matching hoshi's freak

[1] CHAPTER ONE

the one where it all begins

[2] CHAPTER TWO

the one where you can't take it any longer

[3] CHAPTER THREE

the one with the blackmail

[4] CHAPTER FOUR

the one with all the controlling

[5] CHAPTER FIVE

the one with the change

[6] CHAPTER SIX

the one with the confusion

[7] CHAPTER SEVEN

the one with the scare

[8] CHAPTER EIGHT

The party throbbed like a living thing. Bass slammed against Chaeyoung’s ribs as bodies spun and ground under flickering strobe lights. Laughter cut through the haze of pumpkin spice and cheap vodka, but none of it reached her.

The party was too loud. Too hot. Too much.

Chaeyoung tried to focus on Jaemin's voice, but it was like trying to hold water in her hands. His words slipped through, tangled in the bass and the laughter and the pounding in her head.

"—you're doing it again," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"That thing where you check out." He didn't sound angry. Not yet. Just tired. "You're standing here, but you're not actually here."

"I'm sorry," she said, because it was easier than explaining. "I'm just—"

"Just what?"

She couldn't think of the words. She didn't have the energy to explain that sometimes her own head felt like a cage. That sometimes the noise was too much. That sometimes she felt like she was drowning and no one noticed.

"I just need a minute," she said.

"You always need a minute." His voice was sharper now. "Every time we're together, you need a minute. Every time I try to get close, you need space."

"That's not true—"

"It is." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You know what I needed tonight? I needed my girlfriend. The one who actually wanted to be here. The one who wanted to be with me."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Instead," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "I got someone who looks at me like I'm a chore. Like I'm something you have to tolerate."

"I don't—"

"You do, Chaeyoung. You do it all the time."

She felt the words hit her chest like small stones. Not heavy enough to knock her down, but enough to bruise.

"I'm trying," she said quietly.

“Right. And I showed up for you.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Whatever. Enjoy standing in the corner alone.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

She stood there for a long moment, the music pulsing around her, the laughter of strangers filling the space where his voice had been.

She needed air.

She needed to stop feeling like she was suffocating.

She slipped down the hallway and ducked into the kitchen, desperate for a moment of silence.

Chaeyoung’s throat tightened. The room suddenly felt too hot, too loud, too much. She slipped down the hallway and ducked into the kitchen, desperate for air.

It was quieter here. Dimly lit. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the counter beside a spilled bag of gummy worms. The floor stuck to her boots. She leaned against the counter, fingers twisting the rings on her hands, trying to hold herself together.

A door creaked behind her.

She jumped so hard she nearly knocked over the cookie tray.

“Sorry—sorry!” a deep voice blurted.

She spun around and found Kim Mingyu frozen in the doorway, holding a bottle of blue Powerade, eyes wide. Fake vampire fangs (one slightly crooked) glinted when he smiled sheepishly.

“Uh… you okay?” he asked.

Chaeyoung let out a breathless laugh. “You scared the shit out of me.”

His gaze dropped to his own outfit — black tank top with “BITE ME” scrawled in glow-in-the-dark paint, cheap plastic cape, combat boots. “It’s the fangs, huh?”

She took him in properly and snorted. “You look like a rejected boyband vampire.”

Mingyu grinned, loud and unabashed. “Okay, rude. But fair.”

The laugh that burst out of her felt like the first real breath she’d taken all night.

“And what are you supposed to be?” he asked, eyeing her costume.

“Rogue. From X-Men.”

He tilted his head. “Sexy evil elf?”

She stared at him. “You did not just call Rogue a sexy evil elf.”

Mingyu put his hands up. “I see it now! The gloves. The streak. Bad bitch with superpowers. My bad.”

Chaeyoung groaned, but she was smiling. “You’re such an uncultured swine.”

“Hey, this is a classic,” he said, gesturing to his shirt.

“It’s a glow-in-the-dark tank top from Spencer’s.”

“Exactly. Classic.”

She laughed again, softer this time. Mingyu leaned against the opposite counter, big and easy and strangely calming. He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just… existed with her.

“Seriously though,” he said after a moment, “you okay?”

She met his eyes — warm, patient, a little ridiculous with the crooked fangs — and felt something in her chest loosen.

----

Three drinks in, and the kitchen no longer felt safe.

You were spiraling hard. Not cute-tipsy spiraling — full-blown I-will-burn-this-house-down-with-my-mind spiraling.

It had started when you caught Seungcheol staring at Sophie like she was the second coming of sugar and serotonin. His eyes glassy. Jaw slack. Stupid wolf tail wagging behind him like the golden retriever he was.

It shouldn’t have bothered you.

You didn’t even like him.

But Sophie was your sister, and Jihyun-your ex-had left you for her. And you’d spent the last six months pretending that didn’t still feel like a knife in your ribs. 

You watched Seungcheol watch Sophie. Watched his jaw go slack. Watched his tail wag like the golden retriever he was.

And you thought about the last time Sophie had made you laugh.

It was a stupid memory. Inconsequential. The kind of thing that shouldn't still matter.

You were fourteen. It was late — past midnight, probably — and you were both supposed to be asleep. But Sophie had snuck into your room with a bag of stale gummy worms and a terrible idea.

"We're making a shrine," she'd announced."A shrine to what?""To the Ice Queen, obviously. She's the only one who gets us."

The Ice Queen was your shared joke. A fictional figure you'd invented years ago, when you were both still skating. She was the ruler of the rink, the one who decided who was worthy. Sophie used to whisper to her before competitions. You used to blame her when you fell.

You built the shrine out of empty water bottles, stolen ribbons, and a picture of Michelle Kwan cut out from a magazine. Sophie stood back, admiring her work with a dramatic sigh.

"It's perfect," she said. "She's going to bless us."

"What if she doesn't?"

"Then she's a fraud. And we'll start a rebellion."

You'd laughed until your stomach hurt.

That night, you'd fallen asleep on your floor, surrounded by gummy worm wrappers and stolen ribbons, and Sophie had thrown a blanket over both of you.

"We're going to be unstoppable," she'd whispered.

You believed her.

You believed everything.

And now —

Now you were watching her smile at someone across the room. Watching her be the person everyone loved. Watching her pretend the last few years hadn't happened.

You closed your eyes.

You didn't want to remember.

But you couldn't stop.

You downed the rest of your drink in one go.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice drawled. “Isn’t that your third?”

Of course it was Seungcheol. The universe clearly hated you.

"Seriously though," Mingyu said after a moment, "you okay?"

Chaeyoung  met his eyes — warm, patient, a little ridiculous with the crooked fangs — and felt something in her chest loosen.

"Just a stupid fight with my boyfriend," she said, shrugging like it didn't matter. "I don't want to talk about it."

He nodded slowly. "Got it."

"So," he said, "you ever watch Transformers?"

She stared at him. "What?"

"Transformers. The movies. You know, giant robots, explosions, Shia LaBeouf screaming."

"You're talking about Transformers right now?"

"You said you didn't want to talk about your boyfriend."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...I haven't seen it," she admitted.

He gasped, clutching his chest. "In 2026? You haven't seen Transformers?"

"Is that a problem?"

"It's an epidemic." He shook his head, looking genuinely scandalized. "Do you know how many times I've watched the first one? Like, at least fifteen. The scene where Optimus Prime shows up and everyone's losing their minds? Iconic."

She stared at him.

He stared back, completely serious.

"You're impossible," she said.

"I've been told."

She laughed — a real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. The kind that surprised her.

He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

"You're still a dumbass," she said.

"A dumbass who can recite the entire Transformers script."

"That's not a flex."

"It absolutely is."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. The knot in her chest had loosened, just a little.

"God," she said, shaking her head. "You're so—"

"Amazing? Charming? Incredibly good-looking?"

"Dumb."

"I'll take it."

Mingyu studied her for a moment, all the joking fading into something quieter. "Seriously though. You good now?"

She met his eyes — warm, patient, a little ridiculous with the crooked fangs — and felt something in her chest loosen.

"I will be," she said.

He smiled like that was enough.

Then he glanced at her empty hands.

"God, you're drunk," he said. "Let me grab you some water."

He turned and headed toward the door — probably to find the water.

She watched him go, a warmth spreading through her chest that she refused to name.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice drawled. “Isn’t that your third?”

Of course it was Seungcheol. The universe clearly hated you

“You,” you said flatly.

"...Okay." he replied.

“You know, if you’re trying to drink yourself into a better personality, it’s not working.”

"At least I have a personality. You're just a walking furry with a god complex."

He raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Did you come up with that yourself, or did your team of pirates have to help you?"

Now, it was your turn to raise your eyebrow. 

"Aren't you supposed to be dressed like Jack Sparrow?"

"You think you're so funny."

"I don't have to think."

"You're such a pain," you muttered.

"I've been told."

"By who?"

"Everyone. I'm very popular."

"You're very annoying."

"Same thing."

He was still grinning, and you hated how it made something in your chest loosen.

You decided to change tactics. "So. Sophie, huh?"

His grin faltered. "What?"

"Sophie. The blonde girl you've been staring at like she personally invented oxygen."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. Your tail was wagging and everything."

He glanced down at his tail again, betrayed. "It was not."

"It absolutely was."

"I don't control the tail."

"That's not the flex you think it is."

He opened his mouth, closed it, then squinted at you. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't, besides she is my sister."

"You brought her up and you don't seem the type to actually care about who she dates."

"I was making an observation."

"It was a very pointed observation."

"It was a casual observation."

"It was anything but casual."

"You're projecting."

"I'm literally not."

"You're literally a wolf in a cheap costume with a tail that moves on its own. You don't get to judge my observations."

"Oh, I am so scared, Jack Sparrow."

"I AM NOT-"

You opened your mouth for a retort — but then you saw her.

Sophie was weaving through the crowd, heading straight toward you with that same graceful smile you used to admire. The same smile that now made your chest cave in.

You couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

Your eyes darted desperately and landed on Seungcheol. Before you could think better of it, you crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and grabbed him by the front of his stupid wolf costume.

“What the fu—”

“Shut up,” you hissed, pulling him close. “Just shut up and pretend you like me. Right now.”

He blinked. “What—”

“Pretend. For thirty seconds. My sister is coming over and I would rather do this than talk to her.”

You grabbed his face, not kissing him, but close enough. Close enough that your lips nearly brushed his. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath and smell his cologne. Close enough that it looked real.

“Minsoo,” he murmured, voice low.

“Don’t move.”

His hands settled on your waist. Steady. Warm.

“You know,” he said softly, “if you wanted to get this close to me, you could’ve just asked.”

“Shut up, Seungcheol.”

You stayed like that — foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling — while Sophie watched from a few feet away. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

After what felt like forever, Seungcheol whispered, “She’s gone.”

You stepped back immediately, like his touch had burned you.

“So,” he said, voice rough, “is this the part where you explain what the hell that was?”

----

The kitchen was quiet.

Too quiet.

Chaeyoung had been standing there for what felt like hours, her back pressed against the counter, her hands gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

She'd almost convinced herself she was okay.

Almost.

The door creaked open.

She tensed.

"Chaeyoung."

She didn't turn around. She knew that voice. She'd been hoping she wouldn't hear it again tonight.

"Can we talk?" Jaemin asked.

She finally turned. He was standing in the doorway, looking tired, his hair slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.

"What is there to talk about?" she asked quietly.

"Everything." He stepped closer. "I shouldn't have walked away."

"No. You shouldn't have."

"I know." He stopped a few feet away from her. "I was frustrated. I took it out on you. That wasn't fair."

She didn't say anything.

"Chaeyoung." He said her name softly, gently. Like he was trying to coax her out of hiding. "I'm sorry."

Something in her chest cracked.

She didn't want to forgive him. She wanted to stay angry. She wanted to remember the way he'd dismissed her, the way he'd made her feel like she was too much.

But he was here. He was apologizing. He was trying.

"I'm not telling her," she said suddenly.

He blinked. "What?"

"Minsoo. About the board. About what's going to happen." She shook her head, her voice wavering. "It's killing me. I see her every day, and she has no idea. She's working so hard, and I just— I can't—"

"Hey, hey." He stepped closer, reaching for her hands. "Hey. Look at me."

She looked up.

"You're doing the right thing," he said gently. "You're protecting her. If you tell her now, she'll spiral. She'll give up. She won't be able to focus."

"But she deserves to know—"

"She deserves to have a chance to fight." He squeezed her hands. "And she can't do that if she's already given up. You're keeping her in the game, Chaeyoung. That's not betrayal. That's love."

She wanted to believe him.

She wanted to believe that hiding the truth from her best friend was the right thing to do.

"Are you sure?" she whispered.

"I'm sure." He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know it's hard. I know it's eating you alive. But you're doing the right thing. I promise."

She closed her eyes.

She wanted to believe him.

She wanted to believe that this was love.

"I'm so tired," she admitted.

"I know." He pulled her closer. "I know you are. But it's going to be okay. I've got you."

She leaned into him.

And she let herself believe.

He tilted her chin up, his lips brushing against hers.

She kissed him back.

Mingyu stopped in the doorway.

His hand was still wrapped around the bottle of water he'd gone to find.

He watched them for a second.

Then he set the bottle of water on the counter, just inside the doorway, and quietly backed away.

----

You bolted upright with a scream.

It ripped out of you before you could stop it - raw, guttural, the kind of sound that made Chaeyoung drop her phone and your neighbors probably consider calling the cops.

"WHAT—" Chaeyoung shrieked, nearly falling off her bed. "WHAT IS HAPPENING—"

You couldn't answer. You were too busy staring at the wall, replaying every single second of last night in excruciating detail.

Sophie approaching. The panic. Grabbing Seungcheol. Pulling him close. His hands on your waist. His breath on your lips. The way he looked at you—

You screamed again.

"MINSOO—"

"No," you whispered. "No no no no no—"

You grabbed your phone. Desperate. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you blacked out and none of it actually happened.

One text from an unknown number:

"so... we good?"

You stared at the last one.

You didn't save his number.

You didn't need to.

You knew exactly who it was.

"NO," you said out loud. "NO. WE ARE NOT GOOD."

You threw your phone across the room.

It hit the wall with a satisfying thunk.

You flopped back onto the bed, pulling your pillow over your face, and screamed.

Chaeyoung, bless her soul, didn't even flinch.

"That bad, huh?" she asked from her bed.

"WORSE."

"Worse than the time you accidentally called your professor 'dad'?"

"SO MUCH WORSE."

"Worse than the time you walked into the wrong classroom and sat through an entire lecture on medieval poetry?"

"I WOULD RATHER DO THAT AGAIN."

----

The canteen was buzzing with the usual morning chaos — the clatter of trays, the low hum of conversations, the smell of burnt coffee and slightly questionable eggs.

You sat at your usual table, head in your hands, staring at your untouched toast like it had personally offended you.

Chaeyoung sat across from you, watching you with a mix of concern and barely concealed amusement.

"You're being dramatic," she said.

"I'm being realistic."

"You barely even touched him."

"I touched him enough."

"You touched his costume."

"I touched his face, Chaeyoung."

Chaeyoung opened her mouth — but before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Morning, ladies."

You looked up.

Jaemin.

He slid onto the bench next to Chaeyoung, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. "You look tired," he said to her, soft and fond. "Didn't sleep well?"

Chaeyoung shrugged. "Minsoo woke me up screaming."

Jaemin raised an eyebrow, turning to you. "Screaming?"

You glared at Chaeyoung. "Thanks for that."

"What? He asked."

Jaemin chuckled, leaning back. "Okay, what happened? Did you see a spider? Have a nightmare?"

You groaned, dropping your head back onto the table. "I almost kissed Seungcheol."

Jaemin blinked. "The hockey captain?"

"Yes."

"The one you hate?"

"Yes."

"The one you called a 'horny golden retriever in heat'?"

"I said that to his face."

Jaemin let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's... something."

"I was drunk," you muttered into the table. "I was spiraling. Sophie was there. I panicked. I grabbed him. It was a mistake."

Chaeyoung rubbed her shin, still scowling at you. "Okay, listen. It's probably not that bad. You were drunk. You did some things you didn't want to. It happens."

"You don't understand—"

"I do understand. I literally do. Remember last time Jaemin got drunk?"

Jaemin winced. "Are we really bringing this up?"

"He screamed that he found Shrek hot," Chaeyoung said, grinning. "For like, a solid thirty seconds. We had to physically restrain him from finding a DVD copy."

You stared at her.

"...Shrek?"

"Green, ogre, loves Fiona, iconic."

"I was emotionally compromised," Jaemin muttered, but he was smiling. "The swamp aesthetic was doing something to me."

Chaeyoung laughed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "We all have our moments, Minsoo. You were drunk. You were vulnerable. It doesn't mean anything.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her. "It's not the same."

"Why not?"

You didn't answer.

"Okay," Chaeyoung said quickly, filling the silence. "Okay, that's fine. That's also fine. Feelings are complicated. You don't have to figure it out right now."

"I'm not going to figure it out ever."

"That's also fine."

Jaemin studied you for a moment, then shrugged. "Look, if it makes you feel better, you're probably not the first person to do something weird while drunk. And you won't be the last."

"That doesn't help."

"It wasn't supposed to help. It was supposed to be realistic."

Chaeyoung laughed. "He's a pragmatist."

You groaned again.

Jaemin smiled — that easy, charming smile that made everyone like him. "Seriously though. You'll be fine. Just avoid him for a few days. He'll forget about it."

“Well, I can’t because I have to see his face in approximately 10 minutes. We have practice” you muttered. 

Across the canteen, you saw Mingyu walk in with Soonyoung and Jeonghan. He caught your eye, waved, then spotted Chaeyoung and grinned.

Chaeyoung waved back. Small. Tentative.

Jaemin's hand tightened on his coffee cup.

Just a fraction.

You barely noticed.

----

PREVIOUS || NEXT

The rink was buzzing early that morning—not with blades slashing across ice, but with nervous chatter, clipboard shuffling, and the kind of theatrical energy that only comes when athletes are forced to do art.

The skating team had arrived early, sitting along the barrier in tidy rows, some stretching, others sipping coffee, and you with your arms crossed tightly like you were mentally preparing for battle.

"This feels like a fever dream," Eda whispered, leaning toward Chaeyoung. "We're casting a fairy tale. In a sports fundraiser."

"Don't fight it," Chaeyoung replied, tying her hair back into a high ponytail. "Just let the chaos in."

At center rink, Coach Jiwon and Coach Ryu stood side by side, clipboards in hand, trying to maintain some sense of order—though it was becoming increasingly obvious that even they weren't sure how they'd ended up choreographing an ice-based theatrical adaptation of Cinderella starring competitive skaters and hockey players.

"Alright!" Coach Jiwon clapped her hands. "We'll start with the roles for the skating team—"

You sat up straighter, jaw tightening.

"Cinderella," Coach Ryu said, barely glancing at the sheet. "Minsoo, naturally."

You groaned.

"Oh come on," Ruby grinned beside you, nudging your elbow. "You look like a Cinderella. All that tragic backstory and hidden talent and repressed rage—very glass-slipper-core."

"I'll glass slipper someone in the face," you muttered.

"And," Coach Jiwon continued, "stepsisters and stepmother will be Ruby, Amanda, and Eunji respectively."

Ruby fist-pumped. "Yes! I live to be evil and dramatic."

Eunji looked delighted. "Do I get a fake cane?"

"I want a ridiculous hat," Amanda added.

Eda and Chaeyoung were cast as members of the chorus ensemble—delicate waltzes, synchronized group movement, possibly some ribbons. They all clapped, congratulated each other, and then the real chaos began.

Because now it was time for the hockey boys.

The benched players were already standing awkwardly to the side, skates on, arms folded, very much not knowing what they were getting into. You watched with open suspicion as Seungcheol, Soonyoung, Vernon, and Chan shuffled onto the ice.

"Alright," Coach Ryu said cheerfully, like this wasn't the worst idea in recorded history, "we're starting auditions for the male leads."

Seungcheol snorted. "Do we have to dance?"

Chaeyoung, from the sidelines: "Yes. And we'll be judging."

He grimaced.

Soonyoung, bless his overenthusiastic heart, actually tried. He skated to the center, did a dramatic twirl (nearly fell), and attempted a bow. He landed flat on his butt.

You choked on a laugh.

"Great energy, poor execution," Coach Jiwon said, scribbling something on her clipboard.

Chan tried next, but tripped while just trying to skate to his mark.

Vernon attempted a waltz hold with thin air, but ended up looking like he was slow dancing with a ghost. "Was that—was that close?" he asked.

"No," you replied flatly. "That was interpretive agony."

Then came Seungcheol.

He didn't even try.

He skated lazily to center, grinned at the coaches, and executed the most exaggerated, ironic curtsy known to mankind. "Your Highness," he said in a bad British accent. "I am ready to attend your royal ball and prance."

A chorus of groans came from the skating team.

"Coach," you said, eyes wide, voice urgent. "Please. I beg you. Anyone but him."

Coach Jiwon barely looked up from her clipboard. "He has the best balance and center hold posture out of everyone."

"He mock curtsied."

"He didn't fall," Coach Ryu added.

"I will fall. Voluntarily. Off the edge of the rink."

Still, the decision was made. Coach Ryu smiled grimly. "Prince Charming, first half—Seungcheol."

You facepalmed so hard your glove squeaked against your forehead.

"And second half—Mingyu."

Mingyu looked up from where he'd been peacefully adjusting his laces on the bench. "Huh?"

"You're tall, graceful, and we need you to lift someone."

"Oh." He blinked. "Okay. I like lifting things."

"And final third act—the encore, essentially—we circle back to Seungcheol."

You looked like you were experiencing all five stages of grief at once. "I can't believe I have to be saved by Seungcheol. Twice."

He skated over, still grinning, leaning casually on the barrier right beside you. "Don't worry, Cinderella, I'll try not to drop you. Unless, of course, you keep threatening to glass slipper me."

"I will do it."

"I knew you had a thing for me."

"I'm fantasizing about strangling you with your own jersey."

From across the rink, Ruby shouted, "Do we get to design the prince's costume? I vote for puffy sleeves!"

Seungcheol looked mildly horrified. "Wait, what—?"

"Glitter," Amanda added. "So much glitter. Let's make him sparkle."

Soonyoung clapped excitedly. "And a cape!"

"Fuck my life," Seungcheol muttered.

---

The rink was nearly silent, long after most of the team had cleared out.

Just the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the faint, distant hum of a Zamboni finishing its last lazy lap across the far end of the ice.

Chaeyoung’s boots echoed softly as she cut through the hallway behind the locker rooms, clutching her water bottle, muttering under her breath about forgetting her phone—again.

The door to the coaches’ office was cracked.

She didn’t mean to stop.

Didn’t mean to listen.

But something in Coach Jiwon’s tone—tense, clipped, defeated—made her legs freeze before her brain caught up.

“I understand what the board’s saying, but that doesn’t make it right.”

A beat.

The sound of a chair scraping across the tile.

"They’ve already made the call. Even if the showcase goes well—it won’t matter. Skating’s getting cut.”

Chaeyoung's heart plummeted.

She pressed herself back into the wall, half-hidden behind a row of lockers, breath caught in her throat.

