fuck. It was so hot to see him like this. Speechless, no comebacks. You could tell that he wasn’t thinking much, which oddly turned you on so much. It was something you truly were not used to. 

“Stand up for me.”

The four words came out of mouth abruptly, switching positions as he sat down, practically drooling as your ass moved with each step, titties bouncing in unison with each movement. All he could think about was how hard they bounced if you were on top of him. How easily he’d be able to move his hands with your ass as you rode him, took him from behind. His mind was racing even more, and now he was back at square one: too overwhelmed and much too aroused to form a comprehensive thought of what to do to you.

“You’re so different.” you whispered, not wanting to catch him off guard.

“I am?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, heavy, hands beginning to roam across your waist, breathing through slightly gritted teeth, “usually you have so much to say.”

His gaze was so lustful, heavy, you couldn’t help but touch yourself. Your fingers attached to your left hand traced along your inner thigh, legs gently shuddering. If you were being honest, it kind of scared you how much something as simple as a stare could do to you. Your index and middle finger traced along your pussy lips, a desperate moan escaping your lips when the tip of your digit accidentally brushed the bareity of your clit. You thought you could handle the game; you usually did. But this was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and there was no going back after this.

Changbin was also desperate, scrolling forward on his chair and reaching for your hips, steadying himself before his palms separated. One had pitching your left nipple and the other sliding on either side of your core, pussy lips trying to escape his digits. It was easy for him, seeing as your core was already a slip n’ slide, fingers practically begging and soaking up any sense of friction they could get.

“Stop teasing,” you gritted, small hitches in your wind at each possible moment of touch.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, adjusting his fingers without warning, tips attaching to the nub like a magnetic force. A much larger, breathier moan falls from the tight crevice that is your lips as Changbin gets closer to your torso, mouth latching onto the previously excluded nipple. The lawyer execution wasn’t perfect, and if this was the third or fourth time the two of you had been intimate, it most likely wouldn’t have felt as good.

At that stage, however, things were different. The tension from the lack of physical intimacy was the sole reason his fingers felt so good. This may, in the present moment be due to the short circuiting of your brain from the man’s fingers and lips, feel like something that just sparked out of the blue. Random. Out of nowhere; but anyone could tell that that was nothing but a crock of shit.

This was a culmination of all the times you disagreed, agreed, yelled, whispered, cared, lusted, hated, liked, loved? Even the way you looked at him when he would walk into that precinct with his very tight suits and heavy briefcases. The times Felix would nudge you to keep it down when the two of you would argue in front of the other officers, even the sergeant. The more you argued, the more care there was, even if it was illustrated as hatred. The opposite of hatred is indifference, not love, and there was nothing indifferent about the situation you found yourself to be in. 

Changbin couldn’t think straight. There were times he thought about it too. Whether it was when he woke up in the morning, preparing a case of a perpetrator that you arrested. He felt like an idiot, because all he wanted to do now was touch you. There was no instruction, no structure to how he was doing it, just rubbing your clit and sucking on your nipples, teething the hardened nubs was the way to go. Changbin thought he would have so much more composure, but the moment your clothes were discarded was the moment he knew he was in trouble, because the images he visualized in his head were not even closer than how sexy he imagined you to be.

“Mhmmm,” you hummed, hips forming a gentle rhythm on his digits, your own hand running up and down his arm soothingly, “feels so good.”

“Yeah you like it?”

“Yes I-oh my god.”

You interrupted your own sentence when you found two of his fingers at your entrance. Slow, calloused textured fingers scratching your walls as he began to pump. He stood up simultaneously, slightly bent over to make sure that his fingers would remain consistent in depth while adjusting to the height difference. His thumb that belonged to the same hand reamiend on then sensitive numb, the three fingers creating a collective come hither motion. You took a few steps back, finding stability in the wooden cabinet behind you as Changbin’s fingers picked up in pace. He was still a cognitive mess, no craft to his skill, but it seemed to be more than fine for you. He analyzed your behavior. Lids fluttering on the brink of shutting, jaw slightly agape with sinful moans and groans disclosed, and your left hand groping your own breast.

On the contrary, you were just as overwhelmed, unable to speak, those unorganized noises the only indication of how his fingers were making you feel. Fuck, you were already so sensitive, and the fact that he was already hitting the fleshy mound inside your pussy with his fingers only aroused you tenfold, knowing that his cock would be just as effortless in doing so. Your eyes wanted to roll, reach the back of your head. You never knew that something so simple as someone’s fingers could make you feel this good. Your hips spasmed, walls already clenching around him as you knew that you were getting close.

“Shit,” Changbin groaned, that god awful yet fucking sexy smirk appearing, “you’re close, aren’t you?”

“No,” you mumbled, not wanting him to give you the satisfaction of knowing he made you feel like pure heaven, “b-barely.”

You could feel his hard on pressed against the top of our leg, itching at your hip bone which gave you the idea to take the heat off of you for a moment. Yes, it was like walking into the gates of hell to give him the gratification that he was bringing you to orgasm, but really, it was because you didn’t want it to stop. If you could have just stopped lying to yourself about how much arguing with this man turned you on, that you could have been in this predicament much earlier. Then again, maybe if it did happen earlier, the arousal of his simple touch wouldn’t impact you as much, and that would be no fun, would it? 

Your hands, for the first time tonight, began to travel, snaking past his arms and right to where he wanted you. Changbin hissed, lips pressed against the side of your face as a deep groan bellowed from his chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed, the gentle grating of your hand against his clothed crotch taking him by surprise. You too, were in surprise at how big he felt. The visual was one thing, but you were always one for tactile senses. Your thumb slipped over the tip, the brief wetness that you assumed to be his precum easily felt. The muscles in your legs were getting tighter and tighter, and it was proving that rubbing Changbin’s cock wasnt enough to distract him from making you cum.

“Fuck I’m really c-close,” you whine, the pompous lawyer covering your mouth to prevent the crescendo of your voice project outside the 4 walls. He withdrew his fingers from your words, your bodies falling slightly limp and weary at the way you already were craving him, orgasm that was on the brim very cruel. Your hips were gripped once more, placing you to sit atop of his desk and he made no hesitation to slip his boxers off and let his cock spring free of what, to him, was torture. A very obvious gas came from your lips, still taken aback of how girthy he was. A nervous gulp followed, unsure if he would be able to fit. He could see the expression of concern. His hands cupped your cheeks, pressing another gentle kiss before they traveled back to his favorite spot, your hips.

“It’s ok,” he whispered, running his thumbs in a forgiving fashion against your hip bones, “just tell me to stop if you want to. I won’t be mad.”

You looked shyly into his eyes, nodding as you grabbed him by the base of his cock. A deep breath hollowed from hips at how your hands felt on him. God he had dreamed of this so many times. He would fixate on them every time he walked into the precinct. How such delicate hands could do such filthy things; it truly turned him on so much. The complexity of your character did too. You weren’t like other people that he had the pleasure of interacting with. No book that you could read by its cover. It was impossible, but maybe that's why he felt so drawn to you. He liked a challenge. He was a lawyer after all, and as much as he fantasized, unconsciously, about how you would look in such sinful positions, he was still able to simultaneously appreciate you and your character from afar, even when his presence wasn’t always appreciated by you in return. 

“Your hands,” he chuckled, almost sounding nervous, “they feel so good.”

It was finally YOUR turn to smirk, getting him where you wanted him. Although you liked to do nothing more than torture him, a guilt would rise in your chest and you know it. By this point, it was obvious that both of you pined for each other, so the games of taunting and teasing, mind fucking were irrelevant, unnecessary. The main thing that you wanted was to get your brains fucked out, and Changbin wanted nothing more than to give that to you. You took your hand away, allowing the man himself to line up with your hole, before gently prodding at the entrance, effortlessly and to your surprise plunging his cock into your pussy. It was a loud noise, the squelch of your highly aroused cunt leaving the pompous lawyer's cock sucked in like a vacuum. Your arms, without thought, wrapped around Changbin’s neck, pulling him closer to truly feel as much of him as you could. 

“Jesus fuck,’ he chuckled, beinging to pull out slowly, “this is the juiciest pussy I’ve ever fucked.”

The sentence made you moan, hips wiggling to keep as much of his length inside of you as he gently moved back and forth. If anyone else spoke like this to you, the next action would most likely be a slap in the face. Compliment or not, it was so hot the way Changbin’s words fell from his lips without thought. Even when the two of you shared heated discussions it was the same. Words, harsh, soft, anything he said was without thought. But this moment was when you liked it best, because as he continued to pull in and out of you, the corrupt compliments just continued to spell out, belongings beginning to fall off his desk with each thrust. It was usually something you hated, but maybe now, you could manipulate it to your own benefit.

“Jesus christ,” he continued to repeat over and over, hands gripping your ass as he used your body to grind into you, “I love how wet your pussy is for me.”

“Me too baby,” you moaned back, unable to help yourself, “I never knew it could get this wet.”

“Only for me,” he growled, partly out of breath, “this pussy belongs to me.”

There was no point in even refuting what he said. If he was going to make it scream like this every time he was near it from now on, he can have it. No one had ever made you feel this good. Electricity was flying the longer his skin made contact with yours. Maybe it was partly hallucinations from your sex brain, but you didn't care, nothing would ever equate to this, and no one could ever have such a pull on you than the man in front of you. Changbin had acquired some confidence, because he began to move with much vigor, cock feeling harder and harder the longer he was inside of you. It didn’t take long for him to find the previous spot that he was able to hit with his fingers, your eyes almost popping out of your head when he did, your own hand coming to your mouth and biting on your fingernails as he did, a poor attempt to suppress the roaring sounds that cut down from your lips, surely enough to alert whoever else was in the building. It took him a matter of milliseconds for him to notice, a hand leaving your body and clasping your wrist, forcing you to straighten your fingers as he pushed them inside your mouth. It was now his turn for his eyes to bulge out of his head, a whole new level of turned on as he watched each knuckle on the two of your fingers disappearing past your lips. He stood still, forgetting about his cock and fixating on nothing but the way your fingers were coated heavily from such a simple action

“Fuck me,” he scoffed, “I didn’t think you could get any sexier.”

Your eyes ogled as you looked up at him, lips forming into a pour around your tips as they withdrew from your mouth. Before you even had the chance, Changbin was already redirecting your fingers to your own core, spreading your pussy lips far as your fingers dragged to them, a teeth gritted sigh coming from the pompous lawyer as he picked up his pace. All he could do was stare, solely focused on how your center got wetter and wetter. The way your pussy hole was now clenching and double the pleasure from tow spots. Fuck, he didn’t care about his own pleasure, because all he could think was how magical your pussy was. 

You were so hot and bothered by the way Changbin’s mouth dropped when he watched you flick your own clit, fingers brushing the base of cock once every few thursts as he continued to fuck you out of your mind relentlessly. 

“Oh god,” you whined, not even caring about how loud the combination of sounds must have been to one walking by, “so fucking good.”

“I fucking bet,” he chuckled, tongue slipping over his tongue lip, “if you’re pussy keeps getting wetter I won’t be able to help myself.”

“Fuck, what do you mean?”

He suddenly picks up his pace to an all time speed, unable to control himself physically and verbally.

“I’ll have no choice,” he grunts, using all of his might to bury his cock inside of you, “I’ll have to cum in you.”

Oh no. This is bad. Changbin doesn’t know this, but he's unlocked one of your deepest rooted desires. You immediately attack his lips as soon as his sentence concludes, not wanting him to say anything else. You knew it was bad, but there is no way you would ever say no to letting him fill you to the brim.

“Do it,” you whispered, forehead meeting as your gaze fixed on him, “cum in me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes baby, fill me up with your load.”

“Oh fuck,” he wined, his first high pitch of the night, “whatever you want.”

Your hips inched off his desk, giving him easier access to control you, giving yourself up to him in every way possible. Holy fuck were you about to bust yourself at any minute. Seeing the longing want and need to finish in you being an option was driving him wild.

“Oh my god Y/n,” he whispered, “I can’t hold it back any longer.”

“That’s okay baby just do it.”

“Do it?”

“Cum in me,” you whined, “I know you filling me up will make me cum so hard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah baby do it.”

“I’ll cum in you.”

“Yeah cum in me.”

The back and forth with no room to breath in between was spilling you over the edge, and so was it for Changbin. His face was contorting more and more with each second, knowing he was going to blow his load any minute.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” he continued to whine, unable to look anywhere else except your gaze before finally reach his high, pulling himself out completely except for tip, able to watch the way each load blew straight into your pussy. A heavy breath filled your lungs as the warmth of his seed tipped over the edge, hips bucking uncontrollably as it dribbled out, Changbin also spasming before gently pushing himself back in, the two of you using each other to ride out the peak of your orgasms. 

Your chest heaved simultaneously, the sounds of such heavy breaths the only noise filling the room as he pulled out, the motion causing you to whimper and already crave his touch once again. Changbin looked around, finding the box of tissues that fell off of his desk in the midst of things, cleaning the trail of his remains that was currently spilling down your leg. A small giggle erupted from your lips as you watched his aim with such delicacy and poise.

“What?” He smiled.

“Nothing,” you smiled in return, his grin becoming infectious, “I’ve just never seen you move so carefully before.”

“Hey I can be gentle!”

“Can you though?”

You pointed at your hips, already discolored in light shades of purple. He ignored your gesture, rolling his eyes as he grabbed the pile of clothes that was once an obstacle, handing it back with much of a haste. 

“We still have to work on the case, you know.”

“We can’t make another appointment?”

“Well no because I think 85% of the office would have heard that and it would look very suspicious if you just left.”

“I don’t think it matter if they heard, they’re still gonna know we fucked.”

“Jesus christ y/n,” he scoffed, “don’t fucking start with me now.”

“What?”

“You’re driving me crazy.”

“How?”

chan — 'she even loves the music that my band makes'

The couch at the studio has a permanent dent in the cushions from where you always slouched. You didn’t plan on becoming a fixture there — it just happened. His late nights turned into your late nights, his takeout orders became your takeout orders, and when you fell asleep for the first time waiting for him to finish editing, the studio stopped feeling like his workplace and started feeling like yours too.

At first, it was just weekend visits. dropping off lunch, then lingering a while till he finished up. Then the weeknights where you’d wait past midnight, because going home alone felt lonely and wrong when he was still working.

2racha—changbin and jisung— stopped asking why you were there (han occasionally slept on the other side of the couch anyway). Even the security guard waved you through without checking your badge.

Tonight was no different. You were curled under his hoodie, half watching some reality show on your laptop while Chan tweaked a vocal track for the third hour straight.

an intern had arrived an hour ago, all bright laughter and eager questions. You didn’t mind at first, Chan was patient with newbies, always explaining things twice if needed. But then her chair inched closer to his. Then she started getting touchy when it wasn't necessary.

Chan didn’t even look her way, just leaned back in his chair, occasionally putting space between them. You watched from the couch, the laptop screen long forgotten.

Then she asked the question, voice pitched too high, “So, are you single, or…?”

You held your breath without meaning to. chan’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Then he turned his head, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth twitched, jerking his thumb to your direction, “I’m married, actually,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The intern’s face froze. Her gaze darted to you, then back to Chan, like she was trying to reconcile the idea of him belonging to someone with the fact that you were just… there. Quiet, half buried in his hoodie.

Chan didn’t wait for her to recover. He tapped his wedding band against the edge of his laptop and nodded toward the door. “that's a wrap for today, you should head out. It’s late.”

minho — 'you got me trippin' in finesse'

you've learned to read Minho's body like a second language, he's a dancer after all. You know his tells before he even speaks.

the way his shoulders relax when he’s finally nailed a routine, the quick tap of his fingers against his thigh when he’s impatient, the slight tilt of his head when he’s watching someone else move. It’s all punctuation in a conversation you’ve been having for months without saying a word.

You met at a studio mixer last summer, back when you were still just the barback for the afterparty, refilling drinks and dodging sweaty elbows. He’d been the one to notice you first, initiating a conversation with you over the counter.

Later, when the music switched to something slow and sultry, he’d pulled you onto the dance floor without asking, and you hadn’t protested.

Minho isn’t the type to flaunt things, though. He keeps his private life private, and you respect that, just a quiet understanding that some things don’t need an audience.

right now, you’re leaning against the doorway of studio 3, watching him run through a new routine with the team. Sweat glinting at his temples as he mirrors the others. You’ve seen this drill a hundred times, but it never gets old.

The music cuts abruptly mid step, and Minho’s gaze snaps toward the sound system — only to land on you instead. his expression turns into a soft smile, and you grin right back at him, raising your water bottle in a silent greeting.

One of the newer dancers, a woman with her hair tied in a tight topknot, follows his line of sight and raises an eyebrow.

Topknot leans into his space as he adjusts the music, her elbow brushing his arm. “You always this serious during practice?” she asks, he doesn’t look up from the playlist, just shrugs one shoulder.

Undeterred, she adds, “Bet you’re fun outside the studio, though. You ever take anyone out after hours?”

Minho’s fingers pause over the soundboard for half a second before he taps the play button again, letting the music swell back to life. He doesn’t answer her, just steps away to reset his position in the center of the room.

But topknot doesn't get a hint, it seems. She sidles closer, her voice dropping. “Come on, do you have a girlfriend or something?” She flicks her eyes toward you, still leaning in the doorway, and adds, “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You take a slow sip of your water. He’s never been one to entertain this kind of thing — not because he’s rude, but because he doesn’t see the point in feeding into games.

Still, you can tell the moment he decides to shut it down. He turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“nah,” he says, loud enough for the room to hear. “I already have someone.”

Topknot blinks, then laughs, like she thinks he’s joking. “Yeah? Where are they, then?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his chin toward you, and the smirk he’s been holding back finally breaks through. “Right there.”

changbin — 'guy.exe: 6 5'6 feet tall and super strong'

a matte black dumbbell rolled from Changbin’s grip and thudded against the rubber gym floor. He’d been at it for two hours— shoulders, back, arms, a relentless workout that left his top sticking to his skin in abstract patches of sweat. You watched from the bench near the water cooler, half hidden behind your phone, pretending to scroll while stealing glances at the way his muscles flexed under the lights.

Three years together, and the sight of him still made your pulse skip.

The gym was mostly empty, mid afternoon lull, just a few die hards and the staff wiping down machines. You’d come straight from work, still in your office slacks, your hair barely holding onto its ponytail. Changbin had texted earlier with a come keep me company and a winking emoji. who were you to turn down an excuse to watch your boyfriend work out?

A woman, early twenties, in one of those matching pink gym sets, hovered near Changbin’s bench while he adjusted the weight rack. You caught the tail end of her question, something about his deadlift form, but then she made her move. "Damn tho, you’re built like a god. Single?"

Changbin snorted, wiping his forearm across his forehead.. "Do I look single?" he said, shaking his head like the idea was ridiculous. Then, without hesitation, he tilted his chin toward you standing a few feet away, there, and grinned. "That’s my girl."

The woman followed his gaze, blinking at you like she’d only just noticed the water cooler, the benches, the entire half of the gym you occupied. You raised your hand in a half wave. "Sorry," he added, not sounding sorry at all.

You expected her to leave, but she just smirked, propping a hand on her waist. "Lucky girl," she said, loud enough for you to hear. then, to Changbin "You ever wanna trade up, you know where to find me." yikes.

Changbin’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrows did a little jump, He shot you a look—girl you seein' this?—before shrugging. "Nah," he said, casual as anything. "I’m good." He moved towards you and planted a kiss on your cheek, "Better than good."

hyunjin — 'hopelessly devoted to you'

You and Hyunjin had been neighbors in that crumbling apartment complex where the pipes groaned louder than the tenants, and your first real conversation happened because he'd left his studio door ajar.

The scent of paint had pulled you in like a lure, and there he was, sleeves rolled up, forearms smeared with charcoal, halfway through painting something that looked like a storm given human form. and you were mesmerized.

By the time you started dating, you'd learned to love the mess of him — the way his hair stuck up in every direction after hours of working, the paint streaks on his jeans, the fact that he'd forget to eat unless you nudged a takeout container into his line of sight. He balanced his chaotic creativity with a quiet steadiness that surprised you.

his art thrived on bold strokes and screaming colors, his love language was more subtle, warming your cold fingers between his palms, humming off key to your favorite songs while he cooked food for you, tracing the curve of your shoulder blade when he thought you were asleep.

The gallery showing was his first major one. You'd watched him prepare for weeks. frames piling up near the door, muttered debates about lighting choices at 3 am. When the invitations finally arrived, he'd handed yours over, "You don't have to come," he'd said, but you knew he wanted you to be there.

You'd kissed the worry from his forehead and tucked the invitation into your wallet, where it stayed until the corners softened from handling.

Now, standing near a table with a champagne flute you hadn't touched, you watched him work the room. Hyunjin moved through the crowd like water, slipping effortlessly between conversations without ever seeming anchored to any one group.

His laugh carried over the murmur of guests, and you felt that familiar warmth curl behind your ribs. This was his element, even if he'd never admit it. The way people leaned in when he spoke, how their eyes flicked toward his hands when he gestured — he commanded attention without trying, and you loved him most like this, alive with his passion.

The girl approaching him now had been circling for a while. You'd noticed her earlier, lingering near his largest piece, her head tilted in a way that suggested admiration.

When she touched Hyunjin's elbow, you saw him startle slightly before turning with that polite smile he reserved for strangers.

You couldn't hear them over the gallery's din, but her body language was clear. fingers tucking hair behind her ear, the slight lean forward. Hyunjin nodded along, hands stuffed in his pockets, already scanning the room for an exit.

You didn’t move, not yet anyway, because part of you wanted to see how he’d handle it.

That’s when he saw you. His eyes flicked over her shoulder, and something in his face shifted, relief.

You stood from the table, weaving through the crowd, the girl hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy tilting her chin up at him, one hand now resting on her collarbone.

“...really think we should discuss your technique, over some coffee?” she was saying as you slid into place beside him, close enough that your hip brushed his.

Hyunjin exhaled, barely audible, as you laced your fingers through his. His palm was warm, slightly damp from nerves, and you squeezed once, “Oh, he’d love that,” you said, sweetly. The girl blinked, her smile freezing as you added, “I’ll come too, I’m his girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked towards him. “she's my muse.”

jisung — 'everywhere I go I keep her picture in my wallet'

"Jisung." You poked his shoulder with your socked foot from where you were sprawled across the couch. "I will perish."

He didn’t look up from his phone, thumb scrolling lazily. "Dramatic."

"No, listen—" You rolled onto your stomach, pressing your cheek against the cushions. "My stomach is eating itself."

This time, he glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You just ate two hours ago."

"Snacks aren’t food," you said gravely.

Jisung sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. "Fine," he said, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. "But if I'm going out in the middle of the night, you're eating the weird gummy worms I pick out."

You grinned, kicking your legs against the couch cushions. "Deal."

The convenience store felt both too bright and eerily empty at 1 AM. Jisung grabbed a basket, tossing in the usual suspects, chips, chocolate, those inexplicably neon gummy worms, and went over to the counter to pay when the cashier leaned over the counter. "You again," she said, grinning. "Third time this week."

Jisung blinked, setting the basket on the counter "Uh, yeah."

she picked up the contents, scanning each one as she went on. "I mean, you could be here for the snacks or whatever ," she said, waving a hand, "or you could admit you keep showing up for the ambiance." Her grin widened. "And by ambiance, I mean me."

jisungs mouth gaped, "Oh no, no, I'm—Married. Very, extremely married." then he pulled out his wallet, flipping it to the clear plastic sleeve where a polaroid of both of you rested. one where you were kissing his cheek and he had a big, wide grin on his face, then pulled out his card to pay.

she blinked, her grin faltering for half a second before she leaned back, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalances as she took the card from his hand "Damn," she said, clicking her tongue. "Figures the cute ones are always taken."

The apartment was dark when he got back, you were still in your spot on the couch, waiting impatiently for him. "Finally"

Jisung let the door slam shut behind him, you barely had time to process the dramatic thud before he was crossing the room in three long strides, arms outstretched, the plastic bag dangling from one hand.

He crashed into you with the force of a man who’d just survived a warzone, his face buried in the crook of your neck before you could even ask what was wrong. “I got hit on,” he mumbled into your skin, voice muffled.

You blinked, arms frozen mid-air around him, the crinkling snack bag pressed awkwardly between your ribs. “...By who?”

“The cashier,” he hissed, His cheeks were still flushed, the tips of his ears pink like he’d sprinted home instead of walked. “you’re coming with me next time. No. More. Solo. Snack. Runs.”

felix — 'the perfect pair'

the first time Felix walked into the community kitchen, he nearly dropped an entire tray of freshly chopped carrots.

You'd been there six months already — long enough to know that the dented metal tray was older than both of you combined, and that the carrots were destined for a stew that would feed sixty. You lunged without thinking, catching the edge just as it tipped, fingertips brushing against his.

"Thanks," he said, his sleeves were already rolled up past his elbows, "I swear I'm usually better at carrying things."

Felix still drops things sometimes, never the carrots again, but last month it was a spoonful of cinnamon that poofed into a cloud across the counter. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, and he grinned like he'd meant to do it, like every little accident was just an excuse to hear you laugh.

Now, twelve months deep into this rhythm — Saturday mornings at the kitchen, Sunday afternoons tangled in his double bed, it's your little routine now.

This morning, he's leaning against the fridge, peeling labels off donated jam jars while humming off key. "Mrs. eom asked if we're doing the pumpkin soup again," he says, glancing at you. "Told her we'd have to check with the boss." He winks. You're not the boss. There is no boss. But this is Felix's favorite joke, his way of stitching you into the center of his stories, even when you're just scrubbing pans in the corner.

this new volunteer has been hovering around him all morning. You recognize the tilt of her head, she keeps finding reasons to step into his space, keeps finding reasons to strike up conversations, and he's too kind to turn her down on the get go.

she might've mistaked his kindness for something else though.

He's handing her a knife to chop chilis when she "accidentally" grazes his wrist. "You're always so patient with everyone," she says, he replies with a simple "thank you", polite as ever, but you could tell he was uncomfortable.

You don't move. Because Felix is already walking over to your station, he bumps his forehead lightly against your temple "Rescue me," he murmurs into your hair, and you can feel her stare burning holes in your back.

"Tell her yourself," you whisper, amused. you're already reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Felix exhales, relieved, before turning back to her with that easy smile.

"Oh! Almost forgot," he says brightly "This is my favorite person. The reason I never miss a Saturday."

And just like that, the room tilts back into place, Felix glowing like always, you beside him, and the quiet understanding that some things, like this kitchen, like his hand in yours, aren't up for grabs.

seungmin — 'I'd risk it all for you '

stadium lights blazed down, bright enough as if the sun was still up, turning the sweat on Seungmin’s skin into glitter. He wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing a streak of infield dirt in the process, and grinned at the roar of the crowd still thrumming through the stands. The mic in his hand was warm from being passed around, and the interviewer, was standing just a little too close. Her perfume was floral, aggressive.

"Kim Seungmin," she said, "Another incredible performance tonight. That last play — were you trying to give your fans a heart attack?"

Seungmin laughed, easy and practiced, the sound swallowed up by the noise around them. "Nah, just wanted to keep things interesting." He shrugged, adjusting the cap perched on his damp hair. The fabric of his jersey clung to his shoulders, heavy with sweat and adrenaline.

"Interesting is one word for it." She tilted her head, leaning in enough that the mic brushed his chest. "You’ve been on a hot streak this season. What’s driving you?"

Seungmin exhaled through his nose, a quick, amused breath. "Same thing as always," he said, gaze drifting past the interviewer's shoulder toward the stands. "Love of the game."

"That’s it? Just pure passion? No special someone in the stands tonight?"

Seungmin let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil — then, he spoke again, "Actually," he said slowly, "yeah. My girlfriend’s here."

The interviewer blinked. The mic slipped a fraction in her grip.

The crowd erupted, a collective 'ohhh' rippling through the stands. Somewhere in the noise, someone wolf whistled. Seungmin didn’t react, just kept that easy, knowing smile, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

"we've been together since college," he continued, voice carrying effortlessly over the din. The interviewer recovered quickly, professionalism snapping back into place, but her grip on the mic was tighter now.

“That’s sweet,” she said, and it wasn’t insincere, “Care to share more? The fans would love to hear.”

Seungmin’s gaze flicked back to where you were sitting — third baseline, five rows up, right where you always were, and his expression softened. “She hates when I talk about her in interviews,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “But she’s the reason I don’t overthink pitches. And the reason I do stretch before games.”

The interviewer opened her mouth, probably to pivot back to safer baseball territory, but the cameraman beat her to it, swinging the lens abruptly toward the stands. The stadium screen flickered, then locked onto your face, blown up fifty feet tall for thirty thousand people to see.

Your lips parted in surprise, the nacho you’d been mid bite hovering forgotten in your hand. Seungmin’s chuckle echoed through the speakers, "There she is,"

A nearby fan elbowed you, grinning. "Girl, you’re famous now!" she stage whispered. Your cheeks burned, but you managed a small wave at the camera, awkward, The crowd ate it up, cooed like it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen.

On screen, Seungmin’s smile went crooked, like he was trying not to laugh at you. "See?" he told the interviewer, nodding toward the screen. "Told you she hates this." The mic caught the rasp in his voice, the one that only showed up when he was tired or fond. Tonight, it was both.

Jeongin — 'love struck girl, I'd tease her.'

"You would pick the one night we’re out of ice cream to confess you like me," Jeongin had said that night two years ago, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. He’d been holding a half melted pint of strawberry between you like a peace offering, or maybe a shield.

The confession had been an accident, words slipping out during one of those aimless midnight drives where the radio played nothing but old love songs and static.

You’d blamed the music, blamed the summer heat, blamed the way he’d drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

But Jeongin, ever meticulous, had pulled into the nearest convenience store parking lot, then returned with the ice cream as if that solved anything. but it only got that confession out of you that was begging to crawl out of your throat days prior.

Now, standing in the crowded glow of your friends apartment, you watch Jeongin from across the room. He’s holding a drink he hasn’t sipped yet, nodding as some woman you don’t recognize — a friend of a friend, probably — talks animatedly about something.

The way she gestures tells you it’s a story, not small talk. Jeongin’s always been a good listener, the kind who leans in just enough to make people feel heard, but tonight there’s a stiffness in his shoulders you recognize.

Hyunjin bumps your elbow with a fresh beer. "You’re staring," he sing songs under his breath.

You take the bottle without looking. "I’m observing."

"Same thing." He follows your gaze, then snorts. "Oh, her. She’s new. Felix invited her. Something about crypto startups? I tuned out after 'blockchain.'"

The woman— crypto girl —leans closer to Jeongin, her hand brushing his sleeve as she laughs. You don’t move. Jeongin’s fingers twitch against his glass, then still.

Then, clear across the room "So… are you single?"

Hyunjin chokes on his drink.

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. For a second, he looks like he might laugh it off, might deflect like he used to when strangers flirted with him at bars back when you were just friends. But then his gaze flicks to you and his posture shifts.

"No," he says, quieter than usual. "I’m engaged."

Crypto girl’s eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I wouldn’t have guessed."

Before she can say more, you’re crossing the room, setting your beer down on the table beside Jeongin with a clink. "What wouldn’t you have guessed?" you ask, voice light.

Jeongin exhales, something close to relief. His fingers find yours without hesitation "That I’m taken," he says, squeezing your hand.

Crypto girl’s smile falters. "Ah. My bad." She retreats with a half hearted salute, already scanning the room for someone else to talk to.

Jeongin watches her go, then turns to you, sheepish. "Sorry."

"You’re apologizing for existing attractively now?" you tease, bumping his shoulder.

He rolls his eyes, but his thumb traces circles over your knuckles. "Shut up."

a/n: I hope at least one person gets all the lyrical references I made in this or I might just cry

The snowy mountains come into focus as you’re riding in the passenger seat of Minho’s car. The car radio is playing some old indie rock band you like, and the windows are cracked slightly to let a cool breeze in. You look over at Minho, his blonde strands of hair swaying underneath his beanie, and everything feels much better than it did a week ago.

Because a week ago, you found out your boyfriend was cheating on you. A week before Valentine’s Day. You’d been with him for a couple of years, and even considered moving in together, until you found out. It shattered you, of course it did, but one phone call later your best friend was at your doorstep with pudding and tissues to console you.

Minho was always there for you. From grade school to college to now, there was never a doubt in your mind that if you needed him, he’d come. Even when the two of you were in relationships, you took the space you needed out of respect for your partners but always made an effort to hang out every once in a while. Your ex didn’t like him, said he was cold and made bad jokes. But that’s just Minho.

He looks over at you and turns the radio down. Your temple is pressed to the glass and you’re staring blankly at the passing trees.

“You okay?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Yeah,” you let out with a sigh, looking over to him and cracking a shy smile. “I’m just excited for this weekend.” He reaches over to grab your hand and give it a light squeeze. 

His presence alone has been your sole source of comfort the past week, coming over after work almost daily with takeout in hand and a box of tissues. Most of the time you don’t really talk, you just sit together on the couch and watch movies until you’re ready to go to sleep.

“Try not to think about it too much, yeah?” he says, grabbing your coffee from the cup holder and handing it to you. You smile at him, his kindness always catching you off guard but never taken for granted by you. The little things matter, you think to yourself.

The car pulls down a dirt road and you drive a couple of miles before reaching the cabin. It’s a quaint log cabin, with a good size deck and a cozy fireplace. It’s older, but charming and cozy. Plus, the owners just installed a hot tub on the back deck with a beautiful view of the snowy mountains. You told Minho the hot tub was non-negotiable, and he complied.

You step into the cozy atmosphere, the lights flickering on as you take in the space. It’s really small. Which is what you get when you book a trip during Valentine’s Day weekend with only a couple days notice. Your eyes flick from the kitchen to the small sofa, up to the loft overhead where you see the bed taking up most of the space up there.

“Minho, where am I sleeping?” You ask him as you realize there’s no way there’s another bedroom in this cabin.

“You can sleep upstairs, I’ll take the couch,” he says smiling as he lugs your duffel bag over his head to put in the loft.

“Minho, you’re taking me on this trip, at least take the bed,” you complain to him. That sofa fits maybe two people, and you know it’ll kill his neck if he’s on it all weekend. “I’m small enough to fit on that tiny ass couch anyway.”

“We can switch off, just take it tonight and I’ll take it tomorrow.” He squeezes your shoulders and smiles, as he continues to lug his bag and some groceries in. You offer to help, but of course, he declines and tells you to lay out on the couch. You pull out your phone for some doom scrolling, but sure enough the tiny letters at the top say “No Signal”. He knew if you had internet access you’d spend all weekend obsessing over what your ex was doing, who he was doing it with. 

Minho finishes unpacking his things into the kitchen and storage chest in the living area and settles down with you on the couch. You lean your head on his shoulder and he lets out a sigh. “Thank you for doing this for me,” you say quietly once the silence started getting comfortable.

“That’s what friends are for,” he says back, planting a kiss on the top of your head. This kind of physical affection was nothing new to the two of you, often getting mistaken for being a couple in public. You never corrected anyone, but it made you giggle a little bit. You showed it much less if either of you were in relationships, but became a lot touchier if you were sad. It always made you feel better knowing he’d never shy away from you when you really needed it. 

As the sky started to darken, and you both had comfortably showered and settled into pjs, Minho got started on dinner. Bulgogi and rice with a side of cucumber salad, one of your comfort meals. He was an incredible cook, he knew how to make everything taste perfect and timed everything so it all came out the perfect temperature when it was time to eat.

You followed him like a puppy, hovering over him and resting your chin on his shoulder. He moved around you with ease, sometimes moving you out of the way so he didn’t hit you as he turned. You tried to sneak a few bites in, but he always smacked your hand out of the way. 

“Ay, not yet!” he said as he playfully shooed you away. You whined a bit, but moved to the other side of the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and pour into glasses for each of you.

The air shifts when you sit down to eat. He knows what’s on your mind, and he tries to talk about your plans for the weekend to distract you. It helps some, until you stop talking and it feels even more awkward. 

“You deserve much, much better than whatever that guy had to offer,” he mentions, like he already knows your mind has slipped back into thinking of your ex. You realize how little time you’ve spent with Minho the past few years, and you feel a tinge of guilt.

“I’m sorry I haven’t really tried to see you,” you say apologetically. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m just using you because I’m lonely or something.”

“Don’t apologize, I know how it is. Plus, that guy hated me,” he lets out a laugh. “I’m surprised I got to see you at all. I’m just glad we’re here now.” You admire the way he’s able to say things so matter-of-factly, like nothing ever bothers him. You intend to adopt his mindset for the weekend, and maybe even the foreseeable future.

