just a mess

Seonghwa’s eyes immediately zoom in on the sliver of skin between your baggy sleep shirt and shorts. Oh, how he loves to run the pads of his fingers over the soft flesh when you cannot move an inch. He can’t help it, he’s addicted to you. His index finger slips under the waistband and he immediately gasps and pulls back. 

The sleep paralysis demon’s gaze descends to your ample thighs that are on display for him with your blankets practically kicked off. His hands squeeze and massage the skin there. There’s plenty for him to touch, pushing one leg a little upwards so he can feel the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

Seonghwa has to stop, he knows he does. He’s only ever admired your soft skin, he’s never gone beyond a touch in your innocent areas. 

But tonight, you let out the tiniest whimper. It’s barely there in the night air before it’s gone, but Seonghwa fucking heard it.

In an instant, Seonghwa’s straddling your body on the bed, hands pushing up your shirt, both palms sliding up your ribs. He stops just barely under your breasts, before he can cup you. He breathes in deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he attempts to get himself under control.

You’re his beautiful dark angel and temptation itself. Typically, he’d be fine terrifying the shit out of you, or anyone for that matter. But one of these nights he had caught the whiff of arousal from you and it had intrigued him. Had you gotten off in an attempt to fall into a deeper sleep and avoid him? 

Or… he allowed himself the thought that he was the object of your desire. Imagine if during the tiny moments of shadows clinging to him, his eyes white pinpricks in the otherwise dark room, you were rubbing one out to him?!

Seonghwa swallows loudly and his hands creep that half an inch until he’s carefully bouncing your tits in his palms. He licks his lips at the thought of your nipples. He’s yet to touch or see them and he’s almost drooling for the chance. 

“Did you really think a silly dreamcatcher was going to keep me away, hmmm?” Seonghwa hums mockingly. “I’m much more powerful than a trinket.”

With an almost petty push, Seonghwa shoves your shirt upwards. His thumb flicks your soft nipples, making them pert with the touch. It’s not long before Seonghwa’s extended his lanky body along yours, all thoughts of holding back gone. His tongue is wrapped around your nipple, sucking greedily. His fingers have finally shoved under your waistband and have been teasing and tempting your outer and inner lips with brief touches. 

Your breathing has quickened at the pleasure that Seonghwa offers. You can’t move as the paralysis demon takes advantage of the moment that he haunts you. You’re wet and Seonghwa smirks to himself. His beautiful dark angel is enjoying what he’s doling out. 

He pops off your nipple to watch your face as he finally, treacherously, circles your clit with his middle finger. Your eyes race behind your lids and your eyebrows faintly furrow at the tease. 

“Do you like that, Angel?” Seonghwa murmurs into the shell of your ear, eyes hooded in lust for you. 

The paralysis demon becomes addicted to the way your hips twitch upwards as he edges you with brief touches to your clit, every so often moving back to your hole to sweep up some more wetness and to go back to circling your clit. It’s slowly rising from its hood, and your breathing is getting faster. 

Your quiet noises escalate to something a little bit more louder, a little bit more fearful. Seonghwa feels the tendrils of your horror feeding him and his eyes snap upwards to your face. That moment that used to be when he fed from you came without his knowledge. Your eyes were open and fully capable of seeing him touching you in such a taboo manner.

Before Seonghwa can control his powers, he snaps out of existence, a pure instinctual reaction to his worry. For he had not intended to feed on your fear that evening, while touching you so intimately.

You sit up and gasp, bringing a hand to your chest, clearly to calm your beating heart. “What the hell?” You cry out, unsure exactly what that had been all about.

Your eyes find the broken dreamcatcher beside your pillow and you whimper for a different reason. Seonghwa can’t help but close his eyes and breathe in your delicious terror. You fed him quite well, even though it wasn’t the normal quiet build up of fear. 

“Seriously, what the fuck?” You shout louder, throwing the broken dreamcatcher. “Am I broken too?”

Seonghwa chuckles to himself, not like you could hear him regardless, but it’s the quiet kind of chuckle that only comes from a man that’s satisfied with a bewildered but turned on partner. 

“You’re perfect for me, not broken, angel,” He says in the mirror to your world that is the demon realm. 

You gather your blankets around yourself and with a huff, close your eyes tight and attempt to go back to sleep. But your heart is still beating wildly. Seonghwa can feel it pulsating. You definitely weren’t feeding him anymore, which meant…

Seonghwa leans forward, over the bed, and hears a soft gasp come from you. Were you…? 

A diabolical grin pulls at the sleep paralysis demon’s face. You were finishing what he started. He leaves your room with a newfound confidence. Tomorrow night would be a whole different story. 

When your sleep paralysis demon visits you next, excitement thrums through his veins. He’s always excited to see his beautiful dark angel but this time, knowing that you crave him like he craves you, brings newness to his visit. 

He smells the air and then laughs condescendingly. “Sage? Really, Angel?” He sees the circle of salt around your bed as well. Why were you playing hard to get when you got so wet at his inquiring touches? Seonghwa clucks his tongue at you. You deserve punishment for trying to stop him. 

This time, as he crawls on the bed, he pinches your nipple roughly through your shirt in passing and then begins to undo the belt to his pants. He’s imagined pushing his cock into your pliant mouth a million and one times. He feels himself get hard as the anticipation gets to him.

“There’s my girl,” He coos at you, smearing his cockhead against your lips. 

Capturing your chin between his thumb and index finger, he drops your jaw and pushes past your precum smothered lips. His roll into the back of his head as your warm and wet mouth encompasses his length. His eagerness to fit himself entirely into you causes you to choke, having shoved too deeply into your mouth. He lets out a desperate cry. The feeling of your throat desperately trying to swallow him has his heart speeding up as well. 

He can’t help himself, really, as his pelvis presses flush with your lips. The sweet, wet, choking noise you continue to make becomes music to his ears. Spit is starting to spill out of the corner of your lips and the blowjob is only getting messier. Seonghwa has to reign himself back in before he explodes in your mouth. That’s not how he wants his first time with you to go. 

“Such a temptation, Angel,” He murmurs, lovingly wiping the mixture of his precum and your spit from your chin. 

Your eyes are open now and Seonghwa grins wildly. “There you are. Just in time. I want you to watch while I take your body exactly where you want to go.”

You make weak noises of distress and Seonghwa is fed with your fear. He closes his eyes and drinks in your offerings. “I’ll repay the favor, don’t you worry.”

Seonghwa removes your sleep shorts and thumbs your clit through your underwear. He barely touches you but a wet spot appears through your grey panties. “Did you get wet from taking me so well in your mouth? Ugh, you’re so perfect,” Seonghwa whispers reverently. 

Your breath is coming out in short, panicked spurts. Seonghwa licks his lips lazily. “I know what you did after I touched you last night, Angel. You liked how I played with you while you slept and while you couldn't move.”

You let out another noise, this one of clear disagreement, which causes Seonghwa to chuckle. “Of course you did. Why else would I be drawn to you, to feed from your fear?”

Your sleep paralysis demon pushes aside your panties and ruts his cock along your wet folds. He doesn’t need to coat himself in anything, your mouth having done a damn good job, but he likes the way your breath hitches and your thighs clench with your restricted movement. 

“Your throat took me so well, I’m sure your pussy will as well,” Seonghwa hums in contentment. 

You both let out a moan in unison as he enters your sopping cunt. The stretch is something for you, and you clench down on his length. 

“Oh yes,” Seonghwa hisses, feeling your walls fight his girth. “I’ll fuck you for every inch.”

His hips rock forward, opening you up for him. Seonghwa leans forward, running a finger down your cheek. “So good for me. I’ll make sure you come this time, Angel. I promise.”

You let out a whine. Seonghwa can’t help but press his body against yours, leaving all his weight on you. He likes the way your soft curves feel against him. You let out more distressed noises. 

“You’re going to come so hard, angel. Breath restriction’s a bit of my area of expertise,” Seonghwa chuckles. 

Seonghwa continues to thrust into you and this time, the noises you make are tiny little cries of pleasure. “You gonna come? You gonna come for me?” He leans so that he can whisper the next part against the shell of your ear. “Come apart for me, Angel.”

You let out a long, drawn out moan as your climax hits you like an avalanche. It takes your breath away. You can’t close your eyes as it sweeps Seonghwa away as well. He lets out a loud cry, back arching as he unloads directly into you. Those terrifying pinpricks of light disappear but the darkness continues to consume you. Your vision starts to dim and you make a panicked screech.

“Oh fuck,” Seonghwa curses, and he lifts himself off of you. 

You suck in greedy breaths of air as the weight of your chest is lifted. In through your nose and out. You whine and whimper at the terrifying experience.

But all Seonghwa can focus on is the dark, viscous fluid that’s leaking from your pretty cunt. His lips part in awe. “My cum looks so good dripping from your pussy, Angel.”

Then suddenly, your sleep paralysis demon is gone. You can move now but the first thing you do is groan and put your head in your hands. Had you actually enjoyed that?! You let out a yelp, as sitting up has encouraged the foreign fluid in between your legs to gush out even more. 

“What the fuck?” is still the only thing you can manage. Because seriously, what the fuck was going on right now?

Your sleep paralysis demon had fucked you. You had come because of it. You shudder and you're not sure what's the cause: excitement or terror. Or maybe it's a little bit of both.

There you were.

Fourth row. Baby pink button-up, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, wrists decorated in a set of golden bangles, nail colour matching your top. Your lips were soft cherry, face sweeter than the dessert K would treat himself to later at lunch, eyes focused on your laptop, eyebrows furrowed, hair pulled back.

K couldn’t help but grin, biting his lip smugly as he stalked over to the empty seat on your right side. You didn’t notice him sitting down at first, completely immersed in proofreading your pre-semester extra credit English essay that was due at the start of class. You should have finished it the night before, but of course, you decided to fall asleep unprompted in the middle of doing so while sitting up on your bed against the headboard. You ended up waking to a growling stomach, drool-stained daywear, and a dead laptop battery.

K didn’t seem to care that you were in the middle of working, interrupting your focus so he could introduce himself.

“Hi,” he said brightly, extending his hand out to you, “I’m K.”

You slowly turned your head towards him, expression clear that you didn’t want to be bothered. Is he serious? You scoffed silently. Can’t he see I’m busy? But there he was, just smiling like an eager puppy while he waited for you to respond. You sighed, forcing a friendly grin. You really didn’t have time for introductions at the moment. You weren’t trying to be mean, honestly, you just had other things on your mind that were far more pressing than this classmate of yours. 

“Y/n.” You quickly shook his hand, then went back to your work. 

Throughout the lecture, K continued to steal glances at you and leaned over multiple times to ask you questions that he already knew the answers to because he just wanted to talk to you more. You didn’t know that, so you’d explain quietly, somewhat annoyed with his constant interruptions. He was cute, sure, but his lack of awareness kind of turned you off. The only thing you knew about him was that he was the captain of the university’s soccer team, having seen his photo in various school articles and flyers for games plastered all over campus; you just never remembered his name after seeing them, only recognizing his face.

“Wait up, y/n!” K called out to you when you were halfway down the hallway after class, “slow down!”

You sighed, hoping he would make whatever it was he wanted to say quick and to the point. You had other important things to do. “Yeah, K?” You replied, turning to face him, “What’s up?”

“You wanna grab lunch together?”

“I’m kind of busy right now. I need to study.”

He frowned. “Can’t you take a small break?”

“I’ll take one later.”

“Okay,” he huffed, “well why don’t I grab lunch and just join you while you study then, how’s that?”

You just stared at him blankly. He was like a pest you couldn’t get rid of. But, you kind of liked it. Just a little. “Maybe another time,” you turned him down gently. You spun around on your heels and continued walking down the hall away from him.

He didn’t call after you again, just watching your back as you disappeared in the corridor. “Damn,” he exhaled, chuckling to himself, “I guess you’ll be harder to catch than I anticipated.”

The next day at practice, K caught a glimpse of you passing by the field on your way back from the library, causing him to become distracted mid-pass from a teammate and get whacked in the face by the ball. He groaned, grabbing his chin in pain as he toppled over onto the grass.

“Fuck, dude,” Jo exclaimed, eyes wide as he jogged over to him, “you okay? Sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t looking.”

“I’m good,” he winced, sitting up as he gently caressed his face. “Not your fault.”

Fuma was at his side now with an ice pack, sighing as he knelt over to delicately press it against his cheek. “Where’s your head at, man?” He chuckled at his friend’s clumsiness.

“Y/n,” he answered, swapping Fuma’s hand on the ice pack with his own to hold it in place.

Fuma raised a brow as he stood back up to his feet. “Who?”

“Y/n,” K repeated, hissing as he bumped the exact spot on his face he was hit, “she’s in my English class.”

“Of course it’s a girl,” Fuma sighed, hands on his hips, “did last time teach you anything at all?”

“Hey!” K protested, pushing himself up off the ground with his free hand, standing up to be level with Fuma. “That’s not fair. We were gonna lose the finals, anyway. Eastwood is top in the league.”

Fuma patted his shoulders. “Keep telling yourself that, pal.”

K scoffed, nudging him off. “I thought best friends were supposed to be supportive and helpful.”

“On the field, I’m your manager, so no. I’m focused on the game.”

“You’re not even the coach!”

“I’m basically the assistant coach.”

K groaned. “You’re annoying.”

Fuma just smirked, swatting at him. “Yeah, yeah,” he started backing away, “now get back to practice. Clearly you’re fine if you can still run your mouth.”

K glared at him, then rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he muttered.

He stayed late on his own to brush up on a few skills and ended up running into you unintentionally at the vending machines afterwards. He stopped on his way back to the dorms to grab a gatorade. You were returning to the library to continue working on assignments.

“It’s nearly eleven, is the library even still open?” He asked, twisting the cap off of the bottle and taking a sip.

“Not for most people, no. I befriended the night security guard, so I get special access.”

“Right…” K trailed off, honestly both impressed and worried by your level of ambition when it came to studying. “I mean, aren’t you tired, though? You’ve been studying nonstop, it seems. The semester literally just started yesterday. I already saw you leave the library once earlier during practice. ”

You looked at him, the playful part of you deciding to make an appearance as you smirked. “Oh, so you were watching me?”

He just laughed. “Well, kind of hard not to when you were only, like, five feet away from me as you passed by the field.”

“You should be focusing on the ball, not me,” you teased.

“Okay, okay,” he smiled, “I admit I was distracted. You’re cute.”

“Oh,” is all you could manage to say, slightly taken aback by his compliment. It’s not that you didn’t think you were attractive, it just wasn’t something you heard often from guys. That’s partially your fault, though. You didn’t make much of an effort to talk to them in general.

K blinked at you. That’s it? He thought. Nothing? No reaction at all?

“I gotta go now,” you said suddenly, sending him a quick smile as you scurried away.

He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it once he realized you were already too far away from him. He didn’t feel like yelling, body exhausted, overworked, and very much in need of food and a shower. He dropped his shoulders, slumping his head back against the vending machine. The conversation was far shorter than he would have liked it to be, leaving him feeling unsatisfied from the exchange. He really wanted to get to know you more.

“C’mon, Fuma,” K groaned, buttoning up his top, “let me live a little, yeah?”

Fuma was sitting on the couch in their shared dorm room, munching on a bag of crisps, legs crossed and tv low. “Semifinals are next week,” he said matter-of-factly, “you shouldn’t be partying right now.”

“It’s just one night, dude,” he rolled his eyes, “don’t be such a loser.”

“Los–,” he scoffed, “I know how to have fun, too, okay? I’m not a loser.”

“Sure you’re not,” K smirked. Fuma glared at him. “You should come with me tonight if you wanna prove it.” He joked, though he was serious about inviting him along.

“Me?” Fuma was genuinely surprised by K’s offer. He’d never asked him to come out with him to a party before, let alone at all, knowing that he wasn’t the type to care much for it. Fuma always preferred to hang back at the dorms and play video games instead of going out. “A party? That ball to the head two months ago must have fucked with your brain.”

K laughed. “Just this once, c’mooon,” he pressed, “you don’t even have to do anything, just be my shadow or something and stick to the wall in a dark corner the whole time.” K slipped into his sneakers while he adjusted his jacket. “I’ll even let you play big boy manager for the night and keep an eye out for me, you know, make sure I don’t go too crazy like you seem to enjoy doing so much.”

Fuma groaned at his teasing. “I’m not that much of a helicopter friend, man, I just want you to stay in top shape during the season.”

“I know,” K smiled, “I’m just messing with you.” He started to open the door to leave. “But, seriously," he added, “you should come.”

Fuma sighed, slowly lifting himself up from the couch. “Fine, I’ll go,” he gave in, “but just know that I’m ditching your ass if it becomes too overwhelming for me, okay?”

K’s smile grew wider. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The frat was crowded, just like they knew it would be on a Friday night. It smelled pungently of sweat and spilt beer, and it was hot as fuck inside of the house. Typical. Fuma was already regretting his decision to come, but he was a little too indignant from K’s teasing jab earlier and determined to prove he wasn’t a loser to not stay. At least for a decent amount of time, if not the entire duration. He was stubborn like that.

He followed K into the kitchen and to the alcohol table, watching him pour himself a shot. “You want one?” He offered.

“I’m–,” he paused for a moment to think. He’d drank before, sure, but usually just with a close knit group of friends. This night was supposed to help him break out of his shell a little bit, right? “Yeah, sure, I’ll take one,” he replied.

K nodded, grabbing another Solo shot glass and filling it with vodka. He passed it to Fuma with a smile. “Cheers,” he said, tapping the rims together. Fuma coughed after swallowing the shot from the burning sensation in his throat, having been so used to mixed drinks from all of his previous experiences. K snorted, patting his back congratulatory. “Look at you,” he cooed, “you’ve crossed the L off with that, now you’re just an oser.” 

Fuma tsked. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“Yeah,” K smirked, “but you love me.”

“Unfortunetely.” 

That’s when you entered the kitchen, K’s smile growing even wider when he saw you. After your initial meeting in your shared class at the beginning of the semester, the two of you slowly became friends. You’d never hung out, though, not yet, just talking during lectures and DMing each other on Instagram. K was far too busy with practice, and you were far too preoccupied with studying in your free time.

Except for tonight, apparently. 

“Woah,” K whistled as you approached the alcohol table, now standing beside him and Fuma, “the library is in the other direction, sweetheart.” He teased, surprised to see you there.

Fuma raised his brow, watching the entire exchange. He had never actually met you yet, though K would have loved to introduce you two to each other if your schedules allowed for it. He had only seen you in pictures he shared with him, or from a distance around campus. As aware as he was about K’s interest in you, he didn’t actually know anything about the dynamic between you two. This was interesting to witness, to say the least.

“Very funny,” you rolled your eyes. “I do have fun, dumbass.”

K laughed, draping his arm over your shoulder as you downed your shot. You shivered, not only from the alcohol. “I think you and my friend, Fuma, here, would get along just swell.”

“And why is that?” You retorted.

“Because this is also the first time ever in his life having fun.”

“Do you want to get hit?” Fuma interrupted with a hiss, half joking.

“Sorry, sorry,” K threw his hands up in surrender as he stepped back. His smirk stayed plastered on his face.

Fuma faked a swing at K before smiling at you, leaning over a bit closer to your ear so you could hear him better. “Don’t mind him,” he said, “he’s always this stupid.”

You snorted. K glared, face dropping, having not heard what Fuma whispered to you, but he assumed it was probably insulting. “Trust me,” you said, “I know.”

You were way cuter in person than Fuma expected. He swallowed, hard, eyes trailing over you from head to toe. This was going to be a problem. Maybe. His priority was making sure K didn’t fuck up, not only tonight at the party but in general, so he tried to ignore his obvious attraction towards you.

“Another one?” K asked after a few moments, holding up the bottle of vodka in one hand and his empty shot glass in another.

You and Fuma shrugged in agreement, the three of you shooting it down quickly before moving further into the crowd towards the DJ booth. 

It didn’t take long for you to become conscious of how sandwiched you were between K and Fuma, the living room being packed like sardines. You didn’t mind it in and of itself, being close to them, you’d just prefer it to be in a better setting versus the suffocation of a clearly overstuffed space. 

“Do you wanna step outside for a bit?” K offered, raising his voice over the loud music, eyes concerned as he looked at you. 

You nodded. “Yeah, I have a joint we can pass around if you want.”

Fuma let out a sigh of relief as the chill, November air brushed against his face when the three of you finally stepped outside. There were a few others around, as well, but they were scattered throughout the yard, not really near the three of you. You all decided to sit in the empty gazebo.

“Here,” you passed the lit joint over to K.

He moved his hand to grab it from between your fingers, but Fuma took it instead. K just looked at him.

“Take it easy,” he said, “you had two shots already. You shouldn’t mix substances.”

“I’ll be fine, Fuma.” He rolled his eyes. Fuma gave him a look of warning, K crossing his arms with a tsk in response. You smiled, amused by their interaction. It was like watching a father and his son. “Fine, I won’t smoke,” he said in a mocking tone, “you sound like my dad.”

Fuma laughed, then grinned, smug and proud that he won the battle, before passing the joint back to you. You leaned back in the seat, spine sliding down against it a bit as you took another hit. K’s heart was hammering in his chest while observing you. You just looked so fucking hot like that, carefree and relaxed. Badass too, in the low-cut mini dress you were wearing. He wanted to touch you so fucking bad.

“Dude,” Fuma nudged his side, leaning over, “you’re staring really hard.” He said low and quiet. 

“No shit,” K whispered back, “she looks incredible in that outfit.”

Fuma glanced over at you, taking a moment to fully take you in. You really did look extremely sexy tonight, there was no use in denying it. He felt his dick twitch in his jeans, immediately followed by some guilt. It’s not like he wasn’t allowed to be attracted to you, too, even if you were with K– he wasn’t blind. But still, he knew how his best friend felt about you and didn’t want to overstep.

Most of the night went by smoothly, the three of you alternating between chatting outside and dancing to a few songs in the house. Things did start to get a bit steamy as the night went on once you had a few more drinks in your system, but nothing crazy. Fuma kept his eye on you and K, sober at this point from not having more than two shots throughout the entire night, just to make sure nothing concerning happened. He didn’t press K too hard when he wanted to drink more, but he did cut him off after five. 

Fuma wanted to say something as he watched the two of you grind against each other, giggling and yapping about random nonsense. Things were fine, you two were having fun and you were still in the safety zone. But he was feeling jealous.

And unfortunately, the overstimulation of the crowd pushed him to act out on it a bit.

“I think that’s enough,” He cleared his throat, placing his palm gently onto K’s chest to sever him from you, inserting himself.

You looked at Fuma, confused. “Hey,” you whined, “what was that for?”

“I just think you two are too drunk to be… all up on each other like that.”

“We were fine,” you crossed your arms.

“Yeah, man,” K added, “I wasn’t doing anything to her.” Fuma didn’t say anything. Then, K fell into a smirk. “If you wanted to join, you just had to ask.” He poked.

Fuma’s eyes went wide, lips parting slightly. “That’s not–” he swallowed hard, then sighed, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

You frowned. “So soon?”

He nodded. “It’s late, and we have a double practice session in the morning.”

“You say that as if you’re one of the players on the team,” K teased. Suddenly, Fuma threw his arm around his neck, playfully pulling him into a headlock. “What the–”

“I still have to be there,” he pursed his lips, “and you’re coming home now, too, asshole.”

“Oh, c’mon!” K whined, trying to free himself. Fuma didn’t budge. He had already pulled them towards the door to leave, you trailing closely behind to see them off. “Why do I have to go?”

“Because coach is gonna beat your ass if you skip tomorrow,” Fuma replied, “he’s already going to be pissed you’re hungover.”

K sighed in defeat, giving up on trying to convince him. He knew he was right. “Ugh, fine.”

Fuma let him go, turning his head back to smile at you standing in the doorway. “Later, y/n,” he waved, “it was nice to finally meet you.”

You returned the gesture. “Likewise. Let me know when you both get home safe, please!”

“I will,” K winked. 

You blushed, but it was too dark for him to notice.

Fuma’s arms were crossed, feet tapping hastily as he watched K from the side. Everyone else was already on the field warming up, while he was too busy staring at that damn phone screen of his. Fuma didn’t even need to ask what he was doing, because he already knew he was talking to you.

“Give it,” Fuma sighed, his hand now floating in front of his face as he sat on the bench.

K slowly peered up at him, looking a bit confused. “What?”

“Everyone else has already started practicing,” Fuma added, head tilting towards your teammates occupying the field, “get your ass up and join them.”

“Dude,” K was serious now, “I’m just finishing a text, relax.”

“No, I will not relax, K!” Fuma was starting to get pissed off now by his seemingly growing disinterest in the sport he so claimed to love, “you’ve been distracted since the start of the season, even coach has called you out for it but you still don’t seem to give a fuck.”

K was standing up now, face so close that his nose nearly pressed against Fuma’s. He was angry. “Can you stop already? You’re always trying to control me! Leave me alone, oh my god!”

“I’m trying to keep you focused!”

“Well, you’re doing a shit job,” K seethed, “you’re just pissing me off instead.”

Fuma sighed, groaning as K stomped off to join his teammates, throwing his phone dramatically on top of his duffel bag on the way. 

This wasn’t the last time the two of them blew up at each other, in fact, it just seemed to keep escalating from that point forward.

“She said no,” K spat, grabbing the shoulder of the student who was trapping you between him and the wall in the hallway. 

He was on his way to his next class and just so happened to pass by you. He could see how uncomfortable you were with this person standing so close to you. K watched the interaction, calmly at first, until the guy started to press even harder about taking you out on a date, some of the things falling from his mouth causing K’s blood to boil. He clearly could not read a room and take no for an answer. 

K yanked him away from you harshly, which only caused the guy to throw his fist towards K’s face. He stumbled back, hissing as he was hit right in the eye. K was seeing red at this point, leaping onto the guy and knocking him to the floor. A number of students had circled around the two of them now, while you stayed with your back firmly pressed against the wall, hand over your mouth in shock. You didn’t know what to do. You felt frozen in place.

“K, stop!” Fuma’s voice echoed through the hall. He quickly ran into the center of the crowd, pushing through bodies to reach him. He grabbed his shoulders and picked him up off of the guy, who now sported a broken nose. “Let’s go,” Fuma exhaled, dragging him away from the fight and into the bathroom for a breather.

K was livid. “You should have let me finish, he was trying to coerce y/n. Fucking bastard.”

Fuma tried to calm him down, but he was too angry himself. “You would have been expelled if I hadn’t gotten there in time.”

“I don’t care!” K yelled, “he was bothering her! She looked extremely uncomfortable!”

“You should have handled it without punching the guy!”

“He came after me first!”

It felt useless; their words were falling onto deaf ears. They did start to calm down eventually, K pulling out his phone to text you.

K: are you okay? did he try anything again?

You: no, some teacher showed up and dragged him off. im okay 😊

K: phew…

You: thank you for stepping in ❤️

His heart swelled in his chest. 

K: any time, sweetheart 😙

Fuma sighed, dropping his back against the wall. “Is it worth it?” He questioned, daring to ask what had been weighing on his mind since he first learned about you. “You know, going through all of this trouble for her?”

“Trouble?” K raised his brow, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “There is no trouble.”

“You’re performing underwhelmingly in practice, your grades are slipping, and you nearly beat that dude to a pulp.” Fuma stated, pulling out the facts. “And you’re saying there’s no trouble?”

K’s face dropped. Everything Fuma said was right, but it wasn’t because of you. He didn’t believe it was. He simply just didn’t have the best skill when it came to balancing the various parts of his life. “I really like her, Fuma.”

“I know,” Fuma smiled, though there was a tinge of sadness, “I just don’t want to see you losing everything you’ve worked so hard for over a girl. You’re better than that.”

He just nodded, seeming to actually take his words to heart. “I won’t.”

Fuma patted his back. He wasn’t completely convinced, but he didn’t want to discredit his best friend’s efforts. He cared a lot and didn’t want to see him fail. The least he could do is keep being honest and allow him to grow from it.

Things were much calmer for the next few days after the fight. You and K still talked as usual, but a little less frequently because it was the week of soccer semifinals. He was pretty much training nonstop outside of classes.

“Aren’t your matches tomorrow?” You asked him through the phone. He had called you one night to chat a bit after finishing his assignments. 

“Yeah, but I want to see you.” You could hear him pout over the speaker and you giggled. “Besides, Fuma isn’t here. He’s at a late study session right now.”

You raised a brow at that, fighting back a smile and failing miserably. Your stomach flipped, heat igniting between your thighs. “Alone, hm?” You retorted flirtatiously. 

K inhaled sharply, cock twitching in his jeans at the tone of your voice. “Fuck,” he breathed, “you’re gonna kill me.”

You laughed, standing up from your bed to slip on your coat. “I’m on my way.” 

This was the first time you and K were alone beyond an empty hallway between classes here and there. You two had snuck in some short make-out sessions a few times, but never anything further than that. Fuck, you wanted to, really fucking badly, so this invitation only made you excited with anticipation. 

No one else knew about it, the progression of your relationship. Fuma, particularly, was still under the impression that K was pining after you; he never told him that he’d finally caught you. You understood why, because you both knew that Fuma would most likely start lecturing him again if he did. Fuma was hot, but his father-like tendencies needed to be put to better use elsewhere– like maybe choking you out while you called him daddy over and over again. Your pussy throbbed at the thought. 

K didn’t give off the impression he’d care if you had the hots for his best friend, but still, you kept those thoughts to yourself. For the most part, anyway.

You arrived at K’s dorm about ten minutes later, him greeting you with a wide smile as he rested against the doorframe. “Hey,” he leaned in and kissed your cheek, “welcome to my humble abode.” It was cleaner than you expected, and actually well-organized. As if he could read your mind, he spoke again. “Fuma is kind of a neat-freak, so he keeps things well kept.”

“So you’re saying it would be like an explosion went off in here if he wasn’t your roommate?” You joked.

He shrugged, “Will not confirm or deny,” sticking out his tongue playfully. Once you had removed your jacket and shoes, he picked you up and carried you over with him to the couch, placing you on top of his lap to straddle him as he sat down. His lips brushed your neck, and you sighed. “Finally,” he murmured, “I can taste you more.”

“K,” you whined teasingly, “I literally just got here.”

He smirked, eyes flickering from your face down to your skirt, your lace panties peeking out from underneath with a very noticeable wet stain. “I think your pussy says otherwise.” You gasped, heat rising to your cheeks as your eyes darted away from him. He wasn’t wrong, but you were still a bit embarrassed being caught red-handed so quickly. “C’mere, baby,” he cooed, slipping his hands underneath your skirt to hold your hips, pushing the hem up around your waist in the process. His teeth grazed your collarbone as he leaned forward again, fingertips padding into your skin. “God, I’ve needed you like this for so fucking long.”

“Me too,” you breathed, settling into the sweet touch of his lips. Your hands found their way behind his neck, caressing him as you ground your hips down into his clothed core. He grunted, grip on your hips growing tighter as he thrusted up into you. “Shit, K,” you moaned, “I need you inside of me.”

He chuckled, fingers slipping just above the lace of your panties. Hovering intentionally. You inhaled as he grazed along you through the fabric, faintly. “Mmmm, someone’s impatient.” He kissed you, hard, tongue slipping into your mouth as his fingers trailed underneath your underwear. You whimpered, squirming in his lap as he slowly began to slide them through your soaked folds. “Don’t worry, baby,” he purred, “you’ll get to have me soon. Need to prep you first.”

You removed your shirt and tossed it to the side while K worked on your clit, creating circles both fast and slow as your release started to build up. He didn’t hesitate to attach his lips to your tits, you allowing easy access for him by choosing not to wear a bra. His tongue swirled around your sensitive nipples, switching back and forth between them as he entered two fingers into your hole, palm now pressing against your clit. 

“Ah– mph– that feels so good,” you exhaled, hands moving from his neck to grip his shoulders. You began grinding into his hand, chasing your orgasm. 

K lifted his head away from your chest to watch you, deeply focused on the way your body reacted to his touch. “You’re so pretty, baby,” he sang, lips parting as his cock desperately begged to be released from his pants, “falling apart on my fingers like this.” He picked up his speed, digits curling up into your sweet spot while his hand pressed against your bundle of nerves as hard as it could possibly manage.

“Mmm– gonna come–” you choked, throwing your head back, nails digging into his shoulders, grinding into his hand with short thrusts as you hit your peak, squirting all over his fingers. “Holy fuck,” you cried, riding out your high with K as he continued to move his middle and pointer in and out of you slowly.

He smirked at you, removing his fingers from your cunt and shoving them into your mouth so you could taste yourself. You moaned, eyes rolling, as you lapped all of your cum up, tongue swirling around his digits messily. “Good girl,” he whispered, low and raspy, “suck them just like that.”

“Hey, K,” Fuma’s voice suddenly entered the room, door slamming shut behind him, causing you and K to freeze in place, “have you seen my–” 

Now the three of you were staring at each other, your chest completely exposed, K’s fingers in your mouth, Fuma’s face going redder than a tomato. He was at a loss for words, feeling both extremely turned on and annoyed, because why the fuck were you in their dorm room when tomorrow was a very important day for K? And since when did the two of you move from friends to fucking? K cleared his throat and you slowly released his fingers, both of you still looking at Fuma. He tried to look away, but it was insanely difficult when your pretty tits were just out like that, cheeks flushed and face already looking ruined by whatever you and K were doing before he came in. 

“I thought you were studying?” K finally asked, not knowing what else to say.

“I–I was– am,” Fuma stuttered, “I just realized I forgot my calculus textbook.” He nervously shuffled over to his desk, rummaging through his things to find it. He had picked it up multiple times already, his mind far too gone from what he had just walked in on to realize. 

Then, you had a wicked idea, breaking out into a smirk as you leaned over closer to K to whisper. “Why don’t we invite him?” You chuckled, “he seems tense.”

K pulled back to look at you, stunned. But he was into it. So fucking into it. He let out a shaky breath, biting his lip as the corners of his mouth tugged up into a smug grin. “You’re a freak,” he groaned, nearly inaudible, “and I fucking love it.”

You licked your lips, proud of the title. You turned your head to look at Fuma, lowering your eyes darkly. “Fuma,” you addressed him, low and sweet. He froze. “You’ve been studying so hard today,” you emphasized on purpose. By now you had lifted yourself up off of K and approached him. He gulped, mind going dumb as you were standing in front of him, tits displayed and just begging for him to touch them. You placed a hand on his shoulder, tracing your fingers from his bicep down to his palms, “you should let us help you relax.”

His breath hitched in his throat, eyes flicking past your head to K, who was splayed out on the couch, just watching the two of you with a shit-eating grin. That was enough for Fuma to know that everything was mutually agreed upon. He looked back at you, gaze trailing from your flushed cheeks, down to your lips, and finally your chest. He knew it was probably a bad idea. He was supposed to be keeping K in check. He wasn’t supposed to be the one getting distracted by you. 

But, fuck, you looked so pretty and needy. He was already a goner. 

“Fuck,” he exhaled, eyelids dropping in hunger. He grabbed your hips and pulled you flush against his chest. You yelped at the sudden action, arms flying up to his chest to catch yourself from the collision. He leaned over and hovered your lips, hot breath grazing them as you parted them involuntarily, as if you were inviting him inside. He groaned, “You two drive me insane,” then kissed you, hands reaching up to cup the back of your head as his tongue slid past your teeth. He pushed you towards his bed, the back of your thighs hitting the mattress and causing you to fall onto your ass as he continued to kiss you, hot and wet. 

K chuckled, lifting himself up off of the couch to join the two of you. “Save some for me, won’t you?” He joked, watching you and Fuma in amusement as he removed his shirt and tossed it onto his own bed across the room. His cock twitched every time you whimpered, every time your tongue disappeared and reappeared in Fuma’s mouth, every time Fuma’s hands slid across your tits, every time his fingertips inched closer to your aching cunt. 

“Been dreaming about what you’d feel like,” Fuma muttered against your lips, your back now pressed against the mattress as he hovered over you, “what you’d taste like.” You inhaled sharply as he dropped down to your hips, pulling your skirt and panties down to your ankles and completely off of your body. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

K had knelt onto the bed now, unbuttoning his jeans as he released his cock, hard and dripping with precum. He tapped your lips with his tip. “Gonna be a good girl and take me while Fuma eats your pussy, yeah?” You nodded profusely, opening your mouth for him to slide in. You moaned against his shaft as he slowly hit the back of your throat. You choked, but were determined to take all of him in. “Fuck,” he swore, beginning to gently thrust into your mouth, “all stretched out for me.”

Fuma plunged his tongue into your hole, tasting all of your arousal and the leftover residue from your orgasm earlier. He slid two fingers in simultaneously, your body jerking from the new sensation of feeling so full.

You moaned loudly, the vibrations on K’s cock causing him to growl and grip your hair. “Look at me,” he commanded, teeth gritting as he began to pick up speed, “watch me while I come down your pretty little throat.” You tried, really tried, but your eyes were threatening to flutter shut from the overwhelming pleasure and stimulation. K wasn’t having it, reaching down to slap your exposed clit to get your eyes to stay open. “You don’t listen,” he tsked, thrusting harder. He was moving sloppier now, nearing the edge, fingers curling tighter into your strands. Your eyes were so glossy, so needy, so fucked out, that he couldn’t hold out any longer. “Shit,” he choked out a broken moan, “I’m coming–”

You rutted your hips up into Fuma faster, even more turned on by the way K was ruining your mouth, as you swallowed all of his cum. Your eyes rolled back, mouth forcing his cock out of it as you convulsed, juices spilling all over Fuma’s fingers and tongue. He groaned into your cunt, licking and sucking all of you up. K watched, shaky breaths falling from his lips as he took in the filthy sight of you coming from his best friend’s mouth and fingers.

Fuma sat up, licking his lips clean of you before leaving a trail of kisses from your thighs up to your stomach. “You did so well for me, baby,” he whispered, before completely leaning up from your body.

He shifted over to kneel by your side, allowing K to move to where he was previously positioned. You were still shaking, body destroyed, yet still begging for more from their perfect touch. 

“Do you want my cock, sweetheart?” K asked, ridding himself completely of his jeans before positioning himself at your sex. His tip brushed against your dripping folds and you inhaled sharply, body jolting from the sensation. “Want me to ruin your perfect little cunt some more?”

“P–Please,” you begged, voice barely audible, “need your cock, K– need it so bad.”

Hearing your voice like that, so broken and desperate, had him sliding into you before you could say anything else. An elongated moan erupted from the back of your throat as he bottomed you out, his head falling back as your warm, soaked walls enveloped all of him. “Fuck, y/n,” he hissed, “you’re sucking me in.” He started moving, slowly at first, until you began to fuck yourself on his cock, sending him into overdrive. “Oh my god,” he growled, throwing a leg over his shoulder to hit you deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he dug his fingertips into your thighs as he held you steady, “swallow my fucking cock.”

Your eyes moved to Fuma sitting beside you, now fully bare, cock hard and angry, watching him as he began stroking himself to the sight of K fucking you relentlessly. He bit his lip, eyes glassy, mouth agape, as he pumped his hands fast, sweet whimpers spilling from his lips as he chased his orgasm.

“Fuck,” you swore, drool coating your chin and trickling down your cheeks onto your neck, “I want– ngh– want you to makeout with– fuck– each other.” Your breaths were growing heavier now, fingers toying with your clit as you continued to slide along K.

He and Fuma looked at each other, a bit hesitant at first, but eventually shrugged and gave into your desire. You whimpered once their lips met, which caused you to fuck yourself faster on K’s cock, him meeting you halfway with his ardent thrusts. He choked as you clenched around him, his tongue slipping deep into Fuma’s mouth as he moved one hand to cup the back of his head while the other stayed perched steadily on your thigh. To their surprise, they were actually really enjoying making out with each other. Fuma groaned, gripping K’s chin harshly as the kiss became more heated and passionate. With K leaving a bite to his bottom lip, they parted, a string of spit still connecting their mouths to each other.

K’s hips began to stutter as he turned back to face you, increasing his grip on you as he was nearly about to burst. “Come with me, baby,” he grunted, pistoning into you sloppily as he eyes began to roll back, “oh, fuck–”

With one final thrust, his white ropes coated the inside of your cunt, your body shaking a few moments later as you released, juices mixing together and spilling out of you and down the sides of his cock. He choked out a guttural groan as he pulled out of you gently, taking his fingers to push his cum back inside of your hole. Fuma moaned at the sight. 

“M-More,” you choked, exhausted, but desperate to also feel Fuma inside of you, “want Fuma to fuck me, too.”

K smirked, moving himself over to allow Fuma to take his place. “Go ahead,” he cooed. He took a seat on the couch, crossing his legs and putting his arms behind his head in amusement. “I’ll watch from here.”

Fuma chuckled, stroking himself a few times to ready himself for you again. He teased your entrance before his lids dropped, low and dark. “I won’t go easy on you, pretty.” He slid into you with one, hard thrust, a loud cry escaping your tongue as your arms flew up to wrap around the back of his neck. “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunted, moving faster, “K not big enough to stretch you out?”

“Hey!” K protested from the couch, rolling his eyes with a smile. He’d let Fuma have his fun at his expense this time, since it was usually the other way around.

Fuma’s head dropped low, dragging his tongue along your abdomen as he pounded into you. “Gonna destroy this pussy,” he grunted before pausing to flip you over onto all fours, ass up in the air. He grabbed your throat, pulling your back up to rest against his chest, arched so perfect and pretty for him. “You gonna be a good girl for daddy, hm?” He purred, fingers tightening around your throat.

You gasped, “Y–Yes–” a cry spilling out of your mouth as he pistoned into you without remorse, skin slapping loudly against each other, “–gonna be good for– mph– daddy!” Your fantasy was coming to life without you even needing to request it, as if he somehow already knew what you wanted.

“That’s it,” he gritted his teeth, his free hand cupping over your sex and slapping it shallowly a few times, “take my fucking cock.”

“Feels so good, Fuma,” you choked, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes from how amazing it felt, so full and like he belonged there.

“Shove your fingers into her mouth,” K coached from the side, crossing his arms with a smirk, “she likes that.”

Fuma slipped his middle and pointer from your neck and pried open your lips, pushing them inside, leaving the rest of his fingers and palm still perched there tightly. You cried, body trembling, coil in your stomach nearly about to snap as he pinched your clit. 

“Gonna let me fill you up, too?” Fuma growled, thrusting into you so fast even he didn’t realize he was capable of that much, “want me to stuff you full?”

K had stood up now, rejoining the two of you by the bed. He leaned over Fuma’s ear, smug and filthily, “Fill her up nice and good for me, Fuma.”

Fuma broke, releasing his hot seed into your battered cunt, so sensitive and overstimulated from their assault of your hole. He kept thrusting into you, hard, body shaking, so you could come again too. “One more for me, you can do that, right baby?” Fuma asked shakily, thrusting sloppily and nearly coming to a still.

You nodded, gripping his hand around your neck for leverage and he circled your clit one final time, the coil in your stomach snapping, body falling limp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You swore, whining pathetically as you came all over Fuma’s cock. 

He groaned at the sight of your cream coating his shaft, sighing elated as he gently allowed you to fall onto the bed before pulling out of you carefully. “Fuck, y/n,” he groaned, “you’re fucking incredible.”

“Isn’t she?” K grinned wickedly, patting Fuma’s back proudly, “maybe she wouldn’t mind if we shared her, yeah?” He crawled onto the bed beside you, brushing your sweaty strands away from your face as he softly wrapped his arms around you and brought you against his chest. “How does that sound, baby?” He cooed, pressing a delicate kiss to your cheek, “you wanna keep Fuma’s cock?”

You nodded, completely fucked out, eyes glazed over, melting your body into K’s embrace. “P-Please,” you begged in a whisper, “want you both.”

You were mad, set on talking with him and setting some boundaries, but as soon as you raised your hand to knock, the door disappeared and you were greeted by a handsome man. He took the sight of you in — in your pajama shirt and sweatpants — and greeted you, asking if you were one of Choi's friends. You quickly shook your head and he only questioned you further before cursing at himself that he needs to run to be on time. You stood there in shock, staring at the wide opened door of your neighbor's apartment before closing it for him, and with a heavy sigh, leaving back to your own place.

That was the first and last time you got close to confronting him. You never gathered the courage again, scared that something similar would happen and you'd just be more embarrassed, regretting looking like a lost cause in front of another one of his friends.

With your entire heart, you wished for a different neighbor every night. You weren't asking for much. Someone friendly, kind, and with a sense of responsibility would be just fine. You don't know, like, maybe someone like Seungcheol would be great.

You can't say you'd know Seungcheol much more than your neighbor, but what you do know is that he has a smile on his face and kind words leave his mouth whenever the two of you greet each other. You've first met Cheol when you bumped into him at the store and he bought you a coffee as an apology for spilling his drink on your shirt. It took you less than a second to fall for him, his looks catching you immediately. From the thickness of his brows, through the look in his eyes when he asked you if you were okay, to the smile on his face when you told him you were fine. You're not sure what it was about him, but he made you melt instantly.

And then, around a month or so ago, you started seeing him playing football and basketball with his friends at the playground near your apartment building, often passing by him on your way from your classes and exchanging warm greetings.

But it wasn't just his looks you felt drawn to. Every time you met him, you found another reason to like him. He was always respectful to you, he cheered his friends on no matter if they were on his team or the opposite one, he paid attention every time his friends were telling him something, and he never once made you feel uncomfortable — on the contrary, always asking you if you want to join them whenever he sees you. You like watching him play, almost as much as you like watching him.

"Are you ever going to tell him to quiet it down?" Seungkwan asks, looking up at you from your bed. You meet his eyes hesitantly, not saying anything.

"Should I?" Chan offers.

"No!" You stop him immediately, only causing the three guys in your room to look at you, their eyebrows raised in question. "It's fine, whatever. I've got used to the music and it's not even that loud," you wave them off.

"If you can hear it in your room then his music is loud," Hansol comments and you shoot him a look. Shrugging innocently, he looks down at his phone again.

"See? If even Vernon — who's always listening to music — says that it's too much, then it's too much. You should talk to him about it and ask him to turn it down." You hate when Seungkwan's right. You hate it almost as much as when all three of your friends are right.

You know you should have done something about it, you should have told him a long time ago. But you were never one to get into conflicts or arguments, so just ignoring it seemed like a better option. You've learned to study with your headphones on and often just use the library instead if you need to focus. So far, it's been working. There is no real reason for you to confront him if you can work it around.

Even though, your dislike in your neighbor grows every time you have to accommodate to him.

"I will, I will," you brush him off, averting your eyes.

"This week," Chan decides, way too serious for the situation. If you've come to peace with it, why can't they as well?

"Today," Seungkwan corrects. "You can't keep going like this! That dude is a mess, and I know you see it too. You can't keep dancing around him. If he doesn't realize that there are other people in this apartment building who don't care about which song he brushes his teeth to, someone needs to tell him. You need to tell him."

"Why does it have to be me, though," you whine into your palms quietly. You can feel Seungkwan's eyes on you but you refuse to look up, already thinking about how wrongly that interaction will go. You can't tell your neighbor to quiet down. What if he's some secret mafia boss double your size and he'll kill you for talking back to him? What if he's some sort of agent and this is all just a test, one you'll fail the moment you come talk to him and as your punishment they'll kill you in front of all your close friends and family? What if he's actually a kidnapper and he'll kill you if you reveal his hiding? God. Why do you always have to die in the scenario?

"Whatever you are thinking about right now, it's not going to go that bad," Vernon speaks up, seeing right through you. "The worst that can happen is that he is an asshole, he tells you to fuck off, and you'll go complain to the landlord instead."

"Not if he kills me before," you mumble and they all shoot you a look immediately. "What?! That could happen!" You argue. "Like what if he's a serial killer, or he could be a kidnapper, or this is all just a test to—"

Seungkwan yelling your name makes you snap out of it. You close your mouth in defeat, your lips forming a straight line. "Nothing is going to happen," he assures you. "Well, one thing will. You will finally live in peace again." You roll your eyes at him at which he shakes his head. "Dumbass."

You can't think of a perfect come back at the moment — still stuck on the different situations that could happen when you confront him to think about anything else — so you let it be, ignoring his comment.

There is a much bigger problem at hand than your friend calling you stupid. You need to figure out how you'll approach your new neighbor while making sure you stay alive.

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

All three of your friends give you one last look as you walk them out, making you roll your eyes. You have to continuously promise them you will talk to him tonight until they finally leave, getting into Seungkwan's car.

As soon as you reach your floor number, you hesitate, your eyes flickering between your door and his. He has his playlist on again, the same lyrics you know by heart at this point echoing loudly in your ears. You debate just leaving him a note on the door or slipping it inside through the small space on the bottom, but when you remember the guys' words, you gather all your courage and walk up to his apartment.

Knocking on the door three times, you awkwardly take a step back, looking down at your feet. You're sure it takes him no longer than a few seconds, but the time between your last knock and the door opening feels like hours in your head.

You take your time watching him, slowly lifting your head up to meet his eyes. He has gray sweats on and you can only guess how big his thighs are, the abs you just know he has hiding under a sleeveless black tank top, his biceps on full display. Fuck. You are so incredibly fucked. Because as you meet his eyes, the warm chocolate one you tend to look for every time you pass by the playground on your way home are gazing into yours, surprise written all over his face. You are just as shocked as he is, your eyes wide as you stare at Seungcheol, the same man you've been thinking about ever since you first bumped into him.

Your name slips past his lips uncertainly, the hesitance in his voice from worries about remembering your name wrong clear as he questions what you are doing here. You nod, your mouth opening and then closing again, everything you wanted to say vanishing into thin air. You don't even remember why you came here in the first place. "What are you doing here?"

"I, uhm," you quickly shake your head, snapping out of your thoughts. "Seungcheol," you breathe out, still in shock. A lazy smile spreads on his lips as he nods, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest as he waits for you to continue — no doubt a move to drive you crazy. Looks like you'll be dying today after all. With the way his muscles pop out and your eyes fall to his arms, there is no way you'll be leaving alive. You mentally curse him out for being so handsome.

