your stomach twists, fists clench at your sides. the letters blur for a second and you blink rapidly, as if reading it again will somehow make it go away. you don’t have to turn around to feel him – that distinct, arrogant presence that always makes your skin crawl. the air arounds you tightens, turns electric, suffocating as he steps up beside you, your shoulders instinctively stiffening like your body was preparing for war.

haechan doesn’t say a word first, just reading the cast list you’ve been cursing at for the past fifteen seconds.

romeo - lee, donghyuck

juliet - yln, yfn

tybalt - kim, sunwoo / mercutio - dejun, xiao / benvolio - choi, yeonjun / friar laurence - choi, jongho / count paris - choi, soobin / montague - seo, changbin / capulet - jung, wooyoung / gloria capulet - huh, yunjin / juliet’s nurse - yi zhou, ning /balthasar - yoon, sanha

then he scoffs, “what the hell?,” he hissed venomously, before ripping the sheet off the bulletin board, crinkling the edge between his fingers like it personally offended him.

“hey–!,” you snap, breaking from your stunned silence, spinning on your heel to follow him as he storms across the hall like a live grenade looking for somewhere to detonate.

“mr. doyoung!,” his voice cracks through the hallway like a thunderclap, “this has got to be a mistake!”

there it is. that infuriating, entitled tone, like the spoiled, arrogant bastard he’s always been. always louder. always assuming the world should rearrange itself around him. you roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but for the first time in a long time, you actually agree.

“yeah, there’s no way, in hell, you can make me act opposite of him,” you bite out, folding your arms tightly across your chest as you come to a halt beside him. your voice is sharp, clipped, every word aimed to kill as the two of you glare at each other like two predators forced into a cage.

his eyes glint with the same smug cruelty he’s weaponized against you, “then drop the part,” he sneers, that damned smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, “save us all the agony.”

you scoff, “if anyone’s dropping out, it should be you.” you step closer, close enough to feel the anger radiating off of him. your noses are inches apart, breaths sharp, shallow, matching like clashing rhythms.

his eyes narrow, “not in a million years, princess,” he spits. the nickname laced with the kind of condescension that makes your blood boil — the same nickname he gave you when you first met in freshman year of high school. it used to hold playfulness until junior year when he used it to spite you, calling you a spoiled, whiny brat in front of all your classmates.

“i. hate. you.” you hiss, slow and deliberate, as if saying it any softer wouldn’t do your fury justice.

“not as much as i. hate. you,” he fires back instantly as if he’s been waiting to say it.

and you know you both mean it. every syllable.

the silence between you is razor-sharp, about to break into something neither of you will be able to take back until mr. doyoung finally claps his hands together, far too enthusiastically.

“ahhh, exactly the kind of fire i’d expect from my two star crossed lovers,” he beams, though there’s a flicker of panic behind his eyes for the future of his play, “so much...raw emotion, i’m sure you’ll channel it beautifully!,” he smiles that bunny-like smile. you both turn to glare at him.

mr. doyoung’s smile falters, “orrr maybe i’ll add a few extra rehearsals. just in case.”

you want to scream. you want to throw the script in his face. you want the ground to open up and swallow him whole. transport him somewhere far away from you where you would never have to see him again. instead, you glare at him and know this is going to be war.

ཐིཋྀ the first week of rehearsals

the rehearsal room smells like dust and desperation. the air is heavy, slow, stale and every time the fan completes it’s rotation, it just blow more disappointment into your face.

but none of it compares to the static crackling between you and him.

“i’m not doing that,” you snap, backing away from haechan like his presence is physically repulsive, “if he touches me like that again, i swear to god, i’m walking out.” there’s something about the way haechan put his hand on your waist, not even hard, not even long, that makes your whole body go tight, defensive.

“jesus christ,” haechan groans, dramatically running a hand through his already disheveled hair as he paces like a caged animal, like the floor can somehow absorb his frustration, “it’s called blocking and i’m supposed to stand there. it’s the scene. what are you? an amateur.”

the both of you hate each other but you both knew you were far from amateurs. especially in the theatre world. you were always part of the main ensemble, so was he. it’s almost ironic how you never saw it coming…that one day you would land a role opposite his.

you glare daggers, “it’s called basic respect for personal space, not an invitation to grope me,” you shoot back, matching his volume now, hands on your hips, “and you didn’t follow the mark. you were supposed to take one step forward, not three and a half and a hand on my waist.”

“that’s literally where romeo touches juliet. in the script,” he grits out, teeth clenching, “ever heard of it?,” his eyes flash, jaw tight.

“i’ve read it,” you snap, voice rising in heat, “i just don’t think shakespeare imagined romeo groping juliet like a frat boy.”

“groping?,” he repeats, incredulous, “you’re delusional. talk about overreacting, as if i would ever want to grope you.”

you glare, “at least i can act.” it’s petty. it’s low. but it lands. you see the spark behind his eyes flare into flame.

he barks out a laugh that’s so disbelieving it echoes, “that’s rich coming from you. every time i look at you, you look dead, let me remind you juliet is still alive in this scene.”

“maybe because looking at you makes me want to jump off the balcony and actually end it myself!,” you yell, voice going an octave higher with every word.

you hate him so much. hate the way you act when he’s around. you’re not usually like this. you’re calm, sweet, a walking ray of sunshine. but when he’s around. it’s all a mess.

“okay, ENOUGH!”

mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, his usual patience obliterated, stepping between the two of you like a human peace treaty, “you are juliet,” he says to you, “-and you are romeo,” he turns to haechan, “i don’t plan on changing any of the cast so if you two don’t find a way to sell the illusion that you’re in love, this entire show is going to be a very expensive dumpster fire.”

neither of you speak. too busy glaring at each other, like eye contact alone might ignite spontaneous combustion. mr. doyoung sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s just…try the balcony scene again. from the top. no improvising. no suicide jokes. just the lines. please. for the love of theater.”

you both reluctantly take your marks, haechan looks up at you, a few feet above the stage, perched on a rickety prop balcony that feels two screws away from collapsing, wobbling under your feet.

he takes his place below, casting a look up at you that’s less romantic longing and more barely restrained murder. then he begins, voice flat, eyes dead, “but, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun.”

you blink slowly, unimpressed, “really?,” you call down, loud enough to make mr. doyoung’s eye twitch. “that’s your romeo? he sounds like he’s reading from the terms and conditions page,” you insult.

“i’m projecting,” he says defensively, like the word justifies everything.

“you’re projecting boredom,” you deadpan, “romeo’s in love, not filing a complaint with customer service”

“oh, i’m sorry,” he stays stepping forward with mock enthusiasm, “it’s hard to sound passionate when i’m looking at someone who constantly has a resting bitch face.”

“you’re such a dick!,” you snap from the balcony.

“and you’re nothing but a spoiled brat!”

you both shout over each other. mr. doyoung lets out an almost feral scream and hurls his clipboard across the stage. it hits a chair and ricochets loudly, silencing the room. the rest of the cast sharing multiple side-eyes.

“end of rehearsals!,” he bellows, voice cracking with pure, unfiltered despair. you don’t need to be told twice. you turn on your heel and storm off the left side of the stage without looking back. you don’t need to. you can feel him heading the other way, like magnets forced apart.

and yet, even as you leave the room, you can still feel him…under your skin, buzzing through your veins.

ཐིཋྀ the second week of rehearsals

mr. doyoung looks like he’s aged ten years over the week. his clipboard is cracked down the spine, his coffee has gone cold, and his voice has taken on the strained edge of a man dangling off the brink of a nervous breakdown — there has been absolutely no progress when it comes to his leading actors.

he watches, again, as the scene falls apart. you stand center stage, shoulders stiff, delivering your lines like someone reading a grocery list and haechan was delivering his like a stand-up comedian doing shakespeare for drunks.

“you know what?,” mr. doyoung finally snaps, his voice cracking under the strain of suppressed rage, “i’m done. i’m tired of the two of you wasting everyone’s time.” you and haechan glance at each other with deadpan synchronicity and immediately roll your eyes in perfect unison. the only thing you can do in sync.

“i’m not going to waste one more minute pretending this is salvageable until you two get your shit together,” he pulls a key from his pocket, walks toward the back rehearsal room and without warning, yanks the door open, “get in.”

you hesitate. so does haechan. but mr. doyoung’s eyes blaze with the quiet fury of a man who has nothing left to lose. before either of you can protest, he herds you both into the cramped rehearsal room, walls lined with mismatched props and discarded costumes. he slams the door shut behind you, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the space like a death sentence.

“you’re going to spend the next hour locked in this room. read the lines, build chemistry. i don’t care how you do it but make sure it works or i swear to god i will cast freshmen in the lead roles and let the whole show burn,” he instructs from the other side, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

mr. doyoung knew the two of you too well, both too proud, too consumed by your own egos and the thrill of performing. you didn’t just want to act, you wanted to outshine, to dominate every scene. all it needed was a little push, to finally get you where he wants.

“great,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall, “trapped in a room with you, it’s just like high school all over again.”

haechan stares at you like he’s seconds away from choosing violence, “believe me princess, i’d rather be stuck in a room filled with plague-infested rats than be here with you.”

“let’s just get this over with so we can get out of here,” you roll your eyes as you both grab your scripts. tension hanging like a thundercloud.

“deny thy father and refuse thy name–,” you start.

“maybe try not sounding like you’re ai,” haechan cuts in, already annoyed, tone drenched in mockery.

your eyes narrow, “this is ridiculous,” you mutter, slapping the script onto a table, “he really thinks chemistry can be forced?”

haechan scoffs, “it’s not chemistry that’s the problem. it’s you.”

you spin toward him, a furrow on your features, “right, because the way you butcher romantic lines make the audience swoon.”

“i’m sorry, have you ever heard yourself say ‘oh romeo, oh romeo’ without sounding like you’re a fucking gps?”

your voice rises, “god, you’re not even trying to act like you’re in love with me!,”

“maybe because the idea makes me want to rip out my own eyeballs,” he snarls, stepping closer.

“you are the most arrogant!,” you take a step closer, voice rising, veins protruding, “most infuriating–”

you don’t see it coming.

one second you’re shouting at each other, chest heaving, veins on fire and the next, his hands are tangled in your hair, mouth crushing yours like a threat – the kiss is messy. too much teeth. zero warning. absolute chaos.

you shove him off, lips bruised and tingling, breath ragged, eyes blown out, “are you fucking insane?!”

haechan looks like a deer caught in headlights, eyes flickering with something wild, shock and hunger all at once, but before he can register what he just did, you grab his shirt and pull him down into another kiss – twice as hard, all tongue and fury and years of pent-up hatred combusting between your teeth.

it’s not romantic. it’s war.

he stumbles back into the worn chair and you follow, climbing into his lap and straddling his thigh like you’re still trying to win. your skirt rides up as your knees settle on either side of his leg. hot, wet core pressing against the thick line of muscle beneath you, haechan’s own gym shorts bunching up on his thigh and for the first time, you’re both quiet. just the obscene sound of mouths and breath and friction echoing throughout the room.

your hips rock forward, slow at first, then harder. a needy, broken sound slips past your lips, making his cock twitch in his shorts.

“god,” he breathes into your jaw, “i would’ve done this years ago if i knew it’d finally shut you up,” his lips trail down your jaw, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses.

“you’re such a cocky piece of shit,” you hiss, panting against his mouth, hips still rocking into his thigh.

“and you’re still a brat,” he growls, gripping your waist like he might lose his mind otherwise, “but fuck–keep doing that.”

“i hate you,” you growl against his lips as you continue to ride his thigh anyway. like the words would justify any of this.

“you’re grinding on me like you don’t,” he says smugly.

“shut up.”

“make me.”

you do. you pull his hair and kiss him again, tongue in his mouth – filthy, hot, tangled. the pressure builds fast, molten and sharp. your tits brush his chest, perky nipples peeking through the thin fabric of your white shirt, his hands hot and demanding on your ass. he whines into your mouth and it’s almost enough to make you lose yourself entirely. you pick up rhythm, shameless and hungry, the movement hitting that perfect, aching spot.

haechan loathes how hot you look right now. on top of him, leaving a wet trail all over his leg, tits bouncing to the rhythm you’ve set. and he hates how his body is betraying him even more. absolutely despises the way all his blood is surging straight to his cock.

your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching him like an anchor as your rhythm stutters, speeding up then slowing down as pleasure starts to overtake logic.

“fuck,” you pant, lips brushing his, breath hot and ragged, “i’m gonna–”

“keep going,” he groans, voice whiny and hoarse, almost broken, “don’t stop, just—fuck—,” both of you lost in the heat and pleasure taking over.

his fingers dig into your hips with bruising intensity, like he’s holding on to the last thread of control. his eyes clamp shut, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his breath stutters, shallow, ragged, desperate. he’s completely still for half a second…then a full-body shiver runs through him.

you feel it. the tension. the collapse. the sudden hitch in his breath against your neck. the way he curses under it, low and broken, “shit.”

you freeze, then pull back just far enough to see his face. his eyes are blown wide, pupils drowning in dark, cheeks flushed with something that looks a lot like shame.

“did you just—” you whisper, half breathless, half cruel, hips slowing into a lazy roll meant only to taunt. you’re grinning now, wicked and disbelieving.

“shut up,” he mutters against your skin, but his voice is wrecked. gone. the edge of humiliation bleeding through.

your eyes drag over the heat in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way he refuses to meet your gaze and a laugh slips out, breathy, stunned, “oh my god. you did.”

he glares at you, face still flushed, every muscle taut like he’s deciding whether to deny it or destroy you for saying it. his pride was fraying, splintering – and then his hands fists in your hair, yanks your mouth back to his, eyes darker now, sharp with something feral as he regains his voice “i didn’t tell you, you could stop,” he growls, voice a low snarl against your lips.

then he takes over — in a blink, haechan’s hands clamp down on your hips, commanding your every grind, gripping like he’s trying not to completely lose it again. his mouth latches on that exposed skin above your breast, hot and unrelenting, teeth scraping, tongue following like he wants to mark you. wants you to hate yourself at the reminder of his lips on your skin.

his thigh flexes beneath you, on purpose this time, pushing up against you with just enough force to make you gasp, completely wiping away that smug he despises.

he hates you. god, he hates you. hates how every little thing you do sets off something in him, a chain reaction he can’t control. every movement, every breathy sound wrecking him in ways he’ll never admit.

“fuck, haechan,” you whine, shutting your eyes in pleasure, forehead pressed to his, “don’t stop.”

his breath catches, you’ve never said his name like that before, so raw, so needy, so desperate. it short-circuits something in him.

“wasn’t planning on it,” he mutters, voice low. he rolls your hips faster and faster, practically bouncing you on his thigh. the chair below you creaks but you barely hear it over your own wrecked breathing.

“you’re such a fucking slut, princess, hating me and getting off on my thigh like this,” he smirks, completely taking over the situation now. the words shouldn’t turn you on more. but they do. your body responds before your brain can catch up, lighting up like a match thrown onto gasoline. you can’t stop. you don’t stop. your fingers claw into his shoulders for balance as you grind down harder, breathy whines slipping in between your heavy breathing, entire body on fire, like every nerve has been rewired to respond to him and only him.

“go on princess,” he taunts, voice low, filthy, infuriating, “use me. i’ll let you,” he mocks like you should be grateful. like this is a gift. like he isn’t the one who came untouched in his shorts.

you hate it. you love it. you hate him.

“say it,” you pant, lips grazing his, breathless and daring.

his eyes are on fire, “say what?”

“that you hate me.”

his mouth curls into that cocky, devastating grin that you want to slap and kiss at the same time. “i hate you so fucking much,” he groans against your lips, swallowing the noise you make like he’s starving for it.

then his hand dives under your skirt, fingers rough and urgent, dragging your panties to the side. you don’t stop moving, continuing to ride his thigh, chasing that high. the press of skin against skin pushes you over the edge. you cry out, not caring if there was a chance mr. doyoung was listening in. the room’s spinning, heat rising like a fever. the tension in your stomach ready to explode.

“god,” you choke, voice cracking, “i’m gonna come on your fucking leg.”

his eyes darken, hands gripping tighter as he bites your earlobe with just enough force to run shivers down your spine, “do it,” he hisses, words like sin against your ear, “paint it.”

then his thumb finds your clit, circling harsh, precise circles. and it’s over. your whole body tenses, hips grinding down, breath catching, head tossed back, lips parted in a soft, stunned moan as pleasure rolls through you like a slow explosion. it seizes you from the inside out, heat blooming behind your eyes, your limbs trembling where you straddle him.

haechan swears under his breath, jaw tight, eyes darkening and locked on you like he’s watching something unholy and holy all at once. you slump against his chest, breathless, spent, your hands still clutching the collar of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. he doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you there, heartbeat loud and frantic under your palm. his thigh still twitching from the aftermath.

eventually, you pull back enough to look at him. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is swollen. there’s a stunned, reverent look in his eyes that he tries, and fails, to cover with a smirk like he’s not sure what the hell just happened. and you’re sure you look the exact same way.

“well,” you breathe, blinking slowly, “that was…”

“method acting” he says, but his voice is hoarse, “completely professional, shakespeare would be proud.”

you let out a stunned laugh and shove his shoulder, “i still hate you.”

“and i, you” his mouth curves into that smug smile that you swore was glued onto his face.

“this isn’t happening again.” you say it sharp, sure.

“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he smirks, cocky and vexing.

ཐིཋྀ the third week of rehearsals

the rehearsal space feels different now. it shouldn’t. the floor is the same scuffed black, taped up with the same blocking marks you argued over last time. mr. doyoung is still barking notes from behind his clipboard, a coffee in one hand and a red pen in the other.

everything is the same. except you. except him.

the space between you used to be poison. now it’s something else. it crackles with something hotter, wilder, like dry air before a thunderstorm. charged and dangerous.

neither of you dares to speak of it. admit it.

you haven’t touched since that rehearsal, not so much as a brush of fingers. you haven’t spoken about what happened but your body hasn’t forgotten. neither has his. every glance feels like it could combust on contact. every time your eyes meet across the room, you feel the memory of his mouth. the way he kissed you mid-scream, like anger was just a mask for hunger. the way your hips rocked against his hard thigh. the way you both hated it, and how much worse it was that you enjoyed it, too.

you’re not proud of it. you try to ignore it. try to act normal. professional. just two enemies pretending to be in love. no big deal. you’re adults. adults can handle unresolved sexual tension and violent mutual resentment…right?

“y/n and haechan,” mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the static in your head. your eyes snap up, heart thudding against your ribs. you grit your teeth.

the “and” makes your skin crawl. you hate how he says it. your name first. then his. like a pair. a duo. like you belong together.

“let’s run the balcony scene again,” mr. doyoung continues, “and this time, try not to fight.”

you let out a slow, measured breath and glance down at your crumpled script. the words blur for a second before snapping back into focus. you know them already. every line, every pause, every look juliet gives romeo – you practiced it all week.

what you don’t know is how to stand next to haechan without remembering what he sounds like with his breath ragged and your name tangled on his tongue. you almost want to start a fight, just to get out of doing this scene.

your pulse stutters before you even lift your head, because you can feel him. the weight of his stare from across the black box stage. for once, he doesn’t open with some smug quip or insult. he just gives a nod. subtle. almost respectful. almost.

you arch a brow, eyes narrowed, finally looking his way. he doesn’t smile. doesn’t smirk. just murmurs under his breath as he steps into place, “don’t look at me like that,” he says under his breath, “i’m trying not to hate you for five minutes.”

“gee, thanks,” you mutter, stepping into position.

you move to the edge of the mock balcony, script still clutched like a shield. but the words feel heavier now. the scene begins. your voice is steady because it has to. because this is theatre.

“o romeo, o romeo…”

you read the lines. and somehow, a true miracle, you don’t argue. not once. he doesn’t interrupt. you don’t roll your eyes. there are no snarky remarks or insults coming from you or him. the tension is still there but it’s different. sharper. controlled. like both of you have locked it in a cage between your ribs and are desperately pretending it isn’t rattling to get out.

when the scene ends, there’s a pause.

then mr. doyoung claps his hands together, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock, “holy hell, that was almost convincing! what the hell did you two do, blood sacrifice? therapy? drugs?”

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

how do you tell your theater director that the only reason you and your sworn enemy can tolerate each other on stage is because you both got so angry you rode his thigh until you both came?

you can’t — neither of you answers. you just look at each other, both of your cheeks pink, heartbeat in your ears. you swallow hard as haechan clears his throat awkwardly before hopping off the platform.

but that strange, dangerous something hangs in the air. the same something you both refuse to acknowledge — you feel it every time he walks behind you and your back stiffens instinctively. you feel it when his shoulder brushes yours just a little too closely and you pretend not to notice. you look at his mouth a second too long when speaks. he looks at your legs when you pace the stage and quickly looks away.

neither of you says anything. you’re fine. it’s just a normal rehearsal. nothing happened. nothing is happening.

except it is.

and it becomes extremely evident when you’re packing up and someone from the ensemble cracks the wrong joke at the wrong time. you bend to shove your script into your bag and that’s when it happens.

“hey, princess,” someone snorts. you’ve hated that nickname since high school but hearing it from someone else makes your entire body go rigid, “you should really wear something under that skirt besides that black underwear, especially when you’re on that balcony.”

the entire room doesn’t go silent, no one else seems to be paying attention. but your blood roars too loud in your ears. slowly you turn, eyes narrowed at one of your castmates, sunwoo.

you were ready to fire back, eyes already in flames, mouth locked and loaded with a kill shot but before you can open your mouth, haechan’s already moving.

he steps in front of you like it’s instinct. shoulders squared. voice cool, but laced with venom, “say that again,” he says.

sunwoo blinks, caught off guard. haechan was always the first to rag on you, the first to poke until you snapped. he wasn’t supposed to be the one stepping in.

“relax, romeo,” the boy scoffs, “it was a joke–”

“no, go ahead,” haechan interrupts, his voice icy and his smile even colder, “say it louder. maybe you’ll get downgraded to the role of annoying extra who gets their teeth kicked in.”

the threat is quiet. clean. almost polite. but it lands like a fist. sunwoo stares for a second too long, then backs off with a bitter chuckle, “whatever you say, romeo,” he retreats towards the exit.

you’re left staring at haechan, confusion flickering all over your features, “what the hell was that?,” you demand.

he shrugs like it was nothing, like it was completely normal to threaten someone on your behalf, “no one gets to talk to you like that.”

your brows furrow, more confused than ever, “you talk to me like that.”

“exactly,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes, “that’s my job.”

there’s a pause. your heartbeat kicks up. you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. and he’s looking at you like he knows every thought you’re having—and is thinking the exact same thing.

you scoff and shove past him, muttering, “asshole.”

his voice follows behind you, low and maddening and far too close, “don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

you whip your head over your shoulder, cheeks burning, “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

the dressing room hallway is dim and too quiet now, everyone else has already left. you stop just short of the bathroom door, hearing his footsteps closing the space behind like a slow hung. you don’t look at him. you can’t. not when your skin is already betraying you with how hot it feels.

you shove the door open. he’s right behind you.

it shuts behind you with a sharp click. neither of you speaks. not for a beat. not for two. then you both move at the same time. instinct, gravity, need. whatever the hell it is.

it’s not a kiss. not right away. it’s a clash of bodies, of mouths, of breaths and need and denial imploding all at once. your back slams into the wall, his hand protectively behind your head as yours curls around his neck. you’re both too close and not close enough. teeth graze lips. fingers tangled in fabric.

“you’re so fucking annoying,” you whisper, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to his.

“yeah?,” he breathes, voice rough. his grip tightens on your waist, grinding you against the hard line of him through his jeans, “well, you’re cute and it’s pissing me off.”

“tell me you hate me,” you snarl, like saying it might make this feel less like surrender.

“i do,” he growled, voice thick with fury and something worse, something hungrier. his fingers were already sliding beneath your skirt, knuckles brushing your thigh and your body can’t help but react, arching into his touch, “so much, i can’t think straight” he spits, right before he tore your panties clean in half with a sound that echoes in the tiny room.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!,” you shoved at his chest, just enough to prove you could. just enough to pretend you didn’t want this. enough to pretend your pride was still intact. like the heat slicking between your legs didn’t mean a damn thing. he was so goddamn hot. so infuriatingly, sinfully hot.

“you’re such a fucking whore,” he snapped, eyes burning into yours, “you knew we were rehearsing the balcony scene and you only wore this underneath,” he holds up the torn fabric like evidence, his smirk pure sin, “you did this for me, didn’t you, princess? wanted my attention that badly, huh?” his voice dripped venom, but his pupils were blown wide, starved.

“you wish,” you shot back, lifting your chin, daring him.

he chuckles, low and lethal, before lifting the torn fabric to his nose and breathing you in like he needed to live.

“you’re sick in the head.”

“and you smell so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice dark with need. then, without hesitation, he tucks your panties in his pocket and sinks to his knees like he was praying at an altar, his mouth finding you fast and filthy.

“fuck-” your head tipped back as your fingers clawed for purchase on the edge of the sink next to you, the other tangled tight in his hair, anchoring yourself to the madness he dragged you into.

he groaned into you like he was starved, tongue moving with filthy precision, like he’d mapped you out in a dream and now he was just following directions. you tried to keep quiet, tried to bite your lip, swallow your noises, not wanting to give him any gratification, but when he sucked on your clit like he wanted to ruin you, a sob tore from your throat.

“couldn’t stop thinking about your moans,” he rasps between licks, voice wrecked.

“shut the fuck up,” your hips bucked against his mouth before you could stop yourself.

he laughs into your cunt, the vibration sending lightning up your spine as he licked into you harder, tongue fucking in and out of your entrance. you tug his hair so hard he groans again and you hated how much that sound made you clench.

this is insane. this is toxic. this is absolutely the best head of your life.

“i’m gonna, fuck, if you don’t stop, i’m gonna come,” your panting now, legs shaking. the only thing holding you upright is his grip on your hips.

“good,” he growled, dragging you down further onto his tongue, “fall apart for me, princess.”

the nickname sounded hotter, echoing in your mind, pushing you to your limit as your legs trembled, thighs clamping around his head and then you’re unraveling – moaning, shaking, coming hard on his tongue.

he moaned into your slick, like your orgasm was his reward. like he was addicted to it. your nails scraped down the porcelain sink, the high-pitched whimper that left your throat is so humiliating, so raw, it almost didn’t sound like you.

when you finally loosened your grip on his hair, he pulled back with a wet, obscene sound, mouth glistening.

“still hate me?” he asked, licking your taste off his lips.

you're trembling, panting, mind spinning and completely undone,“more than ever.”

“good,” he said, standing to his full height. his hand curled around your jaw, thumb pressing hard against your bottom lip until it parted, “then you won’t mind if i choke you with my cock.”

you didn’t answer, but your lips stayed open. and that was all the consent he needed. with one hand, he undid his belt, the clink of metal sharp in the silence.

“on your knees,” he ordered, voice dark, deadly. you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself and the defiance crawls under his skin like static. you were so fucking irritating so he grabbed a fistful of your hair and made you, forcing you down until you were kneeling in front of him on the grimy bathroom floor.

face mere inches away from his cock – thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking for you.

“you’re gonna pretend you don’t want this too?” he asked, stroking himself slowly, deliberately, right in front of your mouth.

you hated him. you hated how beautiful his cock was. you hated how your mouth watered.

“fuck you,” you whispered.

“you wish,” he sneered, “now open that pretty, lying mouth, princess,” he slapped his cock lightly against your lips. and you hated how fast you obeyed.

he slid in with a deep groan, slow at first, savoring the heat of your tongue, the way your lips closed tight around him like you were starved for it. his fingers twisted in your hair, guiding your pace, slow, then faster, then rougher, like he was punishing you for every fight you’d ever started.

“look at you,” he snarled, hips snapping forward, “on your knees sucking my cock like it’s all you’ve ever fucking wanted.”

you moaned around him, which only made him twitch harder. he started fucking into your throat with a filthy rhythm, panting, groaning, praising and cursing under his breath.

“take it. come on, princess,” he growled, pushing in impossibly deeper, it felt like you were swallowing him, “-that’s it, fuuuck, just like that.””

your eyes watered, mascara smeared, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as you gagged and gasped around him. your hands clutched his thighs, not sure anymore if you were pushing him away or pulling him deeper. he looked down at you with a snarl twisted into something almost reverent.

“you’re a fucking dream,” he growled, “wrecked, ruined, all mine to destroy.”

you wanted to slap him. you wanted to make him come so hard he saw stars — so you sucked harder.

his grip tightened in your hair, knuckles white, cock throbbing against your tongue as your head bobbed faster and faster, taking him deeper each time. your jaw ached, throat burned, eyes ruined, spit smeared your chin but you couldn’t stop. not when he was unraveling like that above you. not when his control, his cocky, unbearable composure, was finally cracking.

“fuuuck, y/n,” he groaned, hips stuttering, “y-you’re so fucking good,” he praises, letting out a guttural noise, halfway between a growl and a whimper, and you realized with vicious satisfaction that he was close. desperate. needy. whining like his life depended on it.

you looked up, tongue swirling, and the second your teary, ruined eyes met his, he broke.

“shit, f-fuck,” he slammed deep one last time, cock pulsing against the back of your throat as he came, hard and hot, filling your mouth like he’d been holding it back for days. his whole body shuddered. he cursed again, holding you there, breath ragged, chest heaving like he’d just climbed out of hell.

you swallowed every drop without breaking eye contact. then slowly, so slowly, pulled off him with a slick pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like it was nothing. his eyes were still half-wild when he looked at you, dilated, glassy, like he wasn’t fully back in his body yet.

and yours? flat. cool. detached. or at least trying to be. trying to pick up the pride you let fall. trying to regain the control you easily handed over to him.

you stood, straightened your skirt, ignored the way your knees trembled a little and the way your legs threatened to give out. across from you, he tucked himself back into his pants in silence, hands shaking just slightly as he buckled his belt, your ruined panties peeking from his back pocket.

for a beat, the bathroom was silent, except for your shared breaths and the buzzing of fluorescent lights. then, like flipping a switch, you caught your reflection, instantly reminded of who you were, where you were, who you were with and what you just did. you hate him even more.

you patted your hair back into place, calmly pulling yourself back together and fixing your flushed lips and smeared mascara.

“no one finds out about this,” you said, tone flat, dismissive, like he hadn’t just unraveled inside your mouth.

“please,” he scoffed, lip curling, “i’d rather die than have people know i let your mouth anywhere near my cock.”

your gaze sharpened, but you didn’t flinch, “good,” you muttered, already moving toward the door, head high, ignoring how the air kissed your bare core with every step.

“wait,” his voice halts your movement, before you turn towards him, eyes already sharp, ready to cut.

“what now?,” you snap back. he didn’t answer at first, just shrugged off his jacket. takes three swift steps and he was in front of you, tying it low around your waist with the kind of ease that made your breath hitched.

“your ass bounces with every step, princess,” he said, lips brushing your ear.

you opened your mouth to respond but then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out your torn panties, and with a cocky smirk, stuffed them into his bag, “and this way, we’re even.”

for once, you had no words. you just pushed the door open and walked out. no thanks, no glances back, no trace of the filthy thing you’d just done. you moved through the hallway like your throat hadn’t just been fucked raw. like your pussy wasn’t still throbbing.

and a few seconds later, he followed, jaw tight, eyes dark, body calm, as if nothing had happened. as if he wasn’t still tasting you on the tip of his tongue. as if he wasn’t replaying the sound of your moans in his head.

as if the both of you hadn’t tasted your sworn enemy… and liked it.

ཐིཋྀ the fourth week of rehearsals

the script lay forgotten between you, crumpled in his sheets, its margins scribbled with notes and crossed-out lines. you’d barely made it halfway through act ii before the space on his mattress started feeling too tight. too hot.

you were supposed to be practicing. you were supposed to be fixing what you both ruined in week one. all the wasted rehearsals you spent glaring each other down, aiming snarky remarks instead of script lines.

instead, you were staring at the curve of his throat as he leaned back on his elbows, lips parted, legs spread just wide enough to make you clench. to make you remember how his leg felt between your thighs. and he was staring at you with that same dazed and cocky look. the one full of invitation, almost challenging you to do something about it. the one that says i know you want me too.

