i will tell you now, my echo

A silver eyed woman smiled down from the screen before the image shifted to the imperial crest burning gold against black. Y/N looked away immediately, remembering how her grandfather used to like telling the story of how he remembered the day the aliens came. The thought drifted through her head automatically, familiar after years of hearing it repeated at tiny dinner tables and during blackouts and every time someone in the underground got too hopeful. He was eight years old. He said the ships blocked out the sun. That they had been peaceful in the beginning. Until they weren’t. That was 74 years ago. He used to tell the story softly near the end. Like if he spoke too loudly the empire itself might hear him. How humans welcomed them at first. How the aliens arrived speaking of knowledge, trade, medicine, peace between worlds. How they looked almost human back then too. Just… better. Ethereal. Beautiful enough to make people trust them immediately. Then came the laws. Then came the military. Then came the emperor before Garus. And by the time humanity realized what was happening, Earth already belonged to someone else.

Y/N stepped around a leaking pipe as two workers argued nearby over credits. Further down the corridor, a group of human workers lowered their heads as three alien officers walked through the market. The crowd shifted instinctively around them, conversations dimming just slightly. Fear still lived here. The officers barely looked at anyone. Tall. Beautiful. One shaded a light blue, the other pale. Silver insignias gleaming beneath market lights. The blue one laughed at something the pale one said as they passed. Y/N’s jaw tightened unconsciously as a child darted past her through the crowd holding a glowing toy ship probably stolen from one of the upper markets. Somewhere nearby, someone cursed as electricity flickered. Above the underground, another transport ship rumbled overhead. She stopped near a vendor station glowing blue beneath faulty lights. “Two wraps,” she muttered, sliding credits across the counter. The old woman behind it gave her a tired look. “Prices went up again.”

“Again?”

“Imperial tax.”

Of course it was. Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose and handed over another credit chip as above them, one of the giant screens flickered again. This time the imperial family appeared. The emperor and his son. The crowd’s reaction was immediate. Some humans looked away while others stared openly. Emperor Garus stood at the center in dark ceremonial robes threaded with gold, calm faced and impossibly composed even through static interference. Beside him stood Crown Prince Mingi. Y/N only glanced once before regretting it immediately. Tall. Broad shouldered. Silver blond hair swept back from his face. He had a faint pale marking near his right eye that caught the light like liquid metal beneath skin. Royal blood. Even through a damaged screen he looked unreal. Like something designed instead of born.

A reporter spoke rapidly in alien dialect beneath subtitles discussing trade expansions and upper sector construction projects. “Pretty, isn’t he?” the vendor muttered absentmindedly as Y/N grabbed the food wraps from the counter. “He’s an alien,” she said flatly and disappeared back into the crowd beneath the glow of Solaria Prime. The lower district quieted slightly the deeper Y/N moved into the residential sectors. Not quieter in sound. Quieter in energy. The market chaos faded behind her, replaced with cramped hallways lit by weak strips of flickering overhead light. Old pipes lined the ceilings like exposed veins, dripping occasionally onto rust stained floors. Apartment doors stacked one over another climbed upward through the massive underground structure, thousands of tiny living spaces crammed together beneath the weight of Solaria Prime above. The hum from the upper city never stopped. Especially here.

Y/N climbed the narrow metal stairs toward the fifth level, boots echoing softly against grated steps. Someone nearby was arguing through paper thin walls. A baby cried somewhere above her. The smell of cheap noodles and machine grease lingered in the air. Home. Or close enough. She reached the top landing just as her neighbor’s apartment slid open. “All right, there you are.” Y/N resisted the urge to sigh immediately as Allara leaned against the doorway holding some glowing tablet in one hand, dark curls piled messily on top of her head while excitement practically radiated off her. Unlike most humans in the underground, Allara loved aliens. Or at least loved the idea of them. She wore imitation upper sector makeup, copied alien fashion trends from underground feeds, and spent most nights watching royal broadcasts like they were entertainment instead of propaganda. Y/N still didn’t understand it “What?”

“All right, first of all,” Allara said, pointing the tablet dramatically at her, “you are not allowed to give me that look because I have news.”

“That sentence alone already makes me tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“Living here does that.”

Allara ignored her completely, practically vibrating now. “The royals are replacing palace staff.” Y/N paused halfway through unlocking her apartment door. “What?”

“The imperial palace,” Allara repeated. “Upper sector staffing rotation. Apparently a bunch of the emperor’s human subordinates got reassigned or something.” Y/N stared at her. “And why exactly do you know this?”

“Because unlike someone, I pay attention to things happening outside this moldy tunnel.”

Y/N snorted softly, pushing her apartment door open. Inside, the unit was barely bigger than a storage pod. Tiny kitchenette. Fold down cot. Old vent fan rattling near the ceiling. One narrow window screen displaying a simulated desert skyline instead of the concrete wall outside. Allara followed her inside without invitation as usual. “I’m serious,” she said. “They’re selecting humans from lower sectors too.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It sounds life changing.”

“It sounds like volunteering to become decoration in some rich alien’s house.”

Allara rolled her eyes dramatically. “You are so dramatic.”

“And you’re weirdly obsessed with people who conquered the planet.”

“They didn’t conquer me,” Allara shot back before lowering her voice slightly. “Besides, not all of them are bad.” Y/N tossed her jacket onto the back of a chair. “That’s what everyone says right before getting screwed over.” Allara huffed, then turned the tablet around toward her. A recruitment notice glowed across the screen beneath the imperial crest.

UPPER SECTOR SERVICE INITIATIVE

SELECTED HUMAN APPLICANTS WILL RECEIVE:

* RESIDENCY

* HEALTH BENEFITS

* INCREASED RATION ACCESS

* EDUCATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES

SUBORDINATES MAY BE ASSIGNED DIRECTLY TO MEMBERS OF THE IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD.

Y/N immediately looked away. Nope. Absolutely not. “You know they choose based on compatibility profiles now?” Allara continued excitedly. “Personality tests, education records, work history. They literally pull people from all over the city.”

“Great. Sounds invasive.”

“It is invasive. It’s the palace.”

Y/N grabbed one of the food wraps and dropped onto the edge of her cot as Allara studied her for a second before grinning slowly. “You’d actually have a shot, you know.” Y/N nearly choked. “At what?”

“Getting picked.”

Y/N barked out a laugh. “Please. They’d take one look at my file and launch me directly into the sun.”

“You’re educated, you’ve never been arrested, your work reports are good…”

“My attitude alone disqualifies me.”

“That’s fixable.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Allara flopped down beside her dramatically. “Imagine it though,” she said dreamily. “Upper sector views. Real sunlight. Imperial parties.”

“Alien surveillance. Alien control. Alien nonsense.”

“Alien men.”

Y/N gave her a flat look and Allara grinned wider. “Oh come on. You’ve seen the prince, haven’t you?” Y/N rolled her eyes, taking a bite of her wrap. “Everybody has seen the prince.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Allara leaned closer like she was about to confess state secrets. “He’s hot.” Y/N stared at her. “You need help.”

“He’s objectively beautiful.”

“He’s objectively the face of an empire that treats humans like pets.”

Allara rolled her eyes again. “You’re impossible.” Maybe. But Y/N still glanced once toward the flickering screen on Allara’s tablet before looking away. Sure he was hot but he was still the prince of the entire planet now. Probably spoiled. An asshole. Thinks of humans beneath him.

Dangerous.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Far above the underground districts, morning in Solaria Prime looked artificial it was so bright. Sunlight spilled across the palace towers in sheets of gold so perfect it almost hurt to look at. Massive glass structures reflected the desert horizon endlessly while floating transport lanes curved through the sky beyond them. Waterfalls poured down white stone terraces into glowing pools hundreds of feet below. Everything in the imperial sector was clean. Polished and silent. Even the air smelled expensive.

Seonghwa hated mornings here. Especially this morning. The doors to the prince’s chambers slid open with a quiet hiss as he stepped inside carrying a datapad beneath one arm. The room was enormous, naturally. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the entire capital, giving a direct view of Solaria Prime stretching endlessly into the desert. Thin translucent curtains drifted softly in the conditioned air while low music still played somewhere from the previous night. Clothes littered the floor. Jewelry sparkled forgotten across tables.

And in the center of the massive bed, completely unconscious and very naked, lay the future emperor of Earth. Seonghwa sighed. “Your Highness.” Three alien women looked up sleepily from beneath tangled black sheets. Two green skinned. One pale pink with silver markings running along her shoulders. One of them groaned dramatically as Mingi finally surfaced enough to drag an arm over his face. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him I died.”

“He’ll ask for proof.”

Mingi cracked one eye open toward Seonghwa before slowly sitting up, hair completely ruined from sleep and last night’s activities. Even half awake he still looked unfairly ethereal. The silver white marking around his right eye glimmered faintly beneath the room’s soft lighting. Seonghwa hated that. Not the marking. The fact Mingi could look like a divine celestial being while acting like an overgrown menace. “You have ten minutes,” Seonghwa said.

Mingi stretched lazily, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing. “You’re so hostile in the mornings.”

“And you’re impossible.”

One of the women reached for Mingi again only for Seonghwa to immediately point toward the door. “Out.”

“Rude,” the pink skinned alien muttered.

“Very.”

Still, they obeyed quickly. Nobody ignored palace orders. Especially not orders involving the emperor’s son. The alien women gathered their discarded fabrics and jewelry before slipping out of the chambers laughing quietly among themselves as Mingi finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a groan. “If this is another lecture about gambling, I’m throwing myself off the palace.”

Seonghwa handed him a dark robe. “It’s worse.”

Mingi blinked slowly. “Impossible.”

“Your father wants to discuss a possible joining between your bloodline and House Vaelor.”

Mingi made a deeply offended noise. “Absolutely not. Azura is fucking crazy.” Seonghwa watched him disappear toward the dressing area before speaking again. “The emperor considers it politically advantageous.”

“Of course he does.” Mingi’s voice echoed from behind the partition now. The sound of drawers opening. Fabric shifting. Jewelry clinking against marble counters. “Do I at least get to reject her dramatically?”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

Seonghwa moved toward the windows overlooking the city below. From this height, Solaria Prime barely looked real. The lower sectors vanished beneath sunlight and glass towers. The underground city wasn’t visible at all from here. Humans became statistics at this level. Numbers inside reports. Workers moving through systems built by people more powerful than them.

Mingi emerged a moment later dressed in loose black layers threaded subtly with silver. Rings glinted along his fingers while the pale marking near his eye caught the light again. Royal and completely untouchable. Spoiled beyond reason. And unfortunately one of Seonghwa’s favorite people in the galaxy. Mingi grabbed a glass from the counter before pausing suddenly. “Tonight’s the Remembrance Festival.”

Seonghwa immediately frowned. Every year humans gathered in lower sectors to remember Earth before the empire. Candles. Music. Stories from survivors and descendants. Quiet resistance disguised as memorial tradition. The palace tolerated it mostly because banning it entirely decades ago had caused riots. “Yes,” Seonghwa said carefully as Mingi took a slow drink before smirking slightly. “I think I’m going.”

Seonghwa stared at him. “Why?” Mingi shrugged lazily. “Why not?”

“Because the lower districts barely tolerate imperial guards, let alone the crown prince wandering through their streets.”

“That’s what disguises are for.”

“That’s what common sense is for.”

Mingi grinned immediately at that. There it was. That reckless curiosity. The thing that drove the entire palace insane. Most royal bloodlines kept distance from humans naturally. Even kind nobles maintained the separation. The empire functioned on hierarchy. But Mingi looked at forbidden things and wanted to walk directly toward them. “Humans are interesting,” he said simply as Seonghwa folded his arms. “Humans hate us.”

“Some do.”

“Most do.”

Mingi only smiled faintly at the city beyond the windows.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The emperor’s private council chamber sat near the highest point of the palace. Not even because of symbolism. Because Garus liked the quiet. The higher levels of the imperial tower were nearly soundless compared to the entertainment sectors below. No music. No gambling halls. No drifting crowds of nobles filling corridors with gossip and politics. Only stillness. Massive windows curved along the walls overlooking Solaria Prime in its entirety, the desert horizon glowing gold beneath the artificial atmosphere regulators suspended miles above the city.

The doors opened as Mingi entered without announcement. Naturally. Nobody stopped the crown prince from going anywhere. Garus stood near the windows with his hands folded behind his back, dark ceremonial robes flowing around him in sharp elegant lines. Age touched him differently than humans. After thirty years on the throne, he still looked powerful rather than old. Silver threaded faintly through dark hair near his temples while pale markings disappeared beneath the collar of his robes. The resemblance between father and son was obvious. Same sharp eyes. Same unnerving stillness when they chose to use it. But where Mingi carried chaos barely hidden beneath charm… Garus carried control. “You’re late,” the emperor said calmly.

Mingi walked straight toward the drink table. “I was asleep.”

“You were occupied.”

“Also true.”

Garus sighed once through his nose. “I assume Seonghwa informed you about House Vaelor.”

“He did.” Mingi poured himself a drink. “I hated every second of the conversation.”

“This joining would strengthen the southern colonies.”

“It would bore me to death.”

“Mingi.”

“There it is,” Mingi muttered dramatically before taking a sip as Garus turned fully toward him now. “You are twenty five years old.” Mingi immediately groaned. “Not this speech again.”

“You are the heir to the imperial throne. To Earth.”

“And yet somehow still allowed to have opinions.”

“You will inherit this empire. This planet.”

Mingi rolled his eyes so hard it almost looked painful and the emperor’s expression tightened slightly. “You continue treating your responsibilities like temporary inconveniences.”

“Because they are temporary inconveniences.”

“They are your future.”

“No,” Mingi corrected calmly. “They’re your future that you keep trying to hand to me.” Silence settled briefly between them as far below the palace transport ships drifted between towers in glowing streams of light. Garus studied his son carefully. “You still speak of leaving.”

“I still mean it.”

“You would abandon the throne.”

“I would rather explore the outer systems than spend decades arguing trade routes and pretending nobles enjoy each other’s company.”

“You speak like a child.”

Mingi laughed softly at that, leaning back against the table. “No. I speak like someone honest enough to admit he doesn’t want this.” Garus turned back toward the city again. “You think ruling is about desire?”

“I think ruling sounds miserable.”

“It is necessary.”

“For you maybe.”

“For our bloodline.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened slightly at that. Always the bloodline. The empire. The future. Royal heirs weren’t raised as people first. They were raised as continuations of power. Garus’s voice softened only slightly. “When I inherited the throne, I was younger than you are now.”

“And deeply traumatized,” Mingi replied immediately causing his father to look at him sharply and Mingi just shrugged. “You never talk about grandfather unless someone forces you to.” Garus said nothing. Which was answer enough. The previous emperor had ruled through brutality. Entire human sectors burned under his reign during the occupation years. Even alien nobles had feared him. Garus spent three decades rebuilding the empire’s image after inheriting the throne at nineteen. To aliens, he became respected. Measured. Modern. To humans….. less monstrous was still monstrous. “You have freedoms I never did,” Garus said eventually.

“I know.”

“And still you complain.”

“I’m not complaining,” Mingi replied. “I’m telling you I don’t want to spend my life trapped in this palace.”

“You are not trapped.”

Mingi glanced around the enormous chamber. The polished stone. The guards outside every door. The expectations stitched into every wall. Then he smiled humorlessly. “Sure.” Garus watched him for a long moment before changing direction entirely. “You’ve been visiting the lower sectors again.” Mingi froze for half a second before recovering smoothly. “Maybe.”

“You are increasingly careless.”

“I wear disguises.”

“You are six foot three with royal markings.”

Mingi grinned despite himself. “Fair point.”

Garus’s gaze sharpened. “The humans are restless lately.”

“They’re always restless.”

“They remember too much.”

That sentence sat heavily in the room and Mingi looked away first this time. Tonight’s Remembrance Festival. Garus moved toward the council table slowly. “You would do well to remember that curiosity toward humans is not the same as understanding them.” Mingi tilted his head slightly. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Garus said carefully, “you are attaching to them.” Mingi snorted softly. “That sounds dramatic.”

“You spend enough time among them to become fascinated. Fascination clouds judgment.”

Mingi swirled the drink in his glass lazily. Or maybe humans just seemed more alive than everyone in this palace. He didn’t say that aloud though, instead he smirked slightly. “You’re worried I’ll run away with a human from the underground?” Garus looked entirely unimpressed. “You joke now.”

Mingi only grinned wider.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time Y/N left her apartment again, the underground had shifted into evening rhythm. The markets were louder now. Busier. Narrow streets crowded with workers finally off shift, neon signs buzzing overhead while steam curled from vents along the walls. Somewhere deeper in the district, music echoed through old transit tunnels mixed with distant laughter and the rumble of passing cargo rails overhead. The Remembrance Festival had already started. Not officially. Officially the gathering wouldn’t begin until later tonight when candles were lit through the lower sectors and stories passed between generations like sacred things. But the feeling of it was already everywhere.

Humans moved differently on Remembrance night. Softer. Sadder. Prouder. Old Earth flags appeared in windows despite technically being prohibited. Someone nearby projected faded images onto a concrete wall of oceans untouched by imperial terraforming. Children ran through the streets carrying paper lanterns while elders watched them with exhausted fondness. For one night every year, humans allowed themselves to remember they used to belong to this planet.

Y/N pulled her hood up slightly as she crossed another crowded intersection before turning down a quieter corridor lined with older businesses. Most of the shops down here barely survived anymore. Imperial imports and upper sector production crushed small human owned places years ago. But some still held on through sheer stubbornness. Including the Choi family repair shop. The glowing sign above the entrance flickered unevenly: CHOI ELECTRICAL & REPAIR Half the letters no longer worked.

Y/N smiled despite herself as the front door slid open with a loud mechanical protest as she stepped inside. Warm air hit her immediately. The smell of machine oil, soldering metal, and fried food wrapped around her in a way that felt dangerously close to home. Parts cluttered every available surface. Old radios sat disassembled beside alien tech stripped for scraps. Music played softly from somewhere in the back while tools clinked against metal. “You’re late.”

Y/N looked toward the voice automatically. San stood behind the main counter holding some half disassembled circuit panel in one hand, dark hair falling into his eyes while grease streaked one side of his jaw. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, exposing toned forearms covered in tiny old burn scars from years working around overheated wiring. He looked tired. Then again, everyone did these days. “You say that every time I come here,” Y/N replied.

“Because every time you come here, you’re late.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a scheduled emotional support visit.”

San snorted softly under his breath before setting the panel aside. Unlike Allara, San hated aliens almost as much as Y/N did. Maybe more. He just hid it quieter. The Choi family had owned this repair shop before the empire ever reached Earth. San’s grandparents still talked about old Los Angeles sometimes like ghosts lingering in conversation. Y/N practically grew up here after her parents died. Long nights sleeping in the back office while her grandfather worked. Shared dinners. Shared grief. This place was the closest thing she had left to family.

San’s eyes narrowed slightly as she approached the counter. “You look annoyed.”

“I’m always annoyed.”

“No,” he said. “This is specific annoyance.” Y/N leaned against the counter with a sigh. “Allara’s convinced the imperial palace is selecting humans for staffing rotations.” San visibly recoiled. “Disgusting.”

“Thank you.”

“She said I’d probably get picked.”

His expression immediately turned horrified. “You absolutely would.” Y/N stared at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m serious.” He pointed at her vaguely. “You’ve got that whole… competent thing going for you.”

“What a romantic compliment.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately she did. Imperial staffing selections were invasive. They scanned work history, health records, psychological evaluations. Humans chosen for palace service usually disappeared into upper sectors permanently. Some came back richer. Others came back quieter.

San folded his arms now, expression darkening slightly. “My dad says they’ve been increasing selections this year.”

“Why?”

“Political image probably.” His jaw tightened. “Make the empire look generous.” Y/N glanced toward the old holoscreen mounted near the back wall. Static flickered across a news report showing upper sector preparations for some royal gathering. Alien nobles drifted through the screen in glittering fabrics while reporters spoke excitedly. Royal bloodline negotiations.

San scowled. “They make my skin crawl.”

“The royals?”

“All of them.”

Y/N hummed softly in agreement. The thing about imperial broadcasts was that they always looked beautiful. Perfect lighting. Elegant speeches. Ethereal faces staring calmly into cameras while the underground fought over ration credits beneath them. Sometimes Y/N wondered if that was the point. Make oppression look pretty enough and eventually people stop calling it oppression.

“San!” San’s mother yelled. “Did you finish inventory?”

“No!”

“Then do it!”

Y/N barked out a surprised laugh while San groaned. “She’s impossible.” Y/N smiled faintly at that before moving toward the back counter where boxes of festival candles sat stacked beside old Earth photographs. Her grandfather used to come here every Remembrance night. Used to sit at that exact counter telling stories about oceans and stars before alien ships filled the sky.

“You going tonight?” San asked. Y/N looked over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she said quietly, waiting for San to finish up. And by nightfall, the underground city looked almost beautiful. Not polished like the upper sectors. Not sterile and glowing beneath palace lights. This beauty was human. Messy. Loud and alive.

The Remembrance Festival flooded the lower districts in color and noise as thousands of people crowded the old tunnel streets beneath Solaria Prime. Strings of warm lights hung between rusted support beams while lanterns painted the concrete walls amber and blue. Music echoed through the underground from handmade speakers and old instruments humans refused to let disappear.

Y/N walked beside San through the packed festival streets while heat and noise wrapped around them from every direction. Children darted through crowds carrying paper stars. Vendors shouted over one another from glowing stalls lined with old Earth foods and handmade trinkets. Someone nearby projected pre occupation photographs onto the tunnel ceiling, oceans, mountains, cities before alien architecture swallowed them whole.

Y/N always forgot how crowded Remembrance became until she was in the middle of it again. San nudged her shoulder lightly as they squeezed past another group gathered around musicians playing something old and melancholy. “You’re glaring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes but the corner of her mouth twitched slightly anyway as a smell hit her a second later. Sweet. Warm. Sugared dough and cinnamon. Both of them slowed instinctively. The tiny dessert stall ahead already had a ridiculous line wrapped around it, steam curling into the air while an exhausted old man fried golden pastries behind the counter and San groaned softly beside her. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N looked at him immediately. “You literally stopped walking first.”

“They’re overpriced.”

“They’re once a year.”

“They’re robbery.”

“You’re getting in line.”

San muttered something under his breath but followed her anyway. Some traditions survived everything. Including Remembrance sweets. The recipe supposedly dated back before the occupation. Before Solaria Prime. Before the empire. Nobody even knew if that was true anymore, but every year humans lined up for them anyway like tasting something old enough could connect them to a world they’d never seen. The line moved painfully slow. By the time they finally reached the front, San looked personally victimized by capitalism. “This better change my life.”

“It won’t,” the vendor replied immediately.

“Then why is it twelve credits?”

“Inflation.”

San looked offended enough to start a revolution himself as Y/N laughed softly as she handed over the credits before he could continue arguing. The old man passed them two paper trays piled with warm pastries dusted in sugar crystals that shimmered faintly beneath the festival lights. The first bite nearly burned Y/N’s tongue. Worth it. Warm dough. Sweet cream filling. Cinnamon and spice melting together instantly. San closed his eyes dramatically after biting into his own. “All right,” he admitted. “I forgive inflation.”

“Thought so.”

They moved away from the stall slowly, drifting back into the river of people moving through the underground. Somewhere overhead, distant fireworks from the upper sectors flashed faintly through the cracks between levels of the city. Imperial celebrations for something entirely different. Down here, humans celebrated memory instead. Y/N glanced around as they walked. Elderly survivors sat outside crowded cafés telling stories to younger generations. Candles lined windowsills. Music spilled from old bars packed shoulder to shoulder with workers finally allowed one night to breathe.

And for the first time in a while she felt lighter. Until San suddenly stiffened beside her. Y/N looked over immediately. “What?” He frowned toward the crowd ahead. At first she didn’t understand what he noticed. Then she saw him. Tall. Far too tall to blend into the underground properly. Dressed in black layered fabrics with the hood pulled low over pale blond hair. Most people wouldn’t notice but Y/N did. Something about the way he moved felt wrong for this place. Too graceful. Too composed.

The stranger stood near one of the lantern stalls watching the festival quietly while crowds moved around him. Then he looked up. And even from halfway down the street, Y/N caught the faint glimmer of silver near his right eye beneath the hood. Royal blood. Her stomach dropped instantly as San saw it too. “What the hell is a royal doing down here?” he muttered darkly. But before either of them could move, the stranger’s gaze landed directly on Y/N and he smiled.

Y/N’s stomach tightened. Nope. Absolutely not. “Come on,” she muttered immediately, grabbing San’s sleeve lightly. “Let’s go the other way.” San didn’t argue. One look at the silver glint near that man’s eye and he was already steering them deeper into the crowd. Humans shifted around them shoulder to shoulder beneath strings of lanterns while music echoed through the underground tunnel streets. Behind them, Y/N could still feel it. That gaze. Not threatening exactly. Interested. Which somehow annoyed her more. “Maybe he’ll disappear back to wherever he crawled out of,” she muttered.

San snorted softly. “That was definitely royal blood. Do you think it was the Prince? Couldn’t see much of his face.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you think he’s doing down here?”

“Probably slumming for entertainment.” The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth as they turned another corner into one of the wider market sections where handmade lanterns floated overhead like tiny stars. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered around the festival fireworks station near the old rail platform. Fireworks. Technically. Humans weren’t allowed access to real explosive displays anymore after the occupation riots decades ago, but underground engineers had learned to improvise. The result was usually colorful plasma bursts and enough smoke to make everyone cough for an hour afterward.

San suddenly perked up slightly. “That’s my dad.” Y/N looked over toward the platform where Mr. Choi stood beside a half built launcher arguing animatedly with another older man. Mr. Reynolds. Of course. The two of them nearly started electrical fires every festival. “They’re gonna blow themselves up,” Y/N said.

“Probably.” San handed her the remainder of his paper tray. “Hold this.”

“You trust me with food?”

“No. But I trust them less with explosives.”

Y/N laughed softly as he disappeared into the crowd toward the launcher platform. For a moment she stayed where she was, leaning lightly against one of the old support beams while festival noise swelled around her. Then she saw Vernon and her entire mood crashed instantly. The older man stood near one of the alley entrances speaking to two larger men beside him, thick fingers glittering with cheap rings beneath the lights. Vernon always looked sweaty no matter the temperature, his face permanently twisted into something between annoyance and greed. Loan sharks thrived in the underground. Especially after the empire.

And Y/N still owed him credits from when her grandfather got sick. Wonderful. She turned immediately but Vernon’s eyes locked onto her through the crowd. “Well now,” he called and Y/N muttered a curse under her breath and started walking faster, tossing her and San’s trash from their treats away.

“Y/N!”

She ignored him as people shifted around her in the crowded street while music pounded through the tunnels. She cut sharply down one of the side alleys between vendor rows hoping to lose him. Didn’t work though. Bootsteps followed immediately. Then another set. And another. Y/N barely made it halfway down the narrow alley before Vernon and his men boxed her in beneath flickering overhead lights. The sounds of the festival dulled slightly back here.

Vernon smiled humorlessly. “You’ve been hard to find lately.” Y/N crossed her arms. “Funny. I’ve been trying.” One of the larger men snorted but Vernon didn’t. “You know,” he said slowly, stepping closer, “I tried being civil with you because of who your family was.” Y/N leaned back, folding her arms casually despite the tension curling in her stomach. “Aw. That almost sounded emotional.”

Vernon’s jaw tightened. “Your grandfather was respected.”

“Unlike you.”

The larger man to Vernon’s left stepped forward immediately. “Watch your mouth.” Y/N only rolled her eyes. “Or what?” Wrong answer apparently because the man lunged forward suddenly and Y/N instinctively stepped backward only for her spine to hit something solid behind her. Not wall. Warm. Tall. Very tall. Y/N frowned slightly before turning her head. Black hood. Silver blond hair. And faintly glowing beside his right eye beneath the shadows… that marking. Fuck. San had been right on who the Royal was.

Vernon visibly paled and his men backed up instantly. Every trace of aggression vanished so fast it was almost embarrassing. “Y…. your Highness,” Vernon stammered as behind Y/N, the prince said nothing at first before calmly saying, “Continue.” Vernon looked like he wanted to evaporate. “N…. no, your Highness. Just a misunderstanding.”

“Mm.” That single sound somehow carried more authority than shouting ever could. The alley stayed frozen another painful second before Vernon grabbed his men and practically fled back toward the festival crowd. Cowards. Y/N immediately stepped away from the prince once the alley cleared. “I could’ve handled that.” The words came out sharp automatically. No fear. No bowing. No awe. Just irritation.

Mingi stared at her openly beneath the hood of his disguise. Most humans either froze around him or overcompensated trying to impress him. This girl looked genuinely annoyed he existed. “You’re welcome,” he said finally and Y/N scoffed softly before turning and heading back toward the festival streets with Mingi following without hesitation. “You always talk to royalty like that?” he asked.

“You always follow women into alleys?”

“Only interesting ones.”

Y/N snorted as Mingi’s gaze drifted lower for half a second as they walked beneath the glowing lantern lights spilling into the corridor straight to her ass and of course she noticed. “Stop staring at my ass.” Mingi blinked once before grinning slowly. “I’m not one of the dumb humans who crawls into alien beds,” she added over her shoulder and his grin widened instantly. “I have you know,” he replied lazily, “I’ve never slept with a human before.”

Y/N looked back at him flatly. “Congratulations. You want a cookie?” Mingi laughed. Actually laughed. Bright and surprised and completely genuine beneath the underground lights. And against all logic…. Y/N noticed it sounded painfully human as the festival swallowed sound around them again the closer they moved back toward the main streets. Y/N could already spot San near the fireworks platform arguing with his father and Mr. Reynolds over some crooked launcher tube that looked one bad decision away from exploding sideways into the crowd.

She started toward them immediately while behind her, Mingi fell into step again. Still smiling. Still entirely too entertained by this. “You know,” he said casually, “most people are at least a little nervous around me.”

“That sounds exhausting for them.”

“It has benefits.”

“I’m sure.” She caught San glancing up from across the crowd now, confusion crossing his face immediately at the sight of her walking beside the prince and Y/N moved faster just as Mingi reached for her. Not aggressively. Not enough to stop her. Just fingertips brushing lightly around her wrist to keep her attention for one more second. But the second his skin touched hers Y/N jumped as a sharp pulse shot up her arm like static electricity snapping beneath her skin.

Y/N pulled her wrist back immediately as her pulse kicked harder than it should’ve and Mingi stared openly now, eyes flicking briefly toward the hand that touched her then back to her face. “What’s your name?” The question came quieter this time. Less teasing. Which somehow made it worse. Y/N took another step backward toward the crowd and away from him as around them, festival lights reflected gold and blue against the alley walls while music echoed through the underground tunnels and the crown prince of Solaria Prime stood there beneath human lanterns staring at her like he’d just discovered something fascinating.

Y/N’s survival instincts screamed it immediately. Because this was how powerful people ruined lives. Curiosity first. Possession second. She refused to become some underground story about the prince who got bored with a human girl for two weeks. So instead she tilted her head slightly, “You’re a prince.” Mingi blinked once as Y/N stepped backward into the crowd fully now, already turning away. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” Then she disappeared back into the festival lights before he could stop her again.

And Mingi stood there motionless in the middle of the underground city smiling slowly to himself. Because she was right. He absolutely could.

By the time Y/N reached the fireworks platform again, her heart still hadn’t settled properly. Which was irritating. It was just a touch. One touch. Probably some weird alien static thing from all the tech flooding the underground tonight. Definitely not something worth thinking about. Absolutely not something worth replaying in her head while the feeling still lingered faintly beneath her skin.

San spotted her immediately the second she pushed back through the crowd. Mr. Reynolds chose that exact moment to accidentally trigger one of the launchers, sending a sputtering stream of purple sparks sideways into a food stall that made people scream. “NOT AGAIN.”

San barely looked at the fireworks disaster unfolding behind him. “Why,” he asked slowly, “was the fucking prince talking to you?” Y/N shook her head, brushing it off. “He wasn’t.” San stared at her. “You were literally standing together.”

“He was standing. I was trying to leave.”

“That was Crown Prince Mingi.”

“I know.”

“Why was he following you around the festival like some undercover psychopath?”

Y/N shrugged casually despite the fact her wrist still tingled annoyingly where he touched her. “He’s weird.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“He probably got bored in his giant evil palace.”

“Y/N.”

She exhaled dramatically. “Vernon cornered me in one of the alleys. The prince showed up. Vernon pissed himself. End of story.” San blinked. Then blinked again. “The prince saved you from Vernon?” He stared at her another long second before groaning and dragging a hand down his face. “This is bad.”

“How is this bad?”

“The crown prince knowing you exist feels bad.”

Y/N snorted softly at that. “Trust me, he’ll forget about me in like twelve hours.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The palace felt colder after the underground. Not temperature wise. Emotionally. Mingi noticed it immediately stepping off the private transport platform high above Solaria Prime. The warmth and noise of the human festival disappeared the second the palace doors sealed behind him, replaced by polished silence and soft artificial lighting stretching endlessly through marble corridors. Everything here echoed. Every footstep. Every voice. Every expectation.

Imperial guards bowed as he passed. Servants lowered their eyes. Mingi barely acknowledged any of it, already halfway distracted by one thing….. Her. The human girl with a sharp tongue and too much attitude who’d looked at him like he was a problem instead of royalty. The faint sensation from touching her wrist still lingered annoyingly in the back of his mind too. That had definitely been strange. Alien sensory instincts rarely reacted unpredictably. Especially not with humans.

Mingi rounded another corner quickly only to stop short seeing his father standing near the central observation hall. Garus turned slightly at his approach, expression unreadable as always. “You were in the lower sectors.” Mingi shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat lazily. “Maybe.” The emperor studied him for half a second. Long enough that most people would’ve started panicking but Mingi didn’t and Garus surprisingly let it go. “Your cousin Wooyoung will be arriving in a few days.”

Mingi blinked once before immediately groaning. “Oh no.” A faint hint of amusement flickered across Garus’s face despite himself. “Your aunt requested he remain here temporarily.”

“That sentence alone sounds threatening.”

“Wooyoung has responsibilities to learn.”

“Wooyoung actively avoids responsibilities.”

“He reminds me of you.”

“That’s deeply insulting to both of us.”

Garus ignored that smoothly. “The southern delegates arrive next month. Behave accordingly.” Mingi nodded distractedly already halfway focused elsewhere. “Mm.” The emperor narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are not listening.”

“I’m listening enough.”

“Mingi.”

“Father,” he replied automatically before immediately continuing past him as Garus watched his son disappear down the corridor with visible suspicion. The crown prince almost never moved with urgency unless chaos was involved. Mingi barely noticed the palace around him anymore as he cut through multiple secured corridors toward one of the restricted lower levels beneath the imperial residence. The Interface Room. Technically only authorized for imperial administration and intelligence access. Which for Mingi meant, completely accessible whenever he wanted.

The doors slid open as he approached. Darkness greeted him first. Then light. Massive holographic interfaces flickered awake across the circular room, projecting endless streams of information into the air. Population records. District surveillance. Employment databases. Citizen files. The empire documented everything. Mingi moved straight toward the center console. “Search lower district festival surveillance,” he ordered and the system chimed softly. “Specify target.”

