M U L T I 🦋

“I really do wonder when you both will stop being such bad examples to our students.” The green eyes of Professor Sera—headmistress of Kairos—stared right into your soul. Then they flickered to the man sitting beside you, in his annoyingly straight posture.

Nakakita Yuma.

What had you ever done to end up in the same environment as Nakakita Yuma?

Sure, he was a pretty guy; sharp, cold eyes and perfect pink lips—most definitely the type you’d read about and fantasize at night. But once an asshole, always an asshole. You couldn't believe that this was the guy by whom you were so taken on your first day.

“If I may, Headmistress,” His canines flashed in the candlelight as he put on that infamous flirtatious smirk, “why am I here? Princess here—” He shot you a pesky glance, “—is the one who decided to scare off all my students.”

“Not all of them!” You shot back, "At least now you know which one of your students aren't absolute nitwits.”

"At least they're not all soft like yours.” Yuma mumbled loudly enough for you to hear.

“And what’s wrong with being soft?” You were on the verge of throwing your chair on him, “What’s wrong with appreciating the softness of magic? Unlike you, I take pride in knowing I can conjure with my bare hands.” Tiny sparks were emerging from your fingertips. Yuma’s smirk only became more annoying.

“As expected from our spoilt, aristocratic princess.” 

“Oh you little motherfu-”

“Alright children, that's enough.” Professor Sera’s words, though silent, were grave enough to make you turn away from Yuma, cross your arms and stare defeatedly at the floor. Just because he embraced the new mathematical version of magic did not mean that he had the right to criticise your traditional methods. So what if you came from an ancient line of mages? You were certainly not the flamboyant peacock he made you out to be.

“Professor Astagne,” The wizened old lady sighed, “could you please apologise to Professor Nakakita and swear not to pull such shenanigans again?” And before Yuma could shoot a cocky retort at you— “And Professor Nakakita, could you swear not to fuel the anger of your fellow professor?” 

At such times, the responsible adult thing to do would be to give your ego up, apologise with all your chest and make childish promises. But who was to say that the both of you were responsible adults? Grudgingly, a few mumbled apologies were uttered and you were soon ushered out of the office, with Professor Sera saying that she had ‘less childish matters’ to attend to. 

You were sure she did. After all, managing a school like Kairos—the famed Academy of The Arcane—was no cake walk. Established a thousand years before your birth, Kairos, in addition to being an institution of knowledge and wisdom, was a place where mad scientists were considered normal. A place for invention, chaos and new birth. 

And the man fixing his coat next to you was one such inventor, the youngest mage to have mixed traditional magic with scientific methods. Nakakita Yuma, however annoying he was, was famed throughout the kingdom for his intellectual prowess. Therefore, it was no mystery that you and him would have detested each other’s guts. 

You were from the famed mage family of Astagne, a family no king nor his kin would have ever dared to go up against. The Astagne Dukedom was rumoured to have been started by one of the oldest witches of the land—the first of her kind: transformation mages.

You took pride in your mana; transformation was no joke for the human body—having taken the lives of many great minds when they ventured too deep into its secrets. Thankfully, medicinal plants had been bred by the time your great grandparents were born and now, you could change your quill into a parrot in front of your students with a wave of the hand. All you had to do was pop a leaf into your mouth once a month.

“Come on princess, get that frown off your face.” Yuma leaned down to match your eye-level (those gorgeous eyes, you were close to breaking), “Proper duchesses don't frown.”

“It’s good that I’m not a duchess then.” You spat back, “I have the sudden urge to wipe that smirk off your face,” You stepped closer to him and glared, “permanently.” 

“Cute.” Yuma chuckled, “Word of advice, don’t mess with my class materials again.”

“I’ll do that when you stop spewing nonsense about my family.” You hissed, “Telling your students that traditional magic doesn't work as well anymore—what utter rubbish!” You poked his chest with your finger, “Mark my words, Professor. One day, when your technology destroys this galaxy, I'll be there to tell you I told you so.” With that, you threw your cape behind you and rushed down the hallway, the sound of your shoes tapping against the hard marble echoing against the walls. 

Yuma stared at the floor for a moment, and then looked in your direction. Even in the dark, you burned like the sun—blinding him and anybody in your path. He sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets, kicking a small pebble. Then he made his merry way out and down the hall to the gardens. Sitting down on his favourite bench, he leaned back and stared at the dusty moon. Eventually, consumed by the smell of flowers and the cold wind, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be consumed by his thoughts.

The Astagne family matriarch was a puissant mage; your grandmother was a stubborn woman, preferring to fight death rather than embrace it. A brilliant transformations professor herself in the past, she was one of the reasons that Yuma found your posting suspicious. Nepotism, he concluded, when you were hired without giving the professor’s test like everybody else. 

Pure luck, he said, when you turned out to be the biggest hit amongst the students, with more and more third year students flocking to your classes. In the end, he had to accept the fact that you were a good teacher—teaching the students not only how to use their mana, but also the ethics, the kindness, and the deliberations behind every magical decision. When he first saw you teach, he was bewildered. And not in a good way.

What sort of professor could ever teach their students to reject new forms of magic? New inventions? New ideas? Magic erupted from your hands as if it was the way you breathed, your mana floating around the room like snowdrops; how beautiful old magic was—Yuma had forgotten about it in his conquests for unfamiliar, avant-garde forms of scientific magic. 

His final straw however was when you had proclaimed at lunch with the other professors, that you wholeheartedly disliked technology, saying that the olden ways were far better and magnificent. Technology took away the ‘soul’ of it all, as you said. It was a pity that you had to find out in that way, Yuma thought, that you had to be introduced to the other transformations professor in a heated debate, in which a poor macaron got destroyed. 

“Daydreaming all by yourself, asshole?” 

And then there were two.

Yuma slowly opened his eyes and smiled, before he turned his eyes to the side, “That was some great acting back there.” He sat up straight and fixed the collar of his coat, “Why ever did the theatre not accept you?”

“They said they don’t accept the granddaughters of batty old bitches.” You chuckled. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled a thin cigarette and with a snap of your fingers, lit it up. A subtle warmth spread through your chest, a quiet intoxication, evoking a mix of pleasure and melancholy. 

The professor thought for a moment, and then opened his mouth, only to close it again. He settled for a soft hum, “Not going to offer me one?” Yuma turned his gaze back to the starry sky, “I know we’re rivals but that’s just rude, princess.” 

“Fuck off.” You smiled, handing him the cigarette, “I had them custom made—less tobacco. I don't want to wake up tomorrow feeling like shit.” You made a vomiting motion, making Yuma smile softly, “I am sorry about the pigeons by the way.” 

Yuma waved his hand in a dismissive manner, “Technically did help to figure out the dimwits. That idiotic son of that viscount should be tested for the absence of a brain.” He scoffed, “I swear these children of royalty get easy access to all this beautiful knowledge while all the blooming talent in those villages and dumps go unnoticed.” He glanced over and smiled meekly, “Sorry for bringing all that up.”

“It’s alright.” You hummed, “To each their own passion, professor.”

Silence settled between the two of you, but it was not the hostile kind, the ones that usually filled the space between you two in the biting quiet of lecture halls or meeting rooms. This one was softer, stretched thin between the curl of smoke and the rustle of leaves. You watched the ember at the tip of the cigarette glow and fade, like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite steady.

Though he seemed as cold as an icicle on the outside, you knew the other transformations professor was…..how would you put it? Soft? Kind? 

Good?

For how could you ever comprehend any good being left in the world? Not after what happened to your own kin. ‘She could have been saved’, your sister had died from a carriage accident, all because your parents refused life-saving modern medicine. 

The Astagne family was famed all over the realm for their strict use of traditional magic. Any mention of technology within the family meant being cast out. That marked the moment you were set on inheriting the dukedom from your grandmother. Which meant your publicity would weigh heavy on your chances to get the crown. And when a handsome, unconventional professor debated with you on the uses of magic and accidentally crushed a macaron in the process, you knew you had the perfect chance.

A perfect rival, a perfect enemy, a perfect lie. Because hatred was easier to perform than doubt and far easier than grief.

“And what of our appointment, Professor Nakakita?” You took a puff.  “Tomorrow?” 

As the ember ignited, a faint glow pulsed at its tip, sending tendrils of fragrant smoke curling into the air. You handed it to Yuma, who hummed, and took a long swig of the cigarette. Each exhale released a haze that lingered, momentarily shrouding the space in a transient veil of gray, as though time itself had slowed, as it always did when you were with your fellow professor.

“Does 5:30 work for you?” He asked, blowing smoke, “I know you have some academic matters you need desperate help with.” The smoke unfurled like silk in the dim light, swirling sensuously, dancing upward in languid spirals, carrying whispers of tobacco, earth and faint sweetness.

“Of course, my dearest professor.” You said soothingly, cigarette smoke dancing on your lips. 

You reached a hand out and brushed a strand of hair from his face. Bathed in moonlight, Yuma looked ethereal, as if touched by a quiet magic. His eyes caught the lunar shimmer, reflecting a calm otherworldly gleam. The moonlight wove through his hair, setting individual strands aglow, appearing as liquid silver around his face. 

“Are you sure you don't have any other commitments tomorrow?” You stood up with a groan, “I do not want a repeat of last time.”

“I checked my calendar this time, love.” He put on that cocky smirk, “I’m not entirely an idiot you know.”

You chuckled and leaned down, placing your hands on his shoulders, “Only an idiot would help me.” 

Your lips met gently at first. Then, your mouths parted slightly, a thin wisp of smoke—dense, fragrant, and warm—slipped between them. The smoke, smooth and slightly bitter, swirled in the shared space, blurring the edges of sensation, adding a hazy layer to the night. It filled your mouth with a warm, ephemeral presence, neither fully tangible nor fully imagined.

“Tomorrow then, professor.” You pulled away and adjusted your coat, “I’ll make sure to send along a reminder.” You turned on your heel and trotted away, feeling awfully sleepy after your midnight-smoke.

“As if anyone could ever forget you.” Yuma mumbled incoherently. Only an idiot would ever help you. He took a final puff of the dying cigarette and exhaled it out, watching the smoke dance upwards. With a final look to the moon, Yuma got to his feet and followed in your steps.

Well wasn't he the biggest idiot of them all?

_____________

A popular observation amongst the students of Kairos was the fact that Professor Nakakita was nothing like you. Though you two taught the same subject, you were as different as sky and sea. And it was particularly evident in the style of your offices.

His office was a study in shadow and precision, a stark contrast to the sun-drenched, herb-scented chaos of your own workspace. Where yours overflowed with potted plants, sun-bleached scrolls and the clutter of student projects, his was a sanctuary of dark polished wood and cool, muted light. 

No sunlight dared to intrude here, instead, a series of softly humming orbs of stabilized lightning—his own invention—hovered near the ceiling. His desk was a fortress of order. Neat stacks of parchment, a silver compass, several pens that wrote in different colored inks without inkwells, and a small, intricate model of a celestial gear-system sat. And then there were the gadgets—they were everywhere.

Strange contraptions ticked and whirred on every available surface—rings spinning within rings, glass spheres filled with shifting constellations, delicate instruments that pulsed with violet light. Wires snaked between them like veins, connecting one invention to another in a way that made your eye twitch just looking at it. It was hideous. It was fascinating. And currently, you were elbow-deep in one of them.

“This,” you said, squinting at the small cube in your hands, “is either going to explode or summon something unpleasant.”

Behind you, Yuma didn’t even look up from the papers spread across his desk. “If it does, do try not to die on my floor. The paperwork would be unbearable.”

You clicked your tongue, turning the cube over. It whirred in response, a soft pink glow flickering along its edges. “So you admit it might explode.”

“I admit,” he said calmly, scribbling something down, “that you have a remarkable talent for turning harmless objects into hazards.”

“Oh please.” You pressed down on one of its panels. It shifted under your touch, rearranging itself with a click. “Unlike you, I don’t need a hundred moving parts to make magic happen.”

“And unlike you,” he replied, finally glancing up, “I prefer my magic to be stable and not dependent on monthly leaf consumption.”

The cube in your hands suddenly unfolded, pieces sliding apart with mechanical grace until it resembled a delicate, spinning lattice, soft light pulsing through it. Your eyes widened despite yourself. “…Alright,” you muttered, “that was mildly impressive.”

“Mildly?” Yuma leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as that infuriating smirk crept back onto his face. “That, princess, is a self-regulating mana stabiliser. It took me three months to perfect.”

“And yet,” you tilted your head, “I could achieve the same effect with a flick of my wrist.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “and exhaust yourself in the process. Very efficient.”

“And mine is prettier too.” You grinned, now idly fiddling with another gadget—a multi-layered orb that shifted between states of solid, liquid and gas when you tapped it with a specific rhythm. It was currently a swirling, misty vortex in your palm.

“You’re going to destabilize its calibration,” Yuma said, not looking up from the assignments he’d gone back to grading. 

“It’s fine. It likes me.” You tapped it again, and it solidified into a perfect sphere. “See? It’s more obedient than your students.” 

“Probably registering your annoyance as an output." He finally glanced up, his eyes narrowing. “Put it down.”

“You’re no fun.” You placed the orb back but didn’t move from the cabinet. Instead, you watched him grade. His pen moved with swift, sure strokes, occasionally pausing to scribble a note in the margin. “Who’s that? The viscount’s son with the missing brain?”

“No, thankfully. This one is actually promising.” A faint smile brushed across his face, “She’s proposing a mana-conservation theorem for transformation spells.” He held up the parchment. “See? This is the kind of thinking that bridges our fields.”

“Bridges?” You stepped closer, leaning over to look. “That’s your side of the river trying to build a dam on mine.”

“And yet we achieve irrigation.” He set the paper down. “You’d know that if you ever attended my lectures.”

“And bore myself to death?” You scoffed, “No thank you, I’m quite alright.”

“You’re particularly chipper today.” Yuma sighed, a sound that was both exasperated and fond, “Put that down.” He said, as you plucked a clockwork beetle from his shelf, “I’m serious, don’t toy with that one.”

“Or what?” You said, voice just a fraction of a tone lower. Seductive, of course. He’d promised a 5:30 session and had kept you there for half an hour not doing anything. How was a poor woman supposed to survive?

You turned on your heel and walked toward his desk, the faint hum of his inventions trailing behind you like a chorus. Without a word, you propped yourself up on the edge of the polished dark wood, settling right in front of where he sat, far too comfortable for someone who had been warned not to touch anything in the room. Your hands rested beside you, fingers brushing against neatly stacked assignments, and then you shifted.

You made a small show of adjusting your skirt—a daring piece of fabric that was shorter than your usual attire, in a deep red that contrasted sharply with the somber tones of his office. You let your knees fall slightly apart, the movement casual as a Sunday morning.

Yuma leaned back in his chair, eyes slowly making their way up, taking in the line of your legs and the way the fabric draped. He simply watched, expression unreadable, a slight tilt to his head.

“Is this….” He began slowly, voice quieter now, measured in that infuriating way of his, “your idea of appropriate academic attire?” You smiled sweetly. 

“My, Professor,” you hummed, leaning back on your palms just a little, “I wasn’t aware you paid such close attention to what I wear.”

“It’s hard not to.” Yuma replied smoothly, his own legs spreading just a bit, “Not when our princess wears such scandalous things.” He gasped a faux gasp, “Whatever will the students learn from you, darling?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said lightly, voice dipped in honeyed mockery, “perhaps they’ll learn confidence. Something your lot seems to lack.” His eyes flickered, “Or maybe,” you continued, letting your foot swing idly where you sat on his desk, “they’ll simply learn how to hold someone’s attention.”

How could he even begin to explain that the sun always held everybody's attention?

Yuma’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the sound cutting clean through the low hum of the room. For a moment, he didn’t move—just looked at you from where he stood, something unreadable settling into his expression. You didn’t shift, didn’t so much as breathe differently as he closed the distance, a challenge for him. His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the wood, caging you in without a single inch of hesitation.

“You talk too much, darling.” His gaze never wavered from yours. 

“And you don’t talk enough,” you shot back just as quietly. The air stilled and it was barely another second more before his lips were on yours. 

Your lips met his in a fierce clash, the kiss deepening instantly as his mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. You tasted the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, mingled with the sharp edge of his cologne, and you leaned into it, matching his intensity. Time stretched, the world narrowing to the heat building between you, his hands sliding up your sides to grip your waist, pulling you flush to him.

“I think we ought to shut that pretty mouth up, hmm?” Yuma broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. But he didn't give you a chance to retort; his mouth captured yours again, rougher this time, teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that sent sparks racing down your spine. 

His arms hooked under your thighs, strong fingers digging into the soft flesh as he hauled you closer, lifting you until your legs wrapped around his waist. The sudden shift pressed your core against the hard line of his erection through his trousers, and he ground against you, building a slow ache that made your breath hitch.

You clung to his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt, refusing to yield even as the pressure of his hips rolling into yours drew a soft, involuntary sound from your throat.  Yuma kissed you harder, his body pinning you in place as he rocked forward, the clothed barrier between you heightening every thrust of his arousal against your sensitive folds. The desk creaked under the force, papers shifting forgotten beneath you, but neither of you cared—the room's mechanical hum faded into the background, drowned out by the ragged cadence of your shared breaths.

Finally, Yuma pulled back, his eyes dark and stormy as they locked onto yours. He stepped away to sink into his chair, the leather sighing under his weight as he leaned back, legs spreading wide in invitation.

“Come here, darling.” One hand patted his thigh firmly, the gesture commanding, “Why don't you sit your pretty little self down?” His tone left no room for argument, laced with that mean edge you both loved and loathed.

“Bossy as ever I see.” You slid off the desk, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the flush heating your cheeks, “Pray tell professor, is that why your students listen so well?”

You moved towards him, straddling his lap in one fluid motion. Your thighs bracketed his, your skirt riding up as you settled against him, the heat of his body seeping through. You rocked your hips, grinding down onto the rigid bulge straining his pants, the motion slow and taunting, drawing a sharp inhale from him.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm with a firm squeeze, but you resisted just enough to make him work for it, circling your pelvis in lazy figure-eights that pressed your clothed pussy against his erection. Each slide sent jolts of tension coiling in your core, your breaths mingling as you leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Do you like that Professor? Or should I stop?”

“Stop?” Yuma's response was a dark chuckle, his fingers tightening to halt your movements for a beat, making you whine in protest, “We both know you’d rather die than stop now. Go on love, show me how badly you want this.”

You obliged, picking up the pace, the seam of your underwear dragging just right against you as his hardness throbbed beneath. Emboldened, you reached down, fingers fumbling with his belt, tugging it open and shoving his pants down his hips to free more of him—but before your hand could wrap around the base of his cock, a sharp knock echoed through the office door.

The sound shattered the haze, and you froze, eyes widening as reality crashed back in. Yuma's grip on you tightened for a split second, his jaw clenching, but he released you with a muttered curse.

“Under the desk. Now.” You scrambled off his lap, skirt askew and pulse racing, ducking beneath the heavy wooden desk just as the knock came again. The space was cramped, your back pressed against the cool paneling as you huddled there, while voices began to filter in from the door.

“Professor Nakakita?” The door creaked open, and a hesitant voice broke the tension. “Sorry to bother you, but I had a question about arcane circuits.”

If there was one thing you were known for throughout the entire academy, it was for loving your students like they were your own kids. The gentlest professor to ever exist, as the students had dubbed you—a fairy godmother in her own right. But goddamn did you want to punch a wall when a student interrupted your weekly dick session. They really ought to have more respect for your poor, dying pussy. 

You knelt there in the dim space under the desk, knees pressing into the worn rug, your heart hammering as you peered up at him through your lashes. Yuma's exposed cock stood rigid just inches from your face, still half-freed from his pants, the sight of it making your mouth water despite the risk. You met his gaze with wide, innocent doe eyes, a silent plea mixed with mischief, your lips parting slightly as if begging for permission—or defiance.

Yuma cleared his throat, shifting in his chair to angle his body toward the door. “Of course, come in. What's the issue?” He leaned forward, one hand dropping casually to the desk's edge, but you saw the subtle flex of his jaw, the way his free hand hovered near his thigh, resisting the urge to push you away. The student stepped closer, oblivious, launching into a detailed query, words tumbling out in nervous bursts.

Oh well, dick was dick. And your pussy was screaming, crying and tearing out her soul. And he was right in front of you. 

Emboldened by the shadows and the thrill, you leaned forward, your breath ghosting over the heated length. Slowly, so slowly, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock, tongue swirling gently as you took him in inch by inch. The salty taste of him flooded your mouth, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking softly at first, your eyes never leaving his face. Yuma's explanation faltered for a split second—a brief pause that he covered with a cough—before he continued.

“Yes, the primary coil needs to be aligned precisely……no, not like that.” His fingers twitched against the wood, knuckles whitening as you bobbed your head, taking more of him, your lips stretching around his girth while your hand braced against his thigh for balance.

You worked him with teasing slowness, tongue tracing the underside of his cock, sucking in rhythmic pulls that made his hips jerk involuntarily. The student's voice droned on, asking for clarification on a diagram, and Yuma answered through gritted teeth, his words measured but his breathing uneven. “Refer to page 47, it'll make sense.” Though the only thing making sense right now was the feel of your tongue on him.

Sweat beaded at his temple; he was trying so hard to stay composed, the mean glint in his eyes promising retribution as they flicked down to you. You hummed around him, the vibration drawing a barely suppressed groan that he masked as a thoughtful hum, a side of you reveling in how you unraveled his control.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of your mouth gliding up and down his length, slick with saliva, the student murmured thanks and backed toward the door. “Appreciate it, Professor.” The latch clicked shut, and the room fell silent save for the faint whir of his inventions. Yuma's hand shot down immediately, fingers tangling roughly in your hair, yanking your head back until his cock slipped free with a wet pop. 

“You little minx.” He said, voice low and venomous, as he gripped tighter, forcing your sly gaze up to his furious one.

Without another word, he thrust forward, shoving his cock back into your mouth and fucking your face with brutal snaps of his hips. You gagged at the sudden depth, tears pricking your eyes, but you took it, hands clutching his thighs as he used you relentlessly. 

“Love playing games, don’t we princess?” Yuma snarled, pulling your hair to control the pace, his shaft slamming against the back of your throat over and over. Saliva dripped down your chin, your lips swollen and stretched, his words sending heat pooling between your legs. When he finally slowed, chest heaving, he hauled you up by your arms, pulling you onto his lap. 

“Let's play one then.” Yuma seemed to sneer at you, “Let's see how quiet our princess can be, shall we?” 

Yuma's grip on your hips tightened like iron vices, his fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked you fully down, the chair creaking under the shift in weight. Your skirt bunched up around your waist, the fabric a crumpled mess, and he ripped your panties to the side, the thin material tearing audibly. His cock, pulsed hot against your entrance, slick from your mouth and his own arousal.

You sank down onto him slowly at first, gasping at the stretch as he filled your pussy completely, but he didn't let you set the pace—his hands slammed you down harder, forcing you to bounce on his length, each thrust upward meeting your descent with a punishing force. Mean, mean Yuma, but hey it wasn't like you were complaining. 

“Faster.” He demanded, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, the other spanking your ass sharply. You rode him like that, whimpers escaping as his cock hit deep inside you, claiming every inch of your submission.

Your body jolted with each descent, his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Wet slaps echoed through the office as your pussy swallowed him over and over, juices coating his shaft and dripping down to his balls. You tried to match his rhythm, rolling your hips in a defiant grind, but he spanked your ass hard, the sting blooming across your skin. 

“I said, faster, sweetheart.” Yuma demanded, “Ride me properly or I’ll stop.”

Tears of pleasure pricked at your eyes as you bounced on him, thighs trembling from the effort, breasts heaving with each ragged breath. His cock throbbed inside you, stretching you wide, the friction building a fire in your belly. Yuma's hips bucked up to meet every drop, his mean thrusts driving deeper.

“Fuck—nghhh so fucking tight.” He moaned, his breath hot against your neck as he bit down, his canines grazing your skin like wind grazed tall grass, “Milking my cock like you’re made for this, yeah?”

You rode him harder, chasing the edge, your moans turning into pleas as the pressure coiled low in your gut. His hands guided you, one spanking your ass in sharp rhythm while the other held you down, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with every plunge. 

"Fuck, yes…." he groaned, pulling you down for a messy kiss. "So damn desperate aren’t we?” 

His words pushed you closer as you ground down, clit rubbing against his pelvis, until the coil snapped. You came hard, walls fluttering around him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Yuma followed with a guttural moan, thrusting deep one last time, flooding your pussy with hot cum, spilling out around his base as he held you tight. 

You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his shoulder as the last aftershocks trembled through you. The air in the office, once crisp with the scent of old paper, was now thick and humid, laced with sex and salt.

Gathering the last of your strength, you pushed yourself up, your thighs trembling as you lifted off him. A soft, wet sound punctuated the motion, followed by a hot, messy trickle down your inner thigh. You reached for your discarded underwear and skirt; the fabric felt strange against your oversensitive skin as you stepped back into it and zipped it up. You smoothed your hands over your hair and used the edge of your sleeve to wipe hastily at the smudged corner of your mouth.

Yuma watched you from his chair, which was pushed back from the desk. His own clothes were in disarray—trousers undone, shirt rumpled and sticking to his chest. He made no move to fix himself yet, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and tracking your every move with a possessive, sated focus. As you bent to retrieve your fallen shoe, he finally spoke, his voice a rough, warm scrape in the quiet room.

“So,” he said, the ghost of a smirk touching his swollen lips. “When’s our next consultation?”

You turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of his now very compromised desk. You crossed your arms, a picture of nonchalance that was betrayed by the flush still high on your cheeks and the knowing glint in your eye.

“Well,” you said, your tone light and cheeky, “I was thinking perhaps after I finish evaluating the mid-term practicals.” You tilted your head. “Say…Thursday? Five-thirty?”

Yuma’s smirk deepened as he slowly began to do up his trousers, his eyes never leaving yours. “Five-thirty,” he repeated. “I’ll clear my schedule. And perhaps,” he added, standing and stepping into your space again, his finger hooking under your chin, “we can finally test the structural integrity of this desk. Properly.”

You laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and swatted his hand away. “Insatiable.”

“Only for you, princess,” he murmured, the words a low promise against your temple before you slipped out of his reach and walked out, leaving him alone in his somber office

________________

Your classroom was awash in golden. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows in molten sheets, warming the rows of desks and setting the suspended charms above your students’ heads aglow. Vines curled lazily around the ceiling beams, occasionally blooming tiny white flowers. The air smelled of lavender, old books and mana smoke.

“Transformation,” you said, pacing slowly before the class, “is not simply the changing of matter. Anybody with enough mana and half a brain can alter form.” You waved your hand lightly and the silver goblet on your desk melted fluidly into the shape of a dove, “The difficult part is understanding the nature of a thing.” The dove fluttered upward, crystalline wings catching the light.

“A poor transformations mage forces change. A good one persuades it.” Several students scribbled frantically. You smiled proudly and continued, “For example, if I wished to transform—”

The classroom door creaked open and you ignored it. There were very few people in Kairos irritating enough to interrupt your lectures without permission. And only one arrogant enough to do it smiling.

Leaning against the doorway as though he owned the place stood Yuma, dressed immaculately as always, black gloves tucked beneath one arm. His other hand held a sealed letter. The sunlight from your room didn't seem to touch him; he was a silhouette of dark wool and cool indifference. And, unfortunately for your peace of mind, he looked unbearably smug.

Yuma crossed one ankle over the other and inclined his head ever so slightly. “Don’t let me interrupt, princess.” 

“You already are.” You turned back toward the board with a tight smile, “Now, as I was saying—”

“Interesting metaphor, by the way.”

“Excuse me?” You said.

“The whole persuading magic thing.” He gestured vaguely with the envelope. “Very poetic. Very you.” A few students snorted. Little shits. You inhaled deeply through your nose.

“As I was saying,” you continued sharply, “transformation relies heavily upon emotional resonance—”

“Though perhaps,” Yuma interrupted again, “you should explain to them what happened last time you relied on emotional resonance.” A louder laugh this time in response to which you narrowed your eyes dangerously.

“That,” you said sweetly, “was a controlled academic incident.” You scoffed, “And everybody learned valuable lessons.” 

Yuma hummed thoughtfully. “Such as?”

“That they should mind their business.”

The class dissolved into laughter. You were going to kill him. Turning away from the door once more, you clapped your hands together and summoned a swirl of pale blue mana between your palms. “Now then. Emotional imprinting within transformation magic is tied directly to—”

“Professor Astagne.” 

“What.”

Yuma unfolded the letter very very slowly like a man moments away from becoming the cause of a murder. “I have something important.”

“Then perhaps,” you snapped, “you should wait until I am done teaching.”

“Oh, but this concerns you.”

You turned slowly, arms folding across your chest. “If this is another one of your pathetic attempts at public humiliation—”

“The Headmistress requested your presence later this evening. And,” Yuma said, clearly enjoying himself far too much, “she specifically requested that you wear formal attire.” A collective chorus of “ooohs” erupted through the classroom. The students practically vibrated with curiosity now.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Thank you, Professor Nakakita,” you said through clenched teeth, “for your wonderfully timed interruption.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You can leave now.”

“I could.” Instead, he looked around your classroom leisurely, gaze flickering over the vines, the sunlight, the floating charms. “You know,” he mused, “your students look significantly less terrified than mine.”

“That’s because they actually like me.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “A miracle.”

Something inside you snapped at that moment. Of course you didn’t actually hate him all too much, but nobody, nobody, interrupted your classes. 

Your mana slammed into the room in a sudden pulse of heat. Gasps erupted throughout the classroom as crimson butterflies burst violently from seemingly nowhere, swirling upward in furious spirals. Their wings glowed like embers, red light flooding the room as they gathered around you in a storm of irritation. Every student immediately went silent and Yuma’s smirk only deepened.

You stormed toward the doorway, your heels striking sharply against the stone floor, butterflies scattering in your wake like sparks from a fire. Stopping directly in front of him, you jabbed a finger against his chest.

“You,” you hissed quietly, dangerously, “are an unbearable, insufferable menace.”

Yuma glanced down briefly at your finger against him before meeting your eyes again. “Yes,” he said calmly, “and you’re making butterflies again.” Behind you, several students audibly swooned and you were an inch away from strangling his pretty neck.

Without a word, he handed you the folded parchment. Your fingers closed around it, the paper crisp and official against your skin. The red butterflies began to dissipate, fading from solid form into shimmering motes of light, then into nothing. The classroom was utterly silent. You looked at neither him nor your students as you turned and walked back to your desk.

Yuma remained in the doorway for a moment longer, his arms still crossed, but his posture had lost its lazy arrogance. He watched you—the set of your shoulders, your pretty little fingers on the letter—and then, without another interruption, he turned and left.

____________

There were moments in your life that replayed with such terrible clarity that no amount of time could dull them. Your sister’s death was one of them.

The rain that night had poured from the heavens with violence, turning the cobblestone roads slick with mud and water, the wheels of the carriage struggling against the storm as servants shouted over the thunder. You remembered the horses screaming, the sharp crack of wood splintering and the sound of metal collapsing inward. And then you remembered silence.

For one impossible second, the entire world had gone silent. Until your sister cried out.

You had been too young to understand why grown adults panicked the way they did. Too young to understand why your mother kept insisting traditional healing methods would work. Too young to understand why your father looked more horrified at the suggestion of modern medicine than at the blood soaking through your sister’s dress.

You remembered kneeling beside her, her trembling hand gripping yours weakly, the healer saying she could still be saved. There was technology now, he had said—scientific procedures, mana-assisted reconstruction, new methods from the capital. Your sister could live.

Your parents had refused immediately. The Astagne family did not rely on artificial intervention. The Astagne family did not taint themselves with technological procedures. The Astagne family trusted old magic. Old magic that failed.

You remembered screaming at them, begging. You remembered your mother crying into her gloves while your father stood rigid as stone, insisting the family would not abandon its principles. 

Principles. Such a lovely word for cruelty. Your sister had died before sunrise and something inside you had died with her.

Grief was a fascinating thing. At first, it arrived softly. It hollowed you out from the inside, leaving behind an ache so vast you thought it might swallow you whole. For months, you wandered through the Astagne estate like a ghost, listening to relatives murmur the same cursed phrase over and over again.

“She could have been saved.” You heard it at the funeral, in hallways, behind closed doors, sometimes in your dreams. She could have been saved. 

Eventually, grief became anger. Then anger became purpose. You learned very quickly that the Astagne family would never listen to tears. Tradition had rooted itself too deeply into their bones. Your grandmother ruled the dukedom with ancient blood and older ideals, and if you wished to change anything—to drag your family into the future kicking and screaming—you would need power. Influence.

A fucking crown.

And for that, you needed the public to adore you. So you crafted a version of yourself carefully—the traditional prodigy, the noble transformation mage, the beautiful granddaughter carrying on the sacred legacy of House Astagne.

And then came Nakakita Yuma. Brilliant, unconventional, infuriating, perfect Nakakita Yuma

A man publicly associated with scientific magic and modern innovation. A man your family would hate on instinct alone. The ideal enemy for the public to observe while you carefully positioned yourself as the beloved traditionalist.

Now you stood before the towering doors of Professor Sera’s office with that same dreadful feeling twisting in your stomach. Late evening sunlight bled crimson through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colours across the marble floor. Somewhere below, students laughed faintly in the courtyards, blissfully unaware of how fragile the world truly was.

The butterflies from earlier had long vanished, but irritation still simmered beneath your skin—though whether it was directed at Yuma, your family, or yourself, you no longer knew. Perhaps all three.

Before you could second-guess yourself further, you pushed the doors open. Professor Sera sat behind her desk, eyes unreadable over steepled fingers. Two men occupied the chairs opposite her desk, their presence commanding enough to make the entire room feel smaller.

King Yudai sat lounging slightly back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other with effortless confidence. Gold gleamed against the dark fabric draped over his shoulders, rings catching the low candlelight whenever he moved his hands. His smile came easily—sharp and charming in the way all rulers seemed to be.

Beside him sat his husband, King Fuma. Calm, elegant and composed, with eyes that were far too perceptive for your liking. Silver embroidery threaded across his formal robes like flowing water, his posture straight yet relaxed beside his husband’s more casual demeanour.

Together, they looked every bit the monarchs the kingdom adored. And unfortunately for your peace of mind—they were both looking directly at you. 

“Your Majesties.” You bowed elegantly, “Headmistress.”

Professor Sera gestured toward the empty space before her desk. “Come in, dear.” You obeyed, pulse steady despite the growing unease in your stomach.

Fuma studied you quietly for a moment before speaking. “We’ve heard quite a bit about you, Professor Astagne.”

“That depends entirely on who you heard it from,” you replied smoothly. 

Yudai laughed. “Oh, I like her already.”

“Dangerous statement, Your Majesty. You should reconsider it.” Professor Sera sighed tiredly.

“Most things worth liking are dangerous,” Yudai replied casually. Now you understood why the kingdom adored him.

“Though,” Fuma continued, glancing briefly around the room, “I was under the impression Professor Nakakita would be joining us as well.”

Your brows furrowed faintly. “Professor Nakakita?”

“Yes,” Professor Sera answered. “Did he not mention it?”

“No.” You said, as if scandalised by the very idea of him mentioning something to you (“I said faster, sweetheart), “No he didn-”

“That’s because she stormed out before I could.”

The familiar voice arrived alongside the sudden opening of the office doors. Yuma stood there slightly breathless, hair faintly dishevelled, one hand gripping the doorway as though he had run all the way here. His coat sat crooked on one shoulder.

Yudai snorted softly. “Rough evening?”

“You have no idea,” Yuma muttered, straightening himself quickly before stepping inside properly. His eyes flickered toward you briefly—just briefly—but long enough for you to catch the annoyance buried beneath his expression, or perhaps concern. You chose annoyance—far easier that way.

“Professor Nakakita,” Fuma inclined his head politely.

“Your Majesties.” Yuma bowed. His gaze shifted toward the final empty chair, unfortunately right beside you. 

Professor Sera smiled far too knowingly. “Sit down, both of you.”

You resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. Yuma crossed the room and sat beside you without complaint, though you made certain to shift your chair the smallest possible inch away from his the moment he settled down.

Yudai’s mouth twitched close to a grin. Yuma leaned back in his seat with practiced calm, fixing the cuff of his sleeve as though he hadn’t arrived looking like he’d sprinted through the entirety of Kairos. You crossed your legs and looked in the opposite direction. The performance resumed effortlessly.

“You’re late,” you remarked coldly.

“And yet,” Yuma replied smoothly beside you, “still better company than most.” 

You scoffed loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. Professor Sera closed her eyes briefly, perhaps reconsidering every life decision that had led her here.

“You two,” she said, voice carrying the exhausted weight of a woman abandoned by the gods long ago, “will behave yourselves for the duration of this meeting.” Neither of you responded, which was response enough. “I mean it.” She pointed between the two of you with surprising severity for somebody her age. “No arguing. No setting things on fire, transforming royal property, sabotaging experiments or psychologically tormenting one another for the next hour.”

You blinked innocently. “I would never.”

Beside you, Yuma gave a solemn nod. “The accusation alone wounds me.”

Professor Sera stared at the both of you in silence. Then she turned toward the kings with the look of somebody moments away from early retirement. “You see my predicament.”

You straightened in your chair, deciding it was perhaps time to regain at least a fraction of dignity. “What exactly is this regarding, Your Majesties?”

Fuma’s sunlit grin softened into something more professional as he leaned forward in his seat. “As you know,” he began, “Kairos has long been considered one of the greatest magical institutions in the realm.”

“Flattery before responsibility, eh Your Majesty?” Yuma beside you gave a small hum. 

“You wound me, Professor.” Fuma placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’m being sincere.” Fuma continued smoothly before either of you could resume bickering. “Every few years, the kingdom hosts an academic programme for exceptional upper-year students. The selected students are invited to the capital,” he explained, “where they’ll spend a week exposing themselves to career paths beyond Kairos.” Fuma continued, “There’ll also be practical evaluations, mana demonstrations, collaborative projects between disciplines—”

“And,” Yuma interrupted dryly, “considering this kingdom’s love of spectacle, some sort of social event.”

Yudai pointed at him. “See? This is why I like him.”

“The royal palace,” Fuma said, ignoring the interruption entirely, “will be hosting a formal ball at the conclusion of the programme. A celebration of Kairos, its students and its contributions to the kingdom.”

Several thoughts struck you simultaneously. A royal ball with hundreds of nobles, public visibility and political opportunity. Your grandmother would foam at the mouth from excitement.

Professor Sera watched both you and Yuma with deeply suspicious eyes, “The palace specifically requested two head professors to accompany the students throughout the duration of the visit.”

A horrible, dreadful silence followed. As if Professor Sera had just told you that the world was to end tomorrow and you were to be hung, drawn and quartered. Which, in your defense, you were about to be! Slowly you turned toward Yuma. Unfortunately, he was already looking at you, equally horrified.

“No.” The both of you said simultaneously.

Yudai smiled brightly. “Yes.”

You sat up straighter immediately. “Headmistress, with all due respect, there are far more qualified professors—”

“There are not.” Professor Sera cut in swiftly.

Yuma frowned beside you. “Surely Professor Yixiang would—”

“Professor Yixiang set a laboratory curtain on fire last week. And Professor Euijoo,” Sera continued, “cannot survive three consecutive days without insulting monarchy as a concept. That leaves,” Professor Sera said pointedly, “our two most successful transformations professors.”

“You cannot seriously expect us to supervise students together for several weeks.” You said, with a worried laugh.

“I can,” Fuma said calmly. “And I do.”

Beside you, Yuma rubbed slowly at his temple. “Your Majesties, with all due respect, our teaching methods are fundamentally incompatible.”

“Your students,” Fuma replied, eyes flickering between the two of you, “achieve the highest collaborative scores in the academy.” That shut both of you up. Because annoyingly—he was correct. Your students worked absurdly well together.

Yudai leaned back with a victorious grin. “Besides, the students already adore this whole rivals thing you two have going on.”

You nearly choked and Yuma went perfectly still beside you. Professor Sera suddenly looked deeply interested in literally anything else.

“Excuse me?” you said carefully.

“Oh please,” Yudai waved dismissively. “Half the kingdom probably knows about it by now.”

“Your public debates are very popular.” Fuma added helpfully.

“There are betting pools.” Yudai said. “Mostly regarding which one of you will snap first during faculty meetings.” You stared at him in horror. Beside you, Yuma looked moments away from leaving the kingdom entirely.

Professor Sera coughed awkwardly into her hand. “In any case—the decision has already been approved.” A pause. Then, with the calmness of an executioner delivering a sentence, “You leave for the capital together in two weeks.”

Well wasn’t this a fucking treat? 

By the time you reached your office, irritation had settled so deeply beneath your skin it hummed. The moment the door shut behind you, you kicked your shoes off and made straight for the windows, throwing them open to let the evening air spill inside, your office greeting you like an old friend.

“You walk remarkably fast for someone so dramatic.”

You closed your eyes. Of course he followed you. Without turning around, you reached into your desk drawer and retrieved your cigarette case. “If you’re here to annoy me further, I should warn you that I’m armed.”

Yuma shut the door behind him. “You’re always armed.”

You lit the cigarette with a flick of your fingers, inhaling deeply before offering him one without looking. A familiar routine now, a thought that probably should have alarmed you more than it did. By the time you turned around, Yuma had already settled himself against the edge of your desk, the tip of his cigarette glowing as he inhaled.

“Well,” you muttered, collapsing onto your couch, “this is catastrophic.”

“You say that about most things.” Yuma exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “The students will survive.”

“We both know I am not talking about the students, Yuma.” You groaned loudly, throwing an arm over your face. “Do you understand what this means?”

“That we’ll be supervising magically unstable young adults in the capital?”

“That my grandmother is going to hear about this.”

Yuma hummed quietly, cigarette balanced between elegant fingers. “She’ll probably adore the idea.”

“She’ll adore the publicity,” you corrected bitterly. “Kairos representatives attending royal programmes? Palace invitations? Formal balls?” You sat upright suddenly, thoughts beginning to move faster now.  Yuma narrowed his eyes slightly. That was never a good sign. You stood abruptly and began pacing. “This could work.”

“That sentence concerns me deeply, princess.”

“No, listen.” You turned toward him sharply, excitement beginning to flicker beneath your frustration. “The capital is filled with nobility.” You gestured wildly as you spoke, your mana sparking faintly at your fingertips. “If I handle this correctly, I could massively improve public favour before inheritance discussions even begin.” Yuma’s expression shifted subtly. You continued, thoughts spilling too quickly to stop. “The Astagne elders care about reputation above all else. Somehow I could pressure them into accelerating succession.” 

For the first time since leaving Sera’s office, genuine excitement bloomed in your chest. Finally—an opportunity, a real one. You moved closer unconsciously as you spoke, animated now, cigarette smoke curling around you in pale ribbons. 

“Do you understand what this could mean?” you said, eyes brightening. “If I gain enough influence early, I could start changing things before my grandmother dies. Funding modern healing divisions, integrating scientific magic into traditional institutions—”

“Changing the Astagne family from the inside?”

“Exactly!” The word left you instantly, without an inch of hesitation or doubt. And for a moment, Yuma simply watched you.

The room had grown darker while you spoke, evening shadows stretching slowly across the floorboards, but your office still glowed softly around you. Golden light caught against your hair, against the fierce determination written plainly across your face. You looked so…..hopeful. 

Yuma lowered his cigarette slowly. “How far are you willing to go for this?”

The question settled heavily between you. You studied him carefully before answering. “I’ll do whatever I must.” Something inside Yuma’s chest tightened painfully at how quickly you answered. “I can’t let another person die because my family is too obsessed with preserving old ideals.” Your fingers tightened around the cigarette. “I won’t.”

Yuma stared at you for a long moment through the following silence. And suddenly—all he could think about was the first winter you’d arrived at Kairos. You had been freezing, not metaphorically. Actually freezing—too stubborn to wear the heavy fur-lined cloaks students carried around campus because you claimed they were “hideously ugly.” 

He remembered finding you outside one evening in the snow, hands red from cold, kneeling beside an injured bird trying desperately to heal its wing with trembling mana. You’d looked furious when he draped his coat over your shoulders. Then immediately fallen asleep during faculty briefing the next morning because you’d spent half the night caring for the creature.

Soft—that was the problem. For all your sharp words and theatrical anger and carefully crafted pride—you were so damn soft. And the world had not been kind to soft things, in his experience. 

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Yuma looked down at the cigarette burning between his fingers.

You smiled faintly. “Do you expect me to, Professor?” 

You moved closer to him, standing between his legs where he sat perched against the edge of your desk. Your hands went slowly to either side of him, palms resting against the wood as you leaned in just enough for him to catch the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes. Yuma looked at you with a curious expression, eyes flickering between your eyes and your lips, as if he was unsure where his destination would be. 

Sweet, soft girl of magic. Who was he to expect anything from you? Other than the poetry of life? 

“No.” Yuma said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, as the cigarette lay abandoned somewhere. “No I do not, princess.”

______________

The next morning, Yuma’s office looked worse than usual. Not untidy—god no, the man would rather perish than allow disorder into his workspace—but occupied. Every available surface had become overrun with dismantled mechanical pieces, mana circuits and blueprints layered meticulously atop one another.

At the centre of the chaos sat Yuma, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses perched low on his nose, one hand holding a tiny screwdriver while the other adjusted the inner framework of what appeared to be a compass. 

Yuma narrowed his eyes. “…Interesting.” The office door burst open. Yuma didn’t even look up. “Go away, Yixiang.”

Professor Yixiang ignored him immediately and sauntered inside anyway, carrying two cups of coffee and the overwhelming energy of a man permanently moments away from causing trouble. Unlike Yuma’s composed elegance, Yixiang existed in a state of stylish catastrophe. His robes hung half-open over dark clothes, several burn marks decorated one sleeve and his hair looked as though he’d lost a physical altercation with static electricity. Which, considering the curtain incident—was entirely possible.

“You wound me.” Yixiang placed one coffee down beside Yuma’s elbow. “I come bearing peace offerings and this is how you greet me?”

“You set laboratory three on fire yesterday.”

“In my defence,” Yixiang said solemnly, “the experiment was beautiful.”

“It exploded.”

“Beautifully.” Yuma sighed. The compass sparked again in protest. “You know, most people spiral after romantic tension.” Yixiang’s eyes flickered toward it before grinning. “You apparently build increasingly unstable machinery.”

Yuma finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on.” Yixiang dragged a chair around dramatically and sat down backwards on it, folding his arms atop the backrest. “The entire academy knows you and Astagne are going to spend several weeks together in the capital.”

“We are supervising students.” Yuma’s eye twitched faintly as Yixiang hummed sarcastically. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes, that was the goal.” Yixiang took a victorious sip of coffee. “Besides, this is objectively entertaining for everyone except the two of you.” Yuma stared at him blankly. Then went back to fixing the compass with significantly more force than necessary. “It’s like she’s your other half. You spend half your time arguing with her.”

“And you spend half your time arguing with Professor Byun.” Yuma replied smoothly. “Should I inform the academy you’re secretly in love as well?”

Yixiang looked offended. “That is entirely different.”

“Is it?” Yuma raised a brow at his colleague. 

“Yes.” He pointed toward himself proudly. “Our hostility has artistic depth.”

“You threw a textbook at him last month.”

“He threw it first.”

“You set his cape on fire.”

“He was being irritating.”

“And you,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth as silk, “have apparently mistaken arson for courtship.”

The office door stood partially open behind you, golden morning light spilling across the dark wooden floor. Beside you stood Professor Euijoo, posture immaculate as always, robes pristine. Unlike Yixiang, Euijoo looked composed down to the last thread. Which only made the faint twitch near his eye funnier.

Yixiang straightened immediately. “Professor,” he greeted brightly, as though he had not been discussing arson moments ago, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

You stepped fully inside, arms folded loosely across your chest. “Professor Byun required access to Yuma’s archive records.” Your eyes flickered toward Yixiang knowingly. “Though now I’m wondering if we interrupted something intimate.”

“There is nothing intimate happening here,” Euijoo said flatly.

“Tragic life you live, Professor.” You replied sympathetically.

Yixiang pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Finally. Somebody understands me.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yuma muttered.

You wandered further into the office leisurely, your gaze sweeping over the dismantled gadgets scattered across Yuma’s desk. “Wow,” you sighed, “it somehow became uglier overnight.”

“It’s called progress, princess.” Yuma gritted his teeth.

“It’s called visual assault, Nakakita.” You shot back and Yixiang snorted loudly, to which Yuma shot him a look. You leaned slightly over the desk to inspect the floating compass, the sleeves of your blouse slipping down your arms. “What’s this one for?”

“Directional mana tracking,” Yuma answered automatically before he could stop himself.

You hummed softly. “And does it actually work, or does it just explode?”

Euijoo looked between the three of you with increasing disappointment. “Do all transformation professors behave like unsupervised teenagers?”

“Yes.” You and Yixiang answered simultaneously. 

Euijoo sighed the sigh of a man abandoned by dignity itself and stepped toward Yuma’s shelves. “The archive reports?”

“Second cabinet.” Yuma pointed without looking. “Top drawer.” Euijoo moved toward it efficiently and Yixiang immediately followed. Uninvited.

“Euijoo,” he said conversationally, “if I died tragically in an explosion, would you mourn me?”

“No.”

“What if you caused the explosion?”

“No.”

“What if I left you my books?”

“I already own better books.” Euijoo sighed, looking ready to run away to a countryside barn and live his peaceful life far from Yixiang who was clutching dramatically at his chest, “You destroyed my lecture hall, you idiot.” Yixiang opened his mouth to argue further, only for Euijoo to grab the stack of archive reports from the cabinet with one sharp movement. “We’re leaving before you ignite something else.”

“You say the sweetest things to me.” Yixiang sighed, though you noticed the slight sparkle in his eyes. Euijoo looked physically pained. You smiled into your hand to hide another laugh, but your attention drifted elsewhere before you could stop it.

Unwillingly, to Nakakita Yuma. 

He had returned his focus back to the compass resting open on his desk, dark brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted one of the inner mechanisms. The lightning orbs above cast silver light across the sharp lines of his face, catching against the bridge of his nose and the strands of dark hair falling over his forehead. Tiny pink sparks flickered beneath his gloves as mana moved through the machinery, illuminating the edges of his hands for fleeting seconds.

How irritatingly beautiful he was.

A thin sheen of sweat glimmered faintly near his temple from hours spent hunched over inventions since morning and you nearly swooned like a Victorian lady at the sight. He was truly terrible for your mind. Yuma suddenly glanced up directly at you. You looked away instantly.

“Are you staring at my equipment again?” he asked mildly.

“Your office is an eyesore,” you replied smoothly. “You should burn at least half these gadgets.”

“Oh?” He said calmly, “Why do you keep touching them, princess?” Before you could retaliate, Euijoo cleared his throat pointedly from the doorway, clearly deciding he’d witnessed enough strange behaviour for one morning. “Professor Astagne.”

“Right.” You adjusted your sleeves and stepped away from Yuma’s desk, though not before noticing the faintest twitch of amusement near his mouth.

Yixiang waved dramatically as you moved toward the door. “Goodbye! Try not to devastate our dear Nakakita too badly during the capital trip.”

“Try not to explode anything before lunch!” You returned sweetly.

Euijoo looked exhausted already. You fell into step beside him once outside the office, the heavy door shutting behind you with a soft click. The bustling sounds of Kairos returned—the hum of magic drifting through open corridors.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Euijoo sighed quietly. “I understand him now.”

You glanced sideways. “Understand who?”

“Yuma.” Your brows lifted faintly. Euijoo stared ahead with the expression of a man making peace

with a terrible truth. “You’re both exhausting.”

You burst into laughter again as the two of you disappeared down the corridor together.

__________

The morning Kairos departed for the capital arrived wrapped in gold.

Sunlight spilled across the academy towers in molten streaks, catching against stained glass windows and marble pathways until the entire campus seemed to glow with anticipation. Students flooded the courtyards in excited clusters, trunks levitating beside them with varying degrees of magical control. The air buzzed with noise, laughter, nerves and the crackle of unstable mana from overly excited third-years attempting to show off before departure. 

You descended the academy steps radiant enough to rival the damned sun itself. From where Yuma stood beside the luggage transport carriage, sleeves rolled as he loaded the last of the students’ trunks, his eyes lifted the moment you appeared at the top of the staircase.

Your cloak rested loosely over your shoulders, crimson fabric shifting around your legs as you walked down the stairs with sunlight caught in your hair. Tiny charms woven into your sleeves glimmered faintly with each movement, reflecting gold against your skin. Yuma looked away before he could embarrass himself.

“Well,” came Yixiang’s smug voice beside him, “that expression was horrifyingly fond.”

Yuma shoved another suitcase into the carriage harder than necessary. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He scoffed, “You take your meds today, Yixiang? You’re projecting again.” 

“I did take them, actually.” Yixiang smoothed down a stray hair, “And the only one projecting here are your sparkly eyes, Nakakita.”

Yuma ignored him with the long-suffering patience of a man who had considered murder multiple times before breakfast. Meanwhile, you reached the courtyard below and immediately became mobbed by students.

“Professor Astagne!” “Professor, is it true the royal palace has floating gardens?” “Professor, can you really turn someone into a frog permanently?”

“Only if they deserve it,” you answered solemnly. Several students looked delighted by this information. 

“Right!” Professor Sera’s voice cut sharply through the chaos. “Everyone collect your assigned transport groups immediately. We leave within the next ten minutes.” Students scattered at once. You adjusted your gloves absently as you approached the line of travelling vehicles waiting outside Kairos’ gates, then stopped. 

Carriages?

The world seemed to narrow all at once. Wooden wheels. Horse reins. The creak of leather. For one terrible moment, sunlight disappeared beneath memory—twisted metal. Shattered glass. Your sister’s hand limp in yours. Blood. “She could have been saved.”

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt difficult to breathe. No.

No no no—

You hadn’t prepared for this. Nobody told you it would be carriages. Your fingers curled into your sleeves as the cold spread sharply beneath your skin. Around you, students continued talking and laughing, utterly unaware of the sudden roaring sound filling your ears. A hand caught your wrist.

“Professor Astagne.”

You blinked sharply. Yuma stood beside you now, expression perfectly composed despite the sharpness in his eyes. “Honestly,” he sighed loudly enough for nearby students to hear, “must you stand in the middle of the pathway dramatically? Some of us are attempting to leave this century.”

A few students laughed nervously nearby. You realised what he was doing. Covering it up; giving you an exit before anyone noticed. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Before you could respond, Yuma tugged you forward beside him, already continuing toward the front carriage as though nothing had happened.

Your feet obeyed automatically. The courtyard noise returned in scattered fragments as Yuma guided you alongside the line of waiting carriages, one hand still lightly closed around your wrist beneath the cover of your cloak. Students rushed past in excited clusters, trunks floating overhead, professors shouting instructions into the chaos.

His grip loosened only once you reached one of the front carriages—a polished black thing lined with silver detailing and enchanted lanterns hanging from either side. Without giving you enough time to think yourself into panic again, Yuma opened the carriage door and looked back at you expectantly. “Get in.”

“This isn’t my assigned carriage.” You blinked. “I was meant to ride with Euijoo.”

“And now you’re not.” 

Before you could argue further, Yuma gently but firmly ushered you inside. The interior smelled faintly of cedarwood, velvet seats lining either side beneath curtained windows. Your heartbeat still hadn’t fully steadied by the time you sat down stiffly against the seat. A second later, Yuma climbed in after you and shut the door behind himself. He sat opposite you calmly, adjusting his gloves as though none of this was remotely strange.

“Professor Nakakita.”

“Hm?”

“This is not your carriage either.” You said, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible, “You cannot simply steal transport assignments.”

“I absolutely can.”

Outside, muffled voices drifted through the carriage walls. Then suddenly a sharp knock against the window.

Yixiang’s deeply offended face appeared through the glass. “Why am I with Euijoo now?”

Yuma didn’t even blink. “Euijoo can survive your company for one carriage ride.”

From somewhere outside came Euijoo’s exhausted voice, “Unfortunately.”

Yixiang gasped dramatically. “You see how cruel he is to me?”

“Yes,” Yuma replied flatly through the door. “Go away.” The carriage jolted as Euijoo dragged Yixiang away from the window. Peace returned and you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Yuma’s attention shifted back toward you, that teasing edge from moments ago softening as he looked at you again.

“You’re pale,” he said quietly.

Outside, students continued loading luggage and climbing into transport groups. Horses shifted restlessly against stone pathways, leather harnesses creaking. Your stomach twisted again. The carriage dipped slightly as Yuma leaned forward, elbows resting loosely against his knees. His voice lowered carefully.

“Look at me.”

You hated how easily your eyes obeyed. His expression remained calm and steady—the same composed face he wore while solving magical equations or calming unstable mana reactions.

“You’re alright.” He repeated softly.

Your throat tightened painfully. “It was a long time ago,” you whispered, though the words sounded unconvincing even to yourself. You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands instead. “It’s stupid.”

“No.” He said immediately, his gaze not leaving yours. “It isn’t.” Since when had he sounded so damn gentle? Then Yuma leaned back against his seat and crossed his arms. “For what it’s worth,” he said lightly, intentionally shifting the atmosphere before you drowned in it completely, “if this carriage crashes, I’ll save you first.”

You stared at him flatly. “How romantic.”

Outside, Professor Sera’s voice rang through the courtyard. “All carriages depart immediately!” The horses shifted and the carriage lurched gently forward. Your fingers tightened against the velvet seat beside you and a second later, Yuma’s hand rested quietly over yours.

“This will be alright.” He said softly.

And somehow—with him sitting across from you like this—you almost believed it.

_________

If there was one thing they’d called you ever since you were a child, it was intuitive. 

Your grandmother used to say the Astagne bloodline carried a peculiar sensitivity toward the world around it—that transformation mages, by nature, understood change before it arrived. They sensed shifts in the atmosphere the way birds sensed storms.

As a child, you had known when servants were about to enter rooms before the doors opened. You knew when flowers in the garden would wilt days before they browned. Once, at eight years old, you had burst into tears during dinner because you claimed one of your father’s hunting hounds was going to die. It had collapsed from illness the next morning. You simply learned to trust the feeling because your intuition was rarely wrong.

Which was precisely why the sensation sitting at the bottom of your stomach now frightened you so deeply.

The carriage rolled steadily along the roads, wheels crunching over gravel pathways while golden morning light filtered through the curtains in shifting patterns. Outside, distant chatter drifted between the moving vehicles, accompanied by the sound of horses and rattling harness chains.

Everything appeared normal, peaceful even. And yet, something felt wrong, like the silence before lightning struck.

You sat stiffly against the seat, fingers curled into the fabric of your cloak as that awful feeling lingered beneath your ribs. The harder you tried to dismiss it, the worse it became. Was this fear? Trauma? Or intuition? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Across from you, Yuma sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, a book resting open in his hands. He looked composed as always, dark eyes scanning lines of text while sunlight flickered intermittently across his face through the carriage window. At least, he looked focused, until the page stopped turning. His eyes lifted slowly from the book toward you.

Yuma watched the way your fingers tightened against your sleeve, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the windows and the subtle tension in your shoulders each time the wheels struck uneven ground. A small crease appeared between his brows.

Before Yuma could say anything, a sharp knock sounded against the front driver’s window. The small glass panel slid open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold air alongside the driver’s voice.

“Professors,” the older man called politely, reins gathered tightly in his gloved hands, “we’ll be entering the mountain pass shortly. The roads are snowy this time of year, so the carriage may become a little rough for a few minutes.”

Snow—you felt your heartbeat stumble against your ribs. You forced your expression into something smooth before Yuma could look too closely.

“That’s alright,” you answered lightly. “Thank you for the warning.” The driver nodded once before shutting the panel again. Silence returned, but it no longer felt calm.

The carriage rolled onward steadily for several moments before the terrain gradually began to change beneath the wheels. Smooth gravel paths gave way to rougher stone and uneven earth, the carriage swaying more noticeably with every turn. Outside the curtained windows, sunlight slowly dimmed beneath towering mountain shadows. Your breath caught as a white layer came into view. 

Snow blanketed the world beyond the glass in endless silver-white drifts, thick layers gathered across pine branches and rocky cliffsides alike. Frost clung to the carriage windows in crystalline patterns while cold mountain fog rolled slowly between the trees.

It was beautiful and horrifying. Suddenly all you could hear was splintering wood and metal bending. Your sister screaming once—only once—before silence swallowed everything whole. The carriage jolted sharply over uneven ground and you flinched. 

Across from you, Yuma closed the book in his lap quietly. He didn’t say your name, but you felt his eyes on you anyway. The carriage wheels crunched heavily through snow outside as the mountain road narrowed dangerously along steep cliffsides. Wind howled faintly beyond the carriage walls now, cold enough to rattle the lantern hooks overhead.

Your breathing had become too shallow. Every glimpse of snow beyond the window made your chest tighten worse. The same weather. The same roads. The same awful cold. Another rough jolt shook through the carriage and your hand shot toward the edge of the seat beside you to steady yourself.

Yuma’s hand closed quietly over yours again.  “It’s just snow,” he said softly.

“It wasn’t last time.” The words escaped before you could stop them. 

Outside, the mountain winds howled louder against the carriage walls as snow thickened along the narrow pass. The horses slowed over the icy road ahead, their harnesses rattling with every uneven turn. The carriage lurched violently sideways and your stomach dropped.

What if the wheels slipped? What if the axle cracked? What if the horses lost footing? What if— 

Another sharp jolt. Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

What if the road gave way? What if the carriage overturned? What if you were trapped again—cold hands, blood in the snow, your sister not moving…

You inhaled sharply. Nothing came in properly. The air suddenly felt too thin and too little. Your fingers trembled violently beneath Yuma’s grip as your thoughts spiralled faster and faster, each one crashing over the next before you could stop them.

What if the brakes failed? What if this mountain collapsed? What if everyone died because you ignored your intuition—

Your chest tightened so sharply it hurt. The carriage walls seemed smaller suddenly, the sound of the wheels unbearably loud. Your heartbeat thundered against your ribs so violently you could hear it. You tried breathing deeper. It didn’t work—the next inhale stuttered halfway. Your vision blurred faintly around the edges. Everyone was going to die.

Everyone was going to die and it was all because of you again as alway—

“Professor.” Yuma’s voice sounded distant. You shook your head quickly, one hand flying toward your chest as though physically holding yourself together might help. It didn’t. 

The carriage rocked again. Your breathing broke completely, your lungs refusing to cooperate no matter how desperately you tried to force air into them. Panic clawed viciously up your throat, hot and suffocating and impossible to outrun. The world tilted sickeningly.

“Sweetheart.” 

You barely registered movement before warmth suddenly settled around your shoulders. A cloak, heavy, dark, Yuma’s. The familiar scent of smoke and machine oil wrapped around you as he pulled the thick fabric securely over your shaking form. Your vision swam badly now. You couldn’t focus properly. Couldn’t breathe properly. What if the wheels—

“Look at me.”

Yuma’s voice cut through the panic sharply enough to catch your attention for half a second. You gathered all the strength left in you to look up. At some point during your spiralling thoughts, he had crouched in front of you despite the unstable road, one hand braced firmly against the seat beside your knee to steady himself as the carriage shook beneath you both. 

“Breathe for me, hmm?” 

You tried and your chest seized painfully instead. Another breath shattered halfway through. “I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can.” Yuma reached up, gloved hand resting carefully against the side of your face. Warmer than winter sunlight. “You’re here,” he said firmly. “Not there. Here.”

The carriage jolted again. You flinched violently. His grip on you tightened.

“The wheels are fine,” he continued before you could voice the fear aloud. “The road is stable. The horses are trained for mountain routes.” How did he always know? How did he always know exactly what terror lived inside your head? Your eyes burned suddenly.

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered brokenly.

Something inside Yuma’s expression cracked at that. “You are not going through that again,” he said quietly. The cloak around your shoulders tightened further as he pulled it closed against the cold. “Stay with me.”

Your breathing still came unevenly at first, sharp and shaking. Every inhale caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, but Yuma remained steady in front of you through all of it, one hand warm against your cheek while the other held the cloak tightly around your shoulders.

“Good,” he murmured quietly as you managed a fuller breath this time. “Again.” The carriage continued rocking beneath the mountain road, though somehow the movement no longer felt quite so violent with his voice grounding you through it. “In.” You inhaled shakily. “Slowly.” The air burned less this time. “Out.” You exhaled weakly. 

Your vision remained blurred around the edges, exhaustion settling heavily into your bones now that the panic had begun loosening its claws from your chest. The adrenaline left you trembling in its wake, every muscle aching with the aftermath of fear. Another breath, slower now. Yuma’s thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye before you even realised tears had slipped free.

“You’re alright.” He repeated.

And this time, you almost believed him completely. The carriage swayed gently again over the snowy road, but your body no longer reacted with violent panic. Instead, exhaustion settled over you all at once, heavy and overwhelming. Your head dipped forward slightly and Yuma shifted closer, until your forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. One of his hands moved instinctively to the back of your head, fingers threading slowly through your hair.

Soft, so impossibly soft with you.

“You’ve exhausted yourself.” He murmured quietly above you. You made a faint sound that might have been agreement. Or protest. You weren’t entirely sure. Your eyes felt unbearably heavy now. “Sleep for a while.” Yuma said.

The hand in your hair continued its slow rhythmic motion, smoothing gently through the strands near your scalp in a way that made the lingering panic finally begin melting from your body completely.