"I live right there," you say, forcing your eyes away from him and awkwardly pointing at the apartment next to his. "And I, well, you've been playing your music really loud ever since you moved in," you blurt out quickly, the words mixing together into one incomprehensible one.

"I've been what?" He blinks confusedly, his brows furrowed together. And despite the fact his eyes are as soft as they could be, in no rush to get the words out of you, you feel so little standing in front of him. This is exactly why you were never supposed to confront him. How can you when he looks at you like that? Your only solid option is to bury yourself alive and pray he forgets about this interaction.

"Playing the music," you repeat nervously, looking everywhere but at him. It seems to catch his attention, suddenly straightening up when he understands what you mean.

"Is it loud?" You nod, regretting ever listening to your friends. How can you possibly hope for ever getting him to like you now after this meeting? You probably just lost all your possibilities, and it's all Seungkwan's fault. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize, really. I'll turn it down," he promises and you blink at him confusedly, finally meeting his eyes again. He doesn't look mad at all. If anything, you'd say he's genuinely sorry, his eyes nothing but sincere. "That was stupid of me. I never thought you could hear it in your apartment as well."

"No, no," you quickly shake your head. "You aren't stupid or anything!! I probably wouldn't realize either!" You assure him, waving your hands in the air. It makes him smile again. You are so incredibly gone for. Had it been anyone else, you would have stayed quiet, mentally agreeing with their comment and trying to get this conversation over with as soon as possible, but as you stand in front of Seungcheol, you can't help but make yourself into the foolish one. It makes sense he didn't realize. Of course it does. "Just sometimes when I'm studying it's a bother and so I wanted to reach out."

You want this man and it's getting bad.

"You should have told me right away. I hope you didn't fail any tests because of me?"

"No," you assure him, hesitating again as you look at him. You're not sure what more to say, but you want to talk. You want to keep talking to him, no matter if it's about how much you hated him for the past month because of how loud he was or anything else.

He seems to notice your nerves, shifting his weight from one leg to another, taking in the sight of you. "Have you had dinner yet?" You shake your head no confusedly and his smile grows. "Do you want to eat with me? I was getting started on cooking. Think of it as a proper apology for the situation I caused for you in the last month."

Your eyes widen as you watch him. You only think about refusing for a split second before you realize what you'd be turning down and quickly accept his offer. He steps aside with a smile, letting you walk inside. Maybe your worries were right, maybe he is a serial killer, but right now, as you step into Seungcheol's space, you don't even care. For all you care, he could kill you if he wants. It's not like you are able to breathe when you look at him anyway.

You let your eyes wander around his space, scanning every furniture and decor he owns. It's really nice, his walls decorated with different music artists. You didn't peg him for someone who expresses his interests so openly in his house, and with the way those posters and albums are the only thing decorating his otherwise minimalist space, you don't think you were far off with your assumption.

"This is nice," you mumble, glancing over your shoulder back at him. He joins your side, a smile on his face as his eyes wander from you to the open space.

"I can't figure out if I like it or not."

You can tell. Not because of how it looks, but because of the times you woke up to him rearranging his place. It all makes much more sense now that you stand here. Now that you know who is living next to you. "I think it's nice." He hums, looking down at you. You look up at him at the same time, feeling nervous all over again. He's even more handsome from up close. The last time you stood this close to him was when he spilled his drink on you, and you missed it.

It's different from the first time, though. This time, you catch his eyes dropping to your lips before he comes to his senses again, taking a small step back to be respectful. His eyes speak for him though, and you can tell he is as attracted to you as you are to him.

"What are you making for dinner?" You wonder, breaking the silence before it can settle. "Please tell me it's something delicious." He chuckles, nodding as he tells you to follow him into the kitchen.

You stand on the side, watching him move around the room with ease. By the looks of it, it doesn't seem like he is a genius cook or anything, but it'll certainly do. Somehow, it makes him even more attractive. You giggle with him, his music now much quieter but still there, making you hum in rhythm. There's a smile constantly on both of your faces, and you can't get enough of how good it feels to be here with him, cooking as if you've been together for ages.

He walks closer, stopping right in front of you and your breath hitches, your eyes wide and absolutely beautiful as he looks at you. His smile widens as he rests his hands on the counter right beside you, caging you in. "Yes?" You ask carefully, your eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips. He is too close.

He leans even closer, his lips hovering just at your ear. "I'm getting the plates," he whispers, and before you can react anyhow, he is already away again, two empty plates in his hands. You stare at him, shock obvious. Screw you Choi Seungcheol. Two can play this game.

Scoffing, you push yourself from the counter, leaving him in the kitchen alone and walking to the dinning table you saw before. Settling in one of the chairs, you use your chance and text the guys, quickly updating them on the fact your neighbor is Seungcheol — to which Chan sends a loud cheer and Vernon laughs, all three of them wishing you good luck if that's the case. You shake your head at them, unable to hide your smile. You also wish yourself good luck. Hopefully by the end of today, you'll leave with his number and reassurance the two of you will get to know each other. In the idea world, you might even find yourself dating him in a few weeks.

"Here." You look up at him, watching as he plates the dish in front of you. "I hope you'll enjoy." There is a smile on his face, one that makes you week in the knees. "If it's not good then you don't have to finish it, by the way," he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, taking a seat opposite you.

You shake your head softly, "I watched you cooked, Cheol. You didn't do anything wrong so I'm quite certain it's perfect." To prove your point, you pick up your fork and take a bite. Your eyes widen immediately, meeting his in an instant.

"Is it…good?" His eyes flicker all over your face, trying to read your expression.

"So good!" You sing. You knew it wasn't going to be bad, but this exceeded your expectations. "You need to cook this more!"

"I'll make it for you the next time as well then," he nods, hiding his smile by taking a bite himself. Next time. You were supposed to be the one making him feel nervous now but you're left smiling like a teen in love again, your ears red.

Throughout dinner, Seungcheol manages to apologize for being a terrible neighbor four more times, each time having you remind him that it's all okay now. He promises to keep his music down from now on, saying he only had it so loud before because he genuinely didn't know it would be heard so well over the wall. But as the two of you talk further, you realize it's not only been that. Turns out, work isn't going too well for him and distraction in the form of music is the only thing that helps him. Helps him not to think about it.

You get that more than you'd like to admit. There has been many times when you shut it all out thanks to your headphones, only being able to breathe properly once you couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore. When you tell him about it, it feels like you've grown closer to him, the silent understanding between you making you smile.

You tell him more about yourself, about what you study and what you like. When you don't mention you like sports, he asks you about it instead. "You don't do any sports?"

"I work out at home," you shrug. "Not biggest fan of sports in general though, no."

"So should I take your interest in our football games as more of an interest in me?" He tilts his head and it suddenly feels too hot in the room. You know your cheeks are red without you having to look at them. You do your best hiding it by looking down at your already empty plate, thinking back to all the times you stopped on your way home just to watch him play. "Is that a yes?"

"That's no comment," you mumble and his smile only grows.

"You're doing wonders to my ego tonight," the way he says your name has your head spinning. God. There is something about actually talking — and flirting — with the guy you've been admiring from afar until now. You swear you're normally not like this. It's all Seungcheol's fault. He chuckles when you don't answer, your cheeks all red. He slowly stands up from his place, picking up both plates to clean them up.

It's only then that you look up at him again, watching his back as he leaves into the kitchen. You don't think you'll be able to get back at him, not tonight at least. You'll be lucky if you manage to get back to your apartment without your brain completely melted by his sweet words. But it's hard when the more you get to know him, the more you like him. You love all his interests, all the stuff he does in his free time and how he speaks about his family and friends. You love the idea of Seungcheol you created in your head months ago, and you're starting to think you'll love the real deal as well.

You follow him into the kitchen after collecting yourself again, joining his side as he washes the dishes. Taking his dish cloth, you help him without saying anything, the two of you falling into a rhythm together. You don't think much about it, but Seungcheol certainly does. Your presence much clearer than before now as he hands you the wet utensils.

It's the domestic feeling he's been missing for a few months now. Ever since he's broken up with his last girlfriend, it's been something he's craved. Maybe that's why he's fell so drawn to you the first time the two of you met, always having a feeling you didn't meet for nothing. And when he saw you again just a month ago, watching him play football with his friends, he couldn't focus on the game properly, his eyes drifting to you every chance he got. The fact you live right beside him is only proving his point further. This couldn't all be a coincidence.

"Do you wash the dishes with your boyfriend like this as well?" He wonders without looking your way, his eyes focused on the dishes in his hands. It's not only the plates from dinner he has to clean but also everything he used since the morning.

"Don't have a boyfriend," you say simply and he hums.

"Fiance then?"

Laughing, you shake your head at him softly. "Don't happen to have that. And before you ask no husband in sight either."

"That's good," he nods, still not looking up.

"Why do you ask?" You know exactly why, but you want to hear it from him. When you somehow — without you even knowing how — managed to get him all nervous like he did with you before, you need to take this chance and see the most of it.

He shrugs, taking a moment before his eyes lift up to yours. You gaze into his brown, melting instantly. "How about a dinner date this week then? I could cook this again or something else you like. What's your favorite meal?"

"Anything is fine," you smile. "How about Friday?"

"Perfect," he grins.

"Will you pick me up as well?"

"You bet I will," he chuckles. "I'll pick you up and carry you all the way to my place."

You like when the vibe gets playful like this. "What? You mean to tell me those muscles of yours aren't just for the aesthetics?"

He puts the plate in his hands back down into the sink, a proud smirk on his face as he flexes his muscles in front of you. "These?" He looks at them to add to the effect before locking his eyes with yours again. "They can do a thing or two. Could certainly carry you with ease."

"With ease is a strong claim," you roll your eyes, shaking your head with a smile.

The challenge echoes in his ears. "Can I?" You blink at him confusedly, nodding. It's only once his hands wrap around your waist that you realize what you agreed to, wrapping your arms behind his neck with a yelp when he picks you up and spins you around, a loud laugh leaving your lips. "See? With ease."

Your laugh bubbles in his ears as he watches you, his smile softening. You are beautiful, especially when he gets to carry you in his arms. You bite back a smile as you gaze into his arms, unable to look away. "I admit it," you whisper, your voice so quiet you're not sure if he hears you.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you breathe out, your eyes flickering down to his lips. He catches you, mimicking your movement. You aren't sure how it happens because one second you are thinking about how his lips would taste, and the next he is kissing you and you're leaning into him.

He takes a step forward, settling you on the kitchen counter without pulling away, unable to get enough. His lips move in sync with yours, one of his hands cradling your jaw while the other rests on your waist while he stands between your legs. You keep your hands wrapped around his neck, playing with the few strands of hair you can reach, your legs wrapping around his waist and keeping him as close as possible.

You wish he'd never stop kissing you. His lips fit perfectly with yours, the cherry you feel on his lips making your head spin. It feels amazing. A soft moan escapes your lips and he smiles, only breaking the kiss then. "Shut up," you mumble when you see the smug smirk on his lips, already knowing he has a tease ready.

"Why, baby? You seem so eager, I can't just not comment on how gorgeous you are."

"Fuck you." You are too embarrassed to think properly, only wanting him to kiss you again.

"Do you want to?" He questions, his eyes soft despite the urge you catch behind them.

You blink at him, unsure if it's just your head deciding to hear whatever it wants or if he truly just asked you. "Choi Seungcheol, is this your way of telling me you want to fuck me?" You tilt your head when you realize he means his question, patiently waiting for your answer. Leaning forward, you catch as his eyes fall to your lips again.

"Normally I'd wait a few dates for that but…" his brown finds your eyes again, clearly hesitating. "I do want to taste all of you tonight and not just your lips, yes."

The thought of seeing his head buried between your thighs makes you wet. You know he's good too. Screw you Choi Seungcheol. No matter how deep you think about it, you can't imagine him being bad at sex. With body like that and confidence, that would be more shocking than finding out he is your neighbor. Even just looking him in the eyes, he proves you right all over again. You refuse to believe those are eyes of someone who doesn't know how to eat pussy. If anything, you'd like to bet on how fast he could make you come.

"Why don't you try your chances then?"

"Because I really want to hear what is going on in your head first." He rests his palms on the kitchen counter on either of your sides, leaning against it as he looks up at you. "And so that if your answer is no I can pick you up again, walk you home, and hope the date still stands."

"Well if you're promising me a date," you pretend to think about it, a smile threatening to spread on your lips. "I might be in."

Your name slips past his lips, the serious tone making you look at him again. "I want a clear answer."

You roll your eyes even though you feel far from annoyed — if anything you are pleased with how he goes on about it. "Yes, Cheol, I do want to fuck you. I've been wanting to since you spilled that drink on me."

"Which was your fault by the way," he points out and you immediately press your lips to his, shutting him up. He chuckles into the kiss, picking you up from the counter again and carrying you elsewhere. You don't watch where you're going, your eyes closed and only focused on the way your lips move with his. He is the same, which is also why he stumbles his toe against his table as he walks around his apartment. Neither of you comment on it, your lips connected until you fall onto his mattress.

You feel drunk — your cheeks flushed and eyes disoriented from the rush, unable to look away from the man hovering over you. "Do you think you'd hear us in your apartment?" He mumbles against your skin as he kisses his way down your neck. You shiver under his touch.

"I haven't heard anything until now, so probably not."

"That's because there wasn't anything you could hear."

Your eyes widen, "you didn't sleep with anyone since you moved here?"

"Didn't sleep with anyone for a few months now," he hums, his hands sliding under your shirt.

"But you want to sleep with me?" You blink at him, fighting the urge to moan when he cups your breast while kissing your collarbone.

"Since I spilled my drink on you."

God. Seungcheol really does make you feel easy. Your thighs squeeze together and your hand finds its way up to his head, tangling in his hair and tugging on it gently to get him to look at you. "What is it, baby?"

"Stop talking and—"

"And?" He tilts his head and the lewd moan that leaves your lips makes you feel pathetic.

"—Do something."

He chuckles, assuring you he will. You don't believe him, the smirk on his lips doing the opposite of convincing you. You tug at his hair again, begging him with your eyes to give you what you need. "I got you," he whispers sweetly, pressing a kiss to your exposed stomach before moving down, pulling your bottoms with.

You watch him settle between your thighs, his eyes glued to your soaked panties as he pulls your legs onto his shoulders, moving you closer to him. It's only when you are right in front of him, his lips hovering over your clothed core, that the pleased smirk appears on his lips. There is a clear boner hiding in his sweats but he doesn't care about that now, not when he has a pretty girl on his bed waiting to be taken care of.

Pulling your panties to the side, he groans at the sight of your glistening pussy, "You are so pretty." Starting with one long stroke of his tongue, he plays with your lazily, only teasing you further. You both know that's not the best he can do and it's driving you crazy, feeling so good but knowing it could be even better. It's only when his name keeps falling off your lips with a broken plea that he finally tugs your panties down fully, readjusting himself. His hands wrap around your thighs, holding you in place as his tongue wraps around your clit, stimulating your sensitive bud before moving lower again.

You roll your hips against his mouth, searching for more pleasure. He takes it as a sign, bringing his hand to your core and circling your hole with his fingers. Your back arches the moment he dips a finger inside, his tongue working you at the same time. This is even better than you expected. Your moans fill the room as he adds a second finger, your legs instantly closing around his head. It all feels like too much and not enough at the same time, your mind only able to think about how his cock would feel inside you.

He doesn't look up at you even when you tug on his hair this time, only focusing on his meal and the sweet noises you make that fill his ears. "You've got the greatest pussy I've ever seen," he praises, your whines only getting louder at the pleasure. "So perfect." Your eyes roll back, the sound of his fingers thrusting into you echoing in your ears.

Fisting his bedsheets, your orgasm crashed onto you before you can warn him. He doesn't seem to mind at all, lapping on your pussy and making sure you are all clean before he pulls himself up. Worn out, your legs instantly drop down when he lets you go, your breathing heavy. "Are you okay?" He asks, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You nod, "just a second."

He chuckles, palming himself through his sweats as he looks at you. You are gorgeous and he can't get enough. Your hair sprawled all over his pillow, your hands gripping his sheets, and your wet panties in the corner. Could there be a prettier sight?

Your eyes follow his hand, gawking at his boner. His smile widens when he notices it, using his free hand to spread your legs again. "Will you take those clothes off for me, baby?" You bite your bottom lip, nodding. "Good girl."

His cock twitches in his pants when he sees your bare body, nothing covering it anymore. He's convinced this is what heaven looks like. And if not, he doesn't see a reason for him to go there. He gets rid of his clothes in a moment, reaching for a condom in his bedside table.

You watch as he rolls it on his cock, clenching around nothing at the sight. His red tip is begging to be taken care of, and the need you see on him only makes your so much more desperate for him. You open your legs wider, spreading your folds with your fingers. "Please."

"For fucks sake," he groans, fighting himself not to come right then and there untouched. It's been a while since he's felt this pathetic. He doesn't wait for anything, pressing his lips to yours again while thrusting the tip in, slowly sinking his whole in.

He takes his time with you, his thrusts slow and gentle, his lips exploring every inch of your skin they can, leaving marks behind. You know this is his way of teasing you, but you don't give in as easily, holding off for as long as you can before begging him to give you more. The chuckle he lets out only proves you right. He picks up his pace, matching his own urges and needs. You wrap your hands around him, keeping him close.

With your mouth open wide and your nails digging into his skin, you can barely think about anything other than the groans he fills your ears with. He sounds so good, you think you might be developing a voice kink. You could see yourself coming just thanks to his voice without any trouble.

It's when his fingers come massage your clit that you come for the second time tonight, broken sobs leaving your lips as you fall apart. Thankfully, he is right behind you. You don't think you could handle much more if not, the overstimulation already strong.

"I'm pretty sure I would be able to hear us," you breathe out as he pulls out, his smile only widening as his eyes flicker to yours. "You should be glad it's me you're pleasing so well, otherwise I would have killed you if I heard this while trying to study."

He laughs, pulling the condom off himself. "I am glad it's you," he assures you with a smile, pressing one last kiss to your lips.

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … EIGHT

AN ENDLESS COBALT SKY STRETCHES OVER STATION 0218. Always endless, always fathomless. Seokmin has never seen where the sky begins or ends. He doesn’t know if the blue is different in other parts of the world. Doesn’t remember if everywhere else the sun sizzles against the blue, a burning orange hole singeing its way across the entire expanse of sky before it sinks toward the horizon and turns the world purple. Pink. Gold. 

The days are hot, even when he manages to keep the Station cool. It’s an old, small Station, meant to only occupy a single Outrider. He’s been the only one that he knows of here. Just him, the groaning generator, the cracked sunpanels, and the orange dust. 

Seokmin thinks the dust is the worst part. It clings to every part of him, crawling into places he doesn’t know existed, never reachable, always there. It dries out his mouth, makes his teeth feel gritty. Burns his eyes, turning them red and raw and stinging. 

He can’t escape the dust. It’s everywhere. He thinks if he cracked open his chest cavity to look at his beating heart, he’d find the dust there, encasing the very soul of him. 

In an attempt to keep most of the dust out of his mouth, he’s pulled his cloth high up on his face. It hugs him just under the eyes, digging in and chafing him as sweat runs from his hairline in rivulets. Every part of him is dripping in sweat, the sun baking him through the layers of sun protection he has on.

This part he doesn’t mind so much. He stays hydrated, pumping cool, crisp water from the well just outside the station. The well is the only place the dust doesn’t reach, and he’s thankful, especially now as he paused to sip from a thermos, pulling the cloth off his face to take long draughts. 

In the distance, the Gods loom. They’re not really Gods, but he doesn’t know the name of the terracotta-colored mountains that stretch against the cobalt sky. They’ve watched him for as long as he’s been at Station 0218, so he feels like they’re the closest thing he’s ever had to protection of a higher power. 

Station 0218 exists in the middle of a flat desert, a few thousand yards away from the foot of a small range of mountains to the north at the edge of a dry basin. To the south, there’s nothing but packed clay, tall weeds and agave plants dotting the ground, and a tiny smear of shadow that he knows is a large limestone formation, cracked and crumbling as it bakes in the sun before washing out in the rainy season. 

It’s far past the rainy season now. The air hangs heavy and heated like the simmering air of an oven. He feels it when he breathes in, sees the shimmer of heat in the distance. Thirst satiated, he takes a moment to pant, wiping a sleeve over his sweating brow. 

There’s no fence to denote the proper perimeter of the Station, but Seokmin knows the property line even in the dark. He had to learn it, knowing that there are mines planted under the ground. While they’re only supposed to go off when triggered by a Dig Machine, they’re old and he’d rather not take his chances. 

For most of his small life on Station 0218, Seokmin’s days are wash, rinse, repeat. He does his scouting, he maintains the Station, he logs his day. He keeps himself alive. He kills machines when they enter his territory, which stretches in a perfect 20 mile radius. He still watches the land outside of that, sometimes catching machines traveling outside of their usual paths. 

Machines learn. It’s what makes them so dangerous, and is ultimately what had led to the Machine War. But machines, like humans, are creatures of habit. They know the shortest way to cross a barren wasteland. They move in the same syncopated patterns they always have. They are, at the end of the day, beholden to their settings, driven by an instinct they cannot always override. 

In a way, Seokmin feels like that. His life before being assigned to his post is blurry at best. They say it’s better to not remember and to reflect on all of the people you wouldn’t be able to see, that it’s better not to drift in your memories while you’re in solitude. 

So they take the memories, leaving only the training and instinct gained from preparing to be an Outrider and man his solitary post. 

This life is lonely. He tries not to think about it. Throws himself into his work. Scouts. Maintains. Logs. Kills. 

There is nothing else that he knows. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES OVERNIGHT, 72 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … NINE

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

The song plays throughout the station, backtracking the crackle of a hot pan. It smells like spiced chicken, oil popping. Seokmin hisses and snatches his hand back. Cursing softly, he lowers the heat on the stove, realizing it’s too high in an attempt to cook it faster.

The kitchen around him is small, but well put together. The metal cabinets are a bit dinged up and the fridge hums louder than it should, but everything works. Even the stove, which he had to rewire by hand a few months ago when it went out.

Scavenged parts and aging tech litter the counters of the living space just beyond. Faded schematics cover the walls alongside yellowing warning labels for the various tech inside the Station. A cracked touch screen interface blinks near the entrance, looping with various descriptions of the machines commonly found in this part of the world. 

Behind him, a ventilation fan clanks unevenly, blades ticking like a slow metronome. The overhead lights flicker as the general air conditioning kicks on and settles again, all while his favorite song backtracks the sounds of his everyday life. 

Seokmin hums along with the melody, swaying slightly as he flips his chicken. Cooking isn’t a daily ritual for him, but he likes to do it on Friday nights. Most nights, he settles for the nutrient meals the Alliance Against Machines provides. They’re efficient and protein rich, but they’re forgettable. 

So on Fridays he cooks a real meal to celebrate the weekend. 

It doesn’t matter that there’s no such thing as a weekend for Seokmin. He has nowhere to spend it. No one to spend it with. He doesn’t do less work because there’s always work to be done, and it doesn’t mean that he can ever drop his guard. 

The weekend is something he only has a vague concept of, but like this little ritual carved out of monotony: chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, using up fresh ingredients dropped by airship earlier that week. 

He cooks. He plays his favorite song, worn and warbling slightly through the old Station speakers. He pours a glass of wine. And he pretends, for just a little while, that he’s someone else. Somewhere else. 

And for a short while, the possibilities are endless. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 105 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

Alarms yank Seokmin from sleep. He’s already vertical and moving before he’s fully awake, body reacting on instinct. He’s halfway into his gear before he realizes it’s a machine warning. The overhead lights pulse red, strobing in the company room. It’s enough to give him a headache, the shrill and surgical blare of the alarm doubling the irritation. 

He buckles his weapons belt around his waist with practiced efficiency. The satisfying click of the holster lock centers him, grounding him more than the metal floor beneath his heavy boots. He grabs a rifle off of the wall, modded for heat signatures and pulse interferences that come from machines. It feels heavier than usual, but then again, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

He glances at the clock and curses. 0300. 

The screen in his bedroom flickers, blue text drifting across as a readout from the sensors scroll in. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … SKULKER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 095… 4 MPH NORTHBOUND

He grimaces. They’re not his favorite machine to eliminate. They’re built to blend in, to hide. Covered in chameleon plating, their panels are made with adaptive AI that uses sensors to replicate the scenery around them, making them near invisible. In the daylight, they’re difficult to see. At night, they’re near impossible. 

Seokmin will need to go into this blind with only heat maps to help him, but even that’s a challenge. PLEDIS CORP Skulker models made from the Unit 093 and up all have internal cooling systems to combat being detected on thermal scopes and readers, even with equipment far more advanced than what Seokmin has. 

Hunting them is difficult. The desert is vast, but not empty, and if he’s smart - patient - he’ll manage. Stealth is the name of the game. Though Skulkers don’t travel in packs, they’re one of the few scout machines that are designed to fight back, and he’s not exactly looking for a brawl with a heavy duty scout. 

Pulling on a lightweight mesh that will shield him against heat and a spray of light-ammo bullets, he thinks of a game plan. He pulls his tactical vest over the mesh, zips it up. Pulls a pair of clear glasses that flicker to life, red text appearing across the lenses as they calibrate. 

The glasses flicker and he curses. Of course. Skulkers emit low-frequency pulses that jam basic tech, and though his Station might be able to continue data pull and readouts, something as simple as his glasses won’t. He takes them off and throws them on the bed. He’s just going to have to do it without the help of the Station, which serves as his only companion in these fights, serving as a base and intelligence system. 

Stations are the closest that the New World will come to using AI ever again. 

Sighing, Seokmin goes for more analog tech. A homing beacon that uses radar instead of data reading sensors or internet signals, but will at least tell the Alliance where to look for his body if he dies - he doesn’t know if they’ll come get it - and glasses made for switching between night and thermal vision. 

He moves quickly now as the Station finishes the readout. The machine is ambling along, in no rush. Based on its movement, he thinks it’s scouting the perimeter of Seokmin’s sector, which most likely means the machine knows there’s a Station nearby. 

Seokmin will have to be extra careful. The last time he’d been caught unawares by a Skulker had nearly been his last, and the Alliance had needed to send extra medical supplies in his weekly drop from the passing airship. Not that they sent a doctor, of course. Isolation was Seokmin’s duty here. They’d just given him enough to fight off the infection and seal his wounds himself. 

Tonight, he’s not in armor to protect him, either. Wearing the heavy tech armor that is life-saving against Dig Machines or War Machines is detrimental against a scout. It’s too heavy and filled with too many sensors, essentially leaving him dead in the water to a machine built for scanning. 

Heading to the door, he powers down the Station to all but the reserve energy. He doesn’t need the hum of electricity serving as a beacon, and he doesn’t want any light giving him away. 

Outside, the world is velvet-black. The stars are scattered across the sky like shrapnel, the moon low behind the mountains, giving it a ghoulish halo. Shadows shift with each gust of wind, dust peppering Seokmin as he heads north.

If it were another machine, he’d used the speedbike. It would certainly get him there a lot faster. But Scout Machines are built to sense things at a far greater distance, and even though Seokmin has a scatterwave on to attempt to hide himself from the machine’s sensors, he’ll be more vulnerable tonight than he is with any other machine. 

Skulkers are designed for darkness. They wait, camouflaged against rock and plant life, listening and watching, gathering data to broadcast whatever they see, hear, and smell to whatever machine territories they belong to. 

During the war, they were scouts. Now, they serve more or less the same purpose, but there’s not exactly thriving machine territories to report back to anymore. After humanity had finally defeated most of the machines with a virus, there were very few pockets of machine society left. Most of them had fled to the west, forming small societal hives. Occasionally, they tried to re-enter human society, which is where Seokmin came in handy.

The desert night is a different kind of alive. Every one of Seokmin’s footsteps feels like a mine going off. The cold air cuts through his clothes, but it’s nice. The wind plays tricks on him, whispering through the agave plants and spinning up dust devils that look vaguely like human shapes. 

He moves at a steady, deliberate pace. After a while, he checks his watch. He’s about halfway to where the Skulker originally triggered the alarm system, so he crouches behind a dead scrub brush, lowering to a single knee to press the side of his glasses. They flicker to life and he sets them to thermal vision. 

A smear of colors appear before him, most of them various shades of blue and purple, indicating a lack of heat. Some plants are almost pink in nature, cool but retaining a little warmth from the long day in the sun. He spots a tiny flare of red in an underbrush - a desert mouse, nosing around. 

No immediate danger appears on the horizon. It doesn’t mean the Skulker isn’t out there. The thermal isn’t a foolproof system, especially if the machine knows an Outrider might be lurking around the night looking for it. 

So he gets up and starts walking again. Takes a sip from the small straw in his jacket that’s attached to the water pack lined in his vest. He keeps the thermal on, scanning the horizon back and forth, on alert. He thinks of the lyrics to his favorite song, missing the taste of the meal from last night and the sweet, cherry taste of the wine. 

The blots of red desert mice vanish at some point. Seokmin slows down his pace before dropping to his knees again, pressing the side of his glasses to expand his thermal reach. There’s no chirping bats, no singing crickets, not even the howl of wind here.

Heavy silence sits on him. 

Slowly, he scans back and forth. Then, just for a second, the terrain stutters. A barely perceptible shimmer of pink to purple appears several hundred yards away near the rim of the salt basin. It looks like a tear in reality trying to sew itself shut, there and gone again. Black. 

Seokmin marks the spot on his wrist pad. Swipes his fingers across it to zoom out and look at the overall map, despite the fact that he knows exactly where he is. He taps his knee and then pulls a pulse beacon from his vest. It’s tiny, barely larger than a marble, and he drops it into the brush before getting up and turning to the west, where he knows there’s a rocky outcrop he can climb.

He heads there swiftly, keeping his steps light, leaving the pulse beacon behind. His breath is coming in short and labored by the time he gets to the outcrop and starts climbing, eager to get in position and ready before the Skulker vanishes into the dry, cracked mud of the salt basin. 

A scorpion crunches under his boot as he finds a narrow outlet to crawl in. He grimaces. Feels guilty. He doesn’t like them, but he feels a sort of kinship with them, alone in the desert. Survivors. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, then slides down to the ground to lay on his belly. 

It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to lay himself flat. He braces his rifle on the edge of the outcrop and takes off his glasses to peer through the scope. 

The desert stretches before him like a graveyard. Silent. Still. Cold. 

Carefully, he taps his wrist pad to remote turn on the pulse beacon. For a second, nothing happens. He clenches his teeth, knowing that the signal to the device is struggling to go through. He does it again, finger tapping the side of his rifle. 

This time, it works. A green dot flashes on his wrist pad before he turns it to dark mode and turns on his scatterwave to hide any remaining frequency and signals from the tech on his person. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin levels his eye with the scope again, watching. At first, there’s nothing. Then, he sees movement. The pulse beacon has done its job. It’s not exactly bait, but the low frequency it emits is similar to the same tech humans used in the war. The Skulker, out of pure instinct, won’t be able to resist investigating. 

Seokmin watches, waiting for the movement again. For a while, there’s nothing. He chews the inside of his cheek. Feels dust bite at him as wind crests over the outcrop. A ripple catches his attention, not where he marked it last. It’s closer now, moving away from the basin toward where he left the beacon. 

Without the moon, Seokmin is in a blanket of midnight. All he can see are the blue shapes of plants and the occasional shiver of pink as it reforms, twisting faintly in the dark before it vanishes again. 

A thermal outline appears again. This time, lighting up red as a desert mouse catches the Skulker off guard, making it flare into a quadrupedal silhouette with a lean body that stands roughly two meters off the ground. He can’t make out all of the features of the machine, but he knows them by memory: elongated legs, an angular head with a sharp muzzle, glowing eyes that swap between spectrums, dangerous claws that can shred through limbs. 

The shape vanishes and Seokmin holds his breath. He slides his finger to the trigger, sliding his thumb across the safety. He feels the weight of the weapon in his hand, the coolness of the rock beneath his stomach. He inhales. Holds it. Lets it out. Inhales. Holds it. Lets it out.

A ripple appears as the Skulker crawls on its belly toward the beacon and Seokmin lines the shot before the glimmer vanishes again. He inhales again. Holds it. And squeezes the trigger. 

The crack of the rifle splits the night. The Skulker jerks violently as the bullet tears through one of its front stabilizers. Red and yellow explode in the scope as sparks fly off the machine. It’s not hiding now, colors violently glimmering. Seokmin doesn’t panic, flipping the scope to night vision. 

Bursts of heat and red are replaced with flat green. He can see the machine now, writhing as it lets out a scream - not a sound exactly, but something like a spike in air pressure, a raw pulse that explodes outward like a sonic wave. 

Dust blows in Seokmin’s face but he doesn’t flinch, letting it burn his eyes. The Skulker doesn’t need to use thermals to find Seokmin. It’ll know where the bullet came from and it charges, fast and erratic right at the outcrop where Seokmin hides.

He doesn’t panic. He tracks the machine through the scope, even as it zigzags, moving in wide, jerking arches that might fool a worse marksman. 

He exhales and fires again. The second shot hits center mass, cracking the machine’s chestplate. It falters, but doesn’t fall. Instead, it speeds up, closing the distance fast enough that Seomkin hears it now, all grinding machine and metal screeching against metal. 

It nears the outcrop. Seokmin reloads. Aims. Fires. 

The machine drops. He watches it through the scope, watching as the lights go out, the gears stop working, and the wires stop sparking. He doesn’t move for a long time. Machines don’t typically play dead, but he doesn’t like Skulkers. 

Eventually, he lowers his rifle and yawns. Wind howls around him and he gets up from his spot, muscles spasming, joints cracking. Slinging the strap of his gun over his shoulder, he makes his way down, hopping and landing carefully. 

He finally lands with a thud next to the Skulker. He toes the machine, squinting in the dark night as he looks at the bullet holes. They had torn through the metal, but he’s surprised to see just how thick the metal is. That unsettles him. He doesn’t recall this unit having reinforced metal but… well. He hasn’t come across one in a while, and he’s tired.

Instead of worrying about it, he leaves the machine there, turning to head home. He’ll go get it later when it isn’t dead in the middle of the night, and after he’s had a well-deserved cup of coffee. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … TUESDAY, JULY 2, 8099

WEATHER … PARTLY CLOUDY SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An endless sky stretches over Station 0218. It’s hot and bone-dry. Tufts of clouds drift in the distance, curling the Gods' heads like frothy halos. It’s just past dusk, a bruised sky yawning overhead. The sun has vanished beyond the rim of the world, the last few streams of gold light fading rapidly. Wind stirs up dust around his boots, but he doesn’t give it a lot of mind. 

The work bench outside the Station is half-shadowed under a metal canopy. He’d welded it together from the metal plates of a Dig Machine he’d eliminated a few years ago. On top of that are solar panels that he has to dust off constantly, trying to keep them in tip-top shape to power the Station..

The bench itself is scorched and dark with old burns, gouges, and acid stains. He’s not a mechanic by trade, but over the last few years, he’s managed to figure a few things out - and keep all his fingers. It’s a reliable work space. Solid. Like everything else he manages to keep running. 

Now, he works on stripping parts of the Skulker. He removed the armored panels from the main body, which he had dragged with the armored truck there the morning after he’d eliminated it. Now, the carcass is nothing but twisted metal and a vague shape as he disassembles it for whatever he can use. 

He’s managed to start separating the fine mesh-metals that cover the panels of the Skulkers body. He doesn’t know if he can use it to sew into his own gear to imitate the camouflaging of the machine, but he intends to try. The metal is a strange material, almost biological in nature with butterfly-wing texture. 

The skull of the machine sits on the top of the work bench. The sharp angels of the snout catch the hanging lights outside the station. One side is blown open, the optics shattered and fused, but the other lens is intact. He leans in close, working a flat tool between the housing and the mountain plate, brow furrowed in concentration. 

It pops free with a soft click and he grins, placing the eye in the tray of salvageable parts he’s got going. He can wire the eyes of machines like cameras around the entire sector, setting them up so they run extra information for him. Scout Machine eyes are particularly useful, and he’s glad to have one eye if not both. 

Seokmin pulls off his gloves and flexes his fingers. They’re sore and callused, a few knuckles raw from where he’d scraped them earlier when trying to pry the mesh-metal off the armor plates.

It’s quiet in the desert now. No new alerts coming in, no scream of metal. No machines prowling. Nothing but the buzz of wind and the occasional hawk as it dives to catch one of the various prizes the desert floor has to offer. 

He wipes the sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist then picks up the disassembled parts. He stands, propping the tray against his hip as he swings his leg over the bench and heads inside. Crickets choir as he walks up the step, kicking his boots against them to knock as much dust off as he can before he ducks inside. 

Cool air kisses his sweaty skin. He dumps the tray on the kitchen table and sits down, melting into the chair. He’s tired, but he wants to sift through the tray of parts before he finally gives up and scrubs the sweat and dust off his skin. 

Heaving a sigh, he starts to sort through the parts. He turns on his favorite song, the guitar strums humming through his speaker, turning to deep vibrations when the drums and base set in. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

He starts sorting. Optics and sensors to the left, cooling coals to the right, screws and bolts that he can add to his collection for around the station in their own pile. He comes across a joint mount, thumb-sized and not out of place except - when he grabs it, it’s light. Lighter than most pieces that exist in the joints of machinery. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin turns it over a few times in his hands. There’s nothing off about it… no, there is. He brushes his thumb across something and squints, holding it closer to the light burning above his head. There are tiny marks on it, imperceptible lines where it’s been welded, like it’s been refitted with different metal. 

He sets it down. Stares at it. Grabs a tablet and pulls up his schematics logs of every machine ever built in the span of hundreds of years. He taps in the maker and the unit number, a hologram appearing above the tablet screen of a circling replica of the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

Chewing on his lip, he taps the parts section and narrows it down to all of the parts, items and exact details that make up the moving joints of the Skulker. Each part has the type of metal listed, the exact weight of it, the way it was built, the supplier - everything he needs to know and more. 

It confirms his suspicion that no part of a joint mount is welded, crafted by a factory machine in one, single metal piece. He leans back in his chair and thinks about it. It’s entirely possible that the Skulker is a veteran of the Machine War, one of the many machines serviced for being damaged in the fight. He doesn’t find that often, though, especially outside of the War Machines. 

Still, it’s the most probable answer. He can’t figure out another reason for a makeshift piece - like someone had fixed this - could exist. 

He suddenly remembers the armor of the Skulker, the way the metal was far thicker than he anticipated. On a hunch, he picks up his tablet and walks back outside. 

The sun is long gone now, leaving behind a midnight blue sky. The neon blue glow of the bug zapper casts an eerie light on him as he passes, walking down to the yard where the pile of metal sits until he can melt down what he can’t keep. 

Big plates of metal that served as the main body remain there, too heavy for him to lift over to the table, but perfect for being melted down for him to remake into something later. He squats, holding the schematic up and looking at the material used for the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

VANTACORE ALLOY. MATTE-BLACK. NONREFLECTIVE. 14.4 KG.

Seomkin looks at the plate again. It’s definitely not 14.4 kg. He could lift that easily. He puts the tablet down and slides his hands under the disassembled plate again. He sucks in a breath, and tries to lift it, heaving upward with the strength of his legs, arms rippling. 

He’s not weak by any means. Beyond needing to keep a healthy lifestyle to fight machines, Seokmin has nothing else to do but workout and continue to build his strength. So when he tries to lift the metal plating and fails again, falling on his ass with a huff, he knows there’s no way it only weighs a couple of kilos. 

Scrolling on his tablet, he opens a scanner. Taps the screen. A small light appears as the device scans the metal, doing a reading on color, size, texture and thickness. A proposed list of metals appears in order of most to least likely. Sitting at the top is one he recognizes: Obelium. 

OBELIUM. MATTE-SILVER. NONREFLECTIVE. 8.2 G/CM3 DENSITY. USED BY PLEDIS CORP AND HYBE CORP FOR…

The list of machines stretches on. It’s a list of Dig Machines and War Machines, but as he scrolls, not a single unit of Skulker is on the list. Which confirms his suspicion that this Skulker was modded. If his calculations are correct, the piece of armor plating he tried to lift isn’t 14.4 kg - it’s 88.8 kg. 

Strange. He’s never come across a modded scout from the war before. He supposes there’s a first time for everything, but his gaze lingers on the machine when he finally gets up to dust himself off, needing to log it. 

When he finishes his logs and decides it’s finally time to shower, it occurs to him how close to death he was the other night, assuming it had been a simple Scout Machine. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JULY 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 118 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIFTEEN

The lights hum. Not loud, but just enough to make Seokmin aware of the silence beneath them. He stares at the bowl on the table. It’s rehydrated protein stew, thick and gray and flavorless. He wishes it was Friday and that he was making something he likes to eat, something with flavor. 

He wonders if he’s ever had dinner with someone before. If he enjoyed it. If he liked the way it tasted. Did he cook or had they? Has he ever sat across the table from someone? Laughed with them as chairs dragged across the floor or hit elbows while cutting into a meal? 

He doesn’t know. 

Sometimes, he imagines it. Pretends to hear a voice, something warm and teasing. Maybe they used to call him Min. Maybe they touched his wrist as they passed by, or said things like slow down or save me some. 

Seokmin has no idea if anyone has ever told him that. Or maybe no one has. Would he feel like someone had, if they had? Would he remember the feeling of it, if not the specific memory?

The Alliance Against Machines mandates that memories are irrelevant to an Outrider position, which means Seokmin doesn't even remember why he wanted to become one, or what inspired him. Memories make positions like this inconsistent. Dangerous. They make you miss too much of what you can’t have. 

But he seems to do that anyways - want what he can’t have. He wants what he can’t remember, wants it with a viciousness that sometimes feels so feral he doesn’t know what to do. 

He drops the spoon and it clatters too loud in a room too small, too empty. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breath shaking. He doesn’t cry, because the dust has dried his eyes too much and crying feels like it needs a witness.

Seokmin has no witnesses. 

Just the humming lights. The silence. The blank nothing of something he can’t remember, but wants all the same. Just the same song he listens to, trying to find a gap in the ache of being alone.

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 120 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT, HEATWAVE WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

The sun is merciless. Every part of Seokmin bakes under it. Sweat pools at his brow, singing his eyes. He is soaked through with sweat, finally peeling off the shirt to reveal tawn, muscled skin. There’s no breeze today, just dead air baking the sandblasted yard of the Station, rippling heatwaves rising off the ground in varied distortions. 

He’s been out here too long. 

The casing he’s working on slips from his fingers again, clattering across the workbench. 

“Shit,” he mutters, voice horse. 

He blinks hard, trying to steady his hands, but they won’t stop trembling. His gloves feel too tight and his skin feels wrong. He stands, swaying slightly as he wipes at his forehead again, smearing grease with sweat. 

Turning to reach for a towel to wipe his face, Seokmin freezes. A couple hundred yards away, there's a figure. Blurred. Far off. But human. He stiffens, eyes narrowing, heart pounding. He rubs his face with the towel, putting pressure on his eyes before he drops it and opens them again, blinking.

Someone is out there, walking slowly across the simmering white, arms at their sides. They’re walking right toward him, not fast, but casual. Like they know where they’re going. 

Seokmin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t know what to do. He can’t remember what talking to someone is like, what seeing someone is like. His heart begins to pound in a way that makes his rib ache. 

He takes a step forward and the figure flickers. He freezes, staring long and hard. The legs blur first, then the entire body seems to stretch, rippling with the heat. One moment they’re upright, the next, they fold in on themself and vanish like they were never there.

Gone. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He feels the dizziness of the heat, the rivulets of sweat. He sways, feeling the way his skin goes from warm, to hot, to scorching. And yet he stands, frozen. Waiting. 

There’s nothing there, though. Just an endless wash of pale dust and scorched rock. 

Finally, he turns. Steps inside the Station, looking out the window as he cools down. His ears are ringing and he feels the tunnel vision come, like he might pass out. He stumbles to the fridge to get water, yanking out a bottle and cracking the top, all but dumping it down his throat as he gulps.

Then, for the first time in a long time, he cries.

That night when he goes to bed, he keeps the porch light on. 

Just in case.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 95 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

The sun is lower today, washed in a pale orange haze that settles over the Station like dust. It’s been cloudy, shifting between pale grey to splashes of tangerine. The wind has returned again, blowing clouds fast across the sky and pulling at the tarp that Seomkin had put over grain barrels to keep the heat off. 

A cloud crosses over the sun and turns the world grey. He squints and waits for his eyes to adjust as he bends down. The ground here is flat and dry, baked hard. He sets down a bottle of water. A protein bar. A packet of dried fruit. Nothing more. 

He doesn’t think too hard about it. Just stands, brushing his hand off of his pants. His shadow stretches long across the sand behind him. He looks at the display a beat longer than he means to before he glances at the mountains - his Gods - and turns to walk back toward the Station. 

That night he eats in silence. It weighs heavier than it usually does, and like a bad habit, his eyes keep flickering to the window that looks out to the dark flat where he left the rations. Just in case. 

In the morning, he heads out. Sees the materials untouched and covered in dust. He brushes them off. Stands and heads back. 

Leaving them there again. Just in case. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ELEVEN

Seokmin bolts upright, heart pounding and hand reaching to rip his blankets off as the alarm cuts through the silence. The room flashes red, making him dizzy as he slides to his feet and stumbles toward his pants. The emergency lights stutter against the walls like a warning heartbeat. 

The screen on the wall flares to life. It makes him flinch, shielding his eyes with his hand until he can bear the added light. A feed of readout data scrolls on the bottom of the screen and a camera visual pops up from the perimeter. It’s coming from the eye that he had ripped out of the Skulker a few months ago and put it near the basin where it had been wandering. 

He scans the data feed first, reading as the words appear. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … RAVAGER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 156… 25 MPH SOUTHBOUND… ADDITIONAL UNIT… BLOODWOLF… HYBE CORP… UNIT 234… 20 MPH… ANOMALY DETECTED… BLOODWOLF PURSUING RAVAGER… 

He frowns. He’s never seen anomaly detected. Stranger, though, is the fact that he’s never heard of one War Machine pursuing another. Machines do not attack one another. At least, not since the start of the Machine War. Prior to that, War Machines had been used against one another in battlefields and conflicts between countries, but a Bloodwolf chasing a Ravager? 

Bloodwolf units were deployed right before the machines turned against humanity. They were also the hardest to get rid of, savage hunter-killers designed for hunting down their prey and engaging brutally. They were meant to hunt enemies of other countries and then meant to hunt humans. 

Ravagers were also violent machines, demolition tanks to tear down front lines and break any obstacle. He’d never faced a Ravager before and always hoped he wouldn’t - there’s a strange beauty about them that he loathes to put down, and a deep-rooted fear that he won’t live to do so. 

Chewing his lip, he squints at the grainy feed as the shapes move closer. They blur in the darkness, the lens tracking their movements as they approach. The Bloodwolf is fast, four-legged, sleek and low like a predator on the hunt. The Ravager is swift but massive, lumbering with effort, trying to accommodate for something…

Seokmin blinks. Rubs his eyes. Watches as the Ravager runs past the camera. He immediately lifts his hand to press a button on the screen, opening the feed and rewinding it. Slows it down. The Ravager had been running fast, the Bloodwolf on its tail, but it had been running like it was afraid to sprint full out like it was afraid… someone might fall off.

Because there is someone on the back of the Ravager, bent low between its massive shoulders. A small figure - a human. For a few long moments, all Seokmin can do is pant. His breath comes out short, gasping. He stares and stares and stares, unmoving as he stares at the frozen screen. 

This is different from the person he imagined all those weeks ago when the heat got to him. This isn’t a mirage. This isn’t a trick of the lonely mind and aching heart. This is real. On the screen. Evidence in front of him that somewhere out there is another person. 

Seokmin lets out a curse and starts tossing clothes around his room as he looks for the suit he wears under his heavy armor. He almost never needs it and suddenly his hands are shaking so bad he can barely find it in the flashing red lights of his bedroom. 

He finally does, yanking the thin material over his skin. It glides, buttery soft but sweat resistant and made to keep him cool and safe from chafing under the hard plates of armor he wears against War Machines.

His fingers tremble as he flips the lock on the trunk he never opens - hasn’t needed to. The armor waits inside, silent. Matte black. Heavy-plated. Laced with segmented joints of high-density lightweave, flexible underlayer, and bullet-slowing surface tension. The surface is layered with a thin plating of Obelium and the inside is padded with shock absorbent material to keep him from cracking open like an egg on impact. 

It’s a suit, in a way. All of the armor pieces lock together, their mechanisms whirring and clicking as he puts them on piece by piece. The chest plate hums as it fully seals, the arm bracers hissing as they click and lock into place, flexible at the elbows, wrists, shoulders.

The helmet clamps onto the collar ring with a soft sound, and the HUG flickers to life, scanning his vitals, connecting to the Station, gearing up for his fight. Readouts scroll like ghosts across the inside of the visor, telling him the Bloodwolf and Ravager have now engaged.

He can feel it. He swears there’s a tremble in the earth as he grabs his weapons and extra charges. His suit is outfitted with minor artillery, but he has to open up the locker for this one, gleaming rifles and assault weapons, both with metal and energy artillery rounds. 

Seokmin is silent now. His thoughts don’t scatter to the wind. He only has a single thing in mind, and it’s getting to that person, getting to whoever was on the back of that Ravager. This is what he was made for - bred for, perhaps, he’s not sure. 

With the heavy guns in hand and fully suited, he steps outside. 

The wind is howling. It kicks up dust that he hears scraping against the armor, but it doesn’t bother him, for once. The moon slices the sky above like a silver wound, sand shifting under his feet as a signal beeps in his HUD display. Artillery fire. 

Seomkin runs. 

He doesn’t know how long he has. Doesn’t know if he’s fast enough. The suit gets him there faster, upping his power and speed beyond what he would be physically capable otherwise. It’s why they’re made for heavy machine battle only, invented in a time where humans had to fight machines up close and personal.

He’s never used one to fight. Never needed to. He remembers using them in training, in simulators - part of the training that he’s allowed to remember - but he’s never had to go toe to toe with something bred to kill him as brutally as a Ravager or a Bloodwolf.

