him, empyrean beauty

Imagine you find your husband but he is no longer the man you remember. There's a coldness in his eyes that you've never seen before and he greets you like an employee. You think this must be some terrible prank but when you try to snuggle up to him and ask him for reassurance, he pushes you back.

Imagine it's then that a sick kind of despair starts to creep into your heart. He no longer has the tattoo on his ring finger that matches yours. In a panic, you glance down and realize yours is gone as well. You begin to spiral.

Imagine he advises you to adjust his schedule because he has a new meeting that needs to be added in as soon as possible. You are no longer his spouse but his Personal Assistant.

Imagine you leave the room and run. You don't know where you are going but you know you can't stay there. You need space to breathe and time to think. You turn your phone off and get on a train, not caring for the final destination. You keep moving all night to get as far away from him as you can from him. You finally fall asleep in a hotel room in an unknown city, hoping that all of this is just a giant nightmare. Tomorrow will be a better day.

Imagine you open your eyes and you are sitting at a desk and MC is in front of you. She's here for her meeting. You want to throw up.

You dressed in silence and made your way outside, driving to the house to gather the fragments of your life. Moving as quickly as you could, you managed to be out of there before the first rays of light lit up the horizon. But when morning finally spilled into the rooms, it brought no sense of hope. It only illuminated the shipwreck of your life. You grabbed the handles of your two oversized suitcase and walked out of the house without looking back.

You didn’t really have a plan. You were driving without a destination. While you knew that Blythe would help you in a heartbeat, you didn’t want to drag her into this mess. You’d tell her, but you were not ready to do it just yet. In the end, you realised that perhaps there was a person who knew exactly what you were going through. After all, her marriage had hardly been the stuff of romance.

The tires of your car crunched loudly against the gravel driveway of your childhood home. It was long past midnight by the time you got there, and the quiet, suburban street was entirely asleep. You dragged your small overnight bag from the passenger seat, leaving the suitcases in the car, the weight of all the stress threatening to buckle your knees as you walked up to the door.

When you knocked, your mother did not open the door immediately. She opened the door, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her housecoat tied loosely around her waist. She blinked in confusion, but her face instantly lit up with a brilliant, joyful smile the second she recognized you.

"Oh, sweetheart!" she gasped, pulling you into a sudden, tight hug. "What a wonderful surprise! What are you doing here? Did you and Zayne work everything out? Is he parking the car?"

She peered past your shoulder into the dark driveway, looking for the sharp silhouette of your husband's car.

"No," you whispered, your voice cracking as you stepped into the warm entryway. "Zayne isn't here."

Your mother closed the door against the night air, her brow furrowing as she took in your pale face, the dark circles under your eyes, and the lack of rings on your left hand. She walked behind you into the kitchen, quickly turning on the kettle to make tea.

You told her everything. You told her about the seven months of absolute isolation, the laptop filled with hundreds of messages and photos of MC, everything that was said and left unsaid.

Your mother listened in absolute silence, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on you as you poured your heart out. But as the story finished, the heavy, validating comfort you were desperately seeking never came.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. The click of the electric kettle echoed through the quiet kitchen as it automatically shut off, the aggressive bubbling slowing to a faint hiss. Your mother stood up mechanically, lifted the cordless pitcher from its base, and poured the steaming water over the tea bags. She did not look at you while she did it.

She set your cup in front of you and let out a long, slow sigh. She didn't look angry. She didn't look horrified. Instead, she reached across the table and patted your hand, her expression shifting into a calm, pragmatic look that made your stomach sink.

"Oh, you silly girl," your mother said softly, her voice carrying the dismissive weight of a different generation. "Look at me. This isn't a big problem."

You blinked, completely stunned, the breath catching in your throat. "But… how could you say that? He's in love with someone else."

"Marriage is hard, and marriage is work," she said firmly, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You can't expect things to be easy and romantic all the time. You've been married for just two years. You are still… adjusting to each other. Zayne is a world-renowned surgeon. People make mistakes, especially men in high-pressure positions like Zayne. He carries life-and-death stakes on his shoulders every single day, and he is bound to be exhausted, bound to make mistakes."

She stood up, pouring the hot water into two mugs, her back turned to you.

"This MC girl... she's a childhood friend. Men have histories. They have attachments from before they met us. It doesn't mean he doesn't value the life he's building with you." She turned around, setting the fine china cup in front of you with a definitive click. "You have a comfortable life. You have a secure relationship with a man who provides for you, who treats you with respect in public, and who came all the way downtown to find you when you were hiding in a bar and searched for you relentlessly for two days until I called him. Do you know how many women would kill for a husband like that?"

"He doesn’t love me," you whispered, the hot tears finally spilling over your eyelashes. "He’s not scared of losing me. He’s scared of losing face."

" Of course he is! A man’s reputation is everything. And you are being oversensitive, not that I’m surprised," your mother sighed, shaking her head with a look of disappointment that cut deeper than any blade. "You're an ordinary woman in your mid-thirties, and you landed a man who is as perfect as it gets. You can't just throw a tantrum and run away the second things get difficult. A proud independence is fine when you're single, but you're a wife now. You need to learn to compromise. You need to swallow your pride."

She leaned down, looking directly into your eyes, her voice entirely devoid of the comfort you had driven across the city to find.

"You can stay here in your old room tonight to catch your breath," your mother said flatly. "But tomorrow morning, you are going to go home, you are going to put those rings back on your finger, and you are going to act like a wife worthy of your husband."

Sitting alone in the kitchen of the home that was supposed to protect you, you looked down at your bare left hand. You felt stranded between a husband who was emotionally vacant and a mother, your only family, that refused to see your pain.

“Now, you off to bed with you. You will feel much better in the morning.”

Her words were crisp, neatly packaged, and utterly hollow. She looked at you, but her eyes slid right past the raw ache on your face, choosing instead to focus on the putting the untouched cups of tea near the sink and wiping the table. It was the exact brand of polite dismissal she had used to survive her own marriage. It was a refusal to acknowledge the cracks in the foundation. You wanted to scream, to force her to look at you, to see that you were her child and you were hurting. But you were too tired, the energy drained from your limbs. You simply nodded, swallowed the lump in your throat, and retreated upstairs.

The generic pastel wallpaper of your childhood bedroom was the first thing you saw when the morning sun forced your eyes open. For a split second, the heavy, suffocating fog of the past few days lifted, leaving a strange, crystalline quiet in your mind.

Then, the reality of the kitchen conversation from last night rushed back.

“You need to learn to compromise. Swallow your pride. Go back home to your husband.”

You sat up in the twin bed, looking down at your left hand and at the tan line left behind where the rings were supposed to be. The skin where your wedding bands used to sit felt strangely liberated. Your mother’s words had been meant to break your resolve and to force you back into the role everyone had been so proud to see you in.

But as you stared out the window, her dismissive lecture had the exact opposite effect. It strengthened your resolve. It made you angry.

You walked down the hallway, the bag slung over your shoulder. Your mother was already awake, standing by the stove with a fresh pot of coffee, looking up with an expectant, hopeful smile as she saw you dressed.

"Good morning," she said, her voice dripping with artificial cheer, as if testing the waters after last night's confrontation. "I was just thinking, I can make some blueberry pancakes before you head back home—"

"I'm not going back to him, mother," you cut her off. Your voice wasn't loud. It carried the absolute, immovable weight of a final verdict.

Your mother's smile instantly vanished, her posture stiffening. "What? Did you not hear a single thing I said to you last night? You are throwing away a perfect life over—"

"I'm throwing away an illusion," you said, looking her dead in the eye. "Thank you for letting me sleep here. But I am an adult, and I am not going to live as a ghost in my own home just to keep up appearances for you or anyone else."

“You would be doing what any women who had her wits about her would do!”

“You mean, I’d be doing what you did, right?”

Her jaw tightened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You never left," you said, the old wounds opening up, raw and bleeding. "You didn’t take me away from him. You knew what he did. You knew that Father stripped me of any agency, of any voice, for years. I was punished, locked in my room, left without food for two days straight once—and over what? For not being able to tell quick enough if he was in one of his moods?”

“How dare you!" she gasped, her face flushing. “We gave you a beautiful childhood! The best schools! Most wonderful clothes! You’d be the envy of anyone if you just-”

“Yes, yes, I know. If I was better, smarter, more beautiful. Enough.” You shook your head, the last of your hope evaporating. “I came here thinking that we could relate to each other. Two women stuck in loveless marriages. But I see it now. You were not a victim of his cruelty, and you were not just complacent. You encouraged it.”

You took a step back. “I’m done being convenient. And I don’t want to see you again.”

Before she could unleash another lecture, you turned on your heel, walked out the front door, and stepped into the crisp morning air. You got into your car, threw your bag into the passenger seat, and tried starting the engine. Then you tried again. Nothing. The battery was completely dead.

A curtain twitched.

You looked up, and a sharp, sudden laugh bubbled up involuntarily. If she thought a dead battery would force you back inside to play nice, she had another thing coming. You popped the trunk, hauled your heavy suitcases onto the asphalt, and grabbed your overnight bag. Then, you simply started walking.

The rhythmic, scraping click of your suitcase wheels against the pavement shattered the quiet morning. As the adrenaline of your dramatic exit began to fade, the stark reality of the situation settled into your bones.

You had absolutely no plan. You could probably crash with Blythe and Caleb for a few days, but Blythe already had her hands full with the kids. Dragging the your mess of a ruined marriage into their chaotic, happy home felt selfish. It would only add stress to a life that was already bursting at the seams. Besides, sleeping on someone’s sofa was hardly a long-term solution.

You needed a place to live. You needed to start thinking about lawyers. A bitter taste washed over your tongue at the thought. You wanted nothing from Zayne. You didn’t want his money. You didn’t want the house that had become nothing more than a graveyard of your broken dreams. You just wanted it over. Fast. But swift legal battles required money. You had some money set aside, but that would be hardly enough.

With every block you walked away from your childhood home, the suitcases felt heavier, and the suburban streets felt emptier. Lost in your thoughts, you didn't even register the low, predatory purr of the sleek black sports car idling at the curb.

Then, the door swung open.

Sylus stepped out, leaning casually against the car frame. He wore a heavy dark coat that made him look impossibly large against the morning light. His sharp eyes tracked you instantly, sweeping from your messy hair down to the luggage clutched at your feet. He didn't look surprised to see you.

"Leaving your mother’s house so early?" Sylus asked.

You froze, clutching your suitcase handles tighter. "What are you doing here, Sylus?"

"MC found out what happened and she was worried about you. She tried calling several times, but you didn’t answer," he said, taking a slow step toward you as if taking care not to startle you.

“Perhaps I didn’t want to answer.”

Sylus tilted his head, his gaze piercing right through your defensive posture. "She thinks Zayne is just working hard. But the truth is he is a fool. As things stand, he is choosing to fight a lost cause at work. And for what? Only to be a lost cause when it comes to his own marriage. He exhausts himself playing the martyr, leaving you to starve for affection while his enemies encircle him."

Panic, confusion and hurt flared in your chest. "How did you know where to find me? Did Zayne-"

"No." Sylus cut in smoothly. "The good doctor didn't tell anyone that his marriage is on the rocks."

"Then how did you know?"

"I have my ways. Or perhaps some things are just more obvious to some than to others."

You bristled, a sudden wave of heat washing over your skin. You knew your anger was likely misdirected, but you were completely exhausted, and you had absolutely zero patience left for Sylus and his arrogant confidence.

"I don't have time for this," you whispered, trying to push past him.

Sylus reached out, his hand wrapping gently but firmly around the handle of your suitcase, stopping you in your tracks. "Let's cut the act. I called him an idiot because he is one. A pathetic idiot who is too blind to see what his pride is costing him." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "And I’m guessing from the way you look, you’ve finally had enough."

Your breath hitched. Sylus let out a dark, humourless laugh and let go of the suitcase.

"Surprised that I know? Well, let’s just say it’s my… business to know everything about everyone. And I know how he operates," Sylus said, opening the passenger door of his car. "And I also know what it looks like when a woman has reached her absolute limit. Get in."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," you said, your voice shaking. "You're MC's husband. If you know... if you think-" you took a breath. "Why aren't you furious with him? And why are you helping me?"

"Because MC is mine," Sylus said, the words carrying absolute, unshakeable certainty. "Zayne’s pathetic pining is an annoyance I’ve tolerated over the years. It’s surface-level drama, his emotions lack the depth to be dangerous. As for you... If you stay, you keep playing the victim. If you leave, you get to find out what life can be like without a stubborn fool for a husband. Either way, you need a place to stay until you decide what your next step is."

He gestured to the leather seat. "My house has more rooms than I know what to do with. You can stay in one, clear your head, and figure out how you're going to make him pay for wasting two years of your life. Or, you can walk down the street until your legs give out. Your choice."

You looked at Sylus, an unpredictable, dangerous man that you knew no better now than when you first met him two years ago. Yet here he was, offering a strange form of sanctuary.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s entertaining. And perhaps a part of me feels that if I got involved earlier, then there would be less damage. Either way, does it really matter?”

You lifted your chin, refusing to let him see the tremor in your hands. You walked past his towering frame and climbed into the plush warmth of the passenger seat.

“No,” you said. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

The heavy thud of the car door closing shut out the rest of the world, leaving only the quiet hum of the engine and the scent of expensive leather. The sudden warmth of the interior hit your freezing skin, making you realize just how tired you truly were.

Sylus pulled smoothly into traffic, navigating the dark streets in total silence. He didn't offer empty platitudes, nor did he look over to watch you break. Instead, he simply gave you space to process the shock. It started to rain and you focused on the rhythmic staccato. Then you closed your eyes and relaxed into the seat.

The drive passed in a blur of rain and shadow until the car finally pulled through the massive, iron gates of Sylus’s secluded estate. The fortress-like mansion loomed ahead, dark and imposing against the night sky.

"My bags."

"I'll take care of that," he replied smoothly.

He killed the engine and personally escorted you inside, his hand a firm, grounding weight on your shoulder. The place was huge, but he led you straight to a luxurious guest suite that felt entirely removed from the rest of the house. Before he turned to leave you for the night, he handed you a glass of amber liquid to take the chill out of your bones.

"Thank you."

"It may not seem like it," Sylus began, his gaze steady as he watched you, "but MC really does care for you as a friend. Not at first, but she definetely does now."

"Even if it's choosing between me and Zayne?" You didn't look at him, keeping your focus entirely on the glass in your hands.

"MC is... she is what she is," he said softly, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips. "But she feels responsible for the way things turned out. She wanted to come to pick you up, but wasn't sure if you'd want to see her."

"Why wouldn't I? It's not her fault. Zayne's mind is his own."

Sylus studied your profile for a quiet beat, a faint, unreadable shift passing through his eyes. "I'm glad you see it that way. Rest. We will see you tomorrow morning."

The heavy door clicked shut, leaving you entirely alone with the silence. You drank the alcohol quickly, not caring much about the taste. Not bothering to change your clothes, you flopped onto the plush bed, thinking that you wouldn't be able to relax enough in this unfamiliar house to sleep. However, the exhaustion of the emotional whirlwind finally won, pulling you into a heavy, dreamless sleep that felt more like a temporary escape than actual rest.

💖 Tag list 💖:

You hated confrontation.

You had never been the kind of woman to scream or throw accusations, and the memory of your own voice shouting about lack of intimacy and hidden glances made your stomach churn.

Maybe he was right, you thought desperately, grasping at any straw. Maybe I was being irrational. He is a doctor. He has commitments and responsibilities that I cannot even begin to understand.

You resolved right then to fix it. You would swallow your pride, call him, and tell him it was all a misunderstanding. You would apologize for confronting him and bringing up MC.

But as you reached for the kettle, your eyes caught a sleek, silver object sitting on the far end of the kitchen counter. It was Zayne’s laptop. The one that was his personal use rather than work. For a man who never forgot anything, leaving his computer behind was a testament to just how rattled he had actually been when he fled the apartment this morning.

You stared at it. A voice in your head told you to walk away, to respect his privacy, to be the mature, trusting wife you always tried to be. But the heavy dread and suspicion pulled you forward like a moth to a flame.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted the lid. The screen immediately lit up. He hadn't even locked it.

An open messaging app was split across the left side of the screen. Your eyes automatically searched for your own name.

When you found it, the chat log was painfully short and simple in nature: “I’ll be late tonight.” “Yes.” “Don't wait up.” “Understood.” “Can you buy milk?” A couple of messages a day. The digital footprint of two acquaintances sharing a house rather than two people in love.

Right above your name was MC’s chat profile.

You clicked it, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was nothing scandalous. No hidden confessions of love, no inappropriate photos, nothing worrying or explicit. It was perfectly, agonizingly innocent.

But what shattered you was the sheer volume of messages. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Zayne would text her about his day. He sent her medical articles he found amusing. He asked if she had eaten, warned her about the cold weather, and replied to her silly jokes with dry, witty comments. He gave her the conversational intimacy and the attention that you had been starving for.

The more your read, the more it was becoming apparent that Zayne was never too drained to talk to her.

Blinking back tears, your hand accidentally brushed the trackpad, minimizing the window.

The messaging app disappeared, revealing the desktop background.

The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Set as his background was a photograph. It was a candid shot of MC, her hair catching the golden glow of a setting sun as she looked out over the city skyline. It was an incredibly intimate, breathtakingly beautiful photo. The kind taken by someone who was completely, helplessly transfixed by the subject.

Beside it, there was folder labelled simply 'MC'. Inside were photographs tracking their entire lives. MC as a little girl with a scraped knee. MC laughing at her graduation ceremony. MC and Zayne standing side-by-side in winter coats and holding up flutes of champagne, his face wearing that rare, genuine warmth you had only ever seen a handful of times.

You stepped back from the counter, your hand flying to your mouth to suppress a sob, overwhelmed by the weight of the digital evidence staring back at you.

He had called you irrational. He had told you that you were projecting your insecurities. He had said that his coldness was nothing more than the exhausting toll of his career.

You were completely shaken to your core, the fragile foundation of your hope entirely pulverized by this discovery. He hadn't married you to build a life. He had married you to pretend that he moved on from the woman he could never have.

It felt like a sucker punch to the gut. Stunned and breathless, you snapped the laptop closed to hide the screen. Minutes later, you were dressed. Unable to bear being in the house another second, you grabbed your bag and ran out of the house.

An hour later you walked into a hotel bar. You drove past the place many times before, but never really cared to go in. The bar was practically empty in the middle of the afternoon. The air smelled of polished wood, citrus peels, and expensive liquor. The low light was perfect for hiding your humiliation from the rest of the world.

You sat down on a leather stool at the far corner of the counter. When the bartender approached, offering a polite, non-judgmental nod, you didn't order wine like you usually would.

You pointed to a dark bottle on the top shelf, something strong and unfamiliar. "That one," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "And make it a double."

The bartender gave a subtle, professional nod, too polite to question why a woman in her mid-thirties was ordering a double shot of hard liquor in the middle of the day. He poured the liquid over a large, clear sphere of ice, the amber fluid swirling against the crystal glass.

You reached out and wrapped your fingers around it. The condensation felt pleasantly cold against your skin, a sharp contrast to the burning humiliation that had been coursing through you all morning. You lifted it to your lips and took a long, heavy sip. The alcohol hit the back of your throat with a fierce, punishing burn, making your eyes water, but you welcomed it. You wanted the burn. You wanted something to overpower the agonizing ache in your chest.

As you stared at the polished mahogany counter, watching the ice slowly melt, you realized you weren't trying to be sensible or accommodating anymore. You were just a woman sitting alone in the dark, waiting for the alcohol to numb the hurt.

You got your phone out, scrolled through your contacts and clicked on his name. With a scowl, you changed it to ‘Dr. Li’. Because as far as you were concerned, that’s all that he was.

You finished the glass, the ice clinking heavily against the crystal, and ordered another. And then one more. The sharp edges of the morning were finally beginning to blur, the alcohol wrapping your raw nerves in a dull, heavy fog. You were not much of a drinker but thinking about nothing sure trumped thinking about what to do with this mess.

After your third drink, you decided to take a little break. Needing to clear your head, you slid off the leather stool and left your purse and phone on the counter, heading down the dim hallway toward the restroom to splash cold water on your face.

Back at the counter, your phone began to vibrate violently. The screen illuminated the polished wood, displaying the name 'Dr. Li' in bold letters. It buzzed until it went to voicemail, only to instantly light up again. And again. And again.

The bartender, who had been wiping down glasses down the line, watched the screen illuminate the dark corner of the bar for the fourth consecutive time. Sensing the urgency, he walked over and picked up the device, sliding his thumb across the screen to answer.

"Hello?" the bartender said, his voice smooth and professional.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Zayne’s deep voice cut through the speaker, it was uncharacteristically tight, stripped of its usual calm. "Who is this? Where is the owner of this phone?"

"I’m just the bartender," the man replied easily, looking toward the restroom hallway. "The lady left her phone at the counter for a moment. Look, Dr. Li, I know that perhaps she’s your patient, but I think she’s having a pretty rough day. If you're calling about an appointment or something, she's really not in the right headspace to—"

"I am not her doctor," Zayne interrupted, his voice dropping into a dangerously dark, commanding register that made the bartender instantly freeze. "I am her husband. Why is my wife at a bar in the middle of a Sunday afternoon?"

The bartender’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden flush of awkwardness hitting him. "Oh. My apologies, man. The caller ID just said 'Dr. Li,' so I assumed... look, I'm sorry for the mix-up. She's fine. This is a pretty expensive place, but she’s had a few drinks."

"Where are you?" Zayne demanded.

"The bar of the Grand Hotel downtown," the bartender said.

"Keep an eye on her," Zayne snapped. "I am on my way."

The line went dead. The bartender slowly set the phone back down on the mahogany counter, looking toward the hallway just as you walked out, entirely unaware Zayne was about thirty minutes away from here.

Half an hour later the heavy glass door of the lounge swung open, admitting a brief flash of the bright Sunday afternoon sun before it clicked shut, plunging the room back into its dim, amber shadows.

You didn't even have to look up to know it was him. It felt like the entire atmosphere of the quiet bar shifted, growing heavy and pressurized under the weight of his presence. Zayne walked in, his long coat slightly parted, his sharp eyes scanning the room before locking onto you.

He didn't say a single word.

He didn't yell. He didn't demand answers. He simply walked over to your stool, picked up your purse and your phone, and paid for your drinks without even looking at the bartender. Then, he reached out, his large, solid hand wrapping firmly but gently around your upper arm, helping you as you slid down from the leather seat. His touch was not ungentle, but his grip was unyielding.

The walk out of the bar and the ride home were wrapped in an absolute silence. Zayne kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

You didn't care enough to look at him.

You just leaned your head against the cool window, watching the Sunday traffic blur past, the heavy fog of the double drinks numbing the sharpest edges of your broken heart.

When the car finally pulled into the garage, the silence followed you like a physical entity. The electronic lock beeped, and you stepped back into the immaculate house. The air was exactly as cold as you had left it. The silver laptop sat on the kitchen counter, looking perfectly innocent to anyone who didn't know the devastation locked inside it.

Zayne closed the front door behind you with a quiet, deliberate click. He set your purse and your phone on the table, his eyes tracking your movements as you kicked off your shoes. He was waiting for something. You could feel the intense, analytical weight of his gaze burning into your back. Maybe he was waiting for the tears. Or waiting for the screaming match from last night to resume.

But you didn't say anything to him. You were done.

You didn't look at the kitchen counter. You didn't ask him why he was home early on a Sunday. With quiet dignity that you didn't even know you possessed, you walked right past him, your feet silent against the hardwood floor.

You walked straight into the master bedroom, closed the door gently behind you, and turned the lock, leaving your husband standing completely alone in the echoing silence of the home that you decided wasn’t yours anymore.

You walked over to the bed, completely exhausted by the emotional whiplash of the weekend, and sat down on the edge. You stared at your hands. You felt slightly numb from the alcohol but not feeling as drunk as you’d hope you would be and waited for the fog in your brain to settle.

You expected him to leave you alone. To retreat to his study, to bury himself in medical journals, or to simply to let you alone as he always did.

Instead, less than an hour minutes later, the doorknob rattled. When it didn't budge, there was a heavy, tense pause on the other side. Then, a shark knock rattled the wood.

"Open the door," Zayne’s voice cut through the barrier. It wasn't his usual calm voice. It was rough, tight, and frayed at the edges.

You didn't answer. You didn't move.

"Open the door," he repeated, louder this time, his knuckles rapping against the wood with a sudden, uncharacteristic impatience. "We are not doing this. Open the door."

Realizing he wasn't going to walk away, you stood up, walked across the room, and unlocked it. You pulled the door open but stood in the doorway, clearly refusing to invite him in, and looked up at him.

Zayne stood still, his tie slightly loosened, his dark hair a little unkempt. The absolute lack of emotion on your face had him frowning. He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with heavy, troubled breaths.

"A hotel bar?" Zayne broke the silence. He took a step forward, forcing you to back up slightly into the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you. "You decided to go to a bar on a Sunday afternoon and drink yourself stupid over a fight?"

"I was just having a drink, Zayne," you said, your voice entirely detached. "People do that when they're unhappy."

"Unhappy?" He let out a dry breath that sounded dangerously close to a scoff. "Because of a misunderstanding? I told you, I was just-"

"I went through your laptop."

Whatever was on his tongue died instantly and Zayne went entirely rigid. His hazel eyes widened, a sudden, stark vulnerability flashing across his features.

"You left it on the kitchen counter," you continued, your voice steady, though a single tear finally escaped and rolled down your cheek. "I wanted to apologize. Because I thought that you were right and I was being unreasonable. But then I saw it all. And it was wrong of me to snoop. But I had to know."

You looked directly into his eyes.

"I saw the messages, Zayne. Hundreds of them. And the photos. I saw that photo." A broken, humourless laugh escaped your lips.

Zayne opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life, the brilliant doctor had no words. He looked completely exposed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“Nothing ever happened,” he finally managed, his voice strained.

“I know.”

But it didn’t make it better. To Zayne, infidelity meant sex, whispered promises, the betrayal of bodies. He thought compliance with the rules equalled fidelity. But it didn't make it better. Somehow it made everything infinitely worse.

"You don't love me," you said quietly, but firmly. "You never did. You just wanted a safe, quiet life so you could pretend to the world that you moved on. But she is still the one you want. Your life is a complete mess and you dragged me into it. Not only that, but you dared, you fucking dared to tell me that I was delusional."

You rarely swore, hating how the profanities made you feel. Zayne didn’t react to it either. He stood frozen in the doorway, his chest heaving as your words stripped him of every defence. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of everything he could no longer deny.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. And in that moment you didn’t see Zayne Li. You saw a man who was just like your father. A man who carelessly tossed aside everything that you offered and made you suffer when he knew, he fucking knew, that you weren’t the problem.

You looked at the slight disarray of his hair, the tension in his broad shoulders, and the sudden, raw panic in his eyes and realized you didn't have the energy to listen to an explanation. It didn't matter if he apologized. It didn't matter if he tried to explain. You were done with wanting to understand him.

"I am going to close the door now," you said, your voice dropping into a flat, quiet finality that sounded entirely foreign to your own ears.

Zayne flinched, his jaw tightening as he took a half-step forward, his hand instinctively reaching out toward you. "Listen to me—"

"I don't want to see you until the morning, Zayne," you cut him off, not raising your voice, not giving him an inch of room to negotiate.

You looked him dead in the eye, your gaze steady despite the single tear tracking down your cheek. "Do not knock again."

Before he could find his voice, you reached out, took hold of the edge of the door and firmly pulled it shut.

On the other side of the door, there was absolute stillness. You stood with your back against the wood, your breath shallow, waiting to see if his stubborn pride would make him demand entry, or if he would raise his voice to defend himself.

But he didn't.

You could hear the faint, heavy sound of his breathing, a solid, troubled presence right on the threshold.

After a long, agonizing minute, you heard the faint rustle of his clothes as he finally stepped back. His footsteps were slow and uncharacteristically heavy as he walked down the hallway, retreating toward the other side of the house.

When you heard the door of the guest room finally click shut, the last of your strength gave out. You sank down against the locked bedroom door, pulling your knees tightly to your chest. The dull numbness of the alcohol was almost gone now, leaving behind only the sharp, piercing reality of the weekend that had changed everything.

The sun rose on Monday morning with an unforgiving brightness, bathing the bedroom in pale light. You hadn’t slept well. You had spent the night drifting between a heavy, exhausted stupor and the sharp reality of your shattered marriage.

When you unlocked the door and stepped into the kitchen at 7:00 AM, Zayne was already there.

He wasn't in his surgical scrubs or a tailored suit. He was still wearing the dark trousers and button-down shirt from yesterday, but the sleeves rolled up. He sat at the table, a completely cold cup of black coffee resting between his hands. He looked up the moment you entered. The dark circles under his eyes and the hollow shadow along his jawline told you he hadn't slept either.

The silver laptop sat on the far corner of the counter, closed and untouched, like an unexploded bomb between you.

You didn't start making breakfast. You simply stood near the entryway, your arms crossed defensively over your chest. "I'm listening," you said quietly. "No more excuses, Zayne. Just the truth."

Zayne looked down at his coffee, his large hands tightening around the porcelain. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

"I went to the botanical garden yesterday," Zayne broke the silence, his voice incredibly rough and devoid of its usual steadiness. He looked up, meeting your gaze with a raw, painful vulnerability you had never seen in him before. "Before I went to the bar to get you. I went there because I didn't know how to talk to you after what we said to each other last night."

He let out a slow, ragged breath.

"You were right," Zayne confessed, the words clearly tearing out of his throat. "About all of it. I lied to you. I have loved MC for almost my entire life. I loved her when we were children, I loved her through the worst years of our lives, and I loved her silently when she chose Sylus."

Hearing him say the words out loud felt like a physical blow to your chest, but you forced yourself to stand still, absorbing the impact.

"When I went to the matchmaking agency, I told myself I was doing the rational thing," Zayne continued, his eyes shining with a bitter, defensive sorrow. "I told myself that part of my life was dead and buried. I met you, and you were warm, interesting, beautiful, independent, and good. I genuinely thought I could give you a stable, comfortable life. I thought a quiet, dutiful marriage would be enough for both of us."

He stood up, taking an agonizing step toward you, though he kept his distance.

"But I was cowardly," Zayne whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "I thought that if I kept my distance, if I buried myself in surgeries and research, I wouldn't have to face the fact that I was failing you. The messages... the photos... they are a habit of a lifetime that I didn't know how to break."

He stopped, his dark eyes locked onto yours, completely stripped of his pride and his defences. For the first time since you met him, Zayne Li was giving you the absolute, unvarnished truth. It wasn't the truth you wanted, and it didn't make up for the months of isolation, but it was honest.

"I don't love you. At least, not in the way you want me to," Zayne confessed, the words cutting through the air with a brutal, devastating honesty. "I married you because I thought I could build a stable life. At the time, I thought that choosing someone warm and kind would allow me to move on. That everything would be... uncomplicated. But I was incredibly selfish."

"I am deeply sorry for what I did to you," Zayne whispered. " I am sorry for taking your time, your affection, and your trust, and giving you nothing but isolation in return."

“But I think we should stay married,” Zayne said, his voice regaining a touch of that familiar, steady authority as he looked at you across the kitchen island. “What we have… is safe. Frankly, it is better than most marriages. We are compatible. We don't fight, and we provide a good life for each other. We can make this work.”

You looked at him, your chest tight. To him, a marriage was like a successful surgery. It needed zero complications and a stable pulse. But it wasn’t enough. This was stasis, where the natural flow of change and growth was halted and you were stuck with something neither wanted. This was unnatural.

“I have to think,” you whispered and fled back to the bedroom.

You didn't pack a full suitcase; you just threw a few essentials into a small overnight bag while he watched from the bedroom doorway, his expression an unreadable mix of stoicism and brewing panic. You drove downtown and checked into a hotel and that was as far and as much as you could do for yourself for the time being.

You paid with cash and used your maiden name. Because you really meant it when you said that you needed to think. You were about to make one of the most life-changing, potentially devastating decisions of your life. You didn’t want any witnesses to your pain and you didn’t want anyone influencing your decision.

Your only call was to your mother, just to tell her what happened. You expected little sympathy, but her flat, empty reaction still caught you off guard. You braced for her order to go back home. Instead, she surprisingly told you to stay put and take your time.

For two days, you lived in a hazy limbo. You ordered room service you barely touched. You stared at the ceiling. You tried to weigh the cold comfort of a secure, wealthy life against the agonizing vacuum of his affection. In the end it all came down to one thing.

You loved him. And that was the problem.

On Tuesday evening, a knock sounded at your hotel room door.

You opened it to find Zayne standing in the dimly lit hallway. He looked dishevelled, his top button was undone and his shirt was wrinkled, and his eyes carried a dark, intense anguish you had never seen in him before. He didn't ask for permission. He stepped into the room, caught your waist in his large hands, threw the door closed behind him, and pulled you against his chest.

Before you could say a word, he kissed you.

It was a fierce, bruising kiss, filled with a sudden, overwhelming urgency. You were entirely unsure what to think. Was this remorse? Was this fear of the unknown? But as his warmth enveloped you, the months of starvation won. You loved him. God help you, you loved him so much. And he was here and he was yours. So, you let yourself enjoy this moment.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, parted your lips, and kissed him back with equal desperation.

The clothes came off in a frantic, uncharacteristic rush, scattering across the carpeted hotel floor. He lifted you onto the bed, his weight grounding and heavy, his hands gripping your skin with a possessive strength that felt entirely real. For a few breathtaking minutes, losing yourself in the heat and the familiar rhythm of his body, you actually believed things could change. You let yourself hope that his apology would be the pivotal moment in your relationship that you were hoping for.

His lips were on your temple, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his pace quickening as the tension in the room reached its absolute peak. He gripped your hips tightly, his voice breaking in a low, breathless groan against your ear-

But the words you desperately needed to hear never came.

Zayne didn't pause, he didn’t say anything. There were no apologies or declarations. His rhythm didn't falter. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing remaining heavy, ragged, and frantic as he carried himself over the edge of his own release. He was entirely consumed by the moment.

When it was over, the heavy, suffocating silence crawled back into the hotel room.

Zayne rolled off you, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, his breathing began to slow. He reached out, his warm hand finding your arm in the dark, his thumb gently stroking your skin in a gesture he likely thought was comforting.

The two of you lay next to each other. Occupying the same space but somehow far apart.

“How did you know where to find me?” you asked.

“Your mother called.”

A bitter clarity washed over you.

So that was why she insisted you stay put.

Your mother probably convinced herself she was helping, but it was always about her own reputation. She adored Zayne. The moment you secured a rich, handsome husband, she finally had the ultimate weapon to lord it over the neighbourhood women who used to whisper about you being still 'on the shelf.'

"Come back home tomorrow," Zayne murmured. He turned his head to look at you. His silver-rimmed glasses were on the nightstand, leaving his hazel eyes looking softer in the shadows. "We can put this weekend behind us. This... tonight... It proves we can still find our balance. We can make this work."

“How?”

He didn’t answer right away. To a stranger, he might have seemed breathless or lost in the afterglow. But you knew him too well. The silence stretched because he simply had no answers. For you, that empty pause was the final nail in the coffin of your marriage.

“We will find a way,” he finally said.

You turned away and lay perfectly still on your side, your back turned toward him, staring blankly at the artwork on the hotel wall. You didn't pull away from his touch. You didn't cry.

He didn't know how to fix this either.

And this was the cruellest truth of all. And you had to accept it.

"I'm going to take a shower," you whispered.

You slid out from under the covers, carefully avoiding his hand, and gathered your discarded clothes from the floor, not wanting to be bare in front of him. As you walked into the bathroom and closed the door, you didn't look in the mirror. After all, what was there to see except the woman who clung onto a man so pathetically that she chose to ignore every red flag in existence?

Standing under the scalding water, you let the heat turn your skin red. You knew, with absolute, terrifying clarity, that you could never go back to what you were.

The thinking was over. The marriage was dead.

On rare occasions, Zayne would take you out on a date. It was always perfectly orchestrated. Perhaps a nice evening at an expensive restaurant filled with pleasant, polite conversation. A movie night complete with popcorn and various sweets. A weekend ride into the countryside where you two would share a quiet picnic.

Sex, if and when it happened, was amazing. He made sure that you came at least once. The physical encounters with Zayne were a confusing mix of intense gratification and heartbreaking distance. When he did touch you, his precision in anything he put his mind to translated into an overwhelming, breathless mastery that left your body entirely consumed. He was unfailingly thorough, using his hands and mouth with a focused dedication that ensured your pleasure, never allowing the encounter to end until he felt your body shatter beneath him.

Yet, beneath the heat of his touch, his passion felt deliberate. A flawless execution of a procedure. Something that he did because he was meant to. There was no fun, mess or chaos. No bumping noses or awkwardness. No bursts of affection, no vulnerability in his eyes, and no soft, unprompted whispers in the dark. As you lay in his arms afterward, you couldn't shake the feeling that he was merely performing the duties of a husband, leaving his heart entirely untouched.

You were worried at first when the occasions when you were intimate with your husbands became scarce and far between. But then you reminded yourself that settling into a routine meant that passion became less of a priority. Besides, how could you complain when your husband was out there saving lives?

You were grateful for your life. To any outsider looking in, it would seem flawless.

You genuinely loved your job. Being a teacher was not everyone’s cup of tea, but you found true joy in working with children. You loved your friends, too. Blythe could not spend as much time with you as before now that she was pregnant with her second child, but you had recently reconnected with a few close friends from university.

And then, of course, there was MC.

Despite your deep-seated insecurities and how much you still hated the soft, rare look on Zayne’s face whenever her name was casually mentioned, MC was a great person. She invited you to hang out with her and her co-workers Tara and Simone. When you mentioned that you weren’t really sure what would look good in the sparsely decorated house, she whisked you off on a shopping trip, pushing you to buy the gorgeous things to decorate your home that both of you knew were more to your taste than Zayne’s. Not that Zayne commented on anything that you purchased. When he was actually around, he seemed to treat your house as more of a space where he’d spend time between surgeries rather than a home.

And, of course, you loved your husband. How could you not? He was everything a dutiful husband was supposed to be. Except sometimes, late at night as you lay alone in your marital bed waiting for him, you wondered. Wondered if he truly cared about you as a person, or if he just cared about portraying a certain image of a perfect life.

But you always told yourself that it was fine. Your life was fine. You were fine. Zayne was fine. If anything, you felt that thinking otherwise was you being ungrateful. Many women would kill to have such a comfortable, stable life and a secure relationship. It was certainly better than the relationship your parents had.

To this day you were unsure why your mother hadn’t left your father. To everyone else, he was a charming, handsome man who doted on his beautiful, elegant wife and somewhat plain, unremarkable daughter. But behind closed doors, he was a tyrant who took out all his frustrations with his life on you. He had never hit you. The torture was psychological only. You still remembered vividly how you felt when the call about his fatal car accident came. You didn’t feel sadness, just relief. And what kind of a monster feels that way about her own father?

Perhaps it was the lingering guilt that pushed you to try harder in your marriage. Or perhaps it was the feeling that you could never measure up to the man who chose you. Whatever it was, you knew that you won the husband lottery. You were with a man who never shouted, belittled you or let others disrespect you, and treated you with care. Perhaps your relationship was not as emotionally close as you hoped and dreamed. But you were going to try harder, pour more of yourself in it, and make sure that it would eventually become the real, deep love that you craved.

And for now, you contented yourself with spending an occasional afternoon with Blythe, Caleb, and their toddler. With Blythe heavily pregnant with their second son, Caleb had managed to take a significant chunk of time off from his military duties to be with his growing family. It must have been incredibly difficult to arrange, but he had secured a rare three-month leave out of the six he had originally pushed for.

“Argh, I’m such a whale!” Blythe groaned, dropping rather inelegantly onto the sofa beside you. “And you look so pretty and just look at your perfect legs! I kinda hate you right now.”

“Don’t say that,” you laughed gently, squeezing her hand. “You are absolutely glowing.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. The miracle of life and all that,” she scoffed playfully. Then, she raised her voice, directing it toward the kitchen. “I swear, this is the last one, Caleb! I’m not doing this again!”

“That’s what you said the last time!” Caleb called back, his voice full of easy amusement.

“Well, I mean it this time!” Blythe yelled back, crossing her arms over her round belly. “Don’t you dare come near me for the next ten years!”

Caleb grinned as he walked into the living room. Without a word of complaint, he popped a spoonful of ice cream directly into her mouth to quiet her down, before handing her the rest of the bowl.

“Even if I have ice cream?” he teased.

Blythe swallowed, a smile blooming on her face. “Only if you have ice cream.”

Watching them, a familiar, quiet ache bloomed in your chest. You looked down at your hands, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I wish Zayne was around more.”

“Is he still working himself stupid?” Caleb asked. His expression softened as he noticed how nervous you were. He handed you a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. “And here I thought that Mr. Snowman would actually allow himself to be human from time to time.”

“He’s just really busy,” you murmured, your fingers tightening around the warm coffee mug Caleb had handed you. You forced a small, practiced smile to your lips, automatically stepping into the familiar role of an understanding wife. “There’s been so many complex cardiac cases at the hospital lately. He’s one of the few surgeons who can handle them.”

Blythe rolled her eyes affectionately over her bowl of ice cream, though her gaze remained sharp and perceptive. “Hun, lives are always on the line. He was a workaholic when he was twenty, and he’s a workaholic now. But he’s a married man now. He needs to realize his schedule affects you.”

“It’s fine, really,” you insisted, your voice carrying a desperate edge of reassurance. “I knew what I was signing up for. And I really want him to succeed. Besides, when he is home, he’s incredibly attentive. He always remembers exactly what I like, and he takes care of everything.”

Caleb sat down in a nearby armchair, holding his own cup of coffee. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his violet, striking eyes studying you with quiet concern. Unlike Blythe's bluntness, Caleb's approach was almost brotherly in its gentleness.

“Look, we all respect Zayne’s dedication,” Caleb said. “But even the military gives us leave to be with our families. A marriage can’t survive on the scraps of someone’s time, no matter how noble their job is. You’re allowed to miss your husband. You’re allowed to want him ‘round.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stared down at the slice of cake on your plate, suddenly unable to meet Caleb’s eyes. If they only knew that it wasn’t just the long hours that hurt.

“Anyway, enough about Zayne,” you said quickly, forcing a brighter note into your voice as you set your coffee mug down on the table. “We should be focusing on the two of you. Three months of uninterrupted family time is incredible, Caleb. How did you even manage to pull that off with your superiors?”

Caleb stared at you for a heartbeat too long, clearly recognizing the pivot for what it was, but he let it go. He offered a warm, easy smile and leaned back. “Let’s just say I might have done a few favours for the commanding officer. Plus, I think they are scared of Mrs. Xia here.”

“Damn right,” Blythe muttered happily, taking another large spoonful of ice cream. “But seriously, it’s been amazing having him here to help chase our toddler around. I don't think my back could take it.”

You listened to them talk, nodding and smiling in all the right places as the conversation shifted to the chaotic joy of raising a family. It was obvious that they were a team. Navigating the challenges of Caleb's career together without losing their warmth or their connection. The contrast between their genuine, messy affection and your own pristine, silent marriage was deafening.

By the time you finally said your goodbyes and stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of loneliness was entirely suffocating. Sitting in the driver's seat of your car, you gripped the steering wheel.

A marriage can’t survive on the scraps of someone’s time.

You wiped your eyes with a rough, jerky movement and took a deep breath. There was no use comparing their family dynamic with the one that you had. Every marriage was different. As you drove off, you once again reminded yourself that everything was fine.

You spent the rest of the day losing yourself in your garden, tending to blooms big and small. Wiping your hands on a cloth, you stood back to admire your hard work. Vines of star jasmine flirted with the pink variety, both climbing a vertical archway lush with glossy, dark green leaves and fragrant petals. Nearby sat the evergreen shrubs of Arabian jasmine, which you would soon harvest, dry, and mix with green tea for a calming floral brew. These jasmines were your absolute favourites. Though you would never admit that out loud, of course! Every flower was tended with love, but the abundance of jasmine was deliberate. It was your quiet trap to lure your husband outside, to convince him to sit with you on the swing you had installed a few weeks ago. You could picture it perfectly. The two of you surrounded by greenery and fresh, floral scents, sipping tea and eating the delicate pastries he loved so much.

Smiling, you checked the time. Zayne wasn't due home for hours. There was plenty of time left for your secret.

Walking into the far corner of the garden, you dug a little and unearthed your diary. It was stored in a waterproof container and wrapped up tightly. You knew that perhaps it made you objectively crazy to hide your diary. But you needed an outlet for your emotions and didn’t know what Zayne would think if he ever happened to come across it.

You hadn’t always hidden your thoughts away like that. As a quiet, easily startled child that could not make friends and once she did was uprooted and thrust into a different school, you still needed someone to talk to. So diaries became your companions. The things you documented were innocent enough. Dreams, Christmas and Birthday gifts, stories that you wrote about stories that you had enjoyed reading. But as you grew older, you documented your raw, unfiltered emotions. And that was your mistake.

Even now, you could still see your father’s face as he held your open diary, its pages violated by his angry, prying eyes.

“Is this what you really think of us? Huh? That we are unreasonable? That we are unfair? After all we've done for you over the years? Answer me!”

Hot tears had rolled down your cheeks as your lips trembled, your eyes glued to the floor.

“I said answer me! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

You had forced yourself to look up. He was standing too close, almost thrusting the diary into your face. “I bet this is what you go around telling people, too! You ungrateful little shit.”

“I—”

“Well?”

“I don’t.”

“Liar! I’ll cure you of that!”

With a sharp blink, you shook your head, forcing the bitter memory to dissolve back into the past. You stood up, walked over to the garden swing, and took off your shoes. Pulling your knees tight against your chest, you promised yourself you wouldn't think of him anymore. That life was gone. Dead and buried. You had a wonderful life now, and a kind husband. Yet, sometimes, when you looked across the table at Zayne as he silently scrolled through his phone during breakfast or the occasional dinner, you deeply wished you could share more of yourself with him. Perhaps, one day, you would.

You were really good at lying to yourself. Practice makes perfect, after all. But no matter how much you convinced yourself that you were happy with the way things were, as days passed and the air started to grow cooler, you could no longer ignore the truth.

The illusion finally shattered on a Saturday night in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store. As you stood there alone, trying to decide on an ice cream treat to eat by yourself, a sudden, staggering realization hit you. The last time you and your husband had been intimate was seven months ago. And you were only two years into your marriage.

Your immediate knee-jerk reaction was to blame yourself, wondering if the lack of physical warmth was entirely your fault. Because you hated confrontation and knew how exhausted he always was, you had stayed silent for months to avoid becoming a cliché. That is, the nagging, demanding wife who puts her own needs before her husband’s career.

No, you told yourself, that wasn’t who you were. You just weren’t trying hard enough. Shaking off the sudden loneliness, you decided to surprise him. Instead of spending another Saturday evening alone watching a film, you put on your favourite summer dress, the one that had his gaze lingering on your back a moment too long to be accidental, packed a basket full of desserts, and drove straight to the hospital. You were determined to bridge the distance between you in whatever way you could.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Li is not here," the receptionist told you politely when you arrived.

"Oh, I see," you stammered, caught off guard. "I thought he had two more surgeries tonight."

"No, he clocked out about an hour ago."

You quickly thanked the receptionist, commenting on how forgetful you were and hoping desperately that she didn’t notice how tight and fragile your smile had become.

Sitting down on a bench just outside the hospital entrance, putting down the useless basket of sweets beside you, you felt a heavy, suffocating dread settle deep in your chest.

If he wasn't working, was it possible that he was avoiding you?

It just didn’t make any sense. With how completely exhausted he was every day after work, surely Zayne would want to get home and unwind in his own space as early as he possibly could.

No, you reasoned, you were just overthinking things again. You tended to do that. He was probably already home, walking through the door right now and wondering where you were.

And yet, when you returned to the dark, silent house forty minutes later, he still wasn't there.

Feeling a sudden wave of desperation, and terrified that something terrible might have happened to the man you loved, you called his phone. It went straight to voicemail. Feeling increasingly frantic, you called again, and again, and again.

With nowhere else to turn, you realized there was only one person left who might know his habits outside the hospital. You dialled her number.

"Hello?" MC answered on the second ring.

"Um, hi! I’m so sorry to call you out of the blue like this," you stammered, your throat tightening as you tried to keep your voice steady. "But I was wondering if you might know where Zayne is. He’s not at work, he’s not answering his phone, and I’m just… I'm really worried something happened to him."

In the background, you suddenly heard the distinct rustle of clothing and movement. "Wait, hang on. No, Sylus, I can't right now," MC whispered. Then, cutting clearly through the line, you heard Sylus mutter a single, low word: "Idiot." MC quickly shushed him, her tone sharp.

Your face burned with an immediate, agonizing flush of humiliation. Was Sylus calling you an idiot? Was he mocking you for being a clueless, desperate wife who had to call her husband's childhood friend just to track him down on a Saturday night? You felt incredibly small, stripped of all your pride in a single second.

"I'm sorry, I don't know exactly where Zayne is right now," MC said, her voice laced with almost sisterly protective worry. "But he sometimes does research or clears his head outside the hospital walls, so that's probably why his phone is turned off. You know how he is! Getting so completely caught up with his work that he forgets everything else around him."

"Sure. Yes. Thank you," you whispered. You hung up the phone, letting it drop against the sofa cushions, and stared out into the empty night. The phone screen dimmed, casting a faint blue glow over your hands before going entirely dark.

You sat on the edge of the sofa in the living room. You shivered, still in your light summer dress. The house was cold. Zayne preferred the thermostat kept at a precise, lower temperature. He said it was a habit from years in sterile, heavily climate-controlled operating theatres.

Your face still burned with the memory of the call. “No, Sylus, I can't right now.” And then that single, low word.

 Idiot.

Was Sylus annoyed that your frantic call interrupted whatever private moment they were sharing? Was he annoyed that you were taking up his wife’s time and asking inane questions about your husband’s whereabouts? Or had he been looking at the situation from the outside, his sharp, cynical intelligence instantly diagnosing the pathetic reality of your marriage? A wife sitting alone in a dark house at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, calling her husband’s lifelong crush to ask where he was.

You looked down at your lap.

The soft, pale blue cotton dress with small embroidered flowers felt entirely ridiculous. It wasn’t meant for someone like you. It was meant for someone full of hope and laughter, for a woman who felt cherished, loved and seen. On you, it looked like a desperate attempt to play the role of someone else.

Seven months.

How had you let seven months slip by without acknowledging what was really going on? You had spent all that time telling yourself that everything was fine. You had swept all your worries under a rug and focused on keeping to a routine. You woke up early, made his coffee, watched the disciplined line of his back as he left for his morning runs, and convinced yourself that this structured, peaceful co-existence was what mature, healthy love looked like.

You had poured yourself into your work at the school. You had leaned on your friends. And you had genuinely tried with MC. Perhaps that was the most painful part. She wasn't a villain. If she had been cruel or dismissive, it would have been so much easier to hate her. And although MC could be careless and difficult, she was kind. She had genuinely cared about helping you and including you.

But Zayne’s heart didn't care how much you tried. It seemed that no matter what you did, his heart did not belong to you.

“He sometimes does research outside the hospital,” MC had said, her voice full of gentle rationalization. “You know how he is.”

It was a beautiful lie. But you wanted to face the truth now, no matter how it made you feel.