“The hockey program brings in more money, more visibility. And with the facility merge next semester—there just isn’t space. We’re not a priority anymore.”

“So what do I tell them?” Coach’s voice cracked. “That everything they’ve worked for, bled for, means nothing?”

“We can’t say anything. Not yet. Let them finish the season strong.”

The silence that followed was the loudest thing Chaeyoung had ever heard.

She backed away slowly, like if she moved too fast the floor might give out underneath her.

The cold felt different now. Like it had seeped under her skin.

Later that night, the wind was sharp as razors when she met Jaemin outside the dorms. His arms were crossed over his curling team jacket, his breath fogging the air as he leaned against a rust-stained railing, watching her approach.

“Hey,” he said, voice light. “You okay?”

She just shook her head, wordless.

He opened his arms without a word, and she stepped into them, letting the heat of his body press against her frozen frame.

“I heard something,” she whispered into his hoodie. “At the rink. I think it’s bad.”

He pulled back, brows furrowed. “What kind of bad?”

“The board… they’re planning to cut the skating team. Even if the showcase goes well.” Her voice cracked. “Coach doesn’t know how to tell them yet.”

Jaemin stilled. Just for a second. Like the gears in his mind clicked sharply into place.

“Are you sure?” he asked, tone softer now. Careful.

“I heard it. I know what I heard.”

He exhaled slowly and reached for her hand, pressing his thumb into her palm. “Okay. Listen to me.”

She looked up, chest tight. “What do I do?”

“You do nothing.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

Jaemin held her gaze—steady, calm, like this was simple math. “You don’t say anything. Not yet.”

“You want me to lie to them?”

“No,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m saying… wait. Give this a few days.”

“But they deserve to know—”

“And if they find out right now, what happens?” he cut in. “They spiral. They stop rehearsing. They give up before they’ve even gotten a chance to fight.”

Chaeyoung’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Jaemin leaned in, his voice soft and persuasive. “Trust me, Chae. I’m on the sports council. I know people. If anyone can shift things—even a little—it’s me.”

She blinked. “You’re on the athletic council?”

“Curling has one seat,” he said with a small shrug. “We don’t usually use it. But if there’s ever a time to pull strings, it’s now.”

“So you can help?” she asked, a glimmer of hope sparking in her voice.

“I’m saying... let me try,” he said carefully. “If you tell Minsoo, it’ll be chaos. She’ll go nuclear. She’ll get the whole rink involved before I even get a chance to talk to anyone. Please, Chae. Let me fix this quietly.”

She hesitated. She knew how Minsoo would react. And Jaemin wasn’t wrong—if they had any chance of salvaging this, it had to be smart. Strategic.

Still, something twisted in her gut. “This feels wrong.”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s smart.”

He kissed her forehead, gentle and reassuring.

“Trust me,” he said again, smiling like he already had her wrapped tight. “This isn’t betrayal. This is strategy.”

She nodded slowly, unsure.

---

“Okay, if this corset doesn’t kill me before the night ends,” Eda announced dramatically, “I want my tombstone to say ‘Died Hot as Hell.’”

You laughed, trying to adjust your bandana for the sixth time in the tiny mirror taped to the back of the dorm room door. “Honestly? That’s valid. You are giving ‘sex and vengeance’ tonight.

“I always give vengeance,” she said, winking as she struggled with the zipper of her thigh-high boot. “But the sex is new.”

The room was a mess of makeup brushes, fishnets, glitter gel, and empty Red Bull cans.

Someone’s phone was playing a Halloween playlist in the corner, blasting Disturbia between chaotic YouTube ad breaks. You stepped over a tangled curling iron cord to grab your lipstick from the desk.

You looked dangerous tonight, black corset cinched tight, pirate coat draped off your shoulders, and the fake eyebrow piercing catching the light just right. A girl with secrets and a vendetta. You loved it.

Chaeyoung, though?

She sat on the edge of the bed, a glittery silver cat-ear headband resting in her lap. She hadn’t touched her makeup. Her costume, simple, black lace top and leather skirt—was half-done, like she forgot what she was doing halfway through and never resumed.

Eda didn’t seem to notice. She was still fussing with her fishnets and humming along to the music, but you were watching.

Chaeyoung hadn’t said much. At all.

No snide comments, no roasting Eda for misplacing her lashes again, no teasing you about the pirate boots you stole from the theatre department. Nothing.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

You picked up your eyeliner and stepped beside her. “Turn your face,” you said gently. “I’ll do your liner. Unless we’re going for the ‘haunted girl in the corner’ aesthetic.”

Chaeyoung blinked like she hadn’t heard you. Then, slowly, she turned. “Sorry. Spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been a ghost for the last hour.”

She flinched slightly. You caught it. So did Eda, who finally looked up.

“You good?” Eda asked, pausing mid-hair crimp. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Like, even for you. Are you on your period? Is it a ghost? Is this a curse thing?”

“I’m fine,” Chaeyoung said too fast.

You shared a look with Eda.

Eda shrugged. “Maybe she’s just pre-spiral. We’ve all been there.”

You leaned in, applying the liner carefully. “If you’re spiraling, you could at least let me know so I can match your energy and spiral in theme.”

Chaeyoung tried to smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.

There was a beat of silence, just the music pulsing low in the background and the faint pop of Eda’s lip gloss.

You capped the eyeliner.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

She didn’t meet your gaze.

You felt your stomach twist—not into panic, not yet—but into that sharp gut feeling you only got when someone you loved was lying to your face.

“I’m just tired,” Chaeyoung muttered, grabbing her mascara and turning toward the mirror.

That felt like the end of the conversation.

Eda went back to applying temporary tattoos on her collarbone, humming again.

But you?

You were still watching Chaeyoung in the mirror.

Still wondering why her hands were trembling while she painted her lashes.

Still hearing the lie echo in your head: I’m just tired.

You didn’t push. Not yet.

But something told you,

This wasn’t about a costume.

---

The party had already swallowed half the crowd of the campus.

Music thumped from behind the heavy doors of the frat house, something bassy and low enough to vibrate in your bones. The porch lights flickered orange and green, casting spooky shadows over cheap cobwebs and red Solo cups already half-squashed under heavy boots.

You tightened your jacket around your corset and adjusted your bandana.

The air was sharp enough to bite, but your outfit left no room for warmth—just power. Every click of your heels on the pavement was a reminder: You were going to own this night.

Eda was already tipsy from the dorm pregame, dragging you toward the door with a glittery sword in hand like she was leading a pirate invasion.

Chaeyoung trailed behind the both of you, arms wrapped tight around herself. Not cold. Just closed off.

You didn’t like it.

Not because she was quiet—she had quiet days. Everyone did. But tonight, it felt different. She hadn’t made fun of Eda’s plastic dagger once. She was floating behind you like a girl made of smoke, barely touching the world around her.

Inside, the house was a crush of sweat and loud music, flashing lights casting everyone in Halloween chaos. Devils, angels, fake blood, sheer tops, plastic weapons. Bodies pressed close and drinks were already being spilled.

Eda beelined for the drink table.

You scanned the crowd. Seungcheol wasn’t here yet. Good. You weren’t quite in the mood to be annoyed yet.

But then—

You felt Chaeyoung shift beside you just as a familiar voice broke through the music.

“Damn,” Jaemin said, stepping out of the crowd like he’d been summoned by a spotlight. “I’m supposed to be the dangerous one tonight, but you’re stealing all the attention.”

He was dressed like some kind of gothic vampire—velvet and leather, rings on his fingers, hair slicked back just enough to look like effort without trying too hard. Predictable. Hot. Smug.

Chaeyoung startled at first, then offered a small, uneasy smile. “You made it.”

“You said you weren’t sure if you were coming,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I wasn’t. Then I saw who was attending.” He looked directly at Chaeyoung, not even trying to be subtle.

She flushed. You narrowed your eyes.

Jaemin stepped in closer—too close—and took her hand. “Dance with me?”

You expected her to roll her eyes. Say something sarcastic. But instead, she hesitated, eyes flicking between you and him like she was searching for approval.

That was when it clicked.

The way she looked at him wasn’t just flustered.

It was… nervous.

“Chae?” you said slowly.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she said quickly, squeezing your arm. “Promise.”

Before you could answer, Jaemin was already leading her into the crowd, his hand on the small of her back, his lips close to her ear.

You watched them disappear between bodies and flashing lights.

Something burned in your chest—not jealousy. Not quite.

But something that tasted a lot like suspicion.

Beside you, Eda reappeared with two cups of something neon. “Where’s Chaeyoung?”

“Gone,” you muttered. “With Jaemin.”

Eda handed you a drink. “God. He’s like a haunted mansion. Looks fun, but you know there’s something rotting in the basement.”

You took a sip. Sweet. Too sweet. “Yeah. And I don’t like the way she’s acting around him lately.”

“Like she’s afraid of making him mad?” Eda asked casually.

You stopped.

“...Yeah.”

Eda arched a brow. “You noticed too.”

And just like that, the bass didn’t feel fun anymore.

It felt like a countdown.

--

The music was already thumping from a block away—heavy bass, high-pitched squeals, that one remix of “Super Freaky Girl” that never died—and Seungcheol was already regretting his life choices.

Especially the one involving his costume.

“Dude,” Mingyu laughed as soon as he opened the door and saw him, already buzzed, already in a way-too-tight firefighter costume. “You actually wore it.”

Seungcheol stepped inside, glaring. “I told you I’d show up. Didn’t mean I’d be happy about it.”

“Is that a tail?” Soonyoung asked, popping into view wearing full vampire makeup and glitter like he was auditioning for Twilight on Ice.

“It’s a wolf tail,” Seungcheol growled. “Don’t ask.”

“You look like a furry,” Jeonghan said dryly from the kitchen, already sipping something suspiciously red from a Solo cup. “Is this a cry for help?”

“Okay, first of all—” Seungcheol pointed a gloved finger, his whole outfit shifting awkwardly as he did—ears flopping, fake claws brushing his thigh, the tail swaying like betrayal.

“Don’t say first of all when there’s only one thing to defend,” Joshua grinned, leaning against the counter in some immaculate angel costume—wings, glittery eyeshadow, smug as hell.

“Y’all are just jealous,” Seungcheol said, flipping them off and grabbing a drink. “I have the range. You? Cowards. No tail, no bravery.”

“Bold of you to say when you haven’t stopped adjusting your fake ears for the last five minutes,”

Jihoon mumbled, scrolling on his phone like he wasn’t dressed like a Roman senator with a laurel crown made of actual plastic basil leaves.

Seungcheol scowled and downed half his drink.

He was late—classic him—and the place was already packed. Wall-to-wall bodies. Every corner was a mess of costume glitter and bad decisions.

Someone had spilled beer on the floor.

Someone else was dancing in a Pikachu onesie.

There were lights hanging from the ceiling and at least two guys pretending to be “sexy professors” who looked like they’d failed Intro to Fashion.

But then—

He saw her.

Across the room.

Standing in the middle of a circle of people.

Laughing.

Sophie.

As Rapunzel.

Her blonde hair braided down her back, woven with tiny ribbons and fake flowers. The little mini corset dress—lavender satin, short as hell, cinched perfectly at her waist—and her heels?

Fucking lethal.

She was radiant. Like, princess-core, angel-glow, “I will ruin your life in three steps or less” radiant.

Seungcheol froze.

Literally—drink halfway to his mouth, brain in buffer mode.

“Oh no,” Seungkwan said, spotting the look on his face immediately. “Not this again.”

“What?” Seungcheol blinked, blinking too fast. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to,” Seungkwan sighed, nudging Mingyu. “Look at his face. He’s in full spiral.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Seungcheol muttered.

“You’re absolutely spiraling,” Mingyu said, slinging an arm around him. “You look like a man watching God herself descend onto a dancefloor.”

“She’s just wearing a costume.”

“A very hot costume.”

“I’m not gonna talk to her,” Seungcheol said quickly, too quickly. “So don’t even try it.”

“No one said anything,” Jihoon called out without looking up from his phone.

“But you were all thinking it,” Seungcheol muttered.

He turned back toward Sophie. She was smiling at someone—some guy dressed like a pirate with glittery gold eyeliner.

Seungcheol didn’t even know who he was.

Probably some artsy theater major with three piercings and a trust fund.

Sophie's laugh rang out again, soft and high and a little breathless.

Seungcheol’s grip tightened around his cup.

He couldn’t stop staring.

Everything about her was unfair.

The dress.

The hair.

The way she held herself like she didn’t know how hot she was—and that somehow made it worse.

She did a little spin for someone, showing off the twirl of her skirt. Her braid bounced. Her heels clicked.

Seungcheol’s brain short-circuited.

“Bro,” Mingyu said gently. “You’re so far gone it’s tragic.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re vibrating. Like a microwave about to explode.”

“I’m not gonna talk to her,” Seungcheol repeated, eyes locked across the room. “She’s probably busy. And I’m not gonna be the idiot in a furry tail who waddles up like, hey Rapunzel, you wanna climb my tower—”

“You’ve thought about that pickup line?” Jeonghan asked, eyebrows raised.

“No!” Seungcheol practically shouted.

Pause. Beat. Sip.

“…Maybe.”

“Holy shit.”

“I hate myself.”

But he didn’t stop looking.

Didn’t move, either.

Just watched Sophie shine under the low golden lights like some cursed fairytale he wasn’t brave enough to walk into.

It was fine.

He was fine.

He wasn’t gonna do anything.

…Right? 

---

PREVIOUS || NEXT

The rink hummed with energy, a combination of sharp hockey sticks clashing against the ice and the graceful swoosh of figure skates carving through it. You, however, weren't feeling the energy in the usual way.

You stood near the boards, drawing invisible circles in the ice with your toe pick, your brows furrowed.

“We need something that slaps,” you muttered. “Like, stops-the-crowd, jaw-on-the-floor kind of thing.”

Chaeyoung glanced up from her sketchbook with a dry look. “Okay, Queen of Vague. You wanna narrow that down for the rest of us?”

“We can’t just do another standard showcase. I’m talking something big. Something they’ll remember when they’re deciding which team to cut.”

That quieted her. And Eda, who skated up mid-spin, eyebrows raised. “What are we thinking?

Flash mobs? Fireworks? Synchronized backflips?”

“No. Bigger than gimmicks,” you said. “We need a story. A real one. Something that hits emotionally.”

Eda’s eyes lit up. “A story on ice. That’s it.”

“You mean like a theme?” you asked, leaning into the idea.

“Not just a theme,” she said, spinning once more before sliding to a stop. “A narrative. A beginning, middle, end. Like... a fairytale. But our version.”

“A fairytale?” you echoed, blinking. “Like Disney on Ice?”

“No—not Disney,” Chaeyoung cut in, suddenly animated. “More dramatic. A twist on something classic. Rivalry, betrayal, transformation. We can act the story through the routines.”

You chewed your lip, nodding slowly. “Okay… but how do we make the hockey guys fit into this? They’re not exactly trained to emote mid-glide.”

“Exactly why it’ll work,” Chaeyoung said. “They bring the chaos. The force. We bring the elegance and storytelling. It’s tension. It’s contrast.”

Eda snapped her fingers. “Think—Cinderella, but the prince is literally fighting for her. Or maybe she’s the one crashing the castle. A showdown on skates. We make it dark, dramatic-ours.”

Something clicked.

“We thread our rivalry into it,” you said. “Make it personal. Real emotions, not just pirouettes for applause.”

“And that rivalry becomes the story,” Chaeyoung added. “It’ll be art and drama. Hell, we could win Oscars for this.”

Laughter rippled through the group—but underneath it, the buzz of possibility took hold.

That’s when Coach Jiwon, who had been lurking like a ghost behind the boards, finally stepped in.

“Sounds like you’re finally aiming higher than just ‘showy,’” she said, folding her arms. “Good. But if you want this to work, every damn movement needs purpose. No throwaway jumps. No empty tricks.”

You nodded, something solid locking into place inside you. “We’ll map it scene by scene. Every spin, every glide, every turn—it’ll mean something.”

“You’re not just skaters in this one,” Coach said. “You’re storytellers. And you better make ‘em feel it.”

The moment Coach walked off, you turned to the team, that heat in your chest finally igniting into something close to determination.

“Alright,” you said. “Let’s write a fairytale. One where we don’t lose.”

The rink shifted. No longer just a practice space. It was a stage. And this time, the performance wasn’t for fun—it was a fight.

“We’ll let the boys know later,” Minsoo added with a grin. “They can catch up after we’ve done the hard part. I am sure they'll love it. ”

---

Mingyu squinted. “Wait. Like… a what?”

“A fairytale,” you repeated, voice calm but firm. “But not the cheesy kind. It’s going to be dramatic. Themed. A full-blown story on ice.”

Jeonghan sat up straighter. “Like Disney on Ice?”

“No,” Chaeyoung chimed in, finally looking up. “More like Cinderella-meets-Game-of-Thrones but with actual choreography. Skating and hockey.”

That’s when it exploded.

“Nope,” Jihoon said immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Seungkwan stared, slack-jawed. “I thought you meant we’d, like, do some lifts or background stuff. Not… not some sparkly ice theatre show.”

Joshua blinked like he was trying to wake up from a dream. “Why are we doing so much for a halftime? Just play a normal classical music! ”

“That was the plan!” Seungcheol said, voice rising. “We agreed to a charity game followed by a quick demonstration with the skaters. A few lifts. Some twirls. Fifteen minutes tops. This is not what we signed up for.”

“It’s not twirls,” you snapped. “It’s choreography. It’s a story. And it’s the only shot we’ve got at pulling this off—unless you think a basic match and a few clumsy dips are going to convince the university to fund both teams.”

“You want us to act out a fairytale,” Mingyu said slowly, like he was still processing. “On ice. In gear.”

“You don’t have to wear a crown,” Chaeyoung muttered under her breath.

“I’m not doing this,” Jihoon said again. “This isn’t hockey. This is a musical.”

Jeonghan, for once, looked genuinely baffled. “Who even came up with this? You should’ve told us before you storyboarded an entire frozen telenovela.”

Eda rolled her eyes. “We wanted a complete concept before bringing it to you. We figured if we came with something solid, you’d actually listen.”

Soonyoung raised a cautious hand. “Okay, wait—can we just clarify? What exactly are we supposed to be doing? Like… skating alongside you?”

“Yes,” you said. “And being part of the story. Some of you play the villains. Some of you are romantic leads. Some are part of the fight sequences. Think stage show, but on ice. With blades. And impact.”

“And possible concussions,” Seungkwan muttered.

“This is ridiculous,” Seungcheol said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re hockey players. Not actors. Not dancers. Not props.”

“You’re athletes,” you shot back. “Elite ones. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. We’re not asking for ballet. We’re asking for energy. Drama. Movement. And yeah, maybe a little openness to doing something bold for once.”

There was a pause.

Taunt-filled silence.

Soonyoung blinked. “Wait… I kinda want to be the prince.”

“You want to wear tights and act on ice?” Jihoon asked, horrified.

“If there’s a sword fight, maybe.”

Seungcheol stood, pushing off the bench. “This is out of control. We’re not doing a halftime fairytale musical battle on ice. We’ll look like idiots. This was supposed to be a collaboration, not a damn ice drama.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re just scared.”

Seungcheol turned, slowly. “Of what?”

“Of letting go of your ego for two seconds and doing something that actually takes vulnerability. Because guess what, Seungcheol? You can hit a puck. Congratulations. But can you tell a story without hiding behind a helmet?”

The room went silent.

Chaeyoung was sipping her water dramatically in the background.

Jeonghan whistled under his breath. “Oof.”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t reply right away.

You took a step forward. “This is bigger than both our teams now. We’re not just trying to win points—we’re trying to show them something unforgettable. Something that proves both sports matter. And yeah, that means getting out of your comfort zone. So what’s it gonna be?”

Mingyu shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Couldn’t we just… wear matching jerseys and call it unity?”

“No,” you said firmly. “This isn’t just about showing we can work together. It’s about showing we can create something better together.”

Jihoon groaned. “I swear to God, if I end up being some enchanted frog I’m quitting.”

“You’d be the frog prince,” Chaeyoung offered. “With a tragic backstory.”

“NO!”

You crossed your arms. “You don’t have to decide now. Just… sit with it. We’re starting choreography with or without you. But if you back out, don’t expect to skate on with us when the crowd’s on their feet.”

You turned sharply, motioning to the girls. They left the room, leaving a stunned group of boys behind, equal parts horrified, furious… and maybe, just maybe, a little intrigued.

---

You were walking fast.

Too fast, maybe, but you didn’t care. The edge of the blades on your skate guards clacked with every step on the tile, a sharp, angry rhythm that matched the pounding in your chest.

Behind you?

The unmistakable sound of Seungcheol’s heavy-ass footsteps.

Of course.

“Did you just say I have fragile masculinity?” he called out.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Because what did he expect? A sticker? A trophy for not punching a wall after being called out?

“Seriously?” His voice echoed down the corridor. “You’re just gonna throw that out and walk away?”

You shoved through the double doors at the end of the hallway, but of course, he caught one and followed you through like a very angry shadow.

“Minsoo,” he said again, sharp this time. “Answer me.”

You stopped.

Spun around so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder. Your eyes met his, hot and locked.

“What do you want, Seungcheol?” you snapped, voice high and tight with frustration. “An apology? A cookie? Should I kneel and kiss your skates for wounding your delicate man pride?”

His eyes narrowed. “I want you to take it back.”

You stared at him.

And then—god help you—you actually laughed.

It was short. Bitter. Unbelieving.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said. “We’re out here trying to save both our teams from getting wiped off the university map, and this is what you care about? One comment bruised your ego and now you’re chasing me down a hallway like it’s life or death?”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make the air around you shift.

“I care about my team,” he bit out. “Not looking like idiots during what’s supposed to be a hockey match. Not getting dragged into some—ice fairytale spectacle where we’re side characters in your little theatre show.”

“You’re not being dragged into anything,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re being invited. And if your first reaction is to say no because it doesn’t revolve around your stick and puck, maybe I was exactly right about what I said.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t even know me.”

You stepped forward once. Just enough.

“I don’t have to,” you said, voice lower now. “You walk into every room like the rink owes you something. You lose your shit the second you’re not in control. You call anything emotional ‘drama’ like it’s a slur.”

His nostrils flared. “I’m not afraid of performing.”

“Then why are you acting like it’s a death sentence?” you shot back. “You heard ‘story’ and immediately clutched your manhood like someone was going to make you wear tights and cry on cue.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

So you turned again, steps slower now, controlled.

But then his hand caught your elbow—not rough, not forceful. Just enough to make you stop.

“Don’t walk away again,” he said, and his voice wasn’t loud anymore. It was low. Heavy. Sharp.

You didn’t flinch.

You looked right at him.

The heat of it all hit you square in the chest. That look in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. Like he didn’t know if he wanted to fight you or kiss you just to shut you up.

And you hated how much your stomach flipped at that thought.

“You’re not fragile, right?” you asked softly, biting it off. “Then prove it. Do the routine. Be a part of something that’s not built for you. Something that doesn’t hand you the spotlight.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

One breath. Two.

And then you pulled your arm from his grip.

“Or,” you said with a shrug, turning your back to him again, “you can keep pretending your masculinity’s made of glass and hope no one taps it too hard.”