Outside, snowstorms and mountain roads continued blurring past the carriage windows. Inside, however, warmth wrapped around you from every side. Your breathing slowed further. Your body gradually softened against him as exhaustion finally claimed victory over fear.

And just as your eyes slipped fully shut, the carriage emerged from the mountain pass. Sunlight flooded suddenly through the windows in brilliant golden streams, washing warmth across the dim carriage interior all at once. Snowy cliffs gave way to open skies and rolling hills beneath the afternoon sun.

Yuma looked down at the sudden brightness spilling across your sleeping figure curled against him. He smiled. That was exactly what you reminded him of. 

Sunlight. Warm enough to soften even the coldest things. Blinding enough to make people forget themselves entirely. 

And so very easy to love. 

___________

You were about to positively jump off the royal bell tower the second you got the chance. Because waking up curled against Nakakita Yuma’s chest had quite possibly been one of the most humiliating experiences of your academic career. 

The moment consciousness returned, you had frozen completely. Warmth, his coat beneath your cheek, one of his hands resting loosely against your waist beneath the cloak wrapped around you both. And worst of all—his heartbeat, a calm metronome near your ear. You had jerked upright so quickly you nearly concussed yourself against the carriage wall.

Yuma, infuriatingly enough, had merely opened one eye lazily from where he sat beside you and said, “Good afternoon.” As if you had not just spent god knows how long asleep on him. As if your dignity had not completely ascended into the heavens.

The rest of the journey afterward had been agonising. You spent nearly the entire ride staring stiffly out the carriage window while pretending immense interest in passing scenery. Forests. Rivers. Villages. One particularly ugly sheep. Anything except the man sitting beside you.

Meanwhile, Yuma simply returned to reading his book with the composure of a saint and the smugness of a devil. Occasionally, you could feel him glance at you over the top edge of the pages. Every single time, your ears grew hotter. Not one word about it was spoken. By the time the kingdom finally came into view at nightfall, you were mentally preparing your own funeral.

The capital glittered beneath the evening sky like spilled gold. Towering palace spires pierced the heavens in elegant silhouettes while thousands of enchanted lanterns illuminated the streets below in amber light. Marble bridges crossed glowing canals, music drifted through crowded plazas and distant bells echoed through the city air.

The carriages barely crossed the outer gates before royal attendants descended upon the exhausted students like a military operation. Trunks vanished and room assignments appeared and the students were herded toward the grand hotel adjacent to the palace district. By the time you finished ensuring your students were settled properly and not attempting illegal spellcasting from balconies, you felt half-dead. Unfortunately, the universe despised you personally.

Because upon receiving your own room assignment—you discovered your suite connected directly to Yuma’s through an adjoining door. Clearly the gods found your suffering entertaining. You had stared at the door for a solid thirty seconds after entering your room. Then contemplated murder.

Now, however, freshly bathed and wrapped in a silk robe, you sat before the vanity mirror near the hotel window, exhaustion slowly melting from your body beneath the warmth of candlelight. Your damp hair fell loosely as you unfolded the letter resting in your hands once more. 

Harua’s handwriting curved elegantly across the page, even his penmanship looked expensive. A small smile tugged faintly at your lips as your eyes skimmed the words. Harua had always written the way he spoke—warmly, dramatically, and with far too much gossip packed into one page.

You leaned back in the vanity chair with a tired sigh, the letter resting loosely between your fingers. Outside your window, the capital shimmered endlessly beneath the stars. For a brief moment, things almost felt peaceful. Three sharp knocks sounded against the adjoining door connecting your room to Yuma’s.

Peace was never an option with him around. 

“Come in before I change my mind.” You called lazily, eyes still scanning the final lines of Harua’s letter.

Yuma strolled inside with the kind of ease belonging only to people entirely too comfortable in your presence. You caught sight of him first through the vanity mirror. That certainly did not help your ongoing efforts to preserve your sanity.

He was dressed in a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms and black trousers sitting low against his hips. The top buttons of the shirt had been left undone, exposing just enough skin to make you suddenly remember you were, in fact, a mortal woman with weaknesses. His dark hair remained slightly damp from a shower, falling messily across his forehead instead of its usual composed styling. Yuma shut the door quietly behind himself before his eyes found you sitting at the vanity. A slow smile curved onto his face.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, “that hardly seems fair.”

You lifted a brow at his reflection in the mirror. “What doesn’t?”

“You looking like that while I’m attempting to behave professionally.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Since when have you ever behaved professionally?”

“An excellent point.” His gaze lingered for a second too long over the silk robe draped around you before he pushed himself away from the doorframe and wandered further into the room.

Not once did he mention the carriage. Not your panic or the way you’d fallen asleep against him afterward, nothing. The silence surrounding it felt strangely intimate. Like something precious placed quietly between the two of you without needing acknowledgment.

“What’s that?” Yuma asked, glancing at the letter in your hands. 

“Harua wrote to me.” At that, Yuma’s expression shifted and you caught it immediately in the mirror. You smiled. Oh, this was far too easy. “My,” you hummed innocently, folding the letter carefully, “was that jealousy I just witnessed, Professor?”

Yuma scoffed softly. “Why would I be jealous?” He approached slowly behind you now, hands tucked loosely into his pockets as his reflection grew larger in the mirror.

“Perhaps,” you continued sweetly, “you’re threatened.”

“By a man who uses scented parchment?” Yuma stopped directly behind your chair then, gaze flickering over the open letter resting in your hands. “So this is Harua.” He murmured. “The palace advisor?”

“Assistant royal advisor,” you corrected. Your eyes narrowed at his reflection. “You sound awfully judgmental, Professor.” 

Yuma’s gaze lingered on your reflection quietly for a moment longer before he tilted his head slightly. “You look happy.”

The words caught you unexpectedly. You looked away first. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back here,” you admitted quietly. 

Yuma hummed softly behind you. A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. God that smile would kill you one day. 

“You really are beautiful like this, you know.”

The words, spoken so low and with such uncharacteristic softness, hung in the air between you. They were a different kind of magic, one that bypassed all your defenses and settled somewhere warm and vulnerable beneath your ribs. You couldn’t hold his gaze in the mirror any longer. You looked down at the folded letter in your hands, the expensive parchment suddenly feeling trivial. 

Yuma didn’t speak again. He simply stepped forward, closing the final distance. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, his touch firm and warm through the thin fabric. You watched his reflection as he leaned down, his eyes locked on yours in the glass.

Yuma’s lips met the side of your neck, just below your ear, just a soft press of warmth. Then he opened his mouth, and the wet heat of his tongue traced a slow path along your skin. A shiver, violent and delicious, racked your body. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second before you forced them open, determined to watch.

And god, he looked fucking divine.

In the mirror’s frame, you saw the intense focus on his face, the way his lashes lowered as he tasted you. You saw the corded strength in his forearms where his sleeves were rolled, the careless perfection of his disheveled hair. You saw the faint, possessive gleam in his eye when he caught you watching him watch you. He was devouring you, and he wanted you to see it.

Yuma sucked lightly, then soothed the spot with his tongue, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. One of his hands slid from your shoulder, down over the silk covering your arm, his fingers tracing idle, burning patterns.

“Mmm,” he hummed against your neck, the vibration going straight to your core. He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes again in the mirror. “You’re tense.” His lips curved against your skin. “Harua’s letters are that stimulating?”

“Bastard.” You whispered, but you arched your neck, giving him better access.

He took the invitation, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before laving the sting away. Yuma’s free hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head further. “All those plans in your head,” he murmured between open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “All those cunning little performances. It must be exhausting.”

It was. The weight of the dukedom, the memories the city stirred, the performative grace of the palace—it was a cage of gilded pressure. And here he was, offering release.  

Yuma straightened, both hands returning to your shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tight muscles at the base of your neck. His eyes, still holding yours captive in the mirror, were serious now. “Would you like to destress, Professor?”

The answer was in the way your skin hummed under his touch, in the way your breath hitched, in the hungry way you were watching him. You let the last pretense fall away, your voice dropping to a low, wanting murmur. “Would I never say no to that?”

The decision had been made the moment he walked through your door. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face in the reflection, all sharp edges and dark promise. His hands slid from your shoulders, down your arms. 

In one smooth motion, he leaned down again, his arms wrapping around you from behind. He didn’t kiss your neck this time. Instead, he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear, his voice a velvet-rough command that sent a fresh wave of heat straight through you.

“Then let’s forget about everything for a while hmm?” 

Your robe pooled around you, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin, the sash still loosely tied. Yuma knelt before you in one fluid motion, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud, his hands smoothing down your thighs, parting them with tenderness.

You watched him carefully—his dark eyes fixed on you, his lips parted, the hungry set of his jaw. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your left knee, then your right, working inward with a slow reverence that made your breath catch. 

His fingers hooked into the robe's hem, nudging it aside just enough to expose your core, the fabric bunched around your hips. Yuma inhaled deeply, his warm breath ghosting over your slick folds, and a low, appreciative hum vibrated from his throat.

"Already wet for me, sweetheart," he murmured, the words a soft growl against your skin, “You’re too sweet sometimes.” 

“Am I?” You hummed, lips curling to a smirk, “Or are you just that starved, professor?”“Oh?” Yuma tilted a brow, “Someone’s brave tonight.” 

“I’m always brave, Nakakita.” You scoffed, “You just don’t notic—” Of course the bastard shut you up with his tongue before you could finish. 

Yuma’s tongue flicked out, a single bold stroke that parted your lips and circled your clit with clinical precision. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. 

He moaned into you, the vibration sending a tremor through your entire body, and he repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring. Your grip tightened, tugging sharply as he lapped at your entrance, his tongue dipping inside before dragging back up to your clit. His moans grew louder, muffled against your pussy, the sound filthy and worshipful. 

Yuma buried his face deeper, his nose pressing against your mound as his tongue worked in frantic, circular patterns, alternating between broad licks and focused flicks. You ground down instinctively, your hips rolling against his mouth, and he let you take control, his hands gripping your ass to steady you as you rode his face.

"Fuck…ngh—Yuma…” You hissed, pulling his hair harder, forcing his mouth flush against your clit. 

Yuma groaned in response, the sound vibrating through your core, and he doubled his efforts—sucking your clit into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue, then diving back down to fuck you with his tongue deep inside. 

Your thighs trembled, clenching around his head, and you rode his face with abandon, the chair creaking beneath your frantic movements. Yuma pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and desperate. 

Though what oxygen did he need when he was in the presence of your sweet cunt?

"That's it—use my mouth like a good little princess." He dove back in, his tongue spearing into you relentless, his thumb pressing on your clit to add pressure, “Mmh so sweet—cum for me, sweetheart.” 

You cried out, your release building like a tidal wave, and you yanked his hair so hard his scalp must have burned. He moaned into your pussy again, the sound pushing you over the edge.

Your climax crashed through you, your body arching, your thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through every spasm. 

Yuma didn't stop—lapping, sucking, groaning against your slick flesh, drinking every drop until your shaking subsided. Only then did he lift his head, his chin wet, his lips swollen, his eyes full of possessive pride.

“Destressed yet?” Yuma pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then murmured, "Or shall we go another round, professor?”You both knew you were going to have more than just one more round that night.

____________

“Never thought I’d live to see the day you actually step into the capital again.” Harua’s attentive eyes peered at you over the rim of his tea cup as he sipped at it, fondly inhaling the vapours of lavender. 

“And yet here we are.” You smiled, raising your own cup in an invisible toast. 

Around you the cafe was brim with calm catastrophe, conversation and a whole lot of charming confections. The golden sunlight of the afternoon filtered through the gold rimmed windows like light from the heavens, bathing everything—customers and cakes alike—in a radiant sparkly blanket. 

It was a familiar place to you; in the past you’d hang out here almost every other day with Harua when you were both stupid teenagers who had no idea what they were going to do with their life. The cafe’s moonstone layered floor held emotions of every memory—from innocent happiness to teenage angst to gory grief. You could point out the exact place you’d once sat at after your sister passed, and all your stomach could take was tea but Harua had forced down a cupcake telling you that you looked worse than a blue finned fish. 

Now he sat in front of you, picking at the exact same cupcake (his preferences stayed suspiciously constant), dressed in royal blue robes with a silver brooch pinned to his chest—the symbol representing King Fuma. Though he claimed very humbly to be the assistant royal advisor, you knew that sharp tongue of his—sharper than a freshly made quill—was the reason Fuma was renowned for his strategic decisions regarding kingdom welfare. More so, you knew your childhood best friend could make even a spy his friend.

Which was perhaps why he controlled the espionage sector at the palace. Harua certainly was more than he showed himself to be—the youngest member of the royal council. And apparently the perfect candidate to have apprentices only a few months younger than him. 

“Maki put that down.” Harua sighed, glaring over the rim of his teacup. Across the table, Maki froze mid-motion with an entire sugar sculpture swan halfway off the dessert tray.

“I was observing it.” He defended solemnly.

“With your mouth?” Harua deadpanned.

Beside him, Taki continued eating quietly with the expression of a man long accustomed to this exact situation. His black hair fell into his eyes as he calmly slid the dessert tray further from Maki’s reach without even looking up.

“Why are you encouraging him?” Taki remarked flatly toward you. “You’re both terrible influences.”

The capital outside buzzed faintly beyond the windows, though here inside everything felt pleasantly suspended in time. You hadn’t realised how much you missed this place until now, the familiarity of it settling somewhere deep in your chest.

Harua watched you over his teacup for a moment before speaking again. “You look less homicidal than usual.”

“What a lovely thing to say to an old friend.”

“It’s true.” He set the cup down delicately onto its saucer, silver rings glinting against slender fingers. “You disappeared from the capital after the funeral and returned looking ready to set Parliament on fire.” Harua tilted his head slightly. “This is an improvement.”

You looked down briefly at the lavender-hued tea swirling in your cup. The funeral—the word still felt heavy. Taki and Maki exchanged a subtle glance beside Harua before tactfully redirecting their attention toward the pastries instead. They knew, not details perhaps, but enough. Harua always surrounded himself with people he trusted absolutely, which meant they were intelligent enough not to pry.

Harua’s sharp eyes flickered over your face briefly before he leaned back into his chair. “Well,” he said smoothly, “if your plan to overthrow your family’s entire worldview is still progressing, you’ve picked an excellent week for it.”

You leaned forward, the smile of a 16 year old creeping back to your face. How you missed your conversations with your assassin of a friend.  “Who’s attending?” Harua’s smile turned slow and dangerous. Now there was the royal advisor.

“The entire upper court, for starters. Half the noble houses are attending specifically because Kairos is visiting.” He ticked points off elegantly against his fingers. “Three foreign ambassadors. The western trade ministers, several military advisors. And,” he added lightly, “your grandmother.”

“When did she arrive?” you asked.

“This morning.” The Astagne matriarch never arrived anywhere quietly. Harua studied your expression with quiet attentiveness. “She’s already aware you’re here.”

You leaned back slowly in your chair, fingers resting loosely around your teacup as thoughts began moving rapidly behind your composed expression. A ball and a court, bread and circuses, how perfect.

“That look is precisely why the royal family both adores and fears you.” Harua sighed softly. 

“Only fears?” you asked dryly.

Maki, mouth already full of stolen pastry despite previous warnings, pointed vaguely at you with a fork. “For what it’s worth,” he mumbled, “I think overthrowing old corrupt noble systems is very brave.”

Harua closed his eyes briefly. “You cannot say things like that in public.”

“But he’s right.” Taki tilted his head to the side, resembling an oversized puppy.

“You’re both terrible apprentices.”

“You raised them.” You smiled sweetly into your tea. 

Harua looked deeply tired all at once, looking at his apprentices with their mouths covered in sifting sugar.  “I’m assuming you can see who’s waiting outside the cafe, professor?” Harua said, taking a bite of his cupcake, on whose icing Taki and Maki’s were fixed.

“Professor?” You chuckled, maintaining eye contact, “Since when do you call me professor?” 

“Since you started terrifying impressionable young minds professionally.” Harua took another delicate bite of his cupcake while beside him Taki physically wrestled a sugar-coated spoon out of Maki’s hands before he could commit further crimes against public dignity.

The assistant royal advisor, meanwhile, remained entirely unbothered. That was another thing about Harua. Nothing ever truly escaped his attention. Neither politics nor spies and certainly not the man currently lingering outside the café window pretending very badly to admire flower arrangements. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew. Harua would never have mentioned it otherwise.

Instead, you stirred your tea lazily, watching the liquid swirl against porcelain while afternoon sunlight warmed the table between you all. “How long has he been there?” you asked.

“Since approximately three minutes after you arrived.”

Taki finally glanced toward the café windows. “Tall one by the fountain?”

Maki looked delighted. “Oh, I thought he was an assassin.”

“Aren’t spies technically assassins with better manners?” you mused.

Outside, the capital continued moving in elegant chaos. Nobles wandered crowded streets draped in expensive fabrics, royal guards crossed marble bridges in gleaming uniforms and somewhere nearby a violinist played softly enough to drift into the café whenever the doors opened.

And beside the fountain across the street stood Asakura Jo. Tall and still, dressed in dark robes sharp enough to blend into any crowd while simultaneously commanding attention. Black hair framed his features and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his posture remaining perfectly composed despite the bustling city around him. An Astagne spy through and through. You had known Jo since childhood. Which unfortunately meant you also knew he never appeared without reason.

“That eager to see me, hm?” Your eyes flickered toward the window finally. The moment your gaze landed on him, he straightened subtly and inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “Well,” you murmured, setting your teacup down carefully, “there goes the remainder of my peaceful afternoon.”

Maki looked genuinely sympathetic. “Should we fake your death?”

Harua pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cannot suggest assassination every time inconvenience appears.”

Taki quietly raised a hand without looking up from his pastry. “Statistically speaking, Maki is unfortunately correct.”

“You see what I endure?” Harua said to you tiredly.

“You trained them.” A laugh escaped you softly as you rose from your seat, smoothing down the fabric of your coat.

“A mistake I regret hourly.”

Outside the window, Jo remained unmoving near the fountain, a shadow summoned by blood itself.  You reached into your pocket and tossed a few gold coins onto the café table before Harua could object. Then paused briefly beside him. “You’ll attend the ball?” you asked quietly.

Harua looked up at you, sharp eyes gentling faintly. “Of course.” A small smile touched his mouth. “Somebody has to witness your catastrophes.”

You snorted softly before turning toward the cafe doors. As you stepped outside into the golden afternoon light, the city noise swelled around you. Jo’s dark eyes lifted to meet yours from across the street. 

You gave the smallest tilt of your head and the spy pushed himself silently away from the fountain at once. You crossed the street, the noise of the capital swelling around you in elegant chaos. Jo met you halfway.

Up close, he looked exactly as you remembered—tall enough to cast shadows over most people, clothes immaculate despite the crowded city streets and sharp black eyes trained instinctively on everything around him. The Astagne family had always preferred their spies intimidating and Jo excelled at it effortlessly.

And yet, the moment you smiled brightly at him, genuine warmth curling across your face, the man visibly blinked in surprise. People often forgot that spies were easiest to read when nobody expected them to be human.

“Well,” you said lightly, folding your hands behind your back as you fell into step beside him, “you look horrifying as ever.”

Jo stared at you for half a second longer before a faint exhale escaped him, “Lady Astagne.”

“Oh don’t sound so formal.” You nudged his arm lightly with your elbow as the two of you began weaving through the busy streets together. “We’ve known each other since I was small enough to bite people.”

“You did bite people.” Jo shook his head faintly, though the sharpness in his posture had softened ever so slightly already. As if he didn’t bite people alongside you. 

The Astagne family hotel stood further within the upper district of the capital, close enough to the palace to remind everybody exactly how influential your bloodline remained. You could already see portions of its towering ivory exterior between the buildings ahead.

For a while, the two of you walked in a comfortable quiet. Then softly, you asked, “How’s your mother?”

“She’s…” He paused briefly. “managing.”  

Your chest tightened. You glanced toward him carefully as the two of you crossed a marble bridge overlooking one of the city canals below. “The illness worsened?”

A muscle ticked once in Jo’s jaw before he nodded faintly. “She can barely stand some mornings now.”

The afternoon suddenly felt colder. You knew his mother. She used to sneak sweets into your pockets when your grandmother wasn’t looking—a gentle woman with tired eyes and soft hands perpetually smelling of herbs.  And like most Astagne household servants—she obeyed the family traditions absolutely. No modern medicine, no scientific intervention and no exceptions. Even if it killed them. 

Jo kept his eyes ahead as he spoke again, quieter now. “She refuses outside treatment.” Of course she did. Because generations of fear and loyalty ran deep enough to become religion inside the Astagne estate. 

Casually—as though adjusting your sleeve, you slipped a small glass vial from the hidden pocket inside your coat, clear liquid shimmering inside. If there was one thing Byun Euijoo was useful for, it was cooking up medicine. 

Jo’s eyes widened slightly. “My lady—”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you murmured under your breath, pressing the vial discreetly into his gloved hand as pedestrians passed around you. “It’s only a month’s dosage.”

Jo looked genuinely alarmed now. “If the matriarch finds out—”

“She won’t.” You continued walking smoothly as though nothing had happened.

Jo remained frozen beside you for half a second before hurrying to catch up. “My lady,” he repeated quietly, voice rougher now, “you shouldn’t—”

“You know,” you interrupted lightly, gaze fixed ahead, “when I was younger, I used to think loyalty meant dying for people.” The city wind stirred gently through your hair as you spoke. “Now I think it means wanting them to live.”

Jo stared at the small vial hidden carefully within his palm. You smiled faintly without looking at him. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Something complicated flickered across the spy’s expression then. Gratitude? Guilt? Or perhaps loyalty? You’d have loved loyalty. 

“Yes, my lady.” He said softly and it no longer sounded like obedience to the Astagne family. It sounded like obedience to you. And fuck did that power feel so delicious.

__________

You’d always hated the colour red. No matter how many times you wore it, there was always a faint dislike for the hue settled deep in your heart. Sitting in front of your grandmother in a room colored entirely in that shade of blood, you understood why. 

Red meant the Astagne family. And the Astagne family meant blood splattered across the bones of the innocent. 

Rich crimson drapes cascaded from towering windows embroidered in gold thread, heavy enough to block sunlight entirely. Red velvet furniture sat arranged with oppressive elegance across polished floors while ruby chandeliers burned overhead like suspended drops of blood. Even the tea served before your grandmother carried a reddish tint from imported herbs.

Everything in the room screamed Astagne—power, purity, control.

You sat perfectly poised across from your grandmother with your ankles crossed neatly and your hands resting gracefully in your lap. The Astagne matriarch watched you over the rim of her teacup with terrifyingly sharp eyes. Time had silvered her hair and thinned her frame but nothing—not death, nor illness, nor gods themselves—had managed to dull the sheer force of her presence. 

“You’ve grown thinner.” She remarked coolly.

“And you’ve grown ruder with age.”

Unexpectedly your grandmother smiled into her tea. “You sound more like your sister every year.”

The words struck cleanly beneath your ribs but you maintained your expression flawlessly. Years of noble training had made sure of that. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence settled briefly between you both while servants moved quietly around the suite pouring tea and adjusting candles. None of them spoke above whispers in your grandmother’s presence. Fear had a way of shrinking people.

“So,” the matriarch said eventually, setting her cup down with delicate precision, “tell me about Kairos.”

You nearly laughed; there it was—the real conversation. You smiled politely instead. “It remains chaotic as ever.”

“And Nakakita Yuma?”

Your fingers almost tightened against your lap. You exhaled sharply through your nose in practiced annoyance. “Insufferable.”

A flicker of approval crossed her sharp features already. “He still insists on poisoning young minds with machinery and mathematical theory?”

“Oh constantly.” You scoffed dramatically, leaning back slightly in your chair. “You’d think he personally invented mana itself with the way he lectures.”

In your mind flashed the image of him half-undressed in your office. Shirt loose at the collar exposing his neck, dark eyes, his mouth against yours whispering the filthiest pieces of poetry. Let’s forget about everything for a while, hmm? You took a calm sip of tea.

“Last week he implied transformation magic was becoming obsolete.” You sighed deeply. A blatant lie. But your grandmother’s expression hardened nonetheless. Excellent. 

“Arrogant boy,” she murmured coldly. 

“Oh, impossibly so.” You shook your head with theatrical irritation. “If he speaks about ‘mana efficiency’ to me one more time, I may actually kill him.” Another lie, because unfortunately you rather enjoyed listening to him speak.

Especially when his voice dropped low and soft against your throat. And when he moaned high right at your ear before he licked a stripe up your neck—you really are beautiful like this, you know. 

Your grandmother watched you carefully for a long moment. Then she laughed—a sound that startled even the servants. “You hide it well.” She observed. “The temper.” Her sharp eyes gleamed faintly. “The temper that runs through this family.”

Ah. Not the kisses then……shame.

“You remind me very much of myself at your age.” Your grandmother rarely complimented anybody. The old woman leaned back slowly into her chair, studying you.  “You’ve represented the family well these past months,” she said calmly. “Public opinion continues improving.” 

Of course it did. The brilliant young Astagne professor opposing dangerous modern magic beside the kingdom’s most infamous scientific mage? People adored that narrative. You had crafted it carefully. Piece by piece. Lie by lie.

Kiss by kiss.

Your grandmother continued quietly, “The court speaks highly of you.” You lowered your gaze modestly despite the triumphant pulse already beginning beneath your skin. “And,” she added, “I believe the time may soon come to formally announce my successor.” Your heartbeat thundered once.

There it was. There it fucking was.

Years of careful performance. Years of smiling through grief and fury and hatred. Years of pretending. All crystallising into this moment. You looked back up at her.

“I would be honoured, grandmother.”

The old woman nodded, satisfied, proud and deceived. The meeting continued a little longer after that but the moment you stepped back out into the hotel corridors, the pressure in your chest finally released. Victory tasted sharp and electric beneath your tongue. Your heels clicked against polished floors as you walked away from the crimson suite with your head held high.

The servants bowed lower when you passed now. Even Jo standing near the staircase looked at you differently. Not merely as the matriarch’s granddaughter, but as something approaching inevitable.

And god, you hated how fucking amazing it felt.

_________

“Yuma you do realise we’re supposed to parade as enemies?” “I am aware.” The professor beside you glanced sideways without the slightest bit of shame.

“Then why,” you said slowly, eyeing the alarming lack of distance between your shoulders, “are you walking like you’re attached to me by divine decree?”

Around you, the capital’s main market square surged with life. The students had scattered almost immediately upon arrival—some crowding around enchanted jewellery stalls while others lost their minds over magically animated desserts and street performers conjuring miniature dragons from sparks of mana.

Somewhere to your left, Euijoo was already stopping two students (and one puppy-eyed Wang Yixiang) from attempting to purchase illegal spell crystals. Peacefully, of course, as peacefully as a man could while questioning every life decision he had ever made.

“You’re exaggerating,” Yuma replied calmly.

The bustling square wrapped around you both in waves of sound and colour; merchants yelling over one another, magical trinkets glittering beneath hanging lanterns and the scent of baked sugar and smoke drifting warmly through the air. Above the market, long banners embroidered with the royal crest fluttered lazily in the wind. It would have felt almost relaxing—if Yuma was not currently invading every inch of your personal space.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re impossible.”

“Should have said that two nights ago too, princess.” He mused, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

You looked moments away from shoving him directly into a fountain. Before you could, however, your expression shifted slightly. Then you leaned closer just enough for only him to hear. “It’s fine anyway.” Yuma’s gaze flickered toward you. You kept your eyes ahead casually as you continued walking through the crowded market together. “Harua helped, and Jo.” Understanding crossed his face almost instantly.

“You reduced surveillance?” He murmured quietly.

“Temporarily.” You smiled faintly. “Harua redirected a handful of palace informants toward the foreign delegates arriving this week.” Your voice lowered slightly. “And Jo managed to pull some of the Astagne spies off our trail.”

Yuma raised a brow. “How?”

You looked delightfully smug. “I may have convinced my grandmother I’m too busy hating you to do anything suspicious.” He snorted softly beneath his breath, “So for now,” you continued lightly, glancing at him finally, “we can relax a little.”

The market sunlight caught against his dark hair as he looked at you. For the first time since arriving in the capital—he truly looked relaxed. The tension that usually lived somewhere beneath his shoulders eased faintly. His posture loosened just enough to notice if one knew him well.

“That dangerous, hm?” he said quietly.

“You have no idea.” You passed a stall selling enchanted flowers, their petals glowing softly in shifting colours beneath crystal jars. One particularly bright bloom unfurled as you walked by, releasing tiny sparks into the air. Yuma’s hand brushed briefly against yours.

“You realise,” he said mildly after a moment, “this is the closest thing to a vacation either of us has had in years.”

You stared ahead at the bustling square. Students laughing, magic humming through warm air, no spies breathing down your neck, no performance required every second, no crimson rooms, no mountain roads. Just this.

Just him beside you beneath the afternoon sun.

“That’s deeply depressing,” you decided finally. Yuma laughed quietly. And god help you—you thought it might’ve been your favourite sound in the world.

___________

Nothing ever remained peaceful for long when Nakakita Yuma existed within your vicinity. The universe simply refused to allow it. Perhaps the gods themselves looked down upon the two of you and decided harmony would be far too generous.

The Royal Museum of Arcane Antiquities towered over the capital’s eastern district. Vast halls stretched endlessly beneath painted ceilings while ancient relics gleamed behind glass displays; crowns humming faintly with dormant mana, cursed swords suspended in containment fields and fragments of celestial machinery older than most kingdoms.

The students had lost their minds approximately ten minutes after entering. Several third years were currently arguing near a reconstructed dragon skeleton while another group attempted to calculate the mana output of an ancient war artifact despite Euijoo repeatedly warning them not to touch anything. Yixiang, meanwhile, had somehow already been reprimanded by museum staff twice. You didn’t ask because you truly did not wish to know.

Warm sunlight filtered through towering stained-glass windows overhead while you and Yuma wandered slower than the students, lingering near older exhibits discussing theories and magical constructs beneath the comfortable murmur of the museum halls.

At one point he’d spent nearly fifteen minutes explaining why an ancient mana stabiliser was historically significant while you pretended not to listen despite understanding every word. At another, you had mocked one of the old Astagne relic displays so viciously that Yuma nearly choked trying not to laugh in public.

You were standing near a display of ancient transformation spell manuscripts when the feeling hit—that awful instinctive tightening beneath your ribs; intuition again. Your gaze lifted slowly from the artifact case and there they stood, across the grand marble hall. 

Your mother looked exactly as she always had—beautiful in the cold aristocratic way Astagne women were raised to become. Crimson jewels rested elegantly against her throat while her expression remained composed enough to fool anybody unfamiliar with her. Your father stood beside her, posture rigid and severe. Even from a distance, he looked disappointed in something, probably existence itself.

Your mother’s eyes met yours first, then flickered toward Yuma standing beside you. You knew that look on her face. No coincidence existed within noble families, not when inheritance lingered in the air like blood in water.

Your father began walking toward you both and every instinct inside your body stiffened instantly. You hated that they still had the power to make you feel sixteen years old again. Your mother followed elegantly beside him, as nobles nearby subtly shifted aside to allow them passage. Power parted crowds effortlessly. 

“Daughter.” your father greeted you once they reached, like you were a political associate rather than flesh and blood.

You smiled perfectly. “Father. Mother.”

Your mother’s gaze lingered briefly over your appearance before settling on Yuma. “Professor Nakakita,” she acknowledged politely, Yuma bowed his head barely an inch, “How fortunate,” your mother said pleasantly, “to encounter Kairos faculty during our visit.”

A cold fucking lie. You smiled sweeter. “The capital is certainly crowded this week.”

Your mother’s smile never faltered. “We were actually hoping to steal a moment of your time.”

Immediately, every warning bell inside your body rang at once. You kept your expression composed. “I’m supervising students today.” Your tone remained perfectly professional. “Unfortunately Kairos becomes a public safety hazard when left unattended.”

Somewhere across the museum, a loud crash echoed distantly followed by Yixiang yelling something that sounded suspiciously like “IT WAS ALREADY ON FIRE.”

Your father did not blink. “We won’t keep you long.” You opened your mouth to refuse again.

Beside you, however, Yuma spoke first. “It’s fine.” Your eyes snapped toward him instantly. The traitor looked entirely calm. “I can manage the students.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. Manage them? You knew exactly what he was doing—giving you an escape route would have been impossible here. Refusing your parents publicly would only raise suspicion, especially now of all times. Still, you wanted to strangle him a little.

“How noble of you, Professor.” You forced your expression into one of annoyance. 

Your father already looked impatient. “Come.” What you wouldn’t have given to duel your father right there and then. Unbearable man.

The couple guided you away from the museum’s central halls toward a quieter gallery lined with ancient noble relics and enchanted tapestries. Footsteps echoed softly against marble floors while distant chatter faded further behind you. 

Only once you were properly secluded did your mother finally speak again. “You’ve done well. You’ve handled yourself excellently since arriving in the capital,” she continued smoothly. “Public perception remains overwhelmingly positive.”

There it was. Daughter? The word was foreign on their tongue. No, you were an asset.

Your father folded his hands behind his back as the three of you slowed near a towering display of ancient Astagne ceremonial artifacts. “The court speaks highly of your conduct.”

“And your grandmother,” your mother added carefully, “seems increasingly pleased.”

Your father turned slightly toward you then, expression stern as ever. “She intends to make the announcement soon.”

You lowered your gaze modestly despite the victorious pulse beginning beneath your skin. “I’ll do my best to honour the family name.”

Your mother studied you for a long moment, searching for god knows what. She did that to everybody, as far as you could remember. “The kingdom admires your rivalry. You and Professor Nakakita.” She said, “Are there any complications?”

“There are no complications,” you replied smoothly.

“Good.” Your father’s tone sharpened slightly. “Because if you are to inherit this family, perception will matter more than sentiment.”

Something ugly twisted quietly beneath your ribs. Sentiment—as though affection itself were weakness, as though love had not once cost your family everything. You looked away before you said something unforgivable.

That was when you noticed it—your father’s gaze above, toward the chandelier hanging overhead. Massive crystal tiers glimmered beneath enchanted lighting high above the gallery hall, ancient gold chains disappearing into the painted ceiling overhead. And suddenly, that dreadful intuitive feeling returned. Somewhere distant within the museum halls, magic crackled faintly.

The crackle came again, louder this time and your blood ran cold. Every instinct inside you screamed at once—wrong wrong wrong. You turned sharply toward the main gallery hall just as the first chain snapped.

The sound split through the museum like thunder. Gasps erupted instantly and students screamed. And directly beneath the massive crystal chandelier, stood Yuma.

Time seemed to fracture. You saw everything all at once—the collapsing gold framework, thousands of sharpened crystal pieces plummeting downward. Yuma looking up too late. You moved before your thoughts could catch up. Mana tore violently through your body and the world flashed scarlet.

Butterflies.

A thousand crimson wings exploded outward through the gallery hall in one impossible wave as the falling chandelier transformed midair. Crystal shattered into living scarlet forms instantly, butterflies erupting through the museum like a storm of blood-red petals beneath golden light. Students cried out in shock, museum guests stumbled backward and the air filled with wings.

Magic, scarlet, beautiful.

The agony hit you a second later. Pain speared through your body so suddenly your knees nearly buckled. Fuck—you hadn’t taken enough stabilising medicine that morning. You were already running low and transformation magic without proper regulation always exacted its price. Your veins burned and it felt as though something sharp had been driven directly beneath your ribs while molten mana clawed violently through your nerves.

You forced your posture upright—show neither weakness nor pain. 

Across the gallery hall, butterflies swarmed wildly through the air where the chandelier should have crushed Yuma entirely. And at the centre of them, stood the professor himself. Very alive, with his eyes fixed on you, fear in his eyes. Fear…for you?

You looked away first. Your breathing had already become dangerously shallow. Around the museum, chaos erupted fully now. Students scrambled everywhere while staff rushed toward the collapsed chains overhead. Voices overlapped endlessly beneath the storm of scarlet wings still dissolving slowly into glittering mana.

Beside you, your mother spoke first. “How fortunate.”

You nearly turned around and slapped her. Instead, you smiled coldly. “Yes,” you said despite the pain carving through your spine. “How fortunate indeed.”

Your father remained silent—coward. You knew. You knew exactly what that had been—a warning, a test. Or merely an accident conveniently arranged near the kingdom’s most controversial scientific mage.

Either way, they did not care whether Yuma lived or died. Something vicious rose inside your chest and you forced it back down. Your mother’s sharp gaze shifted toward the gallery again where Yuma now pushed through the crowd toward your direction. 

“Control yourself,” she murmured quietly. “People are watching.”

You almost laughed from the sheer insanity of it. Control yourself? You had just ripped apart an entire chandelier with raw transformation magic while your nervous system threatened mutiny. 

“Don’t worry,” you said calmly, smoothing down your sleeves despite the tremor threatening your fingers. “I’ll handle Professor Nakakita later.”

Across the hall, Yuma finally reached the edge of the gallery crowd. His eyes locked onto yours and because he knew you far too well—he noticed the stiffness in your posture, the unnatural stillness in your hands and the way your breathing shortened fractionally every few seconds. You held his gaze for one brief moment longer before subtly shaking your head once.

Don’t. Not here, not now.

The museum chaos blurred around you both while butterflies continued dissolving through shafts of golden sunlight overhead like dying embers. Yuma reached you moments later, coat dishevelled from shoving past panicked students and horrified staff members. You kept your own expression perfectly composed despite the agony still curling violently through your body.

“Professor Astagne.” His voice came smooth and cool once more, the public mask slipping back into place flawlessly. “How heroic of you.”

You nearly laughed from the pain of it all. “Try not to stand beneath falling objects next time, Professor.” Your mother watched the exchange with narrowed eyes while behind you, the final butterflies dissolved slowly into dust.

Yuma turned then, acknowledging your parents with politeness. “Lord Astagne. Lady Astagne.”

Your father’s expression remained cold. “You rely too heavily on unstable inventions, Professor Nakakita.”

Yuma’s posture straightened fractionally. “The chandelier was hardly my invention.”

“No,” your father replied smoothly, “but dependence on modern systems breeds carelessness regardless.”

You could practically feel Yuma swallowing several deeply impolite responses. Your mother sighed softly beside him. “Traditional magic remains safer when handled correctly.”

The hypocrisy nearly made you dizzy. Safer. You wondered if they remembered saying that beside your sister’s grave too.

Beside you, Yuma’s gaze flickered once toward your hands, still trembling faintly beneath your sleeves. Guilt flashed briefly across his face before disappearing immediately beneath calm indifference. “Thankfully,” he said coolly, “Professor Astagne was nearby to compensate for everyone else’s incompetence.”

Your chest hurt for reasons entirely unrelated to mana now and your father looked mildly displeased by the compliment. Good—let him choke on it.

Your mother glanced toward you again then. “You look pale.”

Pain shot sharply beneath your ribs at the exact wrong moment and you smiled anyway. “I’m fine.”

“We can escort you back to the hotel,” your father offered stiffly. “You’ve clearly exhausted yourself.”

Absolutely not. Going anywhere alone with them right now sounded remarkably similar to volunteering for execution.“I still have students to supervise.” Your voice remained light despite the effort speaking now required. “Kairos would burn the capital down within an hour unattended.” As if summoned by fate itself, a loud explosion sounded faintly somewhere deeper within the museum. Yixiang—definitely Yixiang. Your mother looked horrified. You smiled pleasantly. “See?”

Your father inclined his head once. “Very well.” The couple departed soon after, like shadows retreating from sunlight.

Only once they were fully gone did the tension around you snap sharply. Your knees almost gave out immediately and Yuma caught your wrist before you could stumble. You jerked slightly at the contact and his hand loosened instantly. People were still watching. 

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.

“I’m alive.” You forced your breathing steady again.

“That wasn’t the agreement.” Something about the anger in his voice startled you—a morphed form of guilt. 

“Oh please.” You managed a weak scoff. “You’re the one who nearly got flattened a chandelier.”

Yuma looked at you like he wanted to say something unforgivable. Instead he stepped back, creating distance and rebuilding his mask. Soft girl, he thought bitterly, soft stupid girl.

Since when had he become the kind of man who could not bear seeing you hurt?

___________

The last thing you remembered was the hallway. The hotel corridor had stretched endlessly before you, walls blurring together beneath the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers. Your body had already begun shutting down by then.  Every step toward your room felt distant, disconnected, like walking underwater. You vaguely remembered fumbling with your room key and hearing your own pulse roaring loudly in your ears.

And then there was nothing. Just darkness swallowing you whole before you even reached the door.

When consciousness returned, it did so slowly and it was the warmth that reached you first. The heavy softness of blankets tucked around your body, your limbs felt unbearably heavy, mana exhaustion still lingering deep in your bones like wet cement. Your room sat dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, amber light washing gently across. Night had fully settled now, city lights glittering beyond the windows like scattered stars.

And sitting beside your bed—still in his outside clothes—was Yuma.

He sat slumped in the chair beside you, arms crossed tightly against his chest. His coat was wrinkled, collar loosened, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. His head leaned back against the chair, eyes closed in exhausted sleep. You shifted beneath the blankets, after staring at him for a while. The movement made the mattress creak softly and Yuma’s eyes opened instantly. In fact, his gaze snapped toward you so fast it almost startled you.

For one second, pure relief crossed his face and then it vanished beneath irritation. “You’re awake.”

“Well observed.” You winced and pushed yourself upright against the pillows. That was when you noticed the soft silk nightgown against your skin. You blinked. Then slowly looked toward him. “Did you change my clothes?”

Yuma didn’t even hesitate. “I can dismantle bombs in complete darkness,” he replied dryly. “I’m fairly certain I can manage buttons and fabric too.”

“You changed me unconscious?” You stared at him in horror. “Oh my god.” You scoffed, wanting to throw your hands in the air but failing because they currently felt like lead.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” You narrowed your eyes at him while he leaned forward in the chair, elbows now resting against his knees. “You drooled on my shoulder while I carried you by the way.” “I did not.” Your entire body froze. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Tragic. Because it happened.” You threw the nearest pillow weakly at him, “And you scared the living hell out of me,” he said quietly. The honesty of it stunned you silent and Yuma looked away briefly, jaw tightening. He remembered it too clearly.

The way your body had suddenly crumpled in the hotel corridor before he could even reach you. The awful split-second where his heart had stopped entirely. The violent panic pounding through his chest as he caught you before your head struck marble flooring.

He remembered carrying you upstairs far too fast, how frighteningly light you had felt in his arms. He remembered Euijoo kneeling beside the bed afterward, checking your pulse while Yuma stood there feeling something close to terror.

Mana exhaustion—that was all it had been. Nothing fatal and nothing permanent. But Yuma had still needed several minutes afterward before his hands stopped shaking.

“You should’ve told me you were running low,” he muttered. You looked down at the blanket gathered loosely in your lap, “and don’t you dare tell me you forgot.” His eyes lifted back toward yours sharply. “Beacuse I know for a fact that you ignored it.”

Your throat tightened slightly. “I didn’t think it would get that bad.”

“You turned an entire chandelier into butterflies.” Yuma laughed once under his breath, though there was no amusement in it, “That was borderline suicide.” 

“Oh please.” You looked faintly proud of yourself, “You would’ve become decorative floor art.” Yuma smiled faintly at that. And fuck—the sight of it in the warm amber light nearly ruined you. 

“Go back to sleep, princess.” Yuma sighed softly and leaned back into the chair. “I’m staying here.”

Your heart stumbled stupidly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” But he made no move to leave.

____________

You remembered the first ever ball you’d ever attended. 

You had been thirteen and overwhelmed by absolutely everything. The palace had looked enormous back then, all glittering chandeliers and marble staircases that made you feel terribly small beneath the weight of noble expectations. Everywhere you looked, people sparkled. Jewels, gold, silk, smiles sharpened into weapons behind painted masks.

Your mother had dressed you personally that evening in layers of crimson silk that pooled around your shoes whenever you walked too quickly. Red ribbons had been woven carefully into your hair while servants adjusted your little mask for what felt like hours. Astagne red.

Even then, you remembered hating it. But your sister had laughed softly at your miserable expression while fixing the ribbon at the back of your mask. “You look beautiful,” she had whispered warmly.

You had spent nearly the entire evening clutching her hand while hiding behind her whenever nobles approached to speak to you. She had guided you through dances, stolen desserts for you and whispered commentary about noble guests until you laughed loud enough to embarrass the entire family. You remembered the warmth of her hand, the way you had thought, with childish certainty, that nothing terrible could ever happen while she stood beside you. Funny how wrong children always are.

The first ball you had attended since her death was another masquerade. Cruel irony truly did follow you everywhere.

You stood before the mirror in your room while servants fluttered nervously around you making final adjustments to fabric and jewels. Red again—it had to be red. The gown clung elegantly to your figure, deep crimson silk flowing like spilled wine down to the floor while a slit traced sharply up one thigh, the neckline resting off your shoulders. Rubies adorned your neck too—an Astagne heirloom necklace. Your grandmother had insisted upon it, by means of a letter. 

The red masquerade mask concealed the upper half of your face, intricate silver detailing curling across its edges like thorns. Combined with the gown, the entire ensemble transformed you into precisely what the Astagne family adored most: something untouchable, something dangerous, something beautiful enough to distract people from the blood beneath it.

One of the maids adjusted the final clasp behind your neck before stepping back with a soft gasp. “You look stunning, Lady Astagne.”

Outside your windows, the palace glowed against the night sky like something celestial. Golden lights illuminated towering spires while music drifted through the capital streets below. Carriages rolled toward the palace gates carrying nobles from every corner of the kingdom.

Tomorrow Kairos would depart for home. Tomorrow the performances would begin again in full. But tonight? Tonight the kingdom danced.

The hotel lobby buzzed with excitement loud enough to rival a festival. The students filled every corner of the hall, their voices overlapping in waves of laughter, nervousness and complaints about formalwear, jewels and carefully styled hair. Some students looked radiant. Some looked deeply uncomfortable. And some looked one minor inconvenience away from collapsing entirely. Yixiang was currently attempting to pin a flower onto Euijoo’s suit while Euijoo looked seconds away from homicide.

“Hold still, idiot.”

“You’re literally stabbing me, you monster.” 

Near the bottom of the staircase, hands tucked neatly behind his back stood Yuma. He looked……unfair. That was truly the only word for it.

The dark red suit fit him with devastating precision, tailored black embroidery tracing along the cuffs and collar like shadows curling through blood. Gold chains glimmered against the waistcoat while the black masquerade mask sharpened every feature he possessed.

His hair had been pushed back slightly for once, exposing more of his face than usual. Which frankly felt deeply inconsiderate toward your sanity. Several students kept glancing toward him every few seconds like he was some rare celestial event. Yuma ignored all of them completely.

At least, until movement appeared near the staircase. The conversation throughout the lobby softened gradually. Then stopped altogether.

You descended slowly, one gloved hand resting against the staircase railing as crimson silk flowed around your legs like liquid starlight. The slit of your gown flashed briefly with every step downward while rubies glittered softly against your throat and collarbones. 

The entire lobby stared. A student somewhere near the back audibly whispered, “Holy shit.” Euijoo immediately smacked the back of his head.

And Yuma? Yuma forgot how breathing worked for a solid three seconds.

His gaze lifted slowly as you descended the staircase and something in his chest simply ceased functioning entirely. You looked unreal, like something painted into existence by a cruel god with far too much talent.

The colour red wrapped around you like devotion itself, and suddenly Yuma understood why kingdoms fell for beautiful women. Because if you had asked him to destroy the world right there beneath those chandeliers—he genuinely might have considered it.

Meanwhile, you noticed absolutely none of this. The second your eyes landed on Yuma, your brain stopped too. Oh that suit should’ve been illegal. The sharp lines of it against his figure, the gloves, the half-mask resting against his face, the rich crimson beneath warm golden lighting. Was red always such a beautiful colour?

By the time you reached the final staircase step, the silence in the lobby had become almost comical. You glanced around slowly. “…Why is everybody looking at me like that?”

One of the third-year students clutched dramatically at her chest. “Professor Astagne, respectfully I think I just died.”

“You’re all embarrassing,” you informed them calmly.

Yuma moved then, stepping forward smoothly through the stunned crowd until he stood directly before you. Close enough for only you to notice the way his eyes softened beneath the mask, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume beneath all the gold-lit glamour surrounding you. 

“Red looks good on you.” All you could think was, so does it on you.

__________

Politics, parties, peacock feathers—were there any better words to describe your grandmother? The utterly fucked up matriarch you were going to steal a dukedom from?

The grand ballroom of the palace glittered like the inside of a jewel box, drowning beneath gold light and orchestral music so rich it practically soaked into the walls. Chandeliers floated high beneath enchanted ceilings painted to resemble a living night sky. The kingdom adored spectacle and tonight, spectacle had arrived dressed in silk and deception.

Nobles drifted across the floor in rivers of colour while servants glided soundlessly between them carrying trays overflowing with wine and desserts. Laughter echoed beneath the music, artificial and practiced in the way only aristocrats could manage.

Near the centre staircase stood the kings. King Yudai looked precisely as intimidating as the kingdom adored pretending he was not, shoulders wrapped in black and gold while a silver mask sharpened the elegance of his features. Beside him stood Fuma, more approachable in appearance and therefore more dangerous. He wore deep emerald, rings glimmering against elegant fingers as he smiled through conversations with the ease of a man entirely aware of his own charm. 

Euijoo stood near one of the champagne tables looking painfully dignified in silver-trimmed black formalwear while Yixiang lingered beside him bothering him with relentless dedication.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t miss me if I disappeared mysteriously.”

“I would celebrate.”

“That’s cruel after I dressed nicely for you.”

“You look like a flammable curtain.”

“See? This is why our love cannot thrive.” Euijoo looked toward the ceiling briefly as though asking the gods for strength.

Across the ballroom, Harua moved through clusters of nobles like smoke, blue silk sweeping elegantly behind him while he smiled his way through conversations and undoubtedly gathered enough information to destroy several political careers before dessert arrived. Taki and Maki followed in matching uniforms, though the two apprentices looked significantly more interested in the stacks of blueberry pie.

Standing quietly near one of the ballroom entrances, half-hidden amongst the shadows, was Jo in a sharp black suit, expression unreadable, ever watchful, your grandmother’s spy. No—your spy now. The realization curled warm and dangerous through your chest.

You stood near one of the ballroom pillars with a glass of wine resting lightly between your fingers, observing the room through the crimson tint of your mask. And there she was, your grandmother.

The great matriarch stood surrounded by old noble families dressed in layers of red silk and jewels heavy enough to rival armour. Peacock feathers adorned portions of her elaborate gown tonight, dramatic and excessive in the way she adored. Her laughter rang sharply through the ballroom while nobles leaned inward around her orbit like devoted planets circling a dying star.

Your family stood nearby too. Your parents smiled,  spoke and laughed. As though none of it had ever happened. As though grief itself had simply become another elegant thing to bury beneath silk and tradition.

Something hot twisted viciously beneath your ribs. Rage—old and poisonous. You watched your grandmother raise her glass, speaking proudly to nobles who would sooner watch villages burn than loosen their grip on power.

And all you could think was—mine, mine, mine. Your fingers tightened around the stem of your wine glass. Your gaze (on instinct) shifted across the ballroom. What else would your enchanted eyes search for except him?

Yuma stood near one of the windows with a champagne glass balanced lazily between his fingers. Red still looked unfairly good on him, his mask shadowing his expression while nobles attempted and failed to pull him into conversation. He looked detached from it all, observing, thinking.

And then, as though sensing your stare—his eyes lifted, locking onto instantly across the crowded ballroom. The noise around you softened strangely. Neither of you moved. But something passed between you, quieter than words. Yuma glanced briefly toward your family then back toward you.

And in that single look—he understood everything sitting behind your eyes. Rage, grief, exhaustion and the weight of performance pressing against your shoulders tonight. His expression softened like he was reminding you silently: you are not alone in this room.

“Well now,” came a warm voice beside you, “that is an awfully dangerous expression.”

Fuma stood beside you now, amusement curling lazily behind his mask. A glass of champagne rested between elegant fingers as he followed your line of sight directly toward Yuma across the ballroom. 

“Professor Astagne,” he said gently, “you’ve looked at Professor Nakakita seventeen times in the last ten minutes.” You looked away immediately, heat rising traitorously into your face beneath the mask. Fuma’s grin widened catastrophically. “Oh,” he sighed dramatically, “you really do like him.”

“I do not.”

“I heard you transformed a chandelier into butterflies for him.” You narrowed your eyes at the king while he laughed softly into his champagne, “You are terrible at denial.” 

Across the ballroom, Yuma still stood near the windows speaking politely to some elderly noble while very clearly wanting to launch himself into the nearest river instead. Your gaze drifted toward him again automatically. Damn it.

“You know,” Fuma said softly, something fond entering his expression. “You have the same look in your eyes as I did when I first met Yudai.” You nearly inhaled wine incorrectly and the king looked pleased with himself. “Absolutely horrified,” he continued smoothly, “while simultaneously willing to ruin your own life for someone.”

“That sounds unhealthy.” You chuckled. 

“It was.” He smiled into his glass. “Still is, actually.” Somewhere across the ballroom, Yudai glanced over toward the two of you as though sensing his husband discussing him from afar. The king’s expression softened then as he looked toward you again. “Funny thing,” he said quietly, “for someone supposedly hating him—you look at him like he is sunlight.”

Before you could respond, the orchestra shifted melodies suddenly. Around the ballroom, couples immediately began drifting toward the dance floor beneath the chandeliers. Fuma tilted his head toward Yuma. “Go dance with him.”

“In front of half the kingdom?” You almost scoffed. “My family is here.”

“Yes,” Fuma said knowingly. “Exactly.” The king leaned casually beside you, lowering his voice. “People already expect hatred from you both.” His rings glimmered softly as he lifted his glass. “Nobody questions enemies dancing at masquerades. Nobles adore drama too much.”

Your eyes shifted back toward Yuma. He had finally escaped the conversation and now stood alone, candlelight flickering gold and crimson across his face beneath the mask.

You wanted him. The way music wanted to be admired. The way the sunsets wanted to be loved. The way a wound wanted to be treated before it festered (how could one treat a wound on the heart?). You wanted his hands on your waist beneath chandelier light. Wanted to hear him laugh softly against your ear while the orchestra played around you. Wanted one selfish moment where neither of you had to pretend so hard.

This was a terrible idea, an absolutely catastrophic idea. But honestly? You were exhausted—of politics, of grief, of pretending every second of every day.

So perhaps—just for one dance—you could allow yourself something selfish. You set your wine glass carefully onto a passing servant’s tray. Then before your courage abandoned you entirely, you walked toward Yuma.

The walk toward him felt far longer than it actually was. Music swelled softly around you, laughter and conversation blurring together into distant noise. Your heels clicked steadily against marble, crimson silk sweeping around your legs with every step.

Yuma’s gaze lifted from the champagne glass in his hand and locked onto yours through the shifting crowd. For one brief moment, genuine surprise crossed his face beneath the black mask. Then amusement followed—slow and beautiful. 

“Well,” he murmured as you finally stopped before him, “either I’m hallucinating or Professor Astagne is voluntarily approaching me.”

“Don’t sound too pleased about it.” You rolled your eyes lightly despite the warmth spreading through your chest. Behind you, the orchestra shifted smoothly into another slow melody. Yuma glanced briefly toward the dance floor and toward you again. The corner of his mouth tilted upward faintly.

You hated how easy this felt tonight. Maybe it was the masks or the exhaustion. Maybe it was simply that for once, you were both too tired to keep fighting each other properly. Yuma set his untouched champagne aside onto a tray before extending one hand toward you.

“You look stupid in red.” You said, noticing him noticing you staring at him.

“Looks better on you, sweetheart.” Asshole. Still—you placed your hand in his, warmth sliding up your arm at the contact.

Yuma’s fingers curled around yours before he guided you toward the ballroom floor, movements smooth and practiced. The second his other hand settled against your waist— your brain stopped functioning entirely. He was warm. Yuma guided you effortlessly into the dance as though he had known your rhythm forever, one hand holding yours while the other rested at your waist.

“You dance surprisingly well,” you muttered weakly.

“I was forced into etiquette lessons as a child.” Yuma’s eyes softened at the sound of your laughter. 

Neither of you spoke, simply moving together while the kingdom glittered around you. The world narrowed to his hand at your waist, to his scent of champagne and cedarwood, to the way his eyes watched you through the mask like you were something precious enough to memorize.

For one selfish moment—you forgot everything else. Forgot your family watching, forgot politics, forgot inheritance, forgot revenge. There was only this. Only him. Yuma’s thumb brushed lightly once against your waist through the fabric of your gown and your breath caught slightly. 

“Why hello there beautiful." He murmured softly, “What is a ruined man like me doing dancing with you?” His quiet laugh nearly ruined you.

Then, suddenly, the music stopped. Conversation softened beneath the enormous chandeliers while nobles turned toward the elevated royal platform at the front of the hall. Standing now beside the kings was your grandmother. The matriarch smiled slowly as Yudai stepped gracefully aside, surrendering the ballroom’s attention to her.

“Honoured guests,” your grandmother began, her voice carrying throughout the ballroom through subtle amplification magic. “Tonight has been a celebration not only of Kairos Academy, but of the future of our kingdom itself.” You already knew where this was going. The matriarch’s gaze swept elegantly across the ballroom before settling directly onto you.

“There comes a time,” she continued, “when every great family must look toward legacy. For decades,” your grandmother said proudly, “the Astagne family has safeguarded the ancient traditions of magic and carried them with honour through generations.” Lie. Lie. Lie. “And now,” she smiled, “it is time to announce the successor who shall inherit that responsibility after me.” The ballroom practically held its breath.

“Lady Astagne.” Your name echoed through the hall like the strike of a bell. “There is no individual more worthy of becoming the next head of the Astagne family.”

For one blinding moment, you forgot to breathe.

Applause thundered through the hall like crashing waves, nobles rising from their seats in approval. Gold and scarlet light blurred beneath your vision. People were smiling, speaking, congratulating, but all of it sounded distant. The word crashed into your chest with enough force to make you feel dizzy. Years of clawing and performing and bleeding yourself hollow suddenly condensed into one single instant. 

Something hot and radiant unfurled inside your ribs, swelling brighter and brighter until it felt unbearable, like the sun itself had lodged beneath your skin. Triumph tasted intoxicating—spreading through your veins warm and molten, sweeter than every bitter thing you had swallowed all these years.

The next Duchess Astagne; you smiled before you could stop yourself—a beautiful, oh so terribly beautiful—smile. 

The sight struck Yuma speechless. The orchestra had resumed softly somewhere in the background. Nobles continued applauding. Your grandmother looked smug beyond belief. But Yuma neither heard nor saw any of it.

Only you—looking incandescent standing there amidst applause and crystal light, like victory had taken human form. Yuma had seen you furious enough to summon storms of butterflies. He had seen you half-conscious in his arms inside a freezing carriage. Seen you smoke cigarettes under moonlight and threaten murder over tea. Seen you exhausted, grieving, manipulative, brilliant, soft. But this?

This might have been the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.

The urge to cross the ballroom and kiss you nearly ruined him. And not a subtle kiss hidden behind cigarette smoke or shadows or locked offices, no he wanted a catastrophic one. The kind that would scandalise kingdoms, the kind that would make your grandmother faint into somebody’s champagne, the kind that would wipe that triumphant expression off every Astagne face because suddenly their precious successor would belong to nobody’s expectations but her own.

Your eyes found him again through the crowd. The applause roared, nobles continued talking excitedly, somewhere Yudai was grinning like he had personally orchestrated it all. But the second your gaze locked onto Yuma? Everything softened. Your smile faltered just slightly into something quieter, only for him. And god help him, Yuma smiled back too—small and barely there, but devastatingly genuine. Like he was silently telling you, look at you, princess.

Look what you survived for.

___________

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of noise and too many smiling faces. Nobles approached endlessly, polished congratulations dripping from their tongues. Successor—the word followed you everywhere tonight. Lady Astagne. Future Duchess. Matriarch. Each title wrapped around your shoulders heavier and heavier until they felt less like praise and more like chains made beautiful enough for people to admire.

Still—you smiled. Of course you smiled. This was what you had wanted, wasn’t it?

Your grandmother had even pulled you aside midway through the celebration, red silk rustling around her like fresh blood as she placed a hand upon your shoulder. “You need not abandon Kairos. A proper Astagne can rule and maintain scholarly pursuits simultaneously.” You had nearly laughed in relief. Despite your plans and rage and ambition, you loved Kairos. You loved your students, your sunlit office and the feeling of magic blooming between your fingertips during lectures. You loved teaching.

And you loved him too. 

So you endured the rest of the evening with perfect grace. You danced when required, spoke when spoken to, allowed nobles to fawn over you. By the time midnight bled into the early hours of morning, you finally managed to escape by citing Kairos’ journey home tomorrow and the responsibility of supervising students—only partially a lie.

The moment you returned to the hotel, silence swallowed you whole. Gone were the orchestras and chandeliers and laughter echoing through the halls. Your room greeted you with dim lamps and moonlight spilling through the curtains. Still dressed in your gown and jewels, you sat quietly at the edge of your bed, staring at absolutely nothing. The room felt strangely hollow now. Or perhaps you did. Your heels lay discarded somewhere, your mask rested abandoned beside them, the remnants of another performance finally completed. Outside, the capital still buzzed with nightlife, but here lay only silence.

You should have felt victorious. Instead, there was simply…quiet. Emptiness settled beneath your ribs, spreading through your chest like cooling embers after a fire had burned itself out. You had spent years clawing toward this moment. And now you finally had it, why did you feel so tired? 

Your fingers drifted absently to your ruby necklace. Red jewels, red gown, red family. You hated red. A soft knock sounded against the adjoining door. You didn’t answer. A second later the door opened anyway.

Red wasn’t so bad.

Yuma stepped inside dressed exactly as he had been at the ball, though his jacket had disappeared and the top buttons of his shirt had been loosened. His eyes found you and every trace of amusement left his face. You must have looked awful, sitting stiffly at the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead with exhaustion carved into every inch of your posture. Yuma looked at you for a long moment before walking closer, slow and careful like approaching a wounded animal.

“The future Duchess Astagne,” he said softly at last, voice quieter than usual. “You look like somebody’s just informed you the world’s ending.”

“That’s because it probably is.” You murmured tiredly. Yuma didn’t reply to your bleak statement. He studied you, gaze tracing the weary lines of your face, the stiff set of your shoulders under the heavy fabric. 

“You should take all this off before you fall asleep in it.” Yuma said, eyes drifting toward the rubies glittering at your throat and woven through your hair. “You look uncomfortable.”

“Can’t.” You glanced down at the gown, the jewels weighing on your neck and hair. “I’m too tired to even lift my arms.”

Yuma stared at you for a second longer. Then he stood. “Up.” He said simply.

You looked at him tiredly from where you sat. “Professor, if this is your attempt at tyranny—”

“Stand up, princess.”

There was no bite to it tonight, only softness, perhaps that was why you obeyed. With a sigh that seemed to draw from the very depths of your exhaustion, you pushed yourself up from the bed. The crimson skirts pooled around you once more as you stood, feeling unsteady and hollow.

Yuma guided you gently to stand before the large mirror. In its reflection, you saw the full picture: the Duchess Astagne, resplendent in her color, yet looking utterly shattered inside it. He stood behind you, a steady contrast to your vivid weariness.

Yuma began with the necklace. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he reached around you, his fingers finding the clasp at the nape of your neck. You felt the weight of the jewels lift away, then the slight tug as he undid the fastening. Next, he moved to your hair. One by one, Yuma carefully removed the pins and combs. His movements were slow, methodical, almost reverent. As each piece was taken away, a part of the armor fell. 

Yuma worked with a quiet focus, his eyes occasionally meeting yours in the mirror. You watched him, watched your own transformation from future duchess to….you. When the last jewel was set aside, he rested his hands lightly on your shoulders again.  “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice low.

The automatic answer rose to your lips, the polite, durable lie. “Alright.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, the words firm but not harsh. “Not here. Not now.” His hands tightened slightly on your shoulders. His reflection’s gaze was piercing, seeing through the facade as easily as he’d removed the jewels.

Yuma rested both hands lightly against the edge of the vanity behind you now, gaze fixed steadily on your reflection. Just waiting, like he would stand here all night if necessary.  You stared at yourself in the mirror, your throat tightening. 

“I should be happy.” You whispered finally. “This is what I wanted.” Your fingers curled slowly against the vanity surface. “I spent years planning for this.” You laughed humourlessly beneath your breath. “And tonight everybody kept looking at me like I’d finally become something worthwhile. But all I can think about is how tired I am.” Your voice cracked at the edges. “I thought it would feel…..bigger than this.”

The words hung in the quiet room. Yuma didn’t offer empty consolation. He didn’t tell you you were wrong. His hands moved from your shoulders. He stepped closer, his body almost touching yours from behind, and his arms came around you, not in an embrace, but to reach for the fastenings of the gown.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured softly behind you, “you’ve spent so long surviving that I don’t think you know what to do now that something good has finally happened to you.”

His words were a key turning in a lock you’d forgotten existed. Surviving—that’s what it had been, for so long. The emptiness inside you wasn’t new; it was the hollowed-out space where everything else had been burned away to make room for that singular, driving force.

The gown loosened beneath his careful hands, one clasp, then another. You watched him—his lowered lashes, the concentration in his expression, the tenderness in movements from a man who usually carried himself like sharpened steel.

“Yuma,” you said after a long silence. He hummed softly behind you, fingers still working patiently at the intricate fastenings. “What do I do now?” His hands paused briefly. You stared at your own reflection, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “All these years…” Your voice came out smaller than intended. “All I’ve really felt is anger. Rage at my family, at the kingdom, at myself for not being able to save her.” Your fingers tightened against the vanity edge. “Everything I did came from that.” Another clasp loosened. The gown slipped lower against your shoulders.