Zayne Li did not wander aimlessly. He was a man of absolute precision, of rigorous schedules and micro-managed time. If he was missing for hours after a shift, it was because he had actively chosen to be somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't here. Somewhere far away from the woman he had legally bound himself to.

The electronic lock on the front door beeped at exactly eleven thirty PM, the mechanical latch sliding back shattered the quiet.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your entire body went rigid as the door swung open, admitting a gust of night air from the hallway. Zayne stepped into the apartment looking exactly as he always did. He was perfectly put-together, sharp, and imposing. He wore a dark, tailored coat over his suit, his medical bag held firmly in his left hand. His silver-rimmed glasses caught the faint light of the hallway before he closed the door behind him.

He paused in the entryway, his hazel-green eyes tracing the dark living room until they locked onto you sitting on the sofa. He didn't look frantic or apologetic. He didn't look like a man who had accidentally lost track of time. His expression was an unreadable mask.

“You’re still awake,” Zayne said, his voice cutting through the air. He set his bag down on the coffee table and began unbuttoning his coat with slow, deliberate movements. “And the lights are off. Is something wrong with the electricity?”

He didn't mention his phone. He didn't apologize for being late. He didn't even seem to notice the dress or the basket sitting at your feet. He was simply analysing the environment, treating whatever this was like a puzzle to be solved. You sat there in the dark, looking at the flawless, beautiful man, you loved so desperately. And in that moment, you knew with perfect clarity that you had enough.

"You're still up," he repeated, his voice betraying his fatigue. "I told you not to wait up for me."

"I went to the hospital today. You weren't there, Zayne," you said. Your voice was quiet, but the absolute lack of a tremor surprised even you.

He paused, his hand dropping. "I had research to review. I went to a quiet cafe near the hospital to get away from it all."

"Your phone was off."

"The battery died." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's been a long day. If this is about me missing dinner again—"

"We haven't slept together in seven months."

The words cut through the room like a physical blade. Zayne froze. The distant mask he always wore seemed to crack for a fraction of a second, his hazel eyes widening slightly before slamming shut again.

"I am a surgeon," he said, his tone tightening, turning defensive. "My schedule is demanding. I am mentally and physically drained when I get home. It isn't personal."

"Isn't it?" You stood up from the couch, finally letting months of buried hurt rise to the surface. "You have enough energy to go running every single morning. You have enough energy to go out of your way for extra research. And you certainly make an effort when it comes to MC."

He frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I saw the way you looked at MC before we got married," you said, your throat tightening. "I saw the way you looked at her at our own wedding. Whenever she is around, you look at her like she hung the stars. And then you come home to me, and you look right through me."

Zayne’s posture went entirely rigid. "MC is my friend. She is married to Sylus. You are being completely irrational."

"Am I?" You took a step closer to him, refusing to back down. "I called her tonight because I was terrified something happened to you. Do you know what I heard? I heard Sylus in the background calling someone an idiot. Was he talking about you, Zayne? Or was he talking about me, for being stupid enough to marry a man who is clearly in love with someone else?"

Silence fell over the room. Zayne stared at you. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. For the first time in your marriage, the distance between you wasn't just a physical absence.

This was war.

The vulnerability you thought you glimpsed vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, impenetrable wall. He straightened, his eyes turning dismissive as he drew himself up to his full height.

"This is completely absurd," Zayne said, his voice becoming dangerously calm, as if he was speaking to someone out of their mind. "You are projecting your own insecurities onto my friendships and my career."

He walked past you, throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter with a loud, sharp clatter that made you flinch.

"I am a surgeon," he continued, turning to face you with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "My days are spent dealing with life-and-death stakes and gruelling physical exhaustion. When I come home, I need peace. I do not have the emotional bandwidth to reassure you because you feel intimidated by MC or because you're overanalysing a passing glance from months ago."

"So, the last seven months are just me overanalysing?" Your voice shook, his words making you angry and giving you the strength to soldier on. "The lack of intimacy, the empty bed, the distance between us… You are telling me that's just all in my head?"

"This is the reality of marrying a doctor," Zayne snapped, his tone entirely devoid of warmth. "I am tired. I am drained. If you wanted a husband who was home by five, you shouldn't have agreed to marry me. My commitment to this marriage is shown in the life I provide for us, not by how many times I can force myself to ask you about your day after a fourteen-hour shift."

He looked at you, his eyes flat and distant, completely denying the emotional vacuum he had left you in.

"Sylus was calling me an idiot. It had absolutely nothing to do with you," Zayne said, his face an unreadable mask. "I am going to sleep in the guest room tonight. I suggest you use the time to calm down."

He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, closing the guest room door behind him with a firm, decisive click. He left you alone in the dark living room, colder and more isolated than you had ever been.

💖 Tag list 💖:

“About what?” Blythe grinned mischievously.  “The bride being two hours late to her own wedding reception because she and her husband were found in a rather… compromising position in the back of the limo?”

“Shut up!” MC groaned, burying her face in her hands.

You couldn't help but laugh. "Two hours? Honestly, MC, I'm impressed. Sylus must have been very… persuasive."

"Oh, shut up, both of you," MC said, kicking Blythe gently under the table. "It wasn't entirely our fault. The traffic was terrible, and, well... Sylus gets bored easily. He needs something to do."

“Like you?” Blythe winked, dodging another kick.

"Anyway!" MC said, her face still flushed. "We are here to focus on your wedding. What's next on the list?"

In the end, it was a beautiful evening. The wedding was undeniably gorgeous. And the reception was a masterclass in modern luxury—all towering white orchid and rose floral arrangements, glittering crystal chandeliers, and a guest list that read like a directory of the city's medical elite.

It was also too flashy for your low-key taste. You had envisioned a quiet registry office and a small dinner with close family. But Zayne’s position, combined with your mother’s absolute, unbridled euphoria that you were finally getting married, had swept those modest plans away.

You looked at your husband and giggled. Outwardly he seemed polite and accommodating, but you could tell that he was finding the whole thing as tedious as you. You looked down at your right hand, where a new platinum band now sat nestled against your engagement ring. You were officially his wife.

Your mother had spent the morning bursting with pride, her eyes welling up every time she looked at you in your eye-wateringly expensive wedding gown. Your grandfather, covering his emotions with humour, had spent the afternoon joking about finally getting rid of you, despite your years of independence. You had laughed, leaning into their joy and choosing to ignore the comments that you didn’t like, although you wished that it would all be over and you could kick off your shoes and relax in a quiet corner somewhere.

Zayne seemed to have something similar in mind. Whilst you were still stuck thanking guests and making light conversation, you could not see your husband anywhere. At first, you thought that he just stepped out for a bit of air and would be back at any moment. And yet when you scanned the crowded ballroom, he was nowhere to be found.

Needing a breath of crisp night air, you slipped away from the well-wishing aunts and tipsy colleagues, stepping out into the manicured botanical garden bordering the venue. The evening air chilled your bare shoulders, but you barely felt it. Your eyes were drawn to a secluded stone pathway under the shadow of a weeping willow.

There he was. And there she was.

MC looked gorgeous. She was dressed in an elegant, deep crimson evening gown that matched what her husband Sylus chose to wear for the evening. The dramatic dress contrasted beautifully with the soft fairy lights strung through the branches. She was laughing easily, her head tilted back, her entire posture relaxed and radiant.

And Zayne was looking at her. Really looking. Drinking her in like a man starved.

You knew, with absolute and logical certainty, that nothing inappropriate was happening. MC was happily married. Her husband, Sylus, was a powerful, commanding presence who clearly devoted himself entirely to her. You had seen the way Sylus watched her whenever they were in the same room. If another man approached MC, Sylus never looked worried or jealous. Instead, he simply watched with a self-assured smirk, never feeling the need to interfere. He knew that a minute or so later, his wife would excuse herself and come right back to his side. It was obvious that MC loved her husband completely.

But logic did nothing to soothe the agonizing pinch in your chest as you watched Zayne's face.

The cold, perfectly put-together facade of the world-renowned surgeon had completely melted away to be replaced with a look of profound fondness, an unwavering devotion that seemed to transcend the present moment. It was a look born of a lifetime of protecting her and of loving her silently from the margins of her life. He was smiling that rare, luminous smile. The one that lit up his hazel eyes and softened the sharp angles of his jaw.

It was the look of a man watching the centre of his universe.

A gust of wind rustled the willow leaves as the cold reality of the situation settled over you. You were the woman who wore his ring. You were the woman who would share his home, sign the tax documents, and greet his parents at holidays. You were the safe, suitable choice he had made at a matchmaking agency because the woman he truly wanted belonged to someone else.

You stood in the shadows of your own wedding venue, watching your husband choose to give the best of himself to another man's wife. Looking at them, you realized something terrifying. You had married a man who was entirely present in your life, but whose heart was somewhere you could not reach.

You stepped back into the shadows, turning your face away before the tears could ruin your bridal makeup, and quietly walked back toward the bright, noisy ballroom alone. Before you could fully retreat, a hand gently caught your elbow.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you,” Blythe said, her voice dropping to a warm, conspiratorial whisper. She looked radiant in her bridesmaid dress and had already kicked off her heels and was holding them by the straps.

She followed your gaze over to the weeping willow, where Zayne and MC were still talking. For a second, you braced yourself, wondering if she would notice the sudden stiffness in your shoulders or the way you desperately blinked back your tears.

Instead, Blythe just smiled softly, a look of affectionate nostalgia crossing her face.

“They really are something, aren't they?” Blythe murmured, leaning her shoulder against yours. “Caleb told me all about it when we first started dating. Zayne and MC… they’ve been through absolute hell and back together since they were kids. He’s basically spent his whole life acting as her guardian angel.”

Your throat felt incredibly dry. “They seem very close.”

“Oh, incredibly!” Blythe admitted freely, completely unaware of the knife she was twisting in your heart. She turned to look at you, her eyes shining with genuine happiness. “But MC only ever saw him as a friend. And Zayne… well, he’s always been too stubborn for his own good.”

She reached out, gently squeezing your forearm.

“That’s why I was so incredibly happy when you guys got together,” Blythe said softly, her tone shifting to one of deep sincerity. “I couldn’t believe it when Caleb told me Zayne had actually went to a matchmaker and found someone. But seeing him with you these past six months? He’s different. And change doesn’t come easy to people like Zayne.”

She nudged you playfully with her elbow, nodding toward the ballroom where the music was picking up.

“Caleb has me. MC has Sylus to take care of her. It’s Zayne’s turn to be taken care of. And honestly? I think you’re exactly what he needs. Now come on, let’s get you back inside before your mother realizes the bride has gone missing, or she’ll deploy a search party.”

Blythe linked her arm through yours, pulling you gently back toward the bright, noisy reception. But before Blythe could pull you back toward the ballroom, the muffled music from the reception shifted. The upbeat swing faded, replaced by the slow, sweeping melody of a classical waltz. It was a beautiful piece, the kind that filled a room with a bittersweet, cinematic magic.

Your breath caught in your throat. As you stood frozen, you saw Zayne extend his hand.

Out under the willow tree, Zayne bowed his head slightly, offering his palm to MC with an effortless, old-world gallantry. MC laughed, a soft sound carried away by the night wind and placed her hand in his with confidence you couldn’t hope to compete with. He stepped closer, resting his hand firmly against her waist, and drew her into the rhythm of the music.

They began to dance. Right there on the damp stone path, beneath the leaves and fairy lights, they moved together to the tune that you carefully picked out weeks earlier.

A heavy, suffocating wave of hurt crashed over you. Today was your wedding day. That classical piece playing indoors was supposed to be the cue for the ballroom to clear. It was supposed to be the moment the groom took his bride by the hand. The first dance of the evening, the symbolic beginning of your shared life… It was happening out here.

And it wasn't yours. It belonged to her.

You stared at his face, completely transfixed by the sheer tragedy of it. He didn't see you. He had no idea you were standing right there in the dark, watching his every move. His focus was entirely on MC, his glasses reflecting the soft glow of the lights. He was giving her the moment he owed to his wife, and he didn't even realize he was stealing it from you.

“Oh,” Blythe whispered beside you, her voice dropping as she finally noticed the music and the sudden, icy stillness in your posture. She looked from you to the garden, her expression faltering as she realized how terrible this looked. “Hey… I’m sure he’s just… they’re just—”

“It’s fine,” you cut Blythe off and pulled your arm out of her grip.

Your heart felt bruised, but a cold, defensive pride rose up to swallow the tears. He didn't know you saw him. And you weren't going to let him anyone see how deeply this affected you.

Turning your back on them, you walked firmly toward the ballroom, leaving your husband to finish his dance with the woman he truly loved.

The glass doors clicked shut behind you, cutting off the cool night air and plunging you back into the suffocating warmth. You ached, but you kept your chin up, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor.

“Hey, look who it is,” a warm, cheerful voice called out.

Caleb was heading your way from the bar, holding two fresh glasses of champagne. He looked sharp in his tuxedo, though he had already loosened his bow tie. His easy-going, familiar charm made him look completely at home, but you knew his presence here tonight was mainly to support his childhood friend and to be by his wife’s side.

“I was wondering where the bride ran off to!” Caleb smiled, offering you one of the glasses and giving the other to Blythe. “Your family is circling like vultures wanting more pictures, but I figured you needed a bit of this first.”

Before you could take the glass or force out a polite reply, a sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere made Caleb freeze.

The low chatter near the garden entrance died down instantly. The air grew heavy, charged with a magnetic, commanding presence. You turned your head and saw Sylus walking in your direction. He looked devastatingly handsome in a tailored suit, his silver hair catching the light of the chandeliers, sparkling jewels adorning his neck and fingers. It was the kind of look that would be out of place on anyone but him. His crimson eyes scanned the crowd with a cold, predatory indifference. And then they landed on you.

Sylus didn’t say a word, but his gaze narrowed slightly as he took in your pale face and the faint tremor in your hands. He had an uncanny, dangerous ability to read a room, and it was clear he noticed the tension radiating off you.

“Where’s my sister? Wasn’t she with you?” Caleb asked, his casual tone dropping a bit as he looked between you and Sylus.

“She’s in the garden with Zayne.” You took the champagne glass from Caleb and took a long sip, needing the burn of the alcohol to steady your nerves. “They’re… catching up.”

Caleb chuckled, though it sounded a bit forced. He glanced toward the dark windows, a faint look of protective concern passing over his features. “Ah, right. Those two can talk for hours when they get going. Childhood habits die hard, I guess. Zayne’s always been… like a second brother to her. Though he really shouldn't be disappearing on his own wedding night.”

Sylus stepped closer, towering over you. His eyes flicked past your shoulder toward the dark garden windows, where your husband was still spinning MC across the stone path. A dangerous, knowing glint flashed in Sylus's eyes. He knew exactly what was happening out there, and he wasn't threatened by it. He knew MC belonged to him entirely. But more importantly, he saw the profound, quiet humiliation written all over your face.

Sylus looked down at you, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut right through the noise of the ballroom. “A word of advice, Mrs. Li. A good husband makes a good wife. Don’t let the good doctor there be the reason you ever doubt your worth.”

You looked away from Sylus, setting your empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray.  

Caleb blinked, looking confusedly at Sylus, clearly picking up on the sharp edge in the air but not wanting to cause a scene on your big day.

“Caleb,” you said quietly, your voice tight. “Can you do me a favour? Go and …find Zayne. Tell him his wife is tired and wants to go home.”

Thirty minutes later, as you were leaving, you saw Sylus close the distance between himself and MC. The commanding, predatory edge he usually carried around the crowd seemed to smooth out, leaving something much more intimate in its place.

“You’re being greedy, kitten,” Sylus said, his deep voice carrying softly over the distant music. There was no threat in his tone. She was never in any real anger when he was involved. He looked completely unbothered by Zayne’s lingering glances. But his crimson eyes held a rare, steady seriousness as he looked down at her. “I don’t mind you taking whatever you want from this world. More than that, I encourage you it. But you need to tread softly when it comes to others.”

MC tilted her head, a defensive spark in her eyes. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to do anything to do damage,” Sylus countered, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His heavy rings caught the light as his fingers traced the slope of her neck and settled on her shoulder. “Tonight isn’t about you reminiscing about days long gone.”

“What are you saying, Sylus?”

“I’m reminding you that you aren’t always the main character, kitten. And that you must think before getting caught up in the moment. Or you will come to regret your carelessness in being the reason something ends before it can truly begin.”

He didn't need to name you or Zayne. The warning was soft, protective, and clear. He wasn't protecting Zayne, but he rather protecting the fragile boundary of a marriage that had just begun.

To your surprise, MC didn’t argue or tell him he was wrong. She gave him a long look and then sighed, falling into his arms and letting him draw her closer to his broad chest.

“That was dumb of me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, my greedy kitten. But nothing that cannot be fixed. Come. It’s time to go home.”

You didn’t see what happened next because Zayne finally left the well-meaning guests trying to congratulate him on his way out and walked up to stand beside you.

“Shall we, Mrs. Li?”

The car ride to your new home was quiet. Outside, the city lights blurred into long streaks of neon against the glass. Inside the luxury car, Zayne kept his eyes fixed on the road, his large hands gripping the steering wheel with perfect discipline of a confident driver.

You looked down at the platinum band and the diamond glittering on your finger. The memory of the garden and of Zayne dancing with MC made you ache. But as the initial sting began to fade, a fierce wave of determination took its place. Perhaps you weren’t as beautiful as MC. And you and Zayne didn’t share a history. But you were resilient. And it wasn’t in your nature to give up just because things got complicated.

Everyone had a history and past loves. But it didn’t matter. Zayne had chosen you. MC was happily married to Sylus. Her life was settled and she was clearly happy. This was your marriage now, and you weren't going to let the ghosts of an unspoken past ruin the wonderful future you wanted to build. You loved this man, and you were going to fight for his heart, one day at a time.

When you finally stepped into your shared home you looked around the immaculate, barely furnished space and saw it for what it was. A place full of new beginnings and possibilities.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Zayne’s deep voice broke the stillness. He unbuttoned his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, and walked over to you. His hazel eyes scanned your face with a calm, analytical focus. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair that escaped your intricate updo away from your cheek. “Are you feeling unwell? The reception was louder and longer than we planned.”

Instead of pulling away, you leaned into his touch, letting your cheek rest against his warm palm. You looked up into his eyes and gave him a genuine, soft smile.

“I’m just processing everything,” you said softly, your voice steady and warm. “It’s been a beautiful day, Zayne. But I’m just happy to finally be home with you.”

A subtle shift passed over Zayne’s features. The faint crease between his brows smoothed out, and his dark eyes softened with an expression that looked like relief. Perhaps he hadn't even realized how tense he had been until you leaned into him. His thumb gently stroked your cheekbone. “I am glad,” he murmured.

You washed away the heavy bridal makeup and unpacked the delicate, soft silk lingerie you had bought weeks ago. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you took a deep breath. You were going to be fully present tonight. This was your wedding night, and you were not going to let a simple misunderstanding ruin it.

When you walked back into the bedroom, the main lights were off, leaving only the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamps. Zayne was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He looked up as you entered, his gaze locking onto you. For a man who was always so perfectly composed, the sudden, intense focus in his eyes made your heart skip a beat.

You walked over to him, stepping between his knees as he sat on the edge of the bed. You reached out, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders, feeling the solid, grounding warmth of his skin.

“Thank you for today, Zayne,” you whispered, looking directly into his eyes.

Wanting to completely give yourself to him and please him, you kept your eyes locked with his as you slowly sank to your knees and parted his thighs. But before you could touch him, Zayne’s hands moved to yours, gently but firmly stopping you. You looked up, a sudden flush of rejection heating your cheeks, but his expression wasn't cold. He looked down at you, his thumb softly brushing your collarbone as he offered a quiet, reassuring murmur.

“But I-”

"Another time," he said his voice thick and low.

Zayne hands came up to your waist, his grip firm and possessive. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled you up and closer, burying his face for a brief moment against your neck, inhaling your scent. When he lifted his head, the usual guarded distance in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, burning intensity.

He lay you on the bed and kissed you. It wasn't a polite kiss either. It was deep, hungry, and filled with a silent, desperate reassurance. As if he was trying to anchor himself to you just as much as you were to him. You sighed into his mouth and wrapped your legs around him, rocking into him with a moan.

“Again.”

You obliged and were rewarded with a strangled moan that turned into a hiss. The fabric against your skin created a friction that was both agonizing and intoxicating.

“Zayne-”

“More.”

He kissed your temple and you lifted your hips, dragging yourself along his clothed length. Every time you moved, his hands tightened on you, his fingers digging into your skin.

Zayne muttered something under his breath, his composure completely fractured as he leaned down to kiss you again, harder this time. He tore off your underwear and undressed himself with impatient hands. A breathless gasp escaped you as his bare chest met yours.

When he lifted his body and drew you under the covers, the remaining insecurities melted away. You’d never thought it, but the reserved and carefully polite man possessed a commanding fervour the moment the lights were off.

Halfway through the fierce rhythm that left you breathless and gasping for air, Zayne lifted you to suddenly shift positions. He guided you onto your stomach, his large, warm hands immediately finding your back, his long fingers trailing up and down your spine in slow, heavy caresses as he drove deep inside you.

As you pressed your face into the pillow, a sharp, unbidden pang of doubt broke through the pleasure for the briefest of moments. You couldn't help but wonder if he had turned you over so he wouldn't have to look at your face. So that he could lose himself in the dark without the reminder of who was in his bed. But the intensity of Zayne’s touch, the warmth of his chest pressing firmly against your back, and the heavy, desperate way he drove into you had you thinking about nothing but him.

You chose to stay in the moment. Focused on the touch of his hands, the low murmurs against your skin, and the fierce, unrelenting rhythm.

When it was over, he moved to wrap his arms tightly around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest. As you put your hands on top of his, losing yourself in the fading warmth of his embrace, you knew the path ahead wouldn't be effortless. But as your bodies stayed tangled together in the quiet sanctuary of your new home, you felt hope.

You were his wife now, and tonight and every night after, he was entirely yours.

💖 Tag list 💖

You knew who he was, of course. Everyone knew. Unless someone was living under a rock for the past decade or so, they’d know that Zayne Li was one of the brightest, most celebrated medics of his generation. He was your age, yet he was already one of the most successful, sought-after cardiac surgeons in the world.

He was everywhere. He didn’t seek the spotlight, but his intelligence and looks meant that he was constantly the subject of gossip.

Best at mending hearts and breaking hearts.

He was so intelligent and perfectly put-together that he seemed entirely flawless, leaving you to joke to yourself that you had enough flaws to balance out the relationship. You had no idea what made him choose you out of all the women that flocked to him wherever he went, but six months later, you were still together.

When your mother found out that he actually chose you, turned up for the first date and that you were actually good enough for him to keep dating you, she looked like she was about to explode. She could finally hold her head high in public as her not a failure of a daughter managed to bag the most sought-after bachelor.

At first, you were just happy that he was nothing like your father. The real reason why your hands still shook when a man raised his voice. The father that would wake you up in the middle of the night because you were ill and coughing, and definitely doing that on purpose. The father who'd look at you and say that he wished you were more intelligent, more beautiful, just more.

You knew that you could love Zayne when you accidentally spilled your drink on him on your third date. You stuttered an apology and tried dabbing frantically at your cold coffee as it seeped into the fabric of his crisp, white shirt.

"Don't worry, it's just a spill."

The softness of his voice and his even gentler fingers taking the tissues out of your hands made warmth bloom to life inside your chest.

"I'm sorry. I'll pay to get it dry cleaned."

"It's fine,” he replied, a faint, rare amusement in his eyes. “Besides, this isn't even in the top ten worst fluids that I had on me."

You knew that you cared for him when he told your mother off for belittling you in public. Having someone other than her late husband contradict her was a novel experience for the woman. Zayne did not bother waiting for her response. He took your hand like it was the most natural thing ever and pulled you away. You felt your shoulders relax as you followed him down the street, feeling that the gratitude that you felt every time he chose you could grow into something more. Something real.

Then came the proposal. When he dropped to one knee and slid an elegant ring onto your finger, you were in such a daze that his words barely registered. You knew that you loved him by the time he proposed just six months into your relationship. You felt it was a little too soon. That perhaps you were rushing into it. But when you looked into his eyes, most gorgeous hazel-green eyes, and saw the absolute certainty and calm, you said yes.

A few days later, you found yourself at a popular dessert spot, waiting to meet his childhood best friend, MC. Feeling nervous, you had asked your only close friend, Blythe, to come along. Because your father’s job required constant moving throughout your childhood, you had grown up as a quiet, isolated girl who found it difficult to speak up or make friends. But years ago, when you walked into yet another new classroom, Blythe had looked up and invited you to sit next to her. You had been inseparable ever since.

Many years later, and you were still friends. Blythe was actually married to MC’s brother Caleb and they had a beautiful two-year-old son. You only met Caleb a handful of times due to his hectic schedule. Caleb seemed warm and easy-going, so you were hoping that his younger sister would be the same.

You had heard so much about MC and felt a flutter of nervous anticipation.

When they arrived you noticed that MC looked nothing like her brother and remembered Blythe telling you about how MC and Caleb were not related by blood. But she had the same warmth about her. MC gave you a tight hug and you felt your shoulders relax a touch.

But then you looked at your future husband and witnessed something rare.

Zayne was smiling. It was a look of pure warmth, and it struck a painful chord inside you. You couldn’t remember if he had ever looked at you that way.

Had it been anyone other than Zayne, you’d think nothing of it. But you could count the times you saw him smile on one hand.

Zayne went to get desserts and drinks for the table.

“You got yourself a keeper,” Blythe elbowed you playfully. “A handsome doctor who’s willing to turn a blind eye when you stuff your face with sweets? He’s alright in my books.”

“Zayne is wonderful,” MC nodded, shrugging her jacket off her shoulders. “I can’t believe it took him this long to finally decide to settle down though.”

The dessert shop was humming with the low, pleasant drone of afternoon chatter and the clinking of porcelain, but to you, the sound had suddenly mutated into a rushing static.

MC’s words hung in the air, innocent but heavy. “I can’t believe it took him this long to finally decide to settle down though.”

“Yeah,” you managed to reply, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. You forced a tight, polite smile onto your face, wrapping your hands around your water glass. “He’s… he’s definitely full of surprises.”

Blythe didn’t notice your sudden stiffness. She was already leaning over the table, eagerly scanning the menu. “Well, I for one am glad he did. Do you think they have that triple-chocolate mousse cake you were raving about, MC? If I'm going to ruin my diet, I want to do it right!”

“Zayne probably ordered it already, you know how he gets when it comes to sweet treats!” MC said with a soft, affectionate laugh. She leaned back against her chair, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “He pretends to be all strict about nutrition, but he’s secretly a massive enabler when it comes to sweets. He used to bring me these delicious macarons all the time when we were kids. You are not from round here, are you?”

“No,” you smiled. “My family moved here when I was fifteen.”

“And that’s when we met!” Blythe chimed in, leaning over to squeeze your arm. “Seriously, everyone keeps going on about what a catch Zayne is, but I reckon he’s the one who lucked out. You are the best person ever. To be honest, growing up, I always thought MC and Zayne would end up together. What a disaster that would have been!”

“Hey!” MC swatted Blythe’s arm playfully. “I’m not that bad, thank you very much!”

“No, but I’m glad that Sylus is round to call you out when you are being a brat.”

“Hey! Don’t listen to Blythe! “ MC laughed, turning back to you. “I’m awesome!”

“I’m sure Blythe is just exaggerating,” you said in a light tone.

“Just a tad,” Blythe conceded, taking a sip of her water.

“Well, Zayne happens to think I’m great too,” MC teased, looking toward the counter. “And I’m sure he will defend me against Blythe if she keeps bullying me.”

“Aww, little sis, can’t take a little teasing?” Blythe grinned.

“Don’t call me that, we are practically the same age!”

As the two of them continued their playful bickering, your gaze drifted back to your fiancé standing in line as he waited to order.

When Zayne had proposed a few days ago, you had been too dizzy with disbelief to think clearly. You had spent the last six months convincing yourself that his quiet, stoic demeanor was just who he was. You had accepted the lack of grand romantic gestures because you thought he simply didn't possess that kind of expressive warmth.

But five minutes ago, you had watched him greet MC.

You had seen the way his sharp, guarded eyes instantly softened the moment she walked through the door. It was a look of profound, deeply rooted tenderness. A look earned by years of shared history, unspoken understanding, and an affection so deeply ingrained it seemed like second nature to him.

He had never looked at you like that. Not once.

When he looked at you, his expression was polite, attentive, and calm. He was an excellent boyfriend. He listened patiently to your mundane stories about work, took you to nice dinners, and he never made you feel small for your ordinary life. But somehow it felt like the behaviour of a man executing a duty flawlessly. It was the behaviour of a man who had decided it was time to get married, went to a matchmaking agency, and selected a suitable, uncomplicated partner.

And so, you wondered, a suspicion beginning to take root in your mind.

Could it be that he was in love with MC?

And if that was true, what was the point of him marrying you?

You played with your napkin to keep your hands busy.

Was it because MC didn't see him the same way?

Had he chosen you simply because you were safe? Because you wouldn't demand the piece of his heart that already belonged to someone else?

“Here we are,” a deep, familiar voice broke through your thoughts.

Zayne returned to the table, carrying a tray loaded with plates and drinks. With practiced, effortless grace, he began placing them down. He set a rich chocolate tart in front of Blythe, and a cup of black coffee in front of you, accompanied by a raspberry tarte—knowing you preferred lighter sweets.

Then, he placed a beautifully decorated plate in front of MC.

“Your strawberry milk tea, macaron and ice cream,” Zayne said softly. His voice held that same quiet, intimate undertone you had noticed earlier. “They only had one left. Don’t eat it too fast, or you’ll get a headache.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Zayne,” MC beamed, instantly digging her spoon into the dessert. “Oooh, this macaron is as good as those you’d smuggle into my house when we were kids!”

“Yes, I remember,” Zayne replied, relaxed amusement softening his features.  “I had to bring them in very discreetly because you didn’t want to share with Caleb.”

“See? Told ya,” Blythe chimed in with a knowing smile. “Greedy then, greedy now.”

Zayne took his seat right next to you. His shoulder brushed against yours, a solid, warm presence. Under the table, he reached out and gently laid his hand over yours, his fingers lightly squeezing your skin. It was the gesture of a doting fiancé. It was exactly what a man who was in love was supposed to do.

But as you sat there, sandwiched between the man who had promised to spend his life with you and the woman who held the smile you had never quite been able to catch, the warmth of his hand didn’t bring you comfort. You looked at the three of them. So comforatble, laughing, teasing, and sharing memories of a past you had no part in. And for the first time since you met Zayne, you felt entirely alone.

💖 Tag list 💖

It wasn’t loud. Yunho wasn’t the type to slam doors or throw things, not even on his worst days. No, this was quieter than that. The kind of wrong that settled into the room like a shift in pressure before a storm. His voice carried from the living room, low and controlled, headset on, but there was no warmth in it, none of that easy, teasing charm he usually slipped into without thinking. It was clipped. Distracted. “Yeah, yeah, I see it,” he muttered, fingers moving fast over his keyboard. “Just…. hold on.” No laugh. No playful scolding at his chat. No “hey, you’re home” tossed over his shoulder the second the door clicked shut. That alone was enough to make you pause.

You toed your shoes off slowly, setting your bag down by the door, eyes already drifting toward the glow of his setup. The room was dim except for the LED lights lining his desk, casting everything in that soft blue purple haze that usually felt cozy. Tonight, it just made the tension more obvious, sharper somehow, like it had edges. Yunho sat forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees instead of leaning back like he usually did. His headset was slightly askew, one side slipping down like he’d adjusted it too many times. His jaw was tight, the muscle ticking faintly, and every now and then he dragged a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically pull himself together. That’s when it really hit you. It took a lot to get him like this.

Yunho was the steady one. The one who let things roll off his back, who joked his way through frustration, who turned everything into something lighter even when it probably shouldn’t have been. You’d seen him annoyed before, sure, but this? This was something else. Something heavier. Something sitting just under the surface, barely contained. You stepped a little closer, quieter now, like you didn’t want to spook him, arms folding loosely over yourself as you leaned against the wall just outside his camera’s frame. Close enough to see him clearly, far enough not to interrupt.

His eyes flicked to the side, toward his second monitor, towards the chat, and for a split second, something in his expression tightened further. Not anger exactly. Embarrassment, maybe. Frustration tangled up with something deeper. Your brows pulled together, concern replacing the last of your exhaustion as you studied him more carefully. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just a bad game or a rough stream. Something had gotten under his skin and Yunho didn’t let things get under his skin unless it mattered. You pushed off the wall, crossing the room slowly, your presence finally pulling his attention fully toward you. His eyes met yours for a second, and there it was, that flicker. Something guarded. Something he didn’t want you to see. But you knew him too well.

“Hey,” you said softly, just loud enough for him to hear you over his headset. “You good?” He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he forced a small, automatic smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine.” You didn’t believe him for a second. And judging by the way his fingers stilled on his keyboard for a beat too long… he knew you didn’t. “Okay.” You don’t push. Not yet. You’ve learned that about him over the years, when Yunho shuts down like that, poking at it too early just makes him retreat further. So instead, you give him an easy out, a soft landing. Your voice stays light, casual, like you’re not clocking the tension practically humming under his skin.

“I’m gonna shower,” you add, already turning toward your room and he nods, quick, distracted, eyes flicking back to his screen like he’s grateful for the escape. “Yeah. I’ll be out here.” You leave him to it, but the weight in the apartment follows you down the hall and the shower ends up hotter than it should be, Florida heat be damned, but you need it. Need something to wash the hospital off you, to melt the ache out of your shoulders, to give your brain a second to breathe. Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, curling around you like a reset button you wish actually worked. For a few minutes, it almost does.

But even under the spray, your mind drifts back to him. The tightness in his jaw. The way his voice snapped at his chat. The look in his eyes when he glanced at you, like he was already bracing for something. By the time you shut the water off, that uneasy feeling is still there, clinging just as stubbornly as the humidity outside. You dry off, change into your usual oversized tee and soft shorts, hair still damp as you pad down the hallway toward your room. The apartment is quieter now. No stream chatter bleeding through the walls. No clicking keys. He must’ve ended it early. That alone says enough.

You barely make it two steps into your room before you hear it, his footsteps, slower than usual, like he’s thinking about turning around with every one but then there’s a soft knock against your already open door making you glance up. Yunho’s standing there, one hand braced against the frame, the other rubbing at the back of his neck. His hair’s messier than before, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times since you got in the shower. He’s changed out of his streaming hoodie, now in a loose tshirt and sweats, but the tension hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s worse up close.

For a second, he just… stands there. Like he’s trying to figure out how to say something he doesn’t want to say. You raise a brow slightly, sitting back against your pillows. “You gonna stand there all night, or…” He huffs out a quiet breath, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and finally steps in. The door creaks softly as he nudges it shut behind him, like he needs the privacy, like whatever this is… it’s not for the rest of the world. Just you. “Chloe dumped me.” It lands flat, dropped between you like it doesn’t weigh anything at all. You blink once. “Okay.” And honestly? That’s about as much reaction as he’s getting out of you. Not because you don’t care about him, you do, more than you probably should, but because Chloe? Yeah. No. You never liked her. Something about her always felt… off. Too quick, too surface level, like she was playing a part instead of actually seeing him. She’d only been around a few weeks, but even that felt like too long.

Still, you tilt your head slightly, studying him. “What happened?” Yunho exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the floor like it might have answers for him. “I don’t know,” he mutters at first, defaulting to avoidance. Then he huffs, shaking his head. “I mean…. I do know, I just…” He trails off. Yunho doesn’t usually struggle to explain things, not with you. Even when something’s messy, he talks through it, jokes through it, something. But now he’s just… stuck. Words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat as you sit up a little straighter, the shift subtle but intentional. “Yunho.” He glances up and you hold his gaze, softer this time, but firm. “Why did she dump you?”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, you think he might brush it off, change the subject, pretend it doesn’t matter. Instead, he looks away, hand dragging down his face like he’s already regretting opening his mouth. “It’s stupid.” Your eyes narrow slightly. “If it’s got you acting like this, it’s not stupid.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh at that, shoulders slumping just a fraction. “It kind of is,” he says, voice lower now. “I just….” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, like even saying it out loud feels like too much. And suddenly, whatever this is? It’s not just a breakup. It’s something he’s embarrassed about. Something that actually got to him.

You watch him carefully now, curiosity mixing with that familiar, protective instinct that always kicks in when it comes to him. “Yunho,” you say again, softer this time, “just tell me.” He goes still. Like the words are right there, right on the edge, and all he has to do is let them fall. He shifts his weight where he stands, like the floor suddenly isn’t steady under him anymore. His fingers curl against the back of his neck, rubbing there again and again like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. You can see the hesitation on him, thick, stubborn, sitting right behind his teeth. Which, of course… makes you lean into it. You tilt your head, watching him with that familiar look he’s known for years, the one that says you’re not getting out of this that easy.

“Okay,” you say slowly, drawing the word out just enough to get under his skin. “So it’s stupid, but you won’t say it… which means it’s definitely not stupid.” He huffs under his breath again, eyes flicking up to you for a second before dropping again. “You’re making it worse.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you shoot back, shifting to sit cross legged on your bed, fully settling in like this is about to become a whole event. “What, did you forget your two week anniversary? Call her the wrong name? Please tell me you didn’t call her bro during…”

“I didn’t during…” he cuts in quickly, then stops himself, pressing his lips together and you catch that, instantly. “During what?”

“Nothing.”

“Yunho.”

He groans softly, dragging a hand down his face again. “Can you not do that?”

“Do what?” you ask, completely innocent. “That thing where you…” he gestures vaguely toward you, frustration bubbling just under the surface. “where you don’t let it go.” You grin, just a little. “You knew what you signed up for when you decided I was your best friend.” That almost gets him. His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but it fades just as fast, the weight of whatever he’s holding onto pulling him right back down. The room quiets again, the tension stretching between you, thinner now but sharper and you soften a little, voice gentler this time. “Hey… I’m not gonna judge you.” That makes him look at you again. And there’s something in his eyes now, something caught between embarrassment and trust, like he’s standing on the edge of something he’s never said out loud before.

“You’re definitely gonna judge me,” he mutters. “I won’t,” you say, a little too quick and he raises a brow as you sigh, holding up a hand. “Okay, I might judge you a little. But like… lovingly.” That pulls a quiet laugh out of him, the tension easing just a fraction. Enough for him to finally stop pacing around it. “She said I didn’t know what I was doing,” he admits, voice low.

“Do what?” Your brain starts running through possibilities in rapid fire. “Okay, wait…. what, like you were too rough? Not rough enough? You didn’t communicate? Yunho, please don’t tell me you just…. lay there…”

“I didn’t just lay there,” he cuts in, a little defensive now.

“Then what?”

He goes quiet again. And this time, you don’t rush it. You just watch him. The way his shoulders rise with a slow inhale. The way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for impact. The way his gaze flicks anywhere but you, floor, wall, ceiling, like eye contact would make it worse. “She said,” he starts, then stops and your patience snaps just a little. “Yunho.” He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, like ripping off a bandage. “I’ve never gone down on a girl before, okay?” Your brain stalls completely. Because out of everything you expected him to say…. “You’re kidding.” His eyes snap open, immediate regret flashing across his face. “I knew it….”

“No, wait….hold on,” you sit up straighter, staring at him like he just told you the sky is green. “You’re serious?” He looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. “Yes.” You blink. Once. Twice. This is Yunho.

Yunho, who’s charming without trying. Yunho, who’s had girls orbiting him since high school. Yunho, who, by all accounts, should not have this be the thing he’s insecure about. “You’ve never….” you start, still trying to process it as he shakes his head, quick and firm, like if he gets it out fast enough it’ll hurt less. “No. I just…. never did. And then it became a thing, and then I felt weird about it, and then…” he gestures vaguely, frustration creeping back in, “this!”

You stare at him for another second. Then another. And the shock is still there but something else starts creeping in underneath it. Something quieter. Something a little more dangerous. “That’s why she dumped you?” you ask finally, softer now and he lets out a humorless breath. “Yeah.” And for a second, you don’t say anything. Because that? That doesn’t sit right with you. You stare at him for another second, the shock still settling, but now it’s tangled up with something else, confusion, curiosity, a faint spark of disbelief that refuses to die down. “Okay, but why?” you ask, brows pulling together. “Like…. not in a judging way, I just… how has that just… never happened?”

Yunho exhales, long and slow, like he already hates this conversation but knows he walked himself straight into it. His hand drags through his hair again, leaving it more disheveled than before. “I don’t know,” he mutters at first, defaulting to avoidance again. Then he shakes his head, forcing himself to actually answer. “I just… never did. And then the longer I didn’t, the weirder it felt to suddenly try.” You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “Weirder how?” His jaw tightens, eyes flicking away. “Like… I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he admits, quieter now. “And I don’t want to mess it up.” There it is. Not arrogance. Not lack of interest. Just… insecurity.

You shift a little on the bed, studying him more carefully now, that earlier teasing giving way but not gone entirely. “Okay,” you say slowly, “but you’ve done other stuff.” He glances at you, wary now. “Yeah.” You squint slightly, gears turning. “So… you’ve used your hands before, right?” His ears go red immediately. “Of course I have,” he snaps, shooting you a glare that’s half defensive, half embarrassed. And that somehow makes it worse. Because now you’re even more confused. You blink at him, leaning forward just a little. “Then what’s the difference?”

He opens his mouth and closes it right back. Then opens it again, clearly searching for an answer that doesn’t make him sound as out of his depth as he feels. “It’s just… different,” he finally mutters, frustration creeping back in. “It’s not the same thing.” You watch him for a second, the way he avoids your eyes again, the way his shoulders are just slightly hunched like he’s bracing for you to laugh or tease him harder. But you don’t. Not this time. Because now you get it. Not fully but enough. Enough to see that this isn’t just about what he hasn’t done. It’s about the fact that he doesn’t feel like he’d be good at it. And for someone like Yunho, someone who’s used to being steady, capable, reliable? Good at everything. That probably stings more than he’s letting on.

“You’re overthinking it,” you say finally and he lets out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah? That seems to be the theme tonight.” You hold his gaze this time, not letting him look away. “It is,” you say, quieter. “Because it’s not as complicated as you’re making it.” Something shifts in his expression at that. “Then what is it?” he asks, before he can stop himself and you lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, buying yourself a second. “It’s about paying attention,” you say slowly. “Reading reactions. Adjusting.”

His eyes don’t leave you. “That’s it?” You hesitate. Just for a second. Because the answer is simple. But the implication? Not so much. “Yeah,” you say, quieter now. And the way he’s looking at you now, really looking, like he’s trying to piece something together in real time, it sends something warm and restless curling low in your chest. “That doesn’t really help,” he admits after a second, voice just a little rougher and you almost laugh. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him, something flickering behind your eyes now, something a little more daring than before. “What do you want me to do, Yunho?” you ask, light but not entirely joking anymore and he stills. Because now he hears it too. That shift. That dangerous little edge your voice just picked up.

“I just….” he starts, then stops, like he suddenly realized exactly how this sounds. And maybe… exactly who he’s asking. Your best friend. The one person who knows you better than anyone. The one person you’ve both been carefully not crossing that line with for years. And now? He’s standing right on it. “I just want to get it right,” he finishes, quieter. And something about that, about the honesty in it, the vulnerability, makes your heart start pounding. Because yeah. That’s Yunho. Always wanting to do things right. Even this. Especially this. And suddenly, the idea that someone made him feel like he couldn’t? Pisses you off. “Okay,” you mutter, more to yourself than him, grabbing your iPad and unlocking it. The glow lights your face as you settle back against your pillows again, tucking one leg under you like you’re trying to return things to something normal. Something easy.

You scroll for a second, half paying attention, half aware of him still standing there, still watching you like he’s waiting for something, even if he doesn’t know what. “I still don’t see what you want me to do…” you say, glancing up at him briefly, tone light, teasing just a little again, like you’re trying to break the tension instead of lean into it. Then you add, with the faintest lift of your brow, something meant to be a joke. “Show you?” But the second it leaves your mouth, the air in the room shifts, sharp, immediate, like something just clicked into place that neither of you can ignore now and Yunho freezes. His eyes snap to yours, all that lingering frustration from earlier gone in an instant, replaced by something else entirely, something caught between surprise and something much, much heavier. And you feel it too. That flicker in your chest. The one that says maybe… you shouldn’t have said that. Or maybe…. Maybe you should have.

You try to brush it off, a quiet huff of a laugh leaving you as you look back down at your screen. “Relax, I’m kidding….” But you don’t get to finish. Because he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t move on like he normally would. “What if I wasn’t?” His voice is lower. Deeper. Rougher. And that stops you. Your eyes lift slowly from your iPad, locking onto his again. “Wasn’t what?” you ask, even though you already know and he swallows, the movement subtle but visible, like he’s trying to push past his own hesitation. “What if I wasn’t joking,” he says again, more clearly this time. “About you showing me.” There’s no humor in it. Just honesty. And suddenly, the room feels a little smaller. A little warmer. A little harder to breathe in.

Your fingers still against the edge of your iPad, screen forgotten, as you hold his gaze. The teasing, the easy back and forth, it’s gone now. Stripped away, leaving something a lot more real in its place. “Yunho,” you start, a warning and a question all at once. Because this isn’t just a joke anymore. “I’m serious,” he says, stepping a little further into the room without even realizing it, like something’s pulling him closer. “I just… I trust you. And you said it’s about paying attention, right? So…” He trails off, but the meaning hangs there anyway. You can feel your heartbeat picking up now, steady but heavier, your mind racing faster than you’d like it to. Because this is it. That line you’ve both been dancing around for years? It’s right here. Right in front of you. All it would take is one step….

You shift slightly against your pillows, exhaling slowly as you study him, really study him, his nervousness, the way his hands flex at his sides, the way he’s trying to act steady but isn’t quite pulling it off. He’s not joking. He’s not playing. He’s asking you. And maybe the most dangerous part? You don’t hate the idea. Not even a little. Maybe aching for it just a bit. “You’re really asking me that right now?” you murmur and he doesn’t look away this time. “Yeah.” For a second, you don’t answer. You just sit there, iPad still in your hands but completely forgotten, your thumb resting against the screen like you meant to keep scrolling and just… didn’t. Your eyes stay on him, searching, like you’re trying to read something deeper than what he’s actually saying.

Your best friend. The person who’s been there longer than anyone else. The one constant you’ve never had to question. The one you’ve spent years pretending you don’t feel too much for. And now he’s standing in your room, looking at you like that, like you’re the only option he wants. It makes your chest tighten. Because agreeing to this… it doesn’t just risk things getting complicated. It risks everything. You swallow, gaze flicking down for a second, then back up to him. He hasn’t moved. Still watching you, still waiting, like he’s already braced himself for you to say no. And that, more than anything, tips something inside you. “You’re serious,” you murmur again, quieter this time.

“Yeah.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose, heart thudding a little heavier now, your thoughts tangling together in a way that’s hard to sort through. You should say no. You should laugh it off, tell him to look it up, send him a link, anything that doesn’t involve…. “Okay,” you say finally and Yunho goes still like he wasn’t actually expecting you to say it and your grip tightens slightly on the edge of your iPad before you set it aside on your nightstand, the quiet click of it hitting the surface sounding louder than it should in the silence that follows. You don’t look at him right away. You need one more second. One more breath. “But,” you add, lifting your gaze back to his, something a little firmer settling into your expression now, like you’re drawing a line you’re not entirely sure you’ll be able to hold. “This is just practice.”

His brows knit slightly, like he’s processing that. “Nothing more,” you continue, voice steady even if your pulse isn’t. “We’re not…. this doesn’t change anything. Got it?” The words feel a little too deliberate. A little too much like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him. Yunho watches you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes as he nods. “Yeah,” he says, just as quiet. “Just practice.” But there’s something there. Something neither of you says out loud. Because if this was really just practice… it wouldn’t feel like this. You nod once, more to yourself than him, then push yourself up slightly, adjusting against your pillows before you glance toward him again. “Then… come on.”

And that’s all it takes. Yunho moves. Slow at first, like he’s giving you time to change your mind, each step measured as he crosses the room toward your bed. But there’s tension in him now, nervous energy, anticipation, something tighter and more focused than before. He stops just at the edge, close enough now that you can see the faint flush still lingering across his ears, the way his hands flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. And for a second, neither of you says anything. Tension thick in the air. You feel it settle into your skin, into your chest, into the way your breath comes just a little slower than it should.

This is happening. Actually happening. And once you start… there’s no pretending you didn’t. Your eyes flick up to his again, steady despite everything swirling underneath. “Relax. You’re overthinking it already.” He huffs out a quiet breath at that, something almost like a nervous laugh slipping through. “Yeah… I do that.”

“I know,” you say, and there’s a hint of something fond in it, something that slips out before you can stop it and Yunho hesitates for only a second before he moves again, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he climbs onto the bed. He sits at first, stiff, unsure, like he’s not entirely convinced this is real yet, hands resting awkwardly on his thighs, shoulders a little tense. “You know you have to…” you gesture lightly toward yourself, voice calm but pointed, “take my shorts and underwear off first, right?”

“Oh…. right,” he breathes, the word coming out a little too quick, a little too flustered. A faint flush creeps back up his neck, across his ears, and you swear it spreads deeper the longer he looks at you like that, like he’s suddenly very aware of where he is and what he’s about to do. And for all his confidence everywhere else… here? He’s completely out of his depth. Slowly, carefully, he shifts forward on the bed, moving closer until he’s between your legs, his hands hovering for a second like he’s not sure if he should touch you yet, even though you quite literally told him to. “Yunho,” you say, grounding him a little. “You’re allowed to touch me.”

His eyes flick up to yours at that and something in them steadies just a little. “Yeah,” he says quietly, more to himself than you. Then his hands finally move. Tentative at first, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your shorts, like he’s testing the boundary even though you’ve already given him permission. There’s hesitation there, but also focus, the kind that comes from him actually trying, paying attention like you told him to. He hooks his fingers at the waistband of your shorts, glancing up at you once, like he’s silently asking if this is okay and you give a small nod. That’s all he needs before he slowly tugs the fabric down, careful, almost overly so, like he’s afraid of rushing it.

The movement is gentle, deliberate, and the closer he gets, the more his breathing changes, subtle, but noticeable, like the reality of it is settling in piece by piece. Your shorts slide down, followed by your panties, and for a second he just… pauses. Hands resting lightly against your legs, his gaze dropping, then flicking away, then back again like he doesn’t quite know where to look or how long is too long to be staring at his best friend’s pussy. It would almost be funny. If it wasn’t so… real. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath, like he’s trying to psych himself up and you can’t help it, a small, quiet breath of a laugh slips out of you, not mocking, just… soft. “Hey,” you say, voice gentler now, drawing his attention back up to your face. “Relax, remember?”

He exhales, tension easing just a fraction at the sound of your voice. “Right… relax.” But even as he says it, you can tell he’s anything but. Still, he shifts a little closer, hands settling more firmly now against your thighs, his focus sharpening again. Less hesitation. More intent. He’s trying. Really trying. And something about that, about the way he’s taking this seriously, the way he’s looking at you like this actually matters, almost makes you clench your thighs together because you can feel how wet you’re starting to get. Your fingers tighten slightly in the sheets beneath you, steadying yourself as much as him. “Good.”

