wonie’s diary

The hallway was spinning, and honestly? It was kind of annoying.

You leaned your forehead against the cold wood of the door, clutching your designer bag like it was a lifebuoy in the middle of the ocean. Your head was thumping in sync with the bass that was still echoing in your ears from the club. You’d had way too many shots—tequila, probably? Or was it vodka? Whatever. Point is, you were gone.

"Where are the damn keys..." you muttered, your tongue feeling like a piece of dry cotton.

You fumbled with the keypad, your fingers pressing random numbers. Beep. Beep. Error. "Excuse me?" you scoffed at the door. "Do you know who I am? Open up."

You tried again. Error. You weren't just drunk; you were frustrated. So, naturally, you did the most logical thing a superstar would do: you started kicking the door.

"Jay! Open the door! I know you’re in there, you giant dork! I forgot my code again!"

You kept pounding until—click.

The door swung open, and you stumbled forward, ready to trash-talk Jay for being slow. But instead of Jay’s usual "what the hell are you doing here" face, you were staring at a very white, very oversized T-shirt. You looked up, blinking slowly to get your vision to focus.

It wasn’t Jay.

It was Jungwon. The leader. The "perfect" one. The guy who usually just bowed politely to you in the hallways of Hybe and gave you those small, professional smiles that said 'I'm a good boy and you're a menace to society'.

He was standing there, hair messy like he’d just been sleeping, staring at you with his cat-like eyes wide open. He looked at you, then at your messy hair, then at your smeared eyeliner, then back at your face.

"Hayun?" he whispered, his voice all raspy and deep from sleep. "What... what are you doing here?"

"Oh," you giggled, reaching out to poke his cheek. He didn't flinch, but his eyes followed your finger like he was hypnotized. "You’re not Jay. You’re the little one. The cute leader."

"I’m Jungwon," he corrected softly, reaching out to grab your wrist before you could poke his eye out. "And Jay-hyung is at the studio. Actually, everyone is at the studio. I’m the only one here."

"Great!" You pushed past him, stumbling into the dorm. "Then you can give me water. I’m dying, Jungwonie. My throat is like a desert."

You collapsed onto their expensive grey sofa, kicking off your heels. One of them flew and hit a pile of magazines. Jungwon stood by the door, looking completely shell-shocked. He looked like he wanted to call a manager, but at the same time, he looked like he was staring at a car crash he couldn't turn away from.

"This is the Enhypen dorm, Noona," he said, closing the door quietly. "Your dorm is... two floors up."

"Too far," you groaned, face-planting into a cushion that smelled like laundry detergent and boy. "Two floors is like climbing Everest right now. Just let me die here."

You heard him sigh—a long, tired sound. Then, the sound of footsteps. A minute later, the smell of something fresh hit you. He was kneeling on the floor next to the couch, holding a glass of ice-cold water.

"Drink," he commanded. It wasn't his 'idol' voice. It was firm. Almost bossy.

You sat up, pouting, and took the glass. Your hands were shaking a bit, and he noticed. Without a word, he reached out and steadied the glass for you, his warm fingers brushing against yours. The contrast was insane—the ice-cold glass, your burning skin, and his steady, calm touch.

"You're a mess," he murmured, watching you gulp down the water.

"I'm a famous mess," you corrected, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "There’s a difference."

Jungwon let out a tiny, breathy laugh. He was still kneeling there, looking at you in a way nobody else did. Not with judgment, not with worship... just with this weird, intense curiosity.

"Jay-hyung is going to kill me if he finds you like this," he said, but he didn't move to call him. He just stayed there, his eyes locked on yours.

You looked at him, squinting your eyes as if trying to solve a math problem. "Jay won't kill you. He loves me. And he loves you. So he'll just... kill himself from the stress." You waved a hand dismissively and flopped back down, but your head missed the cushion and hit the armrest with a dull thud.

"Ow... shit," you hissed, clutching the back of your head.

"Careful!" Jungwon was on his feet in a second, his hands hovering over you like he wanted to help but wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch a sunbae like that. "God, you’re actually a hazard to yourself."

He sighed, shaking his head, but his expression was softening. He walked away for a second and came back with a damp, cold towel and a stray hoodie he’d picked up from a chair.

"Sit up," he muttered. You obeyed, mostly because your brain was too foggy to argue. He sat on the edge of the sofa—way closer than any "professional" junior should be—and started gently dabbing the cold towel on your forehead and then your neck to wake you up.

It felt too good. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. "Why are you being so nice, Jungwonie? Aren't you scared I'll ruin your reputation?"

"My reputation?" He paused, the towel resting against your skin. He looked at your smeared lipstick, then at the way your dress was riding up a bit. He took the hoodie he brought and tossed it over your legs, covering you up. "You’re Jay-hyung’s best friend. And you’re... you."

"What’s that supposed to mean? 'And you're you'?"

"It means everyone knows you do whatever you want," he said, and for the first time, you saw a flash of something in his eyes. Was it envy? "You say what you want. You dress how you want. You don't care if the labels freak out. I... I actually think it’s kind of impressive."

You opened one eye, smirking. "You think I'm cool? The little leader thinks I'm a badass?"

Jungwon’s ears turned bright red. Like, neon pink. He looked away quickly, focusing on folding the towel. "I didn't say that. I said it's impressive. Now stay still. You have mascara running down your cheek, you look like a goth raccoon."

"A sexy goth raccoon," you corrected, grabbing his wrist to stop him from pulling away.

The air in the room shifted. Suddenly, the fact that it was 3 AM, that the rest of Enhypen was gone, and that you were holding the wrist of the industry's "Golden Boy" felt very, very real. His skin was warm, and his pulse was a little fast under your thumb.

He didn't pull away. He just looked down at your hand, then up at your face, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.

"You should sleep," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll stay here. Just... in case you throw up or something."

"How romantic," you drawled, finally letting go. You curled up on the sofa, the smell of their dorm—manly perfume, ramen, and fabric softener—wrapping around you.

As you started to drift off, you felt him gently tucking the hoodie around your shoulders.

"Goodnight, Noona," you heard him say, so quiet you almost thought you dreamed it. "Try not to break anything in your sleep."

The sunlight hitting your face felt like a personal attack.

You groaned, burying your face deeper into the cushion, but the smell was wrong. It didn't smell like your expensive silk sheets or your vanilla candles. It smelled like... laundry detergent and something faint, like citrus.

Then, it all came rushing back. The kicking. The "cute leader." The goth raccoon comment.

"Oh, hell no," you whispered, slowly opening your eyes.

You were still on the sofa. You were wearing a giant black hoodie over your dress—it definitely wasn't yours because it reached your mid-thighs and smelled exactly like Jungwon. Speaking of Jungwon, you squinted and saw him sitting at the dining table a few feet away, scrolling through his phone with a tablet open next to him.

He looked... perfect. Not a hair out of place, wearing a clean white t-shirt, looking like he’d been awake for hours being a productive member of society while you were decaying on his furniture.

"Finally," he said without looking up, though a small, teasing smirk tugged at his lips. "I thought I was going to have to check your pulse."

"Don't speak," you croaked, clutching your head. "Your voice is too loud. Why is your face so bright? Turn it down."

Jungwon actually laughed this time—a genuine, clear sound that made your stomach do a weird little flip. He stood up and walked over, placing a bottle of electrolyte water and two painkillers on the coffee table.

"Drink. You have a schedule at 11 AM, don't you? Jay-hyung mentioned it."

"Jay," you gasped, sitting up way too fast. The world tilted. "Is he here? Did he see me?"

"Relax," Jungwon said, reaching out to steady your shoulder. His hand was warm, and even through the thick hoodie, you felt a spark of heat. "He stayed at the studio until 6 AM. He’s sleeping in his room right now. The others are still out or asleep. You're safe. For now."

You grabbed the water, downed the pills, and looked at him. He was watching you with that same intense, cat-like gaze from last night. It wasn't the look of a junior looking at a senior. It was... something else.

"Why didn't you just call my manager last night?" you asked, wiping your mouth. "It would have been easier."

Jungwon shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked almost shy for a second. "I don't know. Maybe I didn't want you to get in trouble. Or maybe... I liked having someone in the dorm who doesn't treat me like 'The Leader' for once."

Before you could process that, the sound of a door opening echoed through the hallway.

"Wonie? You’re up early—wait, whose heels are those in the hallway?"

Jay’s voice.

Your heart stopped. Jungwon’s eyes widened, and for the first time, you saw him look genuinely panicked. He looked at you, then at the hallway, then back at you.

"Under the hoodie! Hide your face!" he whispered urgently, even though you were literally already wearing it.

Jay walked into the living room, rubbing his eyes, looking like a total mess in his pajamas. He stopped dead when he saw a female figure curled up on their sofa wearing his best friend’s clothes.

"Jungwon," Jay said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. "Why is there a girl on our couch? And why is she wearing your hoodie?"

You slowly lowered the hood, giving Jay a weak, pathetic little wave. "Hey, Jay-ah... funny story..."

Jay’s jaw literally dropped. "Hayun?! What the—Jungwon, what did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Jungwon snapped, his face turning that bright shade of pink again. "She was drunk! She tried to break the door down!"

Jay stood there for a solid ten seconds, looking back and forth between you—the chaotic older sister he grew up with—and Jungwon—his disciplined, "follow-the-rules" leader. His brain was clearly short-circuiting.

"You... you kicked the door down?" Jay finally managed to choke out, pointing a finger at you. "And you," he turned to Jungwon, "You just let her in? You didn't call me? You didn't call her manager? You just... let her sleep on the couch and gave her your favorite hoodie?"

"It was three in the morning, Hyung!" Jungwon defended, his voice hitting a slightly higher pitch than usual. He looked stressed, but he was standing firmly between you and Jay, almost like a shield. "She couldn't even stand up. What was I supposed to do? Throw her back into the hallway?"

"Yes! No! I don't know!" Jay groaned, slamming his hands over his face. He looked at you, squinting through his fingers. "Hayun, seriously. You’re lucky it was Jungwon who opened the door and not a manager. If Dispatch saw you stumbling into our dorms, we’d both be trending for all the wrong reasons."

"Aw, Jay-ah, you’re so cute when you’re worried about my career," you teased, though your head was still throbbing. You pulled the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands—it really was soft, and it smelled exactly like Jungwon’s expensive, clean cologne. "Besides, Jungwonie took great care of me. He's a natural."

Jungwon looked at the floor, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the rug. Jay’s eyes narrowed, his protective "best friend" instincts kicking in.

"Jungwonie? Since when is it 'Jungwonie'?" Jay muttered, stepping closer. He looked at Jungwon, then at the way you were wrapped in that hoodie. "And why are you still here? You have a recording session, don't you? Go. Now. I’ll handle the mess you brought in."

Jungwon lingered for a second, his eyes flickering toward you. There was a weird tension in the air—like he didn't really want to leave you there with Jay, even though Jay was your literal childhood friend.

"I’m going," Jungwon said softly. He turned to you, his expression unreadable. "Drink the rest of that water. And Noona... try to check which floor you’re on next time."

He grabbed his bag and headed for the door, but just before he left, he caught your eye one last time. He didn't smile, but there was a flicker of something—a secret shared between just the two of you—before he disappeared.

"Okay, spill," Jay demanded the second the door clicked shut. He sat on the coffee table, looming over you. "What happened? Did he say anything? Did you do anything... weird?"

"I was drunk, Jay, not in a coma," you rolled your eyes, leaning back. "He was just nice. A bit bossy, actually. Who knew your little leader had such a 'commanding' side?"

"Don't start," Jay sighed, though he looked relieved. "He’s a good kid. The best. That’s why I don't want you corrupting him with your... you-ness."

"Too late," you smirked, clutching the hoodie tighter.

You managed to sneak back to your floor and make it to your schedule, but the memory of the night kept looping in your head. The way Jungwon’s hands felt on your skin. The way he looked at you when nobody was watching.

That night, just as you were about to collapse into your own bed, your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

[Unknown Number]: Are you alive? Or did Jay-hyung actually lecture you to death?

You blinked. You didn't need a name to know who it was. You smiled at your screen, feeling a weird rush of adrenaline that had nothing to do with caffeine.

You: Still alive. Barely. How'd you get my number, Jungwonie?

Jungwon: I’m the leader. I have my ways. (I stole it from Jay’s phone while he was showering).

You: Sneaky. I like it.

Jungwon: Go to sleep. You looked like you were about to pass out during your live stream today. Goodnight, Noona.

You stared at the message. It was simple. Short. But it was the start of something.

The thing is, it didn't stay "just a text" for long. It turned into a routine, a weirdly addictive ritual that started to govern your entire day.

Every morning, before your manager even knocked on your door with a green juice and a schedule that made you want to cry, your phone would vibrate.

Jungwon [08:02 AM]: Wake up. I saw your manager’s car downstairs. Don't forget to eat something today, not just iced americanos. I’m watching you.

You’d find yourself smiling at your reflection in the vanity mirror while three stylists pulled at your hair. You’d type back with one hand, hiding the screen from prying eyes.

You: Since when are you my nutritionist? Focus on your choreo, kiddo.

Jungwon [08:15 AM]: I am focusing. But I can multitask. By the way, that blue outfit you wore for the music show pre-recording? It’s... a lot. Don't catch a cold.

You’d bite your lip to keep from laughing. 'It’s a lot' was Jungwon-code for 'it’s too short and I hate that everyone is looking at you'. He was becoming bossy, possessive in a way that should have annoyed you, but instead, it made your blood hum with a weird warmth.

During the day, you’d be on set, doing interviews, pretending to be the "cool, untouchable idol," but in the back of your mind, you were wondering what he was doing. And he was clearly doing the same. He’d send you random, blurry photos from the practice room—just his sweaty forehead or his Nike shoes—with captions like: 'Hyung is complaining about you again. What did you do to his favorite hoodie? He says it smells like your perfume and he can’t get it out.'

You: Tell him he’s welcome. It’s an improvement.

Jungwon: I didn't tell him, but... I agree. I kind of like that smell.

Your heart would skip a literal beat. The flirting was subtle, like a game of cat and mouse where nobody wanted to get caught.

The nights were the hardest. After the adrenaline of the stage wore off and you were alone in your silent apartment, the loneliness usually crawled in. But now, you had him.

Jungwon [01:45 AM]: Just got back to the dorm. The lights are off at your place, so I’m guessing you’re finally sleeping?

You: Stalker. I’m literally standing by the window right now.

Jungwon: I know. I can see your shadow. Wave.

You’d pull back the curtain, looking down at the black van parked in the distance, and you’d see a small figure standing by the door, the glow of his phone illuminating his face. You’d wave, and he’d wave back—a tiny, secret movement in the dark that felt more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced.

Jungwon: Go to bed, Noona. You look pretty from here, but you look better when you’re not exhausted. See you at the HYBE gym tomorrow? 6 AM?

You: 6 AM? You’re a monster. I’ll be there.

It wasn't just "brotherly" anymore. The way he’d look at you in the gym, watching your reflection in the mirrors while he lifted weights, his jaw tight and his eyes dark... it was becoming a problem. A beautiful, dangerous problem. You were both playing a game of "just friends," but the tension was stretching so thin it was about to snap.

And Jay? Jay was starting to notice how you both suddenly had the same "busy" schedule at the weirdest hours.

The shift didn't happen at a glamorous after-party or under the neon lights of a club. It happened in the most mundane place possible: your living room, on a Tuesday night when the rain was lashing against the windows of the Seoul skyline.

Jungwon had texted you at midnight. No emojis this time. No teasing. Just: 'Can I come over? Please.'

When you opened the door, he looked wrecked. His hair was damp from the rain, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like the weight of being "The Perfect Leader" had finally crushed his ribs. He didn't even say hello; he just walked in and sat on your floor, leaning his head against your sofa.

"The comeback prep is a mess," he whispered, his voice cracking. "The choreo isn't clicking, the company is breathing down my neck about the concept, and the guys... they're exhausted. I'm supposed to have the answers, but I have nothing."