“And now I finally have what I wanted.” You laughed weakly. “So why do I still feel so empty?” Yuma’s eyes lifted to yours through the mirror. “What do I do with it, Yuma?” you whispered, the question torn from a place deeper than pride and strategy, “What do I do with this…..emptiness?” 

Yuma’s expression softened so completely it almost hurt to look at. His hands left the gown at last. Then slowly, carefully (for you were a wounded animal), he rested them against your waist, warm through the skin. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice so soft it was almost part of the silence.

“You could try love.” 

The word settled between you both like something fragile. They weren’t even necessarily about him, or about you and him. They were a suggestion, an option placed gently in the hollow space. The most illogical, unscientific, inefficient option imaginable. Given by the most logical person you knew. 

“Love?” you repeated, the word foreign and fragile on your tongue. It felt like trying to name a color you’d never seen. 

“You already know how to grieve people.” Yuma murmured. “You know how to protect them, how to fight for them.” His thumbs brushed lightly against your waist. “Love isn’t as different from those things as you think.”

Your eyes burned again. Yuma, with his ridiculous inventions and quiet understanding. Yuma, who held your panic together in mountain carriages and removed your jewels like they were burdens instead of treasures. Yuma, who saw every ugly aching part of you and stayed anyway.

“How?” you whispered softly, “How do I begin to feel it?” 

Yuma looked at you through the mirror for a long moment, dark eyes impossibly gentle now, as though he were handling something sacred instead of standing behind a girl in a half-undone gown. Then, he bent his head, his lips finding the skin where your neck met your shoulder. The kiss was soft, a question in itself.

“May I show you?” he breathed against your skin, his voice a low vibration. You couldn’t speak. You just gave a tiny nod. He took it as permission.

His lips pressed another kiss, higher on your neck, just below your ear. “May I love,” he began, his voice a quiet murmur, “the way your mana flares crimson when you’re arguing with me?” Another kiss, on the curve of your jaw. “May I love the impossible, stubborn set of your chin when you know you’re right?”

“The way you pretend to hate every invention I make but still touch every single one.” A kiss near the curve of your throat. “The way you care too much. About everyone. Even when the world has given you every reason not to.” Your chest tightened painfully. “The way you laugh before you remember you’re supposed to be angry with me.” Another kiss, slow and tender. “The way you make butterflies when you lose control of your emotions.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him then. “The way you threaten murder over minor inconveniences.” Despite everything, you smiled shakily. Yuma’s hands remained steady against your waist while he continued softly, voice low enough to feel like part of the night itself. “May I love the girl who carries grief like armour?”

His lips brushed your jawline. “The girl who still teaches kindness after everything that was done to her.” Your throat burned suddenly. “The girl who thinks she’s become something monstrous for wanting power, when really she just wanted to stop losing people.” Your eyes stung fiercely now.

“And may I love,” he whispered more quietly, “the soft parts of you too?”

He turned you then in the circle of his arms, until you were facing him, the puddle of your gown forgotten at your feet. You were looking up at him, your face bare and streaked with tears, your soul feeling equally exposed. Yuma cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the wetness. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were so soft, holding a universe of quiet intensity. Yuma leaned down and pressed a final, reverent kiss to the crown of your head.

“May I love you?” 

For years there had only been rage inside you. Rage and grief and ambition sharp enough to survive on. But here? Standing in warm lamplight with Yuma holding you like something worth protecting? You looked up at him, at this man who saw every blueprint of your broken parts and didn’t want to fix them, but to love them. To love you.

“Yes.” Your voice, when it came, was raw but clear, the simplest and most complex truth you’d ever uttered.

The word had barely left your lips before his were on yours. Yuma’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against the soft linen of his shirt, and you clung to him, your fingers twisting into the fabric at his back. Yuma kissed you like he had all the time in the world to learn how to love you properly. In that kiss, you felt the first, fragile brush of something warm, vast and beautiful, being built, piece by careful piece, in the space your rage had left behind.

You didn’t break the kiss. Neither did he. It deepened, slow and searching, his tongue brushing yours as his hands spread wide against your back, pressing you flush against the warmth of his chest. The lamplight caught the edges of his jaw, the soft fall of dark hair over his brow, and you let yourself sink into him.

Yuma walked you backward without rushing. Your calves met the edge of the mattress, and he followed you down as you sat, then lay back, the sheets cool beneath you. He hovered above, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand tracing a featherlight path from your collarbone to the hollow of your throat.

Yuma’s smile was soft before he dipped his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. He worked his way down your neck, tongue flicking lightly over your pulse point before his lips sealed over the skin, sucking gently until you gasped.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathed, already moving lower.

You shook your head, your fingers threading into his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth traced a hot, damp path over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. When he reached the edge of your petticoat, he paused, looking up at you through his lashes. “May I?”

All he needed was your small nod and Yuma was slipping the fabric over your head with unhurried care, his gaze drinking you in as the lamplight spilled over your bare skin. Then he lowered his mouth again, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, the soft curve of your ribs. Your underwear came next, a slide of cotton and lace, removed with the same reverent slowness. He pressed a kiss to the jut of your hipbone, then the inside of your thigh, spreading you open with gentle hands.

“So beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, his voice roughened with want but still tender. “Every inch of you.”

Yuma settled between your legs, his breath warm against your wet folds. Yuma started with a kiss right where you were most sensitive. You arched, a shaky exhale escaping you, and he did it again, slower this time, letting his lips linger. Then his tongue emerged, flat and broad, dragging up through your slickness in a long stroke. Yuma hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, as he licked into you with a hunger that never lost its gentleness.

Yuma worked you like a man who had been starved—but not rough. Each flick of his tongue, each circle around your clit, was worshipful. He knew your rhythms like the back of his hand: the way your hips bucked when he focused on that bundle of nerves, the way your fingers tightened in his hair when he dipped lower, tongue pressing inside you before retreating to lap at your folds again.

“Yuma…” His name fell from your lips like a prayer. He hummed in response, doubling his attention, his nose brushing your clit as his tongue fucked you in slow, shallow thrusts. The pressure built, coiled low in your belly, and he felt it—he knew, because he pulled back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth and that was all it took.

You came with a broken cry, your body shuddering through wave after wave as he licked you through it, soft and steady, until you were trembling and oversensitive and pulling weakly at his hair. He lifted his head, lips glistening, pupils blown dark. He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You sat up slowly, your limbs still heavy with pleasure. He knelt before you on the bed, and you reached for the buttons of his shirt. Your fingers worked them open one by one, baring the warm skin of his chest. You pushed the fabric off his shoulders, and he shrugged it away. Yuma watched you, breath shallow, as you unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. You tugged the fabric down his hips, and he lifted himself just enough to let you free him. His cock stood hard and heavy, the tip glistening in the golden light. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he said. “You lead.” You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, not from fear, but from a fullness that felt like it might burst. Yuma neither rushed nor took; he waited for you, his eyes searching yours with a devotion that made you feel like the only person left in the world.

When you guided him toward you, he entered you with an agonizing slowness. He paused at the threshold, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching as he felt the tight, wet heat of you welcoming him home. He slid inside inch by inch, a low, guttural groan escaping his throat as he filled you completely.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You feel…..perfect. So perfect ohhhhh….”

Yuma didn’t start moving right away. He simply stayed there, anchored within you, letting your bodies adjust to the union. He began to kiss you again—soft, fluttering presses of his lips against your jaw, then your neck, then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss was a vow, a quiet confirmation that he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

As he began to move, the pace was tentative, almost fragile. He pushed into you with slow, shallow thrusts, his hips rolling in a gentle rhythm that prioritized intimacy over intensity. Every time he sank deep, he let out a shaky breath, his hands framing your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, the words muffled by the crook of your neck. “I love you so much, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

The words hit you harder than the physical sensation. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting to erase every millimeter of space between you. You met his slow pace with your own, your hips tilting up to meet him, your breath hitching in time with his.

The golden lamplight blurred around the edges of your vision as the pleasure began to coil again, but this time it was laced with a profound, aching tenderness. 

Yuma continued to worship you, his lips never leaving your skin. He kissed your eyelids, your nose, your lips, whispering fragments of love and adoration between every slow slide of his cock.

“My beautiful girl,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “I love you so much. I love every part of you.”

The tension built slowly, a rising tide of warmth that flooded your chest and belly. You felt the peak approaching—not a crash, but a slow, shimmering dissolve. As you began to peak, Yuma tightened his grip on you, his movements becoming just a fraction more urgent, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You cried out his name, your body shuddering in a long, slow release that felt like every broken piece of you was finally being glued back together. Moments later, Yuma stiffened, a deep sound of surrender tearing from his throat as he came inside you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his entire frame trembling with the force of his release.

He stayed there for a long time, breathing you in, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your chest. Slowly, with a lingering reluctance, he pulled out of you. Before the cold air could touch your skin, he shifted, pulling you firmly into his arms and rolling onto his side, tucking you against his chest in a protective cocoon.

You lay there in the quiet, the only sound the synchronized thrum of your hearts. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him enveloping you, and you felt a sudden, overwhelming need to say it.

“I love you.” You mumbled, your voice small and thick with emotion, “I love you Yuma.” 

Yuma tightened his hold, kissing the top of your head with a tenderness that brought fresh tears to your eyes.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He whispered, his voice steady and sure.

The city beyond the hotel windows shimmered beneath the night sky, alive with music and laughter, but here in the quiet warmth of the room, the world felt very far away. Your head rested against Yuma’s chest while his fingers moved lazily through your hair, patient and absentminded like he intended to stay there forever.

And perhaps that was what frightened you most about love was not its intensity, but its gentleness. The way it softened sharp things without asking permission. The way it made survival stop feeling like the only purpose left in the world.

Yuma tilted his head slightly until his lips brushed your temple. “You should sleep.” He murmured softly.

“In a moment.” You replied sleepily, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt.

He smiled against your hair. The silence settled comfortably around you both after that, no longer empty or aching, but warm and quiet and full in a way you had never quite known before.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, a thought crossed your tired mind.

In another universe, perhaps you and Nakakita Yuma would have gone on picnics and fed bread to ducks and made blueberry jam beneath sunny kitchen windows. Maybe you would have loved each other openly there, without kingdoms or grief or bloodstained legacies standing between you.

But perhaps—just perhaps—this universe was not so cruel after all.

Because in this one, against all logic and reason and common sense, you had still found your way to him. And as Yuma held you gently beneath the glow of the capital lights, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you realised something quietly astonishing.

Maybe saving the galaxy had never meant destroying each other. 

Maybe it had always meant this instead.

Falling in love with your beloved enemy.

fin. 

A/N: i loved writing the nichojoo banter for this so much ugh my boyfriends. Jo was also an interesting character i wish i could have expanded more on him but eh word limit. Very fucked up plot ik ik but hey mona brain works in strange ways yay. Expect another yuma meal soon because i love writing for this lil blueberry boi.

Divider by @honeyluvsw

@eu1joo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

as a stylist assistant, you’re trained to be useful without being memorable. hands steady. voice low. no lingering eye contact. no personal opinions unless asked. Especially not with idols. especially not with him.

&team’s schedule today is brutal — early call time, back-to-back fittings, a music show rehearsal that keeps getting delayed. the air backstage smells like hairspray, warm fabric, and exhaustion. you’re adjusting cuffs, passing accessories, double-checking shoe sizes against the list on your clipboard.

you’re good at this. you have to be.

fuma arrives with the others, tall and composed, hair still slightly damp from the van ride. he bows politely to the staff, his voice warm but careful, and you don’t look up when he passes you. you already know better.

you’ve seen idols up close before. you know how the illusion works. still — there’s something about him that makes the room feel subtly different, like the air has shifted half a degree.

you tell yourself it’s nothing. you focus on your task — steaming a jacket, smoothing the fabric where it creased in transit. when he steps into position in front of the mirror, you approach only because it’s your job. you reach out to straighten the hem, fingers brushing fabric, not skin.

“thank you,” he says softly. you nod once, professional, and step back. invisible.

except — fuma notices you anyway.

he doesn’t mean to. he’s trained not to. years of media training, of boundaries drilled in until they become instinct. staff is staff. fans are fans. you don’t blur the lines. you don’t let your eyes linger.

but when you turn to grab a lint roller from the table beside you, his gaze drops — just briefly — and catches on the small squirtle charm clipped to the zipper of your bag.

it’s scuffed, a little faded, like it’s been with you a while. the blue plastic is worn smooth at the edges. it swings when you move, tapping lightly against the canvas.

squirtle. the recognition hits him harder than he expects. something in his chest tightens — not painfully, but sharply, like a memory surfacing too fast. he remembers a different time. a different pace. sitting on his bedroom floor as a kid, game boy warm in his hands, choosing his starter without overthinking it.

he blinks, refocuses on his reflection. you don’t notice. you’re already moving again, already somewhere else. that’s the thing about you — you’re efficient. quiet. you exist in the margins of the room.

and yet.

the day drags on. outfit changes blur together. you pass water bottles, adjust collars, check that accessories are returned to the right garment bags. fuma watches you only when he’s sure no one is looking — not out of entitlement, not out of expectation, but out of something gentler. curiosity, maybe. recognition.

you never try to catch his eye. that’s what makes it worse.

during a break, you crouch near the wall, scrolling through your phone while waiting for the next call. you don’t realize he’s close enough to see the screen light up with a familiar interface — pixelated grass, a tiny character moving across it.

pokémon. he almost laughs. almost. instead, he presses his lips together and looks away. he tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. lots of people like pokémon. it’s not special. it’s not personal. and you are staff. you are untouchable.

still, when the next outfit is being adjusted, he glances at your bag again. the Squirtle charm swings slightly as you lean forward, focused, unaware. you feel his eyes for half a second — an instinct more than a certainty — but when you look up, he’s already looking at his reflection, expression neutral, composed. idol-perfect.

later, when the room empties for rehearsal, you stay behind to organize. folded clothes stacked neatly. accessories checked off one by one. you work methodically, the way you always do, letting the repetition calm you.

you don’t see fuma step back in. he’d forgotten his ring.

he pauses when he spots you alone in the room, kneeling on the floor, bag beside you. the squirtle charm catches the overhead light. he hesitates — just long enough to consider turning around. he doesn’t.

“excuse me,” he says quietly.

you startle, looking up too fast. “oh — sorry. i didn’t hear you.”

he shakes his head. “it’s okay. i think i left my ring.”

you stand immediately, already scanning the table. “i’ll find it.”

you do, quickly, handing it to him with both hands like you’re supposed to. your fingers don’t touch his. you don’t meet his eyes.

“thank you,” he says again. you nod, again. that’s it. that’s all it ever is. he leaves, and you go back to your work. another day. another schedule. another room where you don’t exist unless needed.

but later — much later — when fuma is finally alone, makeup removed, jacket hung carefully on the back of the chair, he stands in front of the mirror and studies his reflection. tired eyes. familiar face. the version of himself everyone expects.

and then, unexpectedly, he smiles. it’s small. private. gone almost as soon as it appears. he thinks of a squirtle charm swinging against a canvas bag. of a game screen glowing softly in a quiet corner. of a person who never tries to be seen.

he hasn’t smiled like that in weeks. and that — that feels dangerous.

─────   

the day starts before the sun does.

early call time means bleary eyes, half-sipped coffees going cold on folding tables, voices kept low out of mercy rather than professionalism. the hallway outside the dressing rooms hums with movement — staff shuffling, stylists murmuring, managers already on their phones.

you slip into it like you always do. invisible. efficient. awake enough to function, not enough to think too hard.

by the time &team finishes their first rehearsal, everyone looks wrung out. sweat-darkened hair, shoulders slumped just slightly out of frame. you pass towels, take jackets, hang things up without being asked. your body knows the routine even when your brain lags behind.

there’s a long wait before the next cue. one of those stretches of dead time that feels heavier than the work itself. you retreat to the edge of the backstage area, near a stack of equipment cases and a wall no one leans against unless they’re really tired. you slide down to sit, careful to keep your bag tucked close, knees drawn in just enough to take up as little space as possible.

your switch buzzes when you unlock it, screen lighting up the dim space. pokémon.

you hadn’t even realized how badly you needed the familiarity until it’s there — the soft music, the simple objective, the sense of control. you guide your character through tall grass, thumb moving automatically. for a few minutes, the noise fades. the pressure loosens its grip.

you don’t notice fuma at first.

he’s sitting farther down the wall, a bottle of water balanced loosely in his hand, towel draped around his neck. his makeup has been touched up, but not fully reset — there’s a rawness to him like this, caught between performances. he stares at the floor, mind somewhere else.

then the sound catches his ear. it’s faint. almost nothing. but it’s unmistakable — the tinny chime of a pokémon battle starting. he lifts his head without thinking.

you’re angled away from him, shoulders relaxed in a way they never are when you’re working. your face is softened by concentration, eyes following the tiny movements on your screen. the glow reflects faintly against your skin.

for a moment, he just watches. this isn’t you as staff. this isn’t you moving around him, adjusting him, disappearing again. this is you… off-camera. existing for yourself.

he knows he shouldn’t say anything. he knows the rules. he knows the lines. he’s been good at staying within them for a long time.

still. he clears his throat, quietly. not enough to draw attention. just enough. you glance up, startled again — like you always are when someone notices you. you scramble to your feet instinctively, mobile game lowering, posture snapping back into place.

“i’m sorry,” you apologize immediately. “i — i was just waiting —”

“no,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “it’s okay.”

you freeze. he doesn’t sound annoyed. he doesn’t sound formal. he sounds almost nervous. there’s a beat of silence where neither of you quite knows what to do with the space. then, softer, he gestures vaguely toward your phone. “um. can i ask… what version you’re playing?”

the question lands gently. almost tentative. you blink. once. twice.

“oh,” you reply, surprised into honesty. “uh — scarlet.”

his eyes light up before he can stop them. just for a second. it’s like watching a window crack open.

“really?” he says. “who did you pick as your starter?”

“sprigatito,” you answer immediately, no hesitation.

he laughs — an actual laugh, warm and unguarded, like it slipped out before he remembered himself. “i knew it.”

you smile despite yourself. “what does that mean?”

“it just… fits,” he says, then winces slightly, like he’s worried that was too familiar. “i mean — i picked quaxly.”

you snort before you can stop yourself. the sound hangs between you, shocking in its normalcy. he looks just as startled as you feel — eyes widening a fraction, lips parting. then he laughs again, quieter this time, shoulders shaking like he’s trying not to draw attention.

“okay,” he says, mock-serious. “that’s fair.”

you relax without realizing it, leaning back against the wall again. “you’re brave for admitting that.”

“i know,” he responds solemnly. “it’s my burden to bear.”

for a moment, you forget where you are. forget the rules, the hierarchy, the way you’re supposed to keep things separate and clean and distant. you’re just two tired people killing time between schedules, bonding over something small and harmless. it feels… easy. too easy.

a staff member passes by, footsteps echoing, and the spell fractures slightly. you straighten again, switch slipping back into your bag.

“i should —” you start.

“yeah,” he says at the same time. “me too.”

neither of you moves right away. then he nods, polite again, the idol mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. 

“good luck with your game,” he adds, softer than necessary.

“you too,” you say, and then cringe internally because that makes no sense — but he just smiles, the corner of his mouth lifting. as he walks away, you feel it — the faint buzz under your skin, the echo of something that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway.

a laugh shared in a place where everything is monitored. a moment not meant for anyone else. dangerous not because it’s loud or obvious — but because you want it again.

───── 

it doesn’t happen all at once.

it starts with glances that linger a second longer than they should. with pauses in conversation that feel intentional instead of awkward. with the understanding — unspoken but mutual — that there is now something between you that didn’t exist before.

pokémon becomes your excuse. your code. it’s never obvious. never blatant. just small things threaded through the day, subtle enough to slip past anyone who isn’t paying close attention.

during music show waits, when &team is lined up backstage and everyone is pretending not to be nervous, you pass behind him with a garment bag slung over your shoulder. as you do, you murmur, barely louder than a breath, “gym type theme suits today.”

he doesn’t look at you—but his mouth twitches.

later, while waiting for cue sheets to be updated, he leans toward you just enough that it could be dismissed as coincidence. “if this schedule were a battle,” he says under his breath, “we’d be under-leveled.”

you bite your lip to keep from smiling. “you’re dramatic.”

“accurate,” he corrects quietly.

no one notices. no one ever does.

you’re careful. you have to be. conversations are clipped, harmless on the surface. anyone listening would hear nothing more than idle comments, fragments of banter that mean nothing.

but you know better. so does he.

the first text comes late one night, after a rehearsal that runs long and drains everyone dry. you’re already home, shoes kicked off, makeup wiped away, phone balanced on your stomach as you scroll mindlessly.

a new notification pops up.

unknown number: serious question. best water-type pokémon?

you stare at the screen, heart stuttering. you save the number under a fake name immediately — something bland, something forgettable. you type back before you can overthink it.

you:

squirtle. obviously.

three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

pika: bias. but acceptable.

you grin into your pillow. 

from then on, the messages become part of your routine. short, safe, wrapped in humor so no one reading over a shoulder would think twice. trading favorites. ranking starters. complaining about evolutions that deserved better. arguing gently about regions and legendary designs. you learn his tastes, his habits — how he overuses ellipses when he’s unsure, how he sends one extra message if he thinks he came off too cold.

he learns yours too. that you ramble when you’re excited. that you apologize too much. that you always pick the same type first, every time.

it feels… normal. that’s what surprises him most. around you, he isn’t an idol measuring every word, calculating every reaction. he doesn’t feel like a product or a performance. he’s just a man leaning against a wall, whispering jokes he doesn’t have to workshop in his head first.

he finds himself relaxing without meaning to — shoulders lowering, breath evening out when you’re nearby. he looks forward to the waits now. to the lulls. to moments when time stretches thin enough for you to slip into it.

sometimes, when the schedule is especially packed, you don’t get to talk much at all. just a look. a nod. a tiny squirtle sticker stuck discreetly to the inside of a clipboard, placed there by you when no one was watching.

he notices everything. and then, one day, he realizes something that makes his chest tighten in a way that’s both warm and terrifying. he walks into a room — busy, crowded, full of movement — and before he even thinks about it, his eyes scan for you.

not the mirror. not the camera. not his members. you.

he finds you near the racks, head bent over a checklist, completely unaware. relief washes through him before he can stop it. that’s when it hits him. this isn’t just a game anymore. this isn’t just a shared interest, or a harmless distraction, or something small he can pack away when it gets inconvenient.

you’ve become his anchor in the chaos. his quiet constant. the one person who makes the world feel manageable again. and the most dangerous part? he doesn’t know how to stop looking for you first.

the reminder comes in the most ordinary way possible.

a meeting squeezed between schedules. too many people in a room that smells faintly of coffee and printer ink. clipboards balanced on knees, tablets glowing softly as someone at the front clears their throat.

“just a quick reiteration,” the manager says, tone light but final. “staff–artist boundaries need to be maintained at all times. no private conversations. no personal exchanges. especially on personal devices.”

you don’t look at fuma. you don’t need to. you feel it anyway — the way the air shifts, the way something that had been fragile but warm suddenly goes brittle. you jot notes you don’t need on your pad, pen pressing too hard. professional. invisible. remember your place.

after that, everything changes.

fuma becomes careful in a way that’s impossible to miss if you know what you’re looking for. his smiles are still polite, still warm — but they stop reaching his eyes when you’re around. he answers with one word instead of two. he keeps his distance, physical and otherwise, positioning himself just far enough away that no one could ever accuse him of overstepping.

when you pass behind him with a jacket, he doesn’t lean back anymore. when you adjust his sleeve, he watches the mirror instead of you. 

you respect it. of course you do. you understand the stakes better than most. you know what rumors can do, how quickly something small can turn into a headline. you know he has more to lose than you ever will.

still, the hurt catches you off guard. it’s not sharp. it doesn’t demand attention. it’s dull, persistent — like a bruise you keep pressing without meaning to. you tell yourself it’s silly. that you imagined the closeness. that it was always going to end like this.

pokémon goes unmentioned. no whispered comments during waits. no late-night texts under fake names. your phone stays stubbornly quiet, screen dark where it used to light up with something small and familiar.

days pass. schedules blur together again, losing the color they’d briefly gained. you do your job well — better, maybe, because routine is easier than feeling. you keep your head down. you don’t look for him anymore. you tell yourself you don’t notice when he glances your way and then looks quickly away.

one afternoon, you’re organizing paperwork backstage, flipping through cue sheets and checklists, making sure everything is in order before the next rehearsal. your clipboard is cluttered with notes and post-its, your handwriting looping messily in the margins.

you step away for a moment to grab a garment bag. when you come back, something is different. it takes a second to register — just a flash of color where there hadn’t been one before. a tiny sticker, carefully placed in the corner of your clipboard.

squirtle. small. simple. almost childish. your breath catches.

you look around instinctively, heart thudding too loud in your ears. the room is busy, staff moving in and out, voices overlapping. no one is paying attention to you. fuma stands across the room, half-turned away, speaking quietly to a manager. he doesn’t look at you. he doesn’t give any sign that it was him.

but you know. the sticker isn’t flashy. it’s not a declaration. it’s barely anything at all. which is what makes it hurt. an apology he can’t say. a promise he can’t keep. a reminder that what you shared was real — even if it has to stay unspoken now.

you press your thumb gently over the sticker, grounding yourself. invisible again. but not forgotten.

the day refuses to end.

it drags its feet through rehearsal after rehearsal, outfit changes bleeding into one another, voices growing hoarse, patience wearing thin. by the time the last cue wraps, it’s well past midnight, and everyone looks like they’re being held upright by muscle memory alone.

someone suggests a convenience store run. it’s casual. practical. a grab-some-drinks-before-the-van kind of thing. no announcement, no fanfare. just a quiet escape stitched into the schedule while no one is watching too closely. no cameras. no managers. just exhaustion and fluorescent lights.

you end up walking beside fuma without either of you planning it.

the street is quiet in that late-night way, empty except for the hum of distant traffic and the buzz of streetlamps overhead. he’s changed into a hoodie and a cap pulled low, idol sharpness softened into something almost unrecognizable. you clutch your jacket tighter around yourself, bag slung across your shoulder, squirtle charm knocking faintly against the fabric.

you don’t talk at first. the silence isn’t awkward. it’s tired. earned.

inside the store, you wander the aisles slowly, reading labels you won’t remember, picking snacks you’ll only half-finish. he grabs bottled coffee, then hesitates, swapping it for something sweeter like he’s indulging a version of himself that doesn’t get much airtime.

at the register, he pays without comment, nodding politely to the cashier, who doesn’t recognize him. or maybe they do and choose not to care. either way, it feels like a gift.

outside again, he offers you one of the earbuds from his phone. it’s a small gesture. careful. loaded anyway. you hesitate for a heartbeat, then take it.

the music is low, something mellow and familiar, the kind of song meant to fill space rather than demand attention. you fall into step together naturally, shoulders almost brushing. the night air is cool, carrying the faint smell of asphalt and convenience store plastic bags.

this close, he feels different. less guarded. less composed.

“i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for earlier. for… everything.”

you keep your eyes on the sidewalk. “i know.”

he exhales, a sound caught halfway between relief and frustration. “i hate that it has to be like that.”

“i get it,” you say, because you do. you always have. there’s a long pause. the song changes.

“i feel lonely a lot,” he admits quietly. the words surprise you — not because they’re shocking, but because of how plainly he says them. no performance. no softening. he continues, voice low. “there are always people around. members, staff, fans. but it still feels like… i’m alone inside it.”

you glance at him. his gaze is fixed ahead, jaw tight, hands buried in his hoodie sleeves like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “i’m scared all the time,” he says. “of messing up. of disappointing people. of being… not enough, even when i’m trying my hardest.”

your chest aches. you don’t interrupt. you let him have the space.

“when i’m with you,” he adds after a moment, “it feels quieter. like i don’t have to be careful every second.”

you swallow. the streetlight catches the edge of his profile, softening him into something almost fragile. he glances down at your bag, at the charm swinging gently with each step.

“pokémon,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “it reminds me of being a kid. before contracts. before expectations. when the biggest decision i had to make was which starter to pick.”

he laughs softly, more fond than amused. “back then, things were simple. you tried, you failed, you trained, you evolved. no one expected you to be perfect the first time.”

you bump his shoulder lightly, barely there. “still applies.”

he looks at you then. really looks at you. for a moment, the world feels suspended. no rules. no lines. just two people walking side by side, sharing music and something dangerously close to understanding.

the song ends. the earbud cord tugs gently between you. 

neither of you moves to pull away.

you hear it the way these things always start. not directly. not officially. just fragments passed between staff members who think they’re being discreet. a lowered voice near the coffee machine. a name dropped too casually. a laugh that lands wrong.

“…saw them together last night —” “— management’s not denying it —” “— good image, honestly —”

you don’t stop walking. you don’t react. you keep your expression neutral, steps steady, clipboard tucked close to your chest like armor. 

it’s not about you. that much becomes clear quickly. the rumor isn’t dangerous in the way you’d feared it might be. no scandal. no whispers about staff. no crossed lines. 

it’s about fuma. and someone else. another idol. or maybe it was a trainee. someone acceptable. someone who fits neatly into the narrative people want to tell.

you tell yourself it makes sense. of course he’d have someone. of course the connection you felt was one-sided, something you filled in because you wanted to. pokémon jokes and shared earbuds don’t mean anything in a world like this. you knew better. you should’ve known better.

still, the disappointment settles heavy in your chest. you don’t confront him. you don’t ask questions you are not entitled to ask. Instead, you do the one thing you’ve always been good at.

you pull back. not abruptly. not enough for anyone else to notice. just a half-step farther away. conversations trimmed down to what’s necessary. no lingering pauses. no soft looks. you keep things clean and professional, like you were always supposed to.

pokémon stays locked away again. no whispers. no messages. the fake contact name sits untouched in your phone, unread but impossible to delete.

fuma notices immediately. it’s the way you don’t look at him when he enters the room. the way you move around him like he’s any other artist, careful and distant. the way your laugh — when you give it at all — never quite reaches him anymore.

he replays everything in his head, searching for the moment he misstepped. did he say too much that night? did he linger too long? did he make you uncomfortable without realizing it?

the rumor reaches him too, eventually. he hears it secondhand, then confirms it with a manager’s too-casual reassurance. he feels sick. because it isn’t true. because it’s convenient. because it explains the distance he’s suddenly drowning in.

he watches you from across the room during a long wait, hands folded neatly in front of you, expression composed. professional. polite. gone. the absence is louder than anything you ever said.

that night, long after schedules wrap and the dorm settles into uneasy quiet, his phone buzzes in his hand. he stares at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering. he shouldn’t. he knows he shouldn’t.

but he does anyway.

pika: did i do something wrong?

the message sends. three dots don’t appear right away. and somehow, that hurts more than any rumor ever could.

the hallway smells faintly of polished floors and leftover stage energy. dim lights cast long shadows, stretching the edges of lockers and equipment cases. voices drift from the other side of the wall — members laughing, staff calling out reminders — but here, in this narrow strip between rehearsals, it feels like the world has shrunk to just you and him.

fuma leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely, hoodie sleeves pulled over his wrists. his gaze is low, fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder, and yet you can feel the weight of it. the air between you is taut with things left unsaid.

you’ve been avoiding this moment without knowing it, rehearsing in your head what “just professional” looks like in his presence. but the quiet makes it impossible to pretend anymore. he shifts slightly, as if deciding how much to risk, then finally looks at you.

“i — i should’ve said this sooner,” he starts, voice low, careful. “but i’ve… liked you. before i ever said a word to you. before all the pokémon stuff, before any of this.”

you blink. the words don’t quite sink in at first. your breath catches in a way that makes your chest feel too small.

“i… used pokémon as an excuse,” he admits, voice soft, almost ashamed. “because it gave me a reason to talk to you. but it wasn’t the reason. you were.”

the hall is silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the distant murmur of people in other rooms. you want to say something clever. you want to step back; tell yourself this is a bad idea. that the rules are clear. that nothing can happen.

but your body betrays your mind. your chest tightens. your hands flex at your sides. you realize you’ve been holding your breath for the last thirty seconds.

“you… you like me?” you whisper, almost a question, almost disbelief. he nods, slowly, carefully, like he’s weighing each word against the possibility of scaring you away.

“yes. always. quietly. too afraid to ruin the one thing i had — a connection with you that didn’t need to be complicated. but… i can’t hide it anymore.”

his honesty is raw. vulnerable. dangerous. and yet, it feels like the safest place in the world. you swallow, chest tight, eyes locked on his. there’s so much he’s never said, and yet you understand all of it. you understand him, the exhaustion, the rules, the weight of expectations. and somewhere underneath that, the boy who just wants something small, something real.

you step closer without thinking, hand brushing against his sleeve. he flinches slightly, not in fear, but in the sudden intimacy.

“i —” you begin, unsure how to match the courage in his words. then, without another thought, you take his hand. just for a second. rules be damned.

he stiffens, surprised, then relaxes. your fingers intertwine with his in a grip that says everything words could never carry. the hallway stays quiet. the dim light falls softly across both of you. the world outside — the cameras, the schedules, the rules — doesn’t exist for these few heartbeats.

he swallows, voice barely audible. “so… that’s okay?”

you squeeze his hand, tight enough to let him feel it but not too tight to overstep. “it’s more than okay.”

and in that moment, everything that had been simmering beneath the surface — the late-night walks, the secret messages, the stolen laughs — finally feels real.

you let go after a heartbeat. he doesn’t let go. and the silence that follows isn’t empty. it’s full of promises that don’t need words, of boundaries softly bent, and of a connection that is finally yours.

for the first time in weeks, he smiles at you. not a small, fleeting, invisible smile. a real one. and you know — whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

the world hasn’t changed. cameras still flash. schedules still crush your ribs with their weight. management still hovers, watching for mistakes, for “unprofessional behavior,” for anything that could ruin him — or you.

and yet, somehow, it feels like nothing else exists when you’re together.

you don’t go public. you can’t. you know the consequences, the whispers, the risks. you know what it would mean if anyone discovered the small moments that aren’t recorded on schedule sheets or broadcast to millions of screens.

so you are careful. every hand brush is calculated yet unintentional. every smile shared is private, tucked between lines of rehearsals, meetings, and bathroom mirrors. your touches are small — a hair tucked behind your ear, a sleeve adjusted, a shoulder bumped — and somehow, they’re enough to get through the day.

the pokémon charms are subtle, but meaningful. you buy a tiny bulbasaur, he picks a cyndaquil. they hang from your phones, bright little reminders that the world outside doesn’t have to intrude. no one sees them but you. no one knows the code they carry.

on breaks between schedules, you walk side by side to the van. your hands brush accidentally-on-purpose. he doesn’t pull away. you don’t either. the moment lingers just long enough for warmth to creep up your arms and across your chest, without anyone noticing.

sometimes you exchange whispers that mean nothing to anyone else. “gym battle later?” “only if you promise not to sabotage me.” quick glances, playful smirks. every joke, every nod, every small touch is a rebellion. quiet. careful. deliciously yours.

in the van, he leans back, hoodie up, phone in hand. you catch him staring at your charm for a fraction of a second before looking away. he doesn’t comment. he doesn’t have to. the weight of it is enough.

on a long night after rehearsal, the bus is empty except for you and him. music hums faintly in the speakers. you’re laughing quietly over a shared pokémon meme, earbuds split between you. his shoulder brushes yours.

“this,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost afraid it will break the spell if he says it too loudly, “this is my favorite secret.”

you freeze for a heartbeat, heart tightening in your chest. his eyes meet yours, corners crinkling in the smallest, private smile, and the world outside the van ceases to exist.

you smile back. small. careful. enough to let him know you feel the same. no one knows. no one will. and that’s exactly the way you like it. it’s the stolen laughter in the hallways, the soft nudges behind vans, the tiny shared moments that mean more than a public declaration ever could.

you squeeze his hand ever so slightly beneath the blanket of your shared earbuds.

“mine too,” you whisper, almost a vow. and for once, it’s enough. the bus hums along, headlights cutting through the night, and everything is quiet, soft, and entirely yours.

the city hums faintly beyond your windows, but inside your apartment, it’s quiet — just the two of you, a soft glow from the kitchen light spilling across the living room floor. you’re sitting close on the couch, elbows brushing, knees almost touching, laughing quietly over some inside joke about starter pokémon that no one else would ever get. here, in this little bubble, the world can’t see what exists between you — and somehow, that makes it feel even more yours.

fuma leans just a little closer, reaching across the space between you to adjust your earbuds without asking. “you always pick the better starter,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “you just don’t know how to train yours properly.”

“maybe,” he says, grinning, and his thumb brushes lightly against your hand. “but i’m good at evolving.”

your chest tightens. you look at him in the warm, dim light, and he looks vulnerable and perfect and entirely himself.

“me too,” you whisper, squeezing his hand back.

he shifts slightly, careful not to break the fragile rules that still linger, and presses his lips to yours. soft. slow. the kind of kiss that says more than any public declaration ever could. no one sees this. no expectations. just you. just him. quiet and real.

you close your eyes and lean in, letting all the small moments — teasing glances, shared laughter, hidden smiles — flow together in this single, unguarded instance.

when you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing in sync. he grins softly, warm and private, and whispers, “still my favorite secret.”

you laugh quietly, shaking your head. “don’t tell anyone.”

“never,” he says.

the apartment feels impossibly safe, impossibly yours. pokémon charms dangle from your phones on the coffee table, swinging gently with every laugh, every small movement. hands brush, then intertwine, and it doesn’t need to be anything more than that.

🪐 koga yudai (k): rnb king, anything that can emphasize his slow roll of skilled hips and teasing licks. loves a beat with a lot of bass so you can both feel in thrumming through your jointed bodies.

the party and the after party - the weeknd :: literally my top choice for k, it just makes sense. loves to put this on when you’re heading back home from a nice date at a fancy dinner, slips off your satin dress before you could even close the front door, your red bottom heels stay on upon his request so he can feel the pointed ends dig into his lower back when you hook your legs around him. he’s not shy with it at all, and he’s got you.

after hours - avenoir :: usually just appears if the playlist is on shuffle, likes getting passionate and suffocates you with his kisses as his swift hands crumble your resolve. smiles against your skin, lets his lips hover and skim until your trembling, allows himself to tease but indulge.

bad dream - syd :: sigh. what can i say about this? k would love seeing your body roll atop of his along with the rhythm and tempo of the song, even when the beat switches, his eyes rolling back when you circle your hips slower to still match. this is his guilty pleasure song, one song he’ll let you choose from his playlist because he knows it means you mean business with him tonight. gets him so jitteryyyyyy with anticipation!!

🪐 byun euijoo (ej): i dunno, have a feeling it would take a while for him to curate the perfect playlist for himself where he’s content it portrays the right feelings, takes a lot into consideration. to ej, the playlist is more about being foreplay, an added plus that leads into the main moment :)

burn it - bibi ft. dean :: bibi is lowkey his guilty pleasure/secret favorite artist, so her entire discography might just be on his playlist 😭 it has the perfect amount of sensuality to it, would definitely use the song as a message. would randomly play this song when he feels needy, stares at you to see when it clicks in your brain, giving you small lip bites in hopes you’d see the hint, never verbally saying it — letting the lyrics speak for him. he’d be giggly and all shy until he isn’t when you finally go down on him. OH, and he might have a lil fantasy about playing this song during ... a threesome?!?! (we all know with who teehee) WHO KNOWS? :)

f.u.c.k - victoria monet :: this is the perfect makeout song for him!! this song!! it’s foreplay!!! small light kisses that are a bit shy at first, turning into heated licks where he’d pant into your mouth. kisses getting so messy and careless, wet sucks and audible smooches sounding full of drool. would pull you onto his lap because he can’t chase after your lips anymore, needs you closer. he’d melt when you’d do your favorite thing to him, turn the moment into full on dry humping while gripping at his soft locks. his favorite; jumping each other’s bones because that’s what both of your stars aligned for you to do. :)))

hold on - the internet :: this song. oh, i just had a vision— pool/hot tub/in water sex. YUP!! late night spontaneous activity, some sweetened drinks to get you warm n fuzzy, speaker somewhere close by the pool. heavy tension as you’re gazing at the water droplets clinging and trickling down your bodies, both of you just feeling the sensual bass of the song’s beat. it all gets too much and you just need him right there, clinging around him as he presses you up against the pool’s edge, taking you slow and hushing you softly with kisses… this song + drinks = clingy, hungry, needy ej. you better hold onnnnn !!

🪐 murata fuma: that’s papi chulo. there’s nothing more i can say. he just gives grown music. very intense, very purposeful, meaningful, deliberate with his choices, wants you to feel suffocated with his desire. he means it fully.

all to me - giveon :: he’s A FREAK, YOUR HONOR! needs you to give him a lil show with the newest, prettiest lingerie he got you. would love a lovely lap dance or something before he’s gripping your thighs and ripping off the fabric from your body.. quietly. kisses all over your figure, fingertips skimming over everywhere other than where you need him most until you’re squirming and begging for him to touch you properly. he just wants to admire you for a bit longer.. :)

call out my name - the weeknd :: his desire gets so big sometimes, he just has to devour. car sex? couldn’t hold back anymore, guides you onto his lap with a hand around your neck, other hand reclining his seat, lips sealed around yours with such hunger. fogged up windows, thumb in your mouth. or rushing to the backseat, fucks you earnestly with his fingers until you do call out his name and it reverberates in the car, clinging helplessly onto his broad shoulders. yup.

shut up - teyana taylor :: either ride his face when he asks you to, or prepare yourself cause he’ll be eating it for hours when this shit comes on. gets so messy, with only one goal in mind — getting you to drench his face in your essence. holding your hand, he’s not afraid to moan into your soaking cunt in tandem with the songs’ sounds, gets so into it. even better when you suddenly take over and climb over him suddenly to sink down onto his tongue. yk, to literally shut him up after a small teasing remark or somethin but he’d love that, even dreams of it.... :)

🪐 wang yixiang (nicholas): his playlist is everywhere. varies since sex with him is literal spontaneous and unpredictable. it depends on what vibe he goes for in bed. playful and giggly, soft and sweet, intensely emotional intimacy, or full on primal and feral nastiness. mostly gravitates towards songs that embodied his sensual desire for emotional intensity, that speak to the soul for both you and him.

poison by brent faiyaz :: lots of foreplay leading up to this, sharp stares with nothing said, brushing touches, subtle hints. body worship. like you’re a goddess in his bed and he cannot even fathom you’re gracing him with your presence. hands everywhere on you, wants to please you. wants to be the reason you’re crying out in pleasure. he’s pained by the pleasure, would let you take control and gaze at you with hazy eyes the entire time. you do damage to him indeed.

surrender by jhene aiko :: very self indulgent but .. with this song?? sex with nicho is a whole psychedelic trip. really sets the mood with the same ambience, either by letting the sunlight pour through the curtains or by lighting warm, sweet scented candles everywhere. dreamlike, ethereal, floating into that blissful euphoria, a cloud nine sort of loving. focuses on making you melt, wants your mind numb on nothing but his presence, wants to feel as if your emotions tangibly mingles with his like flowers blooming together. devours you reverently, lets you cry it out, wants to seep underneath your skin and touch your soul. wants your surrender in the softest way possible. emotional intensity at its finest.

love drought by beyoncé :: speaking of emotional intensity, this is the complete opposite in that spectrum. this is intense, not in a floating way but in a grounding way. wants you to feel everything together, to know that you’re both just as equally passionate. lips melted together, hand holding, bodies flushed together, lots of moans and whimpers from both of you. he wants the focus on both of you, how you feel connected together in every sense possible. praise him suddenly and he’s sobbing. will crumble actually because of how much he feels. might be the song that gets him into that headspace.

🪐 nakakita yuma: a slut for anything sultry, raunchy, nasty. anything that emphasizes his brattiness and feral feline sexuality in the bedroom. he’s seductive and possessive, so his music needs to be the same.

all mine - brent faiyaz :: the first song he puts on his playlist cause fuck, he can relate. quick fucks, lots of hair tugging, sloppy kisses, dark marks, and light growls to remind you both that you’re all his. song he plays while giving you the nastiest backshots, I SWEAR! biting back his cheshire cat grin, smacking your rippling ass because you love when he gets rough and possessive. his mischief anthem.

back of the club - kwn :: rolls his hips into each beat at the chorus, i’m losing my mind actually. because he would make this so nasty and makes your eyes never leave his. kind of song he appreciates when you’re both just mutually desperate for each other, just feeling each others physical bodies with intense lust. messing up hair, your nails clawing at his shoulders or his ass in missionary or down his abs when you ride feverishly.

life of the party - the weeknd :: devour him. he wants you to KEEP HIM TIED UP. drop webs of spits into his mouth, watch him chuckle manically as you keep draining him of his cum from overstimulation. wrap a hand around his neck, make his eyes roll back from the blissful pain. use toys on him and make him watch. he plays this in the car on your way to whatever event you’re attending after being bratty to you, and just glances at how silent you’re being. he’s trembling from anticipation for whatever you’re planning to do to him once you get home.

🪐 asakura jo: soft and sweet.. very shy touches, mellow soft but with quietly heavy intensity. his playlist is something he can have just as background music.. for filler noise, doesn’t want anything too much because hearing your moans is already music to him. don’t get it twisted though, he’s a freak. a subtle freak.

frank - alina baraz :: so pretty. it’s such a pretty song, he falls in love with it the first time he heard it and immediately puts it on the playlist. would definitely love you in the dark like the song says, wants you to focus on his touches on your skin, lick at your chest and down your torso until he kisses your swollen lips. takes you with such care, peppering kisses all over as you navigate through the feeling together in the darkness.

love is only a feeling - homeshake :: this song is almost.. divinity in the form of instruments and melody. it is almost soothing, and that’s sort of the vibe jo wants sex to be with you. would probably have it on during a late night study session, lets you climb on his lap where he sat by his desk and just shove his hand down the front of your pants to play with you gently.. plants small pecks to your cheek when your head falls back onto his shoulder; tired, lazy, soothed.

awkward - sza :: only put it on his playlist cause of your obsession with this song, how soft and timid the overall mood and ambience of the song was. so, of course he’d want the song playing while you’re getting intimate. would lowkey get a sense of pride because he’s making you fall apart with his presence in that very moment. everything surrounding you reminds you of him and he’s making you feel this good.. prepare for a bear hug and deep grinds… he’d maybe stay in for minutes after you both came down from your high and just pepper kisses all over your face, basking in that fuzzy post glow while this song is playing… a sweet freak LMAOO.

🪐 shigeta harua: uses it as background noise number two. gravitates towards songs that amplifies how hazy he feels in the heat of the moment, how lost in the sensation he can get.

all i really want is you - the marias :: you might’ve been cooking one day and this song was playing from your playlist. loves the entire moment so much, he has to dive into it completely. seeing you so perfect with such a pretty song, he had to get on his knees and suck at your cunt right then and there pressed against the kitchen counter. love hearts in his eyes as he gazed up you the entire time, asks for the song name after leaving you boneless so he can put it on his playlist too.

fetish - selena gomez :: on rare occasion, he does let the music take control of the energy in the bedroom, especially when he’s very needy. grows as hazy as the song’s vibe when you tug his head back by his soft locks, grinding up into you. he loves a good syrupy sultry melody, especially when you’re the one over him as the song plays.

best lover - bibi :: perfect song to get absolutely nasty. rough tugs, messy, sloppy — needs that skin on skin contact like the song says so it resonates BAD with him. he’s so set with just being your toy when this song comes on. play with him in any way you want and he’s purring. wants you to figure out what really gets him high on that ecstasy, that’s his true desire. puts this song on when he’s feeling incredibly needy. he’s like, “i’m SAT.”

🪐 takayama riki (taki): sex with him would be playful and fun, would actually be so spontaneous, outrageously mischievous, always new and full of surprises. experimental with everything even down to the songs he would add on his playlist, ranging from unconventionally arousing to heavy desire.

nature feels - frank ocean :: peak. i sobbed when the dots connected in my brain!! taki and this song, it just makes sense together!! the lyrics just scream taki because he would, it’s so him. it’s carefree, playful, screams body-curiosity, mischief and still soft and intensely intimate. would actually fuck you in a garden or besides a streaming lake, primal in the way where it’s just indulging in your desires but still light with giggles. yesss, outdoors, laid out on the grass!! eats you out wholeheartedly to hear your cries echo within the surrounding trees. needs you in any way possible, even within nature. <3

agora hills - doja cat :: lowkey his song for when he’s feeling himself (like everyone else in the world). gets so into it. presses up against a window as he fucks you from behind, or loves when you sing the song to him as you’re riding him teheheh.. you’d have this song on when you’re getting ready for something in the bathroom, next thing you know, you’re bent over in front of the mirror, and he’s watching you and himself. gets off on how pretty you both are; a pretty couple. let’s be real.. he can’t wait to show you off :)

pu$$y fairy (otw) - jhene aiko :: you put him on to that shit. at first, he just loves how sensual the beat is. and then he sees the lyrics afterwards and falls in love even more with the song cause he’s like yes, this is so true, so accurate, so relatable, so real 😭the type of song he would giggle about mid fuck when it randomly comes on because of the flashbacks he would get or how explicit the lyrics are. lol

🪐 riki mauss (maki): he’d be very direct with conveying his lust with his songs, his songs are sensual, sultry, conveying all the passion he feels when he’s with you. loves a good bass, loves playfulness but loves the erotically explicit lyrics more.

ooh nah nah - sir ft. masego :: (munch maki anon can you hear me???) morning sex!!! clingy, would actually play this while showering with you, still fuzzy with sleep and buzzing with the memory of last nights events. mhm, he’s not doneee! he needs another round, despite all the rounds you’ve done the previous night. he’s still so sweetened and bewitched by your taste, he just can’t get enough!!! of your body, your lips, your essence, your presence, your everything. lovesick indeed, so swayed by just you, ends up getting so influenced by the sensually of it all and eats you out underneath the spraying shower head.

wus good/curious - partynextdoor :: i’m sick to my stomach (obv in a good way) because this would literally be at the TOP of his playlist, i just KNOW!! the song quickly amplifies how feral he can get, like imagine he just suddenly switches the tempo of his thrusts from rough smacks to a slow, deep pump??? or flips your positions and smacks your ass as a signal for you to start riding him, grinding up along with you??? would get intense, almost growling into your kisses or biting hard onto your bottom lip. it’s heated lust at this point. lowkey.. partynextdoor invades his playlist — there, i SAID IT.

get me - justin bieber ft. kehlani :: song he’d be playing on the computer speakers in the studio as he’s eating you out on the couch behind the desk.. it shuffles through his playlist because he’s working on a late night recording project, but he needs break — and you’re the best distraction, the best way to numb his heavy mind. puts the song on his playlist after a night out at a club with you, the image of you grinding against him to this song burned to memory every time it comes on. it’s sensual, slow, burning just enough to ease you into desire for more. this would be the song he would play to get you in the mood with him.

You’re used to doing everything alone – from the smallest thing, like running an errand when your groceries run out, to the biggest thing, like assembling an IKEA wardrobe which is two times bigger than your size. Which, you’re doing right now.

“Love?”

You turned your head when you heard someone – Fuma – calling for you, and you almost laughed at the terrified look written all over his face. Almost. Because suddenly you become aware of the ring adorning your fourth finger, and realize that you’re no longer dealing with everything alone – you’re married to him, and you were supposed to let him know about your plans in assembling an IKEA wardrobe in the living room.

“Hi?”

You awkwardly greet him before giving your best innocent smile, and Fuma heaved out a sigh while shaking his head. He then put away his briefcase before loosening up his tie.

“Let me take over this,”

He said as he put his blazer and tie on the couch, before he rolled up his sleeves up to his elbow. As much as you want to drool over your husband’s veins and his majestic forearm, you hold your thoughts back and shake your head, not wanting him to get involved in your projects.

“Love,”

“You just got back, you should take a rest. I can do this by myself, I swear. You should take a shower and I’ll heat up the dinner for you,”

“I know you can do this by yourself. But let me do this for you. This is… a safety hazard. This whole thing is twice your size, lovely. A slight mistake, and you’ll get hurt. I can’t afford to let that happen,”

You press your lips into a thin line as you ponder on his words. Fuma tries to take the cordless screw driver away from you, but you tighten your grip on it.

“My love, Y/N,”

“You had a long day at work,”

“I did,”

“So you have to rest,”

“How can I be at rest when I know that the love of my life is trying to build a heavy, big wardrobe alone. I know IKEA is all about Do-It-Yourself, but you have me, love. Sweetheart, please?”

You heaved out a deep sigh before your lips form a pout – you understand that Fuma is worried that you’re trying to do things by yourself, but you simply can’t allow him to help, considering that he just got off work.

“Love?”

“Fine. But you have to shower first. And let’s have dinner before we do this,”

“We?”

“Yes. I’m not letting my husband who just got off work doing this alone. And my husband is also not going to let me do this alone. So, we, will do this,”

Fuma smiles at your words and nods – he gathers his things and walks to the bedroom, before you can hear the shower being turned on. You, on the other hand, head to the kitchen to reheat the dinner that you made earlier, before serving it on the table.

“Thank you for the dinner,”

Fuma wraps his arm around your waist and drops a kiss on your temple before he sits down next to you, causing your lips to curl into a soft smile. The dinner begins with your usual conversation – asking how his day went, and if the lunch that you made was good.

“It was delicious, love. I bragged about it. Maki was annoyed because he forgot to bring his lunch, and also because I kept telling him that my wife packed my lunch,”

You laughed at his words – you can picture Maki’s facial expression in your mind: he was definitely furrowing his brows, frowning, and rolling his eyes as he listened to Fuma. That poor boy was probably done with Fuma too. 

After a few small talks, both Fuma and you finished the dinner. You were about to get up when Fuma pulled your wrist, making you turn to look at him with eyes full of questions.

“I have something to say,”

You slowly sit down, and Fuma turns his body to fully facing you.

“Love,”

Fuma holds your hand while looking into your eyes, and you can’t help but feel nervous over what he’s about to say.

“I know you’re used to doing things alone. But you have me now. I’m your husband, Y/N. Can you promise me that you will leave all the heavy things to me? You don’t have to worry about troubling me, and you don’t have to be independent anymore, love. You just have to sit down and be pretty for me, okay? I’ll do everything for you. Just name it and I’ll do it, for you.”

The nervousness that has been building up in your chest dissipates, and is replaced with warmth. He must have been really worried, you think to yourself, as your mind recalls the terrified look on his face earlier. 

“I'm sorry. I still can’t get used to it, I think. I don’t know, I just feel weird if I don’t do anything,”

“I understand. We can find… alternatives? Maybe you can do light gardening instead? Or baking? Anything, just not… trying to assemble a wardrobe by yourself,”

A pout appears on your lips, causing a small sigh to escape from Fuma’s lips. It seems that his ideas don't interest you, at least for now. Well, he can’t force you to change instantly – it’s a part of you, so he has to come up with something to compromise, until you learn to leave everything in his hand.

“How about, doing things together? Just like you said earlier. We will assemble the wardrobe together. We run errands together. Does that sound great to you?”

You press your lips into a thin line, before slowly nodding – together sounds better to you. It’ll make you feel less guilty for troubling him (despite him saying that you’re not, you can’t help but feel so). 

“Okay.”

You verbally agree to his words, and a smile etches on Fuma’s lips – happy that you’re willing to do things together. 

“Since you’ve cooked, I’ll wash the dishes. Okay?”

“But,”

“Together. We’re doing things together,”

You heaved out a deep sigh before nodding, reluctantly letting Fuma wash the dishes. After he finished, both of you head together to the living room to assemble the wardrobe. Fuma lets you be in charge of screws and hooks, while he holds the pieces together – the pieces are quite heavy, and it makes him wonder how you did it alone. You must have struggled. But even then… you’re still insisting on doing it alone. Fuma sighs and shakes his head, before making a mental note to keep assuring you to not do things alone anymore.

It takes about an hour for both of you to finally finish assembling the wardrobe, and Fuma slowly carries it into the room that you have turned into a walk-in closet.

“Okay, here is good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Here is great.”

Fuma pushes the wardrobe against the wall to properly secure its place. He then heaves a relieved sigh as everything goes smoothly – and most importantly, you didn’t get hurt.

“Are you okay? It must be tiring,”

You ask as you spot beads of sweat on his forehead. The guilt began to bloom in your chest again, feeling sorry for making your husband involved in this after a long day at work. And he’s working again tomorrow… you think to yourself and a pout forms on your lips again. 

“It’s not, love. Hey, do you think my muscles are only for display? I bulked up so that I can do these things with ease, and also…”

You yelp in surprise as Fuma picks you up by your waist – your legs now dangle in the air.

“I can pick you up.”

“That’s great! Can you put me down now, please?”

You smile at him, and Fuma shakes his head as he smiles at you – he then throws you over his shoulder, causing another yelp to escape your lips.

“Only God knows what you’ll do if I put you down and leave you alone. We’re leaving together, and we’re going to bed together.”

You huff at his words, feeling a bit defeated as Fuma somehow is able to see through you. You were going to shoo him away and assure him that you would be fine handling the rest (a.k.a. storing all the summer clothes away).

He gently puts you down on the bed, and an idea suddenly pops up in your mind. You watch as Fuma pulls the curtain down, and make sure he’s far enough from you before you attempt to run – Fuma is quick, of course. He grabs you by your waist once again, and brings you together with him to switch off the lights. You feel like you are his plushie, or something – he brings you around like you weigh nothing.

“No more running away.”

“Okay…”

You responded with a very defeated tone, and settled down on the bed, making yourself comfortable. Fuma too, lies down on the bed and wraps his arm around your waist while pulling you closer.

“Thank you for assembling the wardrobe together with me,”

You brush your nose against his, causing Fuma to giggle. 

“Thank you for willing to do things together, love.”

Fuma gently tucks your hair away from your face, before he drops a kiss on your lips.

“You’re not alone anymore. You have me. We’ll do things together. Or I’ll do it, for you. Okay?”

“Okay,”

“Good. Goodnight, love. I love you,”

“Goodnight, my husband. I love you more,”

additional notes: thank you for reading till the end <3

Ayato

Kamisato Ayato's Assistant

He loves me, he loves me not

Alhaitham

He loves me, he loves me not

Childe

Troubled love life with the Harbingers

Debt collector Childe falling in love with you

Dottore

Test Subject <3

Test Subject Part 2 <3 (includes Pantalone & Capitano)

Diluc

Would you fall in love with me again?

Spending your birthday at dawn winery for the first time

Multiple Men

Doing the "she's busy" prank on them (SMAU)

Your birthday

Them Snoring (crack)

Genshin Men as Disney Princes

How Genshin Men FUCK <3

Best friends to fuck friends <3

Things they do when they're in love but haven't realized it yet

Oh fuck! yes, use me! I'm yours! <3

Why would you make that the safe-word?!

How people find out you're dating them (suggestive)

^^^ part 2

Smut Scenarios <3

Troubled love life with the Harbingers

How people find out you're dating them (pt3)

The Fatui's cum slut <3

My Boy Only Breaks His Favourite Toys <3

Series;

The Harbingers Little Daughter (pt1)

They don't know much (pt2)

JJK

Trying to hide an injury from them (SMAU)

texts with jjk men that are actually from insta reels (smau)

^^^pt 2

when you live in a sketchy/dangerous neighborhood (SMAU)

when you haven't been eating (SMAU)

how you refer to their dick (like borderline otw to smut) (crack) (SMAU)

when you accidentally tell them you're horny (BORDERLINE otw to smut) (SMAU)

PT2; After they find out you haven't been eating (smau)

When you leave in the middle of the night (SMAU)

How they deal with your toxic bf (SMAU)

They hear your new song after the breakup (SMAU

Nanami

Between the lines (Stripper x CEO) <3

FICS (Unless specified, it'll be on Wattpad)

Everything you can't see (Childe x Reader) AO3/Wattpad

Love the mask, who's under it? (Alhaitham x Reader)

Great, it's like a hidden identity (Scaramouche x Reader)

Miyu, Jay, and Maki sat around one of the corner tables at Koyomi, mugs of coffee and half-eaten pastries scattered between notebooks and receipts as they discussed their newest problem, staffing. Yuma and Rocky sat with them, ready to help. Rocky was already twirling a pen between her fingers while Yuma leaned over her shoulder, eager to design something dramatic.

“I think what we really need is someone who specializes in desserts,” Miyu said thoughtfully. “Lila was incredible at baking, and while Maki’s been covering lately,” “Hey,” Maki interrupted, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “My feelings.” She laughed. “You’re good,” she continued, smiling apologetically, “but it’s not quite the same.” Maki huffed, pretending to sulk for a moment before nodding. “Okay, yeah, fair. I’m way better at cooking than baking anyway. Cakes hate me.” Jay chuckled. “What we need is a top-tier baker.”

“And what better way to find one,” Jay added, eyes lighting up, “than a competition?” Miyu’s eyes widened. “That’s actually… genius.” Yuma gasped. “YES. A bake-off.” Rocky was already scribbling ideas down. “Say less. I’m designing the poster.” And just like that, Yuma and Rocky dove into sketching out ads and flyers, determined to lure in the best bakers in town, and hopefully, Koyomi’s newest employee.

A few days later, Yuma and Rocky finally finished both the poster and the newspaper ad, spreading the designs out across the table when Aya and Harua came by to pick them up. “Oh my god,” Sana said, leaning over Yuma’s shoulder, “these look amazing.” Rocky flipped her hair proudly. “Obviously.” Miyu smiled wide, walking over to Yuma and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Thank you for this. Seriously.” Yuma hugged her tightly. “I’d do anything for the love of my life.” Nicholas groaned softly but walked over anyway, wrapping his arms around Rocky from behind and kissing her temple. “You really never disappoint when it comes to designs.” She grinned. “I know.”