Yunho’s hands hesitate again. Not because he doesn’t know what comes next, but because now it’s real in a way it wasn’t before. The line has already been crossed, quietly but undeniably, and there’s no pretending this is just some abstract idea anymore. From his angle, everything feels louder. Closer. The soft rise and fall of your breathing, the way your legs are relaxed but not entirely, the warmth of your skin under his hands, it all presses in on him at once, making his thoughts tangle for a second. Don’t mess this up. It’s the only thing looping in his head as he swallows, gaze dropping again, slower this time. His fingers shift, brushing lightly over your thighs again. Pay attention, he reminds himself. She said to pay attention.

He notices everything. The way your muscles tense just a little at the initial movement, then ease again. The shift in your breathing. The faint hitch you try to hide. It steadies him. Gives him something to hold onto as his gaze flicks up to your face again like he needs to check in, to make sure he’s not messing up already. And what he finds there doesn’t help. Because you’re watching him too. There’s something different in your expression now. Not just teasing, not just curiosity, something heavier. You’re trusting him. That thought hits harder than anything else.

From your side, the shift is just as clear. Yunho’s not joking anymore. Not nervous in that scattered, awkward way from before, no, this is different. Focused. Intent. Like once he stepped into this, something in him clicked, and now he’s all in. You swallow, fingers tightening slightly in the sheets beneath you. “You’re doing fine.” Yunho nods once, small but firm, taking that in like it matters more than it should. And then he shifts closer and you shift slightly beneath him, the movement small but enough to break the stillness that’s settled between you. Your fingers loosen in the sheets, then tighten again, grounding yourself as much as him. “You can…” you start, then pause for half a second, like even you didn’t expect the words to feel this heavy and his eyes flick up instantly. “you can show me what you know so far.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the air shifts again. Yunho exhales slowly, his focus sharpening all over again, that nervous energy from before narrowing into something more controlled, more intentional. His hands adjust where they rest against your thighs, grip a little firmer now, like he’s anchoring himself before he does anything else. Don’t rush. Pay attention. He glances up at you one more time, just a quick check, and when you don’t pull away, don’t second guess it, something in him steadies. “Okay,” he murmurs. The hesitation doesn’t disappear completely but it changes. It becomes quieter, tucked underneath a kind of focus you’ve always known him for. The same way he locks in when he’s working, when he’s streaming, when he’s determined to get something right. Except now… it’s you.

Your breathing changes, just slightly and you don’t miss the way his eyes flicker in response. He’s paying attention. Exactly like you told him to. Slowly, carefully, he leans in closer, his movements measured instead of rushed, like he’s testing each step instead of assuming it. There’s a quiet intensity to him now as he moves. It’s not hesitant this time, not really. It’s like the moment you gave him permission to try, something in him snapped into place, and now he’s acting on instinct more than overthinking. His heart is pounding harder than he wants to admit. Every nerve feels lit up, every thought tangled together in a mess of don’t mess this up and just do something. So when he leans in, mouth closing around your clit, he goes in too fast. Too much.

You gasp, your back tensing slightly against the pillows, fingers gripping the sheets but not entirely from surprise. There’s a flicker of something else there too, something that makes his chest tighten in a completely different way. “Okay….” you breathe, voice catching slightly before you steady it, one hand coming down to lightly touch his shoulder, grounding him. “Don’t just instantly start…” you stop yourself for half a second, exhaling. “Don’t just go all in like that.”

Yunho freezes. Every muscle in him locks up, his brain short circuiting so hard it’s almost audible. For a second, he just stays there, stunned, trying to process what he did wrong and how fast he managed to do it all while trying not to groan at the taste of you now on his tongue. “Start slow,” you tell him, your tone shifting from correction to guidance, more patient than anything else. “Work me up.” He exhales, the tension easing just a fraction, and nods once against you even though you probably can’t see it. His hands tighten slightly where they rest against your thighs, grounding himself again.

This time, when he moves, it’s different. More careful. Less rushed. He takes a second to actually watch you first, your face, your reactions, the way your breathing changes even before he really does anything. He starts smaller, more tentative, like he’s testing the pace instead of trying to get it right all at once. His tongue making small licks between your folds, grazing your clit before repeating and your body relaxes slightly under him, tension easing into something warmer, more receptive. The earlier sharpness softens, replaced by something slower, something that builds instead of crashes all at once as a moan escapes you and that gives him confidence. You feel it in the way his hands settle more firmly, the way his movements grow just a little steadier, like he’s starting to understand what you meant. Not perfect. Not polished. But learning. And more importantly, listening.

A quiet moan slips from you again, softer this time, less startled, more… genuine. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely above a whisper now. “Like that.” And that does something to Yunho. Hearing you moan in pleasure due to him with his tongue buried inside you, the taste of you alone has him so hard he has no idea how he’s staying focused. He shifts again, adjusting, following the subtle cues your body keeps giving him as you start to roll your hips a bit and suddenly he’s not thinking in the same scattered way anymore. The nerves are still there, sure, but they’re quieter now, pushed aside by something stronger and your breath catches, sharper than before, your body tensing for a split second before melting into it when he thrusts his tongue as far he can, nose pressed against your clit, the friction from it and his tongue working slow strokes makes the control you’ve been trying to hold onto slip and before you can stop yourself, your hand moves.

Your fingers tangle into his hair. The contact surprising both of you and it sends a jolt straight through Yunho making his dick twitch. His hands tighten where they’re holding your thighs. Your grip tightens slightly in his hair without thinking, your body reacting on its own, shifting just enough to follow what feels good, grinding fully now, pulling at his hair when you feel groan, your walls clenching at his tongue as a loud moan tears from you. And Yunho pulls his tongue back, licking a stripe all the way back up to your clit before sucking it into his mouth. He’s no longer just about trying to get it right, it’s about you. The way your breath keeps catching, the way your body won’t stay still anymore no matter how much you try to hold it together. The way your moans are getting louder. Because of him.

His hands tighten again, grounding you, but it’s not enough. not when your reactions start slipping past your control. Your fingers are still tangled in his hair, your grip tightening without you meaning to, your body shifting against him in a way that’s no longer subtle and borderline riding his mouth. And you feel it building. Fast. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, moving again, chasing the feeling without thinking and Yunho shifts one of his arms, sliding around your waist, holding you in place, not rough, but firm enough to steady you, to keep you from moving too much. And this? He wasn’t expecting this. Not like this.

And the added pressure of his arm around you, the way he’s holding you steady, only makes everything feel more intense, more overwhelming, like it’s pushing you closer to the edge you’ve been trying not to fall over since he walked into your room. Your grip tightens again in his hair, a sobbing cry slipping out of you that you definitely don’t manage to hide. Then Yunho pulls back. It’s not sudden, it’s like he realizes something mid motion and needs a second to breathe. His forehead comes to rest lightly against your thigh, his breath uneven now, a little heavier than before, like he’s trying to steady himself because verything feels… overwhelming. Not in a bad way. But in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

His pause almost throws you off. Your fingers loosen slightly in his hair, your breathing uneven as you try to come back down from where he just had you, your chest rising and falling a little too fast because you were so close. “Yunho…” you start, unsure if he’s stopping or just…. he moves again before you can finish. His hand shifts, sliding along your thigh again, more confident than before, less hesitant. Your fingers tighten back into his hair, your head tipping back into the pillows as you try and fail to stay quiet as he slips two of his fingers deep, brushing them up, curving them against your g spot and you realize he definitely wasn’t lying about how he knows how to use his fingers. “Don’t…. don’t stop,” you breathe, barely managing to get the words out.

Yunho keeps his head pressed to your thigh, watching his fingers thrust in and out of you, the wet sound echoing in the room, and he can see his aching dick twitching still in his sweats, the poor thing wanting nothing more than to replace his fingers as his hand tightens again in his hair, your other gripping the sheets, your breathing uneven now, moans and cries breaking out of you as he moves his mouth back down, keeping his fingers fucking you as he moans against your clit. “Fuck….. you’re…” your thoughts are jumbled but you register one thing, he’s really fucking good at eating pussy for someone who’s never had. “Yunho…” The sound of you moaning his name makes his gaze lift again, watching you now. And that’s when it hits him. This isn’t just practice anymore. The thought lands heavy in his chest, sharper than anything else so far. Because he knows you. And right now? You’re letting go in a way he’s never seen before because of him. Your best friend. Watching you come undone, legs shaking now, toes curling, your walls clenching his fingers, because of him.

He feels it before he fully understands it. Feels you clench his fingers again, wetness building, splashing his fingers and he knows then you’re about to come and he can feel himself start to grind, against the mattress, humping a little to get friction. “Yunho…” You cry his name out again as your orgasm slams into you. “FUCK….. please…. Oh my….. fuck eat my pussy….” your words are what does it for him. Yunho lets out a low strained sound as he moans against you, you still coming, squirting on his fingers that are still pumping into you faster, harder…… he comes, coming in his sweats, leaking down his own thighs as he finally pulls his fingers out of you and removes his mouth from your now slightly overstimulated clit.

Neither of you moves right away but then your hand loosens in his hair, falling back against the sheets as you try to catch your breath, your chest still rising unevenly, your thoughts struggling to settle into anything coherent. “Yeah…” you manage after a moment, still a little breathless despite your attempt to sound normal. You swallow, glancing at him, then away again. “That was… good.” It feels like an understatement and you both know it. And hearing you say that…. does something to Yunho. He looks at you for half a second, something unreadable passing through his expression before he looks away again, jaw tightening slightly. Because now he’s very aware of himself. Of everything.

He shifts back a little, creating space, one hand coming down almost instinctively, pressing lightly over the front of his sweats like he’s trying to ground himself, to hide it, to get a handle on it before it becomes too obvious that he came in his pants. “Yeah,” he exhales quietly, like he’s trying to steady his voice and not quite succeeding. He clears his throat slightly, pushing himself up off the bed, movements just a little too quick now, like he needs distance before he does something he shouldn’t. “I’m….. uh…” he starts, then huffs a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair again. “I’m gonna go shower.” He stops before walking out your bedroom. “Thanks. For the… practice,” he adds, the word sounding a little strained now, like even he doesn’t quite believe it anymore.

Practice. Right. That’s what this was supposed to be. You nod once, a little slower than usual, still watching him as he opens your bedroom door, like he’s not fully trusting himself to stay in the room any longer than necessary. “Yeah,” you breathe, clearing your own throat. “Anytime.” It slips out before you can stop it. And the second it does you feel it. The weight of it. And Yunho pauses again at the door. His hand resting against the frame, his back half turned to you like he’s debating something, like he might say something else. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath, then he’s gone. The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut down the hall echoes a little too loud in the apartment. And suddenly it’s just you. Lying there. Heart still racing. Body still warm. Mind spinning with one very clear, very dangerous thought…..

That definitely was not just practice.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho barely made it to the bathroom before shutting the door a little harder than he meant to. The click echoes, sharp in the quiet apartment, and for a second he just stands there, staring at nothing, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile instead of… that. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. Get it together. But it doesn’t work. Because the second he steps under the shower, water hitting his skin, everything comes rushing back at once.

The way you moaned his name.

He squeezes his eyes shut, head tipping forward as the water runs over his hair, his face, like it might wash the memory out. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it worse. Because now he’s remembering everything else. The way you sounded when you couldn’t hold it back anymore. The way you grinded against his face. The way you squirted. How tight you were around his fingers…. “Fuck…” he breathes under his breath, the word slipping out before he can stop it as his hand braces against the tile, knuckles whitening slightly as he tries to steady himself.

He drags in a sharp breath, the heat of the water doing nothing to calm the heat already burning under his skin. His jaw tightens, his free hand curling slightly at his side like he’s trying to ground himself, trying to get a handle on the way everything is still buzzing through him….. but then he thinks about your hand in his hair, gripping and pulling…. “Stop,” he mutters to himself, like he can actually cut it off. His head tips back slightly, water running down his face as he exhales hard through his nose, trying to focus on anything else, anything that isn’t you. But it’s pointless. Because you’re everywhere right now. In his head. In the way his chest feels too tight. In the way his body hasn’t even remotely calmed down. And that’s when it hits him, clearer than before. This wasn’t just about helping him. Not really.

Because no matter how much he tries to frame it that way, tries to convince himself that this was just learning, just practice…. It wasn’t. It never would be. Not to him. Not even a little. His grip tightens against the tile again, breath uneven as he stands there under the water, trying to ride it out, trying to let the intensity burn off without thinking too hard about why it’s there in the first place. Because if he does… if he really lets himself think about it then he has to face the truth he’s been avoiding for years. That this? This has never just been friendship. And now that line? It’s gone. “Fuck me.” He wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow at first, eyes closed and picturing you splayed out on your bed only this time he’s not deep diving into you with his tongue or fingers. He’s sinking into you, dick stretching you inch by inch….

“Fuck…” his strokes pick up, imagining himself pounding into you, your walls clenching him. Your voice this time instead of “eat my pussy” being a sobbing moan of “fuck my pussy” that makes his abs clench, his dick twitch and a groaning whimper to leave him as he comes. His forehead presses against the shower wall as he watches his cum mix with the water by his feet and wash away down the drain. For a moment, it works. The tension snaps, the overwhelming edge dulling just enough for him to breathe again. But the second it’s over it hits him again. Harder than before.

He exhales sharply, head dropping forward, forehead pressing against the cool tile as the water keeps running over his back, his shoulders, his neck. His chest rises and falls, slower now, but heavier. “I fucked up,” he groans under his breath, voice rough, barely audible over the water. You. His best friend. The one person he’s spent years not crossing that line with, no matter how many times he’s thought about it, no matter how many times he’s shoved those feelings down and told himself it wasn’t worth risking what you already had.

And now? Now he knows exactly what it feels like. Knows how you sound, how you taste, how your body… he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening. “Fuck…” he exhales again. Because there’s no going back from that. No pretending it didn’t mean anything. Not when it felt like that. Not when he’s reacting like this. His hand drags down his face again, water dripping from his hair, his lashes, his jaw as he tries to steady himself, tries to think of any version of this that doesn’t end in things getting complicated. But every path leads to the same place. You. “Shit….” He shakes his head because he doesn’t give a shit that Chile broke up with him. He never really did anyways. His ego was just a little bruised that’s all. Because now there’s only one thing on his mind.

He wants to have you moaning his name again.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The next morning feels… off.

Not in a loud, obvious way. Nothing dramatic. The sun still rises over Florida like it always does, warm and blinding through the blinds. Your alarm still goes off too early, your routine still runs on autopilot, scrubs, hair up, coffee barely tasted on the way out the door. But something’s different. You didn’t see Yunho before you left. His door stayed shut. The apartment was quiet in that heavy, almost deliberate way, like both of you were avoiding the same thing without saying it out loud. You paused for a second before leaving, hand hovering near his door like you might knock but you didn’t.

And now, hours later, you’re paying for it. The hospital hums around you like it always does, monitors beeping, voices overlapping, the constant movement of nurses and doctors weaving through the halls. It’s familiar. Usually grounding. Today? It’s just noise. You’re physically there, checking charts, moving from patient to patient, responding when needed, but mentally? You’re somewhere else entirely. Back in your room. Back in that moment.

Your pen hovers over a chart for a second too long, your eyes unfocused as the memory flashes again, his voice, his fingers, the way he looked at you after, the way he said thanks like that somehow made it normal.

“Hey.” A hand snaps lightly in front of your face. “Earth to Y/N.” You blink, snapping back so abruptly it almost feels like surfacing from underwater. Your eyes refocus, landing on Wooyoung standing in front of you, arms crossed, one brow raised in that way that means he’s already clocked everything. “What?” you mutter, a little slower than usual and Wooyoung’s eyes narrow slightly, studying you like you’re a suspicious patient instead of his coworker. “You tell me. You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You glance down at the chart in your hands like it might defend you. “I’m working.”

“Mhm,” he hums, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve been staring at that same page for, like, a full minute.” You sigh under your breath, shifting your weight slightly, trying to shake it off. “Long shift.”

“Bullshit.”

You look up at him properly this time, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?” Wooyoung doesn’t budge. If anything, he leans in a little closer, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between the two of you. “I’ve seen you after long shifts,” he says, tone casual but eyes sharp. “You’re tired, yeah, but you’re not… whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You look like your brain is buffering.” You huff out a quiet breath despite yourself, shaking your head. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” he says, dragging the word out in a way that makes it very clear he does not believe you. “And I’m the head surgeon.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it as Wooyoung watches you for another second, expression shifting slightly, less teasing now, more observant. “Okay, so what happened?” You hesitate just ust for a second. And that’s all he needs. “Oh my god,” he says immediately, eyes lighting up with realization. “Something did happen.”

“Nothing happened,” you shoot back a little too quickly and he leans back slightly, arms crossing again, a slow, knowing grin starting to creep onto his face. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” You don’t answer. Because you know he’s right. And because if you open your mouth right now… you’re not entirely sure what’s going to come out. Wooyoung tilts his head, studying you again, curiosity fully locked in now. You look away immediately, jaw tightening slightly as you busy yourself with the chart again, anything to avoid his eyes.

Because how are you supposed to explain this? How are you supposed to say, I helped my best friend by letting him eat my pussy and now I can’t stop thinking about him and everything feels different, like that’s a normal thing to say in the middle of a hospital hallway. “It’s nothing,” you mutter again, weaker this time but Wooyoung doesn’t buy it for a second. He steps a little closer, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “Whatever it is,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, “it’s definitely not nothing.”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you sit your charts down and grab his wrist. “Hey…. what the…” Wooyoung stumbles slightly as you yank him down the hall, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor as he tries to keep up. “Are you kidnapping me on shift right now? Because I’m pretty sure that’s illegal…”

“Shut up,” you mutter under your breath, not even looking back as you push through the double doors toward the labs. It’s quieter there, cooler too. The hum of machines replaces the chaos of the main floor, and for once, there’s no one around. You let go of him once you’re inside, pacing once, twice, like you’re trying to physically walk off the tension sitting under your skin and Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you’ve officially lost it. “Okay,” he says slowly, dragging the word out, arms crossing over his chest. “You’re either about to confess to a crime or tell me something insane.”

“I did something,” you say finally and Wooyoung’s eyes light up immediately. “Oh, I know you did. Get to the good part.” You glare at him and he holds his hands up. “I’m listening, I’m listening.” You exhale sharply, dragging a hand through your hair, already regretting this and needing to say it anyway. “Yunho came to me last night,” you start, voice lower now, more controlled but there’s something underneath it, something a little too charged to be casual which makes Wooyoung’s grin sharpen. “Your roommate Yunho? Your best friend Yunho?”

“Yes, Wooyoung, the only Yunho I know…. can you let me finish?”

He mimes zipping his mouth shut, but the excitement is very much still there as you take another breath. “He told me his newest girlfriend dumped him,” you continue. “Good,” Wooyoung cuts in immediately. “Don’t like any of them.”

“Not the point,” you snap, though you agree.

“Right, right….. continue.”

You hesitate again. “She dumped him because he’s never… done that before.”

Wooyoung blinks, confused. “Done what?” You stare at him and stares back. “You know…. eaten…. pussy before.”

“Oh my….” his eyes go wide, his entire posture straightening like he just got hit with electricity. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was,” you mutter as Wooyoung lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “No way. No way that man made it to twenty six without…”

“I know,” you cut in, already pacing again. “That’s what I said.”

“That’s insane,” he says, almost impressed. “That’s…. wow. Okay.” You stop again. Because this is the part. The part where you either keep it surface level… or don’t. “He asked me how to do it,” you say, quieter now and Wooyoung tilts his head, still following, still amused. “Okay… that tracks, I guess. You’re you. You’d know.” You don’t respond right away and that’s what makes his expression slowly change. “Why do I feel like that’s not the end of the story,” he says slowly.

You press your lips together and look at the floor. “I didn’t just tell him. Wooyoung stares at you, brows furrowed. “You didn’t just tell him,” he repeats and you shake your head. “I let him practice on me.” The room goes completely still. For a solid three seconds, Wooyoung just stares at you like his brain has short circuited. “You what?” You throw your hands up slightly, already defensive. “It was supposed to be just practice.”

“JUST PRACTICE?” he repeats, voice jumping an octave before he clamps it down, glancing toward the door like someone might hear. He steps closer, lowering his voice but not the intensity. “You let your best friend, who you live with… practice eating pussy on you?” You wince slightly. “When you say it like that….”

“How else am I supposed to say it?” he demands, incredulous. “That’s exactly what it is!” You drag a hand down your face. “I know, okay? I know. It just… it didn’t feel like a big deal at first and then it just… happened.” Wooyoung stares at you, eyes wide, trying to process. “And?” he presses.

“And it wasn’t just practice,” you admit.

“Define wasn’t just practice…” he says carefully and you exhale slowly, your gaze dropping again. “It was… good,” you murmur. “Like…. really good. And he…” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is… it felt like more.” Wooyoung doesn’t interrupt this time. He just watches you. “And now I don’t know what the hell to do,” you finish, finally looking back up at him. Wooyoung studies you for a second, all the teasing gone now. “You’re in love with him,” he says flatly.

Your stomach drops as Wooyoung exhales, running a hand through his hair, processing everything all over again but this time with a completely different lens. “And you let him do that,” he mutters, more to himself now. “I didn’t plan it,” you shoot back. “I know,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “I know. I’m just…. wow. Okay.” He looks at you again. “What did he say after?”

“He…. thanked me,” you say, almost bitterly. “For the practice. Then went to shower.”

“Oh, he’s stupid,” Wooyoung sighs. And despite everything, a small, incredulous laugh slips out of you. “You think?”

“Yeah,” he nods, dead serious. “Because if he thinks that was just practice, he’s either lying to himself… or he’s about to have the same crisis you are.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

A couple days later, things feel… normal again. Or at least, they look normal.

From the outside, nothing’s changed. You and Yunho fall back into your routine like it’s muscle memory, passing each other in the kitchen, sharing late night takeout, sitting on opposite ends of the couch while something mindless plays in the background. You still talk, still joke, still exist in that same comfortable orbit you always have. But there’s something underneath it now. Something neither of you touches. You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t bring it up. So it just… sits there. Unspoken. And the more you both pretend it didn’t happen, the louder it gets in the silence.

Now Yunho’s alone. The apartment is quiet in that hollow way it only is when you’re not there, no soft background noise, no movement in the other room, no you. Just him, the faint hum of his setup, and way too much space for his thoughts to bounce around in. He texted Chloe. Thought maybe he could smooth things over, fix it, prove to himself that nothing had changed. That what happened with you didn’t mean anything more than what you both said it was.

So he met up with her. Told himself it was fine. Normal. But the second things started getting even remotely close to that territory again… it felt wrong. Not bad. Just… off. From Yunho’s perspective, it was like trying to follow a script he suddenly didn’t believe in anymore. The way she talked, the way she reacted, it all felt rehearsed somehow, like she was performing instead of actually feeling anything. And the worst part? He couldn’t stop comparing it to you.

The way you sounded, unfiltered, unplanned. The way you felt. The way you trusted him enough to let go like that. The sound of his name like sin and honey on your tongue. And no matter how much he tried to ignore it, it just… kept getting louder. Even the small things. The way Chloe moved. The way she responded. The way everything felt… It didn’t match. Didn’t even come close. And for some reason, he couldn’t shake it. By the time he left, he felt worse than before. More confused. More frustrated. Because now it’s not just about what happened with you. It’s about the fact that nothing else feels right anymore unless it’s with you.

When he got home, Yunho dropped onto the couch, dragging both hands over his face with a frustrated exhale. “What the hell is wrong with me…” he muttered under his breath. It’s not just that it was good with you. It’s that it felt different. Like something clicked into place that he didn’t even realize was missing before. He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, jaw tight as he tried to piece it together in a way that makes sense other than the obvious.

He’s in love with you. Always had been.

“Fuck,” he exhales, sharper this time, one hand coming up to press against his forehead. Because he knows. He knows what the answer is. He just doesn’t want to say it out loud.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho tries to distract himself. He really does. Headset on, controller in hand, screen glowing in front of him, it’s the easiest way to shut his brain off, to fall back into something familiar where he doesn’t have to think too hard about anything outside of the game. For a little while, it works. His voice slips back into that easy, relaxed tone, laughing here and there, throwing out comments without really thinking. The rhythm of it is second nature, callouts, reactions, the occasional trash talk. Normal. But it doesn’t last. Because his mind isn’t fully in it. Not when you’re still sitting somewhere in the back of it, stubborn and loud no matter how much he tries to push it down.

“Hey,” one of the guys in his headset laughs, cutting through the game noise. “I’m telling you, bro, last night? Crazy.”

Yunho hums absently, not really paying attention. “Yeah?”

“Yeah…. she had me laid out, man. Like, fully…” the guy laughs again, unfiltered, “had me flat while she was on top riding my face like it was her mission, I’m not even kidding.” There’s a chorus of reactions, laughter, teasing, someone making a joke about him finally getting humbled and Yunho chuckles faintly at first, automatic.

But then his mind catches on it. And everything goes sideways. The thought of you like that, the way you’d look on top of him, the way he’d give in and let you have control…. his grip tightens slightly on the controller, his jaw setting as he tries to shove it away just as fast as it came.

“Yunho? You still there?” someone calls through his headset. “Yeah,” he answers quickly, a little too quick, clearing his throat as he tries to refocus on the screen. “I’m here.” But he’s not. Because now his thoughts are spiraling again, faster this time, harder to control. He drags in a quiet breath, trying to lock back into the game, but it’s useless. His mind keeps circling back, pulling him deeper into it whether he wants to go there or not. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible over the mic.

“Bro, what?” one of them laughs. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Yunho says again, but this time it comes out rougher, distracted. Because now he’s stuck in it, stuck in that loop of thoughts he can’t seem to shut off, the line between what happened and what he wants blurring more and more the longer he sits there. And the realization creeping in underneath it all? It’s getting harder to ignore. “I gotta hop off,” he mutters suddenly.

“What? We just started…”

“Yeah, I’ll catch you later,” he cuts in, already pulling his headset off before they can argue and the room falls quiet as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging between them as he stares at the floor, jaw tight. He doesn’t just want to pretend it didn’t happen. He doesn’t just want to move on.

He wants you.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The front door clicks open as you step inside like you always do, bag slipping off your shoulder, keys dropped into the bowl by the door, the familiar weight of a long shift still clinging to you. The apartment feels the same. Looks the same. But you already know better. Because the second you walk in you feel it. That subtle tension in the air, like something’s been waiting…..

“Can you show me how to let a girl ride my face?”

Your brain doesn’t even process it at first, like it short circuits halfway through the sentence, trying to decide if you actually heard him correctly. “Jesus fucking Christ, Yunho!”

He wasn’t planning to say that. Not like that. Not the second you walked in the door, still in your scrubs, barely even inside the apartment. But the thought’s been stuck in his head for the last hour, looping, getting louder, mixing with everything else he’s been trying and failing to ignore. Now he’s standing there, frozen in place, staring at you like he might actually combust on the spot. “I….” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair hard enough to mess it up all over again. “That… came out wrong.”

“Came out wrong?” you repeat slowly, blinking at him like you’re trying to decide if this is real or if you’re still at work and hallucinating from exhaustion. “Okay, not wrong… just….” he exhales sharply, pacing once like he physically can’t stand still under your stare. “I didn’t mean to just say it like that, I just…” He cuts himself off again, clearly spiraling. “You just got home,” he mutters, like that somehow explains it, gesturing vaguely toward you before dragging a hand down his face again. “I wasn’t…. planning to…”

“You weren’t planning to ask me how to let someone ride your face?” you cut in, incredulously and he stops pacing. “When you say it like that, it sounds…”

“It sounds exactly like what you said,” you shoot back and silence hits the room before Yunho hesitates and breaks it. “I tried with Chloe,” he says finally and your irritation fades, replaced by something sharper. More focused. “And?” you ask, quieter now, and Yunho huffs a humorless breath, shaking his head. “It wasn’t the same.” From his perspective, saying it out loud makes it worse. Because now it’s not just a thought. It’s real. He glances at you again, holding your gaze this time instead of avoiding it. “Nothing about it felt the same,” he admits, voice lower now, more controlled, but there’s something underneath it, something heavier.

“You’ve been in my head all day,” he adds before he can stop himself, the words slipping out quieter this time, less frantic but somehow more dangerous. “And I can’t—” he cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know how to just go back to normal after that.”

“So instead,” you say slowly, heart pounding, “you ask me that the second I walk through the door?”

“Yeah,” Yunho admits, a little helplessly. And somehow, that’s worse. Because he’s not joking. Not deflecting. Not hiding behind anything. He’s just being honest. And that realization settles deep in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. Because if he’s being honest… for a second, you just stand there, still in your scrubs, bag hanging off your shoulder, heart beating a little too fast for how still you’re trying to look. Because you could push this deeper. You could ask him what he meant, why he’s thinking about you like that, why he can’t let it go. But that would mean admitting you can’t either.

“Well,” you say, exhaling through your nose like you’re brushing it off, even though your chest feels anything but calm. You drop your bag onto the chair by the door, kicking your shoes off like this is just another normal night. “Come on.”

“Come on?” he repeats, like he’s not sure he heard you right. You glance at him over your shoulder, already heading toward your room, that same dangerous calm settling into your voice again. “You asked, didn’t you?” you say simply and his brain stalls for half a second before his body catches up, pushing off the wall and following you without even thinking about it. There’s tension in his steps now, something tighter, more focused, because this is happening again. You feel him behind you before you even see him, the weight of his presence making everything feel smaller, warmer, more charged than it should.

You step into your room, turning to face him as he stops just inside the doorway, that same mix of anticipation and nerves written all over him as you cross your arms loosely, leaning back against the edge of your bed. “For the record,” you add, a little more casually than you feel, “I’ve only done this once.” Yunho’s brows pull together slightly. “Yeah?” You nod once, gaze flicking away for a second like you’re debating whether to say more. “With my ex.”

Yunho’s jaw tightens without him even realizing it, something sharp flashing behind his eyes at the mention of him. He never liked that guy. Not even a little. “Of course it was,” he mutters under his breath and you huff out a quiet humorless laugh. “Yeah, well… it didn’t exactly go great.”

“What do you mean?”

You shrug, but there’s an edge to it now, something a little more honest slipping through. “I mean he barely let it last five minutes before he started complaining.” Yunho’s expression darkens. “Complaining?” he repeats, incredulously. “Yeah,” you nod, rolling your eyes slightly. “Said it was weird. Too much work. Told me to stop before I could even….” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter.” But it does. Because now Yunho’s not just thinking about what he wants. He’s thinking about that. About someone else being in that position with you and not even trying. Not paying attention. Not caring enough to let you actually come. “That’s…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “That’s stupid.”

You glance at him, a small, almost amused smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Yeah. I figured that out.” But the way he’s looking at you now? It’s not amused. It’s focused. Intent. Like he’s already decided something. “Well,” you say, pushing yourself off the bed slightly, that same teasing edge creeping back in just enough to mask the tension. “Guess you’ll have to do better than him.”

Yunho huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a disbelieving laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah,” he says, stepping further into the room, gaze locked on you now. “I think I can manage that.” You have to keep your thighs from clenching when you see his eyes darken. Your hands go to the waistband of your scrub pants, fingers brushing the fabric as you try to keep your breathing even, your expression neutral, like this isn’t a big deal, like this isn’t the second time you’re about to cross a line you’ve both been avoiding for years. The fabric shifts as you push your scrubs down, the movement simple, routine, something you’ve done a thousand times before after long shifts.

Yunho’s watching, quiet, still, but completely locked in. And there’s something different about him now. The hesitation from the first time? It’s still there, but it’s buried under something else, something more focused, more certain. His gaze tracks every small movement you make, every shift of fabric, every breath you take like he’s trying to memorize it. You step out of your scrubs, pushing them aside, leaving you standing there in your bra and panties for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up with your brain yet.

Yunho exhales quietly, like he’s been holding his breath without realizing it and you glance up at him, finally meeting his eyes, and for a second neither of you says anything. Because you both feel it. That shift. That this isn’t the same as the first time. “You still sure you want me to show you?” you ask and he answers without hesitation. “Yeah.” You shift your weight slightly, forcing yourself to stay grounded, even as everything about this feels anything but steady. Your gaze flicks over him once, quick, almost instinctive, before you look away again, like if you stare too long you’ll start thinking about it too much. “You should probably take your shirt off,” you say, voice coming out calmer than you feel. “It could get… messy.”

The words hang there for a second before Yunho blinks and huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a nervous laugh slipping through, even as his hands move without hesitation to the hem of his shirt. “Right,” he mutters as his fingers catch the fabric, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion, something he’s done a thousand times before, something you’ve seen a thousand times before. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s never been a big deal. You’ve seen him like this before. Late nights, lazy mornings, passing each other in the apartment like it’s nothing. It’s always been easy.

Your eyes flick back to him before you can stop them, catching on the way his shoulders shift as he drops the shirt somewhere behind him, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the tension sitting just under his skin like he’s holding himself together by a thread. Your breath stutters just slightly, and you have to look away again after staring way too long at his happy trail, swallowing as you try to pull yourself back together. You’ve seen this before. But your brain doesn’t believe that anymore as he steps a little closer, not rushing, but not holding back either, closing some of the space between you like he’s done thinking about it and just… moving forward now.

“Okay,” he says, voice a little rougher than before and you climb onto the bed first, shifting back toward the headboard, giving him space. Yunho follows a second later, slower this time, not unsure, but aware. More aware than he was that first time. He watches you as he gets on, like he’s trying to read every movement, every decision you make. This time, he doesn’t sit. He lays back and settles against the mattress, head near your pillows, eyes still on you, chest rising and falling a little heavier than normal. “If you need me to get up,” you say, a little more careful than before, “just let me know.” Yunho’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Okay.”

Your fingers hook at the waistband of your panties, your breath catching as your mind tries once more to catch up with what you’re about to do. This is a bad idea. The thought flickers but you ignore it. Because the second you glance at him again, really look at him, the way he’s watching you, the way there’s no uncertainty left in his expression, just something deeper, something wanting…..

You push your panties all the down, tossing them on the floor and Yunho’s hands come up without thinking when you move closer, settling at your thighs again, firmer than before. Not stopping you. Not guiding you. Just… holding. Grounding himself in the reality of what’s happening. Your fingers grip the headboard above you, steadying yourself, your breath uneven as you settle there, every nerve suddenly aware of him, of the space, of the fact that this is happening again but not in the same way. Not even close. Because this time you’re not just showing him. And he’s not just learning.

You start to lower yourself slowly. Your fingers tighten around the headboard, grounding yourself, keeping control of the pace as you hover just above him once he lays down. Your breathing is uneven now, chest rising a little faster as you try not to think too hard about what you’re doing. About who you’re doing it with. You keep your grip firm, easing down carefully, deliberately holding yourself there, not fully committing yet, like you’re still giving both of you one last second to back out and Yunho’s hands tighten on your thighs without warning, grip firm. stronger than before and before you can fully control the pace anymore he pulls you down.

The sudden movement steals the breath right out of you, your grip on the headboard tightening instantly, your body jolting at the unexpected shift. “Yunho….” his name slips out before you can stop it, sharp and surprised. He starts slower than you expect. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you in place, holding you steady like he doesn’t trust you to stay there on your own, not anymore. Not when you’re already reacting like this the second his tongue thrusted up into you. And it hits him almost immediately. That difference. That clarity. He wasn’t crazy. You taste so good he feels his eyes roll back and a moan, deep and almost growling leaves him, vibrating against you.

“Oh… oh my….” You’re whimpering now, still gripping the headboard, legs feeling heavy where they are caged around his head. His nose is rubbing at your clit, tongue curving up into you…. then you start to move. Not even on purpose at first, just instinct, chasing the feeling, trying to stay grounded and failing at it completely and a low, rough sound slips out of Yunho again before he can stop it, something deeper than before. It sounds like he’s gone as his hands tighten again, pulling you even closer, not letting you pull away, not letting you control the pace anymore.

He exhales sharply, tongue pulling out to move up, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking it into his mouth and keeping it there as you cry out and really start rocking against his face. “Fuck…. right there… Yunho… don’t stop” your begging and pleading seems to only make him more pussy drunk. His dick is hard, he can feel it twitching, precum leaking and staining his sweats. And before he can even register what he’s saying, he pulls back just enough to mumble, “your pussy taste so fucking good.” Then he thrusts his tongue back into you, moaning loud at the taste of you. And his words make it build faster.

You can feel it, tight , overwhelming, impossible to ignore now. Every movement pushes you closer, your grip on the headboard turning almost desperate as your body stops listening to anything except the need to chase it. You’re not thinking anymore. Not about the line you crossed. Not the fact your best friend is eating your pussy like it’s his last meal. Not about anything except the way everything is pulling tighter and tighter….. and then you glance down. Just for a second. And you see him. The way he’s completely gone, hands gripping you, holding you there like he doesn’t want to lose this, like he doesn’t want to lose you in this moment. The way his chest is rising unevenly, the tension in him obvious, unhidden now.

And the moans he makes… low, deep and unfiltered….. and then you look back, see the length of him hard in his sweats, watch his dick leaking against the fabric, twitching… your hands drop from the headboard without thinking, tangling into his hair instead, gripping tight as everything finally breaks. Your breath shatters into something you can’t control, your body tensing hard as the feeling crashes over you all at once. “YUNHO…” you pull at his hair as you come, riding it out literally. Your hips move, grinding frantically against his face and he lets you. Loves it.

You’re barely coming back down when, thighs shaking, when you hear him let out the whiniest, neediest sound you’ve ever heard. Because just the feel of you riding his face, the taste of you dripping on his tongue, he feels his dick twitch once, twice….. and then he’s coming too. Untouched and aching. It’s overwhelming in a way he didn’t expect, his thoughts completely scattered, his body reacting before he can even process it, the intensity of the moment pulling everything out of him whether he’s ready for it or not. Fuck.

He groans again under his breath, quieter this time, but no less affected, his forehead pressing against your inner thigh now as he tries to steady himself, tries to come back down from something that hit way harder than he was prepared for as you slide away first. The movement is slow, almost reluctant, creating space between you where there hadn’t been any moments before. The room feels strangely quiet now. Not peaceful. Just… full. Your pulse is still trying to settle as you sit back against the headboard, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Across from you, Yunho remains exactly where he is, sprawled on the mattress, staring at the ceiling like he’s forgotten how to move. For a second, you almost laugh. Not because anything is funny. But because he looks completely dazed. “Yunho?” You glance down and see that obvious stain on his sweats, his dick still hard despite the orgasm that ripped out of him. His chest rises and falls slowly as you feel your heart ready to run from your body. “Yunho, you good?” A knot forms low in your stomach. “Hey.”

This time his eyes close briefly. Not avoiding you. Just bracing. When they open again, something has changed. The uncertainty that’s followed him for days is gone. The nervousness. The excuses. Slowly, he sits up and the mattress shifts beneath his weight as you watch him carefully. “Yunho?” His gaze finds yours, voice low and hesitant. “It isn’t practice anymore.” The words land between you like a dropped match and your breath catches as your brows furrow. “What?”

For a second, he looks away and you see his throat work as he swallows. And suddenly the confident, easygoing Yunho you’ve known for years looks terrified. Not of you. But of telling the truth. “I didn’t need to practice that,” he says quietly and the confession sounds almost ridiculous now that it’s out in the open and a humorless laugh escapes him. “Not really.” Your heart pounds harder. “Then why…”

“I just…” He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “just wanted you again.” The world outside the room might as well not exist anymore after that confession. You stare at him as he stares at the floor a minute before his gaze lifts back to yours. “I tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything.” His voice is rough now. Honest in a way you’ve almost never heard before. “I tried to go back to normal. I met up with Chloe….. and all I could do was compare everything to you.” The admission leaves him looking almost angry. Not at you but at himself. “Every conversation.” He laughs once, short and bitter. “Every stupid thing.” His eyes lock onto yours. “And I realized I didn’t care that she dumped me.”

Your breath catches as Yunho stands and walks until he’s close enough that neither of you can pretend this conversation is casual anymore. “I’ve spent years telling myself not to do this.” His voice softens. “Because you’re my best friend. But I think I’ve been in love with you for so long that I forgot what it felt like not to be.” The room goes completely still. And suddenly every excuse you’ve both been hiding behind falls apart at once. No more lessons. No more practice. No more pretending.

For a moment, you don’t say anything. Not because you don’t have an answer. Not because you don’t feel it too. But because your brain completely short circuits. You’ve imagined this conversation before. More times than you’d ever admit. Late nights. Long drives. Quiet moments where Yunho smiled at you a certain way and you wondered. But those were fantasies. This is real. And somehow, reality hits harder.

Yunho watches the silence stretch. One second. Two. Three. Long enough for doubt to creep in and you see it happen. The way his shoulders tense. The way something guarded settles over his expression. Like he’s already preparing himself for the answer he doesn’t want and his gaze drops as he lets out a quiet laugh that sounds painful around the edges. “Right.”

“Yunho….”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t. You can hear that immediately as he takes a step back. Then another. Putting distance between you before you can even process what’s happening. “Just forget I said anything.” The words hit like a punch and your eyes widen. “What?” He shakes his head. A small smile appearing on his face, but it’s all wrong. Forced and tight. The kind people wear when they’re trying not to let something hurt. “We can just go back to normal.”

“Yunho….”

“I’m serious.” His voice is quiet now. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Then he turns and walks out, bedroom door staying open behind him. And for a second, you just sit there. Frozen. Staring after him. Your heart pounding so hard it feels impossible to breathe. Because what just happened? The realization crashes into you all at once. Yunho loves you. Yunho is in love with you. And somehow, because you were too shocked to speak, he thinks you don’t feel the same.

“Are you kidding me?” You scramble off the bed so fast you nearly trip over the sheets. Your discarded panties are still scattered on the floor from. You snatch them up and pull them on while practically hopping across the room. “Idiot.” You aren’t even sure if you’re talking about him or yourself. Maybe both. By the time you reach the doorway, your pulse is racing. The apartment suddenly feels too big. Too long. Too far away. You find him in the living room.

Yunho is standing near the couch with both hands planted on his hips, staring out the window like he’s trying to figure out how to survive the next ten minutes. He doesn’t turn around when he hears you. Which hurts more than it should. Because Yunho always turns around when it’s you. “Yunho.” His shoulders tense as you march farther into the room. “Yunho.” This time he exhales slowly.

“You don’t have to say anything.” The quiet resignation in his voice makes your chest ache as he finally looks over his shoulder. And the look on his face almost breaks your heart. Because he’s already convinced himself. Already decided what your silence meant. Already started mourning something he never even got a chance to have. And suddenly all the shock leaves your body. “You absolute fucking idiot.”

His brows immediately pull together. “Excuse me?”

“I was in shock.” Now it’s your turn to be frustrated. “You just told me you’ve been in love with me for years! I didn’t know what to say!” He stares at you, frozen, trying to process. And when he doesn’t respond immediately, you throw your hands up. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to say something?” The room goes completely silent. And Yunho’s expression changes. First disbelief. Then hope. “What?”

Your heart pounds. But now that you’ve started, there’s no stopping. “No, seriously.” You laugh once. “I have spent years trying not to be in love with you.” This time it’s Yunho who goes completely speechless and just stares at you. Like his brain has completely stopped working. Your confession hangs between you, raw and impossible to take back as you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you’re standing in the middle of your apartment wearing just your bra and panties and a racing heartbeat. “Honestly?” you scoff. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

His brows knit together. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you say, throwing your hands up, “I’ve been trying to get your attention for years.”

Yunho blinks. “Years?”

“Yes, years.”

His expression shifts from stunned to suspicious. “What are you talking about?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Five months ago.” The second you say it, something flashes across his face. Recognition. “You remember.” His jaw tightens. Of course he remembers. A week before you’d finally broken up with your ex. Yunho had come home earlier than expected. Walked through the apartment door. And immediately wished he hadn’t. The memory hits him with perfect clarity. The television running in the background. Your moan. Your ex under you while rode him on the couch. The way you’d looked up when the door opened. The way Yunho’s stomach had dropped so hard he’d thought he might actually be sick.

He remembers forcing a smile. Muttering something about grabbing food. Pretending none of it bothered him. Pretending he hadn’t spent the rest of the night locked in his room trying not to think about it. Trying not to think about you. Or how he wanted to snatch your ex up and throw him out the window. His eyes narrow. Slowly. Dangerously. “What about it?” You hesitate for the first time since chasing him out here. Then you sigh. Because apparently you’re both doing honesty tonight. “I knew you were coming home.”

Yunho goes completely still and heart immediately starts pounding harder. “So?” he asks. The word comes out lower than before. Dangerous. Dark. “So I wanted you to see. I wanted…” You wince. “I wanted you to get jealous.” Yunho’s jaw clenches. “What?” Your confidence evaporates instantly. “I don’t know!” you snap, mortified. “I wasn’t thinking clearly!” His eyes remain locked on yours. “That was your plan?”

“It was a terrible plan.”

“It was a terrible plan.”

“I know!”

“You deliberately….”

“Yes.”

“To make me jealous.”

“Yes.”

The silence that follows is almost comical as Yunho drags a hand down his face. Then another. Like he’s trying to process the level of insanity he’s dealing with. And when he looks at you again, there’s something different in his expression now. Something darkly amused. Something that makes your stomach flip. “Five months.” You point a finger at him. “Don’t.”

“Five months,” he repeats.

“Yunho.”

“You spent five months thinking I wasn’t interested.”

“Well, you never said anything!”

“And your solution was psychological warfare?”

Your mouth falls open. “I was desperate!”

That does it. A laugh finally escapes him. Short and disbelieving. He shakes his head. Then his gaze drags slowly over you. And suddenly every bit of humor fades from his face. Because now he understands. All of it. The mixed signals. The frustration. The years of almosts. The fact that the two of you have apparently been running in circles around each other for ages. His eyes meet yours again and his voice drops. Low enough that it catches you completely off guard. “You fucking brat.” The second the word leaves his mouth, Yunho sees it. That tiny reaction. The way your breath catches. The way your eyes widen for half a second before you try to hide it.

And because he’s known you for years, because he’s spent years paying attention to things nobody else notices, he catches it immediately and a slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat weakly and his smirk grows. “That’s interesting.”

Heat floods your face. “Don’t.”

“You like that.”

“Yunho.”

“You do.” The confidence in his voice is unbearable. Not because he’s teasing. But because he’s right. And the worst part? He knows it. You watch him take a step closer. Then another. The distance between you shrinking until it feels impossible to think straight. “A brat trying to drive me insane” he says and your pulse pounds in your ears. “Yunho…” He stops directly in front of you. Close enough that you can see every tiny shift in his expression.

“Baby, you like that, don’t you?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. No denial. No argument. No sarcastic comeback. Just silence. Because for once, you don’t have one after hear him calling you baby. Yunho’s eyes flick briefly to your lips before returning to your gaze and yhe realization hits both of you at the same time. “Fuck,” you breathe before you reach up to grab at the back of his neck. Yunho barely has time to look surprised before you’re pulling him toward you.

The kiss happens somewhere between impulse and inevitability. Years of frustration. Years of wanting. Years of bad timing and missed opportunities crashing together all at once. For a second, neither of you seems to know what to do with the fact that this is finally happening. Then Yunho’s hands find your waist automatically, hands gliding down as your tongue starts fighting with his own. His hands reach your ass, gripping and landing a slap on your right cheek getting him a moan into the kiss out of you from it. “Fuck me…” he grabs you, lifting you and letting you wrap your legs around his waist and a laugh escapes you. “You are such an idiot.”

Yunho lets out a disbelieving laugh of his own. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You had an entire secret jealousy operation.”

“It wasn’t an operation.”

“It absolutely was.” And despite everything, you both start laughing. And somehow that feels right. Because after all the tension, all the confusion, all the years spent circling each other… It’s still the two of you. Just finally honest this time as Yunho holds you tightly against his chest, lips finding yours again in a slow, claiming kiss that deepens quickly, tongues sliding together as his hands roamed down your back.

He brakes away only to trail hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. His fingers hook into the cups of your bra, tugging them down so your breasts spill free and he latches onto one nipple immediately, sucking hard while his tongue flicks over the hardening peak, then switches to the other, licking and sucking with growing hunger. Teeth grazing your nipple as he kisses and marks you, leaving red blooms across the curves of your breasts that would darken later as he carries you towards the couch and you slide down him until your knees hit the floor in front of him.

You reach up before he can ask and yank his sweats down in one motion, freeing his dick which bobbed heavily, still rigid and glistening with the evidence of his earlier release. The sight made your mouth water, he was thick, veined and longer than you had imagined, the tip flushed. You look up at him with a teasing smirk. "Twice now you've come just from eat me out. That's cute." Yunho's ears turn red but he doesn’t look away as you lean in without hesitation, tongue dragging along the underside of his dick to clean away the sticky cum clinging to his skin.

You take your time, licking broad stripes from base to tip, sucking the tip into your mouth to draw out every trace until he was clean and shiny with your saliva. Only when you had finished did he reach down, gripping your shoulders to pull you up to your feet, eyes locked onto yours, dark and searching. "You love me?" You answer by crashing your mouth to his, kissing him deep and messy and he groans into it, tasting himself on your tongue, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Of course you idiot," you murmur against his lips. Then you shove him backward onto the couch cushions. Your panties gone again in seconds, kicked aside as you climb into his lap, straddling his hips.

Yunho's hands grip your waist, his mind flashing to every time your ex had been here with you on this same couch. He was going to fuck those memories right out of the fabric. You didn't ease down. Both of you were too far gone, years of wanting crashing together in one desperate rush as you sank onto him in one smooth motion, taking every inch until your ass met his thighs and a shared moan filled the room. You started moving immediately, too impatient now, lifting and slamming back down in hard, hungry strokes that made the couch creak and Yunho's head fell back, fingers digging into your hips as he begged, "Take it, fuck, take all of me."

Your pace grew frantic, pounding yourself onto him with wet, slapping sounds filling the air. Each descent stretched you perfectly, his dick hitting deep. Pleasure coiled tight and then snapping. You cried out as you squirted hard around him, hot fluid gushing over him and soaking his lap and the sight undid him. Yunho flipped you in one swift motion, laying you back on the cushions and grabbing your legs to fold you in half, your ankles at his shoulders as he sank back inside you with a groan, thrusts starting slow and deliberate, building in force with every roll of his hips. “You're mine… I'm yours… Fuck…" The words came out strained as he watched your face, then looked down between your bodies.

The sight of you creaming his dick made him moan louder and pick up the speed, pounding into you relentlessly. "Say it… say you're mine." You were a trembling mess beneath him, words fracturing on your tongue. "I… I… I'm…" Yunho saw you unraveling and thrust harder. "I know baby… fuck you feel so fucking good." You sobbed his name, body locking up as your orgasm ripped through you, clenching around him, screaming as you squirted again, spraying between you.

Yunho followed right after, pounding through your climax before burying himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside you, flooding you with thick ropes of cum that overflowed and leaked out around his dick. He stayed pressed there, grinding through the aftershocks, filling you until it was dripping down your ass onto the couch.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

A couple hours later, the apartment is so quiet it almost feels unreal. No tension. No confusion. No years of unresolved feelings hanging over every conversation. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stand at the kitchen island wearing one of Yunho’s oversized shirts that hangs halfway down your thighs. The sleeves swallow your hands every time you reach for your cereal.

Across from you, Yunho leans against the counter in nothing but boxers, absently eating from his own bowl. It’s ridiculous. After everything that happened. After years of pining. After confessions and tears and fucking on the couch then again in the shower after finally getting everything out in the open. This is what you’re doing. Eating cereal. The realization makes you snort into your spoon and Yunho immediately looks up. “What?”