You sat down next to him, your heart aching. You’d been there. You knew that soul-crushing pressure where you feel like a product instead of a person.

"Wonie," you murmured, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "You're twenty. You're not a god. You're allowed to be tired."

He turned his head, his face inches from yours. Up close, he didn't look like an idol. He looked like a man who was starving for something real. "I'm only 'allowed' to be anything when I'm with you," he breathed. "Everywhere else, I'm a statue. I'm a representative. I'm a leader."

He looked at your lips, then back at your eyes, his breath hitching. The air in the room was thick, charged with weeks of late-night texts and lingering glances in the gym.

"Noona," he whispered, his hand shaking as he reached out to touch your waist. "Tell me to stop. Because if you don't... I’m going to do something that’s going to ruin everything."

You didn't tell him to stop. Instead, you tilted your head, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since when do I care about ruining things, Jungwon?"

That was the green light.

He lunged forward, his lips hitting yours with a desperation that caught you off guard. It wasn't a "sweet" first kiss. It was hungry, messy, and filled with all the frustration he’d been bottling up for years. He tasted like rain and mint, and his hands were suddenly everywhere—pulling you closer, gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You let out a soft moan into his mouth, and that was it—the sound sent him over the edge. He moved from your lips to your jaw, then down to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made your toes curl.

"I've wanted to do this since that night at the dorm," he confessed against your skin, his voice deep and raspy. "I hated that Jay-hyung saw you in my hoodie. I wanted you to be wearing it for me."

He pulled back for a second, his eyes dark, pupils dilated. He looked possessive, intense, and completely unlike the "cute leader" the world knew. "Is this okay? We're just... we're just friends helping each other out, right?"

You knew what he was doing. He was giving you an out. A way to keep it "casual" so nobody got hurt. "Yeah," you whispered, pulling his shirt over his head. "No strings. Just us."

It was a lie. You both knew it was a lie the second he pushed you back onto the carpet, his body hovering over yours, his hands finally exploring the curves he’d only seen from a distance.

The "no strings" talk was a total joke, and you both knew it the second he had his hands under your shirt.

Jungwon didn't waste any time. He was tired of being the polite junior, the disciplined leader, the "good boy." He wanted to be a man, and he wanted you to feel it. He flipped you over effortlessly, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. His grip was like iron—who knew the gym sessions were paying off that well?

"You talk so much trash, Noona," he growled into your ear, his hot breath sending shivers straight to your core. "But right now? You’re shaking."

He wasn't lying. Your heart was thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. He started trailing kisses down your throat, biting at the sensitive skin right where your shoulder met your neck. You knew it would leave a mark, a dark purple bruise that your stylists would have to bury under layers of concealer tomorrow, but in that moment, you didn't give a damn. You wanted his mark on you.

"Jungwon—" you gasped as his other hand slid down, his palm hot against your thigh as he hiked your skirt up.

"Don't," he muttered, his voice dropping into that dangerously low register that made your stomach flip. "Don't use that 'Noona' tone with me. Not tonight."

When he finally got your clothes off, he took a second to just look at you, his eyes dark with a hunger that felt almost predatory. Then he was on you again. It was frantic at first—fumbling with belts, the sound of fabric tearing, the rush of skin finally meeting skin.

He moved between your legs, his eyes locked on yours as he guided himself in. You let out a choked sound, your back arching off the floor as he filled you. It was a lot—he was much more "commanding" than he looked in those oversized stage outfits.

He didn't move at first, just stayed there, breathing heavily, watching your face crumble. "You okay?" he whispered, though his hips were already twitching with the urge to move.

"Keep going," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. "Don't stop."

He didn't need to be told twice. He started moving, a slow, agonizing rhythm that made you see stars. He wasn't being gentle—he was taking what he wanted, his thrusts deep and deliberate. The only sound in the room was the rain hitting the window and the wet, rhythmic slap of his skin hitting yours.

You reached up, grabbing his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like sweat and desperation. Every time he hit that one spot, your head would roll back, and a jagged moan would escape your lips. He loved it. He’d smirk against your neck, whispering things that would have made a fan faint—dirty, demanding things that proved he wasn't a kid anymore.

"Look at me," he commanded, his pace picking up, becoming faster, harder. "Look at me while I do this."

You opened your eyes, blurry with tears of pleasure, and saw him—hair messy, face flushed, sweat dripping off his chin and onto your chest. He looked wrecked, but he looked alive.

When he finally hit his limit, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body tensing as he came, trembling against you. He held you so tight you could barely breathe, his heart racing against yours like they were trying to sync up.

Afterward, the room was silent except for your tangled breathing. He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his head resting on your chest, tracing circles on your hip with his thumb.

"So," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "Still just friends?"

Jungwon let out a dry, breathy laugh. He lifted his head, looking at the mess of the living room, then back at you. "Yeah," he said, though his eyes said something completely different. "Friends who do this every time we can't handle the pressure. Deal?"

"Deal."

But as you watched him get dressed in the dark, his movements sharp and efficient again, you realized that this "arrangement" was going to be the most dangerous thing you’d ever done. Especially when you saw the way he looked at your bed before he left—like he was already planning the next time he could get you back into it.

—

The "no-strings-attached" deal was supposed to make things simpler, but in reality, it just made every second at the company feel like you were walking on a freaking landmine.

A week after that first night, you were at the HYBE building for a late-night dance practice. You were drenched in sweat, wearing a sports bra and oversized joggers, catching your breath in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The music had just stopped when the door pushed open.

You expected a manager. Instead, you saw Jungwon’s reflection.

He didn't say a word. He just walked in, locked the door behind him—the loud click echoing in the silent studio—and leaned against it, crossing his arms. He was wearing his stage outfit from a pre-recording earlier: black leather pants that hugged his thighs way too well and a sheer shirt that showed off everything.

"The cameras are off in here from 2 AM to 4 AM for maintenance," he said, his voice dropping into that low, husky tone that always made your knees weak. "I checked."

"You're insane," you breathed, wiping sweat from your forehead. "What if someone knocks?"

"Then let them knock."

He walked toward you, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. He didn't stop until he was inches away, the heat radiating off his body mixing with yours. He reached out, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"I haven't been able to focus all day," he muttered, his eyes dark and intense. "Every time I saw you in the hallway, or at the catering table... all I could think about was the way you sounded on Tuesday night."

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising force. This wasn't the "cute junior" anymore. This was a man who was hungry, frustrated, and completely obsessed. He backed you up against the mirrors—the cold glass hitting your back while his burning body pressed against your front.

He lifted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The leather of his pants was slightly rough against your bare thighs, but you didn't care. You were clawing at his back, trying to pull him closer, trying to merge your skin with his.

"Here? Jungwon, seriously?" you gasped between kisses, even as you were already unbuttoning his shirt.

"Right here," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone. "I want to see you in these mirrors. I want you to see what you do to me."

He didn't bother taking everything off. He just unzipped his pants, his breathing coming in jagged hitches. He guided you down onto him, and you let out a loud, echoed moan that bounced off the walls of the empty studio. It was risky, it was dirty, and it was the most exhilarating thing you’d ever felt.

Every thrust was reflected in the mirrors. You could see the way his muscles corded in his back, the way his jaw was clenched in concentration, the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in this messed-up industry.

He was relentless. He kept going until you were sobbing his name into his shoulder, your fingers digging into his lats. When he finally let out a choked growl and came, he held you so tight against the glass you thought it might crack.

For the next few weeks, it became a game of "how far can we go?"

There was the time in the back of the black SUV, parked in the darkest corner of the company garage. The windows were tinted, but the fear of a staff member walking by made everything ten times more intense. You were straddling him in the cramped backseat, trying to keep your moans muffled against his chest while he moved inside you with a desperate, frantic energy.

Then there was the music show dressing room. You were sitting on the vanity, surrounded by makeup brushes and hairspray, while he stood between your legs, his hands gripping your waist so hard he left faint red marks.

"Someone's coming," you whispered, hearing footsteps in the hallway.

"Shh," he breathed, not stopping, his eyes locked on yours. "Just stay quiet. Don't make a sound."

You had to bite your hand to keep from screaming when he hit your sweet spot, your body trembling with an orgasm that felt like a lightning strike. He pulled away just seconds before a stylist knocked on the door, casually leaning against the wall and checking his reflection in the mirror like he hadn't just spent the last ten minutes ruining you.

But the more you did it, the more "clues" you left behind.

It started with a hickey on his neck that he couldn't fully hide with makeup—Jay stared at it for a full minute during a live stream before Jungwon quickly pulled his collar up. Then there was the fact that you were always "disappearing" at the same time.

And then came the day in the lounge. You and Jay were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phones, when Jungwon walked in. He didn't even think; he just walked over to you and instinctively reached out to ruffle your hair, his fingers lingering a second too long near your ear.

The air in the room went dead silent. Jay looked up from his phone, his eyes darting from Jungwon’s hand to your flushed face.

"Since when are you two so touchy-feely?" Jay asked, his voice flat. He wasn't smiling.

Jungwon pulled his hand back quickly, his face turning a tell-tale shade of pink. "I just... she had something in her hair. Relax, Hyung."

"Right," Jay muttered, but he didn't look convinced. He looked suspicious. He looked like he was putting the pieces of a very messy puzzle together. "Anyway, Hayun, you’re coming to dinner with us tonight, right? Just the three of us. Like the old days."

You looked at Jungwon. He was staring at the floor, his jaw tight.

"Sure, Jay," you said, your heart racing. "Like the old days."

But you knew the "old days" were dead. You weren't just Jay’s best friend anymore, and Jungwon wasn't just his little brother. You were something much more complicated, much more dangerous, and much more addictive.

—

The restaurant was one of those private, high-end spots in Gangnam where idols go to feel like normal humans for an hour. But sitting there between Jay and Jungwon, you felt anything but normal. The air was so thick with tension you could’ve cut it with a steak knife.

Jay was in a great mood, or at least he was trying to be. He was sitting across from you, rambling about some new demo he was working on, occasionally reaching over to pat your hand or nudge your shoulder like he always did.

"Remember that time in elementary school when you tried to teach me how to dance and I tripped over the rug?" Jay laughed, his hand lingering on your arm a second too long. "You called me a 'clumsy giant' for like three years."

You laughed, nodding. "You were a clumsy giant, Jay. Honestly, I’m still shocked you’re a lead dancer now."

Across the table, Jungwon was dead silent. He wasn't eating. He was just stabbing a piece of grilled meat with his fork, his eyes fixed on Jay’s hand on your arm. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek.

Every time Jay touched you—even just a friendly tap—Jungwon’s aura got darker. He was vibrating with a possessiveness that was becoming impossible to ignore.

"Hyung," Jungwon finally snapped, his voice cold. "Eat your food. You’re talking too much."

Jay blinked, caught off guard. "Whoa, okay, Mr. Leader. Just having a conversation. What’s crawled up your ass tonight?"

Jungwon didn't answer him. Instead, he looked at you. His eyes were dark, swirling with that same hunger you saw when he had you pinned against the studio mirrors. Under the table, out of Jay's sight, you felt a sudden pressure.

Jungwon’s foot slid up your calf, his heavy boot dragging against your skin. You nearly choked on your drink. He didn't stop. He pushed his foot higher, his toe nudging the hem of your skirt. He was looking at you with a challenge in his eyes, a silent dare: 'Go ahead, keep flirting with him. See what happens.'

"You okay, Hayun?" Jay asked, noticing your face turning red. "Is it too spicy?"

"Yeah," you coughed, trying to stay composed while Jungwon’s foot was now dangerously close to your inner thigh. "Just... went down the wrong pipe."

"Anyway," Jay continued, turning back to his plate. "I was thinking, since we both have Sunday off, maybe we should head back to our hometown for the day? My parents keep asking about you."

Jungwon’s foot stopped. He slammed his glass down on the table, the loud clack making a few people at the next table look over.

"She’s busy Sunday," Jungwon said firmly.

Jay frowned. "Busy? How do you know? Her manager said—"

"She’s busy with me," Jungwon interrupted, his voice dropping into that bossy, dominant register. He realized he sounded too aggressive and tried to soften it, but the damage was done. "We... we have to work on that collab TikTok. And some vocal practice. Right, Noona?"

Jay looked between the two of you, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't stupid. He saw the way you were avoiding eye contact and the way Jungwon was practically marking his territory without saying the words.

"Right," Jay said slowly, his voice laced with suspicion. "The collab. Of course."

The rest of the dinner was a nightmare. Jungwon didn't stop. The second Jay went to the restroom, Jungwon leaned across the table, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him.

"If he touches you one more time," he whispered, his breath hot against your face, "I’m going to lose it. I don't care if he’s my Hyung. I don't care if we’re in public."

"He’s my best friend, Jungwon, stop being a psycho," you hissed, but your heart was racing because his jealousy was honestly... kind of hot.

"I'm not being a psycho. I'm being clear," he muttered, his thumb pressing hard into your pulse point. "You're wearing my marks under that sweater. You belong in my bed tonight. Don't forget that."

When Jay came back, the silence was deafening. You hurried through the rest of the meal, desperate to get out of there. But as you were walking back to the car, Jungwon managed to pull you back for a split second behind a pillar in the parking garage.

He didn't say anything. He just shoved his hand under your shirt, his cold fingers grabbing your waist, squeezing hard enough to leave another bruise. He kissed you—hard, mean, and possessive—before pulling away and walking to the car like nothing happened.

Jay stood by the van door, watching you both come out of the shadows. He didn't say a word the whole ride back, but you could see him watching you in the rearview mirror, his face a mask of pure, brewing drama.

The ride back was suffocating. Jay didn’t say a word, just stared out the window with his jaw set like stone. You could feel his eyes on you every time the streetlights hit the car, sharp and questioning. The second the van pulled into the basement of the dorms, the tension snapped.

"I'm going up," Jay muttered, not even looking at you or Jungwon. "See you guys tomorrow. If you’re not too 'busy' with your collab."

He slammed the van door, the sound echoing through the empty concrete garage. You stood there, shivering slightly in the damp air, while Jungwon just stood next to you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He waited until Jay’s footsteps faded away before he finally moved.

"My place or yours?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Jungwon, Jay is literally—"

"Yours, then," he cut you off, grabbing your hand and dragging you toward the elevator.

The second the elevator doors closed, he didn't even wait for it to move. He hit the 'Stop' button and shoved you against the metal wall. His mouth was on yours in an instant, tasting like the whiskey he’d sneaked at dinner and pure, unadulterated possessiveness. He wasn't being the "cute leader" now. He was being a man who had watched another guy touch what belonged to him all night.

"You liked it, didn't you?" he growled against your lips, his hands fumbling with the hem of your skirt. "Watching him touch you. Seeing me get pissed off."

"I didn't—Jungwon, stop, we're on camera—"

"I told you, I handle the cameras," he hissed, his fingers finally finding what they were looking for. He let out a dark, satisfied hum when he felt how wet you already were for him. "See? You're a mess for me. Even when he's standing right there."

He didn't give you a choice. He hiked your legs up around his waist, the cold metal of the elevator biting into your back as he unzipped his pants with a frantic energy. He entered you in one swift, brutal motion, stretching you out until you had to bury your face in his shoulder to keep from screaming.

It was fast, dirty, and filled with the kind of heat that only comes from jealousy. He was hitting the back of your throat with every thrust, his body shaking with the effort to keep his composure. He kept whispering things—filthy things about how Jay would never know what you looked like like this, how you were his secret, his escape, his everything.

When the elevator finally reached your floor and the doors slid open, you were both a wreck. You scrambled to fix your clothes, your heart hammering in your chest, while Jungwon just stepped out, looking completely unfazed except for the dark, blown-out look in his eyes.

Inside your apartment, the "no strings" lie finally started to crumble.

He didn't leave after the first time. He stayed. He pushed you onto your bed, stripping off his clothes and yours until there was nothing left but the moonlight hitting your skin. This time, it wasn't about the jealousy. It was slower. More intimate.