Mingi paused before he smirked faintly to himself. “Human female. Twenty ish. Annoyed at my existence.” The system remained silent as he ran a hand through his hair before focusing properly now. Lower district sector. Approximate location. Festival timestamp. Faces flickered rapidly through holographic screens around him as the system filtered thousands of citizens from tonight’s crowds. Mingi leaned closer impatiently. “Come on…” he muttered. More faces. More names…… the screen froze.

Her. Captured mid turn beneath lantern light, irritation written all over her face and Mingi grinned immediately. “There you are.” The file expanded beside her image automatically.

HUMAN CITIZEN RECORD:

Y/N L/N

AGE: 22

RESIDENCY: LOWER DISTRICT 5-C

EMPLOYMENT STATUS: ACTIVE

FAMILY STATUS: DECEASED

“Y/N…” he repeated her name quietly. The sound of it settling strangely in his chest. Then his eyes flicked lower across the file and slowly his grin disappeared. Because suddenly this wasn’t just some random girl from the underground anymore. Now she was real. Documented. Trackable. Reachable. And Mingi had never been very good at leaving interesting things alone.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Morning sunlight poured through the upper palace levels in sheets of gold and white, reflecting endlessly against glass walls and polished floors until the entire imperial residence glowed like something divine suspended above the desert. Mingi hated mornings here. Too quiet. Too clean. Too many expectations waiting behind every door. Usually Seonghwa had to physically drag him out of bed before noon while threatening palace embarrassment and diplomatic incidents.

Today, however, Mingi walked into his father’s private office before sunrise fully dressed and carrying a datapad under one arm. That alone immediately made Garus suspicious as he sat near the massive curved windows overlooking Solaria Prime, already halfway through reviewing council reports while steam curled from a dark cup beside him. His robes today were simpler than ceremonial wear, though simplicity still looked expensive on him. The faint markings near his throat disappeared beneath dark fabric while pale morning light sharpened the tiredness hidden beneath his otherwise composed expression. “You’re awake.”

Mingi dropped into the chair across from the desk lazily. “Tragic, I know.” The emperor narrowed his eyes slightly. “I didn’t even have to send Seonghwa.”

“He’ll survive the disappointment.”

That suspicion deepened. Garus had raised Mingi long enough to recognize when his son looked too pleased with himself. Which was often. But this particular expression usually meant problems. Mingi slid the datapad across the desk casually. “I found my new subordinate.” Garus narrowed his eyes. “That quickly?”

“I’m efficient.”

“You are many things. Efficient is rarely one of them.”

Mingi grinned faintly as his father finally picked up the datapad with visible caution. At first his expression remained neutral as the file opened. Human citizen. Lower district. Work history. Then Garus reached the attached image and immediately sighed, gaze flicking back toward Mingi slowly. “Absolutely not.”

Mingi looked offended instantly. “You read that fast?”

“You chose an attractive human woman from the underground after sneaking into the lower sectors during Remembrance Festival.” Garus tossed the datapad back onto the desk. “I do not require additional context.” Mingi leaned back further in the chair, completely unashamed. “She’s qualified.”

“You are incapable of subtlety.”

“That feels unrelated.”

Garus gave him a deeply unimpressed look. The emperor knew his son too well. Knew the recklessness hidden beneath the charm. Knew Mingi’s fascination with humans wasn’t rooted in cruelty or novelty the way it often was for other nobles. That almost made it worse. “She has excellent work evaluations,” Mingi continued smoothly, gesturing vaguely toward the datapad. “No criminal history. High education scores considering district limitations. She’d function well within palace administration.”

“She insulted you, didn’t she?” Mingi went quiet for half a second and Garus sighed again. “There it is.”

“She’s interesting.”

“She’s human.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened slightly at the dismissal in his father’s tone. Not openly cruel. Just instinctive. The kind of ingrained superiority every noble in the empire carried whether they admitted it or not. Garus stood slowly from behind the desk now, moving toward the windows overlooking the capital below. “You become fascinated too easily,” he said calmly.

“She’s not some dangerous revolutionary.”

“That is not what concerns me.”

Mingi watched him carefully as that subtle shift in Garus’s voice whenever the subject turned personal instead of political happened. “You think I’m going to sleep with her,” Mingi said flatly and that made Garus look back at him. “You already brought her to my desk less than hours after meeting her.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

The emperor stayed silent long enough that the answer became obvious anyway and Mingi scoffed softly, standing now himself. “You’re dramatic.”

“No,” Garus corrected calmly. “I know you.” Mingi started pacing lazily instead of arguing outright. The office stretched massive around them, sunlight spilling across polished floors while Solaria Prime glittered beyond the glass. Somewhere below, transports drifted through the air between towers like glowing veins through the city. “She hates aliens,” Mingi said suddenly and Garus raised an eyebrow slightly. “That is meant to convince me?”

“She’s not trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t care who I am.”

“Which is exactly why you’re interested.”

Mingi opened his mouth then frowned because unfortunately his father was irritatingly correct. Garus folded his hands behind his back again. “You are the future emperor of this empire. Of this planet.”

“There’s that sentence again.”

“You cannot afford impulsive fascinations.”

“It’s a subordinate assignment, not a marriage proposal.”

The emperor gave him a long look at that. Because both of them knew Mingi rarely pursued things halfway. Finally Garus exhaled quietly through his nose. “Pick another.”

“No.”

“Mingi.”

“I already submitted the authorization request.”

“You did what?”

Mingi smiled slowly and suddenly Garus realized exactly why his son had arrived before sunrise. The emperor stared at him in disbelief for a full second. “You manipulative little….”

“It should already be processing through palace administration by now.”

Garus looked genuinely offended. “You went around me.”

“You were going to say no.”

“Yes!”

“Exactly.”

For a moment the office filled with silence. Then, somehow impossibly, Garus laughed once under his breath. Disbelieving and almost exhausted. “You are exactly your mother’s child.” Mingi grinned immediately. “I choose to take that as a compliment.” Garus shook his head slowly before glancing once more toward Y/N’s file glowing faintly across the datapad. Human. Lower district. Young. Pretty enough to immediately catch his son’s attention. This was a terrible idea. Which meant Mingi had already fully committed to it.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Y/N stood in the tiny kitchenette of her apartment trying to convince herself stale caf and half burnt toast counted as breakfast while the old vent fan rattled overhead loud enough to sound medically concerning. Outside her window screen, the artificial skyline projection flickered twice before correcting itself again. Another perfect day in the underground.

She barely slept after the festival. Every time she closed her eyes she kept seeing silver blonde hair beneath lantern light and hearing, “What’s your name?” Annoying. Deeply annoying. She shoved the thought away aggressively while pulling on her work jacket. The underground already buzzed awake outside her apartment walls. Pipes groaned overhead while neighbors argued down the hall about water credits while somewhere nearby, music blasted faintly through thin metal walls.

Y/N grabbed her bag from the chair just as loud knocking suddenly rattled her front door hard enough to make her jump and for her stomach to tighten instantly. She frowned and crossed the room quickly before sliding the door open and froze. Two imperial guards stood in the hallway and everything inside her went cold immediately. Tall. Silver armored. One blue and one green. Royal insignias gleaming beneath the corridor lights. The entire apartment level had gone silent around them. Doors cracked open all down the hall while neighbors stared openly in shock.

Including Allara who stood halfway out of her own apartment looking seconds away from ascending directly into another dimension. “Oh my god,” she whispered and Y/N ignored her completely as the guards remained expressionless. “Y/N L/N,” one of them said formally and every instinct in her body screamed danger. “Yes?”

“You have been selected for appointment as subordinate staff to the imperial household.”

Y/N blinked once, brows furrowed and confused before shaking her head, scoffing. “No thanks.” Behind her, Allara made a choking sound but the guards didn’t react. “It is not optional.” Y/N stared at them. “What?” The blue guard stepped forward slightly holding a sleek dark datapad. “Per imperial selection authority, you are to be relocated immediately to upper sector royal residency under direct assignment.”

Y/N laughed once in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.” The blue guard continued calmly like she hadn’t spoken. “You have one hour to gather approved personal belongings before transport escort.”

“This is insane.”

“This is law.”

Y/N’s pulse started climbing fast now. “No. No, absolutely not.” She pointed vaguely toward the city above them. “I don’t want to go work for aliens in some giant palace.” Allara looked personally offended by that statement. The guards, meanwhile, remained infuriatingly calm. “Resistance to selection is considered obstruction of imperial process.”

Y/N folded her arms tightly. “So what, you’re kidnapping me politely?” Neither guard answered. Which honestly answered enough. The hallway had gone dead quiet now. Neighbors stared openly from cracked doors. Fear. Curiosity and jealousy. Some humans spent years hoping for selection because it meant escape from the underground. Y/N felt like she was being marched toward execution. Her mind raced immediately. Why her? How her…… Silver blonde hair. Sharp grin. Prince. “I’m sure you can find it.”

That absolute asshole. Her eyes narrowed instantly. Oh he did not. The guard extended the datapad toward her. “Please prepare accordingly.” Y/N snatched the tablet aggressively enough to make Allara flinch. Across the screen glowed imperial authorization codes beneath one line….

DIRECT SUBORDINATE ASSIGNMENT:

CROWN PRINCE MINGI

Her eye twitched as Allara finally lost control completely. “THE PRINCE?” Y/N looked ready to commit a crime. “That smug alien psycho.” One of the guards, the green one, cleared his throat lightly as if he were trying to cover a laugh. “You will address the Crown Prince respectfully.” Y/N looked him dead in the eye. “I’d rather throw myself into traffic.” The blue guard actually hesitated slightly at that. Probably because nobody ever spoke about royal bloodlines like this to their faces.

Allara rushed over immediately the second the guards stepped back down the corridor to allow Y/N time to pack. “Oh my god,” she hissed. “Oh my GOD.”

“This is not exciting.”

“This is literally life changing!”

“This is kidnapping with better lighting!”

Allara grabbed her shoulders dramatically. “The crown prince of the planet picked you personally!”

“I know!”

“How do you know?”

Y/N threw the datapad onto the cot. “Because I met him last night!” Allara stared at her before screaming. Y/N dragged both hands down her face in exhausted disbelief while outside her apartment the imperial guards stood motionless in the hallway waiting to escort her out of the underground forever and the underground suddenly felt different once Y/N knew she was leaving it. Smaller somehow. Temporary. Like every hallway and flickering light and rusted pipe had already started slipping away from her before she’d even gone.

The imperial guards waited outside her apartment while she shoved necessities into an old duffel bag with growing irritation. Clothes. Credit chips. Her grandfather’s old lighter she didn’t even use. A tiny photograph tucked into the side pocket. That was the worst part. They expected humans to just… leave. No warning. No choice. No understanding that people had lives down here. Allara followed her around the apartment practically vibrating with secondhand excitement while Y/N internally spiraled harder every minute.

“You have to take something nice to wear.”

“I own three jackets and a pair of boots.”

“Okay but now you’re going to the palace.”

“I’m going to prison with prettier architecture.”

Allara ignored that immediately. “Do you think he likes you already?” Y/N stopped packing long enough to stare at her in disbelief. “He met me for maybe six minutes and stared at my ass.”

“And?”

“And I insulted him repeatedly.”

“That means yes.”

“Please seek help.” But underneath the sarcasm, anxiety curled tighter and tighter in her chest. Not because of the palace. Not even because of Mingi. Because of San. The realization hit fully once she stepped out into the hallway carrying her bag and saw the guards straighten immediately beside the apartment door. Upper sector assignments were permanent more often than not. Humans selected for palace service rarely returned to the underground except under supervision. Everything suddenly felt too final.

Y/N barely remembered walking through the crowded tunnel streets after that. People stared at the guards escorting her openly. Some with envy. Some with pity. Word spread fast underground. By the time she reached the Choi repair shop, half the damn district probably already knew. The familiar flickering sign buzzed overhead as she pushed inside and the smell hit her immediately. Machine oil. Burnt wiring. Home. San looked up from behind the counter mid sentence while arguing with a customer. His eyes moved from her face… to the bag over her shoulder… to the two royal guards visible through the shop windows outside. The customer wisely decided this was no longer his business and left immediately.

Silence settled heavily through the shop as San slowly set his tools down. “No.” Y/N swallowed hard. That one word hurt worse than she expected. “San…”

“No.” His voice sharpened this time. “No. Tell me this is not what I think it is.” Y/N gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “I got selected.” San stared at her. Actually stared like maybe if he looked hard enough the words would rearrange themselves into something better. “The palace?” She nodded once. “When?”

“This morning.”

“And you’re just leaving?”

“I don’t exactly think the empire accepts scheduling conflicts.”

San swore under his breath violently before turning away from her completely and Y/N’s chest tightened. The shop suddenly felt too small now. Too warm. Every familiar thing inside it twisted painfully because she realized she didn’t know when she’d see any of it again. Or if she ever would. “They picked me specifically,” she admitted quietly and San turned back immediately. “What?”

“The prince.”

His expression darkened instantly. Realizing Mingi meeting her last night apparently wasn’t enough for the prince. San laughed once in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” For a second neither of them spoke again after that. Outside the shop, the underground continued moving like normal. Festival decorations still hung through the streets from yesterday while distant music echoed from somewhere deeper in the tunnels. Life continuing while hers suddenly tilted sideways. San dragged both hands through his hair roughly. “This is bad.”

“I know.”

“You can’t trust him.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know what he wants from you.”

“I KNOW.” The sharpness in her voice echoed briefly through the shop before silence crashed down again and Y/N exhaled shakily, looking away first. “That’s kind of the problem.” Because beneath all the anger and panic sat one terrifying truth…. she did know what this was really about. Or at least had feeling what it was. A prince got curious and now her entire life belonged to that curiosity.

San moved around the counter slowly until he stood directly in front of her. “You don’t have to let him change you.” The words caught her off guard as Y/N looked up at him finally. San’s expression had softened now beneath the frustration. Worried. Protective. Angry in the helpless way people got when something bigger than them made decisions anyway. “You’re acting like I’m leaving forever,” she muttered weakly.

San didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. Her throat tightened painfully. The underground had always felt suffocating growing up. Loud and crowded and impossible to escape. Now suddenly the thought of leaving it made her chest ache. “I’ll come back,” she said quietly and San looked like he wanted to believe her. Instead he reached forward and pulled her into a tight hug hard enough to almost knock the breath from her lungs. Y/N closed her eyes immediately.

“You better,” he muttered against the top of her head as outside the repair shop, two imperial guards waited beneath the glowing lights of Solaria Prime’s underground ready to escort a human girl into the world above.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Morning sunlight spilled through the massive windows of Mingi’s chambers in pale gold sheets, illuminating towering glass walls and polished black floors that reflected the skyline of Solaria Prime beyond them. Transport ships drifted silently between upper sector towers outside while somewhere far below, buried beneath layers of steel and imperial architecture, the underground city continued waking for another day beneath alien rule.

Inside the prince’s chambers, however, there was peace. Unusual peace. Which was exactly why Seonghwa immediately knew something was wrong. The doors slid open behind him with a soft hiss as he stepped inside carrying a datapad under one arm, already prepared for the usual disaster scene, Mingi unconscious, half dressed, probably hungover, and aggressively refusing to attend whatever political nightmare waited for him today. Instead…. Mingi was awake, dressed and lounging across one of the curved couches near the windows looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Seonghwa stopped walking immediately. That alone was alarming. Mingi wore loose black layers beneath an open hooded jacket, silver chains resting against exposed skin while white trousers contrasted sharply against the dark fabric. His hair fell messily into his eyes like he’d barely bothered fixing it after waking up, and sunlight caught the pale silver marking near his right eye every time he turned his head slightly. Worse than all of that though… he was smiling. Not fake public smile smiling. Actually smiling.

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes instantly. “What are you up to?” Mingi glanced up from the tablet in his hands lazily. “Good morning to you too.”

“You’re awake before noon.”

“Tragic, I know.”

“And dressed.”

“I usually wear clothes, Seonghwa.”

“You look,” Seonghwa said slowly, gesturing vaguely toward him, “like your father just informed you you no longer have to become emperor one day.” Mingi barked out a laugh at that. “That would actually improve my mood significantly.” Seonghwa walked further into the room carefully now, suspicion growing stronger the longer he looked at him. Mingi only got this relaxed after causing problems. Usually large ones. “You did something.”

“I do things constantly.”

“Mingi.”

The prince leaned back further into the couch cushions with zero shame whatsoever. “I’m offended by your lack of trust.”

“You once stole a council transport because you were bored.”

“In my defense, it was very boring.”

“You flew it into restricted airspace.”

“Allegedly.”

Seonghwa stared at him flatly as Mingi grinned. The problem with Mingi was that he rarely looked like someone carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders. Even surrounded by luxury and royal expectations, he somehow moved through life like he was permanently one bad decision away from running off world for fun. Garus carried power heavily while Mingi carried it carelessly. And that terrified palace officials constantly.

Seonghwa set the datapad down onto a nearby table before crossing his arms. “Why do I suddenly feel like I should be concerned?”

“Maybe because you’re dramatic.”

“No. Because you’re in a suspiciously good mood.”

Mingi glanced back toward the skyline outside the windows, smile pulling faintly at one corner of his mouth again. The underground lantern lights from the night before flashed briefly through his mind, thinking about her, how much bite she through at him and his grin widened slightly and Seonghwa immediately caught it. “There it is,” he muttered. “That look.”

Mingi blinked innocently. “What look?”

“The one you get right before palace security has to apologize to someone.”

Mingi laughed softly under his breath before finally standing from the couch in one fluid movement. Tall. Effortlessly graceful. Entirely too aware of the effect he had on rooms without even trying. Royal bloodline genetics made most nobles striking but Mingi weaponized it accidentally just by existing. “You worry too much,” he said casually.

“You concern me too often.”

“Fair.”

Seonghwa eyed him another long second before sighing heavily. “Well whatever you’re planning,” he muttered, “I’d appreciate at least six hours before it becomes a diplomatic incident.” Mingi only smiled to himself again as he wandered toward the massive windows overlooking Solaria Prime while Seonghwa continued watching him with growing distrust. Outside, the capital stretched endlessly beneath the morning sun. Glass towers gleamed gold and white against the desert. From up here, the city looked perfect but Mingi knew better.

He leaned one shoulder lazily against the window frame, turning the tablet in his hands once. “I’ve got a new subordinate on the way.” That immediately got Seonghwa’s full attention. “You what?” Mingi glanced back over his shoulder casually. “New palace assignment.” Seonghwa frowned instantly. “You don’t do subordinates.”

“I absolutely do.”

“No,” Seonghwa corrected flatly, “you avoid them.” Which was true. Most members of the imperial family kept direct subordinate staff constantly. Assistants. Human attendants. Alien aides. People assigned specifically to manage schedules, social appearances, political communication. Mingi burned through them accidentally. Not because he was cruel but because he ignored structure entirely. The last subordinate assigned to him transferred departments after six months claiming the prince was organizationally catastrophic. Mingi still considered that dramatic.

“The last one you had was years ago,” Seonghwa continued suspiciously.

“Maybe I got lonely.”

“You don’t even answer your messages.”

“I answer important ones.”

“You left the southern delegates on read for twelve days.”

“They were annoying.”

Seonghwa dragged a hand down his face tiredly before narrowing his eyes again. “Why now?” Mingi shrugged lightly, though the grin threatening at the corner of his mouth immediately ruined the casual act and Seonghwa once again noticed. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re smiling again.”

“That’s incredibly judgmental.”

“Why are you smiling?”

Mingi looked away toward the skyline again, trying and failing to suppress it entirely. Because honestly? He still couldn’t stop replaying last night in his head. The underground lights. The way she looked at him like royalty meant nothing. That sharp irritated voice. Stop staring at my ass. Mingi grinned again before he could stop himself and Seonghwa looked horrified as he put two and two together. “You met someone.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You absolutely met someone.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then why do you look like this?”

Mingi finally laughed softly under his breath, pushing himself away from the windows. “She insulted me like six times in maybe ten minutes.” Seonghwa blinked looking almost flabbergasted. “Excuse me?”

“And threatened to throw herself into traffic rather than speak respectfully to guards that went to retrieve her I have been told.”

Now Seonghwa looked genuinely confused. “Who is this person?”

“A human.”

“Oh this is a terrible idea.”

Mingi barked out another laugh immediately. “You don’t even know the idea yet.”

“I know enough.”

“She’s interesting.”

“That sentence alone is concerning.”

Mingi dropped back onto the couch lazily, one arm thrown across the back cushions while sunlight cut sharply across his black clothing and pale hair. “She hates aliens,” he admitted.

“Most humans do.”

“She really hates aliens.”

“That still isn’t helping.”

Mingi tilted his head slightly, remembering the way she looked at him in the alley. Not afraid. Just annoyed. Like he was just another problem standing in her way instead of the future emperor of Earth. No one had ever treated him like that before. “It’s weird,” he admitted quietly. “She doesn’t care who I am.” Seonghwa stared at him a long moment before he sighed heavily. “Oh you’re doomed.”

Mingi snorted softly. “Relax. It’s a subordinate assignment, not a bonding ceremony.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re the crown prince getting emotionally invested in a human woman from the underground after one conversation.”

Mingi immediately pointed at him. “First of all, emotionally invested is a crazy accusation.”

“You are going to give your father stress related organ failure.”

“He’ll survive.”

“And the human?”

That question settled differently. Mingi’s grin faded slightly for the first time all morning. Because beneath all the curiosity and amusement… he did know this would change her life completely. “She’ll probably hate me for it,” he admitted as Seonghwa folded his arms. “Will that stop you?” Mingi looked toward the towering city beyond the windows again. Somewhere down there, she was probably furious right now. Good. He liked that about her. “No,” he said honestly.

And somehow that answer worried Seonghwa more than anything else.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You wake up to find your bedroom silent and pitch black, the only light being the soft glow of the moon shining through your blinds.

You thought your sleep schedule had been getting better, but you’d started waking up in the middle of the night again. You’re not sure why.

Actually, you know the exact reason why. It’s because your boyfriend, Song Mingi, is on tour again. He’s thousands and thousands of miles away from you and the comfort of your apartment.

You rub your eyes and sit up in your bed, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. You turn on the screen and see the time reads 3:47am. Below is a thread of notifications from Mingi.

He’s probably telling you to get some sleep or to eat properly - not just instant noodles.

He knows you worry and he knows you get lonely without him. That’s one of the many things you love most about your boyfriend. He notices everything.

Mingi: sleep well beautiful

Mingi: i’ll be home before you know it

Mingi: don’t worry too much

You type out a quick reply before throwing your phone onto the mattress.

Eventually, after what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, you manage to fall asleep again.

————

The next time you’re woken up, it’s by the sun illuminating your bedroom and… a wetness between your legs.

You find yourself trying to wriggle away from the sensitive pressure between your legs, but something is holding you down.

Or someone.

You blink open your sleepy eyes and look down to find your boyfriend’s head between your thighs. His arms are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned down. That explains why you couldn’t move.

You arch your back off the bed and reach down, letting your fingers card through his annoyingly perfect hair.

You see the moment he realises you’re awake when he lifts his head, revealing his shiny lips and chin. “Good morning, baby.” he smirks up at you.

You can’t help but giggle as he dives back in, sucking your already-sensitive clit into his mouth. You whine in response, tugging at his hair and rolling your hips upwards.

He wastes no time pushing two fingers inside of you, pumping them slowly as he effortlessly reaches all the right spots.

“Mingi…” you moan his name, somehow already close to the edge.

He doesn’t respond. He just quickens his movements. His tongue flicks over your clit faster and his fingers push further inside of you, curling at just the right angle. Your legs tremble as you warn him you’re about to come.

“M- ahh… Mingi, I’m close…” you whimper seconds before your release coats his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out of you slowly and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding your gaze.

He releases your thighs and moves quickly, hovering over you. He buries his face in your neck and inhales deeply. “Good girl.”

“You couldn’t wait until later?” you chuckle (although you aren’t complaining) and wrap your legs around his waist.

“And miss out on waking you up in the best way possible? Absolutely not.” he groans as he begins kissing and nipping at your neck. One of his hands grips your hip tightly and the other rests beside your head, careful not to put all of his weight on you.

He leaves a trail of kisses from just below your ear all the way down to your collarbone. You didn’t even notice he had shifted his weight to unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans just enough to free his hard length.

Saying Mingi is big is an understatement. He’s huge. Not just length, but girth, too. You’ll never get over how good the stretch feels when he pushes inside of you.

“Tell me you missed me, baby.” he whispers hoarsely against your neck as he lines himself up with your entrance. But he doesn’t wait for you to respond.

You open your mouth to speak but he’s already pushing inside of you. He groans against your neck and mutters something that sounds like a mix of your name and “fuck”.

You cry out embarrassingly loud and your nails dig into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt (which he didn’t bother to remove).

He groans again and removes his hand from your hip, bringing it up to wrap around your throat instead. He squeezes, but not enough to cut off your breathing, just enough to show he’s in control. But damn you already knew that.

He bottoms out and he’s already panting into the crook of your neck. “Fuck, baby… needed you so bad.”

Then he’s moving. Thrusting deep and agonisingly slow. One hundred percent on purpose.

“Mingi…” you breathe, although you’re not even sure why.

“Use your words, love. Tell me what you want.” he smirks before lifting his head to capture your lips in a slow but hungry kiss. His fingers tighten around your neck for a moment, urging you to speak.

“More…” you manage to say.

“More?” he chuckles low in his throat. “Greedy little thing.”

He listens, though. With practiced ease, he quickens his pace and shifts ever so slightly to angle himself deeper inside of you.

When your walls begin clenching around him, you know you’re not going to last much longer. He’s kissing you when you squeeze his cock and he lets out this delicious, deep groan straight into your mouth. You swallow it, your tongue pushing into his mouth before mingling with his.

He lowers his head again and pushes his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are messy and ragged now as he gets closer to the edge.

He removes his hand from your throat and reaches between your bodies to rub fast, tight circles on your clit.

“Ahh… I’m close.” you manage to whisper.

“Let go, baby. Come for me.” he encourages, thrusting faster.

Your pussy clamp around him as you come which leaves him following seconds later. He basically collapses on top of you as his hot ropes of come fill you up. He’s a panting, groaning, sweaty mess when he lifts his head from your neck for the final time.

“Hey,” he smirks down at you. “you miss me?”

taglist : @binsown @testingspider @yoruse @tsumiyaa

Which was technically true. Because before this, Yunho had at least been pretending he had his feelings under control. That illusion died three nights ago. It had been late. Almost one in the morning. You and Yeosang had come back from closing the campus café together smelling like coffee beans and sugar syrup, both of you exhausted and slap happy in that way people only got after working customer service too long. Yunho had been half asleep already, stretched across his bed with one airpod still in when he heard your laughter echo from the kitchen. Normally he tuned it out. He’d learned how to live around you a long time ago.

How to ignore the way your voice carried through walls. How not to think too hard when you wore his hoodies around the apartment and he wanted to hurt himself inside you with just said hoodie on. How not to stare when you sat cross legged on the couch beside him with wet hair after showers smelling like vanilla and coffee. He’d gotten good at surviving you. Mostly.

But that night he got up for water. And then he heard Yeosang say, “So your thing is just emotionally unavailable tall guys?” Your laugh came immediately after. “No, my thing is blondes unfortunately.” Yunho paused in the hallway going completely still. “I’m serious,” you continued. “Blondes are actually my weakness. It’s embarrassing.” And that was it. That was the moment his brain apparently vacated his body permanently.

Because the next morning he woke up thinking about it. Then he thought about it during class. Then during basketball practice. Then while brushing his teeth. Then at three in the morning while sitting cross legged on his bed researching hair bleach like he was preparing a dissertation.

Can dark hair go platinum in one session?

Will bleaching destroy natural waves?

Best blond shades for warm undertones.

The worst part? He knew it was pathetic. You’d all been friends since freshman year. Back when the three of you were living in tiny dorms with broken AC and surviving off instant ramen and campus vending machines. Back before Yunho had learned every version of your laugh by memory. Before he’d memorized your coffee order. Before the two of you ended up splitting rent on a shitty off campus apartment at the end of sophomore year because housing prices near campus were criminal.

Two years. Two years of shared grocery trips. Shared laundry. Shared late night study sessions. Shared space. Two years of wanting you so badly sometimes it physically hurt to look at you too long. And somehow you still had no idea. Or maybe you did. Yunho honestly couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes he thought you had to know. Especially when your eyes lingered on him too long or when you’d fall asleep against his shoulder during movie nights without thinking twice about it.

Other times you treated him so casually he felt insane for even hoping. So yes. Maybe bleaching his hair because of one overheard conversation was humiliating. But Yunho had reached a point where he’d do a lot worse if it meant seeing you look at him differently for even half a second.

“Alright,” the stylist said finally, returning to his chair. “Ready to see it?” No. Absolutely not. But Yunho nodded anyway.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time you finally made it home, your entire body felt held together by caffeine and spite. Your café visor was shoved into your tote bag, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, technically it was Yunho’s hoodie, as you unlocked the apartment door with a tired sigh. The hallway outside still smelled faintly like somebody’s burned microwave dinner, and all you wanted was a shower and unconsciousness.

The apartment lights were dim except for the living room glow. A video game soundtrack echoed softly through the space, one you recognized from how many times Yunho plays it. Mortal Kombat. “You alive in here?” you called, kicking the door shut behind you. “Barely,” Yunho answered from the couch.

You smiled automatically at the sound of his voice. “Good. I brought your favorite croissants before they tossed the leftovers.”

“Chocolate ones?”

“Obviously.” You stepped into the living room, already pulling the paper bag from your tote. “Yeosang tried to steal one and I told him I’d…” The rest of the sentence died instantly and your footsteps stopped as Yunho looked up from the couch. Blonde. Your brain fully disconnected from your body for a solid three seconds. He was sprawled lazily across the couch in grey sweatpants and an oversized black shirt, one arm hooked behind his head while the PS5 controller rested loosely in his other hand. The TV painted shifting colors across him, catching against pale blonde hair that fell messily over his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.

Your mouth opened. Closed and then opened again. “What did you do to your hair?” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Dyed it.” Like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually altered your brain chemistry. You stepped closer without meaning to, still staring at him. “Why are you blonde?”

Yunho shrugged, eyes flicking back toward the tv too casually. Way too casually. “Wanted a change.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when?”

“Since today?”

You made a disbelieving noise under your breath, still frozen in the middle of the living room while your heartbeat started doing deeply embarrassing things. Because Yunho had always been attractive. That was the problem. You’d spent years trying very hard not to think about it too much. But this? This felt targeted. Like a personal attack he had no idea he was doing. His hair looked soft enough to touch. The blond made his eyes look darker somehow. Sharper.

And the worst part was how relaxed he looked about it, stretched across the couch like he had no idea he’d just walked straight out of every bad decision you’d ever made. Yunho glanced back at you again finally, slower this time because you were still staring. Not subtly either. Your fingers tightened around the paper bag slightly as your eyes dragged over his hair again before you could stop yourself and a tiny flicker of satisfaction crossed his face so fast you almost missed it. “You hate it?” he asked.

You laughed once in disbelief. “Hate it?” you repeated. “Yunho, you look insane.” His eyebrow lifted. “Insane bad or insane good?” The apartment suddenly felt very warm. Very small. You swallowed once and completely betrayed yourself as you mumbled. “Unfortunately insane good.” You tore your eyes away from him with actual effort and shoved the paper bag toward him before you could continue staring like a Victorian man witnessing an exposed ankle.

“Here,” you muttered. “Your croissants before I decide you don’t deserve them anymore.” Yunho snorted softly, setting the controller down on his stomach so he could take the bag from you. Your fingers brushed for barely a second, just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You’re so generous,” he said dryly.

“I know.”

You dropped onto the opposite end of the couch quickly, mostly because standing near him suddenly felt medically unsafe. The cushions dipped under your weight while Yunho pulled one of the croissants from the bag immediately, peeling the paper back. You watched him take a bite. Unfortunately that was somehow attractive too. This was a nightmare. You exhaled through your nose, trying very hard to regain control of yourself before saying something humiliating. “Your postseason championship tomorrow,” you said, tucking your legs beneath you. “You ready?”

Yunho’s expression shifted slightly then, the teasing easing into something softer. Their intramural basketball team had somehow made it all the way to finals. Which normally wouldn’t have mattered much except Yunho was annoyingly good at basically everything. Half the campus showed up to games just to watch him play. “Mm,” he hummed around another bite of croissant. “Kinda nervous.”

You blinked, shocked. “You? Nervous?”

“A little.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Coach has been acting like this is the NBA finals all week.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s because you’re carrying the entire team.”

“That is actually true.”

“There he is.” You pointed at him. “Arrogant again.”

Yunho grinned and, God, the blonde hair made his smile worse somehow. Brighter. You hated this. “You’re coming though, right?” he asked and you softened immediately. “Of course I am. I even switched shifts for it,” you added. “Yeosang’s covering close tomorrow.”

Yunho stared at you for a second too long. Something warm flickered behind his eyes. Then he looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Cool,” he said quietly. And suddenly the apartment didn’t feel casual anymore. Not with his blonde hair glowing gold under the tv light.

Not with the way he kept glancing at you between bites of croissant.

Not with the heavy feeling sitting low in your stomach every time he smiled.

You were in so much trouble.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The next afternoon was somehow worse. You’d spent the entire morning telling yourself you were being ridiculous. It was hair. Just fucking hair. People dyed their hair every day. Millions of people probably woke up blonde every morning and somehow society continued functioning. So why had you spent half your shift replaying the image of Yunho sprawled across the couch in your head?

Why had you almost poured whole milk into an iced americano because you’d gotten distracted thinking about it? Why had you caught yourself staring into space while wondering if it was as soft as it looked? You were losing your mind.

By the time your shift ended, you practically threw your apron into your locker and headed for the employee bathroom. The game started in less than an hour. You’d been going to Yunho’s games ever since freshman year when he’d somehow convinced you to attend one “just this once.” That had turned into every home game. Which had turned into wearing his jersey number. Which had turned into you owning a black and red fitted shirt with a giant white 08 on the back.

You absolutely refused to examine how that happened. The shirt was already folded in your bag. You changed quickly, pulling it over your head and fixing your hair in the mirror. The familiar number stretched across your back with JEONG right above it. A small smile tugged at your lips before you jumped as a knock sounded on the doorframe.

Yeosang stood there holding a box of pastries, immediately narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look guilty?”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

You grabbed your bag. “I’m leaving. Have fun closing.” Yeosang stepped directly into your path. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Unfortunately, after years of friendship, he had developed an almost supernatural ability to tell when something was bothering you. Or when you were lying. The café had mostly emptied out now, most like you, were heading to the game. You finally signed, groaning. “It’s Yunho.”

“See? I knew it.”

“You always know it.”

“What’s he done now?”

You hesitated. Because somehow saying it out loud felt embarrassing. Extremely embarrassing. Yeosang waited patiently. Then impatiently. Then dramatically until you blurted it out.

“He dyed his hair.”

Yeosang blinked. “What?”

“He dyed his hair.”

“And?”

“He dyed it blonde.”

Yeosang laughed. A little too loudly. “Oh my god! Are you serious?”

You groaned. Then immediately regretted opening your mouth at all. Because once you started talking, everything spilled out. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Yeosang barked out another laugh. “Oh, you’re down bad.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I know.”

Yeosang looked delighted as you looked miserable. “Every time I close my eyes,” you complained, “I just keep thinking about running my fingers through it and pulling on it while he…”

Yeosang immediately held up both hands. “Nope. Don’t need your nsfw details.”

You laughed despite yourself. “I wasn’t even going to say anything.”