And now he’s running full speed into the fray, the sounds of metal scream, explosive sparks peppering the sky like fireworks, all because of the chance there is a person out there. 

Nothing else matters to him but getting there. Seeing someone else. Knowing he isn’t alone. 

Sand kicks skyward in a blinding storm as Seokmin reaches the fray. The Ravager crashes sideways into the Bloodwolf, metal shrieking against metal. Sparks bloom, lighting up the entire basin. Seokmin hits the edge of the fight just as the Ravager slams into the Bloodwolf again, sending it airborne. 

He watches as the wolf-machine twists midair as it lands, claws rending the sand for traction. It lunges forward, opening its jaw unnaturally, barring rows and rows of teeth. The Ravager roars, a low grinding sound that vibrates through Seokmin’s armor. 

The Ravager shifts to intercept the Bloodwolf as it comes down. The shift reveals you and Seomkin’s heart thunders. You’re small, knocked to your ass on the sand. You roll away from the machines as they clash, the Bloodwolf hitting the Ravager with enough force that Seomkin hears and feels the crack in one of the armor plates. 

You start to get to your feet, slipping in dust and sand to put distance between yourself and the machine. Seokmin raises a weapon, his HUD connecting with the scope of the automatic rifle when he pauses, blinking unbelieving eyes as he watches the Bloodwolf leap for you.

He starts to shout a warning but the Ravager is there, blocking the blow. It takes one of the Bloodwolf’s taloned paws to the face, sparks and metal flying. The Ravager screams, shaking its head violently back and forth as it’s rendered blind in one eye. 

Shrapnel flies from the damaged machine. He hears you yell out in distress and stagger before falling to a knee. Blood soaks your side and you’re struggling to keep behind the Ravager’s bulk, letting the machine shield you. 

Move. 

Seokmin launches forward, sprinting at a full tilt. The HUD in his helmet paints live readouts across his vision, a swirl of machine signatures, structural analysis, and environmental factors. The Bloodwolf shows up red on his screen, agile, lethal, set to kill mode. The Ravager pings orange, engaged but defensive and critically damaged. You flash blue, entirely human and purple in spots where you bleed. 

He dives to a knee as the machines collide and roll away from you, the Ravager on top. It savagely attacks the Bloodwolf, swiping claws against metal, sinking its saber teeth into the shoulder of the other War Machine. 

Lifting the gun, Seomkin hesitates. He doesn’t know where to shoot, suddenly. Both of the machines are dangerous and to be killed with impunity… and yet he sees you on your knees, screaming something at the Ravager like it can hear you. Understand you. 

He aims his weapon at the Bloodwolf and squeezes the trigger, firing bursts of heavy artillery at it. He feels the vibration of the gun’s kick against his shoulder, feels the heat from the muzzle, watches as both machines startle. The Bloodwolf lets out a sonic shriek, knocking Seokmin backward. 

Rolling to recover, he curses when he sees his attack left both machines startled, distracting the Ravager, losing its advantage as the machines untangle. The Bloodwolf skirts backward, zeroing in on Seokmin as he rises to his feet, aiming. A ripple goes through the Bloodwolf and Seomkin’s HUD calls out that it’s engaged in a projectile shield. 

“Fuck,” he kisses. 

You’re on your feet again, but your back is to the machines. You look right at him, chest heaving, bloody and so entirely human that it nearly takes Seokmin right out of the fight from the shock of it. The Bloodwolf notices and goes for you again, but the Ravager lurches forward.

As though the Bloodwolf had expected the defensive mode, it pivots at the last second and sinks its teeth into the neck of the Ravager. The machine screams, metal grinding on metal. You hear the sound and turn, a look of acute horror coming to your face as you scream. Seokmin hears it and his blood turns to ice. 

You’re upset for the machine. 

He doesn’t have time to think about it. He runs for you as the Ravager screeches, limbs flailing and kicking as the Bloodwolf’s lockjaw engages, crushing through heavy plating and machinery in the Ravager’s neck. Warning signals light up along the machine’s body as it goes into failure, its savage attacker ripping at the rest of it with its claws, tearing it to pieces. 

You’re screaming when Seokmin reaches you, barely aware of him as he skids next to you. He realizes there’s a gun in your hand, his HUD picking it up with a readout: PLEDIS CORP… STANDARD ISSUE VOLT… CORE BATTERY DEAD…

“Come on,” Seokmin urges, voice shaking. He can hear his breath, feel the adrenaline making him shake. “Come with me.”

“I’m not leaving her,” You growl, voices savage, eyes wild and wide. Your voice is broken, not what he expected. “Zahra!” 

The Bloodwolf gives a hard jerk and twists the Ravager’s neck. There’s a loud crunch and the HUD in Seokmin’s helmet flashes as the Ravagers system flashes before shutting off, the machine going cold, nothing but metal and sparks. 

“Zahra!” Your scream this time is broken. A cry. A plea. 

The Bloodwolf lets go and twists its head toward you. The Ravager - Zahra, a named machine - doesn’t move. Steam hisses from its ruined chassis, and a guttural grinding noise follows as something inside of it whirs all wrong until it stops, leaving only sparks and twisted metal. 

It’s gone.

And then the Bloodwolf is climbing over the wreckage. You’re nearly doubled over in agony, hands wrapped around your middle as you let out a scream that Seokmin thinks will haunt every one of his dreams for the rest of his life. 

There are bigger problems, though, like the eyes blazing like twin suns that have settled on you. Seokmin lifts the gun, swapping from traditional artillery to energy, like the gun you had been using. The weapon hums as it charges, and he commands his HUD to fully charge the weapon - it means he’ll have a single shot. 

“Get down,” he barks at you. He doesn’t mean to be harsh. You don’t seem to care, ducking behind him and covering your head. 

The Bloodwolf lunges just as the weapon in Seokmin’s hand reaches full charge. He aims and pulls the trigger, feeling the intense kick of the gun and the heat as the world turns blue from the pulse of energy that cracks through the open sky between him and the Bloodwolf. 

A burst of blue detonates against the machine’s armor. Sparks, fire and something thick and black sprays out with it. He thinks it’s fluid or oil - maybe both. The force of the impact knocks the Bloodwolf backward and it crashes to the ground hard, rolling in a shriek of metal. 

It’s down, and somehow not dead. 

Warning lights flash across Seokmin’s HUD as the Bloodwolf’s stabilizers engage, grinding into the dirt to force the shattered frame upright. Its energy core is flickering but alive, pumping heat and power through ruptured conduits. It’s running on fumes and rage, clinging to its last command to eliminate. 

Fucking Bloodwolfs.

Seokmin doesn’t wait. He slaps the mag release, the spent cartridge ejecting with a hiss. His hand finds another on his belt and jams it in, resetting the rifle with a practiced snap. 

“Full charge,” he orders, voice clipped. 

It flashes red. 

FAILURE. CHARGE TO 60 PERCENT.

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Charge to sixty.” 

The weapon hums in response, power surging through the coil. In front of him, the Bloodwolf lurches forward, broken and staggering but still on the hunt. 

A greenlight flashes for the full charge and Seokmin fires, a steady stream of energy rounds tearing through the night. Blue-white flashes slice into the Bloodwolf’s exposed internals. Seokmin’s HUD tags each weakness and he shoots for it with deadly precision. 

With a final warbled howl, the Bloodwolf collapses onto its haunches. It stutters, kicking in death throws as Seokmin goes through a full round of energy again. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, popping the mag and replacing it, charging the weapon again. 

Fires. 

The HUD flashes. 

CORE FAILURE. STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE.

The War Machine shudders, a final convulsion racing down its frame. Smoke vomits from its shattered maw, limbs jerky. Then nothing. Just the hiss of burning fuel and the slow drip drip drip of hydraulic fluid onto scorched earth. 

Seokmin eases his finger off the trigger, lowering the rifle slowly. Only then does he realize his hands are shaking. And then he remembers you’re there, standing behind him.

Slowly, he turns to look at you. You’re crusted in blood and dust, hands trembling at your sides. You’re still staring at the lifeless Ravager, the machine you called Zahra. Silent. Tearstained. But you’re alive, which means for the first time since he can remember, Seokmin isn’t alone. 

The weight of it nearly drops him to his knees. 

“Are you okay?” He manages to ask. The words scrape his throat raw, feeling foreign and unused. 

You don’t answer. You just keep looking at the Ravager, and he sees it in your eyes. Grief. A grief that he’s carried for years, somehow, grief that he didn’t know until this moment he felt. The grief of realizing you’re utterly alone and that you always will be, that no one else will ever be with you again. 

And then you crumble, standing one second, gone the next. He barely catches you before you hit the ground, spent and unmoving. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The power flickers in the Station as Seokmin sets the med scanner over your chest. Bruised ribs. A fractured arm. Signs of energy weapon burns along your shoulder. He works in silence, moving efficiently as he dresses wounds and resets the fractures.

His touch is hesitant. He doesn’t want to do too much, doesn’t want to violate your space. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work or how he is allowed to fix you, just that he feels like he’s supposed to. He’s a trained medic, mending is part of his instincts. 

You don’t speak. Don’t even flinch, eyes fluttering in a fever dream from the pain medication dripping through the IV. 

If he’s honest with himself, he is afraid you’ll vanish, that he’ll wake up and this will all have been some strange dream, that this won’t be real. 

“Zahra,” you mutter.

He freezes for a beat. Looks down at your face, expression slack in fevered sleep. He doesn’t know why you keep calling out for the War Machine, but the way it leaves your lips makes him think you had some sort of relationship with it. That it was important to you.

He thinks back to how the machine protected you - sacrificed itself from you. 

And he doesn’t understand. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Seokmin hears the sound of the blanket before he sees you move. For a second, he thinks it’s nothing, just the wind outside or the walls of the Station creaking like they sometimes do. But then it happens again, followed by a gasp of pain. 

He whirls around, heart hammering. You’re trying to sit up and he freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, hands half-curled, hovering like he’s forgotten the steps of being a person. And well… he has. He doesn’t know how to do this - wasn’t meant to. 

And then he realizes you’re watching him. 

“You’re awake?” It comes out like a question, his voice rough and too dry.

You don’t answer. You just blink at him with wide, wary eyes. He’s not prepared for whatever this is. He knows blood and metal. Machine signatures and isolation. Not idle conversation and people.

“You’ve been out for a few days,” he says slowly, like he’s remembering how to shape the words. “I’ve been - um. Giving you fluids. You were hurt so I tried to help. Obviously didn’t get to all of it, didn’t want to like… trespass.” 

Silence. You look around the room, trying to make sense of your surroundings. He watches you track the ceiling fan, the water canister, the half-mended patch on the wall. You frown.

“This is my Station. Station 0218.” Your eyes drift back to him and he clears his throat, clarifying, “I’m an Outrider. I eliminate machines that cross back over the Edge.” 

Still nothing. Your mouth parts like you’re going to say something or ask a question, but the words don’t come. You lean back instead, slow and cautious. Your eyes never leave him, like you’re not sure if you’re really safe. That makes his heart pang, but he understands.

He wants to say more, wants to ask who you are. To tell you that he’s never met another person before. But it’s too much all at once and he doesn’t know where to start, so instead, he stays silent. Sits down on a chair far away from you, knee bouncing, fingers playing with that same loose thread on his shirt. 

The conversation starts with a question so soft, he swears he imagines it. 

“What’s your name?” 

He glances up at you. You’re propped on a folded arm, eyes watching him. Your blanket is pulled tight, like you’re cold. He reaches up to adjust the temperature in the room, trying to keep you comfortable. 

“Seokmin.” 

You nod slowly. “Just Seokmin?”

“Just Seokmin’s enough, I guess.”

You go quiet again. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to the silence. It’s the talking that challenges him, the putting together what he’s supposed to do and say. 

“Where are we?” Your voice stirs the air, turns it to static.

“Umm, Station 0218.”

“But where is that?”

“I’m not really sure. I always thought it might be Texas.” Something flashes across your face but it happens so fast he thinks he imagined it. You nod your head, staring up at the ceiling. “What about you? What were you doing out there alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. I had Zahra.”

“The Ravager?”

“The Ravager has - had - a name.”

“You named it?”

Your eyes snap down to his, licking with fire and irritation. “Zahra already had a name. She’s not - wasn’t - a thing. She was sentient, and intelligent, and alive in the ways that counted. She was trying to get me somewhere safe and she died for it. For me.”

Your voice cracks hard and you bite your lip, looking away from him as tears pool in your eyes. Seokmin’s mouth opens but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to any of that. None of this makes sense to him, machines with names, machines that think, machines that are alive.

Well, since the Machine War, at least. 

“That was a War Machine,” he says slowly, trying not to anger you. “I’ve spent years killing machines that come through here, a threat to the rest of the world. War machines are meant to kill people. That is their entire purpose.”

“Well don’t you know everything? Not all machines are like that.”

“There’s no like that or not like that. Machines are programmed-”

“Machines are more than programming, Outrider. They’re not just circuits and metal. How do you think the War started in the first place? They can think for themselves and make choices. That's why they rebelled.”

Rebelled? 

Seokmin starts to think that maybe you had hit your head. He frowns at you, trying to puzzle out your words. If you hit your head hard enough to start spouting nonsense, he might have to try and contact the Alliance to get you real medical help, the kind that he can’t give you.

He doesn’t know what the process is for that. They never trained him on how to help another human being. 

As though you can sense where his thoughts are going, you glare. “I’m not crazy.” 

Seokmin thinks about that night, the way the Ravager ran, the way it shielded you with its body. The way it turned to face the Bloodwolf, even when it meant its own destruction. That’s not how machines fight - at least not in his experience. It isn’t how they were designed. 

But…

“Alright,” he relents. “Alright.”

Your expression softs, just slightly. You look down at the nightstand and see the water, reaching for it to take a few long draughts. When your thirst is satisfied, you sag, like this conversation has taken everything out of you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, eyes fluttering. “For taking care of me.” 

“Yeah. No problem.”

You don’t hear it, though, already asleep. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Chicken crackles in the pan. It’s not Friday, but now that you’re semi-functioning, Seokmin feels like it’s important to give you real food. He flips it with a practiced flourish, mindful not to burn the bottom. He doesn’t play his favorite song, trying to let you get your rest, so he hums it under his breath instead. 

Footsteps draw his attention. He turns sharply to see you standing at the end of the kitchen, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a makeshift cloak. Your eyes are wide and curious as you scan the room. Your hair is a bit messy and there’s still dried blood on you, your expression hollowed out by exhaustion. But you’re on your feet and, most importantly, awake. 

“Hey,” Seokmin greets tentatively. He’s trying not to sound overeager, but he’s not sure it’s working. “You should be resting.”

“Smells good,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the pan before they roam again. “Wanted to see exactly where I am, too.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to protest but you’re already walking further into the room, cautious but determined. You glance at every console and shelf like you’re in a museum of forgotten things, the curiosity turning your face from wary to delighted. 

He steps back from the stove and gestures to one of the four chairs at the table. He always wondered why there were four chairs - he’s only ever needed one. “You can sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Can I look for a minute?”

He nods, not wanting to stop you. How could he? He’s loathe to say anything that’ll make you want to leave, desperate to keep you happy and here. The only human he’s ever known, the only one not taken from his memory. 

You approach one of the wall panels and point. “What’s that?”

“Environmental stabilizer. Keeps the temperature manageable. Pretty difficult with us being in the desert and all, but I keep it as well-maintained as I can.”

You nod, absorb it. Move on to a different screen near the kitchen, pointing. He smiles to himself, understanding what you mean. “Sensor relay. Connects to the perimeter motion detectors and shows the feed from the mounted cameras. I have a ton now, I use spare parts from the machines I… decommission.”

He chooses the word carefully, suddenly not wanting to say that he kills machines. From the narrowed eyes, he thinks you notice. Instead of saying anything, though, you continue to move around his home, fascinated by all the things you find there. It’s like you’ve never been in a building before, pointing with a question at objects even basic homes should have. 

Everytime you ask a question, his heart skips a little, like it’s a test he might fail. Everytime you glance at him, his throat goes dry. He’s never talked this much to another person that he can recall, and he feels so out of practice. 

He clears his throat and lifts the pan. “Dinner’s ready.” 

You tilt your head when he shows you the chicken in the pan. Lured by the promise of a meal, you drift to the table and sit down, hugging the blanket closer around your shoulders. He lets you keep it, sure that it feels warm and secure. 

When he plates the food, you smile at him. It’s small and fleeting but it’s real. His stomach twists in the best kind of way, like maybe this isn’t just a glitch in the simulation of his life. Like maybe you were meant to be here. 

Seokmin sits down across from you. Both of you hesitate before giving awkward smiles, cutting into your meal. He can’t help but watch you struggle with the knife, holding it awkwardly in your hand. Almost like you’ve never used one before. 

He doesn’t ask. You don’t explain, instead using it to stab and tear chunks of chicken off before popping it into your mouth and chewing vigorously. Grease drips down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand before chasing it with gulps of water.

You turn your attention to the large window overlooking the yard and sprawling desert. The glass is dirty and reinforced with shatter-resistant polymer, but the dying sun still leaks through in warm streaks of orange and violet. 

“It’s quiet here.”

“Always. I’m the only person here so… just having you is unusual.”

“Only person?” You ask, raising your brows. “Is that why you went out on a limb to save me?”

“Not at all. That was my job - the entire reason I’m here. Outriders protect the perimeter of the world from the machines who try to pass back into the New World.” 

That makes you hum, brows pinched, mouth twisted furiously. He can tell you don’t agree, like there’s something in what he says that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t press you further though, afraid again to push too hard, to make you leave. 

“Seems lonely.” 

“I…” He exhales. Doesn’t know how to answer, hand tightening around his fork. He doesn’t have a response that sounds light or comforting. The truth is ugly and tender. “Yeah. It is.”

You nod. “I’m lonely too now.” Your eyes shine in the light of the Station and he can tell you’re thinking about the Ravager - Zahra. “Can we bring her body back? Whatever's left of it?” Your eyes drift to the tray of spare parts on the counter. “Not to salvage. But to… honor.” 

“I… Yeah. Yes we can do that.”

 You nod. Bite into chicken. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 67 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An orange sun crests the horizon when Seokmin steps outside. The air is dry and tinged with the sharp metallic scent that always follows a machine's death. The wind’s low, kicking up dust in little curls around his boots. 

Behind him, the door hisses open, followed by your footsteps. You don’t say anything as you step beside him. You haven’t said much since dinner last night. He doesn’t need you to speak, though. Just your careful presence, starling him when he remembers you’re there or the extra sounds of another person existing in his living space is all that he needs. 

You look at the edge of the yard, biting your lip. He can tell you’re trying not to cry, eyes landing on the piles of scrap he’d spent the early hours of morning bringing back to the Station. The Ravager is nothing but a broken silhouette now. 

You step off the porch and he follows, the two of you walking in silence. As you near the debris, you slow before dropping to your knees beside the twisted metal. He’s hauled countless machines back to his Station but for the first time, this feels different. Personal. He hesitates a few yards away, stuck between fascination and disturbance at the way you sniff. 

Reaching outward, you rest your hand on a curved plate of the machine’s shoulder. It’s dented and scorched, reflecting the desert sun. 

“She was gentle,” you tell him, though you’re not looking at him. “I know she’s a War Machine. That she was programmed for something else. But she was far superior than what the Makers ever dreamed for her. Smart. Emotional. Decidedly clever. She was more than a machine.”

Hesitantly, Seokmin approaches you. He drops down to a crouch, looking at the twisted machine. “She protected you.”

You nod, knuckles bleeding of color from how hard you grip the edge of the frame. “She was more than a machine. I know you don’t understand.” 

“I…” He wants to say something. Anything. Doesn’t know how to relate to the loss of a machine, doesn’t know how to console you when all he’s ever done is butcher them. “Do you want to reconstruct what we can? We can place her in the back, like she’s still protecting you.”

Wordlessly, you nod. 

Together, you start gathering parts. Seokmin moves with you, unsure at first which pieces matter and which don’t. He tries to watch what you pick up - armor plates, ruined slats of legs, twisted remnants of jaw - and he helps you. The pieces are heavy, sometimes needing both of you to lift and carry while stopping in between. 

Ravagers are massive machines, standing several meters high when they’re on four legs and nearly as tall as a two-story building when on their hind legs. Built like massive cats, they have powerful shoulders and legs, made for speed and tearing. This Ravager - Zhara - seems to be missing a tail, but Seokmin knows they’re like powerful whips tipped with blades. 

In tandem, you lay out the pieces. Seokmin starts building from the base. There’s so much damaged metal and twisted parts that it’s hard to sort out. You cry while you work, silent and calm but steady, an endless stream. This isn’t collecting pieces and building a machine for you. For you, this is remembering something that was important. 

Seokmin jogs to the work bench to collect extra items. Strips of metal, rods and sheets that he throws into a wagon before hauling over. You look up at him, watching curiously as he dumps it all out. He grabs a piece of metal and starts melting it down, hammering it into the shape he wants before fitting it into the gap between shoulderplates needed to piece together the basic frame.

“Oh.” Your smile is brief and wobbly. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t know what to say. So he starts welding other pieces together, trying to fill the gaps. Slowly, Zahra comes together. It’s clumsy and haphazard and doesn’t properly capture the glory of a Ravager, but he watches light return to your eyes as the sun rises to its zenith. 

You pause for a quiet lunch. Some protein bars, water, dried fruit. He thinks about the offering of food he left out in the desert all those weeks ago and wonders if it really was a mirage or not. He shakes it off because it doesn’t matter. Now he’s not alone and there’s a machine to finish piecing together. 

The sun shifts overhead. The wind comes and goes. Seokmin loses track of time in the rhythm of labor, in the strange companionship of your shared silence. For once, he’s not alone. And though this isn’t how he imagined meeting someone would go, he doesn’t hate it. 

He glances over at you as you carefully place what’s left of one of the machine’s sabers into the ground. There’s only one, but it doesn’t batter. Carefully, he welds what’s left of the skull into the mainframe. 

It’s the last piece to the skeleton. Both of you take a few steps back, sweaty and covered in dust, dirty and tired. It’s crude and raw, barely more than a silhouette of damaged metal and bastard pieces from other machines. But it has weight to it. A shape. A bit of presence. 

“Thank you.” He looks at you. You’re staring at the sculpture. “She would have liked you.”

“I don’t… think she would.” 

You seem to consider his words. His job. “She would have understood.” You look at him then, eyes fathomless. Beautiful, if he’s honest. “I told you, machines are more than what they’re programmed for. Given time, she’d understand.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he nods. You look back at the machine and sit down, crossing your legs. Unsure what to do but not wanting to leave you alone - or be alone - he sits down beside you. It’s strange, but not awkward, two strangers honoring something, familiar to one, foreign to another. 

Somewhere in the silence, Seokmin realizes that something new is being built between you, too. Hope, maybe. His hope that maybe he’s not alone, your hope that maybe Zahra’s legacy can live on here. He doesn’t know how long you’ll stay. Has no idea what happens next.

But he’s not alone.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

Seokmin wakes up to a strange morning. Cloudy skies stretch over the desert and fall strays closer to winter, making it colder than usual. He checks weather reports to see cold winds coming through from the northwest, cooling off everything and bringing heavy winds. 

That’s not what makes it strange, though.

When he wakes up and heads into the kitchen, there’s a mug on the counter. Soft footsteps echoing through the Station that don’t belong to him. The quiet hum of someone else’s existence, someone else orbiting his space.

You’re quiet, but he’s not used to the sounds of someone else. The extra breath he hears when you walk into the living room from the medical room and see him, gasping like you’ve forgotten you’re not alone. The slow but wobbling smile you give him, unsure what to do with yourself.

That makes two of you. 

He likes this strange, though. He’s a little unwilling to acknowledge the way you make his heart pound, the way he wants to ask you a million questions, the way he wants your voice to fill every gap in the Station because finally - finally - there’s someone else to fill the empty spaces. 

Instead of pressuring you into talking, he sits down at the kitchen table and starts to tinker with some of the spare parts he’s collected over the years. It’s a flimsy excuse to distract himself as you pad the Station, barefoot and trailing your fingers along the edges of shelves as you continue your exploration from the other night. 

“So,” he says, trying to make his voice normal. “You sleep okay?”

“No. All I did for a few days was sleep, though.”

“Right. I could give you something for that if you want?” 

You shake your head. Drifting to the living area, you stand near the window. It’s massive, one giant floor-to-ceiling portal. You hover near it, eyes distant as you watch the passing grey of the day. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Seokmin starts slowly. “But where are you from?”

You don’t answer at first. Your eyes stay focused on the desert, as though you’re waiting for something. Watching for something. That makes him a little nervous, glancing at the panel on the wall. Nothing picks up on the scanners, so he tries to relax. 

“I don’t really know.”

He looks at you, brows raised. “You don’t know?”

“I was raised in a machine facility. It was underground. I don’t think I was ever supposed to see the outside world. I don’t even know what it was called. There’s a few humans they keep around for convenience. Testing. Maintenance. That kind of stuff.”

“How… close to here?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe a week. Zahra and I had been running from Gariel for about a week.”

“Gariel?” You shiver when he says the name. “The Bloodwolf?”

“Yes. He was sent after us.” You turn away from the window suddenly, like maybe you’re afraid the Bloodwolf - Gariel - will suddenly appear on the milky horizon. You pad to the couch, sitting down and curling your feet under you. “They studied us but mostly they liked to keep us for things like helping fix their damage. Trying to puzzle us out. Sometimes as a spy.” 

Your fingers tighten on the couches arm and you stare off into the distance, eyes unseeing. “Some of the machines were kind. They make their own decisions. A lot do not support what the Machine Empire has turned into, that it’s lost its way. Zahra wasn’t the first to try and help me.” You hesitate, swallowing. “She was the last, I guess.”

Seokmin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clenching his jaw until it starts to ache. He takes a deep breath. There are so many questions he wants to ask you, so many things that don’t make sense. He thinks about the modded plating on the Skulker all those weeks ago, the way it seemed like someone had been mending and modding machines. 

“So you weren’t born in a colony or a city?”

You shake your head. “Not a lot of humans in that place. Probably less than fifty.”

“I don’t understand,” he says after a beat of silence. “If machines have humans hostage, how has the Alliance not done anything? There is no more Machine Empire. You talk about it like it’s present, but the Alliance won.”

Your face darkens at the mention of the Alliance. He wants to know why, but you don’t say anything. You pick at loose threads on the arm of his couch, decidedly silent. His hands tighten on the wrench in his hand. He wants to know more. 

But you look fragile. Wary. Your guard is up and the last thing he wants to do is push you away. He has the feeling that the second you perceive him as a threat, the moment you think you can’t trust him, you’ll be gone, nothing more than another hallucination to keep him up at night. 

So instead of pushing you further, he says, “Well. Do you want lunch? I’m starving.” 

You give him an appreciative smile. “Alright.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 46 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

He doesn’t remember the last time he tried this hard for Friday night dinner. He always levels up his game for Fridays, but this is new, because he’s not just doing this ritual for himself. He’s doing it for you. His nerves make his stomach coil and he glances at you nervously from the corner of his eye as you enter the kitchen, toweling your damp hair. 

The Station smells good. He pan sears steak, the garlic from the most recent airship drop popping in the oil. The butter has browned and melted, soaking in rosemary before he starts to baste the steak, spooning the mixture over tender meat. Vegetables roast in the oven, the timer ticking down.

“You’re cooking cooking,” you say, surprise in your voice.

“It’s Friday.” When you give him a confused look and tilt of your head, he smiles fondly. “Friday’s are my favorite day. On Friday, I cook real meals with real food. Play my favorite song. Make a night out of it. Try to enjoy it.”

You drift closer, watching him. “What’s your favorite song?”

He smiles, happy that you ask. He taps the panel on the wall quickly, turning on the speakers in the Station. The thrumming starts low and soft and you tilt your head, eyes going round as you listen. He watches as the surprise turns into utter delight, a smile spreading across your face that is so blinding he drops the spoon.

It clatters and he curses, snatching it out of the pan and hissing at the heat as it bites at his fingers. You’re none the wiser, so focused on the song as a raspy voice comes through the speaker that you miss his sputtering entirely. 

Seokmin feels hot all over, a combination of embarrassment, the heat of the stove, and watching silver tears pool at the corners of your eyes as you listen to the music that has kept him afloat all this time, like you’ve never heard something more moving.

A tear spills over, rolling down your cheek. You wipe it quickly, laughing and giving him an embarrassed smile. 

“I’ve never listened to a song.” He pauses, open-mouthed. “Zahra told me about music. I’ve never heard it before, though. I like this.”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I like this one. You can listen to music any time you want. Use any panel in the Station and hit the button that says playlist.” 

“I can’t read.”

“Alright. I’ll show you, yeah?” 

You nod and Seokmin feels himself smile. Real. 

He turns back to finishing dinner, flipping off the oven and the stovetop. He sings a little as the last verse to the song begins, soft and low, mostly to himself. He hasn’t had an audience ever, and as he turns to take the pan off the stove, he suddenly remembers you’re there and his voice tapers off. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, a little breathless.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I’m not used to having people here.”

“Oh. Your voice is nice.” 

It hits him in the stomach like a punch. He feels his throat constrict and it takes him a second to form an answer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You can sing any time you want,” you tell him, drifting to the table to sit, knowing he’s ready for dinner. “I’ll listen.”

Seokmin’s heart soars. He doesn’t know what to do with that, what to do with you. You’re new and uncharted territory, and seeing you sitting at the table, eager and waiting… it does something to him that he cannot explain, that he doesn’t understand. The ache inside of him all these years finally subsides and he thinks that for the first time in his life, he might be thankful for the machines.

All because they brought you to him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE

Without the sun beating down on him, working outside is almost tolerable. The dust still sucks though, biting at Seokmin and getting into his eyes as the wind rips through the Station. He could work inside, but he’s loath to open the door until the wind dies down. 

You seem content, despite the dust. You lean over him, chewing your lip as you watch him sitting on the workbench, elbow-deep in the guts of a broken energy conduit. If the wind ripping at the metal roof and making it flex bothers you, you don’t let on. 

He supposes you’re just content to be outside. He’s noticed that you like to linger near the window a lot, whether you’re waiting for something or because you’ve never seen the topside of the world, he isn’t sure. He still has questions to ask you, things he needs answered. 

Instead, he lets you enjoy your peace. Lets you grow accustomed to him as he attempts to get accustomed with you. You both navigate one another, two unsure satellites that are curious. 

“Want to learn how to strip these?” He asks, pretending his heart isn’t hammering at how close you are. 

“Strip them?”

He lifts the panel he’s working on. “See the copper threading and core plating? You don’t want to break them - they’re still usable.”

“Okay.”

“We want to remove them, though. We can use them for repairs, other things in the Station… they’re always good to keep on hand. We don’t have a lot here and…” 

He trails off, realizing he keeps saying we. Like he’s already decided you’re a part of the Station, like this lone operation has already adapted to a two-man system. It makes his mouth go dry and he looks at the plating, hands shaking. He hates how quickly he’s already adapted to you, the way he just… wants you to stay. 

“So you use materials from the machines you kill. I… have some skill with that from where I’m from. Not a lot. I was more of a study subject than a mechanic.” 

That makes his heart ache. He explains, “It’s about using what’s left. I don’t like to waste.”

You nod. He scoots over on the bench and lets you step over, sitting down stiffly next to him. He places a few pieces in front of  you and passes pliers and a heated plasma knife. “Try - and please don’t burn yourself on the knife. It could cut through your fingers.”

Tentatively, you pick up the tools. They’re a little awkward in your hands, but you figure out a grip that feels comfortable to you. He watches as you start to follow the motions he shows you, listening to his quiet tutelage. You’re clumsy at first, but he doesn’t correct you unless you ask. 

After a while, you free a copper wire and look up at him, a small smile twitching on your lip. “Is that okay?”

He smiles, larger than he intends to. “Yes. That’s perfect. Here, let’s keep going.” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 71 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SEVEN

It’s the middle of the night when the Station’s power grid flicks off. It snaps him from his sleep, his eyes popping open and his heart hammering temporarily in panic. He realizes that the emergency lights are on, and the sudden silence is just because air isn’t rattling through the vent in the ceiling. 

Groaning, he swings his legs out of bed. Stretching, he feels all his joints pop and he lets himself sit for a second, blinking away the sleepiness. Then he hears your soft voice call him from a distance. He looks up sharply, so unused to hearing his name. 

Seomkin jumps to his feet and out the bedroom door, panic nipping at his heels again. You’re standing in the living room though, shrouded in the barest light from the emergency lights. You’re in a baggy shirt and sweatpants that don’t fit - his - your eyes cast to the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” The question is soft but firm.

“What happened?”

It takes him a beat to realize the power going out woke you up. “Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s just the power grid. It does that sometimes. Whenever the days are cooler it works less hard but now that the temperature climbed back up, it probably overloaded. We can fix it.”

Your eyes drift from the ceiling and settle on him. Something passes on your face, an emotion he doesn’t understand. You stare at him, your silence so heavy that he’s about to ask you what’s wrong again until he realizes in his hurry he didn’t put a shirt on. He’s in just sweats, slung low on his hips. 

A shiver threatens to climb up his spine under your intense stare. He clears his throat and just his thumb back toward his room. “Let me just get dressed and we can fix it. Not a big deal.”

“Alright.” 

The way his heart hammers all the way back to his room makes him curse himself. He hopes you don’t feel weird about the missing shirt - he has made a conscious effort to make you comfortable, to adjust his own living habits now that you’re here. 

It’s important to him, making this space safe for you too. Though he doesn’t think you were bothered, the thought weighs on him as he pulls on a soft cotton tee and slides boots onto his feet. When he reappears in the living room, he hopes he’s more composed than he was a moment ago.

You’re standing by the door, a sliver sliver of moonlight splashing across your face. His steps slow as he approaches, watching you as you look out the door, eyes unfocused. You look like a wraith in the dark, the moon flashing in your eyes, turning them silver. 

For the briefest of seconds, Seokmin wonders if you're actually human. Then you turn to look at him and he shoves the ridiculous thought away. Your eyes are round, pupils dilated in the dark. Entirely human. Soft. a little unreadable.

Silently, he grabs two flashlights from the drawer in the kitchen. He passes you one and you take it from him, fingers brushing. He ignores the flare of heat from where your fingertips brush his in favor of turning on his flashlight and leading you to the massive shed on the southside of the Station’s yard that houses the generator. 

While it doesn’t keep most of the dust out, it does an okay job at keeping the grit out of the machinery and keeping the sun off the humming generator. Fueled by the energy the solar panels collect on the roof of the station, the generator is pretty trustworthy for the most part. 

Inside of the shed, he ties his flashlight off to a rope in the ceiling used for exactly this purpose. You stand tentatively behind him, shining the light over his shoulder as he removes the massive side panel, grunting with effort. 

With the side revealed, Seokmin slowly walks you through the schematics of the generator, pointing to circuit boards and how everything is routed from the external solar banks to the emergency thermal core that is powering the few lights in the Station and keeping it online.

You nod along, pointing to a flashing light. “Why is this pulsing red?”

“It’s a surge indicator. It means it’s getting overloaded, probably because of the sudden increased input to keep the station cooler. We’ll need to reroute it to a different, stronger breaker until we can fix this one.”

“Can you show me?”

“Mhmm.”

He guides his hands along the switch board, fingers slow as you track his movement. When he stops at the switcher, you tentatively lift your hand and set it daintily on top. He nods his head and you shift closer to him, chest almost pressed to his back. 

You hesitate. “You smell like copper and dust.”

He snorts, cheeks turning red. “Sorry, I sort of-” 

“I like it,” you interrupt. “It’s familiar. Safe.” 

That stops him cold. Whatever joke he was about to make dies on his tongue. You say nothing else, just flip the switch like he showed you. The generator rumbles to life, and you flinch, hand snapping back. His lips twitch, trying not to laugh. The overhead light sputters, then glows steady, casting the room in pale warmth. He squints against it until his eyes adjust.

“Nice,” he says with a smile, giving you a thumbs up. You grin back at him and his heart flips again. “We should be good now. Thanks for the help.” 

“I like helping.” 

“I’m glad.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little awkward. “There’s, uh… always plenty to do around here.”

It comes out softer than he means it to, less a statement, more an invitation. A quiet offer. Stay. Stay longer. Please don’t leave him. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t know if you catch it, if you understand what he’s really asking. But you nod, your smile curling gently at the corners. “Okay. I’ll help, then.”

Just like that, something anchors inside him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 62 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TEN

Outside, the sun begins its slow descent behind the spine of the Gods, bleeding molten gold across the horizon. The sky fades from cobalt to amber, rust, rose, each color sliding over the sand in a hazy gradient. The wind picks up, gentle and cool tonight, stirring up dust into soft spirals that catch the last of the light and glow like embers. 

The jagged silhouette of the landscape stretches long and thin, shadows etching sharp lines across the dirt. Seokmin stops in the doorway, eyes scanning the world as you tinker with something on the workbench. Everything slows beneath this kind of sky, like the world is holding its breath.

He looks at you, haloed by the slowly fading day. The sun’s final edge slips behind the mountains and for a heartbeat, it's as if time halts. You are painfully beautiful - radiant, even. Something he could only ever dream of. And it’s not because you’re the only person he knows or the only person around - well, it’s a little that. 

But there is a quiet something about you that makes his heart beat a little faster.

Above, the lights on the metal roof kick on, bathing you in a honey-warm glow. It catches in your hair and he fights the urge to reach out and tuck the loose strand behind your ear to keep it from distracting you as you work. 

Instead, he steps fully out of the doorway and toward the work bench, gently setting down a tray of cleaned parts. 

“Have you ever met one?” 

Your question is loud in the silence, catching him off guard. He looks at you, brows pulled together in confusion. “One what?”

“A machine.”

“No.” 

“Do you kill them all?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

You nod, pulling wire out a circuit board. “Do they run? Or do they try to kill you?”

“They’ve all tried to kill me.” 

You chew on your lip, nod your head. “That’s not always how it is, but there’s not very many machines this side of the Tilt that are sympathetic to humans. They don’t really like the Empire but… humans don’t try to understand them.”

He sits down. “This side of the Tilt?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “That’s what the machines call this part of the planet. The Tilt. There’s a lot of magnetic distortion here that makes machines’ orientation systems tilt off course. I think it’s… why your Station is where it is. It makes it harder for machines to find it and they get put right in your kill path.” 

He just stares at you.

“What?” 

“I’ve never heard it called that before. It’s not on any of the mapping or manual or training materials. The Alliance doesn’t call it anything. Beyond this is the nameless lands where the dead pockets of machine society have crawled to.”

Your fingers stop moving for the first time since he walked in. There’s a pause, a sharp, uncertain stillness, and then Seokmin clears his throat. “What do you know about the Machine War?” 

It’s the first time he’s asked the question. He barely keeps his voice from shaking, looking at you nervously when he does. Your shoulders draw up slightly and you don’t answer him right away. 

“What do you know?” You ask, turning the question on him instead.

Seokmin shifts, a little thrown by the question. He answers anyway. “It was a global uprising. Machines turned on their makers. They wanted independence, but all they really did was slaughter. Cities fell, millions died. They became humanity's greatest threat. The Alliance Against Machines formed and pushed back. After we won, they created posts like this, dotted along the places the machines remain. We don’t take an offensive approach - just a defensive one.” 

The story comes out of him immediately. Confident. Decisive. It isn’t pride that spurs the clear way he speaks - just facts. The Machine War is something he is intimately familiar with, one of the few things he is allowed to remember and to think on. Seokmin is pretty sure he can rehearse the major events of the war in order in his sleep. 

There’s a shift in your expression. Your face is a little drawn, a faint shake of your head. You blink down at your hands like you’re trying to find something to say and you fail.

“What’s wrong?”

“We learned about the war differently and…” Your mouth pinches. “I don’t think your understanding of the world is accurate.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then tell me what you think it is.”

Seokmin sees the chance for his answers vanish like the mirage all those weeks ago. You close up in front of him, shoulders folding in like a shield. You drop the things in your hands and pull your knees up on the bench, hugging them to your chest. You look away from him to hide whatever expression is on your face and he suppresses a sigh, not wanting you to hear how defeated he suddenly feels. 

There is a yawning ravine between the two of you, and he’s not sure how to fix it. Doesn’t even really understand what it is. There is something about the way you tiptoe around him that makes him feel like he’s not seeing something, like there is an obvious clue he’s missing. 

He really wishes he could understand what it was. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 61 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY SIX

The days trailing your conversation on the workbench are quiet. Sometimes uncomfortably so. Seokmin doesn’t know how to broach the topic again, and you seem reserved, like you’re afraid he’s going to ask. 

You still help him with the Station. You’re a quick learner, good with your hands it's helpful to have you around. You’ve turned the medical bay into your room, and he’s helped you make it less sterile and more homey. It’ll be inconvenient if either of you needs it, but he doesn’t think about that when he gives you a little metal sculpture of a Ravager he made to put in there.

All he wants is for you to feel like maybe it’s home.

You still eat dinner with him every night. You help him cook on Fridays and now you know most of the words to the music he likes, singing about the Texas sun beneath your breath. He likes to hear you sing, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it's a little offkey. 

You still sit next to him on the workbench and strip wiring or help recalibrate the solar panels, but the rhythm is a little off. Like it’s almost perfect, if it weren’t for that conversation hanging over your heads. 

It gnaws at him.

At night, he can barely sleep. He sleeps with his bedroom door cracked open, just in case you need to talk - want to talk. It’s also because he’s so afraid you’ll leave, that he won’t hear your footsteps as you decide to leave him here in his solitary confinement once again. 

Seokmin doesn’t know what he’ll do if you leave. He’d let you, of course. Your stay here is voluntary. He thinks it might kill him, though. He thinks of the silence before you were here, the way it would press against the inside of his ears like static, like something waiting to collapse.

Just the sound of you coughing in a room a few yards away or the sound of the shower while he’s writing his daily logs now keeps him afloat, keeps him connected. 

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had atrophied - not his muscles, but his personhood. Something deeper. Something spiritual, deep inside of him. Being alone had never mattered before because it had never been optional. 

But now… 

He doesn’t know how he can go back to that. 

He remembers reading passages in the Outrider guidebook that loneliness is a common symptom of his job and how to deal with it. The routine of his life had always worked: build something. Fix something. Clean. Maintain the Station. Kill the machines. 

What it failed to explain was how solitude could sharpen a person like a blade, but it could also dull someone if left too long and abandoned. It hadn’t captured how it felt to rust, how it felt to break apart bit by bit. Erode. 

It keeps him up at night, spiralling and spiralling and spiralling and spi-

The Station’s proximity alarm goes off, making him flinch. It’s a sharp, shrill sound that splits the silence like lightning. Seokmin is out of his bed and in the hall in seconds, his immediate first thought not being on the machine that the alarm warns of, but the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the alarm. 

You stumble into the living room, silhouetted by the red emergency lights. He taps the panel in the kitchen, silencing the alarm and the lights. The Station comes to life, low lights flickering as readout data stars coming in across the screen.

“Sorry, it goes off when machines enter my territory,” he explains, lifting his hands like he’s going to soothe you. He catches himself and drops them, turning to the screen. You dart over toward him, looking up at the screen. “It’s near the basin. Probably a scout.”

“I want to see.”

You step forward, brushing past him to squint at the screen. You might not be able to read the words, but he’s set the Station to do verbal readouts now, the audio coming through the speakers as a halting robotic voice reads the script on the screen. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 9 MPH EASTBOUND

“It’s a War Machine,” he breathes, heart squeezing in his chest. 

“It’s not hostile,” you whisper.

“You cannot tell that from a blip on the radar,” he shoots back, jaw tight. “I’m not risking the Station - or you - on a guess.” 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516147, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 13 MPH SOUTHBOUND.

“Fuck. It’s coming toward the Station.”

“It’s a PLEDIS Corp machine from the early manufacturing era,” you say quickly, chasing after him as he strides toward his gear. “Check the unit number. That’s a first-gen War Machine. PLEDIS specializes in how machines think, how they feel. They were the first to implement decision-making tech based on state of consciousness, not algorithms.”

He stops mid-step, turning to look at you. The expression on his face is somewhere between disbelief and dawning realization. You’re breathless, fists clenched at your sides.

“How do you know all of that?”

“I grew up around these things. That's all I know.”

“Well I know that a Stalkjaw is a lethal War Machine.” 

“Stalkjaws weren’t even outfitted by PLEDIS until nearly a decade later,” you continue, voice tight with urgency. “They were part of the first experimental batch sent into the field with that conscious-state tech, and they were decommissioned almost immediately. You know why.”

He does. “They wouldn’t kill.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t know for sure this one is from the same batch of decommissioned machines. That possibility is almost zero.”

“But it’s not zero.” Your voice is like steel now. “You’re not the only one who understands machines. Let me take the lead. Come with me, wear whatever armor you want. Bring whatever weapon you need. If it’s hostile, you kill it.”

“I can’t risk this on a theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s an informed judgment, shaped by years spent growing up in a machine hive.” Your tone softens, eyes searching his. “Please, Seokmin.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you kill it.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. You’ll be at risk.”

“That isn’t your choice to make.” 

Seokmin stares at you, breathing hard. Your face is set in stone, resolute and wild and a mix of something else he can’t explain. There’s a fire in your eyes, lit up by conviction. For the first time since you arrived, Seokmin realized just how deeply you believe that machines are capable of mercy and understanding. 

He swallows. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I have to believe that machines are not monsters.” Something in your voice makes him narrow his eyes at you. You’re looking at him in a way that is hesitant - afraid. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how he feels about you looking at him like you’re talking about him and not the machine. “And I think you need to understand, too.” 

Another readout comes in over the screen. The Stalkjaw is still moving toward the station. It’s slowed down, like it doesn’t care about being noticed. They’re stealthy, ambush machines and yet… This one triggered the sensor, which is rare.

Purposeful. 

“Please,” you breathe. 

He closes his eyes. War churns in his gut. Fear. Doubt. But when he opens them again, you’re still there, waiting, whole and alive and more human than anything he’s seen in years. So he nods once, sharp. 

You spin to leave, but he grabs your arm and pulls you back, too fast, too strong. You stumble into his chest. His body reacts before he does: he steadies you by the waist, and the smell of his shampoo clings to your clothes.

“Not so fast,” he mutters, voice low. “You go armored. You carry a weapon. You take point, but no heroics. The moment it makes a wrong move-”

“Deal.”

Seokmin’s bedroom is dim, lit only by the cold glow of the screen on the wall. The armor is sitting on top of the trunk where he left it the last time he wore it - the night he met you. He hasn’t needed it until now. 

Seokmin’s fingers shake a little as he lifts the chestplate and fits it carefully over your shoulders. It’s heavy, not built for someone your size, but you don’t flinch. You just stand there, letting him adjust the straps and tighten the latches at your sides.

“You know,” he says a bit sourly, eyes flicking up briefly to meet yours, “This isn't made for you. It’ll fit all wrong.”

“I’ll manage.” 

That makes him snort. The sheer gall of your confidence. 

His hands are warm where they graze your arms as he helps you pull on the thin layer of suit over the top of your clothes to keep you padded and safe in the armor. You don’t shy away from him. You lean toward him a little, like his proximity is something you welcome, like it's something you want. It sends a quiet pulse through him, a little ache of something he didn’t expect.

He first the forearm guards next, wrapping the hardened plating around your wrists and fastening them, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pulls the plating over you. He listens to each of the joints hiss and click, locking in place. 

Your breath catches as he carefully maneuvers the neck ring over your head, locking the top half of the suit to you. Last thing is the helmet, but he leaves that off for a second. You watch him with dark eyes, fathomless like the bottom of a sea.

He suddenly wants to dive in. 

“You’re not afraid,” he notes quietly, taking a breath and stepping back from the intoxication of you. 

“I am. But not of the machine.”

He pauses, breath caught. There is a tension that hums between you. He’s not quite sure he knows what it is, but it sizzles.

“You should be afraid of the machine.”

“I trust you if I’m wrong.” 

He looks at you then, really looks. Your face is steady, your eyes calm. There’s fear there, yes, but also belief. In him. In what you’re about to do. It cracks something open in his chest.

He wants you. Wants you in a way that is new and foreign. Wants you in a way he didn’t know until right now, like he had to discover it under pressure. But all that want isn’t what matters right now, so he swallows past the thick knot in his throat and passes you the helmet.

“Put this on. I’ll have your back.”

“I know.”

His heart pangs again but quickly dresses himself in lower class armor, pieces that he would use against a machine that poses a lower threat. It is scarce in comparison to the armored beetle you’ve become, but he prefers it this way. 

Taking weapons off the wall, Seokmin hands you one he thinks you’re familiar with. He can’t see your face through the tinted glass of your helmet, but your armored fingers close around the Volt and you nod, like you understand what he’s asking you to do. 

“Um,” your voice is small, halting.

“What?”

“Is… I can’t read what's on the screen.” 

He softens. He presses the side of the helmet three times. You make a sound as the helmet talks to you. “Is it reading it out loud now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Outside, the desert is black glass and silence. He walks with every muscle wound tight, armor heavy on his shoulders, his fingers twitching near the safety on the gun in his hand. He’s a shadow beside you, pacing a half-step behind and to your left, letting you lead but watching everything. Your step is confident, steady. 

The Station glows like a beacon behind the two of you. You follow the beacon to the Stalkjaw blinking in your HUD. He uses the less high-tech wrist pad, but it’s still accurate. He swipes to the machine details, just in case. 

STALKJAW… PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… LOW CENTER OF GRAVITY… SIX METERS TALL… HYDRAULIC JAW… 

That hydraulic jaw is made to crush things. It also has reinforced legs made for speed, one of the fastest machines ever built. He knows what it’s made for and what it’s supposed to do, and that knowledge knits a tight ball of tension low in his stomach. 

The ground crunches beneath his boots, soft and muted against the sand and dry earth. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, voice crackling through his ear piece. He flinches at your voice, heart fluttering at the way you say his name. “Stay close. Don’t posture. Don’t make a sound unless I say so.”

“I don’t like this.” 