Maki and Jay studied the posters carefully, nodding in approval. “This is perfect,” Jay said. “Honestly, I think this will bring in exactly who we’re looking for.” “Yeah,” Maki added, smiling. “Thanks, both of you. This is gonna help a lot.” Jay turned to Aya. “Think you can get the ad in next week’s paper?” “Already cleared it with my boss,” Aya said easily. “You’re good.” “So the competition starts in two weeks,” Rocky said, tapping the date at the bottom of the page. Harua brightened instantly. “That’s perfect,” he said. “Willow will officially be moved in by then, so she and Sunoo can both be here for it.” Maki laughed softly. “Wow. Everything really is lining up, huh?”

~~~

A couple of days later, the pack village was pure chaos. Willow was officially moving in, and Miyu and Jay were receiving applications for the baking competition nearly every hour. Harua was a nervous wreck, pacing back and forth between the cabins, his heart racing at the reality that Willow would finally be here with him all the time, no more five-hour drives, no more distance, no more falling asleep alone. Fuma had been recruited to help haul Willow’s things into Harua’s smaller cabin, while Tara hovered nearby, insisting on helping with the lighter boxes. Every time she reached for something, Fuma would shake his head and say, “I’ve got it,” before lifting something ridiculously heavy like it weighed nothing at all. Tara tried not to look impressed, but she absolutely was, and Fuma definitely noticed, subtly straightening his posture every time he passed her.

Willow, meanwhile, was bouncing with excitement, darting around the cabin and hugging Harua at random intervals. “I still can’t believe I live here now,” she said for what had to be the fifth time, her arms around his neck. “I can’t wait to start my new job, and get to know everyone better, and just… be here.” Harua smiled so wide his cheeks hurt, holding her tightly every time she came close, still half-convinced this was all a dream he might wake up from.

Rocky was all over Sunoo, trying to teach him some simple magic that his body could actually sustain without backlash. “No, no, relax your shoulders,” she laughed, adjusting his posture, then grabbing his hands again. “You’re fighting the flow.” Sunoo groaned dramatically but tried again, only to blink in surprise when a faint shimmer sparked between his fingers. “Wait, did I do that?” he asked, eyes wide. Rocky gasped, clapping her hands. “You did! See, I told you, you’re a natural.” Nicholas, meanwhile, was sulking nearby, arms crossed, glaring every time they high-fived, hugged, or held hands to stabilize the spell. “Do you really need this much physical contact?” he muttered. Rocky shot him a grin. “Yes.” But honestly, it was kind of worth it, especially when she ran back to him afterward, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering his face with kisses, proudly declaring, “Having a wizard friend is amazing.”

EJ and Sora stood off to the side, watching the chaos unfold with fond smiles. “It’s nice,” Sora murmured, leaning into him, “when everyone’s just… happy.” EJ hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Let’s hope it stays that way for a while. No more drama, no more emergencies.” Across the yard, Sana laughed as Jo and Taki tossed a basketball back and forth, Jo clearly way better but intentionally missing shots so Taki could win sometimes. “Hey, that was totally on purpose,” Taki accused. Jo grinned, shrugging. “What? Maybe I just got worse.” Nearby, Kei and Aya walked hand in hand along the path, talking quietly about the future, about the pack, about what came next, neither of them needing answers yet, just each other.

Two weeks passed quickly, and before they knew it, it was time for the first round of the bake-off. In total, seventy-five people had signed up for the competition, filling Koyomi with nervous energy, sweet smells, and the constant clatter of bowls and utensils. Since it was a Friday, Maki was stuck at school and couldn’t be there in person, but he trusted Miyu and Jay completely to make good calls. Not everyone lived up to expectations; some desserts were messy, others bland, and a few clearly lacked confidence, but there were also some truly impressive creations. By the end of the day, they narrowed it down to twenty people who would move on to the second round, chosen not just for skill, but for that extra spark of passion and personality that felt right for Koyomi.

That evening, Maki listened eagerly as Miyu and Jay talked through their choices, animatedly describing flavors, techniques, and contestants’ attitudes while handing him boxes of leftovers to taste. Some desserts made his eyes light up immediately, others were good but not really his style, and a few just weren’t his cup of tea at all, but he enjoyed trying them anyway, imagining the faces behind each dish. He found himself growing more and more excited as they spoke, already invested in people he hadn’t even met yet. By the time they were done, Maki was practically buzzing, counting down the days until Sunday, when he’d finally get to join in on the judging himself.

Saturday came between the two competitions, and for once, Koyomi was closed, officially “because of the bake-off,” but in reality, it gave Rocky the perfect chance to finally reveal what she’d been secretly working on for weeks. After lunch, she gathered all the girls together, her eyes sparkling in a way that immediately made them suspicious, and told them to follow her to her and Nicholas’s cabin. When they got there, she handed each of them a bag of their own, grinning like she was about to explode if she didn’t start talking soon.

Aya was the first to open hers. She reached inside, pulled out a bikini in her favorite color, and froze. Printed across the fabric was a delicate feather pen, subtle but unmistakable, a perfect symbol of her. “Rocky,” she breathed, staring at it like it might vanish if she blinked. “You didn’t.” She practically hugged the bikini to her chest before looking up and throwing her arms around Rocky. “This is gorgeous. I love it. I love you.” Rocky laughed, hugging her back tightly, muttering something about how Aya was easy to design for because she “basically radiated soft poet energy.”

Next was Miyu. She slid her hand into the bag and slowly pulled out her bikini, eyes widening as she took in the details. It was in her favorite color too, but what really made her stop was the pattern, phases of the moon: a full moon, a half moon, and a small crescent, laid out in a gentle sequence. “Oh…” she whispered, fingers tracing the fabric like she was afraid to crease it. “Rocky, this is,” She swallowed, blinking a little. “This is perfect.” She looked up, smiling so brightly it almost hurt, then stepped forward to hug her. “It even matches how Yuma and I met. How did you?” Rocky just winked. “I pay attention.”

Next was Sora. She reached into her bag and pulled out a swimsuit, blinking in surprise. “Oh, I thought it’d be a bikini,” she admitted, but then she actually looked at it, and her breath caught. The silhouette fit her perfectly, elegant and sharp all at once, with asymmetrical straps that crossed over one shoulder and bold cutouts along the sides. It was, of course, in her favorite color. She turned it over slowly, and that’s when she noticed the cutouts, shaped subtly like slashes from wolf claws. “Rocky…” she murmured, a smile spreading across her face. “You never fail to impress me with your talent, do you?” Rocky grinned, crossing her arms proudly. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

Then came Sana. She pulled out her bikini and immediately froze. It was soft pink with splashes of blue, dreamy and bright, but what made her inhale sharply was the print. “No way…” she whispered. It was the exact design of the first painting Jo had ever made for her, the one inspired by her favorite fantasy book, the one she’d talked about for weeks afterward. Her eyes went glossy as she pressed the fabric to her chest. “Rocky… this is, this is that painting.” Rocky scratched the back of her neck, laughing sheepishly. “It took a lot of persuasion to get Jo to hand it over, but I eventually wore him down.” Sana laughed through her smile, shaking her head. “That sounds like Jojo. He’s always been ridiculously protective of his art.”

Next was Tara. She hesitated, fingers lingering on the edge of the bag as she watched the others gush and laugh, feeling a little out of place in comparison. The other girls were so confident, so open, and even though Rocky had promised she’d make something Tara would feel comfortable in, her nerves still buzzed under her skin. But the moment she pulled the fabric out, relief washed over her. It was a swimsuit, with much more coverage than the others, cute instead of sexy, with a small skirt-like layer at the bottom that made her shoulders loosen instantly. Her eyes widened when she noticed the print: tiny wolf pawprints trailing softly from her left shoulder down to her right hip. “Oh…” she breathed, fingers brushing over the design. She looked up at Rocky, smiling shyly. “Thank you. Really.” It was the first time she’d ever looked at something like this and not felt uncomfortable in her own skin.

Then Willow eagerly dove into her bag, pulling out the fabric with zero hesitation. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said, before freezing, and then squealing. “Oh my god!” It was a light blue bikini, delicate and soft, covered in snowflake prints that shimmered faintly in the light. The bottom had the same small skirt detail as Tara’s, making it feel both cute and elegant. Willow bounced on her toes, spinning in place. “This is the prettiest bikini I’ve ever seen,” she declared, clutching it to her chest before laughing and jumping again, the room instantly filling with her excitement.

Sana asked if Rocky had made one for herself too, and Rocky grinned, nodding. “Already wearing it,” she said casually. “You’ll see it at the pond.” The girls all giggled at that, excitement buzzing through the room as they hurried off to their own cabins to change, slipping into their new swimsuits before covering up with robes and calling out for the boys to meet them by the water. The boys, just as eager, changed into their own swimwear and followed along, laughter echoing through the paths as they headed toward the pond together.

As they walked, Fuma stayed close to Tara, asking for the third time, “You’re really sure you’re okay with this? We can go later, just the two of us, if that’s better.” Tara stopped and turned to him, smiling softly but firmly. “I’m sure,” she said, squeezing his hand. He studied her face for a moment before nodding, still not entirely convinced. “Okay,” he said, “but the second you feel even a little uncomfortable, you tell me, and we’re out of there.” Tara smiled again, warmth blooming in her chest. She thought it was sweet how much he cared, but she also wanted to show him she wasn’t as fragile as she used to be.

Nicholas kept trying to peek inside Rocky’s robe, desperate to catch even the smallest glimpse of the swimsuit she was wearing. Since he was the only one who knew what she’d been designing for the girls, his curiosity was eating him alive. Every time he leaned in or reached out, though, Rocky swatted his hands away, scolding him with a laugh. “Nope. Have some patience,” she said firmly, wagging a finger at him. Nicholas grumbled under his breath but obeyed, only half-successfully hiding how eager he was.

Harua walked beside Willow, their fingers intertwined, gently swinging their hands between them as he asked, “Are you excited to see the pond?” Willow nodded eagerly. “Yes! Everyone keeps talking about it like it’s some kind of magical place. And swimming in it when there’s snow everywhere? That sounds unreal.” She turned to the other girls, eyes bright. “Have any of you swum in it before?” Only Aya and Miyu raised their hands, explaining that they’d been there the longest, but even they had only gone once. That somehow made Willow even more excited; the thought that this was something new they were all about to experience together made her smile wider.

As they reached the pond, Willow stopped in her tracks, smiling in pure awe as steam curled up from the water into the cold air, snow and ice framing it like something straight out of a movie scene. It looked unreal, magical even. Maki was the first to shrug off his jacket, already bouncing on his toes like he might dive in at any second, and Taki followed immediately, grinning as he copied him. Kei scolded them lightly for having zero patience, but Aya just laughed, waving him off. “Let them be kids for once.”

Rocky loosened the knot of her robe and turned to the girls with a grin. “Go.” And just like that, they all slipped their robes off at once. The reactions from their mates were instant and impossible to miss, every single one different, but all intense. Nicholas actually growled, his eyes flashing gold as a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face. Rocky’s bikini was violet with streaks of gold, a delicate violet flower wrapped in a thin golden chain across the fabric, mirroring the mark on the nape of her shoulder left by Nicholas’s bite. He crossed the distance between them in two steps, pulling her close and peppering her face with kisses. “You look way too good,” he murmured against her skin. “I don’t like that anyone else gets to see this.” Rocky just laughed, threading her fingers through his hair, clearly enjoying every second of his reaction.

Kei couldn’t stop smiling, nearly dropping to his knees the same way he had when he first met Aya, staring at her like she was a goddess, which, to him, she absolutely was. “You’re unreal,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief, and Aya laughed, reaching out to tug him closer by the hand. EJ let out a low growl of appreciation too, his eyes bright as he ran his fingers along the claw-mark design on Sora’s side, the shape almost fitting his hand perfectly. “This was made for you,” he said softly, and Sora smirked, clearly pleased with the effect it had on him. Yuma gently traced the moons across Miyu’s bikini, feeling the fabric beneath his fingertips. “You look amazing,” he said before leaning in to kiss her, Miyu smiling into it.

Jo, meanwhile, was blushing so hard his ears had practically turned red. He glanced shyly at Sana, then quickly looked away again. “Do you like it?” she asked softly. He nodded, voice quiet but sincere. “You look really pretty.” Then, after a pause, he added, “I’m glad Rocky used the painting for something good.” Rocky immediately chimed in, grinning. “Relax, Jojo, I gave it back. It’s not gone forever.” Sana laughed at that, leaning into Jo’s side, clearly glowing from both the swimsuit and his reaction.

Fuma lifted Tara straight into the air, spinning her around as she laughed and clung to his shoulders, her giggles echoing through the cold air. “You look incredible,” he said breathlessly, setting her back down but keeping his hands at her waist. “And confident. I love it.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, softer this time. “How does it feel?” “Amazing,” Tara admitted, smiling shyly but proudly. “For the first time… I’m not worried about wearing something like this.” Lastly, Harua was a complete stuttering mess. “I, you… you look,” he tried, failing miserably, his hand hovering before gently tracing one of the snowflakes along Willow’s bikini, the symbol making his heart flutter even harder. “I mean, I just, wow.” Willow giggled and leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to his nose. “You’re adorable.” That finally unlocked his brain. “You look wonderful,” he said softly, eyes full of awe as he smiled at her.

Maki and Taki called out in unison, “Are you guys gonna keep kissing all day, or are you actually joining us in the pond?” Everyone burst into laughter before slowly making their way into the steaming water, the cold air biting at their skin only for it to melt away the moment they submerged. They stayed there for hours, splashing each other, talking, teasing, and drifting between conversations as steam curled into the snowy sky. At one point, Maki swam closer to Rocky, nudging her shoulder. “Hey… when I find my mate, will you design something for them too?” Rocky smiled warmly, ruffling his hair. “Of course I will. No one gets left out.” Maki grinned. “What about me? You could design something for me too, since you’re way better than Yuma.” “Hey!” Yuma splashed him hard in the face, laughing as water went everywhere. For once in their lives, in their pack, everything felt perfect, no worries, no threats, just warmth, laughter, and love.

Once they got out of the pond, all the girls except Sora immediately started shivering, the cold biting into their damp skin. Sora, being a vampire, didn’t feel the temperature the same way, but she noticed it instantly, her eyes softening as she watched the others hug themselves. The boys, on the other hand, were completely fine thanks to their werewolf heat. Rocky muttered a spell under her breath, her fingers dancing through the air as violet, shimmering smoke spiraled around them in a small, hurricane-like swirl, drying their hair and clothes while chasing away some of the chill. The boys quickly pulled their mates into their arms, sharing extra warmth before they all started making their way back toward the house and cabins.

Maki and Taki walked a little behind the others, watching the couples laugh and lean into each other, feeling a familiar ache of longing in their chests. They glanced at each other before laughing softly. “At least we have each other,” Taki said, bumping his shoulder lightly against Maki’s, “for now.” He went on, musing about how their family kept getting bigger, first Aya, then Miyu and Jay, then Sora, Sana, Rocky, and Jake for a while, then Tara, and now Willow and Sunoo. The pack was growing, mixing with all kinds of species. Maki smiled, nodding. “Yeah… but I wouldn’t change it for the world.” Taki nodded in agreement.

~~~

The night passed quickly, and Sunday arrived sooner than anyone expected. Miyu stood outside Maki’s door, knocking loudly. “Maki,” she called, then knocked again. “If you don’t wake up right now, I’m revoking your baker privileges.” From inside the room came a muffled groan. “Five more minutes,” Maki muttered, his face buried in his pillow. Miyu laughed, crossing her arms. “You’ve already had five more minutes. And another five. And another.” She leaned closer to the door. “Also, your alarm has been going off for thirty minutes. I could hear it from the kitchen.” Maki cracked one eye open. “That sounds… exaggerated.” “Jay texted me five minutes ago asking where we were,” she replied sweetly. “So unless you want the vampire to judge without us, get up.”

That did it. Maki shot upright, hair sticking out in every direction. “Okay, okay, I’m up,” he grumbled, rubbing his face. “Why is it always illegal to sleep when I actually want to?” “Because today is competition day,” Miyu said, smiling as she stepped into his room. “And you’ve been talking about this for weeks.” His expression shifted instantly, excitement replacing the grogginess. “Oh, right. The bake-off.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Okay, yeah, no, I’m awake. Fully conscious. Ready to judge baked goods and change lives.” “Mmhm,” Miyu said, unconvinced. “Go brush your teeth before you collapse again.”

A few minutes later, Maki stumbled into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging half of it in one go. “Do we have anything I can eat that doesn’t require thinking?” he asked. Miyu slid a sandwich across the counter. “Already prepared for your morning incompetence.” “Wow,” he said, offended, though he happily took it. “You make it sound like I’m useless.” “Not useless,” she corrected. “Just… not functional before noon.” He laughed through a mouthful of food. “Fair.” After finishing the sandwich in record time, he straightened up. “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s go before Jay decides to replace me with vibes.”

They headed out to the car, Maki practically jogging the last few steps. “I can’t believe we actually got seventy-five people, I mean sure we’re down to twenty,” he said, buckling his seatbelt. “but it’s insane.” “People take desserts very seriously,” Miyu replied as she started the engine. “And Koyomi has a reputation.” “Yeah,” he said softly, smiling to himself. “Lila would’ve loved this.” Miyu glanced at him, her expression softening. “She would have,” she agreed. “And she’d be proud of you for keeping the baking alive.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’m still not as good as her.” “You don’t have to be,” Miyu said gently. “You just have to care. And you do.”

By the time they pulled up to Koyomi, the place was already buzzing with energy. Inside, Jay was moving around behind the counter, clipboard in hand, looking far too organized for a Sunday morning. “Mornin’, vampire,” Maki called as he walked in, greeting him with one of those awkward half-hug, half-handshake things. “You look suspiciously prepared.” Jay smirked. “Some of us don’t rely on panic to function.” “That’s a lie,” Maki said. “You’ve seen me cook under pressure.” “And I’m still traumatized,” Jay replied dryly.

Miyu laughed as she stepped inside. “Anything left to prep?” she asked, setting her bag down. Jay shook his head. “Nope. Stations are set, ingredients are stocked, judges’ table is ready. All you have to do is sit there, eat desserts, and look important.” Maki blinked. “Wow. My dream job.” “Try not to scare the contestants,” Jay added. “Some of them already look like they’re about to cry.” “I’m very approachable,” Maki argued. Jay glanced at his messy hair and oversized hoodie. “You look like a raccoon that wandered into a bakery.” Miyu snorted. “He does.” Maki gasped. “Betrayal. On competition day.” Jay smiled faintly as he handed Maki a clipboard. “Come on, raccoon boy. Let’s go meet the future of Koyomi desserts.”

As people began walking in and finding their places, Maki felt his heart suddenly pick up in pace. It was strange, he was just standing there, leaning against the counter, clipboard in hand, watching contestants nervously adjust aprons and trays. Nothing was happening. Nothing should have been happening. And yet. His wolf stirred. At first it was subtle, like an itch under his skin, but then it grew stronger, pacing restlessly inside him like it was trapped in a cage that was suddenly too small. His shoulders tensed, his fingers curled slightly, muscles tightening without his permission.

“What the hell…” Maki muttered under his breath. Jay noticed almost immediately. “You okay?” he asked quietly, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to bolt.” “I don’t know,” Maki whispered back. “Something feels,” The front door opened again. The bell chimed softly, and a young woman stepped inside, balancing a tray carefully in her hands. She was around his age, maybe a year or two older, hair pulled back loosely, eyes bright as she smiled at the room and took in the space like she was genuinely excited just to be there.

The moment Maki saw her, his wolf howled. It wasn’t a sound, it was a feeling, a violent, overwhelming pull that slammed into his chest and stole the air from his lungs. His vision sharpened, colors deepening, scents flooding his senses all at once. Her scent hit him next, warm, sweet, something like vanilla and citrus and home, and suddenly the room felt too small, too loud, too close. “Oh shit,” he breathed. His eyes flared gold before he could stop them. He turned away sharply, heart pounding, claws sliding out as he clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he fought to ground himself.

Jay’s head snapped toward him. “Maki?” he whispered urgently. “What’s wrong? Are you reacting to the moon or something?” Maki shook his head quickly, breath uneven. “No, no, it’s not that, I haven’t had trouble with the moon in ten years,” He swallowed hard, voice dropping even lower. “Jay.” “What?” “Mate.” Jay froze. “…Fuck,” he whispered.

Suddenly everything made sense, the pacing wolf, the tension in his body, the way his instincts were screaming at him to go to her, to protect her, to claim her, to never let her out of his sight. Jay turned instantly to Miyu. “Hey,” he said calmly but firmly, “I need you to start the competition without us. Maki and I have to step out for a minute.” Miyu frowned. “What? Why?” “No questions,” Jay said quickly. “Please.” She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay… but hurry back.”

Jay grabbed Maki by the arm and practically dragged him toward the back door. Maki resisted on instinct, his body heavy, his wolf pushing forward, desperate to turn around and go back inside. “Easy,” Jay muttered through clenched teeth, using far more strength than he should’ve had. “You are not imprinting in the middle of a bake-off.” “I’m not trying to,” Maki growled. “My wolf is.” “Yeah, well, tell your wolf to chill,” Jay snapped, hauling him through the back door and into the alley behind Koyomi. “Because if you go back in there like this, someone’s gonna notice your eyes glowing, and then we’ve got a way bigger problem.”

Maki bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard. “She’s in there,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to say it. “Jay, I can feel her.” “I know,” Jay said quietly. “I know. But you need to get control first.” Jay studied him carefully. “You think you can calm down?” he asked quietly. “Like, actually control your wolf?” Maki nodded, dragging in a few deep breaths, pressing his palms against the cold brick wall behind him. “Yeah,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I’m good. I’ve got it.”

Jay hesitated, then slowly reached for the door. “Alright. Let’s try,” The moment the door cracked open and the warm scents of sugar, butter, chocolate, and her rushed out, Maki’s eyes flared gold again. A low, instinctive rumble tore from his chest before he could stop it. “Shit,” Jay slammed the door shut instantly, shoving Maki back into the alley. “Nope. Absolutely not.” “Jay,” “No,” Jay cut in, pointing at him. “Okay, wolf boy, you’re going home.” “What? No, I can’t,” Maki protested. “I have to stay, this is literally my job,” “And if you stay, you’re gonna wolf out in the middle of Koyomi,” Jay shot back. “Which, reminder, is a human restaurant full of contestants and customers.”

“I wouldn’t,” “You just growled at a door,” Jay deadpanned. “Strike one.” Maki groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I can handle it.” “No, you can’t,” Jay said flatly. “And even if you could, strike two: you’d be biased as hell.” “I wouldn’t,” “Don’t lie to me,” Jay interrupted again. “You wouldn’t even need to see her baking. Your nose would pick her up instantly and suddenly whatever dessert she made would be ‘the best one by far,’ even if it tasted like cardboard.” “That’s not,” “That is exactly how mates work,” Jay said. “You’d crown her winner even if she burned water.” Maki opened his mouth, then closed it again, scowling. “Okay, maybe,” “So,” Jay finished firmly, “you’re going home.”

“I hate this,” Maki muttered. “I just found her and now I can’t even see her.” “And that sucks,” Jay said, softer now. “But it sucks way less than exposing the supernatural or having you lose control in public.” Maki leaned back against the wall, jaw tight, clearly fighting the urge to argue again. “I could still,” “No,” Jay said immediately. Maki sighed, defeated. “Fine.” Jay still didn’t look convinced. He pulled out his phone. “Actually… I don’t trust you not to sneak back in.” “What?” “You heard me.” Jay started dialing. “I’m calling backup.”

“Jay,” “Too late.” The call connected quickly. “Fuma,” Jay said, “yeah, we’ve got a situation. Maki just found his mate and is two seconds from losing his mind in the middle of Koyomi.” He glanced sideways at the wolf. “No offense.” Maki huffed. “A little taken.” Fuma’s voice came through the phone, calm and steady. “Got it. I’m already in the car. I’ll be there in ten.” Jay exhaled in relief. “Perfect. Thanks.” He hung up and turned back to Maki. “Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You’re being escorted home by an alpha.” Maki groaned. “This is humiliating.” “Yeah,” Jay replied. “But at least you’re not humiliating the pack in front of twenty bakers.”

Once Fuma arrived, he stepped out of the car already sighing like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was walking into. “Alright,” he said, clapping a hand on Jay’s shoulder, “thanks for calling me before this turned into a full-blown incident.”

Jay nodded, gesturing toward Maki. “He’s following his brother’s footsteps and going a little crazy.” Fuma’s brows lifted. “Ah,” he said. “That explains everything.” “Hey,” Maki muttered. Fuma turned to him, eyes soft but firm. “Come on, pup.” “I’m not a…” Before Maki could finish, Fuma grabbed the back of his jacket and started dragging him toward the car. Maki immediately resisted, digging his heels into the ground. “Fuma, wait, no, I can walk,” “You’re walking,” Fuma said calmly, “just horizontally.” “This is humiliating!” Maki protested, trying to twist out of his grip.

“Yeah, yeah,” Fuma replied, hauling him the rest of the way and opening the car door. “You should’ve seen you at 7 during your first full moon with your wolf awakened. We actually did chain you up back then.” Maki groaned loudly as he was shoved into the passenger seat. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t,” Fuma said, buckling his seatbelt for him before slamming the door shut. “You love me. Deep down.” Maki slumped in the seat, running his hands over his face. “I feel pathetic.” Fuma paused before getting into the driver’s seat, looking at him through the open door. “Hey,” he said gently, “don’t.”

Maki glanced up. “We’ve all been there,” Fuma continued. “Losing control, feeling like you’re not strong enough, not stable enough. It happens. Especially with mates.” “But I’ve been good,” Maki said quietly. “I am good. I haven’t had trouble with control since I was a kid.” “I know,” Fuma said, nodding. “After you learned how to handle full moons, you became one of the most stable wolves in the pack. Seriously. EJ brags about it.” Maki blinked. “He does?” “Yeah,” Fuma smirked. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Maki huffed weakly, then looked out the window. “What if I never see her again?” Fuma’s smile faded, replaced by something softer, steadier. “You will.” Maki turned back to him. “You don’t know that.” “I do,” Fuma said confidently. “We always find our mates. Fate doesn’t pull that kind of trick on us.” Maki swallowed. “What if?” “She walked into Koyomi once,” Fuma interrupted gently. “She can do it again. And when she does, you’ll be calmer. You’ll handle it better.” Maki leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling. “I hope you’re right.” “I am,” Fuma said, starting the engine. “Now sit tight before I actually start looking for chains.”

~~~

Meanwhile, at Koyomi, the bake-off was in full swing. The restaurant buzzed with nervous energy, the scent of sugar, chocolate, citrus, and warm pastry hanging thick in the air. Miyu and Jay moved from station to station, clipboards in hand, tasting forks ready, exchanging quiet murmurs after each dessert. They’d had high hopes for the twenty contestants who made it this far, but it quickly became clear that not everyone had maintained what earned them a spot in the second round. Some desserts were good, even great, but not Koyomi great. Not special. Not memorable. One by one, contestants were gently thanked and sent home, until only five remained.

Those final five were exceptional. Every plate that reached Miyu and Jay was thoughtful, balanced, and beautifully presented, flavors layered with intention rather than flash. The judges took their time now, tasting twice, sometimes three times, discussing texture, technique, creativity, but more than that, they listened. They asked questions, and the way the finalists spoke about baking became just as important as what sat on the plate. One spoke about desserts like comfort, like memories, like love baked into every layer. Another talked about precision and discipline. Another about joy, about how baking felt like breathing. In the end, it wasn’t just skill that crowned the winner, but passion, the kind that fit perfectly into Koyomi’s heart and soul.

Miyu and Jay gathered the five in front of the counter, smiling warmly despite the tension in the air. “First of all,” Miyu said, “thank you so much for being here. Every single one of you should be proud of what you made today.” Jay nodded beside her. “This was not an easy decision. At all.” Then Miyu announced the winner, congratulating them with a bright smile and a handshake, letting them know they’d officially be joining the team, starting Monday at eleven o’clock.

Jay and Miyu cleaned up Koyomi in comfortable silence, stacking plates, wiping down counters, and locking the doors before heading out to the car. As Jay drove toward the pack’s little village, he finally explained everything, how Maki’s wolf had reacted the moment his mate walked in, how he couldn’t control himself, how Jay had to physically drag him out of the restaurant before something worse happened. Miyu stared at him in shock for a few seconds before letting out a slow breath. “Oh my god… Jay,” she said softly. “I’m just glad you were there. That could’ve gone so badly.”

Jay nodded, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Yeah, but he’s probably furious with me now,” he muttered. “I basically kicked him out of his own competition.” Miyu reached over, resting her hand on his arm. “He’ll understand,” she said gently. “Maki’s not stupid. He knows you did it to protect him, and everyone else. Not to be mean.” Jay sighed, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as they pulled into the village.

But the scene waiting for them was… not calm. At all. As they parked and got out, the first thing they saw was chaos in the open clearing. Fuma, EJ, Nicholas, and Maki were all in their wolf forms, circling, snapping, shoving, and growling at each other in what looked like a half-fight, half-playful brawl, though Maki, especially, looked furious, his hackles raised and eyes blazing gold. Tara stood a few steps away, hands clasped nervously in front of her chest. “Fuma, please don’t actually bite him,” she called, clearly worried.

Meanwhile, Sora and Rocky were sitting on a nearby log like this was front-row seating to a sporting event. “Ten on Maki,” Sora said casually. “He’s pissed enough to flip someone.” Rocky snorted. “You’re insane. Fuma’s winning. He always wins. That man could wrestle a mountain.” Jay blinked. “What the hell?” Miyu cut him off, already sighing. “Yeah… that tracks.”

Yuma walked out of the house the moment he felt Miyu’s presence return, his wolf senses already picking up on her scent. He headed straight toward her and Jay, a soft smile on his face. “Hey,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “How did the competition go?” Miyu stared at him like he’d lost his mind, then pointed past him at the four massive wolves growling and shoving each other in the clearing. “Are you serious right now?” she asked. “That’s what’s going on?” Yuma followed her finger, watching as Maki snapped at Fuma’s neck fur while EJ shoved Nico away from him. “Oh, that,” he said casually, like this was completely normal. “Yeah, Maki’s being stupid.”

Jay blinked. “That’s… not very specific.” Yuma shrugged. “He started with Fuma, then dragged Nicholas into it by insulting Rocky,” he continued. “Then he bumped into EJ’s shoulder really hard and didn’t apologize. So now we’re here.” Miyu rubbed her face. “Why is he like this?” “No idea,” Yuma said. “But honestly, it’s better to let them sort it out.” Jay frowned. “Shouldn’t we stop it?” Yuma shook his head. “Nah. If EJ actually wanted it to end, he’d use his alpha voice and it’d be over in two seconds. Sometimes younger wolves just need to… get it out.”

They walked over to Tara, who was standing stiffly a few feet away, clearly tense as she watched Fuma dodge one of Maki’s lunges. “Tara,” Miyu said gently, touching her arm, “you don’t have to worry. They’ll be fine.” Tara nodded, biting her lip. “I know… I just don’t like seeing them fight.” Yuma gave her a reassuring smile. “It looks worse than it is. Mostly.” They then moved to join Sora and Rocky, who were still watching like it was entertainment. Miyu crossed her arms, glancing between the wolves. “Okay,” she said, “what exactly did Maki say to insult Rocky?” Rocky burst out laughing. “He called my hair annoying,” she said. Miyu stared. “That’s it?” “Yeah,” Rocky shrugged. “I accidentally flicked him in the face with it.” From across the clearing, Nicholas let out a particularly vicious growl as Maki stumbled backward. Rocky pointed at him. “And that,” she added, grinning, “was apparently unacceptable.”

The wolves kept fighting, teeth snapping and bodies slamming together, until eventually EJ and Nicholas stepped out, shaking out their fur and backing away, leaving only Fuma and Maki circling each other in the clearing. Everyone knew why, Fuma had raised Maki more than anyone else, had been there for every rough full moon, every mistake, every lesson about control. If anyone could handle him, it was Fuma.

Fuma’s wolf let out a deep, thunderous growl, baring his fangs in warning. Maki mirrored it immediately, hackles raised, eyes blazing gold, before the two of them collided again, claws digging into snow and dirt as they grappled. For a while it looked evenly matched, strength against stubborn fury, but eventually Fuma used his weight and experience, slamming Maki to the ground and pinning him there. A low, dominant growl rumbled from his chest, his eyes flashing red for a split second before fading back into their usual amber-orange.

Maki turned his head to the side, exposing his neck, submission, surrender, done fighting. Through the mindlink, Fuma told him to go inside and cool off in the shower. Maki didn’t argue this time, just pushed himself up and ran behind the house. Fuma shifted behind the shed a moment later, returning in human form wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, steam practically rising from his skin from how warm he still was.

Several of the girls shivered at the sight, from the cold air, and Tara immediately walked over to him, hands gently checking his arms and neck. “Are you hurt?” she asked quietly, worry written all over her face. Fuma smiled when she found nothing, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “I’m fine,” he said softly. “Promise.”

~~~

A while later, Maki came back downstairs, finding most of the pack gathered around the dining table. Sunoo was there too now, sitting between Rocky and Willow, deep in conversation about something animated enough that Rocky was gesturing wildly with her hands. Maki hovered near the doorway for a second, shoulders tense, gaze low. He looked… shy. Maybe ashamed. He felt stupid for how he’d acted, for letting his wolf take over like that. After a deep breath, he stepped forward.

“Rocky,” he said first, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m sorry for insulting your hair.” Rocky blinked, then laughed, waving a hand. “Please, I didn’t take it to heart,” she said easily, before tilting her head toward Nicholas. “Even if someone else did.” Nico huffed from his seat, arms crossed. “It was rude,” he muttered, earning another laugh from Rocky. Maki turned next to EJ. “And… I’m sorry for bumping into you. And acting like a child.” EJ nodded, calm as ever. “Apology accepted.” Then Maki faced Fuma, and this one was harder. His jaw tightened slightly before he said, “I’m sorry for being a pain. And for starting a fight.” Fuma stood up immediately, pulling another chair from the side of the room and placing it next to his own. He patted the seat. “Come on. Sit.” Maki obeyed, sinking into it. Fuma nudged his shoulder lightly with his own. “I get it,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you get to act however you want.” “I know,” Maki murmured, nodding. 

After a moment, he looked toward Miyu and Jay. “So… how did things go at Koyomi?” Miyu smiled, relief softening her expression. “They went really well. We found the person who’ll be handling desserts for the restaurant.” Jay continued, “You’re actually going to be very happy with the result,” and Maki looked up instantly, eyes wide. “What do you mean?” he asked. Jay smiled slightly. “The person we chose… is your mate.” Maki froze. “What?” “And before you spiral,” Jay cut in quickly, holding up a hand, “her being your mate had nothing to do with the decision. Miyu didn’t even know until afterward. She just had, by far, the best desserts and the strongest passion for baking. It was an easy choice.”

Maki’s mouth opened, then closed, his heart pounding. “She… works at Koyomi now?” “Starting tomorrow,” Miyu said gently. “Which means you need to pull yourself together, because you absolutely cannot go all wolfie at work.” Kei crossed his arms. “Is that really a good idea?” he asked. “Having him that close to his mate when he’s this unstable?” “I’ll be fine,” Maki said quickly. “I already felt the first hit of her scent. Now I can prepare for it. I can control it.” “Yeah,” Taki snorted, “prepared to burn the place down.” Maki shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair. “I’m actually with Kei on this one. You didn’t exactly scream stable earlier.” EJ sighed. “Honestly, I thought you’d be more like Jo. Calm. Collected. Not… utterly stupid.” Harua snickered. “Oh, like you were?” EJ rolled his eyes. “Okay, rude, but also fair.” Yuma cleared his throat. “I can take some time off and be at Koyomi tomorrow, just in case anything happens.” EJ considered it for a moment before nodding slowly. “It’s not a bad idea to have someone there. But no offense, Yuma, it’s unlikely you’d be able to stop Maki if it actually came down to it.” Yuma gasped softly. “Excuse you, I took on a rougaru on my own.” Fuma gave him a pointed look. “And how did that turn out?” Yuma rubbed the back of his neck. “…Right. Not great.”

“I could stay until five,” Kei said. “But I can’t cover the whole night.” Tara leaned closer to Fuma, her voice soft. “Maybe you should be there?” Fuma wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “But we were supposed to have date night.” Tara smiled. “It’s fine. I can come too. We can still have a date night, just with some babysitting included.” “Hey,” Maki protested, “I’m not a baby.” Sora laughed. “You’re always going to be a baby to them.” Willow burst out laughing. “Honestly, it’s surprising Maki’s the youngest when my Harua looks like the baby.” “Hey!” Harua said immediately. “I’m cool and handsome, not a baby.” “Sure,” Willow replied, rolling her eyes teasingly.

Fuma brought the conversation back on track. “I get off work at four tomorrow, so I can be there from five,” he said, glancing at Kei. “I’ll take over then.” Jay nodded. “I’ll be there the whole time too. Extra eyes can’t hurt.” Maki grimaced. “Wow. Love the trust.” “You lost that today,” Nicholas muttered, though there was no real bite behind it. Maki sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. Fair.” Then he looked around the table. “Can we… maybe, possibly… talk about literally anything else now?” Sana perked up immediately. “Actually, yes. I have a project for uni,” she said, turning to Aya and Harua. “I’m supposed to write a short story, or well, short and short, haha, but it has to be around twenty thousand words, and I have no idea where to start.” Aya’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I love long-form stuff. I’ll help you.” Harua nodded enthusiastically. “Same. We can brainstorm together.”

Jo shifted in his seat. “I’m working on a project too,” he said quietly. “I have to make a story painting, like a series of smaller paintings that tell one story. I’m doing a Red Riding Hood-inspired one.” Willow tilted her head. “Is that because… You know, wolves?” Jo shook his head quickly. “No. I picked it because it was Sana’s favorite story when she was a kid.” Sana’s eyes softened instantly. “Jo…”

Sora turned to Taki. “How’s uni going? Any more trouble lately?” Taki shook his head. “Not really. It’s actually gotten a lot better since Jo came running in last time. I mean, we all know he’s harmless, but… he doesn’t exactly look harmless to other people.” Jo blinked. “I don’t?” “Not when you’re mad,” Taki said with a grin. “So I think the bullies decided they don’t want to deal with you again. They’ve backed off. For now, at least.” Nicholas laughed. “Good job protecting your brother, Jo.” Jo instantly turned red, ducking his head and half-hiding in Sana’s shoulder. “Stop,” Rocky swatted Nico lightly on the arm. “Leave the poor boy alone.”

Miyu shifted her attention to Maki. “What about you? How’s school?” Maki shrugged. “I can’t wait to be done in a few months. I’ve already been in school way too long.” He shot a pointed look at EJ. EJ immediately raised his hands. “Hey, not my fault! Fuma told me the wrong age, okay? So I accidentally registered him in the wrong year.” “And that’s how I took first grade twice,” Maki deadpanned. The table burst into laughter. “Classic Fuma,” Aya said, shaking her head. Harua snorted. “He still forgets my birthday.” Fuma frowned from across the room. “That was one time.” “No,” Nicholas said. “That was several times.” Fuma groaned while everyone laughed even harder.

Miyu stood up and walked over to him. “Come on,” she said gently, tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s make dinner.” Maki squinted at her. “Am I even still trusted in the kitchen?” he asked, sulky. She nudged his shoulder with her elbow. “I didn’t offer you a job at my restaurant for nothing. Now stop acting like a child and come on.” He grumbled something under his breath but stood up anyway, following her into the kitchen. Once inside, Miyu leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms as she looked at him. “I know it feels weird right now,” she said softly, “but you have to understand why they’re reacting the way they are. They’re not trying to punish you. They’re doing this because they love you.”

Maki sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know that. I do. I just… can’t help feeling upset anyway.” “That’s okay,” Miyu replied immediately. “Two things can be true at the same time.” She smiled at him, bumping her hip lightly against his. “But you’ve gotta shake off the disappointment and show your best side. How else are you supposed to make your mate fall for you?” Maki froze. “…Wow,” he muttered. “No pressure or anything.” 

“Now come on,” Miyu said, clapping her hands together. “Show me what you’ve got. What are we cooking? Make it impressive.” Maki pretended to think deeply, tapping his chin before suddenly turning serious. “Alright. You asked for it.” He moved around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge and cabinets, the familiar rhythm of cooking easing something tight in his chest. Miyu leaned against the counter, watching him with a small smile. “I see garlic, herbs, and, are you planning on seducing someone with this meal?” “Obviously,” Maki replied dryly. “It’s my specialty.” She laughed, and for the first time that day, he felt like himself again. The kitchen slowly filled with warmth, steam, and the smell of something rich and comforting, and before they knew it, the night passed in easy conversation and shared laughter. 

Eventually, everyone drifted off to bed, only to wake far too soon to Monday morning and the usual rush of work, school, university, and everything in between. Aya stood by the door as Kei grabbed his jacket, kissing him softly. “Good luck with Maki today,” she said with a teasing smile. Kei laughed. “I never thought he’d be the problem child.” “He’s not a problem child,” Aya replied, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “He’s just a wolf. Just like you. And honestly, most of you boys have pretty tainted records when it comes to meeting your mates.” Kei winced. “Okay, fair.” He leaned in to kiss her again, but before he could say anything else, Harua burst out the door. “Sorry, I’m late!” he called over his shoulder. Willow ran after him, pulling on her jacket. “Bye everyone!” she shouted, already half out the door, excitement in her voice as she rushed off for her first day at the veterinary clinic.

As Rocky and Nicholas stepped outside, Rocky stretched her arms above her head and laughed. “We seriously need a better morning system. Every day here feels like controlled chaos.” Nicholas smirked, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Controlled is generous.” Fuma and Tara followed soon after, and Fuma raised his voice toward the house. “Jo, Sana, Taki! If you’re not out here in thirty seconds, I’m leaving without you!” “Rude!” Sana’s voice echoed from inside, followed by hurried footsteps.

Yuma stumbled out behind Rocky and Nicholas, yawning wide enough to show fangs. “I’m not built for mornings,” he muttered. “I need at least three more hours of sleep before I can function.” Nicholas nodded seriously. “Same. Whoever invented mornings was an enemy to supernatural beings.” Just then, Sana, Jo, and Taki burst out of the main house, backpacks half-zipped and shoes barely tied. “We’re ready!” Taki called, nearly tripping on the last step as he jumped into the backseat. Fuma shook his head, laughing, before turning to Tara and pulling her into a quick kiss. “I’ll be back after work to pick you up before we head to Koyomi.” “I’ll be here,” Tara said softly, hugging him once more before stepping back.

One by one, engines started, cars pulling away down the road, until the village grew quiet again, leaving only EJ, Sora, Kei, Miyu, Tara, and Maki in the house. A few moments later, Miyu came down the stairs, arms crossed, already exasperated. “Okay, either EJ or Kei needs to help me wake Maki up. He’s impossible today.” EJ laughed from the couch, where he’d been sitting with Sora. “Say no more.” He stood, cracking his neck. “I’ll handle it.”

After EJ finally managed to drag Maki out of bed, Miyu clapped her hands together. “Alright, we should head to Koyomi early and meet Jay. I want all of us there when the new employee arrives; she’s met me and Jay, but not Maki yet.” Tara smiled from the doorway. “Good luck,” she teased. Miyu laughed, leaning in to hug her. “Thanks. See you later.” She waved at EJ and Sora before turning toward the door. “Come on, boys.” Kei grabbed the keys. “I’ll drive.” Maki groaned softly but followed anyway, still half-asleep as they piled into the car. The ride was quiet, the kind that only existed before caffeine and breakfast, but Maki’s foot kept tapping nervously against the floor, even if he didn’t quite know why yet.

~~~

When they reached Koyomi, Jay was just pulling into the parking lot, keys already in hand as he jogged up to the door. “Perfect timing,” he said, unlocking it. “We’ve got about thirty minutes before (Y/n) arrives.” Maki blinked. “(Y/n)?” Jay glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “Yeah. Your mate.” Maki froze. Jay laughed. “Her name’s (Y/n).” Maki repeated it softly under his breath, testing how it felt on his tongue. “…Pretty,” he whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Kei leaned against the counter, glancing between Jay and Miyu. “So, what can I help with today? I’m here until five, might as well be useful.” Jay smiled. “If you’re up for it, you can help with serving. Monday lunches get pretty wild around here.” “Perfect,” Kei said, rolling up his sleeves. “Point me where you need me.” Maki moved into the kitchen, grabbed a crate of vegetables, and set them on the counter, trying to focus on the familiar rhythm of prep work. Kei followed him in, leaning against the doorway. “You okay?” Maki huffed out a breath. “Nervous.” Kei smiled softly. “You’ll be fine. Just remember to breathe.”

Right then, there was a knock on the door. “I’ve got it,” Miyu called, already heading over. The moment the door opened, Maki’s wolf stirred, pacing hard in his chest, his senses sharpening all at once. He heard her voice before he fully saw her. “Hi,” she said warmly. “I’m here for my first day.” Miyu beamed. “(Y/n)! Come in, come in.” Jay greeted her next, shaking her hand, and then Kei turned toward the kitchen, lifting his chin at Maki. “Hey, come out here.”

Maki swallowed, clenching one hand into a fist at his side to keep control, then stepped forward. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it. She turned toward him, smiling, and for a second, his brain just… stopped working. She held out her hand. “Hi, I’m (Y/n). Nice to meet you.” He took it gently, careful not to grip too hard, her warmth sending a jolt straight through him. “Maki,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “Uh, nice to meet you too.”

(Y/n) glanced between the three of them, eyebrows lifting. “Wait… is there a fourth owner I didn’t know about? I’m pretty sure the sign only has three names on it.” Miyu laughed first, Jay quickly joining in, and Kei stepped forward, offering his hand. “Koga Yudai, but you can call me Kei. I’m not an owner,” he said, smiling, “just Maki’s big brother. I’m here to help out today.” “Oh,” (Y/n) said brightly, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you!” Maki almost growled. He covered it with a cough instead, turning his head sharply. “Uh, sorry. Might be coming down with something.” Miyu shot him a pointed look. “You'd better get it under control,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Totally fine,” he said quickly, straightening. “Super fine. Healthy. Thriving.”

Jay snorted, and Miyu shook her head before turning back to (Y/n). “Come on, let’s show you around.” They walked her through the restaurant first, Miyu gesturing to the dining area. “Lunch rush usually hits around noon, sometimes earlier if the office crowd’s restless.” Jay opened a door toward the back. “Storage is here. Dry goods on the left, refrigerated on the right. Deliveries come Mondays and Thursdays, Maki usually handles checking inventory.” “Oh?” (Y/n) said, glancing back at him. “So you’re the organized one.” Maki shrugged, a little shy. “Someone has to keep Jay from ordering twenty kilos of chocolate at once.” Jay scoffed. “It was on sale.”

They moved into the kitchen next, Miyu explaining where everything was kept, pointing out ovens, mixers, prep stations. “You’ll mostly be on desserts, but we all rotate and help out with everything if it’s needed. If you ever need help, just yell.” “Literally,” Kei added. “This place gets loud.” (Y/n) laughed. “Good to know.”

As they started pulling out ingredients and setting up stations, the kitchen slowly filled with motion and warmth, the kind that came from shared work and easy conversation. Maki stayed close without hovering, handing her bowls and utensils when she needed them, trying very hard to act normal while his heart raced every time she smiled at him.

(Y/n) glanced up from where she was washing her hands, curiosity lighting her eyes. “So… how did you three end up opening a restaurant together anyway?” Miyu and Jay exchanged a look, both smiling, though there was a faint ache behind it. “Well,” Miyu began, leaning against the counter, “Jay and I opened Koyomi before we ever met Maki.” “Way before,” Jay added with a nod. “Just the two of us, barely sleeping, burning half our first attempts at everything.”

Miyu laughed softly. “Then I started dating one of Maki’s brothers, and through that, I got to know him. One day, he cooked for the, uh, family, and I remember thinking, why is this teenager better than half the chefs I know?” Maki scoffed lightly, cheeks warming. “That’s exaggerated.” “It’s really not,” Jay said. “So we offered him a job. He started helping out in the kitchen, and somehow… that turned into this.” He gestured around the restaurant. “Now he’s one of the owners.” Maki shrugged, a little bashful. “Guess I just never left.”

Jay hesitated, his smile softening. “We also… had another employee. Our baker. She had to quit, unfortunately, which is why we were looking for someone new.” (Y/n) nodded, understanding. She smiled brightly, “It kind of sounds like something out of a fairy tale. Strangers meeting, finding each other, building something together.” Miyu laughed. “A very chaotic fairy tale.” “Yeah,” Jay added, grinning. “With more burns.” Maki smiled to himself, glancing at (Y/n). “Best kind, though.”

~~~

The hours passed surprisingly peacefully. Kei kept a close eye on Maki, subtle but constant, and while he did see him stiffen from time to time, his wolf scent spiking in short bursts, Maki managed to rein it in every single time. It always seemed worse whenever (Y/n) came closer to him, leaned over his shoulder to ask where something was, or brushed past him in the kitchen, but even then, he stayed grounded, breathing through it instead of losing control. At least he wasn’t fully wolfing out, and that alone felt like a small miracle.

Eventually, the clock crept closer to five, and right on cue, Fuma arrived with Tara, ready to take over from Kei. Fuma leaned against the counter, looking around the busy kitchen. “So?” he asked quietly. “How’s it going?” Kei smiled, relieved. “Honestly? Really well. He’s acting like the Maki we know again, not the feral gremlin from yesterday.” Maki shot him a glare. “Hey.” Fuma laughed softly. “Good. I’m glad.” Then he turned to Kei, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck with your photoshoot tonight. Evening shoot, right?” “Yeah,” Kei said, sighing. “Special one, too. I’ll need it.” “Don’t mess it up,” Maki added dryly. Kei grinned. “Says the guy who almost burned the restaurant down with his emotions yesterday.”

As Kei left, (Y/n) came back into the kitchen from the back, tilting her head slightly when she noticed two unfamiliar people standing there. “Um,” she said, glancing between them and Maki, “do you often have guests in the kitchen area?” Maki chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not usually,” he said, pointing first to Fuma. “This is my brother, Fuma.” Then he gestured to the woman beside him. “And that’s Tara, his girlfriend. They’re here for date night, but wanted to stop by and say hi.” Fuma laughed lightly. “Yeah, we kind of invade this place a lot. There are a lot of us, and we’re all close with Miyu and Jay, too. Comes with the territory.” (Y/n) smiled and walked over, offering her hand first to Tara, then to Fuma. “I’m (Y/n), it’s nice to meet you both.” “Nice to meet you too,” Tara said warmly, squeezing her hand.

Fuma grinned, shaking her hand firmly before turning to Maki with mock seriousness. “I hope this one’s treating you well,” he said, nodding toward his brother. “And making you feel welcome.” Then he looked back at (Y/n). “If he’s not, you’re welcome to come complain to me.” Maki spluttered. “Hey!” (Y/n) laughed. “Good to know I have backup.”

Tara smiled brightly. “I’m really looking forward to trying your desserts,” she said, her eyes lighting up. (Y/n)’s smile widened at that. “I hope I live up to the expectations,” she replied, half nervous, half excited. Fuma sent a quick mind link to Maki, We’ll be out at a table, just let me know if you need help, before he slipped an arm around Tara’s waist and followed Jay out of the kitchen toward their seats.

(Y/n) turned back to Maki, curiosity written all over her face. “So… just how many brothers do you actually have? I’ve met Kei, Fuma, and then there’s the one Miyu’s dating, but I’m guessing there’s more.” Maki laughed softly. “There are nine of us total, me included,” he said. “And seven of us have girlfriends now. Plus Jay and Sunoo, who are basically family too.” (Y/n)’s eyes widened. “Wow… you’re like a whole army.” “Yeah,” Maki said with a grin, “you could definitely say that.”

A while passed in comfortable silence. Maki focused on tending to a few of the savory dishes while Miyu worked on others, and (Y/n) was baking like a madwoman, whisking one batter after another, opening and closing the ovens, decorating pastries with quick, practiced hands. Jay glanced around the dining room, surprised at how full the restaurant was for a Monday evening. Lunches were usually busy, sure, but nights rarely were. People must’ve been curious about the new baker.

When Miyu stepped away for a moment, and Jay got busy seating more guests, (Y/n)’s attention drifted to Maki. He stood at the counter reading through a recipe, scribbling small notes in the margins, brow furrowed in concentration. He was undeniably handsome, attractive, well-built, completely her type, and she found herself wondering if he was one of the two single brothers or if he already had a girlfriend. But the thought of asking him directly made her stomach twist, so she kept quiet, stealing glances instead as she worked.

Hours passed, and soon enough, the restaurant closed. The last customers trickled out, chairs were flipped onto tables, and the warm hum of the kitchen slowly faded into a comfortable quiet. Miyu leaned against the counter for a moment, stretching her arms, before her eyes drifted to Maki. He was still standing by the sink, scrubbing a pan a little slower than usual, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy.

She frowned slightly. “You okay?” she asked, drying her hands on a towel. “You look wiped.” “I’m fine,” Maki said automatically, though he rubbed at his face as if trying to wake himself up. “Just… tired in my head.” Miyu tilted her head. “You’ve been here all day. You usually only work full shifts on weekends, and even then, we open later. This is basically torture for a teenager.” “I’ll survive,” he muttered. “Promise.” She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “And you’ll survive school tomorrow too?” “I’ll be fine, mom,” he teased, shooting her a tired grin. Miyu laughed and lightly smacked his shoulder with the towel. “Stop it.”

At that moment, the kitchen door swung open, and Fuma and Tara stepped inside, both still bundled in their coats, faces warm and happy from dinner. Tara was the first to speak. “That was incredible,” she said brightly. “Seriously, everything tasted amazing.” “Yeah,” Fuma added, nodding. “You guys never disappoint.” (Y/n), who had been carefully boxing up leftover pastries, looked up, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, thank you,” she said quickly, a little shy but clearly pleased. “I’m really glad you liked the desserts. I was nervous about today.” Tara smiled wider. “Nervous? You shouldn’t be. That chocolate tart was dangerous.” (Y/n) laughed softly. “That’s the goal.”

Fuma leaned his elbows on the counter, looking between Miyu and Maki. “So, what can we do to help before we head out? Dishes, trash, sweeping, whatever.” Miyu didn’t hesitate. She pointed straight at Maki. “You can help by taking him home before he collapses into the sink.” Maki opened his mouth. “Hey, I’m not that tired,” but his sentence was cut off by a massive yawn, his jaw stretching wide as his shoulders sagged. Fuma blinked. “…Sure you’re not.” Tara giggled, stepping closer to Maki. “Wow, that was convincing.” “I’m fine,” Maki insisted weakly, blinking a few times as if trying to reset himself. “I just… didn’t sleep great.” Miyu raised an eyebrow. “You also worked for eleven hours.”

“And cooked through three rushes,” Jay added from the other side of the kitchen, where he was wiping down the prep table. “Go home, chef.” (Y/n) glanced at Maki, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, you’ve been carrying this kitchen today. You deserve rest.” That made Maki’s ears warm slightly. “I’m really okay,” “You’re not,” Fuma said calmly, already stepping behind him and gently steering him away from the sink. “Come on. Doctor’s orders.” “You’re not a doctor,” Maki muttered. “No, but I’m your brother,” Fuma shot back, smirking. “Which is worse.”

Tara slipped her arm around Maki’s other side. “We’ll walk you home. You look like you might fall asleep standing up.” “I wouldn’t,” Maki tried again, only to yawn for the second time in under a minute. Miyu pointed at him triumphantly. “Exhibit B.” (Y/n) laughed quietly, watching the interaction with fond amusement. “Thanks again for coming in,” she said to Tara and Fuma. “And… for liking the desserts.” “Of course,” Tara said warmly. “We’re excited you’re here.” Fuma nodded. “Yeah. Anyone who feeds our family this well is automatically appreciated.” Maki looked down at the floor, embarrassed but smiling faintly. “Can we go now before you all keep roasting me?” “Yes,” Fuma said, already guiding him toward the door. “Sleep first, dignity later.” Tara waved back at Miyu, Jay, and (Y/n). “Good night!” As the door closed behind them, (Y/n) glanced at Miyu with a grin. “He really does work himself into the ground, doesn’t he?” Miyu smiled softly. “Yeah. But that’s Maki.”

~~~

Soon enough, a few days had passed, and life began to settle into something softer, warmer, almost effortless. Maki was no longer under strict observation, having proven more than once that he could control himself around (Y/n) without his wolf losing its mind. The tension that had once coiled tight in his chest slowly unraveled, replaced with something lighter, anticipation, maybe, or hope.

 Willow, on the other hand, seemed to be walking on clouds, talking nonstop about her new job at the veterinary clinic, the coworkers she was already growing attached to, and every animal she’d met, from skittish rescue dogs to grumpy old cats and even the occasional injured hawk. “And then there was this baby raccoon,” Willow said one evening, hands clasped dramatically. “Harua, it tried to bite me, but it was, like, this big.” Harua smiled like she’d just told him the greatest story in the world. “You’re literally saving lives,” he said softly. “That raccoon is lucky you exist.” She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re biased.” 

Maki was much the same, though far less smooth about it. He found himself sitting around the pack house, talking about (Y/n) at every opportunity. “She asked me to grab flour off the top shelf today,” he muttered one afternoon, staring into space. “And then she said, ‘Thanks, handsome.’ Just, casually. Like that’s normal.” Sana covered her mouth, giggling. “Maki, you’re hopeless.” “I almost dropped the bowl,” he admitted. “I panicked.”

Miyu smiled, leaning against the counter. “Then tell her she looks pretty. It’s not that hard.” “I’ll pass out,” he said flatly. Rocky rolled her eyes. “You’re a wolf, not a Victorian poet. You’ll survive.” Sora smirked. “He won’t. I give him three compliments before his system shuts down.” Willow added, laughing, “Honestly, it’s kind of adorable.” Aya and Tara mostly just listened, smiling softly. After a while, Tara spoke up gently, “You know, you don’t have to impress her. Just… be you.” Aya nodded. “Yeah. If she’s your mate, that’s already enough.” Maki exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know,” he muttered, then added quietly, “I just really want her to like me.”

Maki did his absolute best to impress (Y/n), offering his help at every possible moment, whether she needed someone to grab something from a high shelf, carry a heavy tray, or reach into the back freezer where it was always freezing. When a delivery came in with massive rice bags, he lifted two at once like it was nothing, flexing a little too obviously as he carried them past her. He pretended not to notice the way her eyes lingered, but inside, his wolf purred smugly. “You know,” Jay muttered once, watching him, “normal people use carts.” Maki shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He even started doing little knife tricks while chopping vegetables, flipping the blade between his fingers and catching it effortlessly, despite Miyu scolding him every single time. “Maki,” she warned, arms crossed, “you are not in a cooking anime.” He grinned. “Relax, I’ve got great hand-eye coordination.” (Y/n) laughed from across the counter, and suddenly the scolding felt worth it. (Y/n), for her part, definitely noticed the special treatment. Maki helped Miyu and Jay when asked, sure, but with her, he was always already there, hovering nearby, asking, “Need help?” before she even had time to struggle. It didn’t take long for her to start teasing him about it. 

“Maki,” she said one afternoon, dramatically staring at a box of sugar. “I don’t think I can lift this. It’s… very heavy.” He was at her side in half a second. “I got it,” he said seriously, picking it up like it weighed nothing. She hid her smile behind her hand. “Wow. My hero.” Truth was, she absolutely could’ve lifted it herself, but the way his face lit up whenever he helped her made it worth pretending to be a damsel in distress every now and then. And Maki, completely oblivious to her little act, just felt proud that he could be useful, strong, and, hopefully, impressive in her eyes.

~~~

One Saturday, a few weeks into (Y/n) working at Koyomi, it was just her and Maki in the kitchen, with about an hour left before opening. Jay had the day off, and Miyu was out with Yuma on a date but would be back later. The kitchen was quiet in a way it rarely was during operating hours, filled only with the soft hum of ovens and the gentle bubbling of sauces. Maki was prepping dishes that needed time to simmer, chopping vegetables and stirring pots, while (Y/n) had the ovens working overtime, rotating trays of pastries, cakes, and cookies like a well-oiled machine.

Even though she’d been working there for weeks, Maki realized he didn’t actually know much about her beyond the fact that she was cute, talented, and made desserts that haunted his dreams in the best way. He’d been too busy trying to impress her to actually… talk to her. So, while stirring a pot of sauce, he finally worked up the courage.

“So,” he said casually, as if his heart wasn’t beating way too fast, “what got you into baking?” She glanced over at him, smiling softly. “Honestly? It’s not that interesting.” “Try me,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Well,” she started, checking one of the ovens before continuing, “I always loved desserts as a kid. Like, loved-loved them. Cakes, cookies, pastries… anything sweet. I was always curious about how they were made, so I started experimenting on my own.” She laughed quietly. “Most of it was completely inedible.”

Maki grinned. “I find that hard to believe.” “Oh, trust me,” she said, shaking her head. “I once made brownies so dry my grandma said they could double as coasters.” He snorted before he could stop himself, and she smiled wider at the sound. “But then,” she continued, “for my birthday one year, my grandma gifted me a semester in a baking class. And suddenly everything just… clicked. I learned the science behind it, the techniques, and how small things change everything. I loved it even more than before.” She paused for a moment, her hands slowing as she piped frosting onto a tray of cupcakes. “I didn’t really have a lot of friends growing up. Got bullied a bit. But I didn’t mind that much. Baking kind of became my thing. My first true love, I guess.”

Maki felt something warm settle in his chest as he watched her. “That’s… actually really cool,” he said quietly. “Your grandma sounds amazing.” “She was,” (Y/n) said with a fond smile. He nodded, stirring his sauce again, but now with a soft grin on his face. “I’m glad you found something that made you happy,” he said. “Selfishly, I’m also glad it led you here.” Her cheeks tinted slightly pink at that, and she pretended to focus very hard on arranging pastries on a tray. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Me too.”

(Y/n) leaned against the counter, watching him stir his pot with practiced ease. “Okay,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “your turn. What got you into cooking?” Maki hesitated for just a second before answering. “My mom,” he said quietly. “She taught me a bit before she passed away. I was really young, like… four, maybe. So I didn’t learn that much, not properly. But cooking always reminded me of her. The warmth, the smells, the way the kitchen felt safe.” He smiled faintly, almost to himself. “Sometimes I swear I can still hear her voice in my head. ‘Riki, stir it well for me.’”

(Y/n)’s expression softened instantly. “That’s… really sweet,” she said gently. He shrugged a little, embarrassed by the attention. “Out of my brothers, I was always the best cook, so I ended up making food a lot before I met Miyu. But honestly, she’s the one who really helped me level up. She taught me techniques, flavors, balance, stuff I never would’ve figured out on my own.” “What happened to your mom?” (Y/n) asked softly, then glanced up at him. “And your dad?” Maki’s smile faded just a bit. “I’ll tell you another time,” he said, not unkindly, just honest. She nodded immediately. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “No pressure.”

The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence again, filled with the sounds of simmering sauces and the soft clink of utensils, but something about it felt warmer than before. (Y/n)’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait, did you just say Riki?” she asked, looking at him like she’d misheard. “I thought your name was Maki.” Maki burst out laughing. “It is, well, kind of. My actual name is Riki,” he admitted. “But I have another brother named Riki, too, so that got confusing fast. So now we’re Taki and Maki. We both kept the ki, and the Ta and Ma come from our surnames.” “That’s… honestly kind of genius,” (Y/n) laughed. “And very chaotic.” He grinned. “That’s our family in a nutshell.”

She tilted her head. “Wait, so… you’re not biological brothers?” Maki shook his head. “Nope. None of us is related by blood. We all found each other over the years through different situations. Different hardships.” His voice softened. “We’re all orphans, technically. But together, we’re a family.” (Y/n)’s smile turned warm, almost fond. “That’s really sweet,” she said. “Having that many people to call family.” “Yeah,” Maki said quietly, smiling back at her. “It really is.”

Maki tilted his head slightly, watching her work at the counter. “So… do you like cooking too?” he asked. “Or is baking your whole thing?” (Y/n) laughed immediately, shaking her head. “Oh, no. I’m a disaster in the kitchen when it comes to savory food. Baking? Great. Cooking? Absolutely not.” Maki snorted. “It can’t be that bad.” “It is,” she insisted, pointing a whisk at him. “I once burned pasta. Like, lots of water, some noodles, and somehow still burned it.” “That’s… impressive,” he said, clearly amused. Then he grabbed a knife and set a carrot and a tomato on the cutting board. “Alright, chef. Show me what you’ve got.” She eyed the knife suspiciously. “If I lose a finger, you’re carrying me to the hospital.” “I’ll catch you before you bleed out,” he teased. 

Rolling her eyes, she took the knife from him and stepped up to the counter, staring down at the vegetables like they’d personally offended her. Maki noticed the way she hesitated, shoulders tense as she stared down at the carrot like it might attack her first. Without really thinking, he stepped closer, close enough that his chest brushed her back, his arms coming around her carefully, not quite a hug, but close enough that she could feel his warmth. His hands settled gently over hers, guiding the knife, slow and steady, showing her the motion.

“Like this,” he murmured softly, leaning in just enough that his voice brushed her ear. “You’re doing well.” Thanks to his heightened hearing, he caught the way her heartbeat sped up, quick and uneven, and he saw the blush bloom across her cheeks. His own lips curved into a smile so wide it bordered on embarrassing, something between cheesy and completely lovesick, and he was almost grateful she couldn’t see his face as he focused on helping her cut the carrot, pretending that her being this close didn’t make his entire world feel warmer.

As he stepped away, (Y/n) lifted a hand to her cheek, patting it lightly as if she could somehow brush away the blush burning there. She muttered, almost under her breath, “Your girlfriend won’t like that…” 

Maki blinked. “Girlfriend?” he repeated, genuinely confused. She nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah… didn’t you say seven of you were in relationships?” “Well, yeah,” he said slowly, lips twitching, “but I never said I was one of them.” Her ears burned even hotter at that. “Oh,” she murmured, clearly realizing she’d made an assumption. “Really…” “Mhm,” Maki replied, smiling, a little too pleased at the way she’d jumped to that conclusion. So she’d been a bit jealous. Good to know. “I’m very single, actually.”

She finally glanced up at him, eyes meeting his for just a second, then the back door opened and closed, signaling Miyu’s arrival. (Y/n) quickly looked away, pretending to focus very hard on her baking as she said, almost too casually, “Me too.” Maki just stood there for a moment, grinning like an idiot, before turning back to his station, heart pounding way harder than it should over two simple words.

Every once in a while, (Y/n) was introduced to another one of Maki’s brothers. After meeting Kei and Fuma on her first official workday, she soon met Yuma when he came to drop Miyu off one morning. His chaotic, dramatic energy had her giggling almost immediately. “You’re the new baker?” Yuma asked, peering at her creations like they might personally offend him. “Wow. Rude. How am I supposed to diet now?” (Y/n) laughed. “I’m sorry?” “No, you’re not,” he replied, pointing at a tray of pastries. “And neither am I.”

Next were Jo and Sana, who came in during a quiet lunch hour to study. (Y/n) found them impossibly adorable, Jo shy and soft-spoken, always half-hiding behind Sana, and Sana loud, bright, and endlessly affectionate. “These are amazing,” Sana said dramatically, holding up a forkful of cake. “I might cry.” Jo nodded beside her. “Y-yeah… they’re really good.” (Y/n) smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

Then came Harua, Willow, and Sunoo, visiting together for the first time. Willow’s eyes practically sparkled as she tasted the desserts, and Sunoo looked like he was having a religious experience. “Oh my god,” Willow breathed. “I think I just fell in love with cake.” Sunoo nodded seriously. “This is life-changing.” Maki tried not to look too smug about it.

After that, Nicholas and Rocky came in, loud, bickering, and somehow clearly obsessed with each other at the same time. (Y/n) noticed the tattoo peeking out from under Rocky’s shirt and complimented it. “I love your tattoo,” she said. “It’s gorgeous.” Rocky beamed. “Thank you! And you must be the famous (Y/n) we’ve heard so much about.” (Y/n) blinked, then glanced at Maki, teasing. “Oh? So someone talks about me?” Rocky grinned wider. “Oh, all the time.” Maki immediately looked away, pretending very hard to be busy with literally anything else, while (Y/n) laughed, warmth spreading through her chest.

Next came EJ and Sora. EJ was kind and gentle, with a calm presence that made people feel safe almost instantly, while Sora was loud, wild, and unapologetically herself, bouncing between conversations and teasing EJ every chance she got. Somehow, they fit together perfectly. “These desserts are insane,” Sora said, leaning against the counter. “If I gain five pounds, I’m blaming you.” EJ smiled softly. “Worth it.” (Y/n) laughed. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

After they left, (Y/n) leaned against the counter beside Maki, watching them disappear out the door. “Your brothers are all really handsome,” she said casually, then added, “but their girlfriends? Completely out of their leagues. I’ve never seen so many pretty women in one town.” Maki laughed. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “They’re in a league of their own.” Then, before he could overthink it, he added, “But so are you.” The words surprised both of them. (Y/n) froze for half a second before her cheeks warmed. “Oh, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head with a small laugh. “I’m not nearly as pretty as they are. I’m just… average. At best.” She shrugged it off like it didn’t matter, turning back to her baking, but Maki felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. How could she not see it? The way her smile lit up the room, the way her eyes softened when she focused, the way she laughed like she meant it. He wanted to tell her. Show her. Make her understand. He just didn’t know how yet.