“That sentence was headed somewhere awful.” Yeosang jokingly physically shuddered. “Please save that conversation for literally anyone else.” You laughed harder now, the tension easing slightly from your shoulders as Yeosang pointed toward the door. “Go.” He grabbed a towel and started wiping down a nearby counter. “Go watch your blonde basketball player.”

You rolled your eyes and headed backwards toward the exit. “He’s not my basketball player.”

Yeosang’s laugh followed you all the way out the door. “Sure he isn’t.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The gym was already packed by the time you arrived. Not professional sports packed. Not thousands of people screaming packed. College packed. Students crammed into bleachers. Friends holding homemade signs. The marching band warming up in one corner. The scent of popcorn and sweat and polished hardwood filling the air. The noise hit you immediately and you loved it.

You slipped through the crowd, making your way toward your usual section. A few people recognized the shirt you were wearing and smiled knowingly. Yunho’s number. As usual but you ignored the looks. At this point half the athletic department had apparently decided you and Yunho were dating years ago. The fact that neither of you had corrected them probably wasn’t helping.

The teams were already on the court warming up. And then you saw him and your feet almost stopped moving. God. That wasn’t fair. The basketball uniform had always looked good on him. That wasn’t new. The black and red jersey stretched across broad shoulders you’ve spent years pretending not to notice. His shorts hung low on his hips. His long legs seemed to take up half the court whenever he moved. Normally that was already enough to make maintaining a friendship feel like an Olympic sport. Now add the blonde hair and you were finished. Absolutely finished.

The bright gym lights caught the bleached strands every time he moved. Against the uniform it stood out immediately, making him impossible to miss even among dozens of players. Several girls nearby were staring and you immediately hated them. Then realized you were doing the exact same thing. Which somehow made it worse.

A whistle blew and warmups ended and the game began. You tried, you really did, to focus on the actual basketball. For maybe five minutes. Then Yunho stole the ball and the crowd erupted. You found yourself leaning forward automatically as he moved with an ease that always fascinated you. Confident. Fast. Certain. The version of Yunho most people knew was relaxed. Sweet and easygoing. Basketball was different. There was a sharpness to him here. A confidence. An intensity. Every movement looked deliberate. Every play looked effortless. And apparently blonde hair made all of it ten times more distracting.

Halfway through the first half he scored again and the crowd exploded all over again as Yunho jogged backward down the court breathing hard. Sweat glistening along his neck. You immediately looked away. Then immediately looked back. Which was a mistake. Because once again your brain had decided to imagine what that hair would feel like beneath your fingers. Pulling….. gripping…..

You shifted in your seat, clenching your thighs together and knew if this was one of those omegaverse stories Yeosang likes to read, the whole gym would smell how turned on you were right now. By halftime you had learned three things: One, Your roommate was going to win this game. Two, The blonde hair somehow looked even better than it had last night. And three….. You desperately needed to get your act together before he noticed the way you kept staring or wet you are as he glanced up and smiled at you.

Yunho had always been good at pretending. That was probably the only reason he’d survived the last few years. Because if he hadn’t learned how to hide things, you would’ve figured him out sometime during freshman year. Back before there was an apartment. Before shared rent. Before he realized he was completely screwed. The game should have had his full attention. It was the championship. The biggest game of the season. The final game of his college career.

And yet every few minutes his eyes drifted toward the bleachers anyway. Toward you. They always did. The first time he’d looked over after warmups, he’d almost forgotten what play they were running. Because there you were as always wearing his name and number. And Yunho hated how much he liked it. Actually, hate wasn’t the right word. The truth was much worse. He loved it. Loved it in a way he would absolutely never admit out loud.

Because the second he started examining why seeing you wear his number made him feel the way it did, he’d have to confront some very uncomfortable truths about himself. Like the fact he was possessive. Not in an unhealthy way. Not in a controlling way. Just… Yours. His brain immediately corrected. No. Not yours. You weren’t his. He knew that. But every time he saw another guy talking to you for too long, something ugly twisted in his chest.

Every time someone flirted with you at parties. Every time some idiot from one of your classes made you laugh. Yunho had to sit there pretending he was perfectly normal about it. So yes. Watching you wear his name and number did something to him……

Yunho snapped back into the play when the whistle blew again. He intercepted a pass, pushed the ball down court, and scored. His teammates slapped his shoulders as they ran back and the crowd cheered but he barely heard them. Because his eyes were already looking toward the stands again and you were watching him. A smile pulling at your mouth and his chest tightened immediately. God. He was pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He immediately turned away. Then looked back three seconds later because apparently he had no self control anymore.

He kept glancing at you for the rest of the half. Through every possession. Every timeout. Every basket. Until finally midway through the second half he ended up at the free throw line and the gym quieted as Yunho bounced the ball once. Twice. Then glanced toward the stands out of habit again and immediately regretted it. Because you were looking right at him. Your chin resting against your hand. Looking at him like he was the only thing in the entire gym worth paying attention to. The shot nearly rimmed out but Yunho caught himself at the last second and the ball dropped through the net.

You weren’t even pretending to watch anyone else anymore. The scoreboard overhead glowed brightly against the gym lights, the numbers changing every few possessions. The opposing team was better than expected. Every time Yunho’s team started pulling away, they clawed their way back. The tension in the building kept rising. Students stood. The bench stood. Even the coaches looked stressed. And through all of it, Yunho somehow looked completely composed.

His blonde hair was darker now with sweat, the strands sticking slightly to his forehead as he moved across the court. The jersey clung to his back. His breathing had become heavier over the course of the game, but he never seemed to slow down. You’d watched him play dozens of times. Maybe a hundred. But tonight felt different. Everything felt different. Every glance toward him and him towards you lingered a little longer than it should. Every smile he gave a teammate made your stomach flutter. Every time he pushed his hair back from his face, your brain short circuited.

The scoreboard buzzed. Two minutes remaining. The game was tied and the entire gym seemed to collectively hold its breath. You shifted forward on the bleachers, elbows on your knees now. Nobody around you was sitting anymore. The student section was practically vibrating as the opposing team scored and groans erupted. Then thirty seconds later Yunho answered with a three pointer that nearly blew the roof off the place and you found yourself shouting before you even realized it but the sound was swallowed by hundreds of other voices.

Yunho pointed toward a teammate as they ran back down the court. One minute left. Then forty seconds. Then thirty. The score stayed tied and every possession felt life or death. You could see the exhaustion on every player now. The way they bent slightly when the play stopped. The sweat soaking through uniforms. The desperation. Twenty seconds. The opposing team missed. The rebound bounced loose and one of Yunho’s teammates grabbed it. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. You stood fully now, heart pounding as the gym felt deafening.

Yunho sprinted across half court and the ball found him immediately. Everyone in the building knew who was taking the final shot. Even the other team. Two defenders closed on him instantly. Five seconds. Four. The noise became unbearable. Three. Yunho stepped back, just enough space to aim as time seemed to slow. You saw the ball leave his hands. Saw the arc. Saw the blonde hair falling into his eyes as he watched it fly and the entire gym froze……

For a split second there was silence. Pure silence. Then absolute chaos. The buzzer sounded. The scoreboard flashed. His team had won and the gym exploded. Boomed. Students screamed. The bench stormed the court as teammates tackled each other. People jumped onto the hardwood from the stands and the sound hit like a wave. And through all the madness, all the celebration, all the movement… Your eyes found Yunho immediately. He was laughing. Head thrown back. Arms spread as his teammates nearly knocked him over as they swarmed him.

For a moment he disappeared entirely beneath the crowd before he emerged again. Breathing hard and grinning. Flushed from exertion and adrenaline. You got up and made your way down the bleachers and onto the court and for a split second, you considered leaving.

The idea hit you the moment you reached the court through the chaos of celebration. Students were spilling onto the hardwood. Teammates were hugging each other. Coaches were getting drenched in water bottles. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Then you saw her. Standing beside Yunho. Red hair. Pretty. One of the cheerleaders. And not just any cheerleader. You knew exactly who she was. Brandy. Unfortunately. Because sophomore year, long before you’d let yourself admit your feelings for Yunho, he’d gotten drunk at a Halloween party and disappeared upstairs with her.

You’d spent the rest of that night pretending it hadn’t bothered you. Just like you’d spent the next years pretending a lot of things. Now she was standing entirely too close to him. Laughing. Touching his arm. Looking up at him with the kind of smile that made your stomach immediately sink. The championship high vanished from your system so fast it was almost impressive. You stopped walking. The noise of the gym suddenly felt distant. Stupid. This was stupid.

Yunho wasn’t your boyfriend. He could talk to whoever he wanted. He could fuck whoever he wanted. He’d done exactly that for years. And yet all you could think about was the way she’d reached up a second ago and touched his shoulder while laughing and how you wanted to break her hand for doing it.

Your jaw tightened and before you could stop yourself, you turned. You’d just leave. Nobody would notice. The team would celebrate. Yunho would celebrate. You’d text him congratulations later. Simple. Except apparently the universe had decided you weren’t getting away that easily. Because before you’d taken more than three steps, you heard your name and you froze.

“Y/N!”

You looked back as Yunho was already jogging toward you leaving the conversation with Brandy entirely.She looked confused as he disappeared and your heart did something deeply embarrassing as Yunho reached you a moment later, slightly out of breath from both the game and weaving through the crowd. The smile on his face hadn’t disappeared since the winning shot. “Where are you going?”

You shoved your hands into your pockets. “Nowhere.” His eyes narrowed immediately. The same way they always did when he knew you were lying. “Uh huh.” You shrugged. “You were leaving.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally turned around.”

“I changed directions.”

Yunho stared at you and you stared back. Then, to your horror, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Like he knew exactly what had happened. Like he was enjoying it as you kept glancing at his sweat damp hair. “I’m gonna go shower real quick,” he said. “We’re all going to Murphys to celebrate.” The little sports bar was only a few blocks from your apartment. Close enough that most students walked there. You nodded. Trying very hard to act normal. “Okay.”

His smile widened slightly. “Then we can go together.” The words landed harder than they should have. Because he could’ve gone with teammates. Or literally anyone else. Instead he’d said we. Like it was obvious. Like of course he was going with you and a warmth spread through your chest despite your best efforts. “You sure?” you asked and the question came out before you could stop it and something flickered across Yunho’s face. Confusion. Then amusement. Then something softer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You opened your mouth and closed it again. Because you couldn’t exactly say because Brandy looked like she wanted to climb him like a tree. So instead you shrugged. “Just asking.” Yunho watched you for a second. A long second. The kind that felt dangerous. Then one of his teammates shouted his name from across the court and the moment broke. “Give me twenty minutes,” Yunho said, backing away. “Don’t disappear.”

Your stomach flipped as the grin he gave you was quick. Easy. Familiar. Then he turned and headed toward the locker rooms as you kept standing there watching him go. Watching the blonde hair. Watching the way students stopped him every few feet to congratulate him. Watching three separate girls try to get his attention in the span of thirty seconds.

And for the first time all night, a realization settled heavily in your chest. The jealousy wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Murphys was exactly what every college sports bar eventually became on a championship night. Packed and overly loud. Impossible to move through without bumping into somebody. The moment you and Yunho stepped through the front doors, a roar erupted from somewhere near the back where most of the team had already claimed several tables. Someone immediately started chanting his name. Another teammate nearly spilled a beer trying to get his attention. You couldn’t help smiling. This was his night. The culmination of four years of practices, games, injuries, early mornings, and everything in between. And somehow, despite all the attention immediately being directed at him, Yunho still glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were following.

The small gesture shouldn’t have affected you but it did unfortunately. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, the blonde strands softer than before and pushed loosely back from his forehead. A few pieces had already fallen forward again, framing his face in a way that should probably be illegal. He’d traded the basketball uniform for black jeans and a dark grey henley that fit entirely too well across his shoulders. You hated how aware you were of every detail and the way half the women in the bar immediately noticed him.

“Over here!” one of his teammates yelled. The team occupied nearly an entire section of the bar now, pitchers and baskets of food already covering the tables. The second Yunho approached, someone shoved a shot glass into his hand. Then another. Then another. And another. “Champions drink free tonight!” someone shouted. The chanting started almost immediately and Yunho rolled his eyes then knocked back the first shot anyway.

You found yourself laughing despite everything. For a little while, it was easy. The energy was infectious. Everyone was celebrating. The game replayed on televisions mounted around the bar and every few minutes somebody brought up the final shot again. Every single retelling somehow made Yunho look more embarrassed.

You were watching him grin through another round of congratulations when your stomach suddenly dropped. Her. Brandy. She’d arrived sometime in the last ten minutes. You hadn’t noticed until now. Until she stood near the opposite side of the table talking to a few people from the athletic department and entirely too interested in Yunho. You tried ignoring it. Really. You focused on your drink. Focused on conversations around you. Focused on literally anything else. Then you looked up again and she was moving closer.

Your jaw tightened as she stopped right beside Yunho who didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. You couldn’t tell as someone handed him another shot and he accepted it with a laugh as Brandy laughed too. At something that wasn’t even funny. Your grip tightened around your glass as she kept finding reasons to move closer, reaching out and touching Yunho’s arm while saying something. The movement lasted barely a second but it still made something unpleasant twist in your chest.

You immediately looked away and moved towards the bar having no idea Yunho was trying. He really was. He’d spent the last ten minutes being cornered by teammates, congratulated by professors he barely knew, handed enough shots to tranquilize a horse, and somehow Brandy had attached herself to his side like a particularly persistent barnacle. Ordinarily, he would’ve felt a little bad. Brandy was nice enough. Kind of. Not really.

They’d hooked up exactly once nearly two years ago after a Halloween party, discovered they had absolutely no chemistry beyond mutual attraction, and never did it again. Since then they’d been friendly. Casual. At least, Yunho thought they’d been casual. Apparently Brandy had different ideas. Because she kept laughing at things that weren’t funny. Kept touching his arm. Kept finding excuses to lean closer. And Yunho kept trying to politely create space without making a scene.

His attention wasn’t even on her. It hadn’t been all night. The problem was that his attention was currently locked on the opposite side of the bar. Specifically on you. And the guy sitting beside you. Sean. Of course it was Sean. Yunho knew Sean. Everybody knew Sean. Another player. Not on the basketball team, but one of the soccer guys. Tall. Built. Annoyingly good looking. And blonde. Naturally blond and that realization hit Yunho like a personal attack.

Of course. Of fucking course. The universe apparently had jokes tonight. Because there you were, sitting at the bar with Sean occupying the stool beside you. Laughing and smiling. Looking comfortable. And all Yunho could think about was that stupid conversation he’d overheard about blondes being your weakness.

His jaw tightened as Sean leaned closer to hear something you said over the music and you laughed and Yunho immediately hated him. Not rationally. Not fairly. Just instantly. “You even listening to me?” Brandy’s voice snapped him back for half a second. “What?”

“You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said.”

And he still wasn’t as a fresh wave of irritation rolled through Yunho. Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You weren’t his girlfriend. You could talk to whoever you wanted. You could date whoever you wanted. Fuck whoever you wanted. The same rules he’d been reminding himself of for years. The problem was they weren’t working anymore.

Yunho immediately looked again. And hated that he looked again. Because the second he saw your smile directed at someone else, that ugly feeling in his chest returned. Stronger this time. Possessive. Frustrated. Dangerously close to becoming something he couldn’t keep hidden much longer. And judging by the way Sean had started leaning even closer, Yunho was rapidly running out of patience.

Sean was halfway through telling some story about getting thrown out of an intramural soccer game when Yunho finally reached his limit. “Fuck it.” Before he could talk himself out of it, Yunho started walking towards you and the moment you felt his presence, you turned. And immediately forgot how to function.

Yunho had one hand braced against the bar behind your stool. The other settled on the counter beside your drink. In one smooth movement he’d essentially wedged himself into the tiny space behind you. Not touching. Technically. But close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that his shirt brushed the back of your shoulder when he shifted. Close enough that the familiar scent of him immediately invaded your senses and your brain completely short circuited.

Sean looked up and grinned immediately. “Jeong!” Yunho nodded once and to Sean’s credit, he didn’t seem remotely threatened. Or aware. “Hell of a game,” Sean continued. “That shot was ridiculous.”

“Thanks.”

“You saved your whole team.”

“Someone had to.”

Sean laughed and Yunho smiled politely. Meanwhile you sat frozen between them. Because while Sean was carrying on a perfectly normal conversation, Yunho remained exactly where he was. Behind you. Practically looming as his arm still rested along the bar behind your stool. You grabbed your drink then immediately regretted it because your hand was shaking slightly. Wonderful.

“You guys still living together after graduation?” The question landed like a grenade. Sean looked genuinely curious when you looked startled and Yunho looked calm. “Yeah,” Yunho answered before you could and your eyes immediately flicked toward him as Sean nodded. “Nice. Makes life easier.”

“It does.” The answer came instantly. Like Yunho hadn’t even needed to think about it and something warm stirred in your chest as Sean smiled. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two do it. I’d kill most of my roommates after two years.”

This time you laughed. “So would I.”

Yunho looked down at you immediately. “You wound me.”

“You leave dishes in the sink.”

“They soak.”

“They rot.”

“They marinate.”

Sean barked out a laugh and you laughed too as Yunho smiled. And for a brief second the jealousy disappeared entirely. Because this felt familiar. Comfortable. The two of you slipping into the easy rhythm you’d built over years. Then Sean smiled at you again and the jealousy came roaring right back. Yunho’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his eyes lingered on Sean for a moment longer than necessary then dropped to you.

“Oh, there he is.” You followed Sean’s gaze to see another soccer player waving him over from a crowded table near the back as Sean stood. “My roommate is going to drink himself into a medical emergency if I leave him alone any longer.”

“Probably a good idea then,” you said as Sean pointed toward Yunho. “Again, congrats on the win.”

“Thanks.”

And just like that, Sean was gone and the moment he disappeared into the crowd, the space beside you was empty for approximately half a second before Yunho sat down. Like he’d been waiting for the opportunity. The stool Sean had vacated hadn’t even stopped spinning before Yunho claimed it. You stared into your drink to hide your smile as the bar remained loud around you. Students celebrating. Glasses clinking. Music playing overhead.

But suddenly all of your attention narrowed to the person sitting beside you as Yunho leaned forward against the bar. His blonde hair had dried almost completely by now. Which somehow made it worse as you heard him mumble almost to himself. “You really do like blondes, don’t you.”

You froze. The words weren’t loud. But they were loud enough and Yunho froze too, his eyes widening slightly and for a second neither of you moved before you furrowed your brows. “What?”

Yunho stared straight ahead. The picture of regret. You could practically see him replaying the last five seconds in his head. Trying to decide if there was any possible way to pretend he hadn’t just said that.

“What did you just say?”

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck and his ears turned red and the realization hit you immediately. Yunho was embarrassed. Genuinely embarrassed. And somehow that made your pulse jump even harder.

“You told Yeosang you like blondes.” His words landed between you and your brain stopped working. For a moment you weren’t even sure you’d heard correctly. “You… heard that?”

Yunho rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

Your jaw dropped. “Yunho.”

“It was an accident.”

“You eavesdropped on us?”

“I was getting water.”

“You were eavesdropping while getting water.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You dyed your hair.” The words slipped out before you could stop them and Yunho finally looked at you. “You dyed your hair because of that?” you asked quietly and Yunho let out a short laugh. Not amused. More like someone caught red handed. “Maybe.” His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around an empty beer bottle. For a moment he looked like he was debating whether to keep hiding. Then something in his expression shifted.

“I wanted you to look at me.” The words landed like a punch and your breath caught as Yunho laughed once. “Actually, no. That’s not true.” He shook his head. “I wanted you to want me. I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he admitted and you could have swore your heart stopped beating. “Since freshman year, probably. You remember when you got sick during finals?” You stared at him. Of course you remembered. You’d spent three days miserable in your dorm while Yunho kept showing up with soup and notes. “I remember.”

“I skipped practice for that.”

Your chest tightened. “I know.”

“You don’t.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I skipped practice because I couldn’t focus knowing you were sick.” Yunho looked away briefly before continuing. “I tried getting over it.” A small laugh escaped him again. “Didn’t work.” Your throat felt tight. “I dated other people. Didn’t work.” The noise of the bar washed around you but neither of you seemed to notice anymore. “Then we moved in together.” He smiled faintly. “Which was probably the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you as Yunho’s gaze softened. “Do you know how hard it is living with someone you want?” The air left your lungs because of you did. “You wear my hoodies.” His voice was lower now. “You fall asleep on my shoulder. You wear my name and my number.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the black shirt and when you looked back up, Yunho was already watching you. “I like when you wear it.”

Your heart nearly stopped. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Yunho’s jaw flexed. Then he admitted the thing he probably never intended to. “It makes me feel like you’re mine.” The words settled heavily between you and Yunho immediately looked away. Like even after everything, that confession felt too revealing. Too possessive. Too honest. But it was already out there now. And suddenly so many things made sense. The way he’d always noticed when you wore the shirt. The way he’d smiled every time. The way he’d looked at you during games. The way he’d dyed his hair. The way he’d looked at you tonight and slowly, Yunho looked back and his expression was completely open now.

“I want you.” The words were barely above a whisper, yet somehow they hit harder than anything else he’d said. Your heart was beating so hard it hurt and for a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. You simply stared at each other before you stood and the movement made Yunho blink, eyes following you immediately. Confused, hopeful and a little worried.

“You want me.” It wasn’t a question but your words made Yunho’s throat bob as he nodded like he couldn’t trust his voice anymore and the look in his eyes nearly destroyed you as a tiny smile tugged at your lips. “Then come have me.” And for a second, Yunho simply stared. Like his brain had completely stopped functioning.

Then his chair scraped against the floor so loud heads turned to stare a little as he followed you out the bar.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The front door of your apartment barely clicked shut behind you before the tension that had been building all evening, for years, snapped like a live wire. Yunho’s hands were already on your waist, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wood paneling as his mouth found yours in a deep, hungry kiss finally. His tongue slid against yours with urgent need, tasting faintly of the drinks you’d had and the shots he downed. He pulled back just enough to breathe the words against your lips, voice low and rough. “You want me?”

You laughed softly, the sound turning into a gasp when his hips rolled forward to pin you tighter. “Obviously, blondie.” He grinned and then moved. Both of you pulled and tugged at each other’s clothes not wasting anymore time because you already waited years and both of you were impatient now. Shirts tugged over heads, pants shoved down legs, socks kicked aside, Yunho almost tripped once, until both of you stood in nothing but underwear, breathing hard as Yunho’s gaze raked over your body, pupils blown wide, before he bent and lifted you effortlessly.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you down the short hallway, mouth never leaving yours except to nip at your jaw, tongue gliding against your skin as he shouldered open the door to his bedroom and lowered you onto the edge of the bed wasting no time to start kissing his way down your throat, across your collarbones, pausing to suck lightly at the swell of each breast still covered by your bra. You reached behind yourself and unclasped it, letting the fabric fall away and Yunho’s hands immediately replaced it, palms warm as they cupped and squeezed, thumb stroking over one nipple before he leaned down to take it into his mouth. “Fuck….” You gasped as groaned against you, sucking harder, letting his teeth graze before moving to do the same thing to your other one as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your thighs, slow and deliberate.

He gave one more little nip at your nipple before sliding down and dropping to his knees between your legs, hooking one over his shoulder as he kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, working higher with open mouthed presses of his lips and your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping the bleached strands as he finally reached your center and his tongue dragged a long, flat stripe up your folds before circling your clit.

He took his time, licking and sucking with focused attention, occasionally dipping lower to push his tongue inside you in slow, deliberate little thrusts. A low groan vibrated against you when his own hand slipped into his boxers to wrap around his dick, stroking in time with the rhythm of his tongue just enough to edge himself as your hips started rocking against his face and the wet sounds of his mouth to fill the room. “Yunho…. I’m….” You could feel it, between the way he would rotate plunging his tongue insult to moving back up to suck your aching clit into to his mouth. You could feel your wetness, juices leaking against his chin, smearing, covering his face.

“FUCK!” Your orgasm slammed against you, coming with a sharp cry, thighs trembling around his head while he kept licking through every pulse and your grip tightened in his hair, eyes rolling back a little as he kept going until you couldn’t take it anymore. You tugged him upward by his hair and didn’t miss the way he moaned at his hair being pulled. “I need you inside me now.”

Yunho stood in one fluid motion, you certainly did not have to tell him twice. He shoved his boxers down, catching your ankles and pulling you toward the edge of the mattress, lifting you into his lap as he sat back on the bed, kissing you as you both could feel his tip aching against you, precum smearing at your entrance. “Look at me.” His voice was rough, raspy, as he pressed his forehead against yours. “You want this?” He held you up, giving enough space for the head of his dick to just barely slip inside you. “You want me to bury myself inside you and make you mine?”

“Please….” You hated that it sounded as if you were desperate and begging but you literally were and it was enough to make him groan as held you, sinking you down onto him in one smooth glide and both of you moaned at the stretch, at the years of wanting finally released. He held you there for a moment, forehead staying pressed to yours, letting you adjust to the deep fullness until you began to move, rising and sinking in steady bounces.

Every downward stroke seated him fully, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you. It didn’t take long before the pressure crested again, you were to full, the knowledge of him taking you almost too much and you could feel it already, hitting you to fast. You clenched around him and felt yourself squirt, wetness spilling over his thighs and Yunho’s control fractured. “Holy shit, baby….” He laid you flat on the bed and drove into you harder, hips snapping forward while you kept coming in messy pulses around him. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your cries as your hands yanked at his hair which only fueled him to pound into you faster.

Another orgasm rolled through you, legs shaking uncontrollably, your moan formed into a cry of his name and Yunho pulled out, mouth returning to your pussy to lap at the fresh slick while you were still coming, tongue slipping inside you again as your walls clenched with aftershocks, and the moan he let out like you watching and having you come apart was the best thing to ever happen to him almost made you come again if he hadn’t pulled back and flipped you onto your stomach.

His hands gripped your hips to pull you back onto your knees, pressing you down into the mattress with one big hand between your shoulder blades, gripping his dick in his other hand, teasing his tip at your ass for a minute before moving it back down and thrusting back inside your overstimulated pussy from behind, going a little slower now, savoring the way you gripped him. “Always wanted this,” he murmured, voice thick. “Wanted you like this, taking every inch.” One hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your swollen clit. “Whose pussy is it?”

You tried to answer but all you could manage for a moment were whimpers, small little cries. “Yours,” you gasped, pushing back to meet him. “It’s your pussy.” The words seemed to ignite something in him. His pace quickened, hips slapping against your ass with each deep thrust as he pulled you upright against his chest, one arm banded across your waist to hold you steady while he continued pounding up into you. The new angle keeping him buried to the hilt, and the steady friction soon had you coming again, body arching back into him.

“Fuck…” Yunho reached up, hand wrapping around your throat, tilting your head back as he could feel his dick twitch. “Mine.” He groaned, thrusts frantic and gone as held you there right, coming, groaning your name as he filled you, hot pulses flooding deep inside you while his arms tightened around you, keeping you close through the aftershocks, pressing kisses along your shoulder and neck as both of you caught your breath, the room quiet except for the sound of your mingled breathing.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the sound of your breathing slowly finding its rhythm again. The adrenaline that had carried you from the bar to the apartment was finally beginning to settle, leaving behind something warmer. Softer and real as Yunho rolled onto his back with a groan, one arm immediately reaching for you before you’d even fully settled beside him. Like it was instinct. Like after spending years wanting you, he couldn’t quite convince himself that this wasn’t some elaborate dream his brain had invented.

Then, after a moment, Yunho smiled. Dangerously teasing. The same look he always wears whenever he knows he was about to win an argument. He tilted his head slightly and chuckle escaped him. “You really do like blondes, huh?”

You laughed immediately, then reached up and pushed the hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering there and the teasing expression disappeared from Yunho’s face as he watched you. Watched the fond smile pull at your mouth.

“Mhmmm,” you hummed then you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “But I like just Yunho too.”

And for a second, he simply stared before the biggest smile you’d ever seen spread across his face. And somehow, impossibly, that smile was better than the blonde hair.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Heart thundering, you slip out of the covers without hesitation. Because you know who it is. On the other side of the king-sized mattress, your husband is loudly snoring, back turned to you, so you’re able to sneak past him for the door.

You’ve been lying awake just waiting for that text. Since you locked eyes with him last night at the party, you knew it was coming. Because he couldn’t speak to you there. Couldn’t approach you, even though you were at his house. The whole point of your appearance was for your husband to show off your marriage to the entire conglomerate. And to show Hongjoong, the reigning top boss of the entire city, who you belong to.

Little did they know, you silently and secretly denied that notion by wearing a deep red, velvet dress, open in the back with a long, daring slit up the thigh. Red has always been his favorite. Especially on you.

Your mother and husband did well keeping you as far away from him as possible, but you still felt the radiating heat of his gaze following you all night. On the occasion that you were able to steal a sly glance his way while no one was looking, he was staring you down from across the room, a smirk on his face because you weren’t fooling anyone. Not him at least. No one can keep you away from him for long. Hence the 2am text and tinted Sudan waiting for you outside of the gate in the backyard.

Coat fastened around your set of silk pajamas, you steadfastly slink down the back porch and through the garden, looking over your shoulder as you punch in the code on the gate to make sure no one has followed you as the metal bars rumble apart. The back door of the car opens from the inside and you’re ushered in, the tires rolling through the pebble asphalt before you get the chance to fasten your seatbelt or realize that the man beside you is Yunho, Hongjoong’s personal guard.

He informs you that Hongjoong is expecting you at his private abode, not the mansion that he shares with his family, where he hosts parties like the one last night.

It’s on the top of a skyscraper, one of the tallest in the city, one of all that he owns. The elevator ride up is long and awkwardly silent with two guards standing behind you. When the thick metal doors rumble open, you bid them good night and step into the expansive, elegant penthouse, every inch of pristine carpet, custom furniture, and walls decorated with rare art screaming wealth and luxury.

He’s not there to greet you, and it’s nothing new as he’s always in the middle of doing something. But there’s a new pair of house slippers waiting for you at the end of the foyer.

“Hongjoong?” you call out, taking tentative steps forward because you’ve never been here before and you know all too well how easy it is to get lost in the places Hongjoong lives.

“Kitchen!”

You follow his voice and walk out of the hallway and to the right, the familiarity of him calling you over, knowing you’ll find him without needing to be led, strickens your chest. It’s been so long that it’s been this way.

He’s at the long, marble island in the center of the open kitchen, two crystal glasses placed before him as he works on uncorking a bottle of wine. No doubt red, rare, and expensive. Just the way you like it. His dark brown hair is released from the pony tail he wore at the party, long bangs falling past his eyes.

“Hey, princess,” he greets, tone warm, smile warmer. The nickname he’s used for as long as you can remember sets your soul on fire. “Want a drink?”

He speaks as if the last time you saw each other wasn’t years ago. As if nothing has changed, as if your worlds aren’t entirely different and made to keep you both apart. You don’t answer as you round the corner and he immediately puts down the glass and bottle, turning to face you as you approach him.

Wordlessly, you step up and wrap your arms around his neck. Body pressed flushed against his, engulfed by his intoxicating cologne and musk as you nuzzle into his neck, he curls his strong arms around you, hands on your back pulling you closer, and nothing compares to this.

And yet, you shouldn’t be here. Not while your husband is at home asleep. And not when you’ve been forbidden from having anything to do with Hongjoong outside of business. But it’s been too long since you’ve held him. Too long that you’ve had to navigate life without him, without being able to call him when things were good and bad, or sneaking into his house just because you missed him, and waiting, curled up in his bed, for him to come home and cuddle you, no questions asked. Just him being there whenever you needed him. You’ve needed him for so long, but you’ve been locked up in a tower out of his reach. You’d risk everything to be his again.

“I’ve missed you, pretty girl,” he whispers below your ear, lips brushing your skin causing you to tremble. If you respond with your own sentiment, you may start to cry, so you just hold him tighter, and he does the same, chest inflating as he takes a deep breath of you.

You’ve missed him so much. Some days there was a hole in your heart aching so deeply for him that you felt like you were dying. But now he’s right here. His strong arms holding you. As you pull away to try and say something, anything, there are his eyes softly staring at you. Well, the one not hidden by a black patch, to cover up an accident - an accident he doesn’t talk about, not even to you. His lips, pink and slightly bow shaped, soft smile on the corners. They tempt sin. You could kiss him, like nothing else matters.

But the gold binding ring taut on your finger draws you away.

If it had been up to you, of course you would’ve married Hongjoong. The promise ring that he gave you on your 18th birthday, vowing that one day he’d marry you, is still tucked away in your locked jewelry box. But your family knew that, and were determined to make sure it didn’t happen. Which is why the day you turned 21, they shipped you off to the other side of the country, away from Hongjoong and the unbridled chaos he brings.

They were smart to make sure you were married before you got back to town, so Hongjoong wouldn’t get the chance to intervene. During the ceremony, you kept discreetly looking around the venue, fully anticipating Hongjoong to barge in with his boys, guns ablazing, and whisk you away. But by the end of the night, you’d kissed and married a man you don’t love, all for his title and wealth. The things that matter the least to you. Hongjoong was nowhere to be found. But you couldn't blame him. He has duties to uphold just like you do. You just wish you could share them.

Warm fingers wrap around your wrist and lift your arm up, then a half-full glass of wine is placed in your hand.

“Let’s sit.”

He turns and leads the way to the living room, surrounded by glass walls overlooking the twilight city, beige, plush couches spread out in a u-shape facing a large flatscreen tv mounted above a roaring marble fireplace - Hongjoong’s style and taste woven into every inch of decor.

“So, princess,” he says once you sit next to each other and he lays a faux fur blanket across your lap. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

And then it’s just like old times. You rambling about your shitty days at grad school, the all-nighters you pulled that secured you As on your finals, telling him about everything under the sun that you went through while you were away as he listens and smiles, not taking his eyes off you and never interrupting. But you skirt around the topic of your arranged marriage, even though it was a large factor in your prolonged absence from home.

While you start wrapping up another anecdote, he reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a carton of cigarettes, tapping the bottom against his palm a few times before popping the top open and slipping out a stick. You continue talking but your fingers tighten around your glass as he places it between his lips, then swipes a lighter from the coffee table. You try not to say anything as he lights up, because it’s his house and it’s not your place, but you really hate that he still smokes.

“I don’t like that, Joong,” you can’t help but say when he takes a drag. He pauses and his eyebrows slightly lift, then tilts his chin up to blow smoke into the air. You take a sip of your wine to distract your senses from the acrid smell.

“Sorry,” he mutters, leaning towards the coffee table and quickly hitting the cigarette one last time before stubbing it out on the ashtray. He turns away from you to release the hazy fume.

“I thought you quit.”

“Shit happens.”

Rolling your eyes at his dumb excuse, you sip the rest of your wine and snatch the bottle to give yourself a refill. As you sit back with a now full glass, he snatches your left hand, bringing your knuckles close to his face so he can closely analyze the ring on your finger. He squints at it and frowns.

“Looks cheap as fuck.” His tone is condescending, but you know it’s not directed at you.

“Yeah, he splurged on everything but the ring.”

“Why’d you have to go and marry that lame ass?” He asks, tone laced with bitterness that now you feel is directed at you, and lets go of your hand. You miss the sparkling warmth.

“You know why.”

“Enlighten me.” You hate that he’s fucking pressing you about this right now. You came here to escape, not face him with your unwanted reality.

“He’s quiet about his job. And careful.”

“So?”

“He’s safe.”

“Says who?” Your jaw clenches and you look away. He damn well knows the answer.