You help Minho clean up dinner and when you start to settle again, he leans close to you and whispers, “Last one in the hot tub has to make breakfast.”  You let out a gasp and run up to the loft to change into a bathing suit, and he sprints to the bathroom. He always has a trick up his sleeve.

You meet at the glass door that leads to the deck and you both stop to look outside. It’s freezing, and the hot tub is at least 20 feet across the deck. You turn to him and you both smile, lunging for the door handle at the same time. You were not losing this.

You’re both shoving each other as your bare feet patter on the wood deck. He reaches the steps before you do, and you tug his swim shorts down and slip past him before he can make it in.

“Ya! That’s so unfair,” he laughs, splashing water at you as he pulls his shorts back up and sits down.

“C’mon, you know you don’t want my burnt ass eggs in the morning,” you sputter out, laughing with him.

He relaxes in the seat next to you, your thighs brushing his. You slouch a bit to get as much of your body in the warm, bubbly water as possible. It’s incredibly relaxing, your shoulders feeling looser already as you look up at all the stars in the sky and just exist alongside him.

Minho lets out a long sigh next to you. “You know, I think I really needed this too,” he says. You tilt your head to face him and study his expression. He looks relaxed, but like there’s something he’s not telling you. 

“Trouble in paradise?” you ask him, referring to his own relationship. He and his girlfriend have been on again off again for what feels like a decade at this point. 

“Uh…I’ve been single for about six months now,” he says. You jerk your head up, and your jaw drops. Six months? Has it really been that long since you last spoke?

“Minho! Why didn’t you tell me?” you exclaim, giving him a playful slap to the shoulder. “I would’ve been there for you!”

“It’s fine, I’m over it now. I had a lot of things to think through on my own.” He’s holding eye contact with you, and you scan his face for any sign he might be lying. He’s so damn hard to read, always making it seem like he’s okay even when he isn’t.

“Still, I’m sorry to hear about it. I…liked her.”

“Liar.”

“No, seriously, she was…nice.”

“You groaned the last time we got back together.”

“I just didn’t like how you kept going back to her.” Your voice is softer now, like you didn’t want him to fully hear you. “Like she’d dump you, and then come running back and apologize like it made up for all the hurt she caused. She didn’t deserve you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. He rests his elbow on the edge of the tub to fully face you, and his hand comes up to trace circles on your shoulder. He takes a deep breath like he’s nervous for what he’s about to say next.

“She tried calling me a few weeks ago. I didn’t answer. I think I’ve been done for a long time now, I just needed some clarity.” He’s smiling now, and you can tell a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

“As long as you’re happy, that’s all I care about,” you smile back at him. He scoots closer to pull you into a hug, and you feel yourself relax even further into him. His shoulders feel firmer than the last time you saw each other. He even dyed his hair blonde. You wonder if anything else has changed about him, too. 

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” he whispers to you, and for the first time all week, you feel like everything will be okay.

You wake up to the smell of eggs, not burning, and fresh coffee being made below you. The loft setup was neat, you could look straight through the massive windows and see the mountains towering over the cabin, or lean against the railing and watch Minho cooking. This morning you chose the latter.

He was humming to himself and dancing a bit, swaying his hips and moving his shoulders to whatever rhythm was in his head. You liked watching him being his goofy self, not a care in the world, despite the heavier conversations you’ve had recently.

“Don’t burn the eggs,” you call down, still groggy from sleep. He looks up at you, his startled expression turning into a smile.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he chirps, ears turning red at the fact that you probably caught him dancing. “Breakfast is ready.”

You gather yourself, brush your teeth, and throw on warmer clothes before going downstairs. The food is warm and delicious, and you’re silently glad to be taken care of. Minho is always so attentive, and it’s nice being the one taken care of for a change.

“What’s the plan for today?” you ask him, stuffing your mouth with eggs.

He responds with a shrug. “Whatever you want to do!” For being such a good planner, he was still willing to let loose and go with the flow. You appreciated him for not coming up with any kind of strict schedule for the two of you.

You both settled on going for a morning walk in town before skiing at the local resort. The town was a quaint ski town, with lots of tourists during the winter months. The shops were older, Tudor-style buildings nestled in the low valley between the mountains. A light layer of snow coated the buildings, and the atmosphere was calm despite there being more people than usual.

The two of you just strolled around, making your way through some of the shops. It started getting crowded in the late morning, so Minho suggested taking a stroll through the park. It being the middle of winter, the paths were clear of people and only a light layer of snow on the ground. 

“This is nice,” you say quietly, referring to the quiet environment and the surrounding park. In the springtime, the gardens bloomed and the sun shone brightly on the area. But it was still nice, even without the flowers' pretty colors.

Minho stopped at a rose bush on the side of the path. The roses had a dusting of snow on them, and you were curious how they had survived so long. He reached his hand out and plucked one of the stems with a red rose attached to it. He twirled it between his fingers, and gently handed it to you.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, careful to avoid the thorns as you took the rose from him.

“Delicate yet strong. Like you,” he said nonchalantly, flashing you a smile. You stopped in your tracks for a moment while he kept walking forward. It was such a small gesture, but it meant so much. He still saw you as someone with a lot of strength, despite how broken you’ve felt lately. Minho was good at that.

He kept walking forward as you trailed a few paces behind him. Towards the end of the path he stopped suddenly, turning toward you with wide eyes.

“Do you hear that?” he asked. You shook your head.

He crept closer to the bushes and crouched down. You crouched down with him, unsure of what you were supposed to be looking at. A few moments later a grey tabby cat emerged, and slowly walked towards you two. Minho dipped into his pocket and pulled out a Churu packet, opening it and beckoning the cat closer.

“You just…have those with you?” you asked, puzzled.

“I like making friends with them,” he said, as the cat brushed up against his leg and started eating the treat. Minho the cat whisperer, you thought to yourself. It was endearing seeing him care for such an innocent creature. He scratched the cat's head, cooing at it lovingly. You just looked at him, a wide grin on his face, completely in his element. 

And suddenly, you realize this is all you ever wanted. A calm, quiet kind of love. Not one that sneaks up on you, but one that was always there.

You’re standing at the top of the snowy hill, dressed in snow gear from head to toe, skis strapped to your feet and poles in hand. You look over at Minho while he’s strapping his snowboard to his boots.

“Ready?” He asks, fastening his helmet to his head. You were not ready. You’ve gone skiing a couple of times in your life, but you always forgot how to do anything the second you found yourself back on the hill. 

You shake your head at him, slightly terrified, but mostly excited. “Just remember, pizza!” He says, referring to the position he taught you for slowing down.

“Are you sure this is a beginner hill?” you say to him, questioning your choices.

“Define beginner,” he laughs back.

“Minho!” “I’m kidding! Look, there's a 6-year-old who can do this hill. You’ll be fine. I’m right behind you.”

That makes you feel slightly better, but you take a deep breath and head down the hill anyway. You want this weekend to be fun for both of you.

It only takes a second for muscle memory to kick in, and then you’re moving down the slope with ease. You’re on the side of the hill, away from all the people, and you’re calling back to Minho about how much fun you’re having. You catch a glimpse of him gliding down the hill on his snowboard, snow kicking up with every graceful movement, hips moving effortlessly as he maneuvers around people. You can’t help but smile to yourself, he looks so happy.

You both go up and down the hill for a couple of hours before you begin to tire. “One more, then lunch?” Minho says to you on the ski lift. Right when you nod your head to agree, you see him wince as he stretches his neck and shoulders.

“Minho, if the couch is killing your back, let me sleep on it tonight,” you say, rubbing his shoulder. You could tell his shoulder was bothering him, and you could only imagine how his back was feeling after a day of snowboarding as well.

“I’m fine,” he says assuringly. “Truly, I want you to be comfortable. It’s only a couple of nights.” He’s so damn stubborn. You roll your eyes, but you know when his mind is set on something, it’s hard to change it. 

You slide off the ski lift for the last time and start to head down the hill, Minho trailing not far behind. The day stayed mostly overcast, but the trees and mountains against the clouds were beautiful. You glide down the hill with ease, slowing to watch as people learn to ski and snowboard. Everyone seemed so happy.

You don’t notice the rock hiding at the edge of the tree line until you crash into it, losing your balance, and faceplant into the snow. You roll a couple of times, but luckily you were towards the end and there wasn’t much hill left to tumble down. The snow stings your face, and you feel a brutal pain in your shoulder as you come to realize what just happened.

Minho screams your name as he rushes over to help. “Shit, are you okay?” he asks as he frantically unstraps himself from his board and kneels beside you. 

You’re able to roll over on your back, letting out a groan as the pain throughout your body starts to hit. You’re positive there will be bruises on your ribs when you wake up tomorrow. He helps you up, takes off your skis, and supports you as you step out of them. Your legs feel fine, but your upper body aches. He drapes one of your arms over his shoulder and holds your waist firmly as he walks you over to the medic tent.

“I’m okay, really, I promise,” you say to the staff member as he’s checking you out. You’re definitely in pain, and Minho is certainly not convinced.

“It’s just a precaution, to make sure you have no concussion or broken bones,” the staff member says to you as he feels around your ribs. Minho’s holding your hand, tracing small circles with his thumb, watching you intently. You have a feeling that it’s more for him than it is for you, but you still enjoy the comfort, especially with someone poking at all the places that hurt.

“Nothing’s broken or bleeding, but you’ll definitely have some nasty bruises in the morning,” the medic says to you. “A warm bath and ice for any swelling, and go to the hospital if anything gets worse.” You nod your head at him and put your jacket back on, and Minho helps you out of the tent.

“Minho, I can walk just fine,” you laugh as he’s still holding you up by your waist, walking you back to the car. He makes eye contact for a moment, and you study his face. He’s flushed, no doubt from the cold and exercise, and his hair is messy from the helmet. A look of worry is plastered on his face, but he lets you go gently. 

You walk on your own back to the car, but he still helps you into your seat and buckles you in. You stop protesting so much. He likes being helpful, and he’s clearly worried about you, no matter how much you assure him that you’re fine.

The caretaking doesn’t stop back at the cabin, either. Not that you expected it to, or even wanted it to. It was nice having him fawn over you. It made you feel loved in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. He helps you inside the house and sits you down in a chair to help you take off your boots and winter gear. He walks you into the bathroom and starts a bath for you, and gently tugs on your shirt to lift it over your head. Your hand reacts before your brain can catch up, stopping him.

“Let me take a look,” he says gently, scanning your face for any sign of discomfort. He’s seen you shirtless countless times, for years now, in swimsuits where you’re wearing much less clothing. This, however, feels more intimate. You nod your head at him, letting him take your shirt off and inspect your torso.

A bright red splotch crawls up your side, already starting to turn purple around your ribs. You hiss at the contact, his hands still cold from outside.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, moving your shirt to the counter. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes, but it’s fine, your hands are just cold,” you say, laughing a bit at how apologetic he is.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?”

“My shoulder, I think I landed on it funny.”

“Yeah, the judges gave it a 6/10.” You smack him at that one.

“I’m serious, it hurts.” You whine, and he moves your hair and shifts to your right to get a closer look.

“It’s red, and it’ll probably bruise tomorrow. Good thing you’re taking the bed!” He smiles at you like he’s won the argument you’ve been having the whole weekend. You roll your eyes at him, but you can’t disagree.

“We can share, okay? No more bad shoulders for us, we only have 2/4 left,” you tell him, trying to be stern. He raises his eyebrow at you.

“If you wanted to get me into bed, you should’ve just asked—”

“Get out!” You smack him playfully, and he holds his hands up in surrender as you shoo him out of the room.

The bath is nice and the warm, bubbly water eases a lot of the pain you just endured. Your mind wanders to the events of the last few hours, how everything happened. How Minho’s face looked when you fell. How he held you up, how he held your hand, how he touched your skin, how close he got to your face. You feel your heart beating faster when you snap out of it and climb out of the tub. 

Minho already has dinner made when you get out. A nice hearty soup, it’s warm and smells heavenly. You both sit at the table, your hair’s still wet from the bath and he’s still in his ski clothes.

“Thank you,” you say as you sip on the soup. Minho’s the best cook you know, and you’re thankful that he’s the one taking charge in the kitchen.

After dinner is cleaned up, he showers, changes into comfy clothes, and pours you both a glass of wine to help you wind down from the day. You’re playing cards at the coffee table by the fireplace and just chatting away.

“My mom called, says she misses you,” he says gently.

“Tell her I miss her too, and now hopefully I can come and see her now that…” you say, trying not to mention your ex. You realize it’s the first time you’ve really thought about him all day. And the first time it doesn’t make you sad.

He looks at you with sorrow in his eyes. You gently place your hand on his, and look at him to say, “I’m okay, I promise. I’ve been having so much fun I haven’t even thought about him until just now.”

“That’s good. You already know you deserve better,” he says, placing his other hand on yours.

“I know,” you nod. “You too.”

The bathroom sink lights flicker slightly while you change into your pjs. You can’t stand wearing pants to bed, no matter how cold it is outside. The big t-shirt you wear hides not much more than your butt, hitting right along your middle thigh.

Minho’s lying on the couch when you come out. “I don’t think so, mister,” you say to him sternly. He looks at you, smirk on his face, and you gesture to the loft above.

“Fine, but you’re a space heater in your sleep, stay on your side of the bed,” he says back, rolling his eyes.

You get situated on the inside of the bed closest to the railing, and Minho climbs in after you. He breathes out a sigh of relief, feeling exhausted after a long ass day. Your heart starts racing as you both lie there, inches apart.

“Goodnight,” you say, turning to him.

“Goodnight, sweet dreams,” he says back to you. An eerie quiet falls over the cabin. It’s pitch black save for the bit of moonlight that peeks through the trees, and you can hear his breathing as it steadies.

You move your hand ever so slightly until you feel his, and just hold it there. He laces his fingers between yours and you can feel your pulse quicken, and your breath getting shaky. Neither of you moves or speaks, and once the nerves die down you quickly drift off to sleep.

You jolt awake in the middle of the night, absolutely freezing despite being under several layers of blankets. You sit up to try and investigate, but your bruised torso starts aching when you try. Minho stirs beside you as you let out a low groan.

“Minho,” you whisper, trying not to startle him. It doesn’t work, and he’s still fast asleep. You resort to nudging him with your foot.

“Ay!” he lets out as he jolts awake. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He immediately comes to and leans over to look at you.

“Uh…it’s just really cold in here,” you whisper, putting your cold foot on his leg.

“Jesus, your feet are cold. Let me see what’s wrong with the heat.” He gets up and throws his hoodie on, and heads downstairs to check it out. You hear him flick the lights on, but the room stays dark.

“Well, that’s probably why,” he says, laughing in disbelief. You lean over the edge of the railing and you see what he’s talking about. The snow outside is coming down hard. The wind is knocking the tree tops together, and you can only assume the whole town is without power.

Minho lets out a deep breath and heads over to the fireplace. He put out the fire hours ago, but the cabin is small enough that he’s hoping it’ll give you both at least a bit of heat upstairs. You watch as he takes firewood from the stack and kindles the fire. He starts the fire and makes sure the screen is tight and that there’s nothing that can easily catch in front of it. 

He comes back upstairs with an extra set of blankets and leans over the bed to throw one of them over you. You’re shivering, even under three layers of blankets, praying for warmth. 

The bed dips as he climbs back into it, and he snakes his arm under your head to pull you close, taking care not to put weight on your bad shoulder. Your head settles into his chest and you catch a whiff of his cologne, the smell of him makes your heart flutter. 

“What are you doing?” You whisper against him as he holds you tight. He rests his chin on the top of your head, letting out a deep breath. Surely he can feel your heart pounding out of your chest. 

“I’m keeping you warm,” he says simply, but you catch the faintest sense of nervousness in his voice. Your hand is on his side, and you slowly move it under the hem of his shirt. His skin is warm, and he hisses at the contact of your cold hand.

You pull back slightly to look up at him, your hand drifting across his abs. You didn’t notice that he had a six pack the other night in the hot tub, but your skin grows warmer as you trace every single muscle. His breathing gets shakier with every moment that passes, and he opens his eyes to look at you. 

His hand comes up from your back to move a stray strand of hair out of your face, and then rests gently cupping your jaw. You’re not sure what might happen, what it might mean, but you know that you want it. You want him.

You can’t stop staring at his lips. They’re perfectly plump, pink, and parted slightly so his front teeth peek out. He’s only inches from your face, and you bite your lip to refrain from babbling nonsense. You’re too nervous to make the first move, or to say anything really. 

You don’t have to say anything. He already knows by the way you’re looking at him, eyes full of want. He looks at you the same way. You’re holding your breath now in anticipation, waiting for him. He leans in slowly, scanning your face just before you touch, just in case you want to pull back. You respond by closing your eyes and he closes the gap. Your lips meet, and you exhale into him.

The kiss is tender, gentle in a way that’s precious. You’re only slightly stiff for a moment before relaxing into his touch, your lips moving in rhythm with his. It’s better than you could have ever dreamed of, and the only thing that matters is this moment right here, right now.

He pulls back for only a moment. “Jagiya,” he whispers. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Don’t stop,” you reply. 

The next kiss is hungrier, and his hand drifts down to your thigh, hiking it over his side. You grind into him on reflex and you can feel how hard he is beneath his sweatpants. You let out a moan into his mouth and he moves his hand to squeeze your ass, guiding you as you move against him.

You move your hand to his neck, deepening the kiss as your tongue meets his. He tastes delicious, and you move your hips harder and faster into him. He lets out a moan pulling you hard against him.

Your body feels like it’s on fire now, and you need more of him now. You feel your cunt throbbing against his length, and you tug his shirt up to take it off. He rolls you on your back gently, breaking the kiss to kneel above you to yank it off. He pulls up on the hem of your shirt next, and you sit up slightly to help him get you out of it.

The cold air hits you and your nipples harden immediately. He continues to kiss you, resting on his arm and moving his other hand to knead your breast. You moan at the contact and wrap your legs around his hips to bring him closer to the spot you’re on fire. His mouth moves down your jawline, leaving a trail of soft kisses. He gets to your neck and you lean your head to give him better access. He kisses and sucks on it gently, and your moans get louder and higher pitched. Everything is so much, and yet not enough. The friction between your legs causes a heat in your belly to pool, and you scratch at his back as his hips continue to roll into yours.

“Minho, please,” you whimper. “I need you.”

“Okay, jagiya. Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers against your skin. You nod your head frantically as you pull him back into another kiss.

He takes his hand from your chest and gently moves it down your body. You start to tremble, desperate to feel him between your legs. His fingers ghost against your core and you feel the wetness of your panties sticking to your folds. His mouth dips down to your chest as he licks across your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking gently. You gasp, and your hands fly to his hair, gripping slightly as he moves against you.

He brings his head up and moves his hand away from your heat, and you whimper at the loss. His hands come up and he takes two fingers into his mouth, wetting them gently. His hand comes back down, slips underneath your panties, and he sinks them into you.

“Fuck, Minho,” you gasp as he fucks into you slowly, lowering his head back down to your breast, sucking gently on your neglected nipple. “Oh my god, that feels so good.” He responds by humming against you, and you can’t help but buck into his touch.

“So needy,” he says as he pulls back, looking up at you. “Let me take my time with you, jagi.” You whine at him and pull him back into another kiss. He slips a third finger into you and your eyes roll back into your head, your stomach knotting as he picks up his speed.

His thumb makes contact with your clit and your muscles tighten, your whimpers louder and more erratic. “Not yet,” he whispers in your ear as he pulls his hand completely away from you. You’ve completely ruined your underwear at this point, the cool fabric sending a shock through you. He stands off the bed to tug them off of you, tossing them on the floor. He stares at you as he slowly unties his sweats, shimmying them off his hips and onto the floor. You watch as he drops his boxers next, his cock flinging out and against his stomach. He’s huge, and you whimper slightly at the thought of him stretching you out. 

He climbs back on top of you, kissing you again, and you grab onto his waist impatiently. He chuckles into your mouth.

“Are you sure?” he asks again. “I didn’t exactly bring a condom on a trip with my best friend.”

“Aw, I’m touched,” you say sarcastically. “Yes, god Minho please fuck me.” 

He slots himself between your legs and you wrap yours around his waist. He guides himself to your entrance and gently presses in. Only the head is inside and you’re already feeling stretched out. His forehead falls to yours, and you both moan in sync as he enters you. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans as he bottoms out. Your arms wrap around his back as he hovers above you, giving both of you time to adjust.

He starts to move and your stomach heats up again. He’s moving slowly but so deep, you can feel him hit your cervix with every thrust. You feel every drag of his length against his walls, the stretch of him feels so fucking good after all of the buildup.

He picks up the pace and kisses you again, fucking you harder into the mattress. He groans as he feels you squeeze around him. “Fuck, don’t do that, or I’m gonna come.” You do it again deliberately and he lets out a growl. 

He leans back and his hand moves to your clit, rubbing circles around it, applying just enough pressure to let the heat in your belly rise. Your body starts to tingle, and you feel your peak approaching fast. 

“Fuck, don’t stop, holy shit,” you gasp between his thrusts. He applies slightly more pressure, slamming his hips into you. The mattress squeaks loudly underneath you, the sound just barely audible over your moans.

“Minho—fuck, I’m gonna—“ you sputter out.

“It’s okay, come for me. I wanna feel you come around me, jagiya,” he coaxes you as he continues to drive into you, thumb moving fast over your nub.

That does it for you, and soon you're a shaking mess underneath him. Your orgasm crashes over you, and your skin feels electric, the warmth spreading throughout your body. 

“Jesus, I’m coming,” he says as he’s fucking you through your orgasm, finishing inside of you. You feel his cock spasm inside of you as you’re coming down from your high, and he grunts as he falls on top of you, careful to avoid your previous injuries.

“Fuck, jagi, baby, you’re incredible,” he pants, kissing you again. You’re smiling so wide now, kissing him back as he softens inside of you.

“That’s one way to warm up,” you laugh.

He pulls out of you, and you hiss at the contact, leaking all over the mattress. He grabs a towel and cleans you up, being gentle around your sensitive area. He helps you into a (thankfully fresh) pair of panties and his shirt, and he lies back down to pull you against his chest.

The quiet settles around you, still pitch black in the cabin, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s warm, comforting, and everything you’ve been missing.

“I’m an idiot,” he says softly. You raise an eyebrow at him, confused.

“Uh…you are, but why say that now?” you question.

“I spent the better part of a decade trying to make a relationship work, thinking that it would fill the weird emptiness I was feeling,” he starts, looking back at you. “Only to realize the person I wanted, the person I needed, was right in front of me.”

Your breath catches at his confession. “And…when did you realize that?” You pry. 

“About six months ago.” When he finally broke things off with his ex. “I was just waiting for her to realize it, too.” 

He looks back down at you, and you can’t hide the smile on your face. He kisses you again, slowly, and suddenly you realize why it never worked out with anybody else.

“I love you, if that wasn’t obvious,” he chuckles.

“I love you too,” you smile at him, resting into his chest.

This, him, everything, is exactly what you needed.

a/n: valentine’s day present is a bit late but it’s not really themed that way anyway haha. i feel like this was boring so pleaseee tell me if you enjoyed it! thank you to everyone who's shown me so much love these past few weeks, i'm hoping my writing is getting better hahaha ♡

“Yoongi,” you say so softly you think that he didn't hear you.

“I thought that was you when you walked out. Why are you out here alone?” He questioned you. The concern in his voice is evident. "Are you okay?"

Your phone beeped right as you were about to answer. You nodded your head sadly as your text message revealed what you already knew. “Hey sweets, went home with that hot guy from the bar. You're good to get home, right?” With a sigh, you reply with a thumbs up.

“My friend Lisa just ditched me. Happy birthday to me, I guess,” you say and give Yoongi a tight smile.

“It is your birthday, isn't it? Twenty-two now, right?” He asked with a smile on his face, and you just nodded your head in response. You feel the warmth of his body closer to you. When did he move closer? “Look at you all grown up now. ”

Min Yoongi didn't miss your birthday in the two years he was with your sister. He went out of his way to get you a cupcake and a little gift. He even lit a candle and made you make a wish. It was when you turned seventeen when you realized your small…… strike that, big crush on him. That was the day that you looked at him, and those butterflies came alive in your stomach

“You mean I'm no longer gangly with braces?” You asked yanking down the dress again.

“You were beautiful then, too. Do you need a ride? My car is just over there,” he asked with a flick of his hand, pointing his thumb behind him. His eyes swiftly move to watch you fix yourself once more. His eyes snap back up to your face with a gentle smile on his lips,“ I'll take you anywhere you want. Let's try and salvage this birthday for you.”

“I don't want to ruin your night. I..I can just take the bus,” you stammered. You didn't want him feeling bad for you. This was just embarrassing. "I'm sure you have better things to do."

He shook his head, held out his hand, and you hesitantly took it. He's warm and calloused, but it seems to fit perfectly. You were scared yours would be sweaty and be a dead giveaway on how nervous you were. If not a sweaty hand, the heat going to your face certainly was. You look up at Yoongi, and he gives you a knowing smirk. Yup, you were caught. He chuckled deeply and guided you to his car with hand on your lower back. Opening the door for you, he waited until you were all settled in the passenger seat before closing the door and getting in himself.

As he turned the car on, the lights on the dash illuminated his face. Min Yoongi, your sister's ex who she cried herself to sleep over after he broke up with her. She constantly stared at her phone for weeks, hoping that he would call her. He never did. She told you loudly one night that he was a loser. How she was so mad she lost two years to him. She never told you why he broke up with her. In fact, she didn't say much to you after that. She left home and moved five hours away not long after. You barely see her. You hope she's happy.

“Baby?” Yoongi's voice broke you out of your thoughts. He placed his hand on your bare thigh, gently moving thumb across your skin, causing goosbumps to race down over your body. “You okay?” You nod silently, yes. Your eyes are locked on his thumb. Gentle circles, making the heat in your face spread further down. You try not to squirm or press your thighs together, but the ache in your core is making it hard. Yoongi tilts your face up to look at him. Your heart is beating a hundred miles a minute as you stare into his eyes. “Can I kiss you?” he asked in a whisper. Again, you nod your head silently. Yoongi cups your face and brings you closer. His breath ghosts ever so lightly over your lips. “Happy birthday.” He presses his lip surely over yours.

You let yourself get lost in the kiss. You feel his tongue lick your bottom lip, and obediently, you open your mouth for him to explore. His skilled tongue massages against your own. These are kisses that you don't ever want to come back from. Kisses that are making you lightheaded, but you dont dare pull away. You moan into the kiss and tightly clutch his black jacket, pulling his to you. You need to feel him closer to you. His hand drops from your face back to your thigh. His fingertips run up and down the outside, inching just under the hem of the too short dress. You shiver and don't even hide pressing your legs together this time as you start to squirm in his passenger seat. Yoongi nips your bottom lip as he pulls away. You watch him slowly lick, then bit his bottom lip.

“Come home with me?” He asked. His voice is somehow even deeper and more gravelly than normal. Silently, you nod your head, yes.

“Mr. Min,” you gasp. “You can't miss this event. What will Joon think if his partner isn't there?” 

Yoongi did it. He finally gave into Namjoon and has officially become a partner in Persona. His role at the company didn't really change that much. He still wrote, produced, and had his quiet little sanctuary. He just had to wear a suit every now and then for meetings. You couldn't believe it when he said that he was going to buy in and be a co-owner. You asked why he had changed his mind. His answers were always vague. You wondered if he had something up his sleeve. 

You, you loved your summer art program and learned so much. It was a lot of work, but it helped you grow as an artist.   You were nervous about the art exhibition at the end of your program. Yoongi showed up happily supporting you. Your friends showed up, and your dad showed up with his new girlfriend. She was nice, and you enjoyed getting to know her, and much to your surprise, your mom showed up. You found out your dad had given her an invite. Yoongi didn’t want to leave your side when she showed up and made sure to cling right to you. You told him softly that you needed to be able to talk to her alone.  He left reluctantly with Lisa and Jimin, giving you the space that you needed.  

You noticed your mom looked brighter and was actually civil to everyone. She had complimented your pieces and asked how your program went. She then apologized to you and said that she was proud of you. She went on to say how she started therapy and needs to learn how to love herself again so she can love you properly like she always should have. She told you how she always had a dream to travel and take pictures when she was young but never had a chance since she married young and then soon after had you and your sister. She's now taking your lead and is going to go for it. You hear your sister is upset about this, now your mom won't be at her beck and call anymore. You unblocked her that night. 

Yoongi had asked you if you would now finally apply to go to school full time. You surprised him by saying no. He wanted to argue, but you wouldn't let him. You loved your experience, but you loved him more. WIth his new role and your whole workload, you didn't have much time with him. You loved your job, and you loved your office with the parking lot view that you now shared with Seungkwan. You were happy to just do your drawings for you. You think you might open an Etsy shop or some form of online store and try to sell them one day…but not now.  You were happy, and he finally conceded.   

“Fine,”Yoongi sighs and kisses you. “Go get a necklace, and I’ll help you put it on.” 

You roll your eyes at him and enter your bedroom. You stop dead in your tracks and look at the bed. There was a plate with rolls on it sitting on the end of the bed. You stare at it in confusion.

“What's this?” You ask him.

“Early birthday present,” he calls out from the bathroom. 

You take the top roll off the pile and plan on shoving as much of it in your mouth that you can. However, you don't….you can't.  Upon taking it, you revealed a black velvet box. One much like your ring currently on your finger came in. You can't move. You feel frozen looking at it.  Arms come and wrap around your middle. Yoongi plucks the box from the plate and turns you in his arms, lovingly staring at you. He smirks and strokes the smooth skin of your cheek. Slowly, he drops down onto one knee. It's real, you realize. This is really happening.  He pops open the box, and you almost faint as you see what's inside. A huge square cut diamond ring placed beautifully on its cushion. It's huge…huge, you think it's bigger than the one your sister had worn all those months ago. Is this why he finally decided to partner with Namjoon? 

 “It's been almost a year since I found you again. I never believed in fate but that night when I saw you again. That night changed everything, ” he said softly. You could tell he was nervous by the way his hand shook just a bit. “I don't ever want to lose you again. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you say quietly. He slips the ring on your finger, and it's a perfect fit. Throwing your arms around him, the two of you fall to the floor. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your lips. Pulling back, he gives you a questioning stare. “You really didn't know about this?” You shake your head no. “Hmm, Lisa and Jisoo came with me to pick it out. I guess I owe her one for keeping a secret.” You laugh and kiss him again. 

Jisoo, Lisa, and Seungkwan all coo over how gorgeous your ring looks on your finger. The diamond sparkles and shines under the lights of the hotel lobby where the four of you gather. 

“I can't believe you guys kept this a secret!” You exclaim, looking at them. 

“I didn't know,” Seungkwan tells you.

“That's because you have a bigger mouth than me,” Lisa snarks. “I'm going to find Jimin.” Blowing you a kiss, she struts off and leaves Seungkwan pouting. 

“I’m going to go find Yoongi. I'm sure he's loving all the conversations forced on him right now,” you tell your other two friends, hugging them goodbye. 

Yoongi hates these events. Industry insiders all kiss each other's ass to get something they want. It might be a charity event, but social climbing will come first. It's the worst. Fake smiles, fake laughs. You've had to fake awe and excitement over some big names before, and Yoongi loves you for it. Supposedly…..you're charming. You spot him engaged in a conversation with two unknown men. They were good-looking, of course, and you silently cursed your boyfriend…fiancée for being in this damn industry. When you reach them, you slide your hand up his chest, smiling at his guests. 

“Sweetheart,” he says and widens his eyes a bit. You get it….game on. “This is Choi Seungcheol and Yoon Jeonghan. They own Darling Media, and they're looking to partner together for future projects.” 

“Oh wow,” you gasp and giggle. “It's so nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” Jeonghan says, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. You giggle again, and it seems to do the trick. 

“Yes,” Seungcheol says, clearing his throat. His eyes definitely did a once over, and Yoongi definitely glared a bit. “We found a new, talented artist who we think would be an asset to Persona.” 

“Who,” Yooongi asks the handsome man. 

“His name is Kai. I believe that he is friends with Jimin. I’m surprised you haven't scooped him up already.” Seungcheol explains.  You try not to laugh, and you feel Yoongi stiffen.  Out of everyone trying to make it in music, they found Kai. This is the funniest thing you think you may have ever heard.

“The famous model and commercial actor?” You asked with an excited smile on your face. 

“Yes, that's the one,” Jeonghan answers. “ We have some great ideas for him, but we would like him attached to the record company first. Then, we can talk…maybe about long-term contracts?” 

“Oh, Yoongi, they have such a good eye for talent. Kai is so handsome and talented,” you gush.  You feel Yoongi pinch your butt kind of hard. Ow!

“Yes, my love, they indeed do. Why don't you give me a call on Monday?” He ends the conversation by handing them a business card. As they walk away, you wave coyly at them. “You think that's funny?” Yoongi hisses in your ear. 

“It's hilarious,” you laugh, and Yoongi takes your hand. He gently pushes you to move forward, and the two of you walk toward the exit of the room. He pulls you down the hallway and into a shallow alcove just tucked on the other side of a statue.  Your back hits the wall, and he leans over you. Trapping you in the small space as he places his hands on either side of your head. 

“I'm not writing for him. Your boyfriend will have to find another company,” he snarls at you.  

“Yes you will,” you say, sliding your hands around the back of his neck. “You will write him a hit song and make him very famous.”

“I’ll write him the worst song I can think of,” he says, bending down and capturing your lips with his. “I'll tank his career.”

His hands are everywhere, and his mouth attaches to your neck. Your head leans back against the upholstered wall. You can feel your hair go staticky Yoongi though, he has no care in the world that you are in public and some important people could catch the two of you. His hands start to creep under your dress, hitching your leg over his hip when someone clears their throat. Whipping around Yoongi hides you behind him. You pull your dress down and pat your hair, trying to smooth the static. You look over his shoulder, and your eyes widen. It's Mingyu…with your sister. 

“Sorry,” Mingyu says, blushing. “Umm, I…we were hoping that you would be here Y/N. Your friend Lisa said she saw you come this way.” At least he has the decency to look embarrassed. 

“Yeah,...I…i'm…here,” your voice is small, and you think you sound stupid. 

“Min Yoongi,” Yoongi says, holding out his hand professionally. Mingyu smiles politely and shakes it.  You see Yoongi clench his jaw  a little as his eyes fly between Mingyu and your sister. 

“Kim Mingyu, it's nice to meet you again,” he says as he introduces himself. Mingyu looks at your sister, and so do you. She looks around at the room, staring at the different paintings on the walls. Basically, she's just trying to keep her eyes off of you and Yoongi. Your eyes sneak a peek at her finger. She still has her engagement ring on. 

“What can we do for you?” Yoongi asks stiffly, pulling you into his side. Unconsciously, you let your left hand rest on his chest, and you realize just how tense he was. You see Mingyu nudge your sister, and she sighs.

“The wedding invite we sent you came back,” she said, barely giving you a glance.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Oh, umm, I don't live at my apartment anymore.”

“That's good,” Mingyu says. “It was an honest mistake. We pushed it back to next fall after we had a little…chat.” He gives her another nudge, and she opens her clutch and blindly hands you a wedding invitation. 

“We would love it if you could attend,” her voice was robotic, like she practiced that over and over again. 

You look at the pretty invite in your hands and then look at Yoongi. He gives you a slight shrug. You know that he will go along with whatever you want to do. Mingyu smiles gently at you. You think that he has good intentions, and honestly, you don't want to ruin this relationship for her.  Looking back at her, she's staring hard. Her stare is burning a hole right through the ring on your finger.  Mingyu seems to notice as well.

“Oh, what a lovely surprise. When's the special day?” He asks.

“Umm, it just happened today. We really haven't had time to talk about it yet,” you explain. “Thank you for the invitation. It really does mean a lot but…I don't think it's a good idea if I come.” You look at your sister and say her name softly. she looks at you warily. “I'm sorry I couldn't be the sister you wanted but you're my sister and I still love you. Mingyu seems great, and I'm happy for you. I wish you all the best.” 

“Thanks,” she whispers. Her eyes look shiny, but she quickly blinks them away, and you wonder if you imagined it. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you again,” Yoongi tells Mingyu, shaking his hand again. “We have rounds to make and then home to celebrate.” Yoongi brings your hand to his mouth and kisses it. 

“Goodbye,” you tell them and once again walk away with Yoongi's hand wrapped around your own. 

The door to the apartment crashes open as you two stumble in lips attached. You almost fall, tripping over your feet. Yoongi is quick to catch you. He pulls his mouth from your own and drops kisses onto your neck. 

“Are you sure you want to do this right now?” He asks, worried you might be upset about seeing your sister. 

“Please, Yoongi. I want you…more than anything,” you whisper into the dark room. 