He spent hours worshiping your body, his tongue exploring every inch of you, making you come until you were begging him to stop, only for him to start all over again. He wanted to make sure that the only touch you remembered was his. The way he gripped your hair, the way he whispered your name like a prayer between his teeth, the way he looked at you when he finally let himself go—it wasn't "just sex" anymore. It was an obsession.

But as the sun started to peek through the curtains, the reality of the "arrangement" hit you. Jungwon was fast asleep, his arm draped heavily over your waist, looking so peaceful and young. You looked at the hickey on his shoulder, a dark mark you’d left in the heat of the night, and realized you were both playing a game you couldn't win.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Jay.

Jay [05:45 AM]: I’m not stupid, Hayun. We need to talk. Today. Without him.

You looked at the screen, then at the boy sleeping next to you. The "Friends with Benefits" phase was officially over. You had crossed the line so far you couldn't even see it anymore.

And now? Now the real drama was about to start.

When you opened the door, Jay didn't wait for an invitation. He pushed past you, his face a mask of pure, unfiltered fury. He wasn't the "cool, laid-back" Jay right now. He was the guy who had spent all night connecting the dots and hated the picture they formed.

"Where is he?" Jay asked, his voice dangerously quiet. He scanned the living room, his eyes landing on a stray black sock near the sofa. "Actually, don't answer that. I know he was here. I saw him leave the building ten minutes ago from my window."

"Jay, look—"

"No, you look!" Jay turned around, slamming his hand against the wall. "Are you out of your mind? Jungwon? Of all people, you chose the kid who has the most to lose? He’s the leader of the group, Hayun! If this gets out, it’s not just a 'scandal' for him. It’s the end of everything we’ve worked for."

"It’s not like that," you tried to say, but your voice felt weak. "We’re just... it’s just a thing. It’s casual."

"Casual?" Jay scoffed, stepping into your personal space. He reached out and tugged the collar of your robe aside, revealing a dark, angry mark on your collarbone that Jungwon had left the night before. "Does that look 'casual' to you? You look like you’ve been claimed. And he looks like a different person. He’s distracted, he’s snapping at the members, he’s obsessed with his phone. You’re ruining him."

The word ruining stung like a slap. "He’s a grown man, Jay! He makes his own choices. He came to me because he couldn't breathe under the pressure you guys put on him!"

"And you think this helps him breathe?" Jay shouted. "You’re a ticking time bomb! You don't care about the rules, we get it. You’re the 'cool' idol who does what she wants. But he doesn't have that luxury. If Dispatch catches one photo of you two, he’s done. The fans will tear him apart."

Jay took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but his hands were shaking. "I’m giving you an ultimatum. End it. Today. Or I’m going to the management. I’m not letting you sink his ship because you’re bored and he’s 'cute'."

He walked out, slamming the door so hard a picture frame fell off your shelf.

The silence in your apartment after Jay left was vibrating. You could still feel the heat from where he’d slammed the wall. You looked at yourself in the mirror—hair a bird's nest, lips swollen and bruised, and that dark purple mark on your neck that screamed Jungwon. You looked like a girl who was being loved to death, and Jay had seen right through it.

For the next seventy-two hours, you lived in a state of sensory deprivation. You turned your phone off, but you could still hear it vibrating against the nightstand like a dying insect. Jungwon was spiraling—you knew it without even looking. He was probably calling you every ten minutes, his anxiety peaking, his "perfect leader" mask cracking in front of the other members.

On the third night, the walls started closing in. You needed air. You needed to see him, even if it was just to tell him it was over. You threw on a massive trench coat, a face mask, and a bucket hat, looking like every other idol trying to escape their own life.

You took the stairs instead of the elevator, your heart hammering against your ribs. When you reached the basement, the air was cold and smelled like damp concrete and exhaust fumes. You saw his van—the one with the slightly dented bumper. He was leaning against it, looking like a ghost of himself.

"You finally showed up," he said, his voice so raspy it sounded like he’d been screaming.

"Jungwon, we can't do this," you said, stopping five feet away. "Jay is going to the company. He’s going to tell them everything. He thinks I’m destroying you."

Jungwon let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He stepped into your space, his eyes bloodshot and frantic. "Destroying me? You’re the only thing making me feel alive, Noona! Do you know what it’s like to have to smile and bow and do 'aegyo' for cameras when all I want to do is feel your skin? I’m already destroyed. I’ve been a product since I was fourteen. You’re the only real thing I have."

He grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him. He didn't care about the cold or the risk. He pushed your hat off, his fingers tangling in your hair as he forced your head back.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and lust. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you want me to go back to being a robot. Tell me you want me to forget how you feel when I’m inside you."

You couldn't say it. You were shaking, your hands clutching the lapels of his jacket. "It’s going to end badly, Wonie..."

"Then let it burn," he whispered, his lips hovering over yours.

He dragged you into the back of the van, the leather seats cold against your skin as he pushed your coat off your shoulders. It was a desperate, ugly kind of friction. There was no romance this time—just two people trying to outrun their reality. He didn't even take his clothes all the way off; he just unzipped, his movements sharp and impatient.

He entered you with a force that made you gasp, his hands pinning yours above your head against the back of the seat. The van rocked slightly with every thrust, the sound of his heavy breathing filling the cramped space. He was biting your shoulder, leaving new marks over the old ones, marking his territory while the world outside was waiting to tear him apart.

"You're mine," he panted, his pace becoming erratic, desperate. "Not Jay's. Not the fans'. Mine."

You reached your peak with a silent scream, your body arching as he came inside you, his forehead resting against yours, sweat dripping from his brow onto your cheek. For a second, just one second, the world was quiet.

Then... The Flash.

It was tiny. A split second of white light reflecting off the side-view mirror.

The air inside the van turned from humid and hazy to freezing in a split second. The ghost of the camera’s flash was still burned into your retinas—a tiny, mocking white dot that signaled the end of the world.

Jungwon’s hand, which had been resting possessively on your thigh just seconds ago, was now gripping the leather seat so hard his knuckles were ghostly white. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He just stared at the spot where the photographer had vanished, his chest heaving as the adrenaline of the sex was replaced by a cold, sickening dread.

"Jungwon..." your voice was a jagged whisper. You reached out to touch his shoulder, but he flinched, as if your touch burned him.

"Stay down," he commanded, his voice trembling. "Don't move. Don't look out the window."

He scrambled to the front seat, his movements frantic and clumsy—so unlike the precise, sharp leader everyone saw on stage. He fumbled with the ignition, the engine roaring to life in the silent garage, sounding like a gunshot. He didn't look at you in the rearview mirror. He couldn't.

The drive back to your apartment was a blur of neon streetlights and suffocating silence. Every time a car pulled up next to the van at a red light, Jungwon would sink lower into his seat, his hat pulled so far down it covered his eyes. You were huddled in the back, clutching your trench coat around you, the smell of him—sweat, skin, and that expensive citrus cologne—clinging to you like a death sentence.

When he pulled into your building’s basement, he didn't turn off the engine. He just sat there, staring at the concrete wall.

"They have the photos," he said, his voice flat, dead. "There's no way they don't. That was a professional lens. They were waiting for us."

"Maybe they didn't get your face," you said, trying to be the voice of reason, even though your heart was hammering a hole in your chest. "Maybe we can say we were just talking about Jay..."

Jungwon finally turned around, and the look in his eyes broke you. He wasn't the confident man who had just pinned you down; he looked like a terrified kid. "My shirt was open, Noona. Your hair was a mess. We weren't 'talking.' Everyone knows what a van looks like when the windows are fogged up in December."

He reached out, his fingers trembling as he touched your cheek one last time. "Go upstairs. Delete everything. Don't answer your door. I have to go back to the dorm and... I have to see Jay."

The next four hours were a slow-motion car crash. You sat on your kitchen floor, the tiles cold against your bare legs, watching the clock. 2:00 AM. 3:00 AM. 3:30 AM.

Your phone was a ticking bomb. You wanted to check the news, to see if the world had ended yet, but you were too terrified to move. You kept thinking about Jay. Jay, who had trusted you. Jay, who had protected Jungwon like a little brother. You could almost hear his voice in your head, the disappointment cutting deeper than any hate comment ever could.

Then, at 4:12 AM, the first notification popped up.

[Naver] EXCLUSIVE: A Secret Night in a Parking Garage? Popular Group Leader and Top Soloist Caught in Compromising Position.

It started as a trickle and turned into a flood. Within ten minutes, your name was trending #1 worldwide. The comments were starting to pour in toxic sludge.

[Nate Pann]: "Is this the Jungwon we knew? Disgusting. While we were voting for them, he was doing this in a parking lot?"

[Twitter]: "I’m burning my photocards. Hayun is a snake for taking advantage of a younger idol."

You scrolled through the photos Dispatch had released. They were worse than you imagined. They’d captured everything: the way he looked at you with that raw, unfiltered hunger before you got into the van; the way you were laughing at something he whispered; and the final shot of him stepping out, looking flushed and guilty.

The detail was haunting. They’d even zoomed in on the hickey on his neck—the one you’d left during your "collab practice" two days ago.

Suddenly, your front door didn't just open—it exploded inward. Jay didn't even knock. He had a spare key from the years you’d spent being inseparable, and he used it like a weapon.

"Are you happy?" he roared, storming into the kitchen. He threw his phone onto the counter, the screen cracked, showing the Dispatch article. "Is this what you wanted? To be the girl who took down the biggest group in the company?"

"Jay, please—"

"Don't 'Jay' me!" He was pacing like a caged animal, his eyes red from lack of sleep—or maybe from crying. "Do you have any idea what’s happening at the dorm right now? The managers are there. They took everyone’s phones. The members are sitting in the living room in total silence because they’re terrified the group is going to be disbanded or put on indefinite hiatus."

He stopped in front of you, his voice dropping to a whisper that was scarier than the shouting. "Jungwon is in the basement office. Alone. With the CEO and the legal team. He’s been there for hours, Hayun. And do you know what he told them? He told them it was all his fault. He told them he forced you into it so you wouldn't get blamed."

Your heart shattered. "He what?"

"He’s protecting you," Jay spat, his lip curling in disgust. "Even now, while his entire life is burning to the ground, he’s trying to keep you safe. And you’re just sitting here on the floor."

Jay grabbed a glass from the counter and hurled it into the sink, the sound of breaking glass echoing through the apartment. "I told you to stop. I warned you. I begged you to leave him alone because he’s too young to handle a girl like you. But you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"I love him, Jay!" you screamed back, finally standing up, your voice raw.

Jay froze. He looked at you for a long, painful moment. "If you loved him," he said quietly, "you would have let him go before it came to this."

—

The sun began to rise, casting a sickly pale light over the city. The "indefinite hiatus" notice for both of you was posted on the company's official site at 7:00 AM. The stock prices were plunging. The fans were protesting outside the building, some holding "Protect Jungwon" signs and others burning your merchandise.

You were trapped in your own home, a prisoner of your own choices. You tried to call Jungwon’s burner phone, the one Jay didn't know about, but it went straight to voicemail.

"Wonie, please answer," you whispered into the phone, tears finally blurring your vision. "I'm so sorry. I'll tell them the truth. I'll tell them I started it. Just... just don't let them take everything from you."

You sat there, listening to the dial tone, realizing that the "scandal" wasn't just a headline. It was the sound of a door closing on the only person who had ever made you feel like more than just a product.

And then, a new notification slid across your screen. Not from a news site. Not from Jay.

It was an email. From an encrypted address you didn't recognize.

Subject: Don't listen to Jay. Meet me at the rooftop garden of the old training building. 10 minutes. Don't let anyone see you.

Your heart leapt. Was he insane? The building was surrounded by reporters. But the way the email was written—the bluntness, the lack of "Noona"—it could only be him.

Jungwon was still fighting. And he was about to do something even more dangerous than getting caught in a van.

You didn't even think. You threw on the darkest hoodie you owned, grabbed a pair of black face masks, and headed for the service elevator. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your keycard twice. Every shadow in the parking garage looked like a paparazzo with a lens; every sound of a car engine made you want to scream.

The old training building was a relic—a crumbling concrete block HYBE kept for storage, located three blocks away from the main skyscraper. It was the place where trainees used to cry after failing evaluations. It was lonely, it was dark, and it was perfect.

You climbed the final flight of stairs, your lungs burning from the cold air. When you pushed open the heavy iron door to the roof, the wind hit you like a physical blow.

He was there.

Jungwon was standing by the rusted railing, staring out at the Seoul skyline. He didn't have a coat on—just a thin black sweater that clung to his frame. He looked smaller than usual, but when he turned around, his eyes were like flint. There was no "cute leader" left in him. He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and decided he didn't care if it stared back.

"You're late," he said, his voice flat and raspy.

"Jungwon, are you crazy?" You ran to him, grabbing his freezing hands. "The building is surrounded! Jay said the managers took your phone, he said you were with the CEO—how did you even get out?"

"I told them I needed to go to the bathroom. I climbed out a window in the back of the basement," he said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. It was a terrifying, reckless expression. "I don't have long. They’ll realize I’m gone in twenty minutes."

"We have to go back," you begged, tears pricking your eyes. "Jungwon, they’re talking about a permanent hiatus. They’re saying I ruined the group’s image. Jay... Jay hates me now. He thinks I’m a poison to you."

Jungwon stepped closer, his body heat the only thing keeping you from shivering. He grabbed your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks. "Let him hate you. Let them all hate you. Do you think I care about the image? Do you think I care about being the 'perfect leader' for people who will turn on me the second I show them I’m human?"

"But your members—"

"The members will understand eventually," he snapped, his voice cracking with emotion. "Or they won't. But I can't keep doing this, Noona. I can't keep living in a cage where the only time I get to breathe is when I’m buried in you in the back of a van."

He pulled you into a kiss that tasted like salt and desperation. It was a hard, punishing kiss, a silent scream against everything that was happening. He pushed you back against the brick chimney, his body pinning yours, and for a second, the scandal didn't exist. The headlines didn't exist. It was just him, desperate and raw.

"They want me to sign a public apology," he whispered against your lips. "They want me to say it was a 'momentary lapse in judgment' and that I’ve ended things with you. They want me to throw you under the bus to save the stocks."

"Then do it," you sobbed, clutching his sweater. "Save yourself, Wonie. I’ll survive. I’ve been through scandals before. But you... this is your whole life."

Jungwon pulled back, looking at you with a terrifying intensity. "I’m not signing it. I’m going to do the opposite."

Your heart stopped. "What do you mean?"

"I’m going to go live," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a second burner phone you didn't even know he had. "On a private account I’ve had since I was a trainee. I’m going to tell them the truth. Not the 'clean' version. The real version. That I love you. That I’m not sorry. And that if they want a leader who doesn't have a heart, they can find someone else."

"Jungwon, no!" You tried to grab the phone, but he held it high above his head. "That’s career suicide! You’ll be blacklisted! You’ll never stand on a stage again!"

"Then I’ll stand on the ground with you," he growled, his eyes dark with a stubbornness you’d never seen before.

He started tapping the screen, his thumb hovering over the 'Go Live' button. This was it. This was the moment everything changed. The climax wasn't just a photo leak; it was the total destruction of the idol system they’d both been trapped in.

Suddenly, the door to the rooftop burst open.

"JUNGWON! STOP!"

It was Jay. He was out of breath, his face pale, and he was holding a tablet that was already buzzing with alerts. Behind him were two security guards, their faces grim.

"Give me the phone, Wonie," Jay said, his voice trembling as he stepped forward, hands held out like he was approaching a wild animal. "Don't do this. You're emotional. You're tired. If you press that button, there is no coming back. Ever."

Jungwon looked at Jay, then at you, then back at the phone. He looked like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the wind was pushing him forward.

"Maybe I don't want to come back, Hyung," Jungwon said, his finger twitching over the screen.

The tension on that rooftop was so thick you could barely breathe. The wind was howling, whipping your hair across your face, but all you could hear was the frantic thumping of your own heart.