You walked away before you could see the look on his face.

But you felt it.

Burning into your back.

And like thousands time before, you knew you’d gotten under his skin.

Deep.

---

The boys room smells like Tiger Balm, instant ramen, and frustration.

Seungcheol had been pacing for the past twenty minutes. Shirtless. Hair a mess. Rage vibrating off him like heatwaves from asphalt.

“I have fragile masculinity???” he exploded, voice echoing off the walls.

Mingyu didn’t even look up from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, eating ramen with chopsticks and the patience of a monk. “Still on that, huh?”

“Fragile masculinity,” Seungcheol repeated, throwing his arms up like he’d just been personally slapped by the word fragile. “Bitch, I can bench you and your emotionally repressed family tree. What the fuck does that even mean?”

Mingyu slurped a noodle. “Pretty sure it means you got a little too upset about a fairytale.”

Seungcheol spun toward him, scandalized. “I didn’t get upset. I got… logical. You heard what she said. Skating through a ‘story’ like it’s Broadway on Ice. She wants us to be villains. Villains, Gyu.”

Mingyu looked entirely unfazed. “You are kind of a villain.”

“What does that mean!?”

“Dude,” Mingyu gestured vaguely with his chopsticks, “you walked into that meeting with your arms crossed like a mafia boss and told them we weren’t doing shit. Then you stormed out. You’re textbook Disney antagonist.”

“I did not storm,” Seungcheol hissed, resuming his pacing. “I left with conviction.”

“Right.”

Seungcheol muttered to himself. “Her ego is even bigger than my fucking dick. What is her issue? Like, sorry I don’t want to ice-dance in a fucking metaphor.”

Mingyu didn’t flinch. “I mean, it is a good metaphor.”

“I am not fragile,” Seungcheol growled. “I’m not. I’m just—I’m just not into interpretive skating, okay? Is that illegal now? Are the thought police coming for me?”

“Cheol.”

“What?”

“You’ve said ‘fragile masculinity’ twelve times in the last five minutes. You’ve counted. Out loud.”

Seungcheol groaned and flopped face-first onto his bed like a man who had just lost a war. “Why did she even say it like that? All smug and condescending. Like she knew it would get under my skin.”

“Because it did get under your skin,” Mingyu said flatly. “You haven’t stopped talking about her since you got back.”

“I don’t talk about her.”

“You just ranted about the tone of her voice.”

Seungcheol dragged a pillow over his head. “It was so—smug, bro. Like, like she knew she’d won something. Like she enjoyed putting me in my place.”

“…Did she?”

“Don’t fucking say that.”

Silence.

Then, muffled from under the pillow: “Okay but like… what if I did it.”

Mingyu blinked. “Do what?”

Seungcheol peeked out from the side of the pillow. “The fairytale.”

Mingyu stared at him for a beat.

“Bro.”

“I’m just saying,” Seungcheol mumbled, trying and failing to keep his voice casual. “If I did do it. It would shut her up, right? Like, if I committed? If I nailed it? She’d have to respect that. It’d be like, checkmate.”

“You’re literally considering doing emotional interpretive skating just to one-up a girl who called you emotionally fragile.”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol nodded, deadly serious.

Mingyu put down his chopsticks. “This is the most masculine thing you’ve ever done.”

Seungcheol sat up like a man possessed. “I’d be so good. Like, I could be the villain. Dark prince. Brooding, misunderstood. It’s giving anti-hero. I could skate angry. That’s on brand, right?”

“You’re spiraling. Cinderella doesn't have a dark prince.”

“She said I was scared of emotion. I’ll give her fucking emotion. I’ll cry on ice. Watch me.”

“You need to go to sleep.”

Seungcheol flopped back again, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. “She’s just so—infuriating. All confident and smug and… expressive.”

“You mean hot.”

“I did not say that.”

“You meant that.”

Seungcheol groaned into his pillow. “Fuck.”

Mingyu went back to his noodles. “So… practice starts at seven?”

“Shut the hell up.”

---

PREVIOUS | NEXT

The clang of metal echoed through the campus gym.

Weight plates hitting the rack, another sharp thud.

Seungcheol didn’t flinch.

He was already on his fifth set.

Sweat dripped down his jawline, soaking into the collar of his black tank, but he didn’t bother wiping it.

The pain in his biceps was better than silence.

Better than thinking.

Mingyu sat nearby on a bench, lazily curling dumbbells with one arm, sipping protein shake with the other.

Seungcheol hated that he could multitask.

“You gonna tell me why you’re trying to rip your shoulders out of their sockets?” Mingyu asked, eyes flicking toward him.

“Because it’s either this or punch a wall,” Seungcheol muttered.

“Ah. So, it’s about the meeting yesterday.”

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

He just grabbed another plate and added it to the bar.

Mingyu chuckled under his breath. “Bro, you looked like you were about to throw a chair.”

“I should have.”

"Over one girl?"

"Over one brat," Seungcheol snapped, gripping the bar.

His jaw clenched as he inhaled, dropped into a squat, and drove the bar upward.

His thighs burned.

His arms trembled.

Still better than hearing her voice echo in his head again.

“We’re not just decoration for your rink time.” “You’re not the only team that bleeds.” “Try skating a blade across your ankle and then talk to me about pain.”

He dropped the bar with a harsh clang.

Mingyu winced. “Dude. She’s not wrong though.”

Seungcheol turned toward him slowly. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t, Mingyu.”

Silence. A soft buzz of gym lights overhead. The air was thick with sweat, dust, and something unspoken.

Finally, Mingyu shrugged. “Alright. She’s a bitch. Happy?”

Seungcheol didn’t smile, but his lip twitched like he might. “She’s worse than a bitch.”

“Damn.”

“She’s so fucking self-righteous. Like the world owes her a standing ovation for twirling on ice.”

“She’s good though,” Mingyu said quietly.

That made Seungcheol pause. He reached for his towel, dragging it over the back of his neck. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Mingyu tilted his head. “You hate her ‘cause she’s good?”

“No. I hate her ‘cause she knows she’s good. And she looks at everyone like she expects them to prove they deserve to breathe the same air.”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

The silence stretched. A second too long.

Seungcheol’s towel froze mid-wipe.

Mingyu didn’t push.

He never did when Seungcheol went quiet like that.

They both knew why.

But neither of them said that name anymore.

“Anyway,” Seungcheol said finally, voice rough, “It’s not just her. It’s the whole fucking situation. Cutting our practice hours? Sharing ice? How are we supposed to prep for nationals with ballerinas doing pirouettes in our zone?”

“She called you meatheads,” Mingyu said, grinning. “That part was funny.”

Seungcheol’s mouth twitched. “I am gonna throw a chair.”

Mingyu laughed. “I don’t get it though. She’s just a figure skater, man. Why’s she under your skin so bad?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

Maybe it was the way she never looked afraid.

The way she stared him down across the boardroom table like he was just another hurdle in her routine.

Maybe it was the way her voice didn’t shake when she called him out — and the way something in his chest did shake after.

Or maybe it was the fact that she reminded him of things he’d buried.

Instead, he leaned back on the bench, wiped his face again, and muttered, “I just don’t like her face.”

Mingyu snorted. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Still don’t like her.”

“Sure.”

Seungcheol grabbed the bar again.

The weight felt heavier this time, like it had soaked up something unsaid.

He didn’t lift it.

Just stared at the chalk smudges across the metal.

“…You think this is gonna work?” he asked after a moment.

Mingyu blinked. “What? The merged program?”

“Yeah. You think a bunch of ice princesses and pissed off hockey players are gonna magically become besties?”

“No,” Mingyu said honestly. “I think it’s gonna be a disaster.”

Seungcheol nodded once. “Good. As long as we all know.”

He finally stood up, slinging his towel over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Mingyu asked.

“Gonna check the rink schedule,” Seungcheol said. “Make sure she’s not trying to steal another hour.”

Mingyu grinned. “You mean make sure you get to glare at her across the plexi-glass?”

“Shut up.”

He walked out before Mingyu could reply.

----

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The wall clock was the only one speaking.

Seungcheol was staring at you.

You were staring right back.

Your gazes locked like blades.

Around you, the other skaters and players sat in brittle silence, shifting in their mismatched chairs, pretending to look anywhere but at the two captains locked in what could only be described as a nuclear standoff.

Soonyoung’s knee was bouncing under the table.

Jeonghan had started doodling skulls in the corner of his clipboard.

The figure skaters were all either tapping their fingers on the table, or itching their heads.

Valid crash out, to be honest.

Even the whiteboard in the corner looked uncomfortable.

Tick. Tock.

And then—

BAM.

Soonyoung slammed his hand on the table. “Nope. I literally can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone jumped. Except the two glaring captains.

“I don’t think you people understand the gravity of this situation,” Soonyoung said, voice cracking with stress. “If this doesn’t work—if you two don’t get it together—then both the hockey and figure skating teams get the axe. Like—bye-bye competitions, bye-bye budget, bye-bye ice time. We’re dead.”

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered. “At least I won’t have to share a rink with this explosion.”

“Oh please,” you shot back, “You’re the one who needs the whole rink just to turn. Maybe work on that edge control, captain.”

“Guys,” Soonyoung groaned.

And then—Chaeyoung.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence.

“Well,” she said slowly, “one of our teams is going to get cut either way.”

Seungcheol’s head snapped toward her.

You smirked.

“Oh?” Mingyu raised his brows. “You manifesting your own doom out loud again, Chaeyoung?”

She batted her lashes. “Sweet of you to assume I meant us.”

“Well, it’s either you’re being brave or delusional,” he said. “Let me guess: you wrote ‘manifest gold medal’ in your little moon phases planner, didn’t you?”

Chaeyoung gasped. “I do not have a moon phases planner.”

Mingyu leaned in. “Then why did I see you salt the locker room door?”

“That was for spiritual cleansing,” she said proudly.

“You’re not cleansing anything with those failed spins.”

“Better than spinning in circles trying to remember how physics works,” she snapped. “You boys play a sport where you crash into each other and call it strategy.”

“At least we don’t choreograph our injuries.”

“That’s because you’re too busy getting real ones.”

Mingyu opened his mouth to retort—

“ENOUGH,” Soonyoung begged. “I am this close to locking you all in a room with the thermostat off.”

“Don’t threaten me with a sauna,” Mingyu muttered.

Seungcheol let out a long, tight breath, dragging his hand down his face. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Depends,” you said, folding your arms. “Can you act like you’ve spoken to a human being before?”

Soonyoung made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I’m not paid enough for this.”

“You’re not paid at all,” Jeonghan reminded.

“Exactly.”

"So," Chaeyoung said, twirling a pen, "what’s the game plan here? Or are we just gonna arm wrestle for the chance?"

“Don’t tempt me,” Soonyoung muttered. “I could take you.”

“You couldn’t take shit.” Eda said flatly.

“Alright.” Seungcheol’s voice cut through the noise—cool, unbothered.

“Let’s just get this over with. Figure out how we’re gonna not kill each other until the stupid budget review’s over.”

“Starting with an apology might help,” you said.

He looked at you.

“For what?”

You smiled, the sharp kind.

“For your coach barging into our practice. For you watching us like we were circus animals. For the ‘emotional’ comment.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“But you didn’t say anything either.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, from the far end of the table, someone muttered, “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown a tantrum in the middle of the rink—”

You stood up so fast your chair scraped loud against the floor.

“Say that again.”

The hockey player—Jihoon, maybe?—blinked.

“I said, maybe your little speech could’ve waited until after practice, instead of turning into a public meltdown.”

“You call that a meltdown?” Chaeyoung said, standing too, voice rising.

“Yeah,” Mingyu added, not quite apologetic.

“You basically accused our coach of being sexist in front of half the campus.”

“Because he is,” Amanda said, still seated but deadly.

“You just don’t see it because it doesn’t affect you.”

“That’s not fair,” Seokmin said, eyes wide. “He’s hard on everyone.”

“No,” You said, eyes narrowing.

“He’s harder on us. And he doesn’t even know our names.”

More arguing erupted around the table.

Voices layered on top of each other—indignant, defensive, dismissive, furious.

“You think skating’s harder than hockey?”

“We train just as much—”

“You train with medics and sponsors and your own damn locker room!”

“Oh, cry me a river, ballerina—”

“Say that again and I will staple your lips shut with a blade holder.”

Then suddenly everything was quiet again.

Silence.

Brief.

Shaky.

Then Jeonghan said mildly, “Honestly, it’s kind of hot when Minsoo gets mad.”

“THANK YOU. Wait—what?”

You rubbed your temple, eyes closed.

“I’m going to scream.”

“Okay,”

Seungcheol said, dragging a hand down his face, “let’s try this again. One plan. One idea. Something.”

“Separate practice slots,” Eli said.

“Nope,” Soonyoung shot back.

“Admin said collab or no budget.”

“Then we cancel the event,” Amanda offered.

“That affects everyone.” Joshua finally spoke, the voice of reason trying desperately to be heard.

“Yeah,” Minghao added, arms folded. “And it makes us look like children.”

“Oh, now you care how we look?” Eunji said, unimpressed.

"I have an idea," Chaeyoung said.

Every head in the cramped meeting room turned toward her.

She was perched backward on her chair, arms draped over the backrest like she didn’t have a single thought to spare for decorum.

Infront of her, Mingyu groaned. “Oh no.”

“Shut up, it’s a good one,” she said, kicking his shin underneath the table.

You arched a brow.

Seungcheol didn’t move.

“Go on,” Soonyoung said warily.

Chaeyoung’s grin widened. “Okay, picture this: joint performance.”

A few people blinked.

One person coughed.

“Like… one event?” Seokmin asked slowly.

“Together?”

“Yeah. A one-off. Joint choreography. Big, dramatic, team-unity shit. Show admin we can work together. Then we get what we want.”

Mingyu leaned in, like he couldn’t help himself. “You want us to—what—pirouette while you pose dramatically with your wrists up?”

Chaeyoung rolled her eyes. “You’d snap your ankle trying to turn once.”

“I could do your whole routine backwards.”

“You can’t even skate in a straight line.”

"You bit-" 

You inhaled sharply through your nose.

“Okay. Enough.”

The room froze.

Chaeyoung blinked innocently.

Mingyu leaned back, satisfied.

There was always that moment in every fight — the second it pushed a little too far, where it stopped being funny and someone finally got annoyed enough to bite back. That moment had arrived.

“Do you think this is a joke?” you said, voice flat, arms folded. “Because it’s not. This is real. This is our funding, our careers, our futures.”

“I literally said the same thing—” Soonyoung began, only to be waved off with a sharp hand.

Seungcheol, quiet until now, straightened in his chair.

His voice came out even colder.

“Then stop wasting time.”

Everyone turned to him.

He didn’t look at you.

Not directly.

But it was close.

Close enough to count.

You stood up, slow.

“Chaeyoung's right. This may work. We choreograph together, we rehearse, we stage it. We show the board that we can function. That we’re worth investing in.”

“Even if we’re not,” Seungcheol added, voice a hair’s breadth from bitter.

“Don’t start,” you snapped.

“I’m LITERALLY agreeing with you.”

“Well stop sounding like you want to kill me while you do it.”

“What do you even mean joint choreography?” Amanda said, scandalized. “What would that look like?”

“Chaos,” Jihoon muttered. “Carnage.”

“Two different blade types, two different styles,” Eda added. “We’re going to shred each other alive.”

“You won’t have to do much,” you said coolly.

“Just follow instructions. We’ll build around each other.”

Chaeyoung raised a brow. “You’re really willing to do a performance together?”

“We don’t want to,” you said. “We have to.”

“Sounds like you just want a reason to yell at each other” Mingyu said.

Silence.

You looked at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol looked at you.

Neither of them said a word.

Which was all the room needed to spiral.

“I’m not wearing sequins,” Jihoon muttered.

“No one’s asking you to—”

“This is ridiculous,” Amanda snapped. “We can’t even share a whiteboard without arguing. What makes you think we can choreograph anything?”

“Well, to be fair,” Seokmin said, “we mostly argue because of the whiteboard—”

“—because you keep erasing our notes—”

“Because you draw dicks on the corners—”

“That was once!”

“Guys!” Eunji groaned. “Focus.”

Soonyoung finally stood. “Okay. Captains are on board. It’s happening. Unless someone else wants to come up with an alternative before admin sends the final email.”

Silence.

Everyone turned to you again.

You crossed your arms.

“We’ll start planning tomorrow. Get your teams ready. You’re going to hate it.”

“I already do,” Seungcheol muttered.

But he didn’t argue.

She didn’t expect him to agree. And somehow, that annoyed her more than if he hadn’t.

And that was how everyone knew it was real.

Under the table, Chaeyoung and Mingyu high-fived.

----

Fifteen Minutes Before the Meeting

“Mingyu.”

He looked up from where he was sprawled across the hallway bench, one earbud in, the other dangling against his hoodie.

Chaeyoung was standing above him, hands on her hips, grinning like she’d just set a building on fire and was waiting for someone to notice.

He immediately sat up. “Oh no. What did you do?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Yet.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I need your help.”

He blinked. “Like… actual help? Or help where you commit social arson and I get blamed for it later?”

She gave him a look.

The look.

He sighed, dramatically. “Yeah, okay. I’m in.”

“I didn’t even tell you the plan yet.”

“You didn’t have to. You summoned me like a cursed blood pact. I figured my soul was already gone.”

Chaeyoung crouched in front of him, elbows resting on her knees. She looked like a gremlin plotting a heist.

“You know how Minsoo and Seungcheol are the worst?”

“That’s a little harsh.”

She squinted at him.

He corrected himself. “Okay, accurate, but I’m trying not to get kicked.”

“Good. Because they hate each other. But also, they’re both freakishly competent and loyal in a very annoying, Captain-y kind of way.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She ignored him.

“What they don’t have is a reason to cooperate. They’re too busy glaring at each other and flexing their authority like it’s a damn dick-measuring contest.”

Mingyu raised a hand. “I’d like to be excluded from this narrative.”

Chaeyoung snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Exactly. That’s where we come in.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“I start a fight with you.”

He blinked again. “Huh??”

“You fight back. Loudly. Frequently. Obnoxiously. We make the meeting a disaster. So much tension, so much chaos, that the only two people mature enough to hold the room together are—drumroll—our Captains.”

Mingyu stared.

Chaeyoung grinned wider.

Her eyes sparkled with unholy glee.

“If we make ourselves ungovernable, they’ll have no choice but to unite. For the good of the team. Reverse psychology, Mingyu. Dumbass-to-genius pipeline. Trust the process.”

Mingyu squinted. “This feels like emotional manipulation wrapped in a buritto.”

“You’re welcome.”

“This won’t work.”

“It will.”

“It’s deranged.”

“You love it.”

He folded his arms.

“And what happens when Minsoo snaps and kills me with a skate blade?”

“She won’t.”

“She might.”

“You’re too pretty to die like that. She’ll just give you the silent treatment.”

“That’s worse.”

Chaeyoung reached up and patted his cheek affectionately. “Then you should’ve thought about that before becoming the team’s resident fuckboy.”

Mingyu recoiled. “Excuse me—”

“Oh, please,” she said, standing and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Half the campus has heard that sob story about your last breakup. ‘It’s not you, it’s my loyalty to the game.’ Give me a break.”

“I meant that!”

“You meant to get laid and cry about it later.”

“I felt things!”

“You felt a boob and some guilt. That’s it.”

He looked genuinely wounded. “Wow. Okay. Character assassination and conscription.”

Chaeyoung cackled. The kind of cackle that echoed slightly in the hallway and made the janitor look up from the end of the corridor.

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Look. You don’t have to actually believe in the plan. You just have to be annoying on cue.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s dangerously easy for me.”

“I know,” she said gleefully. “That’s why I chose you.”

“So what—you want me to interrupt you? Make passive-aggressive comments? Start petty fights over seating arrangements?”

“Exactly. Just enough to make them think we’re the problem. So they have to be the solution.”

Mingyu sighed. “You know you could’ve just... asked them to cooperate, right?”

She stared at him.

He nodded. “Right. Chaos it is.”

They started walking toward the meeting room.

Chaeyoung’s footsteps bounced like a kid heading to the candy store.

Mingyu looked toward the ceiling like he was begging for divine intervention.

“By the way,” he said as they approached the door. “If I get punched, you owe me bubble tea.”

“If you get punched,” Chaeyoung said, already opening the door, “I’ll buy you two.”

---- 

There was something perverse about being told your future might be erased under fluorescent lighting.

You sat stone-still beneath the harsh white glow of the university's athletic boardroom, a clipboard balanced on your lap, pen clenched in a hand that only looked steady.

Around you, the familiar figures of your teammates— Chaeyoung Park, Ruby Delvey, Eda Ablony, Elma Roth, Amanda Copeland and Eunji Min—sat scattered like poised chess pieces, each of them dressed in some version of cozy sharpness: padded jackets, sleek leggings, glints of rhinestones still clinging to bun nets and skate bags.

Across the room, the hockey team lounged like they owned the building.

Seungcheol slouched in the chair across from you, legs spread, one arm draped over the backrest beside him with practiced ease. The rest of his team—too many to count at a glance—sprawled into the seats behind him, laughter tucked behind wide shoulders and bruised shins.

You caught the scent of sweat and liniment beneath their layers. The air between the two teams might as well have been ice.

Dean Halbrook, ever the diplomatic executioner, adjusted his glasses as he looked around the room. “I appreciate you all coming on short notice,” he said. “I’ll get to the point.”

Your jaw was already tight. You didn’t need a preamble. The rumors had been circulating for weeks: declining donations, withdrawn sponsors, the board’s disinterest in ‘non-revenue’ sports. You'd hoped figure skating would be spared—refined, international, award-winning—but hope was a fool’s indulgence.

“The university’s winter sports budget has been significantly reduced,” Halbrook said, voice even. “This year, we’re only able to provide full financial support to one program. That includes rink time, gear, staff, travel stipends, competition entry fees, the works.”

A pause. The room held its breath.

“That means either the varsity hockey team or the figure skating division will receive funding. Not both.”

You felt it first in your chest. That flicker of disbelief, cold and sharp. Not a sting—no, not yet—but the hush that comes just before the blade hits.

You didn’t look at Seungcheol. You didn’t need to.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Amanda muttered.

Ada scoffed under her breath. “This is a joke, right? Is this some team-building exercise in disguise?”

But Seungcheol was already chuckling. Not loudly—just low, under his breath, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

You turned slowly. “You find this funny?”

He tilted his head toward you, that trademark smirk just barely playing on his lips. “I find it familiar. You and I in the same room, having to compete for something? Déjà vu.”

You stared at him. “This isn’t some high school ballot vote. This is our season.”

“And ours.” He shrugged. “But we bring in real crowds. Merch sales. Press. You know—public interest.”

“You also bring in fights, broken sticks, and budget overages,” you snapped. “Half your equipment requests get denied because your team can’t stop shattering visors.”

“That’s called passion.”

“That’s called lack of control.”

“Oookay,” Mingyu Kim- the vice hockey captain, muttered behind him. “We’re off to a great start.”

Jeonghan sighed. “Can we at least let the dean finish before they kill each other?”