“focus,” you snapped, even though your voice sounded thin and you’re not sure whether the word is directed towards him or yourself, your hold tightened around the script like it could stop your traitorous hand from reaching out and doing something that’ll completely crush your ego.

“i am focused,” he murmured, dragging his gaze down over your bare legs, over your thighs, and resting, boldly, in the space between them. you could feel it, the phantom heat of his stare on your skin.

you snapped your fingers, “eyes up here, romeo,” you crossed your arms, “we promised mr. doyoung we’d take this seriously.”

haechan raised a brow, amused, “we’ve been taking it seriously for two weeks, look at us, i literally let you in my room just to rehearse.”

you narrow your eyes at him, “you say that like being in here is a reward.”

he smirks, “c’mon princess, let’s not lie, a million girls would kill to be in your spot right now,” a cocky grin on his face. you wanted to wipe it off. slap it away. kiss it away. you’re not too sure at this point.

“what? sitting on these bed sheets that you haven’t changed in weeks? the smell of axe body spray attacking their nostrils?,” you roll your eyes.

“i change those every week and i don’t even use axe, you must be smelling yourself,” he rolls his eyes.

“please, if i reeked of desperation and cheap cologne, i’d be you,” you shoot back, chin lifted, proud of the way his smirk faltered for half a second. you’ll never admit the way you secretly enjoy the smell of his cologne, the way it intoxicates you like a potion pulling you under a spell.

he sits up a little straighter, elbows propped on his knees now, eyes glinting with an infuriating mix of challenge and amusement. “desperation?,” he echoes, voice low, “princess, if anyone here’s desperate, it’s you. you’ve been eye-fucking me since you got here.”

your breath catches, partly from the audacity, partly because he’s not entirely wrong. but you recover fast, “please,” you scoff, “you’re the one looking at me like i’m your last meal.”

haechan laughs, head tilted back. he taps his fingers against his knee, a thoughtful little rhythm that drives you insane before leaning in again, “okay, fine. you wanna be serious? let’s be serious.”

you raise a brow, “that’d be a first for you.”

“let’s fuck.”

your brain blanks. for a second, it doesn’t even register, “what?!”

“lets just do it. get it out of our systems,” he says casually, like what he suggested wasn’t completely, absolutely, batshit crazy. “all this tension? it’s messing with rehearsals. so let’s just…,” he gestures vaguely between you, “rip the bandaid off. hate-fuck it out.”

you blink, trying to process his words. this had to be a joke. a dare. a trap, “you’re suggesting we sleep together for the sake of the theater department.”

“i’m suggesting we do everyone a favor and stop letting whatever this is,” he gestures again, less vaguely this time, at the very obvious, very mutual heat between you, “sabotage our performances. one time. no repeats. no weirdness.”

“oh there’ll be weirdness,” you mutter, folding your arms, your heart pounding in your throat.

“not if we’re adults about it,” he grins. that infuriating, boyish, charming grin, “can you be an adult, princess?”

you laugh, incredulous, “you? be an adult?, you still giggle when someone says ‘enter from the rear’ in stage directions.”

“okay, first of all, i see you laughing too,” he points a finger at you, that same stupid smirk still glued to his face, “second of all, im serious. we fuck and then we go back to being bitter enemies who can’t stand the sight of each other. clean slate.”

you stare at him, heart thudding, thoughts spiraling. it’s a terrible idea. the worst idea he’s ever had. but what’s even worse is the fact that you’re actually considering it.

“and what if you realize im the best fuck you’ve ever had and start following me around like a lovesick puppy?,” you quip a brow, a teasing smile on your face.

he barks out a laugh, cocky and careless, “never gonna happen, princess,” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his body radiating, “you’re not that good.”

you raise a brow, “that’s rich coming from someone who came untouched.” his expression darkens instantly, smirk faltering, the memory clearly still a bruise to his pride. you take this time to garner control and with no warning, you lunged — kissing him hard, desperate, sharp, messy. your teeth caught on his lip. you kiss him like he’s your last cigarette, like he’s something you have to burn through just to breathe.

he responds immediately, groaning into your mouth, hands flying to your waist, pulling you onto his lap, like he needed to leave fingerprints there.

you straddle him, fumbling with his shirt, dragging it up and over his head and shoving him backward until his back hits the bed with a grunt, “still think this is a good idea?,” you breathe, throwing your shirt over your head, leaving you in a lacy brown bra that makes his cock twitch in his shorts.

he props himself on his elbows, gaze dark and fixed on you as you strip, “no,” he says, eyes raking over your body like a challenge, “i think it’s the best idea i’ve ever had.”

your signature skirt rides up as you grind down against his hard bulge, enough to make him hiss.

“i still hate you,” you murmur, needing to remind yourself every single time.

“good,” he growls, thumbs digging into your waist, “say it again when i’m inside you.”

his voice grates in your ear. so smug. so loud. you slap him before you can think. not too hard, just enough to make his jaw twitch. he stares at you, stunned for half a second and then he smirks again, “god, you’re such a fucking brat.”

you slap him again, slower this time, deliberately, and he groans like everything about this turns him on. “you like that?,” you whisper, grinding harder now, testing him. he doesn’t answer, he refuses to give you any words of satisfaction.

instead his hand slide up your back, unhooking your bra with a practiced flick, the cool air hitting your hardened nipples before his large hands cupped around them, squeezing, mouth immediately latching on one nipple. he’s been wanting to see your tits since you were locked in that tiny room. and now that he has, he sucked like he was in complete bliss, eyes shut, wet and eager, tongue messily painting your breasts. you gasp, hands coming up to grip his hair, pulling him closer as your hips continue its slow grind against his hard, clothed cock.

“fuck,” you moan, every nerve lighting up. you’re soaking through your panties, whole body vibrating. you bounce harder, using him to reach your high as he continues worshipping your breasts with his lips, trails of his saliva littering your chest. his large hands make their way to your ass, cupping and squeezing but not controlling. not yet.

he lets you hump him harder and harder, trying to control the breathy whimpers slipping from him as he busies himself in between your breasts. your breathing was getting heavier, legs starting to give out, the friction was hitting your clit so perfectly and before you knew it, your orgasm washes over you, unexpected and all-consuming.

“look at you,” he murmurs, that damn smirk back again, breath hot against your ear, “already fucked out and we haven’t even started.” before you could reply, before you could argue, he flips you in a blur, pinning you to the mattress. his eyes are dark now, dangerous.

he yanks your skirt and underwear off in one go, leaving you completely bare for him. you looked so small in between his sheets and it drives him madly insane, “i’m only gonna say this once,” he says, eyes raking over your naked body, voice rough, “but fuck, you’re hot,” he compliments, almost.

you sit up, yanking his shorts down, large cock bouncing free from the last barrier between you, “you’re okay to look at,” you smirk. he rolls his eyes and slaps your hands away before you could reach out for him as he fumbles in his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom, tearing the foil open with his teeth and rolling it on with ease.

he lines himself in your entrance, teasing his tip, that same devilish smirk plastered on his lips.

“admit you want me,” he grunts, hovering over you, a hand placed calculatedly on your neck, enough to choke you but not enough to completely block off your airways.

“no,” you hiss. he pushes in hard. no warning. no mercy. your back arches with a gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, mouth open in a soundless moan, his hand wrapping tighter around your neck, making your eyes roll back. he’s so so thick, you can feel him all around your walls, stretching you open inch by inch. he feels so good. too good.

“hate you,” you manage to whisper in between your breathy moans, even as your legs wrap around his waist.

“yeah?,” he pants, thrusting into you hard enough to make the headboard knock the wall, “say it louder,” he orders, finally releasing the hold he had on your neck and redirecting it to your breast, large hand squeezing tightly around the supple flesh.

“i hate you,” you moan and then you’re kissing him again, biting his bottom lip, swallowing the grunts he gives you. he sets a brutal pace, every thrust punctuated by the sound of skin on skin, by the filthy words he mutters against your neck. you push him in closer, wanting more, needing more.

“you’re so fucking needy,” he pants, voice tight, desperate.

“shut up,” you growl.

“make me,” he snaps back. so you slap him again and his face twitches, a deep, devilish chuckle slipping past his lips before he pulls out, flipping you over like you weighed nothing and pulling you up on your hands and knees before thrusting into you from behind, your face buried in his pillow.

he fucks you harder. the new angle hitting that spot over and over again you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

it was chaos. it was violence in the shape of pleasure.

“fuck,” you cry, “you’re so deep, so-,” his hand lands a slap on your ass, sharp and hot, the noise echoing throughout the room, making you bite down into the sheets.

“how do you like it?,” he grunts, landing another slap, hot and red, leaving tingles all over your skin. you were sure there were bruises in the shape of his fingertips forming all over you. you’re a mess of moans and incoherent words, each thrust wrecking your thoughts, your dignity, your hate.

you should be fighting him but all you can do is beg for more, “please, please, please, haechan, d-don’t stop,” and your cries do nothing but fuel him. the room continues to echo with the slap of skin and filthy words with your name in his voice and his cock in your pussy like he was trying to break you. you lose track of how many times you say i hate you. how many times he says it back. it becomes a chant. a rhythm. a promise.

you ride that line between loathing and lust until your vision whites out, orgasm hitting you like a punch in the gut, “haechan, fuck, i’m coming!,” you scream and he grabs your hair, pulling you back against him.

“go ahead princess,” he growls, “come all over my cock.” you shatter, gasping for air, jaw hanging open, shaking, as your eyes rolled back in complete pleasure, body going limp in his arms.

haechan doesn’t stop, hellbent on proving that he could last longer than you think. he shoves a pillow under you, continuing his relentless thrusts.

“fuuuck, how are you getting tighter?,” he grits out, “your pussy fucking loves me,” he groans, each hard thrust bringing him closer to that high.

you could cry from the overstimulation, “h-haechan–t-too much,” you stutter, gripping his thigh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

“you can take it, princess,” he says, voice low and dark. “i know you can. be a good girl and take it,” he grunts, still pushing into you with a force that rolls the tears down your cheeks.

eventually, the pain turns into pleasure again. blurring the line until you’re moving with him, lost in the pace, the heat, the hate. he chases his own high until his rhythm started shattering into jerky, desperate thrusts, “c’mon, princess, give me one more,” he grunts and all your body could do was follow his voice, immediately tightening around him and sending you to your third orgasm of the night.

he finally gives in with a low, wrecked groan of your name, burying his face in your neck as he shudders through it, hips slowing, grounding down into you until there’s nothing left but heat and sweat and the tremble in his arms as he holds himself over you.

when he pulls out, there’s a slick, lewd sound that makes your already flushed skin go warmer, the pillow beneath you, soaking. then he collapses beside you with a sigh, one arm slung over his eyes like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to him.

silence swells between you. sticky and loud and way too fucking real.

your chest is still rising and falling fast, heartbeat trying to find its regular rhythm as you try to fight off the sleep that was wanting to overtake. you were so tired, so fucked out you almost gave in but your hate was still stronger and somehow your voice cuts through the thick silence, “we’re definitely not doing that again.”

he pauses, “...right.”

you roll onto your side, head propped on your hand, glaring at him like you can set him on fire with just your eyes, “that wasn’t hesitation.” you don’t ask him. you tell him.

he peeks at you from under his arm and shrugs, unbothered, “it was dramatic timing. theater major, remember?”

you groan, flopping back on the bed, rubbing your hands over your face, “god, i really fucking hate you.”

he grins, teeth sharp and full of bite, “yeah, well your pussy doesnt.” you grab the nearest thing, his shirt, and toss it straight to his face and he lets it sit there for a moment before peeling it off with an exaggerated sigh.

“asshole,” you mutter, already reaching for your clothes. ignoring the way your body was burning, a reminder of his touch, as you start dressing like you’re gearing up for a fight, like each item is a piece of armor you’re slapping on.

he watches you dress, that grin never really leaving his face but his eyes are softer than they should be. quieter. and he doesn’t say a word as you reassemble yourself.

within minutes, you’re both back in your roles, fully clothed and composed. like the last hour never happened. like he hadn’t just made you scream his name. like you hadn’t clawed his thighs so hard there’ll probably be marks tomorrow. like he hadn’t left bruises in the shape of his lips all over your skin. like the tear stains you were sporting wasn’t evident.

you pick up your script off the edge of the bed. it’s bent now, pages wrinkled. a souvenir from the chaos you two just unleashed. neither of you acknowledge it.

“start from your cue,” you say flatly.

he leans back against the headboard, flipping lazily through the script like nothing about this is new, like his cock wasn’t just inside you, “with love’s light wings did i o’erperch these walls…”

you roll your eyes, glaring “try saying it like you don’t want to fuck me.”

“i dont want to fuck you,” he deadpans, then glances at you with a smirk, “again.”

you shoot him a look so cold it could kill. he delivers it properly this time, and you move through the scene with professional precision except for the way your voices crack at the edges, how the eye contact lingers a beat too long.

the air between you is no less charged. if anything, it’s worse now. every line feels like a double entendre. every accidental brush of fingers feels like it might ignite something again.

you finish the scene without a word about what happened. no apologies. no acknowledgments. no we shouldn’t have done that.

then you shove the script into your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk to the door. “you’re leaving without a goodbye?” he calls out, that cocky lilt back in his voice.

you pause. not enough to turn. just enough to make him think you might. then you say, “we’re not friends, haechan. we don’t joke around. we rehearse. that’s it.”

and you leave. down the hall, around the corner, out the front door, your pulse still racing, his scent still clinging to your skin like it’s branding you. your body aching with the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body.

back in his room, haechan stares at the closed door. the tension in the air still hasn’t left. he sighs, eyes trailing back to the script. he lets it drop from his hand, the pages flopping limply to the floor. then he throws himself back against the mattress like he’s trying to forget the way you felt. the way you sounded.

his body still buzzes. his mind’s a goddamn storm. he drags a hand through his hair and covers his eyes with his arm again, “what the fuck did I just do?”

he’d told himself this was about getting you out of his system. that one fuck would fix it. but now? now you’re under his skin in a way he doesn’t know how to undo. every nerve remembers you. every inch of him aches for you. and every second since you walked out that door feels empty.

he groans to the ceiling, voice thick with frustration and something he won’t name. “well,” he mutters, sarcasm soaked in something bitter, “that worked great.”

ཐིཋྀ the fifth week of rehearsals

it’s been a week since the night that didn’t mean anything. you’d both agreed. no repeats. one time. clean slate. but the slate wasn’t clean. it was cracked and humming with everything you weren’t supposed to feel.

you’re on stage now, under the harsh fluorescents of the theater department’s rehearsal room, with your script in one hand and your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

the scene is simple. romeo flirts. juliet flirts back. they kiss. easy. you’ve done kissing scenes a thousand times in other productions. but now? now your body remembers the exact weight of him. how he sounds when he groans. how he says your name like a sin he’s proud of committing.

mr. doyoung looks up, “let’s take it from romeo’s line, build the moment, don’t rush it.”

haechan nods, exhales, and steps into character, “have not saint lips, and holy palmers too?” his eyes are on you and it's not romeo’s gaze. it’s haechan’s. intense. knowing. annoyingly smug. feeding his line like nothing happened between you.

he leans in, perfectly in character as you follow through, finding juliet’s voice with ease, “ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

“o, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, gran thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he continues, both of you smoothly moving through the stage, dancing around each other’s bodies.

“saints do not move, though grant for prayer’s sake,” you deliver the line perfectly, professionally.

“then move not, while my prayer’s effect i take,” he murmurs, inching the space closer and closer, twirling you around in his arms, and finally kissing you like his life depended on it . like he couldn’t wait a single second for this moment. completely capturing romeo’s yearning spirit.

and it’s evident as day that your body remembers everything from that night.

the kiss goes on a beat too long and for a second you almost forget you were in the middle of a scene until he’s in character again, “thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

“then have my lips the sin they have took,” you respond immediately. his eyes flicker to yours and you see it. he remembers too. every second of it.

“sin from my lips? o trespass sweetly urged!,” he continues, leaning in once again, following the script perfectly, “give me my sin again,” he says, placing a sweet kiss on your lips. all too different from the kisses you’ve shared before.

“you kiss by th’ book,” you end the scene as his lips travel down your neck, igniting that heat in your stomach. mr. doyoung was taking his sweet time yelling out cut. you can feel haechan’s smirk against your neck and it’s taking everything in you to not end the scene yourself.

mr. doyoung rises from his chair, clapping slowly, and finally yelling out the one word you needed to breathe. you both jump back immediately like touching each other burned.

“there it is,” he says, “my romeo and juliet,” he dramatically wipes a fake tear from his eyes, “absolutely beautiful. from the top!,” he says excitedly and all you could do was follow his directions. pretending every single touch isn’t affecting you way more than you would ever admit.

you’re not losing this battle. not letting him know that the one time one fuck proposal didn’t work. and haechan, sure as hell, isn't backing down either.

♕

THE BIGGEST, MOST ANTICIPATED PARTY OF THE YEAR: HALLOWEEN NIGHT @ THE DREAM FRATERNITY

haechan scans the room, it was their busiest party of the year. the most chaotic, most fun, most prepared party he and the boys ever have to plan. and now the dream house is packed with costumes, glitter, smoke, chaos. he’s dressed as some version of a vampire, sexy but not too much, his funny, charming side taking over.

he spots mark and kitten across the room, near the couch, in their spiderman and black cat costumes, trying, and failing, to do the spiderman kiss. there was jaemin and angel groping each other on the dance floor wearing matching hermione and ron costumes and in the corner in the back near the kitchen was jeno and bunny caught in a heated makeout session with their ash and pikachu costumes on. and yes, jeno is pikachu.

and then you walked in. he knew you would be here. it was the only dream party you attended because everyone attends it. it was either this or spending the night alone, watching scary movies by yourself.

you were dressed in a lacy red devil’s costume leaving no room for imagination. he shouldn’t even be looking at you. but he is. and his eyes zero in on the faint marks that were blooming on the exposed skin of your breasts. you didn’t even care that people saw them. but he knew you would have if people knew that those marks came from his lips.

he feels his pants tighten in his jeans. he really needed to get a good fuck. maybe it’ll stop you from plaguing his mind.

“can’t believe i’m part of the singles fuck boy club,” renjun says, snapping him out of the trance you trapped him in.

haechan smirks, “take it as a win,” he takes a sip from his drink, “more ladies for us,” he winks, just as jisung and chenle walked up to them.

“so, who do you have your eyes on tonight?,” chenle asks, a smirk on his lips.

haechan chuckles, looking around, his eyes glossing over your figure for a second before they land on the girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year, “ryujin,” he smirks. ryujin – dance major, one of the university’s best.

“how about you, my little protege?,” haechan asks, turning his attention to jisung, the rest of the boys awaiting his answer.

jisung smirks, already knowing the answer, “wonyoung.”

renjun’s jaw drops, “jisung, she might be a freshman but she’s completely out of your league.”

jisung just chuckles, haechan chuckling with him, “hey, don’t doubt my boy,” he says before patting jisung in the back, “just remember everything mark and i taught you,” he winks before jisung took a shot and disappeared into the crowd.

“his head is getting bigger, you know,” renjun rolls his eyes.

“that’s fine, let him have his fun,” chenle says, “now let’s go find you a girl so you’re not so grumpy all the time,” he drags renjun out of there, leaving haechan to fend for himself, a smirk still playing on his lips. and he can’t help it. his eyes dart back to your figure.

across the room, he sees you laughing, too close, too bright, with some guy he doesn’t recognize. the guy’s in some lazy pirate costume, leaning in like he knows you. like he’s already been invited in and something in his stomach turns. something about you looking that comfortable makes him want to throw the nearest pumpkin straight at his head.

he remembers a time when he was privileged enough to hear your laugh. to make you laugh. to laugh together until your ribs were sore.

he absolutely hates it — the way that memory has been popping up in his head like a haunted time loop. he thought he got rid of it, buried it somewhere deep, he wouldn’t have been able to find it. but just a couple weeks with you and all his work for the last five years go down the drain.

he forces himself to look away, making his way over to ryujin, dressed up as bella from twilight. oh, this was going to be too easy.

“hey pretty, you looking for me?,” he interrupts the conversation she was having with another guy, smoothly and all so charming, the way he usually is.

ryujin lets out a giggle, “hmm, i could’ve sworn i was talking to another vampire,” she says, voice sultry and deep with desire.

“none of those vampires can compare to me,” he winks playfully, cocky as ever. and that was all it took before ryujin was pulling him down for a kiss.

he lets his mouth move against hers, hot and fast, but completely hollow. she tastes like candy, vodka and sticky lip gloss, her hands gripping at his arms like she owns him. his mouth is probably smeared with red now, and she moans like it means something.

but to him, it means absolutely nothing.

there’s no fire. no heat. no pulse-racing thrill behind it. no push and pull. no sharp banter humming beneath the surface. he was making out with a girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year and all he could think about was how different it was from kissing you.

god, you were so fucking irritating.

he opens his eyes in the middle of the kiss, and to his unfortunate luck, he makes direct eye contact with you. across the room, half hidden in shadows and flashing lights, your gaze is locked on him but there’s no challenge there. no eye-roll. no smirk. nothing that makes you, you. just eerie blankness, almost like you were looking through him.

something’s wrong.

he pulls back abruptly, ryujin still chasing his lips with a frustrated sound. “give me a second,” he mutters before completely leaving her standing there on her own. an angry scoff follows him as he pushes through the crowd, all of his attention zeroed in on you.

he walks across the room, watching your every move. you’re swaying a little. not like you’re dancing. like your balance is off, disconnected from gravity, from control. the look in your eyes is unresponsive and you’re blinking so incredibly slow. and the pirate is still right next to you, standing way too close.

his hand lands on your waist. then he presses a kiss on the side of your neck and haechan moves through the crowd like a storm, pushing everyone out of his way.

he grips the guy’s shirt and yanks him back, stepping between you and him like a wall of fire. he grabs your wrist, grounding you, voice low but unshakeable, “we’re leaving.”

you blink up at him like you’re seeing the sun for the first time, “donghyuck?,” you smile softly, too sweetly, and it takes everything in him to not kill the guy who did this to you.

“did you drink something?,” he asks, firm but gentle. you nod slowly, lips parted like you’re stuck in a delayed reaction. he brings the cup to his nose – fruity, sticky-sweet but there’s something else. something chemical. and then he sees it, the powdery film at the bottom, confirming his prediction.

his stomach drops. rage coils in his gut. he grabs the drink, tossing the liquid in the nearest plant and fists a hand in the guy’s shirt before shoving him backward, “touch her again and i’ll break your fucking face,” he seethes. the guy stumbles back, arms raised like he’s innocent.

mark notices the commotion before anyone else does, quickly stepping in, kitten by his side with wide, concerned eyes, “dude, what’s happening?,” he speaks low and in control.

“he drugged her,” he growls into his ear. mark’s eyes widen, sharp and alert “i’ll handle him. you take care of her,” he says.

haechan’s attention was back on you in an instant. your balance is off, feet shifting clumsily, eyes blinking slow and unfocused, pupils dilated.

he crouches slightly so he’s at eye level, “hey, come with me, okay?,” he says softly. you lift your head to look at him, your lips parting into a dreamy, dazed smile. you manage to nod once before your body gives out, knees buckling, weight tipping forward. haechan catches you before you can even fall. you land into him like you were meant to be there, cheeks pressed to his chest, body in his arms.

you giggle softly, the sound barely audible over the music. it’s airy. almost innocent. it breaks his heart in two.

“warm,” you mumble into his shirt. “you’re so warm, hyuck.”

his heart squeezes painfully, trying to push away that all too familiar feeling of his nickname on your tongue. the nickname you gave him. the way it sounds so soft as if somewhere in the haze and fog in your brain, some part of you knows you’re safe with him.

without a word, he lifts you into his arms bridal style. your arms immediately wrap around his neck, hands clinging like he’s your lifeline.

“up we go,” he says softly, carrying you through the house, ignoring every curious stare, every muttered comment.

you nuzzle closer, relaxing into his body like it’s familiar, lips brushing his jaw, and he nearly stumbles, “you smell so good…why do you smell so good…?”

he hides his smirk. you told him he smelled like axe just a week ago. “because i shower, dumbass,” he mutters. the insult wasn’t needed but hey, he can’t help it.

in his room, he kicks the door shut with his foot, setting you gently on the bed.

but you don’t let go.

your hands are still on him, clutching his shoulders, his shirt, anything. you whine when he tries to pull back, “nooo, hyuck, don’t go,” you pout like a child.

your breath fans against his neck, lips brushing so close to his skin that he shivers, “need you…” you whisper, almost too faint to catch. it guts him. he carefully pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek and your eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused, but locked on him.

and then you lean in. soft. uncertain. your lips part slightly, tilting toward his like muscle memory.

and his heart lurches. he wants it, god, does he want it. but not like this. not when you’re not fully you. not when you won’t remember. not when it would feel like taking. so he stops you.

he leans back, gently pressing his fingers to your lips, “hey,” he says quietly, “not right now.”

you blink, confused. hurt flickers across your face, “but i want—”

“i know,” he whispers, brushing your hair out of your face with heartbreaking tenderness. “but you’re not… you’re not okay right now. you’re not thinking clearly and you’re gonna hate me even more if i let you do this.”

you stare at him for a long moment, your expression folding into something soft, something fractured. your voice comes out barely audible, “you always ruin everything.”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, crouching down to your eye level again, “yeah,” he murmurs, “i’m really good at that.”

you’re trembling now, whether from the drug or emotion he can’t tell. he reaches for the edge of his hoodie draped over his desk chair. then he coaxes you out of your costume.

you let him take care of you.

he slips the oversized hoodie over your head in an instant. it swallows you whole, falling to mid-thigh, sleeves engulfing your hands, covering more than your costume ever did. then he grabs a pair of his clean sweatpants and helps you step into them, rolling the waistband until they don’t fall off.

“there,” he murmurs, tugging the hood up over your head, “much better,” and seeing you in his clothes makes his heart skip a beat.

you blink up at him, dazed and warm, “smells like you.”

he chuckles softly, “well, that’s cause it’s mine, princess” he says, the nickname landing so gently he’s almost glad you won't remember this. he guides you back on the bed, his hands warm and careful on your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll break. you lay down like a sleepy cat, limbs loose, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

he crouches in front of you, steady and patient, watching you with an unreadable expression. the room is dim, hushed, wrapped in the kind of silence that comes right after chaos.

then you say it. quiet. barely there. like a secret.

“i didn’t want to hate you.”

his breath catches. he wanted to ask so why do you?

he’s never figured out. why things between you turned so bitter. why you suddenly started twisting a knife behind his back. and why he grabbed that knife and pointed it at you. but he know it’s wrong to get information out of you in this state. not when your eyes are glassy, your words a half-conscious confession spilling out like a secret you didn’t mean to say. you’re too far gone to argue. too soft to lie.

you’re still looking at him, but your eyelids are heavier now. the words just fall from your lips, unguarded. honest in a way you never let yourself be sober, “you made it so easy sometimes though” you murmur, the corners of your mouth tilting in something that’s not quite a smile, not quite pain, “being loud. being cocky. saying shit you didn’t mean just to piss me off…”

his heart is thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. there’s so much he wants to say. apologies, defenses, explanations. but before he can say anything, your body shifts, sinks into the pillow, limbs going limp as your breath evens out and your eyes flutter shut.

you’re asleep. just like that.

haechan stays kneeling beside the bed, frozen in place. his gaze traces the soft furrow of your brow, the way your lips part slightly as you breathe. he wonders if you’ll remember any of this tomorrow. if you’ll pretend it never happened. if you’ll regret letting your walls down for even a second.

“i didn’t want to hate you either,” he whispers, voice barely audible over your breathing.

there’s a pause. a longer silence.

“i don’t even know why i hate you,” he admits, softer still. but you’re already gone.

and yet, he stays beside you a little longer, resting his head on the edge of the mattress, eyes never leaving yours, like if he just watches long enough, maybe he’ll figure out where it all went wrong.

♕

the morning light filters through the curtains. everything is quiet. too quiet.

you stir slowly, the ache in your head blooming behind your eyes like a storm cloud. your limbs are heavy, your mouth dry and your body is wrapped around a warmth that doesn’t belong to your bed.

it takes a second for the fog in your mind to lift, but when it does, your heart skips.

you’re not in your room. you’re in his. and he’s right there – lying beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, hair tousled, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths of someone who stayed up way too late.

you freeze. every part of you tenses as your gaze darts down to your body — hoodie and sweatpants, both way too big, wrapped around you. you exhale in quiet, stunned relief, but your heart is still pounding, “what the hell?” you whisper, rubbing your temples.

at the sound of your voice, he stirs, groaning, blinking against the light like it personally offended him then his eyes land on you.

“you’re up,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. he stretches lazily like he doesn’t feel the full weight of your stare on him. “you okay?”

you blink, “why am i here?”

“you were drugged,” he says plainly. no softening. no sugar-coating. “some guy slipped something in your drink.”

the room tilts. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recollect memories from last night. the fear of what could’ve happened gnaws at your insides.

“i got you out before anything happened,” he adds quietly, “you were… not yourself. clingy. slurring. said i smelled nice, for some reason,” there’s a light, teasing tone in his voice.

you shoot him a glare, despite the pounding in your head, “you do not smell nice.”

he grins faintly, because of course, even now, all you could do was insult him, and it was all he needed to know that you were safe and back to normal, “okay, sure.”

silence stretches between you as you sit up slowly, piecing together flickers of last night. the music, the lights, that sickly sweet drink. the guy in the pirate costume. then — the warmth. the voice you’d know even half-conscious. you glance down at the hoodie you’re drowning in. his scent is faint but still there.

“you changed me?,” you ask, eyes wide.

he nods, propping himself up on one elbow, “you were half-passed out. you needed to sleep it off. i didn’t look, i swear. i just helped.”

you believe him. strangely, you do, “thank you.”

he raises an eyebrow like he wasn’t expecting that.

“you’re welcome,” he says, softer now, “just… be more careful next time, okay?”

you look away, the words settling heavy between you, “i didn’t think…”

“exactly,” he cuts in, voice gentle but tired, “you didn’t. that’s how shit like that happens.” his tone isn’t cruel. he’s not scolding you. he’s just…tired. and worried. and probably more scared last night than he’d ever admit.

you nod once. that’s all you can manage. you don’t want to admit how safe you felt. how it was his arms you clung to. how your body trusted him even when your brain was compromised.

but none of that changes anything.

you clear your throat, “well, thanks. but… that doesn’t mean anything is different between us.”

the faintest flicker crosses his face, unreadable, before it’s gone.

“didn’t say it did,” he says simply. then, “you hungry?”

you blink, “what?”

“i make a decent hangover ramen,” he says, already swinging his legs out of bed, “and i’ll even throw in some kimchi, if you promise not to puke on my carpet.”

you roll your eyes, “you’re such a dumbass.”

he shoots you a crooked smile. “yeah, but not as dumb as you, princess.”

you don’t respond. you just sit there in his bed, swimming in his clothes and your own confusion, watching him move through his room like this was the most normal morning in the world. you slip your shoes back on without a word, still wearing his hoodie and sweats. your costume’s somewhere in a pile on his desk chair, but there’s no way in hell you’re putting that back on. not after last night.

you follow haechan into the kitchen, as he hums some stupid melody, reaching for the pan and boiling the water. you stand awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like it’ll hide how massive his hoodie is on you.

he glances up, “you gonna sit down?”

you shake your head, “i just…i should go.”

he doesn’t fight you on it. just nods, quietly preparing the packs of instant noodles.

you turn to leave but stop short. three of the dream boys are coming down the stairs. they freeze in the hallway when they see you. so do you. the room goes dead silent and you look like a deer caught in headlights. his hoodie feels ten times heavier now, your legs bare in his sweatpants, and your hair a mess from sleep. you look like everything they think happened.

renjun raises a brow, “morning…”

jisung coughs loudly, trying to hide his grin.

chenle looks at haechan, who appears behind you a second later, “really?” he mouths, and haechan shoots him a deadly glare, the kind that says shut up without a single word.

but it’s too late. they all recognize you. of course they do. you’re not just any girl. you’re the girl — the one who’s made haechan stomp through the front door ranting and raving more times than any of them can count. the one whose name used to spark an automatic groan from someone in the room. the one who once made haechan so mad he slammed a door clean off its hinge, then spent two hours denying it had anything to do with you – you’re a household legend. a walking migraine. the ongoing war he never seemed to win but kept returning to like clockwork.

so to see you, standing in their house, in his clothes, the morning after the biggest party of the year is definitely strange. you look like you spent the night tangled up in something intimate. something that doesn’t match the version of events they’ve heard a hundred times over.

the air goes stiff with curiosity and thinly veiled amusement. you straighten your back, refusing to flinch, “nothing happened.”