You shake your head. “No. It’s just…” A laugh escapes you. “We finally admit we’re in love with each other and somehow we’re standing in the kitchen eating Lucky Charms.” Yunho glances down at his bowl then back at you. “It’s a very emotional cereal.” You stare at him and he stares back. And then you both lose it. The laughter comes easier now. The kind that leaves your stomach hurting and feels like relief. When it finally settles, Yunho shakes his head and points his spoon at you. “By the way.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Whenever someone starts a sentence like that, something annoying follows.”

“You really thought making me jealous was a good plan?”

You groan. “There it is.”

“No, seriously.” He sets his bowl down. “I need to understand.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You absolutely do not.”

Yunho is already smiling. That dangerous smile that means he’s enjoying himself. “You knew I was coming home and thought, You know what’ll fix this situation? Emotional devastation.”

“I was twenty five and stupid.”

“Five months ago.”

“Details.”

He lets out a bark of laughter and you try not to smile and fail miserably. “Do you know what I did after that?” he asks and your grin fades slightly. “No.”

“I sat in my room for three hours.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

“Three.” He holds up three fingers. “Hours.”

“Yunho…”

“I ate an old bag of chips because i didn’t want to leave my room and I’m pretty sure they were stale.”

You choke on your cereal. “No, you didn’t.”

“I absolutely did.”

“Oh my God.”

“And then I convinced myself I was being ridiculous because you were allowed to date whoever you wanted.” The admission is casual. Like he’s only comfortable saying it now because everything’s already out in the open. And something soft settles in your chest. Because suddenly that memory looks completely different. Not from your perspective. From his. A man hopelessly in love with his best friend trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.

Your expression must change because Yunho notices immediately and his own smile softens. The teasing disappearing. “You know,” he says quietly, “I think I would’ve told you eventually.” You lean against the counter. “Yeah?” He nods. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Okay, definitely.”

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sudden knock at the door makes both of you freeze. You glance at the microwave clock. 11:47 pm. Yunho looks at you. “Who the hell is that?” you ask.

“No idea.”

Another knock echoes through the apartment and you set your spoon down while Yunho pushes away from the counter. “Maybe Wooyoung got drunk and lost his key to his place again.” You snort as Yunho heads toward the front door and he opens it. And immediately stops.

You notice it before you even see who it is. The way his shoulders lock. The way his expression changes.

“What?”

Yunho doesn’t answer as you walk around the kitchen island. Then you see her. Chloe. Standing in the hallway. “Oh.” Chloe shifts her weight, nose turned up at you. Yunho still hasn’t said a word as she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Maybe I overreacted.”

Yunho blinks. “Chloe…”

“No, let me finish.” She holds up a hand. “And maybe I was kind of a bitch.” You cross your arms. Kind of? “Maybe I shouldn’t have said all that stuff.” Yunho opens his mouth again but Chloe keeps going. “And I get why you left suddenly earlier today.”

Yunho’s brows furrow. “What?”

Chloe sighs dramatically. “I mean… obviously you were nervous.”

You nearly choke on a laugh. Oh she has no idea.

“Nobody leaves mid going down on someone unless they’re nervous.”

Yunho looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. And before either of them can continue, you make a decision. You walk straight across the room and Yunho barely has time to register what’s happening before you’re standing beside him. Then closer. Then somehow even closer than that as you loop an arm around his and Yunho immediately knows you’re about to cause problems. The grin on your face gives it away.

“Sorry, Chloe.” Both of them look at you as you smile sweetly. “Yunho’s on a new diet.”

Chloe blinks in confusion. “A diet?”

“Yeah.” You nod completely serious. “It’s me.” The silence that follows is magnificent. For one glorious second, Chloe’s brain visibly buffers. Then realization hits and her eyes widen as your smile grows.

Yunho makes a strangled noise beside you that sounds suspiciously like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Are you….”

You gently push the door shut. “Have a good night, Chloe.” You stand there with your hand on the doorknob, looking very pleased with yourself. While behind you, Yunho is completely quiet until you turn around and then he is bent over laughing. Not a polite laugh. Not even a chuckle. But full on losing it. “Oh my God.”

You point at him. “She showed up uninvited.”

“I know.”

“And I handled it.”

“You absolutely handled it.”

You try to maintain your dignity but fail immediately when he starts laughing harder. “You called yourself a diet.”

“It was funny.”

“It was.”

“It was hilarious.”

Yunho wipes at his eyes still laughing. Then he looks at you and the amusement softens into something warmer as he shakes his head, smile pulling at his mouth. “God, I love you.”

And for the first time in years, neither of you has to pretend that those words mean anything less than exactly what they do right now.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

T - 30 days The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom. Caleb is taking a shower. At 3am. He had just returned from god knows where.

You stand at the bathroom door, a little nervous, wanting to discuss something with him. Just as you are trying to figure out the best way to phrase it, you hear a strange sound coming from inside. After listening carefully, you realize with a gasp that he was taking care of himself…

Each breath and groan is like a heavy hammer blow, relentlessly pounding on your heart. The pain spreads like a tidal wave, leaving you sinking in it, unable to breathe.

Actually, today is your wedding anniversary. Your fifth year of marriage, and you've never consummated it. So, he preferred to take care of himself rather than touch you?

As his breathing grows more rapid, he suddenly lets out a low growl, his voice strained with barely suppressed emotion, "Pipsqueak-" That one word delivers the final, fatal blow.

Your heart pounds, as if something just shattered into dust. You try to cover your mouth to stifle your sobs, and turn to run, but stumble on your first step, bumping into the sink and falling to the floor.

"Y/N?" Caleb's voice inside hasn't calmed down yet; you can tell he is trying to control himself, but his breathing is still heavy.

"I...I need to use the restroom, I didn't know you were taking a shower..." you stammer, clumsily grabbing the sink to stand up.

The floor and sink are wet. The more you try, the more helpless the situation becomes. By the time you finally manage to stand, Caleb emerges from the door, his white bathrobe hastily pulled on with the belt fastened tightly.

"Did you fall? Let me help you." He makes a move to pick you up. Tears well in your eyes from the pain, but you push his hand away, your expression a mixture of distress and determination. "No need, I can do it myself."

After nearly slipping again, you limp and stagger back to your bedroom. No, "escape" is the more accurate word. For the five years you were married to Caleb Xia, you've been doing nothing but constantly running away.

Running away from the outside world, from everyone's strange looks, and from Caleb's pity and sympathy—his wife is a cripple.How can a cripple be worthy of the brilliant and successful Caleb Xia?

You were not always like this...

Caleb follows you out, his voice gentle and concerned. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see." "No, I'm fine." You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, hiding your disheveled state under it. "Are you really alright?" He sounds genuinely concerned. “Mmm.” You nod vigorously, back facing him. “So, are you going to sleep? Didn’t you want to go to the bathroom?” “I don’t want to anymore now, let’s sleep?” You whisper.

“Alright," he pauses. "By the way, today is our anniversary. I bought you a present. You can open it tomorrow and see if you like it.” “Okay.” The present is on the bedside table; you've already seen it, but you already know what is inside without even opening it.

It's the same size box every year, containing the exact same necklace. In your drawer, there are already nine identical ones. This is the tenth.

The conversation ends there. Caleb turns off the light and lies down across from you. The damp scent of bodywash fills the air, but you barely feel the bed sink. In the two-meter-wide bed, you sleep on one side, and him on the other side at the very edge; there is enough space in between  for at least another 3 people.

Neither of you mention "pipsqueak", nor what he had just done in the bathroom, as if nothing  happened. You lie stiffly, eyes burning with pain.

Pipsqueak, or MC, was his adopted younger sister, his first love, his goddess. Upon high school graduation, MC went abroad, leaving Caleb behind. He was devastated.

You and Caleb were classmates in middle and high school. You admit that you had a crush on him at the time. Back then, he was the school heartthrob, a cool and aloof academic star, while you considered yourself pretty ordinary. Not the most academically gifted, nor the most popular or pretty. You had a face everyone could recognize, but not many could describe. Besides, you had larger dreams back then. You were a dancer; started when you were young. The stage was where you felt the most at home.  So, it was just a secret crush for you; you never thought you would ever stand beside him. 

Until you return home for summer vacation after graduating from the conservatory and encounter Caleb in a wreck.

That night, he was drunk, walking erratically, crossing the street without looking at the traffic lights. A car sped towards him, and you, worried and following close behind, pushed him out of the way, getting hit by the car yourself.

You thought you had done good for yourself up to that point, successfully completing your dance studies and hoping to get a position in one of the large dance companies in the city.

The accident left you with a serious limp. You'd never be able to dance again.

Shortly after, he swore off drinking and married you.

He was forever guilty, forever grateful, forever soft-spoken, and forever showered you with gifts and money. Yet at the same time, forever indifferent. The only thing he couldn't give you was love.

In the beginning, you naively thought that time could heal all wounds, dilute all the pain. But you never could have imagined that five years later, he would still remember the name "pipsqueak" so vividly, calling out to her when he is serving himself. In the end, you were simply too foolish…

When Caleb gets up for his Colonel duties, you still pretend to be asleep. You hear him talking to the housekeeper outside: "I have a company dinner tonight. Tell my wife not to wait for me and to go to bed early." After giving the instructions, he comes back into the room to check on you again. You hide under the covers, your pillow soaked with tears. Usually, when he goes to any of the Farspace Fleet galas, you would prepare his outfit in advance.

But not tonight. He goes to the dressing room to change himself and heads to work. You open your eyes, feeling them swell uncomfortably.

Your phone alarm rings. It's the time you set for yourself to get up and study.

Because of your leg injury, since getting married, you spend most of your time at home, rarely going out. You divide your day into blocks, finding something to occupy your time.  You pick up your phone, turn off the alarm and start scrolling aimlessly through various apps. Your mind is a jumbled mess, unable to absorb anything. Until, you suddenly come across a video on a certain social media platform.

The person in the video looks so familiar… The account name: Pips_apple. The posting time was last night.

You click on the video, and immediately, upbeat music starts playing, followed by someone shouting: One, two, three, welcome back Pipsqueak! Cheers! It's Caleb's voice. He broke his vow of abstinence from alcohol. He's even a little drunk.

But would Caleb really shout like that? The Caleb you remember from high school was a friendly, but aloof academic genius. Not only was he serious when doing course work, but even more so on the sports field; he paid no attention to any of the girls who offered him water bottles and love letters.  Later, the Caleb who became your husband was even more polite, his emotions so stable they were almost unwavering. He never smiled, never got angry. He was always detached, so detached that when you occasionally touched his fingers, even his body temperature was cold.

The camera pans across everyone's faces in the video. You see a slightly tipsy Caleb, his eyes sparkling, raising his glass and laughing loudly at the camera: "Welcome home, Pips!"

So, he could smile after all. He could be passionate too. He would call girls by their nicknames. Just not you. 

You close the app immediately, struggling to catch your breath. You open your email, and read the acceptance letter on your phone over and over again, at least a hundred times.

A graduate school offer from a foreign university, the thing you originally planned to discuss with him last night. You wanted to study abroad for a master's degree; was that okay? But now it seems there is no need to discuss it with him. Five years of marriage, countless sleepless nights.  You needed to get out. If you didn't find something to do with your life now that MC is back, how would you pass the long hours? Would you spend your whole life waiting for Caleb to come home?

You had already waited for too long. The pain of waiting... is unbearable now. Today marks the countdown to you leaving him.

T - 29 days Today your plans are a little different than the usual.

Your offer was likely part of the program's last round of admissions, so you wanted to confirm it as soon as possible. The first item on your agenda is to pay the confirmation fee to the school. You breathe a sigh of relief as your phone lights up with the notification from your bank card deduction.

In the evening, you change your clothes and prepare to go out.  Your housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, is surprised. "Madam, where are you going?" Without Caleb's company, you seldom leave the house.

"Oh, friend of mine is performing at the theatre tonight and asked me to meet them," you say. Actually, you were going to stay in a hotel in the city. You have an interview tomorrow morning with an alumni of the program in the area. You were worried about traffic and not making it on time.

“But…” Mrs. Chen looks at your leg, “Shall I go with you?” “No need, it’s a get-together with my girlfriends.” Your expression remains unchanged. “Then I’ll inform the Colonel.” Mrs. Chen is uneasy, genuinely afraid something might happen to you, and didn’t want to take responsibility for whatever goes down. “No need, don’t disturb him. I’ll call him after and have him pick me up.” 

As you step out into the street, you instinctively lower your head and hunch your shoulders, hiding your face into the collar of your coat. Since injuring your leg, the confident and vibrant you on stage has disappeared. 

Mrs. Chen always said that it was best if your husband goes out with you. Caleb always said that you should stay home if he isn't with you. Neither of them knew. The only thing you were afraid of more than going out alone was going out with Caleb. Because everyone who sees you looks at you with the same question: "How did someone like him marry a girl like that?"

T - 28 days Your interview goes surprisingly smoothly. After slowly wandering around Linkon City alone for the first time in many years, you hail a taxi and head home. In the car, you silently gaze at the lights outside the window, when suddenly, you see Caleb's car parked on the side of the street.

"Wait, please stop for a moment," you quickly call to the driver. Caleb's car is parked in front of a restaurant. Yesterday before leaving for work, Caleb had casually mentioned that it was his turn to treat his friend group to dinner.

You get out of the car as if possessed.

Upon arriving, you tell the server at the front, "reservation under Mr. Xia," and give them the the last four digits of Caleb's phone number. The waiter leads you to a private room. "Thank you," you say, hesitating in front of the door. From outside, you can hear lively voices.

"I need to get home early today, I got home drunk last night and my wife was furious at me!" "Come on~ Are we still tight? Who's the one that used to always toot "bros before hoes"? Now you're henpecked? Sounds like Caleb's the only real one left!" MC jokes, her voice cheery and light.

So this is the kind of person she was. This is the kind of personality that Caleb likes. Unfortunately, you are far from it; you couldn't even pretend to be if you tried. 

Inside, Caleb's friend continues, "How can Caleb be the same as me? Y/N wouldn't dare raise her voice at him!" "Hey, by the way," MC's soft voice rings out again, "Caleb, I heard your wife is disabled? Why?"

No one answers MC's question. Your heart clenches.

Caleb's group of friends start talking amongst themselves. "Seriously, Caleb, we feel sorry for you. Look at you, you have money, power, you're handsome, a real catch. What kind of woman couldn't you marry? Why did you have to marry a cripple?" "Honestly, dude, you're the most outstanding among us. Now that you've married Y/N, whether you're at a meeting, a social event, a press conference, or any other occasion that requires a partner, you can't even take her out. Don't you think you're losing out?"

So that's how it is…

Caleb always said he didn't need you to get involved in his affairs; he was more than happy to provide for you. Everyone praised you for living a life of luxury, but as it turns out, it is simply because he doesn't think you are presentable enough.

A bitter laugh comes from Caleb. “She was so kind to me after all; I owe her.” “You owe her? You've given her so much; you've paid it back ten-fold by now!” “Exactly! You should have just given her a lump sum back then. Was it necessary to jeopardize the happiness of the rest of your life?” “I'm telling you, you should really think about it. What can she do for you? She's useless at social events, and you'd even have to worry about her spilling water at home. "Caleb~ have some water" like this? Like this?"  A burst of laughter erupts from the room, mixed with MC's exaggerated gasp. "Caleb! Does your wife really walk like that?"

You feel all the blood rush to your head as the anger and humiliation tips you off balance. You force the door open and are immediately met with a roar of laughter.

T - 27 days One of Caleb's friends, Gideon, carries a cup of water in both hands, walking with an exaggerated limp, and calling out in a high-pitched voice, "Caleb, Caleb, have some water, Caleb, ah—I fell down, Caleb, hug me—" The mocking performance is a hit. MC, sitting next to Caleb, leans on his shoulder as she shakes from laughter. 

You turn to look at your husband, hoping that the person you loved most would show some sort of reaction.  Caleb, however, remains completely silent. Gideon turns around with a triumphant smile, "How does that sound, Cale-" Before he could finish the question, he sees you standing in the doorway, and his smile freezing. "Y/N..."

Everyone looks towards the door. They are stunned.

MC quickly removes herself from Caleb's shoulder, smiling as she reaches out her hand. "Ah! This must be Caleb's legendary wife! Please come in, I'm Caleb's childhood friend."

You look at everyone in the private room, heart turning cold.

Caleb finally stands up and walks towards you. "Y/N, what brings you here? They were just joking, don't take it to heart." You stare at the man in front of you, feeling utterly unfamiliar with him, more unfamiliar than ever before. He calls this joking? So he's actually siding with them?

"Yes, sister-in-law... sister-in-law! I'm sorry, I was just joking, don't be angry," Gideon apologized, putting down his cup.

Caleb walks up, intending to put his arm around you. You suddenly remember MC laughing on his shoulder, his hands pleasuring himself in the bathroom, him calling out "Pipsqueak" as he came, and suddenly the thought of his hands on you is utterly filthy. You dodge his arm. “Y/N,” Caleb looks at his empty hands in surprise and sighs. “I apologize on their behalf. Don’t be angry, okay? I’ll bring you something when we get back; whatever you want.”

MC glares at Gideon playfully. “Go on, apologize! You've made the Colonel's wife angry! Do you think everyone is like me, clumsy and clueless, letting you joke around like that?” Gideon immediately gets defensive. “I already apologized! I didn’t know she'd suddenly appear out of thin air; I was just joking.” “A joke is only a joke if the person it is about finds it funny.” You summon all your courage to spit out the words. 

"Alright, that's enough," Caleb puts himself between you and Gideon. "Y/N," Caleb's gaze is as calm as ever, "They mean no harm; they were just joking. For my sake, forgive them. Shall I have the driver take you home?"

"Sister-in-law..." MC pouts as she stands beside him, "If you're really angry, be angry with me. Don't ignore your husband. They only organized today's gathering because I came back... Caleb, why don't you ask your wife to stay for dinner? I'll offer her a toast as an apology." "Sorry," you look at the two of them with a scorning smile. "I don't drink alcohol, especially not this tea-flavored liquor."

Caleb's expression turns serious. "Y/N, MC was trying to make it up to you, why are you so sharp-tongued?" Make it up to you? Only a fool would think so. Is Caleb a fool? No, he isn't. He is simply biased; whichever side his heart leans towards is right.

You look at the two people in front of you, and the several people behind them. They were all on the same side, while you are just an outsider who had intruded into their world. No, in fact, you've never truly entered their world; not even the periphery.

You struggle to hold back tears, letting out a soft "heh," before turning to leave. Behind you, MC's voice calls worryingly, "Caleb, your wife!" "It's alright, she's very understanding. I'll go comfort her when I go back." He sneaks a glance at your retreating figure and texts the driver to pick you up. 

You wipe away your tears forcefully, gait getting more unsteady. Surely, they'll continue to laugh at you after you left, right? You are crippled; you aren't good enough for Caleb Xia. This realization had haunted you like a curse for the past five years. 

By the time Caleb's driver arrives, you are no longer by the restaurant. Caleb frowned at the text from the chauffer. He calls you, but you didn't answer. He tries again, but your phone is switched off now.  His buddies speak up more. "Caleb, how did you manage to spoil such a girl? With your status and appearance? There's women willing to grovel at feet! You're too good natured, letting your wife give you the cold shoulder." Caleb doesn't say anything.  "Marrying her is already a huge blessing! Who else would want her if not you?"  MC quickly interjects at just the right second. "Gege, don't listen to everyone saying bad things about Y/N. They're just want the best for you. Don't take it to heart!" "I'm not angry," Caleb puts away his phone. "It's alright, she won't go anywhere."

After all, for the past five years, you really haven't been anywhere except stay at home; you had nowhere to go.

T - 26 days You don't go home. You check back into the hotel you stayed at the previous day. All the grievances and pain erupt the moment the hotel room door closes. The image of Gideon limping, mocking you, kept flashing before your eyes, the laughter echoing in your ears like a curse.

Actually, you already know what Caleb's peers say about you in private, just never mentioned it to him before. They were his ride-or-die colleagues, you understood. He worked very hard for the safety of Linkon City; you understood. Therefore, you didn't want to cause him any trouble or fallouts with his friends and coworkers

But now it seems that you were overthinking things.

How could he have a falling out with his friends because of you? Those were his brothers since his DAA days! And you? Merely a debt he owed to himself as repayment for gratitude; a burden. Without you, his life would be happier.

"She's just a cripple! Who would want her if you didn't marry her?" "What more could she ask for than marrying someone like Caleb?" "If I were the Colonel, I'd rather be the one crippled by a car accident than marry someone like that."

Your heart and lungs ache terribly.

With trembling hands, you open a photo album on your phone you haven't dared touch in five years—a record of your training and performances during your undergraduate years. Since you could no longer perform on stage, you sealed all your dance-related photos and videos here, password protected, and never opened them again. Now, your trembling fingers randomly click on a video. Perfectly in time with the music, you twirl, leap, and land lightly on your feet Back then, you were radiant, graceful, and received thunderous applause…

So, was saving him a mistake?

Honestly, the moment you pushed Caleb out of the way, you never thought of marrying him. He was the one who said he wanted to marry you and planned a grand proposal, knelt before you with a huge diamond ring, and gave you hope…

For the first time in five years, you collapse onto the bed and sob uncontrollably. You cry for a long time

So long that no more tears flow from your eyes, leaving only pain in your chest, burning and licking like flames. Yet the more it hurt, the clearer you became about your situation.

You go the bathroom and wash your face thoroughly to calm down. Looking at your lifeless reflection in the mirror, you silently tell yourself, "Crying once is enough. Don't cry anymore. Now please take care of yourself for once."

T - 25 days Perhaps because you didn't sleep a wink the night before out of nervousness for your interview, you actually sleep quite well today. You wake up on time and turn on your phone.

Countless messages flood in all from one person—Caleb.

Walking alone on the sidewalk, head down, you review the student visa application process until a pair of leather shoes appear in front of you. You didn't expect someone to deliberately block your path, and bump into them.

If the person didn't catch you, you definitely would've fallen.  Unfortunately, that person is the last one you wanted to see.  Caleb.

"Y/N!" You can tell he is angry, but trying his best to speak in a controlled manner. “Y/N, why didn’t you come home?” He holds your shoulders, voice softening as gentle and tender as ever.

You should know why I’m not going home, you think, hurriedly stuffing the notes you took from your interview back into your bag, fastening it tightly. “What’s this?” he asks, looking down at your bag. “Nothing, just some paper.” You feign composure, fingers gripping the bag so tightly they turn white. “Give it to me,” he offers. No, you can't let him see them. You clutch the strap tighter. "Do you need something?" "Give me your phone," he demands. You hesitate for a moment, then take your phone out and hand it to him. The phone is off. He glances at it only once before handing it back. "I called you so many times and sent you so many messages. Why didn't you reply? Are you still angry?"

You breathe a sigh of relief. He wasn't asking where you were the night before. If it's only about that… You stay silent for a moment, and decide you didn't want to be angry anymore. You just want to get away. Seeing your silence, Caleb assumes you're still angry and sighs. “Y/N, you're supposed to be the understanding one. Why didn't you come home?”

You swear you didn't want to get worked up about it anymore, but Caleb's words are somehow innocent yet cruel enough to break even a saint.  “So you still think what happened yesterday was my fault? Was I being unreasonable? Should I have praised Gideon for such an accurate depiction as soon as I went in?!” You couldn't take it anymore.

Caleb's face slightly twitches in embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was, you can’t control what others say, so just manage your own reaction and pay them no mind.” “I can’t control it, but you can!” you shoot back. “But what were you doing then? You and your pipsqueak, hugging and all over each other.” “Y/N!" His expression finally changes into something that resembles anger, more intense than anything you've seen.  You laugh inwardly.

The name “pipsqueak” is his Achilles’ heel, an untouchable minefield. You have nothing else to say. You clutch your bag, planning to walk past him, but he reaches out and pulls you close by the waist. “I’m sorry, it's my fault. I raised my voice just now,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want you to misunderstand MC. We’re just ordinary friends, like everyone else. I treat her like my sister. She’s not married yet. Don't talk about her like that.”

You don't understand. They were the ones acting like that, MC brushing up against him so brazenly; why is he so afraid to admit it? 

"Oh," you reply monotonously. “Y/N…” Caleb can sense the coldness in your voice. “Why are you still angry? I haven't even confronted you about going to a hotel by yourself without telling anyone, about not reply to any of my messages and calls”. Yes, it's all your fault. You're the unreasonable one here. 

Earlier in your marriage, hearing this from Caleb would have been your worst nightmare. But now? You don't intend on striving to be good enough for him anymore.

T - 24 days Caleb insists on taking you out to eat to "smooth things over".  “Caleb, I’m not hungry.” You don't touch your chopsticks. “I have something to tell you.” “What?” He smiles slightly. “I’ll go with you wherever you want. I’m free all day.” You stare at his almost imperceptible smile, thinking hard about what you can say to those dreamy, purple eyes.

"Caleb..." your throat closes up, betraying your resolve. “Hmm? Y/N?” He takes your hand. “What’s wrong? Want to cry? If you want to cry, just cry. Don’t hold it in.” His voice is so gentle, so incredibly gentle.

Just like back then, when you first emerged from the operating room, the nurses wheeled you back to the floor. He stood by your bedside, his voice so gentle it was almost painful, saying, "Y/N, does it hurt? If it hurts, cry it out, don't hold it in..." Back then, you thought such gentle care was a good remedy for pain. Unfortunately, it took you many years to truly understand that a man's gentleness and care could never be transformed into love...

"Caleb, let's get a divorce," you say softly, pulling your hand away. He frowns; clearly, he didn't expect you to say that. After a brief silence, he picks up a piece of fish, and gently removes the bones with his chopsticks, putting it in your bowl. "Y/N, I know you're still angry, but bringing up divorce is irrational. What will you do if you divorce me? How will you live on your own?"

T - 23 days: Your breathing quickens

In everyone's eyes, for the last five years, you've been Caleb's dependent; without him, you were a pitiful creature, unwanted and unable to survive. He thought so too. "I can do it!" For the first time, you speak up against him, wanting to stand up for yourself.

He just smiles, still assuming you are being stubborn, and places the deboned fish in front of you. "Eat. You're allowed to be angry for a while, but you can't be angry until after you finish eating." "I'm not angry, I really want a divorce!" How can you make Caleb understand that you mentioning divorce isn't just an emotional outburst?

“Y/N.” he puts down his chopsticks, “I canceled two meetings and a practice flight today just to come and spend time with you. I might not have that much time tomorrow or the day after. Let me say it again, MC is a good friend. I treat her no differently than I treat Gideon and the others. She also likes you a lot and has always wanted to be your friend. With your attitude… how can I bring her to you?” “Then there’s no need for us to get close.” You don't think MC actually wants to be friends with you. “Y/N!” Caleb's voice carries a hint of warning.

You focus on eating instead. Even if you were angry, it's not worth taking your anger out on your own stomach. "That's right," Caleb's tone softens again. "Don't mention the word 'divorce' again." You pause, then continue eating with your head down. The next day, you book a physical therapy appointment at AKSO Hospital.

T - 22 days You need to get used to going out alone, so you decide to do some window shopping. Wandering aimlessly through Universum, you spot a familiar figure at a designer jewelry store — MC. Looking at the store name, a feeling of unease settles over you as you unconsciously walk closer.

“Buy it if you like it!” comes her friend's voice. “I can't do that, Tara!" MC exclaims, "It's too expensive. Even though Caleb gave me his card and told me to use it as I please, I feel awkward buying such an expensive item!”

Your steps falter, too heavy to take another step.

“Since he gave it to you, it’s for you to use. When has your brother ever used pleasantries with you He's probably over the moon that you're willing to spend his money.” Tara replies. “That’s true…” MC twirls, showing Tara the necklace she tried on at different angles. You see it too. “Isn’t it beautiful, Tara? I really, really love this necklace! I liked it back in high school, and Caleb promised to buy it for me after graduation, but..."

But?

You laugh bitterly at the irony. But instead, Caleb gives you this necklace every year for your birthday and anniversary. Originally, you had thought that even if Caleb was heartless, at least he remembered your birthday and your anniversary; even if the gift he chose wasn’t thoughtful, it would at least be expensive.

But it turns out he isn’t heartless, nor is he indifferent; on the contrary, he is incredibly thoughtful and devoted. It’s just that what he holds dear has nothing to do with you.

T - 21 days You try to talk about the divorce with Caleb again, this time taking the initiative to meet  him as he gets off work. You walk into the grand foyer of the Farspace Fleet HQ, preparing to text and let him know you're here, when you hear his voice.  "And that concludes your orientation tour."

You slowly turn to see Caleb, his adjutant, Liam, and MC walk out of the elevator. You wait until they make their way closer to the front door to approach the group. "It's been a pleasure showing you around," Liam adds, saluting to MC, "I look forward to working with you, Mrs. Xia".  You nearly choke on your breath, face red and still sputtering as you appear in front of Caleb. Liam looks at you with confusion. "I'm sorry, and you are...?" Caleb's face morphs from surprise to horror, and you see the message behind his furrowed brows and pleading eyes: "don't say anything"

You remember the sneers, the joking, the pity.

"I'm a good friend of the Colonel," you say. "In fact, we have a dinner appointment tonight." Caleb nods vigorously in agreement, quickly dismissing Liam as you, Caleb, and MC walk towards the parking garage. 

When you arrive at Caleb's car, MC doesn’t move, smiling sweetly. “Okay, Gege, you guys go home. I’ll take a taxi myself. Y/N, I’ll return Mr. Xia back to you.”

Back to you? What does she mean, back to you? When did you ever agree to lend your husband out?

She takes the opportunity to cling to your arm, shaking it sweetly. “Y/N, don’t be angry. Today’s misunderstanding wasn’t intentional. Liam just assumed things because Caleb has never personally brought a cadet around before. I didn't have time to explain the situation." Her eyes subconsciously flick to your leg before she continues. “You won’t be angry with us, right?” “Us?” you sneer. “Who is this ‘us’? Who exactly is with whom?” You hate strangers getting close to you — especially her. You pull your arm away. You swear you only pull back lightly. You don’t shove her. You absolutely do not push her. Yet she falls to the ground. “Y/N!!” Caleb shouts your name.

MC reacts faster than both of you. She scrambles up and blocks Caleb completely — pressing herself against him. “Caleb, don’t be angry. Don’t blame Y/N, I’m just careless. She just gently touched me and I lost balance myself. Gege, please don't get angry at your wife because of me, it’ll make me sad…” Only Caleb believes this act. Especially when she deliberately raises her wrist — the scraped skin clearly visible — right in front of him, the glint of the necklace she bought yesterday, the same as yours piercing your eyes. Caleb sees the scrape. His brows knit together, eyes filled with obvious concern.

“Y/N! What’s wrong with you? Why are you so prejudiced against her?” “Me? Prejudiced against her?” you laugh. “What prejudice could I possibly have? After all, she’s Mrs. Xia now.” “You—” He is momentarily speechless before lowering his gaze to MC. “Does it hurt?” “No…” she whimpers, yet she lifts her wrist closer to his chin. He actually lowers his head and gently blows on it.

You have never seen him look at you like that.

“I’ll put some medicine on it later. We can’t let it scar.” Not even after your car accident. Not when you lose your leg. Not when your body is covered in scars. Back then, he gently asked you, “Does it hurt? If it does, cry.” But that wasn't heartache. It was guilt. He never caressed your wounds. When faced with your scars, he escapes. He avoids. He refuses to look at them.

“It’s okay, I'm really alright!” MC’s voice grows even softer “Y/N,” Caleb calls, looking up at you. “Aren’t you going to apologize?” “Why should I apologize?” A sharp sting rushes into your eyes, blurring your vision. You can barely see his face anymore. “Because she calls herself my husband’s wife, I have to apologize?” “Y/N! Why are being sarcastic? Didn’t she explain? Liam simply misunderstood. Why are you holding onto this?”

He is angry again. He always is, whenever you speak up against her. You smile and shake your head. “No, Caleb. You’re wrong. I don’t want to hold onto this at all. I didn’t even expose you two on the spot. Whoever wants to be Mrs. Xia can take the position. I already told you I want a divorce. You should just agree. Then everything becomes perfectly legitimate.” You don’t expose them because there’s no need. Since you are going to divorce him anyway, why add more trouble to your life? It isn’t worth it.

“Your temper is getting more and more outrageous!” he snaps. “There’s a limit to throwing tantrums! Apologize right now!” “I won’t.” You turn to leave. “Stop!” He rushes forward and grabs your wrist. “Where are you going? You pushed her. Her arm is hurt. You're not leaving without saying sorry."

You stare at the hand gripping you. Despair crashes over you like a tidal wave. You look into his eyes and say, slowly, clearly, word by word: “Yes. All I have to deal with is being a cripple for the rest of my life. But oh no, she scratched her arm”

A flash of sharp pain crosses his eyes. He loosens his grip and steps back. The moment you are free, you turn and run toward the elevator. No matter how disheveled you look, you don’t care. You absolutely cannot let him see the tears streaming down your face. From the day you were injured, through your wedding and five years of marriage... This is the first time you use your injured leg to hurt him.

Before, you were so careful about protecting his feelings. You were afraid he felt guilt and remorse, so you never mention the accident five years ago. Even when you had to endure gossip and cold stares, you swallowed everything alone. But now, is he in pain too? You can honestly understand to a certain degree.

He is doomed to carry the burden of you for the rest of his life, unable to shake himself free. How can he not be? His true love is right beside him, yet because of your existence, he can't even be with her openly. How can he not be in pain when the urge to let go is pitted against the torment of his conscience? 

So, Caleb, please let me go, okay?

T - 20 days You return home alone and lay your ten jewelry boxes out in front of you. You stare at the necklaces for a long time, lost in thought. For a moment, you want to smash each one against the wall. But you don't. Impulse solves nothing.

After calming down, you download a secondhand resale app and start looking for sellers who buy luxury goods. You quickly find one in the city and arrange to drop them off tomorrow. Having dealt with this, you turn on your computer and begin focusing intently on your visa application.

You have less than three weeks until you escape your personal hell.

T - 19 days You are so engrossed in your work that you don't even notice Caleb's return.You hurriedly close your laptop when you hear "What are you doing?" coming from the doorway.

Caleb returns, maintaining his usual gentle demeanor, as if nothing happened. He walks to your side and asks in a soft voice, "Watching a show? Studying? What's got you so hooked that you're still up?" He's trying to make conversation.

You press your hand tightly against the laptop; the VISA webpage is still open. "You wouldn't care for it" "I don't even know what it is? Here, let me see. You asked me to tutor you back in high school." He reaches out to try to pry the screen up but you hold on tightly, refusing to let go. He assumes you're still angry, so he stops trying to take it from you. Instead, he sighs and squats down, staring at your profile. "Still angry?"

"No." You're not lying. You've had many feelings: anxiety, disappointment, despair, but definitely not anger. Anger meant that as long as he coaxed you, things would be fine; there was still hope for your marriage. But for you, any last drop hope had already evaporated. Five years… that was enough.

“Y/N, MC and I really have nothing going on. We're just close childhood friends. She came back from abroad, and we all got together to welcome her. The misunderstanding at work today was purely accidental. You have to believe me.”  His voice grows increasingly sweet. You look into his eyes, unable to see the passion behind the soft words. Gentleness is like a program written into his body, running on autopilot.

“Caleb” you finally say, “Aren’t you tired?” He's taken aback, seemingly not understanding what you mean. You give him a bitter smile. "You have someone else in your heart, yet you still fuss over me every day. Aren't you tired?" Caleb's eyes widen. "I don't..." "Caleb, stop lying to yourself! I know some things don't sound so honorable when brought up; it'll make everyone look bad. But actually, divorce is better for both of us. Really. MC is more like the Mrs. Xia you envision yourself with-" "Y/N!" Caleb interrupts you. "Are you still holding onto MC? I've told you so many times." "Caleb, the one who can't get over MC isn't me." You stare at him straight in the eyes. "It's you." He freezes again. "Y/N..." "We both know it, isn't that right?" You try to appear calm. You can't have him think you're just "throwing a tantrum". "It's time to put an end to our five years together, Caleb. Let's say goodbye gracefully. Let bygones be bygones."

Caleb stares at you for a while, then stands up. "Y/N, you're overthinking it. You'll see later that MC's return won't change anything. It's late, get some rest." "Caleb Xia! I know you feel guilty towards me, but not anymore. I really don't need a marriage based on guilt. Let me go, and let yourself go too, okay?" Before you even finish your sentence, Caleb takes off his coat and heads into the bathroom. 

You look at his coat lying on the small sofa. In the past, you would've hung it up for him, then found his pajamas and put them by the bathroom door. But this time, you don't move. For the past five years, you had always thought that your legs were weak and that you couldn't contribute anything to your family. In fact, Caleb managed everything perfectly, making you feel like a mere decoration, unable to help him in any way. Yet, you still tried your best to take care of him when you could.

Honestly? You might have overlooked the core: perhaps what Caleb needed wasn't your insignificant care, but a presentable Mrs. Xia, someone who could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him in front of the world. So you truly don't understand what he's clinging onto, why he refuses to divorce you after all this…

Caleb comes out of the bathroom and goes straight to sleep, seemingly refusing to speak further. You don't bring it up again. Forget it, every conversation is exhausting for you anyways. You're better off using that time to think about your future, strive towards what you have always wanted, and when you could leave. Whether or not the divorce is finalized by then won't matter. You glance at Caleb beside you; he's already fast asleep.

In the dim light, you can only see a blurry profile of his face. The distance between the two of you seems endless. Caleb, I've decided not to blame you anymore. I hope you have a happy life after I'm gone.

T - 18 days You wake up feeling refreshed. As you finish getting ready and make your way down the stairs, you see the look of shock in the housekeeper's eyes.

You're wearing makeup today, and in your favorite dress. For five years, you barely dressed up. Your leg, covered in scars, not only restricted your movement, but also your self worth and yearning for beauty. You didn't think you were worth dressing up. “Very beautiful, Madam,” Mrs. Chen's admiring gaze doesn't lie. “Where are you going?” “The theatre.” You shift your weight, a little nervous despite the excitement coursing through your veins. You even wore stockings so that the scars on your leg wouldn't be as visible. After settling your feelings, you decide to buy a ticket to see a ballet performance. The only thing you wanted to see at the moment, the only thing you knew would comfort you was dance.

You take a deep breath as you sink into the plush velvet seat in the dress circle. From your elevated view, you can almost feel the warmth of the stage lights and the buzz of adrenaline behind the colossal curtains, your heartbeat quickening as it gets closer to curtain call. "Y/N?" You nearly jump as you hear your name, looking wildly around to meet a pair of sea-blue eyes.  "R-rafayel?" You squint as the name comes off your tongue slightly unfamiliarly. It's been nearly 10 years since you saw this old classmate of yours, but the tuft of dark purple hair gives him away. The two of you were never in same homeroom back in high school, but his name was very famous among the art students. 

"It's been such a long time, how have you been?" He smiles and offers you a hand.  Your brain short circuits for a moment, not quite sure how to answer.  "My apologies," he quickly follows up his words. "I remember you were a performing arts student, and followed your career briefly after graduation. I know you stopped dancing and got married, married to the man that you saved."  You're even more stunned now. But before you have a chance to formulate a reply, the lights cut out, signifying the opening of the show. 

Tonight's performance is by the Linkin City ballet, performing a classical piece that you've rehearsed countless times in the past. As the orchestra strikes the first chord, the dancer deep within you is awakened. Even though you're sitting in the audience with a real possibility you'll never be on stage again, your toes subconsciously tap lightly on the ground to the beat of the music—it's muscle memory etched into your body…

At the end of the performance, you can't help the tears spilling from your eyes. Sitting in the audience, listening to the thunderous applause, watching audience members go up one after another to present flowers to the dancers... Not because of sadness, not because of pain, and certainly not because of despair. But because of the dance itself, and the resonance you felt in your heart. This was once your passion and your deepest love. But you had forgotten it for five years.  You log onto your empty social media account for the first time in years, and simply post: Tonight belongs to my passion and my dearest love. 

After the curtains fall for the final time, you turn to Rafayel, still gently clapping beside you. "I've been unhappy since I quit dancing," you admit, gaze flickering at your bad leg. "But I've had enough of moping around and feeling sorry for myself." You wipe away any remaining moisture off your face. "Sorry, this just reminded me of how happy dancing made me feel. I'll be going abroad soon to get a masters." You swear Rafayel's eyes light up slightly in the dim concert hall as he gives you a smile. "Y/N, Little Swallow, I believe you will soar high, even if your wings were once broken." Back in high school, your nickname was Little Swallow, because you were best known for your somersaults and leaps; high and graceful. Hearing the name again after so many years has your heart racing again, as if you are back in your youth, sweating profusely in the practice room.

A bundle is placed into your hands. You look down to see a bouquet of flowers, something Rafayel originally brought for one the dancers, probably. Rafayel simply pats your head. "It's not shameful to have a leg injury, it's not shameful to have scars on your legs. What's shameful are those who laugh at you; they are the truly despicable ones! Kind people will only cheer you on." He turns away, but not before calling out, "Let's keep in touch! I'll be in the same city as your program for my next artist retreat. Let me know if I can help with anything." He emphasizes again, "Anything!"

You stand there, watching him disappear into the distance. This is the first time someone has told you: your disability isn't shameful; what's shameful are those who mock you. Words you've wanted to hear for nearly 2000 days, but never had spoken to you.  Tonight, it brings you a fresh wave of tears. 

T - 17 days You didn't think Caleb would be back after everything going on these days, but the sound of the door opening wakes you up from sleep. 

Caleb stinks of alcohol when he enters the room. He's been drinking again. How much did he have to drink? He throws a chair against the door and collapses directly onto the bed. You don't have anything to say to him anymore, whether it's to scold him to drink less or coax him to take a shower. You get up, intending to sleep in the guest room. Just as you reach the door, Caleb's voice sounds behind you. "Where are you going?"

You don't answer.

The bed creaks behind you. Caleb gets slams the door in front of you closed and grabs your wrist. "Where are you going if you're not sleeping here?" "I'm going to the guest room, let go of me."  You can't really argue with a drunkard. The more you struggle, the tighter he grips your hands. "Stop fooling around, Y/N. What's the point? Since you've apologized, I'll make it up to you" his voice slurs.

You're dumbfounded??? What the hell is he referring to? "When did I apologize?" You haven't even seen him, let alone apologize to him? Caleb chuckles softly, mumbling, "Tonight belongs to my passion and my dearest? I'm back."

You scoff, wait, this guy actually thought you posted that for him? 

“Y/N” He suddenly hugs you. “I know, I know you love me. You'd give everything for me, so no matter what happens, I will never betray you…” You are stunned for a moment. He's right. You've loved him very, very much. He had said these words at your wedding. At that time, you thought it wasn't a confession, but a promise. He had given you a promise for a lifetime. A lifetime is so long. Long enough that you thought one day he would fall in love with you properly. Even if he never loved you, it didn't matter; you thought your love for him would be enough…

“Caleb Xia.” You have something you want to ask him. “Hmm?” His warm breath brushes against your ear, spreading out, carrying the scent of alcohol. "But your Pipsqueak is back! What will happen to Pips if you're with me?" "Pipsqueak? Pipsqueak..." He murmured the name, suddenly choking back tears. "Pipsqueak, I won't forget. I promised you, I won't forget..."

You feel as if you just got dunked in ice water. Is he so drunk that he's mistaking you for MC? "What promise? What did you promise Pipsqueak?" you ask numbly. "Everything... Everything, Pips..." His arms tighten around you.

You gasp as he suddenly lifts you up and pushes you down on the bed, his breath, heavy with the smell of alcohol, glosses over your face, nose, and chin... He tries to find your lips, but you avoid them. The smell of alcohol makes you nauseous. When his hands begin to tear at your pajamas, you immediately turn away. "Pips, be good, okay? Stop making a fuss..."

Still calling you Pipsqueak...

You struggle fiercely, finally freeing a hand and slapping him hard across the face. A crisp sound rings out in the bedroom "Caleb! Look carefully at who I am! I'm not your Pipsqueak!" you shout in the darkness, your voice hoarse. His body stiffens briefly. Taking advantage of the moment, you forcefully wriggle out of his grasp. He lies on the bed, still drunk, murmuring, "Pips, I'm sorry, I have to go home. I promised her I'd take care of her for the rest of my life... I owe her..." You cover your ears. Those words have haunted you like a curse for five years; now, whenever they echo in your mind, your head buzzes as if filled with static.

You scream at the figure beside you, "I don't want you to owe me anything! Caleb Xia! Do you hear me!? I don't want you to owe me anything! I just want you to set me free!"

Caleb's phone vibrates at that moment. You turn your head to see the name of the person calling: "Baby Apple." Ha, Baby Apple… In Caleb's phone, your contact is "Y/N" When you were newlyweds, you had fantasized about the day Caleb would call you "sweetie," "darling," or any other nickname that was exclusively yours, or even just "Wife."  But no, whether in everyday conversations or in his contacts, it was always just "Y/N".  To reassure yourself, you convinced yourself that this was just his personality—not clingy, straightforward, and with a strong personality. You were wrong. The words "Baby Apple" on the screen are particularly glaring. You're torn between picking up or letting it ring, but you click on the green receiver anyway.

A soft, delicate voice makes your hand tremble. "Gege, are you home yet? Are you alright?" MC sounds drunk too, her voice slurred and incoherent. Ignoring the silence on your end, she continues. "I know it's hard for you... I also... know that Y/N has sacrificed a lot for you... You don't need to feel guilty towards me... I... we're fine like this now... I don't care whether I'm your wife or not... I just... just glad that you remember me and treat me the same as before... let's stay like this Caleb... She can live in your house, and I can live in your heart, I'm content..."

The phone finally slips and fell to the ground. She lives in your house, I live in your heart. You stagger out of the room and go to the guest room. You collapse on the bed, trying to squeeze all the sounds out of your head. You never want to think about this again.

T - 16 days When you wake up, it's Caleb's voice that you hear. He's talking to Mrs. Chen. "Where did these flowers come from?" "Madam brought them back last night." "Madam went out last night?" "Yes." "Alone? Where did she go?" Caleb's voice rises noticeably. "She said she went to see a performance." "A performance? Who sent the flowers?" He seemed unconvinced. "I don't know." "What performance? Where did she see it? What time was it?" Mrs. Chen hesitates. "Sir, I really don't know."

The guest room door is pushed open. You immediately pretend to be asleep. "Y/N, I know you're awake; your hand just moved." You open your eyes, internally sighing.

"Who did you go to see the performance with yesterday?" Why is he so fixated on this question?

You don't answer him, simply pulling the covers over your head and turn your back to face him. “Y/N,” He sits down, “Be good, okay?” He reaches out to dig you out from under the comforter. You remember him pinning you down on the bed last night, calling MC's name and telling her to be good. You feel utterly disgusted and forcefully slap his hand away.

He gives up, then suddenly changes the subject, "Y/N, what was the "passions and loves" you mentioned last night?" "It wasn't you!" you huff. His face stiffens for a moment, but it quickly turns into a knowing look. "Alright, stop being stubborn. I know you're still sulking and jealous. Didn't I come back as soon as I saw you post that yesterday?"

He seriously still thinks you're just throwing a tantrum when you said "not you"? You poke your head out from under the covers. "I told you..." Seeing you finally come out, his expression softens as he takes the opportunity to stroke your hair. "That's good. I'll be back tonight, but you don't have to wait for me. Just go to sleep if you're tired." Without waiting for you to say anything more, he turns and leaves. You don't care whether or not he comes home. Actually, this scene is exactly the same as before. Before MC appeared, he was always like this, speaking to you gently, telling you to go to sleep early, and stroking your hair. You've never argued, not even once.

But so what? What does a marriage without arguments even mean?

If you were to describe Caleb Xia with a single word, it would be "good." However, you know the truth painfully clearly: all the good things Caleb does don't stem from his love for you, but rather an act of atonement.

The words "never to dance again" were a devastating blow to both you and him back then. You still remember Caleb's reaction upon hearing those words; after the initial shock, he seemed utterly ripped from his soul.

From that moment on, the vibrant Caleb died. You were both simultaneously bound by the shackles of "forever"— you forever lost the stage, and he forever atoned for his sins. "I owe her" these three words became the unbearable weight of his life. From that moment forward, there was no more Caleb Xia; what lived was only your husband—a walking robot, devoid of warmth and emotion. A stagnant pool, mechanically fulfilling the duties of a husband, a partner.

But now he's alive again… MC returned, bringing light back into his life. He's started smiling again, his eyes sparkling with light and fire. You sigh heavily. Even after all this, why wouldn't he let you go, and let himself go too?

T - 15 days You step out of the taxi, heart pounding as you approach tall glass doors. After watching the ballet piece, you are once again filled with determination and decided to sign up for a beginners dance class. You've been going to your physical therapy sessions dutifully, hoping one day, with enough hard work and practice, you'll be able to stand on stage again. You smile at the wide range of participants already there. They greet you warmly, introducing themselves one by one before the instructor walks in.  As the class begins, you practice some very simple basics - posture, form, and stances. However, due to your injury, you quickly run out of stamina and spend a good portion of the class on the floor to rest inbetween. You're wiping the sweat off your brow with a towel and bidding goodbye to some new friends as a familiar voice calls from outside the studio door.

"Y/N!" It's Rafayel?!  "What are you doing here?" you ask, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment as you're stuck wondering how much of your clumsy work he had just seen. "The performing arts center commissioned a piece from me. It's going to be hanging on the top floor, so I came today to take a look at the atmosphere around here," he supplies, giving you a bright smile.  "Nice," you feebly offer. Rafayel breaks the silence with a soft sigh, "Y/N, I can see the start of a rebirth." You know what he's referring to, you starting to pick up dancing again. But can you really call what you're doing right now dancing? You could barely stand up straight. "Don't be like that! You haven't practiced for five years, and you did really well today! I have a photo if you don't believe me." Rafayel takes out his phone, smoothly passing it to you to enter your number. It turns out he had recorded the last part of your dance lesson today. "Ah, my phone died" you say, rummaging through your dance bag.  Rafayel shrugs and presses "send" anyways. "Here, let's go grab something to eat and you can watch yourself on mine.  

The two of you head to a cafe, sitting outside on the patio as you make conversation over coffee and sandwiches. Rafayel shows you the video as you furrow your brows at your posture. You sigh dejectedly. Who would've imagined that the girl once known as "Little Swallow" would struggle like that? While Rafayel's words of encouragement still doesn't allow you to forgive yourself for falling so far behind, you agree with his sentiment: you were going to grow new wings and explore higher skies. 

It was at this moment that Caleb drives by, catching a glimpse of your smile brighter than the sunset, sitting next to Rafayel, your heads slightly leaned in together as you watch something on his phone. 

T - 14 days You feel a strange sense of oppression slowly growing behind you. You look up to see Caleb standing behind you, face partially covered by shadow.  His complexion is stormy; he looks exhausted, and his hair is somewhat disheveled. As he approaches you, the setting sun behind him seems to ignite, mirroring the flames in his eyes.  

“I called you all day, and your phone was off?” He is clearly suppressing his anger.

You don't know where this anger came from. Isn't he very busy? He usually never calls you anyways; why would he be offended that your phone died? Afterall, you weren't even angry when he went to take care of MC, what right did he have to dictate how you spend your time? 