Dean Halbrook held up a hand, his weariness visible now in the lines around his mouth. “We’re not going to base this decision purely on numbers. The board wants something more… visible. A demonstration of each team’s value, performance, and campus impact. One event. One showcase.”

You blinked. “What kind of event?”

“Up to you,” Halbrook replied. “It can be a co-hosted performance, a match, a combined routine—whatever you design. But both teams will be evaluated on presence, creativity, and execution. Crowd engagement matters.”

A heavy pause fell over the room. You could feel your team shifting beside you, could feel Ruby's eyes on you, Elma's tension radiating like frost.

“Let me get this straight,” Seungcheol said, arms folded. “You want the figure skating team to team up with the hockey team. For an event.”

Your laugh was cold. “Trust me, we’re not thrilled about the idea either.”

“You think you’re too good for us?”

“I think we don’t share a single value on or off the ice.”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming like a challenge. “We both bleed for it.”

You matched his gaze, chin high. “No. You brute-force it. We calculate every turn. We fall once, it’s over. You crash and laugh.”

“That’s the point. We get back up.”

“So do we,” you said. “We just don’t shout about it.”

His smile faltered. Just slightly. Enough for you to see that flicker of something underneath—You didn’t want it. Not from him.

Halbrook cleared his throat again. “You’ll have four weeks. Submit your event proposal by next Friday.”

Nobody moved. The room was ice and fire and sheer disbelief.

You stood first, spine straight, muscles thrumming. You gathered your clipboard and looked to your team. “Let’s go,” you said, and they rose with you like synchronized dancers.

Seungcheol watched you leave.

“Try not to choreograph the entire event yourself, prancer!” he called after you.

You spun like a blade.

Chaeyoung’s arm snapped out, catching you mid-step—just before your skates could storm across the room. Your hands curled into fists. Seungcheol actually flinched—but then he laughed, short and breathless, like he couldn’t help himself.

Behind you, Bruce muttered, “I’m going to need therapy after this.”

Eunji bumped your shoulder gently as you walked out. “I give it a week before someone gets body-checked into the costume rack.”

You didn’t answer. You were already calculating how to win a war without getting your blades bloody.

- - - - -

“You didn’t stab him,” Chaeyoung said casually, unwrapping her sandwich. “That’s progress.”

You stared at your drink. “I considered it.”

“I could tell. Your eye twitched. Like, the special twitch that only happens when you’re about to monologue or murder.”

You took a long, quiet sip. The latte was too hot. 

Chaeyoung chewed thoughtfully, watching you like she was waiting for the dam to crack.

You didn’t oblige. Not yet.

“So,” Chaeyoung said after a beat, “is this the part where I ask how you’re feeling and you say you’re fine, and then I say no you’re not, and then you do that dramatic sigh thing and finally explode into a Shakespearean rant about artistic integrity?”

"I’m not dramatic,” You said flatly.

Chaeyoung grinned. “Sure. And I’m not still mad about Mingyu stealing my protein bars last semester.”

“You’re absolutely still mad.”

“Exactly. We all carry things, babe.”

You huffed a breath, leaned back against the booth cushion, and finally let your shoulders drop. “I hate him.”

“Yup.”

“He’s smug. Arrogant. Loud.”

“Also hot.”

You shot her a glare. “Not helping.”

“I didn’t say you thought he was hot.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re blinking too fast.”

“I’m blinking at your stupidity.”

Chaeyoung raised her latte like a toast. “Deflect, my queen.”

You didn’t answer. Your fingers were still wrapped too tightly around the ceramic cup, heat pressed into your palms, grounding you.

You stared out the fogged canteen window where students passed in pairs and clumps, scarves wrapped high, wind tugging at jackets. The world felt too fast, too bright.

“I worked for years to make this team competitive,” you said quietly. “We’ve fought for every scrap of funding. Every second of ice time. Now we have to perform to justify existing?”

Chaeyoung didn’t interrupt. She just took another bite, nodding.

“And we’re supposed to collaborate with them?” your voice was rising now. “With that team of oversized toddlers who think crashing into each other is a sport?”

“You say that like you didn’t once elbow a judge mid-spin.”

“That was reflex.”

“That was iconic,” Chaeyoung corrected. “But look. I’m not saying this situation doesn’t suck. It does. It’s humiliating. It’s unfair. But… we can use it.”

You glanced over, skeptical.

“Think about it,” Chaeyoung continued, voice low, conspiratorial. “The school wants a show? Fine. Let’s give them the best damn spectacle they’ve ever seen. Rink lights, dual choreography, split staging—let’s choreograph a war. With glitter.”

You allowed a small smirk to pull at the edge of your lips. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’m inspired.”

Silence settled again, comfortable now. The kind that only happens between two people who’ve weathered storms together and come out with matching skate scars and inside jokes.

“Do you think he’s going to make this hell for us?” you asked quietly, after a moment.

Chaeyoung raised an eyebrow. “Seungcheol?”

You nodded.

“Oh, one hundred percent.”

You closed your eyes.

“Fuck."

- - - -

The rink was colder than usual that morning. Not in temperature—the chill of the ice was familiar, expected—but in mood. Quiet. Heavy. The kind of stillness that settled just before a storm, or right after a blow you didn’t see coming.

You stood at the edge of the rink, one skate boot pressed against the dasher boards, the other balanced on the rubber matting. Your laces were already tightened, blades freshly sharpened, hair pulled into a neat twist. You weren't late. You never were.

Inside the rink, soft music filtered through the speakers, something orchestral and wordless, meant to soothe more than inspire. The kind of sound that didn’t demand anything—just space. Just breath.

“Alright, ladies,” Coach Jiwon’s voice echoed through the space, calm and crisp. “Let’s get our bodies talking.”

One by one, the team glided onto the ice.

Ruby was first, ever the early bird, her steps smooth and precise as she took a slow lap around the perimeter. Eda followed, adjusting her gloves with a dramatic flair that contrasted her otherwise focused demeanor.

Eli, Chaeyoung, Amanda, and Eunji formed a loose cluster near center ice, soft chatter and giggles tumbling between them like breath in cold air.

You stepped onto the ice last. The blades caught the surface with a familiar bite, that satisfying give of metal over frozen water. You exhaled. The chaos of yesterday’s meeting still clung to your ribs, a pressure you couldn’t quite skate off.

But here—here, you were in control.

Coach Jiwon clapped her hands once, not loud, but firm. “We’ll start with edge drills. Outside-inside circles, then forward-backward transitions. Focus on your control. Breathe into your legs, not your shoulders. Let the tension go.”

The girls scattered like petals across the rink, each falling into practiced lines. The ice hummed beneath them, the sound of blades carving soft arcs into white.

You moved without thinking, body remembering what your mind couldn’t quite hold. The rhythm of your skates, the curve of your arms, the slow inhale on the push and exhale on the glide. Around you, the others mirrored the same movement, six bodies moving through cold space like ink across parchment.

Coach Jiwon moved alongside them, eyes sharp, posture relaxed. “Keep your heads up,” she called. “No shrinking. We don’t shrink just because the spotlight’s unfamiliar.”

Chaeyoung caught your eye as they crossed paths mid-loop. She offered a tiny wink. We’ve got this, it said. You didn’t wink back, but your shoulder relaxed a fraction.

The music shifted into a slower piece, something violin-heavy and aching. You closed your eyes for just a second as you moved through your edge work, feeling the pull in your thighs, the stretch in your back, the press of your blades against the curve of the rink.

This was where you belonged. Not in boardrooms with spreadsheets and ultimatums. Not locked in verbal sparring matches with Seungcheol and his army of arrogant bruisers.

But here, where you spoke through movement. Through form. Through precision.

The tension didn’t vanish. It didn’t evaporate with each glide. But it dulled. Became manageable. Like background static.

“Alright,” Coach Jiwon said after a long set of laps, “pair up. We’ll run the swing hold drill, center push and pull. Coordination matters more than speed. Trust your partner’s weight.”

You paired with Chaeyoung out of habit. Your fingers linked easily, grip firm. You both moved together through the drill, bodies leaning in and out, strength shifting like breath between them.

“You’re in your head,” Chaeyoung murmured as you passed through the center point.

“Am not.”

“You’re tighter than my hip flexors after a red-eye flight.”

You huffed a laugh despite herself. “I’m fine.”

Chaeyoung arched a brow. “I’ll believe that when you don’t nearly grind your teeth through your mouth guard.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. The music was building, the edges sharpened, and even though your future was uncertain, the ice hadn’t changed.

You still knew how to move. Still knew how to fight—quietly, elegantly.

And if you had to skate through hell to save your team, then so be it.

You would.

Your blades curved a clean arc into the ice as you and Chaeyoung pushed through another swing drill. The soft music wound around you like silk.

Your arms moved instinctively, spine aligned, posture perfect. Your body was speaking the language it knew best—quiet defiance. Control. Grace.

But then the music cut out with a stuttered click.

It was replaced by the unmistakable slam of a stick against boards and the sudden, chaotic entrance of heavy skates and louder voices.

You faltered.

“What the—”

The double doors to the rink swung wide open, and in came the hockey team like a storm on legs. Sticks tapping. Helmets half-on. Voices booming and overlapping. Their coach, a tall man with a deep-set scowl and a clipboard perpetually glued to his hand, barked directions as they filed in.

“Alright, boys, half-rink drills. Be fast, be focused, no coasting. Let’s go, let’s go!”

You slowed to a stop near center ice, the cold now biting through your tights in a way it hadn’t before. Your teammates came to a halt beside you, expressions caught somewhere between confused and annoyed.

Chaeyoung whispered under her breath, “Tell me this isn’t happening.”

But it was.

Coach Jiwon, ever composed, was already skating toward the boards where the opposing coach stood. She wore her usual poker face, even as a tight wrinkle formed between her brows.

“Coach Ryu,” she called, voice calm but firm, “we had this slot reserved until eleven thirty. We’re mid-drills.”

Coach Ryu didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Yeah, I know. We were told to share ice for warmups. Half and half.”

Jiwon’s voice stiffened. “By who?”

“Admin,” he said. “Said we should start practicing coexistence since we’ll be collaborating. Their words, not mine. Honestly, it would be better if you leave early. The boys need this practice more." 

The word echoed across the rink like an insult.

You clenched your fists in your gloves.

“Coach,” Jiwon said, “my girls are running tight-edge drills. If your players come barreling in—”

“They know how to stay in their lane,” Coach Ryu interrupted. “It’ll be fine. Just move your routines to the far end. We’ll be out of your way. Or better yet, as I said, leave.”

It wasn’t said with malice. But it was dismissive. As if they were a minor inconvenience.

You stepped forward.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, loud enough for your blades to hear.

Coach Ryu glanced up. “Something to add, Miss—?”

“Kim,” you snapped, gliding toward him, past Jiwon’s subtle warning look. “Captain of the figure skating team. The one you’re bulldozing.”

Coach Han gave you a look you knew too well—condescending, just shy of a smirk. “This is a shared facility. You’re athletes. Adapt.”

Your jaw tensed. “You mean get out of the way.”

“I mean learn to share.”

“You mean learn to shrink.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

You weren't yelling yet, but your voice had teeth. “You come in here, cut our music, take half our ice, and talk to our coach like she’s a footnote in your schedule. Then you tell us to adapt. This isn’t a traffic detour, Coach—it’s our practice. And you’re treating it like background noise.”

Behind you, your teammates were frozen mid-glide. Across the rink, the hockey boys had stopped to watch, Seungcheol at the front of them like some damn figurehead.

Coach Ryu's jaw worked. “Listen, sweetheart—”

Wrong. Word.

Your laugh cracked like a whip. “There it is.”

“Kim,” Coach Jiwon said, voice sharp now. “Let me handle this—”

“No,” you said without turning around. “We’ve all let him talk like this for years.”

You looked back at Coach Han, eyes steady.

“You walk into this rink, and the moment there’s a scheduling conflict, you assume we’re the ones who should adjust. Why? Because we’re quieter? Because we spin and leap instead of crash and fight? Because we wear tights instead of padding?”

“Because we have fifty players and a championship schedule,” Han snapped. “This isn’t personal. It’s logistical.”

Your voice dropped. “It’s always personal when girls are told to move aside for boys who shout louder.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward—it was electric.

Coach Ryu looked like he might argue, might throw the clipboard or stomp off or demand an apology. But he didn’t. He just shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “Emotional. Figures.”

Figures.

There it was again—that old, infuriating tone. And you didn’t back down.

“This team,” you said clearly, turning slightly so your words could reach both teams now, “has won twice as many competitions in half as many years as your team has games without penalties. We skate injured, we train without medics, we stretch every hour of rink time like gold because we don’t get second chances when we fall.”

You looked at Seungcheol when you said it. Not because you meant to, but because his eyes hadn’t left your since the moment she stepped forward.

“We don’t get the benefit of the doubt,” you finished. “We earn our ice.”

Jiwon finally stepped in, gently placing a hand on your arm. “Okay. That’s enough for now.”

Coach Ryu turned away without another word. “Boys, half-ice drills. Start now.”

The music didn’t come back on. The tension didn’t lift.

You backed off slowly, chest tight, breath uneven.

Chaeyoung skated beside you, whispering, “That was… so hot I think my soul left my body.”

You didn’t smile. But your grip on your gloves loosened.

Seungcheol hadn’t moved. He stood near center, watching you. Studying you like he’d just seen something he wasn’t expecting.

He opened his mouth—then shut it again

- - - -

The wall behind his head was cold.

Seungcheol didn’t notice it at first—just felt the pressure where his skull met the plaster, the steady thud of his pulse echoing behind his eyelids.

He wasn’t asleep. He hadn’t slept.

Not since the night of the crash.

The hallway reeked of bleach and despair. The kind that clings to your clothes no matter how many showers you take. He didn’t remember the last time he left the hospital. Just that he couldn’t. Not yet.

Not while she was still inside that room, wires in her skin, machines breathing for her.

The silence around him wasn’t peaceful. It was loud.

The clock ticked. Someone coughed. A nurse laughed too brightly somewhere down the corridor.

And then— A shift. A quiet one.

Someone sat beside him.

The air changed. Just slightly. Like it exhaled.

He opened his eyes.

You are staring straight ahead, as if looking at the same nothing he was. No makeup. Tired eyes. Vending machine coffee clutched between both hands like you were afraid it might disappear.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But your presence didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt like… company.

The kind you don’t realize you need until it’s there.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. He wondered what brought you here. Wondered if it was worse than what brought him.

“Long night?” you asked, voice soft, almost hesitant.

He blinked. Nodded.

“Yeah.” A pause. “You too?”

You gave a breath of a laugh, humorless and low. “Been a long week.”

Your fingers tapped against the cup, rhythm like a heartbeat. He noticed the way your knuckles were red, raw in some places. You hadn’t been sleeping either.

“Family?” he asked.

“Grandmother,” you said. “Yours?”

He swallowed. “Girlfriend. Car accident. Three days ago. They’re still not sure if she’ll—”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.

You didn’t push. Just nodded like you understood. Like you didn’t need the end of the sentence to feel the weight of it.

And they sat there again. In silence. In something heavy and unsaid.

---

You didn't cry.

That was the first thing he noticed.

There was a glassiness in your eyes, sure. A kind of far-off fog that only people in hospitals seemed to wear. But no tears. Just a tightly held composure, like if you let go even a little, you might unravel.

“She was diagnosed last year,” you said after a while, still looking ahead, not at him. “Stage four. It came fast.”

Seungcheol didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

“She raised me,” you added, like that explained everything. And maybe it did.

He shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The vinyl of the hospital bench creaked under him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it.

You nodded, like you'd heard that a hundred times already. “It’s okay. Or it’s not. I don’t know anymore.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a heart monitor beeped steadily.

Neither of them looked at the other. But neither moved away, either.

It was you who broke the quiet again.

“You’d think after three nights of this, I’d learn not to buy the coffee,” you said, wrinkling your nose as you sipped. “But here I am. Still pretending it helps.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. It was the first one in days.

“Try the tea,” he said. “Tastes like cardboard. But at least it smells like something real.”

That got a soft huff from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.

They fell back into silence again, the kind that started to feel less like strangers and more like a truce.

And then—

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said, quietly.

You turned to look at him for the first time. Her eyes were a soft brown, tired but warm. Your lips twitched into something like a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Seungcheol.”

But you didn’t offer your name.

---

The second night, you brought the coffee.

Seungcheol was in the same spot. Same posture. Same wall holding him up. Eyes closed, head tilted back, pretending for a moment that if he stayed still enough, time might stop moving without him.

Then the scent hit him.

Not bleach. Not hospital.

Coffee. Cinnamon. And… something soft. Vanilla, maybe.

He opened his eyes.

You were there again. Sitting beside him. This time, you were the one holding two cups.

“I upgraded us,” you said, offering him one. “The café on the second floor has actual espresso. A miracle in this place.”

He took it with a quiet thanks, fingers brushing yours. Warm skin. Cold fingertips.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice still rough from disuse.

“Me neither,” you replied honestly. “But here we are.”

He took a sip. It was actually good. Strong, a little bitter, the kind of taste that settled in your chest like something solid.

They sat in the same silence, but this one felt different. Familiar. Comfortable, almost.

“I found her talking to the air yesterday,” you said softly. “My grandmother. She thought I was my mom.”

Seungcheol turned to you. Your jaw was clenched, throat tight with the weight of the memory.

“She kept calling me by her name. Begging me not to leave again.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Really listened.

“I never met my mom. She left when I was a baby. Gran raised me alone. She’s… the only real family I have.”

Your voice broke on the word only. You blinked quickly, but didn’t wipe the tear that finally escaped.

Seungcheol shifted closer. Not touching you, just… near.

“I haven’t gone home in three days,” he said after a moment. “I sleep in the waiting room. My parents keep telling me to rest, but how do you rest when you don’t know if she’ll ever open her eyes again?”

Your head tilted slightly. “You love her a lot.”

“I do.” He stared at the floor. “But I don’t know if she knows it. Not the way I should’ve shown her.”

And just like that, the air between them cracked open. Two strangers, stitched together by grief, regret, and stale hospital air.

You held out your hand—not for a handshake, but just to hold.

No name. No promise.

Just presence.

And this time, Seungcheol took it.

---

The room was too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that brought peace—but the kind that screamed in his ears.

Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, too steady. A reminder that the only thing keeping her breathing wasn’t her.

Seungcheol sat beside the hospital bed, fingers curled into a loose fist on his lap. He’d been sitting there for an hour. Maybe more.

She looked the same. Pale. Still. Like a painting that hadn’t been finished. Like if he blinked too fast, she might disappear altogether.

His throat ached with all the words he hadn’t said.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

He let the silence answer. Let the emptiness respond.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say anymore,” he admitted, voice cracking. “They tell me to talk to you, that maybe you’ll hear me, but I…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard.

“I miss you,” he said finally. “I miss your laugh. The way you’d tease me when I left dishes in the sink. I even miss your bad singing.”

His eyes burned. He looked away.

“I wish I’d held you longer that morning. I wish I’d told you not to rush out. I wish I—”

He stopped. Breathed.

And then, like a thread pulled loose, something surfaced. Your voice. Not his girlfriend’s—

Yours.

The girl from the hallway. “You’ll break if you keep holding everything in.” “You don’t have to be strong every second. You’re allowed to fall apart.” “Let her feel your love, not just your guilt.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t guilt that guided him.

“I love you,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “I’ve always loved you. I just… didn’t say it enough.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I’m saying it now. I’m here. And I’ll keep being here. Just… if you’re somewhere in there, please… come back to me.”

The machines kept beeping. Steady. Relentless.

But for the first time, his heart felt a little lighter. Not because things were better— But because he wasn’t holding it all alone anymore.

---

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers.

It was the kind of day where time felt sticky—too slow to bear, but too fast when you blinked.

Seungcheol sat outside Room 203, the plastic cup of coffee cooling in his hand, untouched. He hadn’t gone in yet. He didn’t know if he had the strength.

Then he heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

He turned slightly, just enough to peek through the glass panel in the door across the hall.

You were in there—curled in a chair beside your grandmother’s bed, knees tucked to your chest, a worn book in your lap. The afternoon light spilled through the window, gold and forgiving, catching in the strands of your hair.

You were reading aloud.

Not loudly. Not for anyone but the two of you—yourself, and the woman who couldn’t speak anymore.

“‘And even in the darkest parts of the woods,’” you read, your voice barely above a whisper, “‘the girl remembered the sound of home. Not a place. A person. The way they said her name, the way their hand lingered on her back before a goodbye.’”

Your voice cracked slightly, but you didn’t stop.

Seungcheol didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just… couldn’t walk away.

It was like her words reached through the walls and found something buried inside him—something aching and wordless.

He closed his eyes and listened.

“‘She missed them every day, even when she swore she’d stopped. Even when the world told her to move on. But grief doesn’t work that way. It’s not a thing you carry. It’s a thing that lives with you.’”

You stopped. He could hear the turn of a page. Your breath shaking. Your grandmother didn’t move, didn’t respond. But the you smiled anyway, like maybe that silence still meant something.

After a while, you spoke—not from the book, just from your heart.

“You’d hate this hospital, Gran. The tea tastes like sadness and cardboard, and they keep the lights on too bright.”

A pause. A sniffle.

“But I found someone,” you said, her voice suddenly gentler. “Not in that way. I mean… maybe. I don’t know. He’s hurting, too. Quietly. Like you used to say I did when I was little. Like he's trying to keep everyone else from seeing him bleed.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the book, knuckles white.

“I think I want to be around him. Is that wrong? I feel guilty for looking forward to anything when you’re…” You stopped again. Swallowed. “When you’re going.”

You laughed suddenly. Broken. Real. “God, I sound like a cliché. Falling for someone in a hospital hallway while my world’s falling apart.”

And still, Seungcheol listened. Still frozen. Still holding onto a breath he hadn’t meant to take.

Your voice dropped lower, softer.

“I don’t want to forget how your voice sounded when you laughed. Or the way you made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs even when I was fifteen. Or how you braided my hair when I was too tired to get out of bed.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Something shattered quietly inside him.

Before he knew it, his legs moved. His hand touched the door frame.

You looked up. Startled. Eyes wide and glassy.

“I—” he said, throat thick. “I wasn’t trying to… listen. I’m sorry.”

You wiped your cheek, fast. “No, it’s okay. You’ve probably heard worse here.”

Seungcheol stepped into the room slowly. His voice barely carried. “Your voice... it’s steady. Like a melody.”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “It’s how I learned to survive.”

He looked at the book in your lap. “Would you… mind reading in her room too? For my girlfriend?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded. “Your voice feels like… home. And I think she’d like that.”

Your eyes searched his for a long moment. Then you nodded.

“Okay,” you said, standing, holding the book close to your chest. “I’ll read for both of them.”

---

It’s late.

That kind of late where the vending machines hum too loudly and the only light in the hallway flickers like it’s tired too. Seungcheol stands near the window down the corridor, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding his phone like it weighs more than it should.

He should be sleeping.

Instead, he dials.

Again.

The phone rings twice, and then—

“Hi! You’ve reached Haeun. I’m probably dancing somewhere or stealing Seungcheol’s fries, so leave a message after the beep and I promise I’ll get back to you… eventually!”

Beep.