Reminiscent of that fateful night almost a year ago, Yoongi picks you up, and you wrap yourself around him. Holding on for dear life, as he quickly gets you to the bedroom…your bedroom…the one you share. 

Dropping you on the bed, he dives for your neck  again as you lie completely back on the bed. You welcome all his kisses and touches that he gives you happily. Wet, open mouth kisses start at your ear and slowly make their way to your chest. Yoongi nips at the exposed skin of your cleavage.  His hands take the fabric covering your breasts and tug it down just below your breasts, exposing you to the cool air of the room. You run your fingers through his dark, soft hair and gently pull, earning a groan from his lips.  You look at him, and he smirks up at you with a heated gaze.  Yoongi sticks his tongue out, and as you watch, he starts to rapidly flick your nipple. You close your eyes and arch your back a little up to him. You are hoping that he will give you more than that. 

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You open your eyes and watch as he takes your peaked nipple between his teeth, giving it a slight tug. You feel that familiar jolt shoot down your body. You try your best to rub your lower half against him to find some sort of friction for relief, but he won't let you  have it. He chuckles and moves away just enough that you can't find what you need.

You huff and push him backward. He has to catch himself from falling off the bed, earning a giggle from you. You guide him down to your previous position and straddle his hips. Your hands fly to the buttons on his shirt, undoing them as quickly as you could. Upon finally getting it off, you brace yourself on his chest and press your mouth to his. His hand goes into your hair, holding  you to him. Your tongues dance together, breathing each other in. Souls connecting.

Your hips start to move on your own, barely touching the hardness still caged in his pants.  Unfortunately,  the dress stops you from opening your legs as far as you need to feel him fully, and you let out a frustrated groan. Yoongi's hands fly to your dress and lift it up over your hips, bunching it at your waist.  He grabs your waist and presses you down so you can rub against him the way you need. 

“You need me that much, huh?” he asked, letting out a breathless chuckle. You nod your head and press kisses to his neck. “I always need you too, baby.”

You sit up on him, trailing your fingers over his exposed chest. Yoongi hands gently rub your legs as he gazes up at you as you smile down at him.  You stretch your arm behind you as far as you can to pull the zipper of your dress down. Yoongi reaches up and pulls the front of your dress down completely. Exposing you further to his gaze. Sitting up immediately, he sucks your nipple into his mouth, and his hand massages your other. Your head tilts back as you hold him to your chest. His hands wander around you and travel up and down your naked back before attempting to pull your dress the rest of the way off down your hips.  Due to your position, he is unsuccessful in his mission.

“Lie down for me, baby,” he tells you when he pulls away from you. 

You bite your bottom lip and do as he asks. You watch Yoongi undo his belt and fling it across the room. You hear it hit something and fall to the floor. His hands make quick work on the rest of his clothes before they tug your dress the rest of the way off. Kissing your calf, he drags his tongue across your leg and up your inner thigh. Lightly, he bites at the sensitive skin, licking the red marks that he leaves behind. Settling down between your open thighs, his fingers toy with the inner hem of your underwear. His dark eyes flicker up to you.

“Tell me what you need, Y/N. I'll give you anything you want,”  He slowly moves your underwear to the side, and your eyes never leave his. “The wedding of your dreams.” A slow lick up your dripping pussy. “A home to call our own,” A kiss to your clit. “I'll give you the world if you let me.” His tongue starts drawing lazy circles around you. Your breathing starts to grow heavy and your eyes threaten to close but you don't let them leave him. “What do you want, baby? What do you need?” 

“Just you,” you whimper. 

Yoongi smiles at you and pulls your panties off. Diving back in between your thighs, his mouth is relentless on you. Tongue flicking back and forth on your clit as his fingers seek entrance into you. Your back arches as he is successful and pumps two fingers in and out of you. Yoongi sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning around you. Your hands fly into his dark hair and hold him to you. You hold the back of his head desperately, trying your damnedest to get him as close as you could. Pulling off you, his fingers still work their magic working your wetness out of you. His mouth attaches to your nipple for a quick second before giving your other breast the same treatment.  Grabbing his face you pull him down to your mouth. Lips meeting in a chaotic clash of tongues. A kiss full of want and desire. A kiss of craving.  A kiss of pure unadulterated neediness. 

“I need you now, Yoongi,” you say quietly against his lips. 

He stares at you for a moment while biting his bottom lip. Fingers massaging your innermost spot. Bending down, he kisses your lips once, twice, three more times. Yoongi pulls his fingers out of you, and he reaches down and takes a hold of himself. Tapping the head of his cock against your clit makes your neediness worse. Your hips start squirming trying to get him into you and it only makes him laugh quietly at you.

“You need this, huh?” He asks, sounding just as breathless as you. You nod your head eagerly.  

Running the tip along your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, Yoongi starts to slowly roll his hips. Entering you slowly until he is fully inside of you. “I've always thought about you. I had always wondered what happened to you.” His hips start to move at a calm pace. “If you ever found someone who loved you,” you shook your head at him and pulled him down closer to you. He allows you to, and he brings his weight on his forearms. “You didn't ever love anybody else?”

“No, I've loved you since I was seventeen. I've always loved you, ” you tell him honestly. 

Yoongi presses a hard kiss against your lips. His hips pick up in pace, fucking you into the matress. You pull away with a gasp, pressing your head back into the pillows. Your hands grab his sides, fingernails slightly digging into his skin. He moans at the feeling and buries his face into your neck.  The sound of his hips slapping against our own echo throughout the room, his panting breath in your ear. It feels so overwhelming, loving someone like this, making love like this. Something you could only feel with him. 

Yoongi adjusts both of you. He moves to sit on his knees and brings your own  to your chest, holding them there.  You hear him gasp as he slides in deeper, hitting all the spots that make you see stars. This may not be your favorite position, but the noises he makes are worth it. You'll start stretching every day for those noises. You bring your own arms around the back of your knees, taking over for him. Pulling them back just a little further and closer together.

“Fucking, shit. Do you feel how deep I am?” he moans, leaning back slightly, his thrusts never stopping. The change in angle makes his cock hit your sweet spot over and over again. “Do you need more?” he asks, he sounds like he's struggling himself.

“Yes,” you cry out. Your cries become louder as his fingers rub your clit quickly. The tightening in your stomach winding so tight your body is wanting to get away from it. You feel that familiar heat that starts to take over, your skin getting flushed, heart pounding in your ears.  Your core starts to tighten around him. 

“There you go,” he hisses. “Let go, baby, let go for me.”

You do. You let go, You finally let go of all the self-consciousness, all the self-doubt. You let go of every insecurity that you have ever felt. There's a high-pitched ringing in your ears. Your body tenses up.  You've never felt this pleasure before so deep. So, deep inside of you that you think you might pass out. You feel like you're floating, and you're not coming back down. You think you can hear him reach his end as he swears, but it sounds so far away and muffled. You feel so…high.

“Breathe,” you can hear a voice. “Y/N, baby, breathe,” it's Yoongi. You snap back to reality,  spotty vision clears, and your eyes land on him. His dark hair is sweaty and sticking up in all different directions.  He looks just as dazed as you feel with his mouth agape. He's breathing hard. He can't look away from you. 

“You….came really hard…uh,” he tells you and looks down. You look down as well, and your eyes widen. He is definitely wet as is the bed, and…you don't think it's from him. While it doesn't look like it does in the few adult videos you've seen, you know exactly what happened. Your hand flies to your mouth in shock.

“I'm sorry, that's gross,” you say, turning red. “Eww…I…” Yoongi dives on you, crushing you with a kiss. 

“ I can't wait to make you my wife, damn,” he says, going in for more kisses. Pulling you up out of the bed as he flings you over his shoulder. Yoongi gives you a quick slap to your ass laughing. “You better believe that's going to happen more often. Let's shower.” 

“Yooonnnngiiiiiii,” you screech happily.  Yeah, you finally let go.  You're going to give him everything. 

A/N: So, now that we have reached the end, I have an announcement.  Thanks to the wonderful Anon who asked about drabbles, I had come up with a few ideas about the future of the characters.  As of right now…….I'm about 4 loosely written chapters into a SEQUEL!!! However, I'm not super happy with the way it's going so….I think I will take my time and try to rewrite them. 

Secondly, I was writing another story before I started the sequel. I have 6 chapters done on that one. I'm thinking I might drop a teaser to the Whispered sequel next week if I can get on a clear path of how I want it to go. So, everyone….stay tuned.

Tagged Reader:

The gallery is louder than Hyunjin remembers it ever being.

Voices overlap in polite admiration and thinly veiled competition, laughter ringing too sharp against the white walls. The annual student exhibition always draws a crowd.

His painting hangs at eye level, exactly where the faculty suggested it should be. Oil on canvas. Controlled strokes. Composition honed through months of revisions. He stands near it, hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that has been practiced into muscle memory over the years. People drift in and out of his orbit easily.

“This one’s yours again, Hyunjin,” someone says with a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve outdone yourself,” another adds, eyes bright with admiration. “Second years in a row—legendary.”

Everyone keeps saying, assuming the same thing just because he won the student art prize last year. To Hyunjin, winning has never been something he allows himself to assume—not because he lacks confidence, but because he knows how fragile it is. Art doesn’t belong to expectation.

Hyunjin answers questions thoughtfully. He talks about process, about intention. He never talks about victory. He smiles when he’s expected to. Nods. Thanks them. But he never lets it settle because the moment he believes he deserves something, it stops listening to him.

As the crowd shifts, his attention wanders to other paintings lining the walls, to names printed neatly on placards. He scans instinctively, cataloguing styles, techniques and then, he realizes something. There’s a gap. Not an empty wall, but a presence he doesn’t recognize.

At the far end of the gallery, tucked slightly away from the main flow, a painting holds a quiet gravity that doesn’t beg to be noticed. Green dominates the canvas, lush and layered, alive in a way that feels deliberate rather than decorative. Flowers bloom unapologetically, vines twisting into one another like they’re holding secrets.

He steps closer before he means to and at first glance, it’s beautiful. Serene, even. The kind of work that soothes viewers, that gives them something pleasant to praise. He almost turns away—

And then he sees the space between the leaves sharpens. Shadows pull into shape. Two eyes look back at him, not directly, but as if they’re watching from somewhere just beyond the room. A face emerges slowly, fragmented, hidden beneath the growth. And behind it all—thin, careful lines etched into the canvas. Old wounds. Healed badly. Covered, not erased.

Hyunjin stills because the longer he looks, the more the painting changes. Then he glances at the placard beneath it. A name he doesn’t recognize.

He looks around instinctively, expecting to find the artist nearby so he can ask further about their work, but no one stands there. The space around the painting is empty like it’s been left alone on purpose.

Hyunjin exhales slowly, something unfamiliar settling in his chest. Not jealousy. Not fear. Curiosity.

Because whoever painted this—

They weren’t trying to win. They were trying to be understood.

-

The night stretches on in a slow, gilded blur.

Hyunjin answers more questions, accepts more praise than he knows what to do with. Someone presses a champagne flute into his hand, he takes a polite sip and sets it aside untouched. Every few minutes, his gaze drifts back to the green painting at the end of the room like a reflex he hasn’t learned to control yet.

His curiosity deepens as the artist never appears until eventually, the lights dim just slightly—a subtle cue that the night is reaching its peak. Conversations soften, people instinctively drawing closer to the podium located in the center end of the gallery where the judges gather.

Hyunjin straightens without thinking, smoothing a hand over his sleeve. Around him, bodies shift. Eyes flick toward him, then away again, then back. Expectation hums in the air.

Someone near him murmurs, “Here we go,” under their breath.

He feels that collective assumption settling like a weight on his shoulders. Two years of precedent. Two years of predictability. He doesn’t resent it, but he doesn’t claim it either. He keeps his expression calm the way he always does.

Art isn’t a crown you wear. It’s something you offer and then let go of.

The head judge steps forward, microphone catching softly. They speak about growth. About voices. About courage in creation.

Hyunjin listens carefully, more than most. His pulse remains steady.

“And this year,” the judge continues, “the winning piece moved us not because of its polish but because of its honesty.”

A few students glance at him again, smiles already forming, ready to hear his name being called.

Hyunjin doesn’t move. His fingers curl slightly at his side.

“And the winner of this year’s Art Prize is…”

The name is spoken and it’s not his.

For a heartbeat, the gallery goes silent. The kind that comes from surprise, not disappointment. Hyunjin feels the shift immediately, like the room has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

Around him, students turn in unison, eyes flicking from him to the far end of the gallery, to the painting cloaked in green. Whispered confusion ripples outward and buzzing in place.

Hyunjin doesn’t feel the loss. There’s no sting. No hollow drop in his chest. Instead, something else unfurls.

He looks again at the painting, seeing it now not as an anomaly, but as an answer. The judge continues speaking, calling for the artist to step forward, but no one does. A pause stretches and then another.

The artist isn’t here.

A quiet murmur spreads, surprised, uncertain. Hyunjin barely hears it. His attention stays anchored to the canvas, to the pair of eyes hidden in the leaves, to the face that never quite steps into the light.

Who paints something like that and doesn’t come to watch it win?

He exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely in intrigue.

Whoever you are, he thinks, you didn’t paint this for applause.

And suddenly, he wants to know you.

-

Hyunjin sits through his lectures with the same attentiveness he always has, but there’s a thread pulling at the back of his mind, tugging his focus loose every few minutes. Sketches form beneath his pen without him realizing—leaves, curved lines, negative space that keeps resolving into eyes when he looks too closely. He frowns, closes the notebook, forces himself to listen.

By lunchtime, he eats with friends, nods along to conversations about critiques and deadlines and the shock of the prize going to someone new. Your name surfaces again and again, each time spoken with the same puzzled tone.

“You know who painted it?” someone asks him.

Hyunjin shakes his head. “No.”

That answer sits strangely on his tongue.

Between classes, he starts asking around. Just curiosity disguised as coincidence.

“Hey, do you know who painted the piece that won the art prize?” “Oh, her? She’s in the illustration track, I think.” “She’s quiet. Never really talks.” “I don’t think she hangs around much.”

Most answers trail off into shrugs. Finally, near the end of the day, he catches up to someone from one of the shared studios. He keeps his tone light, conversational.

“Do you know where she usually works?”

The student thinks for a moment. “Yeah. She stays late. Always does.”

“Where?”

They jerk their chin toward the older buildings at the edge of campus. “Studio H. The abandoned one after that fire. Barely anyone uses it anymore. She’s almost always there after school.”

Hyunjin thanks them and turns away before they can read too much into his expression.

The last class of the day drags. He packs up the second it ends, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping out into the frosty winter air. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across campus, students spilling out in clusters toward buses and cafes and home.

Hyunjin walks in the opposite direction and the farther he goes, the quieter it gets. The chatter fades, replaced by the sound of his own footsteps and the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.

The building comes into view gradually—older, narrower, one of the walls still has smoke stains from a fire that happened almost a year ago.

Hyunjin slows as he approaches, something like reverence settling over him. The windows glow faintly, warm against the encroaching dusk. He pauses at the entrance, fingers brushing the strap of his bag, suddenly aware of the intrusion his presence might be.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, only that he needs to see the person who painted something like that. So pushes the door open quietly and steps inside.

-

The studio isn’t what Hyunjin expects.

There’s no familiar scent of oil paint or turpentine, no easels or canvas lined neatly against the walls. Instead, the air is thick with clay and dust, cool and damp in a way that settles into the lungs. Half-finished sculptures crowd the room—torsos without heads, hands reaching for nothing, faces frozen mid-thought. It feels less like a classroom and more like a place where people disappear into their work.

Someone stands at a table near the entrance, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in a block of clay. He wears headphones, head bobbing faintly to a rhythm Hyunjin can’t hear. The sculptor glances up when the door opens, eyes flicking over Hyunjin with mild curiosity before returning immediately to their work. Unbothered.

Hyunjin steps farther inside, careful with his footing. His eyes instinctively search for an easel, canvas, brushes, anything that confirms the person he’s looking for belongs here. He doesn’t find one but what he does find is you.

You sit on a wooden stool near the back, posture slightly hunched, fully absorbed. A half-body sculpture rests in front of you. Your hands move with steady familiarity, thumbs pressing, fingers smoothing. Clay clings beneath your nails, streaks your apron, catches in a loose strand of hair by your temple.

Hyunjin hesitates, suddenly aware of the intrusion. He knows this feeling too well because he too, hates when someone interrupt him in the middle of painting.

Still, he clears his throat softly. “Hi.”

You glance at him then. Just enough to register his presence. Your eyes meet his for half a second before dropping back to your sculpture, hands never pausing. No greeting. No dismissal either.

Hyunjin exhales quietly. He decides to be quick. “Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m looking for someone. Do you happen to know where I can find—” He says your name.

Your hands keep moving. You don’t turn to him. “That’s me.”

Hyunjin is puzzled once more. His gaze drifts back to the sculpture, then to you, recalibrating everything he thought he knew. A painter, he had assumed. Not this.

“I—” He catches himself, straightens. “I’m Hyunjin. We haven’t met. But I saw your work at the exhibition.”

Your shoulders tense, just slightly.

He continues carefully, “I wanted to congratulate you. Your painting—it was incredible. I really admired it. And winning the student art prize—”

“I didn’t win anything.”

The interruption is flat and final.

Hyunjin frowns, confused. “But your painting was there. You won this year’s art prize.”

You press your thumb into the clay a little harder than before. “Someone else submitted it without my consent.”

That stops him cold but he isn’t offended. Only sincerely, utterly confused. That painting, raw and deliberate and brave, doesn’t feel like something that should be taken from its creator. And the thought unsettles him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he says honestly.

You finally look at him again, this time longer but there’s no warmth in it. Just distance, hollow.

“If you don’t mind,” you say coolly, already turning back to your sculpture, “I’d like to work in peace.”

Hyunjin nods immediately. He understands that tone. He’s used it himself. “Of course. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I hope you have a good day.”

He backs away slowly, careful not to bump into anything, and slips out the door as quietly as he entered.

Outside, the air feels lighter but his chest only tightens. Hyunjin reaches the doorway, hand hovering over the handle, but he quickly pauses. Because now, more than ever, he wants to know why someone who creates like that would let their work speak without them.

And why they’d rather remain unseen.

-

You’re halfway through cleaning clay from beneath your nails when your phone vibrates on the edge of the sink, screen lighting up with your professor’s name. The subject line is polite and you skim most of it, finding out that she wants to see you in her office later.

So after lunch, you make your way there. Her office smells faintly of paper and old coffee, sunlight spilling in through tall windows that make everything feel exposed. She gestures for you to sit, her expression unreadable in that careful way professors master over the years.

“I wanted to talk to you about the exhibition,” she begins.

You already know about what she did with your painting without your permission. Thanks to whoever came to the studio the other day, telling you that you won something you didn’t even know you were a part of in the first place.

She folds her hands on the desk. “I submitted your painting for the student art prize.”

The words land exactly where you expect them to, and still—they irritate. Settle under your skin.

“I didn’t give my consent,” you say evenly.

She sighs, not frustrated—more thoughtful. “I know. And I understand why you’re upset.”

Upset isn’t the word. But you let her continue.

“It won,” she adds.

You look at her then, exasperated but don’t know how to express it since she’s your professor and your respect her too much. “That doesn’t change anything.”

She studies you for a moment, gaze softening. “You’re exceptionally talented. But you hide. You always have. Your work deserves to be seen.”

You inhale air to calm yourself before speaking. “I don’t need validation. Or praise. Or awards.”

There’s no bitterness in your voice. Just fact.

She leans back slightly, fingers tapping once against the armrest. “It’s not about validation. It’s about connection. About letting others know they’re not alone.”

You stiffen because she’s hovering too close to the very thing you don’t want to talk about.

“Your painting,” she continues, careful now, “it heals. Art heals. People like you—people who don’t know how to speak yet—they see it and feel understood.”

You look down at your hands, at the faint cracks in your skin, clay still embedded in the lines of your palms.

“I don’t make art to heal people,” you murmur. “I make it so I can breathe.”

She nods, accepting that. Then she reaches into a drawer and places the certificate on the desk, followed by the small trophy. They look out of place between stacks of papers and books. “I won’t argue with you. But I won’t apologize either,” she says.

You consider pushing back but you’re too tired and arguing won’t unpaint what’s already been seen. You take the certificate and the trophy, not in triumph, but in defeat.

“Since you won,” she adds, stopping you at the door, “your painting is being showcased in the main hall now.”

You close your eyes briefly. Eyelids fluttering as you hold yourself back. You nod once, hand tightening around the edge of the certificate as you step back into the hallway. The door closes behind you with a soft click, leaving you alone with the echo of her words and the weight of something you never asked to share.

You exhale slowly at the fact that more people know about the painting and the one who painted it now. And you’re not sure how that makes you feel—only that there’s no taking it back.

-

The hallway feels longer after stepping out of your professor’s office. Your footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor, certificate tucked under your arm, the trophy weighing your already packed bag.

Students pass you in pairs and clusters, voices overlapping, laughter brushing past you without catching. You keep your eyes forward, jaw set as you think about the painting. You never meant for it to leave your hands.

It wasn’t created for walls or spotlights or circles of admiration. You painted it late at night, alone, when the studios were empty and no one could watch you hesitate. It’s the most honest you’ve ever been—every brushstroke a confession you never learned how to say out loud. You didn’t plan for anyone to see the face hidden beneath the leaves, the way the wounds rest beneath something alive.

You showed it to your professor because you trusted her. Because she asked gently. Because she never pushed. You thought that it would stay between the two of you, safe in that small space of understanding.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

The main hall opens up ahead of you, wide and bright, sunlight flooding in through the tall and wide entrance of the building that leaves nowhere to hide. You slow without meaning to, pulse ticking louder in your ears. A small crowd lingers near the center wall in that particular way people get when they know something is important but don’t quite know why.

You see it then. Your painting hangs there, framed neatly, too clean for what it contains. The green looks brighter under the lights, the flowers more alive than you remember. From a distance, it almost lies, almost convinces. Up close, the truth waits patiently for anyone willing to look long enough.

You notice one person in particular stands in front of it, unmoving. Tall. Lean. Long, silky black hair falling just past his eyes, catching the light when he tilts his head. His posture is relaxed but intent, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his jeans like he’s afraid to touch anything. There’s a stillness to him that sets him apart from the others drifting in and out.

You recognize him immediately as the guy who came to the studio the other day. He introduced himself and it takes you a while to recall his name.

Hyunjin.

He isn’t looking at the placard. He isn’t glancing around to see who’s watching. His gaze stays fixed on the canvas, expression stripped of anything performative. Just quiet focus like he’s listening to something only the painting is saying.

A strange, uncomfortable thought settles in your chest. Because out of everyone here, he’s the one who’s really seeing it.

You stop a few steps away, heart knocking unevenly, caught between wanting to turn around and wanting to know what he sees when he looks at something you never meant to share. This time, you don’t feel annoyed by his presence. You feel exposed.

You stay where you are as he shifts his weight slightly, head tilting as if he’s following a line only he can see, eyes tracing the edges of the leaves, the spaces between them. He leans in, just a fraction, like he’s careful not to miss anything.

You wonder what he wants from you. When he showed up at the studio, you assumed curiosity sharpened by ego—another artist wanting to size you up, to confirm that the prize made sense. Or maybe obligation. A polite congratulations delivered because it was expected of him, because everyone was watching.

But now, standing here, alone with your painting, he doesn’t look like someone checking a box. He looks… thoughtful.

You wonder if he knows how close he stands to the face hidden in the green. If he’s seen the eyes yet. If he’s noticed the cuts behind the leaves, softened by color but still there, still real. You wonder if he understands that the painting isn’t brave—it’s just tired of being quiet and you hate how much it matters.

You quickly remind yourself that his intentions don’t concern you. That whatever he thinks about your work, about you, doesn’t change the fact that it was never meant to be here.

As if sensing the weight of your gaze, Hyunjin turns and his eyes meet yours immediately. Surprise flickers briefly across his face, then fades into something gentler.

Neither of you speak. The moment stretches thin, suspended between the two of you.

You look away and turn on your heel, heart thudding a little too hard, and start down the hallway toward your next class.

Behind you, you don’t hear him follow. But you feel the echo of his attention linger long after you’ve gone and you don’t know yet whether that unsettles you more than the painting being seen.

-

Studio H has gotten a renovation done months ago but many students choose not to use it anymore because of the fire, the building is old and narrow, and secluded from the rest of the school. This space understands silence better than most people do and for you, that’s the whole charm of it.

There’s only one other person using the studio other than you. Ben. He’s a fellow sculptor, doesn’t talk much and keeps it to himself most of the time which is why you’re comfortable sharing the space with him.

You greet him with a small nod as you step inside. He lifts a hand in return, already half-lost in his work, headphones slipping over his ears. You walk to your usual spot near the back, the stool already molded to the shape of you from hours spent there. The half-body sculpture waits exactly where you left it, surface still bearing the marks of your last touch. You hang your bag, take your apron and put it on.

The door bangs open and someone stumbles in carrying far too much at once—an easel clattering against the frame, a box filled with what looks like paint tubes and brushes threatening to spill, two blank canvases pressed awkwardly under one arm. A backpack recklessly hangs off one shoulder.

Hyunjin freezes for half a second when he spots you, then grins like the disruption is part of his charm. Unfazed, he crosses the room and drops everything into the far corner, directly across from your space.

You watch him quietly as he straightens, dusts off his hands, then shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m a student here. I can use whichever studio I want,” he says with a coy shrug.

You don’t respond but tie your apron and pick up your sculpting tool, turning back to your work as if he isn’t there. But he is.

You feel the way his presence alters the room, the subtle shift in energy. The scrape of the easel as he adjusts it. The soft clink of paint tubes. The rustle of canvas. You try to tune it out, focus on the curve of the shoulder you’re shaping, the line you want to soften. But it doesn’t work because you’re fully aware that he’s there, close enough to matter, close enough to be intentional.

And that’s what bothers you most. You don’t know why he’s here, but you have the uneasy feeling that at least part of the answer is you.

-

People drift between studios all the time, especially this one, tucked away and forgotten. Hyunjin will get bored, you think. He’ll realize there’s nothing here for him.

But on the next day, his easel is already set up when you arrive. The third day, he’s rearranged the corner just enough to make it his. He moves through the space with an ease that unsettles you, like he’s found comfort faster than he should have.

It annoys you more than you expect. You try to ignore him, the same way you ignore most people. You focus on your sculpture, on the press and pull of clay beneath your fingers. Still, you register everything: the scrape of his chair, the soft hum of music leaking from his headphones, the way he pauses sometimes, staring at his canvas like he’s waiting for it to answer back.

A few days in, he starts bringing coffee. He arrives one afternoon with a cardboard tray balanced in one hand, steam curling up toward the ceiling. He offers cups around casually like he’s always been part of this routine. Ben accepts one with a surprised laugh, pulling off their headphones to say thanks.

Hyunjin doesn’t ask you. He just sets a cup down on the empty table near your station and moves on, as if he knows you’ll decide for yourself.

You don’t touch it, but the warm, bitter, faintly sweet smell lingers longer than you want it to.

Another day, you glance up briefly and find him leaning against Ben’s table talking quietly. They’re smiling and chatting. You don’t hear what’s being said, only catch the way Hyunjin’s hands move when he talks, expressive, animated. It’s strange, seeing him like this here, in a space that never belonged to him before.

Hyunjin laughs at something Ben says and the sound makes your chest tighten, just a little. A few minutes later, he wanders over to your station. You feel him before you see him, the air shifting as he stops beside you. You keep working, carving carefully, refusing to acknowledge him. He doesn’t say anything but stands there, watching. Finally, you glance up and he smiles at you, quiet and unintrusive. Not the kind meant to impress or demand. Just… there.

You look back down at your sculpture, irritation curling low in your stomach. You still don’t know what he wants. But it’s becoming harder to pretend he isn’t slowly making himself impossible to ignore.

-

You already know you’ll see Hyunjin.

The thought settles in your mind sometime between your last class and studio H, and instead of following it, you turn the other way. You leave campus behind, cut through streets you know by heart, and end up at the city park just as the afternoon light begins to thin.

The fountain is cold and still, icicles hanging off the edge like flows of water frozen in time. You sit on a bench nearby and pull your sketchbook free, tucking your hands into your sleeves between strokes. The winter air bites, stiffening your fingers until you have to stop every few minutes, rubbing your palms together, breathing warmth into them before continuing. You don’t mind it. This is your version of rest.

You sketch without thinking too much, letting the page take whatever your hands give it. The sky shifts slowly above you, washed in pale gold and fading blue. People come and go—joggers, couples, someone walking their dog—sometimes sharing the bench for a moment before moving on. You notice them only in passing, vaguely, like background noise.

“Hey,” a voice says. “Do you mind if I sit?”

You look up from your drawing and Hyunjin stands there, hands hooked into the straps of his bag, breath fogging faintly in the cold. He smiles when he sees you, easy and confident, like this was always a possibility.

You slowly look back down at your sketchbook. “It’s a public space. Sit wherever you want.”

He takes that as permission.

He drops down beside you immediately, close enough that your sleeves brush. You stiffen, but he doesn’t comment. He just starts pulling things out of his bag: sketchbook, pencils, eraser. He lines them up neatly on the bench between you.

When you think he’s done, you hear the quiet tear of plastic. All of a sudden, he presses something into your hand. You look down to find a small heat pack, warm and humming faintly against your palm.

Hyunjin doesn’t look at you but flips open his sketchbook to a clean page like he didn’t just do all that and starts drawing, pencil moving with slow confidence. You sit there, stunned, heat seeping into your fingers. And for a long moment, you let him.

The two of you draw in silence, the space between you filled with the scratch of pencil and the distant sound of the city. Your hands loosen. The cold eases. The sky darkens until the last streak of color slips below the horizon, and the park gradually empties, footsteps fading one by one.

When it’s finally quiet enough to hear your own breathing, you close your sketchbook and turn to him. “Say what you want.”

Hyunjin pauses, pencil hovering. He pretends to think about it, eyes drifting upward like he hadn’t come here with intention stitched into every step. Then he looks at you with eyes soft, smile gentler than you expect.

“Uhm… Coffee?”

-

The café is warm in a way that slowly seeps into your bones. Steam curls up from your cup, fogging the space between you and the table, carrying the earthy, comforting scent of coffee. You don’t drink it right away. You just sit there and watch him.

Hyunjin cradles his cup like it’s something fragile. He lifts it, inhales first with eyes closing briefly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before taking a careful sip. He looks at ease like he isn’t sitting across from someone who’s wound tight enough to snap.

You keep watching and he doesn’t call you out on it, doesn’t shift or fidget or ask what you’re staring at. He just lets you look, like he’s used to being observed and has nothing to hide.

It’s been a moment and you’re not exactly enjoying his company so you decide being the one who breaks first. “I know you won the student art prize last year,”

He nods once, swallowing another sip. “Yes.”

“So I’m assuming all of this—congratulating me, suddenly working in my studio, following me around—”

“I didn’t stalk you,” he cuts in calmly.

You pause, eyes narrowing.

“Ben told me you go to the park when you skip the studio,” he adds, unbothered. “I just… guessed.”

You ignore that entirely, lean back slightly and look at him properly now. “Did you do all this because you were hurt? Because you didn’t win this year, and some unknown did instead?”

Hyunjin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t defend himself. He simply sets his cup down on the table with care, porcelain meeting wood softly. Then he looks at you and smiles as he says, “I did it because I admire your work.”

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “How? You only know me now.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s not too late to like something.”

You don’t respond. Mostly because you don’t want to entertain him further.

Silence stretches between you, but Hyunjin doesn’t rush to fill it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, sincere. “Technically, your painting is incredible. Your control of color, the way you layer greens without letting them turn muddy. Your brushstrokes feel intentional, not decorative. And the composition—how the eye keeps getting drawn inward instead of outward—it’s hard to do that without forcing it.”

You stare at the surface of your coffee, jaw tightening. Then you notice the way his tone shifts.

“But what stayed with me,” he continues, “was the feeling. The restraint. The way the painting doesn’t ask to be understood, but it waits. The honesty in it—how you didn’t soften anything just to make it easier to look at.”

He looks at you steadily now and somehow, you can’t look away. “That takes courage… Being that bare. Not everyone can do that.”

Something in you recoils. It feels like being cut open—not violently, but precisely. Like he’s peeled back layers you never gave permission to touch, standing there with clear sight of everything you keep hidden. You stiffen, spine straightening, walls sliding back into place.

Because this isn’t flattery. This is real. And it terrifies you.

You inhale slowly, forcing calm into your voice. “I appreciate your comments about my painting.”

You stand before he can say anything else. Your chair scrapes softly against the floor as you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder. There’s a tightness in your chest now, something burning and dangerously close to anger.

“But I’d appreciate it more,” you add, not quite looking at him, “if you stopped coming to the studio. Paint somewhere else.”

You don’t wait for his response but walk straight to the door, push it open, and step outside. The winter air rushes to meet you, cold brushing your cheeks, your hair, stealing your breath for a second. As you head down the street, hands shoved deep into your pockets, you frown to yourself. You don’t understand why you’re so mad at him.

Only that somehow, he saw too much and you weren’t ready for that at all.

-

You walk toward the studio with your shoulders drawn in, jaw set, already bracing yourself.

You tell yourself not to but you do anyway. You picture him there before you even reach the door. Hyunjin, exactly where he’s been these past days, sprawled into the space like he belongs, like your words from last night were nothing more than background noise.

You inhale deeply before pushing the door open. Warm air rushes out to meet you as you slip inside, and you’re quick to shut it behind you, muttering a quiet curse at the cold before it can follow.

“Hey, Ben,” you say, out of habit.

Ben looks up from his station and grins, lifting his thumb in a silent thumbs-up. You nod back, automatic, already moving further inside. And oh, you’re dreading it cause you’re going to see—

Hyunjin’s spot is empty. No easel angled just a little too close to yours. No canvases leaning against the wall. No careless backpack slung over a chair, no presence stretching across the space and into your awareness. It’s… bare.

The corner looks wrong without him like something’s been erased.

Ben notices the pause. He slips one side of his headphones down and follows your line of sight. “Oh, Hyunjin came about an hour ago. Packed up his stuff and left,” he says casually.

You hum in response, like that information means nothing to you. You don’t ask why. You just move. Your feet carry you to your station on instinct, hands already reaching for your apron, body slipping back into the familiar rhythm of work. Clay beneath your fingers, cool and solid, grounding you as you pick up where you left off.

Still, your eyes betray you. They flick up now and then, drifting to that empty corner across the room. Each time, they pause for half a second too long, as if they’re waiting for something to fill the space, as if they need time to adjust.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a habit you’ll break.

-

The cold deepens quietly, the kind that doesn’t announce itself until it’s already settled into your bones. Each day, the walk to the studio becomes a struggle—air biting at your cheeks, breath fogging in front of you like a small, constant reminder that winter has decided to stay. You haven’t seen Hyunjin since that night in the café. Not in the studio. Not in the halls. Not hovering in places you didn’t ask him to be. You tell yourself that’s good. That it’s what you wanted.

Today, snow is already falling by the time you reach the studio. It crunches beneath your boots, a soft, brittle sound that follows you all the way to the door. Inside, warmth wraps around you instantly.

“God, it’s freezing,” Ben groans when you greet him.

You hum in agreement, shrugging off your coat, slipping back into routine like muscle memory. Clay under your fingers. Silence where it belongs. Time dissolves without asking permission.

You don’t notice how late it’s gotten until Ben starts packing up. He pulls on his jacket, shoulders his bag, glancing out the window with a frown. “Weather’s supposed to get bad tonight. You might want to head out early,” he says in quiet concern.

“I’ll wrap up soon,” you assures him.

He smiles in understanding. “Be safe, okay?”

You nod and with that, Ben leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and the studio exhales into stillness.

It’s quiet in a way that feels heavier without other people to dilute it. You lean back against the wooden table and look out the window. Snow flutters down in uneven patterns, catching the light, softening the world into something distant and muted. There’s a strange ache in watching it—something slow and sinking that you don’t bother naming.

You work for another hour anyway and when you finally stop, your hands are numb. You wash them thoroughly, watching the clay spiral down the drain, then button your coat all the way up, tugging it tight around your throat. Bag over your shoulder. You take one last glance around the studio and then you step outside.

The snow comes down immediately, clinging to your hair, your sleeves, the lashes of your eyes. You shut the door carefully behind you, already dreading the long, freezing walk to the bus stop. You turn toward the school gate and halt to a stop when you see someone there.

Hyunjin, leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his coat pockets, snow caught in his hair, dusting the collar of his coat and the red scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He looks like he’s been standing there for a while, long enough for the cold to settle into him. Yet, he smiles when he sees you like all of that doesn’t bother him.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, incredulous.