Lastly, (Y/n) got to meet Aya and Taki, along with Kei, whom she had already met. Taki was a whirlwind of energy, loud, chaotic, and constantly moving, but undeniably kind, while Aya was poetic gentleness personified, soft-spoken and warm, almost ethereal in the way she carried herself. Aya smiled as she introduced herself, and (Y/n) tilted her head. “Wait… I recognize your name, but I can’t place why.” “I write for Kyomei Magazine,” Aya said. (Y/n)’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, you’re a reporter? You wrote that piece on the sanctuary! I loved that article; it made me cry.” Aya laughed softly, clearly touched. “Thank you, that means a lot,” she said. “Maybe someday I’ll get to write something about you, too.” (Y/n) blinked. “Me?” “Absolutely,” Aya said with a gentle smile. “Anyone who makes desserts like yours deserves a spotlight.”

~~~

As Maki and (Y/n) were doing dishes, while Jay and Miyu cleaned up by the tables, Maki finally found the courage to ask, “Um… would you maybe want to come see my place tomorrow?” (Y/n) paused, glancing over at him. “Your house?” “Yeah,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s nothing fancy, but… the snow’s starting to melt, and there’s this pond nearby. It’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s really nice.” She smiled, intrigued. “A mysterious pond, huh? Yeah, I’d like that.” Relief flooded through him, and he tried not to grin too hard. As they said goodbye that evening, Maki scribbled down his address on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. “Come whenever you feel like it,” he said. “I’ll be there.” “Looking forward to it,” she replied, tucking the paper into her pocket.

On the drive home with Miyu, Maki didn’t stop talking about what he should wear, what food he could make, and whether he should clean his room twice or three times. Miyu laughed, shaking her head. “Just be yourself,” she said. “She already seems to like you.” Maki smiled dopily out the window. “Does she?” he murmured, more to himself than to Miyu.

After his brothers promised to behave when (Y/n) came around, Maki went to bed buzzing with anticipation, thoughts racing, wanting to see her again, to make her smile, to hold her, to make her feel just how special she was to him, even if she didn’t know why yet.

~~~

Morning came far too quickly, and Maki was already awake, scrubbing the main house like a man possessed. He fluffed the couch cushions for the third time, muttering, “I swear I live with actual gremlins,” as he straightened a crooked picture frame. The front door opened, and Fuma’s voice echoed through the house. “Maki!” “What?” he called back, still fixing the pillows. “Your visitor’s here.” Maki froze, then sprang upright, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders, smoothing his hair with both hands, and jogging out onto the porch. When he spotted (Y/n) walking up the path, he lifted his hand and waved a little too enthusiastically, a bright grin spreading across his face.

(Y/n) waved back, feeling a little shy as she walked toward him. “I didn’t expect… a whole village,” she said, glancing around at the cabins scattered across the snowy grounds. Maki chuckled. “Yeah, it’s kind of unique,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing for her to come in. He waved goodbye to Fuma, who was walking off with Tara to patrol the grounds, though, to (Y/n), it just looked like a couple heading out for a morning stroll.

Inside, Maki gave her a little tour, and she stopped dead in front of the pantry, eyes wide. “This is bigger than the one at the restaurant.” He laughed. “Well, there’s sixteen people living here. And until very recently, half of them were hormonal teenagers who ate like black holes.” “That explains a lot,” she said, grinning. “I’ve seen you eat lunch at Koyomi, and you still look hungry every time.” Maki flexed his arms dramatically. “Well, it takes a lot to feed these muscles.” She burst out laughing and gently swatted his arm. “Show-off.”

While Maki was showing (Y/n) around and they began exploring the grounds, EJ received a call from Jay. The alpha immediately got a bad feeling, Jay usually only called him directly when something was wrong. “Hey,” EJ answered. “Hey,” Jay said, sounding a little too casual. “Uh… how are you?” EJ narrowed his eyes. “I’m good. You?” “Good,” Jay replied, then hesitated. “Um… I kind of have a favor to ask.” EJ sighed. “Of course you do. What is it?” Jay let out a breath. “So, my… kind of younger brother called me. He wants to come visit, but I don’t really have space in my apartment. I was wondering if he could stay at the pack house for a few days. I’d stay there too, keep an eye on him.” EJ dragged a hand down his face. “He’s a vampire too, isn’t he?” Jay sighed. “Yeah.” “This is going to be a mess,” EJ muttered, already regretting this. “Is he going to be a problem?” “Probably not,” Jay said quickly. “I don’t like probably,” EJ shot back, then sighed. “But fine. Anything happens, it’s on you.” “Thank you,” Jay said sincerely. “He’ll be there tomorrow.” “Great,” EJ muttered, before hanging up.

Sora came into their cabin just as EJ hung up the call, immediately noticing the look on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. EJ sighed. “Jay just called. His younger brother wants to visit, and he asked if they could stay here for a few days.” Sora’s eyes lit up a little. “Oh! If he said younger brother, it’s probably either Jungwon or Niki,” she said thoughtfully. “If it’s Jungwon, it’ll be mostly peaceful, he adores Jay. If it’s Niki, it might be a bit more chaotic, but honestly, he’s pretty chill too.” EJ stepped closer, resting his hands on her hips and pulling her in, breathing in her scent as his shoulders finally relaxed. “I really hope you’re right.” She grinned. “Aren’t I always?” He growled playfully in response, leaning down and attacking her face and neck with kisses, making her laugh as she tried to push him away.

~~~

As Maki and (Y/n) wandered along the snowy paths, she glanced around at the cabins, the trees, the wide stretch of land beyond them. “So… how do you all afford this?” she asked. “It’s huge.” Maki chuckled softly. “A lot of it came from inheritance from our parents,” he explained. “The rest was… hard work. Mostly from the eldest four. They sacrificed a lot to take care of us, younger brothers.” “That’s… really sweet,” she said, her voice gentler now. “It is,” he agreed. “They still take care of us, honestly. But now everyone helps out, the girls, Jay, even Sunoo, though he’s still new. It actually feels like… a real village.”

(Y/n) smiled at that, about to respond when she suddenly slipped on a thin patch of ice. “Whoa!” Before she could fall, Maki reacted instantly, hands gripping her waist as he pulled her back against him. Her breath hitched as she steadied, their faces suddenly inches apart. He could hear her heartbeat spike, fast, startled, mirroring his own. “Careful,” he said softly, smiling down at her. “Don’t want you getting hurt.” She nodded, unable to find her voice right away, too distracted by how close he was, his bright smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way his hands were still firmly but gently holding her. Her cheeks heated, and when she finally managed a small smile back, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them.

Maki kept showing her around, the paths winding gently through the trees until steam began to curl into the air ahead of them. When they reached the pond, (Y/n) stopped short, eyes widening. “Wow…” she breathed. “It looks… magical.” Maki smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Something like that.” Before he could say more, laughter echoed from one of the nearby paths, and Sora, Rocky, and Sana emerged, still mid-conversation. They waved when they spotted them.

“Hey!” Sana called. “You two wanna join us for a swim?” Maki glanced at (Y/n), grinning. “I’m in if you are.” She hesitated, then shook her head with a small laugh. “Uh, I didn’t bring a swimsuit.” Rocky tilted her head thoughtfully. “You can borrow one of mine,” she offered. “I’ve got tons of old designs. I’m sure I’ve got something you’d like.” “That’s really sweet, but…” (Y/n) waved her hands a little. “I’ll pass this time.” Maki caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. He didn’t push, just squeezed her hand gently instead. “Another time,” he said easily, then looked back to the girls. “Have fun, yeah?” “Your loss,” Sora teased with a grin. “This water’s amazing.” Sana smiled warmly at (Y/n). “Next time, then.”

As the three girls headed toward the pond, Maki turned back to (Y/n), guiding her along another path. “We can come back whenever,” he said softly. “No rush.” She glanced at him, surprised, and a little relieved, before smiling. “Thanks.” He just smiled back, heart warm, glad he’d read her right. (Y/n) tilted her head as they walked. “So… what do you usually do when you’re not working or studying?” Maki thought about it for a moment. “Hmm. A lot of basketball, mostly,” he said. “Me and some of my brothers play. Nicholas and Jo are by far the best, but Taki, Yuma, Fuma, and I usually join in too. EJ comes sometimes when he’s bored.” “Are you good?” she asked, teasing. He scoffed dramatically. “Wow. Straight for the ego.” She laughed. “That wasn’t an answer.” “I’m… decent,” he said, grinning. “Not amazing, but it’s always fun, especially having our own court so we can play whenever we want.” “That actually sounds really nice,” (Y/n) said. “Especially having your own court.”

Almost on cue, they rounded a corner and the basketball court came into view, a few rogue balls scattered across the concrete. Maki’s eyes lit up. “Oh, perfect timing.” He jogged over, scooping one up and spinning it on his finger for half a second before lining up a shot. “Watch this.” He tossed it toward the hoop, holding his breath, and when it swished cleanly through the net, he froze for a second before throwing his hands up. “Yes!” he laughed. “Absolutely intentional.” (Y/n) clapped, laughing. “Wow, look at you. So cool.” He gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Did you hear that? She said I’m cool.”

Then he did a ridiculously over-the-top victory dance, complete with finger guns and a little spin, making her laugh even harder. But as he turned back toward her, he noticed the way her nose had gone pink from the cold, and how her shoulders lifted slightly as she tried to hide a shiver. He frowned softly, walking back over. “Okay, nope. That’s enough outside for you.” She blinked. “What?” “You’re freezing,” he said gently. “I can see it.” “I’m not,” She paused as another shiver slipped through her, then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.” Maki smiled, tugging lightly at her sleeve. “Come on. Before you catch a cold and I get yelled at for not taking care of you.” She laughed, nodding. “Alright, alright. Lead the way.” And together, they headed back inside, warmth waiting just beyond the door.

Inside, Maki told (Y/n) to get comfortable on the couch while he disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a steaming mug of hot cocoa, carefully decorated with a little smiley face in whipped cream dusted with cocoa powder. “Ta-da,” he said proudly, handing it to her. Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, that’s adorable.” “Hey, presentation matters,” he replied with a grin. Then, without making a big deal out of it, he draped a soft blanket over her legs. “Want me to start a fire too?” She laughed, pulling the blanket closer around herself. “This is already way more than enough, thank you.” “If you say so,” he said, sitting down beside her, but leaving a respectful bit of space between them, not wanting to crowd her.

She took a sip of the cocoa and hummed softly. “Wow. This is really good.” Maki’s ears warmed. “Yeah? I mean, uh, good. I’m glad.” A few minutes later, footsteps came from the stairs, and EJ appeared, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, have either of you seen Sora?” Maki looked up. “Yeah, she went to the pond with Sana and Rocky.” “Oh.” EJ nodded, then hesitated. “What about Miyu?” Maki shook his head. “No idea, but I haven’t seen Yuma either, so I’m guessing they’re off somewhere being gross and in love.” (Y/n) laughed into her mug. “Are they really that bad?” “Yes,” Maki and EJ said at the exact same time. EJ sighed dramatically. Then he nodded at them. “Thanks,” and headed back outside.

As the door closed behind him, Maki frowned slightly. “He looked… worried.” (Y/n) glanced toward the door. “Yeah. I noticed that too.” “I’ll ask him later,” Maki murmured, more to himself than to her, before turning back to her with a softer smile. “You warm enough now?” She nodded, curling her fingers around the mug. “Yeah. Cozy, actually.” “Good,” he said quietly, and for a moment, the room felt warm in more ways than one.

Maki almost told her then and there about the wolves, the bonds, the truth about himself. The words sat heavy on his tongue. But he swallowed them back. Telling her would mean telling her she was his mate, too, and he didn’t want her to feel trapped by fate or destiny. He wanted her to choose him, not the universe. He wanted her to fall for him slowly, naturally, because she wanted to, not because something ancient had decided it for her.

So instead, they watched a movie. It was one of those cozy, low-stakes ones, something easy and comforting. At some point, (Y/n) shifted closer without realizing it, her shoulder brushing his arm, and Maki nearly short-circuited. He stayed perfectly still, heart pounding, pretending to focus on the screen while absolutely not doing that at all. She laughed at a joke in the movie, glancing over at him. “You’re not even watching.” He blinked. “I am.” “You didn’t even react.” “…It was funny internally.” She snorted, shaking her head, and he smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. Too soon, the movie ended, and (Y/n) glanced at the time on her phone. “Oh, I should probably head home.” “Oh,” Maki said a little too fast, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Right then, Aya came down the stairs looking for the keys to one of the cars, muttering about how no one used the key hanger. Maki asked her where she was going, she said she was going to pick up Kei from a modelling job. Aya then looked at (Y/n), asking if she was about to head home, (Y/n) nodded, Aya smiled, saying she’d give her a ride to town, if she could find those damn keys. And so, after the three of them searched and finally finding a pair of keys, it was time for (Y/n) to go home. 

They stood near the door awkwardly for half a second, neither quite sure what to do with their hands or their eyes. Then Maki took a small breath. “Um… can I hug you?” Her lips curved into a soft smile. “Yeah.” He wrapped his arms around her carefully, like she might disappear if he held her wrong. She fit against him perfectly, too perfectly, and for a brief moment, he let himself breathe her in, memorizing her warmth, her scent, the way her arms settled around his waist. 

“Goodbye,” he whispered near her ear. “See you tomorrow.” Her breath hitched just a little. “See you tomorrow,” she murmured back, cheeks warm, before pulling away. Aya stood leaning against the door with the keys in hand. “Ready?” (Y/n) nodded. “Yeah, thanks again.” She waved at Maki as she stepped outside. “Bye!” “Bye,” he said, probably too softly, watching her walk away like she was something rare and fragile and entirely his favorite thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, fate didn’t feel heavy. It felt hopeful.

~~~

Once Aya returned with Kei, EJ called a pack meeting, his voice carrying through the house until everyone slowly gathered in the living room. It was crowded, bodies on couches, on the floor, leaning against walls, but no one complained. If EJ called a meeting, it meant something serious. He stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, and sighed deeply before speaking. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to have a guest.” That alone sent a ripple through the room. “A guest?” Yuma repeated. “What do you mean? Like Jay?”

EJ ignored him. “They’ll be staying a few days. Starting tomorrow.” Maki frowned. “Since when do we let people stay here that aren’t family or dating family?” “Yeah,” Taki added. “Last time we had unexpected company, things didn’t end well.” The room shifted uncomfortably at that memory. Sora stepped forward. “It’s a vampire. From Jay’s and my old coven.” Silence. Actual, heavy silence. “…No,” Harua said quietly. Nicholas straightened instantly. “Absolutely not.” Rocky’s brows furrowed. “EJ, what the hell?” Maki felt his stomach drop. A vampire inside pack territory, a stranger, no worse, a vampire, was the fastest way to trigger every instinct they had.

EJ raised both hands. “Before anyone loses their mind, listen. Jay asked me personally.” “That doesn’t make it better,” Yuma shot back. “Who is it?” Aya asked carefully. Sora shrugged. “Jay called them his ‘younger brother.’ I don’t know which one it is yet, either Jungwon or Niki.” Blank stares. “…Okay,” Taki said slowly. “I have no idea who either of those people are, but I already don’t like them.” “Same,” Nicholas said flatly.

Maki glanced at Miyu. “Do you know them?” “Barely,” Miyu said. “I met them once years ago. Like… a hello-goodbye situation. That’s it.” “So,” Yuma said, spreading his hands, “we’re inviting a completely unknown vampire into our home. Fantastic.” Sora crossed her arms. “I know them better. If it’s Jungwon, he’s polite and kind, he looks up to Jay a lot, I doubt he’d cause trouble. If it’s Niki, he’s… More chaotic, louder in a way yet still calm, he’s not as bound to Jay as Jungwon is, but he’s a good kid. Neither of them is dangerous.”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.” “And you don’t get to decide who I trust,” Sora shot back. “But Jay does, in this case.” Kei looked at EJ. “Why did you agree?” “Because Jay doesn’t ask for favors unless he really needs them,” EJ said. “And because he promised he’d be here the entire time. His responsibility.” “And if something goes wrong?” Tara asked quietly. “Then the vampire leaves,” EJ said immediately. “No debate.” “And if someone gets hurt?” Nicholas pressed. EJ’s eyes hardened. “Then I handle it.” That shut the room up.

Maki shifted. “What about (Y/n)? She doesn’t know about… any of this.” Sora nodded. “Jay said he’ll tell the kid to not act like a vampire around her, it’s inevitable that they’ll meet, so Jay will prepare the kid for that situation.” Miyu folded her arms. “I get helping Jay. But everyone here has a right to feel safe.” “You do,” EJ said. “And I’m not forcing anyone to trust him. I’m asking you to tolerate him, carefully, for a few days.” Taki sighed. “So what’s the plan? Vampire probation?” “Yes,” EJ said flatly. “Guest room only. No wandering alone. No restricted areas. Jay supervises him at all times.” Nicholas scoffed. “Great. A babysat vampire.” “Better than an unsupervised one,” Aya said gently. The room fell quiet again.

~~~

The next day arrived with tension hanging thick in the air. No one slept well. Even the house itself felt restless, doors opening and closing too softly, footsteps pacing instead of walking, coffee brewing stronger than usual. The pack village, usually warm and loud in the mornings, was quiet in that brittle, waiting way. Jay messaged Miyu in the morning, around nine am. Jay: We’ll be there in about an hour. Jay: Thought I’d warn you so you can wake everyone + eat first. Miyu read the message twice before sighing and rubbing her face. “Great,” she muttered. “The vampire countdown has begun.”

She told Yuma, who sent a mindlink, alerting all the wolves, who in turn alerted their mates. Within seconds, doors started opening, voices drifting into the halls, tension already creeping into the air. By the time breakfast was on the table, Nicholas and Fuma were already standing near the counter with crossed arms, both visibly irritated. “I still don’t get why you agreed without talking to anyone,” Nicholas said sharply, golden eyes flashing faintly. “That’s not how this works.” EJ leaned against the kitchen island, jaw tight. “Jay didn’t exactly give me time to organize a town hall.”

“That’s not the point,” Fuma cut in, voice low but heavy. “Last time we trusted vampires, people got hurt, we lost people, and we almost lost more.” Rocky stiffened slightly at the table, Nicholas’s eyes shot to her instantly. “And Tara almost never became my mate because of them,” Fuma continued, glancing at her briefly before looking back at EJ. “You’re asking us to invite that back into our home. Into our safe space.”

Nicholas scoffed. “It feels like inviting the devil for coffee.” “Okay, dramatic,” Sora muttered, mouth full of toast. “I’m serious,” Nicholas snapped. “You weren’t the one watching your mate almost fade away, I felt her slipping.” EJ’s expression softened. “I know. And I’m not dismissing that.” “Then why does it feel like you are?” Fuma asked. “Because I’m choosing Jay,” EJ said firmly. “He fought beside us. He protected us. He bled with us. You really think he’d betray us now?” “That doesn’t mean his brother won’t,” Nicholas shot back.

EJ opened his mouth, but Kei spoke first. “I’m not thrilled either,” he admitted, setting down his mug. “But I trust Jay. Enough to give this one chance. If something feels off, we shut it down immediately.” Maki shook his head from across the table. “That’s easy to say when it’s not your mate that almost got taken from us.” Kei turned toward him. “And it’s easy to say no to everything when you’re scared.” Maki bristled. “I’m not scared.” “You’re defensive,” Kei replied calmly. “There’s a difference.”

Yuma leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “No, I’m with Nico and Fuma on this. This is a bad idea. Period.” “Same,” Maki muttered. Harua glanced between them, fingers twisting in his sleeve. “I don’t love it either… but Jay wouldn’t hurt us. Not intentionally.” Jo nodded softly beside Sana. “Yeah… he always felt kind.” Taki shrugged. “I hate it, but I kinda agree. Jay’s solid.” Sana looked between the brothers nervously. “I just don’t want anyone getting hurt again.” Rocky finally spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “I trust Jay. I don’t trust his mystery brother. Those are two different things.” Nicholas immediately nodded. “Exactly.”

EJ exhaled slowly. “And that’s why he’ll be supervised. Constantly. He doesn’t get free roam. He doesn’t get alone time. He doesn’t get access to anything sensitive.” “And if he steps out of line?” Fuma asked. “Then he’s gone,” EJ said immediately. “No discussion.” Silence followed. Not peaceful, but heavy. Weighted with memories and fear and the kind of protectiveness that only came from almost losing each other. 

Fuma dragged a hand through his hair. “I still hate this.” “I know,” EJ said quietly. “But sometimes trusting the right person means risking discomfort. Not danger, discomfort.” Yuma scoffed. “You’re really trying to sell this.” “I’m trying to keep this family from tearing itself in half before the guest even arrives.” That shut everyone up. Kei sighed. “Look. No one here wants this. That alone should tell us something. But we trust Jay. And if we don’t, then what was all that fighting together even for?”

Nicholas looked away. Fuma’s jaw tightened. Maki stared into his coffee. Harua finally murmured, “I just… don’t want us to become people who never let anyone in.” Taki nodded slowly. “Yeah. That too.” Another stretch of silence. Then EJ checked his phone. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. No one smiled. No one relaxed. And no one, not a single one of them, felt ready. But whether they were ready or not, the clock was already ticking.

~~~

Fifteen minutes later, Jay and his younger brother appeared at the edge of the pack village. Not with a car. Of course not. EJ, Sora, Yuma, and Miyu were already standing outside, waiting, the cold morning air curling around them. Miyu glanced down the road once more, brows knitting slightly. “I thought they’d drive,”

A sudden rush of wind whipped past them, snow scattering, and then two figures were just… there. Sora burst out laughing immediately. “Called it.” Jay straightened his jacket like nothing unusual had happened, while the vampire beside him looked around with wide, curious eyes, clearly impressed by the village layout. Sora’s smile widened as recognition hit her. “Oh,” she muttered. “Of course it’s you.” Jay sighed tiredly. “Don’t start.”

EJ stepped forward, forcing his shoulders to relax, even though his instincts were buzzing under his skin. “Jay,” he said firmly, nodding once. “Good to see you.” Jay returned the nod. “You too. And… thanks again. For this.” EJ’s gaze shifted to the other vampire, who was already smiling like he’d just arrived at a theme park instead of a werewolf pack village. “And you must be…” EJ began, extending his hand. The guy took it instantly, shaking it with far too much enthusiasm, pumping EJ’s arm up and down like they were best friends already. “Yang Jungwon!” he said brightly. “Jay’s little brother. Well, not actually brother, but emotionally brother. Spiritually brother. Found family brother.”

Jay groaned softly behind him. “You’re already embarrassing me.” Jungwon turned around. “I literally said nothing weird.” “You never stop talking,” Jay muttered. Miyu smiled politely, though her eyes were sharp with curiosity. “I’m Miyu. Welcome.” Jungwon beamed at her. “Wow, you’re pretty. Jay, your friends are hot.” Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please stop.” Yuma blinked. “…I don’t like him.” Sora snorted. “You say that, but give it ten minutes.” 

Jungwon finally noticed her properly and gasped. “Oh my god, Sora?” She grinned. “Told you he’d recognize me.” He stepped closer instantly, pointing at her. “Jay talks about you all the time.” “I literally do not talk about her that much,” Jay protested. “You talk about her constantly.” Sora laughed. “He’s lying, I don’t even talk to you that often.” EJ cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Well. Welcome to the pack village. You’ll be staying in the guest cabin near the tree line. Rules will be explained shortly.”

Jungwon nodded enthusiastically. “Love rules. Very into boundaries. Big fan.” Yuma muttered, “That makes one of us.” Jay rubbed his face. “I already regret this.” Jungwon gasped dramatically. “Wow. I’ve been here thirty seconds.” EJ glanced at Jay. “You sure about this?” Jay sighed, looking at Jungwon, who was now crouched to touch the snow like he’d never seen it before. “No,” he admitted. “But here we are.” Jay sighed again. “I told you I hoped I wouldn’t regret this.” Sora laughed softly. “Too late.”

Inside, Fuma and Nicholas were both on full guard. Fuma sat in one of the chairs near the dining table, Tara curled tightly in his lap, his arms wrapped around her almost possessively. His wolf refused to calm unless she was close, closer than usual, closer than necessary, but Tara didn’t protest. She understood. Truthfully, she was nervous too. She knew she’d heard both Jungwon’s and Niki’s names during her time with Heeseung, fragments of conversations and half-memories surfacing now that a vampire from Jay’s old coven was under their roof. She couldn’t picture their faces, but that almost made it worse. She just hoped neither of them carried pieces of her past with them. Fuma pressed a quiet kiss to her temple. “You okay?” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. Tara nodded, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “Yeah. Just… on edge.” “Me too,” he admitted. “But I’ve got you.”

Across the room, Nicholas had claimed one of the armchairs, Rocky sitting sideways in his lap, his arms locked around her waist like iron bars. A low growl rumbled constantly in his chest, not loud enough to draw attention, but unmistakable, a warning more than a threat. When Jo wandered a little too close, Nico’s eyes flicked up instantly, golden flash beneath dark lashes. Rocky sighed softly. “Nico, I’m fine. I can handle myself around a vampire.” “No,” he said flatly, tightening his hold just a fraction. “Absolutely not.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.” He huffed. “It’s either this or I lock you in our cabin.” “…That’s not comforting.” “But effective.” Rocky stared at him for a moment, then laughed under her breath, finally relaxing into his chest. “You’re ridiculous.” “And you’re staying right here,” he muttered, pressing a kiss into her hair, his growl easing just slightly, but not disappearing.

After EJ showed Jay the cabin they’d be staying in and went through the rules with Jungwon, no wandering alone, no blood drinking, no acting like a vampire around humans unaware of the supernatural, and only those already in the main house were allowed to know what he was, Jungwon nodded along obediently, hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said lightly. “You can chill out. I won’t cause trouble. If Jay says you’re good people, then you’re good people.” EJ sighed, not entirely sure whether that made him feel better or worse, and Jay didn’t look much more convinced either. Still, rules laid out and understood, they headed back toward the porch of the main house.

Just before stepping inside, EJ paused, turning to Jungwon. “There are two wolves in particular who are probably going to be… hostile toward you.” Jungwon tilted his head. “Because of Heeseung and Sunghoon?” EJ nodded once. Jungwon’s expression softened, the joking edge fading. “Yeah. I get that. What they did was messed up.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “That’s traditional vampire culture, though. Old rules, old thinking. But I’m not traditional.” Jay glanced at him, surprised. Jungwon gave a crooked smile in return. “Seriously. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just want to hang out with my brother for a few days.” EJ studied him for a moment longer before exhaling slowly. “Let’s hope that stays true.”

As they stepped inside, it was immediately clear that Jungwon’s senses were overwhelmed by the sheer number of different scents filling the house, his eyes widening slightly as he took a deeper breath, trying to ground himself in the chaos of werewolves, witches, humans, and vampires all sharing the same space. Kei and Aya were the first to step forward, Kei offering a polite smile as he introduced himself as the eldest of the pack and gestured to Aya at his side, calling her his mate. Jungwon took in Kei’s height, feeling inexplicably small in comparison, but still smiled and introduced himself back, voice steady despite the nerves buzzing under his skin. Next came Harua and Willow, with Sunoo hovering close beside them, all three greeting him warmly, and Jungwon returned the hellos easily, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction at their friendliness.

After them came Sana and Jo, and Jungwon once again felt dwarfed by Jo’s height, though the wolf’s shy demeanor softened the intimidation instantly, making Jungwon think they might actually get along pretty well, especially when Sana stepped forward brightly and shook his hand without hesitation, chatting like this was the most normal thing in the world. Then came Taki, who did his best to look cheerful and welcoming, though Jungwon could read the nerves in his posture and scent, recognizing the tension for what it was without holding it against him. Lastly came Maki, whose introduction was short and stiff, lacking any hint of a smile, and Jungwon felt an unexpected chill run down his spine, the youngest wolf was intimidating not just in height and build, but in the sharp, guarded energy he radiated, making it painfully clear that Jungwon’s presence here was anything but welcome.

Finally, EJ cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to cut through the tension, sending a pointed glare first at Fuma and then at Nicholas, silently demanding they introduce themselves already. Fuma shot him a look right back, his eyes flashing amber twice in warning before he finally spoke, voice clipped and cold. “Fuma,” he said simply, tightening his arm around Tara. “And this is my mate, Tara.” Jungwon nodded quickly, definitely feeling the weight of the wolf’s presence, but he still offered a polite smile. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray how intimidated he felt.

Then it was Nicholas’ turn. His growl deepened, low and rumbling, sending a shiver straight down Jungwon’s spine, but before he could even speak, the girl in his lap beat him to it. “I’m Rocky,” she said brightly, clearly amused by the tension. “I’m a witch.” Then she pointed her thumb back at Nicholas. “And this is my grumpy mate, Nico. Or, well, Nicholas.” Jungwon blinked, then laughed softly despite himself. “Nice to meet you,” he said, smile widening a little as he looked at her. Nicholas only huffed, arms tightening slightly around Rocky, but the growl faded, at least for now.

After the introductions, Jungwon ended up sitting down on the floor in the living room with Harua, Willow, Jo, Sana, Sunoo, Jay, Sora, Miyu, and Yuma, a loose circle forming as someone dragged out a stack of board games from the cabinet. “Okay, absolutely not Monopoly,” Sora said immediately, dropping down cross-legged. “I refuse to ruin friendships today.” Sunoo laughed. “You say that like it’s not already doomed.” “How about this one?” Willow asked, holding up a brightly colored box. Jo leaned over to read the title. “That one takes like three hours…” “Perfect,” Sana said brightly. “We’re stuck inside anyway.” 

Jungwon watched them for a moment, then smiled a little. “You guys always like this?” “Only on days that end in Y,” Yuma replied dryly, earning a snort from Jay. Despite the awkward start, things stayed mostly… civil. Jungwon laughed when he was supposed to, followed the rules, even when Sana explained them twice, and somehow managed to beat Sunoo in the first round. “That’s suspicious,” Sunoo said, narrowing his eyes. “No way you’re that lucky.” Jungwon lifted his hands. “Beginner’s luck. I swear.”

Across the room, however, the tension hadn’t gone anywhere. Fuma leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Nicholas sat rigidly in an armchair, eyes tracking Jungwon every time he laughed. And Maki stood near the doorway, silent, shoulders stiff, his wolf clearly restless beneath his skin. EJ noticed. He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand over his face, then glanced at Kei. “I need backup.” Kei nodded once. “Yeah.” Aya caught the shift immediately. “Hey,” she said gently, clapping her hands. “Tara, Rocky, come with me. Taki too.” Taki blinked. “Me?” “Yes, you,” Aya said with a soft smile. “Before you stress yourself into another dimension.” Taki relaxed instantly. “Thank you.” Rocky slid out of Nicholas’ lap, muttering, “Try not to start a war while I’m gone.” “No promises,” Nicholas grumbled. Tara squeezed Fuma’s arm. “Please don’t punch anyone.” Fuma exhaled through his nose. “I’ll behave.”

Aya led Tara, Rocky, and Taki toward the basketball court, mostly just to give them something to do, and somewhere to be, while the tension inside cooled off. Meanwhile, EJ motioned sharply. “Fuma. Nicholas. Maki. Outside. Now.” Maki stiffened. “What?” “Now,” EJ repeated. Kei followed behind them as support, hands in his pockets but posture alert. They moved around the back of the house, far enough away that raised voices wouldn’t carry inside. The moment they were out of sight, EJ turned on them, arms crossed, expression hard. “Alright,” he said flatly. “We’re talking. And we’re starting with why three grown wolves are acting like territorial teenagers over someone who hasn’t done a single thing wrong.”

Nicholas didn’t even wait for EJ to finish speaking. His eyes flashed gold, a low growl ripping from his chest as his fangs slipped out slightly. “You don’t get it,” he snapped. “We almost lost you because of a vampire. Yeah, you survived, congratulations, but that doesn’t erase the fact that you nearly died.” EJ stiffened, but Nicholas wasn’t done. “And Rocky,” he continued, voice rougher now, raw. “She nearly burned herself out freeing Tara from Heeseung. I almost lost her, I almost lost my mate, Euijoo. Sunghoon tried to kill you, Sora, hell, he tried to kill all of us. People got hurt. We lost Lila. We lost Jake. Our home turned into a battlefield.” His jaw clenched. “The only vampire we’ve ever met who didn’t destroy something was Jay. He helped us. He healed Yuma. He fought with us. We don’t know anything about this Jungwon, so no, I don’t trust him.”

Fuma nodded sharply, eyes glowing faint amber. “And you don’t know what that felt like,” he said to EJ, voice low but heavy. “You chose not to accept Sora at first, that was your choice. I didn’t get one. I was kept from my mate by a brainwashing vampire. I watched Tara suffer while I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.” His fists clenched. “So yeah, I’m not exactly excited about welcoming another one into our home.” Maki stepped forward then, quieter, but no less serious. “Lila was my friend,” he said, voice tight. “She was kind. Gentle. And we had to send her away because of all that mess. She was hurt because of us. Because of vampires.” His eyes dropped briefly before lifting again. “I don’t want to risk that happening again. Especially not now.” His jaw tightened. “Not when I just found my mate.”

The air went heavy with silence, thick with old wounds and memories that hadn’t healed as much as any of them pretended. Kei shifted beside EJ, finally speaking. “No one’s saying your fears aren’t valid,” he said calmly. “But acting hostile from the start doesn’t protect anyone, it just makes things worse.” EJ dragged a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I know what you’ve all been through,” he said quietly. “I lived through it, too. I nearly died, too.” His eyes lifted, meeting each of theirs in turn. “But Jay trusted him enough to bring him here. And Jay has never once betrayed us. Not even when he had every reason to walk away.”

Nicholas scoffed. “That doesn’t mean Jungwon deserves that trust.” “No,” EJ agreed. “But it also doesn’t mean he deserves your hostility.” Fuma looked away, jaw tight. “So what, we’re just supposed to pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” EJ said firmly. “You’re supposed to not start a war before one exists.” Maki muttered, “Hard to do when history keeps repeating itself.” EJ turned to him. “And you, especially you, need to cool it. You were openly hostile to him inside. He hasn’t done anything. And you’re already on thin ice after the other day.”

Maki bristled. “I wasn’t,” “You were,” EJ cut in. “And I get why. But you don’t get to let your fear turn into aggression. Not here.” Maki looked away, jaw tight. “I just don’t want to lose anyone else.” The words hit harder than anything else he’d said. For a moment, no one spoke. Finally, EJ softened his tone. “None of us do. That’s the point. Which is why we don’t burn bridges before we know what’s on the other side.” Kei added quietly, “We’re not asking you to trust him. Just… tolerate him. For now.” Nicholas growled under his breath but didn’t argue. Fuma sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. But if he steps out of line,” “He won’t,” EJ said immediately. “And if he does, he’s gone. That’s the deal.” 

Maki nodded reluctantly. “I’ll behave.” Nicholas shot him a look. “Try harder than that.” Maki huffed. “Says the guy who growled at him like he was about to bite his head off.” “Tempting,” Nicholas muttered. Despite everything, Kei let out a quiet snort. “Great. Progress.” EJ exhaled slowly. “Good. Then let’s go back inside before someone assumes we’re planning a coup.” Fuma muttered, “Feels like one.” But he turned toward the house anyway. And slowly, reluctantly, the tension began to loosen, just a fraction.

Meanwhile, Aya asked how Tara and Rocky were feeling, since they were the most affected by the vampire’s visit. Rocky took the basketball that Taki tossed her and shot it toward the hoop. It bounced off the rim, but she barely reacted. “Honestly? I don’t feel much,” she said, shrugging. “Jungwon wasn’t involved in what happened. And when I walked through Tara’s memories, I never saw him. Heeseung kept her close constantly, so if Jungwon wasn’t there, he probably wasn’t part of that mess. Maybe he really is more like Jay. You know. Not an asshole.”

Tara took the next ball when Taki handed it to her. She aimed carefully and managed to score, smiling faintly before the smile faded again. “I’m… not great,” she admitted quietly. “But it’s not really Jungwon. I’m just scared some hidden memory of Heeseung is going to surface and wreck me out of nowhere.” She hugged her arms around herself slightly. “And Fuma isn’t helping. He’s supposed to ground me, but right now he’s just making me more anxious because I don’t know if he’s going to stay calm or suddenly start a fight.”

Taki chimed in, saying he kind of felt the same. Fuma was always calm and in control, but the brother he was seeing now made him anxious, too, and that wasn’t great, since his wolf was finally coming to the surface. He admitted he was scared that if he got too anxious, he might shift and lose control. Aya pulled him into a small hug. “It’s okay. I’m sure EJ and Kei can talk some sense into them.” Rocky joked, “Otherwise, I’ll just spell them.” Tara laughed lightly at that, just as the boys came back around the house. Aya called them over, saying she mostly needed Fuma and Nico. They walked over, while EJ and Maki went inside, and Kei followed Fuma and Nico as the two grumpy wolves joined the girls.

Aya crossed her arms gently. “I think Rocky, Tara, and Taki should tell you how they’re feeling.” Rocky went first, repeating what she’d told the others, ending with a pointed look at Nicholas. “I’m not helpless, and I don’t appreciate you making me feel like I am.” Nicholas smiled awkwardly, finally realizing how he’d been acting. Tara took a deep breath. “Fuma… I am anxious,” she said quietly, “but not in the way you think. And you're acting like you’re about to snap at any second? That’s actually making it worse.” Fuma froze, looking down at the ground. “I… I didn’t realize I was doing that,” he muttered. “I thought I was protecting you.” “I know,” Tara said softly, stepping closer. “But right now, I just need you to calm down. If you’re okay, then I’ll be okay too.” She hugged him, and after a second, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Alright,” he promised. “I’ll calm down.” “And if you don’t,” she added lightly, “I’ll make you sleep in the dog house.” That made him huff out a laugh. “Cruel.” “You deserve it,” she teased, smiling, and with that, his wolf finally settled.

Taki shifted awkwardly before speaking up. “Uh… I kind of feel the same, actually. You’re usually so calm, Fuma, and seeing you like this makes me anxious too. And that’s… not great, considering my wolf’s finally waking up.” Kei immediately stepped closer to him. “Hey,” he said gently, “if you start feeling overwhelmed, come to me. I’ve got you, okay?” Taki nodded, relieved. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” Aya looked between all of them, crossing her arms. “So,” she said, tilting her head, “are we good now? Can we maybe stop glaring at the guest like we’re about to eat him?” Rocky snorted. “Please. I was two seconds away from casting a calming spell on all of you.” Fuma groaned. “That was not necessary.” “I disagree,” she shot back. Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. Point taken.” Aya smiled. “Great. Then let’s go back inside and try being decent hosts for once.” Everyone nodded, and together, they headed back into the house.

Soon enough, it was time for Miyu, Jay, and Maki to head to Koyomi, which meant Jungwon had to come too, since he wasn’t allowed out of Jay’s sight during his visit. That was the rule. Jungwon practically bounced as they walked toward the cars. “I’m excited,” he said brightly. “Jay hasn’t cooked for me in forever. I miss your food.” Jay snorted. “You’re about to be disappointed. I mostly just host now, seating people, taking orders. Miyu and Maki handle the cooking, and now (Y/n) does all the baking. I only cook on days when Maki or Miyu are sick or have school.” “Ooo,” Jungwon said, eyes lighting up. “A bakery genius? I already like this place.” Maki kept quiet, walking beside them with his hands in his pockets. He half-expected Jungwon to ask about Lila, where she’d gone, what happened to her, but he didn’t. No reaction, no questions. It looked like Rocky’s spell really had worked on everyone outside the pack. Still, Maki couldn’t help the tight feeling in his chest. He didn’t love the idea of Jungwon being around (Y/n). He glanced at Jay, then at Jungwon, forcing his shoulders to relax. Get it together, he told himself. He’d promised EJ he’d behave. But even so… he was still unhappy about the whole thing.

Once they reached Koyomi, Maki could tell (Y/n) was already there, her scent was strong and sweet, wrapping around him the second he stepped inside. The smell of fresh-baked cookies filled the restaurant, warm and comforting. Miyu blinked at the trays on the counter. “How long have you been here?” she asked. “It looks like you baked half the menu already.” (Y/n) laughed, glancing at the clock. “Um… maybe three hours? Or four? I kind of lost track.” Maki smiled softly, thinking you could’ve texted me, I would’ve come early just to keep you company, but he kept it to himself, not wanting to come on too strong.

(Y/n)’s eyes drifted past him, landing on the unfamiliar face behind Jay. She tilted her head. “Did you suddenly get another brother you forgot to tell me about?” Everyone laughed. Jungwon stepped forward easily, offering his hand. “Not a brother, friend of Jay’s. Sort of a younger brother, though. I’m Jungwon.” (Y/n) smiled and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m (Y/n).” Maki felt the low instinctive urge to growl rise in his chest, but he forced it down, jaw tightening instead. Jungwon caught the shift immediately, the tension in Maki’s shoulders, the flash of something feral in his eyes, and calmly took a step back, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “Don’t worry,” Jungwon said lightly, glancing between them. “Not here to cause trouble.” (Y/n) blinked, confused by the sudden awkwardness. “Uh… okay?” Maki cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Yeah. He’s… visiting.”

~~~

The night passed quickly after that, and then a few more days slipped by just as fast. Jungwon stayed firmly in his lane, careful not to break any rules, and somehow, without trying too hard, he even became friends with most of the pack. Nicholas had opened up to him quicker than anyone expected, and while Fuma was still wary, he’d settled into something resembling polite tolerance.

Now it was Friday, and Maki had the day off from school again. The night before, he’d asked (Y/n) if she wanted to hang out before work, and Miyu and Jay had immediately offered to cover lunch so they could have extra time together. Maki had nearly short-circuited from happiness. So now they were walking through town, side by side, hands brushing occasionally but neither quite brave enough to grab the other’s yet. “And then,” Maki was saying, gesturing wildly, “the math test yesterday was brutal. Like, genuinely offensive.”

(Y/n) laughed. “Offensive?” “Yes. I’m pretty sure it personally attacked me.” She smiled. “I get that. Math was never my thing either. I liked art and English way more.” “Yeah?” Maki glanced at her. “Mine’s PE.” She groaned softly. “Of course it is.” Rolling her eyes. “What? That hurt,” he teased. “Why don’t you like it?” (Y/n) shrugged, gesturing vaguely at herself. “Look at me. I don’t exactly look like someone who loves sports. And my classmates made sure to remind me of that.” Maki stopped walking. She took two more steps before noticing and turning back. “What?” He looked at her, brows furrowed, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?” She blinked. “About… me not being sporty?” “No,” he said, shaking his head. “About you talking about yourself like that.”

She shifted awkwardly. “I mean, it’s just true.” “Is it?” he asked softly. “Because I don’t see it.” She laughed a little, uncertain. “That’s sweet, but,” “No, I’m serious.” He stepped closer, hands in his pockets like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for her. “You don’t look like someone who hates sports. You look like someone who just didn’t get treated right.” Her smile faded, replaced with something quieter. “You don’t have to say that.” “I know,” he said. “I want to.” She studied his face for a moment, then looked away, cheeks warm. “You’re really bad for my self-esteem issues, you know that?” He grinned. “Good. I’ll bully them out of existence.” She laughed again, softer this time. “You’re ridiculous.” “Only for you,” he said without thinking. They both froze. Maki’s ears burned. “I… I mean,” (Y/n) smiled, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I noticed.”

They walked in comfortable peace for a while after that, drifting into lighter topics, favorite movies, embarrassing childhood stories, and the weirdest things customers had ever asked for at Koyomi. Eventually, hunger caught up to them, and they ducked into a small café near the park. “I’m ordering dessert,” Maki announced confidently, scanning the menu. (Y/n) glanced up. “Maki, I really don’t,” “Non-negotiable.” She sighed. “I’m serious, I,” He leaned across the table, lowering his voice dramatically. “Okay, but… what if we just share something?” She hesitated, then smiled despite herself. “You’re impossible.” “Effective,” he corrected.

They ordered, ate their lunch, and when dessert arrived, they dug in together, two spoons and one plate, accidentally bumping hands and laughing about it. It was nice. Easy. Normal. Then the door opened. A group of guys around their age walked in, loud and careless, the kind that took up too much space without realizing it. Maki barely noticed at first, until he felt (Y/n)’s posture stiffen beside him. She didn’t say anything, but he followed her gaze. Two of the guys were looking at her. Not just glancing, staring. Whispering. Snickering. Maki’s jaw tightened. “They’re just idiots,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. (Y/n) tried to smile. “It’s fine.” But it wasn’t.

The group ordered quickly, or maybe picked up something they’d already called in about, and as they turned to leave, one of them slowed near their table. He looked (Y/n) up and down with open disgust. “Hit the gym, you pig.” The spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering against the plate. Maki felt it before he thought it, heat flooding his chest, his vision sharpening, the world narrowing down to one target. His eyes flashed gold, and he had to squeeze them shut for half a second, forcing it down. (Y/n)’s hands were shaking. “Hey,” Maki said softly, immediately standing, stepping in front of her without thinking. “What did you just say?”

The guy scoffed. “Relax, man. I’m just being honest.” “Apologize,” Maki said, voice low and dangerous. The guy laughed. “Why? She deserves it.” That was it. Maki didn’t even remember deciding; his fist was already moving. He struck the guy square in the chest, pulling his strength at the last second, but even restrained, the impact sent him flying backward into another table. Chairs scraped loudly across the floor, people shouting in surprise. “Holy shit!” “What the hell?!” (Y/n) gasped, standing up. “Maki!”

The guy’s friends spun around instantly, eyes wide before turning furious. “What the fuck did you do?!” One shoved Maki in the shoulder. Another grabbed at his shirt. Maki stumbled back a step, teeth gritted. Normally, he could have thrown all of them off in seconds, but he couldn’t use his full strength. Not here. Not with humans. Not with (Y/n) watching. “Back off,” he growled, hands clenched at his sides, shaking with the effort not to shift. “He had it coming.” “Yeah?” one of them snapped. “You wanna go?” They surged forward all at once. Behind him, (Y/n)’s voice shook. “Maki, please,” He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly, even as fists grabbed at his shirt. “I’ve got you. Okay?”

Then the first punch came from the side. The guys dragged Maki outside before anyone could really react. “Maki!” (Y/n) shouted, standing from her chair, her heart hammering in her chest as she ran out after them. She froze, hands clenched around the edge of the table, watching helplessly as they shoved him into the alley beside the café. Every few seconds, one of them landed a hit, a punch to his ribs, a blow to his shoulder. “Stop,” she whispered, tears burning behind her eyes. “Please…” Then one of them swung harder, catching his cheek. She saw his head snap to the side. Blood dotted the pavement. 

That was enough. Something shifted in Maki. He stopped holding back. With one sharp movement, he threw the guy gripping his jacket straight into the wall. Another rushed him, Maki caught his wrist and twisted, sending him stumbling back with a yelp. A third tried to tackle him, but Maki barely moved, just shoved him away hard enough that he fell flat on his back. “What the hell?” “Dude, what is he?!” The group hesitated now, fear flashing across their faces. Even five against one, it was obvious they weren’t winning. “Forget it,” one of them muttered. “Let’s go.” They backed away, then turned and ran.

Maki stood there, chest heaving, hands trembling, not from pain, but from how close he’d come to losing control. “Hey,” he said quickly, turning to (Y/n) as she rushed toward him. “Are you okay?” She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his face. “You’re bleeding,” she whispered. Before he could stop her, she reached up, thumb brushing gently along his cheek. The blood wiped away. But there was no cut. No broken skin. Nothing. Her breath caught. “Maki… how?” His heart dropped into his stomach. He opened his mouth, closed it again, panic scrambling his thoughts for an excuse, makeup? lighting? adrenaline? But nothing felt right. Nothing felt fair to her.

“I,” he exhaled shakily. “Give me a few minutes. Please. I’ll explain. I promise.” She stared at him, confused and shaken, but nodded slowly. “Okay…” He squeezed her hand once before turning back inside. The café was buzzing with voices, people staring, the staff clearly rattled. Maki walked straight to the counter. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “That was my fault. I’ll cover whatever damages there are, tables, chairs, anything.” The barista blinked. “Uh,” “Seriously,” he insisted, pulling out his wallet. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” After making sure everything was paid for, and adding extra, just in case, he grabbed his jacket and (Y/n)’s bag from their table.

She was waiting by the door, arms wrapped around herself. “Ready?” he asked softly. She nodded, though her expression was tense. They stepped outside together and started walking toward Koyomi. The silence between them felt heavy. (Y/n)’s fingers kept twisting into the strap of her bag, her eyes flicking toward him every few seconds like she wanted to ask something but didn’t know how. Maki noticed. “I swear,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “I’ll explain everything. I just… didn’t want to do it in there.” She swallowed. “Okay.” But her heart was racing, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever he was about to tell her… was going to change everything.

Once they reached Koyomi and stepped inside, Jay’s head snapped up immediately. “Maki,” he gasped, eyes locking onto the dried blood on his cheek and the corner of his lip, then down to his red knuckles. “What the hell happened?” Maki glanced at (Y/n), then gave Jay a small shrug, the kind that clearly said I’ll explain later, it’s about her. Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course it is,” he muttered, then waved him toward the back. “Go. Clean up. Now.” Miyu turned at the sound of the door opening and closing, as she looked up, she froze.

“Maki.” Before he could react, she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down to her height. “Did you seriously get into a fight?” she snapped, hand immediately moving to his face. “I’m fine,” he said quickly. “No, you’re not,” she shot back, gripping his jaw with one hand and his collar with the other, turning his head left and right. “Hold still.” “I said I’m,” “Maki,” she warned, eyes sharp, “if you’re bleeding in my restaurant, you’re dead.” He huffed. “Not bleeding anymore.” “That’s not the point.” She checked his cheek, his lip, then his knuckles. “What did you punch?” “…A guy?” Her eyes narrowed. “One or more?” “…Yeah.” “Maki.” “I said I’m fine, but yeah, there were a few guys.” She released him with a frustrated sigh. “Bathroom. Now. You are not working like this.” “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, already backing away. “Two minutes.” He disappeared down the hall.

(Y/n) slumped against the counter the second he was gone, exhaling shakily, her hands trembling just enough that she had to clasp them together. Miyu turned to her immediately, concern softening her expression. “Okay,” she said gently. “What happened?” (Y/n) hesitated, then sighed. “Some guys came into the café we were at. They were… staring. Then one of them said something to me when they were leaving.” Miyu’s jaw tightened. “What kind of something?” (Y/n) swallowed. “He told me to ‘hit the gym, pig.’” Miyu’s eyes darkened. “Oh.”

“I dropped my spoon,” (Y/n) continued quietly. “And then Maki just… stood up. Told him to apologize. The guy doubled down, and then,” She gestured helplessly. “He punched him. And then the rest jumped in.” Miyu sighed, rubbing her temple. “Yeah… that tracks.” (Y/n) frowned. “You’re not surprised?” “Not really,” Miyu admitted. “Maki’s always had a… strong reaction to people being cruel. Especially to people he cares about.” (Y/n)’s heart twisted at that. “He didn’t even hesitate.” “No,” Miyu said softly. “He wouldn’t.”

(Y/n) looked down at her hands. “And then… his face was bleeding. But when I wiped it away, there was nothing there.” Miyu froze. “…Nothing?” She shook her head. “No cut. No mark. Just gone.” Miyu stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, then let out a slow breath. “Okay.” “Okay?” (Y/n) echoed. “That’s it?” Miyu gave her a small, reassuring smile. “That’s it, for now. Maki promised he’d explain, didn’t he?” “…Yeah.” “Then let him,” Miyu said gently. “He’s not the kind of person who lies when it matters.” (Y/n) nodded, though her stomach was tight with nerves.

Just then, the bathroom door opened. Maki stepped back into the kitchen, face clean now, hair still slightly damp from splashing water on it. The blood was gone, but the tension hadn’t left his shoulders. Miyu pointed at him. “Sit. You’re benched until I say otherwise.” “Yes, coach,” he muttered, sliding onto one of the stools. She turned back to (Y/n). “You good?” (Y/n) nodded slowly. “I think so.” Maki glanced between them, then said quietly, “Hey… can we talk? Like. Somewhere private.” Her heart skipped. “…Yeah.” Miyu watched them for a second, then waved a hand. “Storage room’s empty. Go.” Maki stood, hesitating just long enough to make sure (Y/n) was actually following him, she was, before leading her toward the back. The door shut behind them. The silence felt heavier than anything that had happened outside.

(Y/n) leaned against a wall, looking at Maki, expecting an explanation, even more so as she now looked at his clean face, without any traces of a cut or bruise. “How?” she asked quietly. Maki leaned against the opposite wall, taking a deep breath. “Do you want the full and honest truth,” he said, “even if it might shock you, even if you might hate me after?” (Y/n) nodded. “I want the truth. No matter what.” Maki nodded. “Okay.” Then he closed his eyes, letting his wolf eyes glow gold, his fangs sliding out, before opening them again and meeting her gaze.

She gasped. “Maki” Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at his eyes, then at his teeth. He almost whined when her scent shifted, fear flooding the room. He took a step closer instinctively, but she shook her head, and he instantly stepped back. “Monster,” she whispered. His heart shattered. “I’m not a monster,” he said softly. “I’m just a werewolf… though to you, that might be the same thing.” (Y/n) asked if this was a trick. Maki shook his head. “No. I would never do that to you. I’d never lie about this.”

She looked shocked, unable to process it. Suddenly, she grabbed a glass from the shelf beside her and threw it at him. He caught it instantly, with speed and precision. Maki stared at the glass in his hand as his wolf retreated, his fangs disappearing, his eyes fading back to their warm human brown. His chest ached, his wolf felt the rejection immediately. She hated him. She feared him. And he didn’t know how to fix it. (Y/n) watched as his eyes returned to the ones she had found herself loving, the playful Maki she’d grown to enjoy being around. But she still saw a monster standing in front of her, holding the glass she had thrown. She turned and walked toward the door. “Please don’t tell anyone,” Maki said quietly. She stopped, her hand on the handle. “I won’t.” Then she opened the door and left him there alone. Maki fell to his knees, clutching the glass to his chest as a few tears slipped down his cheeks.

Miyu turned when she heard the storage room door open and close, expecting to see (Y/n) and Maki walk out together, hand in hand, smiling. Instead, only (Y/n) stepped out, silent tears streaming down her face. She brushed past Miyu quickly. “I, I need to go home,” she whispered, not stopping, not looking back. “Hey!” Miyu started, but the girl was already at the door. It swung shut behind her, the bell chiming softly. Miyu stood there for a second, chest tight, her instincts screaming that something had gone very, very wrong.

She turned sharply and pushed through the kitchen doors into the restaurant, spotting Jay and Jungwon near the counter. “Jay,” she called. Jay jogged over immediately. “What’s wrong?” Her voice dropped. “I need you to take over the kitchen for a bit.” He frowned. “Why? What happened?” “Maki,” she said quietly. That was all it took. Jay’s expression shifted instantly. “What about him?” “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But (Y/n) just left crying, and he’s still in the storage room.” Jay exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shit…” Jay nodded. “Go. I’ve got it.” Then, more gently, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Miyu walked down the hallway toward the storage room, her steps slowing the closer she got. Her heart ached before she even opened the door, that quiet, sinking feeling that came whenever one of her pack was hurting and she couldn’t fix it fast enough. She opened the door carefully. “Maki…?” Her breath caught. He was on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself, or around something. When she stepped closer, she saw it was the glass. He was clutching it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, shoulders shaking as silent sobs tore through him. “Oh, baby…” Miyu whispered.

She crossed the room quickly and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Hey. Hey, look at me.” He didn’t. His eyes stayed on the floor. “Maki,” she said again, softer this time, her hand hovering before gently resting on his arm. “Talk to me. What happened?” His lips trembled. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer at all. Then, barely louder than a breath, he whispered, “She… she called me a monster.” Miyu’s chest tightened painfully. “Oh,” she murmured. “Oh, Maki…” He squeezed the glass harder, knuckles whitening. “I showed her. I told her the truth. And she,” His voice cracked. “She was scared.”

Miyu swallowed hard, blinking fast. “Of course she was,” she said gently. “She’s human. This world is a lot, even for the strongest people. That doesn’t mean she hates you.” “But she looked at me like I wasn’t, like I wasn’t me anymore,” he whispered. “Like I was something else.” Miyu shifted closer, her knees brushing his. “You’re still you,” she said firmly. “You’re still Maki. You’re still my annoying little brother who steals snacks and pretends he didn’t. You’re still the boy who cares too much and loves too hard. Nothing about that changes.”

His breathing stuttered. “She threw this glass at me,” he muttered. “I caught it, and then my wolf just…” He shook his head. “It went away. Like it didn’t want to be there anymore.” That made her heart ache even more. She reached out, gently prying the glass from his hands and setting it aside. Then she cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. His eyes were red, lashes wet, face completely broken open. “You’re not a monster,” she said softly but clearly. “You’re a werewolf. And you’re one of the kindest people I know.” He let out a shaky breath. “She was scared of me.” “I know,” Miyu said. “And that hurts. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. But fear doesn’t mean rejection. It means shock. It means she needs time.” He didn’t answer, just crumpled forward, pressing his forehead into her shoulder.

Miyu wrapped her arms around him instantly, holding him tight. “It’s okay,” she whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to be strong right now.” His fingers twisted into the fabric of her shirt as he finally broke, sobbing openly. Miyu closed her eyes, rubbing slow circles into his back. After a moment, she pulled out her phone with one hand and typed quickly. Maki. Koyomi. Now. She hit send. Then she tightened her hold on him, rocking him slightly. “You’re not alone,” she murmured. “You hear me? Not now. Not ever.”

Somewhere deep in the pack bond, she felt it, the sharp, wrong emptiness where Maki’s wolf had retreated. And almost immediately after, the familiar pull of another presence rushing closer. Fuma was already on his way. Fuma ran in the second he reached Koyomi, breath uneven, eyes scanning the restaurant until they landed on Jay. “Where’s Maki?” he demanded. Jay didn’t hesitate, pointing down the hallway. “Storage room.” Fuma was already moving.

His chest felt tight, from Miyu’s text, from the strange, hollow pull he’d felt in the pack bond, but nothing prepared him for what he saw when he opened the door. Maki was in Miyu’s arms on the floor, shoulders shaking, face buried against her as he cried. “Hey,” Fuma breathed, his voice breaking instantly. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside them. When Maki looked up, eyes red and wet, Fuma didn’t see the nineteen-year-old in front of him. He saw the five-year-old boy he’d found wandering alone, crying for parents who never came back. The kid he’d carried home. The kid he’d raised. The kid who trusted him with everything. Miyu loosened her hold, letting Maki fall forward into Fuma instead. Fuma wrapped his arms around him immediately, pulling him close. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to Maki’s hair. “I’m here.” Maki clutched at his shirt like he used to when he was little, sobs shaking through him.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the room quiet except for Maki’s breathing slowly evening out. Eventually, Miyu stood. “I need to get back to the kitchen,” she said softly. “Don’t leave him alone.” “I won’t,” Fuma promised. When the door closed behind her, Fuma looked down at Maki. “Talk to me.” Maki swallowed hard. “There was a fight… at the café. Some guys said stuff to (Y/n). I lost it.” His voice cracked. “She saw me heal. Then I told her the truth. About being a werewolf.”

Fuma’s jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing, letting him continue. “She was scared,” Maki whispered. “She called me a monster.” Fuma’s arms tightened around him. “Oh, Maki…” “I ruined everything,” he choked. “She looked at me like I wasn’t me anymore.” “No,” Fuma said firmly, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You didn’t ruin anything. You were honest. That takes courage. And fear doesn’t mean hate, it means shock.” Maki shook his head weakly. “It didn’t feel like that.” “I know,” Fuma said softly, brushing his thumb over Maki’s hair. “But this isn’t over. Not even close. It’s going to be okay. We’ll fix this. Somehow.” Maki leaned into him again, exhausted, broken. Fuma held him tighter. “You’re not alone,” he murmured. “Not now. Not ever.”

After another thirty minutes, Fuma finally spoke. “Let’s go home.” Maki nodded, too tired to answer. They said goodbye to Miyu, Jay, and Jungwon. Jungwon looked at Maki a little longer than the others, sensing something was wrong, more than that, he noticed he couldn’t feel his wolf at all, but he didn’t say anything. He knew this wasn’t the time. After the drive home, Maki collapsed onto the couch, completely exhausted. EJ walked over, clearly about to ask what happened, but Fuma shook his head slightly. “Not now,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t need questions. He needs rest.” EJ nodded in understanding.

Still, he recognized the look on Maki’s face, the exhaustion, the pain. Rejection. Or at least, his wolf believed he’d been rejected. What worried EJ was how fast it was happening. It had taken him days to reach that state. For Maki, it had only taken an hour. As Maki fell asleep on the couch, Fuma and EJ gathered the whole pack, except for Miyu, Jay, and well Jungwon, who were still at Koyomi.

Fuma explained everything, from the fight at the café to (Y/n) seeing Maki heal, to the storage room, ending with, “We need a plan. Fast. Or we might lose him.” Silence fell over the room. Fuma turned to the girls. “Any ideas? You might understand her side better.” Aya frowned, thinking. “I get how shocking it is… but not like that. I was already in love with Kei when I found out.” She shook her head. “Same with me,” Sana said softly, and Willow nodded in agreement. Rocky crossed her arms. “Maybe someone should talk to her. But that could also make it worse. She might feel betrayed that no one warned her.”

Sora sighed. “Honestly? I think the only one who can fix this is Maki himself.” Everyone looked at her. “He’s the one she trusts. He’s the one she feels close to. From her perspective, the sweet guy she likes suddenly got into a violent fight and turned out to be… this. Of course she freaked out.” The room went quiet again. Tara stepped forward, voice quiet but steady. “I felt the same way she probably does now. The first time Heeseung told me about the supernatural, I was confused… hurt… angry… scared. All of it.” She swallowed. “I think the only reason I adjusted back then was because of the mind control. But I remember feeling like I needed time. And proof. Proof that he wasn’t a monster, no matter what the stories said.”

She looked down at her hands. “(Y/n) probably feels the same. She needs to see that Maki is still Maki. He was always a werewolf, the only thing that changed is that now she knows.” The room fell quiet. Everyone looked at Tara, surprised that she’d spoken up, but it made sense. It was logical. And it was the best plan they had. Fuma pulled her into his side, kissing her temple and whispering, “Thank you.” Now all they could do was wait for Maki to wake up, and help him figure out what to do next.

Three hours later, Miyu returned to the village, having been too worried about Maki, so she left Koyomi to Jay and Jungwon, who promised to help, but stay out of the kitchen, or else he might burn the restaurant down. Yuma met her the second she stopped the car, pulling her into a hug and kissing her temple. “Hey… how are you?” “I’m fine,” she said softly, hugging him back. “How’s Maki?” Yuma hesitated. “Not great.” Miyu sighed, tightening her arms around him. “I figured. The way (Y/n) reacted was bad.” She pulled back slightly. “She threw a glass at him.” Yuma’s eyes widened. “She did what?” “Yeah,” Miyu murmured. “Fuma didn’t tell you?” He shook his head, frowning. “No… he didn’t.” “Maybe he forgot,” Miyu said quietly. “Or maybe he didn’t want to make it worse.”

Inside, Maki was awake, but barely. His eyes were dull, unfocused, his skin pale. He looked like someone who’d been sick for weeks, drained of everything. When he tried to speak, his voice came out rough and strained, like his throat was raw. Every wolf in the room could feel it. Maki’s wolf was suffering. It was a feeling far too familiar, the same one they’d felt with EJ, back when he’d refused to accept Sora. Sora tried to use her healing powers on Maki, but nothing worked. The only remedy to a mate’s rejection was their acceptance, and his mate didn’t even know she’d rejected him. Rocky and Sunoo tried combining their magic, hoping to spark something in him, anything, but it was like everything they did just bounced right off. “Should we call (Y/n)?” Sana asked quietly. “It’s only been a few hours, but maybe we should check on her, too.” Aya shook her head. “No. She won’t be feeling this. She’s human, she’s in shock, probably confused, but she’s not dying. She needs time. And space.” She looked back at Maki. “Tomorrow, we can think about talking to her. For now, our priority is him.” 

Tara sat beside Fuma on the couch, close enough that their knees brushed, but even that small contact didn’t seem to ground him. His leg bounced relentlessly, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, like he was replaying every moment of the last few days in his head. “I should’ve been there,” he muttered suddenly. “I should’ve warned him. Prepared him. I knew this could happen.” His voice cracked with frustration. “He’s nineteen, Tara. He’s a kid. And I let him walk straight into this alone.” She reached out, placing her hand over his fists, gently forcing his fingers to loosen. “Fuma,” she said softly, “look at me.”

He didn’t at first. His breathing was shallow, uneven, chest rising too fast for someone who hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. “Fuma,” she repeated, firmer this time. He finally looked at her, eyes wild with guilt. “He’s breaking,” he whispered. “I can feel it. His wolf’s shutting down and I,” His voice dropped. “I raised him. This is on me.” Tara shook her head immediately. “No. It’s not.” She slid closer, pressing her forehead to his temple. “You’ve done everything you could. You always do everything you can. But you can’t protect him from every kind of pain.” He let out a rough breath. “I was supposed to protect him from this.” “You couldn’t,” she said gently. “No one could. Not even EJ. Not even Miyu. This was always something only Maki could face.” She pulled his hands apart and laced her fingers through his. “And he didn’t fail. He told her the truth. That took courage.” Fuma swallowed hard, his grip tightening around her hands instead. “And look where it got him.” “Right now?” she said quietly. “It got him hurt. But that doesn’t mean it ends here.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve told him to wait. Or told her myself. Or,” His breathing hitched. “I should’ve done something.” Tara moved, sitting sideways on his lap without asking, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling his face into her neck. “Hey,” she murmured. “Hey. Stop.” He froze at the contact, then slowly sagged into her, forehead pressed to her collarbone. “This isn’t your fault,” she whispered. “Things go wrong sometimes. Even when everyone does their best. What matters isn’t what you should’ve done, it’s what we do now.” His arms came around her tightly, like he was afraid if he let go, he’d fall apart. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, voice muffled against her shoulder. “You don’t have to fix everything,” she said softly. “You just have to be here. For him. And right now, for yourself.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes red, tired. “How are you so calm about this?” She shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. I’m not calm. I’m scared too.” She brushed her thumb under his eye, gently. “But I’ve learned that panic never helps. And… before Heeseung, I was studying psychology. Maybe some of that’s still buried in my brain somewhere.” He gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Of course you were.” She smiled faintly. “Guess it’s finally useful.” He pulled her back into him, holding her tighter now, like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re amazing,” he murmured into her hair.

The night passed in restless silence. No one slept properly, doors creaked, footsteps padded through hallways, and every few hours someone checked on Maki, who lay awake on the couch staring at the ceiling, his wolf silent inside him. The house felt wrong without its usual warmth. Breakfast wasn’t much better. Maki barely touched his food, pushing his eggs around the plate while the others sat scattered around the kitchen, all tense in their own ways. Even Jungwon seemed subdued, for about five minutes.

“I have an idea,” Jungwon said suddenly, brightening. “What if I sneak up on (Y/n), scare her, and then Maki shows up and saves her? Instant hero moment.” Maki’s head snapped up. “No.” His voice came out harsher than he meant to, but his wolf didn’t stir behind it, and that somehow made it worse. “You don’t have to growl,” Jungwon said quickly. “I was just suggesting,” “No,” Maki repeated, quieter now. “Absolutely not.” “That’s a terrible idea,” Sana said immediately. “And traumatizing,” Sora added. “She’s human, not a side quest,” Aya muttered. Jungwon lifted his hands. “Okay, okay, but technically, she wouldn’t even know it was me. I can shapeshift.” Everyone blinked. “You can what?” Sunoo asked. “Not animals or objects,” Jungwon clarified. “Just… face shape, hair color, stuff like that. Enough to be unrecognizable.”

Nicholas tilted his head thoughtfully. “I mean… that might actually,” Rocky smacked his shoulder. “No. We don’t scare people into liking us.” Nicholas winced. “Ow. Okay, fair.” Maki stayed silent, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on his plate. Willow noticed. “Hey,” she said gently, turning to him. “What do you want to do? Because right now it kind of feels like we’re all deciding for you.”

He hesitated. “I… don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want to pressure her. I don’t want her to feel trapped or scared or like she has to forgive me.” Aya leaned forward. “You don’t have to pressure her. But you should talk to her. Just… talk. Let her see you’re still you.” Maki swallowed. “What if she doesn’t want to see me?” “Then you respect that,” Aya said softly. “But at least she’ll know you tried. And she deserves the truth, not silence.” The table fell quiet after that, everyone looking at Maki. He nodded faintly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll talk to her.”