He doesn’t speak.

He just closes his eyes and breathes. Listens to that sliver of her voice that still exists, somewhere safe, somewhere untouched by tubes and machines and the cruel silence that’s overtaken Room 203.

Call ended.

He dials again.

Same ring. Same smile in her voice. Same beep.

Still no words.

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe for her to pick up. Maybe for the universe to reset.

By the fourth call, his hands are shaking.

By the fifth, he finally speaks.

“Hey.”

It’s hoarse. Barely there.

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I just… I miss you.”

His voice breaks on the last word. He coughs, wipes at his face like it’ll make a difference. The hallway is empty. He’s glad. No one should see this.

“I brought the stupid green grapes today. The ones you hate but pretend to like because they’re healthy. I even peeled them. Like you always wanted me to. They’re still in the fridge.” A bitter laugh. “I don’t know why I did that.”

He hangs up.

Redials.

Sixth call.

“Hi! You’ve reached Haeun—”

He doesn’t wait for the beep this time.

“I had a dream last night. You were wearing that yellow dress you said made you look like a banana, and we were dancing in our kitchen. No music. Just your laugh.”

He pauses.

“God, I’d kill to hear you laugh right now.”

He ends the call.

But he dials again.

Seventh.

Eighth.

By the ninth call, he’s on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, phone pressed against his ear like it’s all that’s keeping him together.

Beep.

His voice is quieter now. Smaller.

“Please.”

Just that.

Just please.

Please come back. Please wake up. Please tell me how to keep going.

He doesn’t say it all. He doesn’t have to.

The phone slips from his fingers. His eyes are red. There’s no sound in the corridor except for the faint buzz of electricity and the way he breathes like the air hurts going in.

And then a whisper, almost like a prayer.

“She’s not dead. She’s not dead. She’s not dead.”

He repeats it like maybe if he says it enough, the universe will make it true forever.

But the truth is— She’s not alive either. Not in the way he needs her to be.

And maybe the worst part of it all isn’t that she’s gone.

It’s that he’s still here, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

---

It was late again.

The hospital lights were dimmed to a muted hum, the world outside the windows blurred into inky blue. Seungcheol had just returned from Room 203, hands shaking, heart heavier than his footsteps. He turned the corner toward the waiting room, expecting silence.

But there you were.

Curled in on yourself on the narrow couch, knees pulled tight to your chest, arms hugging them like you were trying to hold yourself together. Your face was buried, but the tremor in your shoulders gave you away.

You were crying.

No—you were breaking.

He froze in the doorway.

"Hey..." he said softly, unsure if he should come closer. "Are you okay?"

A stupid question. You didn't look up.

So he sat down beside you, far enough not to touch, close enough to offer warmth.

You wiped at your eyes, but the tears just kept coming.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “God, I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“You’ve seen me like this,” he murmured.

That got a small, bitter laugh from you. But it faded fast.

Then you said, quieter than before, “I left her.”

He turned, brows furrowed.

“My grandmother,” you clarified, breath catching. “Before all this… before the cancer... I stopped coming around.”

He waited. Didn’t push. Just listened.

“I was busy. I moved to another city. Work was stressful, and I kept saying I’d visit next weekend, next month, next—” You swallowed hard. “But she always called. Always left voicemails. She'd tell me she made pancakes, the ones with blueberries, the kind I used to beg for as a kid. And she'd say she was waiting. Just... waiting for me to come home.”

Your voice cracked.

“I didn’t come.”

His chest ached.

“I told myself she was fine. Independent. Strong. I told myself I was allowed to live my life.” Your eyes welled again. “And now I come every single day. Now I sit next to her bed like if I do it long enough, she’ll forgive me. But she can’t even say my name anymore.”

Seungcheol reached out then—tentatively—placing a hand over yours. You didn’t pull away.

“She used to sit by the door,” you whispered. “Like clockwork. Every Sunday morning. Dressed in the sweater I bought her three Christmases ago. Just waiting. Because she thought... maybe today I’d come.”

The tears wouldn’t stop.

“I was dancing at some bar. Laughing. Kissing someone I don’t even remember. While she sat by the door making pancakes for no one.”

Your voice broke open then, sobs slipping through like glass cracking beneath pressure. Ugly and honest and full of a grief that had nowhere to go.

Seungcheol turned toward you fully, pulling you into his arms. You fought it at first—because that’s what guilt does—but he held on.

“You came back,” he murmured. “You’re here now.”

“But what if it’s too late?” you sobbed into his chest. “What if she never knew how sorry I am?”

He rested his chin against your head, eyes burning.

“She knew,” he said. “She knows.”

They stayed like that. In the stillness. In the mess. In the pain.

Two people broken in different ways, holding each other like they could keep the world from falling apart again. No promises. No solutions.

Just presence.

And sometimes—that was everything.

---

The hospital room was too white. Too quiet. Even the ticking of the clock felt like an accusation—steady and cruel. A reminder of every second you had not been there.

You sat beside the bed, your hands wringing the hem of your sweater. The chair creaked beneath you, but your grandmother didn’t look.

She was staring out the window. Blank. Soft. Eyes that used to twinkle with laughter now just... drifted.

“Hi, Grandma,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

No response.

You leaned in, trying again with a gentle smile. “It’s me. I brought your favorite. Blueberry pancakes. From that little diner you like.”

Still nothing.

You swallowed down the lump rising in your throat and set the small to-go container on the bedside table. The smell of syrup and warm sugar floated through the air, but your grandmother didn’t even flinch.

Silence. Thicker now.

“I remember when you used to wake me up with the smell of these,” you tried, eyes burning. “Every Sunday. You’d hum while you cooked. Said blueberries were brain food.” A sad laugh slipped out. “Guess they weren’t enough, huh?”

The silence felt like punishment.

You reached out slowly, brushing a strand of silver hair from her grandmother’s forehead. She used to braid that hair. Used to play salon with it as a child, while her grandmother pretended she was being pampered in a palace.

“You used to wait for me,” you whispered. “Every week. In that old cardigan I bought you. Remember that one? With the missing button?”

Nothing.

And then—finally—your grandmother blinked, slowly turning toward her. Her eyes focused on your face.

Hope rose, sudden and aching. “Grandma?”

The old woman tilted her head. Confused.

Then, softly: “Are you... the nurse?”

It felt like being stabbed.

You forced a smile to your lips, even as your heart shattered. “No... I’m—”

Your grandmother smiled faintly, distant and kind. “You’re very sweet, dear. Just like my granddaughter. Beautiful girl. Works too hard. Never comes home, though.”

The breath caught in your throat. Your vision blurred instantly.

“She... she sounds great,” you managed, voice trembling.

“She is.” Your grandmother looked out the window again, a ghost of a smile on her face. “She used to sit on the porch and sing while I made breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. Said they were her favorite.”

You clutched the side of the bed, your knuckles white. “Do you remember her name?”

“No,” your grandmother said, softly. “But I know I love her. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

A sob escaped before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with your hand, shoulders shaking.

Your grandmother turned again, blinking slowly. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You’ll make me sad.”

You shook your head, biting down on your lip. “I’m okay,” you choked. 

And in that moment, you didn’t care that your grandmother didn’t know who you were. Didn’t care that your name was gone, that their memories were tangled and buried.

Because the love—that was still here.

Even if it was misdirected. Even if it was broken.

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around the frail woman, holding her tightly, burying your face into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so, so sorry I left.”

Your grandmother patted your back, gentle and absent-minded. “There, there. You’re a good girl. I can tell.”

You cried harder.

And outside, the day went on like nothing had changed.

But inside that room, everything had.

---

It was late. Past visiting hours.

But the little courtyard garden behind the hospital didn’t care about time. It was overgrown in places, the stone bench cracked, the flowerbeds mostly dirt now—but there was a kind of comfort in its forgotten state. Like it belonged to the night. Like it understood people who didn’t fit in the daylight anymore.

You sat on the bench, your knees tucked under your chin, a paper cup of hospital coffee cradled in your hands. Seungcheol joined you without a word, sitting close enough to feel the same night breeze, but not enough to crowd you.

For a while, they just sat. Listening to the wind brushing through brittle branches. The distant siren of an ambulance arriving. The faint hum of machines behind walls.

Then, quietly, you asked, “What was she like?”

He looked down at the cup between his hands. “You mean... before?”

You nodded.

He took a breath. “Loud. In the best way. She used to sing to the radio even if she didn’t know the lyrics. And she’d burn toast every morning because she always forgot it was in. Once, she put our house key in the freezer because she thought it was her phone.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds chaotic.”

“She was.” He laughed a little, and then the sound faded. “But she made everything feel... alive. Like the world was just a little brighter because she was in it.”

The silence settled again, heavier now.

“She sounds like someone I would’ve liked,” you said, softly.

He nodded.

“What about you?” he asked. “What were you like before all this?”

You let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the cracks in the stone path.

“Busy,” she said. “Too busy. I thought I had time. That I could always go visit later. I kept putting it off. ”

Seungcheol didn’t speak, but she felt him listening.

Your voice broke, raw and exposed.

“And now she doesn’t even know my name.”

You turned your head, wiping your cheek roughly with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I was so selfish.”

“No,” Seungcheol said immediately, turning toward you. “You were living. That’s not a crime.”

“But I left her behind.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You came back.”

You didn’t reply.

He reached over slowly, fingers brushing your. Not holding. Not pushing. Just offering.

And you let him.

Their hands stayed there, barely touching, as if the warmth between them could rewrite time. Could pull them out of the past and plant them firmly in the now.

After a moment, you murmured, “I used to love dancing.”

He blinked. “What?”

You smiled, sad and sweet. “Just... before all this. I’d dance in my kitchen. In my socks. Spill coffee, stub my toes. I haven’t done that in forever.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “You should. You should do that again.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“What about you?” you asked. “What’s the one thing you miss most about yourself?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear:

“I used to dream.”

The words hung between them like fog.

You turned your hand, finally holding his.

And under the pale light of the moon, with bruised hearts and paper coffee cups, two people who had lost everything began to find something again—

Not peace. Not yet.

But maybe the possibility of it.

---

It was just after midnight when the nurse called him.

"Mr. Choi? She's... she's showing signs. You should come."

Seungcheol had stared at his phone for a full minute before he moved. Then he ran. Down the silent corridors. Past the quiet night-shift desk. Past the vending machine and the courtyard and everything that had held him up for weeks.

Room 203.

His hands shook as he pushed the door open.

She was there. As always. Pale. Fragile. But her fingers were twitching. Her lips parted slightly, a rasping breath falling from her throat that sounded like a word caught halfway to being born.

He stepped in slowly, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast.

“…Seung…cheol?”

He froze.

Her voice.

So faint. So broken. But there.

“Yeah,” he choked out, stumbling forward and falling to his knees beside her bed. “Yeah, I’m here.”

She blinked slowly. Her eyes were heavy with confusion, still swimming in a haze, but they found him. Like she was clawing her way back to the surface and he was her anchor.

His hand found hers, trembling. “You’re… you’re awake.”

She gave the smallest nod. Barely there. But it was everything.

And he wept.

Outside the room, you sat on the hallway floor with two cups of coffee—yours long cold. Your legs were cramping, your back sore, but you didn’t move. You had watched him go in and hadn’t followed.

He needed this moment.

And even though your heart ached—throbbed, even—as the sounds of his voice broke through the crack in the door, you stayed. Because you knew what it meant to finally get a piece of someone you thought you’d already lost.

You lowered your head, pressing your forehead to your knees.

And when he came out an hour later, his eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with tears—but smiling for the first time since you met him—you looked up and gave him one back.

It was small. Wobbly. But real.

“She said my name,” he whispered.

You stood slowly, offering the cup to him.

“I’m so happy for you, Cheol.”

He took it, their fingers brushing, his smile faltering just a bit.

“And your grandma?”

“She’s…” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat. “She’s getting worse.”

The silence held everything that couldn’t be said. A strange mirror. One of them rising. One of them falling.

Seungcheol reached out and touched your wrist. Gently. “You’ve been so strong.”

You looked down at the floor, then back up, your eyes shimmering. “I’m trying. It’s like... I don’t want her to go, but I also don’t want her to keep hurting. And I don’t know how to exist when she’s not in the world. So I stay. And I hope she sees me, even for a second.”

He nodded, his heart splitting open at the seams.

You looked at him, then—really looked. At the hope blooming behind his tears.

You smiled through your grief. “I think she would’ve liked your girl. The way you love her. It’s rare.”

Seungcheol's lips parted, a thousand emotions crashing into each other. “You helped me hold on. Even when I didn’t want to anymore.”

Your breath hitched.

“You held me, Cheol,” you whispered. “When I needed it most.”

He stepped closer.

The air between them was thick with everything they hadn’t said. And everything they couldn’t say.

Because this wasn’t a fairytale. It wasn’t about choosing. It wasn’t about perfect timing.

It was about love in its rawest form—grief, joy, loss, connection—all tangled together in this broken little hallway.

“I don’t want you to disappear now,” you whispered.

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

You took his hand, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

And in the silence, there was music. No instruments. Just hearts— Beating beside each other. Still aching. Still healing. Still hoping.

---

Seungcheol stood in the stairwell.

It was quiet there. Sterile concrete, humming fluorescent lights, the faint clinking of a janitor’s cart on a lower level. The kind of place where you could fall apart and no one would notice. Maybe not even yourself.

He ran a hand down his face, the skin beneath his eyes raw from crying, not just today but for weeks. And now—she was waking up. His girlfriend. The love of his life. The person he had sat beside, begged, bargained for.

And he felt like a fucking traitor.

Because all he could think about… was her.

Not the girl in the bed, trying to find her voice again. But the one who sat beside him at 3AM with vending machine coffee and bruises beneath her eyes. The one who whispered broken memories about pancakes and absence and a grandmother who forgot everything except love. The one who never asked anything from him except presence. And somehow that made him want to give her everything.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest. Right over the place it hurt most.

What if she knew?

What if the woman inside that hospital room opened her eyes fully, smiled at him with her old self again, and realized—

That while her world had been on pause, his had kept moving.

And somewhere along the way…

He’d started to fall.

The guilt came in like waves. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He thought of your laugh—that small, sad, brave thing you'd let slip in front of him that day in the courtyard.

He thought of you telling him, “You held me.”

He thought of how you never reached for him first, never asked for comfort, never once tried to cross the invisible line between grief and want. And yet he was the one who blurred it, every time he caught himself staring too long, hoping too hard, wishing things were different.

A voice broke into his thoughts.

“Cheol?”

He turned.

You stood there in the stairwell doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over your palms, hair a little messy, eyes a lot sad.

You.

Of course it was you.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

You stepped in slowly, not expecting anything. Not demanding anything. Just there.

Like always.

“I’m happy for you,” you said softly.

“I know.”

A beat.

“You don’t look happy.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I should be. Right? This is what I prayed for.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I feel like I’m… cheating on her,” he finally admitted, voice cracking. “Even just standing here with you. Even thinking about you when I’m with her.”

Your gaze fell to the floor.

“I never meant to,” he said. “It just… it happened.”

You nodded. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t—”

“I do, Seungcheol,” you said, meeting his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything. I knew this wasn’t real. I knew I was just… the wrong place, the wrong time.”

He stepped forward, something desperate in his expression. “You were the only thing that felt right.”

Your breath caught.

“I just don’t know how to live in both,” he whispered. “The before and the after.”

Silence settled between them.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. “I don’t want to lose her. But losing you—”

He broke off, choking on the words.

You blinked back tears, chest rising and falling with the weight of every unspoken thing.

“I won’t ask you to choose,” you said gently. “But I won’t lie either. You matter to me. And if this is all it is—a hallway, a few coffees, a handful of broken nights—then I’ll take it. And I’ll let go.”

Your voice cracked like glass.

“Just don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes shining. “I could never.”

And then—

A breath.

A heartbeat.

His forehead dropped to yours, just barely, as if touch alone might anchor him to something real.

Neither of them kissed.

But something inside them did.

And it broke. Quietly. Beautifully.

Right there on the stairwell steps of a hospital neither of them wanted to be in.

---

The hospital smelled the same as always—like antiseptic, old coffee, and waiting.

Seungcheol moved slowly down the corridor, step by step, clutching the small plastic bag of belongings the nurses had packed for his girlfriend. Discharge papers tucked beneath his arm. A bouquet of tulips from her mother poking out the side.

She was getting better.

She was going home.

And still… he felt like he was leaving something behind. No—someone.

He paused at the end of the hallway, where two paths met. One to the exit. One to the oncology wing.

The bag crinkled in his grip as he stood there, torn in a silence that pressed into his ribs.

He hadn't seen you since that night on the stairwell.

You.

The one who’d cracked his chest open and shown him he still had a heart, even while it bled.

The one who sat beside him when his world was ending, and gave him pieces of her own shattered one just so he wouldn't drown alone.

He’d meant to go back.

He wanted to go back.

But life has a way of moving without asking if you're ready.

The next morning, the room was empty. Your name scratched off the whiteboard. No answers. No goodbye.

He’d asked a nurse. She looked away. "I'm sorry. The patient in Room 204 passed away in the night. Family discharged shortly after."

And that was it.

Just like that, you were gone.

And he never got to say goodbye.

Now, days later, as he stood there at the fork in the hallway, everything in him screamed to turn around. To check. To hope that maybe somehow, somehow, you'd still be there.

But you weren't.

You had left.

And so had your grandmother.

All that remained was the memory of that last vending machine smile—the one with the tears hiding just beneath.

The sound of your voice when you said, “Just don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

God, if you only knew. If you knew what you meant. If you knew what you took with you.

“Seungcheol?” his girlfriend called softly from behind, her voice weaker than he remembered but full of cautious hope.

He turned slowly.

She was standing just outside her room, hair brushed back, wearing the soft hoodie he used to sleep in when she first went under.

Her eyes searched his face. “Are you ready?”

He looked at her.

This girl he’d loved. Still loved, maybe. But not in the same way.

Not in the way that twisted and broke and healed. Not in the way that made him want to live again.

He offered a small nod and walked toward her.

They exited the hospital slowly, carefully, like the world was something they weren’t sure how to re-enter.

Outside, the sky was a dull gray.

A car waited at the curb.

He placed her bag in the trunk, then helped her into the passenger seat.

But before he closed the door, he glanced back.

One last time.

Toward the entrance. Toward the hallway. Toward a girl who wasn’t there.

And in that one look… everything ached.

You would never know how often he still looked for you in crowds. How sometimes he woke up wanting to tell you something, only to remember he couldn’t. How even in someone else’s recovery, he felt like he lost something irreplaceable.

He closed the door gently.

And with it, their story.

Not with fire. Not with fanfare. But with a quiet kind of sorrow. The kind that lingers.

The kind that asks, What if?

And never gets an answer.

Elias leaned back against the sleek leather chair in his father’s private study, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. The morning sun filtered through the large window, casting sharp lines across the mahogany desk. His father had been here just moments ago, leaving behind the scent of his expensive cologne and the suffocating weight of his expectations.

The conversation still echoed in his mind.

"You are running out of time, Elias."

"I have it under control."

"You better. I won’t clean up after you if this falls apart."

His jaw clenched at the memory. It was always like this—every conversation a test, every test a reminder that he was just another piece on the board, meant to move strategically or be discarded entirely.

But it didn’t matter. Not yet. Not when he was so close.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Finally.

He straightened, smoothing his expression into something neutral. The door creaked open, and Eva stepped inside.

Elias barely had time to process her arrival before his gaze flickered past you—and landed on him.

Mingyu.

Standing just behind you, shoulders squared, expression unreadable but undeniably present.

Elias’s grip tightened around the armrest, irritation flaring hot in his chest. “Are you serious?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet room. “You brought him?”

You exhaled, already bracing yourself. “Elias—”

“No.” He shot up from his chair, eyes narrowing at you. “You were supposed to come alone.”

Mingyu didn’t so much as flinch. He remained by the door, arms crossed over his chest like he had every right to be here.

You lifted your chin. “That wasn’t an option.”

Elias scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable. What, is he your personal shadow now?”

“He wasn’t going to let me meet you alone,” you bit out, voice sharp but steady.

Elias let out a humorless laugh. “And you let him? Since when do you let people make decisions for you?”

“Since I don’t have a fucking choice,” You snapped.

The tension between them thickened. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly, Elias exhaled, shaking his head. “So what, I’m just supposed to trust him now?”

You didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Mingyu met Elias’s glare, silent but unwavering.

Elias’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t convinced. Not yet. But whatever this was—it was far from over.

---

The café was buzzing with quiet chatter, the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air. You stirred your drink absentmindedly, your mind a million miles away, while Caro sat across from you, eyes narrowed in concern.

“You’re acting weird,” Caro muttered, tapping her nails against her cup. “Weirder than usual, I mean.”

You blinked, dragging herself back into the present. “I’m fine.”

Caro scoffed. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”

Before you could argue, her phone vibrated on the table. A message.

She glanced down, her breath hitching.

Unknown Number I know what you did.

Attached was a picture.

A grainy, black-and-white shot of you slipping into the file room.

The blood drained from your face.

“Eva?” Caro’s voice was softer now, the teasing gone. “What’s wrong?”

You locked the screen and forced a smile. “Nothing.”

But your fingers curled tightly around the phone, your heart hammering in your chest.

Someone was watching.

And they wanted you to know.

"How's your cat?"

Caro blinked at you, clearly caught off guard. “My… cat?”

You nodded stiffly, forcing yourself to focus on anything but the icy dread seeping into your veins. “Yeah. You know. The little gremlin that tries to claw my face off whenever I come over.”

Caro frowned. “You mean Biscuit?”

You latched onto the topic like a lifeline. “Yes. Biscuit. How’s he?”

Caro’s frown deepened. “You hate Biscuit.”

You let out a short, breathless laugh. “Hate is a strong word.”

“You called him a ‘demon in a fur coat’ last week.”

Your grip on her phone tightened. “Well, I’ve been reconsidering my stance on demons.”

Caro tilted her head, suspicion creeping into her expression. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”

You waved a hand, too fast, too unnatural. “Nothing. Just making conversation.”

Caro narrowed her eyes. “Right. Because you suddenly care about my cat. Who you’ve never once asked about before.”

You could feel the weight of your phone in her palm, the message burning in the back of your mind. Someone was watching you. Someone had proof. And you had no idea who it was.

But you couldn’t let Caro know.

"I am a changed person."

Caro snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah? Since when?”

You smirked, even as your pulse pounded in her throat. “Since approximately five minutes ago.”

Caro arched a brow. “Oh, so this is fresh delusion.”

You shrugged, gripping your phone tighter. “I prefer the term ‘personal growth.’”

Caro stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re acting weird.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m always weird.”

“This is different.”

You forced a laugh. “Maybe I had an epiphany about life. Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”

Caro gave her a flat look. “Or maybe you’re deflecting.”

Your smirk faltered for half a second. Just long enough for Caro’s eyes to narrow.

Before she could press further, you pushed yourself to your feet, stretching your arms overhead like you had not a single care in the world. “Well, this has been fun, but I have places to be.”

Caro stood too, not buying it for a second. “Eva—”

“Say hi to Biscuit for me,” You interrupted, spinning on your heel and heading for the door.