Jay took another step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel and grit of the old roof. He looked desperate, his eyes darting between Jungwon and the phone in his hand like it was a live grenade.

"Wonie, listen to me," Jay pleaded, his voice cracking. "Think about the guys. Think about Sunoo, he’s been crying in his room for three hours. Think about everything we sacrificed in the trainee dorms, eating ramen and dancing until our toes bled. You’re going to throw all of that away for a thirty-minute high?"

Jungwon’s face contorted. For a split second, you saw the "Leader" flicker back into his eyes—the guilt, the heavy burden of the other six members. But then he looked at you, huddled against the brick, and his grip on the phone tightened.

"It’s not a high, Hyung!" Jungwon screamed back, the sound tearing through the night air. "I’ve been a robot for five years! I smile when they tell me to smile, I wear what they tell me to wear, and I say the same canned lines in every interview. She is the only thing that doesn't feel like a script! If I lose her just to keep a job where I’m not allowed to be human, then what the hell am I even leading?"

The security guards moved to flank Jay, their hands hovering near their belts. They were clearly under orders to bring him back by any means necessary.

"Hayun," Jay turned his gaze to you, and the betrayal in his eyes was like a knife. "Tell him. If you actually care about him, tell him to put the phone down. You know how this ends. You’ve seen what the industry does to 'rebels.' They’ll erase him. They’ll sue him for everything he’s worth. They’ll make sure he never touches a microphone again."

You looked at Jungwon. He was looking at you too, waiting. He was giving you the power to stop it or to push him over the edge.

"Jungwon..." your voice was barely a whisper. "Jay is right about one thing. They will destroy you. You won't be 'Jungwon of Enhypen' anymore. You'll just be a kid with a massive debt and a ruined reputation."

Jungwon didn't flinch. He just held your gaze, his eyes dark and swirling with an intensity that made your soul ache. "Is that supposed to scare me? Because I’m more scared of waking up tomorrow and having to pretend I don’t love you."

Before Jay could scream another word, Jungwon’s thumb slammed down on the screen.

[LIVE - 1.2k viewers... 10k... 50k... 150k...]

The numbers were climbing so fast it looked like a glitch. The private account he’d kept hidden for years was suddenly the most famous page on the internet. Fans, reporters, anti-fans—everyone was flooding in. The comments were a blur of "OMG IS THIS REAL?" and "JUNGWON STAY SAFE."

Jungwon held the phone up, his face filling the frame. He looked raw. His hair was messy, his eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked exactly like what he was: a twenty-year-old boy who had had enough.

"I’m not going to be long," he said into the camera, his voice steady now, surprisingly calm. "My name is Yang Jungwon. And everything you’ve read in the news tonight... it’s mostly true. I was in that van. I was in that parking lot. But the company wants me to tell you it was a mistake. They want me to say I’m sorry."

He paused, a ghost of a smile—sad and defiant—appearing on his lips. Jay was frozen, his face buried in his hands, knowing it was over.

"I’m not sorry," Jungwon said, his voice ringing out across the rooftop. "I’m not sorry for loving someone who makes me feel real. I’m not sorry for wanting a life outside of a schedule. If being your leader means I have to lie to you and to myself, then I’m resigning. Right now. You can have the 'idol.' I’m keeping the girl."

He looked at you, a single tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek, before he ended the stream and dropped the phone. It hit the concrete with a sharp crack.

The silence that followed was heavy. The security guards looked at each other, unsure what to do now that the damage was done. Jay just stood there, looking at the city lights, his shoulders slumped.

"You did it," Jay whispered. "You actually did it."

Jungwon didn't even look at him. He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck. He was shaking—the adrenaline finally leaving his body and leaving him hollow.

"Let's go," he whispered against your skin.

"Where?" you asked, clutching him back, feeling the weight of the entire world shifting under your feet.

"Anywhere," he said. "As long as it’s not here."

But as you both turned to leave the roof, the sound of heavy boots and walkie-talkies echoed from the stairwell. The company wasn't just going to let you walk away into the sunset. They had a brand to protect, and you were both now the biggest liabilities in the history of K-pop.

The rest of the night was a blur of black SUVs, flashing lights, and cold interrogation rooms. You were separated from him the moment you reached the bottom of the building. The last thing you saw was Jungwon being practically dragged into a different car, his eyes never leaving yours until the door slammed shut.

You were taken to a safe house—a cold, sterile apartment on the outskirts of the city. No internet. No TV. Your phone had been confiscated by your manager, who looked like she’d aged ten years in a single night.

"You're a mess," she said, tossing a folder onto the coffee table. "The lawyers are already working on the contract termination. You’re done, Hayun. And him? He’s in even more trouble. They’re looking into 'breach of trust' clauses. They want to make an example out of him."

You didn't even hear her. You just stared at the blank white wall, wondering if Jungwon was okay. Wondering if he was sitting in a room somewhere, regretting that he’d ever met a girl who showed him what the floor of a van felt like.

Two days passed in total isolation. You felt like a ghost. But on the third night, a knock came at the door. It wasn't your manager.

It was Jay.

He looked like he hadn't slept since the rooftop. He walked in, ignoring the "no visitors" rule, and sat down across from you. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper.

"He managed to slip this to a staff member who felt sorry for him," Jay said, his voice flat. "He’s being moved to a 'training center' in the countryside tomorrow. It’s basically a prison until they decide how to sue him."

You grabbed the paper. Your hands were trembling.

I meant what I said. Don't let them win. I’m coming for you the first chance I get. - J.

Jay looked at you, and for the first time in weeks, he didn't look angry. He just looked tired. "The fans are actually starting to flip," he muttered. "The 'I'm Keeping the Girl' clip went viral. There are protests for you guys now. They’re calling it 'The Idol Revolution.' The company is terrified."

Jay leaned forward, his eyes searching yours. "If you’re going to do something, do it now. Because tomorrow, he’ll be gone."

The "safe house" felt more like a tomb. For two days, you’d been trapped with nothing but your thoughts and the ticking of a clock that seemed to mock you. But Jay’s visit had changed everything. That crumpled piece of paper in your palm felt like a live wire, burning through your skin.

I’m coming for you.

"He’s a fool," Jay whispered, staring at the floor. "But he’s a brave fool. The company is losing the narrative, Hayun. They tried to paint him as a victim of your 'seduction,' but that live stream... he looked too certain. Too man-grown. People are starting to ask why a twenty-year-old isn't allowed to love."

"Where is he, Jay? Exactly?" you asked, your voice returning for the first time in days.

Jay sighed, rubbing his face. "He’s at the Gapyeong estate. The one the Chairman uses for 'private retreats.' It’s gated, guarded, and totally off the grid. They’re keeping him there until the lawyers finish the paperwork to strip him of his rights. They want to make sure he doesn't speak to you or the press again."

You stood up, the adrenaline finally washing away the depression. "I’m going there."

"You're crazy," Jay snapped, though he didn't look surprised. "You'll never get past the gate. And even if you do, what then? You both run away into the woods? You have no money, no phones, no careers left."

"I don't care about the career, Jay! You saw him on that roof. He gave it all up for me. If I don't go to him now, I’m the coward everyone says I am."

Jay looked at you for a long time. Then, he reached into his pocket and tossed a set of car keys onto the table. "My SUV is in the basement. The back entrance is clear for another ten minutes. Don't make me regret this, y/n. If you get caught, I’m saying you stole them."

"Jay..."

"Just go," he muttered, turning his back. "Before I change my mind."

The drive to Gapyeong was a nightmare of shadows and paranoia. Every set of headlights that appeared in the rearview mirror felt like a death sentence. You kept expecting a police siren, or worse, a black SUV from the company’s "security" team to run you off the road. Your knuckles were white as you gripped the steering wheel of Jay’s car, the heater blasting but doing nothing to stop the bone-deep chill shivering through your body.

You weren't just driving toward a boy; you were driving toward the edge of a cliff. Behind you lay a decade of training, the blood, the sweat, the millions of fans, and the safety of a curated life. In front of you? Only uncertainty and the smell of pine trees and wet asphalt.

When you finally reached the estate, it looked like a tomb carved out of marble. The high walls and heavy gates were meant to keep the world out, but for Jungwon, they were meant to keep him in. You parked the car far down the trail, the mud sucking at your boots as you hiked through the dense forest. The silence of the woods was heavy, broken only by the snapping of twigs under your feet.

Finding his window was the easy part. He was the only spark of life in that massive, dark house. Seeing him through the glass—sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing—it broke something inside you. He looked like a bird in a cage, his wings already clipped by the lawyers and the PR teams.

The climb up the trellis was brutal. Your hands were raw, bleeding from the rough wood, but the second you felt his strong arms reaching out to haul you over the balcony, the pain vanished. You tumbled into the room, gasping for air, and he didn't even give you a second to stand up. He was on the floor with you, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking with a desperation that terrified you.

"You're here," he choked out, his voice a jagged wreck. "You're actually here."

"I'm here, Wonie. I'm right here."

The night that followed wasn't the sexy, rebellious encounter from the van. It was a funeral for your old lives. The room was cold, lit only by a dim lamp, and the air was thick with the weight of the billions of won in lawsuits that were about to rain down on your heads.

He undressed you with shaking hands, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked at you like you were the last beautiful thing he’d ever see. When he moved inside you, it was slow, deep, and filled with a crushing intensity. Every thrust felt like a goodbye. Every moan was a protest against the world outside those walls. He watched your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, memorizing the way your eyes fluttered shut. In that moment, he wasn't the leader of Enhypen. He wasn't a product. He was just a boy, terrified and in love, trying to find a home in the middle of a storm.

The sun rose the next morning, but it didn't bring light. It brought the "Reality Check."

The company didn't just let you go. They tried to erase you. The first few months were a blur of cold law offices and even colder stares. The lawsuits hit like a physical weight. "Damages to Brand Reputation." "Loss of Potential Revenue." "Breach of Morality Clauses." They wanted to make an example out of Jungwon. They wanted to show every other idol that if you dared to choose a person over the brand, you would be left with nothing.

Your bank accounts were frozen during the "investigation." Your contracts were terminated within forty-eight hours. The "Protect Jungwon" signs outside the building were replaced by piles of burned merchandise. The internet, which had once been your playground, became a toxic wasteland. You couldn't open an app without seeing your face next to the word "Downfall."

You moved into a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Mapo—a place where the wallpaper peeled in the humidity and the heater rattled like it was about to explode. It was a far cry from the luxury penthouses and silk sheets.

—

The first year was a slow, grueling descent into "normalcy." Jungwon, who had lived on a schedule since he was a child, didn't know what to do with a day that wasn't planned out to the minute. He’d wake up at noon and just stare at the ceiling, the silence of the room louder than any cheering crowd.

"It’s too quiet," he whispered one night as you both sat on the floor eating instant ramen. "I keep waiting for someone to knock on the door and tell me we have a flight to catch."

"Nobody is coming, Wonie," you said, reaching across the small table to take his hand. His skin was rougher now, no longer pampered by expensive lotions. "It's just us."

He looked at you, and for a second, the "Idol" mask flickered back into place—the guilt, the sadness. But then he squeezed your hand back. "Good. I’m tired of being 'us.' I just want to be me."

The financial struggle was real. You took work under pseudonyms, writing jingles for commercials or ghostwriting for rookies who had no idea who you were. Jungwon took a job at a small recording studio, his talent finally being used for someone else's dream. You’d see him coming home at midnight, his eyes tired but his shoulders relaxed in a way they never were during his idol days.

Jay would visit sometimes, always in the middle of the night, wearing a bucket hat and a mask. He’d bring bags of groceries and news from the group. He’d tell you about the new comeback, the tours, the empty spot on the stage that nobody could quite fill.

"The fans still chant your name, you know," Jay told Jungwon once. "During the bridge of 'Go big or go home.' They still do the fanchant with your name in it."

Jungwon just looked at the cracked linoleum floor of your kitchen. "Tell them to stop. Tell them to give that energy to the others. I’m not that guy anymore."

—

Five years passed.

The scars of the scandal were still there, but they had faded into a dull ache. The lawsuits were finally settled—Jungwon had lost almost everything he’d earned in his teens, but he was free. You were both "vets" of a war nobody talked about anymore.

One evening, you were walking through a small park in Seoul. It was autumn, the leaves turning that bright, fiery orange that always reminded you of your debut stage. Jungwon was walking beside you, his hand tucked into his jacket pocket. He wasn't wearing a mask. He didn't need to. Most people didn't recognize him anymore, and the ones who did just saw a handsome man in his mid-twenties.

A group of high school girls ran past you, screaming about a new boy group. One of them dropped a photocard. Jungwon stopped, picked it up, and looked at it. It was a young boy, maybe sixteen, with a "perfect" smile and "perfect" hair.

Jungwon handed it back to the girl with a polite smile. "Be careful," he said softly. "It’s easy to lose things."

The girl thanked him and ran off, oblivious to the fact that she’d just spoken to one of the biggest legends of the fourth generation.

Jungwon turned to you, his eyes catching the golden light of the setting sun. "You think they’re happy?" he asked.

"Who? The girls or the boy on the card?"

"The boy."

"I hope so," you said, leaning your head on his shoulder. "But I think we both know the price of that smile."

That night, back in your apartment—which was much nicer now, though still modest—the atmosphere felt different. The "Reality Check" was finally over. The fallout had settled. There was no more running, no more hiding, no more legal threats hanging over your heads.

Jungwon pulled you toward him as you were brushing your teeth, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"Remember the van?" he murmured, his voice deeper and more grounded than it had been at twenty.

"Which time? There were a lot of vans, Jungwonie."

He laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "The first time we got caught. I used to look back at that night and think it was the biggest mistake of my life. I used to blame myself for ruining your career."

He turned you around, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. He looked at you with an intensity that had never faded, not in five years of struggle. "But looking at you now... in our home... I realize that van was the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to stop being a product and start being a person."

He picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist just like they did in the elevator all those years ago. But this time, he didn't rush. He carried you to the bed, laying you down with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

He undressed you slowly, his eyes worshiping every inch of your body. There were no marks to hide anymore, no bruises that needed concealer. Just skin on skin. When he moved inside you, it was a slow, rhythmic celebration of everything you had survived. He wasn't taking; he was giving. He was showing you with every thrust that he was still yours, that the sacrifice was worth it every single day.

You arched your back, your fingers digging into the muscles of his arms—arms that were stronger now from real work, not just idol training. You cried out his name, not as a fan, not as a colleague, but as the woman who had stayed when everyone else left.

As he came, he held you so tight you could feel his heart beating in sync with yours. "I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you more than I ever loved the stage."

—

Ten years after the scandal.

You’re sitting on the porch of a small house in the countryside, the kind of place Jay would have called "boring" back in the day. There’s a small garden in the front, and the sound of birds is the only thing you hear.

Jungwon comes out, carrying two cups of coffee. He has a few fine lines around his eyes now, and his hair is a bit longer, messy in the way he likes it. He sits down next to you, pulling a blanket over both your laps.

"Jay called," Jungwon says, taking a sip of his coffee. "He’s thinking about retiring from the industry. Says it’s getting too loud for him."

"He should come here," you say, leaning your head on Jungwon’s shoulder. "We have plenty of room."

Jungwon laughs, a soft, content sound. He reaches over and takes your hand, his fingers tangling with yours. He looks out at the trees, the same trees that once looked like a prison, and now look like a sanctuary.

"You know," he says, his voice quiet. "I saw a documentary on the old days last night. They mentioned us. Called us 'the cautionary tale of K-pop.'"

"Is that what we are?" you ask, smiling.

Jungwon looks at you, then at the house you built together, the life you fought for, and the quiet peace that surrounds you. He leans in and kisses you—a slow, lingering kiss that tastes like coffee and a decade of shared secrets.

"No," he says, pulling you closer. "We're the ones who got away."

@ yjw-wonie, 2026

You weren't supposed to notice him. At first, he was just... there. Always standing in the background. Standing a little too still. Watching a little too long. You told yourself it was nothing.