“Ah, must’ve been your family,” he says matter-of-factly. “No way would you have chosen to marry that schmuck on your own.”

Sweet old wine on your tongue, you mull over his contemplation, hating how right he is.

“You like the danger too much, don’t you, princess?” His black-painted nails brush the side of your neck, sift through your hair, curl strands around his fingers. You tremble, eyes closing from his simple yet blissful touch.

“Remember all those times you snuck out to come on drives? Tagged along with me and my brother when we had to take care of business, even though if your daddy knew his precious little angel was hanging out with criminals like us, he’d never let you step foot out of his sight ever again.”

He leans in closer, smirk in your periphery, pointer finger caressing down your earlobe. “I remember how you liked to put me to the test, see how far I’d go to protect you. Went out by yourself late at night, ‘cause all it took was one text and I’d come get you. Dated creeps on purpose so I’d punch their lights out when they got too handsy with you. You liked getting yourself into trouble knowing that I’d be right there to get you out.”

“Then why didn’t you come to the wedding?” you snap, vexed, and he frowns, pulls back a little and drops his hand to the back of the couch. 

“I wasn’t invited.”

You scoff. “When has that ever stopped you?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“You could’ve taken me away.”

“And start a war with your family?”

You close your mouth from making the argument that that’s exactly what you and your family were anticipating from him as the conglomerate’s agent of chaos.

He sighs and returns his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, sensing your inner turmoil.

“Princess, you know if I thought there was a way out, I would’ve made it happen.”

Disappointment and melancholy radiating through your chest, you attempt to quell it with the last few sips of wine. He scoots closer so his bent knee touches your hip, fingers brushing the nape of your neck, sending goosebumps down your spine.

“Is he treating you right?”

“I’m nothing more than arm candy and a baby maker to him.”

He abruptly stands, grabs the bottle, pours the rest of the wine, and downs it before carelessly tossing the glass to the side, unflinching when it shatters on the floor. You internally sigh. He’s ever the enthusiast for chaos, always has been. He steps up directly in front of you, peering down in a way that makes you cower and crave more of his dominance.

And then he gets on his knees, hands sliding up the sides of your calves. Your racing pulse leaps to your throat as he lifts your right leg in the air by your heel, eyes deadlocked on yours as he removes the slipper and lingers a feather-light kiss on the inside of your ankle as he slides up the leg of your silk.

“If you were mine, I’d worship you. More than I already do,” he promises in a dark tone, slowly peppering kisses up your leg. Your breath hitches, thighs involuntarily jerking apart the further up he goes. “And you’d sit by my side at the head of the table. Not tucked away in a corner like he has you.”

You can just picture it. Chairs pushed together like thrones, you wearing dresses and heels he picked out and bought for you to match him, his hand on your thigh under the table, everyone in the room intimidated by you just as much as him.

You’ve never wanted anything more. Except maybe this moment - him down on his knees in between your legs, staring hungrily at you, desire barely controlled.

He pushes your legs fully apart, loose silk almost at the top of your thighs, and a pitiful whimper leaves your trembling lips when he brings your bent leg to his chest and brushes a kiss on the inside of your knee.

“Stop me at any time, princess,” he assures, cheek against your skin.

“I’m married,” you say weakly. Only because you know what your mother would say and do if she found out you have the head of her mortal enemy between your legs. You couldn’t give any less of a fuck about the prick in your bed who can’t make you come. 

Hongjoong laughs maniacally and then snatches up your left hand again, expression falling dark as he holds high the flashy diamond ring that makes you nauseous every time you look at it.

“To hell with him! This doesn’t mean shit to me,” he snarls, looking ready to snatch the jewelry off of your finger. “You’re mine. Since the day we met, you’ve been mine. A shitty little ring and a fancy wedding hasn’t changed that.”

You don’t know why you’re hesitating when all of your desires sit right here, in the palm of his hand, and all you have to do is take hold.

“I don’t give a fuck if you don’t.”

He’ll protect you. Like he always has. You just have to give in.

“Kiss me.”

You expect him to grab your face and snatch your breath away, but instead he slowly rises and reaches out to slide a calloused hand on your cheek, his warm touch making you shiver and tear up a little. His tongue darts out to his bottom lip as he stares at your mouth and leans in, waiting for you to close the distance.

It’s cliche what people say when you kiss someone who carries a piece of your heart - that you see fireworks the second your lips touch. When you kiss Hongjoong, you don’t see fireworks, you feel them in the depths of your bones, erupting and waking up parts of you that died when you left him. He takes control of the kiss, tongue stained with wine gently swiping your lips to part them, the softness of it all instilling you with tranquility you’ve never felt before. A bitter anger coats your ribs because the life you were born into but didn’t choose is fighting to force you to stay away from him.

“It should’ve been you,” you whisper, forehead pressed against his, throat tight with tears. He parts to thumb away your wobbling frown.

“Don’t cry, princess,” he murmurs, giving you a tender peck. “It breaks my heart.”

You trail your hand down to his chest, over that very spot. His pulse is racing, pounding under your touch. He wraps his fingers around your wrist, keeping you in place.

“Tell me what it’d be like.”

“What?”

“If we were married.”

He huffs a small laugh, then brings your knuckles up to his grinning mouth.

“I’d spoil you rotten.” Your head throws back in laughter.

He tells you in between kisses dotted on your hands that every single day, you’d wake up surrounded by your favorite flowers and breakfast in bed, he’d drive you to work and pick you up, you’d nap together at least once, he’d read to you every night, and you would never lift a single finger unless you wanted to. You fall for the picture in your head.

“And you’d take part in all my decisions.”

“What, like your advisor?"

“As my wife. My partner. You’d know everything. I wouldn’t keep anything from you. And no one would ever dare to lay a single finger on you.”

“What about you? Would anyone else get to touch you?”

“No,” he replies definitively. He brings your hand back to his heart. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted, princess. No one else can even come close to doing what you do to me.”

He smiles at you, eyes twinkling and diving right into your soul, and that irresistible toothy grin you’ve been in love with since you were kids lures you back in.

 You kiss him and see your future behind closed eyes, so lost in him that you don’t realize for a second that he’s dragging you onto your feet.

He sweeps you up in his arms like you just became his bride, mouth sucking a bruise under your ear as he walks out of the living room. You grip onto his shoulder when you hear the harsh crunch of cracked crystal.

“Joong, the glass!” you squeal.

“I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”

“You mean you’ll get someone to do it for you. Spoiled boy.”

He bites at your neck for that and you giggle as he carries you over to the stairs. He puts you down and lets you go first, and knowing he wants to stare at your ass as you go up, you emphasize the sway in your hips, fully enjoying the smack to your cheek that follows. You squeal and attempt to run up the rest of the way, screeching in laughter when he bounds behind you and snatches your waist once you reach the top of the stairs.

“Too late to run now, princess.” 

You shiver under his mischievous smile. He’s got you right in his trap and this is where you plan to stay. Grinning, you grab his chin and yank him down into a kiss that dizzies you, teeth clashing and tongues gliding, hands scrambling to touch every inch of each other. He doesn’t bother taking time to unbutton your silk top, just yanks it apart from the collar, buttons flying and scattering everywhere. Throwing your shirt down, he zeroes in on your breasts, licking his lips, but before he can touch them, you spear your sharp, acrylic nails hungrily through the seams to get to his bare, scarred skin. Your hands smooth across his chest, but stop when a rough, round wound scrapes your palm on his left pec. You freeze and pull back, and he lets you look, analyze, frown at his deep scar, not saying a word.

You do the same to his crisp shirt - sharp, acrylic nails hungrily ripping through the seams to get to his bare, scarred skin. Your hands smooth across his chest, but stop when a rough, round wound scrapes your palm on his left pec. You freeze and pull back, and he lets you look, analyze, frown at his deep scar, not saying a word.

“I heard about this,” you murmur, thumbing over the healed wound.

“How?”

“I have my ways.”

“Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you say, hands smoothing across his chest as you lean up to kiss under his jaw. You smile when he leans into it, Adam’s apple bobbing. “And you’re one to talk -“ hand cupping the side of his neck, you breathe against his skin, becoming intoxicated by his musk and cologne. “I know you’ve had your goons stalking me ever since I got back.”

“I had to make sure it was really you." He caresses both sides of your face, roving over every feature, filling your chest with warmth of an undying fire. “But even now as I look at you, I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

“Well, if we’re dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.”

He smiles, soft and pretty, then kisses you again, sweet and languid as he guides you over to his bed, settling you atop his cloud-like comforter as if you were a delicate flower. This isn’t your first time together, but it is without the rush. Without the fear of his maid coming to check on him, his father calling him away on a deal, or your mother blowing up your phone demanding your whereabouts. Now, you both can take your time admiring each other, touching every inch of each other. Becoming familiar with each other again.

He kisses down your neck to bite and mark at your skin, and your hands tangled in his hair keep him there so you’re properly bruised, then let him move down to your breasts, licking and sucking until your nipples are swollen and aching. His tongue drags down your navel, and he glances back up at you as his fingers skim the silk hemline of your bottoms, as if you don’t already trust him with your soul. Still, you nod, and he slides them down, and once there’s nothing left to keep you covered, he admires what’s wet for him.

“Spread these pretty legs for me.”

Arms wrapped tightly around your thighs, his dark, piercing gaze is unwavering as he thoroughly licks through your folds, nose rubbing your clit as he drags his tongue up and down.

Arms wrapped tightly around your thighs, his dark, piercing gaze is unwavering as he thoroughly licks through your folds, nose rubbing your clit as he drags his tongue up and down. You moan with each kiss and flick of his tongue, holding a fistful of his hair as he carries you out to a sea of pleasure, lapping you in and out of a void of stars like a tide, and releases you on a wave that washes over you again and again, right to the brink of drowning. You cry out his name when you can’t take anymore, entire body trembling and he leaves you with a final kiss on your overstimulated clit before coming up for air, bottom half of his face and neck glistening with your slick and cum.

You look up through blurred, teary vision as he crawls back on top of you, smirking down at you as you weakly claw at his chest and shoulders, urging him to kiss you again. He obliges, and licks back into your mouth as you wrap your arms around him, ankles hooking on his lower back to push his pelvis down on yours.

“Want me that bad, princess?” he purrs in your ear, slowly grinding down his solid, clothed erection. You whine pleadingly.

“He doesn’t fuck you right, does he?”

You sigh, eyes rolling to the ceiling like they do every time your husband gets on top of you, fucks you for two, three minutes tops, while you lie there feeling absolutely nothing, comes inside, and then passes out. It was only recently that you stopped rolling on your side, curling up, and crying quietly with his pathetic cum inside you. Every week he tells you to take a pregnancy test. And every week he scoffs at you in disappointment when you tell him it’s negative. He walks away before he can catch your sigh of relief.

“He can’t even knock me up, much less make me come.” Hongjoong’s jaw clenches.

“Do you want a kid?”

“Not his,” you mutter. His scowl morphs into a wicked grin, flashing the diamonds on his teeth.

“I bet I could get you pregnant without even trying.”

Your pussy clenches around nothing, hips involuntarily wiggling in search of friction because fuck, you need him to fill you up.

“You want that? Want me to fuck you so full that you’ll go home to your impotent husband with me still inside you?”

“And if I have your baby?”

“Well, what’s mine belongs to me. That includes you.”

“What about him?”

“I can take care of that.”

You know exactly what he’s capable of. You’ve seen the blood on his hands and the terrifying grin on his face yourself. But it never scares you. It turns you on.

“Fuck me. Give me everything.”

He smiles, kisses you deeply, then rolls off of you and the bed, standing at the side to undo his belt and push down his pants and boxers. Your mouth waters when his cock, long and thick, pops out and smacks his stomach. You get on your knees and crawl towards him as he slowly pumps himself with his fist, and he grabs your hand as you reach out, desperate to have him in your mouth.

“Not tonight, princess. This is all about you.” You blink up at him with a pout, sitting back on your ankles and sharply sighing. He grips your chin and swipes his thumb across your mouth, flattening your pout.

“Don’t give me that. I’ll fuck your throat another time.”

Before you can argue, he leans down and kisses you, cupping your cheek to tip your head back as he climbs back on the mattress. Your lips part as you lower down and you chase him for one more kiss before flopping down and watching fondly as he situates himself between your legs. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, he slides his dick up your mound, subtly thrusting in his hand above your navel, and from this angle you can tell he’s going to fucking wreck you.

He rubs his head in stimulating circles on your clit, luring out more of your arousal, melting you to full relaxation. He’s doing everything but sinking into you, and you’re leaking onto his comforter in desperation. You can’t understand why he’s waiting.

“Baby, please,” you beg under your breath.

Eyes locking on yours, he grins at you before finally pressing into your entrance and just his thick mushroom head is enough to cast you in a dizzy spell. His fingers dig into the insides of your thighs so you don’t dare try and close them as he gawks at his slick, throbbing cock penetrating your heat. The burn of his girth stretching you wide is palpable but has your eyes rolling to the back of your head because he’s barely halfway in but you’re already so full.

“You feel so fucking good, princess. I’m about to lose it.”

“Joong,” you warble, turning your face to the side with your eyes squeezed shut and fist in the covers as pleasure mounts inside you as he inches further in.

“Uh-uh, princess,” he grunts, seizing your elbow to force you on your back. “You’re gonna look at me while you take what’s yours.”

Through hazy vision, you blink up at him and take his hand from your elbow to clasp your fingers together. He smiles and does the same to your other hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles before leaning down to kiss you. Mouths molding and tongues rolling, his hands squeeze yours and he whispers little sweet nothings between kisses, how beautiful you are, of how much he’s missed you, how not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of you. His affection clears your mind, softens the hard edges around your soul shaped by all these years away from him and you don’t realize he’s bottomed out until he hums and purrs into your mouth. You gasp onto his tongue when he presses in just a bit deeper, cockhead kissing your cervix. Your cunt spasms. He hisses and laughs under his breath.

“Keep squeezing me like that, I might knock you up right now."

“Do it.”

You squeeze him again. He chuckles. “You don’t get to rush me, princess.”

Your fluttering walls dare him again and his eyes go black before he fucks you slow with his elbows under your knees, tongue swirling in your mouth, hips rolling so his dick strokes against your cervix. He rolls you over and pounds into you from behind, forcing your back to arch to a point that it starts to hurt, slapping your ass, gripping your hips firmly enough to leave marks and make sure you can’t slide forward and bury your sobs into his sheets. You lose track of how many times you come, his room filled with your pathetic, fucked out moans, squelching of his fat, wet dick thrusting in and out of your soaked, dripping cunt. 

By the time he returns you to your back, there’s a sleek shine on his chest and abdomen, bangs sticking to the sweat beading on his forehead. You reach up to comb through his hair, and his concentrated expression relaxes, lips parted to catch his breath.

“You’re so handsome, Joong,” you murmur, caressing his cheek. His shy smile kisses your palm, a red hue creeping up his neck, coloring the tips of his ears. He leans down to kiss you sloppily as he shifts up, hands sliding up the backs of your legs and pushing them down to your chest, until your ankles are nearly behind your ears.

"Gonna fuck you so full, princess. Give you all of me."

He looks down as his hips slam against your ass in an aching force, but all you can focus on is the beautiful darkness in his eyes. The lust, the unspoken confessions, the secrets he’ll tell you one day. And in the depth of it all, you see that sparkle of love as he gazes down on you and what you’ve been keeping to yourself since you were young slips out.

“I love you.” His eyebrows pinch and he lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, dropping your legs. He holds onto your knees as he leans over, smashing his mouth to yours as his hips keep rolling. You whimper his name against his lips, and he falters and moans, surging forward with his fists next to your hips. Balls deep and bottom lip between his teeth, a whiny groan rips out of his chest as you feel his dick convulse and coat your walls with warm cum.

"I love you," he rasps, collapsing on top of you, strong chest heaving against your breasts, cock still twitching out cum. He’s trembling as he pushes himself to hover just above you, stringy bangs brushing your forehead. "I-I always have."

You wrap your legs and arms around him, entrapping him in your embrace, tears spilling down your face because finally your heart is full.

“Fuck this,” he snaps, grabbing your wrist and wrenching the ring off your finger. “They can’t keep you away from me.” He chucks it to the side harder than he did the glass, and it cracks against the wall before clinking on the floor.

“You’re my everything,” you whisper. He takes several deep breaths before turning his head to kiss your cheek, over to your lips, fingers trailing up your left arm to bring your hand down his shoulder. He pauses and lifts up when he brushes against your ring.

He presses his forehead to yours and you tangle your fingers in the hair on the nape of his neck, placing gentle kisses all across his face.

“Stay with me, princess?” he whispers, a fear in his eyes like you might say no. You kiss him, smiling, heart on fire.

“For the rest of my life.”

.

.

.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The wind didn’t just blow; it knifed through the gap between your scarf and your throat. Beside you, Yunho was doing his best impression of a turtle, hands shoved so deep into his pockets his shoulders were practically touching his ears. It was a ridiculous look for a man who usually moved with the unbothered grace of a runway model, but lately, he seemed determined to make himself as small—and as gloomy—as the weather. He had this habit of picking the most miserable days to meet. Days where the sky was the colour of a wet sidewalk and the sun was a distant memory. Every time you suggested a bright, crowded café or a sunny park, he’d blink at you as if you’d suggested a casual stroll through a nuclear blast site.

“The sun makes my eyes hurt,” he’d say, his voice as flat and unyielding as a textbook.

The first three times, you’d laughed. By the fifth, you’d stopped looking for a punchline and just started wearing an extra sweater.

“You’re doing it again,” you muttered, your fingers tightening around the warm paper cup he’d pressed into your hand the second you met, like he always did now. A little ritual that had formed without either of you naming it. A warm drink in your hands. His gaze on your face for half a second too long. Then the careful, practiced looking-away.

“Doing what?” he asked. His eyes flicked to yours, all dark lashes and hidden depths, before he performed his signature move—the “careful, practiced looking-away.”

“Being... you,” you said, letting the steam from your drink kiss your nose. Cinnamon. He always remembered the extra dash of cinnamon. “You didn’t have to get this, you know. For the hundredth time.”

“I wanted to,” the words were simple, but they landed in your stomach with a heavy, confusing thud. It was the classic Yunho special: a dash of extreme sweetness followed by a mile-high wall of emotional unavailability. You took a sip of your drink, watching Yunho out of the corner of your eye. His posture had shifted—shoulders square, jaw tight. He looked like a man who had just decided to jump off a bridge and was now reconsidering the height. “Do you ever...” He started, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a heavy swallow. He paused, his jaw working as he fought with whatever thought was trying to claw its way out. “Do you ever feel like you’re going to say something and it’ll change everything? Like there’s no going back to how it was five seconds ago?”

You slowed your pace, the ripples in your coffee mirroring the sudden tremor in your chest. You tried to laugh, but it came out sounding hollow. “That sounds like a classic ‘Yunho Thought.’ Deep, slightly ominous, and very dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” the silence that followed wasn’t the cozy, “friends-hanging-out” kind. It was heavy. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ribs until it was hard to breathe. You could feel the weight of him beside you—an oddly steady, cold presence that seemed to pull the air toward him. Then, his head snapped to the left—sharp, predatory, and way too fast. You followed his gaze into the mouth of a narrow, shadow-choked alley. You saw nothing but trash bags and darkness.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice so dropping low it made the hair on your neck stand up.

You held your breath, listening to the distant hum of the city. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything, Yun.” He didn’t answer. He just stood there, head tilted, nostrils flaring as if he was trying to catch a scent on the wind. His face was a blank mask, but his body was tense. “Yunho? You’re being weird. Even for you.” He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted at a slight, unnatural angle, eyes narrowing as if he were cataloging a sound on a frequency you couldn’t even perceive. His face remained blank, but his shoulders turned to stone. And then—so quick it was almost a blur—his nostrils flared. It wasn’t just breathing, more like catching a scent. A cold knot of unease tightened in your stomach. “Earth to Yunho?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, the focus vanishing so instantly it felt like a lie. He blinked once, slow and deliberate, and when he spoke, his voice had returned to that gentle, melodic lilt—the one that always felt a little too practiced. “Sorry. I thought I heard… something.”

You tried to laugh it off, leaning into the easy sarcasm that usually bridged the gaps between his silences. “You’re turning into a paranoid old man.”

A ghost of a laugh escaped him, but it died before it reached his eyes. “I’m not paranoid,” he murmured, his gaze dropping. “I just—” He cut himself off, the words seemingly stuck behind his teeth.

Your fingers fidgeted nervously with the lid of your coffee cup. “Just what?” Yunho’s gaze dropped—not to your eyes, but to your mouth. It wasn't a casual look; it was as if his eyes had slipped there against his will, drawn by a magnet he was failing to fight. Your throat went tight. For a second, the grey autumn air felt thick and suffocating.

He blinked again, sharper this time, looking startled by his own lapse in control. “Nothing.” And then—because he was apparently determined to kill you slowly with unspoken things—he reached out to adjust your scarf. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, and you physically jumped. His hand wasn’t just “chilly.” It was cold. It was the biting, absolute cold of metal left out in a frost. You froze. He stayed still for half a heartbeat, his dark eyes searching your face for a reaction, before he pulled back so abruptly it felt like a slap. “Sorry.”

You stared at him, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you. “Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally not—” You stopped. The way he said it—the tight, vibrating control in his voice—made it clear that this wasn’t a conversation he was going to let you win. His jaw worked, a muscle jumping as he looked away toward the street as if the passing traffic held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m just… not used to the cold weather,” he said finally.

You frowned, gesturing to the grey sky. “You only hang out on cold days.”

His lips parted, and for one dangerous second, you thought the wall might actually crumble. You could see the truth sitting right behind his eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard. “I should walk you home,” he said, the words coming out too fast, too urgent.

“We’ve been out for ten minutes!” you huffed, checking your phone. 5:43 PM. “It’s barely even dark yet.”

“Please.” The word came out softer than the rest of him. Quieter. Like he was asking for something he didn’t have the right to ask for.

You stopped. It had been months since he’d asked for your number after you bumped into each other in that coffee shop outside your workplace. You’d still remember the smell of espresso and wet wool, the little jolt of embarrassment when you’d spilled a few drops on your white sleeve, and the way he’d reached past you to grab napkins with hands that were too pale and too steady. At first you were excited. You’d been ridiculously excited. You’d checked your phone too often, thumb hovering over the screen like you could will a notification into existence. You’d wondered if he’d text, if he’d ask you out, if there’d be a moment where the story slid into place. But it was never quite did. You’d hang out. Talk. Walk. He’d pay for your coffee without making it a thing. He’d tilt his head when you laughed like he was loving the sound. And then he’d keep his distance like there was an invisible line drawn between you, like he was terrified of crossing it. No lingering touches. No flirting that lasted longer than a breath. No “I missed you” even when he looked like he had. It got to the point where you stopped calling these meetings dates in your head. You tried to steel yourself. Tried to strip yourself of hope like it was something childish you needed to outgrow.

You swallowed, throat tight from the cold and from the stupid ache of wanting something that wasn’t happening. “Why do you always do that?”

His gaze snapped to you, and it was so intense it felt like someone had cut the air. For the first time he didn’t look away. “Do what?”

You lifted your cup a little, then lowered it again when you realised your hand was shaking. “You ask me to hang out and then you—” You made a small, sharp gesture with your fingers, like snipping thread. “You disappear inside yourself. You’re right here, but you’re a thousand miles away.”

His jaw worked once. He looked like he was holding something back behind his teeth “I don’t,” he said, but the lie was thin.

You took one step closer. Close enough that you could feel the cold radiating off him again—that unnatural, metal-left-outside cold that seemed to defy the very laws of biology. The streetlight painted his lashes gold, casting long, dramatic shadows across his high cheekbones. “You do, and I can’t tell if it’s because you don’t want me like that… or because you want me and you’re fighting it so hard it’s killing you.”

Something flickered in his eyes—fast and dark, like a shadow passing over a moon. Yunho’s hand lifted, hovering near your wrist without touching, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. Like he was asking permission from the air itself. “Please don’t do that, don’t try to read me.”

“I just—” Your breath fogged between you, thin and shaky. You hated how honest your body was, how it betrayed your vulnerability before you could turn it into a joke. “When you asked for my number… did you mean it in a friendly way?” The words rushed out like you could outrun the sheer embarrassment of them. “Like… ‘I’m new to this town and I need to meet someone’ friendly?” The wind surged, a violent shove against your shoulders that nearly knocked you off balance. You didn’t budge. You were pinned by the weight of his gaze.

“A friendly way?” Yunho repeated. The words sounded foreign in his mouth. He let out a short breath—one that didn’t even make a cloud in the freezing air, a detail you were too frustrated to notice. “Is that what you thought? That I was just... looking for a tour guide? Someone to show me where the best coffee shops are?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore! You’re hot and cold, Yunho. Mostly cold!” Yunho didn’t flinch at the sound of your words; he didn’t even blink. He just stood there with that terrifying stillness while you shivered hard enough for your teeth to click.

“I’m not looking for a tour guide.” He took a half-step toward you. The movement was predatory in its smoothness—no sway, no heavy footfall, just a sudden, seamless shift in the space he occupied. The smell of him hit you then, cutting through the cinnamon of your drink: crisp winter air, expensive laundry soap, and something metallic, like tasting blood in your mouth when you bit your tongue too hard. “If I wanted a friend,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetic intensity that felt like it was pulling the very soul out of you, “I wouldn’t spend every night staring at my phone, wondering if I’m strong enough to see you without...” He stopped. His jaw clamped shut so hard you heard the bone grind.

“Without what?” You reached out, your fingers grazing the rough wool of his coat sleeve. Yunho recoiled as if you’d branded him with a hot iron. He backed into the brick wall of the alley, the rough stone scraping against his coat with a harsh sound. His chest wasn’t moving. You realised with a sudden, jolting clarity that he hadn’t taken a single breath since you’d mentioned the word ‘friendly’.

He looked down at your hand, then up at your throat where the scarf had loosened again, exposing the pale skin of your neck. The veins in his own neck were standing out, taut. “Please don’t do that. You have no idea what you’re asking for. You think I’m being shy? You think I’m... awkward?” A dark, humourless sound escaped his throat. He looked back toward the dark alley, his pupils blown wide until the brown of his irises was just a thin ring. “I can hear your heart,” he whispered, and for the first time, there was a visible tremor in his hands. He shoved them deeper into his pockets, bunching the fabric. “It’s been hammering against your ribs for the last three minutes. I can hear the blood rushing behind your ears. It’s... it's the loudest thing in the world, and it’s all I can focus on.”

You let out a shaky breath, the fog of it dissipating against his cold, marble-like cheek. “You’re scaring me a little. Stop talking like you’re in a movie.”

“Good,” he snapped, his eyes snapping back to yours. They looked darker now, almost black, reflecting the amber streetlamp. “You should be scared. I’m trying to give you a choice. I’m trying to stay on my side of the line, for your sake.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. The cold coming off him was like a wall, and it made your skin prickle into goosebumps. He looked at your mouth again, but this time, there was a hunger in it. His tongue swiped over his lower lip, a quick, nervous habit that seemed at odds with the sheer power radiating from his frame. “Let me walk you back home. Now.”

“And if I don’t want to go?” You challenged, your voice small but stubborn. You were tired of the mystery. You dropped your half-empty cup onto the pavement. It spilled with a dull splash, the scent of cinnamon-sugar swirling around your boots. You stepped into his space, forcing him to either retreat further into the wall or hold his ground. Yunho’s hands flew out, grabbing your upper arms to stop you. His grip was firm—not painful, but like iron bands that refused to let go.

“You’re so warm,” he hissed, his eyes fluttering shut for a second as he leaned his forehead against yours. He took a breath, inhaling the scent of your skin as if it were oxygen. “You’re so bright, and it hurts to even look at you.” One of his hands slid up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His skin was impossibly smooth. He paused at the pulse point just below your ear, his thumb hovering there, feeling the frantic thump-thump-thump of your life. His eyes opened, and for a split second, you saw a flash of something—a vein-like pattern darkening the skin beneath his eyes, a hunger so raw it made your stomach flip.

“Yun, your face is—”

Then, he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a look of profound, aching sorrow. “I want to kiss you so badly I can’t think about anything else,” he whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But if I start... I don’t know if I can stop. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “I won’t contact you again. I’m sorry.” He said it like a sentence he’d rehearsed in the mirror. But his hands were still on you. Not gripping now. Not iron bands. Just… holding, as if letting go might send you both skidding off the edge of the world. His thumbs pressed faint, trembling half-moons into your sleeves. Yunho’s gaze dropped to your spilled drink. Cinnamon and sugar turning to a cold puddle. He watched it like it was evidence of a crime. Then his eyes lifted again, slow. They weren’t pleading. They were hungry and tired, like he’d been starving for a century and was still trying to be polite about it. You noticed the tension in his neck, the way his jaw clenched until the muscle jumped. He didn’t blink.

You swallowed, and he watched the movement of your throat as if it were a confession. As if it were an invitation. You leaned in first. For one heartbeat, he didn’t move. Not a flinch. Not a breath. You could feel the pause like a held knife. Then Yunho surged forward—controlled, yet brutal in his restraint—and his mouth met yours.

Cold.

It was like kissing winter itself. Like your lips touched something that had no right to be this smooth, this still, this alive. His kiss wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t hungry either—not yet. It was precision. A question he had been dying to ask. Your breath hitched, warm air spilling into the space between you, and Yunho made a sound low in his throat—half pain, half need—as if your warmth physically scorched him. You kissed him back anyway, your hands tangling in his hair. His lips parted, just barely, and the edge of his control frayed. The kiss deepened with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your knees go unsteady. Yunho’s hand slid up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help checking you were real. Your mouth tasted like cinnamon and sugar. Yunho tasted like nothing at all. And that should’ve terrified you. Instead it made something reckless spark in your chest. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer until your heat bled into him and he shuddered like it was too much. The world narrowed down to the scrape of brick behind his shoulders and the way he kissed you.

Then his lips broke from yours so suddenly you gasped, chasing him without thinking. “Stop,” he rasped, his forehead pressing to yours again, his voice shaking so much that it felt more like a machine than a man. “If you keep looking at me like that—if you keep letting me—” His pupils were blown wide, the brown nearly erased by ink-black. His thumb hovered at the sensitive dip of your throat, right over the frantic, rhythmic hammering beneath your skin. He didn’t press—he didn’t even touch—but the air in that microscopic gap felt charged like the atmosphere seconds before a lightning strike. “I’ll go insane,” he whispered, the words ghosting over your dampened lips.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far, but it was enough to break the magnetic pull. Enough that you could actually see him. You saw the way his dark lashes trembled as he forced them down, the way his jaw was locked so tight you feared the bone might actually crack under the strain. Your lips stung from the cold and the bruising pressure of the kiss; your chest burned from the way you’d inhaled him, realising only now that you’d been starving for this just as much as he had.

“Stop,” he repeated, the word scraping its way out of his throat. His forehead remained pinned to yours, his thumb still a prayer he refused to speak against your pulse. And something inside you—something that had been patient and sweet and so fucking careful for weeks—finally went sharp.

You laughed once. It was a small, ugly burst of sound that fogged between you like a white flag you were done waving. “Okay,” you said. Your voice was quieter than you expected. Too steady. “You want me to stop? I’ll stop.”

His eyes flicked up instantly. Dark. Blown out. Caught on your mouth again.

You stepped back. The space you left felt immediate and violent, like ripping a bandage off skin that wasn’t ready to be exposed. “You know what’s actually insane?” you continued, because now that the seal was broken, you couldn’t swallow the truth back down. Your fingers curled tight inside your sleeves, nails biting into your palms to keep from reaching out. “We’ve been doing this for weeks. Weeks! Coffee. Walks. These miserable cold days. You staring at me like I’m—” You cut the sentence off, the heat of humiliation rising in your cheeks. “Like I’m something you’re not allowed to want. Like I’m a mistake you’re trying not to make.”

His throat worked. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“And I tried, Yunho. I tried to be so normal about it.” Your laugh turned into something that almost broke. “I tried to tell myself it’s fine if you don’t want me like that. I can take a hint. I can take ten hints. I can take a whole fucking billboard.” The streetlight buzzed overhead, a low, electric whine. “But you don’t get to do this,” you said, and this time your voice did shake, not from the autumn chill, but from a fury that had been marinating in sweetness until it turned bitter. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then tell me to stop like it hurts you—like I’m the one hurting you—when you’re the one who keeps pulling me close and then shoving me away the second things get real.” His fingers flexed against the air, a reflexive reach he aborted halfway through. His hand dropped slowly, as if gravity were the only law he was capable of obeying in that moment. The lack of contact was louder than the kiss had been. You swallowed, and his gaze jerked to the movement of your throat so fast it was almost violent. His shoulders went rigid, as if your voice was a sound he could no longer bear to hear. “I won’t do push and pull,” you said, softer now, because the anger had a deep bruise under it. “I won’t keep showing up just to feel like I’m begging for basic honesty.”

Yunho’s nostrils flared. He turned his face a fraction away, looking toward the alley as if trying to shield his eyes from a glare. Your heat “Don’t.” The word was different from before. It wasn’t stop kissing me. It was: don’t make me choose.

“Don’t what?” You hated that your voice cracked, hated that you still sounded like someone who wanted him to stay. “Don’t call you out? Don’t ask for more? Don’t—what, Yun? Don’t make you admit you actually like me?”

His head snapped up. For a second, his expression was empty in a way that was genuinely terrifying. The careful, awkward Yunho had stepped aside, and something much older, much colder, was leaning forward in his place. His lips peeled back just a fraction—not a smile, but a warning of how thin his leash had become. “I’m trying— I’m trying to be—” He stopped, his eyes flicking to the ground.

“To be what?” you pushed, pressing on the bruise because the pain was already there anyway. “It’s so simple! Either you like me or you don’t.”

Yunho’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the faint, grinding sound of bone. Then—so suddenly it made your stomach drop—his expression sharpened into a cold, glittering anger that cut across his face like a shadow. His shoulders squared, and it was like watching a heavy door slam shut. “You don’t get to reduce this,” he said, his voice matching the freezing temperature of his skin. “You don’t get to stand there and decide what this is.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think this is me being indecisive? Playing games? You think I’m doing this because I like the chase?” His eyes flashed, and for a heartbeat, you could swear you saw that vein-dark pattern spidering at the edges of his lower lids. “I’m not angry at you for wanting an answer. I’m angry because you’re acting like you have any idea what you’re actually asking for!”

Your mouth went dry. The air around him felt unnaturally still.

“You think you want me,” Yunho continued, his voice lower, more dangerous. “You think you want me like that because you like the way I look at you, because you like the way I’m—” His breath stuttered. He swallowed it down. “Because you feel like something pulls you to me. You think it's a romance.”

“That is not—”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t play push and pull, and I don’t—”

You cut him off before he could build another wall out of excuses. “Stop it! It’s fine if we’re friends. But not like this. Not while you look at me like that.” His eyes flickered—that half-second of raw hunger he always tried to swallow before it reached his face. “And you do,” you added, sharper now. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You kiss me and then talk to me like you’re doing me a favour by keeping your distance. You don’t get to punish me for noticing!”

“Listen—” he started, stepping toward you.

“No! You listen to me!” You stepped back, and the space between you felt like stepping off a ledge into the dark. Cold poured into the gap where his presence should be. Your mouth tasted faintly of cinnamon and the ghost of him, and it made you miserable. “We’re adults. I’m not doing this weird, half-lit, maybe-someday thing anymore.”