You needed to be alone. Needed to think.

Because someone out there knew what you had done.

And if they had gone through the trouble of warning you—

That meant they weren’t done with you yet.

--

You rushed into the parking lot, your pulse pounding as you yanked out her phone. The message burned on the screen—a picture of you sneaking into the files room. A warning. I know what you did.

Your stomach twisted. Someone had been watching. Someone who wasn’t Mingyu. Someone who wasn’t Elias.

You pressed the call button, barely breathing as the line rang once before clicking.

"Where are you?" 

"At the estate. Caroline told me she was just taking you to her's... are you both outside?"

You ignored the question. “Can you come pick me?”

A pause. Then, firm, steady, "I'm there."

Minutes later, the familiar low hum of an engine filled the air. His car pulled up, headlights slicing through the dark. The second the door unlocked, you slipped inside, exhaling sharply.

“Drive.”

Mingyu didn’t move. His hands tightened on the wheel, his eyes scanning your face. “Eva.”

You shook your head. “Just—please.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, but didn’t push. Instead, he shifted gears, the car peeling out of the lot with a sharp turn.

The silence was suffocating. You could feel his frustration, simmering, pressing against your skin.

Then, finally—

“You’re not doing shit for him.”

You blinked. “What?”

Mingyu’s grip on the wheel was vice-like. “Elias. Whatever the hell he asked you to do, it’s not happening.”

You stayed quiet, staring ahead.

His voice darkened. “I’m serious, Eva.”

You turned to him, eyes flashing. “I can handle myself.”

“That’s not the point.” He shot you a hard look. “The point is that you shouldn’t have to.”

You opened you mouth, but the words caught in her throat.

Mingyu shook his head, fingers drumming against the wheel. “He’s using you.”

You clenched your fists, looking away. “I don’t have a choice.”

Mingyu exhaled, slow and sharp. “There’s always a choice.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because, you weren't sure if that was true.

--

Seungcheol stood in his father’s office, the air thick with tension. The heavy oak desk between them did nothing to soften the weight of his father’s gaze—cold, calculated, assessing.

“You’ve been… distracted.” His father leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the polished wood.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A low hum of amusement. “Don’t insult me, son.” His father’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “First, you make a scene at the gala. Now, I hear you’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Seungcheol forced himself to stay still. To not react. “I didn’t realize dancing required your approval.”

His father’s lips curled. “It’s not about the dance, and you know it.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.

Then—

“You forget your place.” His father’s voice dropped, quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “I raised you to be above them. To lead. Not to get caught up in childish… distractions.”

Seungcheol’s stomach twisted. He knew what this was really about. Knew who this was about.

Caro.

He gritted his teeth. “It’s none of your concern.”

His father’s expression darkened. “Everything you do is my concern.”

Seungcheol held his gaze, fists tightening at his sides. He wanted to argue. To fight. But he knew how this conversation would end—how it always ended.

With his father having the last word.

Sure enough, his father exhaled, leaning forward slightly. “I won’t warn you again, Seungcheol. You will focus on your responsibilities. You will stop wasting time on meaningless things.” A pause. Then, quieter, more pointed— “And you will remember who you are.”

His father exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I blame your mother for this.”

Seungcheol’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t take the bait.

His father leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “You have too much of her softness, her sentimentality. It makes you weak.”

Seungcheol’s fists curled at his sides. “I’m not weak.”

His father scoffed. “No? Then explain why you’re letting yourself be dragged into your sister’s mess.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked. “Evangeline knows what she’s doing.”

“She’s a liability,” his father sneered. “Reckless, ungrateful, embarrassing. Just like her mother.”

Seungcheol didn’t think—he just reacted.

His palm slammed against the desk, rattling the crystal decanter. “Watch your mouth.”

His father’s eyes flickered with something dark—amusement, maybe, or warning. “You dare—”

“I won’t stand here and let you talk about her like that.” His voice was low, shaking with barely restrained anger. “She is smarter than you give her credit for. Smarter than half the men in this room.”

The words barely registered before—

SMACK.

Seungcheol’s head snapped to the side, his cheek burning. The room went silent.

His father slowly lowered his hand, fixing his cuff like nothing had happened. “You will not raise your voice at me again.”

Seungcheol stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.

His father straightened. “You will stay in line. You will remember your place. And you will not make a fool of this family again.”

Seungcheol forced himself to swallow the rage clawing at his throat. He gave a sharp nod, turning on his heel.

But as he walked out of that office, something settled inside him.

He would not forget this.

Seungcheol barely registered the impact until he heard her voice.

“S-Seungcheol, are you okay?”

Caro stood in front of him, eyes wide with concern. Her hands twitched at her sides, uncertain, like she wanted to reach for him but didn’t know if she should.

His jaw clenched. His cheek still burned, the sting of his father’s slap pulsing beneath his skin. The last thing he needed right now was this.

“I’m fine,” he bit out, voice sharp, clipped.

Caro frowned, eyes flickering to his cheek. “No, you’re not.”

His patience snapped. “I said I’m fine, Caro. Drop it.”

She flinched at the edge in his tone but didn’t back away. Instead, she swallowed and squared her shoulders. “Did he—”

“Don’t.” His voice was cold, warning. He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want pity, didn’t want concern, didn’t want her looking at him like that.

Caro’s throat bobbed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Something in him bristled at that—at the quiet understanding in her voice, at the way she just stood there, waiting for him to let her in. Like she thought she could fix this. Like she thought he could be fixed.

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite anything. “That’s cute,” he muttered. “You think you know me that well?”

Caro’s face fell, hurt flashing across her features before she masked it.

She took a small breath. “I just—I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not. Happy?” His voice was low, edged with frustration, with anger he didn’t know what to do with.

Caro swallowed. She looked at him for a long moment, like she was searching for something in his face—something he didn’t have to give. Then, finally, she nodded.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Message received.”

She turned to leave.

And for some reason, watching her walk away made his chest ache worse than the slap ever did.

---

You hesitated at the doorway.

Lia’s room looked untouched, like a perfectly preserved snapshot of a life that was no longer there. The bed was still neatly made, the soft lavender sheets tucked in at the corners the way Lia had liked them. Her vanity held traces of her presence—half-used perfume bottles, tubes of lipstick she’d stolen from you and never returned, a small pile of rings and earrings she’d worn and discarded without a second thought.

You stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under your weight.

It smelled the same.

The realization made her chest ache. The world had moved on without Lia, but here… here, it was like time had refused to keep going.

You ran a hand along the wooden surface of the vanity, your fingers ghosting over the delicate glass bottles, the silver hairbrush, the tiny photo strip tucked into the mirror’s corner.

It was of them.

You let out a breathless laugh, plucking it from its place. The memory surged up so vividly you could almost hear Lia’s voice.

It had been at some stupid festival. Lia had dragged her to the photo booth, giggling as they crammed inside the too-small space.

“Act natural,” Lia had whispered, and then—click.

The first frame was of you rolling her eyes as Lia grinned.

Click.

The second was Lia throwing an arm around you, yanking you close, your foreheads nearly knocking together.

Click.

The third was both of you laughing, Lia’s head thrown back, your dimples showing.

Click.

The last one—Lia pressing a dramatic kiss to your cheek while you groaned, trying (and failing) to shove her away.

Your fingers curled around the strip, your throat tightening.

“You’d be so fucking mad at me right now,” you whispered into the quiet, your voice unsteady. “Telling me to let it go, to stop running into danger. But guess what, Lia?” A small, humorless laugh escaped her lips. “I’m still the same idiot, aren’t I?”

Silence answered you.

You swallowed, blinking rapidly, but the tears slipped free anyway. You sat on the bed, gripping the photo like it was the only thing keeping you together.

“I miss you,” you murmured, your voice cracking.

You waited, like maybe if you sat there long enough, you'd hear Lia’s teasing reply, the warmth of her laughter.

But there was nothing.

After a long moment, you exhaled shakily, running a hand down your face. You needed to get it together.

Sniffing you wiped at your eyes and reached for the bedside drawer, searching for something—anything—to hold on to.

It was mostly junk. Letters from old friends, a couple of bracelets, a broken watch Lia had never fixed. You rummaged deeper, your fingers brushing against the smooth bottom of the drawer—until you felt it.

A small, folded piece of paper, tucked so deep into the corner that you almost missed it.

You pulled it out, frowning. Carefully, you unfolded it.

Your heart stilled.

A phone number.

No name. No context.

Just a string of numbers in Lia’s handwriting.

You stared at it, your breath caught in her throat.

A part of you screamed that it was nothing. But another part—one that had learned to listen to the things Lia never said out loud—knew better.

This meant something.

You stared at the small, crumpled chit in your hands, your heart hammering against your ribs. A number. Just a number. But it had been hidden—tucked away in Lia’s things like a secret meant to stay buried with her.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the paper. What did this mean? Who did it belong to?

Your chest ached.

Slowly, you reached for your phone with your free hand, your breath unsteady as you pulled up your contacts.

You hesitated only for a second before pressing call.

The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Jack,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “I need your help.”

And just like that, the past refused to stay buried.

----

You barely had time to process Jack’s promise over the phone before the door slammed open behind you. The sharp crack of wood against the wall made you flinch.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Seungcheol’s voice was ice, edged with something darker, something livid. You forced yourself to breathe, to school your expression as you turned to face him.

His gaze burned as he took in the room—Lia’s room, untouched, frozen in time. His fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back.

You lifted your chin. “I—”

“You what?” He stepped closer, his jaw tight. “You thought you’d dig around in my dead sister’s things? That you’d play detective? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Your stomach twisted, but you held your ground. “She is my sister too.”

Seungcheol scoffed, the sound sharp and cruel. “Oh, don’t give me that shit.” He shook his head, laughing bitterly. “You didn’t care about her when she was alive.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

You sucked in a breath, but Seungcheol wasn’t done.

“Where were you when she was spiraling? When she was drowning in all the shit our father put her through?” His voice rose, raw with anger. “You ignored her, Eva. You let her slip away, and now you want to act like you give a damn?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t get to play the grieving sister now. You don’t get to tear open old wounds just because you suddenly decided you need answers.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “You think I don’t regret it?”

“I don’t fucking care.” His voice was low, biting. “What I care about is you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off.

“Stop this, Eva.” He stepped back, like looking at you for another second was too much. “Stop playing hero before you get yourself killed.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Leaving you standing in the center of Lia’s room, alone, drowning in the weight of his words.

---

The city sprawled below, glowing like a constellation of golden lights, but you weren't looking at it. You took a slow drag of your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling, watching it dissipate into the cold night air. The buzz of the party behind you felt miles away. Out here, you could finally breathe—or pretend to, at least.

Then—footsteps.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Mingyu stepped beside you, leaning against the railing with a sigh, his presence solid and unwavering.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “That’s not very bodyguard of you. Did you leave your professionalism at home?”

Mingyu didn’t look at you. “Figured you weren’t in the mood for another shadow tonight.”

You let out a low chuckle, tapping the ash off your cigarette. “How thoughtful.”

Silence stretched between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Mingyu didn’t press, didn’t demand answers like everyone else did. He just stood there, the warmth of his presence a quiet contrast to the cold air biting at your skin.

You took another drag, then exhaled sharply. “You gonna tell me to quit, too?”

Mingyu finally looked at you, his gaze steady. “No.”

That surprised you. You turned slightly, studying him. “No?”

He shrugged. “You already know it’s bad for you. You don’t need me telling you.”

Your lips twitched. “Wow. A rare moment of wisdom.”

His jaw flexed, but there was amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, just as quickly, the lightness faded. You turned your gaze back to the skyline, your grip tightening around the railing. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

Mingyu frowned. “What?”

“For getting involved. For doing all this.” You gestured vaguely, cigarette still pinched between your fingers. “You think I’m reckless. That I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Mingyu exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I think you’re playing with fire.”

Something in his voice made your chest tighten.

You swallowed, rolling your shoulders like you could shake off the weight pressing down on you. “I don’t have a choice.”

Mingyu scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”

You turned to glare at him. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me.”

Your breath caught. The words hung between them, daring, waiting. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You didn’t know how to explain it—not without giving too much away, not without letting him see too much of you.

So you looked away instead, taking another slow drag, your hands suddenly unsteady.

Mingyu was still watching you, eyes sharp, searching. Then, quieter, he asked, “Is it worth it?”

You froze.

He wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding answers. He was just… asking. And that was somehow worse.

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “I don’t know.”

Mingyu didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, just as softly, “I think you do.”

Your throat tightened.

You flicked the cigarette away, watching the embers dim as it disappeared into the night. Then you turned to him, forcing a smirk. “You getting soft on me, Mingyu?”

He didn’t blink. “Not even a little.”

But the way he was looking at you said otherwise.

"What was she like, to you?" You asked.

Mingyu didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, his gaze drifting past you, past the city, like he was searching for something he couldn’t quite reach.

You waited. You weren't sure why you asked—maybe because you were tired of the silence, or maybe because you just needed to hear something real. Something unfiltered.

Finally, Mingyu exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “She was... kind.” His voice was rough, like the words scraped his throat on the way out. “Too kind.”

Your chest ached. “Yeah,” you murmured. “She was.”

Mingyu hesitated, then glanced at you. “But she was also stubborn. Relentless. When she wanted something, she wouldn’t stop until she got it.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Drove me insane.”

You let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That sounds like her.”

“She talked about you.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

Mingyu’s expression didn’t change. “She talked about you,” he repeated. “More than you think.”

You swallowed hard. “What did she say?”

Mingyu was silent for a moment, then he looked at you—really looked at you. “That she wanted to protect you.” His voice was softer now, the anger from before gone. “That she was scared for you.”

Your breath hitched.

Lia had been scared for you?

You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “That’s stupid,” you whispered. “She was the one in trouble.”

Mingyu didn’t say anything. He just watched you, letting the weight of his words settle between them.

You turned away, gripping the railing so tightly your knuckles went white. The night air felt suffocating now, pressing against your chest.

“She never told me,” you admitted. “Not once.”

Mingyu’s voice was quiet, steady. “Maybe she thought you already knew.”

You closed your eyes.

You hadn’t.

And now, it was too late.

You blinked away your tears. "I am a little jealous."

Mingyu huffed out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Jealous?”

You turned to face him fully, tilting your head as you exhaled smoke. “I mean, Lia got your words. She got your trust.” Your lips curled slightly, but there was no real amusement behind it. “And you don’t even talk to me.”

Mingyu’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing against the railing. “Maybe because you don’t listen.”

You scoffed. “Oh, please.”

He turned to you then, his gaze sharp, unyielding. “I’m serious, Eva. Every time I try, you push me away.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you studied him—the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for something but didn’t know if he should.

You flicked the cigarette away, watching the ember fade into the night. “Maybe I don’t want to hear it.”

Mingyu exhaled sharply. “That’s exactly my point.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

Then, softer—more hesitant—you spoke. “It’s easier this way.”

Mingyu didn’t look away. “For who?”

Her throat tightened.

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren't sure you knew.

---

You had spent years pretending he didn’t exist.

"Tell me your name." He had asked it so casually, so effortlessly, like it wasn’t the beginning of something that would ruin you. "Why?" you had asked, teasing. He had smiled, lopsided and warm. "Because I think I was meant to know you." And just like that, you had been lost.

You had erased him in every way a person could be erased—deleted his number, blocked his calls, ripped every reminder of him from your life.

But before you erased him, he had been everywhere. His laughter in your ears. His touch on your skin. His promises—so soft, so real—that you had been foolish enough to believe in. "You’ll stay?" you had whispered once, buried in his arms, afraid of the answer. And he had kissed your forehead. "Always."

You had spent every second since trying to forget.

And for a while, it worked.

Until tonight.

Until now.

Until the moment you heard your name.

"Love isn’t real." He had said it so casually, as if the words weren’t a knife. They were lying in his bed, tangled in sheets and moonlight, your fingers tracing patterns against his bare shoulder. You had looked at him then, waiting for the teasing smile, the flicker of hesitation. But there was none. Just quiet certainty. "You don’t believe in it?" you had whispered, voice small. "No." You could have left right then. You should have. But instead, you pressed closer. "That’s okay," you had said. "I’ll believe enough for the both of us."

You had been moving through the city like a ghost, head down, heart carefully buried somewhere it couldn’t be reached. The streets were alive, chaotic, full—voices and neon lights colliding in a blur of sound. The kind of noise that made it easier to breathe, easier to pretend that nothing was missing.

But then—

"Chaeyoung."

Soft. Familiar.

A voice you had sworn you would never hear again.

Your heart stopped.

No. No, it can’t be.

But you turned anyway.

And he was there.

"Promise me." His voice had been raw that night, his fingers tight around yours, desperate. "Promise me we’ll always find our way back." And you had smiled, because you had been naïve, because you had believed that love was enough. "I promise."

You felt sick.

You had spent so long trying to forget him, to convince herself that he was just a ghost, a figment of your past that couldn’t hurt you anymore.

But he wasn’t a ghost.

He was here.

And he was looking at you.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t alone.

"You’ll leave one day," he had told you once, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. You had shaken your head, smiling as if it was the easiest truth in the world. "No, I won’t." His jaw had clenched then, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "You say that now." "I mean it." But it didn’t matter. He never believed you. Never trusted that someone could want him without conditions, without expectations. So he kept his walls high, locked every door, kept you at a safe distance even when you were right beside him. And you let him. You had been so desperate just to be near him that you accepted every cold shoulder, every dismissive word, every quiet rejection masked as indifference. Because you thought one day he would see. That one day he would believe in love, too. But he had.

You breath hitched.

The world kept moving, kept spinning, but you—you were stuck.

Because he was standing right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you could almost imagine it had all been a nightmare, that none of it was real, that you could still reach for him and—

But then you saw her.

The girl beside him.

The one with her hand in his.

The diamond on the woman’s hand catches the light, and your stomach twists violently.

Because now, you know.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t love. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how.

He just didn’t want to love you.

And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

"You’ll forget me," you had whispered. He had laughed, shaking his head. "How could I?" But now— Now you were nothing but a forgotten name on his lips.

He blinked. For a second—just a second—he looked almost surprised to see you. Like he hadn’t been expecting this, like he hadn’t considered what it would mean to run into you again.

And then—

His fingers curled tighter around the other girl’s hand.

And just like that—

You knew.

"Wonwoo, I love you." You voice cracked, but you didn’t care. You were past the point of pride, past the point of pretending this didn’t hurt. Your heart was breaking in real time, splintering into pieces right in front of him, and he just stood there. You took a shaky breath, stepping closer, searching his face for something—anything. A reaction, a flicker of emotion, even pity. "Why can’t you love me too?" Your voice was louder this time, desperation bleeding into every syllable. "Why can’t you just—" you stopped, pressing a trembling hand to your chest. "Just say something, Wonwoo. Just—please." He looked at you. For a minute too long. And you thought, maybe this is it. Maybe he would finally let himself feel, let himself see you the way you had always seen him. Maybe he would reach for you, pull you close, whisper something that could make all this worth it. But then— He blinked. Turned around. And walked away. No hesitation. No final words. No second glance. The air left your lungs. You stood there, frozen, watching as he disappeared, waiting for him to stop, to turn back, to realize. He didn’t.

The crowd surged.

A wave of people moved between them, breaking them apart, tearing her away from him before you could even think, before you could even move.

You stumbled back, your chest caving in, your hands shaking.

No. No, no, no—

You pushed forward, desperate, needing to see him, needing to find him—

And then—

There.

He was still there.

Still standing in the same spot.

Still looking at you.

But this time—

He wasn’t reaching for you.

He wasn’t fighting the crowd, wasn’t calling your name, wasn’t trying.

He was just watching.

And then—

He turned.

And walked away.

With her.

"We’ll always find our way back." But they hadn’t. He had found someone else instead.

Your vision blurred. Your fingers curled into fists.

You could run after him.

You could call his name.

You could fight against the tide, push through the crowd, make him remember.

But you didn’t.

You just stood there.

Because this—this was how it ended.

Not with screaming. Not with a fight. Not with desperate pleas or broken promises.

But with him walking away—and not looking back.

And that— That was what hurt the most.

You grit your teeth, digging deeper, flipping through files—

Then, suddenly—

A presence.

A shadow loomed behind you, blocking the dim light from the doorway.

You froze.

“Tell me you’re not this fucking stupid.”

Mingyu.

His voice was low, quiet—but burning with barely restrained anger.

Your grip on the open drawer tightened, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Shit.

You turned slowly, schooling your expression into one of feigned innocence. “It’s not what it looks like.”

His jaw clenched. “Then tell me—what the hell is it?”

You straightened your shoulders, refusing to shrink beneath his glare. “I—”

“Don’t.” His voice was cold, cutting through the air like a blade. “Don’t lie to me.”

You swallowed, your fingers twitching at your sides. “I’m not—”

Mingyu was in front of you in two long strides, towering over you, the weight of his presence suffocating. His voice dropped lower, quieter, but no less furious.

“You’re reckless,” he bit out. “Do you have any idea what will happen if someone else finds you here?”

You tilted your chin up defiantly. “Then it’s a good thing you’re the one who did.”

Mingyu exhaled sharply through his nose, his frustration palpable. “You think this is funny?”

You smirked, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “A little.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist—not harshly, but firmly. “We’re leaving.”

You yanked your arm back. “I’m not done.”

“Yes. You are.” His grip tightened ever so slightly. “You’re coming with me. Now.”

You glared at him, your pulse hammering. “Or what?”

His expression darkened. “Do you really want to find out?”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them crackled with tension—thick, suffocating, dangerous.

Then, footsteps echoed down the hall.

Your breath caught. Mingyu cursed under his breath.

Without thinking, he grabbed your waist and pulled you against him, backing them both into the shadows between the shelves.

His grip was unyielding, his body heat searing against hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Her heart pounded.

The footsteps stopped.

You didn’t dare move.

Neither did Mingyu.

And then—

The door handle rattled.

The door creaked open. Mingyu’s grip on your waist remained firm as they pressed deeper into the shadows between the shelves. You could feel the tension radiating from him, the controlled rise and fall of his chest against your back.

A pair of heels clicked against the marble floor.

“I understand, sir.” The voice was smooth, professional—your father’s secretary. “Yes. I’ll confirm with the shipment team, but the package is already in transit.”

You frowned. Shipment?

Mingyu was as still as stone behind you, his body locked in silent tension.

“No, sir,” the woman continued, the faint glow of her phone screen casting shadows on the shelves. “Everything is moving as planned. We don’t want a repeat of last time.” A pause. “Yes. Mr. Moon was understanding, but if it had been anyone else, we wouldn’t have been able to contain it.”

Your stomach twisted. 

“Lia.” The secretary’s voice dropped lower, almost hesitant. “Yes, sir. I know. It was unfortunate.” Another pause. “Of course, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You felt like the floor had just slipped out from under you.

Lia.

Your breath caught, and instinctively, you shifted—just a fraction, but Mingyu noticed. His hand pressed against your hip, a silent warning. Stay still.

The secretary turned slightly, eyes flicking toward the shelves as if sensing something.

You clenched your jaw. If they were caught now—

But after a moment, the woman exhaled. “Yes, sir. I’ll oversee it personally.”

The door handle clicked. A second later, the room was empty again.