“sure,” jisung says, not even trying to hide the smirk.

“seriously,” you snap, “i got drugged and he just…helped me.”

renjun tilts his head, worry flashing over all of their features “you good?”

you pause, then nod, “yeah. i’m good.”

haechan steps beside you, voice casual but firm. “she’s telling the truth.”

his words shock you. you were half expecting him to stay quiet.

then you feel the shift in the room like a breeze that slips through a cracked window. they move on, the scent of the ramen calling out to them like moths drawn to the light. you continue your path toward the front door, haechan follows, footsteps soft behind you like a shadow that doesn’t want to overstep.

you reach for the door then pause, glancing over your shoulder, “thanks,” you say again, quieter this time, it slips out like a confession.

his eyes meet yours, steady and unreadable “anytime.”

and somehow, you know he means it. not in the casual way people toss that word around — you see it in the way his posture doesn’t shift, in the way he doesn’t look away, in the quiet steel under his tone. you knew that if it happened again, god forbid, it would be him again. coming to your rescue. without hesitation. without conditions.

something in your chest cracks. not from last night, not from the near-miss or the weight of fear. but from a memory. a time in the past, years ago, that you shoved deep into the vault of things too painful to touch.

♕

as soon as the front door clicks shut behind you, silence settles over the house for a beat. then it erupts.

jisung is the first to crack, “bro,” he looks up at haechan, gaping, as they all sat in the kitchen, “what happened to i hate her so much i’d rather die than be caught with her?’”

renjun chokes on his coffee, suppressing his amusement, “no, no, i think it was more like, if i ever even breathe the same air as her willingly, just kill me,” he says, mocking his friend.

chenle snorts, a playful smirk on his lips, “do we kill you now or later?”

haechan doesn’t even bother trying to defend himself. he just drops his head back with a groan and laughs, loud and shameless, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls, “you guys are so annoying.”

“not as annoying as the fact that she left wearing your clothes,” chenle says, waggling his eyebrows, “your hoodie, dude. the hoodie. the one you said no one’s allowed to borrow because it’s your emotional support layer.’”

“she needed clothes,” haechan says, rolling his eyes and grabbing bowls from the cabinet, like none of it was a big deal. like you didn’t just crack down all the years of hate with one simple call of his name.

“what, i was supposed to let her wander the streets in a lingerie looking like she escaped from a halloween thirst trap?”

renjun squints at him, mock-serious, “you’re in love.”

this elicits a groan from jisung, “oh god, not another one…the other three literally makes me want to vomit.”

haechan rolls his eyes, “i’m not in love.”

“sure,” chenle and renjun say in unison, like a damn choir.

“okay, first of all,” haechan says, gritting his teeth, holding up a finger, “i don’t even like her.”

“uh-huh,” chenle says, “that’s why you stayed up all night babysitting her and making sure she didn’t die.”

“oh my god, did you tuck her in?,” renjun asks.

“i didn’t tuck her in! she just…passed out, and i put a pillow under her head like a civilized human being!,” he reasons out, “plus it’s our party, she’s our responsibility,” he says seriously.

that silences them for half a second. just long enough for his words to land, “yeah, okay,” jisung says squinting, “but you could’ve just called one of her friends to bring her home, not spend the party of the year taking care of her…i mean ryujin was right there!”

haechan slams the ramen bowls down on the counter, harder than necessary, but not quite angry. just exasperated. like he’s been circling this same conversation in his own head since sunrise.

“fine. okay. whatever. you guys win,” he mutters.

there’s a pause, then jisung leans forward, eyes wide with mock innocence, voice pure mischief, “so you do like her?”

“i loathe her,” haechan says with a perfectly straight face, “can’t stand her. makes my blood boil. hate her so much i—”

“—gave her your bed, made her ramen she didn’t even eat, and threatened chenle with your eyes,” renjun finishes without missing a beat, sipping his coffee like he’s watching the best drama of the year unfold in real time.

chenle throws in a lazy, “don’t forget the hoodie,” for good measure.

haechan snorts, “you guys suck.”

they dissolve into laughter around him, loud and chaotic and full of affection. and haechan doesn’t stop them. because deep down, he knows they’re not wrong.

something is changing. cracking open. he felt it when he heard you say his name, all light and smiles like it was genuinely directed at him. he felt it when he saw you asleep in his bed, curled into his hoodie like it was the only safe place in the world. he felt it when your voice cracked saying thank you.

and now that feeling is lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and impossible to ignore. but he’s not ready to name it. not yet. so he grins, serves the ramen, and lets the teasing continue, pretending it’s just another morning with his idiot friends.

ཐིཋྀ the sixth week of rehearsals

rehearsals resume like nothing happened. like there wasn’t a near assault. like you didn’t sleep in his bed. like he didn’t stay up all night watching you breathe just to make sure you were okay — but of course, something has changed.

you still bicker. constantly. relentlessly. but it’s not as sharp now. not as mean. it’s irritation tinged with something unspoken. something softer.

mr. doyoung claps his hands, excited and ready. his vision of romeo and juliet when he casted you both slowly coming to life, “okay, let’s do the balcony scene!” the same scene you two could never get through before.

you climb up the makeshift balcony without any further instructions, the rickety platform still wobbling under your feet like it did during the first week. haechan stands below, glancing up just as you grip the railing and start juliet’s lines again, voice laced with practiced longing, “o romeo, o romeo, wherefore art thou–”

before you could finish your line. a crack echoes throughout the stage. it happens fast. the board beneath you splits, you were falling through, a flash of panic in your eyes as you unsuccessfully tried to grip on to whatever you could find.

haechan lunges forward, catching you mid fall with a grunt as your body collapses into his. you hit the ground hard, him first then you crashing into his chest with a force that knocks the air out of your breaths. chaos erupts. voices shouting. mr. doyoung yelling for someone to call the campus’ nurse. a cast member swearing in the background. but haechan doesn’t hear any of it. all he sees is you. your face twisting in pain as you try to sit up, only to wince and clutch your ankle.

“don’t move,” he says quickly, arms tightening around you, “just, stay still.”

“i’m fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“you’re not fine, you idiot,” his voice cracks at the edges. more panic than anger. he shifts carefully, helping you sit upright before reaching down to gently examine your ankle. you hiss when he touches it. he flinches like it hurts him.

“swollen,” he mutters, “probably a sprain,” he says seriously. the kind of serious you’ve never seen him before.

“oh my god, relax, i’m not dying,” you say, managing a breathless laugh.

he glares at you, “you fell off a stage ten feet high. that’s not nothing.”

“yeah. and you saved me. again,” your eyes narrow playfully, “what are you…my guardian angel now?”

“more like your full-time babysitter,” he snaps, but his voice is too soft to land.

“you care too much,” you tease.

“and you scare me too much,” he says, barely louder than a whisper but your heart still races and you’re not too sure if it’s the adrenaline or if it’s him — the crew surrounds you, someone finally arrives with ice and a first-aid kit. mr. doyoung is talking a mile a minute about liability and structural integrity and someone offers to help carry you to the nurse’s office but you wave them off.

“i’ve got him,” you say, jerking your chin toward haechan who still hasn’t taken his hands off you. he doesn’t even argue. just helps you to your feet, arm around your waist, guiding you slowly off the stage as you limp beside him.

no one says it. not you. not him. not any of the wide-eyed castmates watching the two of you walk away like something’s finally cracked open. but they all feel it. something has changed.

♕

the clinic smells like antiseptic and lemon cleaner. you sit stiffly on the padded bed, ankle propped up with a wrapped ice pack, waiting for the nurse —haechan’s right beside you, knee bouncing restlessly like he can’t stand seeing you in pain, “you need anything?,” he asks, voice gentler than it has any right to be, “water? painkillers? i can steal some candy from the front desk if that helps.”

you glance at him, lips parting, then closing. because that tone. that face. that tenderness you never asked for. it reminds you of before. the haechan who sat side by side with you, eating convenience store snacks, watching clouds drift by, sharing a wired earphone like you had all the time in the world. the haechan who walked you home without ever saying why. who pretended he didn’t like mamma mia! but knew every lyric by heart. the haechan who was loud and stupid and kind and yours. before everything fell apart.

the nurse finally walks in and checks your ankle. haechan stays seated in the plastic chair next to you, leg still bouncing as you listen to her instructions. when she finally leaves with a parting, “just rest it for a few days,” silence rushes in to fill the space.

you exhale slowly, “can you stop bouncing your leg? you heard her, it’s a minor sprain, i’ll live.” you can’t help but roll your eyes. he was being too dramatic. too caring.

“you scared the hell out of me,” he blurts, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat all afternoon.

you look at him, surprised by his bluntness, “i’m fine, haechan.”

“you weren’t fine when the stage gave out under you,” he snaps.

your mouth opens. closes. he keeps stealing the words right out of you. then he shifts, shoulders straighter, spine tighter.

“you said something last week,” he says, voice low, barely above a whisper “when you were half-asleep.”

his fingers tighten in his lap. the campus’ clinic is probably the wrong place for this conversation, but it’s been gnawing at him ever since you walked out of the dream house. and now it’s too big to hold in.

“you said you didn’t want to hate me,” you go incredibly still. so still it’s like your whole body locks up. the air in the room changes. you keep staring at the floor like the white tiles might split open and swallow you whole. of course you remember. curse your memory for never ever letting you forget anything, even when you beg it to. even drugged and half-conscious, everything from that night came back to you throughout moments in the week. like you’d be taking a shower and you’d remember the way you fell into his arms and called out his name or when you were eating lunch and the memory of you reaching out to him, trying to kiss him, hits the back of your head, making you cringe.

“so?,” you forced a breath through your nose. it comes out sharper than you mean it to but you don’t deny it.

“so i want to know,” he swallows, his voice is softer now, “why did you start?”

the silence that follows is thick. suffocating. haechan swears the wall inched closer with every second you don’t answer.

“i’ve been trying to figure it out for years,” he says, voice fraying, “what i did. why you started treating me like i was nothing. why you iced me out like i didn’t matter. like i never did.”

you lift your gaze, slow and deliberate and it hits him. not like a punch, but like a car crash. like every part of him is thrown forward, lungs emptied, heart shattered. there’s a grief in your expression he’s never seen before. not even on stage. this is real. too real.

and he waits. like he always used to. back when the two of you were something – not dating, not together, but something solid. something warm. something unshakeable. the kind of friends who stayed behind after rehearsal just to talk. the kind of friends who knew each other’s favorite snacks, who shared playlists and secrets and inside jokes no one else understood. the kind of friends that felt like home.

“don't you remember?” you finally ask, voice quiet, flat, tired.

haechan frowns, “remember what?”

you laugh bitterly, “of course you don’t.” a pause. a breath. a blade. “it wasn’t your name they were writing on the bathroom stalls.”

he sits up, straighter, alarmed, “what?”

“the closet. junior year of high school. you remember that?”

“of course i do,” he says immediately, “we were locked in there for what? half an hour?”

“forty-three minutes,” you reply, sharp as glass. and suddenly the memory slams into both of you — the closet during the winter play production of beauty and the beast. an accidental lock-in during prop duty, the two of you stuck in the cramped space. too much closeness. too many unspoken things. breath catching in your throat.

nothing happened – but by morning, it didn’t matter.

“you told everyone we hooked up,” you say flatly, “that night in the prop closet. you let them believe it.”

haechan’s whole face shifts, like someone just knocked the air out of his lungs, “y/n, i never said anything, i didn’t even–,”

“you didn’t correct anyone,” you cut him off, the memory still holding as much pain as it did before, “and then the rumors started, people were whispering about me in the hallways. calling me easy. and you just smiled and laughed and acted like it was funny,” your voice cracks and you hate that it does.

“what?,” his voice rises, he looks horrified. shaken. like the floor dropped out beneath him, “no, i didn’t know–”

you turn to him now, eyes blazing, every buried wound rising to the surface, “you let me take the fall. you let them slut-shame me into the ground and when i needed you to shut it down, you disappeared.”

he stares at you like something is shattering behind his eyes. he remembered that moment so differently.

“i thought you hated me because we almost kissed,” he says slowly, as if saying it aloud unearths something, “because i leaned in and i thought i ruined it by misreading everything. so when you started ignoring me, i thought i deserved it.”

you stare at him. your whole chest aches.

“i didn’t know they were calling you names,” he says, “if i had known, i would’ve–,”

“you were laughing with your stupid friends in the hallway,” you snap, tears burning behind your eyes, “smirking when someone made a joke. you didn’t care.”

“i did care!,” he fires back, voice breaking, “i was freaking out! i liked you! okay?,” the confession lingers in the air like smoke and all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide.

“—i liked you. and i didn’t know what to do with it and when people started assuming we were a thing, i….i liked it,” he breathes out.

you blink at him. silent. stunned. speechless.

“i was selfish,” he admits, quieter now, shame flooding his expression, “i got caught up in the idea of you and me and i didn’t realize you were paying the price.”

your expression cracks, disbelief twisting with heartbreak, “but you stopped talking to me,” you whisper, “i thought maybe you just saw me the same way that everyone else did.”

his head shakes desperately, over and over, “no. never.”

the silence afterwards is brutal, wrapping around the two of you like barbed wire. “i didn’t know how to fix it,” he breaks helplessly, each word torn straight from the center of his chest, “you looked at me like i was poison. like just being near you made everything worse. so i stopped trying. i didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

he paused, his voice going quieter, tighter, “you hated me so easily. or at least…that’s what i thought. after a while i convinced myself that maybe that’s what you always wanted and it hurt so i decided to hate you back.”

your jaw clenches. you look away, not because you don’t want to see him but because you can’t. because if you do, you might fall apart completely. haechan leans in. voice shaking. his hand tremble slightly where they rest on the edge of the bed, “but i never stopped thinking about you,” he says like he’s been dying to say it, “not once. and if i could go back, if i could take it all back, i would,” his voice cracks, “i don’t care if we’re supposed to be bitter enemies, if that’s the story everyone loves to believe now. i never wanted to lose you,” his hand twitches in his lap, “and i’m sorry y/n, i am so, so fucking sorry,” he finishes softly, voice filled with raw honesty.

you don’t say anything but your silence isn’t angry now. and the tears slip, silent and slow, dripping down your cheeks like memories you can’t scrub away. those were the words you’ve been aching to hear for years. he brings a hand up your face, slowly, carefully, tentatively like you might flinch. but you don’t. his fingertips graze your skin, carefully brushing away the tear that’s already fallen, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek like it’s sacred.

“please,” he whispers, “let me fix it. let me try. we don’t have to be anything big. just…let me be your friend again. i’ll do anything,” his voice breaks at the end and this time it’s desperation.

you say nothing for a long moment. instead, you look at him, really look. and it’s strange. the way grief can sit beside adoration. the way familiarity can hurt as much as it comforts. because you see the boy who made you laugh until your ribs hurt. the boy who stole your last gummy bear and shared his hoodie. the boy who would watch all your favorite movies with you. the boy who memorized all your favorite songs just so you could sing them together. but you also see the boy who stood by and let the world tear you apart. the boy you’ve spent the last five years resenting.

you see all of him. and for a moment, it makes it hard to breathe.

“i felt so alone,” you say at last, your voice so quiet, “you were my best friend and then overnight, it was like i didn’t exist to you. and every time i looked at you, i just kept thinking, why wasn’t i worth defending?”

he makes a pained sound, like the question cuts deeper than anything else. like he couldn’t forgive his own self for the hurt he put you through.

“i kept waiting,” you go on, quieter now, “for you to say something. to explain. to pull me aside and say hey, i didn’t mean for it to go like that. i didn't mean for it to hurt you. but you never did.”

haechan nods, small and slow, his shoulders hunched in shame. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t defend. he just takes every word like he knows he deserves it. another silence passes but this one feels different. lighter, maybe…sadder, definitely.

his gaze flickers to the pillow behind you as if looking at you now is too much. like if he sees the tears on your cheeks, he might start crying himself and never stop. you wipe at your face with the back of your sleeve, sniffling through a shaky breath “i don't know if i can be your friend again…not like before,” you say honestly and you see how the words break him. his chest rises too fast. his mouth parts like he wants to beg. he nods again, visibly swallowing, like he’s choking on all the apologies he can’t say fast enough.

“but,” you add softly, “i think i’m tired of hating you, too.”

his eyes meet yours, something flickering in them. fragile. hope.

“i think…,” you whisper, “maybe i want to know who you are now,” you add and he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years. like your words cracked a dam and let him come up for air for the first time in forever.

and then you say the words that make something shift in the air, make the angels sing all around him. “we could try,” you murmur, “not going back but maybe starting over?”

his lips part. body stills, afraid he had just imagined it, “you mean it?,” he whispers, voice trembling.

you nod once, slow, soft, “one chance, hyuck. don’t waste it.”

and the sound of his old nickname, your nickname for him, cracks something wide open in his chest. a broken, stunned smile pulls at his lips, trembles with disbelief. like just hearing it makes him feel alive again.

he nods, eyes wet, heart in his hands, “i won’t,” he says, “i swear, i won’t.”

ཐིཋྀ the seventh week of rehearsals

it starts quietly. no grand announcement. no dramatic reconciliation that leaves the audience gasping. just…a shift. a subtle recalibration in the air.

you walk into rehearsal, script tucked under your arm. you aren’t bracing yourself like you usually do. there’s no adrenaline-fueled armor laced tight around your spine. you just simply walk in, the same way you would if haechan wasn’t there.

and when you spot him across the room, lounging in one of the chairs, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone, something inside you clicks into a different gear. you don’t look through him like he’s invisible. you don’t burn holes into him with your glare. you just look and then…you nod. barely anything. but he sees it. his thumb stills. his head lifts. he meets your gaze. there’s no tension in his shoulders, no spark of challenge in his eyes. and then he nods back. just as slight. just as careful.

to the untrained eye, nothing monumental has happened. but to the handful of castmates who have witnessed your years-long cold war with the icy stares, the sarcastic jabs, the tension so thick it warped the air – it’s seismic. everyone curious as to what happened in the nurse’s clinic.

a pause ripples through the room. like someone's holding their breath. and then…he smiles. not the cocky, smug grin he used to toss your way like a dare. not the smirk that usually meant he was about to say something that would make you want to throw your script at his head. no. this one is soft, small, a little uneven. the kind of smile you give a stray cat you’re hoping won’t run away.

you feel the tug of something low in your stomach, not butterflies, not quite. just movement, a flicker. and your lips twitch into an answering curve. not a full smile. but not nothing.

one of your castmates, also one of your best friends, yujin, jolts so hard she drops her script with a thud that echoes louder than it should. no one helps to pick it up, everyone too busy watching the apocalypse unfold in real time. you pretend not to notice the stares. instead, you slide into your usual seat and flip open your script like it’s just another regular day, not the first page of something new. you don’t look at him again. not right away. but you can feel him. the way you always could.

mr. doyoung claps his hands twice, too enthusiastically, as if to break the spell or maybe because even he feels the tension lifting, “alright! today’s rehearsal…the wedding scene!” he announces, his smile extra bright, eyes darting between you and haechan.

you don’t flinch. you don’t groan or make a joke at haechan’s expense like you might’ve a week ago. you just flip to the page. from beside you, yujin leans in slightly, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “are you two… friends now?” her voice is half hopeful, half afraid the answer might implode the timeline.

you keep your eyes on the script, “maybe” you murmur back, shrugging, voice calm, “but we’re not enemies anymore.”

she stares at you for a second like she’s trying to decode an alien language, then exhales sharply and mutters, “holy shit, i need a drink.”

across the room, haechan shifted forward in his seat now, elbows on his knees, script open, highlighter cap in his mouth. you glance up once, and he’s already looking at you. his mouth quirks. not a smirk. not a dare. just that same soft expression. your fingers tighten slightly around your script before the two of you take your spots on stage.

the rehearsal is going surprisingly smooth. almost like someone replaced the decades-old scripts of your dynamic with a gentler rewrite. one where your lines don’t burn with anger when you speak them, where eye contact doesn’t feel like a threat. you’re standing across from haechan in the middle of the stage, your fingers laced loosely in front of you, your posture careful but relaxed.

“romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both,” jongho says, fully immersed in his friar laurence voice, hands folded solemnly like he’s performing an actual ceremony. you glance at haechan as he steps toward you. he leans in and brushes a kiss to your lips, soft, almost reverent, and you do your best to ignore the tiny spark that settles in your chest and fizzles straight to your toes.

“as much to him, else is his thanks too much,” you say with quiet warmth, smiling through the line. you kiss him again, this one just a touch longer, just a breath closer than necessary.

he pulls back slightly, meeting your eyes, “ah, juliet, if the measure of thy joy be heaped like mine and that thy skill be more. to blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath. this neighbor air and…,” he trails off.

there’s a beat of silence. his eyes flick to the side. nothing comes. you raise an eyebrow, “o romeo, are you lagging?”

a ripple of laughter breaks out across the room. haechan narrows his eyes at you, but he’s grinning, the corners of his mouth twitching, “no my juliet, i’m connecting to the server.”

“oh, sorry, i forgot this version of romeo runs on the internet.” the laughter grows. even mr. doyoung chuckles softly from behind his script.

haechan places a hand dramatically on his chest, staggering back a step, “you wound me, juliet.”

you place a hand on your hip, “you forgot your line in the middle of our wedding. i think i’m the one who should be wounded.”

he opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, sanha, who’s been watching this unfold with wide eyes, throws in a “i knew it was too good to be true.”

the laughter dies down. there’s a shift, a pause, one of those delicate moments that could tilt either way. everyone glances between the two of you, waiting to see if the air will thicken with old tension again.

but then haechan shrugs, smile still soft, “can’t friends banter?”

the room stills. the word hovers between you like a fragile thing, spoken so casually but carrying so much more weight than anyone expected.

friend wasn’t exactly the word people would describe your relationship to be.

your heart skips, not in a dramatic way, just a quiet flutter, like it’s catching up to something your brain already knew. you look at him and he’s already looking at you. there’s something behind his eyes, a private little spark, a shared joke, like the two of you are in on something no else quite understands.

you smile, slow and real, “exactly,” you say, “friends banter.”

everyone goes quiet again, not with tension but surprise. you can practically hear the mental recalibration of the room. yujin’s mouth is slightly open, xiaojun has an eyebrow raise, jongho is looking back and forth in between you, wondering how he got himself stuck in the middle of all this.

mr. doyoung clears his throat and claps his hands once, “alright, let’s run it again. from romeo’s line.”

haechan pick up his script, quickly reading it over, still grinning. as you take your mark beside him, his shoulder brushes yours, barely noticeable but deliberate. neither of you move away.

♕

the next day, after rehearsal ends and the cast slowly filters out, you find yourself lingering in the black box again, volunteering to put away the chairs. it’s quiet, dimly lit, the echoes of the day still in the air in half-muttered lines, scattered laughter, a crumpled water bottle forgotten in the wings. you’re sitting on the edge of the stage, kicking your heels lightly against the wood. then you hear footsteps, unhurried, familiar. haechan joins you a beat later, collapsing beside you with a dramatic groan.

“remind me why we volunteered for this, again?,” he sighs, eyes closed, head tilted toward the ceiling.

you smirk, “well, i volunteered for this because i haven’t helped out since week one. you just…showed up.”

he cracks one eye open and turns his head toward you, grinning, “right. my hero complex. forgot.”

you nudge him with your shoulder, and for a second it feels like nothing ever changed between you. like the years of eye-rolls and cold shoulders never happened. like you’re just you and he’s just him, and all the old memories you both tried to forget have started quietly knocking again.

“so,” you say playfully, “you do realize you completely blacked out on your monologue yesterday, right?”

he groans again, louder this time, slumping so far sideways he’s almost sliding off the stage, “don’t remind me, i saw my life flash before my eyes, mr. doyoung’s disappointment in 4k.”

you turn toward him, grinning, “my favorite part was when you just stood there, blinking like you got hit with a windows error.”

haechan throws a hand over his eyes, “i was reconnecting!, you caught me mid-update.”

you burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. it makes him look at you again, and not in the usual teasing way. he watches the way your face lights up, the way your shoulders shake with it, and something in his chest aches – warm and familiar.

“i’ll admit,” you say between giggles, “that line delivery of mine? ‘o romeo, are you lagging?’ oscar-worthy.”

“you’re insufferable,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling too.

you both go quiet for a moment, the air between you charged in a way it didn’t used to be — or maybe always was, back before either of you knew what to call it.

“did you see jongho’s face?,” you ask, biting back a grin.

he grins, eyes lighting up, “he looked like he was witnessing a miracle. like we were gonna shake hands and start a foundation for world peace.”

“yujin nearly dropped her phone” you snort, “i think she thought she was hallucinating.”

he chuckles, nudging you slightly, “we should’ve milked it, gone on tour with our peace treaty, sold merch, team haechan and team y/n shirts.”

you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself, “we’d have sold out shows every night.”

he looks at you for a beat longer than necessary, “you know… it’s weird.”

you glance over, “what is?”

“this,” he says quietly, “us. talking like this again, it feels…,” he pauses, searching for the word, “familiar.”

you don’t say anything right away, because you feel it too. that quiet pull. that ache. the thing that never fully went away. you both know it. you were each other’s person. before the hate took over, before the jabs. before either of you figured out that pushing someone away is sometimes easier than letting them in.

“yeah,” you say softly, “it does.”

then he shifts slightly, glancing sideways, “so…friends banter, huh?”

you raise a brow, “you said it.”

“and you didn’t disagree,” he says softer now. there’s no teasing in his voice, just curiosity.

you nod, “nope, i didn’t.”

he smiles. not that smug, sharp smile you used to hate. this one’s crooked, earnest. and you smile back, the same kind of smile, the kind you don't have to guard. the smile you give to a friend. but something in the way you look at each other says maybe not just that forever. maybe just that for now.

he bumps his shoulder into yours, “so, friend…you buying me lunch tomorrow?”

you scoff, “you forgot your lines. i should be the one charging you.”

he grins, that glint sneaking back into his eyes, “fine, princess. lunch tomorrow. cafeteria. my treat.”

the nickname is gentler now, filled with a sort of affection that makes your heart skip a beat. you tilt your head, pretending to consider, “as long as you don’t freeze mid-sentence again.”

he leans just slightly closer, his voice barely above a murmur, “only if you promise to tease me about it again.”

you pretend to roll your eyes, but you’re smiling…big now. unrestrained. the kind that feels like sunlight in your chest. you think about everything that’s happened. the years of arguing. the pushing and pulling. the kisses that weren’t on the script. the ones that came after, the magnetic pull of him. the electric tension you thought would destroy you both. now somehow reshaped into this — a strange, slow return to something lighter. something that still pulses underneath with heat.

you walk out side by side, the distance between you closer than it was yesterday.

♕

the next day, true to his word, haechan meets you outside the cafeteria, two iced choco’s in hand and a stupidly triumphant grin on his face like he just won a prize.

“you drink this, right?,” he says, handing you one without waiting for an answer, “i know it used to be your favorite, i just don’t know if you still like it now,” he rambles, a little nervous.

you take it, brushing your fingers lightly against his, “of course I still like it now,” you say with a smile that you don’t quite realize is soft enough to knock the wind out of him, “thank you.”

“anything for the princess,” he winks as you roll your eyes playfully. you find a corner table by the windows, where the sun spills across the scratched plastic surface and turns your drinks gold. the campus buzzes around you, students passing by with backpacks slung low, the distant hum of conversations and clinking trays.

haechan orders sandwiches for you both, and without asking, skips the pickles on yours. you notice, and you don’t say anything, but the fact that he remembered that makes something in your chest swell and ache at the same time. there’s something undeniably easy about it all. about him. you fall into a rhythm of banter, half jokes, and snide comments wrapped in smiles that linger just a little too long. it’s almost too easy to forget that the two of you hated each other. almost too easy to remember that once, you didn’t.

you’re in the middle of a joke when a voice interrupts the moment — “hey, haechan,” your eyes turn towards the voice. it’s ryujin. and she’s leaning against the edge of the table, hair in a pretty messy bun in that effortless dancer way, water bottle in hand, wearing one of those crop tops that make everyone in the building do a double take. she flashes him a bright smile.

“you didn’t show up to the party last night,” she says, teasing but with a bite that suggests she noticed and cared.

haechan blinks like he wasn’t expecting her, “oh, yeah, i–uh, fell asleep early,” he shifts in his seat, his legs brushing yours under the table. then he glances at you, a quick flicker of a look, like a reflex. it’s so fast. he probably thinks you missed it. but you didn't.

ryujin giggles lightly and touches his shoulder, a fleeting gesture that might have meant nothing to anyone else, “we’re always missing out on each other,” she pouts.

you glance down at your sandwich. you can’t bring yourself to keep watching. your appetite vanishes somewhere between her hand and his smile.

“yeah,” haechan forced out, then clears his throat, trying to find words.

you miss the awkward way he scratches the back of his neck, the polite distance in his voice that doesn’t quite match ryujin’s energy. he’s not flirting back but he’s not shutting it down either.

ryujin’s gaze finally flickers to you, her smile dimming just slightly, “hey.”

you smile, sharp and polite “hey.”

she lingers. just enough to make it weird. then flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns back to him, “you’re mine at the next party, okay?”

haechan lets out a nervous laugh, “cool. yeah.” it comes out a little too fast, like he’s agreeing just to make the moment end. he wishes the ground could just swallow him whole. he doesn’t even know why the mere action of ryujin flirting with him around you is getting him all flustered.

she finally walks away and you don’t say anything at first. you take a sip from your drink just to have something to do with your hands. haechan exhales like he’s just escaped a fire.

you arch an eyebrow, still not looking at him, “you okay?”

he rubs his hands down his thighs, “yeah. that was…awkward.”

“didn’t look awkward from where i was sitting,” you mutter, voice a little sharper than intended.

he turns to you, caught off guard by your tone, “be serious.”

you poke the lettuce in your sandwich, “haven’t you been flirting with her since forever?,” you comment. it wasn’t exactly a secret to the rest of the university that the two had the hots for each other. just like how it wasn’t a secret that the two of you can’t stand each other.

“yeah, well. that was before,” he says without thinking.

“before what?,” you ask, raising a brow, your eyes finally meeting his.

he goes quiet. you wait. he’s already looking at you, his expression unreadable. there’s a long pause, like he’s debating something. then he looks away, his voice low “nothing. never mind.”

you don’t push. but your stomach twists in a way that’s hard to ignore. you weren’t supposed to care. he’s just a friend. that’s what you agreed on.

then he forces out a laugh, soft and a little shaky, he bumps your foot under the table, voice casual, “so” he murmurs, “you’re totally jealous.”

you nearly choke on your sandwich, “am not.”

“you looked at your sandwich like you wanted it dead,” he points out, teasing.

you narrow your eyes at him, but your lips twitch anyway, “you’re officially delirious.”

he grins, that same crooked, trouble-making grin that used to make your blood boil and now just… makes it rush. you roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the straw. but your cheeks feel warm. and your heart feels stupid.

because yeah, maybe you were jealous. and maybe that means this thing between you, this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else, is barreling toward a truth you’re both trying not to name.

♕

the lights flash neon blue and pink over the velvet booths and sticky tables. it was karaoke night with your castmates. the room filled with laughter, everyone sipping cheap drinks, flipping through the karaoke’s binder, music pulsing through the speakers, everyone pretending they’re not stressed about the upcoming show. haechan leans against the booth, one arm resting over the backrest, drink in hand. usually you sit in the booth farthest away from him, but tonight, tonight you’re sitting right next to him, trying not to notice the way his shoulders brush yours every so often. the way it sparks something irritatingly warm in your chest.