But then... you started seeing him everywhere. At the same time. Every night. On the same street. Under the same flickering light. Like he was waiting. For you.

He never spoke first. Never get too close. Just enough for you to feel his presence... but never enough to understand it. And yet, you kept coming back. Even when something deep inside you whispered that you shouldn't. Tonight feels different.

The street is quieter. The air... heavier. And for the first time— he steps closer. Not enough to touch you. But enough for you to feel the cold. Not the cold of the night. But the cold of him.

"You shouldn't be there this late." His voice calm. Too calm. Like he's not warning you... but himself. You try to laugh it off. Say something normal. Something human. But he doesn't smile. He just looks at you. Not at your face. Not at your eyes. But at your neck. "I told myself I wouldn't get closer." A pause. "But you keep coming back."

Your heart is beating too fast now. You can hear it. And somehow, you know he can hear it. Because his gaze darkens. Just slightly. Just enough. "I don't think you understand what I am." He takes one more step. Now there's no space left between you. No distance. No safety.

"But I do." His voice drops. "That's exactly why I stayed away." Silence. Heavy. Dangerous. "Go home." He says it like an order. Like he expect you to run. But you don't move. And for the first time, something in his expression breaks. Just a little.

"You should be afraid of me."

A whisper. Closer now. Too close. But instead of stepping back, he leans in. And that's when you feel it. Not teeth. Not yet. Just his breath, cold against your skin. Hesitating. Like he's fighting himself. "Last chance." But he doesn't move.

You don't move. Not when he tells you to leave. Not when his voice turns into something dangerous. You just stand there... looking at him. And that's his mistake. Because the moment you don't step back, something in him snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just slightly. His hand lifts. Slowly. Like he's giving you time to stop him. To push him away.

But you don't. His fingers brush your wrist. Too cold. And yet... you don't pull away. A breath escape him. Shaky. Like he's been holding it for too long. "You really don't know what you're doing." His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep you there. "I stayed away for a reason." A pause. "You make it harder."

Your heartbeat is louder now. Faster. It fills the silence between you. And this time... he doesn't look away. His eyes drop to your neck. Your pulse. You see it. For a second. That flicker. That hunger. And he hates it.

His jaw tightens. His hand moves from your wrist to your shoulder. Pulling you just a little closer. "Say something." His voice lower now. "Tell me to stop." But you don't. And that's what he exhales. Like he's finally losing the fight.

"You're not even scared."

A small, almost bitter smile. Gone in a second. "Do you trust me that much..." A pause. "...or are you just not thinking at all?" He leans in again. Closer than before. No space left. This time... you feel it. Not just his breath. His lips, barely brushing your skin. Not biting. Not yet. Just there. Hovering.

And he stops. Again. A quiet curse under his breath. "I can't..." He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes darker now. Not human. "If i start... I won't stop."

Something in his expression finally breaks. Not control. Restraint. His eyes close for a second... like he's accepting it. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

And then he leans in. Closer than before. No hesitation this time. His lips brush your skin again, but this time... they don't stop.

A sharp intake of breath, not yours. His. And then you feel it. Not pain. Not exactly. Just a sudden cold pressure followed by something deeper. His grip tightens. Just slightly. Like he's holding himself together while he's losing control.

The world fades around you. No sound. No movement. Just him. And your heartbeat slowing. But he doesn't let go. Not immediately. Because once he started... he meant it. And when he finally pulls away, just slightly, his breath is uneven. Eyes still dark. Still not human. "Too late."

You fall slowly. He keeps sucking your blood. He smiles satisfied. The sun was going to come up soon. He flew away in a dark forest taking your body with him. "My new dead princess..."

Hii everyone!! I hope you’re all doing well. I’ve wanting to try something new so here it is. If you want me to do this but with another member free to tell me in the comments. I really appreciate all the likes, comments and reblog for my last post so tyy so much guys. Take care of yourself <3

- yang jungwon

• 01. I wrote you instead

• 02. Off the record

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- lee heeseung

coming soon

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- park jongseong

coming soon

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- sim jaeyun

coming soon

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- park sunghoon

• 01. ice burn

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- kim sunoo

coming soon

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- nishimura riki

• 01. obsessive vampire

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- enhypen

• husband material or boyfriend material

The arena felt larger than usual, a cavern of steel and frost that seemed to swallow every sound. You stayed near the barriers, gliding in slow, effortless circles. You didn't want to disturb him, but you couldn't look away.

Sunghoon was a vision of controlled violence in the center of the rink. Every jump he attempted was followed by a sharp hiss of frustration when he didn't land it to his impossible standards. You could see the muscles in his thighs flexing through his leggings, the way his jaw was set so tight it looked like marble.

He knew you were there. He’d known from the moment you stepped onto the ice, but he chose to ignore you, pushing his body to the limit just to show off, or perhaps to distract himself from the way his heart hammered whenever you drifted into his peripheral vision.

You stopped by the gate, leaning your elbows on the padded railing. The cold was beginning to seep through your clothes, but the heat radiating from your own skin kept you centered.

Sunghoon executed a sharp turn, his blades spraying a fine mist of ice crystals into the air. Instead of starting another lap, he let his momentum carry him toward you. He didn't look at you yet; he kept his gaze fixed on the ice, slowing down until he was just a few feet away.

The silence between you was heavy, filled only by the distant hum of the cooling system and his jagged, uneven breathing.

"You're late," he finally said. His voice was low, rasping slightly from the dry air. He stopped completely, his skates parallel to yours. He still wasn't looking up, but he was close enough that you could see the steam rising from his damp neck.

"I didn't think you'd notice," you whispered, the lie tasting like sugar on your tongue.

Sunghoon finally lifted his head. His eyes were dark, hooded with exhaustion and something else—something much more primal. He didn't smile. He just stared at you, his gaze tracing the line of your throat, then your lips, before meeting your eyes again.

"I notice everything you do, y/n. Especially when you think I'm not looking."

He reached out, his gloved hand gripping the railing right next to your arm. He didn't touch you, but the proximity made the hair on your arms stand up.

"Come closer," he commanded, a soft but firm order that made your stomach flip. "The light is better here. I want to see your face when you tell me why you're really here this late."

You didn't move at first. Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, echoing the heavy bass of the song playing faintly over the arena’s speakers. But Sunghoon didn't look away. He waited, his dark eyes challenging you, daring you to bridge the few inches left between you.

Slowly, you pushed off the railing, gliding toward him until your knees almost brushed the front of his skates. Up close, he was overwhelming. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of the ice and the raw heat of his body.

"I'm here to practice, Hoon," you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Liar," he breathed. He reached out, his hand—still clad in a thin, black athletic glove—slowly rising to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, but the contrast of the cool fabric against your heated skin made you shiver. "You’ve been doing the same three laps for twenty minutes. You’re distracted."

His hand didn't drop. Instead, his fingers slid down to your jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of your lower lip. His gaze followed the movement, intense and unblinking.

"Is it because of what happened earlier?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, vibrating hum. "In the hallway? I saw the way that guy from the hockey team was looking at you. And I saw you smiling back."

The sudden shift in his tone caught you off guard. The jealousy was there, simmering just beneath his polished surface. He gripped your chin slightly firmer, forcing you to maintain eye contact.

"He was just asking for directions," you stammered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened. "I don't care what he was asking. I don't like other people putting their hands on what belongs in this rink. On what belongs near me."

He stepped even closer, his body now completely shielding you from the rest of the empty arena. He was so close that his exhales were ghosting over your lips, tasting of mint and adrenaline.

"You think you can just be friendly with everyone and then come here and watch me bleed for perfection?" He let out a dark, breathless chuckle. "No. If you're going to stay, you're going to focus entirely on me. Do you understand?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back. The dominance in his posture was suffocating in the best way possible.

"Tell me, y/n," he whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Who are you here for?"

Sunghoon didn’t wait for your verbal answer. He knew he already had it by the way your breath hitched. Instead of kissing you, he suddenly gripped both of your hands, his fingers locking firmly around your wrists.

"Let’s see how focused you really are," he murmured.

Without warning, he began to skate backward, pulling you with him into the center of the rink. Sunghoon was a master of momentum; he moved with a terrifying smoothness, weaving a path across the ice while forced you to follow his lead. You were a good skater, but at this speed, and with him guiding your every move, you felt completely breathless.

"Hoon, wait—" you gasped, your skates clashing slightly as you tried to keep up with his sudden pace.

"Don't look at your feet," he commanded, his voice loud enough to cut through the cold air. "Look at me. Only at me."

He began to spin you slowly, then faster, keeping your bodies inches apart. The world around you blurred into a haze of blue and grey, leaving only his face in sharp focus. His expression was intense, almost predatory. He was showing off now—not for a crowd, but for you. He wanted you to feel exactly how much power he had on this ice.

Suddenly, he dug his blade into the surface, bringing both of you to a dead stop in the very center of the arena. The momentum sent you stumbling forward, right into his chest.

His arms immediately wrapped around your waist, holding you so tight you could feel the frantic thrumming of his heart against your ribs. He was burning hot, his body a stark contrast to the freezing mist surrounding you.

"You're shaking," he noted, a smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a kind smile; it was the look of a man who knew he’d won.

He slid one hand down, gripping the back of your thigh to lift your leg slightly, forcing you to hook it around his hip to keep your balance on the slippery surface. It was an intimate, suggestive position, right in the middle of the open ice.

"Is it the cold, y/n? Or is it because you realize I can do whatever I want with you out here, and no one would ever know?"

He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes dropping to your mouth with a hunger that made your knees go weak.

"Answer me. Are you scared? Or are you just waiting for me to stop talking?"

Sunghoon didn't wait for your reply. He didn't have to. Instead, he kept his arm hooked firmly under your thigh, skating toward the edge of the rink with slow, deliberate strides. You were forced to cling to his broad shoulders, your heart hammering against his chest until he reached the barrier.

With a sudden, forceful movement, he pressed you back against the thick plexiglas. The cold of the transparent wall seeped through your clothes instantly, making you gasp, but Sunghoon was right there, his heavy body pinning you in place, trapping you in a cocoon of his heat.

"You like the way they look at you, don't you?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low as he leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction away from your earlobe. "But they don't get to see this. They don't get to see how your eyes glaze over when I touch you."

He let your leg drop, but only so he could slide his hand upward. His black-gloved fingers moved with agonizing slowness, tracing the curve of your waist before disappearing under the hem of your top. His palm was searing against your skin, a deliberate contrast to the freezing glass behind you.

"Sunghoon..." you breathed, your head falling back against the barrier.

"Shh," he hushed you, his thumb circling a sensitive spot on your hip. "I didn't say you could speak yet. I want you to stay quiet and feel everything."

He began to trail kisses down your neck, biting lightly at the junction where your shoulder met your throat, marking the pale skin. You could feel the vibration of his low chuckle against your skin when you let out a soft, broken whimper.

"Good girl," he murmured, that little praise cutting through the tension like a blade. "So sensitive for me. Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about breaking you down right here? Right where everyone thinks I’m so perfect and disciplined?"

His other hand came up, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back even further, exposing the long line of your throat. His gaze was dark, focused, and entirely in control as he watched your reaction to his touch.

"I’m going to show you exactly why you shouldn't smile at anyone else," he said, his hand sliding lower, his fingers teasing the waistband of your leggings. "And you’re going to be so loud for me that the whole arena will know who you belong to. Do you want that, y/n? Do you want me to stop being a gentleman?"

Sunghoon’s fingers stayed right there, hooked just under the elastic of your leggings, teasing the skin but going no further. He was motionless, a statue of heat and muscle, watching the way your chest rose and fell in ragged heaves.

The silence of the arena was deafening, making every small sound—the slide of his glove, the catch in your throat—sound like an explosion.

"You're so quiet all of a sudden," he mocked gently, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying intensity. "Where did all that confidence go, y/n? The girl who was so brave earlier, smiling at other men... she seems to have disappeared."

He leaned in closer, his chest crushing yours against the glass. He brought his free hand up, tracing the outline of your trembling lips with his thumb, before slowly inserting it into your mouth. He watched with a dark, satisfied smirk as you instinctively swirled your tongue around it.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with dark praise. "Such a good girl, taking it so well. But you’re still not saying it."

He pulled his thumb out with a wet click and moved his hand back down, his palm flat against your stomach, pressing just hard enough to make you whimper. He began to grind his hips against yours, slow and agonizingly deliberate. You could feel exactly how much he was holding back, the hard length of him straining against his trousers, but he refused to give in.

"Hoon... please," you finally broke, the word coming out as a desperate, broken sob.

He stopped moving instantly. He tilted his head, his expression blank, though his eyes were burning. "Please what? You have to be specific, sweetheart. I’m a perfectionist, remember? I need to know exactly what you’re begging for."

He moved his hand away from your waistband entirely, leaning back just an inch—enough to let the biting cold of the arena air rush between your bodies. The sudden loss of his warmth was a shock to your system.

"Tell me," he commanded, his voice hardening. "Tell me what you want me to do to you. And if you don't say it clearly... I might just put my skates back on and leave you here, shivering and empty."

He caught your gaze and held it, his jaw set. He was waiting. He wanted to hear the ruin in your voice; he wanted the total surrender before he finally let the "Ice Prince" melt away.

"Please... I want you," you choked out, your fingers digging into the fabric of his training jacket, pulling him back toward you. "I want you to touch me, Hoon. Properly. Now."

A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. "There she is," he whispered. "I knew you were a greedy little thing."

He didn't waste another second. He grabbed your waist and hoisted you up, your skates dangling off the ice as he sat you firmly on the top of the padded railing. The sudden height difference put you right at his eye level. He stepped between your legs, forcing them wide apart, his body a solid, burning weight against your inner thighs.

"I've been thinking about how this would feel for weeks," he muttered, his voice dropping into that raw, horse language you’d been waiting for.

He reached down and, with one swift movement, pulled your leggings and lace underwear down just enough to expose you to the biting air of the rink. The shock of the cold against your wet heat made you gasp, but before you could even shiver, his bare hand—he’d ripped his glove off with his teeth—was there.

His palm cupped you firmly, his skin scorching. "You're so wet for me, Y/N. Look at that. Did you get like this just watching me skate?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He slid two fingers inside you with a sharp, blunt force that made your back arch and your head hit the plexiglass with a dull thud. You let out a loud, high-pitched cry that echoed through the empty arena.

"Shh, be loud for me, but stay still," he commanded, his dominance flaring as he began to move his fingers in a rhythmic, punishing pace. He found your sweet spot with terrifying accuracy, his thumb grinding against your clit with a pressure that was almost too much. "That’s it. Take it. You begged for this, didn't you?"

He leaned in and captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with the same frantic intensity as his fingers. He tasted like adrenaline and mint. You could hear the wet, messy sounds of his work between your legs, the noise amplified by the silence of the rink.

"You’re so tight," he groaned against your lips, his composure finally starting to fray at the edges. "I can feel you twitching around my fingers. You want more, don't you? You want me to fill you up properly."

He pulled back just enough to look at your face—your flushed cheeks, your blown-out pupils, your lips swollen from his kisses. That praise returned, darker this time. "You look so beautiful like this. Completely ruined for me. No one else gets to see you this way. Just me."

He withdrew his fingers, making you whine at the sudden loss, only to immediately start fumbling with the fly of his own pants. His eyes never left yours.

"I'm going to mark you so deeply you'll feel me every time you step on this ice," he promised, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Wrap your legs around me. Now."

You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his waist and locking your ankles behind his back. The position was precarious, leaving you completely vulnerable and balanced only by his strength. Sunghoon gripped your hips with a bruising force, his knuckles white, as he positioned himself at your entrance.

"Look at me, y/n," he growled, his voice trembling with the effort of holding back. "I want to see your eyes when I take you."

He pushed inside you in one deep, slow stroke that seemed to go on forever. You let out a strangled cry, your fingers clawing at his shoulders as your body stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, hot, and completely unyielding. For a second, he just stayed there, buried deep inside you, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Fuck," he hissed, the word slipping out as his control finally snapped. "You’re so warm... it’s driving me insane."