~~~

The next day, Maki woke up before sunrise and walked to (Y/n)’s apartment, Miyu’s text with the address burning in his pocket like it might disappear if he didn’t keep checking it. He felt awful, emotionally, physically, in every way possible. His wolf was fading, and so was he. Even walking felt heavier than it should have, as if gravity had doubled overnight. Still, he made it. He could hear her inside before he even reached the door, soft footsteps, a cupboard opening, the quiet clink of something being set down. His hearing still worked, at least. Seemed like the only part of him that did anymore.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the door, chest tight. She could see him through the peephole. She might not open. She might tell him to leave. But he had to try. He lifted his hand and knocked. Inside, everything went quiet. He could hear her stop moving, like she was thinking about who it could be. Then her voice came through the door, tight and distant. “I don’t want to talk to you, Maki.” His chest ached like something had cracked open inside him. He knocked again, softer this time. “Please,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges.

He could hear her steps now, closer to the door. Not opening it, just standing there. “I just… I just need one minute,” he said quietly. “That’s all. One minute.” Silence. He rested his forehead against the door, eyes closing. “Please,” he whispered again, barely loud enough to reach her, praying to the moon she’d give him the smallest chance, just enough to explain. Suddenly, he heard the lock click. He straightened immediately, pulling away from the door just as it opened. She stood there, looking up at him, and he could tell instantly she’d been crying; her eyes were red, glassy, exhausted. There was still fear in them, a tremor she couldn’t hide, but it wavered when she took in how bad he looked, like someone barely standing upright, like a walking corpse.

“Can I… come inside?” he asked quietly. (Y/n) wanted to say no. She really did. But something in her also wanted answers, wanted to understand, so instead she stepped aside, letting him pass. Inside, she gestured toward the couch. He sat down slowly. She took the armchair across from him instead, keeping her distance. Silence settled between them. Maki tried to speak, but every breath felt heavy, like pain crowded his throat the second he tried to push words past it. He stared at the floor, hands clenched together, searching for the strength to start.

“I’m sorry,” he said. That was his start. He’d spent the entire night thinking about what to say, replaying conversations in his head, but now that he was actually here, sitting in front of her, his mind was empty. He wanted to say the right thing. He just didn’t know what the right thing was. Her first question caught him so off guard that he started coughing. “Do you eat people?” she blurted out. “Is that why you work at the restaurant?” Maki shook his head frantically, trying to say no through his coughing fit. When he finally got it under control, he looked at her, baffled. “No. Why would you ask that?” She shrugged. “Some werewolves in fiction do that.” He sighed softly. “Yeah, some are portrayed that way. But in reality, werewolves protect humans. Mostly from vampires. Though… It’s not as bad as it was a couple of centuries ago.”

“Okay,” (Y/n) said slowly. “Does Miyu know?” He nodded. “Yeah. Yuma too. He’s my brother, and a werewolf. Actually… all of my brothers are.” She nodded, processing that. “That makes sense,” she murmured, then looked back up at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me before? Why did you let me go almost two months without knowing?” Maki took a deep breath, bracing himself before answering. He said that he wanted to tell her, he really did, he just didn’t want to scare her. He never meant for her to find out like that. But telling her he was a werewolf also meant telling her something else, and that was what scared him most.

She frowned. “What do you mean?” “Can I… explain that later?” he asked quietly. (Y/n) sighed, frustration flashing across her face, but she nodded. “Fine.” Then she asked, “Does Jay know?” Maki nodded. “Yeah. Jay is,” He hesitated. “Um. A vampire.” (Y/n) shot to her feet. “What?” “He’s a vampire,” Maki said quickly, clearing his throat, “but he’s nice. He’s Miyu’s best friend. He saved her from a rogue vampire years ago, and they’ve been close ever since.” “So he’s not going to try and drink my blood?” she asked sharply. Maki shook his head. “No. Jay only drinks animal blood, and not by killing them. He has a contract with one of our meat suppliers. They think it’s for the restaurant, but it’s not.” (Y/n) nodded slowly, sitting back down. “Okay.”

(Y/n) asked why Maki had been so friendly to her. “I’m friendly to everyone,” he said. “That’s not what I mean,” she replied. “Why did you treat me differently from Miyu? I assume she’s human, too. Why were you always helping me? Did you think I couldn’t do things on my own? That I’m fragile?” “No,” Maki said immediately. “That’s not it at all. I was doing that because I was… kind of flirting with you. I’m not great with words, so I thought if I helped you out, maybe you’d like me.” “Why?” she asked quietly. “Why would someone like you,” she gestured to his body, “like someone like me?” Then she gestured to herself.

Maki felt frustration twist in his chest. Had she really not understood? He said, “Why wouldn’t I like you?” finally finding some strength in his voice, like his wolf felt the hurt in hers and wanted to prove her wrong. “Because no one likes me,” she said, anger and hurt bleeding into her voice. Her eyes glossed over as she continued. “Since I was ten, I’ve been alone. No friends. No one wanted to be friends with the loser girl who spent all her time baking and eating everything herself because she had no one to share it with. So I gained weight. And anyone who’s ever shown interest in me only did it for a dare, or as a joke. So why should I believe you would actually like me?”

Maki stood up from the couch and walked over, sinking down onto his knees in front of her. He gently rested his hands on her knees. “I don’t see you that way,” he said softly. “I see the person who lights up a room. Your laugh is contagious; it makes my day better even when it’s been terrible. You’re warm and kind. You’re passionate. You’re cute when you’re deciding how to decorate a cake. You’re beautiful when you smile. Your eyes sparkle when you talk about baking or your favorite movie.” His voice wavered slightly. “I see a beautiful young woman who can only make my life better.” (Y/n) stared into his eyes, searching for a lie, anything, but she found nothing. Slowly, she lifted her hands to his cheeks, leaned in, and kissed him.

He reciprocated in a heartbeat, reaching up with one hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing gently under her eye as if he could wipe away every tear she’d ever cried. The kiss tasted salty from them, soft and desperate all at once. When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Please don’t talk about yourself like you don’t matter,” he whispered. “Like you don’t have any worth. Because you do. You matter so much. Especially to me.” He stayed there on his knees, not wanting to move away from her.

(Y/n) frowned slightly, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “Why do you look… terrible?” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Because I can’t push this off anymore. It’s time I tell you the full truth. I would’ve yesterday, but… I didn’t get the chance.” She looked down at the floor, remembering the word she’d thrown at him, monster, but she stayed quiet, letting him speak. “Do you know how in Twilight,” he started carefully, “Jacob imprints on Renesmee?” She nodded slowly, confused. “Yeah…?” “Well,” Maki continued, “real werewolves have something similar. It’s not called imprinting; it’s called a mate bond. Every werewolf has one person they’re destined to fall in love with. The only person they can ever truly love.” His voice dropped. “And if that person rejects them… the werewolf loses their life.”

“The way you reacted yesterday,” he said quietly, “it felt like rejection. So my wolf… kind of started dying. Which means I am too.” He swallowed. “That’s why I came here today. To try and fix this. To ask you to give me a chance.” (Y/n)’s eyes widened as she stared at him. “So… I’m your mate?” Maki nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t really clarify that part. You are.” “Wait,” she said suddenly, panic creeping into her voice. “You’re dying?” He nodded, then quickly shook his head. “Well… it kind of depends on what you say now.” She blinked, trying to process everything. “So that’s why you didn’t tell me you were a werewolf?”

He nodded again. “If I told you that, you’d find out about my brothers. And then about the mate bond. And then I’d have to tell you all of this way too early. I never wanted to pressure you into anything.” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m… sorry. For calling you a monster. It was just… a lot.” He gave a small, tired smile. “I get it. I probably reacted the same way to Jay when I found out he was a vampire.” He paused. “And Jungwon, too. He’s a vampire as well. That was only like… a week ago.”

Maki stood up slowly, feeling a little stronger, his wolf stirring just beneath the surface, not fully awake, but breathing again, alive in a way it hadn’t been since yesterday. He looked at her, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for springing all of this on you,” he said quietly. “And for starting that fight yesterday. It’s just… hearing people be mean to you drives me insane. And even more when you talk like you don’t matter.” His voice softened. “When you’re everything to me.” (Y/n) wiped away the last tear clinging to her lashes, letting out a shaky breath. “I was… impressed,” she admitted. “No one’s ever stood up for me like that. No one except my grandma. She was the only one who really cared.”

She looked down at her hands. “So I think… over the years, I just got used to being treated badly. I locked myself away. It’s easier to be alone by choice than to give someone the chance to leave you.” Her voice wavered. “And yesterday… I think I saw a chance to run from you. Because what I was really afraid of was accepting that you care. That you actually like me.” She glanced up at him, eyes shining. “So it was easier to call you a monster. Because if I chose to run, then you couldn’t be the one to hurt me.” Maki reached out a hand. She hesitated only a second before taking it, letting him pull her to her feet. He drew her close, close enough that she leaned into his chest, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “I would never hurt you,” he said softly. “Not intentionally. Never.” That familiar voice crept into her mind, he’s lying, you’re not good enough, but she pushed it away. It was scary, and she still didn’t know what came next, but she chose to trust him. “I know,” she whispered. 

Maki exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours and wrapped his arms around her tighter. “Are you… okay with it?” he asked. “Me being a werewolf and all.” She thought for a moment. “It’s still shocking,” she admitted. Then her lips twitched. “But kind of fun too. Do you, like… act like a dog?” Maki sighed dramatically, hugging her tighter. “I wouldn’t say that,” he muttered. “But the girls definitely would. They say all of us act like dogs.” (Y/n) laughed softly into his chest. After they sat down on the couch together, (Y/n) asked softly, “Are all the girls human?” Maki shook his head. “Nope. Aya, Miyu, Sana, Tara, and Willow are human. Sora’s a vampire, Rocky’s a witch, oh, and Sunoo’s a wizard, although he’s not one of the girls.” (Y/n) blinked and laughed. “That’s… a lot.” He chuckled. “You get used to it.”

She shifted slightly beside him. “Do you think they’ll like me?” Maki turned toward her, smiling. “They already do. A lot. They’ve been really open to everyone who’s joined the pack.” Then he paused. “Although, fair warning, Rocky will probably attack you with fabric swatches and outfit ideas. It’s easier to just go along with it than try to say no. The witch always gets her way.” (Y/n) laughed. “Yeah, I noticed. She was pretty pushy when we met at the pond.” Maki laughed with her. “True, but her heart’s in the right place.”

They sat on the couch talking for an hour or two, eventually ending up cuddling. (Y/n) lay against Maki, her back to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin resting lightly atop her head. He never wanted to move. She was telling him about the first time she tried making her own recipe and how catastrophic it turned out, too much baking soda, a bitter cake, and an oven she had to scrub for nearly a week. Her hands moved animatedly as she talked, making him smile softly into her hair. Maki was back to his original warmth and strength, no longer fading, his wolf finally calm and alive again as she accepted the mating bond. She might not have said it out loud, but she didn’t need to, her actions were more than enough.

Eventually, when she checked the time, she shot out of his arms, loudly saying they were going to be late for work. Maki said it was fine, that Miyu and Jay wouldn’t be angry. (Y/n) turned to him, slightly offended, saying she cared, she took work seriously, and she thought he did too. Maki stood up straight, jokingly saluting. “Yes, ma’am, I do.” She threw a few things at him, telling him to pack them into her bag by the door. He caught every single one, stuffing them neatly inside while she rushed to the bathroom to change out of her pajamas and into work clothes. Right then, Fuma sent him a mindlink. How is it going? It’s okay. We’re good, Maki replied. Fuma sighed in relief. See you later.

As (Y/n) came back, Maki smiled and reached out one hand, waiting for her to take it. After slipping on her shoes, she did, laughing as she said she never thought he’d be so clingy. He started to pull back, about to apologize, but she stopped him, tightening her grip. “I like it,” she said. “So don’t stop.” He laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “Good. I won’t. I can be even clingier if you want.” She laughed. “Let’s start with just this.”

As they walked toward Koyomi, (Y/n) suddenly stopped. Maki turned to her. “Did you forget something?” She shook her head. “Wait, if I accept all this mate business… does that mean I have to move?” Maki shrugged. “Well, everyone else did, and we’ve got space, but you don’t have to unless you want to. And we can wait. You don’t have to move tomorrow.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Nah, let’s pack my bags tonight. I hate that apartment, it’s awful, moldy, and run-down. I’ve been looking for somewhere new, but nothing’s ever in my budget.” Maki laughed. “Perfect timing then,” he said as they kept walking.

Once they reached Koyomi, Miyu, Jay, and Jungwon were already there, opening up. Miyu smiled the moment she saw them holding hands, while Jungwon waved enthusiastically, then frowned when neither of them waved back. (Y/n) noticed. “Is that… normal vampire behavior?” Jay sighed, then laughed. “No, that’s just a Jungwon trait. He loves attention and gets jealous easily, but he’s harmless.” Miyu turned to (Y/n). “Are you okay with everything?” (Y/n) nodded. “Yeah. It’s still a lot to grasp, but I’m okay. And… sorry about yesterday.” Miyu waved her hand. “It’s fine. What’s the supernatural world without a little drama?”

Jay smiled. “Alright, let’s get to work. The whole pack is coming by in a few hours, so we need a lot of food and cakes. Plus, we’ve got a big reservation for a ten-year-old’s birthday party.” “Yes, boss,” Maki said with a chuckle as they headed into the kitchen, all of them getting to work, (Y/n) baking, Miyu and Maki cooking, Jay and Jungwon setting up tables. Once the pack came by, Fuma felt a wave of relief crash over him when he saw Maki smiling, laughing, and looking like himself again. His shoulders finally relaxed from the tight, tense position they’d been stuck in since yesterday. Tara leaned in beside him, her voice soft but smug. “See? I told you he’d be fine.” Fuma let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and leaned closer to her. “You’re really good at this stuff. Maybe you should find a job where you can actually use that brain.” Tara smiled. “Yeah… maybe.” 

Kei glanced over at Sana and Jo. “So, how are the projects going? I haven’t heard much.” Sana straightened a little. “They’re actually going really well. Aya and Harua have been helping a lot, correcting things and teaching me stuff.” Jo nodded. “Yeah. I turned my paintings in yesterday. I’m really happy with them, especially after Rocky helped me find this perfect red quilt. I used it as Red Riding Hood’s hood; it was a bit extra, but I’m hoping it gets me an A.” Nicholas laughed. “I can’t imagine being that good at school.” Taki groaned dramatically. “So you’re saying I inherited this horrible school brain from you?” Nicholas gasped, clutching his chest. “Wow. Rude.” Then he laughed loudly, and EJ added, “You should’ve spent more time with me instead. I’m the smart one.” Taki rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway, the easy warmth of the pack finally back where it belonged.

Harua joked as he sat beside Taki, “Guess it’s your turn next,” nudging him lightly. Taki sighed. “Yeah… lucky me,” he muttered, clearly not thrilled. Sora tilted her head. “Why? Isn’t finding your mate supposed to be a dream?” “Of course it is,” Taki said, rubbing his face. “But I’m still a broken wolf. Sure, I’m better, but I’m not healed. How am I supposed to find my mate when I’m not even whole?” Rocky crossed her arms thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need. The mate bond might be the missing piece. It was for me, it got rid of my oracle side.” Taki opened his mouth, clearly considering it… then scoffed instead. “Maybe my life isn’t some stupid fairy tale.” Yuma’s voice sharpened. “Just because you’re worried doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole.” Taki looked away. “Sorry,” he muttered. Willow leaned toward Harua, whispering, “Is he always like this?” Harua shook his head quietly. “No. But he’s got his reasons.” She nodded, understanding.

A moment later, Miyu, Maki, and (Y/n) came out of the kitchen and joined the group. Maki cleared his throat slightly. “Um… everyone, this is my mate.” (Y/n) smiled nervously, and the room immediately filled with grins, clapping, and overlapping voices. “Welcome to the family!” “About time!” (Y/n) laughed, cheeks warming, while Maki squeezed her hand, finally looking completely at peace.

~~~

A few days later, the whole pack was helping (Y/n) move from her apartment to the pack’s village, though Rocky was less focused on lifting boxes and more focused on taking (Y/n)’s measurements. “Arms up. No, higher. Turn. Okay, now favorite colors?” Rocky rattled off, tape measure snapping lightly against her fingers. “Warm tones or cool? Linen or silk? Structured or flowy? Actually, don’t answer yet, I need vibes.” (Y/n) blinked. “I,” “And patterns! Florals? Plaid? Solids with personality?” Rocky gasped. “Oh my god, I can already see the outfits.” Meanwhile, everyone else was actually moving. 

Once (Y/n) finally escaped the witch’s clutches, she found Maki near the doorway and immediately wrapped her arms around him. “I can’t believe everyone’s helping,” she said into his chest. “This feels… unreal.” He chuckled, arms circling her easily. “This is just how a pack is. When one of us needs help, everyone shows up. No questions asked.” She leaned back, looking around the apartment.

Jo and Kei were carrying her couch out the door like it weighed nothing, chatting casually as if they weren’t lifting half her living room. Harua and Willow were carefully wrapping her paintings in bubble wrap, Willow labeling each one neatly. Nicholas and EJ were dismantling her dining table, Nicholas dramatically groaning about missing one screw while EJ laughed at him. In the kitchen, Aya, Miyu, Sora, and Sana packed silverware and porcelain with surprising efficiency. Tara and Fuma taped shut boxes of clothes, Fuma handing Tara labels while she organized them by room. Outside, Yuma and Taki stacked boxes into cars and trailers with practiced ease, making sure nothing would tip or shift. Rocky suddenly called from the hallway, “(Y/n)! Important question, do you emotionally identify with these curtains, or are we burning them metaphorically?” (Y/n) laughed. “I think it’s time to get back to work.” Maki smiled. “Be careful,” he said lightly, before bending down to grab a few boxes and carrying them out after her.

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the windows orange and gold, the apartment stood empty. Boxes gone. Furniture gone. Echoes replacing what had once been clutter. All that remained… was the cleaning. Everyone stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the dust outlines where furniture had once been. Nicholas broke the silence first. “So… whose apartment was this again?” “It was mine,” (Y/n) said dryly, hands on her hips. “Ah,” he nodded. “Right. Tragic.” Taki flopped dramatically onto the bare floor. “I vote we leave it. Builds character.” Aya gave him a look. “It builds a fine.” Fuma rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ve been lifting things all day…” “And I just did emotional labor,” Rocky added, holding up her tape measure like evidence. (Y/n) laughed. “You interrogated me about fabrics.” “Exactly. Exhausting.” 

Rocky’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh.” Everyone groaned in unison. “No,” Yuma warned. “Absolutely not.” “Yes,” Rocky countered, already rolling up her sleeves. “Think about it. One small spell. Efficient. Elegant. Sparkly.” “It’s never just small,” Harua muttered. Rocky ignored him, spinning toward Willow. “I can’t do it alone, though. I’ll need stabilizing magic.” Willow tilted her head, considering. “Sunoo?” “Sunoo,” Rocky confirmed. Willow was already pulling out her phone. “On it.”

Ten minutes later, the front door burst open, and Sunoo hurried in, slightly out of breath. “I came as fast as I could. What are we blowing up?” “Nothing!” (Y/n) squeaked. “Hopefully,” EJ added. Rocky clapped her hands. “Okay! Focus. Cleanse-and-polish charm, layered with minor restoration. Sunoo, you handle the energy flow, anchor me.” Sunoo grinned. “I’m on it.”  They moved to the center of the apartment. Rocky closed her eyes, violet light beginning to swirl around her fingers. Sunoo’s magic shimmered into existence, soft baby blue, almost mist-like. The air hummed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals. Stains faded. Smudges vanished from windows as if erased by invisible hands. The faint scuffs along the walls smoothed over, paint brightening. For a moment, the apartment glowed, violet and blue weaving together like northern lights. Then the light faded. Silence.

Everyone blinked. The place looked… Spotless. Cleaner than it had any right to be. (Y/n) slowly turned in a circle. “I think it’s cleaner now than when they built it.” Sunoo brushed imaginary dust off his shoulder. “You’re welcome.” Rocky beamed proudly. “Magic housekeeping services, available on request.” Aya walked into the kitchen, ran a finger along the counter, and inspected it. “Not even a speck.” Nicholas whistled. “We should start charging.” Taki stood up, stretching. “See? I said we shouldn’t clean. The universe handled it.” “The universe being Rocky,” Yuma corrected. Rocky bowed dramatically. Fuma clapped his hands once. “Alright. It’s done.” There was a moment, quiet and soft, as (Y/n) looked around the now-empty apartment. The place that had held years of loneliness. Of baking alone. Of quiet nights. It didn’t hurt as much to leave it now. Maki stepped up beside her, gently brushing his fingers against hers. “You okay?” he asked softly. She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Jo suddenly raised both arms. “Pizza?” “Yes,” several voices answered immediately. “Pizza and celebration at the pack house,” Miyu declared. “And Sunoo’s invited,” Willow added. Sunoo gasped. “An official invite? I feel honored.” “You earned it,” Rocky said. “Magical janitor privileges.” “And Jay and Jungwon,” Aya added casually. Nicholas smirked. “Jungwon practically lives with us already.” It was true. The younger vampire had been staying with them for far longer than just ‘a few days’; he’d been helping at Koyomi, lounging on the couches, laughing too loudly at night. Somehow, without anyone formally saying it, he’d just… become part of it. And no one minded. He was kind. A little dramatic. Very affectionate. Surprisingly helpful. Mostly harmless.

“Let’s go before I collapse,” Sana said. They all filed out together, laughter echoing down the hallway. (Y/n) took one last glance at the apartment, then turned away without regret. Her hand stayed firmly in Maki’s as they walked toward the cars. Toward the pack house. Toward something new.

~~~

As the snow melted away and spring flowers slowly bloomed through the grass, new beginnings followed close behind. The pack was growing, not just in numbers, but in warmth, in laughter, in the quiet certainty that none of them were alone anymore. While mate bonds could be messy, emotional, and terrifying at times, fate always seemed to know exactly what it was doing in the end.