“you do know you’re not getting out of singing, right?” you say, a smirk playing on your lips as you leaned over to talk in his ear, loud enough for him to hear over changbin and wooyoung currently performing hamilton.

he raises an eyebrow, ignoring the way your breath sends goosebumps all over his spine, “who said i was trying to?”

“you haven’t signed up once,” you point out.

“maybe i’m waiting,” he says, turning his head so you're closer than before, so close you catch the faint smell of his cologne, the woody powdery scent that makes your brain fuzzy, “for the right song and the right partner,” he glances at you. there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“are you asking me to duet, lee donghyuck?,” you smirk.

“only if you think you can keep up,” he says, a playful smile on his lips.

minutes later you’re both up front, two microphones in hand. you give him a sideways glance as the intro to what is this feeling starts playing. haechan smirks when he sees the lyrics pop up on the screen.

“what is this feeling, so sudden and new?,” he starts. of course he was galinda, milking the drama, throwing in that little hair flip that makes you giggle. you both slip into character. the room blurs. it’s just you and him.

“loathing. unadulterated loathing,” he levels you with an exaggerated glare.

“for your face — your voice — your clothing!,” you match his energy, pacing in time with him like two cats ready to pounce. the song becomes a battleground, but its play fighting. banter wrapped around melody. and you feel like a child again.

“let’s just say we loathe it all!” you end, breathless and giddy.

the room erupts, howling with laughter and applause. but something about the moment slows. the harmony lingers longer than it should. haechan’s eyes meet yours, you don’t look away.

an hour later the bar started to empty out. castmates peel off into groups, calling rides or walking to the subway in clumps. you’re slipping your jacket on when you feel someone fall into step beside you.

“you’re walking home?” haechan asks casually, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

you nod, “it’s not far.”

“i’ll walk with you,” he says, like it’s not even a question. like it’s a given.

the streets are quieter now, only the hum of traffic and the occasional siren echoing down the avenue. the moon reflecting shimmer in puddles, and there’s a leftover thrill buzzing under your skin from the performance, from him.

he kicks at a pebble, glancing over at you, “so… we make a pretty good team.”

you bump your shoulder into his lightly, “don’t let it get to your head.”

“too late, princess” he says with a grin.

you walk in silence for a beat, the good kind, where it doesn’t feel like something needs to be said. then, softly, “we’re pretty good at being friends,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

you feel him glance at you before he answers “yeah,” he says, just as quiet, “we are.”

your fingers don’t touch, but they hang close enough that the space between them feels loud. you look up at him then, and he gives you that crooked, genuine smile that always comes out when he thinks no one’s watching.

“thanks for walking me,” you say when you reach your building.

he nods, “always.” there’s a pause. that kind where you could either wave and walk away or not. then haechan opens his arms slightly, like he’s offering, but not assuming. and you don’t even hesitate. you step into him, arms wrapping around his torso. he’s warm and steady around your shoulders. it’s not rushed. not awkward. it’s one of those hugs that feels like it’s saying a lot more than either of you are willing to put into words just yet.

you breathe him in and for a second, it feels like the rest of the world goes quiet. he pulls back first, but slowly, like he’s not quite ready either. his hands brush your arms before he lets go.

“night, princess,” he says, teasing, voice a little huskier than before.

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, “night, hyuck.”

and even though nothing’s said, and nothing happens, it still feels like something changed. like you both felt it, even if you’re pretending not to.

♕

hyuck: wanna come over and watch mamma mia 2 tonight?

princess: the one that came out when we hated each other?

hyuck: yeah, thought it might be poetic or whatever >.<

you almost laugh out loud when you read it. of all the movies. that one. the one released right in the thick of your worst arguments, during the year neither of you could say a full sentence without wanting to kill each other. the one you couldn’t bring yourself to watch in theater because all you could remember was watching the first one with him.

princess: will there be popcorn?

hyuck: of course

princess: see you later ;)

by the time you arrive at the frat house, it’s quiet. most of the guys are out for the night and the place, for once, feels peaceful. lived-in, but cozy. haechan greets you at the door with popcorn in one hand and remote in the other.

“just you, me and ABBA,” he says, a playful smile on his face as you make your way to his living room.

you smirk, stepping inside, “scared i’ll out-sing you?”

his laugh is automatic, “you wish.”

you settle on the couch, blanket tossed between the two of you. you don’t sit close, not at first. but as the movie plays, as waterloo kicks in and the popcorn dwindles and your feet end up tangled somewhere under the blanket, the space between you shrinks. neither of you mentions it. you both sing along, loud and obnoxious, voices overlapping in messy harmonies, especially during why did it have to be me, elbowing each other like teenagers. there’s a softness in it. a safety. like the memories that used to hurt have dulled around the edges and all that’s left now is warmth. you’re both grinning so hard it hurts. the kind of joy you haven’t let yourself feel around him in years. by angel eyes you’re leaning into him more than you mean to. his shoulder’s warm. you let yourself rest there, just for a second. but the second turns into minutes. and by the time my love, my life begins to play, you’ve gone quiet, breaths slow and even, your head tilted gently against him.

he doesn't dare move.

the movie goes on, but he doesn’t register it anymore. not really. he’s too aware of you, curled up beside him, cheek pressed into his hoodie, peacefully asleep. like you completely trust him again. and that’s when it hits him.

it’s not a surprise. not a sudden realization. just something he’s been trying to ignore finally catching up to him — he never stopped liking you.

not when you fought. not when you ignored each other in the hallways and on stage and in classes. not even when he flirted with other girls, trying to replace the hole you burned through him with something lighter, simpler. but no one ever did. no one even came close. because it’s always been you. under his skin. in his lungs. every song he sang louder just so you’d hear it. every stupid joke he cracked just so you would see him.

and now, god, now it’s stronger than ever. because he’s not just thinking about how right this feels. he’s thinking about you. the way you laughed tonight, unguarded. the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep on him like this. the way you’ve been slowly letting him back in.

but underneath that softness, beneath all the fragile peace you’ve built…is something hungrier. something heavier.

because now he knows the way your lips feel on his, hot and frantic, laced with fury and desperation. the weight of your body tangled with his, all tension and sharp edges and need. he remembers the night you both gave in to it. when everything between you collided and combusted and for a few stolen hours, nothing else existed. the sound you made when he was inside you. the way you clung to him like you hated him for how good it felt.

he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it since. about you. that night. the taste of your skin. the way he wanted more, even then. the way he still wants more now — he wants to feel you again but not like that. not angry. not bitter. not as a mistake to bury. he wants to feel you without the weight of a grudge between you.

that’s what scares him the most. because you’re just starting to rebuild whatever fragile thread of friendship you’ve stitched together. if he leans in again, if he fucks this up, he’s not sure either of you will come back from it.

so he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just lets you rest against him, eyes fixed on the credits. heart beating loud and traitorous in his chest. he tells himself it’s enough but he knows it won't be for long because he never wanted to be just your friend — not really. not ever. not then. and definitely not now.

ཐིཋྀ the eight week of rehearsals

monday comes again you spot him in rehearsals, sitting in his usual chair. and for the first time, you chose to sit on the chair next to him. you wait for his usual greeting, that charming smirk, the lifted eyebrows, the dumb pun about how you finally couldn’t resist sitting next to the greatest.

but none of it comes.

he doesn’t raise his brows and say something stupid just to make you roll your eyes. he just nods. quiet and distant.

“hi,” you offer as you approach, a smile on your face.

“hey,” he replies, without looking at you. it throws you off. not completely. just enough that your smile falters a little.

but it doesn't stop there. during rehearsals, he’s all business. focused. he doesn’t crack jokes during warmups like he usually does. even when you fumble a line and instinctively glance at him for a reaction, he doesn’t meet your eyes. there are no friendly banters. it’s like someone hit the switch on him over the weekend. and sure, he talks to you. he doesn’t ignore you completely. but it’s colder. measured. like he’s rehearsing something behind every word.

at break, you sit on the edge of the stage like always but he doesn’t join you. he stretches with the boys instead, laughing a little too loudly at something that isn’t even funny.

you feel it — the difference. the detachment. like he’s edited you out of a movie scene where you once had top billing.

you watch from across the room, trying not to let it show that you notice. but you do. you notice everything. the way he keeps his distance. the way his gaze skips over you in group conversation. the way he leaves rehearsal without waiting, mumbling something about being late for a meeting you’re not even sure exists.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re friends. it’s just a weird day. maybe he’s tired. maybe something’s going on. maybe he did have a meeting. maybe it’s nothing.

but the thing is — it doesn’t feel like nothing. and it stings. because just last week you were creating new inside jokes, sharing lunch, singing duets, watching movies, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. and just two nights ago, you fell asleep on his shoulder and he let you and for one quiet, perfect evening, it felt like maybe, maybe, you were finding your way back to something real. and now? now he won’t even look at you.

later, you replay the night in your mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. the way he sang with a fake swedish accent, making you laugh until your ribs hurt. the way you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. like you were something precious. something fragile. nothing about that night felt off. but now he’s acting like you’re glass that cracked when he wasn’t looking, and he doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces without bleeding.

you want to call him out. ask what the hell you did. demand to know why he’s shutting you out when you were finally figuring out how to be in the same room without burning. but you don’t. you don’t say a word. because maybe you were just being dramatic. or maybe because part of you is scared of the answer.

and part of you, the part that still aches for him even now, kind of wishes you could just go back to hating each other. at least then, he looked at you like he meant it.

♕

it’s been a few days since and things have gotten worse. you can’t put your finger on it exactly. nothing obvious. no big blow up. no fight. just the absence of something that was almost there.

he shows up to every rehearsal, still jokes with the cast, still reads his lines. but with you? he’s quieter. not cold, not cruel. just careful. like he’s watching every word, every glance, weighing them all in his head before he lets them go. like he’s trying to keep something from slipping out. something that used to dance at the edge of his smirks and linger in the way he looked at you, that soft, half-daring thing that felt almost too real.

you hate it. so you do something about it. you text him on a thursday evening in a moment of impulsive hope or maybe desperation.

princess: you doing anything tomorrow night? a few of us are going to the A.M. 127 bar, you should come.

you watch the message go through, then you toss your phone aside like it didn’t cost you anything to send. it takes him an hour to respond.

hyuck: ah wish i could but i’m busy. have to finish a write-up for theater theory and help mark with something

you stare at it, a little too long. looking for cracks in the excuse. for anything that might explain why it sounds like a gentle rejection and not just a scheduling conflict. and when you finally type out a reply, something nonchalant, unaffected, you send it before you can overthink.

princess: all good. good luck :)

you toss your phone again, harder this time, like the weight in your chest might go with it. you won’t be bitter. you can’t be bitter. he doesn’t owe you anything. he doesn’t have to show up just because you asked. you’re friends now. just friends. friends have boundaries. friends don’t need each other to say yes.

but the next night while waiting for your drink with yujin at the loud, dimly lit bar, you make the mistake of scrolling through your phone. the story flashes before you even realize what you’re watching. a living room, lights flickering, people playing a game of beer pong.

and there, clear as day – haechan. leaning against the arm of the couch. grinning. and next to him? ryujin. tucked comfortably into his side like she’s always belonged there. laughing at something he says, head tipped toward him, her hand casually resting on his thigh like she doesn’t even have to think about it.

the clip is only ten seconds long. but it affects you more than it should. you click it again. watch it one more time. and another. and another — his head leans toward hers. he’s smiling. he looks easy with her. like nothing’s complicated. like nothing happened. like he didn’t freeze up around you this week. like he didn’t pull away just when things started to feel… possible.

you swallow around the twist in your chest, reaching out for your drink. you laugh too, like you’re fine, like you didn’t just get sucker punched by a few pixels on a screen. but inside, you feel like an absolute joke — a stupid, drunk punchline to a story you thought had changed.

you take a couple more shots before you were staring at your phone again. the last text between you still lit up on the screen.

“all good. good luck :)”

you hate the way it reads. detached. not real. not at all how you feel. and before you can stop yourself, before you can listen to your own logic, you’re tapping his name in your contacts and pressing call — it rings once. twice. you don't think he’ll answer. but by the third ring, his voice hits your ear, “hello?,” low, familiar, a little too steady. he’s not drunk.

you try to swallow around the words clogging your throat, “hey,” you say and you wince at how thin it comes out, “it’s me.”

a beat of silence. “yeah. i know,” he sounds softer, cautious now.

you almost laugh, “sorry,” you mutter, “i shouldn’t have called. just…ignore this, okay? just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“wait,” he says, sharp enough to stop you from ending the call, “are you okay?”

there he goes again. pretending he cares. you want to lie. say yeah, of course i’m great. but you’re tired. a little drunk. a little heartbroken. you laugh. it sounds bitter, “what do you think?”

another pause. you can hear the voices in the background. the loud music. ryujin’s laugh. the exact same sound from the video. and it scrapes at your ribs.

“you said you were busy,” you say and this time you don’t try to hide the shake in your voice, “you said you had to help mark with something.”

“i did,” he replies, and god, he sounds so calm it makes your chest burn, “plans changed.”

“right,” you whisper, “funny how that happens.”

he’s quiet again and maybe that should be your cue to hang up. to end this before it gets pathetic. but you can’t. not when it feels like he’s been slipping further and further away all week.

“i just didn’t expect to see you with her,” you admit, a little too bare, too honest, too messy, “that’s all.”

he exhales slowly. you can hear voices in the background, someone calling his name. he murmurs something away from the phone, you can’t make it out. when he speaks again, he’s quieter, “it’s not what you think.”

you smile without warmth, “okay,” you say because what else can you say? you were in no position to tell him who he can and can’t hang out with. you were in no position to even get jealous. he doesn’t explain further. he doesn’t need to. you were just his friend.

“you’ve been weird all week,” you say suddenly, “and i’ve been trying not to take it personally, but–,” you cut yourself off.

“but what?,” he asks. you swallow hard, “i don’t know. i guess i thought we were friends again.”

“we are,” he says quickly. too quickly.

“then why are you pushing me away?,” you ask, voice soft and quiet.

another breath from him, a pause that stretches, “i’m not.”

“you are. you stopped looking at me. you stopped cracking jokes,” you blink hard, throat thick, “did i do something wrong? is this some kind of elaborate plan to hurt me the way i hurt you?”

“no.” he says quickly, “it’s not like that.” then the line goes silent. the music behind him fades.

“i’m just,” he finally says, the words slow and clipped, “trying to keep things simple right now.”

you nod even though he can’t see you. even though it didn’t make sense. even though nothing about you and him has ever been simple.

“okay,” you say again, “i’ll let you get back to your party.”

“princess–,” he starts.

but you’re already pulling the phone away, muttering out a hollow “bye,” and ending the call before he can stop you.

you hang up, phone trembling in your hand, heart heavier than before. you didn’t get answers. didn’t get clarity. didn’t get the version of him who sang ABBA at the top of his lungs and leaned into you like you were home. you just got silence. distance. a half-hearted promise that meant nothing.

♕

you don’t remember how many drinks it takes to get you there – that hazy, floating kind of drunk. the kind that makes everything feel like it’s underwater and glowing. you’re not sad, not exactly. just…empty. tired in a way that no one can see.

yujin left a while ago, with a boy she’s been making out with the whole night. she kissed your cheek goodbye, making you promise to uber home. you said of course and waved her off with a smile too big for your face. then you stayed and ordered another drink. and another. let the night blur until it felt like you didn’t exist anymore.

the bartender starts to notice around 2:00 a.m. – you’re sitting slouched over the counter. your lips are slightly smeared and your mascara smudged just enough to make you look fragile. breakable. like someone who doesn’t know where she is or why she’s still here. you don’t notice the bartender hovering until he gently taps the bar in front of you, “hey” he says, voice low, kind, “you alright?”

you glance up, slow and reluctant, eyes glassy, unfocused, trying to read his blurry nametag: johnny. you try to smile at him but your mouth doesn’t quite cooperate, “mm fine, johnny,” you mumble, slurring your words.

he gives you a long look, his voice is still gentle but it sharpens a little at the edges, “that’s not true.”

you shake your head, try to sit up straighter, but the motion tilts the room again. you let out a soft, pathetic-sounding laugh, “okay, maybe not, but i’ll be fine.”

johnny sighs, the kind of sigh that says he’s seen this before. too many times. he pulls out a clean glass of water, slides it in front of you, “drink this.”

you do. drunk enough to drink anything a stranger would give. then he looks at you again, soft but steady, “i’m gonna call someone for you, okay? just to make sure you get home safe.”

you blink, the words registering slower than normal, “no–it’s—dont. please. i’m fine, i can–”

“you’re not fine,” he says gently but firm. you don’t argue again. you’re too tired.

“here,” you mumble, unlocking your phone with clumsy fingers, “pick whoever you want, i don’t care,” you say, giving in. he scrolls through your recent calls, lifts the phone to his ear.

“yo…hey…is this hyuck?,” his voice rings in your ear but you were too out of it to care, “yeah, hi i’m a bartender at A.M. 01:27, i’ve got a girl here, this is her phone, she’s pretty out of it. not in danger or anything just too drunk to leave alone. you were the last person she called, so…,” his voice drifts off in the background as your forehead sinks into your arms, head dropped to the counter, letting the drowsiness take over.

time passes. or maybe it doesn’t. you don’t really know.

then you hear your name. you lift your head slowly, the bar has started to spin again or maybe your brain has. same difference. you squint your eyes open and he is there, standing next to you, hoodie pulled over his hair, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“you okay?,” haechan asks, voice strained. careful.

“define ‘okay,” you mutter, pushing yourself up. you sway a little and his hand is instantly under your elbow, steadying you.

“got it,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around your waist, “let’s go.”

“wow,” you say under your breath, stumbling slightly as he helps you toward the exit, “my hero, coming to my rescue so fast, didn’t know i still mattered.”

“i got a call from a man who doesn’t even know you,” he mutters, jaw tight, “forgive me if i didn’t love that scenario.”

you glance up at him as he opens the passenger door, “jealous?” he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look at you. just helps you in, buckles the seatbelt with a sigh and shuts the door.

the drive is quiet. not awkward. not exactly. but there’s a weight between you. thick and humming. some ghost made of the things you never said. haechan’s hands grip the wheel tight, knuckles white, eyes locked on the road. the glow from the dash throws soft light across his face, shadows catching in the curve of his jaw, the dip under his cheekbone. you watch him in sideways glances, arms crossed tight to your chest like you’re holding yourself together. the city fades. buildings blur into darkness. music plays low from the stereo, some playlist he forgot to turn off. you don’t say much. neither does he. but slowly, gradually, the fog in your brain starts to clear. your head feels less floaty. your pulse settles. your tongue feels normal in your mouth again. you blink. you breathe.

you’re starting to sober up. enough to feel the cracks again. enough for the ache to come back clearer than before — and when the gps chimes that you’re ten minutes away from your dorm, something inside you finally breaks.

“i hate you.” you whisper, eyes still on the road ahead.

his brow twitches, and he casts you a quick, startled glance, “what?”

you turn your head now, shoulders squaring toward him, the last drops of alcohol giving you courage, or maybe just stripping your fear down to its bare, shaking bones.

“i said, i hate you.”

maybe you say it because it’s real. maybe you wanted to get a reaction out of him. something. anything.

“okay,” he says, soft and resigned. like he’s letting you go without even trying to hold on. like he knew this was coming, “you’re drunk.

“i’m not that drunk,” you snap.

he continues focusing on the road. jaw tight.

“i hate your stupid face,” you go on, voice low but steady, “i hate your stupid little moles,” you take a breath, “i hate when you laugh without me.”

a pause. he wonders if you could hear the way his heart is thudding in his chest.

“i hate how you asked me to be friends again just to ignore me. i hate the way you act like nothing has happened between us.”

you pause. your chest tight. your throat is burning.

“i hate the way you look at me like you want to say something, but you won’t. i hate the way you leave me guessing, doubting, wondering if any of this is real.”

he doesn’t say a word. just silence so loud it echoes. you stare at him, heart pounding. you don’t cry. you just tell the truth, finally.

“i hate the way you make me feel,” you whisper, “i hate the way it’s so easy for me to fall for you.”

the words hang in the air, awful and honest. you feel them leave your mouth and you can’t take it back. he doesn’t pull over right away. but his jaw locks. his throat bobs with a swallow. and then he takes the next left, turns into a side street, dark and quiet, far from the dorms. no one’s around. just the sound of your breath and his. he parks the car and the silence rushes in. it’s deafening. the kind that drowns out everything else. it’s thick with all the things you’ve never said, with every unfinished sentence and swallowed apology.

then he turns toward you, eyes wide and raw, like he’s been trying to hold something in for so long it’s starting to hurt. like your words have cracked something open in him that he can’t put back.

“don’t.” he says, barely a whisper. “don’t say that. not when you don’t mean it.”

but you don’t look away, “i do mean it.”

and for a second, neither of you speak. neither of you move. it’s all there between you. the longing, the ache, the silence that always meant more — and you’ve filled it up. you’ve cracked the quiet open and poured the truth inside it.

now there’s nothing left to hide behind. you see it. the wreckage in him. the war. the part of him that wants to reach for you. and the part of him terrified that if he does, you’ll disappear.

he exhales, slowly and shaky, like he’s trying to steady himself on the edge of something steep, “i didn’t think you felt it,” he murmurs, voice rough like it’s been scraped raw from the inside, “i kept telling myself you wouldn’t. that you couldn’t.”

you stay quiet, letting him unravel. he laughs then, a broken little sound, hollow and helpless, “i told myself if i just kept my distance, if i just waited long enough… whatever i was feeling would die out. that i’d get over it. that i won’t ruin our friendship again.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he looks straight ahead, like the truth will hurt less if he doesn’t have to see your face when he says it out loud.

“but it didn’t,” he whispered, “it just got worse.”

the confession spills out now, uncontained. he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t try to anymore.

“you were everywhere. in my phone, in my stupid dreams, in every fucking song. and i hated that i couldn’t shake you,” he turns to look at you then, finally. his eyes are glassy, dark and tired. no walls left.

“i tried to be your friend,” he says desperately, “i tried so fucking hard. but every time you smiled at me, it felt like i was falling, every time you laughed, i wanted more and every time i felt you next to me, it’s like i couldn’t control myself.”

your breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop.

“i don’t want to be your friend.”

he looks at you. eyes quickly darting down your lips.

“im in love with you.” he lets the words settle in the air and then he adds, “and i want you in a way that friends shouldn’t. i always have.”

the words fall between you like a match dropped on gasoline. hot and sudden and irreversible.

“i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t wreck me,” he adds, voice low, “that you don’t wreck me.”

you don’t move. you just look at him. and in his eyes, you see it all. the quiet desperation, the resentment at himself for still loving you, the hope he keeps trying to kill. the truth sits heavy in your chest, rising fast, threatening to drown you. but you don't back away from it now. you don’t want to. because you know that you wreck him the same way he wrecks you.

you don’t remember moving. just the heat in your chest, the ache behind your ribs, the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. one second, you’re sitting there, breath shallow, heart torn wide open. the next, your hand is on his jaw, guiding his face toward yours and his mouth is crashing into yours. the rawness in the way he kissed you like he was trying to erase every second of space that has ever existed between you.

it’s not soft. it’s not tentative. it’s months of denial, weeks of tension and years of everything left unsaid, finally snapping all at once. and he kisses you like he’s drowning in it. his hands tangle in your hair, bringing you impossibly closer, “fuck, you’re a dream,” he manages to say in between kisses.

you kiss him harder to prove that you weren’t. that you were here and real and his for the taking. his hands are on your thighs, pushing your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your waist like he can’t get it out of the way fast enough. you scramble into his lap, straddling him in the driver's seat, your knees bracketing his hips, your breath already coming in fast.

he groans against your mouth, hot and frantic and trembling slightly. you break the kiss to breathe, but it’s useless, he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “just once. say it, and i will.”

your soaked panties brush against the bulge in his jeans and he groans, deep and guttural. you shake your head, lips brushing his “don't tell me you’re gonna go soft on me just because we’re in love now.”

he pulls back slightly, stunned, like he can’t believe what he just heard, “we?”

you give him a soft, unguarded smile, “yes, hyuck. i’m in love with you too.”

that’s all it takes. the look in his eyes changes — burning hotter. darker. his mouth is on your throat, kissing a trail down to your collarbone, hands everywhere, under your dress, against your skin, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. the space is cramped, bodies tangled, breath fogging up the windows, but you don’t care about anything except the way his hands feel on your bare skin, the way he groans when your fingers thread into his hair and pull just a little, the way his hips arch up into yours like he’s come undone.

“you think love means soft?” he rasps, voice shredded, “you think i don’t still want to fuck you like i’ve been starving?”

his hands slide up under your dress, dragging your panties down to your thighs. he leans you back, your spine meeting the steering wheel. it’s a little awkward, a little painful, but it vanishes the moment his fingers slip between your folds.

“god, look at you,” he pants against your mouth, dragging two fingers through your folds. “you’re fucking soaked for me, princess”

you moan when he presses in, one finger at first, rough and fast, no buildup, the feel of his cool rings against your cunt making you jerk in his lap, head thrown back against the roof, thighs already quaking.

“not soft,” he growls into your skin, “not even close.”

“shut up and—fuck—fuck me already,” you moan, hips chasing the rhythm of his finger.

“no,” he snaps, a smirk on his lips, “not until i make you come on my fingers,” he groans, and then he starts really working you open. inserting another digit, angling it just right, fucking into you like he knows exactly where to go, exactly how to ruin you. his palm grinds against your clit in tight, mean circles, and it’s so much, so fast, your knees buckle on either side of him, moans of his name filling the night air, and he has to hold you down with one arm wrapped around your waist.

“you can take it, right?” he hisses, fucking you faster, “don’t tell me you’re gonna break on me now.”

“i won’t,” you whine, “i won’t, hyuck, d-don’t stop,” you beg. his cock twitching in his pants at the mere sound of his name on your lips — all needy and desperate and his. he curls his fingers harder, presses deeper, and the filthy sounds of your wetness fill the car like music to his ears. your dress is hitched around your hips, tits threatening to spill out of the neckline, and you’re so far gone you’re grinding down on his hand like you need it to survive.

“you look so fucking pretty like this,” he growls, thumb swiping across your clit like he’s trying to rip the orgasm out of you, “fucking yourself on my hand, begging for it.”

you gasp, legs trembling, feeling yourself start to come apart. and he’s obsessed with how you clench around him, how your moans go sharp and high and desperate.

“that’s it princess,” he pants, watching you with hooded eyes as you get lost in the pleasure, “let go for me.” you do. you come hard, panting, shaking in his lap as his fingers keep coaxing you through it, soaking his palm as you cry out against his shoulder, nails digging into his biceps.

he doesn’t stop right away. only after your legs go limp, after you push his hand away, after you twitch around him too much to handle another second. then, only then does he pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and brings them to his mouth, “tastes like fucking heaven,” he groans, licking them clean like it’s nothing.

“now ride me and take what’s yours, princess,” he grunts in your ear. you’re still panting, legs shaking, but your hands move on instinct, unzipping his jeans, pulling him out. he grabs his wallet, pulling out a small foil wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth and rolling it on with practiced urgency.

the second he’s ready, he drags the blunt head of his cock through your folds, slowly. sending goosebumps throughout your body. you can’t take another second of teasing. you grab the base of his cock, making him grunt in response. then you align him in your entrance and finally sink down, both of you breaking at the feeling.

“ahh, fuck,” he hisses, forehead thudding back against the seat. his hands grip your thighs so tight it borders on bruising, “you’re so fucking tight.”

you don’t give him time to catch his breath. you rise up and drop down again, harder this time. again. and again. the rhythm fast, desperate, almost punishing. the windows fog instantly. your dress is hitched up to your hips, sweat slick on your skin, your shared moans echoing through the small space as you bounce in his lap, riding him hard and reckless, the console digging into your spine with every movement.

“god, you feel so fucking good,” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair. he yanks your neckline lower, finally letting your tits bounce out of your dress and his mouth is on them in an instant licking, biting, sucking like he wants to mark you up just so everyone knows you’re his.

“i never fucking stopped wanting you,” he growls against your sensitive nipple, “couldn’t sleep. couldn’t think. and now, fuck, you’re mine. you hear me?”

you grind harder, drunk on it now, his voice, the feel of him buried deep inside you, stretching you open, ruining you in the best way, “yes,” you moan, head tipped back, “yours hyuck, a-all yours.”

the car rocks. the wheel presses against your back. your thighs burn, vision blurring. his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in to your thighs as he holds you up before fucking up into you with a speed that steals all the air from your lungs, each thrust ruining you as your legs shake in his grip and you practically scream.

“come for me,” he pants heavily, sweat dripping down his temple, “come on my cock, princess, come and let me feel it.”

you can’t do anything else but respond to him, tightening around him, crying out as your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. he follows right after, hips jerking, his hold on you loosens and you sink completely into his cock, a whiny moan escaping his lips as he empties into the condom, eyes squeezed shut, completely undone.

everything goes still. your breathing. his hands. the spinning inside your chest. you collapse against him, dress still bunched at your waist, tits on his chest, your forehead pressed to his neck, both of you wrecked and panting and clinging to each other.

haechan strokes your spine absently, soft and gentle, “you okay?” he murmurs, voice raw and hoarse, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder. you nod into him. neither of you moves. then he says it, soft and tentative, “come home with me tonight,” he whispers, not ready for the night to end.

♕

his room smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and he’s kissing you again, slower this time, more like he’s savoring it. like he has all night. because he does. he lays you down on his bed, undresses you piece by piece, there’s none of that urgent need from earlier. just worship. mouth littering kisses all over your skin. hands skating over your hips like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.

you feel him all over again like it’s the first time. body moving together like it’s a dance you’ve always known. you let yourself fall under him. let yourself whimper when his hand slips between your thighs, let yourself pull him in close and kiss him breathless until the two of you reach that addicting high that you can’t seem to get enough of.

and later, when he’s spooning you under the sheets, arms tight around your waist and his mouth pressed to your shoulder, he mumbles, “you know i’m crazy about you, right?”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut, “yeah, i know.”

when morning comes — you wake up alone. the warmth on the other side of the bed is gone, the sheets cooling. for a second, the room feels too quiet. your heart stutters, mind already racing with the outcome that he left.

you sit up, breath caught in your throat, but before you could wallow in the pity, the door creaks open, and there he is — tray in hand, hair still messy, sweatpants barely hanging on, wearing the exact kind of cocky grin that would usually drive you insane, except you’re too relieved to feel anything but full.

“breakfast for my one and only princess,” he says, voice obnoxiously proud. you blink at him, and it must be written all over your face, because his grin falters a little.

“hey,” he says, voice softening, as he places the tray carefully on the foot of the bed, taking a seat next to you, “you okay?”

you pull the covers up around you, shrug a little, “i just didn’t like waking up without you,” you admit, soft and quiet, almost afraid to be this honest, “i thought you left.”

a flicker of guilt passes behind his eyes, a tiny “oh,” slipping from his lips. the moment is soft, vulnerable, for two people who always dance around the other. you laugh a little under your breath, trying to shake it off, “stupid, i know, i mean, it’s you. you made it pretty clear you’re into me.”

“princess,” he says gently, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his side, “it’s not stupid, i should’ve left a note or something.”

“what? ‘gone to make eggs, don’t spiral’?,” you say, realizing how dumb it sounded.

“exactly,” he deadpans, and you both laugh.

he brushes a strand of your hair away, more careful now, “we should probably work on being better at communicating, huh?”

“yeah,” you nod, forehead bumping his, “would’ve saved us, like… years of misery.”

he groans, dramatic this time, “don’t remind me, i was so annoying.”

“you’re still annoying,” you say sweetly, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation, making you squeal.

but when the laughter fades, his voice stays low, that quiet sincerity returning “i’m not gonna disappear, okay?”

you nod, “okay.”

“and i love you,” he says, gentler this time, no hesitation. just pure, stupid, real love.

your smile softens, “i love you too,” you say, leaning over to kiss him, not caring about morning breath or bedhead or the toast that’s probably getting cold.

he pulls away, breathless, a grin evident on his face, “the breakfast is gonna have to wait now,” he whispers in your ear.

you raise an eyebrow, “why?”

he leans in, voice low and warm in your ear, “because i’m hard again,” and you burst out laughing, “you’re insane.”