He began to move, his pace frantic and desperate. Every time his hips slammed against yours, the plexiglas behind you rattled, the sound echoing like thunder in the cavernous silence of the arena. It was overstimulation in its purest form: the biting cold of the air on your skin, the hard glass against your back, and the scorching, rhythmic friction of him filling you over and over.

Sunghoon wasn't the graceful skater everyone knows anymore. He was a man possessed. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he left a trail of dark marks that would definitely be there tomorrow.

"Tell me," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me no one else touches you like this."

"Only you... Hoon, only you," you sobbed, your head tossing back as the pleasure began to peak, sharp and electric.

"Good girl," he groaned, the praise making your insides twist with fresh desire. He accelerated, his movements becoming raw and unfiltered. He was hitting your depth with every thrust, his hands moving from your hips to your hair, pulling your face back to meet his for a messy, desperate kiss.

He was reaching his limit, his muscles locking up, his heart thundering against your chest like a trapped bird. "I'm going to... I’m going to make you come for me, y/n. Don't you dare close your eyes."

The begging was gone, replaced by a mutual, frantic need. You felt the first waves of your orgasm ripple through you, your internal muscles clenching around him so tightly he let out a guttural shout. That was the final straw. With one last, deep surge, Sunghoon followed you over the edge, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself inside you, his grip on you so tight it felt like he’d never let go.

────୨ৎ────

For a long time, the only sound was the two of you breathing—loud, jagged gasps that turned into white mist in the freezing air. Sunghoon kept his face hidden in your neck, his chest heaving against yours. The adrenaline was slowly fading, replaced by a heavy, languid warmth.

Slowly, he pulled back, his eyes softened but still possessive. He reached up, his thumb wiping a stray tear from your cheek with surprising tenderness.

"I told you," he whispered, his voice still raspy and deep. "I notice everything. And now everyone’s going to notice those marks on your neck tomorrow. They’ll know exactly who you were with tonight."

He kissed your forehead, a small, triumphant smirk returning to his lips.

The silence of the arena slowly returned, settling over the ice like a heavy blanket. Sunghoon didn't move for a long time, his forehead resting against yours, his heart slowly calming its frantic pace. The only thing moving was the mist of your mingled breaths in the blue light.

He finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His usual composed mask was gone; his hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were dark with a lingering, satisfied heat.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice sounding like gravel.

He reached down to help you adjust your clothes with surprising care, though his eyes lingered on the red marks he’d left on your collarbone. He looked proud of them—his signature written on your skin in a way no one could ignore.

He lifted you off the railing, his hands staying on your waist until he was sure your skates were steady on the ice. The cold hit you again, but it didn't feel as biting now. You felt heavy, warm, and completely claimed.

"We should go before the morning shift arrives," you whispered, finally finding your voice.

Sunghoon didn't answer right away. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and turned off the music. The silence was absolute. He then took your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

"Let them come," he said, a small, arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. "But from now on, you don’t watch the sessions from the stands anymore. You stay where I can see you. Where I can reach you."

He leaned down for one last kiss—not a desperate one this time, but a slow, lingering promise.

"See you tomorrow, y/n," he whispered against your lips. "And don't even think about covering those marks. I want to see them on you in the light."

He let go of your hand and skated toward the exit with his usual effortless grace, leaving you alone for a second in the center of the rink. You watched him go, knowing that the Ice Prince wasn't just a title anymore—he was your secret, and tonight, you had both burned the ice to the ground.

────୨ৎ────

The silence of the hospital was more violent than the fire had been.

It was a cold, clinical silence that seemed to hum in Sooah’s ears, vibrating through the thin mattress of her bed. She spent hours staring at the ceiling, watching the shadow of the IV drip move slowly across the white tiles. Her throat was raw, a permanent reminder of the smoke she had inhaled, but the real pain was centered in her chest—a jagged, hollow ache where her heart used to be.

Jennie was always there, sitting in the plastic chair by the bed. She looked like a ghost herself. They didn't talk about the night at the warehouse. They didn't talk about the fact that their father was behind bars, or that their mother hadn't stopped screaming for three days. They only spoke in whispers about things that didn't matter—the temperature of the soup, the time of the next medication, the rain hitting the window.

"Jay came by again," Jennie said on the fourth morning, her voice barely audible. "He left this for you."

She placed a small, scorched object on the bedside table. It was the silver butterfly bracelet. The metal was blackened, the delicate wings of the butterfly twisted and melted by the heat. Sooah reached out with a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the cold, ruined silver.

As soon as she touched it, the memories rushed back like a tidal wave. She could feel the weight of Jungwon’s head in her lap. She could see the way the fire reflected in his eyes—eyes that had remained open, staring at her with a final, desperate love even as the life left them. She remembered the smell of his blood, metallic and hot, mixing with the scent of the kerosene.

A strangled, broken sob escaped her lips. She clutched the ruined bracelet to her chest, curling into a ball as the monitors began to beep frantically. She wanted to drown in it. She wanted the grief to swallow her whole because a world without Yang Jungwon wasn't a world she knew how to navigate.

────୨ৎ────

One week later, Sooah was discharged from the hospital, but she didn't really come home. She walked through the rooms of their apartment like a stranger. Her father was gone, his presence replaced by a heavy, suffocating absence. The police had called it a "preventable tragedy," but to Sooah, it felt like the end of time itself.

She spent her days in her room, the curtains drawn. She couldn't look at the sky—the stars reminded her of the hill, and the sun reminded her of his smile. She spent her nights staring at the Polaroid, which she had found tucked inside her math textbook.

“Live for me. Promise...” "I can't," she whispered to the darkness, her voice cracking. "It’s too hard, Wonie. Everything is too loud and too dark at the same time."

She felt like she was made of ink—a messy, dark stain on a white page. She started writing to him in a notebook, filling pages with things she never got to say. I’m sorry I didn't run faster. I’m sorry I let you go into that building alone. I’m sorry I survived.

The weight of her survival became a physical burden. Every breath felt like a theft. On the seventh night, the ocean of grief finally pulled her under. She couldn't fight the current anymore. She sat at her desk, her vision blurred by tears, and wrote one final line in her notebook:

The story ended in the basement, Jungwon. I’m just finishing the last chapter.

She stood up, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were walking underwater. She headed toward the bathroom, her heart terminal and heavy. She looked in the mirror, but she didn't see herself. She saw the girl from the book—the girl who was broken beyond repair. She reached for the edge of the sink, the world beginning to tilt and fade into a final, merciful gray.

The last thing she felt was a strange, sudden warmth—not the heat of the fire, but something like... sunlight?

THUD.

A heavy object hit the floor, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.

Sooah’s eyes flew open. Her heart was racing, a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She gasped for air, expecting the taste of smoke and ash, but instead, her lungs were filled with the scent of floor wax and the faint, sweet aroma of the school cafeteria’s peach cobbler.

She blinked, her eyes stinging in the bright, golden light. She wasn't in a dark bathroom. She wasn't at a funeral.

She was in the back of the literature classroom.

The afternoon sun was streaming through the large windows, bathing the room in a warm, honey-colored glow. Around her, the low hum of student chatter was a symphony of normalcy. Someone was laughing in the hallway; a teacher was scrawling notes on the chalkboard with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap.

Sooah looked down at her desk. Her hands were shaking. She checked her wrists—they were smooth, pale, and unscarred. She touched her face, feeling the softness of her skin instead of the bruises and soot.

Next to her chair, a book lay splayed open on the floor. She leaned down and picked it up, her fingers trembling as she read the cover: "I Wrote You Instead." It was a thick novel, the kind of tragic romance that people read when they want to feel something painful. She looked at the last page she had been reading before she drifted off. It described a girl standing in a hospital room, clutching a melted silver bracelet.

"Whoa, Sooah, take it easy," a familiar, bright voice said.

Sooah turned her head so fast her neck popped. Eunchae was sitting at the next desk, leaning back in her chair with a lollipop in her mouth. She looked perfectly fine—no tears, no trauma.

"Did you have a nightmare? You were literally whimpering in your sleep," Eunchae teased, though her eyes were kind. "I told you that book was too depressing. Why do you read that stuff? Life is already stressful enough with the midterms coming up."

"Eunchae?" Sooah’s voice was thick with a confusion that felt like vertigo. "Where’s... where’s my mom? And Jennie?"

Eunchae raised an eyebrow. "At work? Your mom literally dropped you off this morning, remember? She was complaining about the traffic for twenty minutes straight. And Jennie texted you an hour ago asking what you wanted for dinner."

Sooah felt a sob of pure, dizzying relief rise in her chest, but she choked it back. It wasn't real. The kidnapping, the fire, the death... it was all just the pages of a book. A story she had crawled into so deeply that she had forgotten where the ink ended and she began.

"And... Jungwon?" she whispered, her heart stopping as she waited for the answer.

"He's in the library with Jay, probably arguing about the basketball finals," Eunchae said, checking her watch. "He’s been back for a month now, Sooah. You’d think you’d be used to him following you around like a puppy by now."

Sooah didn't wait for the bell. She shoved the book into her bag, her hands flying. She needed to see him. She needed to know that the heat she felt wasn't fire, but life.

She ran out of the classroom, ignoring the confused shout from the teacher. She sprinted down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, her breath coming in short, joyous gasps. She burst into the library, her eyes scanning the rows of tables.

And there he was.

Jungwon was sitting by the window, the sunlight catching the dark highlights in his hair. He was laughing at something Jay had said, his shoulders shaking, his face bright and full of life. He looked healthy. He looked whole. He looked exactly like the boy he was supposed to be.

As if sensing her presence, he turned around. When he saw Sooah standing there, breathless and wide-eyed, his entire expression softened. He didn't look at her with the tragic desperation of a dying boy. He looked at her with the easy, comfortable love of a best friend who had never left.

"Sooah! You're finally awake," he called out, standing up and walking toward her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, chilled carton of strawberry milk. "I got this for you. I was going to bring it to class, but you were out cold."

He reached her, his hand moving to gently brush a stray hair from her forehead. His skin was warm. His touch was real.

"You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, his voice dropping into that low, sweet tone she knew so well. Two deep, perfect dimples appeared as he smiled.

Sooah didn't answer with words. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. She could hear it—the steady, strong thud-thud of his heart. It was a beautiful, living rhythm.

"I just missed you," she whispered into his shirt.

Jungwon laughed softly, his arms closing around her, holding her close. "I was only gone for an hour, Sooah. But I missed you too."

Sooah closed her eyes, leaning into his warmth. The bad nightmare were gone, replaced by the golden light of a September afternoon. The story in the book was over, and her own story—one filled with strawberry milk, stars, and a boy who would never have to sacrifice himself—was only just beginning.

────୨ৎ────

<- previous chapter (04. Ashes of Protection)

────୨ৎ────

The morning sun was a cruel deception. It rose over Seoul in a haze of soft pink and gold, promising a warmth that felt like a mockery of the ice in Sooah’s veins. She had left her house at 7:15 AM, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her fingers absently tracing the silver butterfly Jungwon had given her. She felt like she was walking on a tightrope, waiting for the wind to knock her off.

She never saw the man behind her.

As she turned the corner toward the main road, a hand clamped over her mouth. The scent of grease and old tobacco filled her senses, but it wasn't her father. It was someone else—someone larger, stronger. Before she could bite down or scream, a heavy blow landed on the side of her head. The world tilted, the pavement rushed up to meet her, and then the light vanished.

────୨ৎ────

The bell for second period rang, but Jungwon didn't move from the school gates. He was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over Sooah’s name.

"She’s not answering, Jay," he said, his voice tight with an anxiety that was bordering on panic.

Jay leaned against the brick wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked calm, but the way he was tapping his foot told a different story. "Maybe she’s just late, Won. Or maybe her dad took her phone again. You know how he is."

"No," Jungwon shook his head, his feline eyes dark. "Something is wrong. I felt it the moment I woke up."

By 11:00 AM, the worry had turned into a full-scale search. Jennie had arrived at the school, her face pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She had found the front door of their house wide open, her mother crying on the kitchen floor, and Sooah’s lunchbox abandoned on the porch.

"He didn't take her," Jennie whispered, her voice trembling as she met Jungwon and Jay in the hallway. "My father is at the police station—he got picked up for a DUI an hour ago. He was alone. But Sooah... she’s gone. And her phone was found in the gutter two streets away."

Jungwon felt the air leave his lungs. If it wasn't her father, it was someone worse. Someone her father owed money to. Someone who didn't care about "breaking" her—someone who just wanted to use her.

"Jay, get the car," Jungwon said, his voice turning cold and sharp like a blade. "Jennie, call Eunchae. Have her check the old textile district. My dad mentioned some of the men his company used to work with hide out there."

"Jungwon, wait for the police!" Jennie cried, grabbing his arm.

"I don't have time for the police!" he roared, pulling away. "Every second we wait is a second she’s alone with those monsters."

────୨ৎ────

The darkness was thick, smelling of damp earth and rotting wood. Sooah woke up with a scream trapped in her throat. Her hands were tied behind her back with coarse rope that bit into her skin. Her face throbbed where she had been hit, and her clothes were torn.

She wasn't alone.

The low murmur of voices came from the shadows. Two men were sitting at a crooked table, a single dim lightbulb swaying above them. They weren't her father. They were predators—the kind of men her father had gambled away his soul to.

"Look who’s finally awake," one of them sneered, standing up. He walked over, his heavy boots echoing on the concrete floor. He reached down, grabbing her chin with a hand that felt like sandpaper. "Your old man owes us a lot of money, princess. And since he’s in a cell, you’re the only currency we’ve got left."

The next few hours were a blurred nightmare of pain and humiliation. They didn't see her as a person. They saw her as a debt. Every time she tried to fight, every time she cried out for Jungwon, they reminded her of her place with a blow or a cruel word. She was trapped in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, a place the world had forgotten.

She looked at her wrist. The silver butterfly was gone, ripped off by the men earlier. She felt a hole in her heart where her hope used to be. Jungwon, please. Don't find me. Don't come here. Save yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Jungwon found the warehouse by pure instinct. He had left Jay and Jennie blocks away, scouting the other side of the district. But something about this building—the way the heavy iron doors were slightly ajar, the way the silence felt heavy—drew him in.

He moved through the upper floors like a ghost, his heart thundering in his ears. He found the basement door. It was locked from the outside with a heavy bolt.

He didn't wait. He threw his entire weight against the door. Once. Twice. On the third hit, the wood splintered.

He burst into the room just as one of the men was raising a hand to Sooah again.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" Jungwon’s voice was a primal roar.

He didn't look like the sweet boy with the dimples anymore. He looked like a demon. He tackled the first man, his fists flying with a desperation he didn't know he possessed. He wasn't a fighter, but he was a boy in love, and that was more dangerous.

"Sooah!" he gasped, dodging a blow from the second man.

Sooah looked up, her vision blurry through her swollen eyes. "Jungwon... no... run... please..."

The fight was messy and brutal. Jungwon managed to knock one man unconscious with a heavy metal pipe, but the other was larger. He pinned Jungwon against the wall, and in the dim light, the flash of a blade caught the air.

Squelch.

The sound was sickeningly quiet. Jungwon’s eyes widened, his breath hitching. He looked down at the knife buried deep in his side.

The man panicked. He heard the distant sirens—Jay had finally called the police—and he realized he had gone too far. He shoved Jungwon away, grabbed his partner, and they scrambled out of the basement, leaving a trail of blood and the smell of kerosene behind. In their panic, they had knocked over a portable heater, and the old, dry rags on the floor began to smolder.

Jungwon collapsed to his knees, his hand pressing against his wound. Red, hot blood began to soak through his white school shirt.

"Sooah..." he wheezed, crawling toward her.

"Jungwon! Oh my god, Jungwon!" Sooah fought against her ropes, her adrenaline finally giving her the strength to snap the frayed cord. She fell out of the chair, crawling to him on her hands and knees.

The fire was starting to spread, orange tongues of flame licking at the wooden supports of the basement. The smoke was rising, thick and black.