“I’m trying to—” he said, louder now, as if volume could bridge the gap.

“You’re trying to keep me on a hook,” you interrupted, done being gentle. “And I can’t keep navigating your mixed signals like it’s my job to translate you. I see it clearly now. This is going nowhere.” The sentence dropped between you like a stone in deep water. No splash. Just weight. He flinched as if you’d physically struck him. His hand lifted—instinct, reflex—reaching for your sleeve, for your wrist, for any part of you he could claim without having to speak.

You took another step back, out of reach.

“Wait,” he said, and the rough edge of his voice was new. Desperate. “Just—just let me explain.”

“I’ve been letting you explain. For weeks. Every time you stared at my lips. Every time you touched me like it was an accident. Every time you asked me to stop like I’m the one doing something wrong.” He tried to talk over you, panic rising in the set of his shoulders. You didn’t let him. You turned on your heel. The wet pavement flashed under the streetlight, slick as spilled ink. Your boots slapped against the ground, the sound indecently loud in the quiet alley. You didn’t look back. You wouldn’t give him the mercy of seeing your face break. “I’m done,” you called over your shoulder, your voice carrying like a thrown blade.

Behind you, Yunho said your name—once, like a warning. But you kept walking. You didn’t look at him. You just left him there in the cold, where he seemed to think he belonged. The wet slap of your boots against the pavement echoed through the narrow street, a rhythmic, angry punctuation to the silence you’d left behind. You didn’t look back, even though the back of your neck prickled with the heavy, unmistakable weight of his gaze. You expected him to stay there, frozen against the brick like a statue left out in the rain, but then you heard it—the soft, unnervingly smooth scuff of his shoes following you.

“Stop walking for a second,” Yunho called out, his voice sounding thinner than usual, stripped of that steady, melodic mask he usually wore.

“No, I’m good,” you snapped over your shoulder, your breath blossoming in front of you in a frantic, white cloud. “I’m going home to a place that has a heater and people who use their words. You should try it sometime. The words part, I mean.” You increased your pace, your fingers still stinging from the cold of his skin. He was right behind you now, not even winded, despite the speed you were trying to maintain. He didn’t have that heavy, huffing footfall of a normal man; he just moved like a shadow sliding over glass.

“I am trying to use them!” he protested, and you could hear the frustration bubbling up, that awkward, clumsy sincerity that made it so hard to actually stay mad at him. “It’s just... there isn’t a manual for this. I’ve never had to explain this to a human before!”

You spun around so fast you nearly tripped on a slick patch of sidewalk. “A human? What are you, an AI? A very handsome, very confusing chatbot?” You threw your hands up. “Just go home. Go back to your gloomy, sunless cave or wherever it is you spend all the sunny days in!”

Yunho stopped a few feet away, his shoulders hunched again, looking less like a predatory threat and more like a kicked puppy. He looked down at his feet, his jaw working as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not a chatbot,” he muttered, the words barely audible over the distant hiss of traffic. He looked up, his dark lashes wet from the mist, and for a second, his pupils were so wide the brown of his eyes was almost gone. “I’m a vampire. That’s why I’m cold. That’s why I don’t... I don’t breathe right when I’m near you. That’s why I can hear your heart.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, rib-pressing kind from before. It was the kind of silence that happens right after someone says something so profoundly stupid you have to reboot your entire brain. You stared at him. A beat passed. Two. Then, a laugh escaped your throat, sounding bright and ridiculous against the grey dampness of the evening.

“Oh, okay,” you said, your voice dripping with a thick sarcasm. “Right. A vampire. Of course. How silly of me not to realise. Is your name actually Stefan? Is your brother Damon chilling around the corner in a leather jacket waiting to kill my roommates?”

Yunho flinched at the names, looking genuinely confused. “Who? No, I don’t have a brother named Damon. My brother name is Geonho, he works in real estate in Busan, but that’s hardly—”

“And let me guess,” you interrupted, stepping closer, emboldened by the sheer absurdity of his lie. You reached out and poked his chest—it felt like poking a marble pillar covered in wool. “You sparkle in the sunlight? You have a collection of graduation caps on your wall? You’re a hundred years old and you’ve decided to spend your eternity hanging out in mediocre coffee shops with a girl who works 9-to-5?”

“I don’t sparkle,” he said, his voice taking on a wounded, defensive edge. “That’s... that’s a very weird thing to suggest. And I’m only twenty-seven. Well, technically. I’ve been twenty-seven for a while, but I wasn’t alive during the French Revolution or anything dramatic like that.”

You laughed again, but this time it had a bitter edge. You were hurt that he thought you were gullible enough to accept a literal fairy tale as an excuse for why he was a terrible communicator. “You are unbelievable,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I ask for honesty, for a reason why you’ve been treating me like a puzzle you don’t want to solve, and you give me The Vampire Diaries fanfiction? Did you think that would make you sound cool? Or mysterious?”

“I’m not trying to be mysterious!” He looked frantic now, his hands hovering near your arms but never quite touching, as if he was afraid he might actually break you. “I’m trying to tell you why I’m terrified to touch you! I can hear the blood rushing through your veins, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and I have no idea how to be a ‘boyfriend’ without wanting to... to...”

“To what? Eat me?” You rolled your eyes, stepping back and turning away. “Give it a rest. It’s actually embarrassing at this point. I’m going home. Don’t call me again. I’m not really into the whole ‘undead martyr’ thing. I prefer guys who have a pulse and don’t lie to my face because they’re too awkward to admit they just aren’t that into me.”

“I am into you!” he yelled at your retreating back. “I’m extremely into you! That is the entire problem!”

“Go find a Bella!” you shouted back, not stopping. “I’m sure there’s a moody teenager somewhere who’d love this. Me? I’m going to go have a glass of wine and forget I ever met a guy who thinks he’s a supernatural predator because he’s bad at dating!” As you rounded the corner, you could still feel his presence at the edge of the alley, a cold, still point in a moving world. You didn’t look back to see him standing there, looking perfectly, devastatingly human in the amber glow of the streetlamp.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You had barely kicked off your boots and put on a warm hoodie when the knock came—three sharp, precise raps that sounded far too steady for someone who had just been told to get lost. You stomped to the door, tearing it open with enough force to make the hinges groan. Yunho was standing there, his hands shoved back into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched.

“If you say one word about wanting to drink my blood, I am calling the police,” you snapped, blocking the doorway with your entire frame. “Or a therapist. Honestly, Yunho, pick one.”

“I’m not here to—I don’t want to drink your—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening as he looked at the floor of the hallway. He looked exhausted. “I just... I didn’t want things to end like that. You were so angry.”

“I’m still angry!” you countered, leaning against the doorframe. “You spent weeks acting like I was a burden for liking you, and then you try to exit the conversation by claiming you’re a character from a CW show. It’s insulting. What’s next? Are you going to tell me you have a daylight ring? That you’re secretly pining for a girl from the 1800s who looks exactly like me?”

“I told you, I’m only twenty-seven, and I actually can’t find my daylight ring, that’s why we only hang out on gloomy days.” He muttered, taking a half-step forward, then stopped abruptly, his toes hovering exactly at the line where your apartment’s hardwood met the carpet of the hallway.

“Oh, what’s the matter?” you teased, a mean little spark of humour cutting through your fury. “Did you forget to check the moon cycle? Or are you waiting for me to throw a steak at you? No, wait—it’s the invitation thing, isn't it?” You let out a short, mocking laugh, gesturing grandly toward your living room. “Come on then, Dracula. Step into my parlour. Come tell me more about how you’ve been ‘twenty-seven for a while’ while you help me fold my laundry.”

Yunho didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He just looked at you with a an aching intensity. He shifted his weight, his upper body leaning slightly into the apartment, but his feet stayed glued to the threshold.

“I’m serious,” you said, your voice losing some of its edge as the silence stretched. “Stop the act. Just walk in, sit on the couch, and tell me the truth. No more vampires, no more ‘I can hear your heart’ nonsense. Just... talk to me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. His throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes flicking to yours, wide and dark.

“Yes, you can. The door is wide open. I’m literally standing here.” You reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his coat to tug him forward. The moment you pulled, you felt it. Yunho’s body jerked forward, but it was like he’d hit a wall. His shoulder slammed into an invisible barrier in the empty air of the doorway, the impact making a dull, thudding sound that vibrated through your grip on his arm. He didn’t stumble; he just stopped dead, his face contorting in a brief flash of genuine frustration. You let go of his sleeve as if it had turned into fire. You looked at the empty space between the doorframes, then back at him. He was standing perfectly still again, his chest not moving, his face pale and marble-smooth. “Wait,” you breathed, the teasing air in your lungs turning into a cold stone. You reached out again, slower this time, and passed your hand through the air where he had just hit the ‘wall.’ There was nothing there for you. Just empty space. “Why did you... why didn’t you move?”

“You didn’t invite me in,” he said simply, his voice trembling just enough to break the ‘cool’ persona he never quite managed to pull off anyway. He looked down at his feet, then back at you, his expression a mess of embarrassment. “I told you. I’m trying to stay on my side of the line.”

The realisation hit you like a bucket of ice water. The metal-cold skin. The way he never seemed to breathe when things got intense. The way he looked at your throat as if it were a ticking clock. “You’re actually...” You trailed off, your voice sounding small and far away in your own ears. You looked at him and saw the way he was shaking with a tension that had nothing to do with being awkward and everything to do with restraint.

“I’m a vampire,” he repeated, and this time, you didn't laugh. “And I really, really like you. Which is a catastrophic problem for both of us.” The silence in the doorway was too thick. You stared at the empty space where his shoulder had just thudded against nothingness, then back at Yunho, who was looking at his own feet as if they had betrayed him. The anger was still there, simmering under your skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a bewildered, scientific curiosity that bordered on the absurd. “Okay,” you breathed, stepping back into the warmth of your living room but keeping your eyes locked on him. “So, the threshold thing. That’s… that is a very specific architectural hurdle for a supernatural predator. It’s deeply inconvenient.”

“It’s humiliating,” he corrected, his voice muffled. He looked up, and the amber hall light caught the frustration in his eyes—that familiar, awkward Yunho expression that usually meant he’d forgotten how to order a complicated latte. “I’ve spent the last three minutes trying to figure out how to look cool while being physically barred from a studio apartment by a lack of social etiquette.”

“Right, because that’s the part of this that’s weird. Not the fact that you’re technically a corpse,” you shot back, though your voice lacked its previous bite. You crossed your arms, leaning against the hallway wall. “Fine. You want an invitation? You can come in. But if you try to sparkle or turn into a bat or a crow, I’m hitting you with a broom. I’m serious. You are invited into my home. Just… step carefully.” He took a tentative step, and this time, there was no thud. He slipped across the line with a fluid grace that made the hair on your arms stand up—a sudden shift in the space he occupied that felt entirely unnatural. As he passed you, the air temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. “Okay, stop right there,” you said, pointing toward the middle of the rug. He stopped instantly, his hands still bunched in his pockets. “Stay. I need to check something.”

“I’m not a dog,” he murmured, but he didn’t move. He watched you with that intense, magnetic gaze that used to make your stomach dip, but now it just made you want to take notes.

You hurried into the kitchen, your mind racing through every movie trope you’d ever watched. You returned a moment later, clutching a jar of minced garlic and a small, silver-plated butter knife.

“Is that… is that garlic?” Yunho asked, his nose wrinkling. His nostrils flared, caught by the scent. “Are you actually going to season me?”

“It’s a diagnostic test!” you countered, unscrewing the lid and holding it out at arm’s length. “Well? Does it burn? Do you feel like you’re going to explode into ash?”

Yunho leaned forward, sniffing the jar with a look of profound boredom. “It smells like a pasta night I wasn’t invited to. I’m not allergic to seasoning. I just can’t digest it. It stays in my stomach like a rock for three days. It’s… it’s very uncomfortable, actually.”

“Disappointing,” you muttered, setting the jar on the coffee table. You held up the butter knife. “Mirror? Do you have a reflection, or am I currently talking to a very handsome hallucination?” You marched him over to the mirror in the hallway. You stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. In the glass, your own face was flushed and messy, but Yunho was there too—sharp jawline, dark lashes, and that pale, steady stillness.

“I’m in the mirror,” he said and it sounded almost bored. Like he had done this multiple times before. “The silver-backing thing is an old myth. Physics still applies to light bouncing off my skin, even if I don’t have a pulse.”

“You really don’t have one?” You stepped closer, the fury from the alleyway turning into a reckless sort of courage. You reached out, your fingers hovering over his wrist. “Can I?”

Yunho went rigid. “Okay,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed your warm fingers against his skin. There was nothing. No thrum, no rhythmic push of life. Just that impossibly smooth, marble-like surface. It was like touching a statue that breathed—except he wasn’t breathing. You realised then, with a jolt of clarity, that his chest wasn’t moving at all.

“You’re holding your breath,” you whispered, looking up at him.

“I don’t need to do it,” he rasped, finally letting out a jagged, shuddering puff of air that didn’t even fog in the room. “I only do it to make people feel comfortable. But when I’m this close to you… when I can hear your heart hammering against your ribs like that… I forget to pretend.”

“So you’re telling me,” you said, trying to regain your witty footing because the sheer intensity of him was starting to make your head spin, “that all those times we went for coffee, you were just… what? Renting a chair? Pretending to enjoy the ambiance while your internal organs were on strike?”

“I like coffee, I can have human food but it doesn’t help with hunger,” he said softly, a small, genuine smile finally twitching at the corner of his mouth—the first one you’d seen all night that actually reached his eyes. “And I like watching you. You’re so bright, it actually hurts my eyes sometimes. I wasn’t lying about that part.”

You huffed, crossing your arms again to hide the way your hands were shaking. “You’re still a dork. A supernatural, immortal dork who let me think I was being rejected for a months because you were too busy being a martyr.”

“I was trying to be a gentleman!” he protested, his awkwardness returning in full force as he gestured vaguely toward the door. “I didn’t want to be the guy who… who ruins your life because he can’t stop staring at your pulse point!”

“Well, you failed,” you said, stepping into his space and forcing him to look at you. “You’re already in the house. The garlic didn’t work. Now, are you going to sit down and tell me the rest of this ridiculous story, or do I need to go find some holy water?”

The frantic, buzzing energy of the hour—the shouting in the street, the mocking laughter, the ridiculous garlic test—evaporated all at once, leaving a hollow, ringing silence in its wake. You stood in the middle of your living room, the butter knife still clutched in your hand like a toy, while Yunho remained exactly where you’d told him to stay. He didn’t shift his weight. He didn’t itch his nose. He didn’t even seem to be blinking. He just stood there, a perfectly rendered human shape that felt like a glitch in the reality of your apartment.

“You’re not breathing,” you whispered, the words finally landing with the weight of lead. It wasn’t a joke anymore. “You’ve been standing here for two minutes, and your chest hasn’t moved once.”

“I already told you,” he said, his voice quiet, devoid of the defensive edge it had earlier. “I don’t... I don’t need to. It’s a habit I keep up so people don’t stare at me, but right now... I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

You dropped the butter knife onto the coffee table. The clack of metal on wood sounded deafening. You walked a slow circle around him, your eyes scanning him with a new, terrifying clarity. You saw the way the lamplight hit his skin—it didn’t look like skin, really. It looked like fine porcelain, translucent and bloodless. You remembered every time his hand had brushed yours over a coffee cup, and how you’d just thought he had poor circulation. “So when you said your eyes hurt in the sun...” you started, your voice trailing off as you pieced the weeks together.

“They really do,” he interrupted, his gaze following you with a slow, heavy tilt of his head. “It’s like someone is stabbing a needle into my brain.”

“And the mixed signals?” You stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the wall of cold air radiating from his body. “All those times you’d lean in and then practically jump back like I’d burned you? Was that—”

“I was hungry,” he blurted out, then immediately looked horrified, his face twisting into a grimace of pure, awkward shame. “No, wait—that came out wrong. I wasn’t... I didn’t want to eat you. I mean, I did, but not—God, this is why I didn’t say anything! I’m terrible at this.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the first truly human-looking gesture he’d made since entering. “I have a crush on you,” he continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, messy and unpolished. “A massive, terrifying crush. And I’ve never had one on a human before. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that I wanted to kiss you and also, simultaneously, my instincts were telling me that your carotid artery was exceptionally vibrant.”

“My carotid artery? That is the least romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I know!” he groaned, finally moving from his spot to pace the small rug. “I’m a disaster. I spent three nights practicing how to ask you to the movies without sounding like a predator, and then I realised the movie was a matinee and I’d just spend the whole time squinting and smelling the popcorn I don‘t like! So I just... I didn’t ask you. I thought it was better if you just thought I was a jerk.”

“You went with ‘vampire’ instead of ‘jerk’?” You sat down on the edge of the couch, your legs feeling a bit like jelly. The reality was sinking in—the person you’d been falling for was a literal myth, a creature of the night who was currently pouting because he found human dating mechanics too difficult. “You have a total martyr complex, you know that? You decided to suffer in silence and let me feel like I was crazy because you were afraid you’d... what? Bite me?”

“I don’t trust myself,” he said softly, stopping his pacing to look at you. The vulnerability in his expression was devastating. He looked like he was waiting for you to scream, to throw him out, to realise he was a monster. “I’ve spent a long time being very careful. Being alone is easy. Being with you is... it’s a constant test. And I’m so tired of failing it.”

You looked at him and saw the awkward, silent boy you’d been meeting for weeks, just with a much darker secret. He wasn’t a legend. He was just Yunho, and he was terrified of hurting you. “Well,” you said, your voice shaking just a little as you gestured to the empty spot on the couch next to you. “You’re already in the house. And I’m pretty sure you’re not going to eat me tonight. So... sit down. Stop being a martyr for five minutes and just be my friend. Or whatever this is.”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door and then back to you. “Are you sure? I can leave. I can go back to Busan and work in real estate with my brother. You don’t have to—”

“Yunho,” you interrupted, a small, weary smile tugging at your lips. “Sit. Down. Before I get the garlic again.”

He sat. It wasn’t a smooth, relaxed sink into the cushions; it was a rigid, mechanical descent, his body hovering an inch above the fabric for a second before he finally let his weight settle. He looked like he was sitting on a bench made of high explosives rather than a budget-friendly IKEA sofa. “You’re supposed to be screaming,” he gripped his knees, his knuckles white—or rather, whiter than usual. “You’re supposed to be halfway down the stairs calling a priest or... or a Van Helsing. Why are you just standing there looking at me like I’m a science project?”

“Because the ‘science project’ currently looks like he’s about to have a panic attack, and I’m pretty sure dead hearts don’t do that,” you said, crossing your arms. The initial terror had settled into a strange, buzzing adrenaline. “Besides, I’ve seen you try to use a self-checkout machine. You’re not exactly the King of the Damned.”

“That machine was rigged!” he snapped, his eyes flashing a brief, startling gold before fading back to dark brown. He caught the change and immediately looked away, shamed. “See? That. Right there. I’m a predator. I’ve lived through three different wars and I could—”

“You could what? Drain me of blood?” you interrupted, moving closer. You watched him flinch, his whole body tensing as you sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Let’s get to the important part, Yun. You just admitted, in the middle of a very dramatic, very weird confession, that you’ve had a crush on me for weeks.”

Yunho’s ears turned a faint, dusty sort of grey-pink—the closest he probably got to blushing. “That’s what you’re focusing on? I just told you I’m a literal monster, and you’re—you’re asking about my dating preferences?”

“Yes! Because the ‘monster’ part explains why your hands are cold, but the ‘crush’ part doesn’t explain why you’ve been acting like a total jerk!” You leaned in, invading his personal space, watching the way he leaned back until he was practically horizontal against the armrest. “So, let’s be clear. You like me. Like, ‘I want to take you out on actual dates and hold your hand without worrying about your pulse’ like me?”

“I think about holding your hand every five seconds,” he whispered, the honesty sounding like it was being pulled out of him. “And it terrifies me. Because if I stop thinking about it, if I let myself just... be with you, I might forget to be careful. I might—I don’t know, I might accidentally crush your bones because I don’t know my own strength when I’m happy.”

You felt a sharp tug at your heart, the kind that was definitely too warm for the creature sitting across from you. “You’re such a martyr. You’ve spent our entire ‘friendship’ trying to protect me from yourself, haven’t you? That’s why you always walked me to my door and then disappeared like a ghost.”

“I didn’t want to be another thing that hurt you,” he finally looked at you, and the raw vulnerability there was so human it made the vampire thing feel like a footnote. “I’m not a good person to love. I’m a dead end. Literally.”

“Well, luckily for you, I’m the one who gets to decide who’s a ‘dead end’ or not,” you said, moving even closer until your knee brushed his. He looked like he wanted to bolt through the ceiling. “So, what are we now? Are we still ‘just friends’ who ignore the fact that you want to bite my neck and I want to kiss you? Or are we actually doing this?”

“Doing what?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “You want to—with a guy who has to drink blood to stay somewhat sane? I don’t even have a pulse!”

You reached out, and this time, you didn’t hesitate. You took his hand. It was cold, yes, like a river stone in winter, but it was steady. “Stop looking for reasons to run away. You’re not that scary.”

“I am scary,” he insisted, though he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers tentatively curled around yours, his grip so light it was almost non-existent. “I’m a nightmare. I’m the thing under the bed.”

“You’re the thing that brings me my favourite coffee and listens to me complain about my boss for three hours,” you countered, squeezing his hand. “So, answer the question.”

Yunho looked down at your joined hands, his chest finally hitching in a simulated breath. He looked back at you, a slow, shy smile—the one that always made your heart do a stupid little flip—creeping across his face. “I’d like to... do this,” he said, the word sounding foreign and precious on his tongue. “If you’re sure you’re okay with... all of this.”

“I’m sure,” you said, leaning in until your forehead rested against his. The coldness was there, but so was he. “But I’m still making fun of the ‘Stefan’ thing. That’s never going away.”

“I really don't know who that is,” he groaned, his shoulders finally dropping as he let out a long, silent puff of air. “But I have a feeling I’m going to hear a lot about him.”

“You actually don't know who Stefan Salvatore is?” The shift in your tone was so sudden it made Yunho’s head snap up. He looked at you, bewildered, as the heavy, romantic tension evaporated, replaced by a look of genuine, wide-eyed horror on your face. You weren’t scared anymore; you were offended.

“I—should I?” he asked, his voice small and genuinely concerned. “Is he… is he a local celebrity? Did I miss something?”

“Something? Yunho, he’s an icon! He’s the sensitive vampire with the hero hair!” You scrambled off the couch, paced to your TV stand, and then turned back to him, pointing a finger dramatically. “And you’re literally doing his whole bit! The ‘I’m a monster’ speech? The ‘I can’t be near you’ dramatic pouting? You are a walking trope, and you don’t even know the source material!”

Yunho blinked, looking deeply insulted. “I am not pouting. I am experiencing an existential crisis regarding my predatory nature and its proximity to the person I care about.”

“That is literally the definition of pouting in the vampire world!” you shrieked, a giggle bubbling up that you couldn’t suppress. You felt a hysterical wave of excitement wash over you. “Oh my god, this is incredible. You’re a vampire who is culturally illiterate. We have so much work to do! Do you have a daylight ring? Please tell me you have a piece of vintage jewellery that lets you walk to the grocery store at noon.”

“I told you, I don’t sparkle and I lost my a ring,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “So during sunny days I just get a really bad migraine and my skin feels like it’s being poked with hot needles. It’s a biological sensitivity, not a magical curse.”

“Whatever, we’re calling it a daylight sensitivity,” you sat back down, much closer this time, leaning into his cold side without a second thought. “Wait. Can you do the thing? The eye thing? Do they go all veiny and scary when you’re hungry? Can you run really fast? Like, if I forget my phone at a cafe, can you zoom there and back in four seconds?”

Yunho peeked through his fingers, looking at you with a mix of affection and utter disbelief. “You’re… you’re fangirling. I just admitted I’m an undead creature who lives on blood, and you’re treating me like a—a marvel of modern convenience?”

“It’s cool, Yunho! It’s objectively cool!” You grabbed his arm, shaking it. “Think about the possibilities! No more waiting in traffic! You can carry all the groceries in one trip!”

“I’m glad my curse is so ‘convenient’ for your shopping trips,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth were twitching. He looked down at where you were clutching his arm, his expression softening. The fear that had been radiating off him for the last hour was finally starting to melt. “And no, I’m not zooming anywhere. It’s exhausting. It’s like sprinting a marathon in five seconds. I’d rather just… walk. With you.”

“Ugh, so Stefan,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Total hero hair energy. We are starting a marathon tomorrow! Eight seasons! You need to learn the rules of your own people.”

“I have my own rules,” he said softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He reached out, his cold thumb grazing your jawline with a tenderness that made your breath hitch—not out of fear, but because he was finally here. “Rule number one: no biting the girlfriend. Rule number two: try to survive her taste in television.” The word hung in the air, vibrating with more electricity than any of the supernatural talk that had preceded it. You froze, your head still resting against his shoulder, but your eyes went wide, staring at a very specific, very un-dusted corner of your bookshelf.

“The what?” you squeaked, your voice jumping an entire octave. You pulled back just enough to look at him, and for the first time tonight, Yunho looked truly, devastatingly caught. If he were human, he’d be a deep shade of crimson; as it was, he just looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He didn’t pull his hand away from your face, but his fingers twitched against your skin.

“I... did I say that out loud?” he stammered, his eyes darting toward the ceiling as if looking for an escape route that didn’t involve a door he couldn’t pass through.

“You very much did,” you said, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across your face. The anger from the alleyway was a distant memory, replaced by the chaos of the moment. “‘No biting the girlfriend.’ That’s a very specific title. A very official, non-ambiguous, ‘we-are-definitely-dating’ title.”

“I was getting ahead of myself,” he muttered, finally dropping his hand and looking at his knees. He looked so small for a guy who was technically an apex predator. “The logic was... if I’m staying, and you’re not screaming, and we’re doing the TV marathon... I just assumed the role was open. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, don’t you dare backtrack now!” you laughed, poking him in the ribs. He jumped, a surprised, huffing sound escaping him. “You can’t drop the ‘G-word’ and then try to hide behind your existential dread. Is that what we are? Am I the girlfriend? Because five minutes ago you were telling me to never call you again.”

“I never told you not to call me,” he protested, finally looking back at you, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet and painfully awkward. “You told me not to call you. I was just... I was going to mope in my apartment for a few decades and wait for the regret to subside.”

“A few decades? God, you’re dramatic,” you teased, reaching out to grab the lapels of his coat, pulling him a few inches closer. “But seriously. Say it again. Without the ‘no biting’ part.”

Yunho swallowed hard. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes, his gaze heavy and dark. The vampire part of him—the stillness, the intensity—merged with the boyfriend part in a way that made your heart do a frantic dance. “You’re my girlfriend. If you’ll have a guy who’s basically a high-maintenance houseplant that only drinks O-plus.”

“I’ve had worse boyfriends,” you shrugged, though your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. “One of them didn’t even have the decency to be immortal, he didn’t even have a job. At least you’re... interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated, a genuine smile breaking through his nerves. “I can work with interesting.”

“Good,” you said, leaning in until your noses brushed. The coldness of him wasn’t a barrier anymore. “Now, as your official girlfriend, I have my first executive order: we are going to the kitchen, I am making a grilled cheese, and you are going to sit there and tell me exactly how you’ve managed to live years without seeing a single episode of The Vampire Diaries. It’s a literal hate crime.”

“Can I at least hold your hand while you do it?”

“Always,” you whispered, tugging him toward the kitchen. “But if you start brooding while I’m flipping the bread, I’m calling you Stefan for the rest of the night.”

“I still don’t know who that is!” he called out, his laughter—short, rare, and musical—following you into the warmth of the kitchen.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The grilled cheese sat forgotten on its plate, the cheese cooling. The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, erratic thrumming of your own heart—a sound that, apparently, was currently a drum solo in Yunho’s ears. You were leaning against the counter, and Yunho was standing directly in front of you. He had finally shed his coat, revealing a simple black sweater that made his skin look like polished cream. Up close, without the barrier of the “friend” label, the air between you felt charged that it made the small hairs on your arms stand up.

“You’re staring again.”

“You’re hard not to stare at,” you countered, your breath hitching. “Especially now that I know you’re not just moody, you’re actually a legend.”

Yunho let out a soft, huffing sound—almost a laugh, but more of a surrender. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were freezing, but the gesture was so tender it made your toes curl against the linoleum. He lingered there, his thumb grazing your temple, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that was finally, terrifyingly honest. “Can I?” he whispered.

“If you ask one more time, I'm revoking your invitation.”

He didn’t wait. He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, it wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. There was no warmth, no soft puff of breath against your cheek, just a firm, cool pressure. It was shocking, then intoxicating. You reached up, your hands finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate to share your heat with him. Yunho’s grip on your waist tightened. His strength was startling. Emboldened by the contact, you let your hands slide down his back, tugging him flush against you. You wanted more—more of this strange, chilly friction, more of the way he seemed to melt into you despite himself. You tilted your head, your teeth grazing his bottom lip, and let out a small, needy whimper.

The effect was instantaneous.

Yunho tore himself away so fast he was on the other side of the kitchen island before you could even blink. He hit the opposite counter with a heavy thud, his eyes wide. “No,” he gasped, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard you heard a faint crack. “No, stop. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You stood there, breathless and flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Did I... did I do something wrong?”

“Your pulse,” he rasped, his head snapping to the side as if he couldn’t bear to look at you. The veins under his eyes were prominent now, dark and pulsing. “It’s too loud. When you move like that, when you... when you make that sound... it’s all I can hear. It’s like a siren. It’s not just a crush anymore, it’s—it’s an instinct.” He looked at you then, and the martyr complex was back in full force, mixed with desire. “I want you so much it’s actually making my teeth ache. I can feel the venom, and I won’t... I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said, taking a tentative step forward.

“You should be!” he snapped, though there was no heat in it, only desperation. He held up a hand to stop you. “Please. Just... give me a second. I need to remember how to be the guy who likes your grilled cheese and hates your TV shows. I can't be... that other thing.” The silence returned, but this time it was heavy with the reality of what he was. You saw the struggle in the way his shoulders shook, the way he was fighting his own nature just to stay in the same room as you.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning back against the counter, giving him the space he clearly needed to not lose his mind. “Okay. We can go slow. We can go ‘human-speed’ slow.”

Yunho closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool surface of the fridge. “Thank you,” he breathed. “And for the record? That was... the best kiss I’ve had in about seventy years. Even if it almost killed us both.”

“Seventy years?” you chirped, trying to break the tension with a bit of your usual bite. “Wow. I’m dating a senior citizen. Stefan would never be this dramatic about a kiss, just so you know.”

“I am going to delete that show from your Netflix account,” he muttered, though the black in his eyes was finally beginning to fade.

The tension in the kitchen didn’t break so much as it dissolved, melting into a domestic, slightly ridiculous warmth. Yunho stayed by the fridge for another minute, his eyes closed, performing what looked like a very intense meditation on the concept of not being a predator. When he finally pushed away from the counter, the veins under his eyes were gone, replaced by that familiar, slightly dazed look of a man who had just survived a very confusing day at the office. He walked back to you, stopping a respectable three feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep them from misbehaving. “Okay,” his voice was finally steady. “The grilled cheese is cold. I’ve ruined the mood. And I’m fairly certain I cracked your countertop. I should... I should probably fix that.”

“Forget the counter,” you said, reaching out and grabbing his hand, pulling him back toward the living room. “You’re an immortal being with superhuman strength and you’re worried about a hairline fracture in my kitchen counter? Sit. We have work to do.”

You pulled him back to the living room and shoved him onto the couch. He sank into the cushions, looking utterly defeated by your enthusiasm. You grabbed the remote, hopped onto the sofa next to him, and pulled a soft, oversized throw blanket over both of your laps.

“Is this necessary?” he asked, looking down at the fuzzy fleece. “I don’t actually get cold, remember?”

“No, but I do,” you countered, snuggling into his side. “And since you’re basically a high-end refrigerator, you need to be under the blanket so I can use you for structural support. Now, hush. Season one, episode one. Meet the Salvatores.” As the opening credits rolled, Yunho sat as stiff as a board, his eyes fixed on the screen with the intensity of a scholar studying a dead language. Every few minutes, he’d let out a small, huffy sound of disapproval.

“That's not how it works,” he whispered when a crow appeared on screen. “We don’t control birds.”

“Shh! Focus!” you nudged him.

Halfway through the episode, you felt him finally begin to relax. The rigid line of his shoulders softened, and slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t notice—his arm lifted, sliding behind your shoulders to pull you closer. His skin was still cold, but your own warmth was beginning to seep into him.

“He’s very dramatic,” Yunho muttered, nodding toward Stefan on the screen. “Is that what you think I look like? Like I’m constantly mourning my own existence?”

“Absolutely,” you laughed, looking up at him.

Yunho looked down at you, and for the first time that night, there was no fear in his eyes. No martyr complex, no “monster” talk. Just a boy who had finally found a place to land. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. It was brief, careful, and perfectly safe. “I’m glad I told you,” he whispered, his chin resting on your hair. “Even if you’re going to spend next years making fun of me.”

“Oh, I'm counting on it,” you said, closing your eyes and listening to the beautiful, eerie silence where his heartbeat should have been. “Now, be quiet. Damon’s about to show up, and you’re really going to hate his leather jacket.”

You wake up to find your bedroom silent and pitch black, the only light being the soft glow of the moon shining through your blinds.

You thought your sleep schedule had been getting better, but you’d started waking up in the middle of the night again. You’re not sure why.

Actually, you know the exact reason why. It’s because your boyfriend, Song Mingi, is on tour again. He’s thousands and thousands of miles away from you and the comfort of your apartment.

You rub your eyes and sit up in your bed, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. You turn on the screen and see the time reads 3:47am. Below is a thread of notifications from Mingi.

He’s probably telling you to get some sleep or to eat properly - not just instant noodles.

He knows you worry and he knows you get lonely without him. That’s one of the many things you love most about your boyfriend. He notices everything.

Mingi: sleep well beautiful

Mingi: i’ll be home before you know it

Mingi: don’t worry too much

You type out a quick reply before throwing your phone onto the mattress.

Eventually, after what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, you manage to fall asleep again.

————

The next time you’re woken up, it’s by the sun illuminating your bedroom and… a wetness between your legs.

You find yourself trying to wriggle away from the sensitive pressure between your legs, but something is holding you down.

Or someone.

You blink open your sleepy eyes and look down to find your boyfriend’s head between your thighs. His arms are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned down. That explains why you couldn’t move.

You arch your back off the bed and reach down, letting your fingers card through his annoyingly perfect hair.

You see the moment he realises you’re awake when he lifts his head, revealing his shiny lips and chin. “Good morning, baby.” he smirks up at you.

You can’t help but giggle as he dives back in, sucking your already-sensitive clit into his mouth. You whine in response, tugging at his hair and rolling your hips upwards.

He wastes no time pushing two fingers inside of you, pumping them slowly as he effortlessly reaches all the right spots.

“Mingi…” you moan his name, somehow already close to the edge.

He doesn’t respond. He just quickens his movements. His tongue flicks over your clit faster and his fingers push further inside of you, curling at just the right angle. Your legs tremble as you warn him you’re about to come.

“M- ahh… Mingi, I’m close…” you whimper seconds before your release coats his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out of you slowly and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding your gaze.

He releases your thighs and moves quickly, hovering over you. He buries his face in your neck and inhales deeply. “Good girl.”