“It’s walking toward us. It already sees us - the heads up display notated it. It’s moving slowly but hasn’t engaged.”

Suddenly he feels blind. You have so much more information than him and it terrifies him. 

“Maybe it’s trying to lure us out.”

“Maybe it’s just walking.”

Metal catches in the moonlight and the grip on his gun tightens. The Stalkjaw comes over the ridge, slow and deliberate. It moves unlike other machines, all of its parts compressed and greased to silence. It’s less like a hunter and more like a wanderer, pausing on the ridge as it looks down at you.

It’s built like a raptor, leaning its long neck down as its red eyes flash in the darkness, scanning you. Its body is patched with mismatched metal, all even colors. Its eyes flash green and it takes a few tentative steps down the slope toward you. Its steps are uneven and he realizes its limping - it is an old machine.

Seokmin tenses up, starting to lift his gun as it approaches, ambling closer and closer. You hold up your hand, sensing his tension and he curses, keeping himself still. The Stalkjaw gets closer. Ten yards. Seven yards. Five yards.

Stops.

The machine doesn’t move. Seokmin hears the breath of its gears whirring, blue eyes focused on you as the machine takes you in. His heart is slamming against his chest, his pulse so loud he almost doesn’t hear the whirring of the optical lenses of the machine. 

“Zahra is preserved on the Station,” you tell the machine. 

Something inside of it tickets. Seokmin is squeezing his gun so hard he thinks it might fracture in his hands. 

“You don’t need to go any further. I’m safe, Orin.”

“RECEIVED.” The robotic voice comes from the machine and Seokmin feels his stomach drop, mouth opening. “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. ORIN WISHES YOU WELL.”

The Stalkjaw steps forward, one careful foot in the sand, assessing you. Then, it pivots its torso, staring toward the Station in the distance. A second foot lifts, shifting weight, like it wants to head to the Station to see its old friend.

His heart pounds in his chest, heavy and frantic like it’s trying to break out of his ribcage. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and his fingers fumble against the grip of his rifle. 

Its metal joints hiss and vent with each movement, and Seokmin can hear the subtle, rhythmic grinding of its fractured leg. A breath gets caught in his throat.

“Stop.” His voice is raised, cutting. “There are mines embedded in the Station’s perimeter. You’ll trigger them if you try to approach.” 

The Stalkjaw doesn’t move for several seconds. A hush falls over the desert, thick and unrelenting. Then the machine slowly lifts its head, turning to face Seokmin. Its optic core glows blue-white, narrowing and adjusting. The pitch of its internal systems rises with a hum that sets Seokmin’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t realize he’s slid his thumb toward the gun’s safety until it’s already resting there, halfway to flipping it off.

“WARNING RECEIVED. PATHING RESTRICTED. ORIN THANKS YOU, OUTRIDER. ORIN INITIATING MEMORY WIPE SEQUENCE. SEQUENCE TO BE COMPLETED IN FIVE MINUTES.”

Before Seokmin can say anything, before he can even register what’s happening, the Stalkjaw turns. Its retreat is measured, slow. Each step leaves a heavy imprint in the sand. It doesn’t run. It doesn’t hide. It just leaves, one footfall after another, until it crests the ridge, moonlight painting its armor in fleeting glints of silver,  and vanishes over the edge like a shadow swallowed by night.

Seokmin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. He watches the spot where it disappeared, where the sand still shifts faintly from its passage. Nothing about this feels real.

He turns to you, voice hoarse. “Did you know that machine?”

“Yes.”

“Are we compromised?” 

You shake your head, but your breath hitches. He hears it, the start of a sound he mistakes for a sob, but then a thunderous boom tears through the night. Light flashes in the distance beyond the ridge, flaring bright as day for a heartbeat. A plume of fire erupts against the stars. Sparks scatter like embers across the sky, followed by darkness.

Seokmin doesn’t think. He throws his arm around you, yanking you close as the shockwave rolls over the desert like thunder. You collapse into his chest, trembling. His other arm comes around your back instinctively, grounding you as smoke begins to curl into the sky like a final breath.

You’re crying now. He can hear it in his earpiece, shallow, broken sobs, the kind you try to stifle but can’t. Your whole body shakes in his arms, and his own chest tightens with something he can’t name.

Then it hits him. 

Initiating memory wipe sequence. The memory wipe was a self destruction mode because of course the machines couldn’t wipe their memory without paying the ultimate price. They were never designed to be able to do that but… 

Seokmin stares at the glow on the horizon, heart sinking. The machine - Orin - wiped its own memory not to protect itself, but to protect you. It chose to die rather than risk exposing your location. Not out of programming. Out of loyalty. 

It made a choice. Not programming. Not design. 

Free will. 

It makes him question everything he’s ever known. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… WINTER STORM WATCH

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The sun rises, slow and swollen, dragging its light across the desert in streaks of gold. The Station glows at the edges, metal reflecting warm tones. Seokmin’s boots crunch softly through the sand as he follows the only trail that matters now - yours - leading away from the front door to Zahra’s grave marker that stands like a secret. 

He finds you sitting there, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The breeze is soft, but soothing, the dust manageable. He just stands and watches you for a moment - it feels like he’s watching something sacred. Untouchable. 

His chest is still tight from the night before. He could barely sleep, sick with the adrenaline, the machine’s voice, the weight of you curling against him when he pulled you close. The way you cried, long and aching, until you wore yourself out and let him take you back to the Station. 

And now you’re here, sitting alone in the morning light, and he can’t make sense of anything, least of all how he feels. 

He steps closer. You don’t look at him, but you don’t ask him to leave either. So he sits beside you, dust kicking up under his knees. There’s a quiet between you, but it doesn’t feel heavy. He glances at you. You’re staring at the small, worn marker, the name Zahra carved with care into its surface.

“I thought the Machine War was over,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

You’re quiet for a long moment before answering. “Not from where I grew up.”

“I - everything I know about machines is jumbled up. My training and everything I’ve ever been taught tells me that what I know is fact. There is nothing else. No deviation.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

His heart is pounding. “That maybe I don’t know as much as I thought I did. Before last night, all I did was kill machines that came through. And then I watched a War Machine arrive with you on its back, protecting you. All for last night to hear one speak. To hear it reason and to watch it choose.” 

You look back at Zahra’s name. “It had a name, you know.”

“Orin,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

He exhales hard, fingers digging into his palms. “It walked into the dark and exploded itself rather than risk giving away our position. And I’ve been told my whole life that machines can’t feel. That they’re just wires and protocol. I don’t even know what my purpose here is. I thought I was a guardian for humanity but it doesn’t feel that way.” 

“It’s a killing corner,” you say quietly. “We’re somewhere near the edge of the Machine Empire. It’s a dead zone for directional systems, sometimes. They get lost.”

“And I send them to their graves.” 

You glance at him now, and something in your gaze makes his breath catch. It’s the quiet pain of someone who’s had to carry the truth alone for too long. “Machines deploy from the colony I was raised in. There are Stations like this dotted across the Tilt. You pick them off as they go through before getting to society. There are more… aggressive Stations, I think. I’m not really sure.”

A few months ago, that would have made him proud. It is close enough to the truth of what he does - picks off strays trying to creep back to the reaches of humanity. Now it feels like something worse, like there is something missing in what used to hold valor. 

“Some of them,” you whisper, your words halting, “aren’t lost at all. They’re leaving. Trying to escape the tyranny of the machines. They’re not all killers - a lot aren’t. But the Machine Empire is… brutal. Crushing. Violent. Some of them would rather risk the Outriders and a chance of going somewhere that doesn’t demand violence from them.”

His heart stutters. “So every time I pulled a trigger, I might’ve been putting down a machine who just wanted peace?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him. Like that truth has been buried in your chest from the moment you met him. He thinks of your conversation on the workbench a few weeks ago, the guarded expression you wore anytime he asked questions or tried to unpuzzle things. 

Seokmin bows his head. His whole world feels like it’s tilting beneath him. All the discipline. All the protocol. The isolation. The memory wipe. The idea that he’s only able to do this job if he is totally alone, a watchful guardian whose sole purpose is to kill. 

He’d told himself it was duty. That it was worth it. That his solitude was a shield protecting others from what still crawled out of the machine war. What if it was all just a cage built on old lies?

That thought carves something deep out of him. A hollow that aches. Because if this purpose he’s clung to, if all the loneliness and fucking sacrifice of having no one wasn’t what it was made out to be… then what was it for? 

It hurts him more than any injury he’s ever sustained. Hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to heal from. 

The heat is starting to press against his skin, but Seokmin barely feels it. He sits with his elbows on his knees, Zahra’s monument still and silent at his side. His fingers are locked together, knuckles white from the pressure, like if he holds tight enough, the world will stop tilting.

“Seokmin.” You say his name and it pulls him from the edge. He looks at you, lost and unmoored. Your eyes are steady as you offer him a hand. 

When he takes it, you stand, lifting him with you. His legs are stiff, his spine aches, but he doesn’t let go of you. Your grip is steady, like you know where to go when he doesn’t. Like you’re tethering him to something he forgot he needed.

Inside the Station it’s dim and quiet. You press him down into a chair with a soft touch on his shoulder, and he lets you. His hands rest in his lap, useless. He watches you walk away, still half outside his body, still trying to make sense of everything. He doesn’t even ask what you’re doing.

Then a sound fills the room, low and familiar. 

Texas Sun. 

The opening notes bloom out of the speakers like light cracking through storm clouds. His throat tightens. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

“I know it’s not Friday,” you say, and your voice is soft, playful in a way that surprisingly disarms him. You’re already in the kitchen, pulling the fridge open. “But I don’t think that matters.”

“Why not?”

You turn your head just enough to look at him, a smile tugging at your mouth, though your eyes stay serious. “Because you deserve more Fridays. You’ve given enough to the world to earn them. All those years. All that silence.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

The scent of eggs and instant coffee starts to rise, curling around him like comfort. His eyes sting. He hasn’t had anyone cook for him in… well. Has anyone ever cooked for him? He doesn’t know. The Alliance robbed him of his memory to keep him anchored to the mission they tasked him with, so he has no idea if anyone has ever cooked for him. 

“I…” He scrubs a hand down his face, breath shaky. “I don’t think I realized how much damage it’s done. Being alone my whole life.”

You turn, slide the plate in front of him with a quiet clink. You don’t rush to sit. You don’t push him. You sing the song, moving back to the fridge to pull out juice. He doesn’t even know when you squeezed it, realizing that you’ve made a habit of doing things around here like it's your home too. 

The song plays on. You sit down across from him, and when you smile at him, he nearly melts into the chair. He doesn’t know how things got here, how he ended up with everything he’s ever known upside down. But he does know that he’s not alone anymore and even better - he’s got you. 

He doesn’t know how it happened. How he went from certainty to standing on fractured glass. But you’re here. And somehow, that’s more grounding than anything the Alliance ever trained into him. He picks up the fork and pierces the eggs. His hand trembles, just a little.

One truth rings louder than all the chaos still ringing in his chest: He would do anything to protect you.

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

Texas sun

Texas sun

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SIXTEEN

It’s a cold day, winter sweeping down the orange sands. You’re halfway up the comms tower, tightening the solar panel bolts with a wrench that is far too big for your hand. Seokmin stands at the base of the tower, ready to catch you if you fall.

You swear you won’t fall, but you’ve already dropped several nuts and bolts that he’s had to toss the fifteen feet back up to you. He shields his eyes from the brightness of the sky, endless blue and blinding. He sees you struggling to tighten a bolt and he starts to laugh.

“You know I’m literally stronger than you, right? You should have let me do it,” he calls up to you.

He hears you curse. “You complain more than me.” 

An object speeds toward him. He dodges the wrench as it hits the dried dirt with a heavy thunk. He looks up at you, mouth agape. Your hand is pressed over your mouth in shock, clearly having dropped it on accident and not thrown it at him.

Sighing, Seokmin picks up the wrench and shoves it into his belt. He grumbles as he climbs the tower. You scoot to make space for him, thighs bumping his. 

“Hold this,” he says, leveling you with a stare that says don’t drop this as he passes you the wrench.

Chagrinned, you take it. Your fingers brush. His grip almost falters. You’re not wearing gloves - despite him asking you to - and there’s dirt under your nails, a smudge of grease across your cheek. When you grin at him, sweat glistening on your brow, Seokmin’s chest tightens.

You are real, and close, and warm, and somehow the most vivid thing in a world built from sand and silence.

Focusing, he puts the bolt back on and holds out his hand for the wrench. You drop it into his hand and he arches a brow at you. You give him a playful smile that makes him shake his head as he uses the wrench to tighten the bolt and finish securing the panel. 

“See,” he says, finished. “Was that so hard?” 

You sniff, indifferent. “Yes.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 43 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY TWO

Seokmin is sitting on his bed reading when there’s a pop and a flicker, and suddenly the lights in the station go out. The hum on the fan next to him dies and the airflow stops from the vent system above.  

Down the hall, he hears you shriek, followed by the sound of plastic clattering. He bursts into laughter, deep and uncontrollable, setting aside his book as he hears more banging and curses as you struggle in the darkness of the bathroom. 

The stale emergency lights hum on, casting the hallway in a sickly amber glow. Seokmin sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, slightly dented flooring. He’s already crossing the hall when you rip the bathroom door open, towel wrapped around you, still dripping.

“Fix it,” you growl at him, soap still foamy in your hair. “I can’t prove it, but I know it's your fault.”

“I was on my bed reading!”

You narrow your eyes. “Even more suspect.” 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s crouched in the generator shed again, this time at the breaker box trying to read his own scrawled notes, cluttered switch labels and marker that’s rubbed off. You stand behind him towel drying your hair, assuring him that you just want to make sure he does it right. 

He messes with a switch, followed by a faint click. You run to the shed door, sticking your head out to look at the Station.

You cheer, signalling that the lights are back on inside. You turn to him, crossing your arms. “I rescind my accusation. You are moderately useful.”

He rolls his eyes, rising to his feet and brushing dust off his knees. But he doesn’t miss the way your smile tugs sideways, damp lashes casting little shadows down your cheeks. His fingers linger on the metal of the switch box just a second too long, tingling from the static, or maybe from something else entirely.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 56 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE 

The sky is a broken fire above you, gold spilling into orange, bleeding into a deep indigo that smudges the edges of the desert. Long shadows crawl across the sand and crawl up the walls of the Station like ghosts. Everything smells like heat still clinging to the metal roof and the sharp scent of ozone from a power relay down below.

Seokmin’s still in his boots. You aren’t. You’re barefoot on the roof, skin dusted with grit, ankles smudged with grease from rechecking the solar relay. There’s a portable speaker propped up on an overturned crate beside you. It whines for a second before it finds its footing

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Seokmin squints into the dying light, one hand lifted to block the sun as he watches you. You don’t say anything. You just turn your head slightly and offer him your hand. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him, but this feels like a new thing entirely.

You’re serious?” Seokmin says.

You don’t answer, just take his hand, tug him up to his fit. He’s stiff, all elbows and unsure angles, heavy boots thunking awkwardly on the corrugated metal. His armor’s been stripped off for the night, just the undersuit clinging to him like a second skin. He doesn't know where to put his hands, or how to move his feet. His training never included anything like this.

But then your hands find his, one at your hip, one twined with yours. You start to sway. It’s barely a dance. More like a strange, stumbling rhythm you both fall into. A side-to-side step, uneven and unsure. Like you’re making it up with every beat. 

Because you are. Because you’ve never danced either.

You were born into the wires of a machine hive. You’ve never seen anyone dance. And Seokmin? He’s spent every moment of his existence killing. Executing targets. Patrolling edges. He has no idea how to dance either, but he likes the way you do it.

He likes everything you do. 

The music folds over you both, soft and slow, washing the world away. His boots scrape clumsily against the roof, but you don’t flinch. You just move with him like none of it matters.

He can feel you breathing. The shape of your exhale brushing against his neck, the warmth of your body bleeding into his. You look up at him, and the sun catches in your eyes like a flare, and he suddenly can’t look away.

He’s not thinking about protocol. Or the perimeter alarms. Or the mission logs that haven’t been updated in days. He’s thinking about how you smile when you're trying not to. How your fingers fit into his. How he let a war machine walk free days ago - let it pass, unquestioned, unchallenged - because you told him to.

Seokmin listens to you. It’s like a new programming he cannot shake. But he doesn’t mind, content to follow your lead, to follow your dance. 

“I’m not sure we’re doing this right,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we’re not. But I like it.”

He wants to say something else. Maybe something about how his entire world has unraveled in your hands. How his rules don’t make sense anymore. How he’s not sure if he’s still the weapon they built, or if he’s becoming something else entirely.

Instead, he just lets the sun drop below the horizon. Lets the music curl around you both like a cocoon. Lets you press in close, your bare feet stepping on the toes of his boots, your nose brushing his collarbone. 

He swallows hard. 

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

As the song comes to an end, the sun slips beneath the horizon like it’s trying to hide. You’re still in his arms, not dancing anymore but swaying slightly, like your body hasn’t realized the music’s gone. He feels the weight of your head against his chest. Your hand curled against his side. Your breath, soft and steady.

Seokmin doesn’t know what to do with that.

He forces himself to move. A breath. A step back. Your arms fall away, and it leaves him cold in a way he doesn’t want to examine. You don’t seem bothered. You just step over to the edge of the roof and sit, legs dangling, silhouetted against the faint purple fade of evening. He follows, dropping down beside you, boots thudding against the ledge.

The stars begin to show themselves, pricked through the thinning light, sharp and bright in the open sky. Neither of you speak for a while. Seokmin glances sideways. You’re watching the sky, knees pulled up, chin resting on them. You look peaceful. Or like you’re trying to be.

He shifts, arms draped loosely over his own knees. “Have you ever seen stars like this before?”

“No. I could look at them forever.”

It feels cruel, suddenly, that for years, he was able to see this sky every night. That it’s yours now too, but only because you ran. Because you escaped. He thinks about Orin - of Zahra. 

“I used to think this work meant something,” he says, the words small and hoarse in his throat. “Killing the machines. Keeping the edges clear.”

You turn slightly toward him, but don’t speak. You let him find it. He turns his head slowly. You’re watching him, and it hits him all over again, how close you are. How gently you look at him. Like you already know what he’s afraid to admit.

“I think that was all a mistake.” 

The quiet that follows is thick. Heavy. Then, you break it with a soft voice. “You’re more than what they made you.”

It carves through him.

That’s the thing about you, though. You always find the exact place where he’s weakest, where he’s aching, and you press your words there like salve. You don’t even seem to realize how you do it. It’s just in the way you look at him. In the way you see him, not as an Outrider or someone confused about their loyalty to the Alliance, but Seokmin.

The way he always dreamed of someone seeing him, of knowing him. 

It makes him feel human and it terrifies him because fuck he likes you. More than he should. More than he knows how to carry. It keeps him up at night, lying in his room, hand behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering what your hand would feel like in his again. What it would mean if you wanted it there.

And now, in the stillness, with your face turned to the stars and your body leaning just barely toward his, he starts to wonder if you feel it too or if that’s just the years’ worth of loneliness making him starving for you. 

You’re quiet, but your eyes are bright, fixed on him in a way that steals his breath. The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile. Your fingers, resting near your knee, are so close to his he swears he can feel the heat of them.

“Thank you,” he says, and it comes out low and rough.

You look at him for a long second, and then you lean your head to his shoulder. You don’t say anything. You don't really have to. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare to breathe too hard, afraid you’ll vanish like the mirage that haunted what feels like ages ago.

Instead, he lets you rest your head against him under the stars, wondering what would happen if he turned his head just a little and kissed your hair. Wondering what else he’s allowed to want now that he’s finally starting to believe he deserves it.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 60 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE 

Night sky stretches over amber sands. Seomkin is fiddling with a pipe under the sink while music plays through the speakers and you’re somewhere outside fiddling with a sensor on the workbench. He has the door open, risking the sand just so it can feel like you’re both in the same room. 

Something metal clangs outside followed by a yelp and a curse. He’s outside before he’s even realized he’s moving, stepping through the door and sweeping to where you sit on the workbench. You’ve got the casing to a sensor half-pried open and your left hand clutched to your chest, blood seeping between your fingers. 

“Ugh, what happened?” 

You try to wave him off. “It’s nothing, just slipped.” 

He sees the jagged piece of metal you broke off. Your hand is scarlet, the metal having bit through your skin, opening it up. 

“That’s not nothing.”

You protest, “I was careful-” 

You falter when he reaches for your wrist. Your skin is warm and trembling under his touch. The moment stretches, taut. Neither of you speak for a beat too long, your eyes darting up to meet his. There’s something electric in it, something unsaid that hums between your bodies. But the blood still shines in the light, and Seokmin exhales tightly.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you gently but firmly back toward the Station. “We need to clean that.”

You don’t fight him. You just follow, your shoulder brushing his every few steps. It’s only when he gets you inside back to the old medical bay turned into your bedroom that the tension comes back full force. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and the lavender sachet you keep tucked near your pillow. The bed’s unmade, the sheets slightly rumpled. 

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bed.

You do, cradling your hand. He kneels in front of you, his fingers deft as he opens the med kit he pulls from where you’ve shoved it in a cabinet to make room for all the clothes you’ve stolen from him. His pulse drums louder the longer he’s near you, feeling how close you are, watching him like you trust him with more than just fixing your hand. 

“Let me see,” he says, and you slowly uncurl your fingers.

The cut is long, but not deep. Still, it’s raw and angry, and the skin around it is already puffing with inflammation.

He dips a cloth in the alcohol solution, glancing up once. “This’ll sting.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He snorts, shaking his head. You’re not wrong about that, but he doesn’t want to think about the first time he brought you in here, unconscious and bleeding and broken. 

Your breath catches when he presses the cloth to your palm and your other hand tightens in the sheets. Seokmin keeps his focus steady, jaw tense as he wipes away the blood, but every second feels like it’s coiling tighter between you. Your knees bracket his body. Your breath lifts and falls, shallow, your eyes pinned to his mouth. He feels the shift, the very moment something inside the room tips.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

He looks up. Your face is inches from his. Your lips parted slightly, skin flushed. You nod. “You’re being gentle.”

And then his knuckles brush your thigh accidentally as he reaches for the bandage roll, and you breathe in sharply. Softly. A small, involuntary sound that is almost a whimper in the back of his throat and it makes him fucking dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make that sound.” 

Your mouth pops shut. You let him finish wrapping your hand in silence, but the air is charged now, something sizzling. He can barely see, can barely hear the way his pulse is throbbing in his ears. You’re so close to him, smelling like his soap, the lavender from your sheets fucking intoxicating.

He goes to stand but your knees tighten, pinning against his shoulders, squeezing him so that he doesn’t stand, but rather is pinned in place. He looks up at you. Your eyes are blown, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice shaky. 

“Like what?”

“Like… you want something. Me, maybe. I don’t know.”

“And if I do?”

Seokmin finally snaps. 

He surges up, his hands cradling your face, and kisses you. It’s not clean or practiced. Your lips collide with a kind of desperation, the kind that’s been weeks in the making, the kind that has been haunting his every dream and thought from the moment he realized you weren’t just a salve to his loneliness - you were something else that he wanted. 

Desperately. 

You gasp against his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you off balance and onto him as he stumbles back onto the floor and your knees land on either side of his thighs. His hands are everywhere - your face, your waist, the small of your back. Touch-starved, wild, aching. He cannot ever remember touching someone before and he’s glad, trying to burn the way you feel into his memory so that it can never be taken away. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, breaking the kiss with a gasp as his mouth trails down, grazing the line of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone through the open neck of your shirt. 

You whine, squirming in his arms and he panics, pulling back. “Shit,” he curses. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

You interrupt his apology, turning his fear that he’d done something you didn’t want into a groan as you claw at him. Your whine hadn’t been a protest but a plea. His heartbeat thunders, drowning out everything but you. Your lips slide against his, warm and messy, a tangled clash of tongues and heat, and he groans, raw, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

Your hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. His hands roam, greedy and starving, one slipping under your loose shirt to trace your spine’s warm curve, the other digging into your hip, sinking into soft flesh. He breaks the kiss, panting, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, tasting salt and sweetness. You shudder and slide your fingers into his hair, twisting and tugging hard. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled against your collarbone, nose brushing the soft skin of your throat, inhaling you. You smell like lavender and salt. “You being here has haunted me for months.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Your voice is raspy, gasping as he squeezes you tighter. 

“No. Never.”

He stands suddenly, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressed flush against him. Clumsy, desperate, he stumbles to the bed, your lips hungry, kissing him until his head spins. He lowers you, mattress creaking underneath your shared weight. 

You drag your hands under his shirt and he lets out a throaty sound. It feels so fucking good having someone touch him like this, having someone want to touch him like this. Sexual release isn’t a foreign concept to him, but this sort of untamable lust is, the desire to give and to take and to want - it’s new and it’s overwhelming and he feels drunk. 

Seokmin peels the shirt from your sun-warmed skin. He groans, kissing his way to the soft swell of your chest, pressing his tongue flat to your skin to drag toward an aching nipple. His tongue flicks tentatively over a nipple and when you whine for him, he turns greedy. He sucks it into his mouth, warm and wanting, watching as you writhe under him while he swirls his tongue around your pert bud. 

Your nails bite into his back. He doesn’t care. He only separates from you when you growl at him to take his shirt off, your hands clawed and forceful as you yank his shirt up and over his head. 

Seeing you laying on the mattress, shirtless, skin pebbled from the cold, nipples hard and aching, skin glistening in his spit nearly makes him come in his pants. He has never wanted anyone this bad - never wanted anyone period, that he knows of. It’s just you that he wants, his desire for you spilling through the very seams of him.

Ducking back down, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, sinking lower. He hooks his fingers in your pants as he goes - his pants - tugging them sharply down your legs. He adds them to the growing pile of clothes in the corner of your room, ignoring how you keep forgetting to do laundry in favor of pressing his hands against the softness of your thighs to open you.

Your glistening folds makes his breath catch, heart pounding. He’s never done this. Not really sure if he’s supposed to, really, but he wants to taste you - needs to taste you. He bides his time, nervous. Instead of pressing his tongue through your cunt the way he wants to, he kisses the insides of your thighs, sucking soft flesh between his teeth. 

It makes you insane for him. You squirm under him, grabbing at the sheets, grabbing at him, panting so hard he thinks you might pass out. He mouths his way up to your slick heat and gives in, pressing his tongue flat as he licks a broad, slow stripe up your pussy. 

Both of you make broken sounds, him at the headiness of you on his tongue, you at the feeling. He does it again, watching you this time, entranced with the way you twitch under him, fisting the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as you pant under him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily. 

He licks you from top to bottom, slow and inquisitive. He savors you, loves the way you melt in his mouth. He gives a gentle suck and likes the way it makes you sound, so he does it again, alternating between sucking at you gently and rolling his tongue in circles over your cunt. 

His tongue flicks, precise, and you shudder, thighs clamping his head, fingers tugging his hair. He dives deeper, pressing his tongue into your entrance, nose brushing your clit. He can’t get enough of you, watching through heavily-lidded eyes as you come apart under his mouth. 

 “Seokmin,” you gasp, and he hums.

He can tell you’re on the edge of spilling over, your eyes squeezed shut, your legs closing around his shoulders. Your head thrashes and he goes for it, sucking harshly at your clit as your hips lift off the bed, a squeak leaving your mouth. 

Your first orgasm hits. He tongues you through it, gentle until you’re shaking and pulling away from him, whining and voice cracking. He eases up, content to roll his tongue in lazy circles around your clenching hole. He licks up every drop of you, feels it running down his chin, and doesn’t care.

He wants more. 

“Can you take more?” He asks, licking his lips. His voice is deep, feral in a way he’s never heard. “I want to give you more.”

“I don’t know,” you gasp, letting him press your thighs further apart. He kisses your cunt gently, avoiding too much stimulation, but gives you something, giving himself something. You sigh, sagging on the bed before you eventually nod. “I can.”

He might love you. Seokmin sucks at you softly, rubbing his hands up your thighs gently to soothe you. Your hips cant against him and he thinks he could do this for the rest of his life, drinking in the taste of you, hearing you fall apart again and again. 

He keeps that slow pace for a while, content to drag his tongue up and down your cunt, letting you shiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Slowly, he picks up his pace, sucking your clit into his mouth gently until your grip on him is bone-bruising tight. 

“Seokmin, fuck, I can’t-” you start, dissolving into a cry as your second orgasm crashes into you. It’s harder this time but he doesn’t care, mouthing you until you’re spent and shaking and pushing at him. 

He crawls up, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself, and you moan. You drop your hands to his pants, desperate for him in a way that sets his entire world on fucking fire. You're both panting when he finally pulls back, his lips slick and red from kissing you, from tasting you. His breath fans against your cheek as he leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours.

You’re flushed and wrecked beneath him, thighs still trembling from your second orgasm, your fingers tangled in the waistband of his pants like you’ll go mad if he doesn’t give you more. 

“Please,” you beg. He has no idea what you’re asking for, isn’t even sure if you know what you’re asking for.

He kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he needs to. And you melt under it, whining into his mouth as your hips roll up against the hard length of him, still trapped behind too much fabric.

He groans, breaking the kiss to rest his weight on his forearm beside your head, his free hand still gripping your thigh. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. You soften, pulling your hands back. “Do you want? We can stop whenever.”

“Of course I do,” he laughs, throaty. “You have no idea. I don’t have preventatives or anything. Those uh - don’t come down in the supply shipments.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

It occurs to him that of course you don’t. He doesn’t even know how he knows, just that he does. “I’m trying not to get you pregnant.” 

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “Can you just… pull out?”

He’s endeared by the way you ask. He nods, dragging his mouth along your jaw, peppering you with kisses. He supposes he could do that. Isn’t sure what else to do, given the situation. Getting to have sex isn’t exactly in the Outrider handbook and he’s making it up as he goes. 

“I trust you.” His whole body shudders. Your hand rises to his face, cupping his jaw. “I want you. I’ve wanted you. Please.” 

This time when he kisses you, it’s soft. Meaningful. Saying everything he’s wanted to say the last few nights but can’t. Admitting how he felt that night on the roof, dancing as the sun set. Spilling the way he felt when you curled up on the couch and listened to him read after giving up on learning how yourself. Admitting the way he dreamed of you, even if it wasn’t quite you he had been dreaming of at the time. 

You work at the button on his pants between kisses, clumsy and rushed. You finally manage, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He’s harder than he’s ever been, so much that it’s almost painful. The moment your hand brushes him - bare, flushed, hard - he gasps, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a groan.

“Shit,” he breathes, trembling as you wrap your fingers around him. Your grip is light, unsure. He is twitching, leaking into your hand as you drag your fingers up and down his shaft. “No one’s ever touched me. No one’s ever - fuck - you’re the first. The only.” 

“You’re only the seventh person I’ve ever met in my life, and I definitely have never touched any of them.”

He laughs, throaty. “Then we’ll figure this out together.”

You complain when he pulls away from you to kick his pants the rest of the way off. He clucks his tongue at you, giving you a narrowed eye look that makes you pout. But you wait for him, eyes glued to the way he grips the base of his cock and pumps himself, spreading his precum to make his skin slick. 

Seokmin curses under his breath as he knees onto the bed and guides himself to your entrance, and pauses. He feels the way your cunt flutters against the crown of his cock and it makes him light-headed. He kisses you again, slow this time, full of something that borders on reverence. On what he swears could be love, given time. Then he pushes in slowly, the stretch pulling gasps from you both. You’re warm and wet and fuck. You’re unbelievably tight, struggling to take him.

He goes slow. Pauses to let you breathe along the way, hearing the way your breath comes out in short, labored hisses as he sinks in inch-by-inch. He does this at your pace, watching each time you nod and let him push in more until his hips are pressed flushed to your ass, buried into your heat all the way. 

You quake under him. He doesn’t move, hearing the discomfort in your voice. Instead, he catches your mouth with his, kissing you slowly, tongues tangling. He takes one of your hands, lacing your fingers and pins it above your head, letting your twined hands ground him. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I’m okay,” you whisper, urging him.

He moves tentatively. When you don’t immediately make him stop, he sets a slow and steady pace, pulling all the way out before sinking back in, drawing weak sounds from both of you. Each thrust answered by a honey-dipped moan from your mouth. He loses himself to it, dropping his head to your shoulder as he fights to keep himself collected. He fucks you deep and steady, both of you barely able to breathe as his cock drags along your walls. 

“Seokmin,” you gasp. You’re fucked out, lashes fluttering, barely aware you’re whispering his name over and over again.

After going so long with never hearing his name, he never wants you to stop. Wants to hear you say it every day, wants to pull it from you like this, gasping, moaning, messy. 

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, the angle letting him sink fully, each thrust a spark. The tension coils and he feels the way his body is seizing, cock jumping as he quickens his pace. Your shallow breaths signal you’re close and you’ve gone boneless, hand squeezing his as your hips twitch upward, seeking another release. 

Finally, you shatter, pleasure rippling through you, your pussy clenching so tight around him he nearly breaks his promise and comes inside. He’s close, nearly bursting at the seams, but holds back, letting you pulse around him through your high until you’re coming back down. 

He pulls out and you whimper, making him shake his head because of course you want more. He strokes himself, slick with you, throbbing in his hand until he comes, spilling his release hot across your thigh. His entire body shudders, cock pulsing until he has nothing left to give. 

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead to yours, hand on your hip, grounding. 

You’re both breathing hard, bodies tangled, bare skin pressed so tightly it feels like you’re sharing the same heartbeat. Seokmin is still above you, his weight braced on trembling arms as he hovers just enough not to crush you. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder, mapping all the places he wants to kiss again and again. 

He starts to shift, intending to get up and wipe the come from your leg. You panic, grabbing at him. “Don’t go.”

He stills, eyes searching yours. “I’m not,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t. Just want to wipe the come off your leg.”

“Oh. Proceed.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, diving to grab a towel from your laundry pile to smear it across your thigh until it’s gone. You tug him down to the bed as soon as he’s done and he tries not to land on you, hitting the bed awkwardly.

“I am trying not to crush you, you know?” 

You laugh under your breath, but it’s soft. Fragile. “You’re so careful with me.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admits. “Not with you.” 

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not, trust me. But it doesn’t mean you have to be treated like metal all the time.”

Seokmin thinks of the first night he saw you, bloody and smelling of metal, screaming and bruised and a little broken but vicious none the same, ready to fight. He doesn’t know a lot about your world, but he knows it was all machinery and fire, brutal and hard. 

He sees your expression soften as you come to the same conclusion he has. “Fine,” you amend. “Continue.”

You curl into him, tucking your head under his chin. He wraps an arm around you, palm splaying across your lower back, grounding. You stay like that for a while. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to. He reaches for your injured palm, brushing his thumb over the pink-stained gauze. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise.

“Would you tell me if it did?” You shrug and he rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he urges gently. “Let’s shower.” 

“Carry me.” He gives you a look and you grin.. “Glass treatment, remember?” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 8100

WEATHER … HEAVY RAIN, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THIRTEEN

The rain comes in soft at first. Barely more than mist on the wind. But it thickens as the day wears on, turning into a steady rhythm against the metal roof of the Station. It smells like earth and static, music playing over the speakers, the same old song you both have come to love. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

That Texas sun, oh yeah

Seokmin stands by the window, watching the rain bead along the glass. It doesn’t happen often, this kind of weather. But lately, everything feels like a slow unraveling of what used to happen. What used to be. What used to matter.

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

Behind him, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, lit by the halo of the lamp you dragged over to turn it into your makeshift workbench. Wires snake around your feet, and the interference device you’ve been working on is slowly taking shape: a copper coil, repurposed military tech, a handheld transponder cannibalized from a buried drone. 

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

You’ve been trying to work on something to help reroute machines. Not destroy them or disable them, but to guide them. Seokmin can only let so many go unchecked through the Tilt, and there was that one Gloom that wasn’t friendly a few weeks ago that you’d helped him put down. 

Seokmin’s chest aches a little when he watches you work. Your hair’s a little damp from stepping outside earlier, and your sleeves are pushed to your elbows, grease staining your skin. You’ve made this Station your home - make it feel like his home, after never having felt that way before. 

He’s about to tell you that when a sudden sound shatters the air. A high-pitched frequency screams out of the device. He freezes. His breath cuts short in his chest. It’s like something clamps down behind his ribs, not pain, not even fear, but response. A reflex. His limbs go still, fingers twitch once like he's waiting for a command. His vision tunnels, sound dulls to a cotton-muffled throb.

Seokmin is nowhere. 

System halt.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t dream.

System halt. 

Then, warmth. Your hands are on his face, thumb brushing over the hinge of his jaw. You speak, barely above the soft patter of rain on the roof. “Seokmin. Seokmin, hey. It’s okay. Look at me.”

He blinks, breath hitching, and then his eyes find yours. The static inside him breaks like glass underfoot. He inhales hard, one step back from whatever edge that was. One breath away from something he doesn't understand.

“I-” His voice croaks. “Sorry, that was weird.” 

Texas sun

Texas sun

Your expression softens. Still close. Still touching him like it’s second nature. “Sorry, I should have known. Sorry, I won’t do that again.” 

You say it gently, like you’re talking about the weather. Like you didn’t just catch him spiraling into a shutdown. But Seokmin hears the rain again, and now it’s louder than the frequency ever was. The smell of rust, rain, and your skin pulls him back to earth.

Texas sun, oh

Texas sun

He nods slowly. Swallows. And then the thought blooms quietly, horribly: He hadn’t frozen like a man. He’d frozen like a machine.

And you’d kissed him and apologized with a gentle I should have known. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Texas sun

TAG LIST:

The circus is a place where almost anything goes.

That's what you've always loved about it — the whimsy, the spectacle, the extravagance. A true form of art, in your opinion.

You never planned to join the circus. Gymnastics was your first true love, but your favorite part was always the moments when you were flying; whether launching yourself off the springboard mid-vault, or flinging yourself from the uneven bars — the sensation of being suspended in the air, weightless and in defiance of gravity, was the absolute peak of euphoria.

As you grew older you still enjoyed gymnastics, but the appeal of the aerial arts began to beckon to you. The first time you took an aerial dance class, you were hooked. The way the silks wrap around your body as you twist and tumble and soar through the air — it was exhilarating.

So you joined the circus. You started traveling the country with what can only be described as a troop of talented misfits. Your fellow circus performers were strange and wonderful, and it didn't take long before you felt — for the first time in your life — at home.

Then one day the ringleader vanished. Gone without a trace, trailer empty and abandoned — the only evidence he was ever around was a single post-it note that read, in hastily scribbled pencil: don't try to find me.

But the show must go on. The circus owner, an odd and largely elusive man known only as Mr. Black, was quick to find a replacement. DK was like dynamite — from rehearsal to show he always gave his all, leading a dazzling performance that sent spectators into an uproar of delight every time. His presence drew in crowds like never before, bringing fresh vigor and life to the whole show. DK was revered by the masses, adored by the cast and crew. Everyone loved him — but not like you did.

The moment you laid eyes on him it was love at first sight. You never expected him to reciprocate — you were a humble acrobat, an integral part of the show certainly, but he was the main event. And yet, the passing glances, the casual but notably soft touches, the way he added a gentle darling to the end of his sentences when speaking to you — it all sent an utterly electric sensation through your skin, and before long you knew: he wanted you too.

There was only one problem. The circus is place where almost anything goes — but Mr. Black had one particular rule he was vehement about: relationships between cast members were strictly forbidden.

Now, this didn't prevent relations entirely. Hookups were not unheard of — circus performers were a notoriously horny bunch, after all. And Mr. Black knew he could not stop this. But he was insistent that cast members were not to date, not to court, not to pursue, and most certainly not to fall in love.

But that couldn't stop the fire that burned between you and the ringleader.

It began with a one-night stand, but quickly blossomed into a feverous, insatiable affair. Some nights became sleepless, filled instead with so many rounds of lovemaking that you lose count, but also with deep and meaningful conversation — talking about anything and everything until the sun begins to peek above the horizon. Neither of you let this interfere with your showmanship; rather, the blossoming passion felt between you two was invigorating, fueling the passion behind your performances into a more dynamic display than ever before.

You were quite good at covering your tracks. A few people were tangentially aware you were fucking the ringleader, but nobody else knew the full extent to which you were falling deeply and hopelessly in love with him.

Quietly, you slip through the opening in the thick red-and-white striped canvas walls of the main tent. The night sky outside is dark, but the interior of the tent is pitch black. It is past midnight, after all; even the night-owls amongst the cast members have ceased practicing by now and returned to their trailers for the evening. You blink a few times, attempting to get your eyes to adjust to your dim surroundings. You still can't see much, but then you notice the movement of a singular shadow. A hand suddenly clasps around your arm from behind; you gasp, whipping around to face the intruder, but the hand raises to your mouth before you can yelp, stifling the sound as it grasps your face firmly but tenderly. But this is not the first time this hand has been pressed against your face like this — even in the dark, you recognize whom it belongs to.

"Shhh," goes a velvety voice, the whisper emanating from right above you. Looking up, your eyes finally adapt to the darkness, and you find yourself peering into your favorite pair of brown eyes.

"It's just me, baby."

As the hand drops from your face, you gently thump your hand into the chest of the man standing before you.

"You scared me!" you scold him in a hushed tone.

"I'm sorry, my love," he smiles. Even in the lack of lighting, his smile shines radiantly. He pulls you into his embrace, cradling you lovingly; you sigh as you sink into the warmth of his body, his familiar scent flooding your senses.

"Hi Seokminnie," you murmur softly into his chest. Normally, even outside of work you and your fellow performers refer to each other by stage name; but you savor the intimacy of his given name rolling off your tongue.

"Hi baby," he replies, planting a kiss into the top of your head. "I missed you."

"I saw you just three hours ago," you tease playfully, grinning as you pull your head back to gaze up at him again.

"I know," he grins back. He then leans in, giving you a slow kiss on the lips. "But I couldn't kiss you during rehearsal," he mutters into your mouth.

"Why on earth did you want me to meet you in the tent at this hour?" he questions, rubbing your back softly with his large palms. A cheeky grin spreads across your face.

"I had an idea," you whisper. Before he can reply you dart off, grabbing his hand and tugging him along. Your fingers intertwine with his, squeezing tightly as you drag him toward the stage. You lead him toward the back, where the long ribbonous silks hang ominously from the ceiling down to the floor.

"Should I be afraid?" he asks jokingly. "You know I don't like heights, baby."

"Don't worry, love," you smile. "I'm not sending you into the skies."

With that you grasp at his shirt, yanking him into you as you begin to undo the buttons.

"Here?" he asks surprisedly as you slide his shirt off his body and discard it to the floor. "Darling, it's too risky—"

His mouth drops as you remove your own shirt, stunned into silence as your breasts fall free. He instinctively grabs at them, kneading the flesh tenderly in his palms as he admires you.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, his cock beginning to stiffen already at the mere sight of you standing half-bare before him. You smile sweetly, tugging at his waistband as you pull his pants down. The bulge in his underwear grows quickly; you daintily drag one finger up his length, sending a tantalizing shiver down his spine.

"You drive me crazy, you know that right?" he huffs, eyes locked onto you with fierce desire.

"Yes, I do know," you wink at him. You pull his underwear off, his cock springing free. His anxiety of being caught rapidly fizzles away, transforming instead into pure lust and excitement. He doesn't care of the consequences — he wants you more than anything else in the world, and he wants you now.

He watches you intensely as you finish disrobing, tugging your bottoms off with haste. Your core drips with arousal, giving away your also-excited state.

"Fuck," he groans, reaching to touch you, but you grasp his wrist to stop him. He looks up at you, his expression utterly pathetic with need.

"Let me tell you about my idea, darling," you coo at him. "Or, rather…"

You reach for the dangling silk, starting to wrap it around his arm.

"Let me show you."

His eyes widen as he realizes your plan.

"Oh," he exhales under his breath. You simply grin, grabbing his other arm and lifting it, gently but firmly binding his wrists together in the ribbon.

"Lift," you instruct, patting him on the thigh. His face drops, staring back at you with sudden concern.

"I don't think I can—"

You press your finger into his lips, cutting him off.

"This is a very basic pose, I promise," you assure him. "You won't even feel a thing."

With that, you pull the silk under his left thigh, wrapping it around once before doing the same for the right. Soon he is sitting in simple swing position, dangling slightly above the ground.

"See? You're fully supported," you tell him. "You can relax."

He hesitates, but slowly releases the tension in his body. Sure enough, the ribbon is sturdy, and holds him just fine with minimal effort.

"Whoa," he laughs. "I see why you enjoy this—ohhh…"

He groans as you wrap your hand around his cock, squeezing him tight in your fist as you drag your hand slowly up and down his length.

"Oh my god," he grumbles, his head falling back as you begin to jerk him off. He lets out a hiss as you rub your thumb over his tip, finding it wet with leaking precum.

"Look at you," you tease. "You're so hard already, and I've barely touched you."

"I can't help it," he grins. "I'm obsessed with you, darling."

You bite your lip, a smile spreading across your cheeks as you blush. You may be able to quickly send him into a flustered state, but he can reciprocate with ease. You drop to the floor, taking to your knees, making his pupils dilate with anticipation. Holding his cock, you wrap your lips around the head, suckling it lightly before taking him in your mouth. You begin to suck him off, gripping his base firmly as your head slowly bobs up and down.

"Fuck, baby," he whines. He instinctively wants to place his hand on your head, holding your hair lovingly as you pleasure him, but with the ribbon around his wrists his hands are forced to remain tied helplessly above his head. He doesn't mind, though. It's hot, you're hot; and right now, with you staring up at him so doe-eyed and beautiful — he doesn't care about anything else in the world but you.

"So good to me," he moans blissfully, gazing down at you with an intensity that makes your pussy ache. "So perfect, my pretty girl…"

With a gasp of air you pull your mouth off him, drool hanging from your lips as you stroke his spit-coated cock in your hand.

"Please," he begs, squirming slightly against his restraints. "Need you to fuck me."

"Well," you reply with a sweet smile. "Since you asked so nicely…"

You rise to your feet, taking a nearby silk and effortlessly climbing it with a series of stunning flips and twirls.

"There's my favorite performer," he praises, watching you enamored as you show off with a few more impressive twists and turns.

"The ringleader isn't supposed to have favorites," you remind him playfully as you swing yourself over to him. You grab onto his ribbon, spinning yourself around him a couple times until your silks are fully entangled.

"Well that's too bad," he replies as you lower yourself, wrapping your legs around his hips as you pull his body into yours. He mutters into your lips as you draw your face into his, noses pressed together, staring lustfully into each other's eyes. "Because you're my favorite."

He kisses you — slow and passionate. You press your heat against his cock, causing him to groan into your mouth. You may have been the one twirling around just moments ago, but you've got his head spinning wildly.

"Please," he repeats, his voice even more desperate than before. "I wanna feel you, baby."

You lift your hips, resting your entrance against the head of his cock. As much as you love to tease him, to watch him whimper and whine and beg for your pussy, you are equally as desperate for him to be inside you. You lower yourself slightly, letting his cock slip into you — an easy feat given how soaked you are right now. You let out a soft cry as you take the rest of his length, sitting atop him as you bottom out.

"Oh my god," he groans as you start to ride him. You've never fucked mid-air before, and it's certainly a bit of a challenge — but with the way his hips eagerly buck up into you, and the way you sink onto his deliciously thick cock, it's not long before you both are at the pinnacle of ecstasy.

"Fuck baby, you feel so amazing," he moans. He aches to touch every inch of your body, yearning to feel your soft skin in his grasp, but with his hands still tied above him he settles for kissing you. He kisses your breasts, your collarbones, your neck — anything his lips can reach. His only concern right now is bringing you as much pleasure as you are bringing him.

"I'm so close," you whine.

"Cum on my cock baby," he croons. "Let me see you."

"Want you to cum in me," you beg as the heat rises in your gut. "Please."

"Yes my love," he moans as he nips at the skin of your neck. He was already blissfully approaching his climax, and your pleading sends him over the edge. You cum, crying out into the empty tent, the shameless sounds leaving him unable to control himself any longer. His cock sinks deep inside you as he releases, filling you up deliciously with hot bursts of cum. Your walls flutter around his size as you ride out your high, indulging in every moment of it — every nerve ending in your body exploding like fireworks with delight.

As you both start to come down, you collapse into him, resting your head against his shoulder as your chest heaves with deep, satisfied breaths. His body relaxes as well, nearly melding into yours, skin hot and steamy against yours. You feel as if you could stay here forever — except for the fact that you are both tied up and dangling in the air right now.

"I love you so much," he says, kissing the top of your head. "But please let me down now."

You laugh, the sound music to his ears. You lift your head and kiss him on the cheek.

"Of course, my love."

You unwind your ribbon from his, falling gracefully out of your pose and landing upright, your feet hitting the floor silently. You untangle him, helping him back to his feet as well — albeit a bit less gracefully than you did it. As soon as he is free from the silk his arms are around you, squeezing you tightly in a warm embrace.

"I love you," you tell him with a satisfied sigh.

"I love you too, baby. More than I could ever put into words."

You look up at him, meeting his sparkling eyes. He smiles, beaming back at you bright as the sun.

"Come sleep with me tonight," he requests softly. "I want you next to me."

"Okay," you whisper back, a huge smile spreading across your cheeks.

"What should we do about… You know," you ask as you walk back to Seokmin's trailer, hand in hand. Somebody might see the two of you, but right now, you don't even care.

"The whole 'no relationships' thing?" he finishes your question for you. You look over to him; the beaming smile has not left his face.

"Yeah."

"Well… I don't know," he answers honestly.

"We could get expelled from the whole circus," you say glumly. "Our entire livelihoods — gone."

You reach Seokmin's trailer. He goes to open the door, but he pauses. He takes your hands in his.