“insanely into my girlfriend,” he smirks, already kissing along your jaw. and you let him. because you’re his and he’s yours and it’s finally, finally, simple.

ཐིཋྀ tech week

it’s disgusting. absolutely, positively disgusting. at least, that’s the general consensus among the rest of the cast. just last month, people couldn’t stand being around the two of you because of how often you fought. every rehearsal a battleground, every interaction laced with venom.

but now? you’ve entered your full blown, pda-plagued, heart-eyes, can’t-stop-touching-each-other in-love era.

now, it’s kisses behind curtains, giggling into each other’s mouths between lighting cues, forehead touches during water breaks, fingers constantly linked even while you’re being given notes. and they don’t know what’s worse.

yeonjun throws a prop sword down dramatically, “i miss when you two hated each other, at least we had peace.”

“you’re just mad no one kisses you in between takes,” haechan fires back, smug, arm slung over your shoulder while you’re giggling into his hoodie.

someone on the crew threatens to hang a “no pda backstage,” sign after catching the two of you in a heated make out session.

but the real problem? the two of you are unstoppable.

even your arguments, and yes, you still argue, don’t last more than five minutes. you’ll bicker about stage directions or costume adjustments or whether haechan needs to dramatically fall to his knees when romeo sees juliet “dead,” and five minutes later he’ll be kissing you against a dressing room door whispering, “you’re hot when you're mad” against your lips.

and while the cast is absolutely suffering through your honeymoon phase – mr. doyoung is thriving. he walked into every rehearsal of this week with stars in his eyes, clapping wildly as you and haechan nail your death scene again. so in sync. so devastating. so tender you can feel every raw emotion behind the lines.

because now when haechan calls you “juliet,” it comes out breathless. now when you say, “my only love sprung from my only hate,” your voice cracks for real.

“do you SEE this chemistry?!,” mr. doyoung once cried, pointing dramatically at the stage, “this! this is art! this is why i casted you two!.” he might have even teared up once during the balcony scene. no one’s confirmed it but no one’s denying it either.

you and haechan just grin like idiots through it all. and when rehearsals wrap for the night, he always kisses you soft and slow and says, “can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.”

you roll your eyes, pretend it’s annoying, but you never pull away.

ཐིཋྀ opening night

the energy backstage is electric, nerves buzzing like static in the air, costumes perfectly pressed, everyone running through the lines they already know by heart. the theater is full. the lights are hot. mr. doyoung is pacing with a clipboard and thinly veiled tears in his eyes, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

and you’re doing your opening night ritual – little handwritten letters, folded neatly, handed to each castmate and crew member like clockwork. it’s your thing. everyone knows it. something encouraging, something kind, something just sentimental enough to make people emotional right before they have to go on stage.

you hand one to ningning, who clutches it to her chest and says dramatically, “i’m framing this.” soobin reads his and calls you a menace for making him tear up right before the show. yujin hugs you tightly, muttering something about how she’s so happy she gets to do this with her best friend too.

haechan watches from a distance as you make your rounds. he’s trying to play it cool, arms crossed, leaning against a wall in his stupidly perfect costume, lips pressed together in a barely there smirk. but underneath he’s a little tense. not that he’d ever admit it — it’s been years since he got one of your letters. not since high school. but now, with you officially his girlfriend and practically glowing as you move through the cast, he cant help but wonder, did you write him one?

he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t want to look needy. but his eyes follow you everywhere. and finally, you approach him, holding a single remaining envelope.

you stop in front of him, one brow raised, playing innocent, “oh, looks like i have one more.”

he stares at you, slow and suspicious, “you’re unbelievable.” you just grin, sliding the note into his hand. he opens it. the handwriting is unmistakably yours – familiar and clean, like a secret only he gets to keep:

what do we say when we say juliet? romeo!

every moment with you is like a scene in a movie. going through my head now is the climax. the words i practiced thousands of times as if they were scripted – you are the protagonist of my life. i want to keep you forever. no one can fill your place…you’re irreplaceable.

p.s. you look so hot as romeo, i, too would have left my family just to feel your lips.

p.p.s romeo take me somewhere we can be alone? ;)

for a second, he forgets how to breathe. love coils tightly in his chest, but so does something hotter, something heady and electric. his eyes flick to the last line, and then to you. you’re already walking away, over your shoulder, you toss him a wink. and he nearly chokes on air.

“why would you add that last part?” he hisses, catching up, voice low and wrecked. his eyes are blown wide, desperate, like you’ve lit a fuse inside him, “i just want to fuck you so bad you won’t be able to walk on stage.”

you burst out laughing, smacking his chest, “focus, romeo,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he groans like he’s being tortured, yet his mouth curves upwards into a smile anyway.

and somehow, he makes it through the show — when the lights go up and the crowd goes quiet, you step into juliet’s shoes like you were born to wear them. haechan’s romeo is every bit as dramatic and devastating and alive as he should be. the balcony scene is breathtaking. the fights are insane. the kiss before he dies draws a gasp from the crowd. by the time the final scene ends, with you sobbing over him, your voice cracking on your last words, there’s a pause…then thunderous applause, the crowd roared, standing ovation, flowers tossed on stage, some people are crying. mr. doyoung is definitely part of some people.

but as soon as the curtain closes. haechan is dragging you by the hand through the backstage chaos, ignoring the cheers, the calls, the cast photo attempts.

his grip is firm, focused and needy. you barely have time to ask where you’re going before he yanks open the door to the rehearsal room in the back and pulls you in. the door slams shut. it’s just the two of you. again. in the same, tiny, dusty room where everything shifted.

and his mouth is already on yours, “i can’t believe you wrote that in the letter,” he groans into your mouth, lifting you like it’s muscle memory, “you’re evil. you knew what you were doing.”

you gasp between kisses, clinging to his shoulder, “i don’t know what you mean,” you say innocently.

he rolls his eyes, “i’ve been hard since act i,” he kisses you like he’s starved, like the show was one long tease, every kiss on stage edging him on, every touch of juliet’s hand killing him and now he finally gets to be rewarded.

he spins and sets you down, not on the chair, not on the table — on his thigh. you blink and he grins, cocky and hungry and impossibly hot in the dim light, “you never rode this one,” he murmurs, low and sinful, hands sliding up your thighs under the skirts of juliet’s gown, “thought we’d fix that.”

the breath catches in your throat. his thigh is solid beneath you, strong and flexing, already pressed perfectly against where you need him the most. the second you move, just a little, the pressure makes your whole body jolt. and he feels it.

“fuck,” he hisses, watching you closely, an amused smirk on his lips, hands gripping your hip, “you are so into this.”

you glare at him, but your hips twitch forward again anyway. the friction is delicious. the fabric of your panties drag just right. his thigh tenses beneath you on purpose.

“you gonna come for me like this, princess?,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw, “gonna mess up your pretty little costume riding my thigh like a desperate girl?,” you gasp, gripping his shoulders for balance, body rocking on instinct now, chasing that pressure, that heat, that release.

“f-feels so good hyuckie,” you moan as he watches, transfixed, pupils blown out, jaw tight, chest rising with every shaky breath you take.

“i could watch you forever,” he groans, “no one else ever gets to see you like this, you know that, right?”

you nod helplessly. completely lost in the pressure that was building in your stomach. and when you finally come, sudden and hot and hard, he groans at the way your whole body tenses, how your thighs shake, how your lips part in a silent moan right against his mouth, your eyes shut.

you collapse against him, but he’s not done, “think you can take me now?”, he asks, voice thick with lust, already untying the back of your costume. you look up at him, dazed, hair a mess, breath shallow and nod like there’s nothing else in the world.

he kisses you again, already sliding the skirt up your hips, making you his all over again.

𓏲 the end.

-

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: hyuck x princess coded -> video one, video two, video three, video four

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an: HAPPY DONGHYUCK DAY! 🧸🌻 this is one of my gifts for you all today (you’re still getting a birthday blurb, wink wink) i really wanted to finish this in time for haechan day and i can’t believe i actually did. but holy shit guys! we’re halfway done with this series i did not expect to get this far if im being completely honest. thank you all so much for all the love, you don’t know how happy and excited you all make me. i hope you loved haechan and princess too! i think this couple was the most fun to write and i also think they finally beat jaemin x angel as my favorite confession scene so far hehe (don’t tell jaemin!)… as always, thank you for reading! <3

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there were exactly a thousand guests in attendance tonight. family, friends, business partners, celebrities, investors, socialites, industry executives from every corner of asia, people whose names appear in magazines and headlines and billion-dollar reports. the ballroom itself looked almost unreal – dripping crystals suspended from the ceiling, white roses woven into towering arrangements, soft gold lighting reflecting against polished marble floors. every detail had been curated to perfection. fitting for the wedding of the heirs to two of the most influential beauty empires in the country.

“we have been waiting for this union for years now,” mrs. zhong continues, and somehow every person in the room hangs onto each word she says. she has always had that effect on people.

“my one and only son, chenle…i am very happy and excited as you take on this next chapter,” her eyes land on him briefly, full of pride, “i know you will be extraordinary, as you are in everything you do.”

a wave of soft applause spreads through the room. chenle beside you gives a polite nod, composed as ever. 

then her attention shifts entirely to you.

“and of course, my beautiful daughter in law, y/n zhong…,” the warmth in her voice softens you completely. the last name making your heart flutter. you don't know if you'll ever get used to hearing it.

“i’ve always wanted you as my real daughter,” she says with a small smile painted in her signature crimson lipstick,  “and now i can finally say you are.”

your chest tightens in the best way possible. you smile back before you can even think about it, eyes sparkling beneath the lights as emotion swells quietly inside you. because unlike the cameras and contracts and business articles surrounding this marriage…this part felt real. 

lili zhong was someone you had admired long before you ever understood what admiration truly was. 

you can remember it as if it was yesterday – being seven years old inside the towering headquarters of zhong cosmetics, your tiny dress shoes squeaking against the floors as you and chenle ran through the halls without a care in the world. the building had felt gigantic back then, less like a corporate empire and more like your personal playground. you remembered hiding beneath reception desks with chenle while assistants searched for the two of you in panic. remembered spinning around in leather office chairs worth more than most people’s rent. remembered sneaking into empty conference rooms just to press random buttons on expensive remotes.

and then lili zhong walked out.

and the entire atmosphere shifted the moment she appeared. not much different from how it is now. employees straightened immediately. conversations stopped mid-sentence. people moved aside for her without being told to. she carried herself with grace and effortless authority, shoulders back, chin lifted slightly, heels clicking sharply against the floor like a metronome everyone unconsciously followed. but what fascinated you most wasn’t the fear or respect she commanded. it was how composed she looked doing it. 

you remembered watching from next to chenle as she reapplied her lipstick using the reflection of a glass wall, precise and graceful like second nature. one smooth swipe of red. cap clicked shut. then immediately back to discussing quarterly projections as if perfection came as easily as breathing. prim. proper. poised. she was untouchable. and you had been completely mesmerized. 

from that moment on, you’d wanted to become the kind of woman lili zhong was – respected, strong, confident – the type of woman who could walk into a room and have the world rearrange itself around her. and now, standing beneath thousands of glittering lights with the zhong diamond resting heavily on your left ring finger and her son beside you, you suddenly wondered if this was the closest you had ever come to becoming her. 

“i wish you both a fruitful marriage,” she says with a subtle wink in your direction, a wave of laughter spreading softly through the ballroom. your face warms instantly because everyone here understands exactly what she means. not just the merger between zhong cosmetics and yü skincare. not just the billions this marriage would bring. not just the headlines already flooding social media tonight.

but heirs too. children with the zhong name. future successors beautiful enough to belong on campaign billboards before they could even walk.

“may it always be filled with prosperity and success,” mrs. zhong continues, lifting her glass slightly, “and may the two of you continue bringing honor to our families and our companies.”

camera flashes explode around the room like lightning. you can already imagine tomorrow’s articles.

THE GOLDEN COUPLE OF BEAUTY

CHINA’S MOST POWERFUL MARRIAGE!

LOVE, LUXURY, AND LEGACY.

“this country has not seen such a beautiful couple before.”

the applause is immediate. a thousand guests rise to the toast without hesitation, crystal glasses lifting beneath the chandelier light. from the stage, the entire ballroom looked dipped in gold. 

“to mr. and mrs. zhong.”

“to mr. and mrs. zhong!,” the crowd echos. 

you lift your champagne glass with a smile so genuine it almost hurts. because despite everything, despite the pressure and expectations and business contracts hidden beneath layers of silk and diamonds – you were happy. maybe pathetically so. 

you have loved zhong chenle for most of your life. 

before the magazines started calling him the future of luxury cosmetics. before investors nicknamed the two of you the golden couple. before marriage turned into obligation instead of possibility.

and there was a time, too. a time when chenle used to reach for your hand first. a time where the two of you spent entire afternoons running through corporate buildings while your parents attended meetings. a time where he’d steal your desserts at dinners and complain when other boys talked to you at events. a time where marriage jokes from your families made both of you groan dramatically before dissolving into laughter. 

back then, it had felt harmless. like something far away. until you both turned eighteen. when meetings became serious. when contracts replaced teasing. when your families stopped asking and started deciding. 

that was when everything changed. 

because every time chenle looked at you after that, it was no longer with warmth – it was resentment.

you became the physical reminder of every choice he would never get to make for himself. the life he would never get to live. the love he would never get to experience freely. 

somehow, the public never noticed. that was the worst part – chenle was terrifyingly good at pretending. like right now, with one hand resting against the small of your back, he looked every bit like the devoted husband he wanted the media to believe him to be. calm smile. soft gaze. protective touch. 

the perfect heir beside his perfect wife. 

and the cameras adored him for it – “mr. zhong, look here!” “mr. zhong, one more picture with your wife!” “you two are stunning together!” 

his fingers flex lightly against your waist as another round of flashes goes off, and anyone watching would think the gesture is affectionate. loving, even. but you know chenle well enough to recognize performance from sincerity. his hand only ever lingers when people are watching. once they turn away, he lets go like touching you burns. 

still, your heart betrays you. every. single. time. because some part of you still remembers the boy before all of this. the boy who used to grin at you with missing front teeth and tell everyone you were his favorite person in the world. 

the boy you always pictured on this day.

“i can’t wait for this to be over,” chenle murmurs beside you, barely moving his lips. to everyone else, it probably looked like he was whispering sweet nothings into your ear. 

“perfect!,” someone gushes behind a camera, “they look crazy in love.”

the irony nearly makes you laugh. 

chenle turns toward you then, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with such practiced tenderness that several people nearby audibly swoon. you hate how your stomach flips. 

he’s beautiful at pretending to love you. 

sometimes beautiful enough that you can almost pretend with him. 

the reception continues in a blur of diamonds, champagne and endless congratulations. one by one, some of the most influential people in the country approach your table to greet the two of you personally, every gift placed before you looking absurdly expensive. 

chenle smiles effortlessly but if someone looked closely enough, they would notice you speaking far more than he was, carrying conversations, thanking guests, asking about their families and businesses with perfectly timed warmth. prim. proper. poised. you had learned from the best. every time chenle’s expression dulled slightly, you stepped in before anyone could question it. when his attention drifted you redirected conversations smoothly. when his smiles became visibly strained, you compensated with your own brightness. and you’re convinced no one notices his lack of sincerity. or maybe they do and simply choose not to acknowledge it. because appearances mattered more than truth in a room like this. 

“you two truly are perfect together,” an older woman sighs while admiring the two of you, “just look at how attentive your husband is.”

“he always takes good care of me,” you reply quickly, smile never faltering, the lie sliding off your tongue so naturally it almost scares you. chenle glances at you briefly after that comment. you can’t tell if he’s irritated or grateful. perhaps both. 

minutes pass like that. more smiles. more photos. more toasts. more champagne. your cheeks begin aching from smiling so much but you endure it anyway. this was your wedding day. everything is supposed to be perfect. until–

“excuse me,” chenle suddenly says beside you after another round of greetings, “i need to use the restroom.”

you immediately nod before anyone else can react, “of course.”

one of the investors chuckles knowingly, “already escaping from married life, mr. zhong?”

a ripple of laughter follows. chenle gives them a charming grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, “just five minutes. i'll be right back.” he leaves with calm steps, posture still immaculate beneath his suit. you continue smiling after he disappears into the crowd. 

five minutes pass. then ten. then twenty. people begin noticing. 

“where’s your husband?” someone asks casually. 

you let out a soft laugh, “probably being dragged into another business deal somewhere.” they laugh with you easily. and you cover for him again. and again. and again. 

by the thirty-minute mark, you can practically feel whispers beginning to bloom around the ballroom like perfume in the air. so you straighten your spine further, lift your chin slightly, and you smile brighter. if chenle was going to disappear from his own wedding reception, then you would make sure no one noticed the crack forming underneath the surface. you continue greeting guests alone, accepting congratulations with elegance polished into your bones. 

mrs. zhong watches you from across the ballroom, sharp eyes lingering knowingly on your solitary figure. she says nothing. because she knows her son. how loud his resentment has been years,  months, weeks building into this. but she also knows you. and she trusts you’ll be perfectly fine. that’s why she chose you for her son anyway.

chenle finally returns before he hit the forty-minute mark. your eyes find him immediately across the ballroom. his tie is slightly loosened now, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to catch instantly. his expression remains composed. but the second he reaches your side – you smell it. whiskey. strong enough to linger beneath his cologne. 

and truthfully? you don’t really mind. chenle was always easier when he drank. looser around the edges. less cold. less careful about keeping distance between the two of you. sometimes…he even looked at you like he used to.

and after disappearing for almost forty minutes, he was going to have to sell this act twice as hard. 

“there you are,” you say smoothly as another cluster of guests approaches the two of you. before you can even fully turn toward them, chenle’s hand settles against your waist. firm. far more natural than earlier. 

“sorry,” he says quietly near your ear, voice lower now, slightly roughened by alcohol, “got cornered.”

you hum in acknowledgement, not bothering to call him out. he was lying, obviously. but this version of chenle was infinitely more tolerable than the sober one who treated your marriage like a prison sentence. 

“mr. and mrs. zhong!” another investor greets excitedly, approaching with his wife beside him, “we were just saying you two look unbelievable together tonight.”

normally, chenle would give a polite smile, a practiced nod, maybe rest his hand on your back for exactly five seconds before pulling away. instead, he pulls you closer. 

“thank you,” he says easily, “my wife makes it difficult not to stare.”

your breath nearly catches. it was the first time he’d call you that. his wife. and you hate how much you loved hearing it. 

the investor’s wife practically melts on the spot, “oh, he adores you.”

you knew that couldn’t be further from the truth. chenle’s just performing harder now. making up for lost time. and annoyingly enough, he’s very good at it. throughout the next hour, he barely left your side. and you’d be lying if you said it didn't affect you. drunk chenle was dangerously convincing. this version of him looked softer around the edges, dark eyes warmer beneath the ballroom lights. he smiled more. touched you more. occasionally leaned close enough that his shoulder brushed yours naturally instead of mechanically. like right now-

“you’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs quietly, only for you to hear. 

“what thing?”

“over-smiling,” his lips twitch faintly, “your cheeks are probably hurting.”

the fact he noticed at all sends something uncomfortable fluttering through your chest. 

“i’m fine.”

“mhm,” his pointer finger lightly grazes your cheekbone, soft and careful, “liar.”

your heart stumbles embarrassingly fast. you hate that alcohol makes him kinder. or maybe not kinder. just more honest with his attention. 

another camera flash bursts in front of you both. another perfect photo for the headlines tomorrow. you wonder if anyone would still call the two of you the golden couple if they knew chenle only touched you this much after drinking enough whiskey to blur the resentment out of him.

you enjoyed the rest of the wedding reception. or maybe endured was the more accurate word. either way, you played the role of the perfect wife flawlessly. enough to fool an entire ballroom full of billionaires. by the time the reception finally ended, your cheeks ached from smiling and your feet hurt from hours in heels. 

still, there was a strange warmth sitting inside your chest because despite everything – you had married the boy you love. even if he no longer loved you back.

⚜️ THE MARRIED LIFE ⚜️

the drive home is quiet. chenle sits beside you, his gaze lost outside the window. he doesn’t look at you once. the alcohol from earlier seems to have worn off already. funny how quickly the warmth disappeared from him too. 

eventually, the gates to the mansion slid open. your mansion now. your home for the rest of your life. the estate stood enormous against the night sky, lights glowing warmly throughout the property. it was less of a house and more of a private villa, complete with a fountain in the middle, sprawling gardens, balconies overlooking the endless green landscape, rooms neither of you would probably ever step foot in. beautiful but cold.

the car comes to a stop and before the driver can even fully open the door, chenle steps out first. you follow shortly after, one of the maids helping you with your dress as you stepped inside the mansion. the grand foyer stretches high above both of you, chandelier light reflecting against polished floors. 

chenle was already halfway up the left staircase. “night,” he finally says. flat. automatic. not even turning around. like the two of you didn’t just celebrate a once in a lifetime event people dream of. 

he disappears down the left wing leading to his bedroom without another word. you stare after him for a moment before quietly turning toward the opposite staircase. right side. your side. your room.  

lili zhong had arranged this mansion for the two of you a month before the wedding, insisting that it would help ease the transition. she genuinely believed that if the two of you lived together beforehand, chenle would eventually come around, that proximity would soften him, that he’d remembered the closeness you once had. you remembered how hopeful she sounded while showing you around the estate.

“give him time,” she had told you gently, “chenle’s stubborn, but he’s a good boy.”

you wanted to believe her. you really did. so for a month before the wedding - you tried. you asked him about work. about basketball games you knew he loved. about the restaurants you knew he liked. you sat beside him even when he barely acknowledged you were there. you tried being patient. understanding. gentle. it didn’t work. and in the end, your efforts never mattered anyway. because whether chenle liked it or not, the wedding was always going to happen. 

now that it had, the distance between you felt even larger. married yet sleeping in separate bedrooms like strangers forced under the same roof. it’s whatever, really. the mansion had far too many empty rooms anyway.

three months pass like that.

the routine becomes almost mechanical. you wake up separately. leave for work separately. return home separately. 

real conversations only happen at the office. meetings. sale projections. marketing campaigns. brand collaborations. like business partners instead of husband and wife. which, you probably should have expected. 

at home, chenle barely spares you a glance. he doesn’t sit beside you on the sofa. doesn’t ask about your day. doesn’t linger in rooms you enter. dinners are eaten across opposite ends of a table long enough to seat twenty people comfortably, silence filling the space where conversations should’ve been. sometimes the only sounds are the clink of silverware against plates and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

and at night, the lights still glow beneath two different bedrooms. you’ve never stepped into his this entire time. and he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what the colors of your walls were. sometimes you wonder if he stays awake as long as you do. 

one night, you walked into the living room to find him watching basketball. for the first time in weeks, he actually looked alive. completely relaxed against the couch, eyes fixed on the television while quietly reacting under his breath. stephen curry had just made an impossible three-point shot and chenle actually laughed softly, shaking his head with genuine enjoyment lighting his face. you had almost smiled seeing it. because it reminded you of the boy he used to be. then he noticed you standing there and immediately, everything disappeared. his posture straightened. his expression flattened. he watched the rest of the game in complete silence, pretending not to care when curry hit the game winning shot minutes later. pretending he hadn’t been enjoying himself at all before you arrived – that one hurt more than you expected. you realized then that your presence drained the life out of him. he physically could not relax around you anymore. 

so eventually – you stopped trying to fill the silence. stopped asking if he wanted dinner together. stopped lingering in shared spaces hoping he might speak first. 

if chenle wanted distance that badly, then fine. you would give it to him. even if the loneliness of this massive mansion swallowed you whole because of it. 

⚜️ THE OTHER WOMAN ⚜️

you couldn’t help it though. every night, no matter how much you told yourself to stop caring, you still waited for the sound of chenle’s bedroom door shutting. just to make sure he came home. 

some nights he came home early, footsteps echoing through the quiet mansion before midnight. other nights, he returned a little later, long after you were supposed to be asleep, the distant sound of his shoes against the floor enough to finally let the tightness in your chest loosen.

he never knew you waited. or maybe he did. either way, neither of you acknowledged it.

but tonight was different.

the grandfather clock in the foyer had already struck two a.m. nearly fifteen minutes ago, the sound heavy and hollow throughout the massive estate. 

chenle has never been out this late.

you glance toward the entrance again before lowering your gaze to the untouched cup of chamomile tea in your hands. it had gone cold almost an hour ago, when you first realize how late it was and your husband was nowhere to be heard. 

“did chenle say where he was going tonight?” you ask the maid standing nearby.

“no, mrs. zhong,” she answers carefully, “but he did call for the driver around twenty minutes ago, he should be making his way back.” 

and it’s ridiculous, really, how your maid knows more about your husband's whereabouts than you do. 

“okay,” you nod gently, setting the untouched tea aside, “go ahead and get some rest,” you offer her a smile despite the exhaustion sitting heavily behind your eyes, “i’ll wait up for him.”

“are you sure, mrs. zhong? i could wait instead.”

you wave her off, “it’s a wife’s duty to take care of her husband.” 

she smiles politely at your response, “okay mrs. zhong, i’ll be here when you need me.” 

“thank you,” you say genuinely. 

she bows her head slightly before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you alone with the silence again. the moment she’s gone, your smile fades. slowly, you rise from the sofa and make your way toward the grand staircase. more specifically  – the left staircase. chenle’s staircase. the one you never use.

the mansion had been designed almost absurdly symmetrical, splitting the house in two. like the house itself understood the distance between you. 

you settle onto the second step quietly, smoothing the fabric of your silk pajama dress beneath you, waiting for him to come home. your eyes drift across the foyer absentmindedly – the massive chandelier overhead, the single round table with the antique vase filled of flowers you didn’t even like, and the wedding portrait hanging near the entrance your mother-in-law gifted. it always made your chest ache a little. you looked so happy in it. chenle looked convincing.

you wonder if this is what arranged marriages are supposed to feel like. waiting around in silence for someone who never notices you waited at all. you lean your head lightly against the staircase railing. maybe he was working late. maybe he was drinking. maybe he didn’t want to come home anymore. the last possibility settles the heaviest. 

your mind drifts despite yourself, back toward the beginning. a time when chenle used to text you constantly whenever he went anywhere. texts that were as silly as:

look at this ugly dog i found

watch basketball with me, i have popcorn

and others, that always made you smile and your heart race:

just tried the new restaurant down the street from our favorite tea place. i have to bring you there..it will make you cry tears of joy.

i saw this dumpling plushie and it reminded me of you, so guess who has a new dumpling plushie

let’s go on trip this weekend, just me and you…already got the flight tickets 

my mom’s annoying me. come save me. please. 

where are you? i’m picking you up

you used to be the first person he looked for in every room. now you barely knew what was going on in that mind of his. a soft laugh escapes you suddenly, quiet and humorless. if the tabloids could see you now, they’ll realize just how easy it is to create fake gold.

another thirty minutes pass when headlights appear through the front windows. your body straightens instantly before you can stop yourself, heartbeat quickening embarrassingly fast. 

the front doors open moments later, chenle walking in. his tie hangs loose around his neck, dark hair slightly messy like someone has been running their fingers through it repeatedly. he smells faintly of alcohol, expensive cologne and perfume that definitely wasn’t yours. your stomach drops before you can even process it fully. it’s sweet, floral, feminine – not familiar. 

chenle freezes the second he notices you sitting on the staircase. for a brief moment, genuine surprise flashes across his face. 

“what are you doing up?” he asks, voice rough and tired. 

you force your expression to remain soft, normal, “waiting for you.”

something unreadable flickers in his eyes. guilt. maybe. or irritation. you can never tell with him anymore. whatever it is, it disappears almost instantly.

“go to bed, y/n,” he says with a sigh, already sounding exhausted by the conversation before it even begins. then he walks past you. just like that. and something inside you finally snaps. 

there were many things that you could let slide. chenle ignoring you. chenle barely speaking to you unless necessary. chenle looking at you with those cold eyes sharp enough to cut skin open. chenle hating you for a life neither of you truly chose. 

but this? coming home way past midnight smelling of alcohol and another woman’s perfume while wearing lipstick marks on his neck like he didn’t even care enough for you to hide them???

a wife could only take so much. 

you could only take so much. 

before you know it, you’re standing abruptly and following him up the staircase. his staircase. your slippers hit the marble harder with every step as anger burns hotter beneath your skin. he pushes open his bedroom door and you follow him inside immediately, shutting it sharply behind you, the sound echoing through the room.

it’s your first time entering his bedroom in the four months you’ve been married. that realization alone feels pathetic. it’s cleaner than you expected. dark walls. dark sheets. expensive furniture. floor to ceiling windows overlooking the green landscape, similar to yours. it looked less like the room of a married man and more like a luxury bachelor suite. nothing about it felt like there was space for you. 

“are you fucking cheating on me?!” you demand, voice coming out harsher than intended, anger cracking through the polished composure you spent years perfecting.

chenle groans immediately, dragging a hand through his hair before kicking his shoes off carelessly, “i don’t want to fucking talk about this right now.”

you ignore him completely, hurt and fury already boiling too violently inside your chest. 

“is this why you hate me so much?,” you ask, voice rising, “because you’re already in love with someone else?!”

that catches his attention instantly. his head snaps toward you so fast it almost startles you.

“what?”

you let out a bitter scoff, “oh my god, chenle!,” you gesture toward him angrily, “you have her scent all over you, there’s lipstick all over your neck–i’m not fucking stupid.”

your voice gets louder with every word. so much for grace. so much for being poised. right now you’re just angry. hurt. humiliated. 

chenle stares at you for a second before rubbing both hands down his face tiredly, “i’m not fucking in love with someone else,” he mutters. 

“then what the fuck is this?!”

silence stretches for half a second.

“i needed to get laid.”

chenle laughs once humorlessly, “if you haven’t noticed,” he says coldly, “i’ve basically been fucking abstinent for four months and i just…needed a release.”

it’s almost sickening how that makes you feel better. your anger doesn’t disappear but the crushing feeling in your chest eases slightly knowing there wasn’t some other woman holding his heart while you sat here playing the perfect wife. it was just sex. not love. 

you step closer before you can think better of it. chenle’s brows furrow slightly at the sudden closeness. 

“if you need to get your dick wet, you come to my room.” 

his expression changes instantly, genuine shock flashing across his face. you continue before he can interrupt. 

“no one else’s.”

your chest rises sharply with each breath.

“i’m your wife now, for fuck’s sake.”

chenle just stares at you like he genuinely doesn’t know what to say.

“i don’t care if this marriage was arranged for business,” you snap, “you do not get to cheat on me…again.”

that room falls silent after that. you can practically see the conflict moving behind chenle’s eyes now. because he hates this. all of it. the marriage. the expectations. the loss of freedom. but you can also tell he didn’t expect this reaction from you. didn’t expect you to claim your place beside him so bluntly. 

“besides,” you add bitterly, “we need to have a child eventually, as our parents love to remind me,” your laugh comes out hollow, “you’d be doing me a fucking service.”

irritation flickers in chenle’s face immediately. but you don’t stay long enough to examine it. you turn sharply and walk out before he can say anything else, your heartbeat pounding violently in your ears as you cross to your side of the mansion. 