“Waiting for you,” he says easily. Then, as if it’s obvious, “You didn’t want me in your studio.”

“So?”

“So I waited outside.”

That only makes it worse. “Why?”

He coyly shrugs. “I figured you’d be out late. And the buses stop running when the weather gets like this.”

He glances at the snow, then back at you. “So I’ll… drive you home.”

None of it makes sense. You don’t understand why he’s here. Why he’s worried. Why he’s standing in the cold like this is something he owes you. You’re no one to him. You should tell him to leave. You should say thank you. You should say anything that resembles civility. Instead, what comes out is sharp and raw and unfiltered.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Hyunjin just smiles, breath fogging in the air as he once again, coyly shrugs.

-

The car is warm in a way that makes you too aware of everything else.

Hyunjin drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes steady on the road, posture relaxed but attentive. He doesn’t put music on, doesn’t fill the silence with idle talk. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the soft crunch of tires rolling over snowed road.

You watch the world slide past the window as streetlights blurred into halos, sidewalks smoothed over by white, everything looking quieter, cleaner. Snow has a way of making the city feel forgiven like nothing bad has ever happened here, like nothing bad ever will. It’s almost convincing.

When he stops in front of your apartment building, you don’t move right away. The engine clicks off. Silence pours into the car, low and intimate. The windows fog slowly, your breath and his blurring the glass until the outside world feels very far away.

This time, he’s the one who speaks. “I tried. After you asked me to stop,” Hyunjin says quietly. “I really did.”

He exhales, fingers loosening on the steering wheel. “But every time I walk past your painting… it just—” He shakes his head, a soft, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It makes me like you more.”

The words are simple, almost innocent. You take them the way you’ve learned to take things like this. As intentions. As strategies. As something said with a desired outcome already in mind. You can already see where this goes—hopes raised too high, expectations forming, the inevitable collapse waiting patiently at the end. Disappointment. Pain. Regrets. More Pain.

So you scoff, soft but sharp. “So that’s what you want now? Us?”

You finally turn to him, eyes steady but intense. “You want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Walk around campus holding hands? Kiss and dance under the snow like we’re in some romance movie?”

Your voice stays calm, but there’s something mocking beneath it.

Hyunjin doesn’t flinch as he easily says, “Yeah.”

Then, just as quickly, he adds, “We don’t have to do all of that. Not yet.”

You let out a short laugh because he really doesn’t seem to hear the sarcasm woven in your words.

Hyunjin shifts closer, an arm reaching into the backseat. The movement catches your attention despite yourself as his head lingers so close to yours for a brief moment. He pulls out a folded brochure and holds it out to you.

It takes you a second to register that it’s a brochure for an art exhibition of your favorite sculptor. Your fingers close around it before you can stop them.

“We can start with this,” he says softly.

You hate that you’re considering it, hate that the thought doesn’t feel heavy or terrifying and that it’s easy and possible.

“It’s this Saturday,” he adds, smiling.

You swallow, then hand the brochure back. “I don’t do this,” you say.

“Do what?”

You hesitate for a moment. Then—

“This. Going out. You and me—” You trail off, choosing not to finish the sentence.

He studies you for a moment, then nods like he’s reached a conclusion all on his own. “That’s okay. You don’t have to come.”

Relief barely has time to settle before he continues. “Just so you know, I’ll be waiting outside. In case you change your mind.”

You know what he’s doing. You recognize the shape of it. Emotional leverage dressed up as patience.

You decide not to respond. You unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers steady despite everything tightening in your chest. “Thank you for the ride,” you say.

The cold rushes in the second you open the door. You step out, shut it behind you, and don’t look back.

-

Hyunjin tells himself this was a bad idea. Standing outside the gallery, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, cold seeping through the soles of his shoes, he replays the conversation in his head for the hundredth time.

Waiting outside. In case you change your mind. He winces at his own words.

What was he thinking? This only gives you a way out. He should’ve picked you up, should’ve insisted, should’ve bribed you with something. Anything would’ve been better than this self-inflicted purgatory.

Snow gathers along the edges of the sidewalk. People pass him, couples slipping into the warmth of the gallery, chatting lightly, shaking snow from their coats.

He checks his watch and it’s only been twenty-eight minutes from the appointed time. It hasn’t even been that long, and yet he already senses the disappointment. He exhales, breath fogging in the air, shaking his head at himself.

Of course you wouldn’t come. He knows better than to be angry about it. You were clear. He’s the one who chose to hope anyway. That’s on him.

A few minutes later, acceptance settles in. He reaches into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against his car keys, ready to call it. Ready to leave before he makes a bigger fool of himself.

Then, he looks up and there you are, climbing the steps toward the entrance, coat pulled tight around you, expression calm and composed as always. His hand stills mid-motion, keys half out of his pocket. For a moment, he honestly thinks he’s imagining you.

You stop right in front of him. Your eyes briefly flick to the keys in his hand. “Planning to leave?” you ask flatly, a teasing edge cutting through your deadpan tone.

He gulps, then recovers fast. Too fast. “No. Just—uh—making sure I had my car keys with me.”

You raise an eyebrow in doubt. “Thought you were giving up. Figured you’d assume I wasn’t coming.”

“I didn’t,” he replies immediately, way too quick to be believable.

He sees the way your lips twitch, the split second where a smile almost breaks through before you look away, eyes fixed on the gallery doors instead.

“Can we go in? It’s cold,” you say, shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets.

Relief hits him so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “Yeah—yeah,” he says, already turning, holding the door open for you. “Of course.”

-

Walking through the gallery with you feels nothing like Hyunjin imagined.

It’s quieter than the campus halls. White walls. Soft lighting. The kind of space that asks people to lower their voices, even their thoughts.

You move slowly, hands tucked into your coat sleeves, stopping in front of each sculpture like you’re greeting an old acquaintance. Hyunjin stays half a step behind you, watching the way your eyes trace lines and shadows before you even look at the plaque.

“So,” he says, stopping beside you in front of a tall, abstract piece, “tell me everything.”

You glance at him. “You can read the brochure.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Or,” you add dryly, “ask the curator.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret. “That defeats the purpose.”

You sigh. “And what purpose is that?”

“Bringing you,” he says easily.

You scoff. “Why me?”

He smiles, eyes warm. “Because you’re the only sculptor I know.”

“That’s a lie,” you reply immediately. “Ben’s a sculptor.”

Hyunjin barely thinks before answering, “Yeah, but there’s nothing romantic about taking Ben here.”

You stop walking and turn to look at him. “I came because I thought it supposed to be educational,” you say.

“It is,” he says, grinning. “With romantic undertones.”

You shake your head, muttering something under your breath as you move on, but a few steps later, you start talking anyway. About the negative space. About balance. About how the sculptor clearly wanted the weight to feel like it’s leaning forward even though it isn’t.

Hyunjin listens, genuinely, eyes flicking between you and the piece. At one point, he tilts his head and says, far too casually, “I don’t know. Sculptors always seem like they’re just… attacking their materials.”

You stop mid-sentence, clearly offended by what he said. “Excuse you? That’s such a lazy take. Sculpting is about dialogue—about resistance and cooperation. You don’t dominate the medium, you listen to it.”

Hyunjin’s smile slowly blooming on his face, wider and brighter. “Oh, she has opinions,” he pokes fun.

You keep going, words tumbling out faster now, hands moving as you talk. You’re defending it with your whole chest, and it hits him all at once—how alive you look like this. How open.

You catch yourself a second too late. Your voice trails off. Your cheeks warm. You look away.

Hyunjin laughs softly. “Wow. I didn’t know you could talk this much.”

You shoot him a glare that lacks real bite and Hyunjin lifts his hands in surrender. But he sees you almost—almost—laugh and he counts that as a win.

By the time you reach the last room, the crowd has thinned. Hyunjin feels that soft winding-down of the evening, the way the energy shifts when there’s nothing left to discover but the exit.

You stand in front of the final piece a little longer than necessary, then step back, hands slipping into your coat pockets. “Well,” you say, turning to him, voice measured. “That’s the end of the educational trip.”

Hyunjin doesn’t miss a beat. He shakes his head, slow and confident. “Disagree.”

You narrow your eyes. “On what grounds?”

“It continues,” he says.

“With what?”

He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice like this is the most serious thing in the world. “Learning Italian cuisine.”

You stare at him, an eyebrow raises higher than the other.

He holds your gaze, completely unbothered, then smiles. “There’s an Italian place not far from here.”

He watches you think like this is a decision that will alter the trajectory of your life. Your jaw tightens. Your eyes flick toward the exit, then back to him.

Hyunjin doesn’t rush it. He’s learned better than that. Finally, without saying a word, you turn and start walking.

It takes him half a second to realize what just happened.

He catches up to you easily, falling into step beside you, a triumphant smile pulling at his lip, but careful as to not scare the moment away.

-

This Italian restaurant is what Hyunjin expected to be after reading the reviews on the internet. Farfalle, a restaurant that earned three stars rating. Great place, great food, great service but of course, you don’t care with such thing. Hyunjin doesn’t mind, he likes it that you’re more at ease with a glass of wine within reach.

The food arrives not long after and for a long while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence. Then curiosity gets the better of him.

“So,” Hyunjin says between bites, “why sculpture?”

You look up at him sharply. “What, you think that means I’m bad at it?”

He freezes for half a second. “No—no, that’s not what I meant.”

You hold his gaze, then the faintest smile appears, like a crack in glass. “I like it more. I like that it’s tangible. Heavy. Real.” You gesture lightly with your fork. “It takes patience. Time. You can’t rush it.”

Hyunjin nods, listening closely. Giving you all of his undivided attention.

“Painting,” you continue, quieter now, “is personal. I don’t do it for anyone else. It’s like… a private journal.”

That lands somewhere deep in his chest. He takes a sip of his wine, thoughtful.

“What about you? What do you do besides painting?”

Before he can swallow and answer your question, you tilt your head and add, “Let me guess—you take half the girls at school on ‘educational trips’ like this.”

He coughs once, then laughs, setting his glass down. “First of all, they were not educational.”

You hum as you reach for your wine glass. “Of course.”

“And second,” he adds, shameless, “I stopped because apparently it’s bad for me financially.”

You gasp softly, eyes widening in mock horror. “What a revelation!”

Then you lean back, fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. “And how about this one?”

Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate. He looks at you in the eyes as he confidently answers, “Special occasion.”

You don’t look impressed, but he catches the way your lips curve as you lift your wine glass.

“Whatever,” you say, clinking your glass lightly against his. “You’re paying.”

Hyunjin holds your gaze as you both take a sip, smiling into the moment.

-

Outside, the cold greets you immediately and Hyunjin feels bad for telling you that he’s parked his car down the street so the two of you have to walk through the park to get there. You sigh like it’s an inconvenience carved directly into fate, but you nod and step forward anyway.

He barely lets you take two steps before stopping you. You turn, ready with another comment, but he’s already unwinding his scarf and drapes it around your neck with utter gentleness, careful.

You roll your eyes. “I was fine.”

“I know,” he says, smiling.

You let it happen and that feels nice. It matters to him.

The park is quiet and empty at this hour, snow floating lazily through the air, settling onto benches and pathways like the city has decided to hold its breath. Each step crunches softly beneath your shoes. Hyunjin listens to the sound of the night folding itself around the two of you. He smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. “We had a pretty romantic night, don’t you think?”

You glance at him. “You mean educational?”

He laughs. “Fine. Educational exhibition. Then a romantic dinner.”

“Also educational.”

He hums, pretending to consider. “So what’s next on the list?”

He remembers your words in the café and it’s playing in his head like a tune. You want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Walk around campus holding hands? Kiss and dance under the snow like we’re in some romance movie?

He smiles at himself as he recalls it. Then looks at you. “We could try holding hands.”

“Pass.”

He nods solemnly. “Okay. Kissing?”

“Hard pass.”

Hyunjin stops walking altogether, drawing in a dramatic breath. “Dancing under the snow?”

You turn to him, unimpressed. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t some romcom. It’s real life. People don’t just… dance under the snow.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, eyes bright and mischievous. “I beg to differ.”

Before you can react, he takes your hand and tugs you forward. You resist at first but barely. Then he feels the moment where resistance softens into reluctant allowance. He guides you gently, twirling you once, twice, laughter slipping into his voice as snow clings to your hair.

You look annoyed but he continues anyway. He spins you out, then pulls you back in a little too hard, too fast. You crash into his chest just as his foot slips on the slick pavement.

“Oh my—”

You both crash down as gravity wins. Hyunjin hits the ground first, breath knocked out of him, and you land squarely on his chest. Cold seeps through his coat, but he barely notices.

“Are you okay?” he blurts, hands already hovering, panicked.

You lift your head and you’re… laughing. Full, unguarded, breathless laughter. It catches him off guard so badly that he starts laughing too, the sound echoing into the quiet park. He asks again, softer this time. “Are you okay?”

You nod in confirmation, still laughing as you roll off him and collapse beside him.

You both lie there, side by side, staring up at the dark sky as snow drifts down, tickling your cheeks, melting into your hair. The hilarity continues for another moment until laughter slowly fades, leaving behind something tender and fragile.

Hyunjin feels this quiet, glowing fullness in his chest. A happiness so simple it almost scares him. He turns his head toward you and his heart sinks when he sees tears sliding silently into your hair.

He knows better not to rush you or interrupt you as you’re processing emotions. He watches for a moment, lets you have the space to feel whatever is breaking open inside you. Then he rolls onto his side, close but not crowding. He finds your red-rimmed eyes, shining, holding a sadness that seems too great to hold by yourself. He lifts his hand, knuckles brushing gently along your cheek, wiping the tears away. His cold skin meeting your hot tears.

“I just…” your voice breaking, heavy with sadness as you whisper, “I don’t want to get hurt.”

Something slides into place. That’s it. That’s the wall you built around yourself. Not indifference. Not pride. But fear, old and crippling.

Hyunjin wipes another tear from your temple, then cups your face fully, grounding you, steady and sure. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he quietly assures you.

You nod, even as tears cling stubbornly to your lashes.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Then his lips meet yours in a soft, fragile kiss, almost reverent. Not a promise of forever. Not a demand. Just proof that he’s here for anything but hurt you. He kisses you slowly, carefully because he’s aware of how easily this could shatter if handled wrong. Your lips tremble against his, and he keeps his hand steady at your cheek, grounding you and himself in the moment.

Hyunjin closes his eyes because he knows that this is something sacred. Fragile. Earned. And whatever happens next, he’ll carry this with him as something precious he was lucky enough to be given.

When you pull back, snow settles softly into your hair. Hyunjin looks at you then and understands something with quiet clarity. This isn’t something he won. It isn’t something he charmed his way into or stumbled upon by luck alone. This is permission. This is trust. This is you opening a door just wide enough for him to stand in the threshold and he knows how rare that is.

He presses his forehead lightly to yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air, and makes himself a promise. He won’t waste this. He won’t rush you. Won’t take more than you’re ready to give. He’ll stay. He’ll prove it, not with grand gestures or pretty words, but with patience, gentleness, and care.

Because being let in like this isn’t something to take for granted. It’s something to earn. And Hyunjin knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his chest, that he wants to spend whatever time it takes earning you.

-

Hyunjin waits by the back exit with his breath fogging faintly in the cold. Both hands are buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes fixed on the path you always take to the studio.

As expected, you appear a moment later with your coat buttoned up, bag slung over your shoulder, expression calm as ever.

He smiles before he can stop himself and he notices the subtle curl of your lips when you see him. Small. Almost nothing. But to him, it’s more than enough.

You keep walking and Hyunjin falls into step beside you, matching your pace easily.

“Going to the studio?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Want to spend time with me instead?”

“Nope.”

The word is flat, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away.

Hyunjin steps ahead of you suddenly, blocking your path. He turns, hands still in his pockets, a sly grin spreading across his face. “How about somewhere warm and quiet—where I’ll let you draw this pretty face of mine?”

He watches as you scoff but he already knows how this goes. You pretend you’re immune. You aren’t.

You sigh, defeated. “Yes to the warm and quiet. No to the pretty face.”

Despite it, Hyunjin’s grin widens. Before you can reconsider, he reaches out and takes your hand. You tense immediately, instinct flaring, trying to pull away but he holds firm. He shoves your interlocked hands into his coat pocket, warmth closing around both of you, and starts walking.

Hyunjin feels your hesitation soften just a little and he knows—this, too, is something he’s earning, step by step.

-

The city library is warm and quiet as Hyunjin promised. In fact, it’s too quiet that the only sounds that can be heard is the rustle of papers as people flips the pages on theirs book and that low, haunting creaks coming from the trolley the librarian pushes around to return the books to its shelf.

Hyunjin sits beside you on the wide windowsill on the third floor, knees drawn up slightly, sketchbook balanced against his thigh. Outside, the city stretches out in muted winter tones, rooftops dusted with snow, the skyline hazy and distant.

For a while, neither of you speak. Just pencil against paper. Breathing. Existing.

“You draw here often?” you ask suddenly, not looking at him.

 “You’d know about it too,” he says lightly as he glances over at your drawing of the city skyline, “if you didn’t coop yourself up in that abandoned studio.”

Hyunjin smiles to himself because he knows your silence by now—how it’s not dismissal, just refusal to indulge him.

The quiet returns and Hyunjin steals glances at you as he draws. The way your brows knit when you focus. The way your shoulders relax when you forget you’re being watched. There’s something unguarded about you like this—soft, real, almost painfully beautiful.

He can’t help but wanting to know more what’s inside that pretty head of yours.

“What’s your favorite season?” he asks.

“Fall.”

Honestly, Hyunjin didn’t expect that you’d answer immediately. He didn’t even expect that you’d answer at all. He holds himself back from doing any form of celebration and pretends to continue drawing to ask more.

“Favorite singer?”

“Nina Simone.”

“Favorite food?”

“Shrimp scampi.”

“Favorite movie?”

“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

“Favorite color?”

“Lilac.”

He leans in slightly, opening his mouth for another question and he closes it again when he finds you glaring at him.

“Stop asking questions,” you firmly scold.

He pouts, lower lip jutting out dramtically, genuinely offended. “I was going to ask if you want coffee.”

Your expression softens immediately. It’s subtle, but he sees it. “I’d like coffee,” you say quietly.

Hyunjin smiles and sets his sketchbook aside, then, just to push his luck, leans his head against your shoulder, letting it rest there for a beat. “Wait here, yeah?” he murmurs.

You hum in response.

He lifts his head and looks at you seriously. “I’m serious. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes to the side. “Yes. I’ll be here.”

Satisfied, Hyunjin smiles again before walking off, warmth settling in his chest.

-

It’s hard to act calm when Hyunjin leans in too close and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek when he tells you to wait here. His voice drops, soft but serious in a way that surprises you.

“Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

It doesn’t sound teasing. It sounds like he means it like he’s afraid that if he turns his back, you’ll disappear. You inhale air before turning your head to look at him.

“Yes,” you steadily says even though something in your chest tightens. “I’ll be here.”

Only then does he nod, satisfied, before finally turning and walking away.

You exhale slowly once he’s gone and force yourself to focus back on your sketchbook. You draw because drawing is easier than thinking, but your eyes somehow keep drifting to Hyunjin’s sketchbook that sits beside you, unattended and flipped open. The page catches the light from the window, graphite smudged at the edges.

You hesitate because you know that you shouldn’t look into someone’s personal thing. You’d hate it too if someone does that. But you can’t resist for long, you pick it up and flip one page, then another.

They’re drawings of people. Strangers, mostly. A boy laughing with his head thrown back. An old woman with deep smile lines. Flowers sketched with detailed attention, places caught mid-breath. All of it beautiful in that quiet, unshowy way that feels honest.

“You know, most people ask first,” a voice says from behind you.

You jolt, nearly dropping the sketchbook.

Hyunjin stands there, coffee in hands, eyebrows raised, not amused.

“I—I didn’t mean to. I just—” you stammer, fully aware that you did wrong.

“Who allowed you to look through my sketchbook… without me?” he asks flatly and then breaks into a big, smile. The kind that makes his eyes form two crescent moons.

He sits back down beside you and hands you your coffee first before setting his aside. He gently takes the sketchbook from your hands. “Since you’ve already seen it, I might as well explain,” he says, the smile still etched on his face.

He flips the pages to the beginning. He eventually stops, pointing to a sketch. “This is from last summer. Kids playing in a fountain. I ruined my shoes that day.”

You smile despite yourself.

He turns the page to show a different drawing. “This one’s a little girl petting a puppy. It wasn’t even her puppy. It just came to her, asking to be petted.”

More pages, more behind stories of his drawing. Flowers from the botanical garden. A garden from one of his trips, drawn with memory rather than precision. He talks with his whole body—hands moving, voice warm, eyes lit with something unguarded.

You watch him more than the drawings. This love for his art that spills out of him naturally. Then he flips to a rough sketch of something familiar, something you’ve seen before.

You place your hand on his wrist, stopping him from flipping the page. “Wait.”

He looks at you, surprised.

“Is that… the sketch of your painting? The one that won last year’s art prize?”

He stills, not expecting that. “You know that one?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “I can see why you won. You’re… really talented.”

You hesitate, then add with sincerity, “I think you were born for this. Painting. Creating beautiful things.”

Hyunjin goes quiet, so quiet that fear flickers through you. You wonder if you somehow crossed a line, if you said too much. Then he smiles and your worries melt away with it.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, almost disbelieving smile. “That… means a lot. Coming from you.”

You smile, a little shy. You didn’t expect that your words hold that kind of effect on him. You shake your head quickly. “You don’t have to—”

Hyunjin leans in and doesn’t stop until his plush lips meet yours in the most innocent kiss of lips meeting lips, softness on softness. He kisses you like he’s careful not to scare something fragile away.

You stiffen for half a heartbeat and honestly, you’re tired of fighting it. You cave in, slowly part your mouth open, allowing him to deepen the kiss, allowing him more of you to taste.

He retaliates by sliding his hand to the back of your head, holding you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He tilts his head, angling his head with such calculation to deepen the kiss the way he wants it. He parts his mouth just slightly and a soft gasp slipped out of you when you feel his tongue slipping between your lips.

In the next moment, Hyunjin pulls away for a brief moment only to have your lower lip tugged between his lips, sucking at it gently. He lets go to kiss you again, deeper, a little harder.

You can hear your own loud heartbeat and somehow, the sound of the kissing is even louder in your ears. Your heart flutters wildly, cracking open, and your fingers clutch the edge of his sketchbook like it’s the only solid thing you can hold on to.

When he pulls back, he smiles. Then he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and keeps it there. “Thank you,” he says once again and you’re not sure if he’s thanking you for your words, the kiss or both.

You mind goes blank as he presses another quick kiss to your lips, lighter this time. He puts an arm around you as he looks out of the window.

“We should go,” he says, noticing the snow coming down in flurries now. “Before the weather gets bad.”

You nod, moving on instinct, heart still unsteady, still airborne. But he takes your hand and somehow, that’s enough to keep you grounded as you walk together into the falling snow.

-

The city lights blurring past the windows like smeared paint. Snow taps lightly against the windshield, rhythmic, almost soothing. You cradle the warmth of your coffee between your palms, watching his reflection in the glass. He glances over after a while like he’s been thinking about saying something and finally gives in.

“Do you want to grab dinner first?” he asks casually, cautiously.

You shake your head, already smiling a little. “No. It’s too cold.”

He nods easily, accepting it without fuss, eyes back on the road.

For a second, that seems like the end of it. Then you add, almost absentmindedly, “We could order food instead. And just… have it at my place.”

The words settle in the car but you see the exact moment it clicks. Hyunjin stills for half a beat. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice: the slight tension in his jaw, the way his grip on the steering wheel tightens before he loosens it again. He keeps his eyes forward, like if he doesn’t look at you, he can play it cool.

“Oh,” he says. Then, a breath later, “Yeah. We can definitely do that.”

You turn your face toward the window, biting back a smile as warmth blooms in your chest. You can practically feel the nerves rolling off him now, hidden behind that calm tone like he’s trying very hard not to overthink the fact that you just invited him into your space.

Snow keeps falling as the car keeps moving and you keep smiling to yourself, holding onto the small thrill of knowing you’re the reason his heart’s probably racing just a little faster right now.

-

In your bedroom, you change into comfortable clothes—an old sweater that smells faintly like laundry detergent and home, leggings worn thin at the knees. You take a breath before stepping back out like you’re crossing some invisible line.

Hyunjin is in your living room, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, moving slowly as if the space might spook if he’s too loud. He stops in front of the small painting on the wall—the one of your childhood pet cat, all crooked whiskers and warm amber eyes. He leans in a little, studying it with genuine focus.

“Did you order the food?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

He startles, just a bit. “Yeah—yeah, I did. It should be here soon.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He looks… lost. Awkward. Like he’s been dropped into unfamiliar territory without a map. It’s strangely endearing, especially considering the rumors, the reputation—Hyunjin, who supposedly knows exactly what to do in every room he walks into.

“You can sit,” you tell him gently. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He nods, then pauses when you add, “Do you want something to drink?”

“A glass of water would be nice,” he says.

You head into the kitchen, already reaching for a glass, but you hear his footsteps trailing after you. You glance over your shoulder to see him standing by the fridge, eyes scanning the cluttered door.

He points at the collections of fridge magnets and then his gaze lands on the slightly faded Christmas card tucked under one of them.

“Can I see that?” he asks, softer now.

After dinner, you stand at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running over your hands as you wash the dishes one by one. Hyunjin stands beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brush, carefully drying each plate before setting it aside. He hums under his breath, something absentminded, and you pretend not to notice how domestic it all feels.

He glances out the window and stills. Snow is coming down harder now, thick and relentless, the streetlights outside blurred into soft halos.

“I should probably head home soon,” he says, wistful.

Something in your chest tightens. The thought of him leaving, of the door closing behind him and the apartment going quiet again, makes you uneasy in a way you weren’t prepared for. Before you can overthink it, the words slip out. “You can stay,” you say, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything.

A beat later, you quickly add, “I just think that it’s not safe to drive in this weather.”

He turns to you slowly, brows knitting together in confusion, like he’s trying to figure out if he heard you right. Then a teasing grin spreads across his face as he leans closer.

“Are you worried about me?” he playfully asks.

You roll your eyes, focusing a little too hard on the plate in your hands. “Never mind. I take it back.”

Hyunjin moves behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. You freeze as he presses closer, his solid chest against your back, his chin settling into the crook of your neck. He nuzzles there and your breath catches despite yourself.

“You’re so considerate, so kind for not letting me drive in this weather,” he murmurs followed with a quiet laugh. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

You fight the smile threatening to give you away, squirming in his hold. “Let go,” you say, failing to sound firm.

He doesn’t obey right away but you stop resisting, letting yourself lean back just a fraction, let the moment stretch until it feels dangerously easy to stay there.

After a while, you clear your throat and try again. “I still need to finish the dishes.”

He gasps dramatically like the idea has only just occurred to him. “Oh. Right. Dishes.”

He releases you at once, stepping back with a sheepish grin, and picks up the towel again. As he resumes drying the dishes, his smile lingers while your heart keeps doing things you pretend not to notice.

-

You pull the blanket free and give it a sharp shake, letting it settle over the mattress. Hyunjin stands on the other side of the bed, holding the extra pillow, that same smile glued to his face like he’s won something and decided not to gloat about it out loud.

“What,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him as you tuck one corner of the blanket in. “Why do you look like that?”

He only shrugs, still smiling, eyes following your hands as you work. It makes you oddly self-conscious, like every small movement is being carefully memorized.

You straighten up and meet his gaze. “Just so we’re clear, we’re sharing the bed because the sofa is too small for you. That’s it.”

Hyunjin nods like he’s been expecting this explanation all along. “I know. Blaming my long legs as we speak,” he says but he looks satisfied. Content in a way that makes your chest feel tight.

“And,” you add quickly, “nothing is going to happen.”

This time, he tilts his head, considering it for a second before shrugging. “Who knows?”

The smirk that follows is immediate and infuriating. You swing the pillow in your hands and hit him lightly in the chest.

He laughs and catches the pillow mid-air before it can fall. Instead of tossing it back, he hugs it to his chest, still grinning at you like this is exactly where he wants to be.

“Violence already?” he says, amused. “And we haven’t even gone to bed yet.”

You turn away to hide your face, busying yourself with smoothing the sheets, pretending your heart isn’t beating too fast.

Behind you, Hyunjin stays right where he is—smiling, pillow clutched to his chest, looking entirely too happy for someone who’s been warned that nothing is going to happen.

-

The night stretches quietly around you.

The lamp by the bed is dimmed low, casting soft shadows along the walls, and beyond the window the snow keeps falling. You and Hyunjin lie side by side under the blanket, warm and snug, a careful space kept between your bodies like an unspoken agreement. Close, but not touching.

You talk about the paintings around your apartment, the small ones tucked into corners and above shelves. You tell him which ones are yours, which ones were made by your mom.

There’s a pause, then he turns his head slightly toward you. “Can I ask about the Christmas card?”

“What about it?”

“Your grandparents called you ‘little beaver’ in it.” His tone is gentle, curious. “Why’s that?”

This is the kind of thing you don’t usually give away. It feels small, harmless but it’s yours, and it comes with the risk of being seen too clearly. Still, he’s lying there on his side, facing you, eyes patient and open, waiting without pressure.

So you give in. You keep your voice soft and low as you share. “When I was little. I was obsessed with beavers. Like—really obsessed.”

You let out a quiet breath, half a laugh before continuing. “I even made up this… beaver dance. I used to perform it for my grandparents on family gatherings, birthdays, Christmases… Anway, it was stupid.”

You wince, bracing for teasing. Instead, Hyunjin’s smile widens, warm and earnest. “That’s adorable.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t quite land. “That’s why they still call me that. Little beaver. Even to this day.”

He nods like it makes perfect sense. “Are you still obsessed with beavers?”

“…A little,” you admit, a soft chuckle slipping out before you can stop it.

He grins. “Do you still remember the dance?”

“Barely.”

His eyes light up as he turns more fully toward you. “Do you think I’ll ever get to see it?”

You snort. “Never.”

“Ever?”

You shake your head firmly. “Never. Ever.”

He sighs dramatically, disappointed in a way that’s clearly exaggerated, but still sincere enough to make you smile. “That’s tragic.”

Silence settles after that, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. You glance at him without meaning to and he’s already looking at you. Soft, dark brown eyes deeply staring into yours.

Your gaze drops and notice his hand resting in the empty space between you. Palm turned up and open. Fingers relaxed, slightly curled, like an invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach for it. Your fingers brush his first, testing, before slipping between his. You lace them together loosely, like you might pull away at any second.

You can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone like this. Under the same blanket. Talking about nothing and everything. Offering childhood memories instead of defenses. Being listened to—truly listened to.

Once upon a time, you did this without fear and it broke you.

You remember what came after: being hurt, manipulated, lied to. Cheated on. Your heart shattered so completely that you were sure it would never fit back together the same way. So you built strong walls. Grew a thicker shell. Learned how to survive by keeping everything out. You told yourself that strength meant distance.

But lying here now, fingers tangled with his, you realize something else: you’re strong because you’re fragile. Because you feel things deeply. Because you still can. And it terrifies you.

The fear creeps in quietly at first, then all at once. Your chest tightens. Your breath turns shallow. Your heart shakes like it’s shrinking in on itself, and suddenly it feels hard to breathe.

“I’m… scared,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your throat.

Hyunjin turns fully toward you, concern flickering across his face but not panic. Just understanding. He knows exactly what you mean.

“I’m here,” he says it so low like a whispered prayer. “You can hold on to me.”

You see it in his eyes: sincerity, patience, something steady and real. He isn’t rushing you toward anything. He’s just offering to stay.

You scoot closer before you can talk yourself out of it and the moment you do, his arms gently come around you, pulling you into his chest. He’s warm, solid, familiar already. His scent surrounds you, calming something deep in your chest you didn’t realize was still hurting.

You realize then that loving someone is a leap—an act of faith. It’s stepping off the edge and trusting that someone will catch you.

And right now, wrapped in Hyunjin’s arms, you’re not sure you’re ready for it but your hand clutches at his shirt, clinging onto his chest because it feels like you’re already falling.

-

The weather’s been kinder lately. You notice it halfway through class, the way the light slips in through the window without that harsh winter glare, the sky pale instead of heavy. Snow still lingers in corners of the campus, but the air feels forgiving like it’s giving you a break. You rest your chin against your palm and stare outside a little too long, thoughts drifting somewhere warm and soft and entirely distracting.

The bell rings before you realize it. You gather your things and step out into the hallway. You stop short the second you notice the long, silky hair, the stance that oozes quiet confidence and the eyes that forms into crescents as he smiles.

Hyunjin stops leaning against the wall outside your classroom, his whole face lights up like he’s been waiting only for this exact second. Before you can say a word, he’s already grabbing your hand.

“I still have another class and—” you start, but he’s moving, pulling you gently into the flow of students flooding the hallway.

“I know,” he says easily, like he’s reading your mind.

You glance at him, suspicious. “Then why are you—”

He veers sharply to the side, tugging you with him and slipping into an empty classroom. The door shuts quietly behind you, cutting off the noise of the hallway.

“Hyunjin,” you warn, half-amused, half-confused.

He turns to face you, eyes gleaming. “Do you have your apartment keys with you?”

Your brows knit together. “…What?”

He tilts his head, patient but clearly pleased with himself. “Your keys.”

Slowly, you nod. “Yeah?”

“Where?”

Still confused, you reach into your bag, fingers rummaging past notebooks and pencils before closing around the cold metal. You pull them out and Hyunjin snatches them from your hand.

“Hey—!” you protest.

“I’m borrowing these,” he says cheerfully.

“For what?”

He smirks. “It’s a surprise.”

You groan immediately. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“That’s because you don’t like surprises,” he counters, clearly enjoying this far too much.

He steps closer, hands settling on your arms, grounding you in place. “One more thing,” he says, suddenly serious. “You’re not allowed to come home before seven.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Hyunjin—”

He cuts you off by leaning in and kissing you. It’s long and lingering, the kind that steals your breath and leaves your thoughts scattered. His lips are warm, familiar now in a way that still makes your chest flutter.

When he finally pulls back, he flashes you a crooked grin, eyes bright with mischief. “See you later,” he says.

You don’t answer—just let out a long, defeated sigh.

He laughs softly, already turning to go. But after two steps, he spins back around and presses another quick peck to your lips, stealing it before you can react.

This time, he leaves for real—half-jogging down the hallway, giggling like he’s just won something. You watch him go, the messy bun bouncing at the back of his head, your heart doing something reckless in your chest.

It’s only when the hallway starts to empty that you realize you’re almost late for your next class.

-

You’ve got a little more than two hours to kill. Which feels illegal, somehow—being told not to go home to your own apartment. You end up walking to the studio out of habit, letting your feet decide for you while your mind keeps circling back to the same thing: seven o’clock.

When you step inside, the familiar scent of clay and dust greets you. Ben’s already there, hunched over his sculpture, headphones on, head nodding slightly with whatever he’s listening to.

Noticing your arrival, Ben slips one side of his headphones down and looks at you, eyebrows lifting. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You halt to a stop. “Why not?”

He squints at you, then smirks. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Thought you and Hyunjin would be… I don’t know. Have plans.”

You scoff, a short laugh escaping you before you can stop it. So that’s the kind of “surprise” Hyunjin’s cooking up. A valentine’s day surprise.

You shake your head and walk to your usual spot. The motions come back to you easily: apron on, hands working the material, body remembering what to do even when your mind refuses to cooperate. You used to lose yourself here.

Now, your phone keeps stealing your focus. You check the time. Put it away. Work for five minutes. Check again.

The sculpture takes shape under your hands, but you’re not really seeing it. Your thoughts keep drifting out of your body back to Hyunjin, smirking as he snatched your apartment keys from your hand.

You catch yourself calculating instead of creating. How long it takes to walk home. What time you’d have to leave to arrive around the allowed time for you to come home. You feel restless, anticipatory in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes at yourself.

When you finally glance at the clock and realize it’s time, you don’t hesitate. You peel off your apron and grab your bag.

Ben looks up just as you’re heading for the door, one eyebrow arching. “Leaving already?” he asks.

You pause and smile. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t tease you. Just nods and says, “Be safe on your way home.”

“I will,” you reply, soft.

You wave once and step outside.

The cold hits immediately, but this time, you don’t brace yourself against it. You pull your coat tighter and start walking, breath fogging in the air, heart steady and warm. Because now you have something to come home to.

-

You inhale air before pushing the door to your apartment open and the first thing that hits you is the smell. Something warm, rich… and dangerously close to burning.