"Then we'll make a new livelihood," he says softly, gazing at you with the entire universe in his eyes. "Together."

taglist 1: @minisugakoobies @shininghoshstar @aaniag @princessjazzyjazz 

@christinewithluv @choco-scoups @unlikelysublimekryptonite @lostmembrane @hearts4cheol

@ninigyuuu @tokitosun @bonsaijoons @reiofsuns2001 @hluisstuff

@meowchella @asyre @hipsdofangirl @dy-kyeom @haoxiaoba

@boltersworldsblog @nidda13 @mae-murdock @renapersa @alikesical 

@humanitysstrongestsoldier1 @mytangerine98 @a-thln @riddlerloveb0t @fancypeacepersona 

THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS IS ALWAYS QUIETEST IN THE MORNING. The temple breathes around you, vast and ancient. Stone sweats beneath your palms, the lower levels of the temple always a little cooler, a little wetter. Oil lamps burn low along the corridors, their flames casting flickering light against the marble columns. Incense hangs heavy in the air, smoky and sweet.

Your tunic is damp at the hem, darkened with water and ash. The cloth in your hand catches on the grooves carved into the altar, the stone worn smooth under your hands. The stains never really fade, the rust-colored shadows lingering after years of neglect. It doesn’t matter how many times you scrub or how many times you return with fresh water and salt - the stone does not budge.

You scrub anyway. It’s all you know how to do.

Murmurs of worship reach you at a distance. The sound of voices is never heavy around you - never around you. Here, the air is different. Quieter. Heavier. No one likes to come to this part of the hall with wine to leave or flower petals to place at the foot of the altar. It’s just you and the soft scratch of your scrubbing, day in and day out.

You kneel before the altar of Ares, knees pressed to marble that never warms, even in the summer. Your tunic clings to your thighs, making you shiver. You can’t remember the last time you felt warm while tending to Ares altar, but you’re used to it now.

No one else bothers with the altar. You are its single caretaker, its single worshiper, the only person brave enough to tend to a God of War during a time of peace. Most people think it’s bad luck, an invitation for violence, a foolish temptation of fate.

So they leave his altar to you, an orphan with no patron god, no family name to throw around to get better assignments. It’s you and the cold altar, as it has been for three years.

Candles burn down to the wick. You scrape away at their wax. It’s your own fault - you’re the only one who lights candles for Ares. It feels wrong not to, the lonely altar a little sadder without the flickering flame. It’s also practical, the small flames giving you better light to work with than the oil lamps that are farther down the row.

Standing, you knock your head on the hilt of a sword. You curse, rubbing the back of your hand as you move away from it. The sword is the only part of the altar that's not stone. It’s laid perfectly straight across the upturned palms of Ares, the edges dulled by disuse but free from rust. It is the only thing on the altar not damaged. The statue is cracked and chipped and worn with time, but the sword is eternal. Unchanging.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pausing to adjust it, nudging the hilt back into perfect line on Ares hands. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

Your voice feels small in this space, swallowed by stone and shadow. You don’t typically speak to the god - you’re not sure if he ever listens. But sometimes you do, making quiet observations or muttering small complaints about your day - things you’d never say aloud anywhere else but the silence of solitude.

You finish adjusting the sword, fingertips lingering for a moment on the cool metal. The blade seems to drink in the candlelight rather than reflect it, the edges holding shadows. A faint vibration hums beneath your palm, and an eerie sensation that you've felt before. You remove your hand, the thrum leaving a strange, static sensation on your hand. It never frightens you when it happens, but the lingering feeling makes you uneasy.

Exhaling, you step back, looking at the altar. It looks almost the same as when you arrived this morning. It's still stained and lonely, but the candles burn a little brighter now, the wax pooling neatly instead of spilling over the edges. You gather the damp cloth, the bucket of gray water, the small brush worn down to bristles, and turn away. The corridor swallows your footsteps. Behind you, the hum fades gradually until it is only the memory of pressure against your skin.

The stairs to the upper levels are narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet. You climb carefully, bucket sloshing against your hip. The air changes as you ascend, the cool dampness giving way to warmer drafts and the faint sweetness of myrrh.

You emerge into the great colonnade, afternoon light slicing through the eastern windows. Priestesses in white move like ghosts between the upstairs altars, arranging fresh laurels on Apollo's shrine, replenishing oil in Demeter's lamps, spreading petals around Aphrodite's feet. A young visitor kneels before Hermes, lips moving in rapid, fervent prayer.

No one pays you any mind as you walk.

A cluster of three priestesses near Athena’s statue pauses mid-conversation when your shadow falls across their path. Their eyes flick toward you, brief and dismissive. They resume speaking, voices dropping half an octave, words too soft to catch. You keep walking.

Further along, an older priest with a grey beard steps aside as you pass. Not quickly, not rudely, just enough that your elbow does not brush his robe. He nods once, the barest dip of his chin, then continues toward the inner sanctum without a word. You have long since stopped expecting more.

Outside, the sky has turned to molten bronze. You toss the bucket of water outside on the rocky outcrop that the temple stands on, pausing to look down from the mountainside. Below, the city unspools in winding streets of stone and blue-tiled buildings. The sea breathes beyond, blue and churning, the salt heavy in the air with a mix of fig.

Once you've returned your cleaning supplies to their proper place, you head toward the central courtyard. A massive fig tree stands dark against the growing twilight sky, its branches turning from silver to gold as Apollo drags the sun down so his sister can drag the moon upward.

Tables scatter the courtyard, full of priestesses and a handful of priests that sit in loose circles, breaking bread and passing claw bowls of olives and yogurt thinned with honey, speaking in soft murmurs. You ignore them in favor of sitting at your usual place at the end of the furthest bench, right against the cool bark of the fig tree.

Carefully, you lean over to pluck flatbread, cheese and a handful of figs from the center of the table. No one pays you much mind as you do. It's better that way. When you'd first come here, an orphan looking for anything to do in exchange for shelter, they hadn't been so nice. Pretending you're not there is a better alternative to the scathing comments and looks you'd used to receive.

Murmurs drift around you like smoke. You listen as the fig in your hand bleeds red juice down your fingers, frowning at what you hear. Mentions of raiders sighted along the northern pass, border temples burning. Ares walking the streets.

His name lands like a stone dropped in silver water. You glance up to see people casting sidelong looks your way, frowning. As if it was you who had mentioned the God of War. You look back down at the table, biting into the fig, the juice filling your mouth.

When your plate is empty you rise without hurry, stack the clay dish neatly, and walk past the tables. Conversation stutters, then resumes behind you. It is the way of things here when you're the only person foolish enough to tend to a cruel god. An unneeded god.

Your quarters are tucked behind the grain stores on the lowest level of the temples, down a side passage that few people ever use. The Temple of the Gods is complex, built onto the top of the hill and winding deep into it, the hallways and subterranean rooms serving as its roots. Not everyone lives in the temple like you do - most people have homes.

You don't.

The inside of your room is small. It's barely wider than your outstretched arms and smells faintly of cypress and lemon. A narrow pallet rests against one wall, covered with a single wool blanket dyed the color of rust. A low table holds the few possessions you have: a comb that's missing two teeth, a single extra tunic that's folded, and balm for burns when you knock over candles or when your fingers dip into wax.

Every day is the same routine. Chores in the morning that go through until early afternoon, followed by tending to Ares altar, followed by dinner and bed. You follow that routine now, peeling off the wet tunic and putting it aside to dry. Your shift underneath does nothing to keep the chill of the room out, goosebumps rising on your arms until you climb under the woolen blanket.

You draw your knees up, curl onto your side, and stare at the faint crack of moonlight beneath the door. Somewhere above you, the temple settles into its night rhythm. You listen until the sounds blur into silence, eyes heavy, limbs sore.

Tomorrow you will rise before dawn, go about your chores, and kneel before the altar. Always the same labor, always the same silence.

You breathe in, breathe out, and let the darkness take you.

-

Oil lamps flicker as you descend the narrow stairs, same as every day before you. Your palm stings where the rope of the bucket digs into your palms, water sloshing over as you walk. Dawn always feels heaviest in the temple, as though it's just you and the gods. You feel the press of something around you as you get closer to Ares' altar, something you can't see but you can feel, always just out of sight when you turn your head.

You've noticed that over the years, the way something seems to buzz when you're near the God of War's statue, just beyond your reach. It's one of those small observations you keep to yourself. No one would care what you had to say anyway. They have their own gods to whisper to, ones that promise harvest and safe travels or wisdom, not the bloody blade of conflict.

You set the bucket down with a soft thunk, the water inside rippling faintly. The altar of Ares waits in its alcove, unchanged and unchanging, the statue's broad shoulders casting a long shadow. You kneel, dipping the cloth into the cool water, and begin the ritual scrubbing. The stains are stubborn today, rust-brown flecks that flake under your nails but never fully yield. It's been this way since you first took the task years ago.

That time feels distant, nearly impossible to reach. You'd arrived at the temple an orphan with dirt-streaked clothes and a hollow ache in your stomach that no amount of rotten bread could fill. The high priestess had looked you over and simply told you it was Ares' altar or nothing. You'd taken it in stride. And why wouldn't you? You had no family to warn you of bad omens, no village tales to fill your head with dread. It was just a job, a way to earn your keep in a world that had already shown you its teeth.

The cloth rasps against the stone, a steady rhythm that echoes your thoughts. You've watched the others over the years, clustering around Zeus' grand pedestal upstairs, leaving offerings of wind and cheese. Watched them leave bowls of rosewater and ripe figs for Aphrodite, whispering to find them love and passion, to bless them with a fulfilling marriage.

Fear shapes their world. You learned it long ago - fear of failure, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being brave enough, fear of not climbing high enough. Fear is the lens through which they experience Ares, a monstrous god that threatens to ruin everything they've ever worked for, a name only prayed to when the world is on fire and the air choked in smoke.

There hasn't been war for a long time. The priestesses believe it's because no one prays to Ares anymore, so he has no power here, no way to keep a foothold in this world. But there's you. Tending to him as you always have, his sole patron, the only one who occasionally murmurs about your day to a stone face who cannot hear you, a pleasant buzz at the back of your neck when you do.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, light and hurried. You pause, glancing up to see two priestesses coming your way. You recognize them both - they're sisters. Elara is the taller of the two and older, her tan skin golden in the lamplight. Thalia trails behind her, shorter and rounder in the face, but beautiful enough to have the lords of the city asking for her at the temple gates.

They've never spoken to you directly before, especially not in the dim underbelly of the temple. It makes you straighten slightly, water dripping from your cloth onto the stone, pooling at your knees.

"Why are you doing that?" Elara asks, stopping a few yards away near the closest lantern. You can tell she doesn't want to come any closer to Ares gloom, her grey eyes flickering toward the statue looming over you.

"Tending the altar," you answer slowly. "As I always have."

"Look around, fool," Elara hisses. "The scouts bring word of armies marching, raiders at the border. War's breath is down our necks, and you have the gall to come polish the sword of our would be destroyer?"

Thalia peers around her sister, face like thunder. "You should leave his statue. You're inviting him in."

"Maybe that's what she wants," Elara notes. "She came here scavenging for a place like a rat in the granary - perhaps she clings to him because he's the only one she can have. But we know the truth. Your devotion has called him down."

You say nothing at first, your gaze drifting back to the statue. The sword lies still in his palms, eternal. You've thought about how strange the people of this world think sometimes. Thought it odd, how people carve meaning from chaos by blaming others, how they assign treachery because fear prods at them, a spear to the back of the neck.

An orphan is easy to blame in a place like this. You don't command armies, you don't know how to hold a shield, or burn down a village, and yet only you could be the root of war. The fire starter. There is no logic here, no rhyme or reason. Only fear nipping at their heels like hellhounds.

"War comes from the greed of men," you mutter, turning away from them to resume your scrubbing. "Not from scrubbed stone."

"Selfish," Thalia mutters. "You should abandon this place. Walk away. Then he will sleep again."

"I command no armies, nor do I command the God of War." You scrub at the stains that never move. "Perhaps you should pray to your gods to stop him."

Elara spits at your feet, the glob landing wet on the marble. "When the fires come, I hope they come for you first."

Thalia laughs and they turn as one, footsteps retreading up the stairs to leave you in the dim. You sit back on your heels, cloth in your hand, watching them leave you alone at the foot of the altar. The stone presses cold against your skin, unyielding. The hum returns faintly, a pulse under your knees.

You sit there for a long time after their footsteps fade, the spit drying slowly on the marble in a small, darkening spot near your knee. The lamps have burned lower, the shadows extending farther. Your cloth lies forgotten in your lap, water soaking through the fabric in cold patches. The hum beneath your knees has quieted to almost nothing, a faint tremor you might mistake for exhaustion if you didn't know better.

Slowly, you lift your head to peer at the statue looming above you. The marble is cracked in places, fine spiderwebs spreading from the left cheekbone. There's a deep fissure running down the right forearm where time or some earthquake long ago tried to claim it, but the face remains mostly untouched. You've studied the face of Ares thousands of times, and yet with Elara's threat hanging in the air, the lamplight finds new angles.

The statue of Areas has high cheekbones that catch the flicker of the flame, casting hollows beneath them that make his expression both stern and almost wear. His jaw is strong, and his mouth is full and set in a firm, unreadable line. The eyes have always captured you, fierce in stone, the sculptor leaving the pupils as bare pockets of shadows instead of inlaid with lapis lazuli like Zeus.

Hair falls in carved waves from beneath a crested helm long since broken away at the edges, strands curling against his broad forehead and brushing the strong column of his neck. There’s a faint scar etched across one brow, though you're unsure if it's accidental or deliberate.

You’ve never thought of the statue as beautiful before. Not in the soft, inviting way Aphrodite’s likeness is beautiful, or the serene way Apollo’s is. Ares is different - arresting in a way that is almost uncomfortable, like looking at someone who sees you and immediately knows every fear, every secret.

Tonight, with the accusations still ringing in your ears and the temple settling into uneasy quiet above you, the face feels less like cold stone and more like a witness.

“I don’t know if you’re listening,” you whisper, feeling a little silly as you pick up the cloth to begin scrubbing again. "But I never really believed you were. Not the way the others believe in their gods. Sorry if that offends you."

You pause, fingers aching. "They're stupid. I know I shouldn't say so, but they are. To think that I alone could be the reason border temples burn or call down war like ringing a bell is insanity." A small, dry laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. "If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere warm, and near the ocean. Somewhere there's a lot of fruit and I could have as much as I want. Somewhere I could learn to read, maybe. To have purpose. If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here."

The statue doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. But the lamplight shifts, and for a heartbeat the carved eyes seem to sharpen, as though the shadows themselves are paying attention. Your heart spikes and you lean forward, pressing your forehead down until it nearly brushes the base of the plinth.

"Sorry." You murmur. "That was rude. If you're listening, anyway."

No one answers, but as you resume your scrubbing, the lamps behind you gutter once, the hum under your knees steady as ever.

-

The warning bells wrench you from your sleep with jagged nails. At first, they blend with the remnants of your dreams, the distant roll of thunder blurring to deep, tolling bells of the city guard. You realize with sharp terror that you're not dreaming and you bolt upright on the narrow pallet, your blanket tangling around your tangles as you kick it free. Your night shift clings to your skin, damp with sweat as your heart begins to hammer.

Screams tear through the silence. Panic floods your veins like ice water, sharp and breathtaking. You scramble, forgetting all about your tunic as you fumble with the bronze latch on the door, handles shaking. The door sticks for a single, agonizing moment before it swings free and opens into the Underworld.

At least, you think it's the Underworld for a moment. Chaos reigns supreme in the hall, smoke rolling down from the upper levels in thick waves, stinging your eyes. An orange glow beckons at the end of the hall and screams echo from above, frantic under the heavy thunder of boots. Someone's voice cuts off mid-plea and your heart lurches as you plunge into the smoke, covering your mouth, eyes watering.

You climb the stairs two at a time until you're spilling into the main landing of the temple, sliding to a halt. Heat slams into you, the air turning to ash and fire. Flames devour the eastern wing, roaring up the tall wooden beams, eating at the roof that has sheltered you from rain and wind for years. The fig tree in the courtyard is aflame, bark peeling in curling sheets as it burns.

Priests and priestesses scatter in every direction, white tunics covered in blood and soot, face streaked in tears and ash. One of them stumbles toward you, clutching a bleeding arm, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. A soldier in leather armor and dented bronze grabs her before she can reach you, yanking her hair backward. She screams only once before his sword flashes down. You flinch as blood sprays in a bright arch, spattering the marble floors.

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts. This is the end of everything you’ve known - the altar, the scrubbing, the cold water and heavy bucket - all of it burned to whatever war this is, whoever's army has come here to pillage and burn and slaughter. Burning.

A soldier spots you standing frozen in the chaos. His eyes light with interest and he shouts something at you, pointing with a bloodied sword. Two other soldiers turn, grins splitting their face as they start toward you, boots crunching over broken pottery stained with blood.

Terror surges inside of you, more primal and absolute than you have ever known. You spin and bolt toward the inner corridors, your body taking you to the only path you can think of in the fiery hell scape of the temple. The lower levels call to you, cool and dark and comforting - but what calls to you more is the sword upon Ares alter, the only weapon you can think of to fight back, to save yourself.

Laughter chases you and the soldiers jeer as they start to run after you. You're quick on the steps, flying down them as their boots pound down the corridor behind you. Your lungs scream as you dive into the dark halls of the lower temple, the oil lamps burning low, the altars here untouched as you fly by them, running for the last halo of gold light where Ares stands.

You burst into the alcove, skidding on marble now warm from rising heat. The statue of Ares looms in the flickering gloom, larger and more imposing than ever as shadows dance across its cracked features. The sword rests in those upturned marble hands, eternal and waiting.

Your hands shake violently as you reach up on tiptoe and wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword. It's heavier than you expected, but as you pull it free the weight adjusts, turning from heavy to perfect, like the grip was shaped for you and you alone. The leather grip is cool against your skin and the dull metal of the blade catches the low lamplight in a dull gleam.

The hum you've felt for years surges through you, stronger now than ever, a roaring vibration that travels from the sword up your arm and into your chest, syncing with the frantic pounding of your heartbeat until it feels like your pulse is a living thing connected to the sword.

You spin to face the corridor, raising the sword in both hands. Your stance is all wrong and the weapon feels awkward in your grip, but the weapon steadies you as the soldiers round the corner. It's just the three of them, faces flushed with violence and glee as they look at you, stalking down the hallway.

"Look at the little mouse," the one at the lead says, grin spreading. "Drop it, little mouse, before you poke yourself. I can give you a sword to play with."

One of the men behind him licks his lips, eyes raking over you. “She’ll make a fine prize after we finish here.”

Your arms tremble, but you don’t lower the blade. The hum thrums louder, almost deafening in your ears, drowning out the distant roar of flames. Sweat stings your eyes. The temple groans overhead, beams cracking and shifting as it gives way in sections to the raging inferno.

"Come here, little mouse," the leader coos. He steps into the lamp light of Ares alter, eyes shining. "Let me have a taste."

No sooner than he steps into the ring of light, the world shatters around you.

A deafening crack splits the air, like thunder ripping through the temple. You scream, nearly dropping the sword as you cower, ears ringing. The stone floor shudders beneath your feet and a blinding white-gold flare erupts in the air, like a seam in reality shredding open. You throw one arm over your eyes to hide from it, the sword shaking in your other hand as you step back.

Heat washes over you as the light vanishes and you're left blinking, fading streaks of light fading as your vision adjusts, spots swimming in your peripheral vision.

A figure stands between you and the three men.

He's taller than any mortal you've ever seen, armored in blackened bronze that seems to drink the light from the oil lamps. A crested helm of horsehair and iron shadows his face, his armor shoulders broad, stance lethal. In his right hand is a long spear, its haft made of dark wood bounded with glowing gold, the tip of the weapon gleaming with a sharpness that seems to cut the air itself. In his left hand is a sword that looks exactly like the one in your hand, runes pulsing faintly along the metal.

Ares.

You realize it at the same time as the soldiers do. They stumble backward from him, murmuring his name in awe as they stare, wide-eyed and terrified.

The God of War says nothing. He simply moves - faster than you thought possible, faster than any mortal has the right to. His spear juts forward in a flash of movement, piercing the leader's chest with a wet, crunching sound. The man is lifted off his feet, skewered like a boar before the god tosses him aside. The body crashes against the wall, blood spraying as Ares advances.

Screams of terror rip through the hall from the remaining two men. They lift their swords but they can do nothing against a god. You watch in mute terror as Ares parries without looking and drives his own blade upward in a single, brutal stroke. You hear a gurgle before you realize Ares has cut the man open throat to ear, the crimson surging as the man buckles.

The third turns to flee, but Ares hurls the spear, arm snapping forward like an adder. The weapon punches through the man's armor, sending him forward to the ground as he collapses. He jerks once - twice - then goes still, hanging on the weapon like a trophy of war.

Silence crashes in, broken only by the crackle of distant flames and your own ragged breathing.

Ares turns toward you and your knees nearly give out.

The face underneath the helm is the statue you've tended to for years made flesh. His high cheekbones are hollowed by shadow and the growing firelight at the end of the hall, his jaw clenched in fury that terrifies you. His eyes burn red, the ancient weight of them pressing against you and pinning you in place. Dark hair spills against his forehead, one of his brows interrupted by the same crack on his statue.

He sheaths his sword and lowers himself to a knee before you. You blink, watching as he removes his helm. His hair is dark, the sides and underneath cropped shorter in an undercut. He is devastatingly beautiful in a way that terrifies you, the anger in his face softening to something you can't read.

"You," he murmurs. "Are the one who came to me in darkness. Who scrubbed the stains that time could not remove when others refused. Who lit candles for a god no one else would name. For years I have felt your hands at my altar, and heard your words in what otherwise would have been silence. In a temple that feared me, only you showed me kindness."

Awe crashes over you, mingling with terror and grief until you can barely breathe. Your fingers tighten on the sword - his sword. So he had been listening. All that time - all those years, spent on your knees at the foot of his altar, tending to him and muttering about your day. About your little complaints or observations. The hum you'd felt then hadn't been an illusion or madness. It had been him - real and present.

“Lord Ares,” you manage, voice cracking. You drop to your knees, ducking your head. "Please don't let us burn."

"You do not bow to me." He rises and takes a step toward you. You look up, chest heaving as he approaches you slowly, as though he's afraid to startle you. "I cannot save this place. War is not a hound I call to heel. To halt it here would only shift the slaughter elsewhere - war is inevitable and a wheel that is always turning. I simply honor the wheel - I cannot bend fate for mercy alone."

The ceiling groans overhead, a deep, ominous crack splitting the stone. Embers rain down from the ceiling, red and glowing. You see smoke curling behind him, the fire crawling closer and closer. The heat is relentless now, pressing in.

"But you," Ares murmurs. "You who asked nothing, who gave when others only took. You will not die here."

He reaches out toward you. You let him, his callused palm cupping your chin, thumb brushing feather light over your jaw. You shiver, eyes fluttering as he looks down at you, expression soft, almost reverent. More embers fall, haloing him in firelight as his eyes drink you in.

"Sleep," he whispers. "When you wake, you will know peace."

The world tilts, and darkness swallows you whole.

-

The sound of crackling flames has been replaced by the sound of water. You groan, rolling over. It's not just the sound of water, you realize - it's the sound waves, the rhythmic hush of them retreating and returning. You inhale and you don't smell smoke. Rather, you smell the clean and cool scent of growing things, of salt and brine, of driftwood.

Your eyes flutter open slowly to see light filtering through palm fronds overhead, soft and golden. You lie on a soft bed with a thin blanket of undyed linen that feels softer than anything you've ever known. A low ceiling of thatch stretches above you, open at the sides so the breeze can drift through.

You try to sit up and a gentle ache rolls through you. You glance down and realize you're free from soot and sweat, a new and proper tunic of white and red replacing the night shift you'd been in at the temple.

A shadow shifts nearby, snagging your attention. Ares sits cross-legged on the sand just outside the small shelter's open wall, his back to the endless sea of blue behind him, facing you. The armor is replaced by a simple tunic of deep crimson linen belted at the waist. His helm is absent, dark hair shining in the sunlight, damp like he's just come up from the water.

Swallowing, you sit up fully. The sword from the altar rests beside you. You remember the temple in flashes, the burning ceiling, the fire eating the fig tree, the blood of the priestess as she ran toward you - him, slaughtering the men who chased you to his altar, the sudden violence of it.

"Lord Ares," you whisper.

He tilts his head and a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I've had many names across centuries and places. Ares. Enyalios. Resheph. Montu. Men have called me destroyer, protector, madness, courage. But here, please call me Soonyoung."

The name settles over you like warm sand. Simple. Human. "Soonyoung."

"I like the sound of the name on your tongue."

A flush crawls up your neck. You look around again, taking in the details you missed at first. There's a small fire pit nearby, the embers still glowing beneath a flat stone. There's a basket holding figs and pomegranates, and a few pots with lids on them. You turn, and in the distance of the island, you see a small building, nondescript and built from driftwood, nestled in lush greenery.

"How long has it been?" You ask him, glancing at him nervously. "Since the temple?"

"Two days. You slept rather deeply. The journey here took a lot from you."

"You saved me."

"I would not leave you to the fire." His gaze drops briefly to the sand between his knees, his fingers tracing idle patterns. "Not you."

"The temple?"

"Gone," he says quietly. "The raiders burned what they could not carry. Some survived. Many did not. War took what it always takes."

You nod once, the grief sharp but distant. You had known, somewhere beneath the panic, that there would be no saving it. Still, hearing it aloud makes your chest ache. Even if the people there had not been kind to you, it had been your home.

Soonyoung rises smoothly, brushing sand from his palms. He grabs a pomegranate and splits it open with his thumbs, the red juice running over his fingers. He offers you half, the seeds gleaming like rubies inside.

"Eat," he says. "Your strength needs rebuilding."

You take it, the fruit cool against your palm. The first seed bursts between your teeth, tart and sweet, juice spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, suddenly self-conscious under his steady regard. He seems amused as he sits again, this time a little closer. You feel the heat of him as you eat in silence, both of you watching the water of the beach below and the wind through the palms.

As you chew, you glance toward the building in the distance again, the walls catching the slanting sunlight.

"It's mine," he says, noticing you looking. "Built long ago when this island was a sanctuary for me after long periods of war. I find the peace of this place a necessity for myself."

"Is this place real?"

He hums and nods. "Yes, but no mortal could stumble upon it - save perhaps someone particularly unlucky like Odysseus." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me about yourself.”

You blink, startled. No one has ever asked before. He smirks like he knows this, but he says nothing, chewing on seeds as he watches you with dark eyes. His eyes are no longer red - they're dark and fathomless, warm in a way you don't expect.

"There isn't much to tell," you admit. "I found the temple when I was small. No name, no family. The high priestess took me in because there were chores to be done and an unattended altar that needed scrubbing. Everyone was afraid of you. I wasn't."

A faint smile flickers across his face again. "I know. I listened to you."

"You did?"

"Every word. Every muttered curse when the wax spilled. Every quiet breath when you knelt and thought no one was listening.” He sets the pomegranate rind aside, wipes his hands on his chiton. “You were the only voice in three years that did not ask me for victory, or vengeance, or protection from enemies. You simply existed. I thought it was nice."

“I didn’t know what else to do. It was my place to ask for anything."

"And now? You would still ask nothing of me?"

You look out at the sea, the depth bluer than anything you've ever known. You don't know what you would ask for - can't think of anything, really. Though you know Ares has no connection to the sea, you think he's rather similar - endless, beautiful, stormy.

"I would ask nothing of you," you say eventually.

He hums thoughtfully. "This island is mine. Far from mortal shores and far from the path of armies. No war reaches here unless I will it, and I do not will it. I offer you this place, though you don't ask for it. I don't offer it to you as a worshiper or a servant, but as a guardian. Tend the fire if you wish, watch the horizon. Keep the silence for me. Sleep inside or beneath the stars out there."

The offer hangs in the air between you, his words making your heart skip a beat. You've never had someone offer you to stay somewhere without an obligation, to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on you.

For a moment, you stare at him, the pomegranate half forgotten in your hands, the juice sticky on your fingers. You wonder what it would be like not to exist in the shadowed hallways of the temples, whispers following you as you pass. To live without averted eyes or people treating you like a curse made flesh.

Here, on this island, there would be no one to tell you what to do. No one to chastise you. No one to force you to eat alone in a courtyard of people. A refuge, not a rejection. But beneath the relief simmers doubt, a familiar shadow that has dogged you since childhood. Who are you to accept such a gift? An orphan with no name, no lineage, no skills beyond scrubbing stains that never truly fade. What if this is pity, disguised as kindness? A god's whim, fleeting as the sea foam that dissolves on the shore?

"War isn't always battle," Soonyoung murmurs, watching you mull it over. "Sometimes war is with oneself. Or with others, mental and years long. Sometimes war is survival to a life you were born to, but perhaps don't deserve. It is rest and respite I'm offering. Not pity or amusement."

"Can you read my thoughts?"

"No, but I can read your face." You flush and he grins. "You've tended to me for years and I've listened to you. Perhaps you don't know me, but I know you."

Gratitude sparks in your chest, overwhelming and raw. He saved you - not the temple or the others, but you. Knelt before you in blood and fire, the person who gave him company when no one else did. And now he sees right to the heart of you, to the very wound you knew was there but never had a name for.

You draw a breath, steadying yourself and you meet his gaze. "I accept."

Something brightens in his eyes - relief, you think. His shoulders ease, a tension you hadn't realized was there fading, and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling. He rises and offers you a hand. You set the rind of the pomegranate aside and take it, letting him help you to your feet.

"Come," he tells you. "Let me give you a tour."

You follow Soonyoung, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. It's soft and fine beneath your soles, shifting with each step. The beach curves downward gently to a crescent of white edged by turquoise shallows that foam as the waves meet the shore. The air feels alive as you step onto damp sand, charged with an undercurrent of energy that feels like static on your skin.

Soonyoung walks beside you, his stride confident and unhurried, but there's an energy to him that crackles like lightning on the verge of striking. He doesn't touch you again, but his presence is a tangible force, goosebumps lining your arms that you tell yourself is from the cool ocean breeze.

"This beach is the heart of the island," Soonyoung tells you, spreading his arms. "The sand here never erodes, and the waves bring shells and driftwood as gifts from my uncle when he sees fit."

He gestures ahead where the tide laps lazily, depositing a cluster of iridescent conch shells that gleam in the sunlight. You grin and stop to pick one up. Its surface is cool to the touch, humming faintly under your fingers.

"Bring it to your ear," he urges gently, grinning.

You press it to your ear, and instead of the ocean's roar, you hear a soft melody, like distant flutes weaving through whispers of wind. You turn to him, delighted and he laughs. The sound is so rich you forget all about the shell, watching him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the sky, sun-kissed and happy.

He seems so different from the god who appeared the night in the temple, reigning fury down on your attackers. You wonder if this is the version of Ares only the island gets, the hidden side of war that needs rest, that needs respite and happiness to fuel the rage and the violence.

As you walk, the sand gives way to low dunes tufted with sea grasses that sway, their blades tipped with dew. Wildflowers bloom in random clusters, vibrant explosions of gold and red. Soonyoung bends down to pluck a bloom and tuck it behind your ear casually with no regard for the way it makes your heart slam in your chest, startled.

"These grow year-round," he explains. "There are no seasons here to wither them. The island provides - fruits ripen eternally, herbs grow, and animals thrive. You'll never hunger or want for anything." His tone is happy, almost boyish in its excitement. "I shaped this place with the help of some of my siblings. I desired a place where life persists, defiant against decay."

"It's beautiful," you admit. "Not what I expected."

He nods. "It cannot be war all the time. Even I need peace."

The path curves inland, away from the beach's gentle slope, into a grove of olive and fig trees that form a natural canopy overhead. Sunlight filters through in golden shafts, illuminating leaves. The ground underfoot turns to mossy earth, cool and springy, dotted with fallen figs that split open. Birds flit between branches, their feathers flashing jewel tones you've never seen.

Deeper into the grove, a narrow stream emerges, its waters crystal-clear and bubbling over smooth pebbles. He crouches to cup water in his hand and drinks. You do the same, dipping your hands into the cool water. When you bring it to your lips, the crispness of it startles you. It's the cleanest water you've ever tasted, cool and clear, a shiver rippling down your spine. He grins and splashes a bit of water toward you, the droplets landing cool and tingling on your skin.

The grove opens to a gentle rise, leading toward the house you glimpsed earlier. It's a driftwood house, sun bleached and reflecting the sun's glow. Terracotta tiles crown the flat roof, with vines of blooming wisteria cascading down one side in waves swaying in the breeze. A columned portico faces the sea, supported by pillars carved with small shields. Wooden shutters frame wide windows, open now to let in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the interior.

Soonyoung pushes open the heavy oak door and ushers you inside with a sweep of his arm, his grin eager. The main room is open and spacious, the floor covered in woven rugs of deep crimsons and earth tones. A hearth dominates one wall, a small fire crackling inside.

On another side, a kitchen alcove gleams with copper pots and shelves laden with jars of fruits and spices. A low table nearby is set with clay bowls and ewers of water. He leads you to a short hall into a room, pushing open the door to reveal a room with a wide bed draped in linens and pillows. The windows in the room overlook a small herb garden, bees humming lazily among blooms of lavender.

He leads you to a back terrace, shaded by a pergola overgrown with grapevines heavy with clusters of ripe fruit. You're amazed at how lush everything here, every fruit swelling with ripeness, every ounce of water clear and cool. From here, the view sweeps across the island. You can see the beach below and the grove's verdant sprawl, distant cliffs rising with goats.

Soonyoung leans against a pillar of the pergola, crossing his arms over his chest to turn his eyes on you. He seems nervous, almost, chewing the corner of his lips as he watches you take in the view.

"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," you admit. "I still feel like I'm dreaming."

"I assure you, Wonwoo - Hypnos - is not here." Soonyoung grins when you look at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think I don't know the others?"

"You just talk about them so casually."

"They're my family. We might spite one another and occasionally fight, but they're family nonetheless."

"I've never had a family."

Soonyoung softens, pushing off the column to drift toward you. He lifts his hand as though to brush it against you, but thinks better of it, dropping it at his side. Instead, he tells you, "Rest. Eat. Drink. I'll leave you to it."

"You're not staying?" You hate the instant panic, the way your heart flares. His smile is fond. "I'll be here as often as you wish. Occasionally I've got some things to address, like now. But I won't abandon you here, so long as you want my company."

Soonyoung lingers for a moment longer on the terrace, the late-afternoon light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning the crimson of his tunic to something almost molten. He watches you with that same quiet intensity he’s carried since the temple, sending a shiver down your spine. The wind moves through the grapevines overhead, rustling leaves and sending a few loose tendrils curling toward the floor.

“I’ll leave you to settle,” he says at last, voice low but carrying the same easy confidence he’s shown all afternoon. “The house knows what you need. If you’re hungry, the kitchen will have what you want. If you’re tired, the bed will be warm. If you want the stars tonight, the mats where you woke up remain there, a sort of bed under the stars. I’ll be nearby. Not far. Call if you need me."

You nod, throat tight. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all you have. “Thank you.”

He smiles, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the scar on his brow lift slightly. “No thanks necessary. You’re home now.”

Home.

He turns then, stepping off the terrace with that same fluid grace, bare feet silent on the warm stone path. You watch his back until he disappears around the curve of the grove, swallowed by olive branches and golden light. You stand there a long time after he leaves, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, the borrowed tunic soft against your skin. The fabric smells faintly of sun-dried linen and something like myrrh.

You step back inside the house, moving slowly, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath you like a dream. But the floor stays firm beneath you as you re-enter the sleeping chamber and head toward the wide bed. You sink onto its edge, palms pressing into the mattress. IT gives beneath you, softer than anything you've ever slept on. The constant tension that lived between your shoulder blades finally bleeds out, the ache of release blooming across your back.

Tears come then, sudden and quiet. Not sobs - not grief, because you don't grieve the temple, not exactly. But relief, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. There's a hint of sorrow for the life you lost, even if it was never truly kind, but the utter relief of realizing where you sit now, in a house built by a god, surrounded by things that never stain, that never corrode, is overwhelming.

You're home now.

Soonyoung's words echo. The phrase feels foreign. Home has always been temporary until the temple, and even then, a storage closet in a corner of a world that you'd carved out for yourself or a spot at the farthest bed during meals never really felt like home. You had duty and silence, and you had the hum of an altar no one else but you would touch, but never a home.

Your fingers curl into the linens. Gratitude swells again, so large it hurts. Not just for the rescue, not just for the island, but for the way he saw the war inside of you. The silence battle, not bloody or gory but just as violent. He'd heard your complaints for years, your mindless commentary, and kept watch. Saved you when you needed it.

Lying back slowly, you stare up at the beamed ceiling. Late sunlight slants across the room in long golden bars, painting stripes of warmth across your body. Outside, the waves keep their steady rhythm. Somewhere distant, a bird calls, a clear note that echoes over the water.

For the first time in years, you don't feel watched, but you don't feel invisible either. You just… feel present.

You breathe in, breathe out. And for once, drift into a comfortable sleep.

-

Waking up on the island is unlike most days. Instead of opening your eyes to dim, cool darkness, you're greeted by warm air, the blankets around you soft and scented slightly with something woody. Sunlight filters through the open window, panting the bed in warm shafts. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, peering around the room to find the sound that pulled you from sleep.

Soft footsteps pad across the floor somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Your heart quickens, a remnant of the temple's chaos flashing through your mind: boots thundering down corridors, screams echoing off marble. But there's no smoke here, no heat of flames pressing in. Only the distant hush of waves and the nearer hum of bees in the herb garden.

Sitting up carefully, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet warm against the rug. You pad toward the door, curiosity driving you out into the main room, which is bathed in morning light. You pause when you see Soonyoung, his back to you as he stands at the low table in the kitchen. He's dressed simply again, in a loose tunic of undyed linen that hangs open at the neck, revealing the strong lines of his collarbone and the faint scar that traces across it. His hair is tousled, still damp from what might have been an early swim, and he moves with that same coiled grace.

He turns at the sound of your approach, his dark eyes lighting with that boyish excitement you saw yesterday while he gave you a tour of the small island. "You're awake! Good, I thought you might sleep longer."

You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame. The sight of him here, domestic and unarmored, stirs something unfamiliar in your chest, a flutter that you dismiss. You can't help but stare at him, hypnotized by the way the light catches the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp jaw and the faint scare on his brow. You immediately chide yourself - he's a god, not something for you to stare at like a starstruck priestess.

"I didn't mean to intrude," you murmur, voice rough from sleep."

He waves a hand dismissively. "No intrusion. I was gathering breakfast. The fruits are at their best in the morning. Join me on the terrace? The view is unmatched at this hour."

You nod, following him as he lifts a platter laden with fruit in one hand as he leads the way through the back door. The stone underfoot is warm from the sun, and beyond the low wall, the island unfolds in a tapestry of green and blue. The seat glitters under the climbing sun. No smoke on the horizon. No distant bells tolling alarm. Just the island and the cool breeze.

Soonyoung sets the platter on the low table between two cushioned benches, then settles onto one with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out as if the world bends to his comfort. You take the opposite bench, looking at the platter of fruit. Figs bleed red juice onto the clay, grapes swollen and deep purple. Honey gleams golden in a small jar, and Soonyoung tears a piece of flatbread and dips it into the honey, offering it to you.

"Eat," he murmurs, voice soft but insistent. "The food here will mend the spirit."

You take the bread, the honey sticky and sweet on your tongue, mingling with the warm, yeasty flavor. It's richer than anything from the temple, and you sigh, letting it melt in your mouth. Soonyoung watches you as you chew, like he's gauging your reaction. His eyes meet yours, dark and warm, and a spark jumps in your chest, unbidden. You look away quickly, focusing on a grape you pluck from the bunch, a nervous flush warming your neck.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, breaking the silence as he selects a fig, splitting it open with his thumbs. Juice runs over his fingers, and he licks it away absently, the gesture distracting you.

"Deeply," you answer after a beat too long. "Better than I have in years, honestly."

"The island attunes to you. If you prefer the stars, the shelter by the beach is yours too. Sometimes I like to sleep there." He pauses, popping a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Did dreams come? Or just peace?"

"Peace. Honestly, it was strange to wake without the immediate sense of monotony."

"Mhm."

"Better than the dread I felt waking up that night."

"Dread is war's shadow." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Speaking of that night - you picked up my sword and faced those men with no training and without fear."

"I was plenty afraid."

"Perhaps, but you were brave enough to defeat the fear. That's no small thing. I rarely see that even in battle-hardened warriors. You don't know how challenging it is to look certain death in the face and decide to fight it anyway, even if it's inevitable."

You think for a second, nibbling on a piece of cheese. "I just did what felt right. I knew the way to the altar - knew the sword was there. It was just instinct."

He tilts his head, studying you with that penetrating gaze. "Have you ever thought of learning? Properly, I mean. Not because you'll need to - war doesn't touch this place. But it could be something for you to do, to embrace that strength."

The question hangs between you, laced with possibility. Your pulse quickens. Learning to use a sword never occurred to you - why would it? Women didn't wield swords to begin with, but certainly not those who served a temple of the gods. The idea, however absurd, makes you grin, looking up at him. He smiles like he knows your answer already, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.

"I think I'd like that," you say.

"Excellent!" He shoots to his feet, startling you. Energy crackles around him, making you lean back. He offers you a hand, a grin splitting his face. "Let's start now. Basics first. Come with me, the beach has good footing."

You can't help but laugh. He pulls you up to your feet and drops your hand, leading you down the path to the beach from the terrace. Birds trill in the trees as you pass, the air full of scents of blooming fruit and salt spray. You reach the beach easily, the sand firm and damp near the water's edge, waves lapping gently.

Soonyoung turns to you and holds out a hand. You blink in surprise as the air ripples for a second, like heat waves disrupting reality in the distance, and the sword from the altar appears. Your mouth pops open a little, shocked. You shouldn't be, you suppose. He's a god with powers beyond your understanding at his finger tips, the ability to command armies and summon weapons barely scratching the surface with what he's able to do.

He holds the sword out to you and you stare at it, unsure. He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Take it. It's yours."

Similar to the first time you picked it up, the sword is heavy for a single moment before it balances itself. You marvel at it in the sunlight, watching the way the sun glints off the edge, now sharped and polished to perfection. It's the perfect size and weight in your hand, and when you give it a gentle test swing, Soonyoung's smile is so warm that you feel yourself grin back.

"First lesson," Soonyoung says, voice shifting from playful to commanding. "Discipline. War isn't mindless fury. It's control over your body, your breath, you fear. Control over your enemy, their goals."

He strides toward you and gently reaches out, tapping you on the wrist to lift your sword hand. His touch is electric and you stare at his hands as they adjust your grip on the handle of the sword, fingers callused and precise as he squeezes your fist briefly.

"Looser here," he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly on your knuckle. "Yes, like that."

The sun highlights the muscles rippling in Soonyoung's forearm as he steps to the side, dropping your hand in favor of showing you how to take your stance, bent at the knees, legs firmly planted, not too far apart. You stare at him, watching the way the sun catches the lighter threads of his hair, haloing him in gold.

You swallow, focusing on the sword in your hand as you try to ignore the way your heart races, reminding yourself that Soonyoung is a god - Ares specifically, the God of War - Miaephonus, Thouros - to many. Soonyoung had said he wears hundreds of names, and you know it to be true as he leads you through basic forms, his tone steady, the command threading through his voice though he never raises it.

Soonyoung is a patient teacher, each correction gentle but direct. Sweat beads on your brow but you find the work exhilarating. Never before did you imagine you could hold a sword, never before did you think you might find yourself on the beach with the sun reaching its zenith, learning from the god who makes art of the sword and spear.

As he drills you, you realize Soonyoung is right. There is a discipline to the way he teaches you, a logic to the moves and the steps that is less rage and chaos and more control. More purpose. You think it reminds you of him, fierce but contained, like that night in the temple when his rage had been a controlled vehicle for violence.

Soonyoung laughs and stops you after a particularly clumsy swing on your part, the sword tipping too far forward. He grins, eyes twinkling as he strides forward and summons another weapon. You watch as he holds it loosely, turning his hand to display the grip.

"You're still gripping it too hard," he tells you. He demonstrates again before twirling the blade in a showy arc, winking at you. His grin grows when you glower. "Fighting has a flow to it. If you're too rigid, you'll break. If you're too loose, you'll fall. You need to be the perfect combination of both to flow."

You try to mimic the motion, but your arm wobbles, the sword dipping awkwardly. Laughter bubbles up unbidden. It surprises you to hear yourself laugh. His grin is fierce and he steps toward you, steadying your elbow gently.

"You have a beautiful laugh," he tells you before stepping away again before saying, "Again."

You nod, breathing deeply as he instructed, inhaling the salt air to center yourself. The sand shifts under your feet, forcing you to adjust, to find balance in the unpredictability. You swing again, this time with more intent, the hum in the sword vibrating in harmony with your movements. Soonyoung claps in delight, nodding as he has you do it again and again.

You keep going until your arms tremble and the sun sits high overhead. Sweat slicks your skin, your tunic clinging in damp patches, but the ache in your muscles feels good. Soonyoung watches every movement with that blend of fierce focus and boyish delight, correcting your stance with quick taps of his blade or a murmured instruction.

"Alright, that's enough for now," he declares as the sun dips into the afternoon. "Not bad, honestly."

You lower the blade, chest heaving, and wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The hum in the sword has settled to a gentle thrum against your palm. "Why does the sword hum?"

"It hums?"

"Yes. Like a vibration."

"Ha!" He claps his hands, delighted. "It's my energy. Didn't expect a mortal to feel it. I should have known you'd sense it."

"I sensed it at your altar too."

"Is that so?" Soonyoung cocks his head and his grin sharpens. "Virago."

"Virago?"

"A woman of great strength and tenacity, a warrior, even if only in spirit and not practice. Athena would like you."

The compliment makes you avert your eyes. You don't know what to make of his words. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to respond, summoning you to lunch as he charges up the path that leads toward the little refuge you woke up in yesterday.

You follow him in the white stand, the tide higher now as it laps closer to the dunes. The simple thatch roof comes into view, mat still spread where you slept. The fire pit smolders low, embers glowing under a flat cooking stone. A fresh basket waits beside it, overflowing with more fruit, a round loaf of bread steaming slightly, and a clay jug beaded with condensation.

Soonyoung drops to one knee beside the pit, coaxing the embers back to life with a few dry twigs and a breath that carries the faint scent of smoke and myrrh. Flames lick upward almost eagerly, as though the fire recognizes him.

He glances at you over his shoulder, playful glint returning. “Sit. The island’s hospitality is better than any feast hall in Olympus.”

You settle onto one of the thin mats, legs tucked beneath you. You watch as he slices the bread with a small knife before passing you a thick piece that he slathers with honey. You accept it, biting into the bread. It's warm and sweet, melting on your tongue and you sigh contentedly, earning a grin from him as he slices another piece for himself.

For a while you eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, and the occasional cry of a seabird wheeling overhead. Every bite of bread and fruit is sweet, and when he passes you water from the clay jar, it's cold and refreshing, chasing away the day's heat immediately.

"Will you tell me about Troy?" You ask, sucking juice from your fingers.

Soonyoung pauses mid-bite, brows lifting in surprise. Then he leans back on one elbow, stretching his legs toward the fire, and grins. "You want war stories? Most people beg me to stop once I start."

"I want your stories," you correct. "I've never left the mountain the temple sits on. Never seen a city larger than the one that burned. Your world is bigger than mine could ever be. I want to experience it through you."

Something shifts in his expression. You think it's pleasure, unguarded and bright as he sits a little straighter, dark eyes gleaming. "Alright. Troy, then."

He tells you about the walls first - tall as mountains, white stone gleaming under the sun, built by gods and men together. He describes the sound, the metallic ring of bronze on bronze, the way the ground shook as thousands of Greek chariots charged across the plains of Troy.

Soonyoung tells you about the silent parts, too. About the moment he watched Hector laugh with his son on the ramparts, the way Paris sometimes played the lyre at dusk to chase away the sorrow of the sentries, to make them less afraid.

You listen as he mentions Achilles, the best of the Greeks - not with hatred, like you might have thought, but with a kind of reluctant respect. You listen with rapt attention, leaning forward as he tells you of the battle, of the chaos of war.

"Did you really walk among them?" You murmur. "During the battle?"

"Of course, though oftentimes mortals don't recognize us. We seem to them a great warrior or a brother in arms, perhaps. But we are there, fighting alongside those who honor us at altars and whisper our names."

"Is that why you came for me? Because I tended your altar?"

"I would not know you otherwise."

You nod. It makes sense. "I suppose if war never came to me, you'd have no reason to appear?" He nods, watching you with a careful expression, like the topic of war makes him nervous, somehow. You think of the way the others in your temple feared him, the way they were so worried that tending to his statue would summon him. "I didn't summon you, right?"

He cocks his head. "How do you mean?"

"By tending to your altar did I… did I invite war in?"

"No. War is necessary." He sighs and leans back, looking up at the blue sky. He closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a cat. "It's not right nor is it wrong… it's simply the balance to peace. War has its own logic. I don't choose the winners, though I try to make the fight fair."

"And after? When war is over?"

"I come here. Sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for long times. But men always create war and I am summoned often." He opens his eyes, glancing your direction. "You're the first person I've ever brought here, though."

You meet his gaze, heart doing that unsteady flutter again. He holds your eyes a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you. Then he clears his throat and stands, brushing sand from his tunic.

“Keep practicing while I’m gone,” he says, voice brisk again, though the warmth lingers in his eyes. “Forms one through four, slow and deliberate. Feel the purpose in each one. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Before you can answer, he steps back, the air around him shimmering like heat over stone. One moment he’s standing there, sunlit and solid. In the next, he's gone, leaving only the faint scent of wood and salt in his wake.

You sit for a long minute staring at the place where he vanished. The fire pops softly. Waves sigh against the shore. You rise, pick up the sword where it rests against the shelter pole, and walk back down to the firm sand near the water. The sun is past zenith now, light slanting golden across the beach. You take your stance, and you practice as he says, each movement deliberate.

You practice until your arms burn and sweat drips from your brow. Until the light turns amber and the first stars prick the deepening blue overhead.

-

Days on the island begin to fold into one another like the gentle turn of waves against the shore. The first week feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake from, but the second week you realize this is your new reality, something that won't be taken away from you. It's not borrowed or temporary, it's yours.