“Oh, I didn't expect you to call,” you say calmly, stirring your drink. "Didn't expect me to call?" Caleb glances at Rafayel sitting beside you, gritting his teeth. "I'm your husband. If I don't call you, who will?" You shake your head, pulling yourself up using the armrest. "Who knows? I could have an ex-boyfriend," you say sarcastically.  His expression changes, and he frown deeply. "Y/N."

Rafayel simply smiles, and turns to address Caleb. "Colonel Xia," he greets him. "Have you ever watched your wife dance? 

Caleb freezes. Despite being the High Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, trained in all kinds of interrogation and logic, he could not decipher the meaning behind those words.  Rafayel chuckles and bids the two of you goodbye, Caleb's gaze burning into the back of his silhouette.

"Y/N, I've underestimated you this whole time," Caleb says as you get into his car. "You're quite something." His voice carries a threat and suppressed anger. Your mind flashes to the stench of perfume on his shirt, and scoff, "Not as good as you." "Since when did you get in contact with him again? What does he do? I don't want to waste time finding that out myself." His hands rest on the steering wheel, his fingers long and slender. On his left ring finger is a new ring.

His wedding band has been off since the night of your wedding ceremony. What's he wearing now? You smile faintly and hold out your hand. On your ring finger is a jade ring, small enough for everyday wear. You were the one to pick out your wedding rings. You wanted a small, non-flashy stone because you wanted to wear it everyday, forever. It was a custom pair; his was also jade.  The one on his hand is pure silver band.  Caleb watches your movements and subconsciously pulls his left hand back.

You place your hand on the dashboard. "Colonel, can you please explain when your ring changed color?"

T - 13 days Caleb freezes for a fraction of a second, before muttering, "it's a formality, it's not that serious." You nearly laugh out loud. Of course, what can be more serious than marriage? Perhaps your observation ignited the tiniest shred of shame in him, for his tone softens considerably, his previous accusatory attitude gone. "I'm asking you this for your own good, Y/N. There won't be another man in this world who treats you like I do. Of course, I'm not perfect; I have my flaws. But I'm sincere, trusting, and unguarded with you. Your name is on all of my assets. It's hard to say what other people's intentions are."

You are immediately reminded of MC's words: She's in your house, but I'm in your heart.

You put on your earbuds, hoping to drown out whatever other demeaning things he has to say. Seeing this, Caleb hesitates, then drives off. He drops you off at home, saying, "I have more work to do at the office, don't wait up for me," before leaving again. You stare at the door blankly. You forgot how you used to care so much about those things.

Slowly, you take the wedding ring off your finger. Since it obviously doesn't have any true sentimental value anymore, you might as well sell it for cash. Actually, if you were going to sell it, might as well sell it as a pair! You look high and low around the house, but can't find the other one.

Suddenly, you remember that Caleb keeps a safe at home, something you've never thought to open.  An idea strikes you.

You don't know the safe's combination. You try Caleb's birthday, but it didn't budge. You don't even bother to try yours. You think a little harder, hesitantly putting in the security code for the front door and garage. It opens! Inside are a stack of legal documents, property papers, and various other things that must be very important. You easily find the jewelry box with the same brand as your wedding ring, but there is another one in the very back, placed on top of a notebook.

You open the latter and see the another silver ring matching the one on Caleb's finger, along with a necklace with a small apple charm.  Your hand rests on top of the notebook, mind teetering between looking and not looking. Ultimately, your self control wins, but as you move to put it back, a photograph slides out, falling to the floor. It's a photo of Caleb and MC from their high school days. 

Honestly, it doesn't mean much. You knew for a long time that Caleb had feelings for someone else before. But since you married him, at least when you married him, you told yourself you didn't care about his past. You sigh, picking up the photo, and put it back in the notebook. Fuck it, trying to protect your already shattered heart is pointless now. You open it to a random page, planning to just stuff the photo back in, but you freeze as your eyes land on the writing: 100 Little things about Pipsqueak.  The first thing listed is: Pips' birthday is May 1st.

Your hand slips, and the notebook falls to the ground. The code to your house is 20501 The combination to this safe is 0501. The air in the room seems to thin. You press your palm to your chest, gasping for breath. The second line reads: "I finally bought myself a house. It's in the style that MC likes. The password is her birthday."

So, for the last five years, you've been living in the house meant for Caleb and MC...

T - 12 days You bring the pair of rings to the antique watch shop, having scheduled a time with the owner. The owner is delighted, having previously bought the 10 necklaces you chose to part ways with as well. He ushers you to sit down in the private room behind the counter and pours you a cup of tea. You excuse yourself to use the restroom, hearing the door open as more customers enter the store.

The voices are familiar. Shit. Looking behind you, you see MC's appear, with Caleb in tow.  You really manage to run into her everywhere, huh?

It's midday, right when Caleb usually has meetings. He sure has lots of free time now.  You go do your business, ducking behind the curtains as you return to avoid being noticed.

"Caleb, look! This store has so many of these necklaces! They're limited edition zodiac ones!" MC points to something in the display case. If you aren't mistaken, it's definitely one of the pieces you sold. The old man takes it out. "You have a good eye, young lady. The necklaces were acquired recently. They only make a limited amount every year. These ones are no longer being sold." Caleb looks closely and frowns. "Are they really that rare?" "Yes, this limited collection began exactly 12 years ago, a zodiac edition with this year being the last edition. It's much more expensive than the regular model. I think I've got the only ten that exists in Linkon," the owner explains with a smile. "No way..." MC exclaims, "can you prove their authenticity if they're really that valuable?" "Of course! I've got the certificates as well as the invoices for each." "These ten necklaces, did you receive them all at once?" Caleb, who has been mostly silent, suddenly asks. "Yes," the owner nods with a smile, "from the same customer." Caleb's eyes sharpen. "Show me the invoice." The owner takes out the invoices and hands them to Caleb.  He stares at them harshly, suddenly letting out a cold laugh. "Sir...?" The old man is taken aback, unsure what the issue was. "It has nothing to do with you, just give me all of them." Caleb says gruffly. Even MC sensed something was wrong and softly asks, "Gege?"

The owner notices you waiting for him. "You're back? Everything alright?" Caleb and MC looks your way as well, seeing your figure in the back.

You're not sure if it's just your imagination, but Caleb's eyes almost seem to be filled with anger. "Can you sit down for a moment? I'll show them the necklaces first, and then I'll look at your ring."

"What ring?" Caleb's voice is dangerously low, was full of suspicion upon hearing this. His gaze falls to the pair of jade rings behind the display case. "These two?" He taps the glass of the display case with his finger, his tone getting even more oppressive.

The owner clearly has no idea what is going on, why his customer was asking this, or how to answer. These were items provided by someone else; why is he asking about them? You don't intend to put him in an awkward situation, so you answer Caleb directly. "Yes, these two."

Caleb's gaze is burning. "Mrs. Xia, you're really something." It wasn't a compliment, but you reply calmly, "Thank you, you flatter me." "Get over here!" he suddenly roars. You sit down, picking up your cup of tea. He walks over to you instead, looming in front of you.

Perhaps out of consideration for the outside world, he tries to suppress his anger, his voice full of sarcasm, "I never thought I'd experience firsthand what it means by 'it's hard to guard against a thief from within the family'. One day, I wouldn't even know if my entire house was robbed." You ignore him. "Are you short of money? Is the money I give you not enough?" he hisses. "No, not at all," you say, "I've been decluttering lately, getting rid of anything useless." "Useless?" He's furious, pointing to the rings in the display case, "You're saying wedding rings are useless?" You look at him calmly, "Otherwise? If you say they're useful, have you ever worn it for a even day since the weeding ceremony?"

Caleb is speechless, indignant. "One day, you'll sell me off without me even knowing!" " You laugh and turn to at MC. "Do you want this? I'm selling one Caleb Xia, secondhand! I'll even give you a discount, I promise the price is favorable." MC is stunned. Caleb however, clearly doesn't find this funny. He turns to MC and says, "Pipsqueak, you head back first." She's unwilling, protesting, "but Gege!" "We'll talk about the necklace later, you go back first!" His expression is serious. MC knew when not to push his buttons. He's in a bad mood, and she didn't dare to provoke him. Lips trembling, she says gently, "Alright Gege, I'll go back first. But don't be too angry. Y/N must have her reasons, please don't scold her." 

You roll your eyes.

As soon as MC leaves, Caleb immediately presses you. "What exactly are you doing? Tell me!" "I told you," you say calmly, "I'm decluttering things I don't want anymore." You pause, then continue. "Including you, Colonel Xia." "Are you serious?" His face is very unpleasant. "Yes." You were never anything but serious about this.  "Y/N! I think you've been provoking me too much lately!" His eyes flash with anger.

You personally think that his temper has been a bit too volatile lately; the usually stable and gentle Colonel was gone, and MC was largely to blame. He calls the owner over, harshly putting his black card on the table. "I'll take all of them."

The owner wraps everything up, afraid of knowing too much about the uncomfortable relationship between the three of you. Get in the car!" he demands, dragging you out by your wrist. “It looks like I misjudged you,” he says once he starts driving. “I always thought you were a sensible and understanding, person, but now it seems you're getting too full of yourself. Look at Pips…” “I don’t want to see her, ok? You can go spend your time with her if she's that great.”

You put on your headphones for real this time. You're in no mood to hear about how wonderful MC is to him. He drops you off at the entrance of the neighborhood and tells you to get out. “I have a meeting later-” You get out and slam the door shut. You don't give a fuck about what he's doing tonight.

T - 11 days At 11pm, you hear Caleb enter the front door. You shut down your laptop and turn to scroll lazily on your phone, overhearing him greet Mrs. Chen.  "I told you to cook it according to my wife's taste, why did you make it spicy?" "Madam said...spicy." Aunt Chen's voice was tinged with panic. "And she didn't eat a single bite?" "Yes..." "Get me a bowl of rice."

A few minutes later, Caleb enters the bedroom. His tie is loose, the top button of his shirt  undone, the sleeves rolled up to his wrists. "Aren't you going to come out and have dinner with me?" he asks, the anger from earlier seemingly gone. For the last few years, he's always come home pretty late, rarely for dinner, but made sure to eat when he came home. You cherished those moments, bustling around him, serving up his food and keeping him company for the little time before going to sleep.  What good was your attentiveness in the end? Who knows, perhaps it only served to annoy him?

“What did you eat tonight? From now on, you don’t need to cook according to my taste. Tell Mrs. Chen to make what you like,” he says. You roll your eyes. He really thinks you're still trying to gain his favor.  He pulls up a chair and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Y/N,” What is it now?

He takes a deep breath. “MC really liked that ring. Since you sold it anyway, I gave it to her. I just transferred you some money. Take it and buy something you like.  Of course. So that’s what it's about. No wonder he's suddenly being so friendly with you. You have your back to him and simply say, "Oh," then add, "Okay."

T - 11 days until leaving Caleb Xia: He gave our wedding rings to someone else too. But I don't even want him anymore, so why should I care about the ring?

"So well-behaved today?" His voice softens. "I wanted to buy something for you, but you obviously don't like what I buy." "Hmm." "What's wrong? You're asleep already?" He frowns. "Are you feeling unwell? Let me see." He leans over, wanting to see your face. "Don't tell me you're secretly crying?" In his dreams! You give no reaction.

After tucking you in tighter, he looks at your quiet form, hesitates, and finally says, “Y/N, I'm going on a mission tomorrow.” A mission! You immediately open our eyes. This means you can go in person to meet with a lawyer and get your interviews and forms stamped without him knowing!

You sit up, eyes shining brightly. “How many days are you going?” “Three or four days, possibly up to a week.” He frowns, thinking your reaction is a bit over the top. What does this mean? You were letting him go? “No, it’s okay. Who are you going with?” you follow up haphazardly, heart pounding with joy. His expression grows increasingly hesitant. "Gideon." He pauses, then adds, "Maybe MC too." "Oh." You lie back down. "Sounds good, tell me before you come back, I'll have Mrs. Chen prepare good food." He looks at you incredulously. "You're not angry?" You shake your head. "Go to sleep early, you have a business trip tomorrow, you need to get some rest." "Y/N, trust me, a lot more of us will be going together..." He moves closer to you, but you push him away. "Go take a shower, I've already showered, don't get too close to me." He frowns. "What do you mean? You think I'm dirty?" Well, he does reek of MC's perfume. 

The next day, you're still groggy when Caleb gets up.  You had expected him to pack his things and go without leaving you with any words, but unexpectedly, he insists on waking you.  "Ugh, sleepy!" You smack his hand away.

"Mrs. Xia," he drawls, standing by the bed. "Your performance is falling. You don't feed me, give me mooncakes anymore, or ask me about my day, and now I'm leaving for a mission and you won't even help me pack my luggage?" It's true. If this was before, you'd be fretting all over him, his luggage already prepared the night before.  You roll your eyes. Fine, you'll pack for him then!

You go into the walk-in closet, and start placing folded clothes and personal belongings neatly into his suitcase. Before you close the zipper, you head over to the bedside drawer, take out a box of condoms, and was about to throw it into the suitcase as well. Your arm is grabbed roughly. "Where did this come from?" Caleb demands, eyes darkening. 

To be honest, you originally prepared it for your honeymoon though you never ended up using it. It's probably expired by now, but you thought it would be funny. You smile. “I prepared this especially for you. Tell me, aren't I a wonderful Mrs. Xia?” “You…” Caleb picks up the box and throws it forcefully into the trash can, “That'll be unnecessary! Even if I had a child, I could afford to raise it. Besides, I don’t plan on having one anytime soon!” He zips up the suitcase, locks it, and leaves with a huff.

T - 10 days You head to physical therapy again. While sitting in the waiting area for your appointment, your phone suddenly goes off. Your surprise turns into annoyance as you see the caller ID: Husband. Fortunately, there's not many people beside you. After picking up the call, you quietly say, "Hello".

"Why are you speaking so softly? What are you doing?" Caleb asks on the other end. "I'm at the doctor's, it's not good to talk loudly." You quickly take out earbuds, further lowering your voice to a whisper. "Why am I getting so many calls these days?" It's really annoying. He seems even more offended on the other end, "Your own husband can't call you? Are you annoyed at me?" More than annoyed! You roll your eyes "No, not really, it's just quite unsettling. What's wrong?" "Mrs. Xia!" He scoffs on the other end, "Can't I call you if there's nothing wrong?" " You're speechless for a second. This person is getting more and more irrational. "What instructions does the Colonel have for me?" you roll your eyes, not believing him. "You're kidding me!" His tone softens a bit, "I'm transferring flights, it's not boarding time yet, just wanted to see if you're up." So he really is bored! "Don't you have anything to say to me?" You pop a grape into your mouth, mumbling an "oh".  "Y/N!" ??? Why does it sound like he's about to get angry? "What are you eating that's more important than your husband's safety?" You finally swallow the grape, "You... you've been attacked?" A long sigh comes from the phone, "Never mind, you eat, just hearing your voice is enough, I'm about to board too." The call ended abruptly.

You look at your phone, listening to the dial tone, feeling utterly bewildered.

On the other end, MC glances at him several times. "Gege," she calls. "Hmm? Let's go get ready to board." "You seem to miss Y/N a lot. You've made so many calls since we left" she says tentatively.

Caleb doesn't notice her gaze, only frowning slightly. "Hmm, I don't know why, but I feel uneasy about this trip. I have a feeling something's going to happen." "You...are you worried something might happen to Y/N? Then ask Liam or someone to go check on her."  Caleb sighs. "Y/N doesn't know Liam that well. I don't think she'd appreciate it anyway." "Then what should we do?" MC asks worriedly. "Should I not have asked to come on this mission with you?" Caleb glances down at her and smiles. "It's okay. I called her already. Hearing her voice is enough to put my mind at ease." "Caleb, you actually...love Y/N very much, don't you?" MC asks with a smile, but a darker current ripples under her eyes. He pauses. "Y/N can't live without me. She's my responsibility, so Pips..." "I understand, Gege." MC smiles, interrupting his words gently and sweetly. "Don't forget, I'm the person who understands you best in the world."

T - 9 days It's a peaceful few days without having to see Caleb. Instead of the anxiety that once filled you every time he went away, you feel calm. As you begin packing your things, you get an invitation from one of your old dance buddies. Mina is visiting home on her trip back from abroad, now a professional dancer on Broadway. You eagerly agree to meet with her, catching up over lunch as the two of you reminisce over the good old times. She's initially a little hesitant to show you photos of herself on stage, worried it'd make you sad, but you quickly reassure her that was not to worry about. Later, as she helps you down the steps of the restaurant, you ask what her plans are for the rest of the day.

"Oh! Umm, I'm actually getting dinner with a larger group of our old classmates..." She looks at you with a flicker of hope in her eyes. "If you don't mind... would you like to join us?" "Of course!" You say with a smile. "I haven't seen everyone in so long. Do any of them know what happened with me?" You're referring to your leg. "That's where I need to apologize," Mina looks guilty. "I told them you injured your leg without asking your permission first... but nothing else!"

You understand. Your classmates, whom you haven't seen in a long time, would definitely ask how you were doing. Your leg injury was a fact, and you don't plan on hiding it forever.  "It's okay, really!" You're done feeling sorry for yourself. Your goal is to step out of the world Caleb had created for you, and in doing that, you will inevitably face all sorts of stares and judgement.  "Then I'll reply to them!" Mina says happily.

"Let's go! They said they're heading out soon". The meet-up location is nearby. By the time you and Mina get there, some of your classmates have already arrived. The enthusiasm they show you exceed your expectations. They mention your leg, even gathering around to examine it, but without malice, as if your leg wasn't anything serious, like a minor inconvenience like a cold. You liked this atmosphere; it's much better than deliberately trying to protect your pride. Everyone is treating you as a normal person, just with a leg injury.

It's a pleasant evening. The group sings old songs from high school on the karaoke. After three or four hours, you all get tired and sit down to chat, reminiscing about the past and having some drinks to liven things up. Even you, encouraged by everyone, drink quite a bit. Among your classmates, some have had good times, others have experienced setbacks. Talking about the past, people begin talking about regrets. Someone says, "If I had known this would happen, I would have studied harder in high school and not skipped so many classes." Another adds, "If I had known he also liked me, I definitely wouldn't have been a coward on graduation day; I would have confessed to him. I've missed my chance all these years." A good amount of sentimentality is triggered by the alcohol, and for a moment, everyone's eyes are filled with tears. From your teenage years to approaching thirty, everyone has had some regrets.

"Y/N, what about you? If you could do it all over again, what would you do?" someone asks you. You hold a glass of wine in your hands, ruminating in thought. The image of osmanthus blossoms from that Mid-Autumn Festival many years ago flashes before your eyes, twinkling like stars. You smile faintly, "If I could do it all over again..."

Caleb pushes open the door to the private room.

"If I could do it all over again, I want to eat all the mooncakes from that Mid-Autumn Festival in our second year of high school by myself! I'm not sharing it with anyone!"

Was it the alcohol? The bitterness in your heart is amplified. You take a deep breath and look up, only to see someone standing in the doorway under the flickering lights. Caleb. Your classmates don't quite understand what you're referring to, and assume it is some old pastry shop that has closed, the mooncakes never to be tasted again. You can't see it, but Caleb's fists clench at his side, knuckles turning white.

"Hey, Caleb!" Finally, someone notices him come in. You're a little dizzy, seeing two Calebs approach you. "Caleb Xia! You're so late, shouldn't you take three shots as punishment?" A classmate named Xavier places three glasses down in front of him. “Sorry, I'll have to decline.” Caleb puts his arm around you, looking down at your tipsy form. “I’m here to pick up my wife. I have to drive later.” “Call a cab!” Caleb gives a polite smile. “That won’t do. If I drink too much, who will take care of her?”

You are a little drunk, but still conscious enough to hear him and what's going on. Under the influence of alcohol though, your actions are more unrestrained. Your first instinct is to push Caleb aside, muttering, “I don’t need you to take care of me. Go away.” “Y/N, you’re really drunk. Let’s go home.” Caleb tries to pick you up. “No! I don’t want to go home…” You struggle in his arms. “Do you hear that? Y/N isn’t going home!” Xavier pushes Caleb's shoulder, forcing him back down. 

Mina senses something is off. Xavier had quite a bit to drink today and was probably drunk by now. Worried about the boys starting trouble, she quickly tries to break it up. "Alright, it's getting late. We've had our fun, let's start packing up." "No way!" Xavier doesn't back down, gripping Caleb's shoulder tightly. "You're not leaving until you finish this drink!" Caleb, as the Farspace Fleet Colonel, is incredibly perceptive. His expression darkens. "Xavier Shen, I'll let it slide since you've had too much to drink, but you'd better watch yourself!" "Watch myself?" The rage in Xavier's eyes are now impossible to conceal. "Caleb Xia, I'm telling you, watch yourself!"

Xavier moves to grab his collar, but not before having his wrists clamped forcefully by Caleb. "Xavier Shen! Did you come here to cause trouble?" "Yes!" He shouts, "I came here to cause trouble! Caleb, what the hell did you do to Y/N? What exactly did you do to her!?" He roars, his eyes bloodshot. Caleb's eyes sharpen, his hand still gripping his wrists, veins bulging on the back. "Listen here, Shen. My wife eats well, sleeps well, lives in a mansion, and I pamper her like a princess. Who are you to concern yourself with our marital affairs?"

"Is that so?" An incredulous laugh follows. Xavier didn't believe Caleb at all, both men rising from the sofa. "Then tell me, how did Y/N become like this? What happened to her leg? She's a dancer! When she dances on stage, she's as graceful as a swan. What did you do to her? Take good care of her? Why then did she become like this after getting married? Five years, and you've been covering it up, saying she doesn't want to come out and socialize! You're lying! Do you beat her at home!?"

"My wife and I are doing just fine! Why her foot is like this is her privacy, there's no need for me to explain it to you, Xavier! Don't forget your place in front of me, and don't you dare try to play any tricks on my wife!" Caleb yanks harshly, pushing the other man away so hard the buttons on his collar pop off.

Already quite drunk, Xavier loses his balance, staggers a couple of steps, and falls onto the coffee table, knocking over a bunch of bottles and plates. "Caleb, I've wanted to beat you up for ages!" He scrambles up and lunges at him. Fearing trouble, rest of your classmates rush forward to restrain him. "Caleb! Take Y/N and leave! He's drunk, and you haven't been drinking - calm down Xavier! Don't cause any more trouble!"

Caleb tugs at his collar, giving Xavier one last cold look, then puts his arm around your waist and lifts you up. "Let's go, my wife. Don't come to parties like this again." You're practically dragged and carried away by Caleb.

"Why didn't you let Y/N attend the class reunion!" Xavier shouts from behind you. "Caleb Xia, what skeletons do you have hiding in your closet?!"   Caleb stops. "I don't feel guilty about anything. You better not be the one with things to hide!" "Me? Guilty?" he laughs. "Alright then, Caleb, I have a question for you! Were you the one who threw away all the love letters I put in Y/N's locker back then?"

Love letters? How did you not know that Xavier Shen had written you love letters? You glance back, only to be swept up in Caleb's arms and quickly carried out of the private room.

Everyone else is left exchanging bewildered glances: Xavier liked you back in high school? Xavier struggles against the boys, shouting, "Let me go! I'm going to beat Caleb Xia to death! That fucking hypocrite!" "Xavier, you're drunk, stop it." They don't let go, afraid he'd really chase after you. “Call him back here!" Xavier demands. “I’m going to call him here! I’m going to teach him a lesson!” “Xavier! Get your head screwed on straight!” “Don’t stop me! Do you know how much Y/N loved to dance? She was in the practice room before class, after school, and weekends too! Sometimes she’ll even do a somersault while walking! She’s such a passionate dancer, a perfectly healthy person, and now her leg is injured - there's no way she's not heartbroken about it! That bastard Caleb Xia keeps lying to us, saying Y/N doesn't like going out. He's done something to her, I bet my fucking life on it!”

Caleb's already brought you to his car, carefully placing you in the passenger seat.  The minute he gets into the driver's seat, he catches you trying to open to the door, and he immediately locks it.  "Open the door! I want out!" You feel your head spinning, the alcohol really settling in." "You're drunk, Y/N." He says, sighing. "I'm not drunk!" You insist. You clearly heard many voices back there, and you heard Caleb call you his "wife." Something is wrong! He's never called you "wife" before, only ever by name, or at most "Mrs. Xia" when he's angry at you, and you can sense that he uses the term sarcastically. Moreover, you can tell he's in an unhappy mood right now!

He rolls down the window, letting you get some fresh air.

"What did you mean by what you said in the private room?" Caleb's voice sounds particularly cold in the cool breeze. "What...what did I mean?" What was he talking about? You said a lot of stuff today. "You said you wouldn't give your mooncakes to anyone else, what did you mean?" He rests his hands on the steering wheel, looking ahead, his eyes sharp. "Um...not...not for Caleb Xia." Your head feels heavy, and you close your eyes tightly. "Why?"  You smile, sad laugh escaping your lips. "Because I don't want to pursue him anymore...I gave my mooncakes to the wrong person..." "Is that so? The wrong person?" Caleb leans closer, "Who are you going to give them to then?" "Give them to..." Your mind is a little confused. Who else would you give them to? "To Xavier?" He suddenly speaks as if interrogating you, his tone fierce.

The name reminds you that you had supposedly gotten multiple love letters. You frown, eyes getting hazy, looking at the face before you, murmuring, "Why did you throw away my love letters? They were from someone else." "I'm the class monitor!" Caleb says sternly. "The school doesn't encourage early relationships!" You furrow your brows... that reasoning...  You punch his shoulder hard. "What's it to you? You're just the class monitor, not even my homeroom teacher! The love letters he gave me are my privacy, what does it have to do with you! Why did you throw them away, you bully!"

Your eyes are blurry. Although your punches don't hurt much, each one lands with force, solidly striking his shoulders and chest. "Are you angry?" He grasps your hand. "You're angry because I threw away your love letters?" "Of course I'm angry! If someone wrote me a love letter..." You vaguely recall how you felt back in high school. The mess of hormones in early puberty, the insecurities you had, the self-consciousness about every little thing about you. Mina and the girls around you all received gifts and notes from boys, but you never did. You weren't very close with your parents, having grown up by your grandparents' side. But it seemed to you that no one, not even your parents, loved you, let alone any boys. You weren't sad about not receiving any confessions, but if you did, it at least would have been an important form of affirmation; at least you were good in someone's eyes. 

“What if you did? Would you date him?” Caleb presses on relentlessly. Your frown deepens. When did you ever say you wanted to date someone?

“Let me tell you, those boys were all immature squirts back then! Whether it's Xavier or whoever else you wanted to give your mooncakes to! You're easily moved by anyone who shows you kindness! You'd only ended up getting taken advantage of!” Your face contorts into a grimace. You're barely holding onto your consciousness and Caleb's stupid face seems to multiply into four in your vision. You shake your head, trying to shake the other three Calebs away. “No... Xavier isn’t that kind of person you’re describing.” The Xavier you recall is a sleepy boy, getting in trouble for napping in class, often found under the shade of trees with a stray cat in his lap. “Then what kind of person is he?” Caleb suddenly raises his voice. “And the other person you had in mind, who is he?” “He’s… genuine... and very kind. If he’s good to someone… he’ll always be good to them…” A flash of white hair enters your mind. You try to remember a face, thinking really hard, but only seeing the creases of someone's summer uniform. You didn't interact with him much in high school, but you knew he secretly kept a crow as a pet on his dorm window ledge—a pitiful little thing he picked up one day and never let go. "He's... a good person..." you mumble. ".... Q...qin..." 

You black out.

T - 8 days You wake up to a splitting headache, nauseous and parched. The midday sun is high in the sky. Stumbling down from the bed, you trip and fall with a loud 'thud'. You rub your eyes, trying to clear the fog still in your brain, but before you find your balance again, you're being lifted and put back into soft sheets. 

Caleb stands at the bedside, looking displeased, but to your surprise, doesn't scold you about your clumsiness as he usually does. You purse your lips, also not particularly eager to talk about what happened last night.  He brings you a try of light breakfast foods; some chicken soup congee, pancakes, and a few side dishes. "Eat. Mrs. Chen is off today. I cooked."

You stare at the food in front of you, head still in a daze. The colonel... cooked for you?  This is the second time you've ever eaten something Caleb has made for you. The first since you got married.  Slowly picking up your spoon, your mind flashes back to the last time you experienced this.

You were only in your first year of high school, your homeroom had organized a camping trip. Outside, all your classmates run around joyfully, like lambs in a field. Yet Caleb was already a quiet and reliable person, getting ready for lunch. He was always clean and tidy, presentable and strong. That day on the camping trip was the most disheveled you had ever seen him.  He knew how to cook, but that didn't mean he was able to do it easily outdoors.  He couldn't figure out how to start the fire. He struggled earnestly, face and hands stained with soot.

You were different. When you were young, your grandparents brought you back to the village often. You built fires, scaled trees, and caught insects with all the other children over there. Despite being in a different group, you felt bad watching him struggle like that, so you go over, emptied his stove, and started a fire for him. He stared at the blazing flames, momentarily stunned. Perhaps too self-conscious of his disheveled appearance, he didn't even thank you. But afterwards, his performance became much more consistent. Judging from the way he cooked, it was clear he was used to doing domestic chores at home.  His group thanked him by saving the chicken leg for him. But he didn't eat it. As he passed your group, he places the drumstick in your bowl. 

That was the moment your heart started pounding for him, despite being the first of only a handful of times you ever interacted with him.  That night, your dreams were filled with his image; his determined face, covered with soot, his slender fingers as he cut the vegetables, his meticulous and focused expression as he cooked… The next day in class, you watch his profile as you absent-mindedly filled a whole page with his name, “Caleb Xia”… Later, that piece of paper disappeared, but those words were etched firmly in your heart, impossible to erase.

The next time you ask him a question was after parent-teacher conferences. The teacher took note of students whose parents did not show up. You were one of them. Coincidentally, he was too. Classmates whisper about what happened. A few of the students failed to inform their parents about the meetings, afraid of punishment for their poor grades. But Caleb wasn't like that. He was at the top of the class.  "Caleb Xia! You got first place in the entire grade, why aren't your parents here? If I got your score, my parents, grandparents, and even my dog would come!" someone yells. Other students chimed in, "Yeah, Caleb, you got good grades, why aren't your parents here?" He replies simply. "Don't ask, they're dead."

Later, you witness something you probably shouldn't have seen.  Caleb stands in an inconspicuous corner by the school's back gate. A dark car pulls up in front of him, the window rolled down, and he throws a wad of cash at the driver, hitting him in the face. The person in the car points a finger at him, cursing, “You scoundrel! You think just because your parents offed themselves that you're safe with little old grandma?" You're stunned. Unaware of his family's situation.  Caleb is stubborn, refusing to reply before he turns and walks away. The driver calls after him shouting, "You'll join us one day, Caleb! Let's see how you survive!" The sunset was blinding, bathing him in a golden light. He laughs defiantly, "Don't worry! I'd rather be bought out by a rich old lady than go with you!"  What kind of talk was that! Coming from a high schooler! 

You don't know where you got the courage that day, but you walk up to him, eyes wide, voice panicked, "Caleb, whatever you do, don't sell yourself out like that!" You don't know if you were imagining things, but you saw something that looked like glistening tears in his eyes in the setting sun. They flash for a moment before he turns away, coldly smiling, "So, you're going to sponsor me?" You fall silent. That was Caleb's most irrational moment. Even now, more than a decade later, you never saw him as vulnerable again.

The next day, you take a math problem to him and ask how to solve it. He raises a single eyebrow, not saying a word. You thought he had refused, your head hanging low. Finally, he tore off a piece of scratch paper and began to explain while drawing on it. He talked for the entire break before finally asking, "Do you understand now?" You nod frantically. Then throw down five dollars and run back to your seat, completely unaware of Caleb's expression behind you.

You didn't have an allowance either, saving up those five dollars from running small errands here and there for other classmates and neighbors.

After school, Caleb blocked you on your way to the dorms. He stood under a sycamore tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting dappled shadows over him.  You don't dare to lift your head, trying to walk past him.  He stands in front of you. "Why aren't you looking at me?" The heat was unbearable, making your face flush. You're too embarrassed to say anything.  He scoffs, "you were quite bold earlier when you wanted to buy me out." You lower your head even further. "I...I didn't mean..." A five-dollar note is thrust in front of you. "Isn't this it? You think you can keep me for five dollars? Before you can even clarify that you just wanted him to tutor you, he interrupts you, shoving the money back into your hands, swiftly leaving you behind with a single sentence: "I don't need your pity."

Your heart ached.

Later, he skipped three days of class. When you saw him outside school with a black armband pinned to his sleeve, when he returned to class and said, "Y/N, my grandmother passed away," your heart ached like that again; the pain crashing down like a tidal wave.

That Mid-Autumn Festival, everyone went home for a reunion dinner with their families and ate mooncakes, including you. You went to your grandparents' house. But he no longer had a grandmother to go back to. After dinner, on your way back to school, the osmanthus trees near the dormitory were in full bloom, their fragrance rich and intoxicating. By sheer coincidence, you see him standing there, alone. You hand him a mooncake, filled with fresh meat, made by your grandmother. That night, you sat together under the osmanthus tree, eating mooncakes. Neither of you said a word. After finishing the mooncake, he went to the classroom, and you went back to your dorm. The warm feeling from that night haunted you, driving you to accept his proposal 5 years later, despite not knowing each other well at all.

You once saw a comment online that said "Feeling sorry for a man will make you unhappy for life." You didn't know what that meant back then. Now, you understand.

T - 7 days Only a week left.

It's routine now, heading to your physical therapy appointment. With your departure so close, you try a more rigorous session. Carrying weight, light hops, landing on your bad foot.  Due to the strain, your entire  body aches from head to toe. You're sweating almost immediately. Within five minutes, you are completely drenched.

“If you can’t keep going, just say so. Don’t force yourself,” the therapist comments. Sweating heavily, you nod. “I know. I’m fine. I can manage…” Before you finish speaking, you collapse to the ground with a thud. “Are you alright?” they rush forward to help you up, but someone pushes past them. You are suddenly lifted into someone’s arms. When you look up, you meet Caleb’s anxious eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” You try to struggle, but your muscles give you. Held in his arms, you see a dark storm swirling in Caleb’s eyes.

“What exactly is she doing?” Caleb asks the therapist this time. “Sir, she’s in physical therapy. Rehab.” Caleb scoffs. “Rehabilitation? What kind of rehab is this? Looks like it's doing more harm than good.” “Caleb!” you grit out. “You stay out of this!”

He's already carrying you out.

“Caleb!” “Sir, Ms. Y/N's recovery—” You and the nurse speak at the same time, but Caleb abruptly cuts you both off as he walks away.

“She’s not doing it anymore.” “Caleb, you have no right to decide my affairs!” Anger burns in your chest. When you needed him most, he was never there. And now he suddenly appears just to interfere with your plans? You're already out in the hall, in full view of nurses, patients, and waiting family members. He carries you straight through the clinic.

“Caleb!” You hate your own helplessness right now, but very time you try to move, your muscles scream in pain. You can't simply jump out of his arms.

Zayne Li, a previous upperclassman and now doctor, happens to walk out of his consultation room and notices the commotion. He approaches the two of you with concern. “What’s wrong? Y/N, is the rehabilitation not going well?” "Dr. Li, can you explain why my wife is in so much pain? Are you sure your rehabilitation training facilities here are sound?" You're shocked by how Caleb treats an old acquaintance, glaring at the doctor. His tone carries not only doubt, but a hint of accusation. Zayne explains patiently. “This rehabilitation program Y/N chose is indeed intense and very challenging. But if she perseveres, I can promise it will be effective. The pain is like bones being rebuilt. As her husband—”

“As her husband, I refuse to let her undergo such a cruel course!” Caleb interrupts sharply. His face is ashen as he carries you away. You are furious. Turning toward Zayne, you say quickly, “Dr. Li, I’m sorry, I—” “Shut it!" Caleb snaps.

He carries you straight to the parking lot and shoves you into the car.

The nurse runs after you, handing you your bag. “Ms. Y/N, you…” “I’ll come again tomorrow,” you say with a faint smile. The pain today was almost unbearable, but you have no intention of giving up.

Once you set your mind on something, the word "quit" isn't in your dictionary. Just like years ago, when you discovered your love for dance, you pursued it without hesitation. Like when you fell in love at sixteen, you pursued it wholeheartedly, even if it meant running repeatedly into a wall and coming away bruised. And like now, determined to get back up on your feet—you will never look back.

Caleb closes the car door, and gets into the drivers seat. “You won't be coming back here tomorrow.” “Caleb!” You're livid. “What right do you have to interfere with my freedom?” “Because,” he says slowly, word by word, “I’m your husband.”

You think about everything that's happened and could only laugh at his statement.

“My husband? A man who dedicates his whole life to another woman is my husband? Caleb, don’t be ridiculous.” So funny that you almost don’t even feel sad anymore.

Caleb turns the rearview mirror toward you. “Look at yourself. Look at what you look like now.”

You glance at your reflection.

Your hair is soaked with sweat. Your face is damp, and your clothes cling to your body after the brutal training. You look disheveled—truly disheveled. Even now your lips tremble slightly, and your hands still shake. But you don’t think anything is wrong. This is proof of your effort.

“What’s wrong with me?” You touch the healthy flush on your cheeks, satisfied.

“Y/N, you don’t need to…” Caleb sighs. “I know you’re being stubborn. MC is back. She’s more beautiful than you, healthier than you, more capable than you. You’re upset, so you push yourself like this, wanting to prove yourself to her.”

You stare at him. Is he out of his goddamn mind?

“Y/N, you don’t have to suffer like this. Seeing you so exhausted makes my heart ache.” His gaze softens. “You don’t need to compare yourself with anyone. No matter what state you're in, you’re still Mrs. Xia. That will never change.”

“Anxious? Me, competing with your MC?” You interrupt incredulously, unable to hold it in it any longer. “Caleb, how dare you!” “First, I have never compared my beauty, health, or ability with your dear Pipsqueak. Second, my life is full of wonderful things, none of which involve you or her. And finally, I've told you a hundred times: whether or not I’m Mrs. Xia, I don't give a shit!"

What on earth makes him think your entire life revolves around MC?

But Caleb refuses to believe you. His expression shifts from gentle to mocking. “Y/N, if you weren’t jealous, would you be so determined to make me jealous? You’re wrong. It will only push me further away.”

You roll your eyes. Talking to someone like this is exhausting.

“And you say you don’t care?” Caleb sneers. “The more someone lacks something, the more they pretend not to want it. Y/N, don’t think I don’t know. You had a crush on me in high school. You asked me to help you with homework just to get my attention. You gave me mooncakes during Mid-Autumn Festival because you wanted to pursue me. After university, you even risked your life to save me. And now you say you don’t care? Who would believe that?”

You freeze.

You thought that after everything you’ve been through, nothing could hurt you anymore. But you underestimated how deeply this relationship could still wound you.

He knows everything.

Yes, you once liked him, but that was a secret you kept to yourself. You asked him to tutor you because you wanted a way to pay him without hurting his pride. You gave him mooncakes during Mid-Autumn Festival simply because you wanted him to feel a little warmth on that lonely holiday. And later, when you saved him… Even though it left you with a limp, you never expected repayment—let alone marriage.

You had already accepted defeat in this marriage. You built a hard shell around yourself, telling yourself not to feel pain anymore. Yet somehow, every act of kindness you once showed him has become an arrow he now shoots back at you, piercing straight through your armor.

You suddenly feel too tired to explain anything. When the day finally comes that you leave him completely, he will understand whether you ever cared about the title of Mrs. Xia.

Seeing you fall silent, Caleb reaches out and wraps an arm around your shoulders again. You hold your breath.

You remember a Mid-Autumn night long ago. The two of you sat under an osmanthus tree eating mooncakes. He smelled faintly of sweet osmanthus. That fragrance drifted through your youth for years, warming you. But now, when Caleb comes close, all you smell is suffocating perfume.

Disgusted, you turn away and slap his hand aside. “Don't touch me. I told you—it disgusts me.” Anger flashes through Caleb’s eyes. Yet he doesn’t shout. Instead, his voice softens. “Y/N, I know you love me. The vow I made will never change. You will always be my Mrs. Xia."

These words have never sounded so grating against your ears. 

T - 6 days Today is the day you are scheduled to pick up your visa. You pack your purse carefully, pausing when the little rectangular piece of plastic that has always lived in your shared bedroom drawer is gone. Where did your ID go? You look everywhere in the room. Still nothing. Your pulse rising, you think back to the last few days. You haven't touched it at all. Caleb! He was rummaging through here this morning.

You immediately pick up your cell phone to call him. Shockingly, he answers on the first ring. "Caleb, do you have my ID?" You ask, slightly breathless. "Good morning to you to," he says sarcastically. "Caleb! Is it with you!" You press on. "Yes." His reply is short and straight to the point. "Why did you take it?" You're exasperated, concerned you'll have to reschedule for later. "Why do you need it?" He shocks you by turning your question against you. "None of your business! I need it today." A slight pause from him on the other end. "Come get it then." "Get it... from your workplace?" You say incredulously. "If you want it, come get it." He hangs up. You stare at your phone dumbfoundedly. Then immediately call a cab to the Farspace Fleet HQ.

You've never really came to his workplace in the five years you spent together. The only other time you recall entering the building wasn't the most unpleasant experience for you either.  You text him as you enter, informing him of your arrival. He doesn't reply this time. You call, but it doesn't go through. You frown. Was he in a meeting? You don't have all day, so you are forced to go to the front counter and reveal your identity.

"The Colonel's wife?" The receptionist looks at you and laughs. "Young lady, everyone who comes here claims to be the Colonel's wife. If you're going to think of an excuse, find one that's less cliché." "I'm serious. Call the Colonel, and tell him Y/N is here. He'll know to come down." You're not in the mood to play games.  "That's what they all say. If we did that, you'd think the Colonel wouldn't have time for anything other than dealing with people like you all day." The receptionist rolled her eyes and muttered. "People like me?" You frown. "And pray, what am I?" "Shameless women who want to climb the social ladder without working for it!" the receptionist laughs. "At least other women come here with presentable features, but now we're getting cripples? You should at least know your place!"

Is it really true that birds of a feather flock together? You can't wrap your head around her thinking. Why is it that no stranger outside of Caleb's circle harbor any ill will towards you and your leg, while everyone around Caleb is like this? You're thinking of going home and getting your marriage certificate to prove your place; you certainly aren't going anywhere by talking to the workers down here. 

Just then, the elevator door opens, and Liam walks out. Seeing the Adjutant, the receptionist immediately turns respectful. "Adjutant Lin!" She greets him properly.  "Madam Y/N, I am the Colonel's Adjutant. Please come with me." He leads the way, letting you into the elevator. The two of you head straight to the top floor.

"The Colonel is in a meeting right now," he explains, leading you to a small office. "Please wait in here for now."  You thank him and put your bag down. A few minutes later, a knock is heard, and a lady emerges from the door.  "Ms. Y/N, I am the Colonel's secretary. Would you like something to drink?"  "Anything is fine, or just water," you reply. She returns with a glass of juice. "Is passionfruit drink ok?" "That's wonderful, thank you." You take the glass.  "Just sit tight, I'll come get you once the meeting ends." She smiles, and closes the door behind her. 

Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty, and thirty.  You watch the time tick by, growing impatient. Finally, you get up to open the conference room door, only to find it locked from the outside. Damn it! You still need to pick up your visa this afternoon. You frantically call Caleb's phone, but strangely, no one picks up despite the call going through. You're smart enough to know that this is most certainly a setup, but you don't have the time nor heart to figure out who orchestrated this entire thing or what their purpose was. You just wanted to get your visa. You pound on the door, frantically, yelling, but no one answers.  You sit down and pick up the passion fruit lemonade, drinking it down in one gulp. Hands trembling, you quickly type out an email rescheduling your visa appointment.

Suddenly, your face begins to itch. This isn't passion fruit lemonade at all…

You check the time: another ten minutes had passed. Neither Liam nor the secretary had returned, and nobody else knew you were here… You feel your throat closing, as your breathing gets heavier.  You drag yourself, limping to the door, continuing to pound on it as you are no longer able to make any noise. You catch sight of a red box. 

Throughout the office, everyone is methodically going about their work when suddenly, the building's fire alarms start blaring loudly.  "What's going on?" People run out of their cubicles and offices to see what's going on. "Someone pulled the fire alarm on the top floor! Everyone evacuate!"

Caleb also hears the noise, and comes out immediately.  "What's going on? How can there be a fire up here?" His eyelids have been twitching all day. He had a strange, ominous premonition.

Thunk... thunk... thunk...

It sounds like someone is weakly banging on the door. "Who's in there?" Caleb asks urgently, kicking the door. MC appears from behind him, clinging to his shoulder. "Gege! Don't go in there! It could be dangerous!" "Someone's in here!" Caleb shouts. "Caleb... Help... help me... Caleb..."  A weak cry, barely audible over the commotion in the hall. Caleb's eyes widen in shock. "Y/N! Y/N! Is that you in there? Y/N answer me!" He forcefully shakes off MC's hand, barging against the door with his shoulder. "Someone! Help! Open the door!"

With a loud bang, he breaks the door down. 

You're on the floor, fallen to the side. Body red, face nearly turning purple.  "Y/N!" he cries, quickly picking you up. "Call an ambulance!" His roar echoes throughout the entire floor. His voice startles you, as you weakly open your eyes, looking at the familiar yet unfamiliar face in front of you. You want to raise your hand to check if it is real, but your arm refuses to move.  You try to speak, but no sound comes out. You manage a weak smile and barely manage to mouth the words: "if... I'm dead... won't... owe me anything... you'll... free.." "Stop it! You won't die!" Caleb runs down dozens of flights of stairs. You close your eyes. You don't mind saying goodbye to all of this. "Y/N, don't sleep on me, ok? Wake up! Wake up, you hear me?" The last thing you her is Caleb's frantic voice. 

T - 5 days You wake up in the hospital after getting an acute dose of epinephrine. Zayne gives you a thorough examination, and finds no other acute problems. After determining you're stable enough to step down to the observation area, he scolds you seriously. "Walking around without an epipen with a serious allergy? You could've died from anaphylaxis! How could you be so careless?"

Caleb is still somewhat shaken by it all. "An allergic reaction? Y/N, what did you eat that caused this?" You sit there silently.

"Let's observe her a little longer. There are still a few results pending. We'll see what happens when the results come back," Zayne says before leaving.

Caleb sighs and sits down beside you, continuing to carefully dab at your neck and shoulders with the cotton swab.  It stings a little. You frown and turn away. "Don't move, Y/N. I'm trying to clean it. Don't want any infections from your blisters." The words sound familiar. In the early days after your injury, he had said similar things. But it was that gentleness, this feigned gentleness, that gave you false hope and expectation in him.  He's acting so kind again - what's he trying to do?

You no longer trust anything he says. 

“I remember you’re allergic to apples. Did you eat apples before coming to the HQ today? But Mrs. Chen knows not to buy them... Did you eat something new on your way here?” His tone is like coaxing a child… You purse your lips, giving him a cold laugh. “I didn’t eat anything. I’m calling the police.” your tone is firm. “Call the police?” Caleb frowns. There's a rustling sound outside the room. You turn around to see that MC had arrived.

T - 4 days MC stands outside holding a bouquet of flowers, looking cautious and timid. "Caleb, how is Y/N? I wanted to come see her, but I was worried she wouldn't want to see me." "Y/N's fine, she just needs some rest," Caleb says, knowing you indeed dislike her. "I appreciate your sentiment, but she's in a bad mood right now, you should go back." "Hmm..." MC purses her lips, eyes rimmed with tears. "Caleb, I'm sorry, it's all my fault. As your personal assistant, I was careless, causing Y/N to suffer like this. I'm so glad she's alright, otherwise... otherwise, I don't know what I would do..." She starts crying.

You, still in the room, hear everything. MC joined the Farspace Fleet as Caleb's personal assistant? So that's why she went on the mission with him. However, since she's his assistant, everything that happened today makes sense now. 

You grab your bag, turning on your phone.  "What are you doing?" Caleb comes back seeing you enter your password. "I told you, I'm calling the police." You successfully unlock it. 

MC rushes into the room, Gideon behind her now. "Y/N, tread carefully. This is the Farspace Fleet HQ we're talking about. Are you sure the authorities will respond to this? What happened in the meeting room was an accident, I swear." "Oh? And how would you know it was an accident?" you scoff. "Were you the one who locked the door?" MC's face immediately turns pale. "How could you say that about me! It was Secretary Lu who led you to the conference room, she was the one who brought you the apple juice. She said the door was locked from the inside!" "Apple juice?" You look into MC's flustered eyes. You have a pretty good idea of what's going on now. "I never said I drank apple juice, how did you know it was apple juice?" MC avoids your eyes. "No, I... As Caleb's personal assistant, I checked everything before coming here! Secretary Lu explained everything that happened from picking you up to asking you to wait in the conference room." "Is that so?" You turn to look at Caleb. "There aren't many people in this world who knows I'm allergic to apple juice. Not even my parents." Only your grandparents. And Caleb. 

Caleb's face stiffens.

You remain unusually calm. "Caleb Xia, your secretary kept telling me she gave me passion fruit juice. How did it turn into apple juice? Did Secretary Lu deliberately tamper with it, or did someone switch the drink around? And Caleb, who have you told about my apple juice allergy?" MC's face is deathly pale.  You don't wait for her to reply. "And the doors? There's security cameras all over the Farspace HQ. A quick check will bring everything to light. Of course, if the cameras were tampered with... that's a whole different issue. So I'm going to have to call the police about it". 

Caleb's face drops, his expression changing drastically. "Pips... did you really...?"

She runs forward to grab his arm. "No Gege! I swear! It wasn't me, it must've just been a joke!" "A joke?" you sneer. "Your group seems to love joking around the most. I've lived for over twenty five years and never knew that you guys had jokes that could kill people!" "No, no, no.." MC shakes her head violently, "Gege, listen to me! It wasn't me, I promise-" "She's lying" you say flatly, dialing the tone.

Gideon, unable to contain himself any longer, smacks the phone out of your hands. "Who's lying! You're the one lying, for your own selfish reasons, slandering an innocent person!" His line of thinking is really quite creative, giving everyone else a new inspiration to ride off of.  "Y/N," MC cries, looking at you with disbelief, "I can't believe you hate me this much, that you'd put your own life in danger to frame me! If you hate me that much, just kick me out! Don't torment Caleb like this! Do you care for him at all? Do you know how terrified he was? I never thought it'd all be staged!" Gideon scoffs, "isn't acting pitiful her specialty? Wasn't her saving Caleb five years ago the same thing? She wanted to force him into marrying her!"

You knew all too well how cruel Gideon could be, and how little he thought of you. Yet you never expected him to say something so shameless: that you saving Caleb five years ago was self-sabotage to trick him into marriage!

Sometimes, when anger reaches its peak, it paradoxically turns into calm. You look at Caleb, despite knowing time and time again that he won't side with you. But in this moment, you just want to ask him one question: if he thought the same as Gideon.  Then it wouldn't just be a matter of you being foolish. You would've been better off saving a dog five years ago. 

"Caleb," you stand, not a ripple of emotion behind your eyes. "Come here." Caleb, sandwiched between Gideon and MC, looks at you.  "Caleb, don't go!" Gideon and MC say it almost simultaneously.