You step inside, frowning slightly, and you find Hyunjin in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair tied messily, standing over the stove like he’s in the middle of a battle. Steam rises aggressively from a pot of pasta he’s just strained, curling into the air as he waves a towel uselessly at it, half-coughing, half-cursing under his breath.

For a second, you just stand there and watch him.

When he turns his head and finds you there, his eyes widen, panic flashing across his face like he’s just been caught committing a crime. “Why are you here?”

“Because this is my apartment,” you simply answer.

He stares at you, horrified, then asks more urgently this time. “No, why are you here this early?”

You calmly pull out your phone and hold it up between you, the screen glowing. 7:14 p.m.

“I came right on time.”

Hyunjin gasps like the realization physically knocks the air out of him. “Oh—shoot.”

He whips his head back toward the stove, muttering under his breath. “I lost track of time—oh my god—”

He spirals for a second, moving between the counter and the stove, hands everywhere, unsure whether to save the pasta, turn off the heat, or simply lie down on the floor and accept defeat.

He eventually stops. Straightens his back. Takes a breath. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reboot himself. He turns back to you, forcing a smile that’s a little too tight but very sincere. “Okay. So. I need… like, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. To set things up.”

You open your mouth, ready to say you can help but one look at him tells you he’s already juggling too much. You don’t want to be another thing he has to manage so you nod.

“Go get changed,” he says gently, ushering you toward the hallway. “I’ll call you when it’s… ready.”

You nod once again and then turn toward your bedroom. As you close the door behind you, the sounds of clattering pans and frantic movement resume on the other side. And despite yourself, despite the smell of nearly burnt pasta, despite the chaos on the other side of the door, despite the way everything is clearly not going according to plan— you smile.

-

It’s been twenty minutes since you sit on the edge of your bed, already changed, already ready.

You quietly open the door just a crack to have a peek into situation on the other side of the door. Hyunjin crossing the living room, disappearing into the kitchen, coming back with something in his hands. He doesn’t look done. Not even close.

So you quietly push the door shut again, giving him the grace of time. You us the spare time to brush your hair slowly, add a sheer layer of lipstick—just enough color to look alive. A few sprays of perfume at your wrists and neck.

When you peek again, the living room lights are off. Your heart does a small, traitorous flip.

You close the door gently this time, clear your throat, and raise your voice just enough to carry. “Can I come out now?”

There’s a pause and then the sound of movement that is rather clumsy.

“Give me a second,” Hyunjin says, slightly breathless.

You bite back a smile, picturing him rushing around your apartment, adjusting things, fixing something that probably doesn’t need fixing.

A moment later, he announces, “Okay. You can come out now.”

You inhale air, steady yourself and then turn the knob.

The living room is dark, save for the soft glow spilling from the kitchen and the amber flicker of candles arranged on the dining table. The light dances gently, low and intimate, casting shadows that make the space feel smaller like the world has narrowed down to just this room.

Hyunjin stands beside the table, changed into a white shirt and a tie. And— blue jeans?

You almost laugh at the combination, but the thought dissolves the second you take in his whole look and honestly, he looks good in everything. What you like the most though is the way he’s standing there now, a little nervous, a little proud, smiling at you like this moment matters more than anything.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.

Once upon a time, you would’ve scoffed. Rolled your eyes. Thought it was corny. Cringe. Too much. But now, standing here on the receiving end of candlelight and effort and someone wanting to make something special just for you, you understand.

Those reactions were never about the romance. They were about never being chosen like this. And right now, you feel special.

You take slow steps toward him, the candlelight catching in your eyes, and Hyunjin’s smile never wavers even for a second, a little too soft for someone who used to feel so untouchable. Then he reaches behind his back.

“Uh—” he starts, and pulls out a bouquet.

You stop right in front of him as he offers it to you, both hands like it’s something precious. You take it, fingers brushing his, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

“I didn’t know your favorite flowers,” he says quickly, a little sheepish, “but you said your favorite color is lilac, so… I got lilac.”

You lift the bouquet to your nose, breathing in the subtle floral scent, hiding your smile behind the soft petals.

“And,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “apparently there are a lot of kinds of lilac. So I kind of… got all of them.”

In this light, stripped of rumors and confidence and reputation, Hyunjin is just… a boy—slightly silly, a bit awkward, visibly nervous and somehow, that makes him unbearably adorable.

You lower the bouquet, take one more step closer. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Before you can change your mind, you lean in to press a quick kiss on his lips. When you pull away, you see the surprise flicker across his face, eyes wide for half a second before he blinks.

You grin. “My lipstick got on you.”

He smacks his lips together experimentally, like he’s tasting it. “Oh.”

You tilt your head. “Never mind. It looks good on you.”

His smile turns slow, dangerous in the gentlest way. “You should put more on me then.”

You laugh. “I’ll go grab it from my room real quick.”

“Never mind,” he says quickly, moving to pull out your chair. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow, playful. “Wow. Very demanding.”

But you obey, sitting down and placing the bouquet carefully on the table. Up close, you really take in the effort—the candles, the plates, the way he’s tried to make everything feel intentional.

“Can I eat now?” you ask hopefully. “I’m starving.”

He holds up a finger, stopping you. “Wine first.”

You wait patiently as he uncaps the bottle, eyes squeezing shut in anticipation and fear. When the cork finally pops, his shoulders jump, and you both burst into laughter. He pours the wine, rich red filling your glasses, the aphrodisiac smell of it wafting around the room.

“To—” he starts, lifting his glass, then hesitates.

“To what?” you ask.

He goes quiet, genuinely thinking.

“How about… successfully not setting my apartment on fire?”

He laughs, relieved. “Yeah. That.”

You clink your glasses together, finally having that sip of sweet, earthy tone of the wine.

“Okay. Now can we eat?” you ask impatiently.

His hands fly to the lids covering the plates of dinner and sighs dramatically before reveal them. “Your favorite. Shrimp scampi.”

You lean in, impressed. It looks… good. But you don’t skip the chance to tease him. “Is it safe to eat though?”

He nods confidently. “I followed the recipe. I just can’t remember if I added salt or baking soda.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you for the food.”

You have a taste of it and it’s not exactly how you like it, but it’s good. For someone who made it for the first time in his life, he did well.

He watches you too closely. “Well?”

“It’s good,” you say.

“You can be honest.”

“It’s good because I’m hungry,” you jokingly say.

He smiles, entirely unoffended.

Dinner continues like that, filled with teasing, light conversation, easy laughter that comes naturally and sitting there, you realize something quietly—

You feel content.

-

The plates are empty now, pushed to the side, crumbs wiped away. The candles have burned lower, wax pooling lazily at their bases, and the room feels warmer like it’s wrapped itself around the two of you.

“So,” Hyunjin says, swirling the dark red in his glass. “Did you like the dinner?”

You nod without hesitation. “Surprisingly, I did.”

His face brightens immediately, pride blooming so openly it makes your chest ache a little. But you lift a finger before he can bask in it too long. “I liked everything. Except the part where I wasn’t allowed to come home to my own apartment.”

His lips form a coy pout. “I’m not sorry.”

You huff, but there’s no real heat behind it. Silence settles again, gentle this time. You take another sip of your wine, then look at him, sitting there in your space, surrounded by candlelight and effort and intention.

“…Thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t remember the last time someone did something like this for me.”

“Yeah,” he says lightly, “I can tell.”

You shoot him a look but it does make him feel the slightest but intimidated like you hope it would.

“That look doesn’t scare me anymore,” he says with a soft chuckle.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

He drinks from his glass, then glances at you over the rim. “By the way, did you prepare a gift for me?”

Your brows knit together. “What gift?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day. I gave you plenty of time to think of a gift.”

You gape at him. “You didn’t even tell me you were doing this. I only found out it's Valentine’s Day from Ben.”

“Oh, so you had a source,” he counters.

“That doesn’t count!”

The argument dissolves quickly into bickering and slowly descends into hilarity, then burst into laughter, the kind that makes your shoulders loosen and your chest feel light.

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “You don’t have to get me anything.”

You nod. “Good.”

“But,” he adds, eyes glinting, “it doesn’t have to be an object.”

You narrow your eyes, not liking the sound of it.

His gaze flicks past you, toward the fridge, toward the Christmas card. He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes crinkling as his voice softens into something dangerously sweet. “Can I see the beaver dance?”

You groan, leaning back in your chair. “Absolutely not.”

He clasps his hands together. “Please.”

“I barely remember it.”

“I’ll take a glimpse. A hint. A historical reenactment,” he tries his best to coax you.

You mumble something incoherent, dragging a hand down your face. Every instinct tells you to refuse, but then you look at him. At the care. The effort. The way he looks at you like this moment matters.

It’s just a silly little dance, you tell yourself.

With a long sigh, you cave. “Fine.”

His grin is immediate and radiant, like he’s just been handed the greatest gift in the world.

You drain half your glass in one go before you can change your mind, the wine warming your chest as you stand up from the table.

“Sit,” you tell him, pointing at the sofa like it’s an order.

Hyunjin obeys immediately, a little too happily, hands clasped together on his lap, eyes bright with anticipation.

You stand in front of him and inhale. Exhale. You wait another second to let the wine takes effect on your nerves. This is a terrible idea. You tell yourself but begin moving anyway. You lift one hand then immediately cringe.

“Wait. I need another second,” you mutter, grabbing your glass again and taking another long sip before returning to your spot.

Okay. Let’s get it over with.

You stare at the floor, replaying fragments of memory you haven’t touched in years. Made up lyrics only you remember. Movements half-lost to time. Your hands curl into small fists, lifting under your chin, elbows tucked in as you sway awkwardly from side to side the way a beaver does.

You mumble-sing under your breath about a beaver who can swim, about it eating apple, about things that made sense only to a child once. You shuffle, hop a little, mimic gnawing motions, cheeks burning, laughter bubbling up because you can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

The whole time, you’re avoiding Hyunjin’s eyes, hate to catch that smile of satisfaction on his devastatingly beautiful face. You continue until you can’t recall the rest of the choreography from memory but you finish with one last ridiculous beaver pose.

That’s when you finally glance up—still laughing, still breathless, ready to see him doubled over, teasing you forever about this.

However, Hyunjin isn’t laughing. He is very still. He looks at you with something so soft, so full, it almost hurts to see. Fondness, yes—but also something deeper. Wistful. Like he’s been shown a piece of sunlight he didn’t know he was missing.

Your stance falter, so does your smile. “…You can just say it,” you joke weakly. “I look silly. Or funny. Or—”

He stands before you can finish. In two long strides, he closes the distance, takes your hands gently, and guides you down onto the sofa. Then he kneels in front of you, right there. Your hands are still in his as he looks up at you, eyes shining even in the low light, voice trembling just enough to be honest.

“I don’t know how much you’ve been hurt. But I hate, I hate whoever made you feel like you had to hide this part of yourself.”

Your chest tightens but you daringly look back into his eyes, holding his gaze steadily.

“I hate that someone made you build walls,” he continues, gaze never leaving yours. “When there’s something this beautiful inside you.”

Your heart quivers because he sees it. All of it. And he isn’t flinching.

“Thank you,” he whispers, squeezing your hands. “For trusting me with this. With you.”

Your vision blurs as tears pooling in your eyes. It’s the way he looks at you, touched you with words that aren’t just words, they’re heavy with meaning and intentions and emotions.

“I promise,” he says, voice steady now, full of conviction, “I’ll do everything I can to make you happy. To make you smile. To make sure you never feel like you have to hide again.”

Tears spill despite yourself and in that moment, you know it with bone-deep certainty. He’s there. He’s not stepping back. He’s on his knees, ready to catch you.

So you lean forward and kiss him.

And this time, you don’t hesitate.

You take the leap.

-

The snow that once clung stubbornly to the ground is gone now, reduced to wet patches and darkened sidewalks, and the light outside feels softer, warmer. The sky is pale and open, the air no longer biting. You smile to yourself because spring is coming—you can feel it in the way the world seems to be slowly loosening its grip.

When the bell rings and you step out into the low hum of the hallway, Hyunjin is already waiting outside your class, leaning against the wall like he’s always been meant to be. His smile is warm and beautiful when his eyes find yours, and something in your chest eases at the sight of it. You walk straight into his space without thinking, rising onto your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. He lets out a soft laugh, surprised but pleased, and when your fingers slide into his, he laces them together like he’s been doing it for years instead of weeks.

You move down the hallway hand in hand, carried along by the crowd but somehow separate from it, talking over each other about nothing and everything—coffee or a walk, somewhere quiet or somewhere familiar, now or later.

Hyunjin squeezes your hand as he talks, glancing at you like he’s trying to remember this exact moment, as if this ordinary afternoon matters. You bump your shoulder into his on purpose, smiling, already knowing you’ll figure it out together, wherever you end up.

And maybe that’s how it begins and continues.

Maybe the future is unclear, maybe there are still questions neither of you are ready to answer yet, but as you walk beside Hyunjin, you know one thing for certain: you are no longer afraid of wanting, of choosing, of loving out loud.

And if loving Hyunjin means stepping forward without knowing exactly where you’ll land, then this time, you’re willing to do it bravely, openly—together.

-

The paper had still been warm from the press when it was delivered that morning, its edges crisp, its ink not yet fully settled into the page. You had unfolded it without much thought, the Ton’s Observer was, if nothing else, consistent in its predictability, prepared to skim its usual catalogue of whispered alliances and barely concealed insults.

You had not expected to see your own name nor his. Side by side, no less. You could have laughed.

In truth, you nearly had. The notion that you and the Duke of Chan might exist within the same sphere of consideration was absurd enough to border on parody. You shared nothing of substance. Where he was rigid, you were fluid. Where he was calculating, you were instinctive. Where he treated society as something to be managed, you had always understood it as something to be navigated.

He was, quite simply, insufferable.

Even now, standing at the edge of the ballroom, you found your attention drawn toward him against your better judgment. The room itself shimmered with light, chandeliers casting fractured gold across polished floors, silk and satin catching in motion as bodies moved through carefully choreographed patterns of politeness. Conversation rose and fell in gentle waves, punctuated by laughter that was just a touch too loud to be entirely sincere.

And at its centre, as though gravity itself had bent to accommodate him, stood the Duke.

He was surrounded, as he always was. Mothers angled their daughters toward him with subtle desperation, hands resting lightly at their backs, guiding them forward with rehearsed encouragement. The young women curtsied gracefully, their smiles bright and hopeful, their eyes searching his face for some sign, any sign, that they had distinguished themselves from the rest.

He received each of them with perfect composure. He bowed when required. He smiled when appropriate. He spoke with a measured calm that, on its surface, was entirely beyond reproach.

And yet you could see it.

The way his gaze did not soften, but sharpened. The way his questions were not invitations, but examinations. You watched as one particularly nervous debutante clasped her hands tightly before her, answering him with careful precision.

He inclined his head slightly. “How many languages do you speak?”

The question itself was not offensive. It was the tone, polite, neutral, entirely devoid of warmth, that rendered it something else entirely.

“Two, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice hopeful.

He nodded, as though confirming a detail already suspected. “I expect my future wife to speak at least three.”

He did not say it cruelly. He did not say it kindly, either. He simply said it as fact.

The girl’s smile faltered, only slightly, only for a moment, before she recovered herself. He had already moved on. You exhaled slowly, only then realising you had been holding your breath. It was not that he was rude. Not overtly. He never humiliated anyone outright, never allowed himself the impropriety of open dismissal. But he reduced them all the same. Piece by piece. Until they became little more than answers to questions they had not realised they were being asked.

You should have looked away. Instead, you found yourself watching as he completed his circuit of the room, offering his parting courtesies with the same effortless precision with which he had begun them. The mothers inclined their heads, their daughters curtsied, and he departed with his dignity intact, and their hopes quietly unravelled behind him.

He turned then, angling toward the far side of the ballroom, where his friends had gathered.

Toward you. You did not move. You told yourself there was no reason to. The ballroom was crowded. His path meant nothing. And yet, as he drew closer, you became acutely aware of your stillness. Of the way your fingers rested too carefully against your fan. Of the way your attention, traitorous, uninvited, remained fixed upon him.

He passed within arm’s reach.

And then, impossibly, he slowed.

Not enough to attract notice. Not enough to break the illusion of his effortless composure. But enough.

His gaze shifted, finding yours with unerring certainty.

There was no surprise in it, only recognition and something dangerously close to amusement. The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, as though he had known all along exactly where to find you. He nodded his head in the smallest of acknowledgements, a gesture so brief it might have been imagined. And then he was gone, continuing on without pause, leaving you standing exactly where you had been.

You stared after him, your grip tightening imperceptibly around your fan.

God, he was insufferable.

And worse still, he knew it.

—-------------------

Chan does not allow himself to look back. It would serve no purpose. He has conducted himself properly. He has offered the expected courtesies, endured the expected conversations, and asked the expected questions. There is nothing more to be gained from revisiting them. And yet, as he crosses the ballroom toward the far side of the room, he cannot quite shake the sense that something has been unsettled.

He ignores it.

His friends stand gathered near one of the tall windows, half-shadowed by heavy velvet drapery, their expressions brightening with varying degrees of amusement as he approaches. It is a familiar sight.

Felix, radiant as always, notices him first, lifting his glass in greeting. Seungmin’s mouth curves into something sharper, not unkind, but knowing. Hyunjin leans lazily against the wall, observing everything and nothing all at once. Jeongin stands slightly apart, still new enough to the season to regard it with careful curiosity. Jisung and Changbin are eagerly chatting amongst themselves.

And Minho, of course, is nowhere to be found.

Chan exhales quietly. A small mercy.

“So,” Seungmin says, his tone already threaded with mockery, “how goes another year on the marriage mart?”

Chan does not bother disguising his irritation. He loosens his gloves with deliberate precision, drawing them free one finger at a time. “Precisely as it always does.”

Felix laughs softly. Hyunjin tilts his head.

Jisung, predictably, does not let the matter rest. “I just don’t understand,” he says, frowning slightly. “What is it you’re actually looking for?”

Chan glances at him. The question itself is not offensive. It is the implication behind it. That what he is doing is arbitrary. Emotional. Improvised. He does not improvise.

“Compatibility,” he replies evenly, “must be evaluated sensibly.”

Jisung snorts. “You say that as though it were a business arrangement.”

Chan meets his gaze without hesitation. “It is.”

Felix shifts uncomfortably, but Jisung presses on. “Why?” he asks. “Why not simply find someone you enjoy being around? Someone you—”

He stops himself, but the word lingers anyway.

Love.

Chan resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I am aware,” he says, his tone sharpening almost imperceptibly, “that you are more than content to become attached to the first pretty face you encounter without so much as a conversation. I prefer a more deliberate approach.”

Jisung absorbs the remark with surprising grace. He does not argue; he simply studies him.

“So what,” he says after a moment, “you’re waiting for someone to meet every requirement?”

Chan does not answer immediately. Hyunjin’s attention sharpens. 

Jisung’s expression shifts, curiosity overtaking amusement. “You do keep a list,” he realises.

Felix laughs outright. “No,” he says. “You cannot.”

Chan says nothing. And that, it seems, is answer enough.

The laughter fades. Hyunjin straightens slightly.

“No,” he says again, quieter this time. “You actually do.”

Chan feels irritation rise, hot and immediate. “Do not look at me as though I have committed some great offence,” he says. “I simply know what I require. Is that so unreasonable?”

Felix steps forward, eyes bright with interest. “What does it say?”

“I am not telling you.”

A chorus of protest erupts instantly.

“Chan—”

“You have to.”

“Please.”

He closes his eyes briefly. They will not relent. They never do.

“Fine,” he says at last. “But you will not judge me.”

They agree far too quickly.

Chan draws a slow breath. He has never spoken it aloud before, not fully.

“Composure in public society,” he begins. “She must conduct herself with dignity. Without spectacle.”

They fall silent.

“Sound education. She must be able to manage correspondence. Accounts.”

Felix’s smile fades.

“Temperance of disposition,” he continues. “She must be steady. Predictable.”

He hears it now, as he speaks. The weight of it. The structure.

“Household competence. Social adaptability. Family reputation. Discretion.”

He hesitates only briefly before finishing.

“And an understanding that marriage requires duty above inclination.”

When he is finished, the silence that follows is no longer amused. It is something else. Jisung stares at him, Felix looks almost wounded, and Seungmin says nothing at all.

Chan lifts his chin slightly. “I fail to see the issue.”

And then, “And what makes you think this perfect woman would want you?”

The voice is unmistakable.

Clear, unyielding and behind him. Chan slowly turns and finds you standing there. And for the first time that evening, Chan finds himself without an immediate answer.

—-------------------

You truly had not meant to overhear him. You tell yourself this, even now, even as the words continue to echo in your mind with an infuriating clarity you cannot seem to escape. It had not been intentional. The refreshments table had simply been the nearest refuge from the suffocating politeness of the ballroom, its arrangement of crystal glasses and delicate pastries offering the illusion of occupation.

You had needed the moment. Needed distance. You had not expected to find him there, nor had you expected him to be speaking so loudly. His voice carried easily above the low hum of conversation, calm and assured, as though there existed no possibility that his words might be unwelcome.

Compatibility must be evaluated sensibly.

You had stilled. At first, you told yourself to ignore it. It was not your concern. It was not your place. The Duke of Chan had always conducted himself with a particular brand of arrogance that society had chosen, inexplicably, to interpret as virtue.

But then he continued.

Composure. Education. Temperance. Duty.

He spoke of a wife as though she were a position to be filled. As though she were an acquisition. As though she were not a person at all.

Something hot and immediate flared in your chest, and you should have walked away. You did not.

Instead, you found yourself moving forward almost without conscious instruction, drawn by something far more dangerous than curiosity.

Indignation.

“And what makes you think this perfect woman would want you?”

The words left you before you could reconsider them. The effect was immediate as seven heads turned toward you in unison. Conversation around you did not stop entirely, but it softened, warped, and bent itself around the disturbance you had created. The space between you seemed to sharpen, the air suddenly thinner, more fragile.

Chan turned last. “I beg your pardon?”

His voice was quieter now. Far quieter than it had been moments before and infinitely more dangerous. His gaze found yours with unerring precision. It was not loud. It did not need to be. There was a weight to it, an expectation, as though he believed the force of it alone would compel you to retreat.

For a moment, your body threatened to obey. You felt it instinctively. The sudden awareness of your own position. The impropriety. The attention. You felt small beneath his scrutiny, and then, just as quickly, you refused to remain so.

You lifted your chin. “You describe qualifications,” you said evenly, though you could feel your pulse betraying you, “not a person.”

A flicker crossed his expression. It was gone too quickly to name.

He scoffed softly. “Well,” he said, “I would not expect you to understand.”

You blinked. “Do you mean me specifically,” you asked, your voice sharpening despite yourself, “or women in general?”

“Women in general,” he replied smoothly. His gaze did not leave yours. “Though you appear to be a particularly irate example.”

Heat rose in your chest.

He continued, “Marriage is a responsibility—”

“Marriage,” you interrupted, before you could stop yourself, “is supposed to be a partnership.”

The word hung between you.

His jaw tightened. “No,” he said. “That is a notion sustained by fairytales and love stories.”

Your brows lifted. “Are you suggesting women should read less?”

His composure cracked, not visibly, not to anyone else. But you saw it. In the tightening of his mouth. In the stillness that followed.

“You twist my words.”

“No,” you said quietly. “I listen to them.”

He took a step closer. It was subtle, barely perceptible even and yet the distance between you changed entirely.

His gaze hardened. “It is not my fault,” he said, his voice lower now, more controlled, “that I possess expectations and have yet to meet a woman who satisfies them.”

Something inside you snapped. “A great joy to women,” you said, the words leaving you before restraint could catch them. “Otherwise, they might have spent the rest of their lives married to you.”

Silence.

Real silence.

Not the polite murmur of society, but the absence of sound itself.

“You are—”

A sharp cough cut him off. Both of you turned. Changbin stood just behind him, his expression carefully neutral as he gestured subtly outward.

Chan followed the motion. You did too, and only then did you realise the ballroom had noticed. Not entirely, but enough. Enough faces turned in your direction. Enough attention drawn. Enough awareness to make the proximity between you suddenly feel indecent. Because he was close, far closer than propriety allowed, and you had not noticed him moving. You had not noticed yourself failing to retreat.

Your breath caught. Without another word, you stepped back.

“Good evening, Your Grace.”

You did not wait for his response.

You turned, moving swiftly through the crowd, your composure intact only by force of will. You did not allow yourself to look behind you. You did not allow yourself to falter. Only when the cool air of the corridor touched your skin did you realise how tightly your hands were trembling.

Behind you, in the ballroom, Chan did not move. He remained where you had left him, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable, but his eyes followed you long after you were gone.

Beside him, Jeongin leaned slightly toward Felix, his voice low with poorly concealed fascination. “Are all balls this entertaining?”

Felix watched the space you had vacated, something thoughtful in his expression.

“No,” he said quietly. “They are not.”

—-------------------

The following morning, the ballroom feels like something that happened to someone else.

You tell yourself this as you move through the rituals of the day, as though distance alone might diminish the memory. And yet, somewhere across the city, in a study lined with dark wood and order, Chan is attempting to do precisely the same.

His study has always been his sanctuary. Everything within it exists according to intention. The desk is cleared at the end of each evening. Correspondence is answered promptly. Papers are arranged in neat, deliberate stacks. Nothing lingers where it does not belong. It is a room built on certainty.

He sits there now, a document open before him, his eyes moving across the page without comprehension. He has read the same line three times. He does not remember a word of it.

His mind betrays him. Unbidden, it returns to the ballroom. To the precise shape of your voice. To the way you had stood before him, unmoved by his title, unimpressed by his certainty.

Unafraid.

He closes the document. He had asked Felix, later, with what he had hoped was sufficient casualness for your name. Felix had supplied it easily and with it, something else. Recognition.

He had called on you once before. Years ago. You were younger then. Quieter. Still possessed of that same unsettling steadiness in your gaze. He had asked his questions, you had answered them, and he had dismissed you.

Efficiently. Appropriately. Correctly.

At least, he had believed so. He opens the drawer of his desk. The paper rests exactly where he had left it. He removes it with care, smoothing it flat against the desk, though it requires no correction. He does not need to read it. He knows every line by heart.

Still, he looks.

Composure. Education. Temperance. Duty.

There is nothing unreasonable here. Nothing careless. Nothing indulgent. Each requirement exists for a purpose. Each serves stability. He had spent his life building stability, and he will not apologise for protecting it.

“She is jealous,” he says aloud, the words sounding weaker outside his thoughts than within them. It is the only explanation that makes sense.

A disturbance breaks the silence. Voices, hushed but urgent, filter through the door. Footsteps. Hesitation. Chan frowns. His household is not prone to disorder. The door opens without a proper announcement. A manservant appears, pale and uncertain, holding something in trembling hands.

Chan does not rise. “Yes?”

The servant steps forward quickly, placing the object on the desk as though eager to be rid of it. “This arrived, Your Grace.”

Chan glances down.

The Ton’s Observer.

Of course.

He has never understood the fascination with it. Idle speculation, anonymous cruelty, packaged as entertainment. He reaches for it anyway. His name appears immediately. He reads.

“On Perfection and Its Price

It has come to this author’s attention that His Grace, the Duke of Chan, has approached this season with a document rather than an open heart.

A written list, no less, enumerating the qualities he believes necessary in a wife, as though affection might be audited into existence.

More curious still is that this list was not only overheard but publicly challenged by a lady bold enough to ask why such a paragon would wish for him at all.

One might argue that the Duke has been unfairly embarrassed. Another might suggest that perfection, when spoken aloud, invites correction.

A list may choose a wife, but it will never teach a man how to love her.”

The column then went on to write his list in full, and the words linger. He does not believe them. He cannot afford to believe them and yet something beneath his certainty shifts. Not doubt but the awareness of it.

He folds the paper carefully, places it down and stands. The movement is abrupt enough that the chair scrapes faintly against the floor.

“Prepare my carriage,” he says. His voice is perfectly steady. He does not pause to explain. He leaves the study with the list still lying open behind him. For the first time since he had written it, he has not returned it to the drawer.

—-------------------

The afternoon settles over the house with the familiar stillness of routine. Light filters through the tall windows of the drawing room, softened by gauze curtains that move only when stirred by the faintest breeze. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, suspended in golden suspension, as though even time itself has grown reluctant to move too quickly here.

You sit in your usual place near the window, a book open in your lap. You have not turned the page in several minutes. Your mother sits opposite you, her embroidery resting idle in her hands, her attention divided between her work and the door.

She does not watch it directly. She never does, but you have learned to recognise the particular stillness that accompanies her hope. It has been years since anyone called with a genuine intention. Years since expectation had brought anything other than disappointment.

Still, she waits. You admire her for it. 

The knock, when it comes, is firm. Both of you freeze.

A moment later, the housekeeper appears in the doorway, her expression caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief. “Miss L/N,” she says carefully, “you have a caller.”

Your heart stumbles. You cannot imagine who it could be. You had not encouraged anyone at the ball. Had not offered anyone a reason. If anything, you had done precisely the opposite.

Your mother rises instantly. “Who is it?” she asks.

The housekeeper hesitates. “His Grace,” she says.

Your stomach drops. Of course.

Before you can protest, your mother is already moving toward you, her hands adjusting your posture, smoothing your hair, straightening what does not require straightening.

You brush her off gently. “There is no need,” you murmur.

She ignores you.

Footsteps approach, and then he appears in the doorway. The Duke of Chan fills the space as though it had been constructed to contain him.

Your mother curtsies immediately. “Your Grace.”

You do not rise, nor do you curtsy. You do not offer him the courtesy he has come to expect from every other woman in society.

Instead, you lower your gaze deliberately back to your book. “What do you want?”

“Y/N,” your mother breathes, horrified.

You ignore her. Chan’s presence shifts the air itself. You can feel his attention on you.

“I trust,” he says evenly, “you have read the latest edition of The Ton’s Observer.”

You allow yourself a small smile. “I have.”

Silence stretches between you. You can feel his expectation, the assumption that you will apologise. That you will soften.

You do neither.

“And?” he asks.

You look up, then, meeting his gaze directly. “What would you have me say? That it was entirely truthful in its account, was it not?”

Something flashes in his expression. “You cannot possibly believe it reasonable,” he says, his voice lowering, “to conduct such matters publicly.”

You rise slowly now, setting your book aside with deliberate care. “You chose a public opinion,” you reply.

His eyes narrow. “You misrepresented me.”

“Then represent yourself better.”

The words land between you with quiet precision.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

He stands too close. Close enough that you can see the tension in his shoulders. Close enough that you can hear the subtle shift in his breathing. He had come here expecting compliance and has found resistance instead.

He does not know what to do with it.

He exhales sharply. “There is no reasoning with you,” he says.

It is not said cruelly; it is said as fact. 

He turns abruptly, the motion precise and controlled, betraying how little control he truly possesses.

He does not look back. The door closes behind him with quiet finality.

Silence settles once more.

You remain standing, your pulse still unsteady, though you would never allow it to show. A small, private satisfaction unfurls in your chest. He had come here. He had sought you out, and he had left without victory. You allow yourself the smallest smile.

Only then do you notice your mother. She has sunk back into her chair, her hands pressed to her temples as though attempting to ward off an approaching headache.

“Where did I go wrong?” she murmurs.

—-------------------

In the days following the Duke’s abrupt departure, you discover that anger, once witnessed, is far more difficult to forget than indifference ever was. You do not see him immediately. That, perhaps, is the strangest part. Society continues as it always does, invitations arrive, promenades fill, conversations resume, but where you might once have expected his presence, there is now only absence. No deliberate avoidance. No pointed snub. Simply nothing.

It should have been a relief.

Instead, it leaves you with the deeply irritating awareness that you have unsettled him. Not enough to provoke retaliation, but enough to provoke thought. And that, you suspect, is far more dangerous.

You hear of him, of course. His Grace attended the Cavendish musicale. His Grace declined Lady Norbury’s dinner. His Grace has been seen riding alone in the early mornings.

His Grace has not spoken of you. Which, in its own way, is a statement.

It is not until nearly a week later, beneath the pale warmth of an unseasonably generous afternoon, that you encounter him again.

Hyde Park is alive with the quiet industry of the season, measured footsteps along gravel paths, the murmur of polite conversation, the careful choreography of seeing and being seen. You walk without urgency, your gloves loose in your hands, only half-attentive to the company around you.

You are thinking of nothing in particular. Which is why his voice, when it comes, feels less like an interruption and more like the inevitable conclusion of a thought you had not realised you were having.

“Miss L/N.”

You do not turn immediately.

Not out of fear. Nor even defiance. But because you recognise, instinctively, that whatever passes between you now will not resemble your last conversation, and you are unwilling to grant him the advantage of believing you have been waiting for it.

When you do turn, he is already beside you. He does not block your path. He does not force you to stop. Instead, he matches your pace with quiet precision, as though this, too, is a negotiation he intends to conduct properly. His expression is composed, but there is something beneath it, not quite uncertainty, but something adjacent to it. Something less certain than you remember.

“I had hoped,” he says, after a moment, “to speak with you.”

His tone is even. Controlled. Entirely appropriate. It irritates you immediately.

“I was not aware you required permission,” you reply.

You expect the remark to provoke him. Expect the familiar tightening of his posture, the polite withdrawal behind which he conceals his displeasure. Instead, he only inclines his head slightly, as though acknowledging the accuracy of the observation.

“Our last conversation,” he says, “ended inelegantly.”

You glance at him then. “I thought it ended honestly.”

He does not answer at once. For a man so evidently accustomed to certainty, he seems, in this moment, to find himself without it.

“You seem remarkably comfortable,” he says eventually, “disagreeing with me.”

You allow yourself the smallest tilt of your head. “You seem remarkably unaccustomed to it.”

There is the faintest shift in his expression, not offence, but something far more disarming.

Recognition.

It unsettles him. You can see that much.

He studies you openly now, with none of the polite disinterest he had shown at the ball, and you find yourself acutely aware of the weight of his attention, not dismissive, as it had been before, but deliberate.

“You believe,” he says slowly, “that marriage ought to be governed by feeling.”

It is not quite a question.

“No,” you say. “I believe it ought to involve it.”

He considers this. Not dismissively. Not critically. Seriously.

A passing couple greets him then, a gentleman nodding respectfully, a lady lowering her gaze with quiet admiration.

“Your Grace.” He acknowledges them with effortless precision, the movement so practised it requires no thought at all. And yet, when his attention returns to you, there is something in it that feels entirely unpractised.

“You are unlike most people I meet,” he says.

It is spoken without irony and without calculation, simply as a fact.

“That,” you reply lightly, “has not always been considered a compliment.”

“It was intended as one.”

The words seem to surprise him even as he says them.

You see it in the brief stillness that follows, the moment in which he becomes aware that he has said something he had not planned to say. It is, you realise, the first unscripted thing you have ever heard from him.

“You are not as certain as you pretend,” you say quietly.

This time, he does not attempt to answer; he only looks at you. And in that look, you see it, not weakness, but something far more compelling.

Doubt.

Not in you. In himself.

It is gone almost as quickly as it appears.

“I hope,” he says, his voice restored to its usual composure, “the remainder of your walk is agreeable, Miss L/N.”

He bows. Properly. Formally. And then he leaves you.

You watch him go, his stride measured, his posture unyielding, every inch the man society believes him to be. And yet, for the first time since you have known him, you are no longer entirely convinced that society is correct.

—-------------------

If your mother interfered in your life one more time, you were quite certain you would abandon society altogether and join the circus. It was the only logical explanation for your current circumstances.

The Arts Society’s annual charity gala had long been considered one of the season’s more respectable obligations, attended faithfully, discussed politely, and forgotten almost immediately afterwards. It was not, under any reasonable interpretation, an event requiring your personal involvement. And yet your mother, in a moment of optimism you suspected bordered on delusion, had graciously volunteered you as one of its hosts.

You sat now in the Society’s drawing room, your spine straight, your hands folded neatly in your lap, pretending patience. 

The room itself was intolerably warm. Sunlight spilled across polished floors, illuminating shelves of sheet music and paintings that watched you with quiet indifference. It was a perfectly lovely afternoon.

You could have been reading. Or walking. Or doing literally anything else. Instead, you were waiting to discover which unfortunate soul had been conscripted alongside you.

The doors opened. You did not need to look to know you felt it first,  that familiar shift in the air, that quiet rearrangement of attention.

And then he stepped inside. Of course.

Your mother rose instantly. “Your Grace!” she exclaimed, her voice bright with the sort of unrestrained joy she usually reserved for holidays and miracles.

You did not rise. Instead, you stared at him, your disbelief unrestrained. “Are you the other host?”

“I am,” he replied.

You closed your eyes briefly. “Don’t you have more important matters to attend to?”