Mornings arrive with light spilling through the open window of the bedroom, always warm. You wake without the jolt of bells or dread, body unfolding slowly from the soft linens. Some days you linger in bed, listening to the island breathe. Other mornings you rise earlier, drawn outside by the soft pink light that precedes sunrise. You walk the beach barefoot, sand still cool from the night, collecting shells that hum faintly when you hold them to your ear like Soonyoung taught you.

Breakfast is always abundant. It isn't just Soonyoung who seems to serve you - it's the kitchen, too. Fresh bread and figs appear even when Soonyoung isn't there, yogurt and honey cakes waiting for you when you stumble in. On days Soonyoung is absent, you eat alone on the terrace, legs dangling over the low wall, watching the sea change color from steel to turquoise as the sun climbs.

On the days Soonyoung is there, the routine shifts to include him. He arrives without announcement, footsteps soft on the path toward the house or simply appearing at the edge of the grove with that faint shimmer of his. Breakfast is always shared side by side on the terrace on those days, legs brushing occasionally.

Soonyoung likes to talk, and you like to listen. He tells you stories of distant wars, of siblings who bicker like mortals, of the first time he tasted honey and decided mortals weren't so bad after all. He answers every question that spills out of you, that same fond patience of his bleeding through when he smiles at you no matter how ridiculous the question feels.

“You’re relentless,” he says once, laughing, but there’s pride in it, not mockery. “No one’s asked me that since the fall of Mycenae.”

When he's gone, you practice the sword forms he taught you. The blade feels more familiar each day, less like a foreign object and more like an extension of your arm. You move through the sequences slowly and deliberately, breathing with each strike.

On the afternoons you don't practice, you wander. You trace the grove's paths until you know every twist and turn. You sit at the spring sometimes too, hands in the cool water, letting it soothe the stinging calluses forming on your palms.

Evenings depend on whether he returns. When he does, you eat dinner on the terrace underneath the torchlight and the stares, biting into grilled fish and olives stuffed with feta. You both like to look up at the sky after dinner, Soonyoung telling you about the constellations while you listen. you tell him the smaller details of your life, and though they feel insignificant, he listens like they matter, like your small life is worth the same attention of the sack of Troy.

When he’s absent, you eat alone. You take the platter to the beach shelter, lie back on the mats under the open sky, and watch the stars emerge one by one.

You miss him when he's gone, though. Not because you feel lonely - you've been alone your entire life, even in crowded rooms of people. You miss him because your affection for him has taken root in your heart and grown in increments, like the vines creeping up the columns of the house.

It's hard not to feel something for him, but you can't help the way your chest tightens when he appears after a long absence, your relief so sharp it startles you. You can't help it when your gaze lingers when he laughs, warm and unguarded, head thrown back as though the sky itself amuses him.

You know it's foolish. He's Ares - a god. He is ancient and vast, a concept that is only occasionally made flesh, someone you could never truly hope to understand. So many mortals have loved gods and fallen to tragedy because of it, but now that you've felt the warmth of his palm and heard the depth of his laughter, you cannot blame them for falling.

The gap between you is not bridgeable. You tell yourself this daily, sternly, whenever your fingers brush his while passing a cup, whenever he smiles at you like you’ve said something clever, whenever he watches you practice forms with quiet pride.

And yet.

And yet and yet and yet.

The comfort of him settles deep. When he is near, the world feels steadier. When he is gone, you miss the steadiness. You don't dare name it, though. You barely acknowledge it. It feels like a dangerous thing, whatever it is, so you keep it buried. Knowing him is enough.

It has to be enough.

On nights like tonight, it's more than enough. The air carries the smell of salt and sweet smoke from the small fire crackling on the beach, embers popping and drifting toward the sky. The small shelter stands behind you, but you've dragged the mat out onto the sand near the waterline, close enough that the occasional wave licks at your feet before retreating.

Above, the sky is a vast blanket strewn with stars, brighter than anything you've ever seen. Soonyoung lies on his back next to you, hands tucked behind his head, the gold light from the fire flickering over the faint scar in his eyebrow and the curve of his smile.

"I think I envy the stars," Soonyoung murmurs, staring up at the sky.

You turn toward him, perplexed. "Envy?"

"They're never alone. Even when the world tears itself apart, they have each other. I've had centuries of company. Siblings who tolerate me. Mortals who loved me and shared my bed." He blows out a slow sigh. "But most eventually curse my name when war comes. Company is rarely the same as understanding."

"People are afraid of war."

"War is duty," he murmurs. "Always has been. I am the swing of the blade that protects the hearth and the fury that defends the weak. They thank Athena for wisdom in battle and yet fear the fury that shields them. When they thank me, it's with averted eyes, as though saying my name will summon conflict."

Soonyoung's words sink in. You think about the others in the temple, how the sisters - probably dead, now - told you they believed as much. They had believed that tending to Soonyoung's - Ares' - altar would summon him, that being kind to him would call him down and destroy everything.

You watch him, his profile sharp against the night. His gaze seems distant, like he's lost in thought. You don't know how to comfort a god, but you try anyway.

"People are often afraid of the things and people they don't understand," you murmur. "Logic fails in the presence of fear."

"Well said." His mouth twitches a little. "Even among the gods it's the same. The gods hate to be compared to mortals, and yet we're so similar. They crave peace yet fear the one who makes it possible. Peace is only beautiful because it follows wrath."

"That sounds lonely."

He finally turns his head to meet your eyes. The firelight turns his irises molten, soft in a way that steals your breath.

“You never asked me to be anything other than what I am," Soonyoung notes. "You lit candles no one else would touch, and spoke to me like I was listening even if you weren't sure. It brought me comfort."

You sit up slowly, drawing your knees toward your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes follow the movement, impossibly dark. Your heart stutters as he looks up at you, face softer and more vulnerable than you ever thought a god of war could look.

"I was never afraid of you," you tell him softly. "Not even when the temple burned and you appeared and killed those men. Only for a moment I was afraid - but not of you. Most of all, I was just relieved."

He smiles. "Still not afraid?"

"No. You've given me what others couldn't - time and attention. A life. Something to do. You're kind and you teach me how to fight though most would find it improper. You listen when I tell you about nothing important. You ask questions even if you know the answers just to make me feel heard. It brings me comfort."

His smile deepens, soft and aching, eyes shining in the firelight. For a moment the space between you feels alive, humming with the same vibration you’ve felt from the sword, from his altar, from him. The air thickens. Your breath catches as his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again, searching.

You feel your heart rate spike as you avert your eyes, the panic that he'll see the affection just simmering beneath the surface of your skin. You cannot love him - he's a god. He's vast and ancient, and you're a mortal. Whatever feelings you have for him is too fragile and impossible, and if you name it, you know it'll break.

"Anyway," you say, throat tight. "I envy the stars too. They are far more beautiful than anything us mortals have managed to conjure up."

Soonyoung blinks, surprised at your change of topic. Your heart pounds as you silently beg him not to press the issue, to not keep the conversation so close to the feeling stuck in your chest. Then he exhales, something that's almost a laugh. He leans back on his hands, gazing upward again.

"You've never been more wrong, Virago."

-

The sun is a merciless coin of heat and light in the sky, turning the beach into a sheet of pale fire. Sweat slicks down your spine, your tunic clinging in damp patches that dark against your back. The sword in your hand feels alive, less of an object and more of an extension of your arm. You no longer think about how to move - you just do.

Soonyoung circles you barefoot, sand dusting the tops of his feet. His own linen tunic is sleeveless today, the fabric gathered at the shoulders with glinting bronze pins. His sculpted arms flex as he moves, beads of sweat tracing down each curve of muscle. He holds his sword loosely in his right hand, tip lowered, watching you with that predatory patience you've come to know.

"Again," he says. "Don't hint at the move."

You nod once, breath steady despite the burn in your shoulders and arms. You step forward, the blade rising in a clean arc. Steel meets steel with a bright clang that startles the gulls from the dunes. Soonyoung parries without effort, guiding your momentum past him so you stumble a half step.

"Too much shoulder," he murmurs near your ear, stepping close to catch your wrist in his hand to correct you. "Use the hips. Let the turn carry the force."

He doesn’t release you immediately. Instead he rotates your wrist a fraction, showing the angle, then slides his palm up to cup your elbow, lifting and adjusting until your form feels perfect. His fingers linger there, calluses rasping lightly against your skin. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest, inches away.

You swallow. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

He steps back, but the space between you feels smaller than before, your breath shakier as you try to shove down the awareness of him.

The next hour passes in a blur of controlled violence. Disarming lessons are your least favorite - they draw him too close, his forearm brushing yours, his knee nudging the inside of your thigh to correct your stance. When you overextend, he catches you around the waist with one arm to steady you, palm flat against your ribs until your balance returns.

It's utterly maddening. He's gentle, despite the coiled strength in every single one of his movements. You know his hands have killed thousands - you've seen him throw a spear that skewered a man through. And yet he handles you with gentle confidence, like handling glass.

"You're not hesitating anymore," Soonyoung notes after you parry his strike in earnest. He grins. "Not even when I come at you fast. Most men would cower."

"I trust you won't hurt me."

"Good," he says quietly. "Come at me. Full intent, no holding back. Try to take my weapon."

You hesitate only a heartbeat. Then you lunge.

Steel rings as your swords meet. Soonyoung lets you drive him back two steps, giving ground deliberately. You feel the shift in his balance - the tiny tell in his leading shoulder - and you act on instinct, driving your blade high as you slide your weapon against his and twist hard.

Soonyoung's sword flies free as you spin into his grasp. Your balance is off again, the momentum carrying you into him as he pulls you toward him, both of you toppling. You yelp and let your sword fall, afraid to hurt him as the two of you land in the sand, your palms barely catching your weight in the sand.

Laughter bursts from him, bright and unrestrained. The sound vibrates through where you're pressed chest to chest, and you can't help but laugh too for a second, surprised and a little embarrassed.

Your noses are an inch apart, his eyes molten brown with lighter flecks of almost gold. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath against you. Sweat has darkened the hair at his temples, sand dusting him as he looks up at you. His hand at your back hasn't moved as his laughter quiets, eyes sharpening.

Licking your lips, you start to pull away, heart slamming so hard against your ribs you're sure he can feel it. His grip tightens though, just enough to hold you still.

"Why do you always pull back?" He asks, voice so low it's almost a whisper.

For a second, the ocean is the only sound. You can feel your pulse thundering in your ears, your breath shaky. Terror grips at you - not of him, but of the lingering feeling you've been hiding from him for months now.

"Tell me," he murmurs.

You nod, swallowing thickly. "Because I'm afraid. Not of you, but what I feel for you. Of what it means. You're ancient and endless and I'm…" Your throat closes for a second. "I don't want to fall and shatter. I'm only mortal."

For a long moment he says nothing. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of shame and sting of tears, realizing that you shouldn't have said anything. Then he rolls you over and you suck in a gasp, world spinning as he pins you to the sand.

Soonyoung looms over you, weight braced on his forearms. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark as he drinks you in, pupils expanding. He's close enough that when he speaks, his lips almost brush yours.

"Then fall. I've been waiting to catch you, you know?" His eyes drop down to your mouth. "Since the first time you lit my candle. Since the first time you spoke to stone because no one else would listen."

Soonyoung leans down and your breath catches. His nose brushes against yours and his eyelids flutter shut as he breathes you in, salt and sweat.

"I am war," he admits. "I am rage and ruin, but I'm still Soonyoung. I can be still and gentle. I can want things I haven't in centuries. So fall, my Virago. I will never let you break."

Trembling, your hands come up to slide into his hair, fingers threading through damp strands at the nape of his neck. You feel the tremor that moves through him at the touch, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. When he doesn't move, you tug him down to close the last fraction of distance between you.

The kiss is hungry. It's years of silence and candlelight, the hum of his sword that has lived in you since the moment you honored his altar. It's the relief of finally naming the ache that has lived beneath your ribs since the first time he smiled at you, the relief of being heard.

He kisses you like a man who has waited lifetimes, tongue sweeping in to press against yours, warm and wet. The kiss deepens, a slow unraveling that pulls you under. He tastes like salt and honeyed figs, a faint sweetness lingering from breakfast. He lefts a hand to cradle the back of your neck, tilting you to deepen the kiss.

You melt into him and he lowers himself a fraction, his hips pressing against yours. The want is sharp and sweet, making your breath hitch as his teeth graze your lower lip gently, tugging just enough to draw a soft whimper from you.

Soonyoung draws back a little, his eyes blown as he looks down at you. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, voice rough. "We only go as far as you want."

You shake your head, fingers tightening in his hair. "I want you. All of you."

A low sound rumbles in his chest, somewhere between a groan and a growl. He kisses you again, slower this time. His weight pins you down, his hand roaming to trace the lines of your body - the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips - until you're arching into his touch.

"Beautiful," he mutters, brushing his lips against your throat. His tongue darts out to press against your pulse point and you moan, head pressing back into the sand, lashes fluttering. "Wanted you for so long."

His mouth trails lower, nipping softly at your collarbone as his fingers gather the hem of your tunic, inching it upward. Cool sea air kisses your newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps that he soothes away with warm palms. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him slide the fabric higher, until it's bunched at your waist, leaving your lower body bare to him as he pushes up to his knees.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Perfect for me."

He shifts downward, broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart as he settles between them. The first kiss he presses to your inner thigh is feather-light, a tease that makes you gasp. His hands hold your legs open gently but firmly, thumbs stroking the soft flesh of your thighs. Heat pools between your legs, a slick ache building as anticipation coils tight in your core.

"Soonyoung," you whisper, voice breaking.

"I've got you," he soothes, meeting your eyes from below. "Let me make you feel good, my Virago."

His mouth descends then, warm and deliberate, lips parting to taste you. The first swipe of his tongue is slow and flat against your folds. A jolt of pleasure makes you arch your back off the sand. His mouth is wet and hot, tongue tracing upward to circle your clit gently. A shaky moan escapes you as your fingers dig into the sand.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. A shiver ripples through you and he groans again, tongue sweeping in broad strokes.

"That's it," he murmurs, words muffled against your skin. "So sweet for me. Let me hear you."

You melt. Soonyoung alternates between long, languid licks that make your thighs tremble and gentle sucks against your clit until stars explode behind your eyes. You shiver, a warm flush spreading from your core outward, each stroke of his tongue coaxing you higher.

Your hips buck instinctively seeking more, and he hums in delight. A hand slides under your ass to lift you toward his mouth, encouraging you to grind against his face as he sucks at you noisily, tongue circling your entrance.

When his fingers join his mouth, you nearly die. One digit circles your entrance, gathering your arousal before pressing in slowly, just the tip at first. You tense at the unfamiliar stretch, gasping. He pauses immediately, lifting his head to watch your face.

"Breathe for me," he murmurs. "You're doing so well. Relax, yeah?"

You nod, exhaling shakily, and he rewards you as his finger slides deeper, inch by inch, the intrusion turning from strange to exquisite as he curls it upward, brushing a spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

Soonyoung works you slowly like that, his tongue rolling in lazy circles around your clit. Your thighs close around his head and he doesn't care, happily tonguing you half to madness as another finger presses in. He scissors them gently, stretching you open as he sucks on your clit in time with each stroke of his fingers.

"So tight," he whispers against you, mouth hot against you. "So fucking wet."

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and suddenly it's too much. The tension snaps, orgasm crashing into you without warning. You arch against him, pussy clenching on his fingers as he groans. His tongue keeps moving, flicking over you until you're trembling and oversensitive.

Only then does he ease his fingers out, pressing wet kisses to your thighs as you pant, sagging against the sand. He laughs, nipping your thighs and making your legs twitch as you glance at him where he's grinning up at you.

"I could do that all day," he admits.

"I think I might let you."

You reach for him, tugging at his tunic, and he understands, shedding it swiftly. His body is a masterpiece of muscled under sun-kissed skin, scars faint and silver. He shivers underneath your touch, kicking away at his tunic. His cock is heavy and long, flushed and beading with precum and want.

A flicker of nerves returns, but he chases it away as he leans down to kiss you, his mouth still tasting like you.

"We'll go slow," he promises, settling between your thighs. "You're in control. Tell me if you need to stop."

He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick pussy. The first press stretches you wide and you gasp, clutching at his shoulder. It feels like heaven and hell, both too much and not enough. You can barely breath as he ducks his head to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

"Breathe," he whispers. "Let yourself open up."

You nod and he presses his mouth to yours as he presses in inch by inch, the slide eased by the mess he's already made. The fullness is staggering as he fills you completely, hips flush to yours. He stills, giving you time to adjust, peppering your face with kisses.

"Doing okay?" He asks, one hand stroking your hand.

"Don't stop," you gasp. "Please move."

"You're doing so good, my Virago," he praises, starting a slow rock of his hips.

The motion is gentle at first, his thrusts shallow that let you feel every inch of his cock, the friction addicting. The initial burn fades and is replaced by a liquid heat that spreads through your veins, each drag of him against your walls stoking the fire burning in your gut.

He keeps the pace unhurried, a soft rhythm that makes your eyes roll back and press your hips closer to him, seeking more. One of his hands gathers yours and pins them above your head, fingers laced as his eyes darken, watching your face for every reaction.

"Feel so good," he murmurs, rolling his hips. You whimper and he grins, nodding. "I know. So tight around me, like you were made for me."

You clench around him and he groans, pace picking up as he drives his cock harder into you. It punches the air from your lungs and you squirm under him, feeling the need to orgasm again, toes curling, that coil tightening all over again. You roll your hips to meet his, seeking more friction, hungry for it.

"That's it," he encourages. "Move with me. My hungry Virago."

You do, hips rising to meet his, the new angle deepening his thrusts. He catches your mouth again, more tongue and teeth as your second orgasm breaks, your cunt pulsing around him as you cry out against his mouth.

Soonyoung fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping until you're breathless. The hunger for him isn't gone though, and you surge forward, rolling the two of you until you have him pinned beneath you.

The shift makes you gasp, his cock hitting deeper. Your hands brace on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers. He grips your hips and guides you with gentle hands, a slow grind that makes you dizzy.

"Yeah?" He asks. "Gonna take what you want? Come on, baby. Ride me."

Your moves are tentative at first, finding a rhythm. The slide up and down his length is intoxicating and you chase it, hips rolling as your head tilts back. His hands roam, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples and earning a broken sound from you.

"Just like that," he growls. "So fucking good."

Fatigue burns in your thighs, but the building orgasm drives you on, faster now, breaths mingling as you lean down to kiss him. When it hits, you collapse forward, trembling, walls clenching in waves that pull a guttural moan from him. He thrusts up gently through your aftershocks, then stills, holding you close as his own release follows.

Both of you lay like that, panting in the heat and clinging to one another. The sun dips lower, spilling molten gold across the two of you. He cradles your head, pressing your cheek to his chest, the steady hammering of his heart comforting.

Neither of you move, his arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing idly against your bag. Your legs are tangled with his, and every so often, a small tremor runs through you and he smirks.

Behind you, the sea breathes in and out. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth of his skin against yours, the faint salt-and-myrrh scent that seems to belong only to him. For the first time in your life, your body knows complete quiet instead of the tense silence of temple corridors.

“I’ve spent lifetimes watching people run from me,” Soonyoung says, breaking the silence. "Thank you for not running, Virago."

You turn your face into his skin, pressing a kiss to the place above his heart. He exhales and pulls you tighter, tucking your head beneath his chin. His legs shift, drawing yours more securely between his until there is no space left where you are not touching.

THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS IS ALWAYS QUIETEST IN THE MORNING. The temple breathes around you, vast and ancient. Stone sweats beneath your palms, the lower levels of the temple always a little cooler, a little wetter. Oil lamps burn low along the corridors, their flames casting flickering light against the marble columns. Incense hangs heavy in the air, smoky and sweet.

Your tunic is damp at the hem, darkened with water and ash. The cloth in your hand catches on the grooves carved into the altar, the stone worn smooth under your hands. The stains never really fade, the rust-colored shadows lingering after years of neglect. It doesn’t matter how many times you scrub or how many times you return with fresh water and salt - the stone does not budge.

You scrub anyway. It’s all you know how to do.

Murmurs of worship reach you at a distance. The sound of voices is never heavy around you - never around you. Here, the air is different. Quieter. Heavier. No one likes to come to this part of the hall with wine to leave or flower petals to place at the foot of the altar. It’s just you and the soft scratch of your scrubbing, day in and day out.

You kneel before the altar of Ares, knees pressed to marble that never warms, even in the summer. Your tunic clings to your thighs, making you shiver. You can’t remember the last time you felt warm while tending to Ares altar, but you’re used to it now.

No one else bothers with the altar. You are its single caretaker, its single worshiper, the only person brave enough to tend to a God of War during a time of peace. Most people think it’s bad luck, an invitation for violence, a foolish temptation of fate.

So they leave his altar to you, an orphan with no patron god, no family name to throw around to get better assignments. It’s you and the cold altar, as it has been for three years.

Candles burn down to the wick. You scrape away at their wax. It’s your own fault - you’re the only one who lights candles for Ares. It feels wrong not to, the lonely altar a little sadder without the flickering flame. It’s also practical, the small flames giving you better light to work with than the oil lamps that are farther down the row.

Standing, you knock your head on the hilt of a sword. You curse, rubbing the back of your hand as you move away from it. The sword is the only part of the altar that's not stone. It’s laid perfectly straight across the upturned palms of Ares, the edges dulled by disuse but free from rust. It is the only thing on the altar not damaged. The statue is cracked and chipped and worn with time, but the sword is eternal. Unchanging.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pausing to adjust it, nudging the hilt back into perfect line on Ares hands. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

Your voice feels small in this space, swallowed by stone and shadow. You don’t typically speak to the god - you’re not sure if he ever listens. But sometimes you do, making quiet observations or muttering small complaints about your day - things you’d never say aloud anywhere else but the silence of solitude.

You finish adjusting the sword, fingertips lingering for a moment on the cool metal. The blade seems to drink in the candlelight rather than reflect it, the edges holding shadows. A faint vibration hums beneath your palm, and an eerie sensation that you've felt before. You remove your hand, the thrum leaving a strange, static sensation on your hand. It never frightens you when it happens, but the lingering feeling makes you uneasy.

Exhaling, you step back, looking at the altar. It looks almost the same as when you arrived this morning. It's still stained and lonely, but the candles burn a little brighter now, the wax pooling neatly instead of spilling over the edges. You gather the damp cloth, the bucket of gray water, the small brush worn down to bristles, and turn away. The corridor swallows your footsteps. Behind you, the hum fades gradually until it is only the memory of pressure against your skin.

The stairs to the upper levels are narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet. You climb carefully, bucket sloshing against your hip. The air changes as you ascend, the cool dampness giving way to warmer drafts and the faint sweetness of myrrh.

You emerge into the great colonnade, afternoon light slicing through the eastern windows. Priestesses in white move like ghosts between the upstairs altars, arranging fresh laurels on Apollo's shrine, replenishing oil in Demeter's lamps, spreading petals around Aphrodite's feet. A young visitor kneels before Hermes, lips moving in rapid, fervent prayer.

No one pays you any mind as you walk.

A cluster of three priestesses near Athena’s statue pauses mid-conversation when your shadow falls across their path. Their eyes flick toward you, brief and dismissive. They resume speaking, voices dropping half an octave, words too soft to catch. You keep walking.

Further along, an older priest with a grey beard steps aside as you pass. Not quickly, not rudely, just enough that your elbow does not brush his robe. He nods once, the barest dip of his chin, then continues toward the inner sanctum without a word. You have long since stopped expecting more.

Outside, the sky has turned to molten bronze. You toss the bucket of water outside on the rocky outcrop that the temple stands on, pausing to look down from the mountainside. Below, the city unspools in winding streets of stone and blue-tiled buildings. The sea breathes beyond, blue and churning, the salt heavy in the air with a mix of fig.

Once you've returned your cleaning supplies to their proper place, you head toward the central courtyard. A massive fig tree stands dark against the growing twilight sky, its branches turning from silver to gold as Apollo drags the sun down so his sister can drag the moon upward.

Tables scatter the courtyard, full of priestesses and a handful of priests that sit in loose circles, breaking bread and passing claw bowls of olives and yogurt thinned with honey, speaking in soft murmurs. You ignore them in favor of sitting at your usual place at the end of the furthest bench, right against the cool bark of the fig tree.

Carefully, you lean over to pluck flatbread, cheese and a handful of figs from the center of the table. No one pays you much mind as you do. It's better that way. When you'd first come here, an orphan looking for anything to do in exchange for shelter, they hadn't been so nice. Pretending you're not there is a better alternative to the scathing comments and looks you'd used to receive.

Murmurs drift around you like smoke. You listen as the fig in your hand bleeds red juice down your fingers, frowning at what you hear. Mentions of raiders sighted along the northern pass, border temples burning. Ares walking the streets.

His name lands like a stone dropped in silver water. You glance up to see people casting sidelong looks your way, frowning. As if it was you who had mentioned the God of War. You look back down at the table, biting into the fig, the juice filling your mouth.

When your plate is empty you rise without hurry, stack the clay dish neatly, and walk past the tables. Conversation stutters, then resumes behind you. It is the way of things here when you're the only person foolish enough to tend to a cruel god. An unneeded god.

Your quarters are tucked behind the grain stores on the lowest level of the temples, down a side passage that few people ever use. The Temple of the Gods is complex, built onto the top of the hill and winding deep into it, the hallways and subterranean rooms serving as its roots. Not everyone lives in the temple like you do - most people have homes.

You don't.

The inside of your room is small. It's barely wider than your outstretched arms and smells faintly of cypress and lemon. A narrow pallet rests against one wall, covered with a single wool blanket dyed the color of rust. A low table holds the few possessions you have: a comb that's missing two teeth, a single extra tunic that's folded, and balm for burns when you knock over candles or when your fingers dip into wax.

Every day is the same routine. Chores in the morning that go through until early afternoon, followed by tending to Ares altar, followed by dinner and bed. You follow that routine now, peeling off the wet tunic and putting it aside to dry. Your shift underneath does nothing to keep the chill of the room out, goosebumps rising on your arms until you climb under the woolen blanket.

You draw your knees up, curl onto your side, and stare at the faint crack of moonlight beneath the door. Somewhere above you, the temple settles into its night rhythm. You listen until the sounds blur into silence, eyes heavy, limbs sore.

Tomorrow you will rise before dawn, go about your chores, and kneel before the altar. Always the same labor, always the same silence.

You breathe in, breathe out, and let the darkness take you.

-

Oil lamps flicker as you descend the narrow stairs, same as every day before you. Your palm stings where the rope of the bucket digs into your palms, water sloshing over as you walk. Dawn always feels heaviest in the temple, as though it's just you and the gods. You feel the press of something around you as you get closer to Ares' altar, something you can't see but you can feel, always just out of sight when you turn your head.

You've noticed that over the years, the way something seems to buzz when you're near the God of War's statue, just beyond your reach. It's one of those small observations you keep to yourself. No one would care what you had to say anyway. They have their own gods to whisper to, ones that promise harvest and safe travels or wisdom, not the bloody blade of conflict.

You set the bucket down with a soft thunk, the water inside rippling faintly. The altar of Ares waits in its alcove, unchanged and unchanging, the statue's broad shoulders casting a long shadow. You kneel, dipping the cloth into the cool water, and begin the ritual scrubbing. The stains are stubborn today, rust-brown flecks that flake under your nails but never fully yield. It's been this way since you first took the task years ago.

That time feels distant, nearly impossible to reach. You'd arrived at the temple an orphan with dirt-streaked clothes and a hollow ache in your stomach that no amount of rotten bread could fill. The high priestess had looked you over and simply told you it was Ares' altar or nothing. You'd taken it in stride. And why wouldn't you? You had no family to warn you of bad omens, no village tales to fill your head with dread. It was just a job, a way to earn your keep in a world that had already shown you its teeth.

The cloth rasps against the stone, a steady rhythm that echoes your thoughts. You've watched the others over the years, clustering around Zeus' grand pedestal upstairs, leaving offerings of wind and cheese. Watched them leave bowls of rosewater and ripe figs for Aphrodite, whispering to find them love and passion, to bless them with a fulfilling marriage.

Fear shapes their world. You learned it long ago - fear of failure, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being brave enough, fear of not climbing high enough. Fear is the lens through which they experience Ares, a monstrous god that threatens to ruin everything they've ever worked for, a name only prayed to when the world is on fire and the air choked in smoke.

There hasn't been war for a long time. The priestesses believe it's because no one prays to Ares anymore, so he has no power here, no way to keep a foothold in this world. But there's you. Tending to him as you always have, his sole patron, the only one who occasionally murmurs about your day to a stone face who cannot hear you, a pleasant buzz at the back of your neck when you do.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, light and hurried. You pause, glancing up to see two priestesses coming your way. You recognize them both - they're sisters. Elara is the taller of the two and older, her tan skin golden in the lamplight. Thalia trails behind her, shorter and rounder in the face, but beautiful enough to have the lords of the city asking for her at the temple gates.

They've never spoken to you directly before, especially not in the dim underbelly of the temple. It makes you straighten slightly, water dripping from your cloth onto the stone, pooling at your knees.

"Why are you doing that?" Elara asks, stopping a few yards away near the closest lantern. You can tell she doesn't want to come any closer to Ares gloom, her grey eyes flickering toward the statue looming over you.

"Tending the altar," you answer slowly. "As I always have."

"Look around, fool," Elara hisses. "The scouts bring word of armies marching, raiders at the border. War's breath is down our necks, and you have the gall to come polish the sword of our would be destroyer?"

Thalia peers around her sister, face like thunder. "You should leave his statue. You're inviting him in."

"Maybe that's what she wants," Elara notes. "She came here scavenging for a place like a rat in the granary - perhaps she clings to him because he's the only one she can have. But we know the truth. Your devotion has called him down."

You say nothing at first, your gaze drifting back to the statue. The sword lies still in his palms, eternal. You've thought about how strange the people of this world think sometimes. Thought it odd, how people carve meaning from chaos by blaming others, how they assign treachery because fear prods at them, a spear to the back of the neck.

An orphan is easy to blame in a place like this. You don't command armies, you don't know how to hold a shield, or burn down a village, and yet only you could be the root of war. The fire starter. There is no logic here, no rhyme or reason. Only fear nipping at their heels like hellhounds.

"War comes from the greed of men," you mutter, turning away from them to resume your scrubbing. "Not from scrubbed stone."

"Selfish," Thalia mutters. "You should abandon this place. Walk away. Then he will sleep again."

"I command no armies, nor do I command the God of War." You scrub at the stains that never move. "Perhaps you should pray to your gods to stop him."

Elara spits at your feet, the glob landing wet on the marble. "When the fires come, I hope they come for you first."

Thalia laughs and they turn as one, footsteps retreading up the stairs to leave you in the dim. You sit back on your heels, cloth in your hand, watching them leave you alone at the foot of the altar. The stone presses cold against your skin, unyielding. The hum returns faintly, a pulse under your knees.

You sit there for a long time after their footsteps fade, the spit drying slowly on the marble in a small, darkening spot near your knee. The lamps have burned lower, the shadows extending farther. Your cloth lies forgotten in your lap, water soaking through the fabric in cold patches. The hum beneath your knees has quieted to almost nothing, a faint tremor you might mistake for exhaustion if you didn't know better.

Slowly, you lift your head to peer at the statue looming above you. The marble is cracked in places, fine spiderwebs spreading from the left cheekbone. There's a deep fissure running down the right forearm where time or some earthquake long ago tried to claim it, but the face remains mostly untouched. You've studied the face of Ares thousands of times, and yet with Elara's threat hanging in the air, the lamplight finds new angles.

The statue of Areas has high cheekbones that catch the flicker of the flame, casting hollows beneath them that make his expression both stern and almost wear. His jaw is strong, and his mouth is full and set in a firm, unreadable line. The eyes have always captured you, fierce in stone, the sculptor leaving the pupils as bare pockets of shadows instead of inlaid with lapis lazuli like Zeus.

Hair falls in carved waves from beneath a crested helm long since broken away at the edges, strands curling against his broad forehead and brushing the strong column of his neck. There’s a faint scar etched across one brow, though you're unsure if it's accidental or deliberate.

You’ve never thought of the statue as beautiful before. Not in the soft, inviting way Aphrodite’s likeness is beautiful, or the serene way Apollo’s is. Ares is different - arresting in a way that is almost uncomfortable, like looking at someone who sees you and immediately knows every fear, every secret.

Tonight, with the accusations still ringing in your ears and the temple settling into uneasy quiet above you, the face feels less like cold stone and more like a witness.

“I don’t know if you’re listening,” you whisper, feeling a little silly as you pick up the cloth to begin scrubbing again. "But I never really believed you were. Not the way the others believe in their gods. Sorry if that offends you."

You pause, fingers aching. "They're stupid. I know I shouldn't say so, but they are. To think that I alone could be the reason border temples burn or call down war like ringing a bell is insanity." A small, dry laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. "If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere warm, and near the ocean. Somewhere there's a lot of fruit and I could have as much as I want. Somewhere I could learn to read, maybe. To have purpose. If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here."

The statue doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. But the lamplight shifts, and for a heartbeat the carved eyes seem to sharpen, as though the shadows themselves are paying attention. Your heart spikes and you lean forward, pressing your forehead down until it nearly brushes the base of the plinth.

"Sorry." You murmur. "That was rude. If you're listening, anyway."

No one answers, but as you resume your scrubbing, the lamps behind you gutter once, the hum under your knees steady as ever.

-

The warning bells wrench you from your sleep with jagged nails. At first, they blend with the remnants of your dreams, the distant roll of thunder blurring to deep, tolling bells of the city guard. You realize with sharp terror that you're not dreaming and you bolt upright on the narrow pallet, your blanket tangling around your tangles as you kick it free. Your night shift clings to your skin, damp with sweat as your heart begins to hammer.

Screams tear through the silence. Panic floods your veins like ice water, sharp and breathtaking. You scramble, forgetting all about your tunic as you fumble with the bronze latch on the door, handles shaking. The door sticks for a single, agonizing moment before it swings free and opens into the Underworld.

At least, you think it's the Underworld for a moment. Chaos reigns supreme in the hall, smoke rolling down from the upper levels in thick waves, stinging your eyes. An orange glow beckons at the end of the hall and screams echo from above, frantic under the heavy thunder of boots. Someone's voice cuts off mid-plea and your heart lurches as you plunge into the smoke, covering your mouth, eyes watering.

You climb the stairs two at a time until you're spilling into the main landing of the temple, sliding to a halt. Heat slams into you, the air turning to ash and fire. Flames devour the eastern wing, roaring up the tall wooden beams, eating at the roof that has sheltered you from rain and wind for years. The fig tree in the courtyard is aflame, bark peeling in curling sheets as it burns.

Priests and priestesses scatter in every direction, white tunics covered in blood and soot, face streaked in tears and ash. One of them stumbles toward you, clutching a bleeding arm, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. A soldier in leather armor and dented bronze grabs her before she can reach you, yanking her hair backward. She screams only once before his sword flashes down. You flinch as blood sprays in a bright arch, spattering the marble floors.

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts. This is the end of everything you’ve known - the altar, the scrubbing, the cold water and heavy bucket - all of it burned to whatever war this is, whoever's army has come here to pillage and burn and slaughter. Burning.

A soldier spots you standing frozen in the chaos. His eyes light with interest and he shouts something at you, pointing with a bloodied sword. Two other soldiers turn, grins splitting their face as they start toward you, boots crunching over broken pottery stained with blood.

Terror surges inside of you, more primal and absolute than you have ever known. You spin and bolt toward the inner corridors, your body taking you to the only path you can think of in the fiery hell scape of the temple. The lower levels call to you, cool and dark and comforting - but what calls to you more is the sword upon Ares alter, the only weapon you can think of to fight back, to save yourself.

Laughter chases you and the soldiers jeer as they start to run after you. You're quick on the steps, flying down them as their boots pound down the corridor behind you. Your lungs scream as you dive into the dark halls of the lower temple, the oil lamps burning low, the altars here untouched as you fly by them, running for the last halo of gold light where Ares stands.

You burst into the alcove, skidding on marble now warm from rising heat. The statue of Ares looms in the flickering gloom, larger and more imposing than ever as shadows dance across its cracked features. The sword rests in those upturned marble hands, eternal and waiting.

Your hands shake violently as you reach up on tiptoe and wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword. It's heavier than you expected, but as you pull it free the weight adjusts, turning from heavy to perfect, like the grip was shaped for you and you alone. The leather grip is cool against your skin and the dull metal of the blade catches the low lamplight in a dull gleam.

The hum you've felt for years surges through you, stronger now than ever, a roaring vibration that travels from the sword up your arm and into your chest, syncing with the frantic pounding of your heartbeat until it feels like your pulse is a living thing connected to the sword.

You spin to face the corridor, raising the sword in both hands. Your stance is all wrong and the weapon feels awkward in your grip, but the weapon steadies you as the soldiers round the corner. It's just the three of them, faces flushed with violence and glee as they look at you, stalking down the hallway.

"Look at the little mouse," the one at the lead says, grin spreading. "Drop it, little mouse, before you poke yourself. I can give you a sword to play with."

One of the men behind him licks his lips, eyes raking over you. “She’ll make a fine prize after we finish here.”

Your arms tremble, but you don’t lower the blade. The hum thrums louder, almost deafening in your ears, drowning out the distant roar of flames. Sweat stings your eyes. The temple groans overhead, beams cracking and shifting as it gives way in sections to the raging inferno.

"Come here, little mouse," the leader coos. He steps into the lamp light of Ares alter, eyes shining. "Let me have a taste."

No sooner than he steps into the ring of light, the world shatters around you.

A deafening crack splits the air, like thunder ripping through the temple. You scream, nearly dropping the sword as you cower, ears ringing. The stone floor shudders beneath your feet and a blinding white-gold flare erupts in the air, like a seam in reality shredding open. You throw one arm over your eyes to hide from it, the sword shaking in your other hand as you step back.

Heat washes over you as the light vanishes and you're left blinking, fading streaks of light fading as your vision adjusts, spots swimming in your peripheral vision.

A figure stands between you and the three men.

He's taller than any mortal you've ever seen, armored in blackened bronze that seems to drink the light from the oil lamps. A crested helm of horsehair and iron shadows his face, his armor shoulders broad, stance lethal. In his right hand is a long spear, its haft made of dark wood bounded with glowing gold, the tip of the weapon gleaming with a sharpness that seems to cut the air itself. In his left hand is a sword that looks exactly like the one in your hand, runes pulsing faintly along the metal.

Ares.

You realize it at the same time as the soldiers do. They stumble backward from him, murmuring his name in awe as they stare, wide-eyed and terrified.

The God of War says nothing. He simply moves - faster than you thought possible, faster than any mortal has the right to. His spear juts forward in a flash of movement, piercing the leader's chest with a wet, crunching sound. The man is lifted off his feet, skewered like a boar before the god tosses him aside. The body crashes against the wall, blood spraying as Ares advances.

Screams of terror rip through the hall from the remaining two men. They lift their swords but they can do nothing against a god. You watch in mute terror as Ares parries without looking and drives his own blade upward in a single, brutal stroke. You hear a gurgle before you realize Ares has cut the man open throat to ear, the crimson surging as the man buckles.

The third turns to flee, but Ares hurls the spear, arm snapping forward like an adder. The weapon punches through the man's armor, sending him forward to the ground as he collapses. He jerks once - twice - then goes still, hanging on the weapon like a trophy of war.

Silence crashes in, broken only by the crackle of distant flames and your own ragged breathing.

Ares turns toward you and your knees nearly give out.

The face underneath the helm is the statue you've tended to for years made flesh. His high cheekbones are hollowed by shadow and the growing firelight at the end of the hall, his jaw clenched in fury that terrifies you. His eyes burn red, the ancient weight of them pressing against you and pinning you in place. Dark hair spills against his forehead, one of his brows interrupted by the same crack on his statue.

He sheaths his sword and lowers himself to a knee before you. You blink, watching as he removes his helm. His hair is dark, the sides and underneath cropped shorter in an undercut. He is devastatingly beautiful in a way that terrifies you, the anger in his face softening to something you can't read.

"You," he murmurs. "Are the one who came to me in darkness. Who scrubbed the stains that time could not remove when others refused. Who lit candles for a god no one else would name. For years I have felt your hands at my altar, and heard your words in what otherwise would have been silence. In a temple that feared me, only you showed me kindness."

Awe crashes over you, mingling with terror and grief until you can barely breathe. Your fingers tighten on the sword - his sword. So he had been listening. All that time - all those years, spent on your knees at the foot of his altar, tending to him and muttering about your day. About your little complaints or observations. The hum you'd felt then hadn't been an illusion or madness. It had been him - real and present.

“Lord Ares,” you manage, voice cracking. You drop to your knees, ducking your head. "Please don't let us burn."

"You do not bow to me." He rises and takes a step toward you. You look up, chest heaving as he approaches you slowly, as though he's afraid to startle you. "I cannot save this place. War is not a hound I call to heel. To halt it here would only shift the slaughter elsewhere - war is inevitable and a wheel that is always turning. I simply honor the wheel - I cannot bend fate for mercy alone."

The ceiling groans overhead, a deep, ominous crack splitting the stone. Embers rain down from the ceiling, red and glowing. You see smoke curling behind him, the fire crawling closer and closer. The heat is relentless now, pressing in.

"But you," Ares murmurs. "You who asked nothing, who gave when others only took. You will not die here."

He reaches out toward you. You let him, his callused palm cupping your chin, thumb brushing feather light over your jaw. You shiver, eyes fluttering as he looks down at you, expression soft, almost reverent. More embers fall, haloing him in firelight as his eyes drink you in.

"Sleep," he whispers. "When you wake, you will know peace."

The world tilts, and darkness swallows you whole.

-

The sound of crackling flames has been replaced by the sound of water. You groan, rolling over. It's not just the sound of water, you realize - it's the sound waves, the rhythmic hush of them retreating and returning. You inhale and you don't smell smoke. Rather, you smell the clean and cool scent of growing things, of salt and brine, of driftwood.

Your eyes flutter open slowly to see light filtering through palm fronds overhead, soft and golden. You lie on a soft bed with a thin blanket of undyed linen that feels softer than anything you've ever known. A low ceiling of thatch stretches above you, open at the sides so the breeze can drift through.

You try to sit up and a gentle ache rolls through you. You glance down and realize you're free from soot and sweat, a new and proper tunic of white and red replacing the night shift you'd been in at the temple.

A shadow shifts nearby, snagging your attention. Ares sits cross-legged on the sand just outside the small shelter's open wall, his back to the endless sea of blue behind him, facing you. The armor is replaced by a simple tunic of deep crimson linen belted at the waist. His helm is absent, dark hair shining in the sunlight, damp like he's just come up from the water.

Swallowing, you sit up fully. The sword from the altar rests beside you. You remember the temple in flashes, the burning ceiling, the fire eating the fig tree, the blood of the priestess as she ran toward you - him, slaughtering the men who chased you to his altar, the sudden violence of it.

"Lord Ares," you whisper.

He tilts his head and a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I've had many names across centuries and places. Ares. Enyalios. Resheph. Montu. Men have called me destroyer, protector, madness, courage. But here, please call me Soonyoung."

The name settles over you like warm sand. Simple. Human. "Soonyoung."

"I like the sound of the name on your tongue."

A flush crawls up your neck. You look around again, taking in the details you missed at first. There's a small fire pit nearby, the embers still glowing beneath a flat stone. There's a basket holding figs and pomegranates, and a few pots with lids on them. You turn, and in the distance of the island, you see a small building, nondescript and built from driftwood, nestled in lush greenery.

"How long has it been?" You ask him, glancing at him nervously. "Since the temple?"

"Two days. You slept rather deeply. The journey here took a lot from you."

"You saved me."

"I would not leave you to the fire." His gaze drops briefly to the sand between his knees, his fingers tracing idle patterns. "Not you."

"The temple?"

"Gone," he says quietly. "The raiders burned what they could not carry. Some survived. Many did not. War took what it always takes."

You nod once, the grief sharp but distant. You had known, somewhere beneath the panic, that there would be no saving it. Still, hearing it aloud makes your chest ache. Even if the people there had not been kind to you, it had been your home.

Soonyoung rises smoothly, brushing sand from his palms. He grabs a pomegranate and splits it open with his thumbs, the red juice running over his fingers. He offers you half, the seeds gleaming like rubies inside.

"Eat," he says. "Your strength needs rebuilding."

You take it, the fruit cool against your palm. The first seed bursts between your teeth, tart and sweet, juice spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, suddenly self-conscious under his steady regard. He seems amused as he sits again, this time a little closer. You feel the heat of him as you eat in silence, both of you watching the water of the beach below and the wind through the palms.

As you chew, you glance toward the building in the distance again, the walls catching the slanting sunlight.

"It's mine," he says, noticing you looking. "Built long ago when this island was a sanctuary for me after long periods of war. I find the peace of this place a necessity for myself."

"Is this place real?"

He hums and nods. "Yes, but no mortal could stumble upon it - save perhaps someone particularly unlucky like Odysseus." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me about yourself.”

You blink, startled. No one has ever asked before. He smirks like he knows this, but he says nothing, chewing on seeds as he watches you with dark eyes. His eyes are no longer red - they're dark and fathomless, warm in a way you don't expect.

"There isn't much to tell," you admit. "I found the temple when I was small. No name, no family. The high priestess took me in because there were chores to be done and an unattended altar that needed scrubbing. Everyone was afraid of you. I wasn't."

A faint smile flickers across his face again. "I know. I listened to you."

"You did?"

"Every word. Every muttered curse when the wax spilled. Every quiet breath when you knelt and thought no one was listening.” He sets the pomegranate rind aside, wipes his hands on his chiton. “You were the only voice in three years that did not ask me for victory, or vengeance, or protection from enemies. You simply existed. I thought it was nice."

“I didn’t know what else to do. It was my place to ask for anything."

"And now? You would still ask nothing of me?"

You look out at the sea, the depth bluer than anything you've ever known. You don't know what you would ask for - can't think of anything, really. Though you know Ares has no connection to the sea, you think he's rather similar - endless, beautiful, stormy.

"I would ask nothing of you," you say eventually.

He hums thoughtfully. "This island is mine. Far from mortal shores and far from the path of armies. No war reaches here unless I will it, and I do not will it. I offer you this place, though you don't ask for it. I don't offer it to you as a worshiper or a servant, but as a guardian. Tend the fire if you wish, watch the horizon. Keep the silence for me. Sleep inside or beneath the stars out there."

The offer hangs in the air between you, his words making your heart skip a beat. You've never had someone offer you to stay somewhere without an obligation, to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on you.

For a moment, you stare at him, the pomegranate half forgotten in your hands, the juice sticky on your fingers. You wonder what it would be like not to exist in the shadowed hallways of the temples, whispers following you as you pass. To live without averted eyes or people treating you like a curse made flesh.

Here, on this island, there would be no one to tell you what to do. No one to chastise you. No one to force you to eat alone in a courtyard of people. A refuge, not a rejection. But beneath the relief simmers doubt, a familiar shadow that has dogged you since childhood. Who are you to accept such a gift? An orphan with no name, no lineage, no skills beyond scrubbing stains that never truly fade. What if this is pity, disguised as kindness? A god's whim, fleeting as the sea foam that dissolves on the shore?

"War isn't always battle," Soonyoung murmurs, watching you mull it over. "Sometimes war is with oneself. Or with others, mental and years long. Sometimes war is survival to a life you were born to, but perhaps don't deserve. It is rest and respite I'm offering. Not pity or amusement."

"Can you read my thoughts?"

"No, but I can read your face." You flush and he grins. "You've tended to me for years and I've listened to you. Perhaps you don't know me, but I know you."

Gratitude sparks in your chest, overwhelming and raw. He saved you - not the temple or the others, but you. Knelt before you in blood and fire, the person who gave him company when no one else did. And now he sees right to the heart of you, to the very wound you knew was there but never had a name for.

You draw a breath, steadying yourself and you meet his gaze. "I accept."

Something brightens in his eyes - relief, you think. His shoulders ease, a tension you hadn't realized was there fading, and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling. He rises and offers you a hand. You set the rind of the pomegranate aside and take it, letting him help you to your feet.

"Come," he tells you. "Let me give you a tour."

You follow Soonyoung, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. It's soft and fine beneath your soles, shifting with each step. The beach curves downward gently to a crescent of white edged by turquoise shallows that foam as the waves meet the shore. The air feels alive as you step onto damp sand, charged with an undercurrent of energy that feels like static on your skin.

Soonyoung walks beside you, his stride confident and unhurried, but there's an energy to him that crackles like lightning on the verge of striking. He doesn't touch you again, but his presence is a tangible force, goosebumps lining your arms that you tell yourself is from the cool ocean breeze.

"This beach is the heart of the island," Soonyoung tells you, spreading his arms. "The sand here never erodes, and the waves bring shells and driftwood as gifts from my uncle when he sees fit."

He gestures ahead where the tide laps lazily, depositing a cluster of iridescent conch shells that gleam in the sunlight. You grin and stop to pick one up. Its surface is cool to the touch, humming faintly under your fingers.

"Bring it to your ear," he urges gently, grinning.

You press it to your ear, and instead of the ocean's roar, you hear a soft melody, like distant flutes weaving through whispers of wind. You turn to him, delighted and he laughs. The sound is so rich you forget all about the shell, watching him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the sky, sun-kissed and happy.

He seems so different from the god who appeared the night in the temple, reigning fury down on your attackers. You wonder if this is the version of Ares only the island gets, the hidden side of war that needs rest, that needs respite and happiness to fuel the rage and the violence.

As you walk, the sand gives way to low dunes tufted with sea grasses that sway, their blades tipped with dew. Wildflowers bloom in random clusters, vibrant explosions of gold and red. Soonyoung bends down to pluck a bloom and tuck it behind your ear casually with no regard for the way it makes your heart slam in your chest, startled.