Silence.

Then—

Mingyu released you like you burned him. You turned sharply, heart still hammering against your ribs, but his expression was unreadable.

“Lia,” you whispered. “What the hell was she talking about?”

Mingyu’s jaw clenched. “Not here.”

You swallowed. You didn’t trust him, not fully—not yet. But you knew one thing: whatever this was, it was bigger than you.

And you were going to find out the truth.

"Then help me find that fucking file," You hissed, stepping closer, your voice low but urgent.

Mingyu’s eyes flashed with anger, his stance unyielding. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he whispered harshly. “You heard what she just said.”

You clenched your jaw. “Exactly. Which is why I need to find that file.”

Mingyu let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “No. What you need to do is walk out of here before you make this worse for yourself.” His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

Your fingers curled into fists. “I know enough.”

His jaw ticked. “No, you don’t. You’re grasping at straws, Eva.”

Your breath hitched at the way he said your name—low, like a warning. But you refused to let it shake you. “If you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”

Mingyu let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” He stepped closer, closing the already suffocating space between them. “You think you’re in control of this? That you can just walk in here, dig around, and what? You’ll find the truth? And then what, Eva?” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “What are you going to do with it?”

You exhaled through your nose, refusing to waver under his scrutiny. “I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s all I have!” The words ripped from you, your voice raw, cracking at the edges.

For the first time, Mingyu stilled. His brows pulled together, his gaze flickering over your face like he was seeing something he hadn’t before.

Mingyu’s breath came sharp, his chest rising and falling with restrained frustration. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab you, shake some sense into you. But for the first time since walking into this room, he didn’t have another sharp retort waiting on his tongue.

You had never begged for anything in your life.

And yet, here you were—eyes burning, voice barely above a whisper, asking him for something he didn’t even know how to give.

His throat bobbed. “Eva…”

“Please,” you repeated, voice steadier this time, but just as desperate. “I need to know.”

Mingyu clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. Because he didn’t know. Because he didn’t have the answers you were searching for. Because despite everything—despite knowing you were reckless and stubborn and walking a thin line that could break beneath you at any second—he didn’t want to watch you shatter.

And yet—

“This isn’t safe,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, tension radiating off him in waves. “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your lips parted, a bitter laugh escaping. “And yet, here you are. Stopping me instead of helping me.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t even know what the fuck you’re looking for, Eva.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, turning back to the open drawer, the stacks of files blurred in her vision. “Then help me find out.”

Mingyu dragged a hand down his face. This was insanity. He was supposed to be protecting you—from people who wanted to hurt you, from threats lurking in the shadows. Not from yourself.

And yet, the way you were looking at him now—like he was the only lifeline you had left—made something in his resolve crack.

He cursed under his breath. “We have five minutes.”

"Actually three. Three minutes before Jack turns the lights back on."

Mingyu let out a sharp breath, muttering another curse. “Three minutes? Are you fucking kidding me?”

You shot him a look before turning back to the drawers, your fingers trembling slightly as you yanked them open. “If you’re not gonna help, at least don’t waste my time.”

Mingyu’s jaw tightened, his broad frame blocking part of the dim light filtering through the cracked door. “I shouldn’t be helping you at all.”

“And yet,” you snapped, rifling through the files, “you’re still here.”

His glare burned into the side of your face, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Pages flipped beneath you fingers, document after document, none of them the one youy needed.

Two minutes.

Mingyu exhaled sharply, then stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of a file as he scanned the labels. He wasn’t even sure what the hell he was looking for.

“This is insane,” he muttered under his breath.

You ignored him.

Then—

Her fingers stilled.

Project Dominion – Financial Records

Her heart lurched. This was it. The file Elais wanted.

One minute.

You yanked it out, barely breathing as she flipped through the contents. She didn’t have time to process all of it—just enough to confirm the details, the numbers, the undeniable proof of whatever her father was doing. 

Mingyu’s voice cut through the haze. “Eva, we have to go. Now.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

His hand closed around your wrist—more rough than firm. “Eva.”

Thirty seconds.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you shoved the file into your clutch.

Mingyu was already moving, pulling you toward the door.

Fifteen seconds.

You exhaled sharply, casting one last glance at the room before slipping out into the dark hallway.

And just as the door clicked shut behind them—

The lights flickered back on.

Mingyu barely had time to process what was happening before you pulled out your phone and pressed it to your ear.

Her voice was steady, cold. “Yes, I have it.”

He stiffened beside her, every muscle coiled tight. What the fuck was she doing?

You turned slightly, angling your body away as you listened. A pause. Then, your lips curled slightly—not quite a smirk, not quite anything he could place. “They’ll be in your inbox in ten.”

Mingyu’s patience snapped. “What the hell was that?”

Not your business.”

His teeth clenched. “Like hell it isn’t. You just stole something, Eva. And now you’re making deals?”

“I’m handling it.”

“You’re—” He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You rolled your eyes, already walking. “Save the lecture, bodyguard.”

He grabbed you again—this time by the arm, turning her to face him. “You think this is a game?”

Your breath hitched. “Let me go.”

He didn’t. Not yet. His fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress, his expression dark. “Tell me who was on the phone.”

Eva tilted her chin up. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Silence crackled between them.

Then, after a long moment—

Mingyu exhaled, jaw tight. “You will if you want me to say quiet.”

---

You barely had time to breathe before Caro appeared at your side, slipping her arm through your's with a familiar ease—except this time, there was tension in the way her fingers curled around your wrist.

“There you are,” Caro said, her voice light but edged with something sharper. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”

You swallowed, forcing your expression into something unreadable. “Just needed some air.”

Caro hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Air.”

You glanced at her, only to find Caro already watching you, gaze searching. It made something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

Caro sighed, her grip loosening. “You could’ve told me, you know.”

You stiffened. “Told you what?”

Caro let out a small, humorless laugh, looking away. “Never mind.”

The air between them thickened, heavy with words neither of them were saying.

Then—

“Ms. Perez”

A voice interrupted them. A man—one of her father’s associates, charming and slick, stepping in front of her with an outstretched hand. “Care to dance?”

You blinked, caught off guard. You hesitated, glancing at Caro for just a second—

And in that second, you saw it.

The way Caro’s expression fell, just slightly. The way her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for you but thought better of it. The way something small and fragile inside her seemed to crack.

But Caro just smiled, the same way she always did, and stepped back.

“Go,” she said, voice soft, forcing brightness into it. “You should.”

You hesitated.

But the man was already waiting, and the weight of the room—the expectations, the eyes—pushed you forward.

You let him take your hand.

And as you were wept away onto the dance floor, you caught one last glimpse of Caro, standing alone, her hands clasped in front of her, her smile frozen in place.

And it broke something in you, too.

---

Seungcheol wasn’t looking for her.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But his eyes still found Caroline across the ballroom, standing alone near the gilded columns, her expression carefully neutral—except for the way her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her dress, like she was holding herself together.

His brows furrowed.

She looked… small. Smaller than usual.

He took a step forward, the instinct to go to her—say something, anything—taking over before he could think twice.

And then—

“Seungcheol.”

A delicate hand curled around his wrist, stopping him.

Aurelia Graham.

She was smiling up at him, the kind of poised, practiced smile that belonged in rooms like this. “Dance with me?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering back to Caro. She still hadn’t moved, still standing there with that unreadable look on her face.

Aurelia followed his line of sight, and something in her expression turned sharper, lips curving into something almost amused. “Oh, Mr. Perez,” she tutted, leaning in slightly. “You shouldn’t waste your time.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “What?”

She gestured subtly in Caro’s direction, her voice dropping to a whisper just for him. “Girls like her… they don’t belong here. And if you want to keep your reputation intact, you’d do well to remember that.”

A flash of anger surged through him.

His grip on Aurelia's hand almost loosened—almost—but then, across the room, Caro shifted.

She had heard.

She had definitely heard.

Her shoulders tensed, and before she could stop herself, she curled inward just the slightest bit—shrinking, like she always did when the world around her reminded her that she was out of place.

Something inside him twisted.

Aurelia was still waiting for an answer, still standing too close, still looking at him like she expected him to agree.

And Caro—

Caro was already looking away.

Aurelia barely had time to react before Seungcheol gently pulled his wrist from her grasp.

“Pardon me, Ms. Graham,” he said smoothly, his tone polite but distant—final.

Then, before he could think better of it, he stepped past her and toward Caro.

Her head snapped up, eyes widening as he reached for her hand.

“I’d rather dance with the realest person in this room.”

Caro froze.

For a second, she just stared at him, her lips parting slightly like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Seungcheol didn’t let go.

He felt the delicate hesitation in her fingers before, finally, slowly, she let him lead her to the dance floor.

Behind them, Aurelia scoffed, but he didn’t care.

All he cared about was the way Caro’s palm felt in his—the way she looked at him, uncertain but something else, too. Something softer.

Something real.

Seungcheol led Caro to the center of the grand hall, where couples swayed in elegant synchronization beneath the shimmering chandeliers. The music swelled around them, slow and steady, as he placed a careful hand on her waist.

Caro hesitated, her fingers barely resting on his shoulder, like she wasn’t sure she belonged here—like she wasn’t sure he was sure.

“You don’t have to do this,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

His grip on her tightened just slightly, just enough to ground her. “I want to.”

Caro swallowed, eyes flickering toward the people watching. She could feel them—feel the weight of their gazes, the judgment, the whispers just barely out of reach.

But then Seungcheol moved, guiding her into the first step of the waltz, and suddenly it was just them.

Just the warmth of his touch, the quiet steadiness in his gaze, the way his presence wrapped around her like a shield against everything else.

“You don’t have to look so nervous,” he said, voice laced with the hint of a smile. “I’m not that bad of a dancer.”

A breath of laughter escaped her, quick and unguarded. “I know you’re not.”

“Then what is it?”

She hesitated. “They’re all staring.”

He hummed, glancing around briefly before meeting her eyes again. “Let them, Carrie.”

Caro’s heart lurched. That nickname always had that effect on her.

There was no hesitation in his voice, no second-guessing. He said it like it was easy. Like he had already made his choice and wasn’t afraid of anyone knowing it.

The thought made her chest ache.

She lowered her gaze, focusing on the rhythm of their steps, the warmth of his hand in hers. The room blurred at the edges, the whispers fading into the music.

For the first time tonight, she allowed herself to exist in the moment.

And for the first time ever, she let herself wonder—just for a second—what it would be like if this wasn’t temporary.

Caro let out a quiet breath as the waltz slowed, the music swelling into its final notes. Her fingers tightened slightly against Seungcheol’s shoulder, holding onto the moment just a little longer before reality could creep back in.

She looked up at him, her lips parting before she could stop herself. “Thank you, Seungcheol.”

His eyes softened, the corners of his mouth twitching up like he meant every word before he even spoke them. “Of course,” he said simply. “You’re my sister’s best friend, after all.”

The words landed like a blow she hadn’t braced for.

Caro barely managed to keep her expression from falling, but something in her chest pulled tight, something fragile and aching.

Right. Eva's best friend. That’s all she was to him.

She forced a smile, nodding as she stepped back, slipping her hand from his grasp before he could feel how cold her fingers had become.

“Right,” she echoed, voice quieter than before. “Of course.”

She took another step back, then another, until she was no longer in the center of the dance floor—no longer under his careful gaze.

Seungcheol furrowed his brows slightly, as if sensing the shift, but she didn’t give him the chance to question it.

Because if she stayed any longer, she wasn’t sure she could keep the hurt from showing.

And the last thing she wanted was for him to see it.

----

<a/n> guys. what do we think about the cheol caro romance ;) p.s so proud of me to update so soon

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You could feel your father’s gaze searing into you the moment you stepped into the gala. The weight of his disapproval clung to you like a second skin, but you didn’t falter. If anything, it only made your chin tilt higher, your steps slower, more deliberate. The emerald silk of your dress cascaded around you like liquid, the high slit cutting up your thigh in a way that made every glance linger a second too long.

A statement. A provocation.

As you approached, the murmur of the room shifted, voices dipping into hushed whispers. Your father stood tall, rigid in his finely pressed suit, his expression unreadable—but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes. Beside him, your stepmother inhaled sharply, eyes widening as they raked over your attire in barely concealed horror.

“What on earth are you wearing?” she demanded, voice sharp enough to cut.

You barely spared you a glance. Instead, you met your father’s eyes, the ghost of a smirk playing on your lips. “Dior.”

Your stepmother sputtered, visibly flustered, but you had already turned your attention back to your father. He hadn’t spoken yet, hadn’t moved. He was waiting.

So were you.

“Father.”

You acknowledged him with a slight bow of your head, the act one of forced respect rather than sincerity. The weight of his gaze didn’t waver, his expression carved from stone. Around them, the whispers grew louder, hushed yet unmistakable, a symphony of judgment and curiosity.

Your stepmother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her disapproval practically radiating off her in waves. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

You merely smiled, slow and deliberate. “Isn’t that the point?”

Your father exhaled sharply through his nose, the only outward sign of irritation. He didn’t need to raise his voice—his presence alone commanded obedience. “You will behave tonight.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Have I done something wrong?”

His jaw ticked. “Eva.”

You knew that tone. A warning. A reminder of the invisible leash he expected you to abide by.

"Have I, Father?" Your smirk curled at the edges, sharp and taunting. "Sure as hell, I’m allowed to show a little more cleavage than my dear stepmother."

A scandalized gasp escaped from the woman in question, her manicured fingers clutching at her pearls like you had just spit in the champagne. Her father’s expression didn’t waver, but you saw the shift in his posture—the slight tightening of his fingers around his glass, the flicker of barely contained fury in his gaze.

“Enough.” His voice was low, even, but sharp enough to slice through the tension.

You just raised a brow, unbothered. "You’re the one who wanted me here, Father. Did you expect me to play pretend and smile pretty?"

His jaw ticked, the silence between them stretching, suffocating.

And then—

A new voice entered the conversation.

“Ah, Rafael, your daughter is quite… captivating this evening.”

Your stomach curled the moment you recognized it. Slow, deliberate, thick with a kind of amusement that felt like a hand sliding over your skin uninvited.

Victor Moreau.

One of your father’s most important business acquaintances. Old, powerful, and—most of all—someone she wanted nothing to do with.

Moreau was past seventy, draped in a suit worth more than most people made in a year. His silver hair was neatly combed back, his thin mouth curling as he let his gaze linger on you for a second too long.

You barely resisted the urge to recoil. Instead, you steeled herself and took a slow sip of your champagne, not bothering to acknowledge him.

Your father, however, turned smoothly, his expression shifting into something far more amicable. “Victor,” he greeted, shaking the man’s hand. “I trust you’re enjoying the evening?”

“Quite,” Moreau said, though his focus remained solely on you. “Your daughter is certainly adding… intrigue to the event.”

Eva’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

“Indeed,” your father said, voice neutral. Then, too casually, he gestured between them. “You two haven’t danced yet, have you?”

The champagne nearly soured in your stomach.

“No, we haven’t,” Moreau said, and his smile widened. “But I’d be honored.”

The request—or rather, the command—hung in the air.

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Instead, you set your glass down on the nearest tray with slow precision.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” you said smoothly. “It’s been a long day, and I’m not in the mood for dancing.”

Your father’s eyes cut to you, dark and cold. “Eva.”

You met his gaze head-on. “Father.”

Moreau chuckled under his breath, the sound deep and indulgent, like he found this all very amusing.

“Oh, Rafael, don’t trouble her if she’s unwilling,” he said, though there was no real dismissal in his tone—just the quiet confidence of a man who knew he wouldn’t be denied.

Your father, predictably, smiled thinly. “Nonsense,” he said, the edge of steel slipping into his voice. “Eva would be delighted.”

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.

For a split second, you considered making a scene. Considered pushing back, loudly, in front of all these people, making it impossible for your father to save face.

But then—

“Go,” he said quietly, so that only you could hear. “Or we’ll talk about this later.”

The unspoken threat wrapped around your throat like a noose.

You inhaled slowly, then turned back to Moreau, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Well, then,” you said, reaching for his extended hand with fingers you wished you could break. “Shall we?”

Moreau’s grin widened as he led you toward the dance floor, his grip just a little too tight around yours.

As the music swelled and they began to move, Eva caught a familiar pair of eyes across the room.

Mingyu.

Watching. Waiting.

Your pulse skipped before you scoffed, turning your head away as Moreau’s hand pressed against your lower back.

-------

The moment Victor Moreau’s hand settled on your waist, you had to fight every instinct not to recoil. His grip was firm, fingers pressing just a fraction harder than necessary, a silent reminder of control. His other hand enveloped yours—cool, dry, and practiced.

The orchestra swelled, the haunting melody of a waltz filling the room. You forced your muscles to relax as he led you into the first steps. You had danced this routine a thousand times, had perfected the effortless grace expected of someone in your position. And yet, every movement felt calculated, like walking a razor’s edge.

“You dance beautifully,” Moreau murmured, his voice carrying that same unshakable confidence, as if your body belonged in his arms.

You smiled, the picture of composed elegance. “I’ve had years of training.”

His eyes gleamed. “It shows.”

They moved effortlessly through the dance floor, gliding between glittering chandeliers and murmuring onlookers. Moreau kept the pace steady, deliberate, ensuring you had no choice but to match him. You detested the way he controlled the rhythm, how he dictated every step.

But you played along, as you always did.

“You remind me of your sister,” he mused suddenly, his thumb grazing the fabric of your dress as he guided her through a turn. “She had the same fire in her eyes. Always so… resistant.”

Your stomach twisted.

“She never let anyone control her,” you said coolly, her mask unwavering.

Moreau chuckled, low and knowing. “Did she?”

The insinuation curdled your blood, but before you could respond, he tilted his head, studying you with an almost paternal amusement. “You’re quite the spectacle tonight, Evangeline. That dress, that defiance… Is this for someone in particular?”

Your lips curled. “Do you think I dress for anyone but myself?”

“I think,” Moreau mused, spinning you effortlessly, “that you enjoy being watched.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stiffen or falter. Instead, you let your smirk deepen, playing the game right back. “Perhaps. But not by you.”

Moreau’s grip on your waist tightened just a fraction. “Careful,” he murmured, a quiet warning laced beneath his amusement.

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming. “Always.”

The waltz built to its crescendo, the final few steps unfolding with near-perfect precision. Moreau’s hand lingered just a moment too long as they reached the final movement, dipping you in a display that felt more like possession than dance.

You let him, if only to keep the facade. But the moment the music faded, you pulled back, slipping out of his grasp with practiced ease.

A smattering of applause rang through the hall. The next song was already beginning—a slower, smoother rhythm—and around them, partners shifted.

Eva turned to shift, to change the partners, but then—

A new hand clasped yours.

Firm. Familiar.

Her breath caught as she met a pair of dark, unreadable eyes.

Seungcheol.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Seungcheol’s grip was steady, his expression unreadable, but his jaw was tight, his stance just a little too rigid. Around them, the gala continued, a blur of silk and candlelight, of whispered conversations and lingering glances.

You wanted to pull away. Wanted to sneer, to turn your back and leave him standing there, but the weight of too many watching eyes forced her still.

You swallowed hard, then scoffed under your breath. “Well,” you muttered, sliding your hand into his reluctantly, “this is unfortunate.”

Seungcheol’s eyes darkened. “Agreed.”

The orchestra swelled, and with a sharp inhale, you let him lead.

Dancing with Moreau had been calculated, a performance. But dancing with Seungcheol—

It was something else entirely.

His grip was firm but not suffocating, his movements precise but not mechanical. He knew your rhythm, knew your footwork, matched you stride-for-stride as if they’d done this a hundred times before. Which, of course, they had.

Once.

A long, long time ago.

Seungcheol’s palm pressed against the small of your back, guiding you through the first turn. Your fingers curled slightly in his grasp, resisting the instinct to hold tighter, to fall into old habits.

“Father must be pleased,” you murmured, voice light but sharp. “Forcing his children to dance in front of his guests. What a charming display of unity.”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, his movements never faltering. “This wasn’t my choice.”

Your lips curved in something like amusement. “No, I imagine it wasn’t.”

They spun, their reflections gliding across polished marble floors, caught in the warm flicker of chandelier light.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, gaze flickering downward before snapping back to yours. “That dress,” he muttered.

You arched a brow. “What about it?”

His grip on your waist tightened, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You know exactly what.”

You laughed, low and quiet. “Are you scandalized, big brother?”

Seungcheol’s gaze burned. “I’m not Father,” he said coldly. “I don’t care how much of a show you put on tonight.”

You smirked, but the sharp sting in his words settled deep in her ribs. “Of course not.”

Silence.

The music continued, but the space between them was thick with something else, something heavier.

Seungcheol inhaled, his shoulders stiffening. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your smirk faded.

“And yet, here I am,” you muttered.

He studied you, searching for something in your expression. “What are you doing, Eva?” His voice was quieter now, laced with something dangerously close to frustration. “Do you even know?”

Your pulse thrummed.

For a second—just a second—something inside you wavered. The old Seungcheol was there, beneath the hardened exterior, beneath the disappointment, beneath the distance.

But then you blinked, and he was gone.

You exhaled through your nose, tilting your head. “Dancing,” you said simply. “Same as you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flashed. “Is that what you call it?”

You hummed. “Careful, brother. You sound concerned.”

“I am,” he snapped before he could stop himself. His grip on you tightened just slightly, like he wanted to shake some sense into you. “If you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d see—”

But he didn’t finish.

Because suddenly, the music shifted, and around them, the dancers moved again, partners slipping away into new hands.

Seungcheol tensed, his fingers twitching as if debating whether to hold on.

You smiled. “Looks like we’re done here.”

And then, before he could respond, you let go.

Spinning effortlessly into the arms of someone new.

But not before catching the flicker of something unreadable in Seungcheol’s expression.

Something you refused to look too closely at.

Not now.

Not ever.

----

Your fingers itched to push—to see how far you could go before your father snapped.

But then, you felt it.

A presence.

Steady. Unmoving.

Your pulse skipped as you gaze flickered across the room—until it landed on him.

Mingyu.

Watching. Waiting.

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes, but you didn’t give yours the chance to decipher it. Not now. You scoffed, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray. “Enjoy the gala, Father.” And with that, you downed the drink in one fluid motion, the burn searing down your throat as you turned on your heel.

The moment you stepped away, you pulled out your phone.

"Jack, now."

Your voice was steady. Controlled.

The line clicked. No response. Just silence—until—

The lights cut out.

Gasps rippled through the ballroom, sharp and panicked. The grand chandeliers flickered once—twice—before plunging the entire hall into darkness. The music stuttered to a halt. Someone let out a startled yelp. Glass shattered somewhere in the distance.

You didn’t stop moving.

You knew exactly how much time you had—ten seconds before the emergency lights kicked in.

Enough.

The surveillance cameras would have stopped recording.

You slipped through the crowd, your steps quick but measured, weaving between dazed guests and disoriented guards. The moment the emergency lighting flickered on, casting eerie golden hues against the chaos, you were already at the entrance of the hall.

Then—

"Miss Perez!"

A voice. Sharp. Commanding.

One of your father’s security guards.

You didn’t flinch. You turned, letting the dim lighting cast an elegant shadow across your face, tilting your chin just so—just enough to make your look like the perfect inconvenienced heiress.