There was something dangerously close to amusement in his expression. “I am a patron of the Arts Society,” he said. “And when I learned you would be hosting, I thought it appropriate to offer my assistance.”

Assistance. You resisted the urge to laugh. Did he truly believe you were incapable? Or worse, did he believe himself necessary?

You scowled. He noticed. He noticed everything.“Shall we begin?” he asked calmly. “I was considering a masquerade ball.”

You hesitated. The idea was… unexpected. Creative. Not at all what you would have anticipated from him, and you hated that it intrigued you.

This, you realised grimly, was going to be a very long several weeks.

—-------------------

If you were being entirely honest with yourself, working with the Duke had not been as unbearable as you had expected.

Infuriating, yes.

Demanding, certainly.

But not unbearable.

He approached the planning with the same meticulous precision he applied to everything else. Nothing escaped his notice. Nothing was left incomplete. Where you preferred instinct, he relied on structure and, irritatingly, it worked.

You sat now at the long table in your drawing room, papers spread neatly between you.

“Guest list confirmed?” he asked.

“Yes.” You handed him the documents. “Every invitation accounted for.”

He accepted them without comment.

“And the seating arrangement?”

You passed him the diagram. “Finalised.”

“And the decorations?”

You slid the final stack toward him. “Approved, budget maintained, and awaiting your signature.”

He studied the papers carefully. You watched his expression, waiting for criticism. Instead, his brows lifted slightly. “You are… remarkably organised.”

You allowed yourself a small smile. “I managed without a list.”

You had not meant to say it. He did not respond immediately, but you saw it. The faintest shift at the corner of his mouth. Amusement. You pretended not to notice.

“You know,” you said, “I would not have taken you for a patron of the arts.”

His head lifted. “I assure you, I am.”

You raised a sceptical brow. 

“I am quite accomplished at the pianoforte.”

You stared at him. There was simply no possibility that the man who evaluated women like estate acquisitions could produce anything resembling music.

“No,” you said flatly. “You are lying.”

He laughed, actually laughed. It startled you more than anything else.

“I am not.”

“Prove it.” The words left you before you could reconsider them.

He stood without hesitation. You followed him instinctively as he crossed to the pianoforte in the corner of the room.

He sat, paused, flexed his fingers and then he began to play. The sound filled the room immediately. His hands moved with effortless certainty, the melody unfolding beneath his touch with a fluency that stole the breath from your lungs. It was not the technical precision that stunned you, though it was undeniable; it was the feeling.

The quiet intensity of it. He was not performing; he was elsewhere. His eyes had fallen half-closed, his expression unguarded, his posture no longer rigid with expectation but softened by something far more vulnerable.

This was not the Duke. This was simply a man.

And for the first time since you had known him, he was not hiding behind anything at all. Something shifted inside you.

The song ended, and silence followed. You realised, belatedly, that you had stopped breathing. He looked at you then, and whatever he saw in your expression seemed to unsettle him just as deeply.

You recovered first. You had to. “Has anyone ever told you,” you said lightly, “that you would make an excellent debutante?”

His lips curved faintly. “Perhaps then,” he said quietly, “I would finally meet someone who satisfies my list.”

—-------------------

The estate reveals itself slowly as your carriage approaches, its silhouette rising from the darkness like something out of myth. Lanterns line the curved drive, their golden light flickering against white stone and ivy, illuminating the careful illusion of enchantment you and Chan had spent weeks constructing. Music drifts faintly through the open windows, carried by the cool evening air. Even from a distance, it feels alive.

You arrive earlier than necessary. You tell yourself it is responsibility that brings you here ahead of the guests. That it is diligence, nothing more and yet, as you step from the carriage and ascend the stone steps, you cannot deny the quiet anticipation thrumming beneath your composure.

Inside, everything gleams. Silk drapery falls in careful folds from the high ceilings. Candles burn steadily in their holders, casting warm, steady light across polished floors. Masks, discarded briefly in preparation, rest like promises on side tables.

You move through the ballroom slowly, your gaze tracing every detail. This, all of this, exists because you made it so. A quiet pride rises in your chest before you can suppress it. You had not expected to enjoy this, nor to feel capable, nor to care.

“I trust everything is in order?” His voice, low and familiar, breaks the silence behind you.

You turn, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. 

He stands just inside the doorway, the candlelight catching against gold embroidery that frames his shoulders like the suggestion of a mane. The lion mask obscures part of his face, but it does nothing to conceal the certainty of his presence. It suits him too well.

You recover quickly. “Yes,” you reply. “Everything is prepared.”

His gaze lingers on you. Longer than necessary. “You look nice,” he says.

The compliment lands awkwardly between you, as though it has travelled a great distance to reach you. You almost dismiss it. Your gown falls in soft silver lines, structured enough to maintain dignity, fluid enough to allow freedom of movement. You lift your crescent mask into place, securing it with deliberate care.

“I am Artemis,” you inform him calmly. “Goddess of the hunt.”

He stares at you for a moment, and then he laughs. Not the polite, restrained sound you have come to expect. A real laugh.

“Of course you are,” he says and for reasons you cannot explain, the approval in his voice feels more dangerous than any insult.

He gestures toward the entrance. “Our guests will arrive shortly.”

You nod. Together, you step forward not quite side by side but no longer entirely apart.

—-------------------

The evening unfolds flawlessly. Dinner passes without incident. Conversation flows easily. Guests admire the decorations, their approval spoken openly, their enjoyment unmistakable.

You should feel relieved. Instead, you feel something sharper. Pride. You stand at the edge of the ballroom, observing, ensuring, existing within the world you have created.

“You have done well.” His voice again, closer this time.

You turn to find him beside you. “Do you need something?” you ask.

He hesitates. “It is customary,” he says carefully, “for the hosts to open the first dance.”

You blink, you had forgotten.

He extends his hand. The gesture is simple, and yet it feels like something else entirely.

“Shall we?”

You place your hand in his. His fingers close around yours with careful precision, warm and steady. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom. You are aware of everything. The watching eyes. The music beginning. The subtle tightening of his hand at your back as he draws you into position. Closer. Not improperly but undeniably closer.

The music swells. He moves, and you follow. It is effortless. Infuriatingly so. He anticipates your movements before you make them, guiding without forcing, adjusting without hesitation. His touch is firm, but never controlling. Supportive, not possessive. You test him. Just slightly. A subtle misstep and a deliberate disruption of rhythm.

He corrects instantly. He leans closer. “You enjoy challenging me,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear it.

The warmth of his breath sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“You make it very easy,” you reply.

His hand tightens briefly at your back. Not enough to be improper, but enough to be felt. Your eyes meet and hold, and the world fades. The music becomes distant, time slows, stretching thin between each step, each breath, each impossible second in which you remain suspended between resistance and something far more dangerous.

You forget yourself. Just for a moment. Just long enough to wonder what it would be like to stop resisting entirely.

The music ends. Neither of you moves; his hand remains at your back, and yours remains in his.

He is looking at you as though he has never seen you before, as though he does not know how to look away. The next song begins, and reality returns.

He releases you. Too quickly, as though he had touched something he should not have.

He steps back, and his composure rebuilds itself piece by piece. “Have a pleasant evening, Miss Y/N,” he says, his voice controlled. He bows and disappears into the crowd.

You remain where he left you. Your hand still remembers the shape of his, and for the first time, you realise with quiet horror you are not certain you want to forget it.

—-------------------

The days that follow the masquerade do not feel entirely real. You move through them as though observing yourself from a distance, each hour unfolding with the quiet detachment of something already remembered rather than lived. Conversations occur around you. Meals are eaten. Letters arrive and are answered. You perform each task exactly as expected. You simply do not inhabit them.

Sleep becomes elusive. At night, you lie awake long after the house has settled into silence, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer an explanation. You close your eyes, willing your thoughts to quiet. They refuse. Instead, they betray you.

The dance returns to you again and again, unbidden. The precise pressure of his hand on your back. The steady warmth of his fingers around yours. The way he had looked at you, not as the Duke, not as something distant and untouchable, but as though you were something he did not yet understand and wished to.

You tell yourself it meant nothing. You repeat it until the words lose meaning entirely, and still, if you close your eyes tightly enough, you can almost feel him there.

During the day, it is no easier. Your thoughts circle him endlessly, without permission and without relief. You wonder where he is, what he is doing, and whether he remembers it at all. Whether it mattered to him. You despise yourself for the question.

You sit now in the drawing room beside your mother, her guest chattering brightly as tea cools untouched before you. The conversation drifts between you like smoke, present, but impossible to grasp.

You are not listening. You are watching the window. Watching nothing.

“…and a Baron, no less,” your mother’s friend is saying, her voice animated. “Searching for some mysterious woman he encountered at the masquerade. Imagine the romance of it.”

You feel nothing. Romance belongs to stories.

“Did you hear about Duke Chan?”

Your attention sharpens instantly, and you hate that it does.

“No,” your mother replies. “What news is there?”

You do not turn. You do not breathe.

“Apparently, he has begun courting Miss Elsie Young.”

The words settle into the room with quiet finality. You feel it physically, and the room seems to tilt.

“…it was only a matter of time,” the woman continues. “She is everything he requires, from what I understand. Graceful. Proper. Entirely suitable.”

Suitable. The word echoes.

Of course she is.

Of course, he has chosen someone who meets his requirements.

Of course, he has returned to certainty.

Your mother responds, but her voice is distant now, muffled beneath the sudden rush of your own heartbeat. You cannot remain here.

You stand. “I must excuse myself,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I am not feeling well.”

Your mother’s concern is immediate. “Oh, darling. Of course.” She rises slightly, her hand reaching for yours. “You have not been sleeping. I feared the strain of the gala had exhausted you.”

You nod. “Yes.” It is easier than telling the truth.

You leave the room quickly, your composure intact only by force of habit. The staircase feels longer than usual. The air thinner. You reach your room and close the door behind you with careful precision. Only then do you allow yourself to breathe. You lean back against the wood, your hands trembling faintly at your sides.

Of course, he is courting someone else.

What had you expected? He had never promised you anything. Never suggested anything. Never done anything at all.

Except- 

You stop yourself.

Except nothing.

You close your eyes. You refuse to cry and to grant him that power. He is exactly who he has always been, and you had been a fool to believe, even briefly, that you had seen something else.

—-------------------

The days do, eventually, become easier. Not better but easier. You learn how to live around the absence. You teach yourself new habits, new routes, new patterns of avoidance. You decline invitations with polite excuses. You remain indoors on afternoons when the promenade is most crowded. You construct your life carefully, deliberately, ensuring that your path and his never intersect.

It is not difficult. It is, perhaps, too easy. You do not allow yourself to question what that means.

Today, you have come to the library. It is quiet here. Safe. The air smells faintly of dust and paper, untouched by the suffocating expectations of society. No one watches you here. No one waits for you to perform. You move slowly between the shelves, trailing your fingers along the spines without truly seeing them. 

Romance. 

You pass it without hesitation. You have no patience for fiction.

Poetry, then.

There is something honest about poetry. Something unguarded. It says what it means without apology, without structure, without the careful containment that governs everything else. You scan the titles absently. Shakespeare. Byron. Words written by men who had allowed themselves to feel too much. You reach for one.

“Hello.”

The voice is unmistakable.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Your fingers freeze mid-motion. Your breath catches. Something cold and electric spreads through your chest.

You do not turn immediately. You tell yourself it cannot be him, that it is a coincidence. That it is memory. However, when you turn, it is him. 

He stands only a few steps away, closer than propriety allows, closer than you had prepared yourself for. He is not masked now. Not protected by ceremony or expectation.

He looks… uncertain, and you hate that you notice.

“Hello,” you reply, your voice carefully empty.

He hesitates. It is such an unfamiliar sight that it unsettles you more than his certainty ever had.

“I haven’t seen you,” he says, “around.”

He does not finish the thought. Around society. Around him.

“I have been unwell.” The lie comes easily.

His expression shifts to concern. “I am sorry,” he says quietly. “Are you feeling better?”

You wish he would not ask. “Much.”

He nods. “Good.”

Silence stretches between you. He does not move, and neither do you.

“Did you want something?” you ask.

You need this to end, you need distance.

“No,” he says.

The simplicity of the answer catches you off guard.

“I only wished to say hello.”

You swallow. That is worse.

“Well,” you say, forcing steadiness into your voice, “you have said it.”

You move to pass him, and you almost succeed.

His hand closes around your wrist. The contact is brief. Instant and catastrophic. Heat spreads through you, violent and immediate, your entire body reacting to something you do not understand and cannot control.

You pull away sharply. Not just because of the sensation but because of what it might mean.

“What is wrong with you?” you whisper, your voice sharp with panic.

He releases you immediately. “I am sorry,” he says. “I did not—”

He stops and starts again. “Are you upset with me?”

The question disarms you completely. “What?”

“You seem…” He hesitates. “Cold.”

He does not accuse. He does not demand. He simply observes, and that is far worse.

“I do not wish to have offended you.”

Offended you. As though that were all it was. As though he had not stood beneath candlelight and looked at you like something fragile and irreplaceable. As though he had not made you believe- 

You stop yourself.

“We hosted a ball together,” you say carefully. “That is all.”

He says nothing.

“My mother is expecting me.”

Another lie. You turn, and this time, he does not stop you.

You leave the library quickly, your composure intact only by force of will, your pulse refusing to settle.

Behind you, he remains standing exactly where you left him. Alone. Uncertain. And for the first time in his life, entirely without control.

—-------------------

Your chance encounter with Chan at the library had, in an unexpected and deeply irritating way, clarified something for you. You realised, with humiliating certainty, that sitting alone in your room, avoiding society, avoiding him, and avoiding your own thoughts, accomplished nothing except to leave you trapped inside them. It did not protect you. It did not restore your pride. If anything, it only confirmed what you most feared: that he still had influence over you, even in his absence.

You refused to grant him that victory. So when the next ball arrived, you prepared yourself with unusual care, not for his sake, you told yourself firmly, but for your own. You selected your gown with deliberation, allowed your hair to be styled in a way you might once have considered excessive, and when you stepped from the carriage and into the ballroom, you did so with your head held high.

The effect was immediate.

You could feel it in the subtle shifts of attention, in the way conversations faltered just slightly as you passed, in the curious glances that lingered a moment longer than usual. You accepted their attention calmly, offering polite greetings, allowing yourself to exist within society without shrinking from it.

You were fine. You would continue to be fine.

You stood among a small group of women, listening with half-hearted interest as they spoke of trivial matters, your composure intact, your thoughts mercifully quiet for the first time in days. And then one of them nudged you gently. You followed the direction of her gaze.

And there he was. Chan stood on the dance floor beside Miss Elsie Young.

For a moment, your mind refused to understand what you were seeing. They moved together easily, their steps aligned, their bodies positioned in that familiar, intimate proximity you knew all too well. His hand rested at the small of her back, steady and assured, guiding her with the same quiet confidence he had once used with you.

One of the women beside you laughed softly.

“Can you believe he has finally chosen someone?”

Her voice sounded distant. Distorted. You did not respond. You could not. Your body remained perfectly still, but something inside you began to fracture with quiet, devastating precision. You watched as he leaned closer to Elsie, his lips moving near her ear, and she laughed in response, her expression bright and pleased by his attention.

Just as you had been.

The realisation settled slowly, cruelly, with undeniable clarity. There had been nothing singular about you. Nothing exceptional. Nothing irreplaceable. He had not looked at you differently; he had simply looked at you the same way he looked at everyone else.

You had mistaken proximity for meaning, mistaken attention for affection and mistaken yourself for something you had never been. The humiliation of it was unbearable.

You excused yourself quickly, though you did not remember what words you used, and moved through the crowd without direction, driven only by the desperate need to escape. You found yourself on the terrace before you had fully realised you had left the ballroom.

The night air struck your skin immediately, cool and unforgiving, but it did nothing to calm the storm raging within you. You retreated further into the shadows, seeking refuge from the golden light spilling through the open doors behind you, until you reached the far corner, where darkness provided what little privacy society ever allowed.

Only then did you allow yourself to stop. Your hands found the cold stone railing, gripping it tightly as though it were the only thing anchoring you to the present. You had known, of course. You had always known. He had never promised you anything. Never offered you a reason to hope. The dance, the laughter, the music, none of it had meant what you had allowed yourself to believe.

And yet knowing it had not made it easier.

The tears came before you could stop them. The restraint you had maintained for days, for weeks, collapsed entirely, leaving you exposed to the full weight of your own foolishness. Your shoulders trembled as sobs overtook you, each breath sharp and unsteady, your composure dissolving in the safety of the darkness.

“Are you alright?”

You froze. You did not turn immediately, though every part of you recognised him instinctively. Instead, you stood there in silence, hastily wiping at your tears, desperate to erase evidence of your weakness before he could see it.

Of course, he was here. He was always there.

You let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Of course.”

He hesitated. “What does that mean?”

You turned then, unable to contain it any longer. “It means that no matter how far I try to remove myself from you, you always manage to appear.”

He frowned, confusion and something dangerously close to concern flickering across his expression. “Has someone upset you?”

The question shattered what remained of your restraint. “Yes,” you said, your voice breaking despite your efforts to control it. “You have.”

He stiffened.

“You and your list,” you continued, the words spilling from you now, unstoppable. “You and your careful, measured courtship, as though people were nothing more than requirements to be satisfied.”

“I do not—”

“I believed,” you interrupted, your voice trembling, “foolishly, that perhaps I had changed something in you. Perhaps you might choose something different. That you might choose someone not because she fulfilled your expectations, but because you cared for her.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I thought there was a chance,” you said quietly, “that it might be me.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

“I do—” he began. He stopped.

The hesitation was enough. You shook your head. “If you wish for perfection, then choose it,” you said. “But do not pretend you ever wanted anything real.”

“I want stability,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“You want control.”

The words struck him with visible force.

For the first time since you had known him, he did not defend himself. He simply stood there, motionless, as though you had stripped away something he had not realised he depended upon.

You could not bear to remain there any longer. You moved past him quickly, your shoulder brushing his as you did so, and left him standing alone in the darkness, just as he had once left you.

—-------------------

Chan does not remember the journey home. He recalls apologising to Miss Young, though he cannot remember what words he used. He recalls her polite smile, her graceful acceptance, the complete absence of complication in her expression. She had not questioned him. Had not demanded an explanation. Had simply allowed him to leave.

It should have reassured him. Instead, it unsettled him more.

By the time he reaches his study, the familiar space offers no comfort. The room, once a sanctuary of order and certainty, feels strangely unfamiliar, as though something fundamental within it has shifted. He moves immediately to his desk, opening the drawer with more force than necessary, and removes the paper he has consulted so many times before.

His list. 

The edges are slightly worn now, softened by repetition, by years of quiet reliance. He smooths it flat against the desk, his fingers lingering at the corners, as though physical contact alone might restore the certainty it once provided.

He reads the first line.

Composure in public society.

His jaw tightens. By that measure, you have failed spectacularly. Your voice on the terrace had not been composed. Your tears had not been controlled. Your anger had not been hidden behind polite indifference. And yet you had not lied. You had allowed yourself to be seen, fully and without protection, in a way no one else ever had.

He moves to the next line.

Sound education.

A faint, reluctant warmth rises in his chest. Your mind had never been something he could predict or contain. You challenged him effortlessly, your wit precise and immediate, your observations cutting through his carefully constructed certainty with unsettling ease.

Temperance of disposition.

He exhales slowly.

You had not been temperate. You had been honest. He remembers your face, tear-streaked and unguarded, your voice trembling as you accused him of valuing perfection over truth. The memory settles heavily within him.

Household competence. Social adaptability.

He glances toward the window, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. The gala had been flawless. Not because of him, because of you. You had organised it with a precision that rivalled his own, anticipating problems before they arose, resolving complications without hesitation. You had proven yourself capable of managing everything he had once believed only he could control.

Family reputation.

He pauses only briefly.

Your mother is… enthusiastic, but your family stands without scandal, without instability.

Discretion.

He lets out a quiet, humourless breath. You had challenged him publicly. You had refused to be intimidated. At the time, he had resented it; now, he realises he had simply been unprepared for it. You had not been reckless, you had been brave. More brave, he suspects, than he has ever allowed himself to be.

He reaches the final line.

Respect for duty.

This had always been the most important requirement. The foundation upon which everything else rested. Marriage was not a matter of indulgence. It was a responsibility. He would marry Miss Young. He had already begun the process. She was suitable, agreeable. She did not disrupt him. She did not challenge him. She did not make him question himself.

She did not make him feel- 

He stops. The thought lingers, unfinished.

He recalls dancing with her earlier that evening. The movements had been correct. The conversation had been pleasant. The outcome had been exactly as expected.

And yet he had felt nothing. Not the way he had felt with you. His breath hadn’t caught the way it did with you when she stepped closer.  His chest hadn’t tightened the way it had when you had pulled away from him in the library. It didn’t ache like it had when he had seen you crying, knowing he was the cause.

He stares at the paper. At the careful, deliberate structure he has trusted for so long.

He sees it now for what it is. Not a guide but a shield. A way to avoid uncertainty. A way to avoid risk.

A way to avoid love.

The realisation settles over him slowly. He had not created the list to find the right woman. He had created it to avoid choosing the wrong one. And in doing so, he had almost lost the only woman he had ever truly wanted. 

His hand trembles slightly as he reaches the end of the page. There is nothing written there. Nothing accounts for the way you make him feel. Nothing accounts for the way his certainty dissolves in your presence. Nothing that accounts for love.

For the first time since he had written it, the list no longer feels complete. It feels insufficient, and for the first time in his life, Chan realises he has been wrong.

—-------------------

Chan does not notice Hyunjin’s approach until his hands close firmly around his shoulders from behind.

“Congratulations,” Hyunjin says brightly, the words delivered with unmistakable enthusiasm.

Chan turns slightly, his brow furrowing. “For what?”

Hyunjin blinks at him, surprised by the question. “For Miss Young,” he says, as though the answer should be obvious. “You have been courting her for weeks now. Surely a proposal cannot be far off.”

The words land heavily, though Chan makes no outward sign of it. “Oh,” he says after a moment, lowering his gaze to the amber liquid in his glass. “Right.”

The ballroom hums around them, filled with music and conversation, with expectation and certainty. Everything unfolds exactly as it should. Everything except him.

Minho, standing nearby, lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I do my best to avoid society whenever possible,” he says, “but I was under the impression that most men display at least some enthusiasm at the prospect of their own engagement.”

Chan forces himself to straighten slightly. “I am enthusiastic,” he replies evenly. “It is simply a practical arrangement.”

The words sound correct.

Seungmin hums softly beside him, unconvinced. “Of course,” he says mildly. “And I assume that has nothing to do with the woman over there.”

Chan follows his gaze instinctively. He should not have.

You stand across the ballroom, bathed in warm candlelight, your expression relaxed in a way he has not seen in weeks. You are speaking with a gentleman Chan does not recognise, your posture open, your laughter unrestrained.

The sight of it unsettles him immediately. “No,” Chan says, his voice firmer than he feels, but he cannot look away. He has spent weeks deliberately avoiding you, convincing himself it was necessary, that distance would restore order, would quiet the relentless uncertainty you had introduced into his life.

It has not. If anything, the absence has only made his awareness of you sharper, more persistent, more impossible to ignore.

The gentleman says something that makes you laugh again. The sound carries across the distance between you, quiet but unmistakable. Chan’s grip tightens imperceptibly around his glass. What could he possibly have said to earn that expression? What could he possibly offer you?

The gentleman reaches for your hand. Chan’s breath catches. He watches, unable to stop himself, as the man lifts your gloved fingers and presses a kiss against them, his posture confident, assured, entirely unaware of the quiet devastation unfolding across the room.

Something ugly and unfamiliar rises within Chan’s chest. Jealousy. He recognises it immediately, and he despises it. You do not belong to him. You have never belonged to him. He had forfeited that possibility the moment he chose certainty over courage.

“Of course not,” Seungmin says dryly beside him.

Chan tears his gaze away, turning sharply toward his friend.

His composure fractures, if only slightly. “Did you not punch someone recently?” he asks coolly.

It is a deliberate strike. A deflection.

Seungmin does not react. “Yes,” he replies calmly.

He does not elaborate. He does not need to.

Changbin exhales loudly, folding his arms across his chest. “It seems cowardice in matters of love is an epidemic within this group,” he says. “Except, of course, for me.”

Seven pairs of eyes turn toward him. Changbin blinks, startled by their collective attention. “What?”

“You will understand eventually,” Seungmin says.

His attention shifts back to Chan. His expression softens slightly, though his words do not. “Tell me honestly,” he says quietly. “Are you prepared to marry someone you do not love and spend the rest of your life watching the woman you do love belong to someone else?”

The question settles into Chan’s chest like a blade. He does not answer immediately. He cannot because, for the first time, the future Seungmin describes feels entirely possible and entirely unbearable.

“Pot,” Chan says finally, his voice quieter now, “kettle.”

It is a weak defence. They all know it, including him.

Across the room, you laugh again, and for the first time in his life, Chan realises that his greatest fear is no longer choosing incorrectly.

It is choosing too late.

—-------------------

The past few days have been unbearable. Chan has lived inside his own mind, turning the decision over and over until it has lost all shape, until certainty itself has begun to feel like something fragile and unreliable. He has tried, repeatedly, to convince himself that he could proceed as planned, that stability was enough, that affection could be cultivated where it did not yet exist. He has tried to be the man he has always been. It has failed him.

And so now he stands in Miss Young’s drawing room, the air thick with expectation, with consequence, with the quiet understanding that something irreversible is about to occur. She sits across from him, her posture composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She is exactly as she has always been, graceful, dignified, entirely suitable.

She deserves certainty, and he cannot give it to her.

He realises, with uncomfortable clarity, that he has been staring at her for far too long without speaking.

“Your Grace?” she prompts gently.

He exhales slowly, forcing himself back into motion. “Yes,” he says. “Forgive me.”

His voice feels unfamiliar to his own ears. He has delivered countless formal addresses in his lifetime, negotiated estates, resolved disputes, and conducted himself with flawless composure in situations far more complex than this.

And yet this feels infinitely more difficult.

“Miss Young,” he begins carefully, “you are an extraordinary woman. You are intelligent, kind, and conduct yourself with a grace that any man would be fortunate to admire. It is precisely because of these qualities that I must speak honestly.”

The words grow heavier as he speaks them, each one dismantling the future he had so carefully arranged. “You deserve someone who stands before you without hesitation,” he says quietly. “Someone whose certainty is complete. And I find that mine is not.”

He sees it then. The moment the meaning reaches her. The moment hope gives way to understanding. “You deserve someone who loves you,” he continues, forcing himself not to look away, “not out of obligation, nor out of convenience, but because their heart has already chosen you without question.”

His throat tightens slightly. “I regret that I allowed you to believe I could be that man.”

The silence that follows feels immense. He watches as she absorbs his words, watches as disappointment settles into her expression with quiet dignity. She does not cry. She does not accuse him. She does not demand an explanation.

She simply accepts the truth he has given her. “Thank you,” she says finally, her voice steady despite the devastation he can see she is carefully concealing, “for your honesty.”

Her composure humbles him. He had expected anger; he had deserved it.

Instead, she offers him grace. “I hope,” she continues softly, “that the lady you have chosen understands how fortunate she is.”

He lets out a small, humourless breath. “I suspect,” he says, “she would disagree with you.”

A faint, sad smile touches her lips. “Then you should not remain here.”

The simplicity of her statement strikes him harder than anything else she might have said. She is right. Every moment he delays is another moment he risks losing you entirely.

He rises slowly. “Miss Young,” he says sincerely, “you are far kinder than I deserve.”

He turns to leave. He has nearly reached the door when her voice stops him.

“Your Grace.”

He looks back.

She meets his gaze without resentment. “Good luck.”

The words are both farewell and forgiveness. 

He nods his head. “You as well.”

And then he leaves, stepping out into a future he has no control over, guided only by something he has spent his entire life trying to avoid.

Hope.

—-------------------

Chan arrives at the ball long before it is socially acceptable to do so. He tells himself it is practicality that he wishes to avoid the press of the crowd, that he prefers order to chaos.

The truth is far less dignified. He cannot bear the possibility of missing you.

He positions himself where he has an unobstructed view of the entrance staircase, his posture composed, his hands clasped carefully behind his back, every inch the Duke society expects him to be. Guests arrive in steady succession, their laughter filling the ballroom, their presence blurring together into meaningless motion.

None of them are you.

With each passing minute, doubt begins to take root. Perhaps you will not come. Perhaps you have decided, wisely, to remain beyond his reach. Perhaps he has already lost the only thing he has ever truly wanted.

And then you appear. You descend the staircase slowly, candlelight catching against you as though conspiring to make you impossible to ignore. The sight of you strikes him with such force that, for a moment, he forgets entirely how to breathe.

Relief follows swiftly behind it. Relief so profound it borders on pain.

He moves before he can reconsider, crossing the ballroom with single-minded determination, barely aware of the people he passes, of the conversations he interrupts, of the careful order he has abandoned entirely.

He stops in front of you, blocking your path. You look up at him, your expression shifting immediately from surprise to disbelief, and beneath it, unmistakably, anger.

“What could you possibly want—”

He leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. “Meet me in the garden maze,” he says. “In ten minutes.”

Your eyes widen. “Have you lost your mind?” you whisper. “In what possible world would that be appropriate?”

“Please.”

The word escapes him before he can restrain it. He does not beg. He has never begged, and yet here he is.

“Just one moment,” he says quietly. “And I swear I will never trouble you again.”

You hesitate. “I will consider it,” you say finally.

It is enough. It has to be. He leaves you there, retreating into the maze long before the appointed time, his pulse unsteady, his certainty gone entirely.

He waits. Each passing second stretches endlessly, doubt creeping in with cruel persistence. He had asked too much. Expected too much. He has spent his entire life controlling outcomes, ensuring success through preparation and precision.

This is different. This requires hope, and hope, he realises, is far more terrifying than failure.

Footsteps approach, and he turns. You stand at the entrance, your expression cautious, your presence alone enough to undo him completely.

“You came,” he says, unable to conceal his astonishment.

“Yes,” you reply carefully. “Though if we are discovered, the consequences will be significant. Particularly for you and your courtship with Miss Young.”

“I am not courting Miss Young.” The words leave him without hesitation.

You blink. “Oh.”

He takes a step closer. “She is not you.”

The silence that follows feels fragile, as though even the air itself is waiting.

You stare at him. “What?”

He forces himself to continue. “I believed,” he says slowly, “that I required perfection. That suitability would ensure stability. That if I controlled every variable, I could guarantee happiness.”

He exhales. “I was wrong.”

You do not interrupt him.

“You showed me that love cannot be evaluated,” he continues. “It cannot be predicted. It cannot be contained.”

His voice falters slightly. “And yet, despite every effort to deny it, I find that I love you.”

The words settle between you, fragile and irreversible. “I love that you challenge me,” he says quietly. “That you refuse to yield when others would submit. That you see me not as the Duke, but as a man who is capable of being wrong.”

He pauses, forcing himself to confront the possibility of rejection. “I do not expect forgiveness,” he says. “Nor do I expect you to feel as I do.”

“Your Grace—”

“But if you would allow it,” he continues, unable to stop now that he has begun, “I will spend the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of you.”

“Chan.”

The sound of his name on your lips silences him instantly. He has never heard anything more beautiful.

You step closer. “Will you please,” you say softly, “stop negotiating and ask me properly?”

Hope surges through him, terrifying and bright.

He lowers himself to one knee, and for the first time in his life, he relinquishes control entirely.

“Will you marry me,” he asks, “not because you satisfy my requirements, but because I cannot imagine choosing anyone else?”

You smile, and in that moment, the world rearranges itself entirely.

“Yes.”

—-------------------

The following week, society erupts with speculation. The Ton debates, theorises, and dissects every detail of your engagement with relentless enthusiasm. It is precisely the sort of attention Chan once valued. Now, it is meaningless. Only you matter.

Which is why he has once again lured you somewhere entirely inappropriate.

“You are asking for trouble,” you laugh as you close the library door behind you.

“What does it matter?” he replies, drawing you closer. “You have already agreed to marry me.”

His voice softens. “I have something for you.”

He retrieves the folded paper carefully and places it in your hands. You recognise it immediately.

His list.

You look up at him.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I thought you should have the honour of destroying it.”

You smile, and without hesitation, you tear it cleanly in half.

Then again.

And again.

You drop the pieces into the fire, and he watches as the last remnants of his certainty disappear into ash.

“I feel I should have brought you something in return,” you say lightly.

He reaches for you, his hand settling at your waist with quiet certainty.

“You already have.”

You kiss him.

This time, he does not hesitate. This time, he does not retreat. This time, he chooses you without fear and for the first time in his life, Chan is exactly where he belongs.

You remember the bathroom being too quiet. The hum of the vent sounded louder than your own breathing, like it was mocking you for standing there frozen, test in hand, heart pounding so hard you thought you might throw up. Your reflection looked the same, the same tired eyes, same messy hair pulled into a bun but you knew, deep in your chest, that nothing would ever be the same again.

You sat down on the cold tile floor, your back against the bathtub, and stared at the test like it might change its mind if you waited long enough.

It didn’t. You cried then. Not loud or dramatic sobs just silent tears slipping down your cheeks, one after another, soaking into the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from Hyunjin months ago. You loved him. He was gentle, attentive, the kind of boy who listened when you talked and remembered the little things. But love didn’t magically make you ready for this. Love didn’t suddenly turn you into an adult with a plan.

You were eighteen. You were supposed to be thinking about college, friends, what kind of person you wanted to become, not how to tell your boyfriend you were pregnant.

When you finally told him, your hands were shaking so badly you had to clasp them together in your lap. You sat across from him on his bed, knees pulled to your chest, watching his face as you spoke.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words landed heavy between you. Hyunjin didn’t say anything at first. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His brows pulled together, confusion giving way to shock, then something like fear. You hated that you were the one who put that look there.

“Are you… are you sure?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “I took three tests.”

He leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair. He looked young then. Younger than he’d ever looked before. Just a boy pretending to be a man, just like you were pretending to be okay.

You waited for him to say something.. anything. Anger, reassurance, panic. But all he did was sit there, staring at the wall, jaw tight.

“I love you,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in desperation. “I’m not trying to trap you or anything, I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to tell anyone else before you.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes dark and unreadable. “I know,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

There was comfort in that, at least. He trusted you but trust didn’t mean certainty. The weeks that followed were a blur of whispered conversations, sleepless nights, and growing dread.

Telling your parents was worse than you imagined. Your mother cried. Your father went quiet in that terrifying way that meant disappointment ran deeper than anger.

“You’re a child,” your mother said, her voice shaking. “How could you be so careless?”

You had no answer that would make it better.

They told you your options in voices that pretended to be gentle but carried the weight of finality. You could keep the baby, but only if you did things “the right way.” That meant stability. That meant marriage.

“You can’t raise a child alone at your age,” your father said. “And we’re not doing this halfway.”

You didn’t know whether you wanted to scream or disappear.

Hyunjin’s parents reacted differently, but the message was the same. His mother was stern, lips pressed into a thin line as she looked at him like he’d failed some invisible test.

“You’re responsible for this,” she told him. “So you will step up.”

He nodded, shoulders tense, saying all the right things. He said he’d take responsibility. He said he cared about you. He said he’d do whatever it took but late at night, when it was just the two of you, lying side by side in the dark, you felt the distance in the silence. You felt the questions he didn’t ask, the doubts he didn’t voice.

“Do you want this?” you asked him once, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head to look at you, his face soft in the dim light. “I want you,” he said honestly. “I just… I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

Neither did you. You got married when you were nineteen, five months pregnant, your belly no longer something you could hide with baggy clothes and excuses. The ceremony was small, rushed, more practical than romantic. You wore a simple dress that had to be altered twice to accommodate your growing body. Hyunjin wore a suit that didn’t quite fit right, his tie crooked because his hands were shaking.

When you said your vows, your voice wavered. You meant the words but they felt heavier than they should have. Promises about forever felt terrifying when you’d barely figured out who you were.

After the wedding, you moved in together almost immediately. The apartment wasn’t big, but it was clean and new and yours. Hyunjin insisted you choose everything. The couch, the curtains, the color of the walls.

“What do you like?” he asked, holding up paint samples, smiling at you like this was some normal, happy beginning.

You chose soft colors. Calm ones. Like you were trying to convince yourself this life wouldn’t swallow you whole.

When it came to the nursery, he went all out. He built the crib himself, spending hours sanding the wood until his hands were sore because he said he wanted it to be perfect. He let you pick the theme, the stuffed animals, the tiny clothes you folded with trembling hands.

“This one’s cute,” he said once, holding up a tiny pair of socks. “She’s going to be so small.”

You froze. “She?”

He smiled softly. “I don’t know. Just feels right.”