“You couldn’t wait until later?” you chuckle (although you aren’t complaining) and wrap your legs around his waist.

“And miss out on waking you up in the best way possible? Absolutely not.” he groans as he begins kissing and nipping at your neck. One of his hands grips your hip tightly and the other rests beside your head, careful not to put all of his weight on you.

He leaves a trail of kisses from just below your ear all the way down to your collarbone. You didn’t even notice he had shifted his weight to unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans just enough to free his hard length.

Saying Mingi is big is an understatement. He’s huge. Not just length, but girth, too. You’ll never get over how good the stretch feels when he pushes inside of you.

“Tell me you missed me, baby.” he whispers hoarsely against your neck as he lines himself up with your entrance. But he doesn’t wait for you to respond.

You open your mouth to speak but he’s already pushing inside of you. He groans against your neck and mutters something that sounds like a mix of your name and “fuck”.

You cry out embarrassingly loud and your nails dig into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt (which he didn’t bother to remove).

He groans again and removes his hand from your hip, bringing it up to wrap around your throat instead. He squeezes, but not enough to cut off your breathing, just enough to show he’s in control. But damn you already knew that.

He bottoms out and he’s already panting into the crook of your neck. “Fuck, baby… needed you so bad.”

Then he’s moving. Thrusting deep and agonisingly slow. One hundred percent on purpose.

“Mingi…” you breathe, although you’re not even sure why.

“Use your words, love. Tell me what you want.” he smirks before lifting his head to capture your lips in a slow but hungry kiss. His fingers tighten around your neck for a moment, urging you to speak.

“More…” you manage to say.

“More?” he chuckles low in his throat. “Greedy little thing.”

He listens, though. With practiced ease, he quickens his pace and shifts ever so slightly to angle himself deeper inside of you.

When your walls begin clenching around him, you know you’re not going to last much longer. He’s kissing you when you squeeze his cock and he lets out this delicious, deep groan straight into your mouth. You swallow it, your tongue pushing into his mouth before mingling with his.

He lowers his head again and pushes his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are messy and ragged now as he gets closer to the edge.

He removes his hand from your throat and reaches between your bodies to rub fast, tight circles on your clit.

“Ahh… I’m close.” you manage to whisper.

“Let go, baby. Come for me.” he encourages, thrusting faster.

Your pussy clamp around him as you come which leaves him following seconds later. He basically collapses on top of you as his hot ropes of come fill you up. He’s a panting, groaning, sweaty mess when he lifts his head from your neck for the final time.

“Hey,” he smirks down at you. “you miss me?”

taglist : @binsown @testingspider @yoruse @tsumiyaa

"Well?" You ask, leaning with your hands on the table between you. "How is it feeling?"

"Warm," he nods after a moment, "in my gut."

You lean down on your elbows to write in your journal, and your shirt falls to expose your cleavage. Something you don't notice, don't bother to, but it makes him swallow thickly.

"And my ears. Like I'm blushing."

"You are blushing," you mumble as you write, making the heat on his face burn ever so hotter.

"What exactly is this potion-"

"In third grade, did you steal my pen? The one with like five colors on it?"

"What?" He scoffs, "I told you I did."

He pauses. Those are not the words that came out of his mouth. "I did." He tries again, with the same result. "Did!" He claps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide and shaking his head.

"I knew it! You asshole," you point, a large grin on your face. "You told me Park Seonghwa took it! I hated him until fifth grade cause of that." You take the seat across from him, crossing your arms over your chest.

"What else have you been hiding?" You hum, teasingly.

"Only a few things." He shakes his head and then gasps. What he had meant to say, what he thought he did, was 'nothing'.

"Oh! Spill it, spill it!"

"What was that potion?!" He looks down at the few drops in the glass in-front of him, like it will tell him something.

"Truth potion!" You beam, "it seems to be working wonders even on a lycanthrope. It's supposed to dull your cognitive inhibition. I bet I could change the world with thi- what are you doing?"

You stand up and follow him quickly as he rushes to the door, "Woo!"

"I have to go-"

"No! I still have to run some tests-"

You grab hold of his wrist and all of the sudden you're pinned to the wall, both of your wrists in his grasp while his body holds you to the surface. "What tests?" He says casually, as if he doesn't realize how strange of a position he has you in.

"Like, uhm, just regular tests. Like blood pressure and temperature and-"

"Can you make them quick?" Because he needs to be far, far away from you before he starts spilling every secret thought he's ever had about you.

"Y-yeah."

He's back at the table and yanking the chair back in the blink of your eye.

You shake your nerves away and make your way to him, grabbing the blood pressure cuff on your way.

"What was that about, huh?" You ask, slightly snippy. You've made it known you don't appreciate when he uses his lycanthropy against you.

"My rut is in a few days."

You scoff a laugh, wrapping the cuff around his arm extra tight. "What's that got to do with anything? You can control yourself just f- oh..." Probably can't control himself as well after the potion you gave him.

"I'm afraid that I'll fuck you." He says plainly.

The whir of the blood pressure machine fills the silence, the hiss as it lets go following as you search for words. "Why?" Is what you eventually land on.

"Because I've been in love with you since before I can remember. And usually all I want is to take care of you and be with you — but right now I need to fuck. And I want to fuck you but if you say no I'll go home and-"

His tongue gets tied half spoken, his throat tightening as you straddle his lap. You let out a shaky breath as you tear off the blood pressure cuff, "your pressures a little high-"

"Don't do this to me."

You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling innocently, "do what?"

"Tell me to kiss you. Tell me it's okay."

"Kiss me—"

His lips latch onto yours like a magnet, rough and passionate; filled with energy as he kisses you.

Your necklaces dangle as you hover above him, tiny spell jars and charms clinking together softly over your heated panting.

The apartment no longer felt like a museum of careful distance. Four months had passed since that heated night on the couch and the space had transformed into something warmer, lived-in, undeniably yours. Yet beneath the new domestic rhythm, shadows still lingered, long and sharp like snow leopard claws.

You woke to the familiar weight of Hongjoong draped across your back, his tail curled possessively around your thigh even in sleep. His breath was warm against your nape, hair spilling over the pillow like fresh powder. The first few weeks after he’d claimed you, he’d barely let you out of arm’s reach. Now it was routine: he slept pressed against you, one arm slung over your waist, ears twitching at every distant siren or neighbor’s footstep.

You shifted carefully. His ears flicked forward and a low, sleepy rumble vibrated through his chest.

"Too early" he murmured, voice gravel-rough from disuse overnight. His nose nudged the mating mark he’d left on your shoulder, a faint scar now, but one he still licked every morning like a ritual.

"Work" you whispered, threading fingers through his hair. "Shift starts at seven."

His tail tightened. "Call in sick."

You smiled despite yourself. "I can’t. Director Park already has me on thin ice."

Hongjoong’s purr faltered. He lifted his head, glacial eyes sharp even in the pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. "Because of me."

"Because of us" you corrected gently.

He didn’t argue. Instead he rolled you beneath him in one fluid motion, caging you with strong arms. His gaze dragged down your body, lingering on the bruises and bite marks that never quite faded anymore, before he dipped his head and pressed slow, deliberate kisses along your collarbone. The scent of cedar and cold mountain air filled your lungs as he rubbed his cheek against your skin, freshening his mark.

"Mine" he growled softly, the word more habit than threat now.

You tilted your head to give him better access.

He lingered there longer than usual, tongue tracing the scar until your skin tingled. Only when your alarm finally blared did he release you with a reluctant huff, ears pinned back in displeasure.

Breakfast was a shared ritual now. You chopped vegetables at the counter while Hongjoong perched on the island stool, tail swaying lazily. He still refused most human foods, but he’d grown fond of watching you cook, especially when you let him "help" by stealing bites of raw meat from the cutting board.

Today he was restless. His ears kept swiveling toward the balcony door and his claws flexed against the marble countertop.

"Nightmare again?" you asked quietly, sliding a plate of seared beef strips toward him.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he dragged you closer by the waistband of your sleep shorts, burying his face against your stomach and inhaling deeply.

"Fighting ring" he muttered finally. "Chains. Lights. The handler with the pole… he laughed when I bit him."

Your hand found the base of his ear, stroking gently. A deep purr rolled through him despite the tension in his shoulders.

"You’re safe now" you whispered. "Here. With me."

He nodded against your shirt but didn’t pull away until the purr steadied. Small breakthroughs like this still felt precious, moments where the wary, caged predator softened into something almost domestic.

You left for work with his scent heavy on your skin. He’d made sure of it, rubbing his wrists along your arms and neck before you reached the door. A silent claim for anyone at the shelter who might forget.

The whispers started the moment you stepped into the staff lounge. "Did you hear? She actually kept the snow leopard"

"HK-0047? The one who almost killed Choi?"

"Insane. Park’s furious."

You kept your head down, pouring coffee like the rumors didn’t burn. Director Park had been watching you closer since the adoption. Surprise welfare inspections had already happened twice. The latest report on your desk yesterday had been blunt: "Ongoing concerns regarding adopter suitability for high-risk hybrid. Recommend mandatory progress evaluations."

You crumpled the memo in your fist before anyone could see.

The day dragged. Two new intakes: a pair of traumatized otter hybrids, kept you busy until late afternoon. When your phone buzzed with a message from home, your heart skipped.

From Hongjoong: Front door smells wrong. Come back soon.

He rarely texted. You’d bought him a phone months ago mostly for emergencies, but he preferred waiting by the door like a sentinel.

You clocked out early.

The apartment hallway carried a faint trace of unfamiliar scent: sterile, official. Welfare department. Your stomach twisted as you unlocked the door.

Hongjoong was waiting just inside, back pressed to the wall, tail lashing violently. His ears were flat, pupils blown wide. The moment you stepped in he pulled you against his chest, arms wrapping tight, nose pushing into your hair.

"Two of them" he growled. "Human male and female. Said they needed to assess living conditions. I let them look. Didn’t touch anything. But they smelled like the shelter. Like cages."

You hugged him back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades until the tension eased.

"I’m sorry. I should have warned you inspections might continue."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. "They asked how often you restrain me. If I’ve bitten you recently." His gaze dropped to the visible mark on your neck. "I wanted to show them exactly how you let me bite."

A tired laugh escaped you. "That would’ve gone well."

Hongjoong didn’t smile. He guided you deeper into the apartment, tail still curled around your wrist. The space looked pristine, he’d even fluffed the couch cushions, but you could see the faint gouges where his claws had dug into the doorframe while he waited.

That evening you tried something new. "Let’s go for a walk. The park across the street. After dark, when it’s quiet."

His ears perked slightly, though suspicion lingered in his eyes. "Outside?"

"You’ve been cooped up too long. Just ten minutes. I’ll stay right beside you."

He agreed, but not without first scent-marking you again, thoroughly. By the time you stepped into the elevator he’d rubbed against your sides so insistently you smelled like a walking snow leopard territory marker.

The night air was cool. Hongjoong stayed glued to your side, one hand fisted in the back of your jacket, the other flexing at his side. His ears swiveled constantly, catching every rustle of leaves and distant car horn. But when you reached the small wooded section of the park and moonlight filtered through the trees, something in him shifted.

He stopped beneath an old oak, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. His tail stilled. For a moment the city faded and you glimpsed the wild creature he might have been: hair glowing, powerful shoulders relaxed, eyes reflecting starlight.

"Smells like home" he whispered. "Not the mountains exactly… but closer."

You leaned against the tree beside him. "We could go someday. Real snow. Somewhere remote."

His hand found yours, claws carefully retracted. "You’d do that? For me?"

"I’d do anything for you."

A genuine purr rumbled out: loud, unrestrained. He turned and nuzzled into your neck right there under the trees, licking over your pulse point until your knees weakened.

Back home the mood stayed soft. You cooked together: him handing you ingredients, you letting him taste the sauce straight from the spoon. He purred the entire time, a constant low vibration that made the kitchen feel smaller, warmer.

Later, curled on the couch with a drama playing quietly, Hongjoong’s head rested in your lap. You stroked between his ears while his tail draped across your thighs.

Peaceful moments like this made the shadows feel distant.

Until your phone rang. Unknown number. You almost ignored it, but something made you answer.

A gravelly voice spoke without greeting. "Tell the snow cat we haven’t forgotten him. The raid took a lot from us. He still owes blood."

The line went dead.

Hongjoong sat up slowly, ears pinned, eyes glowing with old fury. "Who?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.

You swallowed. "Someone from the fighting ring. They know you’re out."

His claws unsheathed, digging into the cushion. The peaceful purr from minutes ago was gone, replaced by a low, warning growl that rattled the windows.

"They won’t touch you" he said. "Not while I’m breathing."

You reached for him, but he was already standing, pacing the length of the living room with fluid, predatory grace. The domestic house cat from dinner had vanished. In his place stood the fighter who had survived four years in a concrete box.

The fragile rhythm you’d built suddenly felt paper-thin.

That night his nightmares returned worse than ever. He woke snarling, claws slashing at invisible handlers, nearly catching your arm before he recognized you. The apology that followed was frantic: grooming licks across every inch of skin he could reach, tail wrapped so tightly around your waist it left faint marks.

You held him through it, whispering reassurances until dawn.

But as sunlight crept across the floor, your phone buzzed again. A message from Director Park: Mandatory welfare review scheduled for next week. Bring Hongjoong. Do not be late.

Hongjoong read the message over your shoulder, chest pressed to your back, arms caging you against the counter.

"They want to take me back" he said flatly.

You turned in his arms, cupping his face. "They won’t. I won’t let them."

His forehead dropped to yours. The purr that finally returned was shaky, uncertain.

"I’m trying" he whispered. "To be good for you. To be… enough."

"You are more than enough."

Yet as he kissed you, slow and deep, tasting of fear and fierce love, you felt the shadows lengthening. Old ghosts from the fighting ring reaching out. The shelter system closing in. The constant battle to prove that a broken snow leopard deserved the home you’d fought to give him.

Hongjoong pulled back, eyes burning with protective fire. "Let them come" he growled softly. "I’ve waited years for something worth fighting for."

He kissed the mating mark on your shoulder one last time, sealing the promise.

The welfare review was scheduled for a Thursday morning. You had spent three sleepless nights preparing: cleaning every surface until it gleamed, printing adoption papers and medical records, rehearsing calm answers to every possible question. Hongjoong watched you from the couch with flat ears and a tail that never stopped twitching.

"They’re going to take me" he said on the morning of the review. His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual growl. He stood by the window in black sweatpants and one of your oversized hoodies, hair still messy from your fingers the night before. "I can smell it on you. Fear."

You crossed the room and cupped his face. "They won’t. I have rights. You have rights now."

His laugh was bitter. "Rights." He leaned into your touch anyway, eyes closing as you scratched behind his tufted ears. "I had rights in the fighting ring too. Look where that got me."

The drive to the shelter was silent except for the low, anxious rumble in his chest. His hand stayed clamped around your thigh the entire way, claws pricking denim but never breaking skin. When you pulled into the staff parking lot, two welfare officers were already waiting, clipboard in hand, expressions professionally blank.

Director Park stood behind them, arms crossed. His gaze flicked to Hongjoong with poorly concealed distaste.

The evaluation lasted four grueling hours. They interviewed you separately, then Hongjoong. They inspected the apartment photos you’d brought, asked invasive questions about your sex life, your sleeping arrangements, how often he "displayed aggressive behaviors."

Hongjoong sat through it with rigid posture and minimal words until one officer asked if he felt safe in your home.

His eyes snapped up. "Safer than I ever felt in yours."

They didn’t like that.

At the end of the review, the senior officer delivered the verdict with clinical detachment. "Given Subject HK-0047’s documented history of severe aggression and the recent anonymous threat reported to authorities, we’re mandating a two-week observational hold at the sanctuary for re-evaluation. This is standard protocol for high-risk cases."

You argued. You shouted. You threatened legal action and called every contact you had. None of it mattered. Two security hybrids, large bear mixes, escorted Hongjoong to a transport van while he stared at you with betrayed eyes.

"Don’t" he warned when you tried to reach for him. "Don’t make this harder."

The van doors closed. You stood in the parking lot watching red taillights disappear, feeling like your chest had been clawed open.

The two weeks without him were hell. You threw yourself into work, picking up extra shifts, volunteering for night inventory, anything to avoid the empty apartment that still smelled like cedar and snow. At night you slept in his hoodie, clutching the blanket he’d claimed months ago. His scent was already fading.

When the day finally came to collect him, you arrived early. Hongjoong was waiting in the intake room, thinner, eyes shadowed. Fresh scratches marked his forearms, self-inflicted, you suspected. The moment the release papers were signed he stood, but he didn’t run to you. He walked slowly, tail low, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for another blow.

The car ride home was worse than the ride there had been.

"You chose your job" he said suddenly, staring out the window. "Again."

"I fought for you every single day..."

"But you still work there." His voice cracked. "The same place that wanted me dead. The same place that locked me in a box for years. You go back every morning like nothing happened."

You gripped the steering wheel tighter. "It’s how I can afford to keep you safe. The apartment, food, lawyers if we need them..."

"I don’t need lawyers. I need you." The last word broke.

When you reached home he went straight to the couch and curled into the corner, back facing the room. No purring. No nuzzling. Just silence.

The regression was brutal.

Over the next week Hongjoong barely spoke. He ate only when you forced food in front of him. He stopped sleeping in your bed, choosing instead the far end of the couch or the floor of the spare room. When you tried to touch him he would flinch or pull away with a low warning growl. Once, when you reached for his hand, he snapped, literally, teeth clicking shut inches from your fingers.

"Don’t" he snarled. "I’m not your tame little pet anymore."

You recoiled, heart hammering. The pale scars on your collarbone from months ago suddenly itched.

Furniture suffered. One night you came home to find the scratching post in splinters and deep gouges in the coffee table. He didn’t apologize. He simply watched you clean it up with hollow eyes.

Then the clouded leopard came back.

His name was Minho, barely nineteen, still skittish, with faded bruises from his previous adoptive family. The shelter had called you in desperation; no one else had experience with him. You couldn’t say no. Not when he cried in the carrier, ears flat against his head.

You brought him home on a Tuesday evening. Hongjoong was waiting by the door like always. The moment he caught the younger hybrid’s scent his entire body went rigid.

"No" he said flatly.

"Hongjoong, he has nowhere else-"

"I said no." His tail lashed hard enough to knock a lamp off the side table. It shattered. He didn’t flinch. "You bring him here after everything? After they took me away? You still choose them."

Minho whimpered from inside the carrier. You set the carrier down gently and turned to your snow leopard. "This isn’t choosing. He was abused. I can help him heal for a few weeks until we find a permanent home. That’s my job."

"Your job" Hongjoong echoed, voice dripping acid. "Always your job. Never me. Never us."

He stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door so hard the frame cracked.

Minho stayed in the spare room that night. You slept on the couch. Hongjoong didn’t come out until long after you’d left for work the next morning.

The jealousy festered. Hongjoong began lurking near the spare room door whenever you were inside with Minho. He would pace the hallway, low growls rumbling continuously. When you emerged smelling like clouded leopard fur and milk, Hongjoong would corner you in the kitchen, pressing you against the counter, nose buried in your neck as he tried to overwrite the scent with his own. But he wouldn’t kiss you. Wouldn’t purr. Just aggressive, desperate scent-marking that left you bruised and aching.

"You let him sleep in your arms once" he hissed one night, claws pricking your hips. "I remember. You think I forgot how that felt?"

"I was just doing my job" you whispered.

"I’m not your job?" His laugh was broken. "I’m your burden."

The fracture deepened every day.

The breaking point came on a rainy Friday night.

You returned from a long shift to find the apartment in chaos. Couch cushions shredded. Your favorite mug smashed. And Hongjoong’s phone lying on the floor with a single note typed on the screen: I’m too broken for this. You deserve better. Don’t look for me.

Your heart stopped. You ran into the storm without a jacket, calling his name down empty streets. Rain soaked you instantly. Every shadow looked like his hair. Every alley made your chest ache with terror.

You found him at the edge of the park where you’d taken that first walk months ago. He was crouched under the same oak tree, soaked, ears flat, tail wrapped around himself. His claws dug deep into the wet earth.

You approached slowly. "Hongjoong."

He didn’t look up. "Go home."

"I’m not leaving without you."

"Why?" He finally lifted his head. Rain mixed with tears on his face, something you’d never seen before. "Why keep fighting for something that keeps hurting you? I destroyed the apartment. I scared the kid. I nearly bit you again. I’m exactly what they said I was. Dangerous. Irredeemable."

You knelt in the mud in front of him, ignoring the cold seeping through your jeans.

"Because I love you" you said fiercely. "Not the safe version. Not the healed version. You. The one who survived four years in hell. The one who waited for me outside that glass every day. The one who’s terrified of losing the only home he’s ever had."

His breath hitched. You reached out slowly and cupped his wet cheek. "I will always choose you. Even when it’s hard. Even when the system tries to take you. Even when you push me away. Forever doesn’t mean only the good days, Hongjoong. It means all of them."

He broke. A raw, choked sound tore from his throat as he lunged forward, wrapping around you so tightly you could barely breathe. His face buried in your neck, fangs grazing skin without breaking it, body shaking with silent sobs. The rain poured harder but neither of you moved.

"I’m scared" he admitted against your skin, voice muffled. "Every day I’m scared you’ll wake up and realize I’m not worth the fight."

"You are worth everything."

He pulled back just enough to kiss you: desperate, messy, tasting of rain and salt. His tail curled around your waist, anchoring you to him. When he finally drew away, forehead pressed to yours, some of the ice in his eyes had thawed.

"I don’t want to run anymore" he whispered.

"Then don’t." You stroked his soaked hair. "Come home. We’ll fix the couch. We’ll find Minho a better place. We’ll fight the system together. But no more leaving."

He nodded, ears twitching forward slightly.

Back at the apartment he helped you clean in silence, though his hands still trembled. Later, after Minho was settled and the worst of the mess was cleared, Hongjoong pulled you into the bedroom. He didn’t initiate sex, just held you under the covers, body curled protectively around yours, tail draped over your hip.

"I meant it" he murmured into your hair as sleep finally claimed him. "Forever. Even when I’m broken."

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the steady rumble of his purr start again for the first time in weeks.

"Forever" you promised.

The heatwave hit Seoul like a slap. Temperatures climbed to 38°C by midday and the apartment’s old air conditioner rattled uselessly against the thick, humid air. Even with every window cracked and fans running on high, the space felt like a sauna. You came home from the shelter drenched in sweat, shirt sticking to your back, only to find the living room empty and unnervingly quiet.

"Hongjoong?" you called, kicking off your shoes.

No answer. But the scent in the air had changed: thicker, darker, laced with something musky and fever-hot that made your pulse jump.

You found him in the bedroom, door half-shut, lights off. He had dragged every blanket and pillow into a makeshift nest on the floor beside the bed. Hongjoong lay curled in the center of it, shirtless, sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. His ears were pinned flat, tail lashing restlessly against the sheets. The moment you pushed the door open his head snapped up, eyes glowing with something wild and barely contained.

"Get out" he growled, voice shredded.

You froze in the doorway. "What’s wrong?"

His claws dug into the mattress. "Rut. First real one since… since before the shelter." He squeezed his eyes shut, body shuddering. "It came on fast. Too fast. You need to leave. Lock the door. Don’t come back until it’s over."

You stepped inside instead.

Hongjoong snarled, low and warning. "I said get out! I won’t be gentle. I won’t be me. I’ll hurt you-"

"You won’t" you said softly, closing the door behind you. The heat in the room was stifling, rolling off him in waves. "I’m not leaving you to suffer alone for days."

He laughed, broken and bitter. "You don’t understand. This isn’t like before. This is… instinct. I’ll knot you. I’ll bite. I’ll say things-" His hips jerked involuntarily against the nest, a helpless grind that made him hiss through his teeth. "Please. I waited years in a cage. Don’t make me lose control with the only person who matters."

You knelt at the edge of the nest. Sweat already beaded on your skin. "Then lose control with me. I trust you."

His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, only a thin ring of brown left. For a long second he just stared, chest heaving. Then something in him snapped.

He moved faster than you could track, strong hands grabbing your waist, dragging you into the nest with him. Fabric tore as he ripped your shirt open, mouth latching onto your neck with a desperate groan. The bite wasn’t gentle; fangs sank in just enough to sting, marking over the old scar as fresh heat flooded your veins.

"So mine" he rasped against your skin. "Been holding it back for weeks. Smelling you every day. Other hybrids on your clothes. Couldn’t take it anymore."

You gasped as his hands shoved your pants down, claws carefully retracted but still scraping deliciously. The air felt too thick, too hot, but his body against yours was hotter. He flipped you onto your back in the nest, hovering above you with trembling arms. His hair curtained around your face.

"Last chance" he growled.

You pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard.

That was all the permission he needed.

Hongjoong devoured you. His mouth claimed yours with bruising force, tongue sliding deep while his hands mapped every inch of sweat-slick skin. He tore the rest of your clothes away, then shoved his own sweatpants down, freeing his cock already flushed dark, leaking, the base beginning to swell with the promise of a knot.

He didn’t tease. He pushed your thighs apart and slid two fingers into you without warning, curling them instantly against that spot that made your back arch. A deep, satisfied purr-rumble tore from his chest when he found you already wet.

"Always so ready for me" he muttered, adding a third finger, stretching you. "Gonna fill you up. Gonna breed this pretty pussy until it takes."

The filthy words sent heat spiraling through you. You rocked against his hand, moaning his name. He licked the sweat from your throat, then lower, sucking hard on one nipple while his tail curled around your thigh, holding you open.

When he finally replaced his fingers with his cock, he thrust in with one powerful snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out at the sudden fullness. He didn’t pause: couldn’t. He fucked you hard and deep, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, the wet slap of skin echoing in the stifling room.

"Fuck, so tight. So perfect," he snarled, fangs grazing your collarbone. "Gonna knot you. Keep you full of me for days."

You dug your nails into his back, legs wrapping around his waist. His tail slid higher, the soft, fluffy tip brushing teasingly over your clit with every thrust. The dual sensation: his thick cock stretching you and the silky tail stroking you, pushed you over the edge fast. You came with a broken moan, clenching around him.

Hongjoong growled in triumph but didn’t slow. He fucked you through it, then flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up and slamming back in from behind. The new angle made you see stars. His chest pressed to your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he rutted into you with feral intensity.

By the time his knot began to catch on every thrust, you were shaking, oversensitive and pleading. He reached around to rub your clit with two fingers, purring hot against your ear.

"Come again. Want to feel you milk my knot."

You shattered a second time as his knot swelled fully, locking him deep inside. Hongjoong roared: raw, primal, grinding against you as he came in thick, endless pulses, flooding you until it leaked around his knot. The heat of it, the pressure, the way his body trembled against yours, left you boneless.

But he wasn’t done.

The rut held him for hours. He stayed locked inside you for nearly forty minutes, licking lazily at the fresh bite marks on your shoulders and neck while his knot pulsed. When it finally went down he pulled out only to flip you again, this time pulling you on top so you could ride him. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he guided you, eyes half-lidded with lust and something deeper.

"Look at me while you take my cock" he demanded.

You did. Sweat dripped down your bodies. The heatwave outside was nothing compared to the inferno between you. He came again like that, knot swelling as you ground down on him, his tail wrapping around your waist to hold you flush while he pumped you full.

The second day blurred into a haze of sex and tenderness.

He took you against the wall, in the shower (which did nothing to cool you both), bent over the kitchen counter when you tried to bring water and food. Every surface carried his scent and yours. He marked you constantly: rubbing his wrists and cheeks over your skin, licking every inch, biting fresh claims across your breasts and inner thighs.

Between waves he grew softer. He’d curl around you in the ruined nest, purring loudly while grooming your hair with careful licks. He fed you water and pieces of fruit by hand, nuzzling your stomach with something like awe.

"Want it to take" he whispered once, palm spread over your lower belly. "Want to see you round with my kits. Want a family that’s ours."

You stroked his ears, exhausted and glowing. "One day. When we’re ready. When you feel safe."

His eyes shimmered. "You make me feel safe. Even like this."

On the third morning the fever finally broke.

Hongjoong woke curled tightly around you, knot gone, cock soft against your thigh. The apartment smelled like sex and sweat and him. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, gentler now as the heatwave eased.

He stared at the marks covering your body: bites, bruises, claiming scrapes and his ears flattened with guilt.

"I hurt you" he whispered, voice hoarse.

You cupped his cheek. "You didn’t. I wanted it. I wanted all of you."

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. The purr that rolled through him was softer than it had been in days: content, grateful. He spent the next hour in pure aftercare: licking every mark with soothing strokes of his tongue, massaging sore muscles, carrying you to the shower and washing you gently with cool water. His hands lingered on every curve, reverent now instead of desperate.

Later, wrapped in fresh sheets on the bed (the nest had been destroyed beyond saving), he pulled you against his chest. His tail draped over your hip, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"I was scared you’d see the monster and leave" he admitted quietly. "The fighting ring… they forced ruts sometimes. For shows. I never wanted you to see that side of me."

You kissed his collarbone. "I love every side of you. The fighter. The scared one. The one who purred while I cooked. The one who knotted me so full I still feel you."

His purr deepened, rumbling through both of you. "I don’t want to go back to the shelter ever again" he said. "Not even for a day. I want to build something real with you. A life. Maybe… someday help other hybrids who have nowhere else."

You smiled against his skin. "We’ll fight for that. Together."

He tilted your chin up and kissed you slow, deep, no heat of rut left, only love and quiet promise.

The apartment was a wreck. Furniture scratched, sheets ruined, air still heavy with the scent of three days of claiming.

The weeks following Hongjoong’s rut were quieter, softer around the edges. The apartment still carried the faint musk of days spent locked together, but the frenzy had settled into something steadier. He touched you constantly now: small brushes of his tail against your calf while you cooked, his cheek rubbing along your shoulder when you passed each other in the hallway, fingers laced tightly even while watching television. The pale scars and fresh bite marks across your body had become badges he traced with reverent claws every night.

Yet the peace was fragile.

It shattered on a humid Tuesday evening.

You were unlocking the apartment door when Hongjoong’s low, dangerous growl rolled from inside. The sound raised every hair on your arms. You pushed the door open to find three men standing in your living room. Two were large wolf hybrids in dark suits, the third a scarred human with cold eyes and a tattoo of interlocking chains on his neck: the same symbol from the old Incheon fighting ring reports.

Hongjoong stood between them and you, ears pinned flat, fangs bared, tail lashing like a whip. His claws were fully extended.

"They broke in" he snarled. "Said I still belong to them. Property."

The human smiled thinly. "HK-0047 was one of our best earners before your little raid. Blood debt still stands. We’ve got paperwork from before the sanctuary laws changed. He’s unregistered stock. Legally ours to reclaim."

Your blood ran cold. You stepped forward despite Hongjoong’s warning growl. "Get out of my home."

One of the wolf hybrids cracked his knuckles. "Make us, little human."

What happened next was a blur of violence. Hongjoong exploded forward in a silver streak, tackling the nearest wolf with a roar that shook the windows. Claws slashed. Furniture overturned. You grabbed the heavy metal lamp from the side table and swung it hard into the second intruder’s knee. The human pulled a syringe, probably the same tranquilizers used in the old fights, but Hongjoong’s tail whipped around his wrist, snapping bone with a sickening crack.

Security from the building arrived minutes later, drawn by the noise. The intruders fled, but not before the leader spat a final threat: "This isn’t over. Court date’s already set. He’ll be back in the ring where he belongs."

That night Hongjoong wouldn’t let you out of his arms. He paced the ruined living room with you pressed to his chest, licking frantically at your neck, wrists, anywhere he could reach, as if reaffirming you were still his. His purr was fractured, more vibration of fear than comfort.

"I won’t go back" he whispered against your hair. "I’d rather die free than fight in a cage again."

"You’re not going anywhere" you promised, holding his face. "We’ll fight this. Legally. Together."

The next morning you quit your job at the shelter.

Director Park didn’t hide his relief. "It was only a matter of time. That hybrid was always going to drag you down."

You looked him dead in the eye. "He saved my life more times than you’ll ever know. Keep your cage. We’re building something better."

Legal fees drained your savings fast. You hired the best hybrid rights lawyer you could afford; an older red panda hybrid named Attorney Seo who specialized in fighting ring survivors. She took one look at Hongjoong’s records and shook her head.

"This won’t be easy. Pre-law ownership documents are tricky. But his growth, your relationship and his willingness to testify could turn it."

Preparation consumed the following month. Hongjoong’s nightmares returned with a vengeance. He’d wake up snarling, claws buried in the mattress, then immediately seek you out, curling around your body like a living shield. During the day he trained himself to speak clearly about his trauma, practicing testimony in front of the mirror while you sat on the bed offering gentle corrections.

"I was forced to fight" he recited one evening, voice steady despite the way his tail trembled. "I killed because they would kill me if I didn’t. But I never wanted it. Not once."

You pulled him into your arms afterward, kissing the tension from his ears until he purred.

Court day arrived under gray skies.

The courtroom was packed: reporters, hybrid activists, a few shelter colleagues who had quietly supported you. Hongjoong wore a simple black button-up and slacks you’d chosen together. He looked devastatingly beautiful and heartbreakingly nervous, ears twitching at every camera flash.

The syndicate’s lawyer painted him as a dangerous animal: violent history, aggression reports, the attack on you months ago. They presented old fight footage. The room murmured uncomfortably.

Then it was your turn. You took the stand and told everything: the day you’d stopped his euthanasia, the long silence after his attack, the slow rebuilding of trust, the rut, the love that had grown through every fracture. Your voice only shook once, when you described finding him in the rain ready to run because he thought he was too broken for you.

When Hongjoong took the stand, the room fell completely silent. He looked small for the first time, powerful snow leopard reduced to a survivor on a wooden chair. His tail curled tightly around his own ankle. His eyes found yours in the gallery and held. "I was taken as a cub" he began, voice low but clear. "Trained with pain and starvation. I survived by becoming what they wanted. When the sanctuary took me, they planned to kill me because I was too angry to fix. She..." He looked at you again. "She saw something else. She gave me a home when no one else would. She stayed even when I hurt her. Even when I pushed her away."

His claws flexed against his thighs.

"I’m not property. I’m not a fighter anymore. I’m hers. And she’s mine. I want to build a life with her. Help other hybrids who are still trapped. I’m asking the court to let me choose my future."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Attorney Seo’s closing argument was sharp and passionate. Evidence of the syndicate’s ongoing illegal operations was presented. Your financial records showing you’d sacrificed your career. Medical reports proving Hongjoong’s improved mental health under your care.

The judge deliberated for three hours.

When she returned, the verdict was clear. "Subject HK-0047 is hereby granted full hybrid citizenship rights. All prior ownership claims are nullified. The court recognizes the adoptive bond and recommends ongoing monitoring only for the first year. Case closed."

The courtroom erupted. Hongjoong vaulted over the barrier in one fluid leap and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck as cameras flashed around you. His purr was loud enough to drown out the noise, tail wrapped so tightly around your waist it was almost painful.

"You did it" you whispered, tears streaming.

"We did it" he corrected, voice thick.

Two weeks later you drove through winding mountain roads, snow beginning to fall in soft flurries. Hongjoong’s face was pressed to the passenger window, eyes wide with wonder. He had never seen real snow outside of grainy shelter documentaries.

The cabin you’d rented was small and perfect: wooden beams, a stone fireplace, wide windows overlooking white-covered pines. No city noise. No cameras. Just silence and wilderness.

On the third night, under a sky thick with stars, you held a private mating ceremony. No officials. No guests. Just the two of you.