His gaze meets yours. After a brief silence, Caleb stands up and walks to you.  You look at the man you had risked your life for, the man you "traded" your leg for.  You calmly ask, "Do you think so too?" He doesn't speak. "You also..." you stare into deep amethyst eyes, the echo of the conversation you had with him after he interrupted your physical therapy still ringing in your ears. "You also think that today's events were done on purpose? You also think that I saved you five years ago expecting you to marry me?"

Something in Caleb's eyes narrow, and he looks away. "Say it, Caleb! Look at me!"  A minute of silence passes. "Yes."

You gasp, as if that would force you to swallow the pain, but your vision still blurs  uncontrollably. The quiet but resolute "yes" feels like a boulder crashing into your chest, the lingering pain still reverberating over and over after the initial damage. How could someone who has been hurt to this extent still be sad?

smack!

Your handprint remains on Caleb's face where you slapped him; your fingernails leaving a thin trace of blood, particularly striking on his handsome features. "Get out." "Y/N-" "Get the FUCK out or I will."

You don't even wait for him to make a decision - you stumble out of the room without looking back.

T - 3 days You collapse onto the bed when you get home, your body still throbbing with pain. Mrs. Chen calls you for dinner, but you're too exhausted to move.  "Bring it in," say. Except for the initial period after your accident when you were bed-bound, you never got into the habit of eating in bed.  You cherished your home with Caleb so much that you couldn't bear to see anything dirty or out of place. Looking back, you laugh at your stupid thinking. What good is a house if you don't use it? 

After you finish eating, Mrs. Chen takes the plate away and asks if you want to take a bath. You nod. "Please run me some water, and then change the bedding to clean ones."  "Okay." She leaves to start running the water.

You try to get out of bed and make your way to the bath yourself, but after only a few steps, your legs feel weak. Your body's overexertion and emotional outburst from earlier don't make your condition any better.  Mrs. Chen comes back out and is worried to see your trembling, unstable figure. "Madam, shall I help you?" You take a deep breath and nod.  She helps you to the bathroom and didn't let go until you're comfortably seated in the bathtub. "Thank you," you say. 

You lean back, the warm water soothing every inch of your skin, easing the soreness and making you feel much more comfortable. After a while, the water cools, and you call for Mrs. Chen again. You still don't want to open your eyes.  

Footsteps approach and stop at the edge of the bathtub, but you hear no movement afterwards. You frown. "Mrs. Chen..." You open your eyes to see Caleb. "Why are you here?" You're startled, instinctively covering any part of your body above the water. "Get out!" You call loudly for Mrs. Chen. "Mrs. Chen won't come in." He looks down at you, his gaze deep. "Mrs. Chen!" you continue to call, unwilling to give up. "You think Mrs. Chen is going to listen to you, or the person who pays her salary? He leans down, his face suddenly very close to yours, so close that you can clearly see his bloodshot eyes and your own reflection in his pupils. "What exactly do you want?" You grip the edge of the bathtub tightly, your defenses fully raised.

He reaches into the soapy water, grabbing your shoulders and lifting you entirely out of the tub. You feel a chill run down your spine. This is the first time you've been completely exposed in front of Caleb. Humiliation and panic overwhelms you in an instant. "Let go of me, you dirty bastard!" You begin to struggle in his arms, but it's an useless endeavor. “If you want to fall and get hurt, then keep being stubborn!” His deep voice carries a threatening tone. You come to your senses and slowly stop. You can't risk getting hurt now. You're leaving in a couple days. You can't afford to have any more accidents.

“Not moving anymore?” he asks, revealing no emotion. “Caleb Xia, don't make me hate you.” You say. He gives you a bitter smile. “Don't you hate me enough already?” You remain silent. Your relationship with Caleb has indeed reached a point of no return.

He snorts coldly, wrapping you in a bath towel, and walks out of the bathroom back to the bedroom, placing you on the bed. He sits you on the edge and goes back, reappearing with a hairdryer.  As he plugs it in, blowing hot air into your wet hair, you're momentarily stunned.  What's he trying to do? Apologize? Make it up to you? Or is it just all for MC again? The only sound in the room is the roar of the hairdryer; neither of you speak. After he finishes, he rummages through the bedside drawer, clumsily tying your hair up into a knot. 

Several bruises on the top of your back and shoulders from falling reveal themselves  He stares at them for a moment, then forcefully rips away the towel wrapped around you. "Look at yourself! What are you doing to yourself these days, doing that stupid rehab?!" What does this have to do with him at all? You quickly pull the blanket back over herself, glaring at him with hostility. "Caleb, believe me, I really will kill you." He sits down opposite from you, his eyes filled with sarcasm. "We've been married for five years, and this is your attitude when I try to touch you?"

What else does he expect? What attitude should you have?

You smile mockingly. "Caleb, I told you. Your hands are dirty. Also, if you touch me, aren't you afraid your Pipsqueak will be heartbroken?" He doesn't reply, only pushing you down onto the bed, but doesn't move to pull away the blanket. You feel his warm hand on your calf. He's massaging your scars again? You give up struggling, already somewhat familiar with his methods. Unsolicited kindness is always suspicious; he must want something from you. He continues applying ointment to your bruises, from your leg up to your arms, then your back.  Once he's done, he covers you with a blanket, meeting your cold gaze. You look at him with no hint of gratefulness, just waiting. He tucks you in more tightly, forcing a bitter smile. "Y/N, how did we get to this point?"

He's asking you why things had come to this? Didn't he know?

He sighs deeply. "Y/N, let's talk about this calmly." You consider it for a moment. Since MC appeared, you've always been calm, never wavering. It's him, on the other hand, who was always emotional because of MC. “Caleb Xia, I don’t know what we have to talk about anymore,” you say indifferently. “I’ve already made myself clear.” Caleb's hand reaches under the covers to find your hand and grasps it tightly. “Y/N, I didn’t want this. From the beginning until now, I swear I've been sincere in wanting to live a good life with you.” “Is that so?” you sneer. “From the beginning? Didn't you think I was a venomous woman who used a self-inflicted injury to force you to marry me?”

Caleb closes his eyes, remaining silent for a long time. “Colonel Xia,” you smile, “Please let go of my hand and get me a bottle of disinfectant” When Caleb opens his eyes, the bloodshot veins are particularly noticeable. He doesn't ask why, just gets up to fetch it, and hands it to you.

You prop yourself up on the bed, and begins methodically spraying it on your hands, arms, legs, stomach, back—everywhere he had just touched. Caleb's expression instantly changes. "What are you doing?" "I'm disinfecting myself. I told you, your hands are dirty." You finish spraying and calmly place the alcohol bottle on the bedside table. "You…" Caleb is aggravated again. You simply turn over and lie down to sleep.

After a while, Caleb finally speaks to you again, his voice soft. "We've been married for five years. In these five years, I haven't wronged you, have I?" Five years... your heart clenches. You don't want to look back on the past five years. "I'm so grateful to you for saving me back then, and for giving me a chance to atone. For the past five years, I've given you everything I could. So can you do just one more thing? If you agree to this favor, I'll do anything you ask from now on." Here it comes…

"You want me to drop the case and reconcile with MC and your two cronies?" You cut to the chase.

T - 2 days Yes," Caleb says, his voice utterly broken. "I'm sorry, Y/N, I have to protect MC. She was the only light in the darkest moments of my life." Your heart sinks to the bottom of the ocean. What in the world is Caleb thinking? Telling his lawful wife that another woman is his only light, and expecting you to help him?

"Y/N," he continues, "you know that my grandmother was the most important person in my life. MC was good friends with Zayne, an upperclassman whose parents were doctors. Through her connections was how my grandma was able to get treatment after she fell ill. One evening, when I visited Grandma, there was a bottle of origami cranes beside her pillow. The nurse said it was a gift from a volunteer. They said that with the blessing of a thousand cranes, Grandma would definitely recover. Caleb chokes up a little. "Grandma didn't recover. The blessing of a thousand origami cranes only stayed a myth. But Y/N, do you understand the loneliness of that time when my world was completely dark, and I was struggling to bear everything alone? The girl who helped me share the burden while I was taking care of Grandma, the girl who lit up my dark world with origami cranes, was MC. I thought I would never see her again after she left, but she ended up coming back to me. I'm sorry Y/N. No matter what kind of person MC is, in my heart, she will always be that light." You listen silently, finally unable to help but smile.

Caleb Xia, are you really sure that the girl who folded the origami cranes was MC?

T - 1 day What was it like to have a crush on someone in your youth?

It was having your heart feel empty when he didn't come to class; even though there was only one empty seat, the whole world became hollow; It was the world suddenly brightening when he steps into the classroom. The sunlight outside the window shining like gold, but it couldn't possibly compare to the radiance surrounding him at that moment. It was when his smile warmed your heart, and when he frowned, your heart clenched; It was the satisfaction in watching him from afar, letting time quietly slip by, wanting to give your everything to him but not wanting him to know…

That year, when you learned that the weariness and pain Caleb tried so hard to hide was because his grandmother was seriously ill and hospitalized, every weekend, you'd wear a mask and get up before dawn every morning, catch the bus to the hospital, and help his grandma with breakfast and keep her company. You lied about your identity every time, simply saying you were a volunteer. You weren't sure if paper cranes could actually make wishes come true, but being young and full of sincere wishes, you secretly folded a bottle full of paper cranes for his grandmother. There certainly weren't a thousand total, but the bottle was full. It took you a long time folding, and you wrote a blessing on each piece of paper before carefully folding it inside. While wishing Caleb's grandmother a speedy recovery, you also prayed for her own grandparents' health.

At that time, you felt that you and Caleb had so much in common. None of your parents were in the picture. You both depended on their grandparents' for survival. You were both struggling to grow up against the odds, trying your best to maintain your lives, your pride, and self-respect. You once thought that you and Caleb were like two trees growing side by side, far apart, your branches never intersecting in the air, yet your roots in the soil were always tightly intertwined.

In the end, you've been deluding yourself.

You just smile without speaking or explaining anything to him. If it were before, perhaps you would have explained to him that you were the volunteer. But now, there is truly no need.

You traded your leg for his life, saving him from being run over by a car. If in his eyes, it was all a ploy, a way to trick him into marrying you, then what would the origami cranes you folded all those years ago mean to him? Were they, like the mooncakes from that Mid-Autumn Festival, just a means to woo him as well? Even if he didn't think of you as so calculating and despicable, what difference would it make?

He simply doesn't love you. You've tried for five years already. The fact is, you saved his life. Regardless of his motives for marrying you, the end result is the same: he doesn't love you. So why add another layer of trouble? You've known him since you were twelve. 15 years now. If love could truly change people, you would have done so long ago. The truth is, no matter what you did for him, it wouldn't change a thing.

Besides, you already have a clear future and plans. You'll cut ties completely with this person and stop this entanglement for once and for all. Only a smile remains on your face. A smile that is both laughable and pathetic.

"What are you laughing at?" Caleb was probably lost in his own memories, so it's understandable that he felt a bit resentful that his heartfelt story is met with nothing but a laugh. You lower your eyes, a faint smile still on your lips. "It's nothing, I'm just very touched. I'll do as you wish under one condition." He looks at you expectantly. "I'll have my lawyer send over some papers. At long as you sign them, MC is off the hook." "You... really?" Caleb isn't sure if you're being sarcastic.

"I'm serious." You lie on the bed, looking up at him, the faint sadness in your eyes gone, replaced by a genuine smile. "I wish you a long and life."

T - 0 days When Caleb leaves this morning, he tells you to wait for him at home, the same as usual. However, he lingers at the door for a minute longer, gazing at you with eyes filled with an unfamiliar emotion. There's no point thinking about it anymore. Nothing in the world will convince Caleb Xia that his wife would want to leave him.

Will he realize you're truly gone when he sees the empty closet? It won't matter if he doesn't; your letter, the lawyer, and the divorce papers will tell him. You look back one last time at the home you lived in for five years.

You write one last line in your notebook: "0 days until I leave Caleb Xia: Goodbye, I'm going to fly higher."

You turn off the lights and close the door.

You stick a paper crane on the door; let this paper crane wait for him in your place; perhaps, it will tell him the answer.

***

T + 6 days: Caleb feels like he's actually gone insane. The first night you don't come home, he plays it off as another one of your temper outbursts. Afterall, the paper crane on the door was your way of mocking his past with MC, wasn't it?. The second night he blows up your phone. Nothing goes through. By the third day, he is contacted by your lawyer with the divorce papers prepared and already signed by you. You ask for none of his assets and no compensation. He nearly destroys the office table in anger. After another two days to calm down, the panic and unease in his chest grow to new lengths. He stalks the entire city. Tries going after your telephone records, search history. He finds your preparation to leave him starting long, long before he suspected anything out of the ordinary. He looks at himself in the mirror and wants to laugh at the pathetic sight before him. He can't possibly go to work in this state, so he turns around to go home instead. 

He takes a shower and sits in the chair in your bedroom, lost in thought. This is the chair you used to sit in. You'd sit here watching dramas, reading, oh right, probably studying how to get away form him too.  Your belongings are still on the table: pens in the pen holder, and several books you read, the most recent being art history, lying on the desk. Fiddling with the paper crane.

He opened a drawer, which was also full of books. Digging through its contents, he finds a notebook. He pulls it out and opens it. The contents read: Countdown to leaving Caleb Xia. T -  22 days: The jewelry he gave me were all mementos of someone else.  T - 11 days: He gave our wedding rings to someone else too. But I don't even want him anymore, so why should I care about the ring?

His eyes sting.

"I don't even want this person anymore…" So, from that moment on, you truly wanted a divorce. Every time you brought it up, it was from the heart. It wasn't a tactic to keep him, nor was it a way to force MC to leave. You genuinely wanted to leave him…

Looking further, you had recorded every single thought that, in the month before you left, seemed trivial to him. With each passing day, your heart seemed to die a little more. He lowers his head, forehead resting on the notebook. His eyes ache terribly. In those 20-odd days, if he had even a few moments of empathy, if he had considered things from your perspective, he might have still had a chance to salvage the relationship. But he didn't. He went down a path of no return, finally leading to a complete break between you.

He thought you would never leave him, never leave this home, which is why he stood on MC's side time and time again. He thought, "She's my wife, she's family, she'll never leave. No matter when I come back, she'll be waiting at home..." You loved him so much, you've liked him since high school, even risked your life for him. How could he have believed that you really wanted to divorce him?

T + 24 days: Caleb sighs, a bitter smile on his face. He doesn't know what was wrong with him; why everything had been so bitter lately. The food he eats taste bitter, the water tastes bitter, even the air around him seems to carry a faint bitterness.

That afternoon, Liam comes to his office, inviting him out to dinner with Gideon.  Sitting behind his desk, Caleb feels listless. "Forget it, I'm too tired. You guys go ahead, I'll cover it." "Colonel," Liam protests, before switching to addressing him by name. "Caleb. Do you think I'm starving? I can see you're unhappy these days, and I figured getting together with you and Gideon would allow you to have some fun. Caleb shakes his head, hating how his hairs bristled at the mention of his friend. "I hate crowds, forget it."

"Caleb, what's wrong with you?" Gideon pops in, looking at him, his eyes filled with worry. "You used to love being with your brothers, having fun together. As long as the crew is together, your worries would disappear. I can invite MC along too, she'll make you feel better." Caleb freezes. What is wrong? He didn't know what was wrong either. It's just an instinctive reaction; he didn't want to go.

Later, at the bar, Caleb is still trying to think of why he feels uncomfortable. "Maybe... I'm getting old?" As you get older, you grow weary of crowds and want to be alone in peace and quiet. Liam laughs. "You're old? You...you're old? What am I then?" Well, if not, then Caleb couldn't find a reason.

"Caleb, what's wrong with you?" Gideon sighs. "We all know you didn't want to marry Y/N in the first place. You didn't love her. Isn't it better that you're getting a divorce now?" "Yeah..." Caleb's eyes glaze over. "Isn't it supposed to be better? But, Gideon, why am I not okay? I'm really not okay at all." "Is it just that you've gotten used to it? It's hard to let go of someone suddenly in your life, like when I had a dog when I was little. I had it for years, and one day it got into an accident and passed. I cried for a long time." Liam tries to help. Caleb shakes his head. "That's not how it works, Liam. Didn't you love your dog? You cried." Liam is stumped. "Oh, right. I definitely loved it."

All three of them fall silent.

Liam thinks for a long time before slowly saying, "Caleb, you didn't fall in love with Y/N, did you?" Caleb feels as if he's been struck on the head. He had never considered this question before. "Let me ask you this," Liam continues, "you're single now, right? If you had two choices: one, go back to Y/N, and she'd still be your Mrs. Xia; two, marry MC. You could marry MC if you want to! Which would you choose if you had these two options in front of you?" Caleb doesn't hesitate at all. "Liam, what are you saying? When did I ever plan to marry MC? Since she came back, the thought of marrying her never even crossed my mind!" Liam is stunned. "I literally thought MC was your wife the first day you brought her to the headquarters! Wasn't it because you had Y/N before? Now that you're divorced, you're still not considering MC?" "Liam, MC and I are a thing of the past," Caleb says with a small laugh, "What are you thinking?" "Then, why are you so good to her?" he stammers. "Am I not good to you?" Caleb retorts. "Am I not good to Gideon?" "Then...how...can this be comparable?" Liam didn't know what to say. "How is it different? The two of you are my brothers since we were trainees at the DAA, and we've all worked our way up to our positions now. When MC was with me, she was still a high schooler, encouraging me on when I was was nothing but a new recruit. She didn't get to reap any of the benefits of that work, she had a hard time abroad. Of course I have to pamper her when she comes back, she's my little sister, right, Gideon?" "Uhhh.... Anyway..." Liam thought it was VERY different.

"Of course it's different!" A voice booms from behind. It's Yvette. Liam quickly stands up. "Darling, why are you here?" "I came to see what nonsense you're spouting, you idiot!" Yvette's face darkens. "You guys are still talking about that two-faced bitch?" "No...wife, please... don't say such nonsense. How could MC be two-faced?" Liam quickly looks at Caleb, fearing for his job. “Try saying another word for her” Yvette points at Liam's nose, as if she's about to slap him into oblivion “No, I won’t say anything… I won’t…” Yvette's anger finally subsides. “Let’s go home!”

Liam hesitates. “Darling, how about we have dinner with the Colonel today?” “No way!” Yvette's temper flares again, pointing at Liam once more “I don’t hang out with your kind of people! You’re going home to eat too! He deserves it! He’s not worth wasting time on!” Liam looks troubled, hoping his wife would show some mercy.

Strangely, Caleb doesn't seem offended at all. He asks Yvette with a smile, "What kind of person am I?"

Yvette turns to look at him, scoffing. "I didn't want to talk about you, because you scumbags and bitches get angry and it's bad for my baby. I don't want my baby to see the ugliness of this world while still in my belly. But since you're asking like this, I've changed my mind." Liam sweats profusely. "My darling, no, let's just let our baby grow peacefully. Don't change your mind." "No!" Yvette declares. "I've decided to teach our baby to distinguish right from wrong!"

She turns to face Caleb again. "Colonel Xia, I'm not trying to be mean, but stop acting like you're some sort of saint. What's with all this talk about MC being there for you when you were down on your luck, about her suffering abroad and wanting to compensate her? Is it so hard to admit you're a cheater? Aren't you just trying to cover up the fact that you're greedy and have always looked for something better?" Caleb's face turns ashen. "I didn't, MC and I didn't..." Yvette's spirit is still high. "I don't give a fuck if you and MC slept together or not! That's not my business. I only care about Liam! But Caleb, this isn't about physical cheating!"

Liam is getting increasingly anxious hearing his wife absolutely tear through his boss without any restraint. Was this something she could just casually say? Out in public?? He immediately covers her mouth. "Let her talk!" Caleb's expression darkens.

"I'll say it!" Yvette slaps away Liam's hand. "Colonel Xia! I told you you're a cheater! The ultimate scumbag! You enjoyed Y/N's wholehearted love while flirting with MC under the guise of "taking care of a sister? What brother buys you a house, bags, and luxury goods? What kind of siblings share a room together while out on a business trip? Oh right, Liam used to get that privilege when you were cadets, but is the stuff in your brain the same shade when you sleep with MC?!" Liam tries really hard not to laugh. "The stuff in your brain isn't the same color"? His wife's mouth was really something… But then again, even he didn't believe Caleb and MC's brains were pure when they were together…

"What are you laughing at?" Yvette turns around to scold her husband. "Your boss doesn't have a brain, it's filled with tofu! You think you're so great? Yours is filled with tofu dregs!" "Darling, please;;; if you want to scold me, let's go back home to do it" "Let me finish!" Yvette hadn't wanted to say all of this, but since she was asked to, she wouldn't be happy until she was finished. She glares at Caleb. "With your filthy thoughts, ask yourself, with your non-existent conscience, when you sided with MC again and again like no tomorrow, wasn't your heart soaring? Like you were back in your youth! Wasn't that right? An old man like you, suddenly rediscovering the feeling of pure love, wasn't your life full of passion? And then what? Clearly, you were emotionally unfaithful, I don't know if your filthy body has cheated on her! But whether it's emotional or physical, it's still cheating! And yet you still insist that there is nothing between you and MC. Caleb Xia, if you openly admit to cheating, I'd respect you as a man. But to cheat and then pretend to be deeply in love, I can only give you one word: scumbag! No, add another: despicable! Finally done, she glares at Liam, "Aren't you leaving?" "Oh, oh, oh." Liam apologizes to Caleb with his eyes, quickly removing himself from the premise.

T + 25 days Caleb checks his personal set of security cameras at work. You weren't lying. MC is clearly seen talking to the secretary, putting the apple juice in her hands. Gideon walks in, and Caleb slams his laptop shut. "Colonel?" A shudder runs down his spine as he meets Caleb's dark gaze. 

T + 31 days Yvette's brutal words live rent free in Caleb's head.

Five years ago, when MC first left, it was during a period of setbacks for him. He spent his entire youth preparing to get into the DAA. But now that he was there, he realized with a start that he, a small town boy, was so woefully unprepared compared to his peers. Years of hard work were on the verge of being wasted. He had a habit of shutting others out when he was struggling. MC knew it. And did her best to call him out of her own accord, always checking in, trying to make him feel better.  But it came the day she couldn't take it anymore. She up and left him, cutting off all communications suddenly. He wasn't stupid; of course he knew the reason why. However, he also had the self-awareness not to drag her down with him. Later, he heard that a wealthy second-generation heir had gone abroad with her.

He knew all of it.

His depression during that period was partly due to the breakup, and partly due to his career setbacks—a mixed bag. He got drunk sometimes, but not entirely out of despair. Most of the time, it was from entertaining his peers, or trying to network with higher-ups, practically begging and pleading for a chance. However, the night you saved him, he was truly heartbroken. He had faced rejection after rejection, losing all confidence and almost giving up. Then you saved him, trading your leg for his rebirth.

From that moment on, he carried the weight of another person's life on his shoulders. It was at that moment that he told himself: I absolutely cannot give up, I cannot give up. There are still people waiting for me to take responsibility for, waiting for me to support them.

Fate can be truly miraculous sometimes. It was after that car accident that things suddenly took a turn for the better. When you got discharged from the hospital, it was also the time his performance soared. After that, his missions only ever returned successful. Offers and promotions came in waves, and his power increased exponentially. 

And then, MC returned.

Somewhere deep in his heart, he faced her with resentment and bitterness, thinking: "The person you looked down on back then has now made it big, standing proudly before you. How do you feel?" He would never admit it though.  Just like the necklace of MC's dreams. The first birthday he spent with you, he thought to himself, "so what? The decorations MC liked, the style she fawned over, I've given them all to another girl. I can afford to do so." So, five years later, when MC returned, he carried this resentment, enjoying her adoration and affection, feeling a childish satisfaction. The person who abandoned him back then was now obediently fawning over him, trying to please him, and the resentment in his heart finally subsided.

But the scales in his heart had been tipped.

Just as Yvette said, he despicably indulged in two relationships, becoming lost in this ambiguity. He basked in MCs adoration and retaliated by showering her with affection and indulgence, as if this would prove to his former, down-on-his-luck self: I've made it big, I'm omnipotent. He never even considered it love or lack thereof. He simply wanted to frantically prove to MC his power, his influence, that he could spoil a woman to the extreme if he wanted.

Of course, in doing so, he hurt you.

But at that time, he didn't think about any of that; he was simply gradually losing himself in his relationship with MC. He explained to you that he was only remembering MC's kindness from when she made the paper cranes and that nothing ever happened between them. Perhaps this reason held some semblance of validity? He always needed a plausible excuse to mask his dark and despicable psychology. But it was also true. He could do anything for MC, except betray you —by betraying you, he meant maintaining boundaries and not doing anything physically inappropriate.

But Yvette said that emotional infidelity also counts as infidelity. Does it? Did he cheat on you? He wasn't sure himself. He couldn't distinguish whether his feelings for MC were of resentment or love.

The only thing he was certain of was that you loved him, loved him to the point of self-sacrifice. So, no matter how his heart swayed, you would always be his Mrs. Xia, and that would never change.

That day after he told you the story about the paper cranes, MC tried to embrace him from behind at work. In that moment, he realized: he couldn't possibly cross any physical boundaries with her. His destiny belonged to you. That night, he wanted to see you more than ever. So, he returned without delay, even before dinnertime. But you were already gone.

So even you could leave him too…

Even with the wealth and luxury and everything he could give you, you could still abandon it so easily. That's right, he laughs at himself, why would you care about money? That silly girl who used to live frugally, worrying about his financial situation, trying to pay him $5 for every math problem he tutored you in - how could you care about money?

He was wrong… He'd been too arrogant for too long, forgetting the path he'd come from, neglecting the most important person in his world. How ridiculous, only realizing you were the most important person after losing you.

And before that?

It seemed everything came before you. Work was more important than you, because he needed to develop his career, earn money, and support you for life; His pride was more important than you, so he absolutely couldn't lose face in front of MC, forcing you to apologize, even though you were never actually in the wrong.

His thinking was simple: even if he had wronged you, it wouldn't matter. You loved him so much; all he had to do was sweet talk and make it back up to you. In fact, many times, between you and MC, he chose to side with MC simply because he knew you would forgive him…

But you didn't. You wouldn't forgive him forever, nor would you wait for him forever.

T + 52 days: Liam stops by Caleb's office. It's past midnight. "Colonel..." he starts, stiffening as Caleb's dead gaze shifts onto him from the screen. "You've been here for the past 5 days straight. I think... you should go home now..." Home? Caleb laughs, a hollow sound, devoid of any positive emotion. Where would he go now? What is home to him?

He admits that in the past five years, he didn't love going home as much.

Mainly, when he first got married, he was afraid to go home and face you, your overwhelming love, and your injury. Guilt and remorse weighed on his heart like a brick, so much so that he couldn't even be intimate with you. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but just seeing your leg overwhelmed him with guilt, making it impossible to continue. And this created a vicious cycle: the greater the psychological pressure, the less he tried, and the less he tried, the greater the pressure… He even saw a therapist for some time, but it didn't help. Over time, he became increasingly adverse to returning home to see you, and staying at his office until midnight.

He had many excuses: logistics, planning, meetings with important stakeholders, out on missions, and most often, just being busy with work. He did indeed spend most of his time working, but no matter how late, he always had a direction in his heart—home. Whether it was his conscience or something else, going home every night was a routine, just like his work.

And now, his home was still there, but he didn't know where he should go after you left.

He always told himself that it was his responsibility to be good to you for the rest of his life, but he didn't even know when it started to become more than just a responsibility. It turned out that when the girl who always smiled at him like a sunflower was no longer there, home was no longer home, and going home lost its meaning.

But you had promised him that you would never leave him, whether in poverty or wealth; you had promised him that you would leave a light on for him no matter how late he came home. He truly believed that this light would illuminate him forever, so he gradually took advantage of you, until ultimately, he became the one who extinguished it.

T + 93 days Caleb's phone rings. Looking down, it's Zayne. “Caleb, what's up? I can't come out for dinner, but feel free to talk on the phone. I'm busy, I have to work overtime.” “Oh…” he says wistfully, “Then it's nothing.” He just had nowhere else to go and wanted to find a place to talk about the past, about people he once knew.

“Oh, by the way, do you remember Sylus Qin?” Zayne suddenly askes.

“I remember…” A name that wasn't so pleasant. “He's gone.” Caleb is taken aback. "Gone?" "He passed away. He actually passed a while ago, abroad." Zayne sighs. "It was an accident, don't tell Y/N." He's... gone?

A voice echoes in Caleb's mind again: "Hey, Caleb, that Y/N from your class..." "Get lost!"

Zayne remembers something else. "Oh, right, you can't tell Y/N anyway, otherwise you wouldn't be asking me to dinner and rambling on and on about your past." Caleb remains silent. Lately, he keeps dreaming about when he was sixteen or seventeen, so he would occasionally chat with Zayne about it.  Zayne only ever told him the same thing: "Only those who are unhappy reminisce about the past; those who are full of vigor only stride forward. Caleb, let Y/N go. She deserves a better future."

Caleb feels a sudden, sharp pain in his heart, and his vision blurs. Now, he couldn't let it go even if he wanted to… But he had no right to not let it go…

“Zayne,” he says in a barely suppressed voice, “I regret it so much…” The more spirited and arrogant he had three months ago, the more desolate and regretful he feels now.

“Caleb Xia,” Zayne sneers on the other end, “You deserve it. Don't play victim with me now, look at your sordid affairs. How to spoke to her in front of me, in front of everyone else? You think none of us notice? How you had absolutely no respect for your ex-wife as a person?" “Zayne, I can't…” Before he can finish speaking, Zayne hangs up the phone. Caleb immediately dials him back.

After the third call, Zayne picks up again. A long silence ensues, until Zayne asks him, "Anything else to say? If not, I'm hanging up. I'm busy!" Caleb chokes for a moment before finally saying, "Zayne, if I said I love Y/N, would you believe me?"

"Bullshit!" Zayne curses, a rare occurrence. "Stop your pretentious nonsense! You don't love anyone but yourself; you're a selfish, self-serving piece of shit. Ask yourself honestly, who do you truly love? Whether was your mistress or Y/N, you only love whoever you need. Did you really even love MC or only what her reactions gave you? I wouldn't have cursed you if you hadn't said that, but hearing you say it out loud disgusts me! You bastard!"

T + 136 Days Caleb goes back to his hometown. Somewhere he hasn't been in many years. He traces the steps he once took to school, watching teenagers shout happily as they play with each other. Somehow, he finds himself in front of Sylus' house. To pay respects, he tells himself. He hesitates for another second before bringing his hand up to knock on the door. 

Two young men greet him. They can't be much older than 20. They stare at Caleb with the same, beady eyes. "Who are you?" "An old classmate of Sylus." He offers, taking his high school yearbook out from his backpack as proof. "We played soccer together. I know its a few years late, but I wanted to come pay my respects."  The twins lead him down to the basement, where many boxes of Sylus' belongings remained. Caleb flips through old textbooks and worksheets, jerseys and field-day awards, CDs and comic books from their youth.  Something small and pink falls out from a book in his hands. 

He bends over to pick it up: a single paper crane

Paper cranes? He picked up the fallen origami bird, its image overlapping with his memories of paper cranes. The page he turned to was a tutorial on how to fold paper cranes. Sylus had written notes on it with a pen. "Some silly girl is folding paper cranes for that Xia boy, and she won't let me help! How long will it take for her to fill that jar? Silly girl!" "Haha! I secretly stole one from her pile! Mischievous act of the day complete!" "Hehe, this silly girl writes something inside every single paper crane. I wonder what she wrote on the one I stole?"

"Written something?" Caleb frowns, picking up the paper crane from the ground and quickly unfolds it. Sure enough, there's a small line of writing inside: 'No matter what happens, you must be happy!'

Caleb's mind goes blank for a moment. He reads the words on the page again, then turns and runs. The noise he makes downstairs alerts the twins, who ask him if everything was alright. "Sorry Luke, Kieran. I have important work to do. I have to go back," Caleb says urgently, bidding farewell to the boys. He drives nonstop to Skyhaven, taking the stairs to the top floor and enters his office. He opens his desk drawer. Inside is a small glass box containing a paper crane.

He had buried all the other paper cranes with his grandmother, leaving only this one as a keepsake. The unfolded paper crane he had taken from Sylus' house lies open on his desk. The handwriting was all too familiar to him—yours. The other paper crane, which he had kept in the small glass box, was clearly made of the same paper but a different color.

He takes a deep breath, and without further delay, unfolds it with trembling fingers.

The orange paper crane reveals writing on it as well. This one reads: Grandma, you must recover. Caleb only has you. The same handwriting. The way you write is distinctive, always rounded and plump, with a kind of innocent charm, completely different from MC's. Looking at these words, his heart sinks as if it's been chained to an iron anchor, falling lower and lower into a bottomless abyss.

He had lost far more than he imagined…

Folding the two pieces of paper together, he finally breaks down in tears. Y/N, I'm sorry… He sits in his office, the whole world utterly silent.

If this were the end of time, how wonderful that would be; he no longer looked forward to waking with the sun the next day… But he could only stay awake, waiting for the night to pass. But the nights are too long. His life is only darkness now.

T + 613 days You carefully make your way onto the stage, eyes momentarily blinded by the sharp glare of stage lights. The applause is thunderous as a bouquet of flowers are presented to you from the dancers. Your thesis project, a fully choreographed piece, was being performed on stage by a full cast for the first time. You insisted on giving yourself a very small role, just a few small steps in the beginning as your leg continues to heal, but it was already more than enough to fill your heart as tears of joy threaten to spill from your eyes. 

Caleb watches your brilliant smile on his phone, in the darkness of his room. It's true that in the 1800 nights he was married to you, he has only wished you the best. Now you're out there, accomplishing your dreams. How much he wishes to be able to proudly say, "that's my Y/N!". But he cannot. Not now. Not that he ever had the right to say it. He reads the comments on the live stream religiously and replays your small segment of dance over and over until his vision blurs. 

Tonight, Caleb dreams of high school.

Back then, all of you were naive and full of youthful exuberance. It was a time of awkwardness and passion, everything direct and intense.

He dreams of Rafayel Shen. Rafayel loved to draw. Caleb had found Rafayel sketching you in the middle of class, and tore up his drawing after school. The two ended up having a fight, still a sore spot in their relationship to this day.

He dreams of Sylus Qin. They were playing soccer together, and you would watch them play from the most inconspicuous spot in the cheerleading squad on the playground, always leaving silently afterward. Sylus puts his arm around Caleb's shoulder, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure. "Hey, Y/N from your class looks real sweet." The young boy instantly knews what the other was up to, coldly announcing, "Get lost, I won't hesitate to beat you up if you mess with her.

Some boys would try to slip confession letters into your locker. You never received any, because Caleb always stopped them. Some boys would put treats in your desk. You never got to eat any, because Caleb always kept them for you, glaring at all the other boys in warning. It was once a childish but pure love, as bright and clear as morning dew.

Why did it change like this?

Caleb is lost in his dreams, unable to find the answer. He lost you.

He meets Zayne and ask him why you were missing. Zayne simply says, "Caleb Xia, you scumbag." He meets Rafayel, who grabs him by the collar, and the two get into a brawl. He meets Sylus, who smiles and says, "You bullied her, so I hid her. You'll never find her now." He sees many, many people, but you are nowhere to be found…

"Caleb!" A clear voice suddenly rings out behind him.

He turns around and sees a girl with a bright smile perform several somersaults, appearing before him.

"Y/N!" He opens his eyes, but all he sees is an empty ceiling. He lies on the bed, his phone still clutched in his hand, battery dead.

A dream.

His Y/N is gone forever.

You let out a tired groan as you begin to sit up, rubbing your sleepy eyes. “Hmm, morning Zayne… do you want me to make breakfast… or are you running late for work again?”

Zayne couldn’t help but let his face furrow in confusion as he sees you begin to fall asleep while sitting up. “Hey, stay awake.” He begins snapping his fingers near your ears, causing you to flinch. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Zayne playing games in the morning? Or do you need to be sadly reminded that I’m your wife.” You scrunch your face up in annoyance as you turn your head towards the voice and blink your eyes open.

The man in front of you… was not Zayne. Not your Zayne at least.

His hair seemed longer, just down to his neck. There was stubble forming around his face, indicating he needed a shave soon. Then there were his eyes… those green hazel eyes you’ve fallen for seemed so tired and dark.

“… you’re not Dr. Zayne.”

“No… I’m not.”

Astra couldn’t help but kick his feet while watching both Dawnbreaker and you have your first meeting.

It was the perfect timeline! There was no MC in this time so there were no distractions!

He watches you (his daughter) interact with a different variation of his devotee. Both of you were discussing the situation you were now in and how to get you back home.

Astra couldn’t help but chuckle at the plan. You both will try to get you back to your home and in the process Dawnbreaker will fall in love with you and you with him and when it’s time to go home, you’ll choose to stay with him and it’s happily ever after from there! His child will finally be loved!

“You say your Dr. Zayne’s wife… but all I’ve ever seen in my dreams are him and… MC together. As a couple. How come I’ve never seen you before until now? I wasn’t even aware Dr Zayne was married.”

“Yes um… yeah…”

Excuse thy fucking pardon?????

Did… did Astra hear that correctly? Dawnbreaker has Zayne’s dreams and most of them are with MC? Fuck that means Dawnbreaker has a thing for MC! And she’s not even present in this world!

He just sent you towards heartbreak!

No no, this can still work! He can work with this! You’re stuck in this time and you have to rely on Dawnbreaker for survival. Even Astra will make sure you won’t turn into one of those horrible Wanderers roaming around. Nope, his baby girl deserves better. (Who said that?)

While you were new to this world, you began to slowly understand the new environment you were dropped in on. It was like a futuristic apocalyptic era. Wanders were the norm, and apparently people could turn into them.

When you asked what Zayne did for a living, he would just stare at you before looking away and resuming what he was doing. Did it hurt knowing this Zayne was also cold towards you? Extremely. But that didn’t deter you one bit.

He allowed you to roam around the small apartment he was living in, letting you get accustomed to the new surroundings you’ll be staying in for the time being. As you continued to take in your new environment, you began to compare this Zayne to your own Zayne.

How similar yet very different one another. New World Zayne spoke of MC earlier, maybe she’s in this world too? But when you asked about her, Zayne straight up said she doesn’t exist.

That actually made you quite sad. Sure you know your Zayne had true romantic feelings for MC. You knew his smile and his time were always reserved for her, but you could never hate her, no. She did absolutely nothing but exist, and it was your Zayne who was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

You glanced over towards Zayne who was stiffly sitting in the couch watching an old soap opera. A medical soap opera at that. A small giggle escapes from you, as you quickly cover your mouth and turn your head away, already feeling the piercing stare of hazel eyes on you.

Zayne however didn’t find this whole situation funny. A woman who was in his bed sleeping, claiming to be Dr Zayne’s wife… she couldn’t be lying due to the fact on knowing about the Doctor, aka the other him. Yet how she arrived here didn’t make sense to him, plus the fact she could easily identify how he wasn’t her Zayne was what shocked him. Then again, he didn’t put much effort into his appearance like the Doctor.

He glanced over at you as you carefully walk around his apartment, eventually he finds you’ve stopped by the window and sees the potted Jasmine he has there. You bent down to get a better look at it, eventually you slowly lifted your hand up to touch one of the drooping petals.

“When was the last time you’ve watered them?” You suddenly ask. Before Zayne was gonna answer you start feeling around in the soil. “Ah, recently… though why does it feel slimy?”

“The water system isn’t all that great. Most of the water I drink is from filtered bottles I buy at the convenience store.”

Zayne watched as you quickly turn your head to face him, a frown etched into your face.

“Zayne… how bad is it out there?”

He did not answer, and you were too scared to find out why.

Astra went back to looking at Dr Zayne as he went about his business like usual, not bothering or questioning where your whereabouts were. The god couldn’t help but rub his hands together like a mischievous fly getting ready for a meal.

And that meal was a pure sweet slow burn angst with a happy ending. If not, he can wait another few centuries to start over again.

After all, Daddy Astra wants to make sure you finally have the love you deserve.

———————

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Yunho had a bird’s-eye view of Haven pulled up on the main monitor. He pointed a laser pen at the screen, his expression intense. You stared at the map. The lines, the call-outs, the technical jargon—it was like looking at a foreign language without a dictionary. Your brain was a cluttered mess of Wooyoung’s screaming instructions from the night before and pure panic. You hadn’t slept. The blue light of the monitors at home was burned into your retinas, and the weight of Wooyoung’s ‘boot camp’ was already making your fingers twitch.

“The Summer Open uses a Best of Three format for the qualifiers. We need to lock in our map pool. Based on our scrimmage data, our strongest win rate is on Bind, but the pro-meta is currently leaning heavily toward Lotus and Sunset.”

“I’m not playing Sunset,” Yeosang deadpanned, spinning in his chair. “The verticality is a mess. It’s a playground for Raze mains, and I refuse to be blasted off a ledge because Mingi forgot to smoke the side.”

“I didn’t forget!” Mingi protested. “I was providing suppressive fire!”

“You shoot at a wall,” Yeosang countered.

“Focus,” Yunho commanded, tapping the desk. He looked at you, his gaze full of that devastating warmth. “Y/N, we need to talk about your lineups on Haven. If we get forced onto a map with long sight-lines, your orb-placements are our only cover. I was looking at the VODs from last night—the way you used the snake bite was... it was genius.”

Your stomach did a slow, sickening roll. That wasn’t me. That was Wooyoung while I was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.

“I was thinking,” you started, your voice sounding thin to your own ears. “Maybe we should focus on more... aggressive, aim-heavy strats? Less reliance on the complicated lineups?”

Yunho frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Why? Your utility is what makes us Level Zero. Anyone can click heads, Y/N, but no one plays the map like you do.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a private whisper like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Are you nervous about the hand-cams? I know you like to play in the dark, but don’t worry. I’ll be right next to you. If your hands shake, I’ll just tell them it’s the vibration from the bass in the arena.”

“Anyways, so for the C-site retake, we’re running smoke early to cut off the long sightline,” Mingi chirped in. “Y/N, when you drop the wall to block, I think you shouldn’t activate it straight away? Not until we notice the enemies. Your line-ups in Haven are absolutely perfected and way better than mine, but where do you want to aim? Straight into C-link?”

“I... I think I just, um aim for the cubby?” you guessed, your voice wavering.

The clicking of Yeosang’s keyboard stopped. He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders went rigid. “The cubby?” Yeosang repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register he used when he found a bug in a code. “Y/N, the cubby is playing head-down behind the green crates. If you aim for it, you’re leaving the link completely open. You never do that.”

“I just meant... in that specific scenario,” you stammered, feeling the heat rise in your neck. “Depending on the economy.”

“Economy doesn’t change the skills, you always buy the skills,” Yeosang countered, finally spinning his chair around. He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing behind his bangs. “Actually, I’ve been noticing something since we signed up. Your logic is getting... fuzzy. That lineup you used on Bind yesterday? You missed the bounce three times in practice. You don’t miss, Viper. You’re a machine."

“She’s tired, Yeosang,” Yunho cut in, his voice firm but defensive. He stepped between you and Yeosang’s piercing gaze, his large frame acting as a literal shield. “We’ve been grinding for forty-eight hours straight. Everyone’s ‘logic’ gets fuzzy when they’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine."

“It’s not just fatigue, Yun,” Yeosang’s voice sharpened. “She didn’t know the call-out for Fracture yesterday.”

Mingi looked back and forth between them, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a worried frown. “Maybe it’s just... tournament nerves? I get them too! Sometimes I forget which button is my ultimate!”

“You’re an idiot, Mingi, that’s expected,” Yeosang snapped, his eyes never leaving you. “But she’s the MVP. We’re building our entire pro-strategy around her ‘god-tier’ game sense. If she’s lagging this hard before we even hit the stage, we’re going to get humiliated.”

“That’s enough,” Yunho didn’t raise his voice, but the Captain authority was absolute. He turned to you, his hands reaching out to grip your upper arms. His touch was warm, but you could feel the slight, protective tremble in his fingers. “Y/N, look at me.” You forced your eyes up to his. “You don’t have to explain yourself, mistakes are allowed,” he whispered, yet it was loud  enough for the room to hear. “If you’re hitting a wall, we adjust. If you want to change the lineups, we change them.” 

“You’re being blinded by the romance stats,” Yeosang deadpanned, but he sounded more frustrated than mean. “If she can’t execute the C-long smoke, our entire A-split fails.”

“Then I’ll cover C-long!” Yunho turned back to Yeosang, his jaw set. “I’ll adjust my rotation. We’ll pick up the slack. Level Zero doesn’t interrogate its members; we support them. Now, are we going to fix the execute, or are we going to sit here and play ‘spot the error’?”

Yeosang let out a long, heavy sigh and turned back to his screen. “Fine. But if we lose the scrimmage because Viper forgot how to throw a smoke, I’m putting it in the VOD review.”

Yunho squeezed your arms one last time before letting go, then he leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a quick kiss, a gesture of solidarity. “Don’t listen to him,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Just play your game.”

You nodded, but you like a ticking bomb. Yunho wasn’t just defending his girlfriend; he was defending a lie. And the more he fought for you, the more you felt like you were leading him straight into a massacre.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Seonghwa had spent three hours perfecting his cologne-to-skin ratio before heading out on a date, and Mingi was currently at The Abyss, probably accidentally breaking a glass while trying to look cool

It was just you. And Yunho. And a very shiny, very tempting PS5.

Yunho was currently occupying approximately 75% of the sofa, his long legs stretched out, his bottom lip tucked in that specific, “I’m-not-mad-but-I’m-sad” pout that usually made you melt instantly. He was holding the DualSense controller like it was a sacred artifact. “I’m just saying,” Yunho muttered, “we’ve been dating for weeks, and the only time I see your screen is when there’s a spike involved. Am I not worthy of a casual lobby, Viper? Am I just a tactical asset to you?”

“Yunho, stop being dramatic,” you laughed, reaching for the controller, but he held it high above his head, using his unfair wingspan to keep it out of reach.

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being neglected!” He shifted, his broad chest pressing against your shoulder as he looked down at you through his glasses, his eyes full of playful hurt. “If you don’t feel like Valorant it’s fine. I bought this new RPG. It has high-fidelity graphics, a complex leveling system—it’s very ‘Radiant-tier.’ I thought you’d like it.”

“I don’t want a complex leveling system,” you grunted, lunging for his wrist. “I want the Ultimate Game.”

“The Ultimate Game?” Yunho’s brows shot up. He finally lowered the controller, intrigued despite himself. “Is it a hidden indie gem with a 10/10 meta-score?”

“Give. It. Here.” With a quick swipe, you tackled him—or as much as a human can tackle a 6’2” tower—and wrestled the controller from his grip. You scrambled to the other end of the couch, frantically navigating the UI while Yunho watched, completely bewildered.

“Okay, okay! Show me your elite taste,” he teased, crossing his arms and leaning back, a smirk playing on his lips. “What is the secret weapon of the Level Zero Goddess?”

The screen flickered. A bright logo popped up, followed by the most upbeat, whimsical music imaginable.

RAYMAN LEGENDS.

Silence descended upon the living room. Yunho stared at the screen. Then he looked at you. Then he looked back at the screen where a limbless yellow creature was currently doing a joyful little dance. “...Rayman?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Your ultimate game… is the platformer with the singing frogs?”

“It is a masterpiece of level design and musical timing! Don’t you dare judge the Globox!”

“I’m not judging!” Yunho’s hands flew up in a gesture of total surrender, though he was shaking with suppressed laughter. He slid across the cushions until his side was pressed firmly against yours, his arm draping over the back of the sofa to pull you into his space. “It’s just… you’re the Viper. You’re terrifying. You’re the girl who knows every lineup in the book. And you’re currently selecting a level called ‘Castle Rock’?”

“Just pick up the damn controller, Captain,” you muttered, your face heating up. “And try to keep up. This requires actual rhythm, something your ‘tactical’ brain might struggle with.”

Yunho’s grin turned wicked—the shy boy was gone, replaced by the gamer who never backed down from a challenge. He grabbed the second controller, his long fingers settling over the triggers. “Oh, it’s on,” he murmured, leaning his head against yours. “But if I get a higher score than the Goddess in her own territory… I get to pick the next daily quest.”

“Deal,” you whispered, hitting ‘Start.’

In no time the colorful “Victory!” screen for Rayman pulsed on the TV, casting rhythmic flashes of pink and blue across the darkened living room. Yunho was still leaning against you, he was quiet—the kind of comfortable, post-game quiet that usually meant his brain was processing at 100% capacity.

“You’re still lagging,” you teased softly, nudging his ribs with your elbow. “I thought you said you were a rhythm-game natural. You missed like, five of the singing eye-stalks in that last run.”

Yunho let out a soft, huffy laugh that puffed against your hair. He didn’t pull away; instead, he tucked his chin over the top of your head, drawing you a fraction closer. “I told you,” he murmured, his voice sounding deeper. “My focus was… compromised. It’s hard to time a jump when the person next to me is making ‘die-die-die’ noises at a cartoon dragon. You’re scary when you’re platforming, baby.”

You froze, the controller still clutched in your hands, the plastic slightly warm from the heat of the game. Yunho didn’t pull back. He didn’t cough, or stammer, or do any of the clumsy “oops-I-said-too-much” things you might have expected from the boy who usually tripped over his own long legs. Instead, he just let his breath hitch for a split second before exhaling slowly, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle on your shoulder.

“Did you just…” Your voice was tiny, fragile.

“Did I just what?” He sounded calm, but you could feel the vibration of his chest against your back—his heart was hammering a rhythm that definitely wasn’t “Castle Rock” approved. You turned your head just enough to catch his gaze. He was looking at you with an expression that was dangerously soft, his glasses slightly crooked and his hair a mess from where he’d been leaning against the sofa

“You called me baby,” you whispered, the heat finally reaching your ears.

Yunho tilted his head, a slow, shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in until your noses almost brushed. “We’ve already passed the Beggnier’s Guide level, haven’t we? And if you can handle a dragon, I think you can handle a nickname.” He paused, his hand softly grabbing one of yours. “Unless you didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” you breathed, finally dropping the controller onto the cushion.

Yunho’s grin returned, wider and more confident this time. He closed the remaining distance, pressing his forehead against yours. “Good. Because Viper is for the lobby. But ‘baby’...” He let the word linger, tasting it again. “That’s just for here. Now, are we going to play the next level, or are you too busy blushing?”

“Shut up,” you laughed, though you didn’t pull away.

“I like this version of you,” he whispered.

The teasing remark you had ready died in your throat. “This version?”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely at the screen, then back to you—to your bare face, the oversized shirt you borrowed as soon as you arrived at his apartment, and the way you were currently tangled in his space. “Don’t get me wrong, Viper is… she’s incredible. She’s the person I look up to on the server. But this girl? The one who gets genuinely offended if a frog doesn’t hit a high note? She’s… she’s the one I’ve been wanting to meet.” A cold spark of guilt flickered in your chest—a sharp reminder of the tournament, the lie, and the training waiting for you the second you go back to your apartment. You looked away, staring at the cartoon character on the screen, but Yunho’s hand moved, his fingers gently catching your chin and tilting your face back up to his. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to that honey-sweet tone that always made your defense stats crumble to zero. “Did I say something wrong? You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re trying to calculate a tactical retreat.”

“I’m just…” You swallowed hard, the weight of the secret feeling like a lead debuff. “I’m just not used to… hearing such stuff.”