Something in your chest cracked open then.

Pregnancy was hard. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. You were tired all the time, nauseous, emotional in ways you couldn’t control but Hyunjin was there for everything. He learned your cravings, rubbed your back when you were sick, held you when you cried for reasons you couldn’t explain.

He talked to your belly when he thought you were asleep. He’d press his hand there, murmuring nonsense, telling her about the world like she could already understand him.

“I’m going to protect you,” he whispered once. “Both of you.”

You believed him.

When Aerin was born, everything else faded into the background. The fear, the resentment, the what ifs, they all shrank in the face of her tiny fingers wrapping around yours. Hyunjin cried when he held her for the first time, tears streaming down his face as he laughed softly, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“She’s perfect,” he said, voice breaking. “You did so good.”

Those first years were exhausting but full. Hyunjin took time off work, learned how to change diapers, how to warm bottles just right. He was protective to a fault, reminding everyone to wash their hands, hovering whenever someone held her too close.

You watched him become a father, watched the way he softened around her, the way his entire world seemed to revolve around the two of you. You told yourself this was enough. That love could grow into something steady, something lasting.

And for a while, it did but time moved forward, whether you were ready or not.

Aerin grew from a baby into a toddler, then into a little girl with opinions and endless questions. She started preschool, her backpack almost too big for her small frame, waving at you excitedly every morning as she ran toward her classroom.

And suddenly, your days were too quiet.

You cleaned the apartment that was already clean. You cooked meals hours before Hyunjin got home. You scrolled on your phone, watching people your age live lives that felt impossibly distant. College campuses. Study groups. Late night coffee runs. Laughing with friends, free and unburdened. You loved Aerin more than anything. You didn’t regret her. But sometimes, standing alone in the grocery store, you felt something sharp twist in your chest.

Girls your age passed by you, giggling, throwing makeup into their carts, talking about parties and plans. You pushed your cart slowly, Aerin sitting in the seat, pointing at toys she wanted, her voice bright and innocent.

“Mommy, look!”

You smiled for her. Always for her but inside, you mourned a version of yourself that never got the chance to exist.

That’s when the idea started forming, quiet at first, like a guilty thought you tried to push away. School. Doing something that was just yours.

When you brought it up to Hyunjin, you tried to sound casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like your heart wasn’t racing.

“I was thinking,” you said one evening, setting plates on the table. “Now that Aerin’s in school… maybe I could go back too. Take some classes.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “Why?”

The word stung more than it should have.

“I just—” you hesitated. “I want to do something. For me.”

He finally looked at you then, expression firm. “You don’t need to.”

You swallowed. “I know we’re okay financially. This isn’t about that.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I make enough for all of us. I want you to focus on Aerin.”

“I can do both,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “She’s in school most of the day. I’m home alone.”

He shook his head. “No.”

The finality in his tone made your stomach drop.

“I don’t want to have this conversation again,” he said, standing up. He leaned down, kissed your forehead like a peace offering, like that was supposed to smooth everything over. “I’ll take care of everything. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, because that was easier than fighting. Because he was already grabbing his keys, already late, already gone.

But something inside you didn’t settle.

That night, after Aerin was asleep and Hyunjin was snoring softly beside you, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Your mind buzzed with possibilities, fears, excitement you hadn’t felt in years. You picked up your phone and searched anyway. Programs. Class schedules. Opportunities. Nursing catches your eye.

Your heart raced as you read, imagining a future that wasn’t confined to the walls of your apartment. You felt guilty. You felt selfish. You felt alive. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t know which feeling scared you more.

You tell yourself it’s harmless at first.

Just looking. Just reading. Just imagining.

It becomes a routine you don’t admit out loud. After Aerin goes to bed, after the dishes are done and the apartment is quiet again, you curl onto your side of the bed with your phone turned low, brightness dimmed like you’re hiding something shameful. You scroll through program requirements, application deadlines, testimonials from students who look like they have their whole lives ahead of them.

You imagine yourself in scrubs. You imagine studying late, tired but fulfilled. You imagine being more than just someone’s wife, someone’s mother. And then guilt crashes over you like cold water.

Because Hyunjin works hard. Because he provides. Because he’s never once made you feel unloved or unsafe. Because he stepped up when everything went wrong.

So why does it feel like you’re suffocating?

The days blur together. You wake Aerin up, pack her lunch, braid her hair. You smile at other parents at drop off, all of them older than you, all of them looking at you like you belong here like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

At home, the silence waits for you.

You try filling it. You reorganize closets. You redecorate the living room twice. You bake things you don’t even want to eat. Nothing sticks. Nothing quiets the restless buzzing in your chest.

When Hyunjin comes home, you’re careful. You’re softer than usual, quieter. You laugh at his jokes, ask about his day, listen as he talks about work stress and promotions and plans. You nod along, supportive, grateful. You don’t bring up school again but the resentment doesn’t disappear just because you don’t name it.

It seeps in slowly. In the way you flinch when he says, “You don’t have to worry about that.” In the way your jaw tightens when he hands you money instead of asking if you want to go with him. In the way he talks about your life like it’s already decided.

One afternoon, you sit on a bench outside Aerin’s preschool, watching kids spill out of the building, laughter echoing in the air. A girl from your graduating class walks past you with a group of friends, textbooks tucked under her arm, complaining about exams and dorm food.

She looks older. Confident and free. She doesn’t recognize you. You don’t know whether that hurts or helps.

That night, you apply. Your finger hovers over the screen for a long time before you press submit. Your heart pounds so loudly you swear Hyunjin will hear it from the living room. When the confirmation email comes through, your hands start shaking. You’ve never done something this big without asking him first.

You tell yourself you’ll explain later. That once he sees how serious you are, how important this is to you, he’ll understand. That love means compromise. That marriage isn’t ownership but deep down, you already know it won’t be that simple.

The acceptance email comes two weeks later.

You read it three times, pressing a hand to your mouth to keep from crying out loud. Your chest feels too tight, too full. Excitement and fear coil together until you can’t tell them apart.

You don’t tell him right away. You wait for the right moment or what you convince yourself will be the right moment. You wait for a good day. A calm evening. A time when he isn’t stressed or tired or distracted. That moment never comes.

Instead, he finds out by accident.

He comes home early one afternoon, earlier than usual, and you don’t hear the door open over the sound of Aerin’s cartoon. Your laptop is open on the kitchen table, emails pulled up, course schedules glowing on the screen.

“What’s this?”

His voice is calm.

You freeze, your stomach dropping like you’ve missed a step going downstairs. You turn slowly, your heart already racing.

“I—” Your mouth goes dry. “I was going to tell you.”

He looks between you and the screen, jaw tightening. “You applied?”

You nod, throat burning. “I got accepted.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Aerin laughs from the living room, unaware, blissfully safe in her little world.

“You went behind my back,” he says finally.

The words hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly. “I just needed to do this. I need something that’s mine.”

“I told you no.” His voice hardens. “I was clear.”

“And I told you I wasn’t asking for permission,” you snap before you can stop yourself. The words hang in the air, sharp and dangerous.

His eyes darken. “Then what were you doing?”

You feel tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to keep going. “I’m not just a mom. I’m not just your wife. I’m still me.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the kitchen. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How this feels?”

“How it feels?” you repeat bitterly. “You make decisions for all of us without asking me how it feels.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “Everything I do is for you and Aerin.”

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m grateful. But I’m disappearing.”

That makes him stop.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in years, really seeing you. The dark circles under your eyes. The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re clutching your hands together like you’re holding yourself upright.

“You’re not disappearing,” he says, but there’s doubt in his voice now. “You’re our family.”

“And who am I when she grows up?” you ask softly. “Who am I when she doesn’t need me every second?”

He doesn’t answer. The argument doesn’t explode. It fractures. It leaves cracks in places you didn’t know were fragile. He tells you it’s too much. Too sudden. That you should have talked to him. That you’re risking stability for something unnecessary.

You tell him you feel trapped. That you feel like your life ended at eighteen while everyone else’s kept going. Neither of you really listens.

That night, he sleeps on the couch. Aerin asks why Daddy isn’t in bed with you, and you lie through your teeth with a smile that hurts your face.

“Just a long day, baby.”

But when you’re alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling again, you realize something terrifying.

For the first time since you got married, you don’t feel like you’re on the same side anymore.

And no matter how much you love him, you’re no longer sure love alone is enough to fix what’s breaking between you.

The next morning feels wrong before you even open your eyes. The bed is too empty on his side, the sheets cold where his warmth should be. For a second, you pretend nothing happened, that you just woke up early, that he’s in the shower or already in the kitchen making coffee the way he does on weekends.

Then reality settles in your chest like a weight.

You get up quietly, padding down the hallway so you don’t wake Aerin. Hyunjin is already dressed, standing at the counter with his back to you, scrolling on his phone. There’s a mug in his hand, untouched.

“Morning,” you say carefully.

He glances at you, nods once. “Morning.”

That’s it. No kiss. No smile. No hand on your waist as he passes by. The absence of those small habits hurts more than shouting ever could.

You busy yourself with breakfast, movements automatic. You crack eggs, toast bread, pack Aerin’s lunch. Your hands know what to do even while your mind spirals. You wonder if this is how it starts, two people who used to share everything now moving around each other like strangers.

When Aerin wakes up, everything shifts. Hyunjin softens immediately, crouching down to her level, letting her climb into his arms like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Daddy!” she chirps, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says, kissing her cheek. His voice is warm, normal. It almost makes you angry. You watch them from the kitchen, heart aching at how easily he slips back into that role. How natural fatherhood is for him. How hard it feels to exist anywhere outside of it.

The drive to preschool is quiet. Aerin hums to herself in the backseat, swinging her legs. Hyunjin keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

You want to say something. Anything. But the words get stuck in your throat.

After drop off, he turns to you in the parking lot. “We’ll talk later,” he says. Not a question. Not a promise. Just a statement. You nod.

The rest of the day crawls. You check your email obsessively, rereading the acceptance letter like it might disappear if you look away for too long. You imagine orientation day. You imagine telling Aerin one day that her mom went back to school, that she didn’t give up on herself. Then you imagine Hyunjin’s face when you say you’re not backing out.

That night, he comes home late. Later than usual. You hear the door open, then close softly. He doesn’t call your name. You sit on the couch, hands folded in your lap, heart pounding.

He finally speaks first. “I talked to my mom.”

Your stomach twists. “About…?”

“About you going back to school.”

The way he says it, flat, controlled makes your chest tighten.

“And?” you ask.

“She thinks it’s irresponsible,” he says. “She thinks Aerin needs you home. That I work too much already.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course she does.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “I’m trying to understand, okay? But you blindsided me.”

“I’ve been telling you I was unhappy,” you say quietly. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why did you decide for me?” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Why did you get to say no like my life is something you own?”

That makes him look at you sharply. “I don’t own you.”

“Then why do I feel like I need permission to exist outside this apartment?”

Silence again. It’s becoming a pattern.

He sits down across from you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “I’m scared,” he admits finally. “I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t plan to be married at nineteen. I didn’t plan to be responsible for a family before I figured myself out.”

Your chest tightens. “Neither did I.”

“But I did it,” he continues. “I gave up things too.”

You nod slowly. “I know and I appreciate that. But you got to replace those things with a career. With growth. I replaced mine with staying still.”

“That’s not fair,” he says again, weaker this time.

“Isn’t it?”

The question hangs between you.

He looks at you and you see something crack in his expression.

“I’m scared that if you start building a life without me,” he says quietly, “you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore.”

The honesty knocks the air out of you.

You move closer, sitting beside him. “This isn’t about leaving you,” you say softly. “It’s about not losing myself.”

He swallows hard. “And what if I lose you anyway?”

You don’t have an answer that will soothe him. You wish you did.

When he finally agrees, reluctantly, painfully it feels less like a victory and more like a fragile ceasefire. He tells you he’ll help with Aerin. That you’ll figure out schedules. That he needs time.

You tell him thank you, even though something in his tone tells you this isn’t over. That night, lying beside him again, you stare at the ceiling, heart racing with equal parts excitement and dread.

You’re stepping into something unknown. Something risky.

And deep down, you know that no matter how this turns out, your life has already started changing in difficult ways neither of you can control anymore.

—

You’re right, it is difficult. Exhausting, even. But there’s something about it that feels almost… natural, like your body and mind have been waiting for this rhythm all along.

Your first week starts months after that conversation, after schedules have been argued over and rewritten, after doubts have settled into something quieter but still present. You don’t sleep much the night before your first day. You lie awake next to Hyunjin, listening to his breathing, staring into the dark with your heart racing, not with fear, but anticipation.

Morning comes too quickly. You wake up before your alarm, before the sun is fully up. The apartment is still, wrapped in that soft silence that only exists before the world wakes. For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting it sink in.

This is real. You’re really doing this.

You move carefully, slipping out of bed so you don’t wake Hyunjin. You shower quickly, dress in clothes that feel both unfamiliar and exciting simple, comfortable, but chosen for you, not just for practicality. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize the woman staring back. She looks tired, yes, but there’s something else there too. Purpose.

You make breakfast next, moving quietly but efficiently. You pack Aerin’s lunch with the same care you always have, cutting her fruit just the way she likes, slipping a tiny note into her lunchbox like you always do. You promised yourself nothing would change for her. No rushed mornings. No chaos. She didn’t choose this, you did.

When it’s time, you wake her gently, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Good morning, baby.”

She groans softly, curling closer to you. “Five more minutes.”

You smile, kissing her forehead. “We don’t have five more minutes.”

She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes, and when she looks at you, her face brightens immediately. “Mommy.”

That single word grounds you. Hyunjin comes out while you’re eating breakfast together, hair still messy, sleeves of his shirt pushed up. He pauses when he sees you dressed, bag by the door.

“Today’s the day,” he says.

You nod, suddenly nervous all over again. “Yeah.”

He steps closer, presses a kiss to your temple. “You’ll do great.”

It’s simple and quiet but it means more than he knows.

Breakfast feels normal, Aerin chatting endlessly, Hyunjin teasing her, the three of you laughing like you always have. That comforts you more than anything. Proof that this doesn’t have to destroy what you’ve built.

You drive Aerin to preschool like always. She sings along to the radio, swinging her feet, completely unaware that your life has shifted on its axis. When you drop her off, she hugs you tight, just a little longer than usual.

“Pick me up later,” she says seriously.

“I will,” you promise. “Always.”

And then, you don’t go home like usual.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel as you pull out of the parking lot, heart pounding as the campus comes into view. It’s bigger than you expected. Louder. Full of people who look so young it almost hurts. You park, grab your bag, and for a moment, you just sit there, breathing.

You’re terrified.

You walk into your first class feeling like an imposter. Like someone’s going to tap you on the shoulder and tell you don’t belong here, that you missed your chance, that you’re too late. But no one does. You sit down, take notes, listen, absorb. And something clicks.

Your brain wakes up in a way it hasn’t in years. You’re tired, but you’re focused. Engaged. You ask questions. You write things down like they matter because they do.

When class ends, you don’t linger. You go straight to the library, finish what you can, checking the time every few minutes. Responsibility still anchors you. Motherhood still comes first. That hasn’t changed. You pick Aerin up right on time.

The afternoons blur into a pattern after that. Dinner prep. Homework at the kitchen table, Aerin beside you with crayons and paper, narrating her drawings while you study anatomy terms. Sometimes she asks what you’re doing.

“I’m learning,” you tell her.

“Like me?” she asks.

“Just like you.”

When Hyunjin comes home, it’s always the same. The door opens. Aerin lights up.
“Daddy!”

He scoops her up, kisses her cheek, then comes to you. A kiss on the lips. One on your forehead. Routine, steady, grounding.

“How was school?” he asks.

You answer honestly. “Hard. Good.”

And somehow, every day since you started school goes exactly like that. It’s tiring. You fall into bed some nights barely able to keep your eyes open. There are moments when guilt creeps in, moments when you wonder if you’re asking for too much, if balance like this can really last.

But when you sit there at the table, textbooks open, your daughter humming beside you, your husband’s presence warm and familiar behind you, you realize something quietly profound.

For the first time in years, you’re not just surviving. You’re living and you’re happy.

—

The cracks don’t show up all at once.

At first, everything holds together so neatly that you almost believe this is the version of life people talk about when they say it all works out. You’re tired, yes but it’s the good kind of tired. The earned kind. The kind that makes sleep come fast and deep.

Weeks pass. Then months.You learn how to move through your days like muscle memory. Wake up early. Coffee first.. always. Pack Aerin’s lunch. Lay out her clothes. Wake her gently. Smile even when your eyes burn from lack of sleep. Drive. Drop off. Campus. Notes. Exams. Rush back. Pick her up. Dinner. Homework. Wait for Hyunjin.

Repeat.

And most days, it really does feel easy.

Not because it is easy but because it feels right.

You start to notice changes in yourself before anyone else does. You stand a little straighter. You talk with more confidence. You catch yourself explaining something medical related to Hyunjin one night, hands moving as you speak, eyes bright, and he just watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time again.

“You like this,” he says.

You nod. “I really do.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You tell yourself not to read into it.

Midterms hit hard. You start staying up later, studying after Aerin goes to sleep, your notes blurring together as the clock creeps toward midnight. Hyunjin tells you to rest, tells you he’s got it under control, tells you not to push yourself so hard. You thank him. You keep going anyway.

Sometimes you forget small things. A permission slip. A load of laundry. A text you meant to send. Nothing catastrophic, just enough to make you feel like you’re failing at everything all at once.

One night, Aerin falls asleep on the couch waiting for Hyunjin. Her head lolls against your arm, warm and heavy, her breathing slow. Your laptop is open in front of you, unfinished notes staring back accusingly. Hyunjin comes home late.

You look up when the door opens, exhaustion flooding through you all at once. He smiles when he sees Aerin asleep on you, but there’s tension in his shoulders as he shrugs off his jacket.

“You didn’t wake her?” he asks quietly.

“She wanted to wait for you,” you say softly. “I didn’t have the heart.”

He nods, lifts her carefully, carries her to bed. You watch from the doorway, chest tight with love and guilt all tangled together.

Later, when the apartment is quiet again, he sits beside you on the couch.

“You forgot to sign her form today,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops. “I did?”

“She told her teacher you’d do it tonight.”

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I’m not mad.”

But there’s something in his voice. Something restrained.

“I just worry,” he continues. “You’re doing a lot.”

“So are you,” you reply. “We both are.”

He exhales slowly, leaning back. “Yeah. We are.”

The distance doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels subtle. Like a door that isn’t fully closed but isn’t fully open either.

You start noticing how often he watches the clock when you study late. How he hesitates before asking you things. How he doesn’t talk about his own stress as much anymore.

And still every morning, he kisses your cheek and says “Good luck.”

Every night, he asks, “How was school?”

So you keep going.

Then one afternoon, something small finally tips the balance.

Your class runs late. Just twenty minutes. You text Hyunjin.

You: Running late, can you pick up Aerin?

Assuming it’ll be fine.

He doesn’t reply.

Your heart starts racing halfway through the drive. You grip the steering wheel, mentally calculating time, imagining Aerin waiting, confused, watching other kids get picked up while she looks for you or Hyunjin.

When you arrive, she’s sitting on the bench outside, feet swinging, Hyunjin beside her.

Relief hits so hard your knees feel weak.

She runs to you immediately. “Mommy!”

You drop your bag, kneel, pull her into your arms. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here.”

Hyunjin stands behind her, arms crossed.

“You said you’d pick her up,” he says quietly.

“I know. Class went late, I texted—”

“I didn’t see it,” he replies. “I had to leave work early.”

Guilt floods you instantly. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

He nods, jaw tight. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Your chest tightens. “Doing what?”

“Pretending nothing’s changing,” he says. “Because it is.”

The drive home is silent.

That night, after Aerin is asleep, the conversation you’ve been avoiding finally happens.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” he admits, voice low. “Like there’s this whole world you’re building, and I’m standing outside of it.”

You sit across from him, hands wrapped around a mug gone cold. “I’m still here.”

“I know you are physically,” he says. “But you’re always tired. Always studying. Always somewhere else.”

You swallow hard. “I warned you this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I thought I was prepared,” he says honestly. “I wasn’t.”

Silence stretches between you again but this time, it’s heavier.

You think about the girl you were at eighteen.

You think about the woman you are now. Growing. Reaching. Refusing to disappear.

“I don’t want to choose,” you say quietly. “I don’t want this to be you or me.”

He looks at you for a long time. Then he nods slowly.

“Neither do I,” he says. “But something has to give.”

That night, you lie awake again but this time, the fear feels different.

Because for the first time, you realize that growth doesn’t just change you. It tests everything you grew from.

-

You really do believe things are getting better.

You start talking more. You stop swallowing things just to keep the peace. When you’re tired, you say it out loud instead of pretending you’re fine. When school overwhelms you, you tell Hyunjin instead of hiding behind a smile. You really try to bridge whatever invisible gap has opened between you but he doesn’t meet you halfway.

At first, you tell yourself it’s normal. He’s stressed. He works long hours. Maybe he just needs time to adjust, the same way you did. Maybe he feels neglected. Guilty thoughts pile up quickly, easily.

So you decide to prove, to him and to yourself that you can still choose them.

The exam is looming, heavy and unavoidable, but you push it aside. You tell yourself one night off won’t ruin everything. Family matters more. Marriage matters more. You’ll make it up later.

When Hyunjin comes home that evening, you’re already dressed, keys in hand, Aerin bouncing excitedly beside you.

“Hey,” you say lightly. “How about ice cream before dinner? Like a little family thing.”

Aerin’s face lights up instantly. “Ice cream? Daddy, please!”

She tugs at his arm, small hands wrapped around his sleeve, eyes bright with hope.

Hyunjin barely looks at her.

“I’m tired,” he says, voice flat. “I’m going to bed.”

You blink. “I can drive. You don’t have to do anything.”

He shakes his head. “Just eat the ice cream we already have.”

You watch it happen in real time, the way Aerin’s excitement drains from her face, the way her shoulders slump just slightly. It’s subtle, but it hits you like a punch to the chest.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

Something twists inside you.

“Come on,” you say gently, forcing a smile. “We’ll go anyway. Just us.”

She brightens again, but not all the way. In the car, she chatters, legs swinging, eyes glued to the window. But every few minutes,

“Daddy come too?”

“Daddy coming later?”

“Daddy likes chocolate, right?”

You answer softly every time, making excuses that taste bitter in your mouth. When you get the ice cream, she eats happily enough, but you notice how she saves some, insisting on bringing it home “for Daddy.”

That night, after you tuck her in, you stand alone in the hallway longer than necessary, staring at her closed door, your chest aching with a quiet dread you can’t name yet. You tell yourself it’s just a rough week.

The second moment comes quietly, late at night.

You’re exhausted, stretched thin, but you miss him. You miss the closeness you used to share without thinking. You curl into his side, press a kiss to his jaw, your hand sliding down his stomach like it’s always done a thousand times before.

He stiffens immediately.

“Not tonight,” he says, grabbing your wrist. His grip isn’t rough but it’s firm enough to stop you. “I’m tired.”

“Oh,” you whisper. Embarrassment burns your face. “Okay.”

He rolls onto his side, turning his back to you, the distance between your bodies suddenly unbearable. You lie there staring at his shoulder blades, replaying the moment over and over, wondering what you did wrong. He’s been tired before. That’s never stopped him from wanting you. You don’t sleep much that night.

The third moment, the one you can’t explain away comes on a random afternoon while you’re doing laundry.

It’s mundane. Ordinary. You’re folding clothes automatically, mind half on flashcards, half on dinner plans. You lift one of his work shirts and freeze. Makeup on the collar. Not yours.

A faint smudge of foundation, darker than your shade. A streak of mascara. And there, almost mocking you a light dusting of glitter that catches under the kitchen light. Your hands start shaking so badly you have to set the shirt down.

You tell yourself there has to be an explanation. A coworker hugged him. A party at work. Something harmless. Something innocent but your stomach churns, instinct screaming louder than logic.

You wait until that night, until Aerin is asleep and the apartment is quiet. You hold the shirt in your hands like evidence you don’t want to believe exists.

“Hyunjin,” you say carefully. “Can you explain this?”

He looks at the shirt, then at you. His expression changes instantly hardening, defensive.

“What are you implying?” he snaps.

“I’m not implying anything,” you say, heart racing. “I just want to understand.”

“Understand what?” he says sharply. “That I work in an office? That people exist around me?”

“There’s makeup,” you say quietly. “And glitter.”

“So?” he scoffs. “What, now you’re checking my clothes?”

The way he turns it on you makes your chest ache.

“I just asked a question,” you say, voice trembling despite your effort to stay calm.

“You’re being paranoid,” he says flatly. “You’re stressed. You’re tired. You’re imagining things.”

The word hits hard. Imagining.

“You’re making me feel like I’m crazy,” you whisper.

He throws his hands up. “I’m not doing this. You’re seeing things because you want to.”

He walks away, leaving you standing there with the shirt clutched in your hands, your reality suddenly feeling unstable beneath your feet.

That night, you lie awake again but this time, the fear is sharp and undeniable. Because it’s not just distance anymore. It’s secrecy. Deflection. A coldness that doesn’t match the man you married, the father who once couldn’t wait to come home to you both.

And for the first time, a thought slips into your mind that you don’t want to name. Something is wrong. And no matter how much you want to fix it, you’re no longer sure you’re the one breaking things.

—

It doesn’t happen all at once.

You don’t wake up one morning and decide to fall apart.

It’s quieter than that. Slower. More humiliating.

You miss an alarm one day. Just one. Aerin still gets to school on time, but breakfast is rushed and you forget the little note you always slip into her lunchbox. The next day, you forget to move the laundry from the washer. Then you forget an assignment deadline. Then you stop opening your textbooks altogether, because every time you do, your chest tightens so badly you feel like you can’t breathe.

Your routines unravel the same way your thoughts do silently, privately, while everyone else assumes you’re still holding it together.

You’re not.

You sit in lectures and stare at the board without absorbing anything. Words blur together. Your pen stays still while everyone else scribbles notes. You reread the same sentence ten times and still don’t know what it says. Your mind is always somewhere else on Hyunjin’s distance, on that makeup stained collar, on the way he no longer reaches for you without thinking.

You start dreading coming home just as much as you dread leaving.

Hyunjin notices you’re quieter, but he doesn’t ask why. Aerin notices too, curling closer to you on the couch, small arms wrapping around your waist like she’s trying to anchor you in place.

“Mommy sad?” she asks one night, eyes big and worried.

You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. “Just tired, baby.”

You hate lying to her.

The guilt eats at you. Guilt for slacking in school after fighting so hard to get there. Guilt for not being present enough. Guilt for being too present, too watchful, too desperate for signs that you’re wrong about him.

Eventually, the pressure becomes unbearable.

You choose a day when Aerin is at school. When the apartment is quiet and there are no distractions, no excuses. Hyunjin is home, working a late shift that evening, still in casual clothes, sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through his phone. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Hyunjin,” you say.

He looks up, distracted. “Yeah?”

“We need to talk.”

Something in your tone must tip him off, because he straightens slightly. “About what?”

You sit across from him, hands clasped tightly in your lap. Your fingers feel numb.

“I can’t concentrate anymore,” you say. “I can’t sleep. I can barely think. And it’s because I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

He sighs, already defensive. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because I’m falling apart,” you say quietly. “And I need the truth.”

He scoffs softly, shaking his head. “Why the hell are you bringing this up now?”

“Because I feel like I’m losing my mind,” you snap, voice breaking. “Because I found makeup on your clothes. Because you won’t touch me. Because you won’t look at me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says sharply.

“Then tell me that,” you plead. “Tell me you’re not seeing someone else.”

The words hang between you.

He doesn’t answer.

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him, waiting. Seconds stretch into something unbearable. He looks away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the table.

“Hyunjin,” you say again, more desperately now. “Please.”

He closes his eyes.

“You’ve been distant,” he says finally. “Ever since you started school. You barely look at me anymore.”

The words feel like a slap.

“Are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, disbelief flooding your voice. “After everything I’ve done to try and keep us together?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Who is it?” you interrupt. Your voice is shaking now. “Just tell me who it is.”

“No one,” he says quickly. “I didn’t cheat.”

You laugh weakly, because the alternative is screaming. “You’re still lying.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, voice rising. “I didn’t cheat.”

“Then why are you acting so guilty?” you say, tears burning behind your eyes. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He opens his mouth to respond and stops.

That’s when he notices.

Your vision is blurred. Your chest hurts. Something hot slides down your cheek, then another. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you lift a hand and feel wetness on your skin.

Hyunjin freezes.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You’re crying.”

That makes it worse.

“I didn’t cheat,” he says again, slower this time. “I swear.”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now. “Something happened. I know it did. I just need you to be honest with me.”

He swallows hard.

“I went out for drinks,” he admits. “With coworkers.”

Your heart sinks, but you stay silent.

“One of them.. Chaein, she got handsy,” he continues, voice tight. “And I didn’t stop her.”

Your chest caves in.

“She kissed me,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t pull away. That’s it. I swear.”

You knew something had happened. You did. But hearing it, hearing it said out loud hurts twice as much. Like confirmation makes the pain real in a way suspicion never could.

You stare at him, tears streaming down your face, hands shaking.

“Are you still seeing her?” you ask.

He hesitates. Just for a second but it’s enough.

He opens his mouth, probably ready to lie again, and something in you snaps.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Don’t lie to me again. Please.”

He looks at you like he’s cornered.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “But it’s not physical. I promise. We just… talk.”

The words feel sharp, slicing straight through you.

“She listens,” he adds, almost defensively. “And you and I—we don’t do that anymore.”

Your heart doesn’t just break, It shatters.

You sit there in silence, staring at the man you married at nineteen, the man who once built a crib with his own hands, the man who promised to protect you. You feel like the ground has disappeared beneath your feet.

“I talk to you,” you whisper.

“Not like before,” he says, regret flickering across his face now. “You’re always tired. Always busy. Always somewhere else.”

You press a hand to your mouth, a sob escaping despite your effort to stay quiet.

“I fought so hard not to lose myself,” you say through tears. “And you let me lose us instead.”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t.

You realize then sitting in that kitchen, crying so hard your chest aches that the hardest part isn’t the kiss. It’s the fact that when he felt lonely, he didn’t come to you.

And suddenly, everything you’ve been holding together school, marriage, identity feels like it’s slipping through your fingers all at once.

The silence after his confession is unbearable. You can’t even look at him anymore. Your hands are clenched so tightly in your lap they ache, nails biting into your skin, grounding you in the only way you know how. Your chest feels hollow, like something vital has been scooped out and you’re still expected to function as if nothing happened.

“So,” you whisper finally. Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. “You didn’t cheat… but you’re emotionally with someone else.”

He flinches at the wording.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says quickly. “It just—”

“It just did,” you finish for him, bitter. “Like everything else in my life.”

He reaches out, instinctively, like he wants to touch you. You pull back before his hand can even reach your arm. The rejection flashes across his face, and for once, you don’t soften it. You can’t.

“How long?” you ask.

He hesitates again.

Your stomach twists. “How long, Hyunjin.”

“A few weeks,” he admits. “Maybe a month.”

A month. A month of distance. A month of late nights. A month of him turning away from you in bed. A month of you crying quietly, convincing yourself you were paranoid.

“Does she know about me?” you ask.

He nods. “She knows I’m married. She knows about Aerin.”

Something inside you breaks at that.

“And she still listens?” you murmur. “Still talks to you. Still lets you complain about your wife while knowing you have a child at home?”

He looks ashamed now. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I never complained about you,” he says. “Not like that.”

“But you talked about us,” you say. “About what we don’t do anymore.”

He doesn’t deny it. You push back your chair and stand, legs shaky. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too tight, like the walls are closing in.

“I gave up everything for this family,” you say, voice trembling despite your effort to stay composed. “I gave up my youth. My freedom. My choices. And when I finally tried to take one thing back for myself, you replaced me.”

“That’s not what I did,” he says urgently, standing too. “I never replaced you.”

“Then why am I the one standing here alone?” you snap, tears spilling over again. “Why does she get the version of you that talks and listens while I get whatever scraps you have left?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it. His shoulders slump.

“I felt invisible,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it without sounding selfish.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Invisible? I built my entire life around making sure you and Aerin were okay.”

“I know,” he says. “And that’s the problem. Everything changed.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “It did. And instead of growing with me, you stepped outside of us.”

The realization settles heavy in your chest. this didn’t happen because you went to school. It happened because neither of you knew how to survive change without losing each other.

“I need space,” you say suddenly.

His head snaps up. “What?”

“I can’t look at you right now,” you say honestly. “I can’t pretend this didn’t happen and then go pick up our daughter and smile like everything’s fine.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice. “Are you leaving?”

You shake your head weakly. “I don’t know. I just know I can’t do this today.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Aerin—”

“I know,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t you dare use her to keep me from breathing.”

That shuts him up. You grab your bag, your keys, your movements mechanical. At the door, you pause, not because you want to look back, but because your body remembers years of turning toward him automatically.

“Are you still talking to her?” you ask quietly.

He swallows. “I can stop.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

Your heart cracks open all over again.

“Then stop,” you say, voice flat. “If you want even a chance at fixing this, you stop. Now. Not later. Not gradually.”

He nods quickly. “I will. I swear.”

You don’t say I believe you. Because right now, you don’t know if you can.

The drive to pick up Aerin is a blur. You grip the steering wheel so hard your hands hurt, focusing on the road because if you don’t, you might break down completely. When you see her running toward you at pickup, backpack bouncing, smile wide and trusting, it almost undoes you.

“Mommy!” she calls.

You crouch down, open your arms, let her crash into you. You bury your face in her hair and breathe her in like oxygen.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Did you have a good day?”

She nods enthusiastically, completely unaware that her world is shifting in ways she can’t see.

At home, you go through the motions. Dinner. Bath. Storytime. You laugh at the right moments. You tuck her in, kiss her forehead, hold her hand until she drifts off to sleep. And then, finally, you allow yourself to fall apart.

You curl up on your side of the bed, clutching a pillow to your chest, sobbing silently into the fabric so no one hears you. Your mind replays everything the kiss, the conversations, the way he chose someone else to listen to him.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You don’t know if your marriage will survive this. All you know is that loving him used to feel like safety. And now, it feels like standing on broken glass, wondering how much more you can bleed before there’s nothing left.

You wake up to sounds that don’t belong to him.

At least, not like this. There’s the quiet clink of dishes, the low hum of the kettle, the soft rustle of lunch bags being opened and closed. For a moment, still half asleep, your body reacts on instinct. You think I need to get up, think I’m late, think Aerin. Then you remember. Everything comes rushing back all at once, heavy and suffocating. Your chest tightens before you even open your eyes. When you do, Hyunjin’s side of the bed is empty. Cold.

You sit up slowly, your head pounding, your throat raw from crying the night before. The apartment smells like toast and coffee. Normal. Domestic. Like nothing is wrong.That almost makes it worse.

You drag yourself out of bed and move down the hallway, feet quiet against the floor. Hyunjin is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp like he showered early. He’s packing Aerin’s lunch, cutting fruit the way you always do, folding the napkin just so.

For a split second, a sharp, bitter thought flashes through your mind.

He knows exactly how to do this. He’s always known.

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him. You turn away before he can catch your eye and go straight to Aerin’s room.

“Good morning, baby,” you say softly, sitting on the edge of her bed.

She groans, rolling onto her stomach. “Morning…”

You brush her hair back gently, focusing on the familiar rhythm of caring for her. This is safe. This you can do without thinking.

Hyunjin lingers in the doorway, watching. You can feel his presence like pressure against your back, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You talk to Aerin instead about her day, about what she wants to wear, about how she slept. You laugh when she makes a silly face, even though it feels forced.

You keep your world very small. Very contained.

By the time Aerin is dressed and brushing her teeth, you’re out of distractions. Hyunjin steps closer. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple before you can dodge it.

Your body goes stiff immediately.

“I made breakfast,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of startling you. He sets a plate in front of you at the table fruit, toast, eggs.

“I’m not hungry,” you say flatly.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he replies. “You have a long day. Please.”

The word please hits differently now. It doesn’t soften you. It just reminds you how late it is.

You sit down anyway, more out of obligation than desire. You poke at the fruit with your fork, moving pieces around without actually eating them. Your stomach twists, not with hunger, but with resentment.

Aerin finishes her breakfast and hops down from her chair. “Mommy, I’m done!”

You look up at her immediately. “Okay, baby. Grab your backpack.”

Hyunjin reaches for your hand then slow, hesitant, like he knows you might pull away.

You do. Instantly. Your hand snaps back into your lap like you’ve been burned. The hurt flashes across his face, quick and unguarded. For once, you don’t feel guilty about it.