Maki found his mate. (Y/n) found someone who loved her, truly, gently, and in doing so, she found something else too: friends, family, belonging. Things she’d never truly had before. Their story was only just beginning. Just like the flowers waiting beneath the soil, there was so much more to come for all of them. 

~~~ The End ~~~

And that’s the end of this part! 

How do we feel? Do we love it, hate it? 

We got to meet Jungwon as well, fortunately as a friend and not a foe. 

Next up is obviously Taki, as many of you suspected, he will be the one ending this series since his story has been building throughout the entire series. I hope you’re excited! Do you have any theories about how he’ll meet his mate? Or what will happen? I love seeing you guys theorize! 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

She dragged out his name, “Yudaiiii,” and without thinking, wrapped her arms around him as she plopped onto the bed. Her face buried in his chest, and for a moment, all the tension of the day- the exhaustion, the worries, the heaviness- spilled out of her in quiet, shaky breaths.

Yudai looked down at her, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite the concern in his eyes. He shifted slightly, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, letting her press into him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and steady. “I’ve got you.”

She shakes against him, silent sobs soaking into his shirt. He doesn’t tell her to stop crying. Doesn’t ask what happened. He just holds her tighter, chin resting on her hair, breathing slow on purpose so she can match it.

“It’s okay,” he says softly.

Her fingers fist into his shirt like she’s holding on for dear life. He lets her. Encourages it, even, pressing a kiss into her hair-gentle, lingering, protective.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time blurs.

When her breathing finally stutters into something calmer, he shifts just enough to tuck her properly against him, guiding her to lie half on top of him. His thumb wipes at the tears on her cheek, careful like she might shatter if he’s rough.

“Do you want to talk?” he asks quietly.

“And if not,” he adds, just as softly, “that’s okay too.”

She shakes her head, pressing her forehead into his collarbone.

“Okay,” he says immediately. His arms tighten around her again, solid and warm, like an unbreakable wall between her and everything that hurt her tonight.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Yudai whispers, voice firm in a way that feels like a promise. “Let's stay like this as long as you need.”

And she does.

Curled into his chest, surrounded by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, Y/n lets herself fall apart-knowing he’ll be right there, holding every piece together until she’s ready again.

current status: open 4 suggestions! | last updated: 09/02/26!

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ — ONE-SHOTS !

chapter one - the first time i laid eyes on you !

before that day, you thought that you knew everything there was to know about the infamous yuuji itadori. you thought that he was cocky, that he was full of himself, that he was a fuck boy - but after that day, after meeting him, you realise how wrong you truly were. | fluff.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ — ENTRIES !

one - touch ; mature.

reasons why the all-star jock boyfriend always has to be touching his pretty, ‘weird’ girlfriend.

two - shyness ; fluff.

the all-star jock reassures his girlfriend.

three - team jersey ; fluff and suggestive.

the all star jock asks his freaky girlfriend to start wearing his jersey to games. it shouldn’t be a big deal, right? since she’s always asking to live in his skin and all.

four - growth ; fluff.

the jock boyfriend is proud of how far his shy girlfriend has come.

five - pockets ; fluff.

jock boyfriend loves how many pockets his girlfriend has.

six - pleasure prioritised ; mature.

just some scenarios of an incredibly strong jock boyfriend pleasing his girlfriend in different ways.

seven - poor practice ; mature.

the jock boyfriend has a shitty practice, luckily his adoring weird girlfriend is there to make him feel better.

eight - just the tip ; mature.

our favourite jock takes his special girlfriend’s virginity. well…kind of.

nine - first meetings ; fluff.

a scenario in which the campus’ favourite jock lays eyes on his future freaky girlfriend for the first time.

ten - babies, lots of them ‘em ; mature.

the all star jock has an intense breeding kink that leads him to confess the plans he has for he and his weird girlfriend’s future.

eleven - makeout sesh ; suggestive.

the jock boyfriend convinces his girlfriend that making out is always more fun than studying.

twelve - training pays off ; mature.

the all star jock spend weeks preparing his sweet, weird girlfriend to take every single inch of him. and once she’s finally able to, yuuji itadori realises that training really does pay off.

thirteen - can’t stop won’t stop ; mature.

our favourite jock boyfriend hates being away from his nerdy girlfriend. of course its because he misses her company but it's mostly because yuuji gets so pent up, so sensitive that he can't say no to her. even when he really should.

fourteen - one hand wonder ; mature

the campus' favourite jock is more than just skilled at sport. he's good with his hands too. whether its one or both at a time. he decides to show off these talents after a long day of being relentlesslt teased by his freaky little girlfriend.

fifteen - the pouring rain ; mature, angst.

the best player on the team never loses, at least that's what he thought, up until losing her. whether its for good or not, remains uncertain. or the one in which yuuji itadori's girlfriend puts a pause on their relationship, where you fail to resist him one last time.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ — DRABBLES !

class drop off ; fluff.

beach episode ; fluff.

sports camp and phone sex ; mature.

keep the sundress on ; mature.

sundress season ; mature.

conditioning ; fluff.

piggy backs back to your dorm ; fluff.

squirting ; mature.

comfort ; fluff and angst.

dresses ; mature.

missionary dog tags ; mature.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ — HEADCANONS !

promise rings ; fluff.

dom or sub ; mature.

we can’t be friends ; fluff + angst.

hand sanitiser ; fluff.

your interests ; fluff.

matching bracelets ; fluff.

role play ; mature.

fights and arguments ; angst.

fights and arguments (2) ; angst + mature.

tiktok links ; suggestive.

kissable ; fluff.

notes app ; mature.

prints ; fluff.

cheer squad ; fluff + suggestive.

crashed dates ; fluff.

jealousy ; fluff.

ankle kisses ; mature.

work outs ; suggestive.

kpop dances ; fluff.

occult club ; fluff.

freak ! ; fluff.

fights and arguments (3) ; angst + fluff.

worship ; fluff + suggestive.

locker room ; mature.

stargazing ; mature.

tiktok links (2) ; fluff.

freaky stuff ; fluff.

info dumps and thoughtfulness ; fluff.

wearing pink ; mature.

silly noises ; fluff.

campus shenanigans ; fluff.

mean girls ; fluff and angst.

sundress season (2) ; mature.

dick piercings ; mature.

skin care ; fluff.

emo era ; fluff.

crop tops ; suggestive.

break up stuff (2) (3) (4) ; angst.

meet cute ; fluff.

shirtless push ups ; suggestive

noise complaints ; mature

fondlin n kissin ; mature

teething jersey ; mature

eating puh ; mature

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ — FANART !

one by @/leoandbeholdclark

two by @/thenamesmiz

three by @/thenamesmiz

you should’ve run when you had the chance.

you watch your fiancée from the top of the terrace, a cigarette between your lips. his pink hair stands out, bright amongst the masses of black suit and ties. he leans against the wall of the ballroom, hands in his pockets, observing.

what a stick in the mud.

“are you ready, y/n?”

you look at your brother, purposely blowing a cloud of smoke into his face.

jake sighs heavily, taking a sip from the champagne flute he’s holding. he’d run out of things to say. he, jay, and sunghoon had all put their heads together to come up with anything that they could say to make you feel better, but every time, they’d come up empty-handed. 

“what do you think, jake?" you scoff. "i’m being forced to marry a man who i’ve been raised to believe is the enemy for my entire life. not to mention the added bonus that he will resent me for as long as i wear his ring on my finger.” you finish, pushing off from the balcony.

“y/n-“

“and for what?? this shitshow of a wedding because our buffoon of a father decided shipping off his only daughter was the only option?” you ask, eyebrow quirked.

“y/n!” jake scolds, looking around to see if anyone heard your outburst.

for once in your life, the two of you are silent, staring at each other from opposite sides of the battlefield. jake was the perfect heir and son, second only to your oldest brother whom you haven't seen in years. he'd been sent to australia when you were a lot younger, and honestly, you could barely remember what he looked like. as a child, you'd grown close with the 02z and had been thick as thieves growing up. after all, you'd been born only a couple months after sunghoon. and although you were only related to jake by blood, everywhere they went, you followed. or at least tried to.

at some point during high school, they'd decided to become an “all boys' club." sure, they included you but you never understood their inside jokes. or even half of what they were talking about in the first place. you were just "jake's little sister"

but anyway, it wasn’t like being mafia royalty had earned you many friends, save for the ones who kissed your feet in a futile attempt to make their way to the top. this was different though; you were about to be truly alone, a princess off to her gilded dungeon.

ENHYPEN and &TEAM had been at each other’s throats for decades. ENHYPEN in the west, &TEAM in the east. honestly, it had gotten to the point where no one really knew what the feud was about. all that mattered was pride. but at some point in the last year, with the rising influence of BND in the north, both dons had decided enough was enough. too many people had died over such a useless war, on both sides. in the end, they’d both decided it was time to lay down arms against each other and focus on their new enemy. and in a sake-drunken stupor, your father had pitched a wonderfully horrendous idea to don asakura: in a show of good faith, ENHYPEN and &TEAM would be united through marriage. but with the former asakura don passed on, jo had been left to decide which of his right-hand men would fulfill the clause. lucky for you, tonight was your engagement party to the one and only nicholas wang.

god, i need a drink.

putting your cigarette out, you make your way to the bar. but you can’t stop the thoughts from plaguing you, running last night over and over again in your head. 

you’d just come home from backpacking in europe. nothing was unpacked. pizza was ordered, freshly showered, skincare routine complete. you’d poured yourself a glass of wine, ready to put on your favorite show, only to walk into the sight of your father in your living room, a grim expression on his face.

you were to be married in two weeks' time. you didn’t know much about nicholas, other than the encyclopedia-thick file of useless information that ENHYPEN had on him. half of the information in that file was wrong, occupational hazard of being the espionage master, you surmised. the problem was figuring out which half it was.

the paradox lay in that nicholas was all over the limelight, cat-like eyes glimmering for the cameras, full of secrets and half-truths. he’d been one of ENHYPEN’s top targets before this fiasco of a marriage, and staring at his composite picture as you down your drink, you can't help but shiver. even his picture promised arrogance and mischief.

“one strawberry mojito, please”

the bartender shakes his head. “sorry madam, no can do.”

“a strawberry margarita?”

“sorry, can’t make anything with strawberries in it.”

you raise an eyebrow, confused. 

“ok? um... an amaretto sour, i guess. did they all go bad or something?”

“no ma’am, the hosts specifically requested no strawberries for this party because some guy has an allergy.” 

“oh. which guy?” you question, taking the drink from him.

“the one getting married, i think,” he replies, going off to attend to a different customer.

“i see…” 

you leave a crisp five-dollar-bill, already formulating a plan. sure, you could allow yourself to be a pawn, moved at your father's whim. but you'd never had it in you to accept things as they were.

you descend the grand staircase, your head held higher than any queen. like most people, you'd greatly prefer your oversized sweatpants and hoodie right now. but few could hold a candle to you when you really leaned into the "mafia princess" bit. tonight, you’re dressed in a simple gown, your late mother's jewelry decorating your neck and ears. conversations halt, the music stutters, and a cold silence settles in the room like a fresh blanket of snow. 

you make it to the bottom of the stairs when the whispers start.

she’s not even that pretty…

hell must have frozen over if our yixiang is marrying that thing

how dare she?!!

you smile and nod as you pass the attendees, crossing the room with the posture of a regal empress. funny they were saying such things now. last week, these same people had practically been eating out of your hand for your attention. of course, they would never say such things to your face. you keep moving, pretending that their words don't bite like individual knives into your back. without further fanfare, the orchestra starts back up, but you don’t drop the mask. your mother had practically beat etiquette into you as a child, you weren’t about to abandon it now and give the masses something else to whisper about.

and then for the first time, you come face-to-face with him, your new dearly beloved. everyone around him is chatting, easy smiles on their faces despite the wariness in their eyes. contrary to his relaxed posture, your fiancée is gripping his drink like he wants to crush it in his hand. and when he finally turns to make eye contact with you, pure, unadulterated hatred flashes across his face.

perfect.

you smile mockingly, walking right up to him. you had spent your whole life surrounded by men who underestimated your value. nicholas had it coming if he believed you would bow so easily. 

“my love, we’re supposed to be celebrating our engagement. try not to look so miserable” you purr, lightly resting your hand on top of his. 

“sim y/n,” he whispers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “and here i was, praying you’d suddenly collapsed in the street.”

"funny, i was hoping you’d choke on a… strawberry,”  you smile, fighting the giddiness undoubtedly plastered on your face as you watch the horror fill his eyes. 

without losing eye contact, you take a sip from your drink, the gaudy, diamond ring on your finger catching the light. it had been shipped to your apartment yesterday, first-class with no return address. it was your first time wearing it, but already it was suffocating to look at. for his part, nicholas blanches, looking more-than-mildly nauseated. 

good.

before you can say anything, nicholas suddenly grabs you by the waist and jerks you towards his chest. you freeze, breath caught in your lungs. this close to him, you can't help but appreciate the cologne he's wearing, fresh and floral, yet warm and soothing. his features are sharper than you'd first noticed, your heart beating just a bit faster the longer you stare. you look away abruptly, following his gaze.

how dare he touch you so casually?!

you’re about to shove him off and into the nearest wine tower when you hear the squeal.

“NICHOL!!” 

you wince, allowing nicholas to hold you for the time being. anyone who was anyone in this world knew annie moon, the daughter of the one of the largest chaebols in korea. when faced with a common enemy, even if it was your archnemesis-turned-fiancée, you were on the same side. for now, at least.

“NICHOLAS! why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?! I would’ve sent a gift,” she smiles, chin held high with exaggerated importance.

you want to gag.

but it’s his reaction that surprises you.

his chilling demeanor instantly transforms into warm eyes and a charismatic smile. but you don't miss the tightness in his shoulders, how his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"oh no, that won’t be necessary! i heard you’ve just been engaged as well, congratulations!”

so this is &TEAM’s infamous espionage master. it really is incredible, how the mask slides into place. you would’ve believed him too, if you were anyone else.

damn, he’s good.

she beams at him, but it quickly drops as soon as her eyes brush over you.

“i don’t think we’ve ever met,” she says. “i’m annie moon, one of nichol-oppa’s best friends! you are...?”

she holds out her hand, as if waiting for you to kiss it. you opt to awkwardly shake it instead, a holier-than-thou smile on your face.

“pleasure to meet you, i’m y/n.”

“y…n…?”

“sim y/n,” you grin slyly, waiting for the recognition to cross her face.

and boy, does it hit her quick. her features drop, jaw opening almost comically wide. her eyes widen in surprise, almost as if you’d shocked her instead.

“sim…? you’re that y/n? ENHYPEN's y/n?!!”

you smile menacingly behind your glass, and she actually flinches. you’re half-tempted to bark at her just to see what would happen, but the hand tightly squeezing your waist says otherwise. amused, you take a sip from your drink as she rushes away with an awkward bow, bound to start more rumors that you’ve heard at least twice over.

as soon as she’s out of sight, nicholas lets go of your waist, forcing you to face him with a firm grip on your arm.

“what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls. “are you trying to start another war?!”

you dodge the question, trying to angle your nose as haughtily as you can.

“should I be worried about her? because you might want to do something before she brands her name across your forehead. or pees on your shoe.”

“oh my god,” nicholas groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “i can’t believe this. i’m marrying someone stuck in kindergarten.”

you opt to ignore him, taking a triumphant sip of your drink. you can't lie, you're extremely delighted to see the irritation written all over his features. “wang yixiang, if you don’t let go of me in the next two seconds, i will throw this drink in your face.”

he releases you, but instead of returning to his conversation, he steps closer, cupping your face as tenderly as a man could if he were being forced to marry his sworn enemy. 

“think you can fuck with me, princess?” he whispers harshly, “don’t forget. you’re moving into my house. i can, and i will, make your life a living hell. i don’t particularly recommend starting a war with me.”

your eyebrow twitches, but you force yourself to smile, looking the part of the ever docile wife. 

“but of course, darling,” you slightly curtsy, leaving for another turn around the ballroom.

nicholas can’t help but feel unnerved, watching your figure weave through the crowd. for some reason, he’s starting to feel like a mouse walking straight towards the cheese in the trap.

— 

the whole next week is wasted in useless wedding planning. despite being the bride, and you know, it’s supposed to be your day! center of attention and whatever?? no. you weren’t entitled to any kind of opinion whatsoever. you weren’t even allowed to bring any friends from home, not that you had many, lest they mysteriously rope you into some grand scheme to elaborately murder all of &TEAM in one sweep. well, you didn’t mind as long as you could pick the dress.

hence you were now at some random bridal shop, trying on gowns in front of shigeta harua and nakakita yuma, your new brothers-in-law-to-be.

if anything, all this entire experience has taught you is that marriage is a complete sham of an institution, because it’s actually embarrassing the amount of women who have come up to ask the two of them for their numbers. including several who appeared to be the bride themselves. like seriously?

you didn’t quite understand it, but you almost felt protective of them. even though they were &TEAM, the sworn enemies of ENHYPEN up until literally two weeks ago. how odd that you now felt protective of the very faces that had been the top of your wanted list. you shake away the thought, it's probably because they're so close in age to sunoo and jungwon.

you step out into the waiting room, only to see yuma cursing someone out. you stare with wide eyes, skirts bunched in your fists. harua sits frozen nearby, his lips in a thin line as he tries not to laugh. when the woman finally leaves, albeit in tears, yuma sits down with a huff, pointing middle fingers at the ceiling.

“my god, i’ve had enough of all these crazy people! like disrespectfully, please fuck off”

you can’t help but let out an undignified snort, and immediately both of them turn to you. and the ridiculous dress you’re wearing. you loved being fancy and elegant, but even this was a bit much. you were swimming in fabric, the train was completely bunched up, and the zipper had snapped. 

dead silence.

you don't know who laughed first. or maybe it was a snort. but within seconds the three of you are bursting into cackles, tension leaving the room faster than a bat out of hell. never mind you’d known them both for a grand total of four hours, but this? this was the definition of trauma bonding. this whole week has been ridiculous, and this truly is just the icing on the cake. when you’d dreamed your wedding, as all ten year olds do, you’d imagined being surrounded by your friends, brothers, marrying the love of your life. this? this couldn’t be further from that. you’d been a fool to dream of a loving marriage, honestly. and instead of breaking down in the middle of the boutique and letting the dam burst wide open, all of the emotions you’ve been holding in since the engagement party are letting themselves out in a great guffaw of unhinged laughter. you’re doubled over in the ridiculous dress, tears blurring your vision. yuma is literally on the floor, holding his stomach, and harua is gasping for air on the couch, knocking over the disgusting complimentary champagne.

“oh. my. god,” harua coughs, beating his chest for air.

“we have to get out of here or i’m going to lose my mind,” you manage to gasp out, wiping the last tear from your eye.

“i fear the groom and jo will shoot us on the spot if we don’t come home with a dress the day before the wedding," harua hiccups.

“ok wait, i think i have an idea” yuma wheezes, finally managing to collect himself.

and when you try it on, you finally understand what everyone’s talking about when they said they’ve found the one.

even the attendant nods approvingly as the three of you make your way to the register.

“dress 79, excellent choice miss sim”

—

the next time you see your beloved, you’re standing across from him at the altar.

“wang yixiang and sim y/n, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”

“yes,” nicholas grits out, his charismatic smile betraying none of his true feelings.

“oh absolutely,” you mutter, digging the ball of your heel deeper.

nicholas glares at you, but you bat your eyelashes innocently at him, the perfect image of the beautiful, blushing bride. you’d specifically worn platform heels for the sheer purpose of torturing him away from watchful eyes. as you stood together, hands clasped in the others, you stepped a little too close, masking it as the excitement of an over-eager bride. however, if one looked underneath all the layers of your dress, they’d see you were digging the balls of your feet into the tips of his toes, practically stamping them into the ground.

“do you, wang yixiang, take sim y/n, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“i… do.” he spits out, eyes narrowed.

“do you, sim y/n, take wang yixiang, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

realistically, what’s the worst that could happen if you said ‘fuck no’ and ran like hell?

“i do,” you almost sigh. you wanted the chance to grow old at least.

“then by the power vested in me,” the minister coughs, clearly flustered by your obvious animosity towards each other. “i now pronounce you husband and wife. you may kiss the bride.”

you close your eyes, tilting your head for the chaste kiss that will seal your fate. as if to prove a point, nicholas seizes you by the waist instead, pulling you in for a deeper kiss. as if to overpower you. oh, if only you would crumble that easily.

big mistake, honey.

he steps back, touching his lips in horror. you smile sweetly, licking your lips. 

“did i forget to mention i had strawberries for breakfast?” you whisper.

“you fucking bitch,” he mouths back, lips curling into a sneer right before he slumps to the floor.

truly, the next minute would've been less chaotic if someone had blown up the church instead. kei sprinted forward, epi-pen in hand and at the ready. fuma scooped up nicholas faster than you could blink; as if he’d screamed “i object!” and was kidnapping the groom in a mad dash out the door. jo was already barking orders through the phone. your wedding was practically over as soon as it started and you watch euijoo squeal around the corner, your new husband thrown in the passenger seat with little fanfare. fuma and kei jump into the backseat before euijoo takes off.

harua is tasked with escorting you to your honeymoon suite, while the others run damage control, escorting ENHYPEN out of the mayhem you’ve created. jake throws you a wink and sunghoon tips an imaginary hat in your direction as they’re escorted out, knowing your tricks all too well. after harua leaves, you can’t help but let the devilish smile cross your lips. you could be the obedient mob wife they wanted you to be. but you’d be damned if you were going down without a fight. after all, your father didn't ask you to sit in on 'sensitive' interrogations for no reason.

as a result of your actions, you spend the night in your honeymoon suite alone. truthfully, you couldn’t be more thrilled. instead of consummating a marriage with a man you hated, or pretending to be the good wife at your husband’s bedside, you order enough room service to feed a small army. gathering the rose petals scattered on the king-sized bed, you throw them in the hot tub with little remorse. and as you lounge in that tub, glass in hand, you can’t help but feel weightless for, honestly, the first time in your life. you have zero responsibilities, zero expectations. your first and last night of freedom, away from scathing eyes and boot-kissers. one last night when you could pretend you were still sim y/n.

—

the next day, the weight of being the new mrs. wang comes crashing down faster than a bird with broken wings. before the sun had even fully risen, harua collected you from your room, croissant and coffee thankfully in hand. documents signed, physical fitness exam conducted, belongings packed and moved. six hours later, you find yourself standing alone outside the house that you and nicholas were now expected to share. house was being modest, it was the size of a small palace. the maid comes running out to greet you, bowing a full 90 degrees before taking your purse.

“welcome home, mrs. wang”

you bow back awkwardly, not used to having maids or your new surname. ironically, your father had always believed that you should always be responsible for your own messes, and had never hired anyone to take care of the house or daily responsibilities. of course, that responsibility had fallen to you. in fact, there’d been many a week where you’d been left to your own devices, save for the chef who stopped by in the mornings to prepare you meals. the benefits of being the third-born child were truly second to none.

“when will mr. wang be back?” you ask.

“he’s here right now,” she says, pointing to the patio door. “in the pool.”

oh shit.

you’d known &TEAM was rich, but not pool-at-home rich. plus, you’d been hoping for a little more time to think of anything to say before seeing him. 

because now? you’re starting to feel a little bit guilty. 

when you’d eaten strawberry-chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast and snacked on strawberries that entire morning, you thought he’d get hives, worst case. maybe a rash or two to ruin a few of the wedding photos. 

instead, he’d collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat, eyes wide with rage and panic. if kei hadn’t had an epi-pen stashed in his pocket, you’d probably be a widow right now instead of a newlywed wife. and when you'd been at the altar, standing with your hands hanging uselessly at your sides, you’d been afraid. afraid for his life, of all things. what could you possibly say to him now?

steeling yourself, you open the gate to the pool. instead of looking like he’d almost died, nicholas was swimming laps. his arms cut through water like a knife through softened butter, pink hair safely tucked under a cap. you can’t help but nod appreciatively at his lean body as he propels through the water. 

he swims a couple more laps before stopping abruptly in front of you, gaze looking more crocodile than human.

“i was wondering when you’d be arriving, mrs. wang,” he peers up at you, blinking water from his lashes.

cute. scratch that, y/n, what are you thinking?!

“just brought all of my stuff, mr. wang” you shoot back, already irritated.

“lunch will be ready soon, i’m just going to finish up here,” he says, looking ready to push off the wall again. “but first…”

he beckons you closer, and you crouch, guilt still weighing on your mind. distracted, you don’t notice the wicked grin on his face until after you’re yanked into the pool, his arms ironclad around you.

before you can scream, you’re dragged under water, swallowing a mouthful of water instead of air. your arms are pinned tightly against your body, legs kicking uselessly beneath you. nicholas’ grip is tighter than a snake’s, weighing you down at the bottom of the pool like a slab of concrete.

you thrash, kicking and squirming, but panic has already settled in. your lungs are burning, desperate for air that isn’t there. black spots fill your vision and your body jerks involuntarily, starting to go limp. your fucking husband is going to drown you, less than 24 hours since you walked down the aisle. yeah, marriage is an absolute sham of an institution.

and then he releases you, dragging you to the stairs at the side of the pool. coughs rack your body as you sit, gasping for air. you can just barely make out nicholas standing a little further than arms-length away from you, watching you closely with that stupid smirk on his face.

“FUCK. YOU!” you splutter, trying to hit him.

“how’s that for karma?” he glares, impervious to your glares and middle finger. “i warned you not to fuck with me, princess.”

“i’m going to feed you a fucking strawberry bush for every meal for the rest of your life!” you scream, still coughing.

“and next time i will tie a fucking piano to your legs before i throw you in the pool,” he retorts.

he climbs out of the pool, shaking his hair in your face for good measure before making his way back towards the house.

and to think you’d wanted to apologize.

fuck. that.  

—

living as mrs. wang is strange, to say the least. the members of &TEAM’s inner circle all lived in the main house, despite having more than enough money to afford their own places.

for obvious reasons, jo lived with his wife in their own house, close to the edge of the estate. and for the life of you, you couldn’t understand how someone as sweet as her ended up with someone as cold as jo. on one particularly lonely, saturday afternoon, she had come over with tea and cookies. she'd been kind and even gave you the entire rundown of their love story. but the way they looked at each other? that was real love, and it tugged your heartstrings a little bit every time you saw them. sure they'd also started as an arranged marriage, but you sincerely doubted they'd ever tried to seriously kill each other.

“NOONA!”

“Y/N-CHAN!”

ah shit. 

really, you didn’t mind that for whatever reason, your house had become a revolving door for the younger members of the inner circle within the singular month you’d been with &TEAM. for what it was worth, taki and harua seemed to be the only people genuinely happy that you were there. taki, always asking his odd, hypothetical questions. harua, waltzing through your door like it was his house and beelining for your snack cabinet. after nearly killing nicholas, yuma had rightfully shut you out, trauma-bonding-moment at-the-bridal-shop be damned. as for the others, you’d rarely seen kei, fuma, or jo. the few times you’d seen euijoo, he’d always opted to stare somewhere above your head whenever you saw him. 

literally a day after the drowning incident, nicholas had been called away for a mission in taiwan. and not even an hour after he’d left, taki and harua had nearly broken down your front door, trying to get an opinion over who was right about some stupid argument you couldn’t remember. you’d been the only one at home, so obviously you’d answered the door, gun in hand. all they’d done was simply push past you, chattering louder than a brood of mother hens,

—

“NICHOLAS-HYUNG!”

“NICHO-CHAN!”

“y/n-san? where’s nicho- oh right. i forgot he left already. anyway-“

“even better, we need a woman’s opinion. so basically, there's this girl-”

you stand there, completely taken aback. “yah, you can’t just barge into people’s houses unannounced!”

taki and harua ignore you, beelining straight for the snack cupboard with a wave towards miss seoyoon, the housekeeper. leaving you in the foyer to contemplate what on earth had just happened. 

but truth be told, you’re glad to have someone to talk to besides miss seoyoon. in the main house back home, you'd always been surrounded by noise and chaos. even if you weren't part of it. and then, over the weeks, they’d started dragging yuma and maki along, who with the help of snacks had started warming up to you. nowadays, it was a matter of who was dropping by the house for the day to entertain you and eat all your food. you’ve seen his brothers more than you've seen your husband since getting married, the last time having been three days ago,

the door unlocks with a bang and you shoot up, fumbling for the gun you keep in the coffee table drawer, when nicholas strides in, frustration etched into his eyebrows. his head snaps towards you, eyes narrowing when he sees what you’re wearing.

“who said you could wear my clothes,” he chides, mock irritation written all over his features. 

you roll your eyes, scoffing to hide your embarrassment. of course, miss seoyoon is doing laundry and the world is punishing you for choosing to dig through nicholas’ closet over being naked.

“none of your business,” you mutter, returning your attention to your show on the tv.

but he doesn’t move, eyes fixed on you. you’re wearing shorts and his favorite hoodie, looking worse off than the homeless man he’d given 20$ to on his way home. he doesn’t miss the way your mouth settles into a sheepish line and how intent your gaze is on the TV. you’re clearly determined to not look at him, but your body betrays you, already turned towards his presence like a puppet on a string. smirking, he crosses the foyer towards the kitchen. he’s not humble, he knows you find him attractive. how long until he gets you to admit it?

“keep it. clearly you need it more than I do,” he whispers, innocent words falling sharper than a butcher’s knife.

you turn, mouth already open in protest, when he presses a kiss to your forehead. then walks away like nothing happened, bedroom door clicking shut behind him. you watch him go, insult already forgotten. 

a buzzing from your phone pulls you from your thoughts.

“good afternoon y/n. or should i say, mrs. wang?”

“shut up heeseung, what do you want?”

“ouch, so hostile darling. lunch at cafe beriberi. meet me in an hour, don’t tell anyone.”

“oh... kay…?” you answer, your only reply the dial tone.

confused, you grab your keys. why had heeseung called and not jake? come to think of it, you haven’t heard a peep from ENHYPEN since getting married. glancing back, you can’t help but feel sorry. harua, taki and maki were all passed out on your couch, exhausted from a night of screaming at the TV and each other over some video game you barely understood. guilt winning over, you hastily scrawl out at a note about where you’ve gone.

it’s only after you’ve gotten on the subway that you realize you’ve forgotten your phone and gun at home on the kitchen island. go figure. 

“how is it, being married to him?” heeseung asks, staring at you like he’s asked the million dollar question.

you sigh heavily, opting to take a long sip of your coffee. it wasn’t that you particularly disliked heeseung, you just rarely spoke to him outside of official matters. those official matters usually involved him running interrogation while you stood behind the glass, observing.

“why are you here instead of my brother, heeseung?”

heeseung rolls his eyes, taking a bite of his ramen. 

“you know i can’t tell you that, y/n. besides, i’m curious. what is life like, being married to someone who was once your sworn enemy? to live with that pack of mutts?” he slurps.

you snort, well-aware that he's fishing.

“they’re... not as heinous as my father made them out to be,” you decide.

it’s the truth, with a couple details left out. if you were completely honest with yourself, you weren’t sure where your emotions stood anymore. your first day being married, your husband tries to drown you. a day after that, his little brothers decide your house is the go-to hangout spot. and as dangerous as they may be, they were a bunch of loudmouth idiots who never failed to remember your favorite snacks. or give you the latest gossip from college. close as you had been with the 02z, there had always been an invisible line drawn in the sand, one you knew better than to cross. you’d tried once. it had ended in a eight-month-long cold war. with the teammies, you were thrown into the middle of everything, whether or not you wanted to be. lovely person she was, jo's wife had also stopped by a couple times to check on you, often with a home cooked meal tightly packed, pregnancy stopping her from nothing.

within a month, you’ve been showered in more attention than you’ve ever received in your entire life. part of a family who loved loudly, out in the open. despite growing up surrounded by chaos and noise, you'd always been alone. no best friend, no one to confide in. even your husband paid more attention to you than your father ever did. a month ago, you’d been so sure that you could never love him. and then, two weeks ago had happened,

“FUCK!” you screamed, thunder and lightning shocking you out of your deep sleep.

“Y/N?!!” nicholas comes racing in, having heard you scream. his eyes are still blurry with sleep. “WHAT HAPPENED?! ARE YOU OK?!”

you’re curled up in a ball, a pillow over your head. tears leak out of your eyes before you can stop them. this was so stupid. so fucking stupid. you were old enough to not be scared of thunder and lightning, but here you were, terrified by the electric sky. sim y/n, who could take down a room full of grown men in a pair of stilettos, was terrified of thunderstorms. 

“i’m fine, go away!” you sniff hotly, your body jolting involuntarily at the next crack of lightning.

still, you feel the bed dip next to you and before you can stop him, nicholas wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.

“stop acting tough, princess. go to sleep,” he murmurs, his voice raspy with sleep.

“nichol-"

“go to sleep.”

“get out— FUCK!” thunder booms, your ears ringing. “oh my god this is so embarrassing”

“shut up, go to sleep”

you must be dreaming when you hear it.

“i’d tear the sky down before i let it hurt you, princess”

and that night, your stomach warmer than a fireplace, you fall into the deepest sleep of your life.

“did you know him… you know, before all this?” you question, pushing the memory into the farthest corners of your mind.

“nicholas? sure, everyone knows him. he’s a silver tongued devil with the looks and charisma to back it up, better than me honestly.”

you stare, confused. heeseung admitting he wasn’t first? you’d never thought you’d live to see the day. heeseung shrugs, leaning back in his chair.

“it’s no secret that nicholas is beloved by the upper circles in Japan, but then add that with his network in taiwan?” heeseung shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe it. “he’s invaluable to &TEAM, there’s a reason he always comes to negotiate. besides, he used to be the don back in taiwan, all on his own. obviously, now he’s here and his sister runs the empire back home.”

you quirk an eyebrow, surprised. it made sense; you’d always noticed that nicholas had an uncanny ability to capture the undivided attention of any room he walked into without ever really trying. how he naturally takes the lead. but damn, he had a sister? you deserved best wife of the year, clearly.

“why didn’t my father mention any of this?”

“i don’t know. guess he thought it wasn’t important. besides, it doesn’t really change anything about him.”

you leave lunch with more questions than answers. heeseung had a point. nicholas wang was a powerhouse in his own right, like every inner circle member of &TEAM.

walking a little further, that’s when you pass the bakery, the smell of salt bread filling your thoughts. miss seoyoon loved salt bread and there had been many a night you’d invited her to sit with you for a round of cards, salt bread and wine on the table to share.

when you push open the door to your house a couple hours before dinner after a detour to the shopping street, you’re met with complete and utter chaos. 

“what the fuck is going on in here?!!”

at the sound of your voice, harua and yuma turn, their shoulders visibly relaxing at the sight of you.

“y/n! thank god you’re ok!” yuma starts, his eyebrows furrowing as if he’s caught himself. “where the FUCK were you?!!”

you stand frozen in the doorway, the salt bread container feeling more incriminating than it should. within five hours, your house had turned into some kind of base. harua sat in the middle of three computers, a map projected onto the gigantic tv in your living room, with seven dots moving around. on the map, some grids were grayed out. yuma was pacing back and forth, just now hanging up the phone.

“i went out for lunch with a friend?? i left you a note on the fridge?? why on earth does it look like the situation room in here?!!” 

“jesus y/n, we thought you got kidnapped! everybody is out looking for you!” harua yells, more pissed than you’ve ever seen him.

you look down at the floor, suddenly ashamed. this amount of concern is… new to you. even as the only girl in your family, your father hadn’t given you any special treatment. oftentimes, back in high school and college, no one had noticed when you'd snuck out. not even jake, your own brother. but this? you’d been gone for less than 24 hours and now you had nine top-ranked members of a mafia looking for you. people who had been nothing more than faces on a hit list a month ago.

“i-"

before you can finish your sentence, the front door slams open. and in comes nicholas, drenched in rain, blazing with fury. you’ve definitely seen him irritated. annoyed. pissed off. not like this though, downright murderous.

harua and yuma immediately see themselves out, packing their stuff up faster than if a tornado had swept in. harua brushes his shoulder against yours as he passes by. yuma tries not to giggle, mouthing good luck to you. as soon as the front door closes, nicholas tosses his outer jacket and umbrella on the ground.

“yixiang, i-"

“don’t even start,” he glares accusingly, your phone in his hand.

you can’t even say anything, just shocked at the rage on his face. you’ve never seen anyone this mad, not even the day you accidentally started a fire during an important meeting that your father was hosting.

“how stupid are you, y/n?!! you’re the wife of an inner circle member! MY WIFE! how could you leave the house without telling anyone?!!”

“i left a note-"

“oh goody, a note that anyone could have easily forged. you left your PHONE,” he yells, counting out on his fingers. “your GUN. your KNIFE. we could not CALL you. we could not FIND you. you had absolutely NO way to protect yourself. do you know how worried i was?!! how worried everyone was?!! you could have been hurt. or kidnapped. or DEAD.”

you throw your bags on the kitchen table, now pissed off.

“wang yixiang, i have seen you a grand total of three times since i married you!” you scream, irritation bubbling over. “you LEFT me here, and if it weren’t for harua, taki, and maki constantly letting themselves into this house, i would’ve gone insane! even euijoo takes me to get milk tea! you want to stand there and pretend you care about me?! pretend that you're my loving, doting husband?!! you tried to DROWN me! you're an asshole who-" 

before another word can leave your lips, nicholas grabs your face, crashing his lips onto yours. a squeak leaves your lips, eyes shuttering closed as you’re backed into the kitchen counter. 

his lips are soft, softer than anyone else you’ve ever kissed. his tongue traces the outline of your lower lip, his hands gentle but firm. one comes to snake around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest. suddenly shy, your hands hesitantly grab onto his shirt, oblivious to his soaked-through clothes starting to dampen yours. his other hand rests on the back of your neck, touch featherlight as he angles your head to pull you in closer. his lips travel down the column of your neck, leaving red and purple marks in his wake. you gasp softly, eyes shut in bliss. as if you’ve shocked him, he pulls away, holding you at arms’ length. spit shines on his swollen lips, pupils blown wide.

“go change. or you'll get sick,” he mumbles, expression shuttering closed. and without another word, he walks away, locking the door behind him to his office.

as if in a trance, you trace the outline of your slightly-swollen lips with your index finger.

the first time you’d kissed, it had been a chaste signing-your-life-away. but this? this was something entirely different. and now? staring at the damning marks on your neck in the mirror, you weren’t so sure what you were fighting anymore.

—

from that night on, things were different. there were no more long trips. no more weeks on end of not seeing each other. now, he was everywhere. in your bed. in your kitchen. in your living room. in your head. you couldn’t escape him. just the morning before, you'd walked into the kitchen just to find him shirtless making tea. and that kiss? you’d deny it to your grave: the butterflies in your stomach. the desire that had flowed through your veins like molten lava. the satisfaction of having his marks on your neck.

“wang yixiang! did you hide my cigarettes?!” you yell, rubbing your eyebrows.

for whatever reason, yixiang had taken a liking to choosing whatever minor inconvenience would piss you off and earn him a slap in the shoulder. yesterday, it’d been putting your favorite mug on the highest shelf you couldn’t reach. the day before that, he’d sent you a picture of some funny-looking bread at the bakery and said it looked like you. the day before that, he'd teased you relentlessly for completely butchering the mandarin vocabulary you'd learned. and then the day before that, he’d taken you out to dinner. and it’d been lovely, if he hadn’t told everybody it was your birthday when it absolutely 100% was not. you get the picture. 

he comes out of his office, looking better than he should for someone who’d been awake for the better part of the last 48 hours. his black velvet suit jacket hangs like a fitted glove over his shoulders, tailored perfectly to his slim, yet muscular builld. you nod approvingly at the scarf, the gold pin in it being your own personal touch. (2025 sbs gayo red carpet)

“no princess, i burnt all of them,” he says airily, pretending to fix his glasses and not watching for your reaction.

you roll your eyes, refusing to let another of his indiscretions piss you off. besides, you’d been meaning to take a break from them anyway. you stare at yourself in the mirror, smoothing the invisible wrinkles of your dress. it’d been three months since you’d walked down the aisle, but tonight was your first official gathering as mr. and mrs. wang yixiang. some alliance celebration dinner? you had no idea, you just showed up and looked pretty. 

life as a mob wife wasn’t much different than that of a mafia princess, honestly speaking. endless parties and galas, looking your best at every opportunity. knives disguised as silken words and half-truths. people would be waiting for you to make a mistake, and you would be fool to let them gain that satisfaction. they expected perfection, so you would be its quintessential illusion.

you wore your trusty platform wedges and a simple, yet elegant floor-length satin dress. nicholas had set it out for you that morning, next to a pastry from your favorite bakery. you’d been prepared to fight him on it, but the beautiful black of the dress had already caught your eye. you hated to admit it, but he had taste. it accented your curves, yet was softer than any dress you’d ever worn. if there was anything you loathed more than him, it was a corset. lies. you’d tried it on to make sure it fit, but really, you needn’t have bothered. a silk scarf with embroidered sequins decorated your neck, along with the ridiculously outdated, gaudy ring on your finger. but this time, it was accompanied by a wedding band.

yixiang knocks quietly, sucking in a breath at the sight of you as he enters.

“you look—“

“like a princess?” you offer, unable to stop the cheeky grin from spreading across your face.

he knows he's staring, but he can't help it. he’d fully been intending to say troll, but at the sight of you in the dress he’d had custom-made for you, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. you looked absolutely breathtaking, more beautiful than the night sky itself.

“y-yeah,” he stutters, fighting down the blush rising in his cheeks. “you have your phone? keys? gun?”

you groan, rolling your eyes. “yes, weno... it was ONE time, seriously!”

yixiang laughs, turning away before you can see the blush on his face at the nickname. spending more time with you, he’d made peace with the simple fact that you were married. there was no running from it. and you could be far worse: no spunk, no opinion, no personality. even on the days he'd been in taiwan, he found himself wondering what you'd been up to. he hadn’t wanted to admit it, but being so cold to you was more exhausting than at least trying to be your friend. you’d almost killed him, he’d almost drowned you, whatever, water under the bridge.

he hated your brother and friends, though he mildly tolerated them for your sake. you got along better with the maknaez than he’d ever expected, and the sight of the four of you screaming at each other over who unplugged the console was more heartwarming than he wanted to admit. nor had he forgotten the traitorous flutter of his heart at the sight of you in his clothes. plus, you looked extremely attractive when you were yelling at him. and kind of, adorable, when he got under your skin, annoyance and irritation all over your features.

and then that night, when he got that panicked call from harua, he couldn’t deny the worry that had flooded his body faster than water from a broken dam. had you finally had enough and run away? he’d been in a meeting in taiwan. the second harua hung up the phone, he’d excused himself and hopped the next flight to japan. it had already been an overcast day to begin with, the sky dark and ominous when it had begun to rain. your phone had been clenched in his fist, the other on the steering wheel as he cut corner after corner searching for you. you’d been stupid enough to leave your phone and every weapon at home, he seriously doubted you’d had the foresight to bring an umbrella. and when he’d come home just to see you standing there innocently with your ridiculous sack of salt bread and shopping bags, he’d wanted to simultaneously kiss you and burn down the ground beneath your feet.

“YIXIANG!” he shakes out of his thoughts to find you staring at him expectantly.

“jeez, you never listen to me when i’m talking,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “mr. park is outside waiting for us, come on”

he follows you, shaking his head. within the month you’d been here, you’d learn the names of every one of your staff members. he knew you snuck them bonuses from your weekly allowance. that you and miss seoyoon had wine nights. that you’d bought mr. park and his family tickets to disney sea. that you often sent the house staff home early. when he’d heard he was marrying you, he’d nearly murdered jo on the spot. you, sim y/n? the infamous ice princess of ENHYPEN? between the rumors and your own prickly personality, he thought you’d be his worst nightmare. instead, he’s starting to realize the woman he’d married was more like a sheep dressed in wolf’s clothing.

as soon as you arrive at the ball, jake greets you, crossing the ballroom in a few, long strides.

“little sis! hey bro, good to see you both!” he hugs you tightly, opting for a handshake with nicholas. “i haven’t seen you in forever!”

nicholas watches him with narrowed eyes. call him cynical and paranoid, but something’s off. he can’t quite place it, but jake’s shifty expression is telling him something big is about to happen.

jake smiles at you, pretending to not notice nicholas’ scrutiny. “we need to catch up, i’ll see you out there!”

you wave, your face settling back into its serene expression. chin held high, your arm in yixiang’s, you play the perfect, unassuming wife. smile politely. laugh at the right person’s jokes. lend an ear to the woes of the other wives. 

“psst! y/n!”

your head snaps up from where you’d been taking a breather at a table. nicholas, deep in conversation, watches you from the corner of his eye, senses honed in on you even if you so much as twitched that you needed help.

“over here!”

you pretend to take a sip of your drink, eyes scanning for the owner of the voice. they land on your idiot brother, half-hidden in the shadows of a side door leading to the hallway beside the bar. 

“what are you doing back there?!!” you mouth, looking around to see if anyone had seen him. 

jake doesn’t answer, waving towards the hallway, right by the bathroom sign. confused, you get up to follow and you feel like a complete moron catching yixiang’s eye to point to the restroom, holding your stomach so he'd know you'd be a while. he nods at you, laughter barely contained, returning to his conversation. the bathroom door clicks shut, locking behind you.

you whirl around, “jake, what the hell is going- father?!”

the curse dies in your throat, suddenly intimidated by the weight of your father’s piercing stare. he’d gotten older since you last saw him, eyes sunken a little more, more gray hairs than black. you’d only been gone for a few months, but he looked like he’d aged at least a decade.

“father, what is going on that you couldn’t discuss with me in the ballroom? you walking out of the women's bathroom is not not suspicious!”

“mrs. asakura, what are her weaknesses?”

you scoff, throwing your hands up in exasperation. of course, your father had never been one for niceties. blunt to a fault, as if the tiniest ounce of compassion would kill him. no matter that it’d been months since he’d last seen his only daughter. really, why had you been expecting any different? he’d gotten up and left in the middle of your wedding to take a phone call.

“i don’t know, she’s pregnant? her due date is in a month?”

your father sneers, looming so close you can smell the alcohol in his breath. “sim y/n, surely you know more than that? i didn’t send you to them just for you to be completely useless!”

you take a step back, mindlessly fiddling with the ring on your finger.

“what are you talking about? why on earth would I have been snooping around about her?”

SLAP!

you’re left reeling, tears welling in your eyes despite your best efforts. your cheek stings from where he’d backhanded you, sure to leave a bruising handprint.

“god, you stupid, stupid child! obviously, i needed someone on the inside, someone who could get close to the inner circle. that someone is you, the beloved wife of nicholas wang. as one of the top nine, he’s the closest we’ll get to jo but we need you to pull it off,” your father turns, “we’re going to bring &team down from the inside, even a preschooler could figure that out!”

before you can get a word out, your phone buzzes,

father: 1 attachment. 

you have to laugh. of course your father was using you. forcing you to betray your own husband. addressing you as sim y/n instead of wang, even though he'd been the one who literally forced you into his arms. you'd never asked to be caught up in this shit. and now you were being strung up over it by the shackles of family and the vow you’d made at the altar, your conscience holding you to it even though you’d been lying through your teeth.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you counter, keeping a poker face. “i could’ve been more proactive in my duties.”

"it doesn’t matter what you do know or don’t. you should’ve known better,” your father says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “i don’t care that you’re married to that &TEAM rat. you are ENHYPEN’s princess, and they come first. always.” 

but the endearment lands more like acid. it doesn't sound the same when it’s not yixiang teasing you, holding something you need out of reach. or when he’s giving you that impish smile, clearly plotting something. or when he’s poking fun at you for your taste in music or style. or when he’s curled against your side, his lips in your hair, holding you while thunder and lightning streak across the night sky. or when he's behind you clasping your necklace, his touch more intimate than if he'd undressed you.

“don’t tell me you like him, y/n.”

your father's disapproving voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you shake your head, bowing.

“of course not, father. he is the enemy.” 

he nods once, dismissing you. “good. your brother will have more details next week.”

and he turns on his heel out of the bathroom, disappearing into the crowd of people before you can even mutter a half-assed goodbye. 

breath trembling, you return to the ballroom, feeling for all the world like a lion of a circus being forced to jump through a ring of fire. your whole life, you’d known your place: in the shadows of ENHYPEN, always in the shadow of your brother and friends, not to be seen or heard. really, were they ever you friends to begin with? half-hidden in the entryway, you look towards the group of nine, their silhouettes distinct in the low light of the ballroom. your family stood on the furthest side of the room, their seven figures familiar. you loved your family, but your heart had never been as full as it was now, surrounded by people you’d never thought would come to feel more like your brothers than the one you were actually related to. looking between them, you knew your choice was coming soon, whether or not you were ready to face it. 

lost in thought, you don’t notice the pink-haired boy staring at you, his attention diverted as soon as you walked back into the room.

“excuse me, guys. i have something I need to discuss with y/n.”

the guys watch him go, practically beelining for you. maki chokes on a snicker, holding his side from where fuma had elbowed him. kei and harua clutch each other, lips pressed tightly together in an effort to not burst out laughing. jo nudges his wife, small smiles on both their faces. euijoo watches quietly, a proud grin on his face. 

nicholas had always been the type to need time to get close with others, never letting people in too close. he’d been cold when they first met, all angry stares and downturned lips. but one deep conversation during a stakeout later, nicholas was easily his closest friend. in the weeks since finding out jo had arranged for him to marry you, euijoo had held nicholas as he cried, the first time in a long time. even if he never admitted it, nicholas was about as mean as a teddy bear. he’d dreamed of marrying the big love of his life, his mother’s ring tucked in the corner of a hidden drawer in his desk. that night, euijoo prayed. prayed and prayed that you wouldn’t be anything like the rumors they spread about you. that you’d be kind. and patient. 

but then you’d nearly killed him. and euijoo? if he hadn’t been the one driving, he probably would have shot you right where you stood. and then any hope he had for his friend falling for you ended when he told him he’d tried to drown you. he’d actually nearly strangled nicholas for that one. 

“are you insane?!!” he’d yelled, banging his head on the wall. nicholas, somehow still married, sat at the kitchen table, nonchalantly eating his ramen in the main house, instead of being on his hands and knees begging you for forgiveness.

but in the past few months, and nicholas would swear on his life and deny it, he watched his friend slowly, but surely, falling for you. he'd pretend he wasn’t on his phone, checking for any messages from you. that he wasn’t calling the housekeeper, asking what you’d been up to that day. that he wasn’t ordering another custom-made dress for you. that he wasn’t pestering the maknaez for breaking into the house to visit her. that he wasn’t excited when jo stopped sending him on frequent business trips. the only reason jo had done it in the first place was that he’d been afraid you’d actually kill each other. watching you both now, all shy smiles and lovestruck expressions, he could finally rest easy that his best friend was finally getting the happy ending he deserved.

“why are you hiding in the corner, princess?” nicholas teases, poking at your cheek. 

you swat him away playfully, his touch and warm eyes feeling more like daggers twisting into your heart. just when you were finally getting around to the idea of falling in love with your husband, your father drops this bomb, expecting you to do all the work without the credit. the only person at risk of losing everything was you. never him, never jake, just you.

you smile awkwardly, trying to not let the guilt seep through the corners.

“hm? i’m not hiding, just… tired.”

“shall we go then, princess?” he holds a hand out for you.

you blush, rolling your eyes. “only because you clearly want to.”

“oh yes darling, as if you clearly would prefer to waltz around and play nice with people who would rather slit both our throats over the couch,” he smiles wryly, slinging your purse over his shoulder as if it were his own. you take his arm with a snort.

by the time you reach home, you’re fast asleep in the passenger seat. nicholas looks at you, dead to the world, mouth slightly open, your hair a mess.

“wang y/n… what on earth am i going to do with you?” he whispers to himself, wholly and completely infatuated by you.

without another word, he picks you up bridal-style, careful not to bump your head on the roof of the car. you haven’t so much as twitched an eyelash. ever so gently, he changes you into your his shirt, tucking you gently under the covers.

the warm rag on your face makes you stir just a bit, just enough to recognize the man trying his best to rub your makeup off. you giggle sleepily, yanking him down beside you, whispering something that makes his face go redder than a strawberry.

stuck in your koala-like embrace, he traces the outline of your face. fast asleep, a smile still decorates your features.

"y/n, what are you doing to me?"

when you wake up, your eyes nearly bug straight out of your head. six pm?!! how on earth had you slept for the whole day?? you nearly trip over yourself getting out of bed, but as soon as you’re out from the safety of the covers, you can instantly tell that something is very, very wrong. the house’s silence weighs down on you, every shadow more menacing than the last. outside the window, the sun has just barely set, the clouds gloomy and promising rain. stepping out of your shared bedroom, all the lights are off, save for the one in the kitchen above nicholas.

“xiang-ah...?”

he doesn’t answer, pretending to ignore you. you shy closer, confused. things had been going well, why was he being so cold now?

“do you think I am a joke, y/n?”

“yixiang, what are you-“

that’s when you see it. your phone in his hands, the file your father had sent you bright on its display. his voice isn’t loud when he speaks, and you don’t know whether you’d prefer that or him screaming at you. the hurt is clear in his eyes despite his cold expression, as if an iron curtain has come down between the two of you.

“what the fuck is this, y/n?” 

“nicholas, just let me explain-“

“we let you into our circle,” he stands, his voice raised. “i let you get close to my brothers, i let you get to know me. and all you were doing this whole time was planning to go behind our fucking backs?!!” he curses, fingers running through his hair. “you were planning to kill jo’s wife?!”

“NO! i would never—“ 

“shut up. just shut up, i don’t want to hear your excuses.” he grabs your wrist, grip ironclad.

“nichol, let me go! you’re hurting me!” you cry, trying to loosen his hold.

“we’re going to see jo,” he snaps coldly, voice cracking just the tiniest bit. “you can explain yourself to him then.”

“weno, please-!”

“don’t fucking call me that. you don't deserve to.”

you squirm, trying to twist free of his grip. if he would just give you the chance to explain. that you’d never wanted this. that you’d never want to hurt jo’s wife. hell you hadn’t even opened the file!

“sim y/n, tsk tsk. no wonder your father expects nothing from you.”

the sound of your friend’s voice snaps you from your thoughts. from behind nicholas, you can just barely make out the silhouette of the man blocking the front door, his gun trained on nicholas’ chest. 

“ENHYPEN princess? or &TEAM whore? your move, y/n,” sneers heeseung’s voice from behind you.

you whirl around, now back to back with nicholas. heeseung smiles mockingly at you, his gun pointed straight at your forehead.

your brows furrow in confusion. how’d they even get into the house??

“heeseung?! what the fuck are you guys doing here?! how did you even—“

“you know y/n, you really should know better than to trust your staff. miss seoyoon? really, she was more than happy to let us in.”

you curse, pulling nicholas behind you as you turn to face the first intruder.

“what the fuck are you guys doing here, sunghoon?! my father only just sent me the file last night, i haven’t-"

sunghoon starts to smile, watching the realization hit you faster than a bullet train.

your father had never trusted you in the first place.

this was all part of some big test that clearly, you had failed miserably if heeseung and sunghoon were standing in your house. you really should’ve known better; your shithead father had always looked down on women, never letting them advance in the organization but rather, assigned them to roles in the wings. hell, you were probably the highest-ranking one and all you did was sit in on interrogations. but this? this was a new low. clearly, he thought his own daughter was completely defective and inferior. their silence was more than adequate to answer your question. 

at your back, nicholas was calculating. he seriously doubted he could tackle either sunghoon or heeseung without a bullet straight to the heart. he was carrying no weapons, and too far away from any panic button to hit it inconspicuously. you were hungover and more than likely had nothing on you either. besides, wasn’t this your plan all along? get close, kill him, kill the other guys, get to jo and take down &TEAM? why was sunghoon's gun pointed straight at you?

“were we ever friends?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

nicholas' eyebrow twitches, even more confused. right now, sunghoon and heeseung were staring at you like a predator would prey. all macho-like with their haughty smirks, as if you’d never meant anything to them in the first place. and despite everything you've put him through, he can't help but feel protective of you. as you stand back-to-back, all he wants to do is turn around and hold you in his arms, shield you from the world and all the cruel tricks it seemed to play on you.

you're trying your damndest not to cry, taking small comfort in the warmth of nicholas' back against yours. he could hate you all he wanted, you didn't care. as long as he lived through this mess, you didn't care if he cursed you to the seventh circle of hell.

heeseung and sunghoon stare at you as if you were just another name on the hit list. as if you hadn’t practically grown up together. chased each around the main house and gotten scolded. taught you how to fight. picked you up from school. beat up a guy who was bothering you. you glare at sunghoon especially, the boy who was supposed to be one of your best friends. and that was exactly why you knew he would never stand against your father's orders. was this really how everything would end? 

“all those years we spent together sunghoon… and this is what happens?”

silence.

“of fucking course.” you scoff, betrayal and disbelief filling your features. “i was never going to be invited into the boys’ club, was i? is that why you’re here sunghoon? i know damn well why heeseung’s here, but why you? sim jaeyun too pussy to come shoot his sister himself?”

sunghoon shrugs, nonchalantly waving the gun. but you’re not stupid. you sat in on those interrogations because your body language-reading skills were far beyond the average mafia member. your words had struck a nerve with park sunghoon, even if he’d rather die than admit it.

“you’re a liability. why would we trust you?” he asks flatly.

“you love him, don’t you?” heeseung asks mockingly, the safety clicking off.

your eyes narrow, looking between the two of them. they really were going to shoot you if you didn’t stop standing here like a fool and do something.

“the fuck I do,” you snort, your posture relaxing. “love him? i’d rather die.”

you take a step closer to sunghoon, hands on your hips. “i have a massive hangover and i just woke up. pardon me for not getting into the specifics of mass-murder less than 24 hours after i was given the instructions for it.”

nicholas fights to keep his expression even, shielding his heart faster than your words can hurt him. he doesn’t know what you’re planning, but he wouldn't be the espionage master if he didn't know a lie when he hears one. and you? you're the worst liar he’s ever seen. duh, all he does is pay attention to you

“jake has no idea you’re here, does he?” you smirk, watching sunghoon. 

his gun twitches ever so slightly.

“wow, so he has no idea that both of you are here to shoot his baby sister and her husband. some bullshit mission to australia, i assume?” you muse, still taking steps toward sunghoon. right until the muzzle of his gun is flush against your forehead.

nicholas is rooted to his spot, the scene in front of him his worst nightmare. he looks between you and the ENHYPEN boys, all of your hyphen tattoos visible. he knew you could be bull-headed and stupid, but not walk-up-to-a-gun moronic. whatever the fuck you were planning, you'd better do it before he kills you himself.

“y/n-"

“shut it.” you cut him off, not breaking eye contact with sunghoon. 

the silence in the room roared in your ears, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. you cock your head to the side, one eyebrow raised.

really, sunghoon? we’re really doing this?

what do you think, y/n?

your eyes narrow, refusing to break his stare. one of you has to break, and it wouldn’t be you. you rarely lost an argument and you'd be damned before you lost this one. as if sensing that you'd made up your mind, sunghoon shakes his head at you, his own resolve crumbling with each second. you only straighten your posture, one hand held out. 

you know how this ends, give me the gun.

i don't have another one.

i know damn well there's one strapped to your leg.

your father ordered for him to die. i can't do anything about it.

you know i'm not going to move.

you will die.

then make sure i don't.

heeseung sighs exasperatedly, fed up from your stand-off.

don’t make me regret this, y/n.

sunghoon lowers his gun, handing you the other one. you snort, taking it.

“y/n, what are you—“

“that’s enough out of you, wang,” you warn, turning to point the gun at him.

the hurt is written all over his face, not to mention betrayal, guilt, anger, concern(?)

“really, y/n? wang? that’s what you’re calling me now? you should've called me that all along if this was how it was going to end.”

you don’t answer. heeseung pockets his gun from behind nicholas, laughing.

“wow, they should really make a movie about this. you truly outdo yourself with the dramatics every time i see you, y/n.”

you ignore him, keeping your gun and gaze trained on the man you loved.

“you can’t honestly be surprised, can you?” you sneer. “we were arranged. how could i ever truly love someone i was forced to be with?”

your heart breaks with each syllable, watching your words land like daggers. nicholas had never been able to hide his emotions around you, not when you started noticing his tells anyway. 

“could’ve fooled me the way you begged for me last night,” nicholas offers carelessly, looking as nonchalant as could be.

"slut," heeseung coughs. you scowl, ears starting to feel hot.

of course he had to say something right when you'd started to feel a little remorseful for what you were about to do. fuck that, you'd rather die than go back to your shitshow of a family.

even nicholas is shocked, quickly morphing into anger. because how dare he?!! but it's your expression that hurts him the most, your eyes betraying you.

sunghoon looks between you and nicholas, suddenly getting a tingling feeling on the back of his neck. 

“y/n-“

“duck.”

sunghoon just barely registers your words before he gets a foot in the balls. howling in pain, he falls to his knees, shooting blindly on the way down. the next day, nicholas would swear on his life that you'd been trying to kill him, your bullet whizzing right above his head, close enough to brush his hair.

heeseung crashes to the ground, qlwo shooting blindly, holding his bleeding shoulder. you grab sunghoon’s gun, tossing it to nicholas, who grabs it mid-air in one fluid motion. you turn away, your gaze returning to sunghoon, who’s eyes have become more like a madman’s. your gun shakes in your grasp, your heart far behind your mind. it didn’t care that sunghoon had just held a gun to your forehead. had broken into your home. had threatened your husband. you were still looking at park sunghoon, the boy you’d grown up with. the boy who would sneak you candy after getting in trouble with your father. the boy who had held you while you soaked his shirt with tears at your mother’s funeral. the boy who snuck candy under your door after you got grounded. that boy was gone, and with him, you knew you would never be y/n of ENHYPEN ever again.

BANG! you hear behind you. 

nicholas?! you start to turn, but a hand yanks sharply on your hair.

“you, fucking, BITCH!” sunghoon roars, bringing your head down hard onto the kitchen counter.

you scream, your hands barely coming out in time to absorb most of the impact. still your ears are ringing, two sunghoons staring bloody murder at you. 

“LET! ME! GO!” you manage, digging your nails deep enough into his forearm to draw blood.

he lets go with a howl, cursing you.

"i told you NOT to make me regret it," sunghoon bares his teeth like a madman, grabbing you by the throat before you can orient yourself. his long fingers dig hard, intent on crushing your windpipe. you flail weakly in his grasp, trying and failing to pry his fingers from your throat. black spots swim across your already-blurry vision, your strength leaving you by the second.

BANG!

sunghoon gives your throat one last squeeze, his eyes glazing over. 

“traitor. whore,” he mouths, slumping over. 

you get the faint feeling of his body being rolled off of you before everything goes black.

“Y/N?!! Y/N!!”

—

“yi...xiang…?” you mumble, half-lost in the dream you’d been in, eyes not yet adjusted to the sunshine streaming through your window.

blinking, you sit up carefully, your muscles aching. you’re in some kind of hospital room, in a terribly scratchy hospital gown. there’s some kind of thick bandage around your neck, and a cotton gauze taped to your head.

“weno, wake up” you murmur, poking at his shoulder. 

his hand is tightly laced with your fingers, fast asleep in the chair beside your bed. he looks just as handsome as ever, no matter the cuts on his face and knuckles. 

he grumbles, swatting your hand away. you bite back a giggle at your husband’s ridiculousness.

of course, still as grumpy as ever

you poke him again, a little harder this time. 

“wang yixiang, if you don’t get up right now—“

his head shoots up, nearly catching you in the chin.

“y/n?? y/n, oh my god”

before you can protest, his arms wrap tightly around you, nose nestled in your hair. as if suddenly remembering why you were in a hospital bed, he lets go, feeling your forehead.

“how are you feeling? how’s your throat? your head?”

you laugh, a finger shushing his lips.

“nichol, slow down! i’m ok.” but your smile falters, the weight of your actions crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water.

nicholas immediately notices, not knowing what to do but hold you.

“are they…?”

nicholas clears his throat, taking your hands in his. 

“y/n… jo’s called off the alliance. they've interrogated the staff and it turns out, they'd been holding miss seoyoon's granddaughter as hostage. as for sunghoon... his funeral is next week. one of the other ENHYPEN members, jay i think, grabbed heeseung and they got away. our spies say he's been in a coma ever since.” your breath hitches.

of course it was jay. he's probably receiving lashes now for not completing their mission. that sentimental idiot.

he pauses, eyes searching yours. “your father, um…”

your heart sinks, his sad expression confirming what you already knew.

“they’re coming for me, aren’t they?” you chuckle wryly, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks for what seems like the millionth time this week.

“your father… he’s, um, given permission for anyone to shoot you on sight if you set foot into ENHYPEN territory,” he trails off, waiting for your reaction.

of course he’s angry. some moron has put out a hit on his wife. that moron, of all people, is your father. how could a father possibly treat his only daughter with such carelessness?! what else had you suffered that you hadn’t told him about? he’ll hold it in for now. all that matters now is you.

you look away, the tears already spilling past your eyes before you can stop them. nicholas pulls you back gently, your tears soaking into the hoodie he’s wearing. the hand on the back of your head is soft, patting your hair with soothing strokes.

“fuck this,” you mumble, snot leaving stains you can’t be bothered to feel sorry about. “like actually, fuck this.”

you want to scream. curse. blow up a building. do anything but cry. 

you’re absolutely livid.

angrier than you’ve ever been, because how could he?! how could the man who made up half of your DNA, paint a bull’s eye on your back faster than he’d put sunghoon in the ground? god, you knew your family was fucked up, but this? this went beyond expectations. and where’s your useless brother anyway, what role did he play in this absolute circus? 

“what are you thinking in that big head of yours, princess?”

you can’t help but let out a bitter laugh, hiding your face further into his hoodie. 

“how are you still here, nichol? why didn’t you shoot me too?”

his grip tightens, “y/n…”

"i had that file on my phone. you thought i was going for jo's wife. i pointed a gun at you. obviously, they were all in the house and im prime suspect number one who let them in the door and—“

“you chose me,” he whispers, almost too faintly for you to hear.

“what?”

nicholas clears his throat to speak more clearly, his cheeks slightly flushed. “you. chose. me.”

before you can answer, he starts rambling, looking anywhere but you.

“their guns were pointed at both of us. you never let go of me, little miss clingy.” your cheeks flush, not even realizing you’d done that. “you stood between me and people you considered to be brothers. yeah, you pointed a gun at me, but at least you told me to duck.”

he coughs awkwardly, the flush on his cheeks getting brighter than the second.

“you chose to stay by my side. you saved me, even when it was from your own family.”

you look at him, a teasing smirk on your face. “who knew it would be so easy to fluster the big and scary nicholas wang?”

he looks away pretending not to notice the huge grin on your face. “i don’t know what’s going to happen with us. or with ENHYPEN. all I know is that i wouldn’t change being married to you for the world."

he finally looks back at you, his own eyes glassy. "but gee princess, your hair is looking kinda crazy.”

you sniffle, shoving him. “you just had to ruin it! go away!”

“ow, that’s my bad arm,” nicholas winces, trying and failing to play it off.

“WHAT?! when did that happen?!”

only then do you really notice the full extent of nicholas’ injuries. save for the giant thing of gauze around your neck, he looks no better than you. cuts and bruises cover his arms, a large gash just above his left temple. his right arm is in some kind of makeshift cast, teeth marks bruising on his left forearm.

“xiang-ah, jesus christ, this is all from heeseung?” you whisper, horrified.

his mouth is set in a grim line, trying not to voice what you both are thinking.

but he’s the one in a coma.

the weight of your new reality settles in, terrifying and uncertain. you would never be y/n of ENHYPEN again. you are wang y/n of &TEAM, the wife of nicholas wang. the people you’d grown up with and called your brothers, the people you’d led with your chin held high, had all turned their guns towards you without a second thought. before you can go too far into the depths of your mind, nicholas hops into the tiny hospital bed with you, holding you softly against his chest. and as you lay cocooned in his embrace, the thundering footsteps of your new family echoing somewhere in the hallway, you wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

"y/n... i want you to have this," nicholas says shyly, pulling a box from his hoodie pocket.

you know that box. you've gone snooping far too many times to not.

"nicholas, is that-?"

he chuckles, hia cheeks bright red. "yeah, it's my mother's ring. i want you to have it."

"i- yes! of course i do! but are you sure? i know-"

"y/n, you are the love of my life. even after you almost killed me on our wedding day, and then screamed that you would never love me," he pauses, shoving his tears down. "i realized it that day, when harua thought you got kidnapped. and again when sunghoon tried to kill you"

“i love you, y/n,” he whispers, a kiss pressed to your forehead. "i'm never going to stop loving you and i would rather walk through hell than watch you get hurt again. so please, accept this ring mrs. wang. and we can pretend that ugly one is some family heirloom."

you giggle, holding your hand out for nicholas to slip the gaudy ring off and replace it with his mother's, now yours. it suits you much better, and you can't help the tears that blur your vision.

“i love you, yixiang. seriously," you laugh, yanking him down to kiss you.

"where did you even get this ring fro-?"

right then, your hospital door slams open, and immediately all of your senses are bombarded. 

“EW THEY’RE CUDDLING!”

“Y/N-CHAN WE BROUGHT YOU SALT BREAD!”

“Y/N, ARE YOU OK?!!”

“Y/N, WE HEARD—“

nicholas scoffs, already sulking. “gee thanks for being worried about me too guys”

you laugh, swatting him affectionately. “oh hush you, don’t be too jealous that i’m the new favorite”

he grumbles, hiding his face in your hair. “whatever, you’re mine anyway”

—

“hey euijoo-ssi, when is it going to be your turn to get married?”

euijoo chokes on the water he was drinking, it shooting out of his nostrils faster than a geyser. you nearly fall off your stool laughing, holding your swollen, pregnant-and-about-to-pop belly for dear life.

“oh my god you actually look so stupid right now,” you gasp, still wheezing.

“YAH! stop making fun of me! you’re no better than that yixiang, seriously!”

euijoo complains, taking off the flannel he was wearing. you stick your tongue out, tossing him a roll of paper towels. normally, he’d give you a playful shove but he’d rather not have nicholas come home and break his hand for laying a finger on his pregnant wife. as soon as nicholas had found out you were pregnant, the boys had been in and out of your house like clockwork, waiting on your hand and foot. today, euijoo was your personal maid.

“Y/N-CHAN! i brought the bread you asked for!” harua comes skipping in, maki in tow. 

harua’s holding enough salt bread to feed an entire country, while maki’s hands are full of bags of baby clothes. yuma kicks the door open before it can shut, iced americano in hand, and taki isn’t far behind him, carrying cans of paint. fuma and kei are hot on their tail, balancing the crib box between them. 

sighing, you pinch your eyebrows, pretending to be stressed to the max. but the wide grin on your face speaks for itself.

“you guys are so loud! and here I was, ready for a relaxing morning.”

“princess, i— why on earth is everybody in my house and stealing my wife’s attention?!” nicholas pouts, fresh from the office, looking at his brothers all crowded in his kitchen. “i would’ve moved next to jo if I’d known you idiots would be in my house all the time.”

he kisses your cheek. then your forehead. then a peck on the lips before coming to stand behind you. you laugh, letting him rest his chin on your shoulder. his arms wrap around your waist, lifting your belly with delicate hands.

you groan in relief, the ache in your back gone almost immediately.

“you want me to kick them out?” he whispers, a small smile on his face.

you shake your head, laughing quietly. fuma and kei have busied themselves with putting the crib together. yuma drags taki and harua to help paint the baby’s room, already arguing over who got aux. euijoo and maki are shuffling around, adding styrofoam to every sharp surface they could find. maki, in particular, had become paranoid of corners after a day of babysitting jo’s son, terrified of explaining to the don how the precious heir had ended up with a cut on his forehead. jo’s wife had already filled your fridge with all sorts of home cooked foods, even some dishes to remind you of home. they were coming by later after their son's doctor appointment.

“i love you yixiang,” you turn, smiling from ear to ear.

“careful y/n, you might just make my heart explode,” he cheeses.

you snort, flicking his forehead. this little life of yours, surrounded by laughter and love, you wouldn’t trade it for the world, no matter how grueling the path had been to get here. nicholas presses a kiss to your temple, as if reading your mind.

“i love you, princess.” he whispers, his breath tickling your ears. and then he crouches, as if making direct eye contact with your belly button through your shirt. “and i can’t wait to meet you, little princess.”

“hey, you never know she might actually be a little prince,” you tease. 

yixiang shakes his head. “mhm, she’s definitely a little princess.”

“wanna bet?”

“if you lose, we’re making another one”

EJ

Fuma

K

Nicholas

Yuma

Jo

Harua

Taki

Maki

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

dating: having to keep your relationship a secret from everyone but the people closest to you isn’t fun, but he works hard to keep things light-hearted. most of your time together has to be spent indoors, and when that gets you down, he finds creative ways for you guys to go outside without getting caught. he dresses both of you up until it becomes even more obvious that you’re trying to hide. he details plans for you to arrive at the same location at different times like it’s a treasure hunt. he finds quiet parts of the city, restaurants where only people over 60 and have no idea who you are eat, trips to the beach in the middle of the week in winter. he does his best for you to have the sense of normalcy that you crave, and although it doesn’t always quite work, you appreciate that he tries. 

fuma

crush: i think he’d have the same kind of confidence in approaching you as yudai, but it might take him longer to make a move. he’s respectful to a fault, and wants to make sure you’re receptive to the idea of going on a date with him before asking—the last thing he’d want to do is make you uncomfortable. but his interest is marked—whenever you run at each other, whether backstage at a show or at a mutual acquaintance’s party, he’s attentive to you, asks you loads of questions, does small gestures like getting you a glass of water or putting his arm out protectively if someone stumbles into you. all things that could be dismissed as him being a generally nice person, but there’s something in his gaze that tells you he isn’t just doing all those things out of the kindness of his heart. again, he’d wait for a moment when it’s just the two of you before asking you out—and if he takes too long, you might just take that task into your own hands.

dating: fuma would act virtually the same once he was your boyfriend, with the difference that he’d be a lot less restrained in showing his affection for you. his love would show up in his attention to everything you say and in small but significant acts of service. i don’t think he’d be a super showy, PDA type of boyfriend, so he wouldn’t mind the secrecy, he’d just see it as one of the less advantageous parts of his job. what would get to him though is if you ever did a collaboration stage or song with another male idol, especially if there was any sort of partner choreography or if it was a sexy concept. rationally, he knows it’s just for work, and you don’t have feelings for this guy—but he can’t shake his jealousy. he tells himself it’d look so much better if it was him with you up there. he’d try not to be sulky with you about it, but he would definitely not mind if you were extra affectionate with him afterwards, or if you let him remind you who it is you belong to wait who said that—

nicholas

crush: i picture him as being the most straightforward, most confident one when it comes to getting the girl he likes, and although your situation as an idol might force him to take a step back and not be too obvious, he’d still make it very clear he’s into you. if he didn’t have a natural way of running into you, like at work or through mutual friends, he’d find a way to get your number. he’d ask you first if it was okay to text you like this—and if it was, he’d waste no time in asking you out on a date. after that, i see him being big on texting each other small updates throughout the day, talking on the phone at night or hanging out by the Han river after dark, when both of your schedules permit. i think he’d balance being clear in his feelings for you without being pushy really well. 

dating: this guy is probably the least careful out of all the teamies. he’ll invite you to a packed restaurant on a Friday night, thinking his black mask and beanie make him unrecognizable. he’ll hold your hand in the middle of a busy street and take you shopping in the trendiest stores. he’ll get you matching keychains and jewelry and wear them shamelessly. he probably gets scolded by the company and by the members a few times—his manager makes him swear to only see you at either of your dorms, and although he loves a takeaway date in front of a movie, there are too many things he wants to do with you to stay cooped up at home. how is he going to show you his basketball skills if he can’t get you out to the court on random weeknights?? and if you’re ever on a tv program together, it’ll end in fans either hating your guts or shipping the hell out of you guys. he’d be so flirty, later justifying himself by saying it’s less suspicious to treat you like that than to ignore you. in reality, he just wants to tell the world to whom it is that his heart belongs to. 

euijoo

crush: the opposite of nicholas. no matter how much he likes you, he is so afraid of approaching you that he can barely hold eye contact when you do run into each other. you probably think he doesn’t like you at all, when the truth is that he knows that if he lets himself get close to you, he’ll want to do things that would risk his and your career. it’s not that he doesn’t want to date, it’s just that he knows it wouldn’t be easy to balance his job and a relationship, and he’s scared of being hurt and hurting the other person. so it’d take him a long time to find the courage to approach you, and even then, he might content himself with just being friends, despite his glaringly obvious feelings for you—think lovesick eyes whenever he looks at you, remembering the tiniest things you mention and bringing them up two months later like it’s no big deal, laughing way too loudly at even your unfunniest jokes. and yet he’s so oblivious than when you ask him what, he’s like, “what?!! you like me too???”

dating: he’s perhaps the sweetest boyfriend ever. kind, thoughtful, gentle. he’s very much a homebody, so he doesn’t mind home dates—cuddling in front of a movie, baking cookies, playing video games. he uses the excuse of “babe, but what if we get caught?” more than once when you try to drag him out of the dorms to do an activity outside. of course, he can’t refuse you much, especially when you’re pouting up at him and wrapping your arms around his neck. he’s very careful when you do go out—hides his face as best as he can, picks quiet places, books private rooms where he can. like nicho, he’d get you couples stuff, but they wouldn’t be as obvious, like keychains of characters from a show you both like, which can be written off pretty easily if people try to create dating rumors out of it. when your schedules allowed for it, i think he’d especially love going on a trip with you, having a whole cottage to yourselves, taking long walks in the middle of nature, unbothered by anyone.

yuma

crush: tries so hard to act cool around you but his heart beats wildly and he can’t shake off his nerves. he laughs a little too loud, glances your way a little too often. i think he’d wait until you’ve talked enough times in person that getting your number from someone else and texting you wouldn’t seem too weird. i imagine him being much shyer in real life than he might come off in their content, like it’d take him a while before he’d start being playful with you? especially since his little crush makes him even more timid, always worried about saying, doing the right thing, about giving you the right impression. good for him he’s a cutie no matter what he does.

dating: he’d organize loads of dates outdoors but he’d be much more careful about them than nicholas. arcade dates, eating out at hidden gems, walking around the city at night, hand in hand… but he’d make anything fun, and even simple dates at home spent ordering your favorite foods and playing video games would be some of your best moments together. i think dating him would be fun no matter what, and he’d try not to let the pressure of idol life and forced secrecy weigh on your relationship. he would get jealous over your interactions with other male idols, but unlike fuma, he would not be afraid to hide it. definitely sulks to get you to coddle him. you suspect him of not actually being that jealous just so you pay him extra attention… but you pretend not to notice it. happy yuma = happy life.

jo

crush: this sounds awful but he accepts his feelings for you like one would accept a death sentence. he’s convinced nothing will ever happen between the two of you—first, because he’s way too shy to ever make a move, and you’ll never notice his existence as a result, and second, because even if a miracle occurred and you liked him too, he knows it’d be too complicated and risky, at this point in his career, to date someone. so he contents himself with watching you from afar, using social media to check up on you, and pretending like he isn’t super interested whenever your name or you group comes up in conversation. i don’t know if he’d have the confidence to approach you if you guys didn’t get an opportunity to get closer, like through work or mutual connections. maybe then he’d try, in his own shy, endearing way, to become friends, and eventually more.

dating: he much prefers spending time with you in the comfort of one of your bedrooms, and it only has a little bit to do with your being idols. sure, he’s nervous about the idea of getting caught, but it’s more to do with the fact that he likes having you all to himself. when you’re around, he gets so caught up in your presence that he forgets all his other worries, and he wouldn’t have the same peace of mind in public. he’d be worried about you getting bored from only hanging out at home, so he’d plan a lot of creative, artsy dates—finger painting, drawing portraits of each other, making a scrapbook containing your memories together… he’d be so so shy and so so sweet.

harua

crush: i think he’d be really good at hiding his feelings from his crush, but not on purpose. he’d think he’s being very obvious about them, and yet, to an outsider, he’d just seem like a nice guy trying to make a new friend. so you don’t question his intentions much when he starts talking to you backstage, eventually asking for your instagram or phone number. you don’t question it either when you two start texting, once in a while then almost every day, and even start speaking on the phone. you don’t question it but you’re a little disappointed—for once that a nice boy’s paying you attention, it seems all he wants to be is friends. you almost drop your phone when one day, he texts you, “would you want to go on a date with me when you’re free?”, the word date catching you way off-guard.

dating: after that, he makes sure you never doubt his feelings for you. he might’ve been shyer or more reserved than he gave himself credit for at first—but with the reassurance that you like him back, he shows affection naturally. i think he’d like the safety and comfort of dates at home, watching your favorite shows and eating your favorite snacks on the couch or one of your beds, with the exception of late-night walks along the Sumida or the Han river. i think he’d be such a sweet boyfriend, taking good care of you and showing his love for you in loads of different ways, all while being so cute that you can’t help but baby him back. 

taki

crush: when you look up the word obvious in the dictionary, a picture of this guy’s face appears. he’s so silly. if you’re in the same room, his eyes are practically glued to you, but you don’t think he actually hears anything you say. it would be creepy if he wasn’t so endearing once he actually talked to you. he’d try so hard to make you laugh, and would smile away all of his jokes that inevitably flopped—even he can’t only crack good ones. he’d make it really easy to fall for him. he wouldn’t just be a funny guy, he’d make it very clear in his gestures how he feels about you—texting you words of encouragement before a comeback or an award show, getting you the snacks he remembers you mentioning whenever you see each other. despite that, i think he’d actually wait for you to make the first real move—he’d make sure you know how he likes you, then let you decide on your own time whether you want to be with him or not.

dating: i think out of all the boys, with taki, the transition from friends to lovers would be one of the most natural. his number one priority stays to make you laugh as often as he can, he’d be so silly, so fun to be around with, and he’d be so good at making you feel loved and taken care of. poor boy would be so whipped and if there were ever moments you had to work together or interact in front of a camera, he’d be so bad at hiding how he feels about you, so smiley whenever you looked at him, even more rambunctious than usual. people would definitely comment about his middle-schooler-with-a-crush antics. in terms of dates, he’d be happy to do anything or go anywhere as long as he gets to do it with you, although he’d really really love to cook for you. random thought, but beach dates would be so fun with him!! taking the train to the seaside together, building sandcastles, splashing each other in the water… you’d end up having to huddle together under a bus stop or a storefront in the middle of a rainstorm, because you went there in winter to avoid tourists lol

maki

Someone mentions his room being occupied offhandedly, like it’s a joke. Jeno barely reacts at first. People drift in and out of rooms at parties all the time. It shouldn’t matter. 

Still, his feet carry him upstairs. 

The hallway is quieter, the noise dulling with every step, and when he stops in front of his bedroom door, something feels… off. There’s no grim moans bleeding through the walls. No laughter. Just a silence that doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the house. 

He hesitates, fingers curling around the handle before he pushes the door open, and his eyes land on you: lying back on the bed with your legs dangling over the edge, one arm resting across your stomach, hair falling loosely around your face. Even from the doorway, you look… different. 

“Y/N?” His voice comes out tentative, cautious. 

His suspicions of you being asleep disappear when your head quickly raises. Your wide eyes show surprise.  

“Jen? Hi.” You sit up quickly, as though you’ve been caught red handed. “Is this your room?”  

“Yeah.” He nods, taking in the perplexed expression on your face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His words come out rushed as he shuts the door behind him, giving you both privacy and all of a sudden, he feels like he’s intruding, even though you’re in his room.  

“Yeah, sorry, just needed some privacy.” You shake your head. “I can go.” You rush to get up and he instantly feels guilt wash over him. 

“No, no. You’re fine.” He cuts you off, his hand waving defensively and you settle back on his bed with a sigh. “Did something happen?” He asks carefully, somewhat worried now. He’s never seen you like this before. Not that he sees you much outside your tutoring sessions, but the times he does, you’re all chirpy and playful, always cracking jokes. He doesn’t know you well but it’s evident that you’re not your usual self.  

“Um, not really.” You scoff, an exasperated laugh leaving you. “It’s silly, don’t worry about it.” Your eyes stay on your hands as you play with your rings and he realises he’s never noticed them before. Pretty, he thinks. 