You stood barefoot in the snow wearing a simple white sweater and sweatpants. Hongjoong wore black, hair loose and glowing under moonlight. He carried a small blade you’d sterilized earlier.

He went first. With careful precision he pressed the blade to his palm, drawing a thin line of blood. Then he did the same to yours. You pressed your palms together, blood mixing as snowflakes landed on your joined hands.

"I claim you" he said solemnly, voice carrying through the cold air. "Not as property. As my mate. My home. My future. In blood and snow and everything that comes after."

You repeated the words back to him, tears freezing on your lashes.

Then he kissed you: slow, deep, tasting of blood and forever. His tail curled around your leg as he lowered you into the soft snow, body covering yours. This time there was no rut frenzy, only reverence. He made love to you under the stars, slow rolls of his hips, whispered "I love you"s between kisses, fangs grazing but never breaking skin again.

Afterward he wrapped you in blankets on the cabin porch, purring loud and steady while snow fell around you.

"I want to open a sanctuary" he said quietly, chin resting on your head. "Small. Just for the ones who were like me. The ones they wanted to put down. We could do it together."

You smiled against his chest. "We will. We’ll make sure no one else waits four years behind glass."

He nuzzled your mating mark, the fresh ceremonial scar now joining the others.

For the first time since you’d met him through reinforced glass, Hongjoong’s eyes held no shadows. Only snow, starlight, and boundless future.

"Forever?" he asked, the old insecurity still faintly there.

You kissed him softly.

"Forever."

Forever

Thank you to all those who waited for part 2!!

You stood outside the reinforced glass door, clipboard pressed against your chest like a shield. The chart on top bore Hongjoong’s name in red ink, never a good sign. Red meant high-risk, aggression history, repeat escape attempts, and, most recently, euthanasia approved. The signature at the bottom belonged to Director Park, who had never once hesitated when signing off on a hybrid deemed irredeemable.

Inside the room, Hongjoong sat on the far edge of the metal cot, knees drawn up, tail wrapped tightly around his ankles. The snow leopard hybrid had always been striking, even in captivity. His hair fell in uneven silver-white strands past his shoulders, ears tufted and restless, constantly flicking toward every sound in the corridor. Those eyes: deep brown, never softened. They tracked movement the way a predator tracks prey that hasn’t yet realized it’s already been chosen.

He had been here four years and seven months. Longer than almost any other hybrid in the high-security wing. Most aggressive cases either improved enough to be rehomed or… didn’t. Hongjoong refused both paths. He didn’t improve. He didn’t die. He simply endured, growing sharper and quieter with each passing season.

You had first noticed him during intake. A midnight raid on an illegal fighting ring in Incheon; thirty-seven hybrids pulled from cages reeking of blood and fear. Hongjoong had been the only one who didn’t cower when the lights came on. He stood in the center of his pen, spine straight, lips peeled back just enough to show fang. When the rescue team breached the enclosure he didn’t run. He lunged, straight at the handler holding the capture pole. Three officers and a tranquilizer dart to the shoulder later, he was dragged unconscious into the transport van. The report noted: "Subject displays unusually high prey-drive response toward humans. Recommend permanent isolation."

That was the beginning.

Over the years you watched him from a distance. You weren’t assigned to his case: senior staff handled the dangerous ones, but you passed his room every shift. Sometimes he ignored you completely. Sometimes he tracked your footsteps with slow, deliberate turns of his head. Once, when a new volunteer dropped a metal tray outside his door, the crash echoed down the hall and Hongjoong exploded off his cot, slamming both palms against the glass so hard it spiderwebbed. He didn’t roar. He didn’t hiss. He simply stared through the fracture lines, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, until security arrived with the stun baton.

After that they tripled the thickness of the glass.

You weren’t supposed to talk to him. Policy forbade personal interaction with red-chart cases unless under direct supervision. But rules had always felt elastic to you. On slow nights you would linger just outside the range of the hallway camera, speaking in the soft monotone you used for frightened kittens and traumatized wolf pups.

"I know you can hear me" you’d murmur. "I’m not coming in. Just… letting you know someone’s here."

He never answered. Not once. But he listened. You could tell because his ears would stop flicking wildly and angle toward your voice. His tail would loosen its death grip on his own legs. Sometimes his eyes would slide sideways, catching yours through the reinforced barrier, and hold there for one long, unreadable second before he looked away.

It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t trust. It was acknowledgment: You exist. I see you. I haven’t killed you yet.

That small ritual carried on for nearly three years.

Then the notice came down. Director Park called an all-staff meeting at 8:00 am on a Tuesday in March. The conference room smelled of burnt coffee and antiseptic. Twenty-three employees sat in folding chairs while the director paced in front of a projected spreadsheet titled "Capacity Reallocation Q1 20XX."

"We are currently twenty-eight percent over safe occupancy" Park said, tapping the screen. "The Ministry has threatened to pull funding unless we reduce high-maintenance cases by fifteen percent before the next audit. I’ve reviewed every file. Unfortunately, several long-term residents have not responded to rehabilitation protocols."

A murmur moved through the room. Park clicked to the next slide. Hongjoong’s intake photo filled the screen: younger, angrier, lip split and one ear torn. Below it ran the red banner: Subject HK-0047 – SNOW LEOPARD HYBRID – EUTHANASIA SCHEDULED XX SEP 20XX @ 15:00.

Your stomach dropped so violently you tasted bile.

Someone (Minji from intake) raised her hand. "Has he… shown any recent improvement?"

Park’s mouth thinned. "He mauled Handler Choi last month during routine health screening. Four-inch lacerations to the forearm. Choi needed thirty-two stitches and is still on medical leave. That was the third incident in six months."

Another click. Security footage began to play, silent and grainy.

Hongjoong crouched in the corner of an exam room. A handler approached with a syringe. The moment the needle glinted, Hongjoong moved faster than should have been possible in the small space. One second he was still; the next he had the handler pinned facedown, teeth buried in the meat of the man’s shoulder. Blood bloomed dark across the white tile.

The video cut off.

Park folded his arms. "We’ve exhausted every option. Behavioral enrichment, scent therapy, even pharmacological intervention. Nothing works. He’s not adoptable. He’s barely containable. The decision has been made."

The room stayed quiet after that. You didn’t speak during the rest of the meeting. You didn’t speak when everyone filed out. You walked straight to the east wing supply closet, locked yourself inside among shelves of bleach and kibble and cried so hard your throat felt raw.

Then you dried your face, straightened your uniform and went to find Director Park.

He was in his office, already filling out the final disposition form.

You didn’t knock.

"I’m taking him" you said.

Park looked up slowly, pen still poised above the paper. "Excuse me?"

"Hongjoong. HK-0047. I’m adopting him. Today."

For a moment the only sound was the wall clock ticking. Then Park laughed, short, disbelieving. "You’ve read his file."

"I’ve read it more times than you have."

"He nearly killed a handler last month."

"He didn’t kill him. He could have. He didn’t."

"That isn’t the point-"

"It is to me."

Park removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You understand what you’re asking? If he hurts you or anyone else in your building the liability falls entirely on you. No shelter insurance. No legal protection. You’ll be blacklisted from every hybrid-related job in the country. And if he kills someone…" He let the sentence hang.

"I know."

He studied you for a long minute. "Why him?"

You didn’t have a clean answer. Not one that would satisfy bureaucracy. So you gave him the truth you’d been carrying for years.

"Because no one else ever stayed outside his door and talked to him just because they wanted to. Because every time I walked past that room I felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. Because if we kill him tomorrow, I’ll spend the rest of my life knowing I could have tried."

Park exhaled through his nose. "You’re insane."

"Maybe."

He stared at the form another moment, then slid it into the shredder beside his desk. The machine whirred.

"Get the paperwork started with admin" he said quietly. "You have until 14:30 to sign everything and take possession. After that, he’s your responsibility. Completely."

You nodded once and left before he could change his mind.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of forms, liability waivers, emergency contact sheets and a mandatory psych evaluation you barely passed because the counselor kept asking if you understood the danger and you kept saying yes.

At 2:15 pm you stood outside Room 47 with a transport crate on wheels (protocol oblige), a heavy-duty collar-and-leash set no one expected you to actually use and a heart that felt too large for your ribcage.

A security officer unlocked the door.

Hongjoong was already on his feet. He didn’t growl. He didn’t bare teeth. He simply watched as you stepped inside alone, closing the door behind you.

The room smelled of metal, antiseptic and the faint musk of snow leopard: clean, cold, wild.

You set the crate down slowly.

"I’m not here to trick you" you said, keeping your voice low and even. "They were going to kill you today. I told them no. I’m taking you home instead."

His ears flattened slightly. Tail tip twitched once.

"I know you don’t trust me. I know you have no reason to. But I’m not leaving this room without you and I’m not dragging you out in chains. So you have two choices." You lifted your empty hands. "Walk out with me, or I sit here until they come in with the needle anyway."

Silence stretched thin and dangerous. Then Hongjoong moved. Not toward you, past you. He circled the small space once, twice, tail brushing the wall. His gaze never left your face.

When he finally stopped, he was close enough that you could see the faint scars running through his left eyebrow, the way his pupils flexed in the dim light. He spoke for the first time in four years and seven months. His voice was low, rough from disuse. "You’re going to regret this."

You swallowed once. "I know."

He studied you another long moment. Then he walked to the crate, crouched and climbed inside without being asked.

The latch clicked shut. You carried rolled him out of the east wing, past staring coworkers, past the security desk, past the front doors into late-afternoon sunlight he hadn’t felt in years.

He didn’t speak again during the drive. But when you reached your apartment and opened the crate door, he didn’t bolt. He stepped out slowly, tail low, ears swiveling, taking in the new space: the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom down the hall.

You stayed by the front door, giving him distance. He turned to look at you once, eyes unreadable. Then he padded silently to the farthest corner of the couch, curled into a tight ball and closed his eyes. Not trust. Not gratitude. Just… survival. For now.

You stood there a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the faint twitch of his tail even in sleep.

The first week felt like holding your breath underwater.

You came home from the shelter each evening expecting chaos: overturned furniture, shredded cushions, claw marks on the walls like territorial warnings. Instead the apartment was eerily still. Hongjoong claimed the far corner of the sectional sofa the moment you opened the crate that first afternoon and he hadn’t moved much since. He slept in tight coils, tail tucked over his nose, ears twitching at every street noise filtering through the single-paned windows. When he was awake he watched. Always watched.

You learned his patterns quickly because they were so rigidly consistent. He drank from the wide ceramic bowl you’d placed on the kitchen floor, never from the glass you left on the counter everyday, as though human containers carried contamination. He ate the high-protein hybrid kibble you poured at exactly 7:00 pm, picking through it with delicate precision, leaving anything that smelled faintly of vegetables or grain. And every night at 11:43 pm (you checked the clock the first three times) he padded silently to the balcony door, sat with his back to the glass, and stared out at the city lights until dawn.

You gave him space. Not because you were afraid but because every book, every training seminar, every whispered story from veteran handlers said the same thing: forced proximity with a long-term isolation case was the fastest way to trigger a defensive snap. So you moved carefully. You spoke in the same soft monotone you’d used outside his shelter room, never raising your voice, never making sudden gestures. You announced your intentions before you acted.

"I’m going to turn on the kitchen light now."

"I’m opening the fridge."

"I’m taking a shower, it’ll take twenty minutes."

He never answered, but his ears would flick in your direction, acknowledging receipt. That small reaction felt like victory.

You bought things for him in careful increments, never all at once so it wouldn’t feel like overwhelming charity. A thick wool blanket the color of fresh snow (he ignored it for three days, then dragged it behind the couch and slept on it). A scratching post taller than you were, he tested it once with slow, deliberate drags of his claws, left faint silvery streaks in the sisal, then never touched it again. A wide, water fountain because the shelter notes said snow leopards preferred moving water, he drank from it exclusively after the first night, tail tip curling in what might have been approval.

You didn’t try to touch him. Not even close. You didn’t try to make eye contact for longer than a second. You didn’t sit on the couch if he was already there. Instead you took the armchair across the room, or the floor cushion by the coffee table, or, when your legs ached from twelve-hour shifts, you sat at the kitchen island with your back to him, pretending to scroll through shelter reports on your tablet. You let him dictate the distance.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to smell like him. Not overpoweringly, just enough that when you came home after a long day the familiar musk of clean fur, cold stone and faint cedar greeted you before the smell of last night’s takeout did. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was… grounding. Like the apartment had finally decided to belong to someone other than you.

You started talking to him again, the way you had through the glass. Not expecting answers. Just filling the quiet.

"The new kid in intake today cried the whole transport. Wolf-dog mix, maybe sixteen months old. Kept asking for his mom. Broke my heart."

Or: "Director Park asked if you’d torn the place apart yet. I told him you’re neater than I am."

Or, once, very quietly after a particularly bad day: "I’m glad you’re here. Even if you never speak to me."

He never responded, but he never left the room when you spoke either. It felt like progress.

Then came the evening that would change everything. You’d had a double shift: two emergency intakes, a fight in the large-cat wing that required sedation of three tigers, and a power outage that sent half the shelter into backup-generator panic. By the time you dragged yourself through the front door at 10:17 pm, every muscle ached and your scrubs smelled like fear-sweat and antiseptic.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, flicked on the entryway light.

Hongjoong was already sitting upright on the couch, ears pinned flat, pupils blown so wide the amber irises were thin rings.

You froze. "Hey" you said softly. "Long day. I’m just gonna-"

You took one step toward the kitchen. He moved. Not the slow, deliberate prowl you’d grown accustomed to. This was explosive, silent, liquid violence. One heartbeat he was on the cushion; the next he was across the room, claws out, slamming you back against the wall beside the coat rack. Your skull cracked against plaster. His forearm pressed across your throat, not choking, but pinning. His other hand braced beside your head, claws sunk into drywall. Hot breath fanned your cheek. His tail lashed hard enough to knock a framed photo to the floor; glass shattered somewhere unimportant.

You didn’t scream. Training kicked in: don’t scream, don’t struggle, don’t challenge. You went limp instead, eyes fixed on the middle distance past his shoulder, breathing shallow and even.

He snarled, low, guttural, more vibration than sound. "You reek" he rasped, voice shredded from disuse. "Other cats. Dogs. Fear. Blood."

His nose dragged along your jaw, inhaling sharply. "Mine" he hissed, the word torn out like it hurt him to say it. "This place. Mine."

You swallowed carefully around the pressure on your throat. "I’m sorry" you whispered. "I didn’t realize-"

His claws flexed. Pinpricks of pain bloomed along your collarbone where fabric tore. Then, abruptly, he released you. He stepped back three paces, tail whipping, chest heaving. His ears stayed flat. His pupils hadn’t shrunk.

You slid down the wall until your knees hit the floor, hands trembling so badly you clasped them between your thighs to hide it. Hongjoong stared at you for another endless second. Then he turned, padded back to the couch, leapt onto the highest backrest and disappeared over the top into the shadowed corner he’d claimed as his den.

You stayed on the floor until your heartbeat stopped thundering in your ears. The scratches weren’t deep: three shallow lines across your collarbone, already clotting but they stung like betrayal.

You cleaned them in the bathroom with shaking hands, applied antiseptic, taped gauze over the worst of them. Then you changed into clean clothes, threw the blood-scented scrubs into the washer on hot and quietly set his dinner bowl down in its usual place.

He didn’t come out to eat that night. Or the next morning. You left the food anyway. Fresh water. A new blanket folded beside his old one.

From that moment on, you stopped trying. No more soft announcements before moving through the apartment. No more casual one-sided conversation. No more lingering in shared spaces.

You fed him on schedule, 7:00 pm exactly, then retreated to your bedroom with the door closed. You showered with the fan on to drown out any sound he might make. You worked late at the shelter whenever possible, taking extra shifts just to delay coming home to the suffocating silence.

When you were home, you became a ghost in your own apartment. You used the armchair only when he was clearly asleep. You walked wide arcs around the couch. You kept your gaze lowered, never meeting those glacial eyes even by accident. You stopped buying things for him. No more blankets, no more toys, no more attempts to make the space feel welcoming. If he wanted comfort, he could use what was already there. If he wanted interaction, he could initiate it. He didn’t.

Days blurred into weeks. The apartment stayed clean, unnaturally so. He groomed obsessively, fur gleaming like fresh powder. He ate every bite of food you left. But he never once approached you.

Sometimes, late at night when you couldn’t sleep, you would sit on the floor of your bedroom with your back against the closed door and listen. You could hear him moving: soft footfalls, the faint drag of claws on hardwood when he stretched, the rhythmic thump of his tail against the couch frame when something outside startled him.

Once you thought you heard a low, rumbling sound that might have been a purr. You told yourself it was the refrigerator.

December arrived with rain that hammered the windows for days. Hongjoong took to sitting on the windowsill, nose almost touching the glass, watching water streak down in rivulets. You wondered if he missed snow. You wondered if he remembered mountains. You wondered if he hated you now, or if he’d simply gone back to the state he’d lived in for four years at the shelter: watchful, untouchable, alone.

You stopped wondering so loudly inside your own head. You stopped wondering at all. In January, you had settled into a routine that felt sustainable, if joyless. You woke at 5:45 am, showered, dressed, left his breakfast on the way out. You worked. You came home at whatever hour the shift ended, set dinner down without looking toward the living room, retreated to your room. You slept. You repeated.

The scratches healed into thin pale lines. You wore high-necked shirts to the shelter so no one would ask questions. No one did. You told yourself this was better. He was alive. He was safe. He wasn’t in a steel room waiting for a needle. That had to be enough. But sometimes, when you passed the couch and caught the faint scent of musk and fur, you felt the absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

You had adopted him to save him. Instead you’d built a new cage. This one just had better lighting. And softer floors. And no cameras.

On one evening, you came home to find the food untouched. You paused in the doorway. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow of the city bleeding through the balcony glass. Hongjoong was on the windowsill again, back to you, tail curled tightly around his feet.

You set your bag down quietly, walked to the kitchen, poured fresh kibble anyway, set the bowl in its place. Then, because you couldn’t help it, you spoke for the first time in six weeks.

"I’m sorry I smell like the shelter" you said to the darkness. "I can’t help it. It’s on my skin now. Probably always will be."

Silence.

You exhaled. "I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. Give you the whole place." (The spare room is the furthest from the living room)

You turned toward the hallway. Behind you, a low sound, barely audible. A single, rough word. "Wait."

You froze. He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t move. But the word hung between you like smoke. You waited another thirty seconds. Then you continued down the hall, closed the spare-room door behind you and sat on the edge of the bare mattress with your head in your hands.

He had spoken. After everything. One word. Wait. You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t dare hope. But for the first time since you took him in, your heart beat fast enough to hurt.

The apartment had become a museum of careful distance. February slipped into March without fanfare. Snow gave way to rain that fell against the windows like a second skin. You kept the balcony door cracked at night for air, even though the city noise filtered in: sirens, distant laughter, the low rumble of delivery scooters. Hongjoong still perched on the windowsill most evenings, nose almost touching the glass, tail curled so tightly the tip trembled. You no longer spoke to announce your movements. You no longer spoke at all unless it was necessary: "Dinner’s down." "I’m heading out." "Good night."

He answered in monosyllables when he answered at all. "Yes." "No." "Fine."

That single "wait" from weeks ago had never been repeated. You told yourself it had been a fluke, a slip of the tongue after too many weeks of silence. You told yourself not to read meaning into it. You mostly succeeded.

Work became your anchor. The shelter was busier than ever. You started bringing home temporary cases: a pair of lynx kittens who needed bottle-feeding every three hours, a timid caracal recovering from a broken leg, a young clouded leopard hybrid who flinched at every sudden noise. They stayed in the spare bedroom you’d quietly converted into a nursery. You spent evenings there instead of the living room, rocking tiny bodies, murmuring lullabies, cleaning formula stains from your shirts.

Hongjoong noticed. At first it was subtle. His ears would flatten when you rolled a carrier past the couch. His tail would lash once, hard, against the cushion. He stopped sitting on the windowsill when the nursery door was open; instead he paced the hallway in slow, deliberate circuits, claws clicking faintly on hardwood. You pretended not to see.

One evening in late June you came home with a fox hybrid kit, barely weaned, red fur matted with street grime, trembling so violently his teeth chattered. You carried him straight to the bathroom for a warm bath. Hongjoong was already in the hallway when you stepped out of the elevator. He didn’t move aside. He stood in the center of the corridor, shoulders squared, pupils thin slits.

You paused. "I need to get him cleaned up" you said quietly. "He’s freezing."

Hongjoong’s gaze dropped to the bundle in your arms. The kit whimpered, pressing his face into your neck. A low growl rolled out of Hongjoong’s chest, slow, continuous, like distant thunder. You met his eyes for the first time in months.

"I’ll keep him in the spare room" you said. "He won’t be out here."

The growl cut off abruptly. Hongjoong stepped aside. You walked past without another word. That night the pacing started. Soft at first, footfalls up and down the hallway. Then faster. Then accompanied by the scrape of claws against baseboards. You lay awake in the spare room with the fox kit curled against your chest, listening to the restless rhythm on the other side of the door. At 3:17 am the pacing stopped.

You heard the soft thump of him jumping onto the couch. Then silence.

The next morning the food bowl was untouched again. You left it anyway.

Over the following weeks the pattern sharpened. Every time you brought home a new foster, every single time, Hongjoong’s behavior shifted. He would position himself between you and the nursery door when you rolled carriers inside. He would sit directly in your path when you left for work, forcing you to step around him. Once, when the clouded leopard hissed at you during a nail trim, Hongjoong appeared in the doorway so fast you didn’t see him move; he didn’t enter, just stood there, staring until the younger hybrid went quiet and hid under the bed.

You started leaving work earlier when possible, just to minimize the hours the fosters spent alone with him prowling the apartment. You told yourself it was protectiveness toward territory. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. You were lying.

May arrived with a heatwave that turned the city into a furnace. The air conditioner struggled; you kept it set to 24°C and still woke up damp with sweat. The fox kit had been adopted out. The lynx kittens too. Only the clouded leopard remained, still skittish, still healing, still sleeping in the crook of your arm every night because thunderstorms made him cry.

Hongjoong stopped eating on the days you came home smelling strongest of the nursery. You found half-finished bowls shoved under the couch. Water left untouched. Once you discovered the scratching post dragged into the hallway and shredded to ribbons, fibers scattered like snow. You stopped bringing fosters home after that.

Director Park raised an eyebrow when you requested to cut back on temporary placements. "Everything okay at home?" he asked.

You smiled tightly. "Just need a break."

He didn’t push.

The apartment felt bigger without the soft sounds of kittens or the patter of small paws. It also felt colder. Hongjoong returned to the windowsill. But now he watched you. Not the city. You.

When you moved through the kitchen he tracked every step. When you sat in the armchair with a book he stared until you looked up, then looked away. When you showered he waited outside the bathroom door; you could see the shadow of his tail under the gap.

You started locking your bedroom door at night. Not because you were afraid he would hurt you. Because you were afraid of what might happen if he didn’t.

One night, you came home late, overtime covering a staff shortage. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow from the balcony. Hongjoong sat on the back of the couch, tail hanging down, swaying slowly like a metronome counting something only he could hear.

You set your bag down. "I’m home" you said, habit more than expectation.

He didn’t answer. You walked past him toward the kitchen. His tail snapped out, curling around your wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop you. You froze.

His voice came low, rough, barely above a whisper. "You smell like him again."

You looked down at the tail wrapped around your skin.

"The clouded leopard" he said. "His scent’s all over you. On your neck. Your arms. Your clothes."

You exhaled slowly. "He was scared tonight. Thunderstorm. I held him until he fell asleep."

Hongjoong’s grip tightened, just a fraction. "Then you came home to me smelling like him."

You met his eyes. Dark amber. Pupils blown wide in the dim light.

"Is that a problem?" you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. His tail uncoiled from your wrist, slid up your arm, brushed the side of your neck where the kitten had nuzzled.

"Yes" he said finally.

"Why?"

"Because I thought-" His voice cracked. He swallowed. Tried again. "I thought when you brought me here… you chose me."

The words landed like stones in still water. You felt them ripple outward, touching every careful wall you’d built for months.

"I did choose you" you said.

"Then why do you keep bringing them home?" His ears flattened. "Why do you let them sleep in your arms? Why do you come back smelling like someone else?"

You took one careful step closer. He didn’t retreat.

"I brought them home because it’s my job" you said. "Because they needed somewhere safe. The same reason I brought you."

His tail lashed once. "I’m not the same" he hissed.

"No" you agreed. "You’re not."

Silence stretched. Then he spoke again, so softly you almost missed it.

"I waited."

You blinked.

"I waited four years in that room. No one came close. No one stayed. Then you did. Every day. Talking through the glass like I was… someone." His gaze dropped to the floor. "I thought when you took me out of there, it meant something. Then you stopped. You stopped talking. Stopped looking. Started bringing others."

His claws flexed against the couch leather.

"I got scared" he admitted. "Scared you’d realize I wasn’t worth it. Scared you’d send me back. Or worse, keep me but never look at me again."

Your throat tightened. "Hongjoong…"

"I attacked you" he continued, voice raw. "I hurt you. And after that I didn’t know how to fix it. So I stayed quiet. Stayed away. Thought maybe if I didn’t bother you, you’d keep me anyway."

He lifted his eyes again. "I’m sorry."

The apology hung between you, simple, jagged, honest.

You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the faint tremble in his ears.

"I never stopped wanting you here" you whispered. "I just didn’t know how to reach you after… after that night."

He exhaled shakily. "I didn’t want to hurt you again."

"You didn’t."

"I could have."

"But you didn’t."

Another long silence. Then he moved, slowly, deliberately. He slid off the couch back, landed soundlessly in front of you. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Careful. Reverent.

"I don’t want to smell anyone else on you" he murmured.

You swallowed. "Then don’t."

His pupils dilated fully. He leaned in, slow enough you could stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His nose brushed your jaw first. Inhaling. A low rumble started in his chest, not a growl. A purr. Deep, continuous, vibrating through both of you. He licked once, slow, warm, deliberate, over the spot where the clouded leopard’s scent lingered strongest. Then again. And again. Until your skin tingled and your knees felt unsteady.

"Hongjoong…"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Tell me to stop."

You shook your head. He kissed you. Not gentle. Desperate. Teeth and tongue and the faint scrape of fangs against your lower lip. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head, holding you exactly where he wanted. Tail wrapped around your thigh, possessive, anchoring. You gasped into his mouth. He growled approval.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush: your shirt over your head, his thin sleep pants shoved down, your jeans kicked somewhere unimportant. He lifted you effortlessly, carried you to the couch, laid you down on the blanket he’d claimed months ago. The one that smelled like clean fur and musk and him.

He hovered above you, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. "Last chance" he rasped. "Tell me no."

You reached up, cupped his face, pulled him down. "Yes."

He claimed your mouth again, deeper, hungrier. Then he moved lower. Teeth grazed your collarbone, over the faint silver scars he’d left. He paused there, licked them slowly, reverently, like an apology pressed into skin.

"I’ll never hurt you again" he whispered against the marks.

You believed him.

His hands mapped you: strong fingers, careful claws retracted, palms warm and rough from years of gripping bars and concrete. He kissed every inch he uncovered: the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist. When he reached the inside of your thigh he nuzzled there, inhaling deeply, rumbling with satisfaction. "Mine" he growled softly.

Then he tasted you. Slow at first, exploring, learning. Then faster, hungrier, until your back arched and your fingers tangled in his hair and you were gasping his name like a prayer. He didn’t stop until you shattered: back bowed, thighs trembling, crying out into the dark apartment.

Only then did he crawl back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

He settled between your legs, hard length pressing against you, hot and insistent. "Look at me" he said. You did. He pushed in slowly, careful, watching your face for any sign of pain. There was stretch, pressure, fullness, but no pain. Only heat. Only him.

When he was seated fully he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. "You feel…" He swallowed. "Perfect."

You wrapped your legs around him. "Move."

He did. Slow rolls at first, deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Then faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath you. His tail curled around your calf, holding you open. His teeth found your shoulder, not breaking skin, just pressing, marking without drawing blood.

You raked your nails down his back. He snarled, pleased, primal. The rhythm built until it was frantic: skin slapping, breath mingling, growls and moans overlapping.

When you clenched around him he buried his face in your neck, fangs grazing, hips stuttering. "Come for me" he rasped. "Let me feel it."

You did, harder than before, crying his name, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. He followed seconds later, deep growl vibrating against your throat, hips grinding flush as he spilled inside you, marking you from the inside out.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed buried, arms wrapped around you, tail still curled around your leg, purring so loudly it rattled your bones. You stroked his hair, his ears, the base of his tail until the purr softened to a contented rumble.

He nuzzled your neck. "You're so mine" he whispered again, this time gentle.

You kissed the top of his head. "Of course, kitty"

He stayed inside you until he softened, then carefully pulled out, gathered you against his chest, and carried you to the bedroom, your bedroom.

He laid you down, crawled in beside you, pulled the covers over both of you. His tail draped across your hip. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing tight.

"I’m not letting you go" he murmured into your hair.

You squeezed his hand. "I’m not going anywhere."

He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Sleep."

You did, wrapped in fur and warmth and the steady thump of his heart against your back.

"you can't keep doing this," he says, voice rough. "disappearing for hours.. ignoring me.. i'm not gonna be your little babysitter."

you kick your shoes off harshly, one of them hitting the wall. "i don't need one! i'm sick of you breathing down my neck every time i step out.. acting like i can't handle myself."

"yeah? maybe you need someone to call you on your shit when you're being a fucking brat. need to learn how to be a good puppy," he snaps, stepping closer to you.

the second the words left his mouth, heat explodes across your inner thigh, burning like someone just pressed a warm iron to your skin. you gasp loudly, one hand flying down to press over the spot through your jeans, the burn settling deep into your skin.

seonghwa freezes, eyes dropping to your hand clutching your thigh, then snapping back up to your face. "what the fuck," he breathes, anger draining out of him.

your fingers shake as you shove the waistband of your jeans down, exposing the soft skin of your inner thigh. there's a mark forming, dark ink blooming into a small paw print entangled with a crescent moon. the edges glow faintly, still warm to the touch as your pulse hammers through it.

silence stretches between you, seonghwa looking horrified as he tries to find the words, "i didn't mean it like that- it was just sarcasm- i was pissed-"

"well it's there now," you say, voice tight. the mark throbs in time with your heartbeat, sending waves of heat straight between your legs.

seonghwa takes a shaky step closer, the both of you staring at the fresh mark. a soulmate bond, a permanent lock between two people.

your skin felt too sensitive, every shift of fabric against the mark made you bite your lip. seonghwa's kept dragging back down to your exposed thigh, his pupils going wider with hunger.

"i can feel it too," he mutters, "like a pull in my ribs."

you reach out, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him in. his mouth crashes into yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as you shove his jacket off his shoulders. seonghwa's hands slide under your shirt, his palms warm against your bare waist as his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.

he backs you toward the couch, mouths still locked. your jeans come down fast and seonghwa breaks the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, the skin of his chest meeting yours.

seonghwa drops to his knees, spreading your thighs wide, his breath ghosting over the new mark. his lips press to it softly, the contact enough to make you moan as his tongue traces the lines of the paw print slowly, every stroke sending sparks straight to your clit.

"fuck, seonghwa," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair.

he groans against your skin as his mouth moves higher, kissing a wet trail up your inner thigh until he reaches your pussy. he licks a broad stripe up your slit, causing your hips to jerk. seonghwa smiles, pressing his tongue between your folds before circling your clit with enough pressure to make your thighs shake.

two of his fingers push inside you without warning, curling instantly to stroke that spot that makes your back arch off the couch. seonghwa's mouth sucks on your clit while his fingers pump steadily inside you, making the mark on your thigh burn, pleasure coursing through you.

you cum hard, thighs clamping around his ears, a strangled moan falling from your lips as he keeps licking you through it.

seonghwa stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. his cock strains against his pants and you reach for him, palming him through the fabric, pulling a hiss from his throat.

you tug his pants and boxers down together, letting his cock spring free, flushed red and glistening. you wrap your hand around him, stroking a few times before he's climbing over you, settling between your spread thighs.

he pushes in slowly, stretching you open inch by inch. the fullness is overwhelming as his hips sit flush against yours, the mark on your thigh flaring with heat and sending a new wave of pleasure through you.

"shit," he breathes against your neck, voice ragged, "you feel so fucking good."

seonghwa rolls his hips against yours, dragging his cock along every sensitive spot inside you. the sound of skin on skin fills the room as sweat builds between your bodies, the friction of your mark against his skin enough to drive you crazy.

his hand slides down, fingers pressing right over the paw print as he fucks you fast, the pressure making sparks shoot up your spine.

your second orgasm hits suddenly, your pussy clenching around his cock as your thighs shake hard. seonghwa fucks you through it, hips losing rhythm as he nears his own high.

"gonna cum," he groans, thrusting a few more times before burying himself deep. his cock pulses inside you, warm spurts filling you up as he thrusts through it, making you oversensitive.

he collapses on top of you, tucking his face into your neck as his fingers trace the edge of the mark. "we're really stuck now," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and tired.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”

Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”

Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”

Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”

Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”

Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”

“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.

The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”

Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”

The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”

“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”

Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”

“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.

Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.

Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”

Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”

Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”

“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”

Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”

“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”

Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.

Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”

Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”

Seonghwa blinked, genuinely startled. “They don’t?”

“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”

“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”

“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”

Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”

“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”

Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”

Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”

“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”

“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”

“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.

“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”

Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”

“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”

“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”

“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”

Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”

Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”

“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.

“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”

Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”

Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”

Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”

Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”

“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”

Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”

“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.

Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”

The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree. 

“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”

“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”

Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”

Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”

Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”

Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”

“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”

Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”

“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”

“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”

Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”

Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.

“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”

Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”

Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.

Then, he clicked Print.

The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.

[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]

Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.

“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.

Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.

“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.

“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.

“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.

“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.

The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”

The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.

[OUT OF PAPER.]

Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.

Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.

Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.

Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.

He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.

A dozen heads turned.

Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.

“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.

An hour.

The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.

The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”

Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”

“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”

That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”

“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.

“Hyung?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”

Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.

The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.

“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”

You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.

“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.

The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”

The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.

You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.

You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.

It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.

The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”

Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.

The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”

Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.

The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.

The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.

The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird. You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.

There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days. Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country. You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.

Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.

“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”

Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”

“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”

The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.

“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”

Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.

“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”

Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.

Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.

“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.

“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest. Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.

The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.

You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.

When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”

“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.

“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”

She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.

They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”

You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”

Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”

You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.

The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”

Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”

“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”

Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses. You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him. 

It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”

You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.

Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.

Viper.

The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.

The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.

“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.

“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.

The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming. With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.

Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.

Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.

“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”

The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.

“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”

“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”

The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.

“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”

Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.

[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL) Channel: #general-tactics

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.

FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.

“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”

Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”

“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”

“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”

“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”

You opened your mouth to defend your honour.

He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”

“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"

“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”

“I was saving him from bullies!”

“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”

“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.

Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”

“I do NOT bite people!”

“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”

“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.

“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”

“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”

“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”

Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”

You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”

“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”

“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”

Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”

“And if I do?”

“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”

“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.

Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”

“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”

“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”

“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”

“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.

“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.

You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.

You: Surprise me.

You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ...oh. Okay. Wow. Yes. Ma’am.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”

Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”

“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”

From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”

“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.

Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”

“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”

Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”

“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”

Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”

Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.

“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”

“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”

“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”

Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.

“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”

Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”

“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”

Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”

“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”

But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.