You clear your throat, standing. “I have to go drop off Aerin.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I can drive—”

“I’ve got it,” you say, firmer than you mean to, but you don’t take it back.

You help Aerin with her shoes, grab the keys, your movements efficient and distant. At the door, Hyunjin speaks again.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly.

You pause but you don’t turn around.

“I see that,” you reply just as quietly. “But this isn’t something you fix by waking up early and packing lunches.”

The words hang there, heavy and final.

Aerin grabs your hand, warm and trusting. You squeeze back gently and step outside, the door clicking shut behind you.

In the car, Aerin hums along to the radio like she always does. The morning sun filters through the windshield, casting everything in a soft, ordinary light. And you realize something that makes your chest ache even more. You can still do this. You can still be her mom. You can still keep moving. But forgiving him? That’s not something you know how to wake up and do.

-

You dread the drive home the entire way back from campus. Your hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, mind spiraling in circles you can’t seem to break out of. Part of you wants to keep driving, past your exit, past familiar streets, anywhere that isn’t that apartment filled with memories and half truths. You imagine circling the city until it’s time to pick up Aerin, pretending this pause means nothing, pretending you don’t feel like your chest is caving in But you go home anyway because this is still your life. Because running won’t fix what’s already broken.

The apartment is quiet when you walk in, too quiet. Your bag slides off your shoulder and lands softly by the door. You barely have time to breathe before Hyunjin appears from the hallway like he’s been waiting, like he’s been counting seconds.

“There you are,” he says, relief flickering across his face.

It makes something ugly twist in your stomach. He walks toward you immediately, hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to touch you anymore. You step back before he gets close enough.

“I have schoolwork to do,” you say, already turning away.

“Can we just—” He reaches out, then stops himself. “Can we talk for one moment?”

You sigh, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “About what, Hyunjin?”

He swallows. “About… us. About what happens now.”

You stop walking. You turn slowly to face him, your expression empty. “What should happen now is that you blocked her yesterday.”

His breath hitches. The silence that follows is answer enough.

You stare at him, something cold spreading through your chest. “You didn’t.”

“I was going to,” he says quickly. “I just—”

“Just what?” you ask, incredulous. “Forgot? Got distracted? Decided it could wait?”

He doesn’t answer. That’s when something inside you finally settles not with peace, but with clarity.

“There’s no point,” you say quietly. “There’s no point in us pretending anymore.”

His eyes widen. “What are you saying?”

You step past him and sit down at the table, suddenly very calm. “You should go.”

He freezes. “Go… where?”

“Anywhere but here,” you reply. “Because I can’t live like this. I can’t wake up next to you and wonder if you’re still choosing her every time I turn my back.”

He watches you stand again, panic creeping into his features. “I love you,” he says quickly, desperately. “I love you so much it hurts.”

You spin around instantly, the words slicing through whatever restraint you had left.

“If you really loved me,” you say, voice sharp and shaking, “you would’ve pushed her away the second she touched you. You would’ve stopped this before it ever got here. You didn’t.”

He opens his mouth and closes it.

You take a step closer, tears burning but not falling. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now. Not when you chose to let someone else in.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes glassy. He looks like he’s drowning, like he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers.

“But you did,” you say. “And you’re still doing it.”

You turn away again, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “I want you to leave.”

He follows you a step. “I’m not leaving Aerin.”

You face him again, exhausted. “You’re not. You’re welcome to come see her every day. You can pick her up, take her out, be her dad. I would never take that from her.”

He looks relieved for half a second, until you keep going.

“But continuing like this,” you say, gesturing around the apartment, “sleeping under the same roof, acting like yesterday didn’t shatter everything? It makes me sick. I can’t do it.”

The words feel final as they leave your mouth.

“I won’t pretend for comfort,” you add. “Not anymore.”

He swallows hard, throat bobbing. His shoulders sag like the weight of it all is finally pressing down on him.

“Please,” he says softly. “Just… give me time.”

“I gave you time,” you reply. “And you used it to stay connected to her.”

Silence settles between you again, thick and irreversible. He looks around the apartment, at the couch where you once sat together, at the hallway leading to Aerin’s room, at the life you built too young and tried too hard to save.

Then he nods once. Slowly.

“I’ll pack a bag,” he says hoarsely.

You don’t answer. Because if you do, you might beg him to stay for all the wrong reasons.

-

Hyunjin leaves that day. The door closes softly behind him, no shouting, no slammed walls just the quiet finality of a choice that can’t be undone. The sound echoes through the apartment long after he’s gone, settling into the corners like a ghost you can’t chase away. You cry the entire day.

Not the kind of crying that comes in waves and then eases, but the kind that hollows you out from the inside. You cry in the shower with the water scalding your skin. You cry on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled to your chest. You cry into a pillow so Aerin won’t hear you when she comes home. And when she does come home, you wipe your face, steady your voice, and become someone else.

You smile. You ask about her day. You make dinner. You pretend.

Everyone around you thinks you’re handling it well. They say you’re strong. Resilient. Brave. You nod and thank them, because correcting them would require energy you don’t have.

Inside, you’re breaking in places no one can see.

Somehow, impossibly, you finish school.

There are days you don’t remember how you made it through, only that you did. You sit exams with your heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the material. You write papers with tears blurring the screen. You walk across campus feeling like a shadow of the woman who once felt so alive there.

But you finish. And when you do, you don’t celebrate. You don’t feel triumphant. You just feel relieved like you’ve been holding your breath for months and can finally let it out.

You get a job almost immediately after. Flexible hours. Kind management. Close to Aerin’s school, like the universe is throwing you a lifeline just when you’re too tired to ask for one.

You’re good at it. Better than you expect to be.

Life settles into something new, not easy, but manageable.

Hyunjin lives on his own now. A small place. Quiet but he shows up. He always shows up for Aerin. School pickups when you can’t make it. Parent events. Performances. Meetings. You two communicate politely, efficiently. Almost like coworkers who share the most important project of their lives. You never talk about us.

And yet, you still love him.

You hate that part of yourself. You wish it would shut up, disappear, harden the way everyone says it eventually does. But part of you truly believes you’ll never move on. That first love, the kind forged in fear and youth and shared responsibility doesn’t just vanish.

He still loves you too. You see it in the way his eyes linger. In the way his voice softens when he talks to you. In the way he never crosses certain lines, never brings anyone around Aerin.

You think maybe… maybe this is just how it will be. Broken, but respectful. Painful, but survivable.

Then you find out about her. You weren’t supposed to.

You would never normally go to his place. You know where he lives, of course, but you’ve kept that boundary firm. For your own sanity. For your dignity. You don’t need to see how he lives without you.

But it’s your first day at work. Your shift runs late. Hyunjin is picking up Aerin from school so she can stay the night at his place, and you need to drop off her overnight bag. Just a quick stop. In and out.

You stand outside his door for a moment longer than necessary, adjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder, steadying yourself. You knock.

The door opens.

And it’s not Hyunjin. It’s a woman.

She’s pretty, effortlessly so. Slim, soft features, hair loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing nothing but one of his shirts, oversized on her frame, the hem brushing her bare thighs. Her expression shifts from confusion to something curious as she looks at you.

Your heart drops so hard you feel dizzy.

“I—” You step back immediately, instinct screaming at you to leave. “Sorry. Wrong—”

Behind her, you hear his voice.

“Who is it?”

And then he sees you. His face drains of color.

“Wait,” he says urgently, already moving past her. “Hey—wait.”

You don’t. You shove Aerin’s bag toward him when he reaches you, the movement sharp and unsteady. He grabs it automatically, panic flooding his features.

“She’s just a friend,” he blurts out. “It’s not—”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “What friend wears nothing but your clothes?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You feel something cold settle in your chest not shock, not even anger anymore just confirmation.

“I hope,” you say quietly, voice shaking despite your effort to stay composed, “that she hasn’t met Aerin.”

His eyes widen. “She hasn’t. I swear. I would never—”

“Good,” you cut in. “Because I don’t want her to.”

The words come out harsher than you mean, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. This is the one boundary you refuse to let blur.

You take a step back, already turning away. Your hands are trembling now, your throat burning.

“Good luck,” you say flatly, not looking at him. “I really hope this… whatever you think this is… doesn’t hurt her too.”

And then you walk away. You don’t look back. You don’t give him the chance to explain, to soften it, to make excuses that will only sink deeper into your skin.

You get into your car, close the door, and sit there gripping the steering wheel while your chest caves in all over again.

Because seeing her, that her does something you didn’t expect. It doesn’t just hurt. It makes you realize that loving him was never the problem.

Trusting him was.

And no matter how much part of you still aches for the boy you married at nineteen, the man who once built a crib with his own hands, that version of him is gone. And you finally understand that moving on isn’t about stopping yourself from loving him. It’s about choosing yourself anyway.

You can’t even think about how nervous you are.

Your mind won’t let you.

It’s still back there, standing in a hallway that isn’t yours anymore, staring at a woman wearing his shirt like it belongs to her. Every thought feels scrambled, layered over each other until you can’t separate what hurts from what scares you. Your hands won’t stop trembling. Even breathing feels uneven, like your body forgot how to do it smoothly.

You were good. You were.

You remind yourself of that as you sit in your car for a moment longer than necessary, fingers gripping the steering wheel. You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t. You were the one who told him to leave. You were the one who drew the line. He’s allowed to move on, even if it feels impossibly fast, even if seeing proof of it makes your stomach churn.

Still, something about her standing there, barefoot and comfortable in his space, makes you feel sick in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Your eyes burn. Your throat tightens.

You could cry. You want to cry. Let it all spill out until there’s nothing left inside you. But instead, you open the car door.

You straighten your shoulders. You wipe under your eyes. You remind yourself this job is yours. You earned it. You fought for this future while everything else was falling apart.

You don’t get to lose it on day one.

Inside, the hospital is busy, bright lights, overlapping voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic and coffee. It’s overwhelming in a way that has nothing to do with school. This is real now. This is responsibility with faces and names and consequences. You try to smile. It doesn’t last.

It turns into that practiced, hollow version you’ve perfected over the past year, the one that looks fine if no one looks too closely. You introduce yourself at the desk, your voice steady even though your chest feels like it’s vibrating.

“I’m supposed to be training today,” you say. “With… Seungmin?”

One of the nurses barely looks up and cocks her head. “He’s around. Ask Mina.”

You turn and spot her immediately moving fast, hair pulled back, clipboard tucked under one arm as she weaves between rooms like she knows this place by heart. You hesitate, then approach.

“Hi,” you say softly. “I’m looking for Seungmin.”

She stops, looks you over, and smiles warm, genuine. “You must be the new nurse.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m—”

Before you can finish, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “Just so you know—Seungmin can be… a lot.”

Your stomach tightens. She gives you a quick, reassuring look. “I’m not saying that to scare you. He’s good at what he does. Just tense. Really high standards. People have quit because of him before.”

Your heart sinks a little.

“But,” she adds quickly, squeezing your arm lightly, “don’t let it get to you. If you need help, you come to me. Okay?”

You nod, grateful for the kindness more than you can express. “Thank you. I’m y/n.”

“Mina,” she replies. “You’ll fit right in.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the noise.

“Where the hell is the new nurse I’m supposed to be training?”

You freeze. The voice is sharp, impatient, already annoyed. Mina turns calmly and points straight at you. “Right here.”

Your throat goes dry.

You force yourself to smile as he approaches tall, brisk, eyes already scanning you like you’re another task on his list. He looks tired. Wound tight. The kind of person who doesn’t slow down for anyone.

He sighs when he reaches you, glancing at the clock. “You’re late.”

“I—” You swallow. “I’m not. I checked in—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts in. “Follow me.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away.

No introduction. No welcome. No explanation.

You scramble to keep up, heart racing as you fall into step behind him. His pace is relentless. He talks while walking, rattling off information like you’re supposed to absorb it all at once.

“Supply room’s down there. Med cart keys stay on you at all times. Crash cart’s here—don’t touch it unless you know exactly what you’re doing. Break room’s useless if you actually want to sit down.”

You try to keep up, nodding, mentally repeating everything so it doesn’t disappear the second he moves on to the next thing. But your head is still foggy, emotions lagging behind you like dead weight.

Your feet ache already. Your chest feels tight. You miss half of what he says and hate yourself for it.

“This isn’t school,” he says abruptly, glancing back at you. “You mess up here, people don’t get second chances. Understand?”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “I understand.”

He studies you for a split second, then turns away again. “Good.”

You trail after him, struggling to match his pace, realizing with a sinking feeling that today isn’t just going to be rough.

It’s going to test everything you have left.

And as you follow him down another long hallway, heart pounding, you think bitterly that maybe this is exactly what you deserve, a day so demanding you don’t have time to think about the man who broke your heart before you even clocked in.

//

masterlist.

a/n: it’s been a while..? 😅 sorry for anyone who has been waiting for empty words. this fic will replace empty words.

+++++++++

A sheet of grey clouds engulfs the sky in London. No sun peeks through, and the expectation of rain is a certainty. Chris doesn’t worry as his carriage continues down the cobblestone path. From behind him, a clock bell rings out, marking the hour of noon as the carriage crosses the river. He hates being out during the day, but certain affairs needed to be settled. The sooner, the better. 

Chris looks down at the envelope in his hand. He is on his way to meet with Hyunjin Hwang. A newer solicitor at Harrison & Associates. The man is young but promising, willing to do the legwork in securing a property, or so the owner promises. Chris has only one concern; he asked for secrecy. Less interaction is better. The company would reap substantial rewards if Hyunjin bought the properties swiftly and privately.

Hyunjin’s penmanship is eloquent. It’s refreshing to see it in the letter sent in response to the property inquiry. Even on the appointment card there is delicate lettering. Any time Chris rejoins society after several decades of slumbering, he worries about the changes. Society forces him to adapt and discover what advancements have occurred. At least humans are consistent with being stupid creatures, still preoccupied with fighting for imaginary power as if it matters. 

The surrounding city changed quite a bit since his last visit. To be expected after two hundred years. Growth appears to be exponential. There are new buildings, though the main roads remain the same, just not as wide. His carriage stops in front of what used to be a building owned by a shoemaker; it now is his destination for his meeting today. 

Chris steps out with grace, not bothering to take in the bustling city life around him. Instead, he focuses on the large glass window that reveals the young man he suspects to be Hyunjin in the otherwise empty office. He’s a handsome man with his brown eyes and plush lips. Women must adore him. Especially now, with a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose while he’s tying up long raven locks away from his face. 

The door chimes above Chris as he steps into the business. Immediately the human looks up from his stack of papers, forcing a smile onto his face. His voice is soft and polite as he stands. “Ah, you must be Lord Bahng. It’s a pleasure to meet you finally. I apologize for making you come all this way.”

“That’s quite alright,” he answered, removing his gloves before tucking them into his jacket. “How is Mr. Anderson?”

“Unwell. Doctors are confident, though.” Hyunjin shifts the weight on his feet. There is a spike in his heart rate, even though he masks his unease well. “Um, how are the accommodations? I know it’s not the best for a prince, but are you adjusting well?”

Chris doesn’t miss the redirection from Hyunjin. Anderson is nearing death. Will this young solicitor be inheriting the company then? That is a lot of pressure for someone without years in the industry; perhaps that’s why he was so eager to follow the absurd demands. “The staff is exceptional.”

“Good. Very good. Uh…” Hyunjin’s words trail off as he sorts through the folders on his desk until he finds the one he needs. “Your shipments arrived. Unfortunately, the ship never made it to the pier. The storm crashed the Demeter onto the coast several miles north. I can assure you that only one crate sustained damage. I believe it was dirt; they salvaged what they could.”

Chris briefly sucks on one of his fangs, a habit of his when annoyed. “It’s perfectly fine. Was it taken to the abbey?”

“Yes, sir. Right in the heart of London.” Hyunjin takes out a map from the stack of files and lays it out on the surface of his desk. “After today, I will have the deeds for the last two properties, and we can begin transport if you require it.”

“How far are the last two properties from here?”

“Six miles.” Hyunjin answers before pointing at two different locations. Chris leans forward to examine the distance. “I have to say, this is a great way to have connections across the country.”

Hyunjin isn’t wrong. This is what Chris needs. He can cover more ground this way and expand outwards. His previous purchases were in France to help establish roots, but here he can expand his footing west. He’s unsure what his next move will be. Maybe he will mingle with the nightlife. 

The young man speaks up again. “Forgive me for being curious, but what brings you here? Has the city summoned you?”

“A change of scenery, I guess you could say.”

“How is Romania?” Hyunjin asks, eyes full of genuine curiosity. “I’ve never been out of the country.”

“The winters can be very unforgiving,” Chris answers honestly. His mind flickers over a dark memory in particular, but he shakes it off to keep his composure. “Summer makes up for it.”

More business talk occurs. There is paperwork to be addressed. Hyunjin signs over deeds to the four properties he had already bought. Keys are to be given with proper labeling. Hyunjin humbly accepts the large amount of money from Chris. The professionalism and trust in this small company appeared to be the right call.  

As Hyunjin moves around the cramped office, Chris reaches for a sketchpad on the corner of the desk he’d been eyeing for the last half an hour. There is an illustration of a skyline of buildings in brown ink. It’s then that Chris realizes it’s not ink that was the medium used; rather, it was coffee. The paper still has a lingering scent from the brewed beans. Chris admires the talent before speaking about it. “Did you paint this yourself?”

“Yes, sir.” Hyunjin slinks back into his chair, almost embarrassed that he left the artwork on display. “It’s just a silly hobby of mine.”

“You’re quite talented. Your art belongs on walls.”

There’s a bitterness in Hyunjin’s tone as he replies. “Unfortunately, my art doesn’t generate enough income to cover my expenses.”

Chris gives a knowing nod. He’s met plenty of starving artists throughout the years. Hyunjin doesn’t stop him from flipping through the pages of artwork; instead, he continues to fill out more paperwork. There is a range of pieces. Flowers at every stage of life, distinct memories of the places Hyunjin traveled to, and then there are a few faceless couples in various embraces. The man is clearly a romantic. 

Chris nearly drops the pad when flipping over the next page. Disbelief floods his system. It can not be. There is no way that what he sees is real. It must be a trick. He blinks a few times to assure himself that what is on this page isn’t a delusion of a grieving man. 

There, taking up a full page, is a sketch of you. 

He runs his fingers over the illustration, tracing the hair that frames your face. The eye shape is the same. Your lips are just as full as he remembers. The sketch includes the brow bone, cheekbones, and even the scar on your chin. It’s in fact you, his bride. This man’s sketchpad captured his eternal love. 

Your remains are dust in a grave back in Romania. He left you in the gardens you adored so much. This is not an imagined piece, Chris tells himself. Most of Hyunjin’s drawings don’t have distinct features. This is a vivid sketch he drew of you. That means after four hundred years, you have returned to this plane of existence. 

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Hyunjin asks, pulling Chris out of his haze of thoughts. “It’s my fiancée. We’re planning to get married in the spring.”

It’s confirmed then. You have returned. Now the vampire understands why he is here. You were calling out to him, asking him to find you. That is why he is in London now. It all makes sense. He just has to find you. 

“Look at me,” Chris commands suddenly. Hyunjin glances up from where he is signing his name to make eye contact. There is a pull on the vampire’s powers as he speaks. “I am taking this piece. You will not miss it. Do you understand?”

The human nods in response. “Of course. I’d be delighted if you did.”

Chris gently tears the drawing out of the notepad before folding it in half to fit inside his coat pocket. His tone stays calm and collected despite the way there is a fire under his skin lighting up all his nerves. He needs to be alone with this discovery. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hwang. I must take my leave now. You will contact me when you have the other deeds for me.”

“Yes, sir.” Hyunjin nods once more, still completely compliant. “I’ll send word right away.”

The sun remains tucked behind the buildings of London by the time Chris steps back out into the city. He couldn’t care about the list of properties now in his name. Nor the ring of keys jingling in his pants pocket. He should care; each is an anchor for him to travel through. When he needs to slumber or recover his power, he will have locations spread across the country.  

This also means the vampires he creates will have someone safe to go to. Unlike him, his creations cannot face the sun. The newborns are too young, unable to have the strength to embrace daylight without perishing. If he had one newborn at each of the six properties, it wouldn’t take long to find you and where you reside. He even has a starting point in knowing where Hyunjin works. 

How fortunate he is to be given this fate. 

Hyunjin’s portrait of you is heavy in his coat pocket. Ever so carefully he pulls the thin paper out to examine again now that he is alone. His eyes are not tricking him. It really is you on this paper, pretty charcoal smile and all. 

A rush of emotions hit Chris hard enough to almost buckle his knees. He remembers the day he lost you vividly. A nightmare he never escapes. He never should have left you in the castle. How foolish he was not to expect some sort of retaliation from the enemy. Even with his most trusted knights in charge of your evacuation, it wasn’t enough to keep you safe. 

The war seems so childish now. He was summoned to fight the opposers. Ottoman envoys threatened his reign again, trying to remove him from power. He wouldn’t give in easily. Not after the death of his father and brother. He avenged their deaths and would continue to squash the enemy like bugs. He was such a loyal servant to God until then. 

All he asked was for your safety.

If he were going to fight in God’s name and taint his soul with their deaths, then at least his mighty self could protect you. Then God abandoned him. 

No, after years of devotion, God betrayed him. Chris hauled himself onto the first horse he could reach when hearing word about your evacuation. The beast tried its best to sprint despite the heavy war armor not only on its body but on him as well. No whines or protests came out when he commanded the animal to cut through the woods to intercept your route. He could come from a different angle and take the enemy by surprise if the soldiers followed you. All he had to do was make it to you. Then he could defend you. The scenery was a blur; sunlight flickered through the leaves like a strobing light. Hooves of the horse barely connected with the ground before pushing off to drive further forward. Chris was certain he could make it. He had to; there was no other option. 

By the time he made it to the forest edge, he saw your horse go down. The mighty beast you raised yourself was caught in a bear trap in the snow. Poor thing landed in a heap, depositing you in the snow. Its cry was a warning to the three soldiers not too far behind you. Instead of risking their beasts, they were on their feet, swords out and stabbing the snow to disarm the hidden bear traps. This strip of land was meant for a battle the last time the army rose up. Chris never ordered the traps to be removed. He wanted it to be a safety measure if the opposing side decided to try to sneak around the castle again now that the river had frozen over. 

Currently, it is a death trap for everyone in the field. 

“Christopher!” You screamed out, your voice distraught and breathless not only from exhaustion but also from fear. 

“Stay by Berry!” he bellowed out in response. “I will come to you!”

Chris commanded his horse forward. A scapegoat, one to no doubt share the same fate as your horse. An unfortunate causality if it came to it. He didn’t care; all that mattered was getting to you. The soldiers moved quicker in response, knowing their chance to assassinate you was slipping out of their fingers. 

By some miracle the horse under him made it nearly to you. Chris let gravity take him to the ground when he was sent flying from the saddle. The armor on his body would protect him; he had no fear of the traps. He simply rolled until he found his footing. He drew his sword next and charged forward. 

Steel collided with steel as Chris reached one soldier. Despite how tired he was, the new wave of adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him moving. He had years of combat under his belt. Hell, this was the second war he fought in. Many of the soldiers lack the training to tackle the challenge he is. Enemies spoke of him as a dragon, powerful in his destruction and swift too.

It was not his life on the line; it was yours. Chris pushed through the fatigue to kill the first soldier. He barely had time to breathe before another was on him. His heartbeat pounded in his ribcage and in his ears. It was deafening to the point that he couldn’t even hear his own screams. 

Though he still wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t strong enough. By the time he killed the second soldier, the final one was making his way to you. Chris couldn’t cross the snow any faster. You didn’t even scream. You fought with all of your being, the same when you practiced with Chris for months. Your only line of defense was the blade in your hand, but it wasn’t sufficient. 

Time froze when Chris saw the blade drive into your stomach. The world narrowed to a single point of your frame folding toward the snow, your breath catching in shock. He reached you just as the soldier raised his weapon again. Chris didn’t think; he moved. He swung his sword with all of his might, driving his own sword across the man’s neck and taking his head clean off. He didn’t care for the spasming body, too busy kicking it aside to catch as you knelt. Blood was seeping out of your wound, turning your beautiful gown a dark shade of red. 

“No!” The word tore out of him, raw and shaking. One hand pulled you close; the other pressed against your wound. Chris knew it was fruitless; the snow was staining red under you. Even if he could get you back to the castle, it would be too late. He continued to plead. “Stay with me. Please.”

“My king...” Your voice came out weak. You struggled to keep your eyes open. “I will find you again.”

Chris pressed his forehead against yours. “Do speak such words to me. You will survive. You must! I can’t live without you.”

Through his teary eyes, he could see the faintest of your smiles. “Promise me… you will wait for my return.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to beg, or to deny the truth, yet your body relaxed in his arms before he could say anything. Your eyes slipped shut, and you were gone. Snuffed out like a candle. The warmth was already beginning to fade. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, not you. Not you.”

Chris couldn’t move. God wouldn’t do this to his most loyal servant. Still, he prayed to the Almighty One. One hour turned into several until his soldiers discovered him frozen in place. It would take three of his strongest to separate him from your body. And even then, he reached for you as if he still believed he could bring you back. 

That was the day he renounced God. He had dedicated years to this being; he killed thousands in his name, and he swore unwavering loyalty. No more; no longer would he do what God asked. God took the only thing he prayed to be safe during the war. The only thing in this world he cared about. 

If God didn’t listen to him, why would he continue to serve? 

Rage fueled Chris. There was no exhaustion, no hunger, no thirst. The celebration of the victory didn’t reach his ears. He stormed through his recovering city on foot, still wearing his battle armor stained with blood. He marched right up the church’s steps, through the doors, until he found the one person who could answer his burning questions. The priest claimed to be a messenger for God, and then Chris would test that. 

“My wife is dead.” Chris huffed out, still fighting to be civil. “Is he not listening to our prayers today?”

“My king.” A hand found his shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “God has his reasons. It’s not our place to question his plan.” 

The calm, collected tone in response may as well be hot tar thrown onto Chris’ body. He reached for the holy man, grabbing fistfuls of his pristine white robes and hoisting him up onto his tiptoes. He could feel the panicked breath against his face. The words leaving him were venom. “Bring her back to me.”

“I cannot, my king!” The same face of fear as the soldiers he killed earlier that day looked back at him. Even this man pleads the same. “He will take good care of her.” 

“But what about me?” Chris spat out. “Have I not done everything he’s asked?”

More babbling came out, filled with excuses. Chris couldn’t accept this as his fate. He wouldn’t. His self-control snapped like a fragile twig. Using all of his anger for strength, he shoved the holy man backwards, where the mess of limbs collided with the table of lit candles. Terrified screams broke out as the fabric caught fire. 

Panicked gasps filled the room from the other priests and the soldiers that followed Chris here. He moves without deliberation, reaching for his sword to unsheathe. Chris drives the blade down through the man’s sternum, trapping the body in place as it continues to burn. This man won’t escape this fate, just like you were forced to endure yours. 

It’s then when he stares up at the statue of Christ on the wall. Despite the growing flames, Chris couldn’t feel the heat. Not even against the steel of his armor. He kept eye contact with the brown eyes, speaking bitterly. “Are you listening now? I am no longer your servant. Until you return my wife, my soul no longer belongs to you. I will wait until you make this right.” 

Chris changed that day. Not just from the grief. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t die. God turned his back on him, refusing to let him have that peace to be with you. Even falling from the castle tower, his limbs would take their time knitting themselves back together. He didn’t age and didn’t need food or water. 

He simply existed. 

Though as the years crept on, his human form shifted into a monster. Chris developed a craving for blood. His teeth grew into sharp fangs to ease the process, and he learned he would gain sustenance from the sinful act. Perhaps it was Lucifer himself answering his pleas. The only other person who understood God’s betrayal.

Fine, he would become a monster. As long as it kept him on this earth. Now here he stands, in London, the very city where you have returned to this mortal realm. 

A woman’s bright laughter rings out ahead of Chris, drawing his attention. His hand tightens around the folded sketch of your face, and he slips it back into his coat before anyone can glimpse it. He forces himself to focus on the approaching pair.

The first woman is blonde, draped in an elegant red dress that speaks of wealth and a certain carefree confidence. She’s amused by something her companion has said; her smile is wide and unrestrained. Chris barely registers her because moving beside her, moving with a grace he remembers too well, is you? 

Fate is either playing a cruel game, or his deemed punishment is over. 

You are breathtaking in an emerald gown, walking straight toward him, unaware, unguarded. He has imagined this moment for lifetimes, rehearsing it in dreams and nightmares alike, yet now that you are here, he is utterly unprepared.

He purposely moves too close, deliberately in your path, and you collide with him. You gasp softly, immediately turning toward him with an apology spilling out of you. “Oh, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

The sound of your voice nearly turns his limbs into warm wax. 

“No, this is my fault, actually.” Chris manages to answer through disbelief at hearing your voice after all this time. He can’t think clearly. “It’s… lovely to see you again.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Have we met before?”

“In a dream, perhaps. I have a strange feeling we’ve known each other for a long time.”

You don’t look amused by his charm. If anything, you are wary. Sarcasm is heavy in your tone. “Well, aren’t you romantic?”

Inwardly, Chris curses himself. This is not off to a good start. There was no time to prepare. He straightens, trying to gather the remnants of his dignity. After a second, he bowed his head slightly. “Pardon me, I seem to have lost my mind and my manners. My name is Christopher Bahng, second prince of Wallachia.”

Chris reaches for your gloved hand; you don’t stop him, allowing him to bring your hand up for him to kiss. There for a second, he sees recognition on your face. What did you see? A kiss from a previous encounter? Could it be a memory from when he first met you on the day he requested your hand in marriage? It was all arranged without your consent, yet you were still so excited to meet him. 

“Well,” you say, gently withdrawing your hand, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Before you can step away, the blonde woman halts you with a hand on your arm. “A prince, you say? And where is Wallachia?”

“Romainia.”

“My goodness, you are so far away from home.” She answers with a bright smile. “You’re not lost, are you?”

“No, not at all. I’m purchasing a few properties here in London.”

Her eyes lit up. Chris is used to this response when women fall under his charm. “Then you should join us for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No, it's a casual event. Besides, how can you learn more about London if you don’t experience it?” The woman looks over to you, giving you a playful nudge. It’s enough to knock the uneasy expression off your face. You offer her a weak smile, and the woman turns back to him, pleased to have your agreement. “And it’s not every day you get to dine with a real prince.”

This is almost too easy, Chris thinks to himself. Still, he plays his role perfectly with his reply. “I would be honored to join such fine company, then, Miss?”

“Lucy Westenra,” the blonde replies, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She introduces you as well, giving a modern name Chris knows he will have to force himself to remember instead of the one he whispered to you centuries ago. She gestures toward a restaurant at the corner. “We’re dining at seven. Just tell the staff you’re with the Holmwood party.”

“I will be there.” Chris offers a charming smile before turning his attention to you. His voice softens. “I look forward to dining with you and Miss Westenra tonight.”

With that, the two of you leave him on the sidewalk. You turn to give him one last look. He would give anything to know what is coursing through that mind of yours. How much do you remember, if at all? He knows he saw recognition on your face. That was real. He reassures himself that he will learn more tonight. You have returned to him, and now he can work on bringing you back into his arms.

Chris arrives at the restaurant a quarter past seven. The goal was not to appear too eager on his arrival. He wanted the party to be seated before he joined the small group to dine. A shy hostess led him through the warm, lamplit dining room to the table where he found four humans sitting. 

Lucy brightened the moment she saw him. “Lord Bahng! You found us.”

He bows slightly. “Miss Westenra, how could I refuse such a charming invitation?”

Next to Lucy, at the head of the table, appears to be Mr. Holmwood. Chris learns a second later through a handshake that his name is Arthur and is Lucy’s current partner. The human has a relaxed heart rate and a brawny arm. He appears unbothered by Lucy’s sudden new guest. Perhaps he is used to her bringing in new people. 

Chris turns his attention to you. Gone is the emerald dress, now replaced with a dark blue evening gown. You sit straight and proper with Hyunjin beside you. Chris expected some confusion from you both, but Hyunjin appears to be losing color in his face. He’s not one for mixing business and pleasure, especially when such a hefty bonus is on the line. 

From where Chris stands, he offers a nod to the young solicitor. “It’s good to see you again so soon, Mr. Hwang.”

Hyunjin blinks, startled by being spoken to. He half-rises from his chair before sinking back down. “Lord Bahng, it’s an honor to see you again. What a small world London appears to be.”

“Indeed.” Chris answers, finally taking the empty seat beside Lucy and, more importantly, directly across from you. “Who would have thought I would meet some of your friends today as well?”

Lucy wasted no time conversing. “I was just telling Arthur and Hyunjin how we ran into you today. Then I hear you are working with Hyunjin. I must say, you found the perfect man for the job.”

“He’s taking care of my affairs wonderfully.”

The words appear to be enough for Hyunjin to relax. Conversations go on as food is ordered. Chris tries to keep his attention on who is speaking to not draw focus on how long he stares at you. He is still in denial that you are here in front of him again. It wasn’t a dream or a vision. You are human, smiling and giggling with your friends. 

Though hearing about your engagement to Hyunjin troubles him. You are not meant for this boring, average human. One who is out of his depth with the business that is falling into his lap. You don’t belong in this cramped, dreadfully noisy city. You belong back home, with him, out tending your gardens. He knows you have always been happiest surrounded by nature. 

Chris is in a tough situation. He could uproot you from this life by force. It would be painful for you, but the isolation would drive you to him. On the other hand, he could compel you into submission. 

Neither of those options would sit well with him. Though he considers a third path. You fell in love with him once; surely he could do it again. The more he ponders the idea, the more he fancies it. Yes, this sounds the most rewarding for both of you. 

While Chris was deep in his thoughts, the surrounding conversation shifted to a darker subject. The humans he used for sustenance are being found. Each of the victims was drained of their blood, and the only wounds appear to be two marks on their necks. At first, the group suspects an animal, though that theory is shot down rather quickly with the eccentric history of London. 

Arthur shakes his head as he speaks. “The papers are calling it the work of a madman. A serial killer stalking the streets.”

“How tragic,” Chris says, folding his hands in his lap. His expression is unreadable. “London is a great city. However, even the greatest of cities have their darker corners.”

Lucy shivers at the comment. “It’s frightening to think someone could be out there choosing people at random.”

“Monsters often walk unnoticed,” Chris adds softly. “It is their nature.”

Hyunjin frowns at that, but before he could speak, Arthur clears his throat. He takes Lucy’s hand with a smile. “Well, enough grim topics. We were here to speak about good news.”

Lucy’s cheeks flushed pink as her excitement grew. She can’t stop the words spilling out of her. “We’re engaged!”

An excited noise leaves you, followed by you clapping your hands in delight. The announcement brings you genuine joy. Your smile is wide and just as sunny as Chris remembers. The light it brings even causes Hyunjin to gaze at you with adoration. 

A wave of bitterness taints the vampire’s mood. He doesn’t let it show when he speaks. “My sincerest congratulations. A union of hearts is a rare and precious thing.”

“We’re having a celebration in Whitby this weekend with Arthur’s family,” Lucy said. “You must come.”

If you are here for such an intimate announcement, then you are a close friend to Lucy. Plus, it appears she drags you along regardless of your wishes. If that’s true, you will be at Whitby to celebrate with her. Then the party would give him another opportunity to see you. 

Chris gave a low, thoughtful hum. “As fate would have it, I shall be in Whitby around that time. It would be discourteous to decline such hospitality.”

Arthur reaches for his glass of wine. “Thank you for appeasing my fiancée. She can be rather forward with her demands.”

Lucy’s happiness turns to a deep scowl before she smacks Arthur on the arm. “How dare you slander me like this?”

“Is it slander if it’s true?” You pipe up with a giggle.

From there, the conversation flows naturally. Chris speaks with practiced charm, weaving stories of Transylvanian landscapes, ancient customs, and curious superstitions. Lucy hung on every word like a curious child desperate for adventure. You and Hyunjin listened with polite fascination. Even Arthur, who appeared skeptical of anything foreign or unusual, seemed drawn in.

Though the longer the meal goes on, Chris realizes your struggle with the celebratory wine. Your face contorts in disgust with every small sip. The vampire fights to keep his chuckle to himself. Even in your new life, you don’t enjoy Pinot Noir. 

The next chance Chris gets, he stops the waiter to order a bottle for the table. Once it’s delivered, he makes you an offer. “Would you like to try this one?”

You freeze momentarily, surprised at Chris speaking directly to you. “Uh, this is fine. I’m just not accustomed to red wine.”

“Try this one then.” He insists, pushing a glass of the straw-colored wine towards you. “It will pair better with your dish.”

“What is it?”