⚜️ THE BEST FRIENDS ⚜️

the two of you never talk about that night again. it got buried beneath the same routine. work meetings. silent dinners. passing each other in hallways without speaking. but something had changed after that. because you opened a door that night. and whether or not chenle chose to knock was entirely up to him. 

it takes another month before he finally does. 

chenle can’t believe he’s actually considering this. he stands in his bedroom, staring at the half empty whiskey glass in his hand. this was insane. he was about to walk into your room and what? sleep with his wife? his best friend? except he’s not even sure that title still belongs to the two of you anymore. 

best friends didn’t look at each other the way he looks at you now – like you were both the wound and the knife that caused it. best friends didn’t spend five months barely speaking despite living under the same roof. best friends definitely didn’t resent each other enough to split a mansion into separate lives. 

chenle exhales sharply before taking another shot. not enough to get drunk, just enough for that liquid courage to settle into his bones, silencing the voice in his head that told him this was wrong and allowing himself to knock on your door.

he knows this is so hard to do because of him. he knows he’s been irrational. resenting you for decisions neither of you truly got to make. taking every ounce of frustration and grief and anger about his life and placing it onto your shoulders because it was easier to have someone to blame than to accept that this is his reality. 

and yet despite all of that – the only thing you had ever truly asked of him during this marriage was to not cheat on you…again. you could’ve demanded affection. attention. a real marriage. instead, you simply looked him in the eye and told him to come to you first. that memory hasn’t left his head since. 

another sigh escapes him before he sets the empty glass down and finally walks out of his room. the hallway separating your bedroom feels strangely longer tonight. every step making him question himself again. this was a terrible idea. he should turn around. go back to his room. pretend this impulse never happened. but fuck, he needs to get laid…right now. 

the knock startles you instantly. you glance up from your bed in confusion. it’s almost midnight. no one ever knocks this late and the maids only enter when called. for a second, you wonder if something’s wrong. 

slowly, you slip off the bed and walk toward the door, your silk, short pajama dress flowing around you. and there he is – standing in the hallway looking strangely tense beneath the dim lights.

for a moment, neither of you speaks. then chenle says flatly–

“i want to have sex.”

simple. direct. like he’s discussing a business proposal instead of standing outside his wife’s bedroom at midnight. your chest tightens painfully because somehow, even after everything, a part of you still hoped he’d come here for another reason. that maybe he missed you. maybe he couldn’t sleep either. maybe tonight, after months of silence, he finally wanted to talk to you like he used to.

but of course not. he wasn’t your chenle anymore. and this was your marriage - transactional. carefully detached. emotionally hollow.

“okay,” you answer softly after a second, stepping aside to let him in. 

chenle walks past you quietly, eyes scanning your room almost curiously. unlike his bedroom, yours actually looked live in. warmer lighting. books scattered across tables. skincare and makeup products lining the vanity. blankets thrown carelessly across the couch near the windows – and trinkets, gifts, specifically from him – scattered around different parts of the room. 

the dumpling plushie he got you when you were fifteen all because it reminded him of you.

the vintage camera on your shelf he bought behind your back when you were sixteen because you had mentioned once, only once, that you loved taking pictures because it made moments feel permanent. he remembers showing up the next day with your dream camera like it was nothing. “don’t say i never support your hobbies,” he teased. 

even those damn crybaby figurines he bought you when you were seventeen were lined carefully beside your bookshelf. every single one from the collection you obsessed over years ago. you had a frown on your face over not getting the rare one from a blind box once and chenle spent nearly two weeks secretly hunting every figurine down until your collection was complete. you used to tell him he was insane for it. he used to think seeing you happy made the effort worth it. 

suddenly the room feels suffocating. because there are pieces of him everywhere in here. small reminders scattered throughout your life of proof that before everything fell apart – chenle used to love you loudly. maybe not romantically. maybe not in the way you wanted. but enough to memorize the smallest things about you. enough to notice every passing comment and quietly turn it into something real. 

chenle rubs the back of his neck awkwardly before finally looking at you fully and for the first time in months – he doesn’t look angry when he does. if anything, he looks shaken. then he clears his throat.

“we don’t have to make this…” he pauses, brows furrowing slightly, “more than what it is.”

“okay,” the answer leaves your mouth too quickly. too easily. like you’ve already accepted that this was how it was always going to be. 

he nods, leading the way as he reaches for the buttons of his pajama shirt. you look away the second the fabric slips from his shoulder, the room suddenly feeling warmer. chenle drops his shirt onto the chair near your vanity while you remain frozen beside the bed, fingers nervously toying the hem of your pajama dress.

neither of you knows how to start this. that becomes painfully obvious almost immediately. there’s no romance here to guide the moment. no affection softening the edges. just tension and awkwardness. 

finally, because if you stand there any longer, you think your heart might actually burst through your ribs, you reach beneath the fabric of your dress. with shaky fingers, you hook the elastic of your underwear and slide them down your legs, stepping out of them and leaving it on the floor. you keep the pajama dress on through, the thin material clinging to your curves. 

the room goes still. chenle's eyes lift instinctively toward you, tracing the silhouette of your body before darting away almost immediately. and somehow that reaction hurts more than if he’d stared openly. because this feels like restraint. like guilt. like he is forcing himself not to want you.

you climb onto the bed quietly, trying desperately to appear calmer than you feel. 

“you can turn the lights off if you want,” you murmur softly. 

and maybe that was better. maybe if he couldn’t see you, he could pretend you were just another one of his one night stands. maybe the darkness would erase the history between you, leaving only the physical need. darkness settles over the room instantly, softened only by the lights outside filtering through the windows. 

chenle approaches the bed slowly afterward, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he climbs in beside you, leaving enough distance between your bodies. neither of you speaks. there’s nothing comforting to say. just the sound of breathing filling the dark room. 

then, he finally reaches for you. his hand settling against your waist, his palm warm against the thin fabric of your dress. he pulls you toward him and your breath catches immediately. and it’s sad, really, that despite the coldness, despite the hate, you’ve wanted this for years. you want him so badly it feels like a physical ache in your chest. 

you close your eyes as he shifts closer, the last fragile layer of distance between you finally disappearing. he doesn’t lift the dress, simply just bunching the fabric up around your waist, exposing your hips and thighs to the cool air. he doesn’t kiss you. he doesn’t whisper your name. he simply positions himself, his cock hard and pressing against your entrance…and he thrusts in. 

“fuck,” chenle groans under his breath, his hand gripping your waist harder instinctively, digging his fingers into your skin, “you’re so fucking tight.”

your breath catches painfully at the stretch, a sharp, searing pressure tearing through your center as your body struggles to accommodate the sudden intrusion. your fingers unconsciously claw into his biceps, gripping the hard muscle as a gasp of genuine pain escapes your lips. it hurts – more than you expected it to. there was no slow build up to soften any of this. no tender words whispered against your skin to ease the transition. this wasn’t lovemaking. 

for chenle, this is only a physical release, a way to drown out the noise of his own sadness and the crushing weight of his expectations. for you, it was simply duty. the possibility of giving both families the heir everyone expected from the moment your engagement was announced. just two emotionally exhausted people trying to fulfill a role they’d been pushed into years ago. 

chenle notices your pain immediately. you know he does because his movements stall, his body freezing inside you for a beat. in the dim light, you see his brows furrow, a flicker of something – hesitation, perhaps, or a ghost of the boy he used to be – crossing his features. he gives you a moment to adjust, his chest heaving against yours, but. neither of you say anything. 

what would even be the point? there are no sweet words to be exchanged here. no declarations of love. only uneven breathing filling the dark room and the occasional strained sound slipping from both of you despite yourselves. 

chenle keeps his eyes fixed downward, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think too hard about any of this. about you. about the way you feel wrapped around him. about what this act actually means for the two of you.

your fingers loosen from his arm eventually, your grip shifting to the silk sheets beneath you, bunching the fabric in your fists as the initial, blinding ache slowly dulls into a manageable throb. but as the physical pain recedes, a different kind of agony takes its place – one that is far more suffocating, your mind cruelly reminding you that this is the boy who used to hold your hand while crossing the street to make sure you were safe. the boy who bought you random gifts because they reminded him of you. the boy you had loved with a purity that now felt like a joke. and now, here you are, beneath him in a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. 

he doesn’t try to make it last. he doesn’t try to find your pleasure or bridge the emotional divide between you. he simply drives into you with a mechanical, rhythmic intensity, his movements devoid of affection.

he lasted six minutes before it was finally over. 

chenle curses softly under his breath as he paints your walls white. his forehead drops briefly near your shoulder, breathing unevenly before finally stilling completely. the room falls quiet almost immediately afterward except for both of your breathing. 

then, chenle carefully pulls away. he begins to shift back but freezes mid-motion, his eyes dropping toward the sheets beneath you, the air in the room vanishing – small, vivid spots of red stain the white sheets. 

“shit,” he breathes, his entire expression changing instantly. the detachment he had maintained through the act vanishes, replaced by a sharp, jagged edge of alarm, “are you okay?”

the concern in his voice catches you off guard more than anything else. real, genuine concern that you haven’t heard from him in years. the same boy who used to worry if you’d scraped your knee. 

still trying to steady your breathing, you blink at him tiredly, “what?”

“you bled,” he says immediately, eyes darting back toward the sheets before the realization visibly crashes into him. his face tightens, jaw locking as the implication sinks in. 

“fuck, y/n…,” he exhales sharply, “are you a virgin?”

you stare at him for a long second, the silence stretching between you. you feel empty, raw and utterly exhausted. you shrug lightly, “well,” you mutter dryly, “as of a couple minutes ago, i no longer am.”

chenle looks at you like you’ve just punched him in the chest. there’s disbelief there. guilt. and worst of all – pity.  you hate it instantly. you aren’t a porcelain doll. you are the owner of an empire and you had walked into this encounter with your eyes wide open. 

“don’t look at me like that,”  you scoff, reaching for your blanket and pulling it over you, “it’s not a big deal, chenle. it was gonna happen one way or another.”

he lets out a frustrated sound immediately, dragging both hands through his hair, “why do you keep saying that?!,” he snaps suddenly. 

you blink, startled at the sharpness in his tone, the sudden eruption of emotion, “because it’s true.”

“no, it’s not,” his brows pull together harder, frustration and disbelief bleeding into his voice, “and this is a big deal. i just took your virginity.”

“and?!” you shoot back instantly, emotions finally cracking open.

“it was always yours to take!”

silence. thick. heavy enough to suffocate the entire room. chenle stills completely. the lights spilling through the windows cast shadows across his face, but you can still see the shock there clearly. he looks haunted, as if you’ve just revealed a truth he wasn’t prepared to handle.

“what?” he asks quietly. 

“unlike you,” you say bitterly, your chest rising sharply, “i never thought marrying my best friend was something so repulsive.”

the words hit hard enough that chenle just stares at you. stunned. because he genuinely cannot understand it. 

when he found out about the arrangement years ago, it felt like his entire life stopped belonging to him. suddenly every conversation had contracts hidden beneath it, every family dinner felt staged, every interaction between the two of you became another reminder that his future had already been decided before he even got a say. he panicked. rebelled. slept with girl after girl trying to desperately prove to himself he still had freedom. he still belonged to himself. still had choices before marriage locked him into a life he never asked for. 

but you – you just accepted it. 

you didn’t run. you didn’t scream. you didn’t burn the world down to get away.

he remembers sitting in those meetings, hating every single second of it and every single time he looked at you – you were just sitting quietly beside him. calm. composed. nodding along politely whenever someone addressed you. you never argued. never pushed back. never looked angry enough. 

and chenle convinced himself that meant you didn’t care. that maybe this really was just business to you, too. he resented you for it. resented the way you accepted everything so easily while he felt like he was suffocating. resented the way you let your parents decide both of your lives without fighting harder beside him. resented how fake everything started feeling after that. like your friendship had never really belonged to the two of you. like it had been another transaction always meant to happen. 

just like tonight. 

just like this bed. this room. your first time. 

the reality settles sickeningly into his chest. because despite all his anger, despite all the resentment he carried for years – this should have been special. not because virginity itself mattered to him. but because you did. somewhere beneath the layers of bitterness, the boy who loved you was still there, and he realizes with a jolt of horror that he is the one to turn this moment into something cold. another deal to complete. another box to check.

for the first time in months, chenle genuinely feels ashamed standing in front of you. 

you slide beneath the blankets completely, turning away from him. your voice goes cold again. controlled. composed. your expression slowly shutting down. piece by piece. the same way it always does whenever he hurts you. it’s a practiced defense, a wall built from years of his indifference.

“i’ll have the maid clean the sheets tomorrow.”

chenle opens his mouth slightly. then closes it again. because there’s nothing he can say that fixes this. nothing that gives you back the moment he just ruined. he cannot un-take your innocence.

“if you’re done here,” you murmur quietly, “you should just go.”

the guilt eats him alive, gnawing at his insides as he stares at your curled-up form. yet, chenle walks out anyway. 

⚜️ THE MOTHER IN LAW ⚜️

you get your period two weeks later and it annoys you far more than it should. the second you see the faint streak of red, disappointment settles heavily into your chest before you can stop it. pathetic. you actually let yourself hope that one night would be enough. that somehow, despite how cold and emotionally disastrous it had been, it might’ve at least resulted in something tangible. something that would finally make this marriage feel like it’s moving forward instead of rotting quietly in place. something that would finally make this mansion feel like a house. 

you’re afraid of the possibility it won’t happen again. not after the way things have been recently. 

it’s gotten worse between you and chenle. at least before, when he looked at you, there was fire there. albeit, not the good kind…but fire, nonetheless. 

now, it was just stone cold. and every now and then – guilt. it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself around you anymore. and every single time you notice it, sorrow settles deeper inside your chest. guilt isn’t love. you don’t want him feeling sorry for you. you want – no. you force yourself to stop that thought before it finishes.

wanting things from chenle only ever leads to disappointment. 

“y/n, dear, how are you and chenle?” mama li’s voice breaks through your thoughts. she’s sitting elegantly across from you in the living room, posture perfect even in something as simple as afternoon tea. sunlight pours through the massive windows behind her, catching the gold resting against her fingers as she lifts her teacup gracefully. 

she’s beautiful in the same terrifying way chenle is. composed. sharp. impossible to fully read. sometimes looking at her hurts because all you can see is him. 

she asked the question gently. but there’s always command hidden beneath her voice, years of power woven naturally into every word she speaks. 

“uhm,” you hesitate, “i don’t know, mama li,” the nickname leaves your lips naturally. it always has, “i don’t think we’ll ever go back to the way we used to.”

for a moment, genuine sadness flickers across her face. she exhales softly before offering you a small smile, “just give it time,” she says gently, “you know he’s always loved you.” 

your chest tightens painfully. it’s what everyone says. your parents. his parents. family friends. employees who watched the two of you grow up together. everyone insists chenle loved you once. maybe still does. but lately, you’re not so sure anymore. maybe everyone simply misunderstood him all these years. maybe being comfortable around someone your entire childhood wasn’t the same thing as loving them. 

after all – chenle himself has never actually said it. not once. 

mama li studies your expression carefully before continuing, “chenle has always been difficult with his emotions,” she says with a quiet sigh, “but that boy would follow you around everywhere when you were younger. you were the only person who could calm him down whenever he got upset.”

you force out a faint smile, “that was a long time ago.”

“feelings don’t disappear that easily,” she replies smoothly. 

you wish you believed that. instead, you take another sip of tea to avoid answering. 

“even so, my dear,” her eyes linger meaningfully on you, “i hope you’re not forgetting your duties.” 

there it is. the real reason behind this conversation. behind her visit.  

children. heirs. you suddenly feel exhausted. you don’t know what to say. you’ve only slept with chenle once. and considering the fact you got your period this morning, you’re very aware you are not pregnant. still, you can’t exactly tell his mother that her son barely touches you. so instead, you straighten your posture slightly and force your voice to remain calm. 

“we’re trying.”

mama li’s expression brightens immediately, genuine excitement sparkles in her eyes, “well, that’s wonderful news,” she says warmly, “we have to continue our legacies after all,” she adds with a soft smile, lifting her teacup once more. 

legacy. sometimes you wonder if anyone in this family actually understands how lonely that word feels. 

⚜️ THE DRUNK WIFE’S PINKY PROMISE ⚜️

it’s been a month since mama li’s visit. and half a year since you and chenle got married. he hasn’t touched you once since that night. not even accidentally. no lingering touches while passing each other in hallways. no brushing shoulders. no quiet midnight knocks at your bedroom door. absolutely…nothing. 

and lately, the restlessness sitting inside you has started turning into panic. because six months into marriage and you still weren’t even close to being pregnant. your parents ask constantly. mama li asks so often that your stomach knots every single time. even the public has started wondering. the media hasn’t said anything outright yet, but you’ve seen the headlines. 

WHEN WILL THE GOLDEN COUPLE ANNOUNCE THEIR FIRST HEIR?

A BOY OR A GIRL? IT SHOULD BE ANY DAY NOW.

and worst of all — people at work were starting to notice things too. the whispers had gotten louder these past few weeks:

why do you never arrive together? why do you leave separately? why do the two of you never eat lunch together despite literally being married? were you both simply that professional??? or did you secretly hate each other???

the stress had been eating at you slowly. you feel like you’re being watched even more so than usual. 

so tonight, for the first time in months, you finally leave the mansion for something other than work. with your best friend - yizhou ning-qian. if anyone understood arranged marriages, it was her. except for the obvious difference that her husband, kun qian, absolutely adored her. even with their seven year age gap, they worked. somehow effortlessly. which honestly made your own marriage feel even sadder by comparison. 

“have you tried initiating it?,” yizhou asks casually, sipping her tequila.

the two of you were tucked away inside one of the private rooms at a high-end bar where membership alone cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. dim lights glowed against velvet seating while soft jazz echoed faintly beyond the closed doors. 

you stare at her, “yizhou,” you say flatly, “i can’t even get close enough to try.”

she snorts immediately, the sound sharp and mocking of the situation.

“every time i walk into a room,” you continue, “he leaves. immediately.”

"man,” she sighs, shaking her head, “chenle seriously needs to grow the fuck up.” you can’t even disagree. “this was always going to be our lives,” she continues, taking a quick sip of her drink, “and honestly? it’s not even that bad.”

another tequila shot arrives at the table. she pushes it toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

”i mean,” she giggles, “we’re literally billionaires! it can’t get better than this.”

you burst into laughter with her despite yourself, the alcohol finally beginning to warm your chest pleasantly. 

“exactly!,” you groan dramatically after downing the shot in one go, “all we have to do is marry someone else rich and pretty yet chenle thinks the world has ended.”

yizhou nearly chokes, laughing, “god, he’s just been too spoiled.”

the two of you dissolve into another fit of giggles. and if it was any other person, you’d feel awful for trash talking your husband. but she was your best friend, one of your safe spaces. and it feels good to laugh. you haven’t done that in a while. 

yizhou wipes beneath her eyes dramatically before leaning back against the couch, “if anything,” she says, still grinning, “you guys are the luckiest out of all of us.”

your smile falters, “and why’s that?”

”you married someone you already know…someone you already love.”

the words silence the laughter instantly. the love you carry for chenle is a heavy, aching thing – a devotion that has survived his coldness and his resentment. but love is a two-way street. and chenle has shown it loud and clear that he didn’t share those same feelings for you. 

“he doesn’t love me, yizhou,” you say quietly. 

for a second, she just stares at you. then suddenly, she bursts into even louder laughter. ”yeah,” she says sarcastically between giggles, “and my husband is fucking poor!”

you shove her shoulder weakly while laughing. considering kun was literally one of the ten wealthiest men in the country, the statement sounds ridiculous. 

her expression softens after laughing, “y/n,” she says more seriously now, “that boy has loved you since before we even knew what love was.”

“you don’t know that,” you whisper, chest tightening painfully as you shake your head immediately.

“oh, please,” she rolls her eyes, “everyone knows that.”

you sigh into your drink. you wish people would stop saying that. it just lets the hope linger longer. just reminds you of the boy he used to be. just makes the man he has become feel more like a tragedy.

”seriously,” she continues, leaning forward now, “he just needs to wake up from whatever self-pity hole he dug for himself.”

you stare down at the amber liquid in your glass quietly. 

“i mean, come on, he has to know that it could be worse,” she adds. 

“how could it be worse than this?”

”jaemin’s literally arranged to marry someone he actually hates,” she points out, “and even he isn’t acting as childish as chenle,” she reaches for your hand then, intertwining her fingers through yours. 

“it’s not your fault, y/n.”

your throat tightens at her comfort, the alcohol heightening the vulnerability of your emotions. 

“and sooner or later,” she says softly, "chene's going to realize that too. he’s going to realize that while he was busy hating the arrangement, he was losing the only person who actually gives a damn about him.”

you drank a lot more than you should’ve. at first, it was just to loosen up. but somewhere between the expensive tequila, the soft jazz playing in the private room and yizhou’s ridiculous stories, the warmth spreading through your body started feeling addictive. every shot made things quieter. lighter. your thoughts blurred around the edges. your chest stopped hurting so much whenever chenle crossed your mind. for the first time in months, you weren’t thinking about the empty side of your dinner table or the way your husband avoided looking at you like eye contact physically pained him. 

you were just laughing. drinking. existing. and maybe that’s why you didn’t realize how much time had passed until yizhou was shoving your purse into your hands while laughing at your completely incoherent attempt to put your heels back on. 

by the time your driver finally pulls into the mansion’s driveway, it’s nearly three in the morning. the second the car door opens, cold air hits your face and you instantly regret every decision you made tonight. 

“mmm,” you groan softly while stepping out drunkily, “why is the ground moving?” you complain.

“the ground is not moving, mrs. zhong,” your maid says gently while helping steady you. you squint suspiciously at the marble steps leading toward the front door. you manage to stumble inside the mansion without face-planting into the floor. barely. if it wasn’t for your maid’s help, you’d be on the ground. 

“its uh–kay,” you mumble as your maid carefully tries helping you remove your coat, “mmm okay, i can take care of myself. i’m a professional. i’m a…ceo of being okay!”

you absolutely are not. your words are slurring into a thick, honey-like mess and you nearly take out a priceless vase with your shoulder before you finally collapse onto the bottom step of the right staircase. 

upstairs, chenle hears your voice immediately. he had been awake. waiting. though he’d never admit that out loud. usually, when he came home from work, your bedroom light would still be visible through the tiny crack beneath your door. 

tonight, it had been dark. 

and when he checked downstairs earlier under the excuse of getting water, you hadn’t been in the living room either. and for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely, it unsettled him. so tonight, he intentionally left his bedroom door slightly cracked open. just enough to hear when you returned home. 

and now here you were. sounding very, very drunk. 

chenle exhales sharply before stepping out into the hallway. he makes his way downstairs quietly only to stop midway down the staircase at the sight in front of him. you’re sitting on the bottom step of your staircase now with your head slumped against the railing while your maid looks one second away from panicking. 

“i said i’m okayyyy,” you groan. 

“sir zhong,” the maid says immediately in relief the second she notices him. 

your head snaps upward clumsily at her voice, eyes unfocused as you follow her gaze. chenle stands halfway down the staircase dressed in dark sweatpants and a loose shirt, his hair looking unbelievably soft. he looks unfairly handsome for three in the morning – a devastatingly beautiful statue carved from ice and moonlight. 

“mrs. zhong is drunk,” the maid explains carefully.

“i’m not drunk,” you counter immediately. then your body sways sideways slightly and she catches your shoulder before you topple over completely. 

she turns back toward chenle helplessly, “i’m trying to help her up the stairs, sir. she might hurt herself without guidance.”

chenle’s jaw tightens slightly. then he nods once. “i’ll take care of it, you may go.”

she bows politely before quickly disappearing down the hallway, leaving the two of you alone. silence settles briefly. chenle walks down the remaining stairs slowly before stopping in front of you. 

“you drink now?” he asks flatly, clearly not amused. 

you squint up at him from the floor, “wow,” you mumble, a small, crooked smile playing on your lips, “judgmental much? mr. perfect.”

stubbornly, you attempt standing on your own. terrible decision. the second you rise, the world spins 360 degrees. chenle reacts immediately, one arm hooking firmly around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. the contact is electric. it’s the first time in months he's touched you with any kind of intent, and the sudden heat of his body against yours makes your breath hitch. he is solid, warm, smelling of expensive soap and something uniquely him.

you blink up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach out, poking his chest weakly with a finger, “you’re not the only one,” you whisper, your voice losing its playful edge and becoming raw, “who wants to forget.”

the words come out quieter than intended. more honest too. you’re too drunk to notice the way his face softens for half a second. deep down, he’s always known it. he just never wanted to acknowledge it – the fact that you were hurting, too. 

he reaches forward, his hand cupping your face and squishing your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a pout. his brows furrow, gaze scanning your flushed face, “you know you’re not good with alcohol.”

you sway weakly at his wrist with a dramatic scoff, “psh, whatever.”

then you wriggle yourself fee from his hold before turning toward the staircase again, “i’m a big girl now,” you mumble stubbornly as you begin walking upwards, “i can do it.”

chenle hums behind you, not convinced in the slightest. you make it about five steps before the world starts tilting unpleasantly again. he was right. you were never good with alcohol. your head feels heavy. your feet hurt from the heels you still haven’t taken off and suddenly the stairs look impossibly long and all you want to do is fall asleep right here.

with a defeated sigh, you finally turn around. and only then do you realize how close chenle actually is. he’s standing just two steps below you. close enough that if you slipped backward even slightly, he’d catch you instantly. it softens you immediately. the way he still followed you. your expression crumbles into something smaller, softer.

“lele,” you mumble quietly, the nickname naturally slipping from your lips. you haven’t called him that in years. not since everything between you became sharp and complicated. 

chenle visibly freezes. the air in the stairway seems to solidify, trapping him in the space between who he is now and who he used to be.

your lower lip juts out slightly as you blink at him tiredly, “i need help,” you admit finally, your voice small and stripped of all its corporate armor.

his heart stops. he swears the world stops moving. because you sound exactly like her. not the polished corporate heiress version of you who sits through board meetings with perfect posture and calculated smiles. not the wife who carefully measures every word around him now. 

you sound like the girl he used to know. the one who used to cling onto his arm after getting tired at amusement parks. the one who cried dramatically over a barely scraped knee and demanded he carry her because “best friends are supposed to help each other.” the one who looked at him as if he were the only source of light in a dark world.

you sounded like the girl he loves. 

before business meetings hollowed everything out between you. before his own resentment poisoned every room you shared. 

chenle exhales slowly through his nose, a shaky breath that rattles in his chest. he sighs, and for the first time in years, the sound isn't one of annoyance, but of defeat.

“come on, you big baby,” he mutters. 

the tease slips out so effortlessly it surprises both of you, a sudden echo of a decade ago. your eyes widen slightly, he hasn’t sounded like that with you in a very long time. before you can even respond, chenle bends slightly and hooks an arm beneath your knees. you let out a tiny squeak as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, bridal style. instinctively, your hands grab onto his shoulder, settling against his chest automatically as he starts carrying you up the stairs properly this time. his warmth surrounds you immediately, steady and safe, your alcohol fogged brain melting into it without resistance. 

chenle tries very hard not to think about how natural this still feels. how your body still fits against his as if they were two pieces of a puzzle designed by a higher power. he feels your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, a subconscious grip that mirrors the way you used to hold onto him when you were children. years ago, this would’ve been normal. he used to carry you all the time. after you fall asleep in the car rides home. after twisting your ankle once trying to impress him at basketball. after you threw a dramatic tantrum at sixteen because your heels hurt during some charity gala. back then, touching you was easy. now it feels dangerous. 

he pushes your bedroom door open with his shoulders before walking inside. carefully, he lowers you onto the mattress. but the second he starts pulling away, your hands grab onto him tighter. 

“not yet,” you mumble immediately, tugging him downward with surprising strength until he half falls onto the bed beside you. your arms wrap around him instinctively, face burying against his chest, holding him close. 

chenle freezes for half a second. then exhales slowly. because fuck. he missed this. he missed you. not the tense silence between board meetings. not the careful distance. not the version of you that flinches emotionally every time he looks at you now. but this – warm and soft and clinging onto him like he was still your safest place in the world. 

your hugs always used to calm him down faster than anything else. even now, after everything, his body relaxes embarrassingly quick the moment your arms tighten around him. he lets himself stay there for a little while. just a little. his hand settles carefully against your back as your breathing slowly evens out. 

eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you properly, brushing your hair away from your face gently, his fingers lingering slightly longer than necessary. 

“why’d you drink so much anyway?” he asks softly. 

and maybe it’s the alcohol. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe you simply miss your best friend too much to keep pretending you don’t. because suddenly, you start talking to him like he’s still that person. 

“my husband won’t touch me,” you mumble sadly.

the words hit him directly in the chest. especially because you say it like your husband and the man currently holding you are two entirely different people. his eyes widen slightly, heat creeping into his face almost instantly and he’s almost grateful you’re drunk enough not to notice. 

“and everyone keeps asking me about children, lele…” your voice grows smaller, “it’s just–it’s too much,” you pout slightly afterward, eyes glossy and tired. 

chenle’s guilt continues to grow. he knows all of the pressure has been landing on you. his mother stopped bringing children up around him months ago. your parents tread carefully too. everyone gives him space, shows him more grace. he think’s it’s because everyone is afraid that if they push him too hard, it will make him snap completely. make him finally leave. no one realizes he never actually could. not when the thought of a world where he wasn’t with you, even in this broken, tragic way, felt more impossible than the marriage itself.

“do you even want a child?” he ask quietly, not sure why he keeps this conversation going. maybe because this is the most honest the two of you have been with each other in years. 

you shift, turning on your side to find a more comfortable position, and in the process, you instinctively seize his hand again. without a second thought, you tug his arm around your waist, pulling him flush against you until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. the position nearly wrecks him. because this used to be normal too. movie nights. sleepovers. lazy afternoons tangled together on couches while studying. you always used to curl into him naturally like he was home. and he used to hate having to leave, always wanting more time with you.

“it wouldn’t be that bad to have one,” you admit softly, your fingers playing absentmindedly with his, tracing the lines of his palm, “i mean…we have all the money in the world.”

chenle huffs quietly through his nose, a small, dry sound. it always comes back to that, doesn't it? the money. the wealth. the legacy. the gold-plated chains that bind you together.

“we could have twenty and still have plenty left over,” you add with a sleepy, whimsical giggle.

that actually almost makes him laugh. the image of the two of you with twenty children running around this mansion sounds absolutely insane. he can barely handle one drunk wife right now. still, his chest feels strangely warm hearing you talk like this – domestic, hopeful, almost dreaming. it stirs something in him that he thought he had buried under layers of corporate coldness.

chenle doesn’t even know if he wants children. at least, not like this. not because families and investors expect it. not because it’s another duty to fill. 

suddenly, you shift again, turning in his arms to face him fully. your movements are slow, languid, you lift your hand, fingers grazing his jawline with a touch so light it’s almost a hallucination. you caress him carefully, your eyes searching his with a heartbreaking intensity.

“give me a baby, lele,” you whisper. 

his entire body stills. every muscle locks. he knows its the alcohol talking. 

but, fuck.

the way you’re looking at him right now could ruin him. chenle would give you anything. money. houses. companies. his entire fucking life if you asked for it. just – not like this. not when it would feel like another transaction instead of something real. 

his hand slides carefully into your hair instead, “why do you want a baby so badly?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

you shrug faintly. then your expression softens into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. 

“i just don’t want to be so lonely anymore.”

his heart breaks instantly. completely. it’s his fault. he is the one who built the walls. he is the one who turned this house into a gilded cage. 

“so…” you mumble sleepily, eyes barely open now, “will you give me one?”

hope flickers across your pretty face so softly it nearly kills him. 

he swallows hard, “not right now, y/n,” he says gently. your expression falls immediately and the guilt twists violently inside him again. so he adds.. quietly…“maybe someday.”

your eyes lift toward him again slowly. then, you raise your pinky between the two of you.

“you promise?” 

chenle stares at it and suddenly he’s thirteen again. you don’t link pinkies the way others do. you once declared that it “felt fake” and that crossing fingers didn’t feel lucky enough for important things. so, the two of you had invented your own ritual. your own secret language of loyalty.

carefully, with a tenderness that makes his chest ache, chenle takes your hand and he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the very tip of your pinky finger.

“i promise.” 

your sleepy face brightens instantly. you grab his hand and softly kiss the tip of his pinky too. 

a promise sealed.  except this promise wasn’t as simple as the ones before. 

eventually, your body relaxes fully against his chest while his fingers continue stroking slowly through your hair until you fall asleep in his arms. chenle stays there longer than he should, watching you sleep peacefully against him, finally not hurting for a little while. once he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he carefully slips out of bed. but before leaving, he gently pulls your heels from your feet one by one. then he places a glass of water and two pieces of tylenol on your nightstand. the same way he used to after parties years ago. for a while, chenle just stands there staring at you. then quietly, he turns the lights off and finally lets the night end. 