“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”

“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”

Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”

You dragged your hands down your face, the cold metal of your rings dragging against your skin, and made a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “It wasn’t romance. It was—it was triage. Battlefield medicine, Woo.”

“Sure.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes glittering with delight. “Medical emergency. You had to administer CPR with your mouth. On his self-esteem. Very heroic.”

“I didn’t—” you snapped up, then immediately deflated. “I didn’t administer anything.”

Wooyoung raised his brows, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “You literally said, in your best ‘Mommy Viper’ voice—” he deepened his tone into a velvety, gravelly imitation that made your skin crawl, “They call me a monster. Shall I prove them right?”

You grabbed a throw pillow off the beanbag and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a soft whump and fell to the floor like it was ashamed to be involved. He didn’t even flinch. He just smiled wider, like you’d fed him exactly what he wanted. “Don’t do that,” you hissed. “Don’t repeat it. It sounds worse when someone else says it.”

“It sounded like a war crime when you said it, too,” he corrected. “Okay. Tell me everything again. From the top. But this time, don’t downplay it. I want the unedited director’s cut. I want the part where the 6’2” puppy looks at you like you’re his owner.”

You folded your arms so tight your leather jacket creaked. “I am not doing this.”

“Then I’m not teaching you how to use a Snake Bite,” he said, instantly businesslike. He spun his chair back to the screen. “Good luck telling Mr. Golden Retriever that your ‘toxic screens’ are actually just you running into walls.”

The silence lasted exactly two beats before your pride crumbled. “…He looked at me like a puppy,” you muttered, the confession tasting like ash.

Wooyoung slammed a palm on his desk like he’d just won the lottery. “YES! That’s the juice! Okay. Continue.”

You glared. “He was getting bullied. They took his glasses. Like cartoon villains.”

Wooyoung’s expression sharpened for half a second—real irritation, real disgust—before the chaos reasserted itself. “Okay, no. That’s actually vile. That’s ‘getting shoved into a locker in a 90s movie’ behaviour. I’d have bit them too.”

“I didn’t bite them. I shoved one of them. And then,” you prompted yourself, your voice going small, “he looked at me like I was a limited edition collectible that just dropped.”

“The tall nerd looked at you like you were a limited-time mythic skin,” Wooyoung corrected, then pointed at you like a prosecutor. “And then you lied. You lied right to his face. You said you main Viper. You, a woman who thinks a ‘ping’ is the sound a microwave makes.”

“It just—came out!” you said miserably. “It was either that or admit I didn’t play and then he’d feel stupid for asking, and he’d already had his glasses broken!”

“Ah.” Wooyoung’s tone went mock-soft. “So you committed identity fraud out of compassion. You’re a saint. A saint in a push-up bra and combat boots.” He sat back, hands behind his head, looking blissful as the green light from the monitor bathed him in a villainous glow. “God, you’re so insane. I love this for us.”

“You’re not helping.”

“No, I am helping,” he corrected. “I’m helping by bullying you into competence. That boy has already gotten attached to you. If you load into a game and stand there staring at the floor like a baby deer with a concussion, he’s going to lose it. You’ll kill him. His heart will actually stop.”

“I don’t stare at the floor!”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened with fake offence. “You stare at the floor professionally! Last month you walked into a door because you were mad and refused to look at your surroundings!”

“That door started it.”

“It was a push door, you psycho!” Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it together. He failed. His laugh cracked out sharp and loud, and he actually had to wipe his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers and spun back to his monitors, suddenly all business. “Alright, Monster,” he announced, opening Valorant with the gravitas of a general. “Sit. Hands on keyboard. No, not like you’re about to perform surgery. Like you’re about to commit a felony.” You slid onto the floor beside his desk, back against the sofa, and eyed the keyboard like it might bite. “Stop looking like that. WASD won’t hurt you.”

“The last time I tried, I opened fourteen menus and a calculator.”

“That was iconic,” he said warmly.

You groaned. “I hate this.”

“You love this! You’re in your little ‘I did something stupid and now I’m emotionally invested’ era.”

“I’m not emotionally invested.”

He turned slowly in his chair. The silence was lethal.

“…He asked what skin I wanted,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.

Wooyoung’s face did something violent. He clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “HE ASKED ABOUT SKINS? ON DAY ONE?”

“Yes,” you snapped, defensive. “Isn’t that a normal thing you gamer people ask?”

“That’s not ‘normal,’ that’s a dowry!” Wooyoung shouted. “That’s offering you resources! That’s—oh my god—he’s nesting! He’s building you a little green toxic pit to live in!”

“It’s not like that!”

Wooyoung stared at you, deadpan. “What did you say?”

You froze. “I told him to surprise me.”

He pointed at you again, his finger inches from your nose. “You. Told. Him. To. Surprise. You. That is the Viper equivalent of saying ‘I’m yours, do what you want with me.’”

“I PANICKED.”

“You didn’t panic,” he said, voice dripping with delight. “You purred through text.” You made a sound that could’ve been a scream if you had any dignity left. You shoved your face into your knees. “Look at me,” Wooyoung ordered. You peeked out. He held up two fingers. “How many brain cells do you have left?”

“None. They’ve all evaporated.”

“Correct.” He patted your cheek twice. “Okay. We do not have time for shame. Shame is for people who don’t have a Discord match at eight. Now, hit me with the line. In your Viper voice. Like you’re bored. Like you’ve never once apologised in your entire life.”

You swallowed. “This is stupid.”

“Say it.”

You inhaled, forced your shoulders down, forced your face into ice-cold stillness. “They call me a monster.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wait. Okay. That was—unfortunately—very good.”

“Shall I prove them right?” you added, your voice dropping into that lethal, bored rasp.

Wooyoung made a noise like someone witnessing a masterpiece. “Oh my god. You’re actually evil. And now? Now we’re going to learn how to throw a smoke so you can be evil with evidence!” He clicked into the practice range. The screen filled with targets. “Alright, W-A-S-D. Try not to hit my desk like it owes you money. You’re Viper. You slither. You don’t stomp.” You set your fingers down. You pressed W. Your character lurched forward like a drunk baby. Wooyoung slapped his desk and cackled. “YES! That’s it! That’s my girl! That’s my pro-tier controller! Look at you go!”

“STOP,” you snapped, trying to correct. You slammed into a wall.

Wooyoung wheezed. “A NATURAL. A GODDESS. THE QUEEN OF THE PIT HAS ARRIVED AND SHE IS CURRENTLY STUCK IN A CORNER.”

“Wait.” You froze, your character currently spinning in circles on the screen because you’d accidentally sat on the mouse. “Wooyoung. Look at me.”

Wooyoung stopped cackling long enough to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m looking, but I don’t see a pro-player. I see a girl who just tried to ‘shoot’ a tree.”

“You’re going to play,” you said, the realisation finally coming to you. “I’ll be on the Discord call. I’ll have my mic on. But the screen? The gameplay? That’s all you.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, radiating pure, unholy energy. “A Ratatouille play? You want me to be the little mouse under your leather jacket pulling the strings?” He slammed his hands together. “Y/N, that is diabolical. That is fraud. That is... the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Can you do it?” you asked, leaning in. “Can you play on your PC while I talk to them on my laptop?”

“Can I?” Wooyoung scoffed, “I can play Viper with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. I’ll make you look like a god. I’ll hit shots so clean Yunho will think he’s hallucinating!” He paused, pointing a finger at you. “But you? You have to keep the act up. If I get a Triple Kill, you don’t cheer. You don’t giggle. You stay cold. You stay... bored.”

“I can do bored,” you whispered, trying to channel the ice in your veins.

“And,” Wooyoung added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, “if I clutch a 1v4, you have to say something so toxic it makes their toes curl. None of that ‘good job team’ trash. I want ‘Don’t get in my way again.’”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The Discord pinged—a sharp, digital summons.

[Voice Channel] Strategic Digital... Golden_Retriever_Yunho is in the channel. StarHwa_04 is in the channel. FixOn_Mingi is in the channel.

“They’re in,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. You put on your headset, adjusting the mic until it was hovering right by your lips.

Wooyoung settled into his chair, his expression going dead-serious. He cracked his knuckles, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. “Alright, Monster. Hide your screen. Open your mic. Let’s go make a puppy fall in love with a lie.”

You clicked ‘Join.’ The silence in the channel was immediate. You could practically hear the collective sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“...Hello?” Yunho’s voice came through, sounding of pure, unadulterated nerves. “V-Viper? Are you there?”

You looked at Wooyoung. He gave you a sharp nod, his fingers already dancing over the keys as he loaded into the lobby. You leaned back, hooded your eyes, and let out a long, slow sigh—the sound of someone who had better things to do than exist. “I’m here,” you rasped, the tone low and dangerous. “Don’t make me regret it.”

On the other end of the line, you heard a muffled thump—the distinct sound of Yunho’s forehead hitting his desk—and a faint, wheezing moan from Mingi.

“She’s here,” Mingi whispered, sounding terrified and delighted. “Hyung, she’s actually here. I think I’m going to faint.”

Wooyoung’s fingers moved like they were possessed—clean, lazy arcs on the mouse, taps that sounded bored even when they were lethal. He loaded you into a custom lobby with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear: fast enough that no one could see the trick, but smooth enough to feel like an insult.

Yunho, on the other end, made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “O-okay. Great. Custom. Yes. Uh—what map do you want?”

You leaned closer to the mic, letting your voice go low, flat, and unimpressed. “Anything.” The silence that followed was immediate and devotional.

“Anything,” Mingi repeated, his voice hushed like he was standing in a cathedral. “She said anything. Hwa, she’s literally the main character.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound tiny and careful. “Yunho-ya. Pick one. Before you actually pass out.”

Yunho’s laugh came out strangled. “Right. Yes. I’m—sorry. I’m picking. I’m fine.” You could hear the lie cracking over. On screen, Viper stood in the agent preview, all sleek confidence and emerald poison. Wooyoung selected her with a flick that looked like pure contempt. Yunho’s voice went even quieter. “You’re… actually locking Viper.”

“Obviously,” you said.

Mingi made a low, wounded noise. “I would die for you.”

“Don’t say that,” Seonghwa snapped immediately.

“I’m not saying it like a threat!” Mingi rushed, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m saying it like—like… a service. Like customer support. I am at your disposal, Queen.”

Wooyoung’s laughter hit the mic by accident—a short, sharp cough of amusement that was far too masculine to be yours.

Yunho froze. You could hear the sudden stillness in his breathing. “Who was that?” Your spine went rigid, Wooyoung stopped moving so abruptly even Viper’s idle animation looked like it was waiting for permission to breathe.

Seonghwa’s voice slid in, quick and protective. “Yunho. Don’t be weird.”

But Yunho didn’t back off. He never did when the strategy felt off. “It sounded like… a guy,” he said, the words measured and dangerous. He was holding an angle now, his mental crosshair trained right on the centre of your lie. “Is someone there with you, Viper?”

You let the pause stretch. One beat. Two. Long enough for the panic to rise. Then you said, bored to the bone, “My roommate. He’s not involved.”

A long, shaky inhale on Yunho’s mic. Then, quieter: “Okay.” He sounded like he was pretending not to care, but the air in the call had shifted. The ‘Golden Retriever’ had just tilted his head, sensing a stranger in the yard.

Mingi, trying desperately to stop the server from imploding, blurted, “Yeah, okay, cool! Roommates are normal! I have roommates! Like… Seonghwa and Yunho. And shadows. And my own crippling student debt!”

“Please stop talking,” Seonghwa muttered.

Wooyoung started the warm-up. The first shot cracked. A headshot. Clean.

Yunho inhaled so hard it whistled. “Oh my god.” Another headshot. Another. A string of taps that sounded like an execution.

Mingi’s voice went reverent again. “She’s farming. She’s actually harvesting their souls.”

Wooyoung leaned closer to your shoulder, his eyes bright with unholy chaos, and mouthed: Say something toxic. Now. Your mouth went dry. You forced the voice back into place. Cold. Controlled. “Keep up.”

There was a small, broken sound from Yunho’s mic—the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. “Y-yes,” he breathed, immediate and automatic.

“I’m going to throw up,” Mingi whispered.

“Great,” you said, flat. “Do it off-mic.”

The match was pure chaos. Wooyoung was playing like a possessed demon, flicking the mouse so fast the screen was a blur of green smoke and headshots. Meanwhile, you were leaning into the mic, delivering lines that made Yunho and Mingi lose their minds. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at a monitor that had become a fever dream. You watched a tiny digital woman in a gas mask sprint while the world exploded around her. Wooyoung was a frantic, blur-motion mess next to you. His fingers were dancing over the mechanical keys like he was playing a Mozart concerto at 2x speed. Every time he clicked, a loud CRACK echoed, followed by a little skull icon popping up. You had no idea what was happening. The round timer bled out in the corner of the screen, but Wooyoung was bleeding the bots out faster. His fingers were a blur of violent, efficient motion—the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of his mechanical keyboard.

“Last one,” Yunho said, his voice tight with a mix of awe and pure adrenaline. You could hear the desperation in his mouse-hand through the mic, the way he was trying to sound captain-like and failing miserably under the weight of his own crush. “We’ll—uh—we’ll run one more execute. A-site. I’ll entry, you wall, Mingi trades. Seonghwa… Seonghwa, you just… vibe.”

“Strategic contribution: vibes,” Seonghwa echoed flatly, sounding like a man who had already accepted his fate.

Mingi made a strangled noise. “I’m contributing my life insurance policy. I think my heart just did a backflip and died.”

Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keys, his eyes darting to you with a manic grin. You leaned closer to the mic, hooding your eyes, and let your voice go low, flat, and lethally bored. “Stop talking,” you rasped. “Start moving.”

Yunho’s sharp inhale hit the channel like a stun grenade. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

On Wooyoung’s screen, the world was an emerald blur. A wall cut vision. A cloud bloomed with the lazy precision of someone who had done this a thousand times and hated everyone involved. Yunho tried to follow the plan. Mingi tried to follow Yunho. Seonghwa tried to follow the minimap, walked into a corner, sighed, and corrected himself like the wall had offended him personally.

Then, Wooyoung swung. Tap. Tap. Two skulls flashed on the screen. A third followed instantly. The kill banner hissed.

“Holy—” Mingi’s voice cut off into a breathy, hysterical wheeze. “She’s—she’s—Yunho, I’m going to file a formal complaint with God. This isn’t fair.”

Yunho’s mic crackled with the sound of frantic movement. “I—okay—okay, we’re up! Site is clear! Plant, plant, plant!” You watched the spike go down. You watched the last bot step into the poison like it owed you money. Wooyoung ended it with a flick so fast it barely looked real.

VICTORY.

Silence reigned in the Discord. It was the kind of silence usually reserved for witnessing a miracle or a car crash.

Then Yunho spoke, his voice sounding like it had been ripped out of a very small, terrified body. “That was… perfect.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound of a man trying to reboot the universe. “Yunho-ya. You are being weird again. Your breathing is audible.”

“I’m not being weird!” Yunho protested immediately—the verbal equivalent of tripping on a flat surface. “I’m being… appreciative. Professional. Captain-like!”

Mingi whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Captain-like. Sure, buddy.”

Wooyoung elbowed you lightly, a silent, chaotic go on. You made your voice colder. Sharper. The kind of tone that made people sit up straighter even through cheap headsets. “If you’re done worshipping,” you said, “schedule the meeting. Get your five names. And fix the comms. I don’t work with amateurs.”

Yunho choked on air, and the sound of him hitting his forehead against his desk filled your ears. “Y-yes. Yes. We’ll do that. Absolutely. Tonight.” A frantic, high-stakes pause. “Also—uh—do you… want to queue? Like, an actual game? Not customs. If you’re… if you’re not busy. If you’re not going to—you know—delete us from your life.”

Mingi exhaled like a man walking toward a guillotine. “Queueing with her is how people die, Yunho. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”

Seonghwa’s voice went soft, a warning. “Yunho. Don’t push it.”

You glanced at Wooyoung. His grin was pure criminal intent, his fingers already hovering over the ‘Queue’ button. You turned back to the mic, leaned in, and let the lie take its throne. “Queue,” you said, your voice a silken threat. “One.”

Yunho made a sound that was half victory-yelp and half cardiac event. “O-okay! Okay! One! One is good! One is—yes! Loading now!”

The lobby clicked. Match Found.

On the other end of the line, Yunho whispered like he was praying to a Goddess he didn't quite understand. “Welcome to the team.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The campus cafe was a circle of hell. It smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of wet umbrellas, the air thick and humid from too many students crammed into a space designed for half their number. You sat in the corner booth—the only quiet spot you’d managed to snag by sheer intimidation—and stared down your third cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, the surface of the liquid filmed over with a depressing sheen. You hated lukewarm things; they felt like indecision.

That was when you saw him. Jeong Yunho was impossible to miss. He moved through the crowd like a lighthouse in a storm, a head taller than everyone else, his blonde hair a messy, ashy halo where he’d clearly been stressing at his scalp. He looked like a deer caught in high-beams, clutching a paper bag and a volume of manga tucked tightly under his bicep. His eyes scanned the room, desperate for a square inch of table space, until they landed on you. For a split second, the tactical genius who led your group through the trenches of the server—glimmered in his gaze. Then, reality hit. His eyes widened behind the spiderweb crack in his glasses, his ears turned a vivid, violent shade of pink, and he immediately whipped his head toward a ‘No Smoking’ sign, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe. 

You rolled your eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. On the server, he was a frantic, commanding presence. Here? He looked like he wanted  to phase through the drywall. “Jeong Yunho!” The name didn’t just leave your mouth; it cut through the cafe’s roar like a sniper round. A few freshmen at the next table jumped, nearly sloshing their lattes.

Yunho froze mid-step, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he squeezed the paper bag until it crinkled. Slowly, like a man walking toward a guillotine, he turned back. “Oh! Hi—hey. Is it ‘hi’ or ‘hey’?” His voice cracked, pitching higher than anything remotely “Captain-like.” He stumbled forward, long limbs suddenly clumsy in the cramped space. “I didn’t... I didn’t see you there, Viper. I mean—Member Four. I mean... Hi. Or hey. Whatever you prefer.”

“Liar,” you said flatly. You didn’t move your bag from the seat; you just gestured with a sharp tilt of your chin. “Sit. Before someone else tries to take this table, and I have to bite them.”

He slid into the booth, his knees immediately knocking against yours under the small table. The contact was electric—the heat of his jeans searing against your skin. He recoiled as if he’d been hit with a taser, a frantic, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to tuck his frame into the tiny space.

“What’s in the bag?”

He blinked, his long lashes fluttering behind his lenses, then slowly pulled out a bagel. A plain bagel. No cream cheese, no golden toasted edges, no life. Just a beige circle of misery. “A bagel,” he stated.

You stared at the dry bread, then up at him, your eyes narrowing. “A plain bagel? No toppings? Are you a Victorian orphan or a psychopath?”

Yunho let out a small, startled laugh—the sound was rich and warm, the first glimpse of the boy you actually knew from the server. “It’s efficient!” he defended, a spark of playfulness dancing in his eyes. He lifted the book slightly. “I don't have to worry about getting cream cheese on my manga. And it‘s... it’s comforting. Quiet. Like a reset for my brain.”

“You’re weird,” you muttered, but you took a long, judgmental sip of your coffee to hide the fact that your pulse was starting to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his.

“And you’re addicted to caffeine,” he countered, voice dropping an octave, gaining a sliver of that server confidence as he leaned in just a fraction. He noticed the two empty cups, and his gaze softened, trailing up to the dark circles under your eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re ready to delete the entire campus if someone breathes too loud.”

“I might,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best efforts. You leaned forward, bracing your chin on your hand, letting the Viper mask slip just enough to let a predatory, teasing light into your eyes. “But honestly? It’s hard to stay grumpy when you’re sitting there looking like an adorable puppy in a cute sweater.”

Yunho had just shoved a massive, ambitious hunk of dry bagel into his mouth. Then, he froze. His eyes blew wide, the pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. For a heartbeat, there was total silence. Then, his lungs remembered they needed oxygen, and his throat remembered it was currently occupied by a dense ball of un-toasted dough. “—Guh?!” He started hacking, a frantic, wet wheeze that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a sock. 

“Oh my god,” you deadpanned, watching as he flailed, his long arms nearly knocking over your third coffee cup. “Don’t die. The Captain dying of a bagel-related injury is not the lore I signed up for!”

“I—cough—I’m—wheeze—” Yunho grabbed his water bottle, his fingers fumbling so hard he nearly dropped it into his lap. He took a desperate, undignified gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. He finally managed to swallow, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “You...” his eyes watered behind his cracked lenses. “You can’t just... deploy compliments like that! That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention!”

“It was just an observation,” you said, your voice dropping back into that silken purr, though your heart was currently doing a drum solo against your ribs. “You do have a very... symmetrical face. Even with the broken glasses.”

Yunho looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He leaned back so hard the back of the booth groaned in protest. “Symmetrical? Symmetrical is for geometry! I’m—I’m a mess! I have bread crumbs on my One Piece!” He frantically brushed at the pages of his book, his movements jerky and chaotic. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to destabilise my mental state so I’ll miss my skill shots tonight.”

“Is it working?” you asked, tilting your head.

Yunho went quiet, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention from the industrial lighting. “Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, and the humour was suddenly gone.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes were locked on his hand—the one pointing at you with that trembling, accusatory finger. Up close, without the barrier of a glowing monitor, his hands were… ruinous. They were massive, his long, elegant fingers spanning half the width of the table. You could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in the blue veins tracing paths over his knuckles, stretching taut under his pale skin. His hand was shaking—just a fraction—a sign of the absolute system crash you were causing him. It made your stomach do a slow, heavy roll. You wanted to see if those hands felt as warm as they looked. You wanted to see if they’d go still if you covered them with yours. You wanted to fell them against your—

Your stomach dropped. 

No, not metaphorically. Not the cute little flutter people wrote poems about. This was a full, violent plunge like your organs had missed a step on the stairs and decided to take the rest of you with them. Heat rolled up your throat, sharp and humiliating, and for one terrifying second you couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or nausea or something worse—something soft—curling in your ribs. Get it together. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You were supposed to be the cold thing. The monster voice. The leather jacket. The girl who could shove a bully three feet and keep walking. But the way his fingers shook and the way his voice went honest on that single question—Why are you being nice to me?—hit you so clean it made your brain stutter. Oh no. Oh no. This was the exact moment you realized you weren’t playing a bit anymore. Your body had already made a decision without asking you. And now you were sitting here, staring at his hands like a starving person, while panic clawed up the inside of your chest because wanting things was a liability and you were suddenly, catastrophically aware of how much you wanted this one.

“Nice?” You finally spoke, your voice dropping into that low register that usually sent Mingi into a panic. You reached out, slow and deliberate, and used your index finger to gently, slowly push his trembling hand down until his palm was flat against the cold laminate of the table. His skin was like a furnace. The contact sent a jolt of pure static through your fingertips. “I’m not being nice, Yunho,” you whispered, leaning in until you could see the way his pupils flared, swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. “I’m being observant. There’s a difference.”

Yunho’s breath hitched but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers twitched under yours, his large palm instinctively trying to cup your smaller hand. “It feels…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that was distractingly masculine. His voice was now, a voice of a man who was very, very aware of the girl sitting across from him. “It feels like a trap. Like you’re waiting for my guard to drop so you can… delete me.” His eyes darted to the coffee-stained napkins. “I mean… girls don’t usually… talk to me. Not like this. I mean—it’s not like I don’t like girls! I do! I really do! It’s just—the efficiency—the social energy—it’s just—” He cut himself off with a strangled noise.

You stared at him for a long, flat second. The cafe’s humidity seemed to condense right in the space between you, making your skin feel tight and your coffee-fuelled heart thrum. “Breathe.”

He did not. His lips parted, but no sound followed. His gaze flicked to your hand—where your fingers were still casually draped over his—like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. Then his eyes jumped to your mouth, then away so fast the movement bordered on physical pain. His shoulders hiked another inch, his massive frame trying to crawl into the sanctuary of his oversized hoodie and vanish into the cotton.

“Oh,” you muttered, unimpressed, though your own pulse was starting to hammer against your ribs. “So that’s where we’re at.” Yunho’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. A tiny, pathetic noise—something between a wheeze and a whimper—escaped him. You leaned back in the booth, crossing your free arm over your chest, your expression carved into something bored and sharp. The Viper mask settled over your face like a habit. Like armour. Like a bad decision you kept making on purpose because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a “Game Over” you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to deliver a presentation,” you said, your tone dropping into that lethal, low-register rasp. “Just breathe.”

His fingers twitched under yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint, rhythmic tremor of his large knuckles. “D-do you—” he started, then immediately failed. His voice snapped up an octave, betrayed him, and then vanished entirely into the steam of the espresso machine.

You sighed, slow and dramatic, like his software was personally inconveniencing your day. “Captain. Your brain just alt-tabbed.” The effect was instant. Yunho made a sound that should not have come out of a human being—a high-pitched glitch of a gasp. His mouth opened. Nothing. He shut it. Opened it again. You watched him quietly implode, chin propped in your palm, observing him. “Mmm,” you hummed, deadpan. “It still runs on the ‘Captain’ trigger. Good to know.” His hand finally jerked—too fast, too clumsy—trying to pull away from the contact, but your finger pinned him down with casual, precise pressure. You dug your nail slightly into the skin of his wrist, right where his pulse was thumping. He froze, his breath hitching so hard his chest hit the edge of the table. You leaned in just enough to make the air between you feel electric. “You’re allowed to like girls,” you said, sounding almost bored, though you were tracking the way his pupils flared. “You’re also allowed to talk. Without apologising for existing every three seconds.” Yunho swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain could save him. You clicked your tongue, “Look at me.”

He tried. It was the saddest, most beautiful attempt at bravery you’d ever seen. His long lashes fluttered, his gaze landing somewhere near your shoulder before drifting toward your eyes like it had to cross a literal battlefield to get there. “I’m—” 

You lifted a brow, your thumb starting a slow, ruinous circle over the back of his hand, feeling the prominent veins under his skin. “If you say ‘sorry,’ I’m going to bite your bagel.”

His head snapped up, genuine horror masking the blush for a split second. “D-don’t—! It’s dry! You’ll choke!”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Not a smile—just a crack in the ice. “Efficient.”

Yunho stared at your mouth like it had committed a federal crime. His fingers—still trapped under yours—curled involuntarily, his large palm seeking yours, wanting to hold on even as his brain told him to run. “I… I do like you,” he blurted. He looked like he wanted to eject his soul from his body and haunt the cafe instead. “Not like— I mean— as a person— and also— the utility— and—” He stopped as he realized he was rambling.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed, voice dry as his sad bread. “Pick one sentence and finish it, Captain.”

Yunho’s throat bobbed. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally met your eyes. “I like you,” he said again. Smaller. Realer. Without the stutter.

You held his gaze, your expression still grumpy, still sharp. But your thumb did something traitorous—it dragged, once, slowly, over the edge of his knuckle like you owned the right to touch him. “Yeah,” you said finally, as if it didn’t matter. As if it wasn’t making your heart feel three sizes too big for your chest. “I figured.” You leaned in further, so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with your stale coffee. “And for the record? If I wanted to delete you, Yunho, I would’ve done it already.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth for one, lethal second. “So stop flinching like you’re about to get patched out of existence. It’s annoying.”

Yunho didn’t just smile; he beamed. It was like someone had flicked a switch and flooded the dark cafe with pure, unadulterated sunlight. His entire body seemed to expand, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “Copy that, Member Four,” he chirped, the stutter completely gone, replaced by the giddy energy of a man who’d just secured a legendary drop. He grabbed his dry bagel and took a massive, triumphant bite, looking like he’d just won the World Championship.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and standing up. The Viper mask was back on, sharp and cold, but as you turned to walk away, you stopped. “Enjoy your bread, Captain,” you called out over your shoulder. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You were slumped on the sofa, a condensation-slicked bottle of beer dangling from your fingertips.

“You’re doing it again,” Wooyoung was sprawled in the armchair opposite you, his legs draped over the side. He popped the cap off his second bottle with his teeth—a move that was 100% for drama—and leveled you with a look that was way too sharp for someone three beers in.

“Doing what?” you muttered, taking a long, defensive swig of your beer.

“The stare. You’re looking at that bottle like you’re calculating its trajectory into someone’s skull.” Wooyoung leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. His dark eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that usually ended in a campus-wide scandal. “Is it the Captain? Did the Golden Retriever finally trip over his own oversized paws?”

You let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Woo,” you said, your voice cracking just enough to be pathetic. “I’m fucked.”

Wooyoung’s entire aura shifted. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say it would be okay. He let out a cackle—that loud, high-pitched, signature siren-wail that echoed off the kitchen tiles. “I KNEW IT!” He practically teleported to the sofa, shoving your legs aside to claim the spot next to you. “Tell me everything. Did he cry? Did he stutter? Did he do that thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow his own tongue because you breathed in his general direction?”

“He bought a plain bagel, Woo. A plain bagel.” You stared into the amber liquid of your bottle, feeling the heat of the memory creeping up your neck. “And I touched his hand. To pin him down. And his pulse… It was frantic. And he said he liked me.”

Wooyoung gasped so loud it was practically a theatrical performance. He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you until your teeth rattled. “He confessed?! On campus?! In broad daylight?! My son! My giant, clumsy son finally levelled up!”

“It was not a confession!” you shrieked, your face heating up so fast you were worried you’d trigger the apartment’s smoke alarm. You clutched your beer bottle like a weapon. “He just! He likes—he didn’t mean it like that! It’s the team dynamic! It’s... it’s professional respect!”

Wooyoung didn’t even blink. He just stared at you, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically receding into his hairline. He took a slow sip of his beer, then let out a dry, mocking pop of his lips. “Professional respect,” he repeated, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown the entire campus. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘HR-approved professional boundaries’ like pinning a 6’2” man to a cafe table and making him swallow a dry bagel whole.”

“I was stabilising the situation!”

“You were mark-marking your territory!” Wooyoung barked a laugh, slamming his bottle onto the coffee table. He leaned in, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure malice. Wooyoung’s cackle didn’t fade—it echoed, like he was trying to make the universe itself understand how right he’d been. “You’re fucked,” he repeated, delighted, dragging the words out like he was tasting them. “Monumentally. Astronomically. Biblically.”

You tightened your grip on the bottle until it slicked your palm. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I will not,” he was far too happy, pointing at you like you were a whiteboard in a lecture he’d been waiting to teach all semester. “I knew this was coming. I smelled it. I felt a disturbance in the force. The second you said ‘he bought a plain bagel,’ I knew your brain was doing that thing it does when you see something pathetic and your maternal instincts wake up like a sleeper agent.”

“I don’t have maternal instincts,” you snapped.

Wooyoung leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table with the confidence of a man who had never once experienced shame. “Right. Sure. You just have… what do we call it… feral spring hormones and a violent allergy to tall men who apologise to a mailbox.” You made a strangled noise and took another sip, purely to have something to do with your mouth other than confessing crimes. Wooyoung watched you over the rim of his beer like a predator with a PhD. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes widening with theatrical awe. “Look at you. You’re doing it!”

“Doing what,” you said flatly, even though you already knew you were losing.

“The defensive drinking,” he nodded like a disappointed coach. “The ‘if I swallow enough beer, my feelings will dissolve’ technique.” You flicked a glance at him, trying to weaponise boredom. It didn’t work. He looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to glance at him so he could start a powerpoint. “Okay. Timeline. You touch his hand—”

“I didn’t touch his hand,” you cut in. “I—pinned it. For emphasis.”

Wooyoung’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of joy. He slapped his knee once, hard. “FOR EMPHASIS,” he repeated, losing his mind. “Oh my god. That’s worse. That’s not casual. That’s not ‘haha friendly.’ That’s dominance. That’s territorial. That’s you going—” he deepened his voice into an obnoxious, smoky imitation, “—no. stay. be still.”

“Don’t,” you warned, staring at your beer like it might provide an emergency exit.

He did it anyway, because he hated you in the way best friends do. “And then,” he continued, relentlessly, “he said he liked you.”

“He didn’t say it like—” you began.

Wooyoung held up a finger. “No. Don’t. Don’t you start that ‘professional respect’ propaganda again. I’ve seen you be professionally respected. You don’t spiral for hours and drink like you’re trying to erase a memory.”

You swallowed, jaw tight. “I’m not spiralling.”

“You are spiralling,” he said gently, and somehow that made it worse. Then his face snapped right back into menace. “And you know what the root cause is?” You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, because silence was safer than whatever his mouth was about to do. Wooyoung pointed at you, triumph blooming. “Female hormones.”

“Oh my god.”

“OH MY GOD, YES,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “You’re in your ovulation-phase villain era or whatever. Your body’s like, ‘Find tall mate. Acquire golden retriever. Bite anyone who interferes.’”

“I’m not in anything-phase,” you hissed.

Wooyoung leaned in, whispering like he was telling you government secrets. “You’re in the ‘I’m going to pretend I’m above romance while actively aching for it’ phase.” You kicked at the coffee table. His boots didn’t move. Neither did his confidence. He took another sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Listen. You can deny it all you want, but I have evidence.”

“What evidence,” you said, instantly regretting giving him a prompt.

Wooyoung started counting on his fingers with nauseating precision. “One: you saved him. In public. Two: you lied to protect his feelings. Three: you role-played a voice line at him. Four: you touched him. Five: you’re sitting here drinking and saying you’re ‘fucked’ like he’s a disease and not a boy who bought bread and looked at you with sad eyes.” You went still, bottle halfway to your lips. Wooyoung’s expression softened for half a beat—something sharp and sincere under all the mischief. “He’s nice,” he said, quieter. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to loud. You’re used to mean. You’re used to people who swing first so you can justify swinging back.” Your throat tightened. You hated that he could do that—drop one line that hit clean, then immediately go back to being insufferable. Because he did. He sat up straighter, the softness evaporating like it had never existed. “But,” he said brightly, “the good news is: if this is hormones, it’ll pass.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s the good news?”

“The bad news,” he continued, grinning wider, “is if it’s not hormones, then you’re actually catching feelings, and I’ll have to watch you become… domestic.”

“I will not become domestic,” you said, disgusted.

Wooyoung gasped. “You’re right. Sorry. Not domestic. Just… compromised.” You made a noise like you wanted to throw the bottle at his head but cared about the deposit. Wooyoung leaned back again, smug as sin. “Oh. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally overheating,” he said. “You look like an Internet Explorer running twelve tabs and a guilt complex.”

You covered your face with your free hand. “Wooyoung.”

“Yes?” he said sweetly.

“I’m going to kill you.”

He hummed, pleased. “That’s fine. But first you’re going to tell me if the Captain’s ‘I like you’ sounded like ‘I like you as a teammate’ or like ‘I like you and I’m about to implode because you exist’.”

Silence.

Wooyoung’s grin sharpened. “Ohhhhh.” You lowered your hand just enough to glare at him. He didn’t gloat. He glimmered. “It was the second one,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “It was the second one and now you’re panicking because you can’t decide if you want to run or bite.”

“I don’t bite,” you muttered.

Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “You bite emotionally.” You just stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, then lifted his beer in a tiny toast. “Welcome to being a person,” he said, mean and fond at the same time. “It’s disgusting. You’re going to hate it.”

You took another sip. “I already do.”

Wooyoung nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your beer, God knows you need it if you’re going to keep up the scary act while he’s being a literal ray of sunshine. I’m all ears, tell me everything. And if you leave out details, I’m calling him ‘your boyfriend’ until you combust!”