Yunho’s expression softened into something so tender it actually hurt to look at. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm and steady. “You aren’t the hero because of your K/D ratio, Y/N,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your lower lip. “You’re the hero because you’re the only person who makes me feel like I don’t have to be someone else or pretend all the time. With you, I’m just… Yunho. And that’s the best quest I’ve ever been on.”

The guilt in your chest felt like a glitch in a moment that was otherwise perfect. You wanted to tell him. You wanted to spill everything about the tournament and the persona, but the words felt like they were stuck behind a border you couldn’t cross. Before you could spiral, Yunho pulled you closer, he seemed to sense the internal battle raging behind your eyes and decided to end it the only way he knew how—by being unapologetically himself. He leaned back just an inch, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re overthinking. I can practically see the loading icon spinning over your head.”

“I just... I don’t want to let you down,” you admitted, the truth coming out in a fragmented, half-honest way. “The hero you see when we play? Sometimes I feel like I’m just playing a character.”

“Then stop,” he said simply. He reached down and took your hand, interlacing his long, elegant fingers with yours. “If you ever feel like it’s too much, just come over. We’ll play the game with the singing frogs. We’ll eat bad takeout. I’ll let you win at Mario Kart—maybe."

You let out a watery laugh. “You would never let me win at Mario Kart. You’re too competitive.”

“True,” he conceded with a wink, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “But for you, I might at least consider not using the blue shell.” Yunho squeezed your hand one last time before suddenly straightening up. “Wait. Stay right there. Don’t move. Don’t even pause the music.”

“Where are you going?” You watched, confused, as he scrambled off the sofa with a sudden burst of energy. He didn’t head toward his bedroom or the bathroom. Instead, he hurried toward the small utility closet near the entryway. You heard the faint creak of the door, the rustle of plastic, and then a muffled, “Aha! Still alive.” When he turned the corner, your breath caught. He wasn’t holding a controller or a snack. He was holding a bouquet of peonies and baby’s breath, the petals vibrant against his dark hoodie. He looked slightly flustered, his cheeks flushed pink as he walked back to the couch, hiding the flowers behind his back for a split second before presenting them to you like a hard-earned trophy. “Where did you even get those?” you stammered, reaching out to touch a soft petal. “We’ve been in this apartment for like three hours. Did you… did you spawn these into existence?”

Yunho let out a nervous, airy chuckle, settling back down beside you. “I got them this morning. I hid them in the bucket in the closet because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it if the vibe wasn’t right. I kept thinking, ‘Is it too much? Is it too early?’ I was so worried they’d wilt before I found the right moment to tell you.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering there, his thumb skimming the line of your jaw. The playful gamer light in his eyes had softened into something steady and profound. “I’ve realized that you aren’t just my duo-partner. You’re my… you’re my entire world-map.” He stopped, his breath hitching. He looked like he was about to bolt, but he forced himself to stay, his gaze locked on yours with sincerity. “I love you,” he breathed. “I love you so much it feels like a debuff to my entire system when you’re not in the room.” 

The words “I love you” were in the air between you, heavy and sweet, like a rare achievement finally unlocked. But the second Yunho saw the look in your eyes—the pure, unfiltered softness of your reaction—his internal CPU hit 100% and his cooling system failed. His eyes went wide, his pupils shrinking as the reality of what he’d just confessed fully downloaded. “I—I just—that was—” He didn’t even finish the sentence. He let out a muffled, embarrassed groan and immediately dropped his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He hid there, his nose pressing into your skin, his entire body becoming a literal heater against yours. You could feel the tips of his ears burning against your cheek. His arms tightened around you, hauling you flush against his chest as if he could hide his entire frame behind you if he just hugged you hard enough. You felt the puff of his breath against your collarbone as he spoke, his voice muffled by your skin and sounding like a confession of a different kind. “I think my heart just overclocked,” he whispered, “I’m pretty sure I’m technically dead right now. Please don’t look at me for at least four business days. I need to reboot.” He nudged his face deeper into your neck, a shy, shaky laugh escaping him. “Also,” he added, his voice even smaller, “if there was a leaderboard for ‘Most Pathetic Confession,’ I'm definitely Top One. I’ve reached the final boss and I'm just... I'm just here with no armor.”

“Overclocked, huh?” you reached up, running your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. “Is that why you’re currently running at 100 degrees Celsius? Do I need to call IT, or should I just apply some cooling gel patch to your forehead?”

Yunho let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whimper, his grip on your waist tightening. “Please… please don’t,” he muffled into your skin. “I’m already at critical failure. My fans are spinning so fast I’m pretty sure I’m going to levitate off the mattress.”

You shifted, trying to pry his face away from your neck. He resisted for a second, clutching you tighter like a giant, panicked koala, but eventually, he crumbled. He let you tilt his head back, and the sight of him was enough to make your own heart skip a beat. He was a total wreck. His glasses were fogged, his hair was a chaotic nest, and his face was a shade of deep red. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze darting to the pillow, to the ceiling, to the wall—anywhere but you. “Four business days?” your fingers traced the shell of his ear—which was, indeed, radiating enough heat to power a small village. “That’s a pretty long downtime for a Radiant-tier player, Yunnie.”

Yunho let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a desperate plea for mercy. His eyes finally flickered to yours for a split second before darting away again, his long lashes fluttering with nerves. “The system is down,” he managed, his voice still thick with that shy, honeyed rasp. “Complete server maintenance required. No users allowed until further notice.”

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, leaning in until your foreheads touched.

“I'm a disaster,” he corrected, though he didn’t pull away. He finally braved a look at you, his dark eyes shimmering. “But I meant it. All of it. Even the parts that sounded like I’ve been spending too much time on a headset.” He took a slow, shaky breath, and you could feel the way his body gradually began to relax against yours. 

“You do spend too much time on a headset, though.” You murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. “But you don’t need four business days, I think the server is already back online.”

Yunho’s shy smile finally broke through the blush, he tilted his head, closing the tiny gap between you until his nose was nuzzling yours. “Yeah?” he whispered, his voice gaining a tiny bit of its playful spark. 

You let your hand slide from his cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in those soft locks. “But I have to admit, Captain... I’m a little disappointed. I thought you were supposed to be the one who handles high-pressure situations without breaking a sweat.”

Yunho let out a pained, soft groan. “It’s—it’s a different kind of pressure! There’s no manual for this!”

“Excuses,” you teased, leaning to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, right where that pretty smile of his was trying to peek through. “You were doing so well. Very tactical. Very… efficient.”

“Y/N, stop,” his eyes were once again squeezed shut as if the sheer sight of you was too much for his system to handle. “I am literally a puddle. You’re talking to a liquid state of matter right now.”

You laughed, “Well, if you’re a puddle, then you’re my puddle,” you murmured, your expression finally softening, the teasing dropping away. “And for the record?” You waited until he braved opening one eye. “I love you too, Yunnie.”

He didn’t say anything for a full four seconds—his jaw just worked silently like a character with a broken animation cycle.

Then, he lunged.

He hauled you into his chest, wrapping his massive arms around you and rolling over on the couch until you were tucked securely against him, his face hidden once more in the crook of your neck. “You can’t— you can’t just say that!” he choked out, his voice cracking spectacularly. “I was—I was prepared for a ‘Good game, teammate’ or a ‘Nice try, Captain.’ I wasn’t—I wasn’t ready!”

“You literally said it first!” You laughed, trying to breathe through his crushing hug.

“That’s different! I’m the one who’s supposed to be the disaster!” He pulled back just enough to look at you, he looked like he wanted to cry and cheer at the same time. “You love me? Like… for real?”

“For real,” you whispered, reaching up to finally straighten his fogged-up glasses. “I love the Captain. But I love the ‘puddle’ a whole lot more.”

He let out a long, shaky breath, the last of his nervous tension finally dissipating. He leaned down, kissing you with a slow, deep sincerity. “Then I guess… I guess I really don’t need those four business days,” he murmured against your lips. “But I might need a few more minutes of this. Just to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“A few more minutes?” you murmured, your voice dropping an octave as you slid your hands down from his neck to his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart through the fabric of his hoodie. “I think we can do better than that.” You leaned forward, closing the distance slowly, giving him every second to retreat. The kiss started out hesitant, a soft, testing press of lips. You tasted the salt of his skin and the lingering sweetness of the moment. You felt him freeze for a split second before he finally, shakily, began to melt.

Yunho’s hands were still trembling where they rested on your waist, his large palms feeling heavy and hot through your clothes. But as the reality of your confession truly settled into his marrow, the kiss shifted. It deepened, losing its tentative edge and becoming something hungrier, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between the words he’d struggled to say and the feeling that was currently overflowing in his chest. His large hand slid from your waist to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as he tilted his head to find a better angle. 

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, the pupils swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in jagged hitches. He looked like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at a view that was both dizzying and irresistible. “I’m... I’m doing this right, aren’t I?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m not—I’m not lagging?”

You chuckled softly, reaching up to frame his face, your thumbs smoothing over his burning cheekbones. “You’re doing perfect, better than perfect.”

Yunho’s hands, usually so occupied with the precision of a keyboard, began to wander with a new curiosity. He was a tactile learner, and right now, you were the only thing that mattered. His large palm slid from your waist, tracing the curve of your hip before moving upward, his touch light enough to make your skin prickle with electricity. He moved slowly, as if he were afraid that pressing too hard might break you. He took a shaky breath and leaned in, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He began to trail slow, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his stubble grazing your skin. You tilted your head back, exposing the line of your throat to the cool air of the room, and let out a soft, airy sigh.

Yunho’s entire body jolted. “Did I—” he started, his eyes flying to yours, filled with that familiar, wide-eyed panic. “Did I hurt you? Was that too much pressure? I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you whispered, reaching out to lace your fingers through his, guiding his hand to your waist. “It felt good. It means you’re doing it right."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right. Good. Okay.” Yunho began to explore the curve of your waist, his thumb tracing the line of your spine. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, making your stomach flip. “I want... I want to be closer. Is that—can we?” He didn’t even know how to ask for it, his experience level at zero despite his towering frame and confident gamer persona. He was a giant of a man reduced to a mess of nerves by the simple prospect of skin-on-skin. “I... I don’t want to mess this up.”

You reached to gently slide his glasses off his face. You set them aside without breaking eye contact. Without the frames, his gaze felt even more intense—dark, dilated, and fixated entirely on you. You guided his hand up, pressing his palm flat against your cheek, then trailed it down to the curve of your throat. The heat radiating from him was intense. You shifted your weight, straddling his lap on the sofa, and watched as his entire face went a new, impossible shade of crimson. “Oh,” he choked out, his hands hovering uncertainly near your hips. “Oh, okay. We’re... we’re doing this. This is happening. High stakes. Final boss. No checkpoints.”

The comment was so perfectly Yunho that you couldn’t help the soft, genuine laugh that bubbled up. You reached out, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. You waited until his wide, panicked eyes locked onto yours. “Look at me," you whispered, your voice calm in the middle of his internal storm. You waited for his breathing to hitch, then level out. “This isn’t a match. There’s no rank, and there’s definitely no way to lose.” You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, closing your eyes so he could feel the sincerity in your voice. “It’s just me. And I’m not some final boss you have to defeat. I’m your person. We’re on the same team, remember? We’re just... discovering a new map together.”

“Same team,” he repeated, his voice losing that panicked edge and softening into a low, honeyed rasp. He let out a long, shaky exhale, his nose brushing against yours. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”

You took his hovering hands and guided them firmly to your waist. “You can touch me. I promise.”

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers finally curling around your hips. His grip was tentative at first, but as he felt the warmth of your body through your clothes, his touch grounded. “My brain is literally just a blue screen right now,” he whispered, a small, helpless laugh vibrating in his chest. “I’ve spent a thousand hours practicing combos and memorising maps, and right now, I can’t remember how to breathe. You’re—you’re so close.”

“Then don’t think about breathing,” you whispered, your fingers hooking into the hem of his hoodie. “Just feel.” As you began to tug the fabric upward, Yunho’s posture went rigid, his eyes widening as he realized the trajectory of the moment. He lifted his arms with a clumsy, mechanical sort of grace, allowing you to pull the fabric over his head. When it cleared his hair—leaving it a static-charged, adorable mess—he looked more exposed than you’d ever seen him. He looked down at his bare chest, then back up at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His skin was pale, save for a frantic, blooming flush that crept from his chest all the way to the tips of his ears. The sight of him—broad-shouldered, solid, and looking at you as if you were a miracle he hadn’t yet prepared for—made your own heart hammer against your ribs. You reached for the hem of your own shirt, and the room seemed to go silent except for the rhythmic thrum of his heart, which you could practically feel through the air between you. His eyes followed your hands with a focus that was terrifyingly absolute.

“Wait,” he breathed, his hand coming up to catch your wrist before you could pull the shirt too high up. His palm was searing, his grip firm but trembling. “Can I... can I do it? I want to... I want to be the one. Even if my hands won’t stop shaking.”

“Of course.” You covered his hands with yours, guiding them more than leading them. His fingers were trembling—actually, visibly shaking—as he reached for the fabric. He swallowed, eyes flicking from your face to his hands like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he blinked. As he slowly pulled the shirt over your head, the cool air of the room hit your skin, but it was immediately chased away by the sheer intensity of his gaze. 

Yunho looked at you like you were something sacred—something he had studied from afar but never dared to touch. His eyes traveled over you, tracing the line of your collarbone and the curve of your shoulders with a reverence that made your pulse skip. “You’re real,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and I’ll just be at my desk with a headset on... but you’re here.” He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. You felt the damp heat of his breath against your skin, followed by the soft, hesitant press of his lips. He started small—tiny, shy kisses along your pulse point—but as you arched into him, letting out a soft hum, his grip on your waist tightened. He pulled back just enough to look at you, the shy gamer was still there, but beneath it was a man waking up to the power he held over you—and the power you held over him. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you flush against his bare chest. The contact was electric—skin on skin, your racing heart beating directly against his. He leaned up, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth in a move that was surprisingly bold, eliciting a sharp, surprised hitch in your breath. He seemed to take courage from your reaction, his tongue darting out to soothe the spot he’d bitten before deepening the kiss with a newfound hunger. It was clumsy in its intensity, but the honesty of it was intoxicating.

As your hands roamed over his bare shoulders, feeling the way his skin bunched and rippled under your touch, Yunho’s own exploration became more daring. One of his hands traveled up your spine, his long fingers mapping every inch until he reached the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to give him better access to the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Is this... is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his lips never fully leaving you. “Am I doing what you like?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your head falling back as he found a particularly sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Exactly that.”

He let out a shaky, triumphant breath, his chest expanding against yours. “I’ve thought about this,” he confessed, his voice muffled. “In the middle of matches, or when I’m supposed to be sleeping... I’ve thought about how you’d sound if I did this.” He moved his hands, his knuckles brushing against the skin of your stomach right above the waistband of your jeans. The contact made your muscles involuntary ripple, a sharp intake of breath escaping you. His thumbs begin to stroke small, mesmerized circles into your skin. He watched the movement of his own hands against you, his expression shifting from panicked to a dazed, quiet wonder. His hands slid higher, his long fingers splaying across your ribs, mapping the curve of your body with a growing, hungry curiosity. He reached up, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you down into a kiss that was no longer hesitant. It was deep, desperate. His tongue swept against yours, a plea for you to show him exactly how much more there was to discover.

The kiss turned feral, a messy collision of teeth and tongues that tasted like the desperate relief of finally being known. Yunho’s hands were no longer just hovering; they were active, possessive, sliding from your ribs to the small of your back to anchor you against him. He let out a low, needy sound into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips as if he was trying to pull you into his very skin. Underneath the frantic heat of the kiss, he shifted. It was a subtle adjustment of his weight—a subconscious search for friction—and that was when you felt it. The hard, heavy length of him pressed firmly against your thigh, separated only by the thin fabric of his joggers. Yunho’s entire system seemed to stall. He pulled back just an inch, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes darting to yours with a look of pure, wide-eyed shock. He looked like he’d just been hit with a status effect he hadn’t prepared for.

“Oh,” he breathed, his voice cracking spectacularly. “Oh... that’s... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—my body is just—” You didn’t let him finish the apology. You shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, against him. The reaction was instantaneous. Yunho’s head snapped back against the sofa cushion, his eyes squeezing shut as a sharp, broken moan escaped his throat. It wasn’t a loud sound—it was a soft, strangled hitch of breath that sounded like it had been torn out of him. His fingers spasmed against your waist, his knuckles turning white as he gripped you with a sudden, overwhelming strength. Your hands slid down to the waistband of his joggers. “Wait—wait,” he stammered, his hands flying to cover yours. He took a long, shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. When he found only warmth, he let out a puff of air and slowly moved his hands, allowing you to continue. “Okay. Okay. Phase two. I’m ready. I think.”

As your fingers hooked into the elastic of his waistband, you could feel the frantic, rhythmic twitching of his abdominal muscles. You eased the fabric down, his eyes remained locked on yours, wide and shimmering with a mixture of terror and absolute, undiluted devotion. When his joggers slid down his ankles to the floor, he didn’t try to cover himself. Instead, he gripped the cushions of the sofa so hard his knuckles turned white, his chest heaving as he tried to regulate a respiratory system that had clearly forgotten its programming. You leaned down, trailing your lips from his collarbone up to that sensitive spot beneath his jaw, and the sound he made—a high, broken whimper—was the most honest thing you’d ever heard. 

Yunho reached for the button of your jeans next. His hands were steadier now, though he struggled with the clasp for a second, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in a look of sheer concentration. When the denim finally gave way, he let out a triumphant, shaky puff of air. “Level cleared,” he murmured, a tiny spark of his playful self returning even through the heavy haze of his desire. He helped you slide the rest of the way out of your jeans, his movements slow and worshipful. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and he was kissing you again—deep, certain. 

Yunho’s fingers felt like live wires against your skin, tracing the line of your spine with a reverence that made your head swim. When he reached the metal clasp of your bra, he faltered for a heartbeat, but you nodded your head to encourage him.

“It’s okay, you can take it off,” you reassured, your nose brushing against his.

“Okay,” he whispered against your lips, “Command received. Attempting to... to execute.” He fumbled at first, his thumbs searching for the logic of the hooks. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves—his skin damp with the sheer effort of staying composed. He let out a frustrated, needy little huff, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he focused every bit of his Radiant-tier precision on the task.

“Yun,” you murmured, a playful tilt to your voice even as your own heart raced. “Do you need a walkthrough?”

“No,” he gasped, his jaw tightening. “No, I’ve got it. I just—” Then, with a sudden, triumphant click, the tension snapped. Yunho froze. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet of the apartment. He didn’t move for a second, his breath hitching in his chest. Slowly, he slid his hands around to the front, his palms grazing your ribs as he helped the straps fall away. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy, drinking in the sight of you in the soft light. Yunho’s hands retreated just an inch, hovering in the small, heated space between your bodies. His fingers were trembling, twitching with a mix of instinctual urge and a deep-seated fear of crossing a line he hadn’t been invited to cross yet. He looked down, his breath coming in shallow, jagged puffs that fanned across your skin. His eyes were wide, fixated on you with a look of such pure wonder.

You reached out, catching his wrists and gently guiding his large, hot palms forward until they were just grazing your breasts. “You can touch them,” you whispered, your voice grounding him. “I want you to.”

A low, broken sound escaped his throat—halfway between a gasp and a whimper. The moment his hands finally made full contact with your boobs, his eyes squeezed shut, letting out a long, shuddering exhale. “Oh,” he choked out, his fingers curling instinctively, testing the softness and weight of them. “Okay, wow. You’re… you’re so soft. I didn’t think—I mean, I thought, but this is…” He opened his eyes again, and the fear was almost entirely gone, replaced by a dazed, singular focus. He watched his own hands, his dark lashes fluttering as he mapped the curve of your flesh, his thumbs beginning to move in slow, mesmerized circles around your nipples. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a confession than a question. “Do you… do you like that?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your own hands sliding up his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath his skin. “I like it a lot.”

He let out a small, triumphant puff of air, a tiny shadow of a smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his flushed cheeks. “Okay,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips were just a fraction of an inch from yours. He reached down, one of his hands sliding from your breast to your waist, and with a sudden surge of strength, that reminded you just how much larger he was, he pulled you flush against him and captured your lips in a kiss that was deeper and more sure than anything before it. He shifted his weight, easing you back onto the cushions as he loomed over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, reaching up to pull you up.

Yunho didn’t just carry you; he held you like you were the most precious thing in existence, his large arms trembling slightly. The walk to the bedroom was a short, hazy blur of shadows and the frantic thud of his heart against your chest. When he reached his bed, he lowered you onto the mattress with a gentleness that bordered on reverence, his hands lingering on your skin as if he were afraid you’d vanish if he let go. The bed groaned softly under his weight as he followed you down, looming over you. The moonlight filtering through the blinds cast sharp, silver lines across his broad shoulders, highlighting the raw tension in his frame. He looked down at you, his hair a chaotic mess, his face flushed a deep, beautiful pink.

“Is the… is the lighting okay?” he whispered, his voice cracking as he tried to maintain a tiny bit of humour to mask the fact that his hands were still shaking. “I didn’t exactly prep the arena for a cinematic cutscene.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging him down until his face was inches from yours. “Yunho. Stop. It’s perfect.”

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Okay. Perfect.” He began to kiss you again, but it was different now—slower, deeper, filled with a heavy, magnetic pull. His large hands, though still trembling, found their way back to your breasts with a newfound, singular focus. “You said… I could,” he whispered like a reminder to himself. He didn’t just touch you; he worshiped. He used his palms to lift and squeeze gently, his thumbs sweeping over the nipples in a rhythm that was increasingly less like a confused beginner and more like someone discovering a natural instinct. His eyes were wide, fixated on the way his skin looked against yours, his breath coming in short, needy hitches.

Your hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers. When your fingers hooked into the elastic, Yunho’s entire body gave a violent, electric jolt. He froze, his hands stilling on your chest, his eyes snapping to yours with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. “Wait—oh. Oh, we’re… okay,” he stammered, his face reaching a shade of red that looked like it might actually glow in the grey of the room.

“Phase three,” you teased softly, your voice a low hum. “Do you want to opt out?”

“No!” the word came out a little too fast, a little too loud. He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “No. Definitely not. I’m just… Give me a second.” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he lifted his hips just enough to help you, his movements clumsy but eager. As you slowly drew the fabric down his long legs, Yunho let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. When the last barrier was finally gone, he looked back at you, his vulnerability so raw it was almost tangible. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, but this time his hands didn’t stay still. They moved back to your breasts, his touch firmer now, more desperate. He began to trail kisses down your throat, his lips hot and wet, until he reached the curve he’d been admiring. He paused for a heartbeat, his breath ghosting over your nipple, and then he looked up at you— final check for permission. When you arched your back toward him, he leaned in, taking you into his mouth. The sensation of his mouth on you was the final system override. Yunho’s tongue was hesitant at first, swirling with a shy, tasting curiosity, but as you let out a sharp, broken gasp, his confidence surged. He let out a low, muffled growl against your skin, his suction deepening as he realized exactly how much power he had over you. His large hands were possessive, one palm cupping your other breast, squeezing with a rhythmic, heavy heat, while his other hand slid back down to your thighs, his thumb digging into the soft flesh.

As he moved to slide the fabric of your panties down your legs, he paused, his gaze flickering up to yours. “I—I’m about to... initiate the next phase,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, that adorable panic momentarily clashing with his desire. He took a shaky breath, trying to steady his hands. “Your... your physical feedback suggests that the, uh, compatibility levels are... they’re optimal. I just want to make sure I’m not... skipping any vital steps in the sequence.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, reaching down to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “No steps skipped, Yun.” He nodded nervously, and finished the task. He stayed there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, looking at you with a quiet, stunned worship that made you feel like a goddess. He reached out, his fingers hesitant at first, ghosting over the soft skin of your inner thigh. He was shivering, a fine tremor running through his large frame. Slowly, he moved higher, his touch light as a feather until he finally reached the center of you.

When his fingers met your warmth, his breath hitched so loudly it was almost a sob. He didn’t pull away; instead, he let his hand linger, his touch turning soft and exploring. He felt the slick, heated evidence of how much you wanted him, and his pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. “Oh,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, becoming thick and gravelly. “You’re... you're already so... your stats are... they’re red-lining.” He began to move his fingers with a clumsy, sweet curiosity, tracing your folds.You let out a sharp, needy moan, your head falling back against the pillow as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Did that—does that feel... okay?” he stammered, his thumb catching against you in a way that made your hips arch off the bed.

“Yunho... yes. Please, don't stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he promised, his voice regaining a sliver of that Captain confidence even as his face stayed bright red. “I’m... I’m just calibrating. I want to make sure I know... exactly how you like it. I want to be... the only one who knows your map like this.” He leaned forward, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your thigh as his hand continued its shy rhythm. He began to move his thumb in a slow, circular motion, the slickness of you made his movements fluid, and the sound of it—the soft, wet friction—made his own breath come in jagged, desperate gasps. Before he could even draw a full breath to apologize for being clumsy or ask if he’s doing it right, you reached down, fistfuls of his hair tangling in your fingers, and jerked him upward. Yunho let out a surprised, strangled gasp as you forced him to bridge the gap, dragging his face up until he was hovering mere millimeters from yours. 

“Less talking, Captain,” you breathed, the command vibrating against his lips. “More of this.”

You crashed your mouth against his, swallowing his startled moan. It wasn’t a soft kiss—it was a claim. You kissed him with all the pent-up frustration of the lie, all the desperation of the “boot camp,” and all the genuine, terrifying love you felt for the boy above you. You reached down, your fingers finally brushing against his erection, fully exposed and pulsing with the same frantic energy as his heart. Yunho’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head at the contact. He let out a long, shuddering hiss, his hips bucking upward into your hand with a desperate, uncoordinated instinct. “Oh—god,” he choked out.

“Not yet,” you whispered, your thumb grazing the tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum. “The main quest hasn’t even started.”

Yunho let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-whimper, his hands flying to your wrists to steady himself. He was trembling so hard the bed seemed to shake with him. He looked up at you, his dark eyes blown out, shimmering with a mix of terrifying love and overwhelming lust. “I don’t... I don’t know if I can be patient anymore,” he confessed, “I want to be gentle, I want to be perfect for you, but my whole system is screaming at me to... to just...”

“Then listen to it,” you reached down to guide him, your fingers palmed his cock, and the breath left your lungs in a sudden rush. He wasn’t just average; he was big. The sheer length of him was daunting, a weight that felt almost impossible to reconcile with the shy, blushing man hovering over you. “Yunho,” you breathed, your voice catching as the broad, blunt head of him pressed against your entrance. You looked up into his dark, blown-out eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Wait. Just… go very, very slow. Okay? Promise me.”

He nodded frantically, his jaw locked so tight you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. “Slow. Right. Low mobility. I can do that. I’m—I’m going at 0.5 speed, Y/N. I promise.” He braced his weight on his elbows, his massive hands fist-deep in the pillows on either side of your head. He took a shaky, stabilising breath and pushed. The moment the tip entered, your body felt the sudden, stretching fullness of him. Your breath didn’t just hitch; it left you in a sharp, jagged exhale that sounded like a pained hiss. Your eyes squeezed shut, and your fingers dug into his biceps.

Yunho froze instantly, his face went pale, the flush draining away as panic took over. He started to back away immediately, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden fear. “Oh god—I hurt you. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I knew I’d—I’m too clumsy, I’m too much, I—” He looked like he was about to bolt out of the room. “Did I break something? Are you okay? I’m pulling out, I’m stopping—”

“No! Yunho, stay,” you gasped out, reaching up to grab his face with both hands to keep him from retreating. You took a few shallow, rhythmic breaths, waiting for your body to accommodate the heavy, overwhelming presence of him. You looked at him, a small, dazed smile breaking through your winced expression. “You didn’t break anything. You’re just… you’re really big.”

Yunho blinked, his brain clearly struggling to process the data. He looked down at the point where you were joined, seeing the way your skin was stretched taut around him, then back at you. His mouth stayed slightly agape. “I’m… what?”

“It’s big,” you repeated, your voice a soft, breathless confession. “A lot bigger and longer than I… than the average. It just... I need time.”

The crimson flush returned to his face with a vengeance, blooming across his chest and up his neck until even his forehead was glowing. He let out a tiny, high-pitched sound—a squeak that was half-embarrassment, half-shock. “I—I am?” he stammered, his voice cracking spectacularly. He looked down at himself again as if seeing his own body for the first time. “I didn’t… I mean, I’ve never had a comparison! I thought the character model was just… standard? I didn’t think I had an… an accidental buff in that department.”

The innocence of his shock made you giggle, the tension finally breaking. You pulled him down for a quick, reassuring kiss. “It’s a very good buff. Just… stick to the slow strategy for a minute, okay?”

Yunho let out a long, shuddering breath as he finally began to relax into the sensation of being held by you. “Slow. Right. Tactical pacing. I’m on it.” He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rasp again. “I’ll be careful.” With his face still a dazed, glowing crimson, Yunho took a deep, stabilising breath, his chest expanding. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, his large hands clenching the sheets as he slowly began to sink deeper. The sheer thickness of him was a heavy pressure that seemed to occupy every bit of your focus, his length felt seemingly endless, a slow-motion invasion that reached deep into your core. “Y/N,” he choked out, his voice dropping into a ragged, desperate whisper. “Tell me... tell me to stop if it’s—if it is too much. I don’t want to...”

“You’re okay,” you managed to gasp, your hands sliding down his back to pull him in. “Just... like that. Don’t stop.” The encouragement seemed to give him the final green light he needed. As he finally bottomed out, a long, shuddering groan was ripped from his throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still. 

“Oh... dear god,” he muffled against your skin, his voice thick with a mix of awe and relief. “It’s– You’re so warm, and… wet.” he rasped, the confession making your face flush. He stayed still for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes squeezed shut. Then, he made his first move. It was a slow, tentative pull back—the long, heavy slide of his thickness dragging against you—followed by a single, testing push forward. The moment he bottomed out again, Yunho’s entire body went rigid. His eyes flew open, blown wide and unfocused, and a high, strangled moan was ripped from the back of his throat. “Oh,” he choked out, his voice cracking spectacularly. “Oh. No. No, no, wait—wait.” He froze instantly, his arms trembling as he braced himself above you. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful, and his chest was heaving in short, panicked bursts. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of desire and panic.

“Everything’s alright?” you whispered, reaching up to touch his damp cheek.

“Don’t—don’t move,” he gasped, a tiny, helpless whimper escaping him. “Y/N, if you move even a single inch, I am going to... the game is over. Right now. I’m at the finish line.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his head dropping to the crook of your neck as he let out a long, shuddering hiss through his teeth. You could feel the rhythmic pulsing of his cock inside you, twitching with a desperate urgency. “I’m sorry,” he muffled into your skin, his voice shaky. “I’m so sorry. I’m—I’m a level one player and the difficulty just spiked to impossible. I just... I need a second. I need to... lower my heart rate.” He was so sensitive, so completely overwhelmed, that even the stillness was almost too much for him. He took a long breath, trying to force his body to settle, his fingers digging into the pillows as he fought for control.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, tracing the line of his spine with a slow, grounding touch. “It’s your first time. Just let go.”

“No!” he groaned, the sound raw and desperate as he buried his face deeper into the pillow next to your head. “No, I can’t—I’m not gonna... I’m not letting the credits roll after ten seconds of gameplay! That’s—that’s a speedrun I didn’t sign up for!” He was shaking, his large frame vibrating with the effort of fighting his own body. His muscles were corded like steel, his glutes and thighs locked tight as he tried to remain absolutely motionless inside you. You could feel him pulsing—thick, hot, and agonisingly close to the edge—the girth of him feeling even more intense now that he was wound so tight.

“Yun, it’s fine,” you whispered, shifting just a fraction to press a kiss to his burning ear.

“Don’t!” he gasped, a tiny, helpless whimper escaping him. “Don’t... move. Y/N, please. I have a reputation to uphold. I’m the Captain. I’m supposed to have... stamina. I’m supposed to be... efficient.” He took a long, shuddering breath, his ribs expanding against yours. He sounded like he was trying to solve a complex equation in his head just to distract himself from the overwhelming sensation of being wrapped in your warmth. “I’m not letting it end like this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice thick with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn resolve. He stayed pinned between your legs, his forehead resting on the mattress as he counted his breaths. Every few seconds, a small, involuntary twitch would rack his hips, and he’d let out a pained, soft hiss, his fingers digging into the sheets until they threatened to tear. 

You reached up, threading your fingers through the damp of his hair and pulling him down. Your arms wrapped around his neck, anchoring him to you as you brought his lips back to yours. The kiss was slow, deep, and thick with the salt-sweet taste of him. You wanted to show him that there was no failing here—that the connection was the point, not the duration.

Yunho let out a muffled, helpless sound against your mouth, his hand moving from the pillows to frame your face. As you hummed into the kiss, your tongue grazing his, he felt his resolve begin to fracture all over again. “Ba-baby,” he breathed into your lips, “You’re... you’re making it really hard to keep the game paused.” He pulled back just an inch, his nose brushing yours. His eyes were wide and shimmering, looking at you with such affection that it felt more intimate than the physical act itself. As your arms tightened around his neck, pulling him flush against your chest, the sensation of your breasts pressing into him made his breath hitch. He let out a low, shaky exhale, his forehead dropping back to yours. “Okay,” he whispered finally, his voice dropping into a shaky, low-tier rasp. “I think... I think I’ve got it.” He let out a tiny, bashful laugh, his thumb grazing your cheek. “But if you do that hip-roll thing again? All bets are off. I’m just a man, Y/N. A very, very overwhelmed man.”

With that, he slowly, carefully began to move again. It was a shallow, testing slide at first, but the moment he felt the way your body welcomed him, he let out a long, grounded groan and sank back in, the rhythm he found was slow and deep, each thrust an effort to keep from hitting his limit too soon. His length reached deep while the thickness kept you stretched, Yunho looked like he was witnessing a miracle, his breath coming in hot, rhythmic puffs against your lips. Every time he pushed back in, his jaw would tighten.

As Yunho settled into a more confident rhythm, his movements became less about caution and more about exploration. He shifted his weight, his large hands moving from the mattress to your thighs, anchoring you firmly as he angled his hips. On a particularly deep, heavy thrust, he hit a spot inside you that sent a literal jolt of electricity straight to your brain. Your reaction was violent and purely instinctive. Your back snapped off the mattress, a moan tore from your throat, echoing through the quiet bedroom.

Yunho looked like he’d just discovered a hidden Easter egg in a game he thought he’d mastered. “Wait—that... that sound,” he gasped, his voice trembling with a mix of shock and pure pleasure. “Did I just... did I hit a critical?”

“Yunho—right there,” you managed to choke out, your head falling back, your nails digging  into his back. “Don’t... don’t stop. Do that again.”

A triumphant light flickered in his eyes—the look of a pro-player who had finally found the winning strategy. He didn’t just do it again; he focused entirely on that angle. He withdrew slowly, the agonising thickness of him dragging against that sensitive wall, and then lunged forward with a sharp, rhythmic precision. “Right here?” he rasped, his voice dropping into a growl you’d never heard from him before. “You like it when I hit this?” you just let out a breathless moan in response, your nails digging deep into the skin of Yunho’s back.

Every time he connected with that spot, your body bucked against his, your moans becoming frantic, breathless. He doubled down, his pace becoming faster, more desperate, his heavy frame thudding against yours as he chased that sound out of you over and over again. His large hands slid up to lace with yours, pinning them above your head as he drove himself into you. Yunho’s breathing was broken, ragged, his skin slick and burning wherever it met yours.

He was at the absolute limit. His muscles were rigid, his back corded with tension as he hovered over you. He was blind with it, his eyes half-closed as he focused every ounce of his being on the friction where you were joined.

“Touch me. Please... right there.” you gasped, voice strained and needy as you arched against him one more time. You guided his hand down, fingers trembling as you moved his large, hot palm toward your wetness. Yunho let out another moan as you rolled your hips to meet his thrust. Through the overwhelming haze of his own, fast building release, he tried to focus his wandering senses. His fingers, usually so precise, felt clumsy against your slick skin, but he found your clit with a soft, desperate touch. 

The moment he made contact, the world seemed to tilt, the electricity traveling down your spine to your very toes.  

The pleasure was more than his system could handle. Yunho felt the familiar, terrifying tightening in his lower stomach, a pulsing heat that was no longer something he could hold back. “I can’t... I’m not going to…” he choked out. He lunged forward, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire body going taut. He didn’t pull away; instead, he surged into you, seeking the heat of your mouth as the first wave of his climax took him. He crashed his lips against yours, his kiss desperate and messy, tasting of salt and relief. As he came inside you, a long, broken sound was muffled against your lips. He held you with a sudden, crushing strength, his fingers digging into your hips to pull you flush against him, wanting to be as close as humanly possible while he gave you everything he had. The pulsing was deep and rhythmic, an overflow that seemed to drain the very strength from his bones. He stayed there, buried deep and trembling, his face hidden in the crook of your neck as the world finally stopped spinning. His breath was hot and wet against your skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the sound of his heavy, uneven breathing against your ear. 

Yunho was still lost in the aftershock of his own orgasm, his body pinning you into the mattress. But as he felt the way your muscles were still twitching around him, the way your nails were still buried deep in his back, he realized you weren’t there yet. He lifted his head, his eyes dark and hazy with a dazed, post-orgasmic glow. He saw the flush on your chest, the way your lips were parted as you fought for air, and a new, quiet intensity flickered in his gaze. 

“You’re not…” he didn’t finish the sentence, he shifted his weight immediately, bracing himself on one arm so he didn’t crush you, while his other hand slid back down. His thumb found your sensitive bud, moving with a newfound, steady confidence. He wasn’t rushing anymore; he was focused entirely on the way you arched under his touch. “Let go,” he breathed, his lips ghosting over your jawline. “I’ve got you. Just... please give it to me.” He began to move his hips again, a slow, deep grind that used the lingering hardness of his length to create a different kind of friction. The combination of his thumb’s steady rhythm and the heavy, internal pressure was the final tipping point. Your breath hitched, a moan escaping you as your vision began to blur at the edges. You felt the tension coil tight in your stomach, a white-hot spark that suddenly caught fire. Your head fell back, your eyes snapping shut as the first wave of your climax crashed over you. “That’s it,” Yunho groaned against your skin. “Yes... just like that.”

You cried out as your body buckled and pulsed around him. Every muscle in your body went rigid, your toes curling as the pleasure radiated in rhythmic, electrifying waves. Yunho held you through it, his hand steady and his body anchored deep inside you, providing the solid ground you needed as you orgasmed. He watched you with a look of absolute devotion, drinking in the sight of you until the last of the tremors finally began to fade.

When you finally slumped back into the pillows, limp and exhausted, Yunho collapsed beside you. He pulled you into his side, his arm hooking around your waist to tuck you into the hollow of his chest. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to the top of your head, his heart finally slowing to a calm, steady thud. “I think…” he murmured into your hair, “I think I’m finally starting to understand what everyone was talking about.”

Yunho was tangled with you, his large, damp body a literal heater against yours. His heart was still doing a frantic victory lap, but the panic was gone. Slowly, he pulled back, enough to look at you. If you thought he was red before, it was nothing compared to the radiant, sunshine-soaked glow on his face now. He looked like he’d just won the World Finals, the lottery, and a lifetime supply of bagels all at once. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and his smile—oh, that adorable smile—was so wide it looked like his face might actually split. “Oh my god,” he whispered, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, breathless laugh. “Y/N. Oh my god.”

You let out a soft, tired giggle, your fingers lazily tracing the corded muscle of his forearm. You were exhausted, your body feeling heavy, but seeing him this happy made your chest ache. “You okay?”

“Okay?” He let out a loud, hysterical huff of a laugh and flopped onto his back, pulling you with him so you were draped over his chest. He immediately began to wrap his arms around you, squeezing you in a massive, happy hug. “I’m better than okay! I’m—I’m levelled up! I’ve reached a new tier! I’ve… I’ve discovered a whole new game genre!” He was beaming, his dark eyes shimmering with a pure, unadulterated joy that was almost blinding. He couldn’t stop moving—his feet were twitching under the comforter, his hands were petting your hair, your back, your arms, as if he needed to constantly verify you were still there. “That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he shifted closer, tucking his chin into the space above your collarbone, his nose nuzzling against your skin. “Did you... I mean... we just…” He let out a breathless, giddy laugh, shaking his head. “That was incredible! Was that as cool for you as it was for me? Because I feel like I just discovered a new colour. Like, a colour that doesn’t even exist on the spectrum yet!” He reached out, cupping your face with both hands, his thumbs dancing over your cheekbones in a flurry of excited motion.

“And I didn’t even... I mean, I held it together! Mostly!” He beamed, his chest puffing out just a little bit with a sudden, adorable surge of pride. “I was worried I was going to be all clumsy and, you know, ‘technical difficulties’ everywhere, but I think I actually did a decent job? Right? Tell me I did a good job.” He didn’t wait for an answer before he started peppering your face with dozens of quick, happy kisses—your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He was like a puppy that had finally caught the ball and didn’t know what to do with all the excess joy. “You were so loud,” he whispered, his voice hitching with a mix of awe and a very male sort of satisfaction. “I made you make those sounds. Me! Yunho! The guy who usually trips over his own feet in the kitchen!”

You laughed, a genuine sound that bubbled up from your chest despite how drained you felt. You reached up, catching his face to stop the flurry of kisses, your fingers digging into the soft hair at his temples. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice still a little shaky, a little airy. “You did a very good job. Better than a decent job. You... you were incredible.”

“You made those sounds,” he repeated, almost to himself, a smug little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t even know you could hit those notes. I want to hear them again. I want to spend the rest of the night making you make them.”

“Yunho!” you squeaked, hitting his chest lightly.

“What? I’m serious!” He caught your hand, lacing his long fingers with yours and bringing your knuckles to his lips for a lingering, tender kiss. He looked at you with such intense, boyish hope that it felt like you could melt right here and there. “I mean, did you see that?” he asked, his voice full of wonder as he looked at his own hands as if they’d just performed magic. “I was actually... I was consistent! I found the spot! I saw you arch and I was like, ‘Oh, okay, Yunho, stay on target, stay on target!’ And I did!” He couldn’t stay still. He kept moving, his feet tangling with yours under the sheets, his hands constantly finding an excuse to touch you—brushing a hair back, rubbing your shoulder, or just squeezing your waist. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered, his hyperactive energy settling for just a second as he looked at your face. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, his voice softening. “Really, Y/N. I’m the luckiest guy in the world. I’m never gonna forget tonight. Ever.”

Yunho’s eyes suddenly widened, his pupils practically sparkling as a new thought downloaded into his hyperactive brain. He sat up abruptly, shifting you from his chest to his side, the comforter sliding down to his waist, completely unbothered by his own nudity because he was too busy being the most excited boy on the planet. “Gosh, I need to tell Mingi!” he blurted out, a huge, goofy grin spreading across his face. “I have to tell him! He’s been acting like such an expert for months, giving me all these ‘tips’ and telling me to ‘just try not to pass out’! I didn’t pass out! I was a natural! I was practically a pro-player on the first try!”

“Yunho, no!” you gasped, reaching up to grab his arm, your face burning. “You are not telling Mingi!”

“But he needs to know!” Yunho laughed, leaning over to press a messy, happy kiss to your shoulder. “He told me I’d probably be ‘clumsy’ and ‘low-impact.’ I was high-impact, Y/N! And turns out I have a massive character buff! I need to humble him!” He started looking around for his phone, his long limbs tangling in the sheets as he moved with the energy of a kid on Christmas morning. “And Seonghwa!” Yunho added, his voice rising in pitch as he got even more excited. “Oh man, hyung is going to lose his mind. He’s so nervous about the ‘mechanics’ and the ‘controls.’ I need to tell him it’s not scary! I need to tell him that if I can do it then he can do it too!” He finally found his phone on the nightstand, but before he could unlock it, he looked back at you, his expression softening into something so dazed and proud it was almost unbearable. “They’re not gonna believe me,” he whispered, a little breathless. “They’re gonna think I’m making it up. They’ll be like, ‘Yunho? Our Yunho? The guy who gets shy when a girl asks for the time?’ And I’ll be like, ‘Yeah! Me! I’m the one who made her make those sounds!’”

“If you tell them I was loud, I will move to a different country,” you threatened, though you couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling up.

“I won’t tell them everything,” he promised, though his mischievous grin said otherwise. He flopped back down beside you, pulling you into his chest so hard you squeaked. “I’ll just tell them I’ve officially reached the top tier. I’ve reached the final boss and I won, Y/N. I won so hard. I’m a living legend!” He was beaming, his chest puffed out with a sudden, adorable surge of pure, masculine pride. He looked like he wanted to go out and wrestle a bear or win the Summer Open solo. “I’m just… I’m really happy,” he murmured, his voice finally settling into a warm, domestic hum. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. Not even when I hit Radiant for the first time. This is way better than Radiant.”

As you shifted to get more comfortable, you felt a warm, unmistakable trickle against your thigh. The reality of the mess finally cut through the post-glow haze. “Oh—wait. I need a wet towel. Can you grab me one? I’m kind of... a mess.”

The “Legend” status evaporated instantly. Yunho’s eyes went wide as dinner plates, his golden-retriever energy switching to pure, frantic panic. “A towel? Why? Are you—are you bleeding? Did I actually break a mechanic?!” He scrambled to his knees, looking like he was about to call an ambulance. “Oh my god, Y/N, I knew it! I was too much! I’ve over-levelled and destroyed the environment!” Before you could stop him, he was diving toward the foot of the bed, his face full of terrifyingly earnest concern. “What happened? Where is it? Let me see! I need to check the damage—”

“Yunho! Stop!” You grabbed a pillow and playfully whacked him with it to get him to look at you. “I’m not hurt! You didn’t ‘break the environment,’ you dork. It’s just... you."

He paused mid-lunge, blinking up at you with a look of confusion. “Me? What do you mean, me?”

“It’s you leaking out of me,” you said, your face heating up despite the hilarity of the situation. “You finished inside me, remember? It doesn’t just stay there forever. Gravity exists, even for Radiant rank.”

The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of Yunho’s brain cells trying to process biology. He looked down at the sheets, then back at you, and slowly—painfully slowly—the most intense shade of purple-red you’d ever seen crawled from his chest to the tips of his ears. “Oh,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Oh. Right. Fluid dynamics. I... I knew that. I totally knew that was a feature.” He buried his face in his hands for a second, let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper of embarrassment, and then immediately scrambled off the bed. “Towel! Wet towel! Coming right up! I’m on it!”

You heard him nearly trip over a stray shoe in his rush to the bathroom, his voice drifting back to you, full of bashful pride again. “I’m definitely not telling Mingi about the towel part.”

You heard the sound of water running in the bathroom, followed by a loud clatter of a fallen shampoo bottle, and a muffled “I’m okay! No damage taken!”

A few seconds later, Yunho jogged back into the room. He was trying to look composed, but he was still stark naked and holding a warm, damp towel like it was a holy relic. He knelt on the edge of the mattress, his eyes darting between your face and the “situation” with a mix of awe and lingering bashful panic. “Okay, I have the supplies,” he announced, his voice still a little high-pitched. He reached out to help you, but then he hesitated, his hand hovering mid-air. “Wait, should I... do I do it? Or is that like... a solo quest?”

“Just give me the towel,” you laughed, reaching for it.

“No, no! I got us into this mess, I should help clean it up!” He took a deep breath, his face glowing as he gently began to clean your thighs. As he worked, he couldn’t help but peek at the evidence of his “character buff.” He let out a low, shaky breath, a small, proud smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “Gosh, there’s actually... quite a lot.”

“Yunho!” you hissed, swatting at his shoulder.

“I’m just observing the stats!” he defended himself, looking up at you with those wide, shimmering eyes.

When he finally tossed the damp towel toward the laundry hamper (and missed by a mile, hitting the door instead), he let out a long, grounding exhale that seemed to finally vent the last of his energy. He scrambled to his dresser, his long, pale limbs moving with a new kind of fluid confidence, and pulled out two shirts. He put on an oversized black tee and shimmied into a pair of boxers. “Equipping the pyjamas,” he muttered, a soft, boyish chuckle vibrating in his chest as he climbed back into bed.

The mattress dipped significantly under his weight, the air finally setting into a low, domestic hum. “Here,” he murmured, handing you a plain, cotton tee. He helped you pull the shirt over your head, his large hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long. It swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh, making you look tiny against the backdrop of his pillows.

He didn’t just lie down; he curated a nest. He pulled the heavy comforter up, tucking it around your shoulders before sliding his arm underneath your neck, hauling you flush against his side so that your head rested right over his heart. “Comfort levels at 100%,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a thick, sleepy rasp that made your skin tingle. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally a long, lingering one to your lips. He tasted like the cool water he’d just splashed on his face and felt like a living heater. He pulled you into him, his front to your back, his long legs spooning yours perfectly. One of his heavy arms draped over your waist, his hand splaying across your stomach. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “You okay?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. “Not too cold? Do you need another blanket? I can go get the heated one from Seonghwa’s bedroom—”

“I’m perfect. Just stay,” you murmured, reaching back to stroke his hair. 

“Okay,” he breathed. “Staying. Keeping the position.” He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck, they were quiet, deep, and filled with a domesticity that felt like a promise. “I love you, Y/N,” he muttered into your skin. “Best… night… ever.”

“I love you too, Yunnie.” You felt his breathing evening out, within minutes, he was dead to the world, his grip on you firm even in sleep. You stared at the curtains for a moment, the weight of his love—and the weight of your lies—swirling in your head. But as the warmth of his body seeped into yours, the exhaustion finally won. Your eyes drifted shut, and you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped in the arms of the boy who thought you were a goddess.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Yunho stirred first. His body felt heavy and warm, a lingering phantom of the night’s heat still buzzing in his skin. He didn’t want to open his eyes; he wanted to stay in the soft, scent-filled bubble of your hair and the quiet hum of the apartment. But he needed to check the time. He needed to see if he had enough minutes left to pull you closer and fall back into that dreamless, happy sleep or if both of you needed to rush to classes. He groaned softly, his long arm reaching out blindly to the nightstand. His fingers brushed against cold glass and metal. He fumbled for his glasses, but his hand closed around a phone instead. His brain was still 90% asleep when he brought the screen close to his face, squinting through the blur. He didn’t realise it was your phone. He didn’t realise the lock screen was different. He just saw the stacked notifications.

Wooyoung: EMERGENCY!!🚨 THE GYM GUY ACTUALLY HAD THE BALLS TO ASK ME OUT TONIGHT!! HE GAVE ME HIS NUMBER ON A PROTEIN SHAKE WRAPPER I AM SCREAMING!! Wooyoung: BITCH WAKE UP!!! STOP RIDING CAPTAIN’S DICK AND CHECK YOUR DAMN PHONE!! MY SINGLE DAYS ARE OVER!!  Wooyoung: Anyway, priority shift! I can’t be Viper tonight. My skin needs to be glowing for this date, not hunched over a monitor carrying your ass. Reschedule the match with your nerdy boyfriend and his friends. Wooyoung: Seriously, tell him you’re sick or something. We can’t Ratatouille tonight if I’m getting my back blown out! I plan to not be able to walk for the next three days. Go practice your aim, you still shoot like a blind toddler. 

The silence in the room suddenly became deafening.