⚜️ THE DEATH GUMMY ⚜️

another month passes. and things were starting to shift subtly. you’re not entirely sure what happened that night you got drunk. honestly, most of it is blurry fragments in your memory – warm arms, soft whispers, the feeling of safety you hadn’t felt around chenle in years. 

whatever happened though, it softened chenle a little. just a tiny bit. 

he still doesn’t initiate a conversation unless absolutely necessary. still keeps most of his thoughts locked tightly behind careful expression. still retreats into himself more often that not. but he doesn’t leave rooms as soon as you enter anymore. and slowly, he starts joining you for dinner again. you ate silently, still on opposite ends of the table but at least he was there now. 

then, one night, you found him in the living room watching an episode of f.r.i.e.n.d.s. normally, you would’ve turned around to avoid making him uncomfortable. instead, chenle glanced at you briefly, eyes soft, not leaving, not telling you to go away either. so, cautiously, you sat on the opposite end. the two of you watched an entire episode, occasionally laughing at the same jokes. at one point your laughter overlapped and both of you went awkwardly still afterward. but even that tiny moment felt precious. more than you could ask for. 

maybe everyone was right. maybe chenle simply needed time. 

today, the two of you are at yü skincare headquarters. a product development meeting. one of the company’s biggest launches planned for next year. your team had spent nearly eleven months developing a new type of vitamin e supplement. and because you took your work seriously, you always insisted on testing products yourself. if consumers were putting your products into their bodies, then so would you. 

the testing room buzzes quietly with concentration. there are only five people here today – you, chenle, your assistant, mark lee – head of the vitamin research development team, and another researcher seated nearby typing notes rapidly into a laptop. 

mark steps forward excitedly, holding the newest batch carefully, “today is mainly flavor testing,” he explains, “we finally stabilized the texture, so now we just need to ensure the taste is actually enjoyable for the mass market.” he places one small green chewable into your palm. then another into chenle’s, “we infused it with natural fruit extracts to eliminate the vitamin aftertaste.”

you nodded absentmindedly, your mind already drifting toward the logistics of the rollout. you trusted mark implicitly – he was one of the best in the industry.

without a second thought, you and chenle both placed the gummies into your mouths.

and that’s when everything goes wrong.

your throat locks almost instantly. your eyes widen violently. for half a second, you think you might have swallowed wrong. but then your airway starts closing. fast. 

you can’t breathe. 

in a blind surge of terror, you slapped your hand hard against chenle’s arm, the sound sharp in the quiet room. his head snapped toward you, and every ounce of color drained from his face. he watched, in horror, as you began to turn a terrifying shade of red, your mouth opening desperately, gasping for air that wouldn't come. your eyes were wide, filled with a raw, primal terror.

chenle reacted before anyone else could even process what was happening. he lunged forward, gripping your shoulders with a strength that nearly knocked you back, facing you fully.

“Y/N?!” his voice was tight, laced with immediate alarm.

your lips parted, but no sound emerged – only a wet, wheezing struggle. you clawed at your own throat, your nails digging into your skin in a desperate attempt to open the airway.

a wave of pure, unadulterated terror hits chenle, his eyes darting around the room frantically, searching for the cause, mind racing through every possibility.

“what the fuck happened?!," he roared, voice echoing off the sterile walls.

the room froze. everyone stood paralyzed, their faces masks of confusion and sudden fear. no one answered. no one has answers. the silence was suffocating, broken only by the horrific, whistling sound of your struggle to breathe. chenle’s gaze snapped to the tray of green gummies. he pieced it together then.

“we’re there kiwis in these?!” chenle demands sharply.

mark blinked, nodding quickly, his voice trembling, “uh–yes, sir. we infused it with concentrated kiwi juice because it–”

“SHE’S ALLERGIC!,” chenle’s voice cracks through the room so loudly everyone jumps. 

you were deathly allergic to kiwi. not mildly allergic. not uncomfortable. deathly. a single slice of the fruit in a room could make your throat itch, a concentrated extract delivered directly into your system was a death sentence.

his breathing turns uneven instantly as fear floods his system. you’re not coughing anymore. you’re struggling. really struggling. your body starts slumping sideways in your chair and chenle catches you immediately before you hit the floor.

“hey–hey, stay with me!” his voice shakes. 

for the first time in years, he completely loses his composure in front of other people. he was no longer the cold heir, he was a terrified boy watching the only person he truly loved slip away.

“her bag,” he barked, the command slashing through the chaos, “someone get me her fucking bag now.”

your assistant rushes forward immediately, handing your bag over. another employee is already yelling for medics outside the room. everything becomes chaotic around him. but chenle barely hears any of it. all he can focus on is you. the violent red of the reaction was fading into a ghostly, terrifying pallor. your lips were tinged with a bruised blue, and your head kept dipping weakly, your consciousness flickering like a dying candle. your hand, resting against his suit jacket, felt colder with every passing second. for one horrifying, timeless moment, he genuinely believed you were dying.

“look at me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent and wrecked. he gripped your face, his fingers trembling against your cheeks, trying to force your unfocused eyes to lock onto his. “y/n, look at me! stay with me!”

your eyelids fluttered, your pupils blown and hazy. you could see him – the panic in his eyes, the sheer, unadulterated terror – but you couldn't reach him. you were drowning on dry land.

“fuck—!” he let out a choked sound, his hands shaking violently as he dove into your bag. he tossed aside your wallet, your phone, a lipstick, his movements frantic and clumsy, “where is it–where the fuck is it–”

then finally – the epipen. you always carried it for emergencies. 

relief crashed through him so hard it was almost physical, a wave of adrenaline that surged through his veins. he didn't hesitate. he didn't even remove your clothing, he slammed the injector hard against your outer thigh, the needle piercing through the fabric of your trousers with a sharp, clinical click.

“stay with me,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken, “please, please stay with me.”

the seconds that followed were an eternity of agonizing silence. chenle held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, watching your face for any sign of life. then it happened – you let out a sudden, violent gasp, a broken, desperate inhale that sounded like a sob. it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. oxygen flooded back into your lungs, and the sudden rush of air brought a torrent of tears that spilled from your eyes, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

chenle exhales shakily like he forgot how to breathe too, his forehead nearly dropping against yours from relief, his eyes closing tight.

“that’s it,” he whispers frantically, his voice a breathless wreck, “that’s it, baby, breathe.”

he doesn’t even realize what he called you. he only cared that your hand, though weak and trembling, was curling around his fingers, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. chenle grips tighter immediately, as if letting go would allow the death that had just brushed past you to return and take you away. 

“you’re okay,” he keeps repeating, “you’re okay. i’ve got you, i’ve got you.”

his breathing is uneven. his eyes are glossy. everyone in the room is staring now because they’ve never seen zhong chenle like this before.

but chenle doesn’t care about appearances anymore. not when he thought he was about to lose you forever. 

⚜️ THE ONLY CHOICE HE’S EVER MADE ⚜️

chenle never visits you in the hospital.

the first day, mama li told you he was busy dealing with the fallout at work, there were investigations happening now, meetings with legal teams and a very furious chenle. the second day, you waited. by the third day, you stopped expecting him entirely.

your private hospital suite overlooks the city skyline, expensive and pristine in the way only billionaires could experience. fresh flowers arrive every morning from companies and family friends. assistants rotate in shifts outside your door. nurses practically hover around you like you’re made of glass. everyone treats you like you almost died. which, to be fair, you technically almost did. still, you feel fine now. a little tired maybe. but alive. 

your father is currently standing near the windows watering the ridiculous amount of plants someone sent earlier when the question finally slips out of you quietly.

“has chenle come by?”

he pauses mid-motion before looking over his shoulder at you. then slowly, he shakes his head, “sorry, sweetheart.”

you look down at the blanket pooled over your lap, “you were right, dad,” you admit softly, your voice sounding hollow in the vast room.

his brows furrow, “i’m right about a lot of things…but what is this one about?”

you force out a weak laugh, “maybe it would’ve been easier to marry someone i didn’t love.”

that makes him stop completely. he places the watering can onto the nearby table before he walks toward your bed. your father has never been particularly good with emotions. he showed love through stability, protection and business lessons disguised as life advice. still, he takes the seat beside your bed quietly. 

“sweetheart,” he says carefully, “there are positives and negatives in every situation. and sometimes…the choices we make can hurt more than we expected them to—but you already made your decision,” he sighs softly, “and just like every good business deal, you have to commit to it fully.”

you almost smile. trust your father to turn emotional comfort into a corporate lesson. 

“trust your instincts,” he adds quieter this time, his hand patting yours awkwardly. it’s probably the closest thing to emotional reassurance he knows how to give. it helps a little. 

“thanks, dad,” you murmur. 

he nods once before leaning down to kiss the top of your head gently, “get some rest.”

then he leaves you alone again. the second the door shuts, the loneliness creeps back in. because despite his words – the only person you actually wanted to see was chenle. 

unbeknownst to you, chenle visits every single night.

always after midnight. always once he’s certain you’re asleep. he slips into your hospital room quietly, dressed in dark clothes and exhaustion. the first night, he genuinely thought you looked dead. too still. too pale. fear hit him so hard he crossed the room immediately just to place a trembling hand near your face and make sure you were still breathing. only after feeling your warm breath against his skin did he finally relax. after that, it became routine. every night he checks your breathing first. sometimes, he sits beside your bed for hours in complete silence, staring at you while guilt slowly eats him alive from the inside out. 

because you could’ve died.

and worse–

you could’ve died believing he hates you. 

chenle doesn’t think he would’ve survived losing you. that realization was a cold, jagged blade, cutting through the carefully constructed armor he had worn for years. it terrified him more than anything else. for years, he convinced himself the opposite, that you were the reason he felt trapped, the reason his life no longer belonged entirely to him. the reason everything started feeling planned and suffocating. but the second your breathing stopped sounding normal – none of that mattered anymore. all he remembered feeling was pure, violent fear. 

the memory keeps replaying in his head every night no matter how hard he tries to shut it out. your hand grabbing his arm desperately, your face turning red, the sound of you struggling for air, the way your fingers slowly weakened in his grasp, the horrifying weight of your body slumping against him and worst of all – how cold he felt. like someone had dumped ice water directly into his chest. 

he hates that it took a near-death experience to shatter his delusions. he hates that he had been so blind. fear like that doesn't stem from obligation. you don’t unravel, you don’t scream into the void, and you don’t beg a person to breathe if all they ever were to you was a responsibility — he hates how almost losing you made him realize that everything he felt for you had always been real. not planned. not arranged. not a script written by two powerful families to ensure a monopoly on the cosmetic industry.

because long before contracts existed. before business meetings and inheritance talks and engagement announcements – chenle loved you. 

he loved you when you were thirteen, sealing promises with kissed pinkies. he still remembers the first time you came up with it. the two of you had been sitting on the rooftop terrace of your parent’s vacation house, legs dangling over the edge while sharing melted popsicles in the middle of summer. “crossing fingers feels fake,” you complained dramatically after he broke a promise to watch a movie with you the week before, “people break pinky promises all the time.” he laughed, “so what? we sign contracts now?” you rolled your eyes before grabbing his hand. then, with complete seriousness, you pressed a tiny kiss against the tip of his pinky finger. “there,” you said proudly, “now it’s permanent.”  after that, every important promise between the two of you was sealed that way. he never broke a single one. 

he loved you at fifteen when you attended every single one of his basketball games with his number painted proudly across your cheeks in bright blue despite both your parents immediately scolding you for putting “cheap toxic paint” on your skin. you didn’t care though, you sat front row, screaming, “that’s my lele!,” every time he scored. he used to pretend to act embarrassed in front of his teammates while secretly searching for you in the crowd every few minutes just to make sure you were still there. you always were. and after the games, you’d rush toward him, still wearing his jersey, eyes sparkling. no victory ever felt as good as seeing you proud of him. 

he loved you at sixteen when your vintage camera became permanently filled with blurry pictures of him. half the photos were terrible – his face cut off, him mid-yawn, him glaring because you kept shoving the camera into his face while he was trying to eat. but mixed between those were softer ones too like him asleep in the car with his head tilted towards you, him laughing with his head thrown back, pictures of the two of you together. he once asked why you took so many pictures of him and you shrugged like it was obvious, “because you’re my favorite person.” he thinks maybe that was the first time his heart ever genuinely stuttered inside his chest. 

he loved you when you were seventeen, in a moment so sudden it had nearly knocked the wind out of him. he remembered the weight of the shopping bags in his hands, the handles digging into his palms, and the sheer, unfiltered joy radiating from you. you had spent weeks in a state of mourning over your crybaby figurine collection, devastated after failing to pull the secret rares. you hadn’t asked him for help – you never did – but chenle had watched your disappointment from the sidelines, and it had felt like a physical weight in his own chest. he spent nights contacting resellers behind your back until he found every missing figurine himself. when he finally handed you the completed set, the expression on your face had been blinding. you had looked at him as if he were the center of the universe. without a second thought, you reached up, grabbed his face in your small hands, and pressed a fervent, lingering kiss to his cheek. “i love you the most!” you squealed, your voice high and breathless with excitement. chenle remembered the way the blood had rushed to his face, a heat so intense it felt like a fever, while you remained blissfully oblivious, already turning back to admire your figurines. in that moment, he had realized that your affection was a drug, and he was already hopelessly addicted.

and deep, deep down, he knows he loved you at twenty-four. especially on the day you became his wife. the moment those heavy doors opened and you stepped inside wearing that white dress you spent months carefully choosing – he forgot how to breathe. everything around him blurred instantly. time slowed to a crawl, yet he felt his entire future rushing toward him at the same time. all he could see was you. the slight tremble in your hands, the way your eyes shimmered with a mixture of hope and fear, and the way you looked at him as if he were still your favorite person in the world, despite everything. you looked beautiful. not in the polished, public way magazines later described. not like “the perfect heiress.” you looked devastatingly you. and chenle wanted so badly to reach for you, pull you close, wanted this marriage to be real in every way that actually mattered. when the officiant gave the command to kiss the bride, his chest ached with a sudden, sharp grief. it felt cruel that this – a choreographed moment in front of a thousand witnesses – was your first kiss together. he remembers leaning down slowly, your lashes fluttering, lips soft and warm and gentle against his. and for a second, chenle forgot there were a thousand people surrounding you both. forgot cameras existed. forgot he was angry. kissing you felt terrifyingly natural, like a missing piece of his soul finally clicking into place, a homecoming he should have claimed years ago.

but the truth was, he had loved you long before he even had a word for it. back when the two of you were six years old and accidentally broke expensive glass tubes inside one of the zhong cosmetics labs while playing tag in the rooms. assistants had panicked instantly, someone yelled, another employee nearly cried seeing the shattered equipment all over the floor. you got scared immediately, eyes filling with tears as adults crowded around the two of you. and without even thinking, chenle stepped in front of you protectively, “it was my fault,” he lied. he remembered the feeling of your watery gaze on the back of his head while he stood there, taking the brunt of the scolding from every adult on the floor. he hadn't cared. the only thing that mattered was that you weren't crying anymore. later that evening, you had secretly slipped half of your dessert onto his plate, whispering that “heroes deserve rewards.”

everything else in his life had been a predetermined path. the schools, the internships, the board meetings, the carefully curated image of a successor. his life had been a series of checkboxes marked by people who didn't care about his heart.

but all those moments – the pinky swears, the blue paint on your cheeks, the secret figurines, the shared dessert – those belonged entirely to him. entirely to the two of you.

loving you was the only choice he ever truly made on his own. 

it had happened naturally, quietly, and without permission. he had built this love in the secret spaces of his heart, and in his desperate, panicked attempt to protect his freedom, he had almost destroyed the only thing that had ever actually set him free.

he hasn’t forgiven himself for any of it yet. not for avoiding you all these years. not for making you lonely inside your own marriage. not for turning your first time into something cold and painful. not for the way your face looked when you admitted you just didn’t want to be lonely anymore. and definitely not for freezing in that meeting for even half a second before realizing what was happening.

which is exactly why he can’t face you while you were awake right now. he physically can’t. because the second you look him with those eyes of yours, he’s terrified he’ll completely break apart in front of you. he imagined himself sobbing at your bedside, begging for a forgiveness he didn't believe he deserved.

and everyone keeps reminding him stress is bad for your recovery. the irony was a bitter pill to swallow. chenle knew he was the primary source of stress in your life. so, he remained a shadow, visiting only in the dead of night, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. it was pathetic. it was cowardly. but it was the only way he knew how to love you without hurting you further.

by the third day, your regular hospital meals suddenly disappear. instead, trays arrive with your favorite comfort foods – steaming siomai, all types of dumplings, wonton noodles – all warm and prepared exactly the way you like them. you can’t hide your smile when you see them because there is only one person in the world who knows your comfort order by memory, a relic of a childhood where he used to sneak you treats when you were sad. you stared at the tray fondly. chenle might not have visited you, but this feels like proof he still cares anyway. 

and by the fifth day, you’re completely over it. everyone is being ridiculously dramatic. you feel so energized already. bored out of your mind. still, every doctor insists your body needs more recovery time after the severity of the reaction. your parents refuse to let you leave early and the only person who actually has the authority to pull you out, your husband, isn’t taking that risk either.

you end up staying in the hospital for two more days before finally coming home. 

⚜️ THE AIR ⚜️

when chenle got home that afternoon, he’s exhausted. the past week had destroyed him more than he let anyone sees. he barely slept. barely ate. and every single time his phone rang unexpectedly, panic seized his chest before he could stop it. 

he loosens his tie tiredly as he walks through the mansion doors, mentally preparing himself to go to the hospital to pick you up. but as he walks into the kitchen — he freezes. 

you’re standing there, alive and healthy, wearing one of your silk pajama sets while leaning casually against the island, sipping water and scrolling through your phone like nothing happened.

for a second, he thinks he’s imagining you. you weren’t supposed to be released for another three hours. then again, you were stubborn enough to convince almost anyone to do what you wanted eventually. no one ever really knew how to tell you no when you looked at them with that specific, determined glint in your eyes.

“you’re home.” 

the sound of his voice quickly diverts your attention from all the emails you were catching up on to him. you glance up and in his eyes – you see the difference. the armor he usually wore wasn't just cracked – it was gone. his eyes were wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a relief so profound it looked like pain. slowly, you place your phone down on the counter, smiling at him gently. 

“i’m home.”

for the first time all week, he remembered how to breathe again. like he had given you all of his air and it’s now finally being returned to his own lungs. 

the briefcase he was carrying hit one of the glass tables with a loud, jarring crash. he didn't care. he didn't even look at it. he crossed the kitchen, closing the distance between you and collided with you, pulling you into his arms so suddenly and with such force that the air left your lungs in a small gasp.

chenle hugs you tightly. desperately. like he needs physical proof you’re still here. still warm. still breathing. 

your eyes widen in shock, breath hitching against his shoulder. then, slowly, you let your guard down and wrap your arms around him, feeling the frantic, erratic thumping of his heart against your ear.

“i thought i was gonna lose you.”

his voice cracked, the sound raw and jagged against your hair. the confession was stripped of all pride, all resentment, and all the distance he had spent years cultivating. the fear was completely exposed, leaving him naked before you.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, though you stayed in his arms. the sight of him broke your heart. there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin looked sallow from lack of sleep. and then, a single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheek.

you froze. in all the years you had known him – from the boy who chased you through the labs to the man who ignored you across the dinner table – you had never seen chenle cry. not once.

with tenderness, you lifted your hand and brushed the tear away, your fingertips lingering on his skin, impossibly soft.

“zhong chenle,” you murmur softly, voice trembling with a mixture of ache and affection, “you really think you can get rid of me that easily?”

his eyes close briefly at your touch like your fingers can undo the pain inside him. he doesn’t answer, doesn’t joke, doesn’t hide behind sarcasm or distance or that cold indifference he perfected over the years. instead, chenle just pulls you back into his arms again, holding you tighter this time. and for the first time in years, you let yourself lean into him fully. 

eventually though, reality settles back between the two of you. chenle slowly loosens his hold first. the second he realizes how tightly he’s been clinging to you, his expression shifts immediately. he clears his throat quickly and takes a half step back like distance might help him regain control again. 

“i’m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly, guarded again.

before you can even process the moment properly — he leaves. just walks out of the kitchen entirely, leaving you standing there alone trying to understand what the hell just happened. 

none of that made sense.

chenle has spent the last six years hating you. yet, for a few minutes, he had held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. you stare at the doorway long after he disappeared through it. confused. hopeful. terrified. you didn't want to read too much into a moment of panic-induced weakness, but the ghost of his heartbeat was still echoing in your ears.

until your phone buzzes nonstop, dragging you back to reality, life continuing on like your world hadn’t just tilted.

⚜️ THE MISTAKE THAT ALMOST TOOK YOU FROM ME ⚜️

the next day you’re back at the office like nothing happened. your heels click softly against the marble flooring of yü skincare as staff members greet you nervously on your way toward your office.

you settle into your executive chair with a quiet sigh, immediately scanning through the pile of reports waiting for you. the vitamin incident had already become a nightmare with legal teams involved, quality control investigations and public relations teams working overtime to keep information contained. 

you press the intercom button lightly, “send mark lee in.”

less than a minute later, the heavy door to your office swung open to huang renjun, human resource manager. his posture was stiff, his expression carefully neutral, yet there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes that immediately set off alarm bells.

your brows furrowed as you continued flipping through a document, “where’s mark?” you asked, your voice cool and professional, “i need the updated reports on the supplement.”

renjun coughs awkwardly, the sound immediately making you look up, something about his expression feeling off, “ma’am…” he hesitates, “he’s no longer with the company.”

your hand stills completely against the papers, “…what?”

“he’s been terminated.”

“i didn’t receive a resignation letter, nor did i authorize a termination,” you pointed out calmly, though your eyes narrowed, “explain.”

renjun uncomfortably shifts beneath your gaze, “sir chenle fired him.” you stare at him for a moment, trying very hard to not let your surprise show too obviously. renjun clears his throat again, “he actually fired everyone involved in the vitamin project.”

your mind raced. chenle was many things – arrogant, distant, and emotionally stunted. but he was never impulsive when it comes to business. he was a strategist who weighed every risk. for him to wipe out an entire department without a single consultation, without even a courtesy to call you, meant he had completely lost his composure.

you force your expression neutral anyway, “i see. you may go, renjun.”

renjun bows quickly before practically escaping your office. the second the door shuts, you lean back into your chair slowly. you should be angry. technically, you are. chenle had overstepped every professional boundary, sabotaging your chain of command and stripping you of your most experienced researchers. but beneath the irritation, a treacherous warmth bloomed in your chest. for the first time in six years, chenle had been emotional. he had been protective. he had burned down a project just because it had dared to hurt you. it was a violent, impulsive gesture of care, wrapped in the guise of corporate cruelty.

that night, you leave your office long after most employees have already gone home. the building is quieter now. the endless clicking of keyboards and ringing phones reduced to distant murmur somewhere far below. through the massive windows lining your floor, the city glows beneath the dark sky, millions of lights flickering like stars against the glass. 

you wrap your blazer tighter around yourself before stepping out into the hallway. your heels echo sharply against the tiles as you make your way toward the glass bridge connecting yü skincare headquarters to zhong cosmetics tower beside it.

the bridge had always fascinated everyone. two billion dollar companies physically connected in the middle of the skyline. a symbol of merger. of power. of the marriage between you and chenle. you used to love walking through it. now it just feels symbolic in the cruelest way possible — close enough to see each other yet still separated by glass. 

you knew these buildings like the back of your hand. every hallway. every hidden office. ever late-night corner where you and chenle used to sit as teenagers avoiding meetings your parents forced you into. the memories follow you all the way across the bridge tonight. 

by the time you reach the executive floor of zhong cosmetics, the receptionist has already gone home. only chenle’s personal assistant remains seated outside his office. the man immediately stands and bows politely the second he sees you. 

“mrs. zhong.”

you nodded once, your gaze fixed on the closed doors. “is he busy?”

his assistant hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing at the clock. “yes, ma’am, but… you may go in.”

you don’t bother knocking, simply pushing the doors open and walking inside. his office is dim except for the warm lighting near his desk and the city lights pouring through the windows behind him. chenle sits in his massive leather chair, sleeves rolled up slightly while scanning through documents with quiet concentration. he doesn’t look up immediately, probably assuming it’s just his assistant.

“you fired mark lee?” your voice cuts cleanly through the room, chenle’s attention snapping upward instantly. for a fleeting second, relief flickers across his face, like part of him still instinctively checks whether you’re okay every time he sees you now. then the expression disappears again, turning into something neutral. 

“who’s that?”

you exhale slowly through your nose, already irritated, “chenle,” you say flatly, “mark lee. head of the vitamin research team.”

understanding clicks across his face immediately, but it isn’t accompanied by apology.

“ahh,” he leans back slightly in his chair, “yes. that guy. how could i forget.”

the dismissiveness in his voice immediately annoys you further as you walk deeper into his office, “you cannot fire my people without consulting me first.”

chenle finally sets the file in his hands down, “your people are my people,” he says coolly, “that’s the whole point of this marriage.”

you ignore the sting in that statement – the reminder that in his eyes, you are just another asset to be merged.

“i want him back on the team.”

his jaw tightens almost instantly, “no. y/n.” 

the answer comes too quickly. too firmly. 

you stop dead in front of his desk now, arms crossing, refusing to back down, “chenle,” you say, your voice carefully modulated, fighting to keep the anger out, “mark lee has been employee of the month for seven consecutive years. he’s one of the best researchers in the industry. he’s valuable to this company and firing him is a strategic mistake.”

"valuable people don’t almost kill my wife."

the room goes still. your heartbeat stumbles slightly at the sharpness in his voice, at the way he says my wife. the possessiveness of it nearly undoes you, but your frustration and stubbornness is stronger.

“for fuck’s sake, chenle,” you snap, the poise you’ve spent years perfecting finally cracking, ”it was an accident!”

his expression hardens immediately, “an accident?”

"yes, an accident!," you throw your hands up, “he didn’t even know i was allergic to kiwis!” 

which was true. almost nobody did. allergies were weaknesses and weaknesses were dangerous in industries like yours. information could be weaponized to easily. chenle knew that better than anyone. 

suddenly, he stands, furious enough that his chair rolls backward sharply against the floor. his palms slam loudly on his desk, a sound that cracks through the office. 

“an accident that almost took you from me!”

his voice hits the room heavily — raw, furious, terrified — completely unraveled in a way you’ve never heard before. you stare at him across the desk, chest tightening painfully before anger rushes back to protect you from the hope that can completely blind you.

“oh please,” you scoff bitterly, rolling your eyes, “i bet you’d be jumping up and down if i actually died. it would have been the perfect exit strategy for you wouldn’t it? no more obligations, no more arranged marriage.”

the second the words leave your mouth, the atmosphere changes completely. the heat of his anger vanishes, replaced by a cold, suffocating stillness. chenle freezes, his eyes locking onto yours, hurt plastered all over his face.

“what?” he whispers.

your own emotions spill over immediately afterward. because you’re angry too. and hurt. and most of all, confused. you don’t know what he wants anymore. he needed space, you gave him space. you offer him a physical relationship that benefits him, he barely even touched you. and now – now he’s acting like he cares.

“you’ve spent the last six years making it very clear that you hate me,” you say, refusing to let your voice shake, “you’ve avoided me, ignored me and treated me like a burden. so don’t suddenly start playing the caring husband because i almost died. don’t pretend you have a heart now just because you’re scared of the paperwork a death certificate would cause.”

his expression breaks even more. the anger is gone, replaced by a look of such profound devastation that it almost feels like a crime to feel the way you do.

“i don’t hate you.”

and he sounds painfully, devastatingly honest.

you stare at him from across the desk, your heart beating so loudly it almost drowns out the silence filling the office. chenle doesn’t look away from you. the room feels too small now. too full of things neither of you know how to say. 

“you don’t get to say that now,” you whisper finally, your voice cracking, “not after all these years.”

he looks down sharply, jaw tightening hard enough for you to see the muscle twitch. then he laughs once, a miserable, dry laugh. 

“i know.” the words come out rough. he drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself back together. it doesn’t work. “i know,” he repeats weaker this time, sounding small and hollow. 

you watch him carefully now, even more confused. zhong chenle never falls apart. not publicly. not privately. not ever. he is the gold standard of control – composed, untouchable, a man carved from ice and expectation. yet, standing before you, he looks like he’s seconds away from total collapse. 

your anger starts cracking around the edges as you look at the boy in front of you. you were always weak when it came to him. if there were a list of your weaknesses, he’d be right there, on top of that damned fruit.

“chenle…”

he suddenly shakes his head. he physically can’t let you comfort him right now.

“do you know what i thought when you stopped breathing?”

the question hangs in tha air as you hold your breath. 

“i thought,” he exhales shakily, “i thought the last thing you were ever going to believe…was that i hated you.”

he finally looks at you again then, completely wrecked, his eyes bloodshot and swimming with a grief that has been simmering for years. 

“and i couldn’t fucking breathe,” he admits quietly, his voice trembling, “because all i could think was that you were going to leave me believing i didn’t love you.” 

the world feels like it stops spinning. love. he said love. not care. not obligation. love. your lips part slightly but no sound comes out. chenle laughs bitterly again before shaking his head. 

“you’re right. i spent years blaming you for everything because it was easier than admitting i was scared,” he confesses, his gaze searching yours, “scared that none of my choices were mine anymore. that my entire life was a script written by our parents,” he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, “but loving you…that was the only choice that was actually mine.”

that brings tears to your eyes instantly. chenle looks at you helplessly now. he doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions spilling out of him anymore. 

“and i ruined us anyway.”

he moves then, walking around the desk quickly, finally removing the barrier that always sat between the two of you. you think he’s going to stop in front of you.

instead – he drops to his knees. 

“what are you–”

before you can even process the gesture, his arms wrap tightly around your waist, forehead pressing against your stomach and finally — he breaks completely. you feel the shuddering breath leave him in a great, racking sob, his grip tightening almost painfully around you, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“i’m sorry.”

the words come out cracked. wrecked. nothing like the polished man the world knows. 

“i’m so fucking sorry.”

you cover your mouth with your hand, stifling a sob of your own, even though you could already taste the salt from your own tears. this is the same boy who never apologizes unless forced to. the man who would rather bleed out than let people see weakness. and here he is, kneeling at your feet, clinging onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him together. 

“i’m sorry for all of it,” he gasps, his voice breaking, “for hurting you, for making you feel lonely, for making you believe i hated you when i—,” his voice breaks completely. 

slowly, tentatively, you thread your fingers through his hair. the moment your touch meets him, chenle exhales a shaky, broken sound against your stomach, his entire body shuddering. even a small gesture of comfort from you is enough to undo him.

“stop that,” you whisper, voice trembling.

your heart is breaking for him, for the boy who spent years pretending to be a monster so he wouldn't have to admit he was a prisoner. you can't stand to see him like this – on his knees, apologizing as if he is something broken and discarded at your feet, rather than the person you’ve loved for all of your life. 

you gently tug at his hair, coaxing him to look up. when he finally does, his eyes are swimming with tears, his expression completely defenseless. in this moment, everything else feels distant and irrelevant. there is only one overwhelming realization pouring through your chest:

chenle loves you. 

the boy you spent years mourning while standing right beside him this entire time still loves you. your heart feels too full for your body. before you can overthink it, before the fear and doubts can return, you slide your hands down to his face, pulling him upward carefully.

“get up,” you murmur through your own shaky tears. chenle obeys immediately, still staring at you like he’s afraid this moment isn’t real. your hand slides slowly against his cheeks, wiping his tears away before settling on his jaw.

“you really love me?” 

the question is a fragile thing, barely a whisper, floating between you like glass that could shatter at the slightest breeze. you sound disbelieving, your voice trembling with the weight of six years of silence and cold shoulders.

chenle’s expression dissolves. the hardness in his eyes, the armor he’s worn since he was eighteen, it all melts into something so painfully tender it nearly wrecks you. 