Sooah reached him, pulling his head into her lap. "No, no, no. Stay with me. Jungwon, look at me!"

Jungwon’s face was turning ashen, his eyes struggling to stay focused. He reached up, his blood-stained fingers trembling as he touched her cheek. "You're okay... I found you... I told you I’d be your anchor..."

"Stop talking! We have to get out!" Sooah tried to lift him, but she was too weak, her body battered from the hours of abuse. She pulled with everything she had, her muscles screaming, her tears falling onto his face. "Please, Jungwon! Get up! You have to get up!"

"I’m so tired, Sooah," he whispered. His voice was becoming a faint lullaby, a sound fading into the roar of the flames that were now surrounding them.

"You can't leave me!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "I just found you again! Jungwon, please!"

He gave her one last smile—the dimples were faint, shadowed by the pain, but they were there. "Don't... don't be a ghost, Sooah. Live for me. Promise..."

His hand slipped from her face, falling heavily to the concrete floor. His eyes didn't close; they just went still, reflecting the flickering fire like two cold, dark stars.

"Jungwon? Jungwon, wake up!" Sooah shook him, her screams lost in the crackle of the burning building. "JUNGWON!"

She stayed there, huddled over his body, the heat of the fire starting to singe her hair. She didn't want to leave. She wanted the fire to take her too. She wanted to follow him into the dark.

She was vaguely aware of the basement doors being kicked open again—of Jay’s voice screaming her name, of the police dragging her away from Jungwon’s cold body. She fought them, scratching and biting, reaching for the boy who had died saving a girl who didn't think she was worth saving.

As they carried her out into the cold night air, the warehouse behind them exploded into a pillar of fire. The ashes rose into the sky, carrying the soul of Yang Jungwon with them.

Sooah looked at the sky one last time before the darkness claimed her. He was gone. The star had gone out.

────୨ৎ────

<- previous chapter (03. Lullabies in the Dark) -> next chapter (05. Inks Stains and Reality)

The school rooftop had become a sanctuary of silence, a place where the air felt thinner and the world below, with its screaming sirens and heavy footsteps, seemed like a bad dream. But for Sooah, even this height wasn't enough to escape the weight of her own skin.

She was sitting on the edge of a concrete ledge, her legs dangling into the abyss. The spring weather was starting to turn humid, the sun beating down on the school yard, but Sooah was still wearing an oversized, charcoal-gray hoodie. It was thick, heavy, and shielded her from more than just the temperature.

Jungwon sat beside her. He didn't say anything at first. He just watched the way her fingers worked—constantly picking, peeling at her cuticles until they were raw and bleeding. It was a rhythmic, nervous habit, a way to turn the invisible pain inside into something she could see.

"Sooah," he said, his voice as soft as the breeze. He reached out, his warm fingers gently covering hers to stop the picking. "It’s nearly thirty degrees out. You’re shivering, but you’re sweating. Take the hoodie off before you pass out."

"I’m fine, Jungwon. I like the heat. I’m always cold anyway," she lied. The words felt dry in her throat.

Jungwon didn't move. He didn't look away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his feline eyes searching hers with a terrifying intensity. "You’re lying. You’ve been wearing long sleeves since the day I came back. Even in gym class. Even when we’re alone."

Before she could pull away, his hand slid down to her wrist. He didn't grab her roughly; he was as gentle as if he were handling a piece of ancient porcelain. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tugged the heavy fabric of her sleeve upward.

Sooah’s heart stopped. She felt a wave of cold nausea wash over her. She wanted to scream, to run, to push him off the roof so he wouldn't have to see the ugliness of her reality.

The sleeve retreated, revealing her forearm. The pale skin was a roadmap of despair. Fine, white lines from years ago were layered under angry, red welts that were barely days old. It was a mess of scars—some neat and calculated, others jagged and desperate.

The silence that followed was deafening. Sooah closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. She expected him to gasp. She expected him to look at her with that pitying expression she hated, or worse, with disgust. She expected him to let go of her hand as if she were contagious.

Instead, she felt something warm and wet hit her wrist.

She opened her eyes. Jungwon was leaning his head down, his forehead resting against her scarred skin. He was crying. Silent, heavy tears were falling onto her arm. He didn't let go; he gripped her hand tighter, as if he were trying to anchor her to the earth.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking into a million pieces. "I’m so sorry I wasn't here. I’m so sorry I let you believe you had to do this just to feel like you were still in control."

"It's the only thing that's mine, Jungwon," she confessed, her voice a broken sob. "He takes my food. He takes my sleep. He takes the air out of the room when he walks in. But this? The hunger in my stomach because I refuse to eat his 'charity' and the sting on my arm... he can't feel that. It’s the only proof I have that I haven't turned into a ghost yet."

Jungwon looked up, his face flushed and tear-stained. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny butterfly charm. He didn't ask permission; he simply clipped it around her wrist, the silver cool against the heat of her scars.

"From now on, this butterfly watches over you," he said, his voice suddenly shifting into a tone of absolute, iron-clad determination. "When you feel like you're disappearing, you look at this. You call me. You call Eunchae. You call Jennie. I don't care if it's three in the morning. I am your anchor now, Sooah. I’m not letting you go back into that dark room alone."

────୨ৎ────

A few nights later, the air was crisp and the sky was a deep, velvet indigo, polished by the wind. Jungwon had texted her a single word: Window.

She had crawled out, her heart in her throat, meeting him in the alleyway. They had walked in silence to the hill behind the old, abandoned observatory—a place where the city lights of Seoul looked like a sea of fallen diamonds, glittering and distant.

They lay on a discarded blanket on the grass, side by side, staring at the vastness above.

"My grandmother used to tell me that stars aren't just balls of gas," Jungwon said, his hands tucked behind his head. "She said they were the souls of people who loved us, burning bright so we wouldn't feel so alone in the dark."

"Then my sky must be very empty," Sooah whispered, her eyes fixed on the North Star.

"Look again," he replied.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. The moonlight caught the sharp line of his jaw and the softness of his eyes. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her temple. The "butterflies" in Sooah's stomach, which had been a nervous fluttering all week, suddenly erupted into a frantic, beautiful swarm.

"Sooah," he breathed, his face so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. "I didn't just come back to Seoul because of my parents' jobs. I came back because every time I closed my eyes in that other city, I saw your face. I saw the girl who used to share her snacks and promised we’d always be together. I love you. I love the girl who is hurting. I love the girl who is fighting. I love all of you."

Sooah felt a tear slip down into her hair. "You shouldn't, Jungwon. I’m a broken thing. I’m full of holes and shadows."

"Then let me be the light that fills them," he whispered.

He leaned down, and when his lips finally met hers, the world stopped. The sound of the wind, the distant hum of the highway, the fear of her father—it all vanished. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, tasting of salt and strawberry milk, but then it deepened into something desperate and hungry. It was a lullaby in the dark, a silent vow that for these few minutes, she was safe. She was cherished. She was real.

But the universe is a cruel accountant, and it always demands payment for moments of happiness.

Jungwon walked her back to the corner of her street, their fingers entwined so tightly their knuckles were white. He kissed her forehead under the flickering light of a dying streetlamp, watching her walk toward her rusted iron gate. He stayed there, hidden in the shadows, waiting for the signal—the light in her bedroom turning on and off twice—that meant she was safe.

But Sooah never made it to the light switch.

As Jungwon turned to leave, a heavy, metallic clink echoed through the alley. A shadow detached itself from the brick wall, taller and wider than the darkness around it.

"So," a gravelly, terrifyingly sober voice said.

Jungwon’s blood turned to ice. Standing there was Sooah’s father. He wasn't swaying. He wasn't mumbling. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes cold and filled with a twisted, possessive rage that was far more dangerous than his drunken outbursts.

"You're the little rat," the man hissed, stepping into the dim yellow light. "The one filling her head with dreams. The one touching what doesn't belong to him."

Jungwon felt a surge of pure, primal terror, but he didn't back down. He stepped forward, his fists clenching at his sides until his nails bit into his palms. "She doesn't belong to you. She’s a person. She’s human."

The man laughed—a dry, hollow sound that chilled Jungwon to his very marrow. He moved with a sudden, serpent-like speed, grabbing Jungwon by the throat and slamming him against the brick wall. Jungwon’s head hit the masonry with a sickening thud, spots dancing in his vision.

"Listen to me, boy," the father whispered, his breath smelling of stale cigarettes and malice. "I saw you. I saw the way she looked at you. I’ve spent seventeen years breaking her spirit so she stays put. Do you think I’ll let some brat with a pretty face ruin my work?"

He tightened his grip, cutting off Jungwon’s air. "If I see you near her again... if I see you even breathe the same air... I won't just hurt her. I’ll make sure you’re the one who has to watch while I finish her. I’ll burn her world down with you inside it. Do you understand?"

He shoved Jungwon away with a violent force, sending him sprawling into the gutter.

"Stay away," the man warned, his eyes flashing with a dark, psychotic promise. "Or the next time I see you, I’ll give her a reason to never want to wake up again."

He turned and walked back toward the house, the iron gate slamming shut with a finality that sounded like a prison door.

Jungwon lay in the dirt, gasping for air, his throat burning and his head throbbing. He looked up at Sooah’s window. The light was on, but the curtain was twitching. He saw a shadow move—a heavy, dark shape looming over a smaller one.

He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it into the sewer grate. He opened the group chat with Jay, Jennie and Eunchae

Jungwon: He knows. He’s sober and he’s dangerous. He threatened to kill her tonight. Jay, get the car ready. Jennie, get her out now. We can't wait for the weekend. It has to be tonight.

But as he hit send, he heard a sound that made his heart stop. It was the sound of a heavy wooden plank being nailed across a window, and the faint, muffled scream of a girl whose lullaby had just turned into a death knell.

────୨ৎ────

The Monday morning air was thick with the scent of damp pavement and the low hum of student chatter, but for Sooah, the classroom felt like an island. She sat in her usual spot, her fingers tracing the jagged edges of a wooden desk that had seen better days. Her shoulder still throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache that reminded her of the heavy silence in her house the night before.

She didn't expect the smell of strawberries to break her trance.

A small, chilled carton of strawberry milk was placed gently on her desk. Beside it, a familiar crinkle of a foil bag—honey butter chips.

Sooah didn't look up immediately. She knew those hands. They were pale, with neatly trimmed nails and a grace that didn't belong in this dusty room.

"I remember you used to say these were the only things that made a rainy Monday tolerable," a voice whispered.

It was Jungwon. He didn't wait for a thank you. He didn't even linger to see her reaction. He just brushed his fingers lightly against the corner of her desk—a touch so faint it could have been a breeze—and walked to his seat.

Sooah stared at the milk. The condensation was forming tiny beads that rolled down the side like tears. For the first time in a long time, she felt a lump in her throat that wasn't caused by fear. It was a strange, uncomfortable warmth. She tucked the chips into her bag, hiding them like a treasure she wasn't allowed to own.

Throughout the day, Jungwon was a constant, quiet presence. He didn't push. He didn't demand her attention. Instead, he made himself a part of her world.

During the third-period break, as Sooah tried to hide in the back of the library, she found him already there, sitting at a table with a stack of history books he clearly wasn't reading. When she tried to turn around, he looked up and gave her a small, lopsided smile—the one that made his dimples deep enough to get lost in.

"The lighting is better over here," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "And the librarian is asleep, so you can actually breathe."

Sooah hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took a seat, keeping her head low. "You shouldn't be here, Jungwon."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m..." she paused, the word dirty lingering on the tip of her tongue. "I’m not good company. You should be with Jay and the others. They’re fun. They’re normal."

Jungwon leaned forward, his expression shifting from playful to incredibly soft. He reached out, his hand hovering over the table, not touching hers but close enough that she could feel the heat.

"Normal is overrated, Sooah. And as for company... I’ve spent seven years in a city full of people, and not one of them was the person I wanted to talk to. I'm exactly where I want to be."

Sooah looked into his feline eyes, searching for a lie, but all she found was a terrifyingly sincere reflection of herself. She quickly looked away, but she didn't leave. For thirty minutes, they sat in a silence that didn't feel like a prison. It felt like a shield.

By lunch, the "butterflies" were starting to become a problem. They were light, fluttery things that made it hard to focus on the reality of her dark home.

She found Eunchae near the gym lockers. She was humming a popular song, her bright energy usually a bit much for Sooah, but today, Sooah found herself leaning toward it.

"You're glowing," Eunchae said suddenly, slamming her locker shut and leaning against it.

"I am not," Sooah replied, pulling her oversized hoodie lower over her wrists.

"You are. You have that look. The 'Jungwon-just-breathed-in-my-direction' look," she teased, but then her face softened. She reached out and gently squeezed Sooah’s arm, her voice dropping. "Sooah, seriously. It’s okay to be happy. You don't have to feel guilty for liking him."

Sooah felt a sharp pang in her chest. "It’s not guilt, Eunchae. It’s... it’s reality. If he knew what my life was really like—what happens when the lights go out and the bottles start opening—he wouldn't look at me like that. I’m just a mess he feels sorry for."

"That’s where you're wrong," Eunchae said firmly. "He doesn't look at you with pity. He looks at you like you're his home. You’re not 'dirty', Sooah. The things happening to you are, but you? You're still that girl who shared her umbrella."

Sooah wanted to believe her. She wanted it so badly it hurt.

────୨ৎ────

Eunchae’s words were still echoing in Sooah’s mind when a sudden, loud thud erupted from the center of the gym. Both girls turned to see a basketball rolling toward them, followed by a breathless, grinning Jungwon.

He looked different when he was active—his hair was slightly ruffled, his tie was loosened, and his cheeks were flushed a healthy pink. Behind him, Jay was leaning against the bleachers, spinning another ball on his finger and looking at the scene with a smirk that said he knew exactly why Jungwon had "accidentally" kicked the ball in their direction.

"My bad," Jungwon panted, stopping a few feet away from Sooah. "The ball has a mind of its own today. Or maybe Jay just has terrible aim."

"Hey! I heard that!" Jay shouted from across the court, though he didn't move to intervene. He just watched them, his sharp eyes lingering on Sooah for a second longer than usual, as if he were trying to read the bruises she worked so hard to hide.

Jungwon didn't walk away. Instead, he sat down right on the floor in front of Sooah and Eunchae, ignoring the dust on his uniform. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three small, wrapped chocolates.

"Peace offering?" he offered, holding one out to Sooah.

Eunchae took hers immediately, but Sooah hesitated. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the gold foil. "You shouldn't spend your money on me, Jungwon."

"It’s not an investment, Sooah. It’s just chocolate," he laughed, and the sound was so light it made the heavy air in the gym feel thinner. "Besides, I need your help. Jay is convinced he can beat me in a dance-off later, and I need an honest judge. Eunchae is too biased toward his 'cool' style."

"I am not!" she protested, though she was clearly suppressing a giggle.

Jungwon turned his full attention back to Sooah. He started describing Jay’s "signature moves," which apparently involved a lot of accidental tripping and very dramatic hair flips. He stood up to demonstrate, mocking Jay’s serious expression by narrowing his eyes and pouting his lips in a way that was so ridiculous, even the stoic Jay from across the room had to hide a smile behind his hand.

Sooah watched him. She watched the way he didn't care about looking silly just to get a reaction out of her. She watched the way his dimples deepened as he stumbled on purpose, pretending to lose his balance.

And then, it happened.

A small, bubbly sound erupted from Sooah’s throat. It was rusty at first, like a door that hadn't been opened in decades, but then it grew into a real, genuine laugh. She covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes crinkling into half-moons.

The gym seemed to go silent. Jungwon froze mid-pose, his breath catching. He didn't look triumphant; he looked... awestruck.

"You laughed," he whispered, a soft, dazed smile spreading across his face. "You actually laughed."

Sooah felt her cheeks burn with a heat she hadn't felt in years. "It was... you’re being dramatic."

"I'll be a whole circus if it means I get to hear that again," Jungwon replied, his voice dropping to a tone that was only meant for her.