"These grow year-round," he explains. "There are no seasons here to wither them. The island provides - fruits ripen eternally, herbs grow, and animals thrive. You'll never hunger or want for anything." His tone is happy, almost boyish in its excitement. "I shaped this place with the help of some of my siblings. I desired a place where life persists, defiant against decay."

"It's beautiful," you admit. "Not what I expected."

He nods. "It cannot be war all the time. Even I need peace."

The path curves inland, away from the beach's gentle slope, into a grove of olive and fig trees that form a natural canopy overhead. Sunlight filters through in golden shafts, illuminating leaves. The ground underfoot turns to mossy earth, cool and springy, dotted with fallen figs that split open. Birds flit between branches, their feathers flashing jewel tones you've never seen.

Deeper into the grove, a narrow stream emerges, its waters crystal-clear and bubbling over smooth pebbles. He crouches to cup water in his hand and drinks. You do the same, dipping your hands into the cool water. When you bring it to your lips, the crispness of it startles you. It's the cleanest water you've ever tasted, cool and clear, a shiver rippling down your spine. He grins and splashes a bit of water toward you, the droplets landing cool and tingling on your skin.

The grove opens to a gentle rise, leading toward the house you glimpsed earlier. It's a driftwood house, sun bleached and reflecting the sun's glow. Terracotta tiles crown the flat roof, with vines of blooming wisteria cascading down one side in waves swaying in the breeze. A columned portico faces the sea, supported by pillars carved with small shields. Wooden shutters frame wide windows, open now to let in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the interior.

Soonyoung pushes open the heavy oak door and ushers you inside with a sweep of his arm, his grin eager. The main room is open and spacious, the floor covered in woven rugs of deep crimsons and earth tones. A hearth dominates one wall, a small fire crackling inside.

On another side, a kitchen alcove gleams with copper pots and shelves laden with jars of fruits and spices. A low table nearby is set with clay bowls and ewers of water. He leads you to a short hall into a room, pushing open the door to reveal a room with a wide bed draped in linens and pillows. The windows in the room overlook a small herb garden, bees humming lazily among blooms of lavender.

He leads you to a back terrace, shaded by a pergola overgrown with grapevines heavy with clusters of ripe fruit. You're amazed at how lush everything here, every fruit swelling with ripeness, every ounce of water clear and cool. From here, the view sweeps across the island. You can see the beach below and the grove's verdant sprawl, distant cliffs rising with goats.

Soonyoung leans against a pillar of the pergola, crossing his arms over his chest to turn his eyes on you. He seems nervous, almost, chewing the corner of his lips as he watches you take in the view.

"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," you admit. "I still feel like I'm dreaming."

"I assure you, Wonwoo - Hypnos - is not here." Soonyoung grins when you look at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think I don't know the others?"

"You just talk about them so casually."

"They're my family. We might spite one another and occasionally fight, but they're family nonetheless."

"I've never had a family."

Soonyoung softens, pushing off the column to drift toward you. He lifts his hand as though to brush it against you, but thinks better of it, dropping it at his side. Instead, he tells you, "Rest. Eat. Drink. I'll leave you to it."

"You're not staying?" You hate the instant panic, the way your heart flares. His smile is fond. "I'll be here as often as you wish. Occasionally I've got some things to address, like now. But I won't abandon you here, so long as you want my company."

Soonyoung lingers for a moment longer on the terrace, the late-afternoon light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning the crimson of his tunic to something almost molten. He watches you with that same quiet intensity he’s carried since the temple, sending a shiver down your spine. The wind moves through the grapevines overhead, rustling leaves and sending a few loose tendrils curling toward the floor.

“I’ll leave you to settle,” he says at last, voice low but carrying the same easy confidence he’s shown all afternoon. “The house knows what you need. If you’re hungry, the kitchen will have what you want. If you’re tired, the bed will be warm. If you want the stars tonight, the mats where you woke up remain there, a sort of bed under the stars. I’ll be nearby. Not far. Call if you need me."

You nod, throat tight. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all you have. “Thank you.”

He smiles, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the scar on his brow lift slightly. “No thanks necessary. You’re home now.”

Home.

He turns then, stepping off the terrace with that same fluid grace, bare feet silent on the warm stone path. You watch his back until he disappears around the curve of the grove, swallowed by olive branches and golden light. You stand there a long time after he leaves, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, the borrowed tunic soft against your skin. The fabric smells faintly of sun-dried linen and something like myrrh.

You step back inside the house, moving slowly, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath you like a dream. But the floor stays firm beneath you as you re-enter the sleeping chamber and head toward the wide bed. You sink onto its edge, palms pressing into the mattress. IT gives beneath you, softer than anything you've ever slept on. The constant tension that lived between your shoulder blades finally bleeds out, the ache of release blooming across your back.

Tears come then, sudden and quiet. Not sobs - not grief, because you don't grieve the temple, not exactly. But relief, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. There's a hint of sorrow for the life you lost, even if it was never truly kind, but the utter relief of realizing where you sit now, in a house built by a god, surrounded by things that never stain, that never corrode, is overwhelming.

You're home now.

Soonyoung's words echo. The phrase feels foreign. Home has always been temporary until the temple, and even then, a storage closet in a corner of a world that you'd carved out for yourself or a spot at the farthest bed during meals never really felt like home. You had duty and silence, and you had the hum of an altar no one else but you would touch, but never a home.

Your fingers curl into the linens. Gratitude swells again, so large it hurts. Not just for the rescue, not just for the island, but for the way he saw the war inside of you. The silence battle, not bloody or gory but just as violent. He'd heard your complaints for years, your mindless commentary, and kept watch. Saved you when you needed it.

Lying back slowly, you stare up at the beamed ceiling. Late sunlight slants across the room in long golden bars, painting stripes of warmth across your body. Outside, the waves keep their steady rhythm. Somewhere distant, a bird calls, a clear note that echoes over the water.

For the first time in years, you don't feel watched, but you don't feel invisible either. You just… feel present.

You breathe in, breathe out. And for once, drift into a comfortable sleep.

-

Waking up on the island is unlike most days. Instead of opening your eyes to dim, cool darkness, you're greeted by warm air, the blankets around you soft and scented slightly with something woody. Sunlight filters through the open window, panting the bed in warm shafts. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, peering around the room to find the sound that pulled you from sleep.

Soft footsteps pad across the floor somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Your heart quickens, a remnant of the temple's chaos flashing through your mind: boots thundering down corridors, screams echoing off marble. But there's no smoke here, no heat of flames pressing in. Only the distant hush of waves and the nearer hum of bees in the herb garden.

Sitting up carefully, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet warm against the rug. You pad toward the door, curiosity driving you out into the main room, which is bathed in morning light. You pause when you see Soonyoung, his back to you as he stands at the low table in the kitchen. He's dressed simply again, in a loose tunic of undyed linen that hangs open at the neck, revealing the strong lines of his collarbone and the faint scar that traces across it. His hair is tousled, still damp from what might have been an early swim, and he moves with that same coiled grace.

He turns at the sound of your approach, his dark eyes lighting with that boyish excitement you saw yesterday while he gave you a tour of the small island. "You're awake! Good, I thought you might sleep longer."

You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame. The sight of him here, domestic and unarmored, stirs something unfamiliar in your chest, a flutter that you dismiss. You can't help but stare at him, hypnotized by the way the light catches the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp jaw and the faint scare on his brow. You immediately chide yourself - he's a god, not something for you to stare at like a starstruck priestess.

"I didn't mean to intrude," you murmur, voice rough from sleep."

He waves a hand dismissively. "No intrusion. I was gathering breakfast. The fruits are at their best in the morning. Join me on the terrace? The view is unmatched at this hour."

You nod, following him as he lifts a platter laden with fruit in one hand as he leads the way through the back door. The stone underfoot is warm from the sun, and beyond the low wall, the island unfolds in a tapestry of green and blue. The seat glitters under the climbing sun. No smoke on the horizon. No distant bells tolling alarm. Just the island and the cool breeze.

Soonyoung sets the platter on the low table between two cushioned benches, then settles onto one with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out as if the world bends to his comfort. You take the opposite bench, looking at the platter of fruit. Figs bleed red juice onto the clay, grapes swollen and deep purple. Honey gleams golden in a small jar, and Soonyoung tears a piece of flatbread and dips it into the honey, offering it to you.

"Eat," he murmurs, voice soft but insistent. "The food here will mend the spirit."

You take the bread, the honey sticky and sweet on your tongue, mingling with the warm, yeasty flavor. It's richer than anything from the temple, and you sigh, letting it melt in your mouth. Soonyoung watches you as you chew, like he's gauging your reaction. His eyes meet yours, dark and warm, and a spark jumps in your chest, unbidden. You look away quickly, focusing on a grape you pluck from the bunch, a nervous flush warming your neck.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, breaking the silence as he selects a fig, splitting it open with his thumbs. Juice runs over his fingers, and he licks it away absently, the gesture distracting you.

"Deeply," you answer after a beat too long. "Better than I have in years, honestly."

"The island attunes to you. If you prefer the stars, the shelter by the beach is yours too. Sometimes I like to sleep there." He pauses, popping a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Did dreams come? Or just peace?"

"Peace. Honestly, it was strange to wake without the immediate sense of monotony."

"Mhm."

"Better than the dread I felt waking up that night."

"Dread is war's shadow." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Speaking of that night - you picked up my sword and faced those men with no training and without fear."

"I was plenty afraid."

"Perhaps, but you were brave enough to defeat the fear. That's no small thing. I rarely see that even in battle-hardened warriors. You don't know how challenging it is to look certain death in the face and decide to fight it anyway, even if it's inevitable."

You think for a second, nibbling on a piece of cheese. "I just did what felt right. I knew the way to the altar - knew the sword was there. It was just instinct."

He tilts his head, studying you with that penetrating gaze. "Have you ever thought of learning? Properly, I mean. Not because you'll need to - war doesn't touch this place. But it could be something for you to do, to embrace that strength."

The question hangs between you, laced with possibility. Your pulse quickens. Learning to use a sword never occurred to you - why would it? Women didn't wield swords to begin with, but certainly not those who served a temple of the gods. The idea, however absurd, makes you grin, looking up at him. He smiles like he knows your answer already, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.

"I think I'd like that," you say.

"Excellent!" He shoots to his feet, startling you. Energy crackles around him, making you lean back. He offers you a hand, a grin splitting his face. "Let's start now. Basics first. Come with me, the beach has good footing."

You can't help but laugh. He pulls you up to your feet and drops your hand, leading you down the path to the beach from the terrace. Birds trill in the trees as you pass, the air full of scents of blooming fruit and salt spray. You reach the beach easily, the sand firm and damp near the water's edge, waves lapping gently.

Soonyoung turns to you and holds out a hand. You blink in surprise as the air ripples for a second, like heat waves disrupting reality in the distance, and the sword from the altar appears. Your mouth pops open a little, shocked. You shouldn't be, you suppose. He's a god with powers beyond your understanding at his finger tips, the ability to command armies and summon weapons barely scratching the surface with what he's able to do.

He holds the sword out to you and you stare at it, unsure. He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Take it. It's yours."

Similar to the first time you picked it up, the sword is heavy for a single moment before it balances itself. You marvel at it in the sunlight, watching the way the sun glints off the edge, now sharped and polished to perfection. It's the perfect size and weight in your hand, and when you give it a gentle test swing, Soonyoung's smile is so warm that you feel yourself grin back.

"First lesson," Soonyoung says, voice shifting from playful to commanding. "Discipline. War isn't mindless fury. It's control over your body, your breath, you fear. Control over your enemy, their goals."

He strides toward you and gently reaches out, tapping you on the wrist to lift your sword hand. His touch is electric and you stare at his hands as they adjust your grip on the handle of the sword, fingers callused and precise as he squeezes your fist briefly.

"Looser here," he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly on your knuckle. "Yes, like that."

The sun highlights the muscles rippling in Soonyoung's forearm as he steps to the side, dropping your hand in favor of showing you how to take your stance, bent at the knees, legs firmly planted, not too far apart. You stare at him, watching the way the sun catches the lighter threads of his hair, haloing him in gold.

You swallow, focusing on the sword in your hand as you try to ignore the way your heart races, reminding yourself that Soonyoung is a god - Ares specifically, the God of War - Miaephonus, Thouros - to many. Soonyoung had said he wears hundreds of names, and you know it to be true as he leads you through basic forms, his tone steady, the command threading through his voice though he never raises it.

Soonyoung is a patient teacher, each correction gentle but direct. Sweat beads on your brow but you find the work exhilarating. Never before did you imagine you could hold a sword, never before did you think you might find yourself on the beach with the sun reaching its zenith, learning from the god who makes art of the sword and spear.

As he drills you, you realize Soonyoung is right. There is a discipline to the way he teaches you, a logic to the moves and the steps that is less rage and chaos and more control. More purpose. You think it reminds you of him, fierce but contained, like that night in the temple when his rage had been a controlled vehicle for violence.

Soonyoung laughs and stops you after a particularly clumsy swing on your part, the sword tipping too far forward. He grins, eyes twinkling as he strides forward and summons another weapon. You watch as he holds it loosely, turning his hand to display the grip.

"You're still gripping it too hard," he tells you. He demonstrates again before twirling the blade in a showy arc, winking at you. His grin grows when you glower. "Fighting has a flow to it. If you're too rigid, you'll break. If you're too loose, you'll fall. You need to be the perfect combination of both to flow."

You try to mimic the motion, but your arm wobbles, the sword dipping awkwardly. Laughter bubbles up unbidden. It surprises you to hear yourself laugh. His grin is fierce and he steps toward you, steadying your elbow gently.

"You have a beautiful laugh," he tells you before stepping away again before saying, "Again."

You nod, breathing deeply as he instructed, inhaling the salt air to center yourself. The sand shifts under your feet, forcing you to adjust, to find balance in the unpredictability. You swing again, this time with more intent, the hum in the sword vibrating in harmony with your movements. Soonyoung claps in delight, nodding as he has you do it again and again.

You keep going until your arms tremble and the sun sits high overhead. Sweat slicks your skin, your tunic clinging in damp patches, but the ache in your muscles feels good. Soonyoung watches every movement with that blend of fierce focus and boyish delight, correcting your stance with quick taps of his blade or a murmured instruction.

"Alright, that's enough for now," he declares as the sun dips into the afternoon. "Not bad, honestly."

You lower the blade, chest heaving, and wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The hum in the sword has settled to a gentle thrum against your palm. "Why does the sword hum?"

"It hums?"

"Yes. Like a vibration."

"Ha!" He claps his hands, delighted. "It's my energy. Didn't expect a mortal to feel it. I should have known you'd sense it."

"I sensed it at your altar too."

"Is that so?" Soonyoung cocks his head and his grin sharpens. "Virago."

"Virago?"

"A woman of great strength and tenacity, a warrior, even if only in spirit and not practice. Athena would like you."

The compliment makes you avert your eyes. You don't know what to make of his words. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to respond, summoning you to lunch as he charges up the path that leads toward the little refuge you woke up in yesterday.

You follow him in the white stand, the tide higher now as it laps closer to the dunes. The simple thatch roof comes into view, mat still spread where you slept. The fire pit smolders low, embers glowing under a flat cooking stone. A fresh basket waits beside it, overflowing with more fruit, a round loaf of bread steaming slightly, and a clay jug beaded with condensation.

Soonyoung drops to one knee beside the pit, coaxing the embers back to life with a few dry twigs and a breath that carries the faint scent of smoke and myrrh. Flames lick upward almost eagerly, as though the fire recognizes him.

He glances at you over his shoulder, playful glint returning. “Sit. The island’s hospitality is better than any feast hall in Olympus.”

You settle onto one of the thin mats, legs tucked beneath you. You watch as he slices the bread with a small knife before passing you a thick piece that he slathers with honey. You accept it, biting into the bread. It's warm and sweet, melting on your tongue and you sigh contentedly, earning a grin from him as he slices another piece for himself.

For a while you eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, and the occasional cry of a seabird wheeling overhead. Every bite of bread and fruit is sweet, and when he passes you water from the clay jar, it's cold and refreshing, chasing away the day's heat immediately.

"Will you tell me about Troy?" You ask, sucking juice from your fingers.

Soonyoung pauses mid-bite, brows lifting in surprise. Then he leans back on one elbow, stretching his legs toward the fire, and grins. "You want war stories? Most people beg me to stop once I start."

"I want your stories," you correct. "I've never left the mountain the temple sits on. Never seen a city larger than the one that burned. Your world is bigger than mine could ever be. I want to experience it through you."

Something shifts in his expression. You think it's pleasure, unguarded and bright as he sits a little straighter, dark eyes gleaming. "Alright. Troy, then."

He tells you about the walls first - tall as mountains, white stone gleaming under the sun, built by gods and men together. He describes the sound, the metallic ring of bronze on bronze, the way the ground shook as thousands of Greek chariots charged across the plains of Troy.

Soonyoung tells you about the silent parts, too. About the moment he watched Hector laugh with his son on the ramparts, the way Paris sometimes played the lyre at dusk to chase away the sorrow of the sentries, to make them less afraid.

You listen as he mentions Achilles, the best of the Greeks - not with hatred, like you might have thought, but with a kind of reluctant respect. You listen with rapt attention, leaning forward as he tells you of the battle, of the chaos of war.

"Did you really walk among them?" You murmur. "During the battle?"

"Of course, though oftentimes mortals don't recognize us. We seem to them a great warrior or a brother in arms, perhaps. But we are there, fighting alongside those who honor us at altars and whisper our names."

"Is that why you came for me? Because I tended your altar?"

"I would not know you otherwise."

You nod. It makes sense. "I suppose if war never came to me, you'd have no reason to appear?" He nods, watching you with a careful expression, like the topic of war makes him nervous, somehow. You think of the way the others in your temple feared him, the way they were so worried that tending to his statue would summon him. "I didn't summon you, right?"

He cocks his head. "How do you mean?"

"By tending to your altar did I… did I invite war in?"

"No. War is necessary." He sighs and leans back, looking up at the blue sky. He closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a cat. "It's not right nor is it wrong… it's simply the balance to peace. War has its own logic. I don't choose the winners, though I try to make the fight fair."

"And after? When war is over?"

"I come here. Sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for long times. But men always create war and I am summoned often." He opens his eyes, glancing your direction. "You're the first person I've ever brought here, though."

You meet his gaze, heart doing that unsteady flutter again. He holds your eyes a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you. Then he clears his throat and stands, brushing sand from his tunic.

“Keep practicing while I’m gone,” he says, voice brisk again, though the warmth lingers in his eyes. “Forms one through four, slow and deliberate. Feel the purpose in each one. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Before you can answer, he steps back, the air around him shimmering like heat over stone. One moment he’s standing there, sunlit and solid. In the next, he's gone, leaving only the faint scent of wood and salt in his wake.

You sit for a long minute staring at the place where he vanished. The fire pops softly. Waves sigh against the shore. You rise, pick up the sword where it rests against the shelter pole, and walk back down to the firm sand near the water. The sun is past zenith now, light slanting golden across the beach. You take your stance, and you practice as he says, each movement deliberate.

You practice until your arms burn and sweat drips from your brow. Until the light turns amber and the first stars prick the deepening blue overhead.

-

Days on the island begin to fold into one another like the gentle turn of waves against the shore. The first week feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake from, but the second week you realize this is your new reality, something that won't be taken away from you. It's not borrowed or temporary, it's yours.

Mornings arrive with light spilling through the open window of the bedroom, always warm. You wake without the jolt of bells or dread, body unfolding slowly from the soft linens. Some days you linger in bed, listening to the island breathe. Other mornings you rise earlier, drawn outside by the soft pink light that precedes sunrise. You walk the beach barefoot, sand still cool from the night, collecting shells that hum faintly when you hold them to your ear like Soonyoung taught you.

Breakfast is always abundant. It isn't just Soonyoung who seems to serve you - it's the kitchen, too. Fresh bread and figs appear even when Soonyoung isn't there, yogurt and honey cakes waiting for you when you stumble in. On days Soonyoung is absent, you eat alone on the terrace, legs dangling over the low wall, watching the sea change color from steel to turquoise as the sun climbs.

On the days Soonyoung is there, the routine shifts to include him. He arrives without announcement, footsteps soft on the path toward the house or simply appearing at the edge of the grove with that faint shimmer of his. Breakfast is always shared side by side on the terrace on those days, legs brushing occasionally.

Soonyoung likes to talk, and you like to listen. He tells you stories of distant wars, of siblings who bicker like mortals, of the first time he tasted honey and decided mortals weren't so bad after all. He answers every question that spills out of you, that same fond patience of his bleeding through when he smiles at you no matter how ridiculous the question feels.

“You’re relentless,” he says once, laughing, but there’s pride in it, not mockery. “No one’s asked me that since the fall of Mycenae.”

When he's gone, you practice the sword forms he taught you. The blade feels more familiar each day, less like a foreign object and more like an extension of your arm. You move through the sequences slowly and deliberately, breathing with each strike.

On the afternoons you don't practice, you wander. You trace the grove's paths until you know every twist and turn. You sit at the spring sometimes too, hands in the cool water, letting it soothe the stinging calluses forming on your palms.

Evenings depend on whether he returns. When he does, you eat dinner on the terrace underneath the torchlight and the stares, biting into grilled fish and olives stuffed with feta. You both like to look up at the sky after dinner, Soonyoung telling you about the constellations while you listen. you tell him the smaller details of your life, and though they feel insignificant, he listens like they matter, like your small life is worth the same attention of the sack of Troy.

When he’s absent, you eat alone. You take the platter to the beach shelter, lie back on the mats under the open sky, and watch the stars emerge one by one.

You miss him when he's gone, though. Not because you feel lonely - you've been alone your entire life, even in crowded rooms of people. You miss him because your affection for him has taken root in your heart and grown in increments, like the vines creeping up the columns of the house.

It's hard not to feel something for him, but you can't help the way your chest tightens when he appears after a long absence, your relief so sharp it startles you. You can't help it when your gaze lingers when he laughs, warm and unguarded, head thrown back as though the sky itself amuses him.

You know it's foolish. He's Ares - a god. He is ancient and vast, a concept that is only occasionally made flesh, someone you could never truly hope to understand. So many mortals have loved gods and fallen to tragedy because of it, but now that you've felt the warmth of his palm and heard the depth of his laughter, you cannot blame them for falling.

The gap between you is not bridgeable. You tell yourself this daily, sternly, whenever your fingers brush his while passing a cup, whenever he smiles at you like you’ve said something clever, whenever he watches you practice forms with quiet pride.

And yet.

And yet and yet and yet.

The comfort of him settles deep. When he is near, the world feels steadier. When he is gone, you miss the steadiness. You don't dare name it, though. You barely acknowledge it. It feels like a dangerous thing, whatever it is, so you keep it buried. Knowing him is enough.

It has to be enough.

On nights like tonight, it's more than enough. The air carries the smell of salt and sweet smoke from the small fire crackling on the beach, embers popping and drifting toward the sky. The small shelter stands behind you, but you've dragged the mat out onto the sand near the waterline, close enough that the occasional wave licks at your feet before retreating.

Above, the sky is a vast blanket strewn with stars, brighter than anything you've ever seen. Soonyoung lies on his back next to you, hands tucked behind his head, the gold light from the fire flickering over the faint scar in his eyebrow and the curve of his smile.

"I think I envy the stars," Soonyoung murmurs, staring up at the sky.

You turn toward him, perplexed. "Envy?"

"They're never alone. Even when the world tears itself apart, they have each other. I've had centuries of company. Siblings who tolerate me. Mortals who loved me and shared my bed." He blows out a slow sigh. "But most eventually curse my name when war comes. Company is rarely the same as understanding."

"People are afraid of war."

"War is duty," he murmurs. "Always has been. I am the swing of the blade that protects the hearth and the fury that defends the weak. They thank Athena for wisdom in battle and yet fear the fury that shields them. When they thank me, it's with averted eyes, as though saying my name will summon conflict."

Soonyoung's words sink in. You think about the others in the temple, how the sisters - probably dead, now - told you they believed as much. They had believed that tending to Soonyoung's - Ares' - altar would summon him, that being kind to him would call him down and destroy everything.

You watch him, his profile sharp against the night. His gaze seems distant, like he's lost in thought. You don't know how to comfort a god, but you try anyway.

"People are often afraid of the things and people they don't understand," you murmur. "Logic fails in the presence of fear."

"Well said." His mouth twitches a little. "Even among the gods it's the same. The gods hate to be compared to mortals, and yet we're so similar. They crave peace yet fear the one who makes it possible. Peace is only beautiful because it follows wrath."

"That sounds lonely."

He finally turns his head to meet your eyes. The firelight turns his irises molten, soft in a way that steals your breath.

“You never asked me to be anything other than what I am," Soonyoung notes. "You lit candles no one else would touch, and spoke to me like I was listening even if you weren't sure. It brought me comfort."

You sit up slowly, drawing your knees toward your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes follow the movement, impossibly dark. Your heart stutters as he looks up at you, face softer and more vulnerable than you ever thought a god of war could look.

"I was never afraid of you," you tell him softly. "Not even when the temple burned and you appeared and killed those men. Only for a moment I was afraid - but not of you. Most of all, I was just relieved."

He smiles. "Still not afraid?"

"No. You've given me what others couldn't - time and attention. A life. Something to do. You're kind and you teach me how to fight though most would find it improper. You listen when I tell you about nothing important. You ask questions even if you know the answers just to make me feel heard. It brings me comfort."

His smile deepens, soft and aching, eyes shining in the firelight. For a moment the space between you feels alive, humming with the same vibration you’ve felt from the sword, from his altar, from him. The air thickens. Your breath catches as his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again, searching.

You feel your heart rate spike as you avert your eyes, the panic that he'll see the affection just simmering beneath the surface of your skin. You cannot love him - he's a god. He's vast and ancient, and you're a mortal. Whatever feelings you have for him is too fragile and impossible, and if you name it, you know it'll break.

"Anyway," you say, throat tight. "I envy the stars too. They are far more beautiful than anything us mortals have managed to conjure up."

Soonyoung blinks, surprised at your change of topic. Your heart pounds as you silently beg him not to press the issue, to not keep the conversation so close to the feeling stuck in your chest. Then he exhales, something that's almost a laugh. He leans back on his hands, gazing upward again.

"You've never been more wrong, Virago."

-

The sun is a merciless coin of heat and light in the sky, turning the beach into a sheet of pale fire. Sweat slicks down your spine, your tunic clinging in damp patches that dark against your back. The sword in your hand feels alive, less of an object and more of an extension of your arm. You no longer think about how to move - you just do.

Soonyoung circles you barefoot, sand dusting the tops of his feet. His own linen tunic is sleeveless today, the fabric gathered at the shoulders with glinting bronze pins. His sculpted arms flex as he moves, beads of sweat tracing down each curve of muscle. He holds his sword loosely in his right hand, tip lowered, watching you with that predatory patience you've come to know.

"Again," he says. "Don't hint at the move."

You nod once, breath steady despite the burn in your shoulders and arms. You step forward, the blade rising in a clean arc. Steel meets steel with a bright clang that startles the gulls from the dunes. Soonyoung parries without effort, guiding your momentum past him so you stumble a half step.

"Too much shoulder," he murmurs near your ear, stepping close to catch your wrist in his hand to correct you. "Use the hips. Let the turn carry the force."

He doesn’t release you immediately. Instead he rotates your wrist a fraction, showing the angle, then slides his palm up to cup your elbow, lifting and adjusting until your form feels perfect. His fingers linger there, calluses rasping lightly against your skin. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest, inches away.

You swallow. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

He steps back, but the space between you feels smaller than before, your breath shakier as you try to shove down the awareness of him.

The next hour passes in a blur of controlled violence. Disarming lessons are your least favorite - they draw him too close, his forearm brushing yours, his knee nudging the inside of your thigh to correct your stance. When you overextend, he catches you around the waist with one arm to steady you, palm flat against your ribs until your balance returns.

It's utterly maddening. He's gentle, despite the coiled strength in every single one of his movements. You know his hands have killed thousands - you've seen him throw a spear that skewered a man through. And yet he handles you with gentle confidence, like handling glass.

"You're not hesitating anymore," Soonyoung notes after you parry his strike in earnest. He grins. "Not even when I come at you fast. Most men would cower."

"I trust you won't hurt me."

"Good," he says quietly. "Come at me. Full intent, no holding back. Try to take my weapon."

You hesitate only a heartbeat. Then you lunge.

Steel rings as your swords meet. Soonyoung lets you drive him back two steps, giving ground deliberately. You feel the shift in his balance - the tiny tell in his leading shoulder - and you act on instinct, driving your blade high as you slide your weapon against his and twist hard.

Soonyoung's sword flies free as you spin into his grasp. Your balance is off again, the momentum carrying you into him as he pulls you toward him, both of you toppling. You yelp and let your sword fall, afraid to hurt him as the two of you land in the sand, your palms barely catching your weight in the sand.

Laughter bursts from him, bright and unrestrained. The sound vibrates through where you're pressed chest to chest, and you can't help but laugh too for a second, surprised and a little embarrassed.

Your noses are an inch apart, his eyes molten brown with lighter flecks of almost gold. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath against you. Sweat has darkened the hair at his temples, sand dusting him as he looks up at you. His hand at your back hasn't moved as his laughter quiets, eyes sharpening.

Licking your lips, you start to pull away, heart slamming so hard against your ribs you're sure he can feel it. His grip tightens though, just enough to hold you still.

"Why do you always pull back?" He asks, voice so low it's almost a whisper.

For a second, the ocean is the only sound. You can feel your pulse thundering in your ears, your breath shaky. Terror grips at you - not of him, but of the lingering feeling you've been hiding from him for months now.

"Tell me," he murmurs.

You nod, swallowing thickly. "Because I'm afraid. Not of you, but what I feel for you. Of what it means. You're ancient and endless and I'm…" Your throat closes for a second. "I don't want to fall and shatter. I'm only mortal."

For a long moment he says nothing. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of shame and sting of tears, realizing that you shouldn't have said anything. Then he rolls you over and you suck in a gasp, world spinning as he pins you to the sand.

Soonyoung looms over you, weight braced on his forearms. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark as he drinks you in, pupils expanding. He's close enough that when he speaks, his lips almost brush yours.

"Then fall. I've been waiting to catch you, you know?" His eyes drop down to your mouth. "Since the first time you lit my candle. Since the first time you spoke to stone because no one else would listen."

Soonyoung leans down and your breath catches. His nose brushes against yours and his eyelids flutter shut as he breathes you in, salt and sweat.

"I am war," he admits. "I am rage and ruin, but I'm still Soonyoung. I can be still and gentle. I can want things I haven't in centuries. So fall, my Virago. I will never let you break."

Trembling, your hands come up to slide into his hair, fingers threading through damp strands at the nape of his neck. You feel the tremor that moves through him at the touch, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. When he doesn't move, you tug him down to close the last fraction of distance between you.

The kiss is hungry. It's years of silence and candlelight, the hum of his sword that has lived in you since the moment you honored his altar. It's the relief of finally naming the ache that has lived beneath your ribs since the first time he smiled at you, the relief of being heard.

He kisses you like a man who has waited lifetimes, tongue sweeping in to press against yours, warm and wet. The kiss deepens, a slow unraveling that pulls you under. He tastes like salt and honeyed figs, a faint sweetness lingering from breakfast. He lefts a hand to cradle the back of your neck, tilting you to deepen the kiss.

You melt into him and he lowers himself a fraction, his hips pressing against yours. The want is sharp and sweet, making your breath hitch as his teeth graze your lower lip gently, tugging just enough to draw a soft whimper from you.

Soonyoung draws back a little, his eyes blown as he looks down at you. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, voice rough. "We only go as far as you want."

You shake your head, fingers tightening in his hair. "I want you. All of you."

A low sound rumbles in his chest, somewhere between a groan and a growl. He kisses you again, slower this time. His weight pins you down, his hand roaming to trace the lines of your body - the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips - until you're arching into his touch.

"Beautiful," he mutters, brushing his lips against your throat. His tongue darts out to press against your pulse point and you moan, head pressing back into the sand, lashes fluttering. "Wanted you for so long."

His mouth trails lower, nipping softly at your collarbone as his fingers gather the hem of your tunic, inching it upward. Cool sea air kisses your newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps that he soothes away with warm palms. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him slide the fabric higher, until it's bunched at your waist, leaving your lower body bare to him as he pushes up to his knees.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Perfect for me."

He shifts downward, broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart as he settles between them. The first kiss he presses to your inner thigh is feather-light, a tease that makes you gasp. His hands hold your legs open gently but firmly, thumbs stroking the soft flesh of your thighs. Heat pools between your legs, a slick ache building as anticipation coils tight in your core.

"Soonyoung," you whisper, voice breaking.

"I've got you," he soothes, meeting your eyes from below. "Let me make you feel good, my Virago."

His mouth descends then, warm and deliberate, lips parting to taste you. The first swipe of his tongue is slow and flat against your folds. A jolt of pleasure makes you arch your back off the sand. His mouth is wet and hot, tongue tracing upward to circle your clit gently. A shaky moan escapes you as your fingers dig into the sand.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. A shiver ripples through you and he groans again, tongue sweeping in broad strokes.

"That's it," he murmurs, words muffled against your skin. "So sweet for me. Let me hear you."

You melt. Soonyoung alternates between long, languid licks that make your thighs tremble and gentle sucks against your clit until stars explode behind your eyes. You shiver, a warm flush spreading from your core outward, each stroke of his tongue coaxing you higher.

Your hips buck instinctively seeking more, and he hums in delight. A hand slides under your ass to lift you toward his mouth, encouraging you to grind against his face as he sucks at you noisily, tongue circling your entrance.

When his fingers join his mouth, you nearly die. One digit circles your entrance, gathering your arousal before pressing in slowly, just the tip at first. You tense at the unfamiliar stretch, gasping. He pauses immediately, lifting his head to watch your face.

"Breathe for me," he murmurs. "You're doing so well. Relax, yeah?"

You nod, exhaling shakily, and he rewards you as his finger slides deeper, inch by inch, the intrusion turning from strange to exquisite as he curls it upward, brushing a spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

Soonyoung works you slowly like that, his tongue rolling in lazy circles around your clit. Your thighs close around his head and he doesn't care, happily tonguing you half to madness as another finger presses in. He scissors them gently, stretching you open as he sucks on your clit in time with each stroke of his fingers.

"So tight," he whispers against you, mouth hot against you. "So fucking wet."

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and suddenly it's too much. The tension snaps, orgasm crashing into you without warning. You arch against him, pussy clenching on his fingers as he groans. His tongue keeps moving, flicking over you until you're trembling and oversensitive.

Only then does he ease his fingers out, pressing wet kisses to your thighs as you pant, sagging against the sand. He laughs, nipping your thighs and making your legs twitch as you glance at him where he's grinning up at you.

"I could do that all day," he admits.

"I think I might let you."

You reach for him, tugging at his tunic, and he understands, shedding it swiftly. His body is a masterpiece of muscled under sun-kissed skin, scars faint and silver. He shivers underneath your touch, kicking away at his tunic. His cock is heavy and long, flushed and beading with precum and want.

A flicker of nerves returns, but he chases it away as he leans down to kiss you, his mouth still tasting like you.

"We'll go slow," he promises, settling between your thighs. "You're in control. Tell me if you need to stop."

He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick pussy. The first press stretches you wide and you gasp, clutching at his shoulder. It feels like heaven and hell, both too much and not enough. You can barely breath as he ducks his head to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

"Breathe," he whispers. "Let yourself open up."

You nod and he presses his mouth to yours as he presses in inch by inch, the slide eased by the mess he's already made. The fullness is staggering as he fills you completely, hips flush to yours. He stills, giving you time to adjust, peppering your face with kisses.

"Doing okay?" He asks, one hand stroking your hand.

"Don't stop," you gasp. "Please move."

"You're doing so good, my Virago," he praises, starting a slow rock of his hips.

The motion is gentle at first, his thrusts shallow that let you feel every inch of his cock, the friction addicting. The initial burn fades and is replaced by a liquid heat that spreads through your veins, each drag of him against your walls stoking the fire burning in your gut.

He keeps the pace unhurried, a soft rhythm that makes your eyes roll back and press your hips closer to him, seeking more. One of his hands gathers yours and pins them above your head, fingers laced as his eyes darken, watching your face for every reaction.

"Feel so good," he murmurs, rolling his hips. You whimper and he grins, nodding. "I know. So tight around me, like you were made for me."

You clench around him and he groans, pace picking up as he drives his cock harder into you. It punches the air from your lungs and you squirm under him, feeling the need to orgasm again, toes curling, that coil tightening all over again. You roll your hips to meet his, seeking more friction, hungry for it.

"That's it," he encourages. "Move with me. My hungry Virago."

You do, hips rising to meet his, the new angle deepening his thrusts. He catches your mouth again, more tongue and teeth as your second orgasm breaks, your cunt pulsing around him as you cry out against his mouth.

Soonyoung fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping until you're breathless. The hunger for him isn't gone though, and you surge forward, rolling the two of you until you have him pinned beneath you.

The shift makes you gasp, his cock hitting deeper. Your hands brace on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers. He grips your hips and guides you with gentle hands, a slow grind that makes you dizzy.

"Yeah?" He asks. "Gonna take what you want? Come on, baby. Ride me."

Your moves are tentative at first, finding a rhythm. The slide up and down his length is intoxicating and you chase it, hips rolling as your head tilts back. His hands roam, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples and earning a broken sound from you.

"Just like that," he growls. "So fucking good."

Fatigue burns in your thighs, but the building orgasm drives you on, faster now, breaths mingling as you lean down to kiss him. When it hits, you collapse forward, trembling, walls clenching in waves that pull a guttural moan from him. He thrusts up gently through your aftershocks, then stills, holding you close as his own release follows.

Both of you lay like that, panting in the heat and clinging to one another. The sun dips lower, spilling molten gold across the two of you. He cradles your head, pressing your cheek to his chest, the steady hammering of his heart comforting.

Neither of you move, his arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing idly against your bag. Your legs are tangled with his, and every so often, a small tremor runs through you and he smirks.

Behind you, the sea breathes in and out. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth of his skin against yours, the faint salt-and-myrrh scent that seems to belong only to him. For the first time in your life, your body knows complete quiet instead of the tense silence of temple corridors.

“I’ve spent lifetimes watching people run from me,” Soonyoung says, breaking the silence. "Thank you for not running, Virago."

You turn your face into his skin, pressing a kiss to the place above his heart. He exhales and pulls you tighter, tucking your head beneath his chin. His legs shift, drawing yours more securely between his until there is no space left where you are not touching.

a live model.

as in a human. a human you have to recruit. a human you have to ask.

your stomach drops through the floor. your bank account flashes before your eyes — a barren desert with a tiny tumbleweed rolling by. there’s no way you can afford a real model. not even a cheap one. not even a volunteer who works for scraps.

you’re doomed.

the moment class ends, chae-won links her arm through yours like she’s catching a runaway criminal.

“you’re thinking dramatic thoughts,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “don’t lie. your face does that thing where it collapses.”

“it doesn’t collapse,” you mutter.

“it absolutely collapses,” she insists, steering you toward the studio. “but! i know a solution.”

you give her a flat look. “unless it involves someone magically paying my fees—”

“it involves nicholas.”

you stop dead in the hallway. chae-won turns around slowly, smiling like she just dropped the biggest bomb of the century. “why not ask him?”

you sputter. “chae-won. be serious.”

“i am serious,” she says, delighted. “you need a model. he has… you know.” she makes a vague gesture at her entire body. “body.”

you bury your face in your hands. “i can’t ask nicholas. he’s — he’s nicholas.”

the sports captain. campus darling. towering, annoyingly handsome, universally adored nicholas.

the boy you may or may not have accidentally stared at during freshman orientation. once. (maybe twice.) and then definitely avoided for the rest of your academic career.

“nope,” you say. “not happening. i’ll just — i’ll figure something else out.”

chae-won plants herself in front of you like she’s blocking the path to self-sabotage. “you have a crush on him.”

“i do not.”

she lifts her eyebrows.

“…okay, maybe a little.”

“a little?” she snorts. “you turn into a stunned goldfish whenever he breathes in your general direction.”

you groan. “this is the worst day of my life.”

“correction,” she says brightly. “this is the day you take a risk and maybe get a model and a date.”

you blink at her with a disbelieving scoff. “you think nicholas wang is going to date me?”

“i think,” she says, linking arms with you again, “that you underestimate how adorable you are and overestimate how terrifying he is.” then she adds, quietly, “but also… you need to believe you deserve help sometimes.”

that part hits a little too close, so you pretend not to hear it.

back at the studio, you stare at your sketches, fingers trembling. the ideas are solid — maybe even good. but none of it matters without a model.

and you can’t stop hearing your professor’s voice echo in your head.

a live model.

you look down at your phone. nicholas’s name sits innocently in the student directory.

chae-won watches you from across the table, arms crossed, foot tapping. “do it. text him.”

“i can’t.”

“you can.”

you take a breath. you don’t text him. instead, you close your eyes, press your palms to your warm face, and whisper, “…i’ll ask him. tomorrow.”

chae-won squeals so loudly, half the studio jumps. “yes! character development!”

you groan again — louder this time — because tomorrow suddenly feels like a death sentence.

but somewhere beneath the dread, deep in the quiet part of your chest… a tiny spark flickers. hope. terror. possibility.

and because life has a sense of humor, tomorrow is coming fast.

─────

you try every excuse in the world.

you tell chae-won you’re sick. she hands you a cough drop.

you tell her you’re too busy. she reminds you the deadline is two weeks away.

you tell her you can’t feel your legs. she grabs your wrist and starts pulling you down the hallway.

“come on,” she whines dramatically, heels clicking. “if i let you run away now, i’m failing as a friend and as a woman of romance.”

“this isn’t romance,” you hiss, stumbling after her.

“it could be,” she sings.

eventually, it’s not just her dragging you — two more friends join in. you don’t even remember agreeing to this intervention. one moment you’re in the studio, the next your entire support group has formed a physical and emotional blockade that marches you across campus toward the athletics building.

by the time you reach the double doors, your palms are sweating, your heart is tap-dancing in your throat, and your soul is halfway to the afterlife.

“i can’t do this,” you whisper.

chae-won tightens her grip on your shoulders from behind. “yes, you can. and if you try to run, i will tackle you. emotionally and physically.”

you roll your eyes, but your knees are shaking so hard, you’re grateful for her hand at your back.

the smell hits you first — gym rubber, fresh turf, the faint metallic tang of weights. it’s cool inside, echoey, too quiet. practice must be over.

you peek around the corner of the hallway that leads to the indoor field. and there he is.

nicholas.

alone.

he’s kneeling, stretching his hamstring with one hand braced on the ground. sweat dampens the ends of his hair, sticking to his forehead. his lips are parted slightly as he breathes, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. he looks… soft in a way you’ve never seen before — not the loud, adored captain everyone sees in public. more human. more tired. more real.

your breath catches.

“go,” chae-won whispers, giving you a sharp nudge.

you stumble forward and immediately want to evaporate. nicholas hears the sound of your shoe squeaking and looks up.

his eyes are warm brown, a little curious, a little surprised. he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm but doesn’t stand yet.

“oh,” he says, breath still steadying. “hey.”

you freeze. completely. like a mouse caught in the world’s gentlest spotlight.

“hi,” you squeak. god. horrible.

he stands slowly, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders. the movement is fluid, practiced — athletic. but he softens his posture when he faces you, like he’s trying not to intimidate you.

“what’s up?” he asks, grabbing his water bottle.

your mind goes blank. blank like a wiped hard drive. blank like a fresh page. blank like you’ve never spoken to another human before.

“i — uh — project,” you blurt.

he blinks. “project?”

you nod too many times. perfect. you’re malfunctioning.

“it’s for my fashion design class,” you manage. “my final project. i, um… i need a model. a real one. and i don’t— i can’t— i mean, i was wondering if — if maybe… you might consider… if you’re not too busy or—”

your voice shakes. your fingers shake. your entire body is basically a vibrating phone.

nicholas straightens a little. not taller — just more attentive.

he looks at you. really looks. not like he’s confused or amused, but like he’s trying to understand you. his eyes move from your face to your hands and back again, quietly registering the nerves you’re failing miserably to hide.

then he smiles.

not the big, confident one he gives crowds. a small one. soft. almost shy.

“okay,” he says simply. “i’ll do it.”

you stop breathing.

he takes a sip of water, like he didn’t just shatter your internal universe.

“when do you need me?” he adds.

you blink. twice. you stare at him like you’re trying to decode a foreign language.

“you’ll… do it?” you whisper.

“yeah.” he tilts his head slightly, a strand of damp hair falling over his forehead. “just tell me when to show up.”

you’re convinced you’re hallucinating. maybe you fainted. maybe this is a stress dream. maybe nicholas is actually a figment of mass campus delusion.

“are — are you sure?” you ask.

he gives a tiny laugh under his breath. “if i wasn’t, i wouldn’t have said yes.”

he throws his towel over his shoulder and gestures lightly toward the hallway. “walk with me? it’s freezing in here.”

you nod numbly. you’re pretty sure your feet move, but you feel nothing.

you walk beside him as he chats casually — asking what your project is about, what kind of pieces you’ve been making this semester, even complimenting the tote bag you customized.

you barely keep up.

by the time you reach the entrance, the others are gone — thankfully — and nicholas is pushing the door open for you.

“so,” he says, leaning slightly against the frame, “send me the details later?”

you swallow hard. “yes. i mean — yeah. i will.”

he gives you another one of those small, soft smiles. “looking forward to it.”

and he walks away.

you stand there. frozen. speechless. brain completely empty except for one overwhelming thought. there is no way that just happened.

and yet… it did.

nicholas wang agreed to model for you.

and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, your chest doesn’t feel tight. for the first time, you feel something else quietly bloom inside you. ambition.

─────

you spend the entire morning cleaning the design studio.

it doesn’t need cleaning — at least not to the degree you’re doing it — but anxiety demands ritual, and apparently today’s ritual involves rearranging fabric bolts by color, refolding muslin, and lint-rolling a mannequin.

you smooth your hair. check the time. smooth your hair again. check the time again.

he won’t come, you tell yourself. he’s busy. he’ll forget. he’ll change his mind. you’ll get a text apologizing, saying something came up — 

a knock echoes through the open doorway.

you jump, nearly stabbing yourself with a pin.

nicholas stands there with one hand resting lightly on the door frame, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp like he just showered. he’s wearing a dark sweatshirt and joggers, casual but somehow cinematic.

“hey,” he says, voice soft. “am i early?”

you look at the clock. he’s exactly on time.

“no—! no, you’re perfect—i mean, it’s perfect. the timing. not you. i mean — you are — but — i —”

you want to curl into a ball and roll under the nearest sewing machine.

nicholas bites back a smile, stepping inside. “i gotcha. good timing.”

you nod so hard, your hair moves.

he drops his bag to the side and looks around the studio like he’s entering a different world — curious eyes scanning the racks, the sketches pinned to the walls, the chaos of fabric and thread.

“this is… really cool,” he says, sincere awe in his voice.

that throws you off. most people glance at your workspace and see “mess.” nicholas sees something else.

“thanks,” you murmur, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

you show him the garment — the early draft of the piece he’ll be modeling — and as you speak, you feel yourself shrinking, making yourself small out of habit.

“so, um… this is rough. like, very rough. i’m sorry it’s not — i didn’t have time to — i should’ve finished the collar —”

“hey,” nicholas interrupts gently. “you don’t have to apologize.”

you freeze. he says it casually, but his tone is warm, steady. reassuring in a way you’re not used to.

you swallow. “sorry. i —”

you stop, catching yourself. nicholas’s eyes soften.

he steps closer, but not too close — just enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“can i look?” he asks, nodding toward the garment.

you hand it over with shaking hands. he studies it seriously, not pretending to understand fashion, not faking enthusiasm — actually absorbing the details.

“you made all this?” he asks.

“yeah.”

his brow lifts. “it’s really impressive.”

your brain short-circuits again.

he shrugs a little when he sees your expression, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “i mean it.”

you turn away, pretending to fix a pin cushion just to hide how flustered you are.

as he changes into the piece behind a makeshift curtain, you try to breathe. you try to remember how measuring tape works. you try not to imagine his shoulders or his collarbones or anything at all, actually.

when he steps out wearing your garment — even half-finished — something inside you flips over.

he looks… good. strong lines softened by fabric you draped yourself. effortless. like the design was made for him.

“okay,” he says. “what do you need me to do?”

you move around him, adjusting the seams, pinning loose fabric. every time your fingers brush his arm or shoulder, you feel his breath catch just slightly. not enough to embarrass either of you — just enough to make your heart do dangerous things.

then it happens.

a sudden slam from the hallway — someone dropping a box outside.

nicholas flinches. not big, not dramatic — but noticeable. barely a twitch of his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes. like he’s so used to noise, yet worn thin by it.

you look up. he tries to cover it with a practiced smile.

“you okay?” you ask quietly.

he nods, a little too quick. “just… tired.”

you don’t push — but the way he says it lingers.

you see it now, clearer than before — the exhaustion carved into the corners of his eyes, the tightness in his posture, the heaviness beneath the charming exterior everyone loves so much.

he watches you too — really watches — when you wince after pricking your finger on a pin, when you overthink every movement, when your voice stays small even though you’re in your own workspace.

“does that hurt?” he asks when he notices the tiny bead of blood on your fingertip.

“no, it’s fine,” you whisper, wiping it away.

he frowns, not convinced.

you both return to your tasks in a quiet that feels strangely… comfortable.

every time you adjust a seam, he steadies himself so you don’t have to reach. every time you hesitate, he steps back in sync with your rhythm. every time you start to apologize, he gives a tiny shake of his head, almost imperceptible, a silent you don’t have to.

by the time the fitting ends, something has shifted — small, fragile, impossible to name. nicholas hands the garment back carefully, like it’s something delicate. something valuable.

“thanks,” he says, voice softer now. “for letting me help.”

you blink, surprised. “i should be thanking you.”

he smiles again — that small, real one — and lifts his bag. “same time next week?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

he walks toward the door, then pauses, glancing back at you. “i had a good time.”

you don’t know what to say. you barely remember how breathing works. and yet, somehow, you whisper back, “me too.”

nicholas leaves, and the studio feels different — warmer, fuller, as if something sacred just happened.

a tiny crack. a tiny opening. the beginning of something neither of you can name yet.