“i always have,” he confesses. 

that’s the final blow. the last shred of distance, the last wall of resentment.

you kiss him first.

but chenle returns it immediately, kissing you back like he’s been starving for it, years of tension snapping instantly. his hands come up to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, enough to pull a gasp from you while your fingers tangle tightly into his hair. 

this kiss feels nothing like your wedding day. it’s not polite. not careful. 

it’s desperate. it’s the sound of two people drowning and finally finding air. all the years you spent silently loving each other crashing together at once. he kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every moment he wasted. every cold shoulder. every lonely dinner. every time he walked away instead of reaching for you. 

your back bumps lightly against the edge of his desk. he breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead pressing against yours, both of you panting, breaths mingling in the charged air.

“fuck,” he whispers against your lips, his voice a wrecked, needy rasp, “i missed you so fucking much.”

the words makes your head spin. you don't let him breathe, pulling him back down, your mouth seeking his with a hunger that matches his own. his grip on your waist tightens, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the desk. papers scatter, sliding across the desk and fluttering to the floor. he doesn't give a damn about the reports. the only thing that matters is the heat of you.

you wrap your legs around his waist automatically, pulling him into you as he steps between your knees. he crashes his lips back onto yours, his tongue sweeping through your mouth with a possessive urgency. this isn't just lust, it’s an exorcism. he is purging years of loneliness, and you are drinking him in, fingers clutching his hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your very souls.

“do you know-,” he groans, his voice sounding almost angry at himself, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your jaw, “-how long i've wanted to do this properly?”

“stop talking then,” you tease, your voice breathy and laced with desire. you reach down, hooking your fingers into his belt loop, tugging hard, dragging his hips flush against your center.

chenle lets out a grunt as he grinds his cock firmly into your clothed core, the friction sending a jolt of pure electricity through both of you. he freezes, a shudder racking his entire frame, his breath coming in jagged hitches.

“wait... wait, baby,” he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he forces himself to pull back just an inch.

“what’s wrong?” 

“i really, really want to do this,” he rasps, “but...not here.”

you laugh softly and it almost undoes him. almost makes him take back what he just said. with a tiny smile on your lips, you nod, “okay.”

then you glance around the wreckage of his desk, your smile turning into something playful, “do you need help finishing up those reports first, then?”

“are you crazy?” he asks, though his tone is fond. he doesn't let go of you, his hands sliding down to squeeze your hips one last time before he helps you down.

“we’re going home...right now.”

the ride home is a blur of friction and heat. for the first time in your marriage, you don't sit in separate cars. you spend the entire journey tangled together in the backseat, the partition slid up to shield you from the driver’s view. you can’t stop kissing him. you can’t stop laughing into him, feeling the giddy, overwhelming rush of being loved back.

chenle is just as relentless, his mouth roaming all over your exposed skin, leaving a trail of dark, possessive marks that claim you as his. every time you try to catch your breath, he finds a new spot to kiss, his hands roaming your curves.

the air in the car is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and arousal, the silence of the ride punctuated only by the sound of wet kisses and the shaky, happy sighs of two people who have finally come home.

⚜️ THE MASTER BEDROOM ⚜️

as you step through the front door, chenle is practically jumping beside you, a boyish grin plastered on his face. he looks at you with a hunger that is now subdued by an overwhelming sweetness.

“race you to the top!,” he shouts.

before you can even process the challenge, he’s already bolting up the left staircase, his laughter echoing through the foyer.

“lele! this isn’t fair! i’m in heels!” you squeal, your voice sounding lighter than it has in years. you run up the right staircase anyway, feeling like a kid again – the version of you that loved him without fear, and the version of him that followed you everywhere. 

by the time you reach the top, breathless and flushed, he’s already there, leaning against the railing with a smug, sparkling expression. 

“that was not nice, you should’ve given me a head start!,” you complain, crossing your arms and pouting, a childish expression you haven’t dared to show him in a lifetime. he chuckles then, stepping forward, his presence enveloping you as he pulls you back into his arms. 

his finger lifts your chin to tilt you face up to his, “and what does the winner get?,” he asks, eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and adoration. 

you lean back slightly, a playful, daring glint in your eyes, “hmm…you get to choose.”

he quirks a brow, gaze dropping to your lips, “choose what?”

“my room or yours?” you say with a smile that looks innocent but tastes like a provocation. 

a slow grin spreads across his face, “how about ours?”

“ours?” confusion flickers across your features. 

without a word, he takes your hand and begins leading you. he doesn't turn toward the left wing or the right…instead, he guides you toward the central hallway – the one you’ve spent months ignoring. it was the dead zone of the house, a place too painful to acknowledge because it represented the void in your marriage. the hallway that leads straight to the master bedroom.

as you walk, he slides behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist in a tight back hug, pulling your back flush against his chest. he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, his breath hot and steady as he pushes open the two grand double doors.

you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. the room is breathtaking. grand and dipped in gold. 

“wow,” you whisper, stepping inside, “i haven’t been in here since your mom gave me the tour…i thought it would’ve collected cobwebs by now.”

“it did,” he whispers against your ear, his voice thick with a sudden, piercing apology, “i had the maids clean while you were in the hospital. i wanted it to be perfect for when we finally came home together.”

you turn in his arms, looking up at him. a small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips., “maybe i should’ve eaten that kiwi a lot earlier.”

chenle’s grip on your sides tightens, his expression shifting into one of genuine panic, “don’t joke about that, baby. please.”

you giggle, the sound soft and melodic. he scolds you, though his eyes are softening, “it’s not funny, y/n.”

“i’m not smiling because of the kiwi,” you reply softly, your voice barely a breath.

“then why are you smiling?” he asks, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

you look away for a second, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, “i just…i really like it when you call me baby.”

chenle’s heart is practically audible in his chest, his gaze intensifying as he tips your chin up gently, making you look into the depths of his devotion.

“i love you,” he declares, the words sounding like a vow.

“i love you, too,” you whisper back.

he kisses you then – not the desperate, starving kiss from the office, but something slow, sweet, and profoundly tender. it’s a promise of a future. a seal on the new life you’re starting.

then, without warning, he breaks the kiss and sweeps you off your feet. you let out a startled gasp, clutching his shoulders as he lifts you bridal style. he carries you across the room with effortless strength, eyes locked on yours, matching smiles on your faces before placing you carefully in the center of the massive king-sized bed.

as chenle looms over you, the playful energy morphs into something more deeper. he moves with deliberate, agonizing slowness, as if he wants to memorize every single inch of you, making up for every second of the years he spent pretending he didn’t want you. 

he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that starts as a whisper and grows into a demand. his tongue swirls against yours as you moan into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“you have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration, “how long i’ve dreamed of kissing you.”

his hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers grazing your skin and sending jolts of electricity through your nerves. he undresses you with a reverence that borders on worship, peeling away the fabrics slowly, pausing to kiss the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, and the middle of your breast. when you’re finally bare beneath him, he pulls back for a moment, his eyes darkening as he drinks in the sight of you.

“you're so beautiful,” he whispers, his gaze heavy with adoration. 

he descends slowly, lips finding your breast as he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly, you let out a sharp gasp, your back arching off the mattress. the sensation is new – a focused, searing heat that radiates from your chest down to your core. he alternates between soft licks and deep, demanding suctions, moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of wet, burning kisses across your ribs.

“lele…oh, god,” you whimper as he continues trailing lower, his tongue tasting the skin of your stomach, circling your navel and teasing the very edge of your underwear. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of his skin mixing with the luxury of the room, your breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

you’ve only known one kind of intimacy ever – that cold, transactional night with him that left you feeling empty. this is different. this is a slow burn, a deliberate awakening.

as he slides your underwear down your legs, he settles between your thighs, pushing them wide. you feel a surge of vulnerability, a sudden flash of inexperience that makes you shy away slightly.

“wait, chenle…i've... i've never…” you start, your voice trembling.

chenle looks up at you, a tender, knowing smile on his face, “i know, baby. just relax. let me take care of you.”

the first contact of his tongue against your clit pulls a soft moan out of you, a sensation you weren’t prepared for. the feeling of pleasure, making your hips instinctively jerk upward, arching off that mattress in a desperate search for more. he presses deeper, his tongue swirling in a slow, rhythmic motion that targets the most sensitive part of you.

“do you like that?” he mumbles, his voice a low, vibrating growl against your wetness, the heat of his breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine.

“yes…” you whisper shyly, voice trembling. you try to keep your eyes open, wanting to witness the sight of him. but you don’t get to watch for long before your eyes begin to roll back, lids fluttering as he begins to feast on you with a sudden, hungry intensity. he’s no longer just tasting you – he’s consuming you. his tongue flickering rapidly, alternating between broad strokes and sharp, pointed pressure that makes your toes curl. when he suddenly sucks your clit into his mouth, creating a powerful vacuum of pleasure, your vision blurs into a haze of white and gold. you are completely undone. the tension in your lower belly coils tighter and tighter, building into a frantic crescendo that makes you feel like you're vibrating.

“chenle, i’m… i think i’m…” you gasp, your fingers clutching the silk sheets until they bunch up in your fists.

“go on, baby. give it all to me,” he encourages, his voice thick with desire. he works his tongue faster and harder, driving you relentlessly toward the edge.

as he does, he glances up, his dark eyes focusing on the sight of you – your head rolled back, your mouth parted in a silent, desperate gasp, your body arched, your nipples peaked.

he reaches up, grabbing your hand and locking his fingers with yours, anchoring you to the bed. you squeeze his hand with everything you have, clinging to him as the world finally shatters. you cum hard, your clit pulsing against his tongue in a series of intense spasms that leave you sobbing for air. the release is so overwhelming that it feels as though you're floating in a void of pure euphoria, a level of pleasure you never knew existed. you collapse back into the pillows, panting heavily, chest heaving as the aftershocks continue to ripple through you.

chenle slowly lifts his head, your pleasure glistening on his lips. he looks at you with a mixture of triumph and pure, unadulterated love. he crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead, your nose, and finally your lips, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

you reach up then, your fingers hooking on his tie. it’s already loosened from your earlier desperation. you tug on it firmly, finally removing it. 

with a low, needy sound against his lips, you sit up, beginning to undress him, your movements hurried and clumsy with eagerness. buttons pop and fabric slides until he’s completely naked, his skin warm against yours. 

your breath hitches in your throat. you hadn’t seem him fully the first time – but now, in the soft glow of the bedroom, you can’t seem to look away. your gaze drops to his cock.

driven by a sudden, bold curiosity, you reach out, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his shaft. 

chenle lets out a sharp, strangled whine, his hips jerking towards your touch instinctively. the sound is so visceral, so unlike the composed man the world knows, that you freeze, your eyes widening.

“did that hurt?” you whisper, looking up at him with genuine concern, as if you've just discovered a secret vulnerability.

a small, breathless smile tugs at his lips, though his eyes are clouded with lust. he shakes his head slowly, his voice a strained rasp, "no, baby... fuck, it feels so good. you drive me insane–,” he kisses you again, pulling back just an inch, forehead resting against yours, breath hot on your skin, “-but you need to stop,” he groans, the sound vibrating in his chest, “i need to be inside you.”

he carefully guides you back to lay on the bed, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer to him. he spends a long moment just looking at you, his gaze roaming over your flushed skin and swollen lips.

“i’m sorry about before," he whispers, “i promise i’m going to make up for every single second of it,” he says, voice thick with emotion before grabbing your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your pinky. and before he can let go, you pull his hand towards you, returning the kiss to his pinky too – not the innocent promise of children, but a mature, desperate vow of devotion. chenle’s breath hitches, the small gesture acting like a catalyst, snapping the last thread of his restraint.

he doesn't rush though. he moves with a slow, reverent precision, parting your legs with a gentle nudge of his knee, his eyes never leaving yours. as he positions himself, the head of his cock brushes against your entrance, slick and searing hot. you gasp, your hips instinctively arching upward, seeking the friction. chenle lets out a shaky exhale, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. he enters you in one slow, agonizingly steady glide.

“oh...chenle,” you moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. you’ve never felt so full.

he freezes for a moment, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, a low groan escaping his throat, “you're so tight... so warm. i can't believe you're actually mine.”

then he begins to move, and it is nothing like the clinical urgency of the first time. this is a dance. he pulls back until he is almost out, only to plunge back in with a slow, heavy thud that makes you cry out. every thrust is deliberate, designed to make you feel the weight of him, the heat of him, and the sheer intensity of his love.

“chenle... please,” you whimper, your fingers clawing into his shoulders, “right there... don't stop.”

“i've got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips leaving searing trails of heat.

he picks up the pace slightly, the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. then he reaches down, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, thumb circling your swollen nub, perfectly timed with the deep, rhythmic thrusts of his hips. the combination is electric. you feel that same tension building again, faster this time, a coil of pleasure tightening with every stroke. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase any remaining space between you.

“look at me,” he commands softly. you open your eyes to find him watching you with an expression of pure, unadulterated worship, “tell me you feel it. tell me you know how much i love you.”

“i feel it,” you sob, your voice breaking, “i love you...i love you so much, chenle."

the words breaks something inside him. his movements become more urgent, more passionate, though he never loses that sweetness. he begins to whisper things against your skin – promises of a future, apologies for the past, and raw admissions of how much he craved this specific moment.

as the climax begins to crest, you feel your walls clamp down on him in tight, rhythmic waves. you gasp his name, body shuddering under the force of a release that feels like a spiritual cleansing. chenle lets out a guttural, strangled cry, his body stiffening as he delivers a few final, powerful thrusts. he pours himself into you, his own release consuming, his head falling at the crook of your neck as he gives in to the euphoria, collapsing onto you, his chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around you in a protective, crushing embrace. for a long time, the only sound in the room is the synchronized thumping of two hearts finally beating in the same rhythm.

“i love you,” he whispers into your hair, his voice exhausted but certain.

⚜️ THE REST OF YOUR LIFE ⚜️

you wake up to the sound of light snoring from your husband, his arms locked firmly around your naked waist, your back flushed against his bare chest. the warmth of skin on skin is electric, but it’s the prominent, hard bulge of his cock pressing firmly into the small of your back that makes your breath hitch.

you pinch your arm, a sharp sting that confirms this isn't a fever dream. 

then you shift gently in his embrace, turning in the circle of his arms to face him. as you move, his cock slides against the curve of your hip, dangerously close to your core. the proximity makes your pussy clench instinctively. you’ve always loved chenle but this kind of hunger was new - a desperate need to be consumed by him.

“stop staring at me, you creep,” he teases, his voice thick with sleep.

you let out a breathless laugh, swatting his shoulder. the sound of your own laughter feels foreign yet right.

it hits you then – the terrifying, beautiful ease of it all. like the past six years of coldness, the resentment, and the silence were just a bad dream, easily erased by the heat of his body.

sensing your sudden silence, chenle opens his eyes. the gaze he meets you with is soft, searching, and filled with an intensity that makes your heart race. 

“what are you thinking about?” he asks softly, his hand drifting up to thread his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp.

“just… thinking about how nice this is,” you whisper, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips.

“yeah?” he lets out a playful hum, his eyes shimmering with complete adoration, “think you could do this with me for the rest of our lives?”

you lean in then, kissing him softly, “yes,” you murmur against his lips with absolutely no doubt, “you’ve always been the only person i could ever do this with.”

chenle’s heart stutters. he had thought his love for you had reached its peak, but every time you surprise him with your tenderness, the feeling grows, expanding until it feels like he might burst.

“do you think this would still be nice with twenty kids?”  he teases, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

you recoil slightly, a look of genuine horror flashing across your face. “what?! i’m not giving you twenty kids, chenle! are you insane?!”

he bursts into a loud, genuine laugh, his eyes disappearing into crescents, his kitten-like smile whiskers prominent. as he calms down, he smirks, leaning closer, “i’m not the one who wants twenty kids. i’m pretty sure it was my beautiful wife, coming home drunk a month ago and begging me for a baby.”

you groan, your face flushing a deep crimson as you try to rack your brain for any memory of such a confession. but you don’t remember anything.

“i was drunk! i wasn’t in my right mind!”

“hmm,” he draws the word out fondly, his hand sliding down from your hair to trace the curve of your hip,  “how many kids do you actually want then?”

“two,” you admit shyly, looking away.

“only two? baby, this mansion would go to waste,” he teases, a playful smirk on his face.

“okay… three then,”  you say, trying to hide the smile growing on your face.

“what if one of them feels left out?”

“four. and that’s it!” you exclaim.

in one fluid motion, chenle rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath his weight, his eyes dark with lust, his hard cock hitting your thigh with a heavy thud. 

“guess we should start getting to work then,” he smirks.

you giggle underneath him, pulling him in for a quick kiss before murmuring against his lips, “can you do that thing you did last night first, though?” you ask, cheeks burning.

“what thing, baby? i did a couple of things.”

the embarrassment is overwhelming, but the craving is stronger. you bite your lip, unable to say it aloud.

“c’mon, mrs. zhong, owner of two beauty empires,” he teases, his voice a low, sultry drawl, “you can tell your husband exactly what you want.”

“go down on me again, chenle,” you whisper.

he grins, a predatory yet loving expression, “of course, baby… but you do know that’s not how babies are made, right?”

you groan, shoving at his chest, “i really don't care.”

he chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest before he slides down your body. he doesn't stop until his face is buried between your thighs, letting out a low moan at the scent of your arousal, his hot breath ghosting over your clit before his tongue makes a slow, wet sweep from your bottom to the top, tasting every drop of your longing.

⚜️ THE OFFICE ⚜️

when you get to the office later that day, arriving in the same car, and walking through the lobby of yü skincare together – the atmosphere shifts. you can feel the collective intake of breath from the staff, the employees practically vibrating with curiosity, eyes darting between you and chenle, trying and failing to hide their sheer shock. you don't blame them. for seven months, your marriage had been spent apart. to see him not only accompanying you to your door but looking at you with an expression of raw, unfiltered adoration is enough to send the office gossip into overdrive.

your eyes scan the room, landing on a familiar figure – mark lee is back at his desk, focused and working. a surge of triumph rushes through you. you’ve won.

the moment the heavy door to your private office clicks shut, the professional facade vanishes. chenle doesn't waste a second. his hands are instantly back on you, grip firm and possessive as he spins you around to face him, pinning you lightly against the edge of your desk.

you grin, your eyes dancing with mischief, “i see mark lee is back,” you say teasingly.

chenle huffs a small, amused breath, his forehead resting against yours, “yeah, he’s back. but tell him he’s walking on a very thin line,” he murmurs, though there’s no real heat in the threat. you laugh, a genuine, light sound, and shove his shoulder playfully. 

his expression shifts, the playfulness melting into something achingly sincere as he cups your face in his hands, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a reverence that makes your heart stutter. 

“you know i’d give you everything you want, right? just say the word and it’s all yours.”

it’s not just a statement – it’s another confession, a continuation of the vow he’s been making since you woke up. 

“i told you,” he whispers, his gaze searching yours, “i’ll spend the rest of this life, and every single one after that, making it up to you.”

you let out a soft, breathless laugh, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, “when did you become such a sap?” you tease, reaching up and winding your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him down.

the kiss is slow, languid, and deep – a sweet contrast to the hunger of the morning, but filled with the same desperate need to be close. as your tongues slide together, the corporate world outside the door ceases to exist, there is only the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, and the overwhelming realization that you are finally, truly, loved.

⚜️ THE FULFILLED PROMISE ⚜️

it didn’t take long after that before you finally got pregnant.

you and chenle fucked all the time. and it wasn’t even to conceive – the two you just physically could not get enough of each other. the mansion became your personal playground. you were pretty sure there wasn’t a single square inch of the estate that hadn’t felt the heat of your bodies. 

like that one time when you both got home after a charity gala. you had worn a red dress that hugged every curve, the slit climbing dangerously high up your thigh. all night, chenle had been a predator in a tuxedo, his gaze burning into you, hand possessively gripping the small of your back, whispering filth into your ear while you smiled for the cameras. he didn't want to network, he wanted to rip the dress off your body. the moment the heavy doors of the mansion clicked shut behind you, the facade crumbled. he didn't even let you take off your heels. chenle grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you up with a grunt of effort and placing you down onto the large, circular marble table that sat centrally between the grand staircases, not even caring about the priceless antique vase sitting on top of it. he didn't waste time with foreplay – he reached down, bunching the red silk upward, exposing your lace panties and with one violent tug, he ripped the lace aside, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the vast foyer. “i’ve been thinking about this since the moment you put this dress on,” he growled, voice raw. he freed his pulsing cock, already leaking pre-cum, and shoved it into you in one deep, punishing thrust. you moaned his name so loud, back arching off the marble, legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper. the sound of your shared moans bounced off the high ceilings, filling the foyer with the raw noises of pleasure. he fucked you desperately, hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound that could be heard all around the mansion. you knew the maids were nearby, you could almost feel their shocked eyes on you, but the thought only made you wetter. you gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his tuxedo jacket, sobbing his name as he hammered into you, driving you toward a shattering climax that left you shaking and drenched.

then there was the discovery of the billiards room. it had been a forgotten wing of the house, dusty and silent until you both stumbled upon it during a lazy afternoon. the moment the door closed, the atmosphere shifted. the green felt of the billiard table looked like an invitation. chenle didn't even let you stand still. he lifted you up the billiard table, hiking your dress up and spreading your legs wide. “you smell so sweet,” he murmured, breath hot against your inner thigh. he didn't hesitate, burying his face in your pussy. his tongue was your favorite  weapon – broad, wet, and relentless. he licked your folds, swirling around your clit, making your toes curl. he fingered you with his other hand, two fingers sliding deep inside your soaking walls, stretching you while his tongue continued to drive you insane. it was an intense combination. you were sobbing, fingers clutching his hair. just as you reached the peak, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and dripping. he didn't give you a second to whine about it, grabbing your hips to help you down then bending you forward until your chest was pressed against the green felt. “look at you,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress, “always so ready for me.” he entered you from behind, his cock filling you completely over and over again. the friction of the billiard table against your skin and the relentless pace of his thrusts sent you over the edge. he fucked you ruthlessly, his hand reaching around to pinch your nipples over your pajama dress, his chest heaving against your back. every thrust was a claim, a promise that you belonged to him, until he finally groaned, filling you with a hot, thick surge of cum that left you both breathless and spent.

and also that one time in the hot tub, it wasn’t even night time…it was pure daylight, the sun was out, illuminating every inch of the outdoor sanctuary. the risk of being seen by the gardeners or the staff was immense, but the adrenaline only fueled the fire. you were draped across him, your legs wrapped around his waist as you rode him. the warm, bubbling water splashed around you, clinging to your skin. chenle’s hands were everywhere – one gripping your ass to keep you steady, the other reaching up to grab your breast. he leaned in, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking it hard, his tongue swirling around the peak. you threw your head back, your moans echoing across the open terrace, completely uninhibited. you could feel the vibration of the water and the rhythmic slide of his cock deep inside you. every time you sank down, you felt him hit your cervix, a sensation that made you whimper and cling to his shoulders. “who cares if they see?” he gasped, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of lust and adoration, “let them see who you belong to.” he gripped your waist tighter, lifting you slightly before slamming you back down onto him. the splashing grew more violent, the water churning as the pace increased. you rode him with a frantic energy, your clit rubbing against his pelvic bone with every downward stroke. when the climax hit, it was explosive. you screamed his name into the open air, your walls clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic waves, while he groaned, thrusting one last time and flooding you with his cum under the bright, midday sun.

and then there was that one week honeymoon that chenle insisted on, saying that he never got to give you a proper one. you two spent a week in the most luxurious private resort in hawaii. the resort is beautiful, open to the tropical air and the rhythmic crash of the ocean, but you barely saw the view. you were too occupied by your husband. for seven days, the world ceased to exist. there were no board meetings, no family expectations, and no corporate rules – only the sound of wet, slapping skin and the desperate gasps of two people becoming one. he fucked you in the private pool, the warm water swirling around your hips as he held you against the edge, his cock sliding in and out of you with a frictionless ease that made you scream into the salty air. he fucked you on the outdoor daybed, under the moon, the linen sheets soaking through with your combined juices. he would spend hours worshipping your body, his tongue tracing every curve, every fold, before driving himself into you with a force that left you shaking and sobbing his name. 

and of course, eventually, you fucked in both of your offices. the two of you tried to keep it professional at first but at one point, you just couldn’t stop yourselves. i mean, no one can fire you anyway. and the two of you spend so much time at work it just makes sense. your favorite routine involved the desk — when you were the one who gets to play, disappearing from view while chenle continued a conference call. the contrast was intoxicating, his voice, cool and commanding, discussing quarterly projections, while your mouth was wrapped tightly around his cock. you would suck him with a focused intensity, swirling your tongue around the head and taking him as deep as your throat would allow, listening to the slight hitch in his breath and the way his hand gripped the edge of the desk to keep from groaning. when he finally hangs up, he would haul you out from under the desk by your waist and slam you down onto the edge of it, “my little slut wants to play, huh?” he’d growl against your lips as you cling to the desk for dear life, heels digging into the carpet. he took you right there in the center of his power, filling you to the brim.

but still...nothing beats fucking in your shared bedroom, this was where the real intensity lived, especially on the nights when chenle’s gaze turned dark and determined. on those nights, he didn't just want to fuck you – he wanted to possess you completely. he would start by flipping you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees in doggy style. he loved the view of your arched back and the way your ass looked spread wide for him. he would grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, and thrust into you from behind. the sound of his balls slapping against your cheeks echoed through the room, a raw, primal beat that drove you insane. he would reach forward to pull your hair back, whispering filth into your ear about how much he loved the way you took him. then, he would flip you onto your back, hoisting your legs up high,  sometimes draping them over his shoulders, so that he could penetrate you at the deepest possible angle. in this position, there was no escape. he drove himself in until he hit your cervix, each thrust a heavy, thumping blow that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. “look at me,” he would command, his eyes burning with an obsessive kind of love, “tell me you're mine.” the friction and the intensity pushed you toward a peak you had never experienced before. in the heat of those nights, you discovered the sensation of squirting – your pussy drenching the sheets and leaving you gasping for air. the feeling of losing control, of your body literally overflowing with pleasure, sends chenle into a frenzy. he would fuck you even harder, driving you through multiple, shattering orgasms, his own release coming in a hot, thick flood that filled you completely, leaving you both tangled in the damp sheets, hearts racing in a synchronized rhythm of absolute devotion.

now, a year into marriage and you were two months pregnant with your first child.

it hasn’t been easy, your baby was stubborn – which you honestly should’ve seen coming knowing how stubborn its father is (and you, too). 

the pregnancy had stripped away your usual composure. for a woman who navigated the cutthroat world of billionaire cosmetics with a steady hand, the loss of control was infuriating.

your morning sickness wasn't just “morning”sickness – it was a rolling tide of nausea that lasted the whole day. you had spent the last few weeks throwing up everything from expensive lobster to plain crackers. to add to the misery, your breasts had swollen, becoming agonizingly sore to the touch.

you were, in a word – grumpy. a whirlwind of mood swings, snapping at assistants and sobbing over the smallest of things, existing in a state of perpetual irritation. which was especially unfortunate considering you had never been particularly good at dealing with discomfort. you are a billionaire. struggle is not your forte.

still, chenle had been unbelievably sweet and understanding through all of it. he spent his days balancing both companies and his nights massaging your back or holding your hair back while you retched into the toilet, kissing your forehead with a tenderness that still made your heart ache.

today, you were plagued by a craving so specific, so visceral, that it felt like a physical hunger. you wanted a tomato-egg dish. but not just any version. it had to be right.

chef sung ahn, a culinary genius, was currently in the midst of a crisis — seven bowls of the dish sat on the marble island, each one a slightly different variation of seasoning and texture. and yet, none of them were right.

you pushed the seventh bowl away with a pout, your lower lip trembling. you knew you were acting like a spoiled child, but as you rested a hand over your still-flat stomach, you reasoned that you were carrying what is about to be the most spoiled heir in the country. it only made sense. 

the heavy thud of the front door announced chenle’s return. he stepped into the kitchen, shedding his blazer and loosening his tie, his eyes immediately landing on the scene.

“baby,” he murmured, stepping behind you and pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head.

his scent, expensive cologne and the lingering musk of a long day at the office, usually calmed you, but today you were too frustrated to be fully appeased, “what’s going on in here?”

you let out a dramatic groan, leaning back into his chest, “your stupid baby wants a certain taste, and the chef can’t do it!" you complained, pouting up at him, “nothing tastes right, chenle! everything is wrong!”

chenle looked from your frustrated expression to the exhausted but patient chef sung ahn, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

“i’m so sorry, chef. she’s been incredibly sensitive since the pregnancy started. i think we're dealing with a very demanding little one.”

chef sung ahn smiled knowingly, unfazed by the seven wasted bowls. he was paid far too much to be offended by the complaints of a pregnant billionaire.

“that’s perfectly alright, mr. zhong. my wife was exactly the same way. i remember a week where she nearly kicked me out of the house because the toast was too loud.”

the two men share a low chuckle while you try not to roll your eyes. his wife was valid and you know it. 

“i think i know exactly what she wants, though,” chenle said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming soft and confident.

"i’ll take care of it. thank you, chef. you can head out for the day."

as the chef departed, chenle took his place, rolling up his sleeves and exposing his forearms. you remained seated on the bar stool, watching him. there was something hypnotic about the way he moved – the precision of his knife, the way he cracked the eggs with one hand, the sizzle of the tomatoes hitting the pan.

as the aroma began to waft through the air, something happened — for the first time in hours, the nausea in your stomach vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense surge of appetite.

your mouth watered. the scent was an exact match – not to a michelin-star recipe, but to a memory. a flash of nostalgia hitting you. you were seventeen again, shivering under a duvet in your room, delirious with a fever. chenle visited you with a simple, home-cooked tomato-egg dish. it hadn't been fancy, but it had been made with a quiet kind of care that had spoken louder than any words.

you looked at your husband – the man who had once been your best friend, then your cold stranger, and now the love of your life. a small, amused smile tugged at your lips. your baby, barely the size of a fruit, was already exerting its will, bypassing the expertise of a world-class chef to demand the specific, nostalgic touch of its father.

god, you thought, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips as you watched him plate the food. the baby already has a favorite. what a traitor.

chenle finished the dish quickly, the steam curling upward, carrying that precise, comforting scent that had finally silenced the storm in your stomach.

he slid the bowl in front of you, the colors vibrant and the aroma intoxicating. as you picked up the spoon to take a bite, he stepped towards you. 

“how is it?” he smirks teasingly. because he knows you. and he knows it’s exactly what you needed. 

you let out a soft, involuntary sigh of contentment, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a verbal compliment just yet. instead, you pouted, looking up at him through your lashes. without warning, you reached out and gripped the fabric of his shirt, bunching the material in your fist and tugging him towards you as you burrowed your face into chest.

“you’re not allowed to go to work anymore,” you mumbled against his shirt, “you’re staying with me. every second of every day.”

a low, vibrating chuckle erupted from his chest, the sound echoing against your cheek. he wrapped his arms around you, hands splaying across your back.

he adored this version of you – the spoiled, demanding, vulnerable woman who only wanted him.

“i’m perfectly okay with that,” he whispered, his voice dripping with fond adoration. 

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes shimmering. the stubbornness was still there, but it was softened by a deep, aching affection.

you reached up then, hooking your arms around his neck to pull him down toward you for a soft, lingering kiss filled with tenderness and love.

⚜️ THE END ⚜️

an: weeee!!!! did i spend my entire weekend glued to my computer writing this like a loser? yeah…i did. but i had to ride on the high of inspiration and delusions before i lose it or else this would take me months to finish lmao. anyways, i loved writing this! and i’m also realizing it’s very easy for me to write for chenle idk it’s always so fun for me!!! fun game: can you guess what kind of dad chenle is!! aka can you guess the gender of the baby??? put in the comments what you think! 😉 (i do have the answer). and please let me know your thoughts! thank ü for reading, much love to ü 💛

EXTRA: GENDER REVEAL PARTY

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🥂 wedding guest list: @markiepoo4eva @haru-lvsjiho @underscuare @starcandybby @flowerpote @markclle @myrainbowgelpen @ajjunicesblog @musken23 @yayayawnnz @untitledtyun @girloftherem @neotannies