"What the hell is going on?" you demanded, voice sharp, cutting through the disarray. "Fix it. Now."

The guard hesitated. "We’re handling it, Miss, but—"

You exhaled sharply. "You’re not handling anything," you snapped. Then, you raised your voice, your next words calculated.

"Guards! There’s danger in the hall! Protect my family!"

It worked.

Years of obedience, of blind loyalty, of training not to question—they kicked in instantly.

The security team scattered, moving in unison toward the ballroom, toward the most important guests, leaving their posts undefended.

You didn’t waste another second.

You turned on your heel and strode toward your father’s office.

The corridor was darker than the ballroom, the emergency lights casting long, eerie shadows across the lavish decor. The towering paintings of her ancestors loomed overhead, their oil-painted gazes watching.

You barely suppressed a scoff. Judgment, even from the grave.

Her steps were precise. Sure.

By the time she reached the heavy oak doors, her pulse was steady.

Two guards still stood at their post.

You hated improvising.

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t break your stride. Instead, you let irritation seep into your tone as you barked, "Follow them!"

The guards hesitated.

A flicker of uncertainty. Then—obedience.

They stepped aside. No one questioned you. They wouldn’t dare.

You pushed open the door, slipping inside as it shut behind you.

Silence.

The office was eerily quiet—only the faintest sliver of moonlight streaming through the towering windows.

You exhaled.

You moved swiftly, your heels barely making a sound as you crossed the room.

You knew exactly where to look.

First drawer. Nothing. Second. Useless. Third—

Bingo.

Your father’s scanner ID glinted under the soft light.

The key to his world.

You reached for it—

Then stopped.

A noise.

The faintest shift in the air.

Eva’s breath hitched.

Someone was outside.

A shadow under the door.

Your pulse spiked.

Your father’s security was still busy dealing with the staged "threat"—which meant whoever was outside was not a guard.

You didn’t have time to think.

Your gaze flickered toward the balcony doors.

Move.

You didn’t hesitate. Slipping toward the glass doors, you flicked the latch and stepped onto the stone balcony, the cool night air biting at her skin.

You had seconds.

Your stomach twisted. You had to move.

You turned, gripping the balcony railing—

And swung yourself over the edge.

The wind whipped against your skin, your fingers catching onto the stone ledge below. Pain shot up your arms, your muscles screaming in protest.

Don’t look down.

The drop was a few stories. If you slipped—

No.

You gritted your teeth and climbed, one hand over the other, shifting sideways along the ledge.

You needed an open window.

A few feet away, you spotted one.

You swung your leg forward—kicked.

The glass cracked but didn’t shatter.

You kicked again.

This time, it gave way.

You climbed inside, your heels hitting the marble floor in an empty, dimly lit hallway.

Footsteps.

Coming closer.

You straightened, smoothing the fabric of your dress. By the time the guards turned the corner, you looked bored. Annoyed. Completely unbothered.

"Miss Perez?"

One of them stepped forward.

You exhaled sharply, rolling your eyes. "For god’s sake, I stepped outside for fresh air and now half the security team is acting like I started a war."

The guard hesitated.

"We heard something break—"

You scoffed. "Yes. The champagne glass I dropped. Now, unless you want to explain to my father why you’re wasting your time on me instead of handling the blackout, I suggest you go."

A pause.

Then—obedience.

"Of course, Miss Perez."

You didn’t wait for them to leave. You strode past them, heading for the ballroom, the stolen scanner ID pressed against your skin.

Your father had no idea what was coming next.

---

You exhaled sharply, your fingers curling around the stolen scanner ID.

The heavy weight of it in your palm sent a rush of triumph through your veins.

This was it.

One step closer.

You didn’t allow yourself to revel in it for too long. Every second counted.

Tightening your grip, you turned swiftly and slipped back into the dimly lit corridor, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The security room—the one storing the classified files—was just down the hall.

You had mapped out every inch of this place long before tonight. You knew the route. The guards' shifts. The blind spots.

But knowing wasn’t the same as executing.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you moved.

One mistake—one wrong step—and you wouldn’t just be caught. You'd be ruined.

You reached the end of the corridor. Left turn. Twelve steps. Second door on the right.

The security room.

The door loomed ahead, sleek and unmarked, blending seamlessly into the lavish architecture. To the untrained eye, it was nothing. But you weren't untrained. You knew exactly what lay beyond that door.

Everything.

Steadying your breath, she pulled out the scanner ID and swiped it against the panel.

A soft beep.

Then—

The lock clicked open.

You slipped inside, shutting the door behind you in one fluid motion.

The room was small, cold, illuminated by the soft glow of multiple screens. Security monitors flickered in real-time—or they would have, had Jack not killed the feeds.

You exhaled. Good. That gave you more time.

You didn’t hesitate. The air inside was cold, humming with the soft buzz of the security system. Floor-to-ceiling shelves loomed before you, towering rows of locked drawers, classified documents, secrets buried beneath dust and metal.

You had minutes.

Moving quickly, you scanned the labels, your fingers trailing over the sleek surfaces. Come on. Where are you?

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you flipped through files—faster, more desperate with each passing second. You couldn’t leave empty-handed.

Then—

A presence.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

The dim light from the doorway vanished—blocked by something large, unmoving.

You knew before you even turned.

The voice that followed sent ice through your veins.

“Tell me you’re not this fucking stupid.”

Mingyu.

----

Mingyu’s voice was sharp, irritated. “What the hell?”

Caro winced, stepping back from the door like it might bite her. “Uh. So. Funny story—”

“Caro.” His tone was flat. Deadly.

She cleared her throat. “—I think this might not be the room we intended—”

A pause. Then a much calmer, much more unimpressed voice spoke from inside.

“Caroline.”

Caro squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes?”

“What. Room. Is. This.”

She let out a small, nervous laugh. “Well. So, funny thing… this is—uh—Seungcheol’s room.”

A beat of silence.

Then Seungcheol, sounding utterly unimpressed, drawled, “You two want to tell me why I’m locked in my own room?”

Caro glanced at the door like it might give her an answer. “Um. Not particularly?”

Mingyu’s voice was ice. “Open the door.”

“Right! So, about that,” Caro started, clasping her hands together. “I actually, uh… can’t.”

Another pause. Then Mingyu, voice dangerously quiet: “Caro.”

She cleared her throat. “It’s kind of… locked.”

“No shit.”

“From the outside.”

Mingyu’s silence was somehow worse than his yelling.

Seungcheol sighed. “And I’m guessing you’re the only one who can unlock it?”

Caro rocked on her heels. “Technically… no?”

“Carrie.”

“Okay, yes,” she admitted quickly, heart pounding. “But I’ll open it eventually! I just… need you guys to chill for a bit.”

“Chill?” Mingyu repeated, his disbelief palpable. “You locked us in here.”

“Yes, but in my defense, it’s, uh, cozy?” She cringed. “And, you know, could be worse! Could’ve been a closet.”

Seungcheol sighed again, and Caro could just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “How long are we stuck in here?”

She hesitated. “Not long!”

Mingyu’s patience was clearly running out. “Define ‘not long.’”

Caro coughed. “A little while.”

Silence.

Then Seungcheol’s voice, slower now, more observant. “This isn’t just you being an idiot, is it?”

Caro gasped, clutching her chest. “Wow. Rude.”

But Seungcheol wasn’t buying it. “You’re stalling.”

Mingyu caught on immediately. “Who are you covering for?”

“No one!”

“Caro.”

She groaned. “Why do you both say my name like that?”

Seungcheol ignored her. “Eva put you up to this?”

“No!” she said too quickly.

Mingyu’s frustration grew. “Caro, open the damn door.”

“Look, it’s fine! No one’s dying, no one’s—”

“Yet,” Seungcheol muttered.

Caro rolled her eyes. “Okay, drama king.”

“You’re the one holding us hostage,” he pointed out.

“‘Hostage’ is such a strong word,” she said, crossing her arms. “I prefer ‘unexpected quality time.’”

Seungcheol let out a dry chuckle. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes,” she declared. “Think about it. When’s the last time we had a nice, uninterrupted conversation?”

Mingyu scoffed. “This isn’t a conversation, it’s an interrogation.”

“Semantics.” She waved him off. “We can talk about anything! Feelings, childhood trauma, our biggest fears—”

Mingyu sighed. “You’re so annoying.”

Caro scowled. “Okay, I think we’ve bonded enough.”

Mingyu crossed his arms. “Then unlock the door.”

She hesitated.

Seungcheol caught it immediately. His voice was quieter now, lower. “You can’t, can you?”

Caro swallowed.

He wasn’t mad. Not yet. Just… watching her. Waiting.

She forced a smile. “Of course I can.”

Seungcheol held her gaze. “Then do it.”

A beat of silence.

Caro slowly turned toward the door, hand hovering over the lock.

Then, she grinned and stepped back. “Nah.”

Mingyu groaned. “I swear to God—”

Seungcheol let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

Caro shrugged. “Might as well get comfortable.”

Mingyu muttered something under his breath. Seungcheol just watched her with that unreadable expression, something almost amused—curious—lingering in his gaze.

---

You sat at the dinner table, your fork idly poking at the food on your plate. The tension in the room sat heavy, thick enough to choke on. Across from you, your father scrolled through his phone, uninterested, while your step mother carefully sliced into her food, each movement precise, controlled.

The silence stretched.

“So,” your step mother finally said, lifting her gaze. “Where were you today?”

You barely blinked. “Out.”

Your father sighed, still not looking up. “Must you always be so difficult?”

Your jaw tightened. “Must you always ask questions you don’t actually care about the answers to?”

Your step mother exhaled through her nose. “Eva.”

You just shoved a bite of food into your mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately, like you weren't already done with this entire conversation.

Her father finally put his phone down, rubbing his temples. “This attitude of yours—”

“—is completely warranted,” you interrupted. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Your step mother shot her a warning look, but you were past caring. You weren't in the mood to play whatever game they were trying to rope you into tonight.

The meal continued in near silence, the occasional clinking of silverware the only sound.

Eventually, your step mother placed her napkin on the table, the universal sign that dinner was officially over. “I don’t know why you insist on making things so difficult for yourself,” she murmured before standing.

You didn’t reply. Didn’t look up.

A moment later, your father followed suit, and just like that, you were alone.

You exhaled, pressing your fingers to your temples.

Then, you stood, chair scraping softly against the floor as you turned to leave.

You didn’t make it far.

Seungcheol stepped into your path, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

You stilled. “Move.”

He didn’t. “What are you doing?”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

His jaw tightened. “Evangeline, whatever you’re planning—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, voice sharper now.

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I get that you think you know everything,” you shot back. “That you think you have some right to—”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

You scoffed. “Protect me?” you shook your head, lips curling. “You’re just like them.”

Seungcheol’s expression darkened, but you were already brushing past him, ignoring the way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab you, stop you.

You didn’t stop until you reached your room, yanking open the door and stepping inside.

You barely had time to exhale before you heard the door click shut behind you.

You froze.

A presence loomed near, heavy and unmistakable.

“Where were you?”

His voice was low. Rough.

You turned, already rolling your eyes. “Ugh, fuck off—don’t you start now.”

Mingyu didn’t move from where he stood, just inside your room, broad shoulders stiff, jaw clenched tight. He looked like he was holding himself together by a thread.

“I’m serious, Eva.”

You scoffed. “Yeah? And?”

“And if you ever pull that shit again, I will make sure you don’t step one foot outside without me knowing.”

You bristled. “Excuse me?”

Mingyu’s eyes darkened. “You heard me.”

A slow, heated silence stretched between them.

You tilted your chin up defiantly. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

He stepped closer.

Not enough to touch, but enough to make you feel caged in.

“No,” he murmured. “What you need is to stop acting like you’re untouchable.”

Your breath hitched.

Mingyu caught it. His gaze flickered—something unreadable passing through his features before he schooled them back into steel.

“I’m here now,” he said. “Every second. Wherever you go, I go.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat.

It shouldn’t feel like a promise.

It shouldn’t make you shiver.

“You’re overreacting.”

Mingyu’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you’re underestimating how much I mean it when I say you’re not doing this again.”

You scoffed. “Or what?”

His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking, like he was biting back something sharper.

Then, quietly—dangerously—he said, “Try me.”

Your breath caught.

You hated this. Hated the way he got under your skin. Hated the way he made you feel seen when you didn’t want to be.

So you rolled your eyes, shoved past him, and made for the door.

But right as you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you cold.

“Next time, I won’t ask.”

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t trust herself to.

Instead, you scoffed, pushed open the door, and walked out.

Because staying any longer?

That would be a mistake.

----

The office smelled like old leather and expensive whiskey. A fire burned low in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows over the bookshelves lining the walls. Elias sat stiffly in the chair across from his father’s desk, fingers drumming against his knee. The silence stretched between them, thick and expectant.

His father—ever composed, ever unreadable—poured himself a drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. He didn’t offer Elias one.

Elias exhaled through his nose. “She’s stalling.”

His father took a slow sip, eyes sharp beneath the dim lighting. “Of course she is.”

Elias’s jaw ticked. “I’m handling it.”

A quiet hum. “Are you?”

Elias straightened. “She doesn’t have a choice. She’ll do it.”

His father set his drink down, the sound deliberate. “You’re assuming she’s as weak as you need her to be.”

Elias’s fingers curled into fists. “She’s not weak. She just doesn’t know how this ends if she doesn’t cooperate.”

His father tilted his head, studying him. “And do you?”

The question sent something cold slithering down Elias’s spine.

“She’ll finish the job,” he said, voice controlled. “I’ll make sure of it.”

His father leaned back in his chair, gaze calculating. “Good,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, “She reminds me of her.”

Elias’s throat tightened. “She’s nothing like her.”

His father gave him a slow, knowing smile. “That’s what you keep telling yourself.”

The words settled like lead in Elias’s chest. He clenched his jaw and looked away.

Outside, the wind howled against the windows. Inside, his father watched him, patient as ever.

Waiting.

-----

Your grip on her phone tightened as you stood near the dimly lit window, you voice steady despite the weight pressing against your chest.

“I’ll do it at the gala this weekend. Yes, I’m sure, Elias.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a quiet hum of approval. “Good. That’s the best time. Everyone will be too distracted.”

You exhaled slowly. You hated how easily he spoke about this, like it was just another business transaction. Like it wasn’t your own company you were about to betray.

“Make sure you’re not followed,” Elias continued. “Get in, get out. No mistakes.”

No mistakes. Easy to say when he wasn’t the one risking everything.

“I’ll handle it,” you muttered, hanging up before he could say anything else.

You barely had time to gather yourself before a voice cut through the silence.

“You’re going to handle what?”

Your stomach twisted. You turned around sharply—Mingyu stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you like a predator cornering its prey.

You forced your expression into something neutral. “None of your business.”

He stepped forward. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” His tone was low, firm. “You’ve been acting off for weeks. And now you’re standing here, whispering on the phone about doing something at the gala?” His jaw tightened. “Try again.”

You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down. “You’re my bodyguard, Mingyu. Stay in your lane.”

His nostrils flared, frustration creeping into his features. “My lane? My lane is making sure you don’t do something reckless.” He took another step closer, voice sharper now. “If you think I haven’t noticed, you’re wrong. You disappear, you lie, you get defensive when I ask simple questions.” His eyes darkened. “So tell me, Evangeline—what the hell are you planning?”

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

You wanted to tell him to back off. You wanted to push past him and pretend none of this was happening.

But Mingyu wasn’t letting her go that easily.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’re so goddamn nosy.” You folded your arms, glaring at him. “Is this what you do all day? Lurk around corners, waiting for me to say something you don’t like?”

Mingyu’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I do my job.”

“Well, do it better,” you snapped. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck every second, analyzing my every move like I’m some kind of—”

“Some kind of what?” His voice cut through yours, low and warning. “A liability?” He took another step closer, and suddenly he was too close—towering over you, heat radiating from where he stood. “Because that’s exactly how you’re acting.”

Your pulse hammered against your ribs. “Oh, fuck off, Mingyu.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, but his patience was razor-thin. “You think this is a joke? You think I like chasing you around, watching you make reckless decisions when I’m the one who has to keep you alive?”

Your fists clenched. “I didn’t ask you to.”

Mingyu stilled.

The air in the room thickened.

He let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing. “Say that again.”

Your stomach twisted, but you lifted your chin. “I didn’t ask you to,” you repeated, voice quieter but just as sharp. “You don’t have to be here, Mingyu. If it’s so exhausting, just leave.”

Mingyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think it’s that simple?” His voice lowered, rough with frustration. “You think I can just walk away and let you self-destruct?” He scoffed. “You’re a goddamn headache, Eva, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get yourself killed.”

“I’m not some helpless idiot who needs saving,” you shot back.

His eyes darkened. “Then stop acting like one.”

That one hit.

Your nails dug into your palms, anger mixing with something else—something you didn’t want to name.

You hated this. Hated how he saw through you, how he pushed and pushed until you had nothing left to hide behind.

You opened your mouth, ready to snap back, to say something that would make him let this go—

But Mingyu was faster.

His voice dropped, quiet but firm. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but it stops now.” His gaze burned into yours. “Whatever the hell you’re doing at the gala—you’re not doing it alone.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to argue. You needed to argue.

You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through your hair. “I told you to drop it.”

Mingyu didn’t move. His gaze stayed locked on you, dark and unrelenting. “And I told you to answer me.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“So are you.” His voice was edged with something rough, something dangerously close to concern. “Where were you?”

You turned your back to him. “None of your business.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenched. “You are my business.”

You froze. Just for a second. Then you let out a bitter laugh and spun back around, shoving at his chest. “No, I’m not.”

Mingyu barely stepped back. “Eva—”

“No,” you snapped, shoving him again, harder this time. “You’re my bodyguard, Mingyu. That’s it. You don’t get to stand here and act like you have any fucking say in my choices.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “When your choices get you killed, I do.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s cute. You think you can stop me?”

Mingyu’s patience snapped. “You think this is a fucking game?” His voice was low now, furious. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Running around behind everyone’s backs, taking risks you shouldn’t—”

“Oh, I shouldn’t?” Your eyes flashed. “And what about you, huh? You’re always right there, always watching, always waiting to catch me—like I need you.”

His expression hardened. “Maybe you do.”

You inhaled sharply, something cold curling in your chest.

No.

No, you couldn’t let him—

Your hands were shaking. Your clenched them into fists, stepping back, forcing distance between them. “Go to hell.” 

Mingyu stood there, staring at the door, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Go to hell.

You had slammed the door in his face. Shut him out. Again.

His fingers curled into a fist at his side. He could still feel the ghost of your warmth where he’d grabbed your wrist, the way you had ripped herself away, like his touch burned you.

Like he burned you.

He should walk away. He should let it go.

But fuck—he couldn’t.

With a low curse, he took a step closer, pressing his palm flat against the door. “Eva.”

Silence.

He let out a slow breath. “I know you’re still standing there.”

More silence. Then, muffled, from the other side—

“Go away, Mingyu.”

His patience snapped. “Not happening.”

Still, nothing.

His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I’m going to be here. Every second. Every goddamn moment. So get used to it.”

A beat. Then, quieter, your voice came through the door, sharp but unsteady. “I don’t want you here.”

Mingyu exhaled, his fingers curling against the wood. “Too bad.”

More silence. Then, after what felt like forever—

Soft footsteps. A shift of movement.

And then—

The click of the lock turning.

Mingyu’s breath caught.

But the door never opened.

And you never let him in.

-----

Caro let out a dramatic sigh, running her fingers over the delicate fabric of a blush-colored gown. “I don’t know how we find ourselves here every few days. Do you always need new dresses for every event?”

You, seated on the velvet ottoman, barely looked up from your phone. “Yes.”

Caro scoffed. “That wasn’t even a real answer.”

You smirked, finally glancing up. “Sure it was.”

Caro rolled her eyes, reaching for another gown, holding it up against herself. “Okay, but do you ever just—oh, I don’t know—rewear things like a normal person?”

You hummed. “I could. But where’s the fun in that?”

Caro groaned, tossing the dress back on the rack. “You’re insufferable.”

You tilted your head. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Caro huffed, folding her arms. “Because someone has to make sure you don’t pick something so expensive it comes with its own security detail.”

You let out a soft laugh, standing and running your fingers over a sleek, black number. The fabric was smooth beneath your touch, the kind of dress that clung in all the right places.

Caro studied her for a moment before speaking. “So…”

You arched a brow. “So?”

Caro hesitated, then sighed. “Are we going to talk about the fact that you’ve been acting even more suspicious than usual?”

You turned back to the dresses. “No.”

Caro groaned. “Eva.”

You sighed, finally meeting her gaze. “It’s fine, Caro.”

Caro narrowed her eyes. “That’s exactly what someone who is not fine would say.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a dress and shoving it into Caro’s arms. “Here. Make yourself useful and help me zip this.”

Caro took the dress but didn’t drop it. Instead, she studied you carefully. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then—

A practiced, easy smirk. “Obviously. But right now, I just need a dress.”

Caro didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t push. Instead, she just sighed, shaking her head as she followed you into the dressing room.

And as the door clicked shut behind them, you exhaled, just a little too quietly. 

Caro raised a brow as she leaned against the dressing room wall, arms crossed.

“I need a statement—you know how your dad is about galas. Specifically the ones he’s hosting.”

You, halfway through unzipping the dress you were trying on, let out a dry laugh. “Oh, I definitely know.”

Caro sighed. “He’s going to expect something from you. A speech, a perfectly rehearsed smile, the usual.”

You turned, meeting Caro’s gaze in the mirror. “And?”

Caro gave you a pointed look. “And you can’t just breeze through this one. You’ve been distracted, Eva.”

Your jaw tightened as you turned away, tugging the fabric over your shoulders. “I’ll handle it.”

Caro hesitated, then said, softer, “You don’t have to handle everything alone.”

You stilled for just a second before shaking your head, your voice clipped. “I said I’ll handle it.”

Caro sighed but didn’t push. “Fine. But at least try not to piss off your dad before the event even starts.”

You smirked, glancing over your shoulder. “No promises. How do we feel about this?"

Caro tilted her head, lips pursing as she gave you a slow once-over. “Well, if the goal is to piss off your dad and brother, then congratulations, you’ve outdone yourself.”

You smirked, turning slightly to examine the deep slit in the mirror. “You think it’s too much?”

Caro snorted. “Oh, absolutely. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

You hummed, running a hand down the silky emerald fabric. It clung in all the right places, the thigh-high slit leaving little to the imagination. It was bold. Defiant. Everything you weren't supposed to be.

Caro leaned in, lowering her voice. “You sure you wanna give your dad an aneurysm and have Mingyu go into cardiac arrest in one night?”

Your smirk widened, but something in your chest tightened. “Mingyu’s job is to watch my back, not my legs.”

Caro rolled her eyes. “Right. Because that man doesn’t have eyes.”

You turned away, dismissing it with a wave. “It’s just a dress.”

“Uh-huh.” Caro crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You’re playing with fire.”

Your met her gaze in the mirror, something unreadable flickering behind your eyes. “Good.”

Because fire was the only thing that ever burned her father.

And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to watch it all burn.

---

(A/N)