─────

you don’t expect him to come back.

even though he said he would. even though he’d smiled like he meant it. even though part of you — small and trembling — wants to believe him.

people don’t usually stay, not when they get a glimpse of how anxious you are, how easily spooked you become, how quickly you fold yourself into the corners of a room.

so all week, you prepare yourself for him not showing up. you rehearse excuses in your head —  it’s fine, I get it, he’s busy, why would someone like him make time for someone like you?

but then the door to the studio creaks open right on time. and there he is. wearing a hoodie, hair slightly messy from the weather outside, holding two drinks — one iced, one hot — like he wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.

his eyes land on you, and his whole face softens.

“hey,” he says. “i, uh… guessed you might like something sweet?”

your heart stops.

he sets the drinks on your workstation, a little shy, like he’s not used to doing small, thoughtful things for people outside his team or friend circle.

you stare at the drinks, at him, back at the drinks.

“i… thank you,” you whisper.

“you don’t have to drink it,” he adds quickly. “i just — you seemed nervous last time, so i thought maybe — never mind.”

he’s rambling. nicholas wang is rambling.

you take the drink before he can overthink it further. “no, i… i really appreciate it.”

his shoulders relax.

the fitting starts the same as last time — him slipping behind the curtain, you pretending to reorganize markers to hide how flustered you are — but the air feels different.

he talks more now. not loudly. not performatively. just… easily.

“practice has been brutal this week,” he says as he steps out in the garment. “coach wants us ready for the championship, but honestly? i think half the team’s already halfway to burnout.”

you adjust the hem lightly, nodding. “you seem tired.”

he chuckles under his breath. “everyone seems to think that lately.”

you glance up. “are they wrong?”

he opens his mouth, then closes it. his expression shifts — defenses pulling tight, then slowly loosening again as he exhales.

“…no,” he admits. “i don’t think they are.”

it’s the first real crack. the first moment where he lets you see behind the bright, perfect captain mask.

he sits on the edge of your worktable as you pin fabric along his sleeve, fingers steadying the cloth.

“i get overwhelmed,” he says quietly. “people think i like attention. the noise. the pressure. all those cameras during games? it’s… it’s a lot.”

you pause, stunned he’s telling you any of this. most people would kill to hear their campus golden boy open up like this. but here he is, offering the truth like it’s something fragile.

you swallow. “you don’t have to pretend with me.”

he looks at you then — really looks — like the thought had never occurred to him before.

“…yeah,” he murmurs. “i’m starting to get that.”

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it’s warm. shared. steady.

as you move around him, measuring and pinning, his eyes follow you — not in a heavy, intense way, but in a gentle, attentive way. like he’s memorizing how you move, how you focus when you’re working.

but he sees your cracks too.

when you flinch at a sudden noise from the hallway. when you automatically shrink your posture after giving a suggestion. when you start to apologize for the third time before catching yourself.

“you do that a lot,” he says softly.

“do what?”

“disappear,” he says, almost whispering. “like you’re scared to take space.”

you freeze. his voice is gentle, not accusing. not judging. just… noticing.

you clear your throat nervously. “i’m not— i just don’t want to be annoying.”

nicholas shakes his head slowly. “you’re not annoying.”

his tone is firm. certain. like he means every word and then some.

“you’re not invisible either,” he adds. and it hits you deeper than you expect.

you focus on the stitches, trying to hide the warm sting in your eyes.

he doesn't push. he simply waits — present, patient — in a way that makes your chest ache. when the fitting ends, nicholas changes and comes back out holding the garment gently in his arms. he sets it on the mannequin, then turns to you with a small, sincere smile.

“i like being here,” he says. “it’s… quiet. in a good way.”

your breath catches. “you don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

“i’m not,” he answers immediately. “i meant it.”

you can tell. you feel it.

he picks up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder.

“next week?” he asks.

“yeah,” you whisper in confirmation.

he steps toward the door, then pauses — hand resting lightly on the frame.

“and…” he hesitates, eyes flicking to yours. “thanks for listening today.”

you nod sincerely. “anytime.”

he gives a faint, relieved smile and slips out. 

the door closes. and for a long moment, you stand alone in the studio, heart fluttering, breath soft, a warmth settling into your chest like someone finally opened a window in a stuffy room.

you didn’t just see his cracks today. he saw yours, too.

and he didn’t look away.

─────

it starts slowly — a few curious looks when nicholas walks into the fashion building again, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from practice.

but then people start talking.

by the end of the week, you can feel the whispers chasing you down the hallway.

“why is he going there so much?”

“is he dating someone from design?”

“her? no way, right?”

you pretend not to hear, but your skin prickles every time. your chest tightens. you duck your head lower and lower, shoulders curling in like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.

nicholas has no idea.

or maybe he does — but he keeps showing up anyway.

he brings iced coffees. a snack the next time. then nothing at all, just himself, laughing softly as he pushes open the studio doors like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and every time he walks in, the whispers get louder.

until you can’t take it.

you start leaving earlier. slipping out back doors. taking different routes across campus. anything to avoid being seen walking with him or even near him.

you think you’re doing a good job.

you’re wrong.

it happens on a thursday — a dull, heavy afternoon where your head feels too full, and your heart feels too small. you’re hurrying down a side hallway when a warm hand catches your sleeve.

you freeze.

nicholas steps into your path, breath soft, eyes steady. not angry. not confused. just… gentle. so gentle it almost hurts.

“hey,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me.”

your throat locks. you look at your shoes. “n-no, i just— i’ve been busy—”

“don’t lie to me,” he says, but there’s no edge to it. only concern. “did someone say something?”

your breath stutters. your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “i… people are talking. a lot. and i don’t want to make trouble for you or — or look stupid or — embarrass you.”

nicholas goes still. then he takes a slow step closer.

“if i didn’t want to be here,” he says quietly, “i wouldn’t be.”

your breath catches.

he tilts his head, trying to meet your eyes as gently as possible. “you’re not chasing me. you’re not embarrassing me. you’re not… anything they’re saying.”

“but the rumors—”

“they don’t matter to me.” his voice drops further, almost a whisper. “you do.”

your chest squeezes so tight it’s almost painful.

he lifts a hand — stops before touching you, waiting for permission — and when you don’t pull away, he brushes his thumb lightly along your sleeve where he caught you earlier.

“don’t let them chase you from me,” he murmurs. “please.”

you inhale shakily. the hallway feels too small, too warm. his closeness feels like a confession he hasn’t fully said yet.

“i wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“i know.” his smile is soft, relieved. “just… don’t disappear on me again.”

and when he lets your sleeve go, your skin feels strangely cold — like you didn’t realize how warm his hand was until it wasn’t there anymore.

─────

the next fitting feels different.

maybe it’s because the whispers got quieter after nicholas started walking beside you again — unbothered, steady, solid in a way you still can’t fathom. maybe it’s because he smiles when he sees you, slow and warm and real.

or maybe it’s because you have changed, just a little.

the studio is quiet, the afternoon light slanting gold across his shoulders as he steps onto the platform. he lifts his arms without being asked, already relaxed in the space that once made him tense.

you try to breathe normally.

you fail.

you’re working on the mock-up jacket today — crisp muslin, pinned at the seams, delicate enough to tear if handled wrong. he holds still, watching you with that focused softness he seems to reserve only for you.

you reach for the collar, and your fingers graze his collarbone. it’s barely a touch — barely anything — but his breath breaks in the middle, a soft inhale he tries to disguise.

you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.

you adjust the seam carefully, eyes fixed on the fabric because looking at him feels too dangerous. too intimate.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. but the air between you tightens, charged with something warm and fragile.

“turn a little,” you murmur.

he does, moving slowly, deliberately. like he’s afraid any sudden motion will startle you.

you step around him, smoothing the fabric down his back. the muscles between his shoulders shift as he exhales — a sound that almost feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding too long.

“you’re good at this,” he says softly.

you swallow. “it’s just a fitting.”

“it’s not,” he replies. “not when it’s you.”

your heart stumbles. you don’t know what to say, so you focus on adjusting the last seam. but the space feels smaller, your pulse loud enough you’re sure he must hear it.

when you circle back in front of him, he’s watching you. not staring. studying. like he’s trying to memorize the way your hands move, the way your hair falls, the way you avoid his gaze like it’s both a shield and a confession.

your fingers brush his wrist, a tiny accidental touch. this time, he doesn’t hide the reaction — a quiet, sharp inhale before he goes still again.

you drop your hand quickly. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he murmurs. and the softness in his voice nearly undoes you.

you step back, needing space you suddenly can’t find, and start scribbling notes in your sketchbook. you can feel him watching you — not intrusive, not heavy, just attentive. present.

you think the moment is over.

it isn’t.

as he steps down from the platform, he says your name. just your name. soft. careful. like he’s holding it gently in his mouth.

you look up instinctively — and the look he gives you is so quietly intense your breath catches.

it’s not a confession. not yet. but it’s something. something warm. something real.

“see you next time,” he murmurs.

when he leaves, the room feels colder.

that night, when you lie in bed, replaying every second, one thing echoes louder than anything else — your name. the way he said it.

the way it felt.

─────

you don’t hear him at first.

you feel him — the slam of the studio door against the wall, the sharp crack of wood hitting plaster, the sudden rush of heat into the quiet room.

you jump, heart jolting.

nicholas stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. his hair is a mess, half stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides.

you’ve never seen him like this. not confident. not composed. not steady. just… unraveling.

he doesn’t look at you. he looks at the floor, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

“nicholas?” you say softly.

he flinches. not from your voice — from everything else.

he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping abruptly like he can’t trust his own legs.

you don’t approach. not yet. you’ve seen animals in pain — the way they lash out when cornered, not out of malice but fear.

instead, you sit on your stool, slowly, gently, letting the silence settle around you both.

he notices.

and for the first time since he burst in, he breathes. not fully and not calmly. but enough.

he sinks down onto the low platform you use for fittings, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. his body is coiled tight, every muscle strained, like he’s holding back something explosive.

you wait.

minutes stretch out, soft and thin.

finally, he speaks — his voice hoarse, scraped raw.

“they just—” he stops, shakes his head. “they don’t listen. they don’t shut up. everyone wants something from me. all the time. and if i’m not perfect, if i’m not holding everything together, then i’m—”

he cuts himself off again.

you still don’t move closer. you just sit there, breathing quietly, letting him find his way through the storm.

a long silence fills the room. then, in a small, breaking voice, “i didn’t know where else to go.”

the words hit you like a physical thing. he lifts his head slightly, eyes red at the corners, breaths uneven.

“this is the only place that feels safe,” he murmurs. “here. with you.”

your own breath shakes. because he’s not looking at the room. he’s looking at you. not like you’re fragile. not like you’re someone he has to protect. but, like you’re the only calm in a world that constantly demands he be unbreakable.

you swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “you can stay here as long as you need.”

his shoulders drop — not fully relaxed, but less painfully tight. relief cracks through his expression, softening the sharp edges. he closes his eyes and just… breathes for a while.

slowly, carefully, like each inhale is stitching him back together.

and you realize something you hadn’t before — while he’s been softening your insecurities, holding space for your quietness, steadying your shaking hands…

you’ve been healing him, too.

healing the boy who never gets to fall apart. who never gets silence. who never gets softness back.

you sit there with him, no words, no pressure — just presence. and for the first time in a long time, nicholas looks like he can finally exhale.

─────

the closeness between you and nicholas lingers long after the fittings end. it settles like a weight in your chest, a warmth you don’t know how to handle. every glance, every small touch, every quiet word echoes louder than it should.

and it shakes you.

you start questioning everything. maybe you’re imagining more than there is. maybe you’re reading into the smallest gestures and inventing meaning where there is none. maybe he’s just being polite.

so you pull away.

you skip a fitting here and there. you take different routes across campus again. you avoid the studio when he’s likely to be there. you become a shadow in your own routine, retreating into safety that now feels strangely lonely.

nicholas doesn’t push.

he doesn’t demand explanations or corner you with questions. he respects the space you suddenly need. but he doesn’t abandon you either.

small gestures start to appear. a sticky note left on your workspace with a simple note.

“hope your day goes well.”

a packet of your favorite snacks, anonymously delivered while you’re distracted in class. and sometimes, quietly, he arrives early — just to sit in the studio, not saying anything, just being there.

it’s subtle. barely noticeable if you’re not paying attention. but you notice.

and slowly, you begin to realize something.

his patience isn’t passive. it’s a hand extended toward you, waiting for you to reach out in your own time. waiting for you to trust that you’re allowed to take up space, that you’re allowed to want his presence, that you’re allowed to feel safe with him.

for the first time in a long while, you feel the possibility of leaning in. not because someone told you to. not because it’s expected. but because he’s letting you choose it. and the choice feels like permission you’ve been craving without knowing it.

─────

the day of your presentation arrives faster than you’re ready for.

the studio is buzzing with energy, models adjusting their outfits, classmates fussing over last-minute details, instructors murmuring critiques to one another. your stomach twists into a tight knot as you glance at your own piece, now complete, now real, now something that has to exist in the world outside your hands.

and then you see him.

nicholas steps onto the runway, and something inside you unclenches just a little. he moves with that same effortless confidence he always carries, but there’s something different — something proud, something steady. he wears your creation like it was made for him. he smiles softly at the audience once, but it’s for you, and the weight of it lands warm in your chest.

you bite your lip, heart hammering, hands gripping your notebook like a lifeline. every step he takes is measured, deliberate, but effortless. you see the way he looks ahead, and the way he carries himself makes your pulse spike in a way you hadn’t expected.

the applause comes, rolling over you in waves, and the world suddenly feels both too loud and impossibly still.

after the show, you’re backstage, trying to calm the storm of nerves that has been building all morning. you’re pacing, tugging at your hair, trying to breathe, when he finds you.

nicholas doesn’t say a word at first. he simply reaches for your hand and guides you out of the crowd, away from the chaos. you follow, heart racing, until you’re in a narrow hallway — quiet, dim, and entirely yours.

he stops and lets go of your hand, but his presence fills the space. his eyes never leave yours, steady and soft and unyielding. for the first time today, the world outside doesn’t exist. there’s no applause, no whispers, no chaos — just the two of you, the aftertaste of adrenaline, and the small, fragile bubble you’ve somehow found in the middle of everything.

you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you know without words that he’s proud. not just of your work. not just of the show. but of you.

and somehow, that makes everything feel… possible.

the hallway feels impossibly small, impossibly still, the chaos of the fashion show fading behind the walls.

nicholas takes a careful step closer, eyes locked on yours, and for the first time, the weight of all the moments between you — the fittings, the quiet gestures, the whispered words — hangs fully in the air.

“you see me,” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering. “not the stupid captain, not the noise — me.”

your chest tightens. you’ve feared this — feared that what you feel isn’t real, that someone like him could never truly choose someone like you. but here he is, saying it. not in jest, not out of politeness, not as a favor. he’s saying it because he means it.

you swallow hard, voice trembling. “i… i’m scared. i don’t… i don’t know if i’m—worthy of—”

he interrupts with a quiet laugh, warm and tender. “i don’t want someone like you,” he says, stepping even closer, so near that you can see the faintest glint in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw. “i want you.”

every word lands like a pulse in your chest. the air between you hums with heat and anticipation.

then he leans in. slowly. carefully. his lips brush yours in a kiss that feels deliberate, like he’s asking permission with every breath, testing the space you’ve both built, making sure it’s safe.

your knees go weak. your hands lift on instinct, resting lightly against his chest. you kiss him back, and in that instant, all the fear, all the doubt, all the quiet yearning that’s been building melts into warmth.

you lean into him fully — finally allowing yourself to accept the comfort, the protection, the tenderness he’s been offering all along.

and for the first time, the world feels impossibly wide and impossibly still, all at once.

because here, in this quiet hallway, in the soft press of his lips against yours, you realize —  you’ve been found. and so has he.

─────

months pass.

you notice the subtle changes in yourself first. the way you move through the studio now — confident, deliberate, unapologetic. fingers that once trembled over pins now handle fabric with quiet authority. your designs are bolder, more daring, full of the little flourishes that used to make you second-guess yourself.

nicholas changes too, in ways small but undeniable. he’s calmer, less brittle around the edges. the weight of expectations doesn’t disappear, but he carries it differently now, grounded in the quiet corners you share. you watch him laugh more freely, pause more often, and notice the little details of the world without rushing past them.

together, you have built something delicate and strong. a world stitched from quiet moments — notes left on worktables, soft smiles across the studio, hands brushing accidentally, slowly, deliberately, until neither of you can imagine letting go.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not loud. it’s ordinary in the most extraordinary way.

your world is yours.

you let out a sigh as your phone vibrates for the tenth time in the last hour. you had just broken up with your ex a few days ago because of an argument, and he wanted to get back together. you didn't, and the prick didn't know how to take no for an answer.

you pick up your phone, fully prepared to yell at your ex again because he wouldn't leave you alone. but to your surprise it wasn't your ex but your best friend, k.

"what's up loser?" you say into the phone as soon as you answer. your rewarded with a scoff from k.

"that's no way to talk to your best friend."

"i'm sorry, drama queen." you laugh when you hear k laughing. "let me try again."

"you got one more chance, or you won't get your gift." you perked up at his words.

"gift?" k chuckled at your tone.

"yes, i got you a gift, but you gotta prove that you deserve it after that loser comment."

you open your mouth to answer him, but stop when your vibrates again. you mumble a hold on to k before pulling the phone away from your ear. you see yet another apology from your ex. you mumble a few choice words as you ignore the message before putting the phone back up to your ear.

"who was that?"

"i'm going to give you one guess." you hear k sigh at your answer. you knew he never liked your now ex boyfriend. you can't even count the amount of times you had to listen to your best friend rant about how awful he was. especially when he tried to get you to stop hanging out with k because he was as k put it 'immature.'

"he still bothering you?"

"it's fine." you brush it off, not wanting to bother him with your issues. "he'll lose interest soon. hopefully."

"well, i know something that can make you feel better." you then remember you said he had a gift for you.

"what's that?" he didn't answer you right away, but you did hear him shuffle something around before you heard a knock on your door. "is that my favorite person at my door?"

"open it and find out." k answers. you hang up the phone before going over to open the door for him. he gave you a bright smile before he walked into your apartment. as he passes you, he leans down and kisses your forehead like he always does before he walks over to your kitchen.

"i thought you were hanging out with nicho and ej today?" you ask as you follow him, throwing your phone on the couch as you walked by it. he sets the bags on the counter before looking over at you before shrugging his shoulders.

"you're more fun to hang out with." he answers, walking around your kitchen like he owns the place while pulling out bowls for snacks. "besides, i just wanted to laze around and watch a movie, and they wanted to go mini golfing."

you nod your head in understanding before helping him set up the snacks. "what movie are we watching?"

"i thought it was your turn." you look over at k when he says that. he had just taken off his plaid shirt, leaving him in a tank top. you allow your eyes to trail over his biceps for just a moment before shaking your head. you knew you shouldn't be checking out your best friend like that. even if he was the most attractive man you've ever seen.

"i picked love actually last week, remember?"

"that's right." he hummed, popping a chocolate covered pretzel in his mouth. you watch his mouth as he chews the pretzel, quickly meeting his eyes when he looks down at you. "what about grease?"

"sounds good to me."

that leads you to where you are now. the two of you relaxing on the couch while grease played on your tv. you were sitting on the corner of your small sectional, legs stretched out in front of you. k was sitting next to you, arm thrown over your shoulder. the two of you were sharing a bowl of popcorn that was sitting in k's lap.

it was just getting to the part of the girl's sleep over when you felt your phone buzz from under your leg. you ignored it at first, but ended up checking it when it buzzed again. you feel k lean over your shoulder while the two of you read the messages your ex left you, still begging you to give him another chance.

you see k look at you out of the corner of your eye, and you know what he's thinking. he's wondering if you're going to text him back. you don't, clicking the lock on the side of your phone before setting it back down. you train your eyes back onto the movie, but k keeps his eyes on you.

"you never told me why the two of you broke up."

you reach over, grabbing a handful of popcorn before shoving it in your mouth. "besides the fact that he was an asshole? i asked him a question that apparently questioned his masculinity, and he blew up. said some rude comments, so i ended things."

k turns down the tv some as he turns his attention to you. you bite your lip, knowing you shouldn't have said anything. "what was the question?"

"nothing." you tried to brush him off, but he wasn't having it. you went to reach for more popcorm, but he sat up, putting the popcorn on the table before fully turning to look at you. you finally brought your eyes away from the tv to look over at him. "k, i'm serious. it was nothing."

he didn't say anything. he just kept staring at you like he knew you would break eventually, and you did after about 30 seconds. you roll your eyes when you saw the smirk on his face as you let out a sigh.

"he was going on some stupid rant about how him and his friends were arguing about who was the best in bed. he said it was him, and i responded with how was he the best when he can't make even his girl orgasm."

your face felt hot when you saw k's jaw drop at your words. this is why you didn't want to bring it up. the two of you talk about a lot, but you two typically kept anything sex related out of your conversations.

"he got pissed, saying that it wasn't his fault that i never orgasamed with him. and then i made him even more mad when i told him the reason i went to the bathroom every time after sex was to get myself off since clearly he couldn't do it."

k was still staring at you with shock as you continued to tell him about the argument. "after i said that, he complained that he couldn't get me off was because it took to long for me to orgasm. which is true honestly, but it's not my fault that it takes me longer and no man's ever made me orgasm. anyway, he told me i was broken, so i told him to leave and never come back."

once you were done, your face felt like it was on fire. you buried your head in your hands as you avoided k's stare. he let out a laugh of disbelief. "you're telling me that asshole couldn't even make you cum, and you still stayed with him? that's the only reason i thought you stayed with him for so long was because he was probably good in bed."

"shut up." you mumble, clearly embarrassed. "i don't know why i told you that. i should've just kept my mouth shut."

k's long arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. "yn, you know i would never judge you. i just have some questions that's all."

"i don't want to answer them." you grumble, ready to go wrap yourself up in your blanket and never leave your bed.

"just one." you think about it for a moment before nodding your head. "did you really mean it when you said no man has ever made you cum before?"

you let out a whine at his question, wishing you could take back agreeing to answer. you pulled away from him completely, pulling the blanket that was covering your legs up to cover your entire face. you hear him chuckle before calling your name in a singing voice. "yes, i meant it. no body other than me has ever made me orgasm."

"have you just been with shit men?" k questions seriously. you shrug your shoulders at his question.

"or maybe his is right, and i am broken."

the blanket is suddenly ripped away from your face making you gasp. you face was then gripped by k as he forced you to look at him. "you listen to me. you better not think that a word that asshole ever said about you was true. you're not broken. you've just been with horrible men."

you nod your head, and he lets go of your face. he lets out an annoyed huff as he sits back on the couch. "what kind of a man cums before he girl does anyway?"

"i thought that was all of them?" you question, a little confused at his question. the look of shock he gives you answers your question.

"a woman should cum at least 2 times before the the guy should."

you frown at his answer. "maybe i have been with shit men."

the two of you sit in quiet for a moment before k speaks up again. "i have a question for you. you don't have to say yes to it either. if you don't want to, we'll forget i ever asked the question."

"what the hell are you going to ask me?" you glance at k nervously to see him already looking at you with dark eyes.

"do you want to prove him wrong?" your eyebrows furrow in confusion at his question. "do you want him wrong, and say a man can in fact make you cum?"

your eyes widen as you understand what he's asking. is you're best friend asking you if you want him to make you orgasm? you would be lying if you said you never thought about it, but never thought it would actually happen. your thighs press together at the thought of his hands on you.

"you want to make me cum?" you ask- voice just over a whisper.

"if you want me to." he responds. you thought about it for a moment.

"how?"

"however you want. fingers. tongue. both." he stops talking when you give him a look of shock. "what's wrong, sweetheart? do you want me to stop talking about it?"

you blush at the nickname before shaking your head. "you want to go down on me?"

"why does that shock you?" k asks, but got the answer to his questioned when you looked away from him. "don't tell me nobody's ever gone down on you before."

you shrug. "the first guy i was with said it was disgusting, so i never asked anyone else."

"disgusting?" k questions. he leans close to you, brushing your hair behind your ear. "how could anything with you be disgusting? i would beg you to let me go down on you, sweetheart."

you ignore his question, shifting some to get some relief in between your legs. k noticed this and smirked. "do you really want to?"

"i do." he told you. you could tell he was being honest. "all you have to do is say the words, and i'll take care of you."

you had a feeling your answer would mess up your friendship, but you really didn't care. not when he was looking at you like that. not when he had you more turned on than anyone has ever made you, and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"i want you too."

k smiled softly, allowing his thumb to brush over your bottom lip. "are you sure, sweetheart? we can stop at anytime."

"i'm sure." you answer almost immediately.

you didn't know what to expect when you agreed, ss you were surprised when k leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours. you froze for a moment before kissing him back. his hand caressed the side of your face, trailing along your jaw, as his lips molded against yours. they were soft against yours as he coaxed you to relax in his hold.

he took his time kissing you, only pulling away for seconds for you two to catch your breathes before going back in. his other hand running softly along your thigh. once he could tell you were comfortable and relaxed, he gripped the thigh closest to him, draping it over his legs. you felt the cold air nip at your inner thighs as his hand traveled upwards, going along your hip before traveling up your shirt. you let out a gasp as his finger grazed the side of your breast.

you almost whined out when his lips pulled away from yours. you met his eyes as he looked down at you. "are you okay?"

"more than okay." you nod, silently begging him not to stop.

"let me know if you want me to stop, or if you become uncomfortable, okay?" once you nodded your head in agreement, he leaned back in to you.

you gasped into his mouth as his hand cupped your breast. you arch into his touch, which you could tell he enjoyed when he smiled into your kiss. he pulled away from your swollen lips, kissing your cheek as he moved down your neck. you angled your neck to where he could continue kissing you, gasping when he bit down on your neck.

you tried to move your leg that was on k, so you could get some relief from his touch. he pulled his hand out from under your shirt to stop your leg, keeping it over his.

"patience, sweetheart."

his hand went back to your shirt, but instead of his hand going underneath it, he grips the hem and pulls it up. your nipples hardened at the cold air. k's fingers trail around the hardened nipple as he eyes your chest. his eyes then meet yours, and you melt into him when he kisses you again.

"my pretty girl." he whispers against your lips as he pulls away. you flush at the compliment, but don't get to dwell on it due to the moan coming out of your mouth. k's tongue swirls around your nipple before wrapping around your nipple, sucking gently as his hand fondles your other breast.

"k." his hand squeezes your breast as his name leaves your mouth. you shift your hips again, desperate to find any relief.

his mouth leaves your breast, quickly finding yours in a needy kiss. you grip the back of his shirt when you feel his hand ghost down your stomach, pausing before cupping your heat. you moan at the feeling, and k takes the opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips. your tongues brush against one another before his hand moves.

his fingers push down, putting pressure on your clothed clit and making you jump in surprise. you buck up into his hand as you circles your clit.

"fuck. k." you moan his name, wanting more. you had never felt like this. no one has ever made you feel like this. he's barely touched you and you already feel like your going to orgasm.

"does my girl want more?"

you nod your head almost pathetically at him. "yes. please."

"since you asked so nicely." k winks at you before moving. he lifts your thigh up before shifting off of the couch. his lips were swollen and covered in saliva. you couldn't think he could ever look more attractive than he did now, but then he knelt down in front of you. no man has ever done that for you before. "lift your hips, sweetheart."

you did as he asked, lifting your hips as he pulled your shorts and underwear off in one swift motion. he stares at your exposed cunt with a heat you've never seen before from him. you shift under his stare, but k's hands grip both of your thighs, keeping you exposed to him.

"you're going to keep your legs open for me, so i can make you feel like the queen you are." you whine at k's words, but does as he says and keeping your legs where he puts them.

he starts trailing his lips along your thigh, slowly making his way to where you desperately need him. his hand holds you open to him. you could practically feel yourself dripping for him. and finally he gave you what you wanted, darting his tongue out and tasting you.

you choke out a moan as his tongue teases your entrance. he replaces it with his finger, watching your reaction as his finger slips inside of you. you grip the couch beneath you as you screw your eyes closed in pleasure. once he watches you for a moment, he moves forward, catching your clit with his mouth. you moan out when he sucks harshly on the bud. he then added a second finger, scissoring them and nearly making you see stars.

before you can think, your hand moves, tangling it in his hair. you pull lightly, hearing a groan from him. you fall back to your senses some and pull your hand away, not sure if he like it. he caught your wrist, pulling it back towards him- silently telling you its okay.

"fuck. k." your back left the couch as his finger curled inside of you. you squeeze around his fingers as you feel your stomach tighten. you almost couldn't believe it. he was about to make you orgasm, something no one else besides you has ever done.

it was like he had a sixth sense or something because you caught his eyes as he stared up at you. he pulled away from you for a moment with a smirk. "are you about to cum for me sweetheart?"

"y-yes." you stutter, throwing your head back when he curled his fingers again. as soon as his lips attached back to your clit, you moaned out his name as you came to your high. you all but collapsed into the couch as he nursed you back down from your high.

"my god, k." you mumble as you come back to your senses. "i don't think i've ever came that hard."

just as k was going to respond, your phone rang, making you jump. you looked down at your phone before back at k, fully intending on ignoring it. but then you noticed k glaring at you phone. he gave you a wicked smirk and picked it up, answering it before putting it back on speaker.

"yn?" your ex's voice came through the speaker. "baby, i'm so glad you-"

"she's busy." k's voice came out rough. you looked in confusion that quickly turned to shock when he reattached himself to your clit. a loud moan came out of your mouth at the action. you quickly found yourself getting lost in his touch again and completely forgot that your ex was on the line. thankfully, k didn't and hung up before turning his full attention to you.

his fingers slid into you once again, making you sigh in pleasure. he moved them in a way that made you see stars. it normally took you so long to orgasm, that was if you did at all. but here k was, knocking down everything you thought about yourself and bringing you two orgasms in the time it took for you to normally to bring yourself to one.

this one felt different though. it felt stronger somehow. you felt it building faster than your other one. so fast you tried pulling away from k, but he wasn't having it. his unoccupied hand wrapped around your waist, dragging you closer to him. you choke out his name, but it wasn't any use. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as k gave you the strongest orgasm you've ever experienced.

your breath came out choppy as you yet again recovered from that orgasm. you opened your eyes when you heard k chuckle. you then noticed that he's moved, still on his knees but now looking down at you.

"i didn't know you could squirt, sweetheart." you furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

"there's no way-" you stop when you see the bottom of his face along with his neck and upper chest were glistening. "holy shit."

"holy shit is right. i don't think i've ever seen something so sexy." you watch as k grabs the hem of his shirt, moving and wiping his face and neck. you eye his tanned stomach- somehow still wanting more from this man.

once his shirt dropped back into place, you pulled him up your body, crashing your lips together. he groans, instantly responding and pulling you closer to him. once he did, you felt his erection brush against your stomach. you haven't even seen him and could tell he was huge.

you move your hand down his body before brushing your hand along his erection. he lets out the most attractive moan you've ever heard as he pulls away from your lips. his eyes were hooded as he watched you rub your hand along his erection.

"are you sure?" k asks, groaning again when you squeeze him though his jeans.

"you said it yourself. a girl should orgasm twice before a man should. so what do you want?" it was his turn to be confused as he looked up at you. you sit up, readjusting your shirt as you look up at him. "do you want my hands? mouth? or do you want something else?"

k's eyes darkened ever more if that were possible. you could barely see the warm color as he stared down at you. he was quiet as he watched your hands trail along his jeans. "i personally like option 3, but the choice is up to you."

"i'm going to ask you one more time, sweetheart. are you sure?" you nod your head at his question.

"i want you."

that was all it took for the last of his restraint to break. he grabbed you, wrapping your legs around his waist as he stood up. you press open mouth kisses to his next as he walked to two of you over to your bedroom. he kicked open the door and turned on the light before moving to your bed.

your back hit the soft mattress as k lays you down. he sits up on his knees as he looks down at you. "shirt off."

you sit up, pulling off your shirt before throwing it somewhere. by the time you look back at k, you notice that he had taken off his shirt as well. he pushes you back flat on the bed before his lips meet yours. you moan into the kiss, allowing yourself to run your hands over his chest and stomach. once you reach his jeans, you pop the button before unzipping them.

"sweetheart." you look up as k stops you from going any further. "i don't have a..."

he trails off, and you instantly know what he means. "i do. in the drawer. i don't know if they'll fit though. you're fucking huge."

k laughs at your words, continuing to kiss you while he feels around for a condom. "i'll make it fit. if i'm not in you in the next 5 minutes, i'm going to explode."

"well then hurry up."

"yes ma'am."

after k finds the condom, he moves off of you. you keep your eyes on him as he removes his bottoms. your eyes widen as his dick springs out of his boxers. you were right. he was huge- easily the biggest you've ever seen. you were going to be so sore tomorrow.

"i'm going to make you carry me around everywhere tomorrow." you say as k slides on the condom. k throws his head back in laughter before climbing back on top of you.

"or we could just stay in bed tomorrow." he suggests with a wink. "i could spend all day trying make you squirt again."

you clench around nothing at his words. "fuck, k. please do something."

"i will sweetheart." his lips press to yours as he lines himself with your entrance. you clench around him as he pushes in. "my god, yn. you're so tight."

"fuck." you agree.

k takes his time, slowly stretching you out, so he won't hurt you. every time you clench, he pauses. he kisses you everywhere he can reach, finally kissing your lips when his hips are flush against yours.

"i was right. you are fucking huge." you shift, adjusting to his size. you feel him smile from where his face was pressed against your neck.

"but you're taking me so well, sweetheart."

after a few minutes, you told k he could move. he nearly pulled all the way out before pushing back in. the discomfort quickly went away and was replaced with pleasure. you throw your head back in pleasure as you moan out his name. "more, k. please."

he speeds up like you asked until your a moaning mess under neath him. his lips crash down on yours, stifling your moans as he continues to move at a fast pace. he felt good, but you still wanted more. after a whining moan, k understood what you needed, moving his hand down and rubbing your clit.

you squeeze around him at his actions. "fuck, sweetheart. i'm not going to last long if you keep squeezing me like that."

"let go then." you tell him.

"not before you."

"but i already-" you yelp when he bites your neck. not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to shock you. his fast pace, along with his fingers moving against your clit, made your stomach twist again. "god, k. faster please."

his hand sped up while pressing down on your clit. he brought you to your third orgasm of the night, and you would've screamed if k didn't kiss you when you did. he swallowed your moans with a moan of his own as he climaxed right after you. he slowed down, pressing his forehead to yours as the two of you came down.

once you two did, k slid out of you before taking off the condom. he threw it in the trashcan next to your bed before he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "you did so good sweetheart."

he got off of you before walking over to your bathroom. he came back a few moments later with a wet cloth. he wiped you clean before helping you back into your shirt. he slid on his boxers before the two of you got underneath the blanket. he pulled you into his side, wrapping his arm around you as you laid your head on his chest.

"thank you." you whisper.

"for what, sweetheart?"

"for breaking every doubt i had about myself." you answer. "even thought you did just ruin sex for me."

k chokes out a laugh at your words. "and why's that?"

"no body is going to make me feel the way you just did." you answer. k places a kiss on the top of your head.

"that's good." you attempt to look up at him due to his statement, but you were way to tired to do so. "because i don't want you having sex with anyone else but me."

"does that mean-" your words are cut off with a yawn. "what i think it means?"

"get some sleep, sweetheart. we'll talk about it in the morning."

you let out a sigh as you throw yourself backwards on the bed. you feel the bed move before another body landed next to you. you look over to see karina on her phone, pulling out her phone before taking a photo of you two. once she snaps the photo, she throws her phone on the bed next to her before looking at you.

"words can't describe how ready i am to spend the next week here."

you and your friends were taking a well needed vacation. it took you guys a long time to figure out where you wanted to go, until karina brought up the beach. you were all in agreement, so you rented out a beach house large enough to fit the 11 of you.

you take a moment to look around the room. the color pallet was white with spashes of blue to tie in the beach that the house was on. you could hear the breeze from the ocean from the open door- along with the smell of sea salt. you felt peaceful just laying there in the bed you were sharing with karina.

"you and me both." you admit, rolling on your stomach, so you could look out the open door. "what's the plan, rina?"

"have fun. get tan. maybe drunk." you laughed as she listed off she wanted to do. "maybe get you a man to fall into bed with."

you grimace at the last sentence. "definitely not the last one."

"i'm sorry. let me rephrase that... i'm getting you a man." you laugh at her before sticking by your original statemet.

"i don't want a one night stand."

"is that because you don't want anyone who's not nicho?" karina asks, raising her eyebrows teasingly. you slap her arm as your cheeks heat up.

"we're just friends."

she rolls her eyes. "friends my ass. that's like saying this beach doesn't have any sand."

"it's true." you admit before deflecting. "we need to get ready before the guys come barging in."

"we're not done with this conversation." you hear karina yell as you close the bathroom door.

you couldn't help but think of your red headed friend as you got ready. you two have been friends for about 2 years- having been introduced by karina. he's become one of you closest friends, but there was one issue. you had a massive crush on him. how could you not when he was one of the most beautiful men you had ever seen?

then came the affection. he was overly affectionate with you. he has been that way since the two of you became friends. he always had his hands on you in some way. if you two were standing next to each other, his arm was thrown around your shoulder. if you were sitting next to each other, his had would be on your thigh.

you can't forget the teasing as well. he always gave you teasing remarks which often times still render you speechless. between his touches, teasing, and the looks he gives you, it didn't take you long to fall for him. you were better now at hiding it, but you still became embarrassed quickly by his affection. at least now you were able to tolerate it and not push him away like you used to. you were even able to return it at times and shock him as well.

you put on the cute white sundress karina let you borrow before walking out of the bathroom. karina was wearing a similar sundress, but hers was long while yours was short. you were applying perfume when you heard a knock on your door. karina walks over and opens the door, revealing the red hair man who was overtaking your thoughts.

"hey, elmo." karina greets, moving away from the door to finish getting ready. "is everyone ready?"

"almost, just waiting on you two and k." nicholas responds as he walks in before sitting on the bed. karina watches him as he watches you with a smile on her face. you were putting on ear rings and completely unaware of him. she walked over, flicking his ear and making him glare at her before getting your attention.

"well, i'm done. what about you, yn?"

you look up at karina's question before nodding. "i just got to grab my shoes. i'll meet you down there."

as soon as karina leaves the room, you move away from the mirror to go and grab your shoes. but when you turn, you're greeted by nicholas who was standing in front of you. he put out his arms to block you from moving before bending down to your height.

"i don't even get a hello, pretty girl?" he ask, mock hurt on his face.

"hi, elmo." you mock karina's nickname of him since he dyed his hair. you laughed as he scoffed. he moved his arms from the wall to around your waist before pulling you into his arms.

"try again."

you tried to pull away from him. "i have to finish getting ready."

"then you better greet me right, baby." you roll your eyes at his demand.

"hi, nicho." you greet properly, but he still doesn't let you go. you look up to see him smiling at you before he shakes his head, signaling that's not what he wanted. "hi, weno."

"good girl." you blushed as he pulled away from you. he grabbed your shoes before motioning you to sit on the bed. you do as he says, and he kneels down to put your shoes on for you. you try to pull away when he runs his hand down your leg, but he grips your ankle to keep you still. "patience, baby."

you chuckle as he finishes. "have you met our friends? i'm shocked yuma hasn't started yelling yet."

"hey lovebirds!" you hear yuma scream from downstairs and proving your point. "stop making out! i'm hungry."

"told you." you smile, standing up before moving. you grab your phone before leaving the room. you could hear nicholas walking behind you as you walked down the stairs. you met yuma's scowling gaze with a smile. "sorry, yuma. i didn't realize i was taking so long to get ready."

"i guess i'll forgive you." he told you as he returned your smile. "you look pretty by the way."

"thank you."

you moved to follow yuma, but was pulled back into nicholas' chest. you look up to see him glaring at yuma before staring down at you. "you're riding with me, babe."

"i figured." you wink, leaving him stunned as you walk out the front door. you walk over to the car before you realized something. you were sitting in the very back and had to climb over the middle seat. with the dress you were wearing, you were going to flash someone.

you jump when you feel hands on the bottom of your dress. you see nicholas standing behind you holding your dress down. "climb in. i've got you."

you nodded, fully trusting him to keep your dress down as you got in the car. he kept his hands on your dress until you were seated fully. you fixed your dress before scooting over, so he could seat next to you. you thanked him after he had got settled in next to you.

"no need to thank me, love. don't need people seeing what's mine anyway." you slap his hand when he pinches your thigh.

the rest of you get into the car before you guys take off to the restaurant harua picked out. it was about a 10 minute drive, and the restaurant was on the beach itself. from the photos you saw, it was an open setting with even some tables on the beach. you all agreed for a balcony table though when they booked it.

after you guys had parked, nicholas got out first before turning to help you again. he held onto your dress and didn't let go until your feet were on the ground. he then blocked you from everyone while you fixed your dress again.

he held your hand, intertwining your fingers as you all walked into the restaurant. the two of you sat together at the long table for all of you. the sun was starting to set, giving the ocean a warm glow. it was something that looked like it belonged on a post card. nicholas let you lean over him so you could take a photo.

"take one of us, pretty." you do as he says, flipping the camera before taking a photo of the two of you. he held out his hand for your phone. he looked at the photo before sending it to himself. "we look good together."

you felt your face flush, but didn't respond because the server came to take your drink orders. some of the guys ordered alcohol, but you were a big alcohol drinker, so you ordered a cherry coke. when they gave it to you, you were shocked to see it came with actual cherries. you had just grabbed one and ate it when karina got your attention.

"yn do the thing!" she exclaimed, making everyone look between you two. you roll your eyes at her, wishing she hadn't seen the cherries.

"do what thing?" taki asked.

karina motioned to the stem that was still in your hand. "yn can tie a knot in the stem with her tongue."

"no way!" taki exclaimed before turning to you. "you have to do it."

you let out a sigh, feeling everyone's eyes on you as you place the cherry stem in your mouth. once you had tied it, you stuck out your tongue to show everyone and shocking everyone. you put the stem on a napkin as you watch taki and k try to do it with the cherries from their drinks.

"i didn't know you could do that." you look over at nicholas' words before shrugging.

"it's just some lame party trick. it's nothing special."

nicholas pulled the other cherry out of your drink, eating the cherry before handing you the stem. "do it again."

you hold your hand out for the stem, but he held it up to your lips instead. you open your mouth and let him place the stem on your tongue before you tied it into a knot for him. you take the stem out of your mouth when it was tied before showing him again. he took the stem from you, examining it before turning to you with a look you couldn't understand.

"i'm interested to see what else this pretty mouth can do."

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you let out a low groan as karina's alarm went off. you smacked her, successfully waking her up, so she could turn her phone off. once she did, you rolled over, pulling the sheets over you head to go back to sleep as she did the same. and since the two of you were half asleep, you didn't hear the door open.

all you heard was a laugh that you were pretty sure was taki's before someone climbed on the bed. the two of you jump when taki starts jumping on the bed.

"get up!" he yells. "we're going to the amusement park today."

"how could we forget? it's not like you haven't shut up about it for the last 2 weeks." you say as you remove the blanket from your head.

he still didn't stop jumping causing you to grab your pillow before throwing it at him. it hit him in the face, making him to lose his balance. he tripped over karina's leg causing him to fall on top of you. you yell in pain as he lands on top of you. he straddles your legs as he pulls himself up.

"i'm so sorry, yn." he apologized. "i didn't hurt you, did i?"

you shake your head. "it's okay, taki."

"i'm not." karina pouted as she sat up before rubbing her leg. "you stepped on me."

"i'm sorry, rina."

"what are you doing on top of her?" taki nearly jumps out of his skin at nicholas' voice. you turn your head to see him glaring at taki. taki held up his hands in surrender before gently climbing off of you.

"it was their fault."

"our fault?" you exclaim. "you came in her at 7 in the morning and started jumping on the bed."

"you two were still asleep. even k is up already." taki told you. at that moment, k walked by clearly still half asleep.

"unwillingly." he grumbled as he walked by.

nicholas moved into the room, wrapping his arm around taki as he led him out. "let's leave the girls alone, so they can get ready."

the two of you watch the door shut, already having a feeling on what was going to happen. you heard taki yell before taking off down the hallway- nicholas chasing after him.

"i'm sorry! i won't touch her again!"

"jealous boy." karina said as she rubbed at her face. "and you still think he doesn't have feelings for you."

you unplug your phone before sitting up. "what if it's just an act? you know he loves teasing everyone, you included."

"it's not. you didn't see the way he looked at you last night after the whole cherry stem thing. he looked like he wanted to shove his tongue down your throat." you choked at her words, face turning red at the thought.

"then what is he waiting for?" you ask. karina thinks about it for a moment before she steps into the bathroom.

"that i don't know." she said before she closed the door.

you brushed her words aside as you got up to get ready. he wouldn't have kept up with the teasing for so long if he liked you back. he probably just likes the reaction from you, along with the attention.

you put on a pair of shorts and a frilly top that hung off your shoulders. you paired it with the shoes from last night along with a necklace nicholas got you for your birthday last year. it was a simple gold chain with a n, and he had the matching one with your initial.

after you fixed your hair and makeup, you go downstairs where some of the guys were attempting to make breakfast. it was really just k cooking while he yelled at the others for being in his way.

"oh my god." k groaned, pushing a laughing ej out of his way. "just get out. i'll cook by myself."

"i'll help." k lights up at your offer.

"i'll love you forever."

"hey!" you roll your eyes as you hear nicholas yell at k.

you push past ej before helping k finish breakfast. the two of you didn't do much- just eggs, bacon, and toast. you two didn't make that much because you know that you were going to eat plenty at the park. you just made enough to hold you over with the 2 hour ride.

you had just finished the eggs when an arm wrapped around your waist. you didn't even question it as you turn the stove off. "good morning, weno."

"morning baby." he greeted, resting his head on your shoudler. "why don't you go sit down? i'll make you a plate."

you turn to look at him. "you sure?"

he nodded, pushing you out of the kitchen. you grabbed a water bottle from the fridge before you went to sit down at the table where the guys were already eating. after he brought you a plate, you two sat quietly as nicholas was still sleepy. you just listened to taki go on about all of the rides he wanted to go on today.

after everyone was done, maki offered to wash the dishes while everyone finished getting ready. once everyone was ready, you all hopped into the car. it didn't take but 5 minutes for nicholas to rest his head on your shoulder, so he could take a nap on the way there.

you woke him up when you guys pulled into the parking lot. he stretched as you fixed his messed up hair. "rest well, sleeping beauty?"

"i did." he answered with a chuckle. "you're a good pillow. i need to sleep with you more often."

you nearly drop your phone in shock at his words. "you can't say things like that, weno."

"i can't help myself. not when you look so pretty when you blush." you slap his hand away when he pinches your cheek.

"get out of the car before i push you out."

"bossy." he mused as he got out. "i like that."

you let out a deep breath before following him out of the car. you stepped away from him and walking towards karina, needing a break before he breaks you. her locks her arm around yours as you start following the guys.

"is he already acting up?" karina questioned.

"of course he is." you grumble. "this man is going to be the death of me."

"i'll make sure there's no roses at your funeral." you laugh at karina's words.

you all got in line, pulling out the tickets on your phones as you passed the entrance. as soon as you stepped through, you already noticed that taki and yuma were gone. everyone started to split into their own groups- either going on rides or going to eat.

"are you hungry, pretty?" nicholas asked as he walked up to you. you shake your head.

"not yet. are you?"

he shook his head before he held out his hand for you to take. "lets go, baby."

you grabbed his hand as the two of you started exploring the park. the two of you mostly walked around, riding a few rides that caught your attention. you were looking around when you saw someone walking around with cotton candy causing you to stop.

nicholas turned when you pointed. "i want some cotton candy."

you couldn't see where the place was. nicholas made you stay where you were while he went to go ask them where they got it. he took your hand when he came back to you before you follow him. the line wasn't very long, and the two of you were quickly next in like when an older couple walked by you.

"you two are such a cute couple." the two of you turn towards the couple. you smile, moving to open your mouth when nicholas wrapped his arm around you.

"thank you. isn't she beautiful?"

you felt your face blush in embarrassment. "why did you say that? we're not dating."

"well duh, but they don't know that." he shrugged. "no harm. no foul right."

you felt your heart drop at his comment. you felt like he just completely brushed you off. you shuffle on your feat as you pull away from him some. you felt like you were right. he didn't like you. he just enjoyed the attention you gave him.

you were next in line, and even though you didn't want the cotton candy anymore, you still ordered the flavor you wanted. you already had the money out and paid for it before nicholas could. you then watched quietly as made it, quiet aware that nicholas was staring at you.

"you okay?" you hum at his question.

"i want to go off on my own for a bit." you tell him. you watch him as he looks at you with wide eyes.

"you can't go off by yourself."

"why not?" you question. you look away, smiling at the man when he hands you the container of cotton candy before stepping away from the stand. "you really can't tell me what to do because like you said. you're not my boyfriend or anything."

nicholas lets out a sigh as he understands what your talking about. you fully realize that you're feelings were now out in the open, but you didn't care. not anymore. "i didn't mean it like that, pretty. i-"

"don't bother." you stop him. you glance behind him to see ej and jo standing in a food line. " there's ej and jo. why don't you go hang out with them? i'll find something else to do."

"wait, yn!"

you moved away from him, walking away but stopping when you heard your name. you turn around to look at him one last time. "don't worry, nicholas. i'll be fine. no harm. no fowl right?"

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you walked around for a bit before you ran into karina and k. the two of them wanted to leave early because k still needed to go to the store to pick up stuff for your guys cook out tonight. so the three of you along with harua, maki, and fuma, left early. you didn't even tell nicholas you were leaving, nor did you answer his text. he found out from karina through the group chat when he asked if anyone had seen you.