He moves to sit on the carpeted floor, leaning his head on the foot of the bed, next to where your legs are dangling off the edge. He’s now decided that this situation is a lot more interesting than the chaotic party Jaemin decided to throw downstairs. Half his friends are drunk off their faces, the other half busy getting there, while Haechan and his girlfriend have already disappeared to god knows where. And you? You seem somewhat sober and definitely in need of some company.  

“What’s up, Y/N? You’re clearly upset.” He presses, not happy with your vague answer. Jeno is a nosy guy and he knows that about himself, but in this case, he’s also worried and for some reason, he can’t seem to be able to let this go.  

“I’m not upset.” You defend, making clear that he’s touched a nerve. “I’m pissed off.” Oh? He can’t help but crane his neck sideways to look up at you. Your eyes meet for a split second and it’s clear as daylight now, you really are pissed off. But there’s something else behind your eyes, he can’t quite decipher. Embarrassment maybe? 

“Shit.” He turns to look in front of him again, legs crossing to make himself comfortable. “Who’s the culprit?”  

“Classic shitty ex with his shitty new girlfriend, you know the drill.” You explain, sounding like you hate yourself for even talking about this. Jeno gets it.  

“Ah. I assume they’re here showing off their happiness?”  

“You assume correct.” You confirm and Jeno can’t see you, but he imagines you nodding your head.  

“Want me to beat the shit out of him?”  

Your snort tells him that he’s succeeding at making you feel a tiny bit better and he can’t hold his smile back.  

“You wouldn’t hurt a fly Lee Jeno.” He feels the mattress dipping behind him and when he looks back up he can’t see your face anymore. You’re lying down again.  

“Hey, I work out.” He elbows your calf playfully, earning another tiny laugh from you.  

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Your sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed.  

“I see you checking me out when I talk stats.” He jokes, expecting a snarky response.  

“I’m just a heterosexual female, Jeno. I see muscles, I stare.” So, you do check him out?  

“I mean, I was joking, but stare away if it makes you happy.” It’s your turn to make him laugh, kicking him in the ribs lightly. A comfortable silence falls upon you both and Jeno ignores the buzzing coming from his back pocket, probably Jaemin or Jisung looking for him. He’d rather be here right now though. Not because he enjoys your company, he just feels a sense of calmness he doesn’t want to ruin. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

“Feeling any better?” He breaks the silence a few moments later and for some reason, Jeno feels comfortable enough to lean his head against your leg, eyes closing to stop the room from spinning. He realises he must be slightly more intoxicated than he thought he was now that he’s sitting down and he smiles when you don’t retract, his temple resting on your soft calf.   

“A little.” You nudge his head with your leg. “Thanks.” You say softly. “And sorry for spoiling your night.”  

“You didn’t.” He reassures you quickly. If anything, you made it interesting, but he doesn’t admit that out loud.  

“How come you’re up here?” You ask, as though you’ve had an epiphany and Jeno lets out a short laugh through his nose, eyes remaining closed.  

“In my room?” He teases and he’s aware that he’s deflecting, but he hopes you don’t catch him.  

“Ha-ha funny. You know what I mean.” It was worth a try, but there’s no deceiving you it seems.  

“Just not in the right mood for a party.” He confesses, sounding almost defeated. And he feels it.  

“Tired?” Jeno can tell you’re sat up now, you voice coming from directly above.  

“Yeah, it appears trying to force knowledge in that pretty little head of yours takes it out of me.” His joke lands well, getting a laugh out of you but then you startle him with a flick of your fingers on the back of his head. “Oi!” He leans forward, hand cupping the spot you just attacked.  

“Insult me again. I dare you.” Your provocative tone intrigues him in a way, even though the pain on his scalp.  

“Damn woman.” He complains, the heel of his hand rubbing his head now. “Do that to your shitty ex and you’ve got yourself a gorgeous homerun.” He jokes and almost flinches when you lightly ruffle his hair in a comforting manner. Soft and tender. A complete opposite to your usual demeanour. 

“Care to answer my question now?” You return to your previous subject, not letting it slide and he’s almost annoyed that you’re so observant.  

He leans back again, resting his head on the mattress and he’s met with your face. From this upside-down angle, he notices the necklace that dangles off your neck as you lean forward to get a better look at him. It’s dainty, like your rings, and it sits prettily between your collarbones.  

“Just felt a bit lonely, I guess.” He admits and he feels exposed. It’s been sitting with him all night. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now that he has, it feels strangely relieving. He can’t quite put his finger on the reason, but he thinks it has something to do with the way you look at him. No judgment in your eyes, just understanding. Could also be the fact that you’re upside down.  

“As in, there’s no one to talk to or no girl to stick your dick in?” Your question takes him aback and if he weren’t looking at you, he might have thought you’re mocking him. Your perfectly serious expression tells him otherwise.  

Jeno shrugs. “Both?” God, he sounds sad.  

“There’s plenty of pretty girls downstairs, no?” You shuffle to the edge of the bed now, sliding down to join him on the floor, mirroring his way of sitting. Though your eyes are on the ceiling, his are stuck on your side profile, your neck and that stupid necklace. Have you always been this captivating or is he just drunk and horny? He’s always thought of you as a girl who happens to be a friend. Not his usual type. Or maybe that’s his way of coping with the fact that you’re actually too good for him.  

“None I’d wanna stick my dick in.” The words leave his mouth before he can contemplate them and your eyes close as you breathe out a chuckle. “Plus, my room was already occupied anyway.” He teases, smiling at the way your kiss your teeth, feigning annoyance.  

“My apologies, Mr. top shagger. I was experiencing a misery crisis.” You retort, lazily turning your head to stare at him. His laugh dies out a second after, but his smile lingers as his eyes drop to your lips for a mere second before trailing back up to yours. There’s mischief written all over your face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Jeno feels flustered. It’s like you’ve got him all figured out and he knows that if you were to read his thoughts right now, you would most likely condemn him to eternal hell.  

“What?” He asks, deflection getting the best of him again.  

“Nothing.” You shake your head, diverting your gaze to your hands again. “You’re the one staring.” There’s a subtle tint of pink on your cheeks and now it’s Jeno’s turn to smirk. You’re shy. Because of him.  

“That’s new.” His observation comes out in a hushed tone. Not intentional.  

“What is?” Your eyebrows furrow in question and your eyes find his again.  

“You’re blushing.” He points his chin at your face and to his surprise you don’t shy away. Instead, you maintain eye contact, one eyebrow raising daringly as you try not to smile, tongue poking into your cheek.  

“And you’re flirting.” The slight tilt of your head gets his heart going a little faster. “That’s also new.” Your smirk returns and your eyes narrow, studying him. 

“Is it though?” Whatever has taken over him, Jeno can’t explain it, but you’re reciprocating and he has no intention of stopping until you do. What are the odds of this going to shit anyway? 

“When have you ever flirted with me?” A genuine question, nonetheless, not a valid one. Jeno’s flirted with you in the past. Subtly. But he has. Aways harmless. No ulterior motives. Until now. 

“You know I have. You’ve just never flirted back.” He explains casually. It's the truth and your cheeky grin accompanied by your silence validates his argument. You might be terrible at stats, but you’re not oblivious. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?” He tests.  

“I never said that.” You shrug, your nonchalance doing something to him he can’t quite describe. He feels it in his spine though, and it’s unnerving and hot at the same time.  

“So, you want me to?” He doubles down, enjoying whatever turn the conversation has taken. Your hesitation intrigues him, gaze drifting down to his lips for a split second before returning to his eyes. Jeno knows the signs. 

“Never said that either.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” His hand has no business grabbing the back of your neck and your lips have no business being this soft against his, yet both of those things are happening before Jeno can process his actions and he can’t stop the low grunt that rumbles in his chest. You kiss him back like you expected it, like you were prepared for it and that eggs him on even more.  

You shuffle closer, your hands finding home on the sides of his neck, holding him close, making his head spin as he struggles to stay sane. The low moan you let out against his lips allows him to lick into your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours, gliding, flicking, tasting you eagerly. He really shouldn’t be doing this - fuck stats, fuck tutoring - but the thought doesn’t even register.  Not when you look so good on his floor and taste even better on his tongue. He only knows that you’re here, close, and he wants more. 

He tugs on your hair, blunt nails scratching lightly at your scalp and you obediently allow your head to loll back, giving him space to attack your neck with wet kisses, your perfume invading his senses, clouding his mind as he sucks on your pulse. He smirks when you whine, the sweet sound reaching his already half hard dick. He lets his other hand travel down your body and when he reaches the inside of your thigh, he squeezes the flesh, waiting for you to protest, to stop him or indicate in any kind of way that you don’t want him to keep going. Instead, you spread your bent legs expectantly. 

No words are exchanged apart from a low ‘fuck’ he lets out when you hurriedly dip your hands under your short skirt, tugging at your panties and the second they’re on the floor, Jeno wastes no time. His fingers find your folds instantly, rubbing from your entrance to your clit and he grunts at the wet glide, so fucking wet, he thinks as he circles your bundle of nerves slowly at first, then more determined, wanting desperately to get you off. It’s like he’s possessed. He can’t think straight, the only thought dancing around his mind is seeing you fall apart on his floor. 

You bring his lips to yours again, hands pulling at his hair as your tongue invades his mouth and your hips grind against his hand. He’s in a slightly uncomfortable position, butt still on the floor, body twisted at the waist as you’re splayed on his carpet, head resting on the edge of his mattress. Not that it matters anyway. 

“Make me cum.” You moan in his mouth; demanding and breathy and he swallows it with a filthy kiss, moaning when he dips a finger in your needy hole. You’re so wet, making his mind go blank and he feels like he could give you anything you asked for at this point. He pulls out, trying two fingers this time, knowing you can take the stretch with how drenched you are.  

“Pull your skirt up.” He instructs softly, lips dragging against yours.  

You do exactly as he asks, revealing the unholy sight of his fingers slowly fucking into you. Your clit is engorged due to the arousal and he can’t shake the thought of his lips wrapping around it, sucking as hard as he pleases, flicking until you’re shaking. He settles for splitting you open with his fingers for now.  

He curls the digits slightly, pressing them upwards as he starts drilling into you at a rough and quick pace. The quelching noises sound almost melodic to him. That’s what good pussy sounds like, he thinks and he relishes in the loud mewl you let out, knowing he’s hitting the right spot.  

“There?” He breathes out against your temple, desperately needing to unbutton his jeans, the constricting feeling torturing him, but your nod keeps him going.  

“Yeah.” You pant, your eyes on his hand, taking in the erotic image as your nails dig into his thigh through his godforsaken jeans, and he wishes he could feel your touch properly, without any barriers.  

He makes sure the heel of his palm stimulates your clit each time he fucks into you and he praises the universe when your walls flutter around his fingers.  

“Oh my- fuck!” You cry out as you head tips, eyes rolling back, jaw dropping in a silent moan and Jeno feels lightheaded at the newfound, sinful image of you climaxing. Your cunt clamps down on his hand, making it impossible for him to keep thrusting, so he buries his fingers all the way in your pulsating heat and starts harshly rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your thighs start quiverig, eventually closing and trapping his hand between them, preventing him from continuing.  

Your expression resembles an angelic one as you take deep breaths, trying to resurface back to sanity. “Jesus.” You whisper, almost like a prayer and he lets out a short breathless laugh, nails scratching the back of your scalp to help you calm down as your body still trembles.  

“You good?” He bends down a little, stealing a kiss off your shoulder. The reason unknown to him, but he doesn’t question it either.  

“Mhm.” You nod lazily, turning your head to look at him and your fucked out eyes remind him of the big problem in his jeans. “I think we should fuck.” You blurt out unexpectedly and he feels his eyebrows raise in surprise. He thinks exactly the same, he just didn’t expect you to spell it out like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But then again, you’ve always been the blunt type. A woman who knows what she wants. He’ll bite.  

“Do you, now?” He purposely feigns surprise as he drags his fingers out of your now relaxed walls and doesn’t even warn you before hooking his arms underneath you; one around your middle, the other one under your bent knees. Your small yelp makes him smile and your arms coming to wrap around his neck in urgency tug at his heartstrings in a way that makes him feel dizzy. 

 He carries you for a few seconds as he walks around his bed, dropping you so your head lands on his pillows. You bounce a couple of times before sitting up, resting your weight on your palms.  

“Don’t you think that’s inappropriate?” He asks, trying to maintain a serious tone but removing his t-shirt anyway.  

“Just a tad.” You say absentmindedly, eyes shamelessly trailing down his naked torso, landing on his hands as they work his belt undone. Jeno is aware of his above average size, but your eyes slightly widening when he shoves both his jeans and boxers down, definitely do wonders to his ego.  

He kneels on the bed, shuffling until he’s situated between your already parted legs. He taps on your chin with his index to get your attention. “You’re drooling. Arms up.” He bites his lip trying to conceal a smile as you sit up properly, extending your arms above your head. “Cute.” He mumbles before dipping down to take hold of the hem of your top, dragging it up and off you, revealing your pretty tits. The lack of bra causes his brain to short circuit for a second before discarding the top somewhere behind him and he doesn’t waste time, moving to unzip your skirt. He smirks at the way you adorably raise your bum to help him remove the last piece of clothing.  

“How do you want it?” He asks, trying to sound unaffected, all the while aching to touch you all over, heart threatening to jump out of his chest. You bite your bottom lip in thought, contemplating your options.  

“Can I be on top first?” You ask tentatively, neck craning so you can look up at him. You’re so pretty like this. Splayed on his sheets with nothing on but that necklace he can’t seem to get enough of. Jeno nods in understanding, gathering that you’re most likely worried he won’t fit in any other position and he’s more than happy to let you take him however you please.  

He plops down next to you on the mattress, still sat up and you quickly follow, dragging your knees on his sheets so you can straddle him. His hands move instinctively, taking hold of your hips, pulling you closer as you slightly hesitate and the second your knees trap his hips between them and your arms wrap loosely around his neck, he allows his own to slither around your middle. Your tits brush against his chest and he has to hold back a groan at the soft sensation.  

His eyes find that necklace again and this time he can’t refrain from voicing his thoughts. “That looks good on you.” His chin points at the piece of jewellery and you look down momentarily before realising what he’s referring to.  

“Thanks. I like yours.” You pull at his plain silver chain with your fingers, bringing his face closer to yours. Your blush is back, making him feel giddy. What’s wrong with him? He can’t even blame it on the alcohol; he feels mostly sober now. 

He trails a hand up your side, palming your breast momentarily before his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear, palm coming to rest on the side of your neck, thumb tracing your jawline delicately.  

“Can I kiss you?” You ask hesitantly, your lips almost touching.  

“You can do anything you want.” He utters quietly and he sighs when you close the tiny gap, your lips moulding against his. You kiss him deep and slow - slower than he’s used to - lightly nipping at his bottom lip, a satisfied hum escaping his chest when your hands tip his head back a little, yours angling to the side so you can deepen the kiss. Your tongue obscenely glides against his, your taste invading his senses and the wet smacks of your lips turn him on even more. His cock twitches between your bodies and he moans when you push him by the shoulders, letting himself land on the pillows, dragging you with him.  

“Fuck, how are you so hot?” You whine as you trail kisses down the side of his neck and he huffs out a laugh, the compliment reaching his ears as he feels them getting warmer.  

“Have you seen yourself?” He breathes out weakly as you suck on a spot that has him reeling, his hand tangling in your hair to hold you there, giving you permission to mark him.  

“Shut up.” You murmur against the sensitive spot, your tongue soothing the scratch of your teeth.  

“Fuck you.” He retorts childishly, hands grabbing your ass, squeezing greedily, pushing you downwards as he grinds his hips up, length slipping between your puffy folds, your arousal coating him perfectly. “You’re so wet.” He moans against your shoulder as you keep sucking greedily, and Jeno is positive the spot on his neck will feel sore tomorrow.  

You sit up abruptly, eyes finding his, looking enticing as ever, pupils blown out, lips wet and swollen. You shock him when you lewdly dribble in your palm before reaching down to engulf his painfully hard cock in the very same hand. 

“Jesus.” He pants as you lather him in your spit and slick, the glide of your hand sensational. You shuffle slightly upwards, aligning him with your entrance and he helps you maintain your balance with his hands on your waist.  

“Ah, fuck.” You whine when his tip breaches your snug hole and he feels like he’s losing his mind. There’s no way a pussy can be this wet and feel this good. Your contorted expression tells him you might not be enjoying this as much as he is though, which brings him back to reality.  

“You okay?” He drops his hands to your ass cheeks, spreading them as far apart as they can go, hoping the action offers your pussy some relief.  

“It stings a bit.” The cute scrunch of your nose makes his heart race, and he has to refrain from fully thrusting into your pulsating heat. “Keep your hands there.” You plead and he does, holding you open as you try to sink down a little further with a whimper of discomfort.  

“Come here, kiss me for bit.” His words must affect you, the tightening of your walls suffocating him, but you follow through, arms wrapping securely around his neck as your lips find his again. He kisses you slow, matching your rhythm from before, tongues gliding languidly, still wet and messy, but mostly intimate. Too intimate. And he knows it’s working when your walls start relaxing around him, your cunt producing another gush of slick that drips down to his base.  

He takes matters into his own hands, hips raising to thrust into you little by little in quick, short pumps and when your mouth drops open against his, he moans, finding pleasure in pleasuring you.  

“Better?” He whispers, searching for any signs of discomfort as your eyebrows crease adorably.  

“Uh-huh.” You nod quickly, nose bumping against his as you kiss him again, all tongue and teeth, and Jeno doesn’t stop fucking you. Even when he’s fully sheathed in, he keeps going, quickly but gently pumping into your slippery warmth, length barely pulling out before sliding back in. “Fuck, you’re s-so deep.” You whine dreamily and he loves that you’re not moving, hips still, trusting him, taking what he’s giving you from underneath as his hands stay on your ass, holding your cheeks apart just like you asked him to.  

When you sit up a little, palms resting on his chest as you start meeting his thrusts, you let out a loud moan and Jeno assumes his cock is hitting exactly where it should be hitting. Your tits are bouncing beautifully, nipples hard from arousal and he wishes he had his mouth all over them, but doesn’t risk changing the angle of his hips, fucking you how you need him to. He doesn’t need your words, just your closed eyes, slack jaw and trembling breaths are enough for him to know you’re lost in pleasure.  

“Jen- f-fuck me harder.” Music to his ears.  

“Yeah? You sure?”  

“Mhm yeah, right there, just harder.” You nod quickly, eyes pleading and how could he ever deny you anything.  

“Fuck, baby.” He barely registers the pet name leaving his lips, but he knows it does something to you, pussy gripping him a little tighter than before and when his hips start smacking against yours, ass jiggling in his hands, you both moan loudly.  

“Oh, fuck, y-yes, like that.” You cry out, back arching, head tipping backwards in ecstasy and Jeno can’t find it in him to stop staring at you. There’s sweat dripping between your bouncing breasts, and all he can think is how much he wants to lap it up, how much he wants to lather your nipples in his spit and feel the weight of your pretty tits in his palms.  

“Rub your clit for me.” He requests in a frenzy, desperate to see you fall apart again. Your ring-clad fingers quickly find the swollen nub, drawing frantic circles around it and Jeno feels his balls tightening at the sight, cock throbbing as he nears his end. Your eyes find his for a split second before they roll back as you visibly start shaking, your hand quickly leaving your clit with a shriek as though the stimulation feels painful. “That’s it.” 

 He doubles down even through the kneading of your walls around him, thrusts becoming more brutal, balls slapping against your ass. He becomes desperate with the way your nails dig into his chest, his grip on your ass tightening, causing the flesh to ripple. He selfishly hopes his fingers leave bruises, reminding you tonight for days. 

He swears the obscene slapping sounds that echo, along with your loud cries of desperation, surpass the best quality porn he’s ever watched. If he could only have a recording of the incoherent blabbering leaving your mouth now, he’d happily ditch all the porn sites and just listen to that whenever he’d want to bust a nut. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” You cry out in panic, desperately trying to raise your hips, unable to handle what he’s giving you, but that just urges him to drive into you even harder, refusing to hold back now that he’s got your body spasming hard on his cock. “J-Jen- I c-can't, f-fu-”  

He wraps a secure arm around your middle, quickly manoeuvring you on your back and before you can protest, he’s slipping right back inside your warmth, his lips silencing your cries. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he supports his weight on one arm, hooking your leg over his elbow, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh. His hips resume their abuse, cock driving into your spent hole repeatedly as he seeks his own release. Your pussy is still quivering around him, forcing a guttural groan out of his chest.  

“So fucking good.” He mumbles in utter bliss, your walls squeezing him just right and he accepts defeat, knowing that he can’t last much longer. “Can I cum inside?” He asks for permission, half conscious of the fact that he’s not wearing a condom. He feels helpless.  

“Yeah.” Your hands squeeze his biceps in reassurance. “Fill me up, Jen.” You whisper and he swears it’s the most erotic thing a girl has ever said to him during sex. And he’s fucked many girls. None have uttered his name like you do though.  

“Shit.” He’s panting uncontrollably, his sweat dripping on your skin, mixing with yours as your hands come to cradle his face in comfort, and he gets this strange feeling in his chest. You’re too tender. Too soft. And then you’re leaning up slightly, kissing him but it’s almost as if he’s forgotten how to use his lips, mouth hanging open against yours, releasing a deep grunt as his orgasm takes over him. His arm starts trembling, struggling to hold him up, blunt nails sinking into the flesh of your thigh as his hips stutter, pumping messily into your wet heat, hot spurts of his release painting your gummy walls, claiming you in the best way possible. He wonders if he’s entered heaven or some unknown dimension, convinced that the way your cunt is milking him is out of this world.  

When his thrusts come to a halt, length burying inside you as he releases your leg, he hears the whimper you let out, feels it against his lips and that reminds him to kiss you again. And again. And again. Until you both can’t breathe. Until his lips feel sore. Until you’re desperately pulling at his hair. Until he’s had enough of you. If that’s even possible. 

He slips out with a sharp inhale, making you mewl and you’re both looking down, taking in the sight of his now softening cock, all covered in both of your releases. He sits up a little, shamelessly staring at your pulsating hole while forcing your legs wide open. Some of his cum escapes, slowly dripping down to your ass and Jeno feels lightheaded at the sight of your pretty cunt; all puffy and swollen because of him.  

“Stop staring you creep.” You complain, playfully kicking him in the ribs as his hold on your inner thighs loosens.  

He observes you for a moment; taking in how beautifully ruined you look. Your chest flushed, sweat all over your skin, nipples still slightly erect, tits jiggling a tiny bit from your intense breathing. The blush creeps up to your neck and reaches your cheeks, lips so red and shiny one could think you have a dark shade of lip gloss on. He feels a wave of satisfaction wash over him, knowing that it’s all him; that it’s his spit covering your lips, that your skin is covered in the afterglow of the orgasms he just fucked out of you.  

“Going shy on me again?” He teases with a raise of his eyebrows, hand playfully squeezing the flesh of your thigh, before he shuffles upwards, lying next to you on his front, arm lazily draping over your middle as he tries to regulate his breathing.  

“What if I closely stared at your dick like I was examining it?” You joke, absentmindedly scratching up and down his arm. He allows his eyes to shut, the relaxing motions of your fingers causing drowsiness to take over him as he shuffles closer to you, seeking more of your warmth. 

“Go ahead, I got a pretty good dick.” He mumbles sleepily against your upper arm. You whack him lightly but that still startles him in his woozy state.  

“Can you bring me something to clean up with?” You cringe as you rub your thighs together in discomfort and he shoots up from the bed quickly, feeling bad for neglecting you. He so easily sunk into the comfort of your warmth and that scares him a little. This is just sex, right? Nothing too deep. Just sex between two people who were having a shitty night and decided to make it better. Just incredible, mind-blowing sex with the girl he tutors twice a week for extra credit. Right?  

The act of aftercare is normally something he indulges in to subtly get rid of the other person. Never intimate, just transactional. In this case, kicking you out hasn’t even crossed his mind. He realises that he wouldn’t mind if you spent the entire night or at least just stayed a little longer. But surely that’s owed to the fact that he knows you in a way. You’re not just a random girl he met and decided to fuck and chuck. You’re friends. Right? 

“Shit, yeah, one sec.” He slips out of bed and rushes to his ensuite bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks wrecked; sweat glistening on his skin, lips swollen, the hickey on his neck visible already, dick still shiny with slick and cum. He splashes some cold water on his face and neck, allowing the cooling feeling to wake him up before cleaning himself up.  

When he re-enters the room, you’re on your side in foetal position, very clearly asleep and he can’t help the quiet chuckle that leaves him. He carefully rolls you onto your back again and you hum contentedly as he slowly drags the warm damp towel between your legs, cleaning your folds and inner thighs as gently as possible. He feels guilty when he shakes you lightly, waking you up, but he knows you’ll thank him tomorrow. 

“You gotta pee first, then we can sleep.” He whispers, careful not to pull you out of your slumber completely.  

“I um- I can go home,” You mumble, still half-asleep, clearly dreading the effort. Silly. 

“How about just the bathroom, hm?” He scoops you up bridal style again, exactly like he did before, only now you’re completely naked and your head buries in his neck, nuzzling sleepily. “I’ll drive you home tomorrow.” He reassures you and smiles when he feels your arms tighten around his neck.  

“You’re actually a sweet guy, aren’t you, Jen?” You mumble dazedly against his skin and he carefully sets you down on the toilet seat.  

“Always the tone of surprise.” He teases as he combs your hair out of your face and behind your ears. “Do your thing. I’ll be back in a sec.”  

He heads back into his room, picking up your clothes off the floor, folding them neatly on his chair before rifling through his drawers for a comfy t-shirt for you to wear. He hears the faint trickle from the bathroom and can’t help but laugh quietly. A small routine, small domesticity — nothing like him, yet it feels… right. He grabs his phone, sending Renjun three quick texts, hoping his friend is not too drunk to respond.  

Jeno: can you bring me a glass of water pls 

Jeno: in my room  

Jeno: knock.  

RJ: on it 

RJ: you ok? 

Jeno: yeh all good 

“I’m done.” Your voice floats from the bathroom, followed by a flush as he puts a clean pair of boxers on before rushing to come get you.  

“Hey, lazy bum.” He enters to find you perched exactly where he left you, elbows on your knees. “Did you wipe, or do you want me to do that for you too?” He teases and you whine sleepily, face buried in your hands.  

“I did. I promise.”  

“Good. Now arms up.” You comply without a question, and he carefully slips the t-shirt on you, warmth spreading in his chest when you sigh at the comfort of cotton, hugging your arms to yourself. You blink up at him, looking soft as ever as you make grabby hands, and his insides almost melt at the cuteness.  

Why does he feel this sudden urge to coddle you? Sure, Jeno likes looking after his friends, making sure they’re happy and healthy, but this is different. In all his sexual encounters, he’s always maintained boundaries — never lent clothes, never ensured a girl didn’t get a UTI, never carried them around. 

With you, he finds that he’s already broken most of those boundaries in one single night. And he doesn’t know why. 

He carries you back to the bed, only this time you cling onto him like a koala bear, arms and legs wrapped around him in a tight hug. He puts you down gently, tucks you in with the duvet, smoothing it over you, making sure you’re comfortable. A knock on the door makes you blink in question. 

“It’s just my housemate.” He reassures before getting up to crack the door open.  

“Here you go, sir.” Renjun presents him with a pint of water and Jeno gratefully accepts it with a smile.  

“Thanks.” He goes to shut the door again, but Renjun quickly stops him.  

“Dude, what’s going on?” A worrisome expression on his face. 

“Nothing. I’m just- I'm not alone.” Jeno points his thumb behind him, without really allowing Renjun to look inside his room. 

“Oh.” Renjun almost looks surprised, an inquisitive look taking over his face which makes Jeno feel scrutinised. His friends know him well enough to know that he doesn’t just hide girls in his room.  

“I’ll explain tomorrow.” He assures his friend, silently implying that he can’t elaborate right now. Thankfully Renjun catches on quick and turns to leave after giving him a thumbs up. Jeno doesn’t fail to give him a fond smile for respecting his privacy. It’s one of the things he loves the most about that boy; he doesn’t hover, unless he’s needed.  

Jeno takes a couple of gulps before placing the glass of water on the nightstand next to you. Your eyes are closed again and when he quietly joins you under the covers, he feels you shift next to him. He checks if your eyes are still closed and when he confirms they are, he turns off the bedside lamp, allowing the darkness to engulf both of you.  

He’s lying on his back; arm folded under his head as he contemplates the choices he’s made tonight. Your stable breathing calms him in a way, and he finds himself trying to match your rhythm. When your hand brushes against his arm, fingers curling around just above his elbow, he freezes slightly, savouring the small contact. 

“Jen?” You whisper, as if checking he’s still there with you.  

“Hm?”  

“I don’t want things to be weird.” Fuck.  

“They won’t be.” He turns toward you, voice soft, though the darkness obscures your features. 

“How do you know that?” You’re still whispering and he doesn’t know why, since you’re the only two people in the room. He matches your tone anyway.  

“I mean...” His words falter briefly as your grip tightens. “Things don’t have to be weird, right?” Your fingers loosen, but they remain there and Jeno has trouble breathing. It’s not that deep, he thinks to himself.  

“Right.” You’re not convinced; he can tell. And neither is he.  

“You’re overthinking.” No shit, Sherlock.  

Your sigh lands on his shoulder, warm and heavy. He senses you closer than he expected. “And you’re not?” 

It’s his turn to let out a sigh this time.  

“Right.” Your tone cools, as though distancing yourself slightly. Your hand remains, a tether. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Y/N.” He sounds defeated and he wishes he could give you the reassurance you’re looking for. He can’t though. Not without lying.  

“Do you want me to leave?” Your question takes him aback. 

“What? No, that’s not what I’m saying, Y/N.” He rubs a hand over his face in exasperation.  

“Stop saying my name like that.” Your voice not a whisper anymore and that does something to his head.  

“Like what?” He provokes, tone harsher than intended.  

“Like I’m a problem you can’t be bothered to deal with.” Your words pull him under, and he pauses to recollect his thoughts. He doesn’t want to argue, but it seems you do and Jeno is confused. Did he just imagine the last hour? 

He rolls on his side to face you, and you let your hand fall from his arm. He feels the absence. “Can we please talk about this tomorrow? With clear heads?” 

You shuffle closer and his heart thuds a little faster, your knee bumping into his accidentally. “Okay.” You whisper after you’ve settled into a more comfortable position, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, Jeno senses a hesitancy in your movements. 

“You can move closer.” He smiles fondly and relief floods him when your arm wraps around his waist. He draws you in, fingers stroking the nape of your neck, tucking your head under his chin. “If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just said.”  

“Shh.” You scold, earning a tiny laugh from him.  

“You’re funny.” He whispers into your hair, nails softly scratching your scalp, making you shudder.  

“You’re not.” You retort, half-mumbled, and he snorts. His distress has somewhat dissolved, however the tension and confusion linger and Jeno prays that a goodnight’s sleep will fix whatever it is that broke between you and him tonight.   

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno gets woken up by an involuntary twitch of his own body and when he slowly cracks his eyes open, he’s reminded that he once again forgot to roll his blinds down, allowing the morning sunlight to invade his room.  

He attempts to get into a more comfortable position, the fruity scent you carry drifts over him, and he relaxes — you’re still here, safe and real, reminding him that last night wasn’t just a fraction of his imagination. 

You’re clinging onto him; cheek squished against his chest and he’s pretty sure you’re drooling on him. He feels a laugh bubbling in his chest, but he holds it in, not wanting to wake you yet.  

The position you’re both in is slightly different to the one Jeno remembers falling asleep in. You’re using him as your pillow, your leg comfortably draped over his crotch, arm hugging his middle as though he’s your favourite teddy bear and he’s convinced that you must own one with the way you cling onto him like it’s a habit. 

He raises his sprawled arm to wrap it around you and the second his hand finds your lower back, he assumes the shirt he put on you last night must have ridden up. His fingers splay just above your ass and he’s instantly reminded of your naked bottom half. He vividly remembers picking up your underwear off the floor last night, along with the rest of your clothes.  

The thought of your nakedness brings him back to last night. Back to what you two did and how good you looked on top of him. And under him. And on his floor. His mind drifts from your smooth skin to the way you kissed him, to the way you took everything he gave you like you were made for it, like you craved it. He knows he shouldn’t. Especially when you’re soundly asleep in his arms, but Jeno has to suppress a groan at the thought of your warm and wet p- 

Your sleepy hum pulls him back to reality and he mentally presses pause on the daydreaming session, but your bent knee nudging against his half hard dick doesn’t make things easy for him. Stupid morning wood, he thinks, as if his dirty mind didn’t just cause this.  

He keeps his eyes shut, trying to think of dead puppies or his gran and it seems to be working, until your body moves, your face nuzzling in his neck, knee dragging over his crotch. The long sigh you let out against his skin, causes goosebumps to raise and he mentally curses.  

Redirecting his focus to your comfort, he allows his knuckles to trace gentle circles along your spine, and he smiles when you shudder slightly, the little tremble of your body sparking a sense of delight within him.  

“You awake?” You mumble in his neck, the tiny movement of your lips barely even there, but still enough to tickle him.   

“Just about.” His voice comes out raspy, vocal cords still half asleep, causing him to clear his throat. He subtly wiggles his hips a little further down the mattress to escape the pressure of your knee and when you move with him, clinging onto him with a whine, he can’t help but use his free hand to steady you, forcing your leg further up his torso to ease the pressure.  

“Sorry.” You whisper into his skin. “Are you uncomfortable?”  

“No.” He reassuringly squeezes your thigh, thumb gingerly caressing the surface. “You?” 

“No. Surprisingly.” If his eyes were open, Jeno would have rolled them in annoyance.  

“Yeah, cause you’re always so uncomfortable around me.” His tone full of sarcasm, but he can’t help it. If you’re going to give him attitude, you’re going to get it back. Especially this early in the day when he’s slightly hungover and has not had his morning coffee.  

“Grow up. You know what I mean.” Your humourless words contrast the way your fingers softly trace the line of his collarbone, a quiet familiarity in the gesture. 

“You thought it would be awkward?”  

“Didn’t you?” Your head moves, nose rubbing against his jaw, and he knows you’re looking at him. He adamantly keeps his eyes closed.  

“What, just cause we fucked?” The light slap he receives on his chest makes him chuckle. He’s always enjoyed getting under your skin, but for some reason, now that you’re half naked in his bed, it’s even more rewarding. “It would have been awkward only if the sex was bad.”  

You keep quiet and Jeno gives into the urge to turn his head and look at you, blinking his eyes a few times, adjusting to the sunlight. He raises his eyebrows expectantly as he dips his hand under your loose shirt, fingertips light as air, traveling up and down your spine slowly.  

“Is this you indirectly asking if I liked it or not?” Your eyebrows raise in response, mirroring his expression.  

“No, I already know you liked it. Just wanna know if it altered your brain chemistry.” He smirks at the way you roll your eyes, and if he didn’t know you to a certain extent, Jeno would really think you’re annoyed, but he recognises your usual façade.  

“Mind-blowing sex isn’t the answer to everything Lee Jeno.” Your hand engulfs his jaw, fingers squishing his cheeks and shaking his face from side to side gently. “I’m one of the very few female friends you have and you’ve already stuck your penis in me. Raw.”  

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you very blatantly ask me to fuck you?” His pointed look gets a surrendering smile out of you, hand now settling on the side of his neck. He’s not even fazed by your proximity; noses almost touching, bodies flush against each other like you’ve done this a million times. 

“You stuck you tongue down my throat and then fingered me like nobody’s business. I’m only human.” Your bluntness makes him grin. 

“So, what’s the problem? We both wanted it, no?” He rolls to face you fully, leg fitting naturally between yours, touch grounding yet intimate. He tries his hardest to keep his attention on you, but the whimper you let out shows him you’re just as affected, and his hand has somehow fallen on your ass.  

“Why did you want it?” The question catches him off guard; your inquisitive eyes making his heart stutter.  

“I was horny. And lonely. And you looked good. I mean...You always look good, I just-” He takes a breath to compose himself. Since when does he have trouble expressing himself in front of a woman?  

“Relax, it’s not a test, I’m just genuinely curious.” Your chuckle and your fingers lightly pushing his fringe out of the way help him compose his chaotic brain just a little.  

“I dunno. I just wanted you.” He settles for honesty and if that comes to bite him in the ass later, then so be it. “That too shallow for you?” 

“No.” Your eyes travel around his face as you’re in deep thought and Jeno feels impatience creeping up on him.  

“But?” He challenges, knowing it can’t be that simple.  

“But, I don’t know if I can be normal around you now.” You purse your lips as you brush his bottom one with your thumb and he stops breathing for a second, his heart rate increasing significantly. “I don’t really do casual sex.” 

He likes your honesty. 

“When have you ever been normal around me, Y/N?” His light-hearted comment earns him a bashful smile from you, your thumb now tracing his cheekbone as he playfully gropes the part where your thigh connects to your ass. “Look, I’m not expecting anything. If you’re uncomfortable, we can go back to normal. You get your tutoring. I get my extra credit.” 

“And you’d be happy with that?” Good question.  

“I’m a big boy. If that’s what you want, then that’s what you want.” He offers a way out, but part of him hopes you don’t take it. 

“What if I don’t know what I want?” Your eyes close, a long sigh escaping through your nose. He wants nothing more than to make it easier for you. 

He smiles, conflicted. 

“Then… I dunno. I guess we figure it out.” He says it casual, like it’s nothing — but his stomach twists anyway. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

The drive back to yours is quiet. Not uncomfortable, but definitely unusual. Neither you nor Jeno are usually this quiet around each other but now your thoughts are too loud and so are your doubts.  

You barely register the car coming to a stop, having completely spaced out. It’s Jeno’s voice that brings you back to reality.  

“Is here fine?”  

“Hm? Yeah. Here’s great. Thanks for the lift.” His eyes are already on you when you look over at him, expectant and unsure. The corner of his mouth lifts subtly, a small smile forming as a response to your gratitude. 

“I’ll see you Tuesday?” The tapping of his fingers against the wheel sounds louder that it should.  

“Yeah. Tuesday.” 

“Cool.” 

“Cool.” You repeat dumbly, not sure how to approach your next words.  

“Are y-” 

“This shouldn’t happen again.” You blurt out and the tapping stops, his eyebrows raising slightly, but other than that, he remains calm.  

“Alright.” He nods understandingly. “It won’t.” The warmth and playfulness his voice held until this morning, long gone.  

“I’m sorry.”  

“What for? You didn’t do anything wrong.” He shrugs, his fake nonchalance sitting heavy in your stomach.  

“I dunno. I feel like-” 

“Y/N.” His hand finds your shoulder, hold grounding. “We’re good. Honest.” He turns in his seat, facing you better. “People have sex all the time. It’s not that deep.” He squeezes your shoulder once, barely there but you still feel it as his neutral smile does very little to convince you. Simply because it doesn’t reach his eyes. You hate this unfamiliar side of him.  

“It’s fine if you don’t wanna tutor me anymore.” 

“I do.” There’s no hesitation in his voice, touch reassuring. 

“You sure?” 

“I am. As long as you are.” Another subtle squeeze, now on your upper arm, his hand having slid down. “Plus...I really need the extra credit.” His playfulness is back, and you can’t hold back the sheepish smile that takes over your face.  

“Okay then.” You exhale, somewhat relieved.  

“Okay then.” He repeats, light-heartedly, the warm smile now reaching his eyes as his warm hand slides further down your arm before he completely retracts. The gesture should soothe you, but it somehow unsettles you.  

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Next time you see him is indeed Tuesday. Your regular first session of the week. And it’s all fine. It’s all normal. It’s all good.  

Until it isn’t.  

Until you see a text pop up on his screen. Yuna.  

We still on for tonight? It reads and you quickly avert your eyes back on the histogram displayed on your laptop screen. Something about a survey, a sample and frequencies. It’s all a mess now. Who the fuck is Yuna? And why is she texting him? What about tonight?  

You shouldn’t care. You really shouldn’t. But then he’s quickly typing a response you can’t see and he places his phone face down. Like it never happened.  

“What’d you get?” He interrupts your ridiculous thoughts as he leans over your shoulder to take a look at the scribbles on your notepad. “Correct formula. Wrong result.” 

“What? Why?” You’re more annoyed than you should be. His raised eyebrows betray his shock at your abrupt tone.  

“You’re asking me why you can’t count?” His smirk is worth slapping off. “Check your total number of observations again.” He taps his pen on the letter n and when you count again, you realise it’s 6 instead of 5. Great. You really can’t count.  

“That’s just a silly mistake.” 

“Which will cost you a whole lot of marks.” He does this thing where he twirls the pen between his index and middle finger, and it shouldn’t be that attractive. “You see, it’s not a matter of logic with you. You just need to concentrate.” He’s enjoying this too much. His smile audible.  

“I am concentrated.” You state stubbornly.  

“Concentrate better.”  

“Fuck off.”  

His lack of response causes you to look at him. His neutral eyes and pursed lips tell you he’s not going to entertain whatever argument you’re trying to start and that agitates you even more. So does his stupid cologne. And the fact that he’s so close still. His forearm is now resting on your notepad and all you can think of is how prettily it flexed when it was between your thighs.  

“Sorry.” You sigh, slumping back into your chair, looking around the quiet café. You need air and all you keep getting is his scent. It’s not fair.  

“Am I allowed to ask?” His tone is tentative, but present.  

“Ask what?”  

“What’s bothering you.” He starts going over what you’ve written on your notepad with his pen, overlining letters and numbers, following every curve. You glance at his profile for a moment and you’re thankful he’s now focused on the page in front of you.  

“Nothing is bothering me.” You cross your arms over your chest defensively.  

“Lie better.” The corner of his lips twitches as he keeps outlining, still not looking at you. Smug bastard.  

“Is it me?” He side-eyes you for a split second, gaze meeting yours before dropping back down to the mistaken 5 you wrote down earlier. It’s like an insult. 

“That’s awfully egotistical of you.” You challenge, making him struggle to hold back his smile. “What makes you think that?” 

He shrugs. “Just a hunch.”  

You lean over, elbow on the table, chin resting on your palm, closer now. “Not everything is about you, Jeno.” You say as calmly as possible.  

His pen comes to a halt. Eyes catching yours without backing down now.  

“As if you don’t think about me 24/7.” It’s a joke, but it’s not.  

“Is that what you tell yourself?” You shouldn’t give into it. Into his flirting. But he makes it almost impossible to behave.  

“Is it bad if I do?”  

“Not bad. You’re just wrong.”  

“Like your calculations.”  

“What?”  

“Solve it again. No calculator. Not like it helped you the first time anyway.” He leans back in his chair with an unbothered expression, pen dropping dismissively on your notepad as he resembles your stance, arms crossing over his buff chest. “Go on, I don’t have all day.” He points his chin to the page smugly. Did he just...play you? 

“Prick.”  

“Mhm.” 

Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? If so, then you’re astronomically fucked.  

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Two weeks go by. Four tutoring sessions with Jeno — all pure torture. But somehow, focusing on the calculations and formulas actually pays off. You don’t ask as many questions anymore, you get the correct results most of the time, and you even score 76% on the mock test Jeno printed out for you. 

A glimmer of surprise flashes across his face when he finishes grading, but it quickly softens into something pleased. Proud, almost.  

“Nice one,” he says, head bobbing in approval. “Let’s get to 80 next time.” 

You like that look on him. Like that he’s proud of you. You wish you could see it more often. 

But the wish evaporates the second you lay eyes on him tonight. Regret floods you for giving in to Mark’s pleas to come to this stupid party. As if the man needs a wingman — he always does fine on his own. And so does Jeno, by the looks of it. But you already knew that. So why does your chest tighten when you see a girl standing between his spread legs, his casual perch on the kitchen counter, plastic cup in one hand, the other tucked in his hoodie pocket? 

He’s not touching her, but her hands are on his thighs, and even from behind her head, you see his face clearly. Smirking, dark eyes checking her out as he sips his drink. There’s no trace of innocence in the way he’s looking at her. It’s the same way he looked at you that night in his room. 

You know you’re out of bounds. Yet jealousy gnaws at you, and you hate yourself for it. It shouldn’t affect you. You rejected him — or whatever that was. He should be the one pining, not you. But he’s fine, and here you are, still haunted by how warm and safe his body felt that morning. 

It’s unfair. 

Unfair in every way: the way he doesn’t spare you a glance, the way his eyes are fixed on her, the way he chuckles at whatever she says, the way he looks so good even while flirting with someone else. 

Hood up, fringe falling messily over his eyes. He looks soft but dangerous at the same time. Effortless. Sleeves pushed up, baggy cargos that only he can pull off. He’s hotter than ever — and she’s touching him. Not you. He’s looking at her. Not you. Laughing with her. Not you. Not you. Not you. 

“Dude, you’re staring.” Mark steps in, blocking your view of the kitchen and yanking you out of your trance. You groan, hiding your face in your hands. Maybe you’re being dramatic — but Mark won’t judge. He knows. “That bad, huh?” 

“Shut the fuck up.” You mumble into your palms, relaxing slightly as Mark wraps his arms around your shoulders, burying your face in his chest and lightly swaying you from side to side. 

“Awh c’mon… you’re good.” Mark shakes you playfully, helping your shoulders loosen. “It’s okay to be jealous.” He lowers his voice so only you can hear him. 

“This is not helping you with the babes, I’m sorry.” You wrap your arms around his waist, enjoying the comfort of your friend’s embrace — and you really shouldn’t — but you sneak a glance over his shoulder. Jeno is still there, the girl still perched between his legs, still talking. But his eyes are very clearly on you. Expression neutral, as always, never giving anything away. Yet if you were to guess, he looks conflicted — maybe a little annoyed. 

Fuck this. You refuse to stare, burying your face deeper into Mark’s neck instead. 

“Are you two planning on fucking tonight?” A boyish voice interrupts the moment. Pulling back, you see a boy standing next to you. You recognise him — always with Jeno or some girl you’d assume is his girlfriend. And he’s in your stupid stats class, too. 

“Dude, have some decorum.” Mark protests, keeping one arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully. “Y/N, this is Haechan. Haechan, this is Y/N.” 

“Hi, Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Weird, you decide. 

“Umm I don’t think I—” 

“No time for that. Beer pong. Me and my girl versus you two. In or out?” Haechan cuts you off, no hesitation. As much as his energy overwhelms you, a game that involves alcohol sounds like a perfect distraction. 

Mark looks over at you questioningly. 

“In.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Easy. That’s what beating Haechan and his girlfriend was. Too easy. And you’re currently obliterating Chenle and this boy, Renjun, who you’re pretty sure is Jeno’s housemate. 

You make the last shot. In. Some boys around the table cheer, some point fingers at the losing team, laughing at them. 

“Let’s fucking go!” Mark grabs your shoulders from behind, shaking you and you can’t help but laugh at his dramatics. 

“You just got lucky.” Haechan complains loudly. 

“You can’t get lucky twice.” You point out as you rearrange the cups back to a perfect pyramid shape. 

“You’re just a sore loser, dude.” Mark throws the ping pong ball at the weird boy, sticking his tongue out and Haechan looks like he’s had an epiphany. 

“Maybe you should play against our champions.” He says with a glint of mischief written all over his face. 

“Nah, I’m-” 

“Someone get Jeno and Jaemin.” Haechan interrupts you for the second time tonight and now he’s seriously starting to annoy you. 

“Someone else can take my spot.” You say nonchalantly as you place the last cup at the top of the pyramid. 

“Oh, grow up.” Haechan challenges again. 

“Get off my back. Respectfully.” 

“Didn’t think you’d be boring. Respectfully.” He’s hinting at something you can’t quite decipher, but somehow you know Jeno has something to do with it. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” You raise your voice a few decibels as you step closer to the annoying boy. 

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, like his words didn’t hold some cryptic meaning. 

“Care to elaborate?” You stand in front of him, arms crossing over your chest expectantly, eyebrow raising and he smirks. As though getting on your nerves is his newfound hobby. Seriously, what is this dude’s problem? 

“Oh, you know, just that you’re a-” 

“Yooo okay, let’s break it off.” Jeno’s voice cuts in before his friend can finish his sentence and suddenly, you’re being dragged away from the scene and the people that have gathered around without you noticing. You try to stand your ground, pulling away from the hand around your elbow and before you can approach smug Haechan again, Jeno stands in front of you. 

“Walk away. Right now. Please.” His expression is unreadable, but he’s definitely not pleased. You can figure that much out. 

“What’s it to you?” You challenge, suspicious of his involvement. 

His eyes close for a second, jaw clenching, as though he’s collecting himself and Haechan’s voice cuts through again. “Yeah, Jen-Jen, what’s it to you?” 

Jeno just steps closer to you, shielding you from his friend’s antics and before you have time to react, he’s dragging you away again. Hand tight around your wrist and you let him. Not before you look back, only to find Haechan wiggling his fingers at you in a playful wave and you can’t help but flip him off. His laugh is loud and if it weren’t for Jeno, the alcohol in your system would have prompted you to start a fight. How can someone be so irritating? 

Once you’re out in the back garden, you force your arm out of Jeno’s hold.  

“Chill.” His instruction makes your blood boil. 

“What the fuck!” You shout loud enough to get some heads turning, interrupting their smoking sessions. Jeno just chuckles, index and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. “What’s so funny?” You’re quieter now but you make sure to keep the cold tone on. 

“Are you a child?” He asks with an amused smile as he leans his weight against the wall and if you weren’t so pissed off, you’d swoon at how good he looks right now. 

“He started it.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s a child.” Jeno points out like it’s a fact you should be aware of. His hands are in the pockets of his hoodie and you realise how chilly it actually is. 

“I’m assuming he knows me as the slut who slept with his friend just to get over her ex.” You move to lean against the wall next to him and he snorts at your comment. 

“You know I don’t slut shame.” He says casually, his breath visible in the cold air. “Besides, is that what that was?” He’s looking down at his shoes as he kicks some pebbles into the grass. “Rebound sex?” 

“You know it wasn’t.” 

“So, why do you care about what Haechan thinks?” 

“Cause he’s your friend.” 

“He’s also a wind up.” Jeno turns his head to look down at you. “And you let him get to you.” 

“He’s fucking annoying is what he is.” You scan the garden as you rest your hands behind your back, preventing the concrete from digging into your ass. 

“Yeah, he’s for the thick skinned.” He says it with fondness, and it baffles you. “His girlfriend tolerates him just fine, so he must be doing something right.” 

“An unsolvable mystery.” You mumble and Jeno chuckles, though you weren’t really joking. 

There’s a pause. A comfortable silence between you, which in that moment you really appreciate. 

“Didn’t know you were that good at beer pong.” Jeno elbows your side playfully and you almost smile, but then you remember that the only reason you decided to play was to distract yourself from him and the girl who was feeling him up. 

“Surprised you even saw that.” It’s meant to be teasing, light-hearted. It’s anything but that. 

“Why’s that?” His tone is devoid of any playfulness now. 

“You just looked...busy.” You refuse to look at him but you feel his stare on your side profile. You feel hot all of a sudden. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut? 

“So?” 

“So, nothing. Just an observation.” You try your best to stay calm, but your pulse has increased significantly and you feel like throwing up. Jeno’s scoff is difficult to ignore. 

“I don’t get you, Y/N.” You’re still adamantly looking anywhere else but at him, but you can imagine his expression. He’s definitely doing that thing he does with his eyebrows when he’s confused. The one that makes him look like a puppy. And you hate yourself. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t.” You defend quickly. 

“Right.” 

“What do you want from me, Jeno?” You close your eyes in exasperation. 

“No. What do you want?” He moves to stand in front of you now, giving you no option but to look at him. “You fucking rejected me. You don’t get to be jealous. So why am in the wrong here?” 

God, you’re such an idiot. 

“What exactly did I reject?” 

“What?” Genuine confusion painted all over his face. 

“What did you expect? That we’d keep fucking and live happily ever after? I’m sorry, I don’t do that shit. I can’t.” Words leave before thought; regret floods instantly. You expect him to argue back, to shout, to react, but his next words hurt you even more. 

“Yeah, no, I’m not doing this.” He shakes his head in disbelief, a bitter laugh escaping. 

“Not doing what?” 

“I’m not gonna argue with you, when you’ve already come to your conclusions.” 

“So, I’m wrong then? Did you want a relationship with me? Did you wanna take me to bruch? Buy me flowers? Introduce me to your parents?” Silence. “You said it yourself. You were horny and I happened to be there. A girl doesn’t give you what you want and you act like your heart is broken. Boo-hoo, wah-wah, grow the fuck up.” 

For the first time in the four months you’ve known the boy in front of you, his face is not stoic. He looks enraged, disgusted even. “You’re a fucking joke, Y/N.” 

You don’t even know what can beat that. He’s right. 

He steps closer and you wish you weren’t backed up against the wall. He’s too close. “I don’t know who fucking hurt you, and I don’t give a shit quite frankly. What I do know is I’m not a punching bag and I don’t like games.” 

“I’m not playing a game.” 

“No?” His head tilts. 

“No.” Your voice comes out weak. He’s suffocating you and you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes. Your stomach heavy. 

“You say you don’t want me. Then you flirt with me every chance you get. You get moody whenever a girl’s name pops up on my phone. You hate when my attention isn’t on you. You get jealous. You make petty comments. You can’t even look at me right now. Should I go on?” 

Are you really that obvious? If you had balls, he’d have you by them. 

“I might fuck around, but at least I’m honest about what I want.” His index and middle finger poke you on the chest, right in the middle and he might as well carve your heart out at this point. “You’re the game player here. Not me.” He says quietly, but the words echo loudly in your head. 

You blink and there’s wetness dripping down your cheek and the only thing you can do is nod, eyes avoiding his again, the stamp on his hoodie a lot more interesting, but blurry as another tear escapes. It’s not sadness. It’s anger. You’re angry with yourself mostly, but also him. Because he confuses you. Because he makes you feel vulnerable. Because he makes your heart do things it shouldn’t. And he scares you. So much. The way he grounds you scares you. The way he always talks sense scares you. The way he understands you scares you. The way he sees you...it scares you. 

“Why are you crying?” There’s no malice laced with his words, just worry. A genuine question. Whispered. 

“I wanna go home.” If misery could be pictured, it would be you. You sound like a spoilt child that didn’t get their favourite toy on Christmas day. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t move and neither do you. You can feel his eyes on your face and you can’t help but look into them when his thumb wipes the tears off your cheek. His palm feels warm on your cold skin, soothing your heart and you wish you could bury your whole being in it. You just hide your face in it for now. 

“I don’t like you when you’re mean.” You sniffle a little, half aware that he’s stepped closer now. His familiar clean scent engulfs you and you sigh in contentment. Your hands instinctively grab onto each side of his hoodie pocket and when you look up at him, you can tell he’s trying to fight off a smile. His features are on the softer side again, puppy-like. The fairy lights reflect on his eyes, illuminating tiny little star-like specks. 

“Don’t make me act mean then.” His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear. Your pride wants you to push him away, but for some reason you let him touch you. You also let your forehead rest on his sternum, and you let his arms wrap around your shoulders, hugging you into him, into his warmth. The embrace is very similar to the one Mark gave you earlier, but so different in so many ways. It calms you like no other hug ever could. Like no one could ever compare. And maybe no one can. 

“Are you still mad?” Your question is muffled by the fabric of his jumper, cheek squished against his chest, eyes closed as you bask in the proximity. 

“Mhm.” He answers a little too quickly for your liking, but his arms tighten a little more around you and you can’t fight off the tiny smile that threatens to take over your face. 

“Do you still like me?” You feel him tense just then and your arms wrap around his middle in fear of him pulling away. 

“I mean...” You feel his chest move as he exhales loudly, his chin rests on your head. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Good.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

It’s two days later that you decide to face the problem that is Lee Jeno. A normal late Sunday afternoon. You’ve done your shopping for the week, gone over some lecture notes, caught up on all your uni emails, procrastinated, even gone on a run to convince yourself that you didn’t just sit around all day. You send the text before you can talk yourself out of it, and when 15 minutes go by without a response, you start to regret it. 

Are you busy tonight? 

The screen laughs in your face each time you check your phone and see no new notification. Why did you decide to act brave tonight? Why are you so stupid? Of course he’s busy. He’s probably in bed with that Yuna girl, altering her brain chemistry like he did yours. You wonder if he cuddles all the girls he sleeps with like he cuddled you. All careful and possessive. 

You’re about to change into your pyjamas when you hear it. 

Ding. 

Jeno: just got back from the gym  Jeno: need a shower and then i can be free  Jeno: how come? 

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Do you reply now, or should you give it some time? Make him wait like he made you wait? NO. No games. He said it himself. 

You: come to mine?  You: gigi and mark are out  You: we can talk  You: you want  You: *if 

Your fingers are shaking so much you forgo typing a whole word and you can only hope he’s not laughing at you when you send the correction. Five long minutes go by before he replies again. 

Jeno: i want  Jeno: gimme 30 mins 

You snort at the text mocking your typo. Of course he won’t pass an opportunity to tease you. He definitely knows you’re shitting bricks. 

You react with a thumbs up before you start pacing around your apartment, looking for things to do until he arrives. 

First you wash up the few forgotten mugs in the kitchen sink. Then you reorganise the cereal boxes that Giselle and Mark always mess up. 

He texts you a simple omw when you’re contemplating whether you should put on jeans or keep your joggers on. You decide on the latter. No need to try hard. 

He knocks when you’ve just finished brushing your teeth for the second consecutive time, which you’re starting to regret because your gums sting now. 

You take a deep breath before opening the door and when you do, he’s standing right there, hands in his pockets, looking effortlessly cool as ever. His signature look. Attire matches yours: big hoodie and baggy joggers, emitting comfort and softness. 

His eyes scan you like yours scan him. Head to toe. “Cute socks.” He nods in approval and when you look down at your feet, you realise you’re wearing fuzzy Christmas socks with little mistletoes on them. Great. “Swear Christmas was like a month ago.” 

“They’re warm.” You step aside to let him in, and he quickly takes his shoes and jacket off by the door before trailing toward the living room area. You observe him as he carefully places his thick jacket on the back of the sofa. He inspects the room like he’s never been in your apartment before. It feels oddly domestic when he’s not here for a tutoring session. 

You set your phone on silent and quickly notice the time. Apart from the fact that he’s five minutes early, it dawns on you that it’s dinner time. 

“You hungry?” The words slip before you can stop them, and he swiftly turns around to look at you. You’re still leaning against the door as he plops down on the sofa armrest. 

“I could eat.” He shrugs with a lopsided smile. He looks so boyfriend-coded like this. So warm and soft. Just lounging around your living room. “Unless you’re cooking.” His eyes are full of mischief, smile cheeky. 

“I mean, I was thinking of ordering, but you can starve if you’re gonna insult me in my own home.” 

He ends up placing the order. Something about a deal on his Deliveroo, but you know he just didn’t want you paying. Just like when he never lets you pay for your coffee but complains when you occasionally pay for his. 

He’s munching on a dumpling when you’ve run out of things to talk about. You’ve covered the hangover you were both nursing the day before, his gym session and how he got hit on by a guy, your running session and how you got drenched by the rain, the stats chapter you’ll be entering next week, the fact that you both have a seminar tomorrow morning, the fact that you might skip. You talk about anything and everything but what you both really want to talk about. 

“Did you stay long on Friday after I left?” You ask casually as you blow on your spring roll to help cool it down. 

He shakes his head. “Nah. You left at the right time. It was dead after.” He drops his chopsticks on his plate and grabs a napkin for his hands. 

“What about the girl you were with?” It slips. But at least it doesn’t sound malicious. Your eyes meet for half a second and you almost laugh at the side-eye he gives you. 

“Still not over that?” He leans back on the sofa, getting more comfortable, legs spreading a little as he sips on his water. 

“It’s just a question. Don’t deep it.” You take a sip of your own water before turning your body completely toward him, legs criss-crossing, arm resting on the back of the sofa. 

He pulls his hood up as he slides a little further down the cushions, almost as though you’ve put him on the spot and he’s trying to hide. You find it amusing. “Nothing happened if that’s what you’re asking.” No glance toward you still; he’s too busy trying to stabilize the half-empty water bottle on his stomach and only when he fails for the third time does he look at you. 

“Why?” 

He shrugs. “Wasn’t really my type.” 

You nod. “Didn’t realize you had one of those.” You twirl one of your rings with your thumb. You feel nervous suddenly but choose to push your sarcasm forward. 

He blinks, unamused. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?” 

“I judged you.” You say quickly, refusing to back down now. His eyebrows tense a little, emitting confusion for just a second. “And I’m sorry.” You chew on the inside of your cheek as you wait for a response. 

He nods just once before averting his attention to the bottle again. “You’re not the first or the last person to do that.” 

“I have trouble seeing the good in people.” You avert your eyes to the loose thread on your sleeve. It’s difficult staying afloat when he looks at you the way he always does. Like you’re easy to read. 

“Yeah, I gathered that.” You detect a smile in his tone and you hate that you don’t have to see it to know it’s there. You expect him to ask why. He doesn’t; you sense his contemplative eyes on you still. A beat of silence passes and you find yourself trapped in it, struggling to utter more words. He helps with the worst possible question. “Why did you sleep with me, Y/N?” 

“Don’t say it like that.” You let out a humourless laugh. 

“Like what?” There’s expectancy in his voice. His restraint is slowly breaking. 

“Like I lured you in or something.” You pull the loose thread harder. He lets out a short laugh. It sounds accidental. 

“Just answer the question.” He taps on the plastic bottle as if to get your attention. “And look at me.” His eyebrows lift momentarily when you do, like a greeting. The situation seems awfully comical—or maybe it’s the fact that you struggle to stay serious in serious situations. He mirrors your barely-there smile regardless. 

“There’s not just a single reason.” You can’t be more honest than that. 

“Okay, so name three.” He holds his thumb, index, and middle finger up, wiggling them as he waits for you to start listing. “Go on.” He nods when he senses your hesitation. 

You sigh dramatically as you look around the room, like the answers are hidden in the furniture. “I guess you’re attractive.” 

“That doesn’t count. I want profound stuff.” 

You scoff. “Since when?” You raise an eyebrow and his pointed look makes you back down, his three fingers waving slightly, demanding. 

“You made me feel comfortable.” 

Middle finger down. 

“I was intrigued.” 

Pointer down. He nods again when you pause for too long. It takes everything not to look down, but you don’t. 

“Felt right.” 

“And now it doesn’t?” He’s quick. No hesitation. No whys and hows. He sits up and turns to look at you properly, mirroring your position. One arm drapes over the back of the sofa while the other holds onto the water bottle still, one leg folded under him, the other hanging off the sofa. You like that he’s comfortable in your vicinity; it calms the turmoil inside you. 

“It does. It’s just confusing.” You admit. His eyes look more alive now. 

“What’s so confusing? People fancy each other. They fuck. They either make it a thing or they don’t.” For someone who normally reads you in no time, he seems to be struggling now. 

“Jen, this isn’t stats. It’s not that simple.” You smile fondly at his confusion. “Besides, what exactly is this thing we could make it into?” You can almost see the gears spinning in his head. This, he doesn’t seem to have an answer for. 

“This might sound wild, but I happen to know what dating is.” His widened eyes evoke a laugh out of you. Maybe he did have an answer after all. 

“You wanna date me.” You deliver the question in deadpan tone. 

He tilts his head a little. “Would that be so terrible?” 

You purse your lips in thought. Would it? “Do you understand what that entails?” God, you sound so condescending. Like a middle-aged person. 

“God forbid we go somewhere other than a café and talk about something other than stats.” The sarcasm in his voice makes you roll your eyes. Mostly because it makes him sound hot. You almost flinch when he shuffles closer, his knee touching yours. He drops the bottle he’s been fiddling with somewhere behind him and his fingers find yours in a heartbeat. Like he didn’t even think about it. Like it’s reflex. 

“That’s not what I mean.” You know he knows, but you say it anyway. Your eyes find your hand in his, thumb stroking your knuckles gently before gliding over a ring, finding a new toy to fiddle with. 

“I’ll be good to you.” You bring your gaze to his face. He looks almost shy, eyes on your hands and if the lighting were stronger, you might have been able to spot the blush on his cheeks better. You imagine it for now. “I don’t expect you to trust me from the get-go.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second. “But maybe— you know—maybe eventually...” He looks up, scanning your face for a reaction, which you try tremendously hard not to give because you just happen to love a pathetic man. He’s unsure, but he’s trying. You’ll give him that. 

“Ask me properly.” You squeeze his fingers once and he has the cutest look of hope on his face. 

“You’re going on a date with me.” 

“I said ask—” 

“I’m telling you.” He tugs on your arm playfully and you can’t help but gleam at his unusually playful antics. 

“Alright.” 

“Cool.” 

“Now get out of my house.” 

“Sorry?” Genuine surprise takes over his features; eyebrows furrowed to the maximum, eyes wide. 

“You’re not staying the night.” You pat his thigh as you get up and start picking up the takeout boxes lying scattered on your coffee table. 

“Why not?” He sounds almost offended. You laugh quietly as you walk into the kitchen. 

“You’re just not.” He hasn’t moved from his spot on the sofa when you look back at him. 

“I won’t try anything.” 

Your pointed look forces the corners of his mouth to curl into a mischievous smile. “I’ll just cuddle you.” 

“Next joke.” 

“You really think I’m not capable of keeping it in my pants?” You don’t even bother responding to his silly question. 

When you approach him again, you stand in front of him and with the way he looks up at you, it takes a lot to not just get on your knees for him. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” You admit, hinting at something he catches on quickly, his pleased smile difficult to miss. 

He moves closer, warm hands engulfing the backs of your knees, his hood dropping as he cranes his neck to gaze up at you with pretty eyes. He looks almost innocent like this. So handsome. “At least give me a kiss.” 

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders, looking for support as he pulls you closer, between his spread legs. This screams anything but innocent, and the way he nuzzles his face against your tummy has your breath hitching. You bury a hand in his hair, nails lightly scratching as he breathes you in. 

“Just one, yeah?” Your quiet offer makes him look up again, eyes finding yours in an instant, chin resting on your lower abdomen. Who knew Lee Jeno could look so submissive and sexy at the same time. 

“Just one. And I’ll fuck off before you know it.” You should tease him. Make him beg. But he looks too good for that. Too insatiable. And you can always make him beg another day. 

You do exactly what you said you wouldn’t do. You get on your knees, between his spread ones, and now it’s you that has to look up at him. Your hands find his strong thighs and the thought that enters your mind isn’t a pleasant one. Envy flickers for a moment, remembering the girl from two nights ago, standing between his legs in a very similar position. But then you see how he looks at you and envy becomes want. He didn’t look at her like that, nowhere near. 

His hands fall on top of yours before trailing up your arms and you drag your knees across the carpet to get closer. Your noses touch when his palms engulf each side of your neck, thumbs tracing your jawline, fingers reaching your nape, his touch making your knees feel weak as your heart beats faster, and you’re worried he can feel it through your pulse points. 

“You know,” His top lip grazes your bottom one lightly and you can’t help but bite onto the spot he touched. “You’re doing a bit too much for just one kiss.” 

“You either want it, or you don’t.” You match his low tone; afraid you’ll break the trance you both seem to be in, your fingers lightly squeezing his thigh muscles in encouragement. 

You see his smirk and then you don’t. Your eyes drop shut the second his mouth is on yours, claiming. His palms feel warm on your cheeks, his lips soft on yours but demanding, thighs tensing under your wandering hands, and you feel dizzy as you let him tilt your head as he pleases, let his tongue in your mouth, let him taste you. It’s wet and it’s loud and it’s hot, the neurons in your brain already useless. 

You really should pull away, not give in to him so easily, but one hand is in your hair now, tugging, the other around your throat, gentle but assertive, and the whimper you let out is embarrassing. Your hands clench around the fabric of his joggers; your pussy around nothing, and that’s when you abruptly push him away, hands on his firm chest. You think your ears deceive you, but you swear Lee Jeno just whined. A needy, pathetic whine. So beautiful. It makes something coil in your chest, a pulse of heat you didn’t expect, a reminder of just how much power he has over you in a single sound. 

His back is against the sofa cushions now, and he looks defeated, chest visibly moving. “You’re a fucking menace.” 

You laugh a little too loudly at how out of breath he sounds, as though he didn’t just have full control of that kiss. His lips are shiny, a darker shade of their usual pink, and you lick at yours, realizing they must be just as wet. You can still taste him, and your walls flutter around emptiness again. You’re tempted to look down and check whether he’s also affected, but you withhold. That would make things so much worse. 

“I promised one kiss. I gave it to you.” You pat his thighs gently, and his hands catch yours again, fingers interlocking this time. It’s your heart that flutters this time. 

“Alright, Dua Lipa.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno has always known you’re trouble. He’s always pitied the guy you’ll end up with—or anyone who falls for you. Not because you’re not a catch, but because he views you as someone hard to say no to. And now… he’s exactly the kind of guy he pities. He’s never thought of himself as a weak man. But here he is, walking you home after your regular Tuesday session, pretending he’s listening to your rant about some professor who hates you and struggling not to make his fascination obvious. Because he really is fascinated—by the way you move your hands, the way you furrow your eyebrows in frustration, the way you swear a little too much when you’re stressed, and the way you say “what the fuck,” because what the fuck is wrong with him? 

He can’t stop thinking about how adorable you looked earlier when you drew a Venn diagram correctly, how your eyes lit up when you got his validation, how you gasped when the only thing he said was “good job.” Not because he has some weird claim on you, but because he likes how determined you are to do well. And he likes that he’s helping you. But most of all, he likes that you’re succeeding. Jeno is positive you don’t even need his help to pass the module anymore, but he can’t bring himself to tell you that just yet—simply because he likes that you want his help. 

It’s been two days since that obliterating kiss, and Jeno keeps pondering. You. How you got on your knees. How you touched him. How you sounded. How easily you ruined him with just one kiss. He knows he’s already slept with you, but for some reason, that kiss beats any other moment he’s had with you. It was too good. Too much. And oh, what he would give to experience that again. 

“You free this Friday?” The question slips mid-thought, and the silence that follows makes him turn his head to look at you. He struggles not to laugh at your dumbfounded expression, pursing his lips to control the smile that threatens to take over his face. 

“You weren’t listening just now, were you?” You scold, though the tone of amusement is still evident. 

“Nah. Not really.” He blatantly admits, getting a kick out of annoying you. 

“Dickhead.” You huff in the cutest way possible. 

“Friday.” He repeats stubbornly as you’re nearing your building. “Free or not?” 

“What exactly am I walking into here?” You ask carefully, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

“An orgy.” 

“Yeah, alright, get me involved.” Your bored tone shouldn’t make him smile. 

He sighs in annoyance, because there’s no way you don’t know what he’s hinting at. “I wanna take you out, you pleb.” 

“Pleb?” 

He groans dramatically. “Oh my god—” 

“I’m actually not.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not free on Friday. I promised Gigi I’d do movie night.” No way. Fuck that. There’s no way he’s asking you out and you’re rejecting him. 

“You serious? You’re blowing me off for some movie night?” He knows he should tone it down. He’s sounding hurt, and it’s not that deep. It shouldn’t be. 

“I’m not blowing you off—” 

“You so are. Royally.” He can’t help but feel a little defeated. He’s never winning with you. 

“I can do Saturday.” You say with a hopeful tone, and Jeno feels some relief at the fact that you’re not entirely rejecting him. 

“I said I’d go to this stupid party on Saturday.” He grumbles. He doesn’t even want to go, but you’re not willing to cancel your plans for him. So why should he? 

“Right, well… we’ll have to do next week then.” The disappointment in your voice makes his heart jump and his stomach clench. Why do you keep doing that? Until now, it was his head. Now, you’re messing with his heart and stomach too? It’s unfair. 

“Why don’t you come with me?” He offers, hoping it doesn’t make him seem weak. Although he knows that’s exactly what he is—a weak, needy, pathetic man. For you. 

“To your stupid party?” You almost sound offended, and now he regrets even asking. 

“Yeah.” He sighs as you both come to a halt outside your building. It’s dark already, and the streetlights reflect prettily on your face, accentuating your features. Your nose is a little red from the cold, and you’re in thought, teeth catching your bottom lip as you consider his invitation. 

“That’s not really taking me out though, is it?” You try shyly. You never tiptoe around things. And Jeno hates that he loves that. 

“I just want to spend time with you, Y/N.” He attempts to lower his guard a little but realizes how awfully intimate his words sound. Oh well. “We can show face for a bit, and then we can just fuck off if it’s boring, go somewhere else.” 

“Where?” 

“Disneyland.” He deadpans again, trying to put on the fakest smile he can, but unintentionally, it transforms into a genuine one. He blames the cute way you roll your eyes at him. So unamused. 

“Wow, you’re on a roll today. How will I ever recover from this laughter?” You sound bored, but he sees how hard you’re trying to hold back your smile. 

“God, you’re annoying.” And he’s not lying. You are so fucking annoying. And so fucking pretty. He blames the streetlights. And his stupid heart. 

You outright laugh at his exasperation, and Jeno finds himself in a predicament. He could ignore you, move on with the conversation, or he could shut you up. It’s an easy decision. 

The cute sound of surprise you let out when his lips crash onto yours is imprinted on his brain, and so is your soft touch on his chest, and so is the way you kiss him back, matching his eagerness, and so is your taste, and so is the way your body molds into his. It all just fits perfectly. You fit perfectly. 

Your nose feels cold against his cheek, but the back of your neck feels hot against his frosty fingers, and he wonders when it became such a normal thing for him to notice details like that. A kiss is a kiss. There shouldn’t be any science behind it. That’s what he always thought. Until that night you sat with him on the carpet at the foot of his bed. 

A wet smooching sound echoes in the cold of the evening when he pulls away, and he can’t fight his smile seeing how you lean closer, chasing after his lips. 

“Come.” He whispers, both your breaths visible. 

“Huh?” You sound lost, blinking quickly as though adjusting back to reality. Did he just kiss you, stupid? 

“On Saturday. Come with me.” He sounds like he’s begging now, and he hates it. That’s what it’s come to. 

He trails his hands down your arms, over your thick jacket, and the bashful expression on your face makes his pulse fasten as he threads his fingers through yours. 

“Okay. I’ll come.” Success. 

“Good.” He leans down, leaving another chaste kiss on your lips before he can chicken out, and then, as you’re about to speak, he’s walking away. 

“Dude, what th—” 

“You better have that mock test ready for Thursday!” He shouts over his shoulder, and he wishes his resolve was stronger, but he can’t fight the need to look back. And the confusion on your cute face is so worth it. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

There you are. A few feet away from him, in this crowded space, conversing with some girls he’s never met before. So confident, carrying yourself so gracefully, your laugh audible and sweet. So sweet, so intoxicating, so heart-wrenching. 

He brought you here. And for some reason, he expected you to not leave his side; to crowd him, to be needy and demand his attention. As always, he was mistaken. He should know by now, you’re not like most girls he’s associated himself with. But he’s a fool. A fool who keeps misjudging you and putting you in the same basket as everyone else. 

And there you always are. Proving him wrong every single time. 

“What’s with the long face?” Haechan’s voice cuts through Jeno’s trail of thought. 

“No long face.” Jeno quickly dismisses the accusation. “Just thinking.” 

“Thinking at a party? You must be in serious trouble.” As much of a smart-ass as his friend can be, he’s got the tendency of being right most of the time. And just like now, he’s always smug about it, the irritating smirk on his face proof. 

“Fuck off.” Jeno mutters, always harmless. “Don’t you have a girlfriend to bless with your annoying-ass face?” 

“And bless her I shall.” Haechan sings, making Jeno snort at his silliness. “Quit yearning and just go talk to her, you dumb-ass bitch. You look like you’ve seen a litter of dead puppies.” Haechan whispers aggressively as he walks away swiftly, before Jeno can have the pleasure of shoving him. 

“Wet wipe.” Jeno curses under his breath as he watches his friend lovingly wrap his arms around his girlfriend, his face nuzzling into her neck as she smiles bright. It’s sweet and it’s disgusting, and the undeniable feeling of envy fills Jeno. He’s envious of them both. Because as disgusting as they can be, they’re happy. And they don’t fail to remind him every fucking second. 

When Jeno redirects his vision to you, he’s met with your eyes, and you shatter him with the sweetest smile you’ve ever given him. And there goes his poor heart again. His lips move on their own, returning the gesture without permission, and when you extend your hand in his direction, wordlessly asking him to join you, there goes his stomach. His legs seem to work on their own, because in a few seconds, he’s pushing himself off the wall, crossing the room, and in a few more, Jeno’s got your hand in his. 

“Hey.” You greet quietly, with a small squeeze around his fingers. 

“Hey, yourself.” He instinctively pulls you closer into his side and you smile wider, looking down bashfully, the group you were chatting with long forgotten behind you. 

“Having fun?” You seem genuinely interested, and for some reason, Jeno feels weak. Words don’t come easily in that moment, so he just shrugs, nose scrunching a little.

“You?” 

“Eh, I’m too sober.” The way you wrap both arms around his has him in a chokehold, and Jeno looks around at the chaos of the party, then back down at you. 

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks, relieved that your eyes light up with hope. 

“Disneyland?” You tease, a tiny smirk adorning your face. Jeno chews on his bottom lip to prevent his own smile. 

“Disneyland.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno’s place is relatively tidy compared to last time you were there. Some books are scattered here and there, a plant struggling to stay alive in the corner, a used-up mug on the coffee table. Though very evident that it’s a boys’ house, you can smell the laundry detergent. It’s messy but clean, and for some reason, that makes you feel a sense of warmth. 

“Not as bad as I thought it would be.” You twirl your finger in the air, gesturing at the space as you walk further inside the living room. 

He snorts as he takes off his shoes, placing them next to yours. “Did you expect a crack den?” 

“Sure looked like one last time.” You stand in front of the bookshelves, scanning all the titles they’ve collected. “I’m assuming these aren’t all yours.” 

“And why would you assume that?” He’s standing a lot closer than you thought; you can almost feel his body heat seeping through your thick jumper. 

“Dunno.” You stay put, refusing to turn around and look at him. “You don’t strike me as much of a reader.” 

He lets out a short laugh, his breath hitting the back of your neck. Oh, he’s close—close. 

“And what do I strike you as?” His fingers make contact with the back of your hand, lightly tracing until his index hooks around your pinky. The gesture feels a lot more intimate than it should, and even though it’s the least sexual thing anyone could do, you feel yourself getting hot. 

“As someone who reads because they should, not because they want to.” 

“Wow.” His whisper hits your ear as his thumb fumbles gently with the ring you’ve got on your pinky. “You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?” 

“Not really, no.” Your breath hitches slightly as he wraps his other arm around your middle, pulling you flush against him. His chest feels hard against your back, and his breathing is definitely a lot more stable than yours, but his heartbeat doesn’t match his calmness. It’s oddly comforting. 

He doesn’t stall when you turn around. His lips instantly find yours. No teasing, no hesitation. 

He’s everywhere. 

You feel him everywhere, and your heart hurts from the intensity. From how gentle he is. From how slow he kisses you compared to all the other times. 

You’re worried he can feel the heat radiating off your skin when his hand cradles your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone so delicately you feel hysterical. The whimper you let out seems to encourage him as he tilts his head a little, deepening the kiss, and you can’t help but part your lips more, desperate to taste him. 

Your hands slither up to his hair, threading through the short strands, and a moan escapes from your throat when he pushes you into the bookshelf, his tongue obscenely licking into your mouth, tangling with yours in a wet mess. 

“You hungry?” He mutters into the kiss, clearly with no intention of pulling away, but your arms circle his neck, holding him closer—just in case he made the unacceptable choice of stopping. 

“Mm-mm.” Your refusal vibrates between your mouths as you kiss him harder, his uncoordinated breathing egging you on as you walk him backward, blindly leading your tangled bodies to the sofa. 

“Thirsty?” He’s smiling as he lets you guide him, his hands grabbing onto your hips, refusing to put space between your bodies. 

“No.” You clumsily stumble over your feet, and his arms around you help you regain your balance, his light chuckle hitting you on the lips, breath hot against you, as he harshly lands on the sofa cushions, eagerly helping you straddle him as though being apart from you is unfathomable. 

“Guessing you’re not tired either.” He barely gets to finish the sentence before a grunt leaves him; your fingers pulling harshly at his hair as you shamelessly shove your tongue in his mouth, easily shutting him up. He slumps against the sofa with a sigh against your lips, hands limply resting on your ass as he lets you take control. 

“What about you? You tired?” You break the kiss with a loud, wet smack, your hand around his neck preventing him from trailing after you. You tighten your hold when he attempts to move again, and you revel in the sight of his confused expression. It's almost like a newfound pleasure, like it’s something he didn’t know he wanted until now. You can tell by the tensing of his eyebrows, the quick blinking of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the clawing at your ass cheeks. 

He’s never been put in his place before, and it shows. 

“Answer me.” You instruct seductively, lips brushing his as you grind down on the very evident erection suffocating in his jeans. 

“Fuck—no. I’m not fucking tired.” He grits, nostrils flaring in annoyance, and his harsh expression earns a smirk from you as you make sure to press harder on the sides of his neck. A mean laugh tumbles out of you as his resolve breaks, eyes rolling back the second you grind down again, the fabric of your jeans rubbing against your throbbing clit deliciously, but you ignore the pleasure, focusing on how responsive Jeno’s body has suddenly become. 

He could easily overpower you, take matters into his own hands, ruin you if he wanted to, and that knowledge turns you on a lot more than it should. Because he’s actively choosing to be submissive. He’s silently asking to be choked, succumbing to the power you didn’t know you held over him. Until now. 

“You’re kinda pathetic, Jen.” You whisper in his ear, his moan vibrating between your chests as you leave a little kiss on his cheek. “It’s cute.” 

“Fuck off.” 

You’re not sure if it was meant to come out harsh, but it’s far from it. It’s whiny and breathless. 

“That’s mean.” You coo at him, another soft kiss left on his cheek before a theatrical pout takes place on your lips. “You promised you’d be good to me.” 

“You’re the one who’s being mean.” His head turns so he can look at you, arms wrapping tightly around you, and you can’t help but loosen your hold around his throat. 

He’s blinking slowly, breathing shallowly, and you swear his hazy eyes are going to be the death of you. He looks weak and sweet and so fucked out, and if it weren’t for the next words that leave his mouth, you would have held your ground. 

“I like you.” He whispers. So casual but so lethal at the same time. “A lot.” 

You sit up a little, and he follows after you, arms tightening around you as he buries his face in your chest, sighing heavily, making your heart go crazy. He can definitely feel it. 

“Say something.” His words are muffled against the fabric of your jumper, and you can’t tell when exactly you started stroking his hair, both hands softly threading. 

“I like you too.” You murmur in his hair, inhaling the boyish but sweet smell of his shampoo, and you smile when his shoulders visibly relax. 

“Stay tonight.” 

You know what he’s asking, and when he looks up at you, you also know it’s game over. 

You give him a little nod before leaving a chaste kiss on his lips, his surprised expression making you feel giddy. “I’ll stay.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Lee Jeno is a lot of things.  

He’s stubborn and annoying and cocky at times and he’s annoyingly smart and good with numbers which makes him a good tutor. He’s nice at times too, and funny and oddly endearing. He’s also incredibly hot, and cute, even though he hates being called that.  

But you’ve always known those things.  

What you didn’t know is how incredibly and unfairly good he is at giving head. Out of this world good. And as much as you hate it you also can’t help but love it. What you love the most, however, is how much he seems to love it. 

“Holy shit, Jen, slow down.” You pant, thighs shaking in overstimulation, your body trying to comprehend the intense orgasm it just went through, but Jeno doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck.  

“Shut up and keep your legs open.” He mutters into your drenched pussy, arousal and spit coating the lower half of his face, the scene before you incriminating as you struggle to do as he says with a pathetic whine.  

“I’m too sensitive, you psycho.” Your futile attempt to harshly pull at his hair, backfires as he shoves two fingers in your dripping hole, a string of spit landing on your clit, thumb replacing his tongue in harsh circles. His fingers reach deeper than yours ever have, stimulating the sensitive spot inside your walls with ease.  

“Don’t want my tongue? Fine. You’re taking my fingers.” His hand is thrusting roughly, digits barely pulling out as he creates a vibration-like motion, abusing your g-spot like nobody’s business.  

“Oh my god!” Your screech is embarrassing, and so is the way your trembling fingers grip his bedsheets. What really is mortifying, though, is how loud your cunt is. The lewd sounds are almost offensive to your dignity, which seems to be out the window by now. You feel too hot, sweat dripping down your temples and you wish you had the energy to take off your top, the intense pleasure clouding all your senses. 

“Just accept that you’re gonna cum again.” The sweet kiss he leaves on your inner thigh highly contrasts the way he’s violently fucking into your sopping cunt and you can’t help but give into it. Because he’s right. You’re going to cum again. “There we go, baby, just take it.”  

“Fuck, it’s too much, y-you're too deep.” You cry, asking for a little bit of mercy that doesn’t seem likely to come your way.  

“You’re dripping though.” His hot breath fans on your centre, free hand pressing into your belly, holding you hostage. “Literally ruining my sheets.”  

His humiliating words do something to you, and unfortunately, he seems to notice the way you clench around his fingers, the way your back arches a little more. “Thought you didn’t like me being mean, baby.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Your voice comes out whiny, no threat laced in it whatsoever, and his laugh is sinister, openly mocking your desperate state, pushing you over the edge unexpectedly. “Fuck, I’m cumming.”  

Your body tenses, chest heaving, walls clamping down on his fingers, forbidding any further movement, but his thumb is relentless, rubbing your poor clit through your high. 

“Shit, baby.” He whispers, the sound barely reaching your buzzing ears. Your eyes are squeezed shut and you reach for anything that can pull back to the surface. Your nails dig into his arm, the one draped over your stomach and he quickly laces his fingers with yours, understanding what you need. “You’re good. I’ve got you.” He trails gentle kisses up and down your thigh, the action soothing, helping you back to a more coherent state. 

“I fucking hate you.” You pant. No irritation in your tone, just defeat and deliriousness. 

He chuckles against your skin, fingers slowly pulling out of your heat. “No, you don’t.”  

Your hands instinctively caress his hair as he starts dragging your top up your torso, a kiss left on every newly uncovered inch of skin. You help him by sitting up a little, arms raising and then hands finding his face as soon as the garment is off, pulling him in for a slow kiss he so easily gives into. You can feel his grin, and it makes you chuckle softly against his lips but neither of you pulls away.  

Within seconds, your back arches, making room for his hands as they unclasp your bra and once it’s gone, you eagerly wrap your arms around his neck, craving to feel his skin on yours, sighing at the way your sensitive nipples drag against his warm chest.