For a few minutes, the "butterflies" weren't just fluttering; they were soaring. In the safety of the gym, surrounded by the laughter of her best friend and the warmth of the boy who had come back for her, the bruises on her ribs felt a million miles away. She felt like a normal seventeen-year-old girl. She felt like she belonged.

But as the final bell rang, the "normal" girl had to put her mask back on.

Jungwon walked her to the gates, with Jay and Eunchae trailing a few paces behind, giving them some space. The sky had turned a murky, bruised purple, the kind of color that always made Sooah’s stomach churn with anxiety.

"I can walk the rest of the way," Sooah said as they reached the intersection. "You have practice, right?"

"Practice can wait ten minutes," Jungwon insisted. "I’ll walk you to the bridge. It’s on my way anyway."

He was lying—his dorm was in the opposite direction—but Sooah didn't have the heart to call him out. They walked side by side, their hands occasionally brushing. Every time his skin touched hers, a jolt of electricity ran through her, a reminder of the life he was trying to breathe back into her.

But as they rounded the corner toward the bridge, the world turned cold.

Sooah’s heart didn't just drop; it stopped. Standing by the convenience store at the foot of the bridge was a man. He was wearing a grease-stained jacket, his hair matted, clutching a black plastic bag that clinked with the sound of glass. He was swaying, shouting something incomprehensible at a stray dog.

It was him. Her father.

"Sooah? What’s wrong?" Jungwon asked, his voice sharp with immediate concern. He followed her terrified gaze.

Jungwon’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. He didn't know the man’s face yet, but he knew the fear. He saw the way Sooah’s hand flew to her mouth, the way her knees buckled slightly, and the way she instinctively tried to hide behind his shoulder.

"Is that him?" Jungwon asked, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step forward, his jaw tightening, the protective leader in him rising to the surface.

"No, Jungwon! Don't look!" Sooah hissed, her voice thick with panic. "Please, just go. If he sees you with me... he'll... please, just leave!"

"I’m not leaving you with that," Jungwon growled, his eyes fixed on the man.

"You have to!" Sooah begged, tears finally spilling over. "If you stay, it only makes it worse for me tonight. Please, Jungwon. If you care about me, walk away. Now."

Jungwon looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the raw, primal terror in her eyes. It broke him. He realized that his presence wasn't a shield right now; it was a liability.

"I'm not going far," he promised, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and heartbreak.

He backed away slowly as Sooah turned and walked toward the man. Jungwon watched from the shadows of a brick wall as her father reached out and grabbed her hair, shaking her head as he barked questions at her. He watched as Sooah didn't fight back, her body going limp, her head bowed in total submission.

Behind Jungwon, Jay appeared, his face uncharacteristically pale. He didn't say a word; he just placed a heavy hand on Jungwon’s shoulder, holding him back as Jungwon’s nails dug into his own palms until they bled.

They watched until the man dragged Sooah around the corner and out of sight. The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

────୨ৎ────

<- previous chapter (01. The boy from the Polaroid) -> next chapter (03. Lullabies in the Dark)

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JUNG SOOAH

17 years old. A quiet, observant soul who finds sanctuary in books and sketches. She carries the weight of a broken home and struggles with her self-worth. She only feels truly safe with Jennie and Eunchae.

YANG JUNGWON

17 years old. Charismatic, naturally protective, and sharp-witted. He has a habit of biting his lip when thinking and dimples that only appear when he's genuinely happy. He has just returned to Seoul after years away.

JUNG JENNIE

20 years old. Sooah’s human shield and older sister. She works part-time jobs to save money so they can escape their father. She is the only reason Sooah still has hope.

HONG EUNCHAE

17 years old. Sooah’s best friend. Bubbling with energy but deeply intuitive. She knows when Sooah is hiding bruises or skipping meals and uses humor to keep her grounded.

PARK JAY/JONGSEONG

18 years old. Jungwon’s best friend. Blunt, loyal, and incredibly observant. He has a tough exterior but a soft heart, often using his "cool" attitude to hide how much he worries about his friends.

The world was usually gray for Sooah. Not the soft gray of a cozy sweater, but the heavy, suffocating gray of a storm that never breaks.

She sat at the back of the classroom, her desk pushed slightly from the others. She liked the corners; they were easier to defend. Every time the classroom door creaked, her shoulders would tense instinctively, a habit born from years of listening for the sound of a key turning in a lock at home.

"Sooah, you’re doing it again," a voice whispered.

She turned her head slightly. Eunchae was leaning over, her bright eyes filled with concern that Sooah didn’t feel she deserved.

"Doing what?" Sooah’s voice was raspy from lack of use.

"Holding your breath. Just… breathe, okay? He’s not here. You’re at school."

Sooah nodded once, pulling her oversized hoodie tighter around her frame. Underneath the thick fabric, the skin on her ribs hummed with a dull, throbbing ache—a souvenir from her father’s "welcome home" the night before. He had been drunker than usual. Her mother had stayed in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running too loud to be an accident.

‘Just survive the day,’ Sooah thought. ‘Go to school, see Jennie, go to sleep. Repeat.’

But the rhythm of her gray world was about to break.

The homeroom teacher walked in, clapping his hands to silence the morning chatter. "Alright, settle down. Before we start, we have a transfer student joining us. He just moved back to Seoul."

The door opened.

Sooah didn’t look up at first. She was busy tracing the scars on her desk with her fingernail. But then, a hush fell over the room—the kind of silence that happens when something bright enters a dark space.

"Please introduce yourself," the teacher said.

"Hi everyone. I’m Yang Jungwon. It’s been a few years, but I’m glad to be back."

The voice hit Sooah like a physical blow. It was deeper now, smoothed out by the time, but the underlying melody was unmistakable. Her heart, usually a slow and heavy thing, gave a violent thud against her bruised ribs.

She lifted her head.

There he was. Standing at the front of the room, looking like he had stepped right out of the sunlight. His hair was dark and soft, falling just above eyes that were as sharp and clear as she remembered. When he smiled at the teacher, a tiny, familiar dimple poked through his cheek.

It was the boy from the Polaroid she kept hidden under her mattress. The boy who had promised, at seven years old, to always share his umbrella with her.

For a split second, Jungwon’s gaze swept across the room. It was casual, polite—until it landed on the back corner.

His eyes locked onto hers.

The recognition was instant. The polite smile on his face faltered, replaced by a look of pure, raw shock. His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to say her name out loud in front of everyone.

Sooah felt a wave of panic wash over her. She wasn’t the girl from the Polaroid anymore. She was broken, scarred and covered in shadows. She couldn’t let him see what she had become.

She quickly looked down, her hair falling like a curtain to hide her face, her hands trembling under the desk.

‘Don’t look at me,’ she pleaded silently. ‘Please, Jungwon don’t look at me.’

The silence following their eye contact felt like an eternity. To the rest of the class, it was just a few seconds of a new student scanning the room, but to Sooah, it was the sound of her glass walls shattering.

"Jungwon, you can take the empty seat next to Jay," the teacher directed, pointed toward the middle of the room.

Sooah watched from the corner of her eyes as Jungwon walked down the aisle. Every step he took felt like a drumbeat in her chest. He sat down next to the tall, sharp-featured boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. That was Jay. Even from a distance, Jay exuded a sort of effortless cool, leaning back in his chair with a bored expression that didn’t quite hide the way his eyes darted around, calculating everyone’s vibe.

Jungwon leaned over to whisper something to Jay, but his eyes drifted back to the corner—to her— one more time before he opened his textbook.

Sooah felt sick. Her skin felt too tight for her body. She spent the next hour staring at the same paragraph in her literature book, the words blurring into black smudges. She could feel his presence just a few rows away, a warm sun radiating heat she wasn’t ready to feel.

────୨ৎ────

When the bell finally rang for the lunch break, Sooah moved like a ghost. She began stuffing her notebook into her bag with trembling hands, her only goal being to disappear into the rooftop or the library— anywhere he wouldn’t find her.

"Sooah, wait up!" Eunchae called out, grabbing her arm. "Did you see him? That was definitely him, right? Jungwon? From our primary school?"

"I don’t know, Eunchae," Sooah lied, her voice barely a whisper. "I don’t remember."

"Liar," a deep voice interrupted.

Sooah froze.

Standing right behind Eunchae were the two of them. Jungwon was looking at her with an intensity that made her want to crawl into a hole. Next to him, Jay had his hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over Sooah with a frown. He didn’t know her, but he could clearly see the tension radiating off her.

"It’s been seven years, Sooah," Jungwon said. He took a step closer, ignoring the students buzzing around them. "You’re going to look at me in the eye and tell me you don’t remember the treehouse? Or the promise?"

Sooah finally looked up. Up close, he was even more overwhelming. He looked healthy. He looked loved. Everything she wasn’t.

"People change, Jungwon," she said, her voice cold and flat, a shield she had perfected over the years. "I’m not that person anymore. Please… just leave it alone."

She tried to push past them, but Jay stepped slightly into her path, not aggressively, but enough to make her stop. He was looking at the way she held her bag—clutched tightly against her chest, as if she were shielding her ribs.

"Hey," Jay said, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his sharp looks. "We’re just trying to say hi. No need to go all "Cold Queen" on us."

"Jay stop," Jungwon muttered, his eyes never leaving Sooah’s pale face. He noticed it then—the faint yellow bruise peeking out from the edge of her high collar, and the way her fingers were raw from nervous picking. His expression shifted from excitement to a dark, brewing concern. "Sooah… are you okay?"

"I’m fine," she snapped, the lie tasting like copper in her mouth.

She bolted. She didn’t look back to see Jungwon’s heartbroken expression or Jay’s suspicious squint. She ran until she reached the girl’s bathroom, locking herself in the last stall.

She collapsed against the door, sliding down until her knees hit the cold tile. She pulled up the sleeve of her hoodie, staring at the thin, whites lines on her wrist and the fresh purple mark on her forearm.

The Polaroid in her mind— the one of a laughing boy and a happy girl— felt like a mockery. She wasn’t that girl. That girl died the first time her father’s fist met her face.

He can’t be here, she sobbed silently, pressing her forehead against her knees. He’s too bright. He’ll see everything. He’ll see the rot.

────୨ৎ────

The rest of the day was blur of avoided glances and heavy silences. Every time she turned a corner, she felt Jungwon’s gaze. He didn’t approach her again, but he was always there, a silent shadow in the hallway.

When the final bell rang, Sooah was the first one out the door. She didn’t even say goodbye to Eunchae. She needed to get home before her father did, or at least be there to help Jennie with dinner so he wouldn’t have a reason to get angry.

But as she reached the school gates, a black umbrella blocked her path. It wasn’t raining yet, but the clouds were heavy and bruised, matching her skin.

"It’s going to pour," Jungwon said, standing there with the same black umbrella from her memories.

"I don’t need your help," she said, her voice shaking.

"I didn’t ask if you needed it," Jungwon replied, his voice firm, the protective in him starting to show. "I’m walking home, Sooah. You can be as mean as you want, you can pretend you don’t know me, but I’m not letting you walk alone in this."

Behind him, a few meters away, she saw Jay leaning against a lamp post, watching them. He gave a small, solemn nod, as if acknowledging the battle she was fighting.

Sooah looked at the umbrella, then at Jungwon’s determined face. For a split second, the gray world felt a little less heavy. But then, she remembered the man waiting for her in the dark house at the end of the street.

"You can’t," she whispered, a tear finally escaping.  "Jungwon, if you care about me at all… stay away from my house."

She turned and ran into a first droplets of the storm, leaving him standing there in the rain, holding an umbrella for a girl who was too afraid to be dry.

────୨ৎ────

The rain wasn't a soft drizzle; it was a punishment. By the time Sooah reached the rusted gate of her house, her hoodie was soaked through, weighing her down like lead. She stood outside for a moment, her breath coming in ragged gasps, watching the flickering yellow light in the living room window.

The silence of the street was interrupted by the low rumble of a television inside. That was a bad sign. It meant he was awake.

She stepped inside, toeing off her wet shoes as quietly as possible. The air in the house felt different from the air outside—it was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap soju.

"You’re late," a gravelly voice barked from the sofa.

Sooah froze, her hand still on the doorknob. Her father didn't even turn around. He just sat there, a shadow against the flickering light of the TV. "The bus was delayed because of the rain," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Don't lie to me," he spat, finally turning his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements sluggish but dangerous. "I saw you. Lingering at the school gates with some boy. You think I’m blind?"

Sooah felt the blood drain from her face. He saw Jungwon. The thought sent a jolt of pure terror through her. "He’s just a student, Dad. He was just... offering an umbrella."

Her father stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You’re there to study, not to flirt like a cheap girl. If I see him near this house, Sooah, I’ll make sure he never walks again. Do you understand me?"

He took a step toward her, and Sooah instinctively flinched, throwing her arms up to cover her head. But before he could reach her, the kitchen door slid open.

"The table is set, Father," Jennie said, her voice calm and cold as ice. She stood there, wiping her hands on an apron, her eyes fixed on her father with a silent warning. "If you don't eat now, the soup will get cold, and you know how much you hate that."

The man grumbled, the immediate threat of violence diverted by the mention of food. He pointed a shaking finger at Sooah one last time before lumbering toward the kitchen.

Jennie didn't say a word until the sound of his slurping began. She quickly grabbed Sooah’s arm and pulled her toward their shared bedroom, locking the door behind them.

Inside, the room was tiny, filled with the scent of Jennie’s lavender detergent—the only "safe" smell in the world.

"Did he touch you?" Jennie whispered, immediately pulling off Sooah’s wet hoodie to check for new marks.

"No," Sooah shook her head, collapsing onto her bed. "Jennie... he's back. Jungwon is back."

Jennie stopped moving, a wet towel in her hand. "Yang Jungwon? From when we were kids?"

"He's in my class," Sooah sobbed, finally letting the tears fall now that she was safe behind the locked door. "He looked at me, and he knew. He tried to help me, but he doesn't understand. He’s going to get hurt, Jennie. Dad saw him."

Jennie sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Sooah into her arms. She ran her fingers through Sooah’s damp hair, her own expression darkening. "Listen to me, Sooah. You have to stay away from him. Not because you don't love him, but because this house... it kills everything it touches. We just need a few more months. Once I save enough, we're leaving."

"I missed him so much," Sooah whispered into her sister’s shoulder. "But seeing him today... it felt like looking at the sun when you've lived in a cave for years. It hurts, Jennie. It hurts so much."

Sooah eventually cried herself to sleep, her body curled into a tight ball. But her dreams weren't of her father or the dark house. They were of a boy with dimples and a black umbrella, standing in a field of flowers that didn't exist.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, the sky was still a bruised purple. Sooah walked to school with her head down, her heart heavy. She walked through the gates, expecting to be invisible again, but a hand reached out and caught her backpack strap.

"You dropped this yesterday."

She looked up. It was Jay. He was leaning against the brick wall, looking like he hadn't slept much either. He held out a small, crumpled object.

It was the Polaroid. The one she thought she had lost in the rain.

"Jungwon found it after you ran," Jay said, his voice low so no one else could hear. He stepped closer, his sharp eyes scanning her face, noticing the way she flinched when a car backfired nearby. "He’s been staring at it all night. He didn't come to me to brag about a girl, Sooah. He came to me because he's scared for you."

Sooah reached out to take the photo, her fingers brushing Jay's.

"I'm not as nice as Jungwon," Jay added, his gaze turning serious. "I don't care about 'destiny' or 'childhood promises.' But I care about him. And if you’re in trouble, you’re going to tell us. Because Jungwon won't stop until he saves you, even if it burns him alive."

Sooah looked at the photo in her hand—the two children smiling, unaware of the ghosts waiting for them in the future.

"He shouldn't try," Sooah whispered, tucking the photo into her pocket. "Some people can't be saved, Jay."

As she walked away, she didn't see Jungwon watching her from the second-floor window, his hand pressed against the glass, his heart already beginning to break for a girl who had forgotten how to be found.

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