Yunho sat up, the movement slow and mechanical. The comforter slid off his chest, the cool air hitting his skin like a slap, but he didn’t feel it. He stared at the screen, his eyes scanning the words over and over again.

The puzzle pieces he’d been too in love to notice began to lock into place with a metallic click. The “coincidences.” The way you two never played together. The way you were always “studying” when the rest of Level Zero would meet up in B-12. He looked down at you—still asleep, wearing his shirt, looking like the personification of the pure, beautiful thing he’d described hours ago. His hand began to shake. The phone felt like it was burning his palm. Every word you’d whispered—“I love you,” “You were incredible,” “We’re in the same team,”—now felt like a line from a play he hadn’t realized he was starring in. He read the texts one more time, hoping—praying—he’d misread them. But there it was. He let out a breath that sounded like a sob, his fingers clutching the edge of the mattress. He just sat there in the grey light, looking at the girl who had stolen his first love and tied it to a lie. His jaw was tight, his eyes shimmering with a sudden, hot moisture that he refused to let fall. He wasn’t the happy, beaming boy from a few hours ago. 

The sudden absence of his heat was what woke you.

The bed shifted, the mattress rising as Yunho’s weight left it. In the haze of your deep sleep, you reached out blindly for him, your hand brushing against the still-warm sheets where his body had been seconds ago. You let out a small, soft whimper of protest, your eyes fluttering open against the dim, grey morning light. “Yunho?” you murmured, your voice honey-sweet with sleep.

He didn’t answer.

You sat up, the oversized t-shirt sliding off one shoulder. You saw his silhouette near the door—his shoulders were hunched, his posture rigid with a tension that made the air in the room feel brittle. Without a word, he stepped out into the hallway, his footsteps heavy.

Panic flared in your chest, instantly killing the last of your drowsiness. You scrambled out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor as you followed him. “Yunho? Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

You followed him to the living room. He wasn’t looking at the Rayman screen or the controllers still scattered on the rug. He was standing by the window, his large hands gripped so tightly onto the back of the sofa that his knuckles were white. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in shallow hitches that sounded like he was physically choking on the air. 

“Yunho?” you stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched. He didn’t just move away—he recoiled as if your touch had burned him. The pale, cold light of dawn made his skin look like marble. He turned around, and the sight of his face stopped the blood in your veins. His glasses were on, but his eyes behind them were bloodshot, shimmering with disbelief. He looked like he had aged ten years in the span of five minutes. In his right hand, he was clutching your phone. The screen still lit up, displaying the wall of text from Wooyoung that had just dismantled his life.

“I was looking for my glasses,” he started but he didn’t look at you. He was staring at the phone, his thumb hovering over the screen as if the words were wounds he couldn’t stop touching. “I just wanted to see if I had enough time to make you breakfast before we had to leave.” He finally lifted his gaze, and the raw, wet shine behind his lenses made your heart stop. He didn’t look angry—he looked destroyed.

“‘Stop riding Captain’s dick and check your damn phone,’” he quoted, his voice cracking on the word Captain. He let out a short sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but it was too sharp, too full of pain. “He’s very high-energy, isn’t he? Your roommate. He seems very excited about his date.” He took a step toward you, holding the phone out so you could see the words. “He told you to reschedule the match with your ‘nerdy boyfriend.’ That’s me, right? The nerdy boyfriend who was just... being fooled the entire time?”

He looked down at the text again, his jaw tightening until the muscle leaped in his cheek. “‘We can’t Ratatouille tonight.’ Everything I fell for... every time I thought we were perfectly in sync... it was just him, wasn’t it? Wooyoung was playing, and I was just the idiot who didn’t realize the girl I loved was lying.” He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—anything—that wasn’t a lie. “He called me a ‘nerdy boyfriend,’ Y/N. He told you to tell me you were sick so you could skip playing tonight. Was that the plan all along? Were you going to wake up in my arms, tell me you didn’t feel well, and then go practice your aim because you ‘shoot like a blind toddler’?" He let out a shaky breath, his fingers trembling against the phone. “The ‘Goddess’ I bragged about... the girl I thought was a tactical genius... she doesn’t even exist, does she? She’s just a character you and Wooyoung created to play me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, more devastating than any shout. “Last night... when I told you I loved you. Was that part of the mission? Or was that just the ‘nerdy boyfriend’ being a little too easy to manipulate?”

The air in the living room felt like it was freezing over. You took a desperate step forward, your hands reaching out instinctively to grab him, to pull him back from the edge. “Yunho, please,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “It’s not like that. It didn’t start like—I didn’t mean for it to go this far. Just let me explain, please, just let me touch you—” As your fingers brushed the skin of his forearm, Yunho flinched so violently it was as if you’d struck him. He lunged backward, hitting the wall.

“Don’t!” he held the phone up between you like a shield, his knuckles white. “Don’t touch me. Don’t... don’t do that soft voice. I don’t know which part of you is real and which part is the script anymore.” He looked at you, and for the first time, the warmth in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a cold, hollow clarity. He let out a breathy, pained laugh that broke into a sob at the end. “I keep thinking back,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I keep going back to that day in the quad. When those girls were laughing at me. When she said…” He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at you with a look of dawning horror. “When she said that I was so pathetic that nobody would want to fuck me, even out of pity.” He wiped a frantic, messy hand across his eyes, shoving his glasses up his nose. “You heard every word they said to me.” He took a step toward you, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying, desperate intensity. “Is that when it started? Did you see me there, at my absolute lowest, and… Did you decide right then that the pathetic guy from campus was the perfect target for you to play? Were you bored?” He gestured wildly to the bedroom behind him, his voice cracking spectacularly. “Was last night the ultimate pity fuck? Was that the final achievement? Did you tell Wooyoung you finally closed the loop on the guy nobody wanted? Are you guys going to laugh about it over beer tonight while I’m sitting here thinking I finally found someone who saw me for who I actually am?” He dropped his head, his shoulders shaking as he clutched the phone to his chest. “I gave you everything,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I gave you the only first time I’ll ever have. And you... you were just playing a character.”

“Yunho, no! It wasn’t pity, I swear to you, I—”

“Then what was it?” he snapped, the volume of his voice jumping for the first time, sharp and echoing against the ceiling of the apartment. He didn’t let you finish, his words cutting through yours like a blade. “If it wasn’t pity, was it just… the game? Was it the challenge of seeing how long you could keep the lie going before I noticed my ‘Goddess’ couldn’t hit a target?”

“Listen to me!” you cried, taking another step forward, your heart thumping painfully against your ribs. “The feelings, the way I look at you, that’s—”

“Stop!” he shouted, holding up a hand, his eyes squeezed shut as if the sight of you was physically hurting him. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare use that word right now. You don’t get to talk about feelings when you were planning on telling me you were sick today just so the real Viper could go get laid!” He opened his eyes, and the sheer betrayal in them made you flinch. He looked down at the phone again, his thumb scrolling aggressively through the thread. “He thinks I’m a joke, doesn’t he? He’s laughing at me. And you let him! You let him call me a nerd, let him tell you to lie to me, while you were lying in my bed, wearing my shirt!” Yunho wasn’t just hurt anymore; he was getting heated, his voice rising into a sharp, authoritative tone you’d never heard before. 

“I’m learning!” you said, your voice cracking as you took a defiant step toward him, fuelled by a mix of guilt and exhaustion. “I’ve been waking up at four in the fucking morning every day to run drills until my hands cramp! I didn’t ask for this to become some grand conspiracy! I just wanted to stay by your side because I fucking love you!”

“By my side?!” Yunho barked, a harsh, hysterical laugh breaking from his throat. He slammed your phone down onto the coffee table with a crack that made you flinch. “You stayed by my side by letting another man smurf your account? By making me look like a fucking idiot in front of my own friends? You let me brag about you! I told everyone you were the best thing to ever happen to me! And the whole time, you were just the girl behind the curtain while Wooyoung pulled the strings!”

“I’m trying! I’m in the range for hours every goddamn night after you fall asleep!” you screamed, your voice cracking as the sheer weight of the double life finally crushed your composure. “You think I like this? You think I enjoy having Wooyoung scream in my ear because I can’t aim to save my fucking relationship? I’m doing it for the team! I’m doing it for you!”

“For me?” Yunho’s laugh was a harsh, ugly sound that tore through the quiet of the apartment. “You didn’t do this for me. You did this because you loved the attention! You loved being the ‘Goddess’ everyone worshipped. You loved that I looked at you like you were some kind of miracle while you were just a puppet!”

“That is bullshit and you know it!” you hissed, stepping right into his space, your chest heaving against the fabric of his shirt. “I lied in the first place because I saw the way you cared for the club, and I knew—I knew if I was just some girl who couldn’t even pick the right agent in the lobby, I’d be invisible to you! I was trying to help you!”

“By lying to my face?’ he roared, his voice finally breaking into a full-scale shout. “By making me look like a fool in front of my own friends? You let me brag about you! You sat there and watched me tell Mingi how incredible you were, knowing the whole time you were lying! Was I just a trophy to you? The pathetic, shy gamer you managed to trick into bed?”

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up about the bed!” you sobbed, shoving at his chest. “Last night had nothing to do with the game! You know that! You felt it!”

“I don't know anything!” Yunho screamed back, his eyes wild and bloodshot behind his glasses. “I don’t know if the girl I slept with even exists! Are you even the person I fell for, or was that just another layer of the script? Did Wooyoung tell you what to say to me in bed, too? Was he ‘Ratatouille-ing’ our whole fucking relationship?!”

“Go to hell, Yunho!” you shrieked, the words torn from the rawest part of your throat. “You’re so obsessed with your rank and your precious stats that you can’t even see I was doing everything to keep up with you!”

Yunho went deathly still. The anger in his face didn’t fade, but it curdled into something far more terrifying—pure, concentrated hurt. He looked at you as if you’d just slapped him. “My stats?” he repeated, his height feeling like a threat for the first time. “You think... you think this is about fucking Valorant?” He grabbed his own hair, pulling at the blonde strands in a fit of genuine, unbridled agony. “Do you really think a fucking video game is the most important thing to me?!” he screamed, his voice cracking spectacularly. “I didn’t fall for a character in the game, Y/N! I fell for the girl who sat in the dust with me in the basement! I fell for the person I thought was honest with me! I would have forfeited the Summer Open, the club, the whole fucking game just to stay in that bed with you for one more hour!”

“That’s a lie!” you yelled back, your hands fisted in the hem of his shirt. “We wouldn’t have even talked if it wasn’t for my lie! I was just some random girl who helped you out of a fucked up situation! After I shoved Seoyun I’d be just another person in the hallway to you!”

“Just another person?” Yunho’s voice broke into a pained, high-pitched sob. “I saw you! I saw you before you ever laid eyes on me! Do you even know we shared a class last year? I would look at you all the time thinking how pretty and cool you were! I was just too shy to speak to you until I thought we had something in common!”

The silence that followed was absolute. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the apartment. You stood frozen, your hands still curled into the fabric of his shirt. Your brain was struggling to process his words, frantically searching through memories of crowded lecture halls. You had never noticed him. Not until that day when he put up the poster. “You... what?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Last year. Professor Shin’s lecture,” Yunho rasped, finally looking down at you. His eyes were red, his glasses slightly crooked. “You sat three rows down. You used to wear that oversized black leather jacket on top of a huge, black shirt and drink two cups of coffee, its smell would fill the entire class. I spent the whole semester trying to think of a single thing to say to you, but I am just some nerdy kid with no social skills. That day in the Quad, I thought... I thought the game was our bridge. It was the one thing that finally made me brave enough to talk to you.”

“I didn’t need you to be a good player, Y/N. I just wanted the girl with coffee.” He gestured toward the phone, his hand shaking. “But you thought I was as shallow as the girls who bullied me.”

“I was going to fix it! I was going to get good enough so Wooyoung didn’t have to—”

“Fix what?! The lie is the foundation, Y/N! You built us on a fucking lie!”

The room felt like it was shrinking, your chest was heaving, the oversized fabric of Yunho’s shirt—the one he’d tenderly helped you put on just hours ago—now feeling like a shroud. “You weren’t supposed to find out!” you shrieked, the words tearing out of you. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this! I was supposed to learn! I was supposed to get better and finally stop relying on Wooyoung!” You desperately placed your hands on top of Yunho’s sternum, but he flinched, backing into the wall. “I was going to wait until I was actually good enough, until I could hold my own, and then— I just needed more time! I just wanted to be the girl you thought I was! You weren’t supposed to know about any of this!”

The words didn’t just hang in the air; they curdled. Yunho’s expression shifted from agonising heartbreak to something far worse: a cold, dead clarity. He stopped shaking. He stopped crying. He just stood there, staring at you as if he were seeing a stranger for the first time—or finally seeing the real you. “I wasn’t supposed to find out,” he muttered, his voice dangerously soft. The way he said it made your blood run cold. It wasn’t an outburst; it was a realisation. “That’s the part you’re most upset about, isn’t it? Not that you lied. Not that you betrayed me. Just that you got caught.”

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

“But it is!” he snapped, his voice suddenly sharp again. “You just said it! You weren’t going to tell me. Ever. You were just going to wait until you were ‘good enough’ so you could successfully replace the old lie with a newer, better one. You were never going to be honest with me! You were just going to wait until the truth didn’t matter anymore.”

“Enough! Both of you!”

The voice was like a bucket of ice water.

Both of you spun around, chests heaving, faces flushed and tear-streaked. Seonghwa was standing at the edge of the kitchenette. He looked like he’d been standing there long enough to hear the full, ugly truth

“Hyung,” Yunho breathed, his voice suddenly small, the fire dying into a pathetic ash. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

Seonghwa’s gaze didn’t go to his best friend first. It landed on you. He looked at you—standing there in Yunho’s shirt, disheveled and desperate—and his eyes were colder than you had ever seen them. “Is it true?” 

The silence that followed was the loudest sound in the world. You looked at Yunho, who was now staring at the floor, his shoulders shaking as he gripped his own arms. He couldn’t even look at you anymore. “I…” you whispered, the fight completely gone. “I can explain.”

“There is nothing to explain,” Seonghwa walked into the middle of the room, stepping into the debris of the argument. He looked at the phone on the table, then at your trembling hands, and finally at Yunho, who looked like he was trying to fold himself into the wall. “I’ve been watching the two of you for weeks,” Seonghwa continued, his gaze drifting back to you. The coldness was there, but it was mixed with a sharp, piercing disappointment that felt like a physical weight. “I saw how happy he was. I saw how he looked at you like you were the only person in the world who truly understood him. I actually started to believe it, too.”

“Seonghwa, please—” you started, but he held up a hand, silencing you instantly.

“Yeosang was the one who noticed the inconsistencies first, Y/N. He told me that some things just didn’t add up. That you never talked much about the game play and past matches when we were hanging out in B-12. That sometimes during matches what you said didn’t match your movement. I kept quiet because I thought... I thought surely you wouldn’t lie to us about something as stupid as being good at a game.” He turned to his best friend, his expression softening with a pained, protective look. “He doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body,” Seonghwa whispered, his voice thick with a quiet fury. “He thinks everyone is as honest as he is. You knew that. You saw him sitting there, getting ripped apart by those girls, and you knew exactly how much he needed someone to be on his side.” Seonghwa took a step toward you, his height looming, his face a mask of a heartbreak. “You stood in our kitchen and helped me cook. You sat on our sofa and listened to him talk about his dreams for the club. You let him give you his heart, knowing the entire time that you were lying.”

“But Hwa, I love him!” you cried out, the words sounding desperate and thin.

“You love the way he loves Viper,” Seonghwa corrected you sharply. “If you loved him, you wouldn’t have let him become a laughingstock for your roommate. You wouldn’t have let him believe he was in a relationship when he was actually in a puppet show.” He reached out and grabbed your bag from the floor where you left it yesterday, his movements efficient and final. He didn’t yell; he didn’t have to. The way he looked at you—as if he were seeing a bug in a system he had to purge—was enough. “You’re wearing his clothes,” Seonghwa noted, his eyes flickering to the oversized shirt. “Go into the bathroom. Change. Put your own things on.”

He turned to Yunho, who was still staring at the floor, his breathing shallow and jagged. Seonghwa walked over and placed a steadying hand on Yunho’s shoulder, “Yunnie, look at me,” he commanded gently. When the taller one finally lifted his red, tear-filled eyes, Seonghwa spoke with a finality that broke the last of the air in the room. “She’s leaving. We have a tournament to withdraw from, and a free spot in Level Zero to take care of.”

The bathroom door felt like a mile away as you walked toward it, Seonghwa’s eyes burning into your back. Every step was a nightmare, the soft cotton of Yunho’s shirt now feeling like it was made of lead. You changed with trembling hands, the silence in the apartment so heavy you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

When you stepped back out, dressed in your own clothes, the living room felt like a funeral. Seonghwa was sitting next to still sobbing Yunho on the couch, his hand a firm, protective weight on his shoulder. Yunho looked like a ghost, his gaze fixed on a spot on the carpet, his fingers digging into his own arms.

“Yun, I—” your voice cracked, desperate for one last chance to make him see you, to make him believe that your feelings were real. “Please, just listen for one second—”

“Enough, Y/N,” Seonghwa interrupted, his voice like iron. “You’ve said enough.”

You looked at the two of them—the Level Zero family you had so desperately wanted to belong to. You walked out the door, the ‘Goddess’ was dead, and as you walked down the stairs into the cold morning air, you realized Viper had finally lost the only match that actually mattered.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The cigarette in your hand was a dying ember, the orange glow barely visible against the grey afternoon. You’d forgotten to take more than a single, bitter drag; you were just holding it, watching the ash grow long and precarious, a perfect mirror of your own stability. The weather for the past few days had been a cruel, mocking thing. The sky was a bruised palette of grey and blue, a relentless, drizzling rain portraying exactly how you felt inside. Everything was damp, cold, and blurred at the edges.

Your hands were shaking—a constant, rhythmic tremor that hadn’t stopped since the moment the door to Yunho’s apartment had clicked shut behind you. You’d burst into tears in the most humiliating scenarios: in the middle of the cafeteria, standing in line for a bus, and most horrifyingly, right in the middle of Professor Lee’s lecture. You couldn’t stand the skin you were in; you felt hollow, a ghost haunting your own life. In those few weeks by Yunho’s side, you had completely forgotten what your existence looked like before him. Now, the silence of your old life was deafening.

You were about to crush the filter into the damp rim of the trash can just to light another one—anything to keep your hands busy—when a voice cut through the hum of the rain.

“You don’t look too good.”

You froze. Yeosang was standing a few feet away, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. For the first time since you’d met him, the sharp, analytical edge was gone from his eyes. He looked... hesitant. Scared, even. He approached slowly, as if he were worried that a single wrong word might cause you to shatter right there on the pavement.

He stopped just outside your personal space, his gaze dropping to your shaking hands and then to the dead cigarette. “The Captain hasn’t slept,” Yeosang said softly, his voice devoid of its usual dry bite. “And looking at you... I’m guessing you haven’t either.” He took a step closer, the umbrella he was holding casting a shadow over both of you, shielding you from the drizzle. “Mingi told me you had classes in this building. He wanted me to scream and demand answers.” He paused, his throat working as he swallowed. “I’m not here to talk about the game, Y/N. I’m just... I’m here because Level Zero logic doesn’t make sense without Viper. And Yunho is currently a ghost in a headset.” He looked at you with a piercing, quiet sadness. “What happened? Truly. Because a lie about a video game doesn’t leave someone looking like they’ve had their soul deleted.”

You laughed—a sharp sound that had no humour in it, only bitterness. Your tongue darted out to lick your lower lip, tasting the salt of dried tears and the tang of nicotine, before your hands dove into your bag. You fumbled through the mess of receipts and loose change, your movements jerky and frantic as you searched for a fresh pack. You needed the smoke. You needed the ritual. Most of all, you needed your old walls—the walls of a girl you were before Yunho—to slam back into place.

“Why would you care?” you chuckled, the sound thin and brittle against the backdrop of the rain. You finally fished out the pack, your shaking fingers struggling to peel back the plastic. You kept your head down, focusing entirely on the task, your eyes never quite landing on Yeosang. You couldn’t afford to look at him. Yeosang was too smart; he saw the frame data of a person’s soul, and right now, yours was nothing but corrupted files. “Isn't this what you wanted, Yeosang?” you asked, finally sparking the lighter on the third try. You took a long, desperate drag, the smoke filling your lungs and momentarily steadying the tremors in your chest. “You were the one who kept saying I was a glitch. You were the one who didn’t trust me. Well, congratulations. The error has been corrected. I disconnected.” You leaned back against the damp brick wall of the campus building, blowing a plume of gray smoke into the gray sky. You looked like a stranger—colder, harder, and entirely unreachable. “Tell the Captain he can stop being a ghost,” you said, your voice dropping into a flat, monotone register. “Tell him the server is closed. He should go find a real Radiant to play with. Someone who doesn’t have to use a script to love him.”

Yeosang didn’t move, watching you with that terrifyingly calm intensity. “You’re a terrible liar, Y/N,” he said quietly. “You’re playing a character again. But this one... this ‘I don’t care’ version? Her win-rate is zero. You’re shaking so hard you can barely hold that cigarette, and you expect me to believe feelings are gone?”

You just scoffed, a short, sharp sound intended to dismiss him entirely, but your body betrayed you. Even as your lips curled into a defensive sneer, a single, hot tear escaped the corner of your eye. It traced a slow, burning path through the foundation on your cheek, cutting through the mask you were trying so desperately to rebuild. You didn’t wipe it away. To wipe it would be to acknowledge it was there. Instead, you took another aggressive drag of your cigarette, the tip glowing a fierce, angry red. “Feelings are overrated, Yeosang,” you whispered, your voice finally cracking, betraying the stone-cold persona you were aiming for. “The only way to save the system is to format the whole drive. That’s what I did. I saved him from a fraud.”

“You didn’t save him, you just left him in a room with all the lights turned off. He’s not even playing, Y/N. He just sits at his desk in B-12  and stares at your empty chair. He doesn’t even care about the Summer Open anymore.” He reached out, his hand hesitating in the air before he gently, tentatively, plucked the cigarette from your shaking fingers. He dropped it into the wet puddle at your feet, where it hissed once and died. “He thinks the lie was your way of trying to get away from him before things got ‘real.’ That’s the logic he’s running on now. Is that the version of the truth you want him to keep?”

You finally looked at him. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your eyeliner smudged into dark shadows that made you look haunted.

“He doesn’t have it in him to hate you, and he’s too far gone for pity. He just wants his person back. Not the MVP. Just the girl who blew him a kiss while chopping carrots.” 

“The first phase of Summer Open is in three days,” Yeosang continued, his voice regaining a sliver of its tactical edge. “Mingi and I... we signed the roster. My friend from high-school, Jongho, took Seonghwa’s place for the tournament. Your spot is open.”

“My spot is open?” you repeated, your voice a hollow echo. “Yeosang, did you miss the part where I’m a liar? I can’t play. I can’t even hold my crosshair in the right position without hyperventilating.”

Yeosang’s tiny smirk didn’t reach his eyes, but it was the most Level Zero thing you’d seen in days. “I didn’t say you were playing. I’m a realist, Y/N. I know you’re still a bottom-tier scrub who probably still looks at her keyboard to find the ‘W’ key." He took a half-step closer, his expression turning deadly serious. “But you can still help Yunho make his dream work.”

You looked up at him, your eyes red-rimmed and stinging. “How? By showing up and letting him see how much I played him?”

“No,” Yeosang countered. “By bringing the real Viper. Talk to Wooyoung. Tell him to play with us. Even if it’s just for the first phase. He knows us. He knows our rotations. He was the one who was playing the entire time anyway—he might as well get the credit for the headshots.” He stepped closer, the shadow of the umbrella fully engulfing you. “Yunho is breaking, Y/N. If Wooyoung steps in, it gives us a fighting chance. And it gives you a chance to be there. Not as a player, but as the girl who actually cares whether he wins or loses.” Yeosang reached out, his hand hesitating before he gave your shoulder a single, stiff nudge—the closest thing to a hug he could offer without breaking his own character. “Tell Wooyoung he’s subbing in. Tell him the roster is waiting. And you?” Yeosang’s gaze turned piercing, his eyes searching yours. “You show up at the arena. You stand behind him. You be the person he actually fell in love with, and let the lie die. We have seventy-two hours to fix the logic, Y/N. Don’t waste them crying in the rain.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The air inside the players’ lounge was thick with the smell of energy drinks, and the muffled, rhythmic thumping of the main stage’s bass. On the other side of the soundproof walls, fans were cheering, but inside the small room, the silence was suffocating.

Yunho was sitting at the edge of his chair, his head buried in his hands. He looked hollow—his jersey hung loosely on his broad shoulders, and the vibrant, determined leader who usually commanded B-12 had been replaced by a man running on nothing but autopilot. He didn’t even look up when the door hissed open.

“The fifth player is here,” Jongho announced, his voice echoing off the clinical white walls.

“Yeosang said he was bringing a ringer,” Mingi muttered, pacing the small room and checking his watch. “Some guy from the library? Who plays tactical shooters in a library?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yunho rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. “We’re just here to fill the slot so we don’t get blacklisted for a no-show. We’re not winning anything today.” Yunho let out a heavy, tired breath, his voice muffled by his palms. “Just... tell him to come on in. I’ll give him the tactical brief in five minutes.”

“Actually,” Jongho muttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, “I don’t think he needs a brief.” 

The door creaked open.

Yunho didn’t even look up at first, not until the heavy, rhythmic tread of two people entering made him lift his head. Yeosang walked in first, but it was the figure behind him that made the air vanish from the room. Wooyoung stepped in; he wasn't wearing a jersey; he was dressed in his usual oversized hoodie, a pair of high-end noise-canceling headphones draped around his neck. He looked like he was walking onto a battlefield he already owned.

Yunho’s brow furrowed, his brain trying to categorize the face. He’d seen him in photos on your phone. He’d heard his voice in the background of your calls. Then, in a sudden, violent motion, he surged to his feet. The chair he’d been sitting in skidded back, hitting the wall. “No,” Yunho hissed, his face contorting with a sudden, white-hot fury. His eyes weren’t just angry; they were devastated. “Absolutely not. Yeosang, what the hell is this?”

“Yunho, sit down,” Yeosang said calmly.

“I’m not playing with him!” Yunho roared, stepping toward Wooyoung. He was a head taller, his frame vibrating with a dangerous, unstable energy. “I’m withdrawing. We’re done.” Yunho turned to grab his bag, his movements jerky and frantic. He was done being the Captain. He was just a man who had been broken by the person he trusted most.

“I’m not here for you, Yunho. I’m here because of her,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer, refusing to be intimidated by the Captain’s height. “You want to withdraw? Fine. Throw away the Summer Open. But don’t act like you don’t know who I am.”

“I know exactly who you are,” Yunho spat.

“I’m the Viper,” Wooyoung corrected him, his eyes flashing. “I know the C-site retake on Haven. I know the wall-drop on Bind. I know that when you’re stressed, you over-rotate to A-short and leave the flank exposed. I know the way you breathe when you’re about to make a play, Yunho. I know all of it because I’ve been in your ear for weeks.”

Yunho’s face went pale, his grip on the bag loosening.

“I played those rounds with you,” Wooyoung continued, stepping into Yunho’s personal space. “When you clutched that 1v3 on Icebox and screamed because you were so happy? That was me holding the angle for you. When you told Y/N that she was the smartest player you’d ever met? You were talking about my brain. I know this team better than Jongho or Yeosang ever could. I am Level Zero’s strategy.”

The room went deathly quiet. Mingi looked like he was witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

“She’s outside,” Wooyoung whispered, his voice softening just enough to hit Yunho where it hurt. “She’s a mess. She thinks she ruined your life. But she’s the one who begged me to come here. She’s the one who said that you deserve this dream, even if you hate the person who helps you get it.” Wooyoung reached into his bag and pulled out his mouse, placing it on the desk with a heavy thud. “We have twenty minutes until we hit the stage,” Wooyoung said, looking Yunho dead in the eye. “You can hate me. You can never speak to her again. But don’t you dare let these guys lose because you’re too proud to play with the person who’s had your back since day one.”

Yunho stared at the mouse, then at Wooyoung. His chest was heaving, the fury fighting a losing battle against the sheer, undeniable logic of the situation. He looked like he wanted to scream, but instead, he let out a long, shuddering exhale. “If you miss a single lineup,” Yunho rasped, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief, “I’m killing the power to your PC myself.”

Wooyoung’s mouth twitched into a small, sharp smirk. “I don’t miss, Captain. Patch me in.”

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Five minutes before the stage call, Yunho couldn’t breathe. He needed a second—just one second away from Wooyoung’s gaze and the suffocating reality of the tournament. “I need a minute,” he muttered under his nose, voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and shoved through the heavy door, stepping out into the industrial hallway.

He didn’t even make it three steps when he saw you. You were leaning against the cold concrete wall directly across from the door, your arms wrapped tightly around your middle as if you were trying to keep yourself from falling apart. Your hair was pulled up neatly, but your eyes were red-rimmed, staring at the floor.

Yunho froze. The fury that had been sustaining him in the room for the last fifteen minutes suddenly drained out of his heels, leaving him hollow and dangerously fragile.

At the sound of the door closing behind him, you flinched, head snapping up. Yunho looked weary, his broad shoulders hunched as if he were carrying the physical weight of the arena’s ceiling. He had his game face on—that terrifying, focused mask he wore when he was about to enter a high-stakes clutch—but it was cracked with pain that made him look older than his years. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The distance between you was barely six feet, but it felt like a canyon filled with every lie, every kiss, and every shattered promise.

“Yunho,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

But he didn’t even flinch. He turned his eyes to the neon exit sign at the end of the hall, and began walking, his stride long and purposeful. It was as if you were a non-playable character he was simply pathing around. The coldness of his silence was more violent than any shout could have been.

“Yunho, please, just—just one second,” you said, hurrying to keep pace with him. “I just wanted to wish you luck. I know... I know things are a mess, but Wooyoung is amazing. He’s going to do great as a substitute. He knows the game front to back, he’ll hit every timing, I promise. He’ll make sure Level Zero gets the win you deserve.”

Still, he said nothing, his jaw was set so tight you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. He was treating you like a hallucination, a glitch in his system that he was determined to ignore until the map changed.

“Yunho, look at me,” you pleaded, your eyes blurring with fresh tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t walk into that stage carrying all this hate. Just win. Just take the dream and run with it.”

He reached the end of the hall, his hand extending toward the heavy metal bar of the arena door. He was going to walk through it and leave you in the shadows of the backstage, and you knew that once that door closed, the disconnect would be permanent. Without thinking, you reached out and snatched his wrist. Your fingers clamped around the bone of his forearm, your touch desperate and grounding. The sudden contact was like an electric shock. Yunho stopped dead. For a long moment, he stayed with his back to you, his arm rigid in your grasp. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the frantic pulse of his blood beneath your palm.

“Let go,” he rasped. It wasn’t a command; it was a plea.

“Not until you hear me,” you choked out, your grip tightening even as your hands began to shake. “I know I’m a liar. I know I’m a ‘bottom-tier scrub.’ But the way I feel about you—that wasn’t a script. That was the only real thing I had.”

He slowly turned his head, looking at your hand on his wrist before his gaze finally traveled up to your face. His eyes were dark, devoid of the honey-brown warmth you used to find safety in. He looked down at you, and for the first time, you saw the full extent of the damage. He wasn’t just mad; he was grieving. “Why are you here? To watch me fail in person?”

“I’m here because you’re not a failure,” you whispered, your voice trembling so hard it was barely audible. “And because I couldn’t let you walk into that stage thinking you were alone.”

Yunho let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Alone? Y/N, I’ve never been more alone than I was the second I realized the girl I loved was a character someone else was playing.”

“No, the girl you kissed was real. The girl who stayed up until 3:00 AM listening to you talk about your dreams is real.”

Yunho’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor between you. “You treated my heart like a game you had to cheat at to win.” He looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes broke your heart all over again. “You’re still doing it,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re still trying to manage my stats. You think you can just wish me luck and hand me a ‘substitute’ and everything will be optimised again? You think a win in a video game is going to fill the hole you ripped in my chest?”

“I just want you to be happy,” your fingers slipping against his skin as he slowly, firmly, began to pull his arm away.

“Then you shouldn’t have made me love a lie,” he said, his voice flat and final. He didn’t jerk away; he simply uncoupled himself from you with a clinical, heartbreaking precision.

“Wooyoung’s the best, Yunho. He’ll get you to the finals. He’ll make Level Zero real.”

“Level Zero was already real to me! I didn’t care about the tournament and pro-status! I didn’t care about the Radiant rank! I cared about you. I would have played in the bottom tier forever if it meant I was playing with you.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, his fingers trembling with the urge to touch you, to see if you were still warm, still his. But he stopped himself, his hand curling into a fist as he pulled it back. “And now, I have to go play a game with a stranger who helped you break my heart,” he said, turning back toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, his back to you. “And god help me, I still hope we win. Just so you don’t have to feel guilty for ruining that, too.”

He pushed the door open, and the roar of the crowd from the main stage flooded the hallway like a wave of sound—screams, casters shouting, the heavy bass of the intro music. It was the sound of his dream, and it was deafening.

Yunho stepped into the light without looking back, the heavy door swinging shut and leaving you in the sudden, crushing silence of the hallway. You stood there staring at your empty hand, the ghost of his pulse still burning in your fingertips.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎You hadn’t stayed for the trophy presentation or the post-match interviews. You hadn’t even stayed to see if Yunho’s face lit up when the word VICTORY finally splashed across the jumbotron. The moment the casters screamed that Level Zero had secured the third qualifying spot, you had bolted.

You were curled into a ball on the living room floor, your back against the sofa and a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff cradled against your chest like a lifeline. The room was dark when the front door groaned open.

Heavy footsteps thudded in the hallway—the sound of someone exhausted but riding a massive wave of leftover adrenaline. A bag was dropped unceremoniously, and then the light flickered on, blindingly bright and clinical.

“Holy fuck—Y/N?” Wooyoung stood in the doorway. He looked like he’d been through a war. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes were bloodshot from staring at a monitor for hours, and he was still wearing the Level Zero jersey—the one with the blank space on the back where a name should have been. He looked down at you, his gaze traveling from your tear-streaked face to the bottle in your hand. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t even smirk. He just let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned against the doorframe.

“We won,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Qualified. Third seed. We’re going to the second stage in two weeks.”

You let out a wet, jagged laugh, taking a swig from the bottle. “Congratulations, Legend. I guess ‘Viper’ really was the MVP after all.”

“Don’t do that,” Wooyoung snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through your drunken haze. He walked over and sat on the floor across from you, his legs splaying out. He looked at the bottle, then back at you. “It was a bloodbath, Y/N. Mingi almost threw in the second map, and Yeosang... Yeosang actually yelled. But Yunho...”

You flinched at the name, squeezing your eyes shut. “I don't want to hear it.”

“You’re going to hear it,” Wooyoung countered, reaching over and firmly prying the bottle from your hands. He set it out of reach. “He played like a demon. I’ve never seen anything like it. It wasn’t even tactical anymore—he was just violent. Every time I gave a call-out, he executed it before I could even finish the sentence. He didn’t look at me once.”

You buried your face in your knees, your shoulders starting to shake. “He hates me, Woo. He looked at me in that hallway and I saw it. I’ve deleted him. I’ve corrupted everything he ever felt.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Wooyoung said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of his usual sarcasm. He reached out, awkwardly patting your knee. “He’s just... he’s processing. After the last round, when the crowd was screaming and the casters were losing their minds, he just sat there. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t high-five Mingi. He just stared at the floor for a full minute before he walked off stage.”

Wooyoung looked at the jersey he was wearing, his fingers picking at a loose thread.

“He asked me something before I left,” Wooyoung whispered.

You looked up, your vision blurred and swimming. “What?”

“He asked if the Viper’s Pit—the way I play it, the way I stall the spike—if that was the version of the game I taught you.” Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “I told him no. I told him I couldn’t teach you how to be me, because you were too busy trying to be someone he’d love.”

You let out a sob, your forehead hitting your knees with a dull thud. “I ruined his dream, didn’t I? Even though he won, I ruined it.”

“No,” Wooyoung said, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you off the cold floor. “You just turned his dream into a complicated quest. But you? You need to sleep. You smell like a distillery and regret.”

You didn’t take his hand. Instead, you tilted sideways as your body, heavy and uncoordinated from the alcohol, refused to cooperate. The room felt like it was running at a low frame rate, every movement lagging behind your brain’s desperate commands. “I can’t… I can’t get up, Woo,” you slurred, the words thick and clumsy, tumbling over each other. You reached out for the bottle he’d taken away, your fingers grasping at empty air. “Gimme that back. I need to… I need to format. Too many files. Too much… garbage.”

“You’ve had enough ‘formatting’ for one night,” Wooyoung muttered. He crouched back down, his face a mix of exhaustion and genuine concern. He hooked an arm under your knees and another behind your back, hoisting you up. Your head lolled onto his shoulder, the world spinning in dizzying, nauseating circles. You felt like a lead weight in his arms, your limbs dangling uselessly.

“It’s all my fault,” you whimpered into the fabric of his jersey—the jersey that smelled like the arena, like sweat, and like the dream you’d poisoned. “He was so… he was so happy, Woo. Did you see his face before? When he thought I was… her?”

“Y/N, stop,” Wooyoung said, his voice strained as he carried you toward the couch.

“No, listen,” you insisted, your voice rising into a sharp, drunken wail. You grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him close until your blurred vision finally focused on his eyes. “I stole it. I stole his first win. I stole his first… everything. He’s gonna look at that trophy and he’s just gonna see my lying face.”

He set you down on your bed, but you didn’t sit up. You slumped over, your face buried in the pillows, your voice muffled and wet with fresh tears. “I love him so much I erased myself,” you sobbed, the words coming out in a broken, rhythmic chant. “I erased myself until there was nothing left but a mask, and now… now the mask is broken and there’s nothing underneath. He’s in love with nothing. I’m just… I’m a bottom-tier scrub. A zero. I’m level zero.”

“You’re drunk and you’re being dramatic,” Wooyoung said, though he didn’t say it meanly. He pulled a blanket over your shaking shoulders, tucking it around you with a rough, brotherly kind of care.

“I want to go back,” you rasped, your eyes fluttering shut as the darkness of the room started to pull at you. “I want to go back to the Quad. Before the daily quest. Before the Viper.” You let out a long, shuddering breath that smelled of vodka and heartbreak. “I just want him to be okay. Why can’t he just… be okay without me?”Wooyoung didn’t answer. He just sat on the edge of the bed, watching you descend into a fitful, alcohol-heavy sleep. He looked at his phone, a notification from the team Discord  glowing in the dark—a message from Yunho that simply read: Good games today. See you at practice. No emojis. No exclamation points. Just the cold, mechanical ghost of a Captain who had won the game but lost the world.

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎“You have to eat something other than nicotine and regret, Y/N,” Wooyoung muttered one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of the balcony. 

You didn’t turn around. You just watched a stray ember fall from your cigarette. “I know.” You were curled into the corner of the old, outdoor sofa, your knees pulled to your chest, staring out at a city that didn’t know your world had ended. The ashtray on the sill was a mountain of grey stubs, a testament to the days you’d spent watching the sun crawl across the sky without feeling its warmth. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the look on Yunho’s face in the grey morning light that day everything fell down.

Wooyoung dropped a bag of takeout beside you and sighed, the sound heavy with a guilt he tried to mask with his usual bravado. “At this point, you’re going to get lung cancer,” he said, his voice flat as he walked over and snatched the cigarette from between your fingers. He crushed it into the ashtray, but the joke didn’t land. It didn’t even hover. He sat on the edge of the sill, looking down at you. The vibrant, chaotic Wooyoung who had sent those texts—the one who was so excited about a gym guy—was gone, replaced by a man who looked exhausted by his own regret. “Y/N, it’s been over two weeks now,” he said softly, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he pulled it back, sensing the invisible wall you’d built. “I can count on one hand the meals you’ve eaten. I’m worried.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even blink. “I’m not hungry, Woo.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was the one who pushed the lie. I was the one who sent those stupid fucking texts.” Wooyoung reached out and took your cold, trembling hand in his. “Please stop blaming yourself. Just one bite of the kimchi fried rice. For me? If you die of a broken heart, I have to live with the fact that I’m the one who broke it.” Wooyoung’s voice was desperate, clawing at the edges of the hollow shell you’d become. He hated this quiet version of you. He missed the girl who was sharp-tongued and untouchable—the one who could out-drink and out-insult anyone in a five-mile radius. “Where is my best friend, Y/N?” he asked, his voice rising, trying to inject some of his old fire into the stagnant air of the balcony. He nudged your shoulder, his eyes searching yours for even a flicker of the old light. “Let’s just go out. Let’s get drunk and get him out of your system like we always do!”

You finally looked at him, but your expression was dead, your eyes flat.

“Remember that frat party we went to after that dick Juyeon cheated on you?” He let out a sharp, forced laugh. “You threw a drink in his face and made the whole house side with you by midnight. We can do it again! It’s Saturday! Put on your scary liner and those ripped fishnets, and let’s go! I know you’ll feel better once you remind yourself you’re that bitch!” He was pleading now, his hands gripping your shoulders as if he could shake you back into existence. “He’s just a guy, Y/N,” Wooyoung lied, his voice trembling because he knew it wasn’t true. “He’s just a gamer with a pretty face and a big heart that you happen to break. So what? People break hearts every day! You’re the girl who doesn’t care, remember? You’re the one who calls the shots!”

You looked down at the bag of cold kimchi fried rice, the smell of it making your stomach turn. “That was different, Woo,” you whispered, your voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Juyeon was a dick. I wanted to hurt him back.” You finally turned your head to look at the empty space on the balcony where you used to imagine Yunho standing, his large frame blocking the wind for you. “Yunho... he wasn’t a dick. He was the only person who ever looked at me and saw past ‘that bitch.’ He saw the girl who drank coffee. He saw someone worth loving.” You let out a jagged, dry sob that felt like it was tearing your throat open. “I can’t put on the liner. I can’t go out and pretend I’m untouchable when I’m the one who touched him and ruined everything.”

Wooyoung’s face fell, his hype man mask finally shattering. He pulled you into a tight, suffocating hug, burying his face in your hair. “I know,” he choked out, his tears finally hitting the collar of your hoodie. “I know he was different.” 

“He’s surviving, Y/N,” Wooyoung added. “He doesn’t speak to me much beside the game talk but... he tries to survive. Just like you’re trying to do. But he’s doing it by moving forward. By having a purpose. You’re doing it by sitting in this ashtray.” He stood up, his shadow stretching across the balcony. “You can’t stay in this phase forever while he’s out there becoming a machine just to forget you existed. Come on. Get up. If he’s moving on, you have to at least pretend to do the same.”

The silence between you and Wooyoung stretched thin, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic thump-thump of your own hollow heart. He wasn’t giving up. He saw you disappearing, fading into the upholstery and the smoke, and it terrified him. “I’ll let you do any weird, reckless thing you want tonight,” Wooyoung whispered, his grip on your hand tightening. “We’ll go to that underground club. We’ll spray-paint a bridge. Anything. Just... please. Go out with me. Move from this spot before the floor swallows you whole.”

You looked at him, his eyes were bloodshot from hours in front of the monitor, and he looked smaller, drained of his usual neon energy. He was drowning in his own guilt, and you realized that by staying here, you were keeping him under the water with you. “Any reckless thing?” you rasped, your throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

Wooyoung nodded frantically, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. “Anything. You want to get a tattoo? You want to jump off a bridge into a safety net? You want to go find Juyeon and key his car just for the hell of it? I’m your man.”

You stood up slowly, your joints stiff and protesting. You walked past him into the living room, your eyes landing on his PC—the machine that had been the conduit for your greatest joy and your most spectacular failure. You reached for your phone, the screen cracked from when Yunho had slammed it down. You stared at the jagged lines spider-webbing across the glass, reflecting the ghost of your own face.  “I don’t want a tattoo,” you said, your voice finally gaining a sharp edge. “And I don’t want to key a car.” Wooyoung watched you as you grabbed your leather jacket from the chair. You shook off the weeks of ash and dust, the scent of leather cutting through the stagnant air of the apartment. You felt a cold, hard resolve settle into your bones—the kind that only comes when you’ve reached the absolute bottom and realise there’s nowhere left to go but out. “We’re going to The Abyss,” you said, looking him dead in the eye. “And,” you added, your voice dropping into a reckless, dangerous low, “we’re going to get fuckfaced drunk.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, a slow, wild grin creeping onto his face as the shock wore off. This was the mess he knew. This was the chaos he understood. He didn’t care if it was a bad idea; he just cared that you were finally moving. “That’s my girl,” he whispered, snatching his car keys off the counter with a flourish. “The Abyss it is. If we’re going to go down, we might as well go down in a blaze of cheap beer and bad decisions.”

“I want to forget,” you said, pulling your hair back into a tight, messy knot. “I want to be so far gone that when I close my eyes, I don’t see his face looking at me like I’m a toxin.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Wooyoung said, throwing the door open. “Put on the liner, Y/N. Make it thick. We’re going to remind that bar—and anyone from Level Zero who happens to be lurking—that your Viper might have been a ghost, but you’re a fucking haunting.”

As you stepped out into the hallway, leaving the ashtray and the silence behind, you didn’t feel better. You felt hollowed out and electrified. You weren’t moving forward, not really—you were just running headfirst into the dark.

And for now, the dark was the only place you felt at home.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The neon sign for The Abyss flickered in a shade of neon violet, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement as you and Wooyoung stepped out of the car.

“Tonight,” Wooyoung muttered, adjusting his jacket collar, his eyes darting toward the entrance with a mix of anxiety and adrenaline. “Tonight, we’re just two people looking to erase the last month from our collective memory. No names, no flings. Just the bottom of a glass.”

As you pushed through the heavy, sticker-covered door, the air hit you, thick and sweltering, a claustrophobic haze of cheap beer, sweat, and cloying fruit vape smoke. The floor was tacky under your boots, sticking with every step as you navigated past clusters of loud, shoved-together tables.

“Oh, shit,” Wooyoung hissed, his hand tightening painfully on your elbow. He came to a dead stop, his breath hitching as he scanned the crowded rail. “Y/N, Mingi’s working.” He tried to yank you back toward the exit, his voice climbing into a frantic whisper. “Maybe this was a mistake. Let’s just go to The Per Mille. It’s a bit more expensive, but we can still get trashed if I flirt enough with the bartender—please, he’s going to see us.”

“No,” you said, the word coming out sharp. The lukewarm vodka from the convenience store you’d downed in the car was finally hitting your bloodstream, radiating a false, hollow warmth through your chest. “I’m not hiding. I hid enough in our apartment.” You didn’t just walk; you moved with a reckless intent, heading straight for the bar and stopping squarely in Mingi’s line of sight. You climbed onto a high stool, the cold metal biting into your thighs through your ripped fishnets. With your heavy, smeared eyeliner and disheveled hair, you knew you looked exactly like the disaster you were. “Two shots of the cheapest vodka you have,” you called out, your voice cutting through the muddy bass of the speakers. “And keep them coming until I can’t feel my face.”

Wooyoung scrambled onto the stool next to you, looking like he wanted to bolt for the fire exit. “Y/N, stop,” he pleaded under his breath. “Mingi just looked over. He’s frozen... he’s staring right at us. He will give me such a hard time tomorrow during the B-12 meeting.” You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You simply picked up the first plastic shot glass, the cheap alcohol stinging a small, raw cut on your lip. You could feel Mingi’s gaze—heavy, hurt, and burning with a dozen questions—pinning you to the spot.

Mingi stopped wiping the counter, the rag limp in his hand. He looked at you, then at the guilt-ridden Wooyoung, and finally at the shots you were about to down. The boy who usually had a laugh for everyone looked like he’d just seen a ghost walk into his bar. You tossed the shot back, the burn of the vodka searing your throat, and stared at your own distorted reflection in the grimy bar mirror. You were right there. You were a mess. And you wanted it to hurt. Mingi didn’t move for a long beat. The rowdy college kids at the other end of the bar were shouting for a round of pitchers, but he ignored them, his eyes locked on yours. The neon violet light caught the edge of his jaw, making him look sharper. He finally walked over, his boots heavy on the sticky floorboards. He didn’t say a word as he reached out and took the second shot cup—the one meant for Wooyoung—and dumped it into the sink behind the bar with a sharp, decisive splash.

“Mingi, hey— Didn’t know you were working today.” Wooyoung started, his voice cracking, but Mingi cut him off with a look so cold it could have frozen the cheap beer taps.

“You’ve got some nerve bringing her here,” Mingi said, his voice low and vibrating with a bass that cut right through the music. He leaned over the counter, his large hands gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. He was looking at you—at your smeared makeup, at the way your hands were trembling despite your defiant posture. “You look like shit, Y/N.”

“Good,” you rasped, pushing your empty cup toward him. “That was the goal. Now fill it up again.”

“No.” Mingi snatched the cup and threw it into the trash. “I’m not helping you drown whatever’s left of your conscience. You think being a disaster makes up for what you did? You think if you get messy enough, the lie just... dissolves?”

“I’m just a customer, Min,” you hissed, leaning in until you could smell the cleaner and smoke on him. “Just give me the drink and do your fucking job.”

Mingi let out a harsh, dry laugh. “My job? My job is usually keeping people like you from making mistakes they can’t take back. But you’re a pro at that, aren’t you?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a secret and a threat. “He’s in the back, Y/N. In the ‘Staff Only’ booth. We’re staying for a beer after my shift, Seonghwa is on his way. If you stay here, he’s going to see you. Both of them will. And I swear to God, if you break what’s left of him tonight, I will personally throw you out of this basement.”

“He's here?” you whispered, the bravado finally cracking like thin ice.

“We should go," Wooyoung muttered, tugging at your sleeve. “Y/N, come on, let’s go. This was a bad idea, let’s just—”

“No,” you said, but the word lacked its previous fire. You looked past Mingi, toward the dark, shadowed corner behind the kegs where a single ‘Staff Only’ sign flickered. You leaned across the sticky wood of the bar, your fingers curling into the fabric of Mingi’s work shirt, yanking him closer until your foreheads were almost touching. The smell of cheap vodka on your breath mixed with the heavy scent of his citrus cologne. “I don’t care where he is,” you hissed, your voice a filled desperation and intoxication. “I don’t care if he’s watching. Keep. Them. Coming.”

“Fine,” Mingi barked, his voice rough with a mixture of pity. He ripped his shirt out of your grasp. “If you want to disappear, Y/N, I’ll help you do it.” He didn’t use the plastic cups anymore. He grabbed a heavy glass and slammed a bottle of the bottom-shelf vodka onto the rail. He poured a double, then a triple, the clear liquid sloshing over the sides. “Drink up,” Mingi said, his eyes hard. “But when you start puking, Wooyoung is the one carrying you out. I’m not touching you.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the glass, the weight of it grounding you as you tipped it back. “Another,” you gasped, slamming the glass down.

Wooyoung reached out, his face pale. “Y/N, slow down. You’re going to get sick, please—”

“Shut up!” you snapped, your head starting to swim as the room began to tilt on its axis. The violet neon light began to bleed into long, pulsing streaks of colour. “You wanted ‘that bitch,’ right? Well, she’s here! And she’s fucking having a blast!”

Mingi poured another, his expression grim. He was watching you like a car crash in slow motion. Around you, the bar roared—students laughing, glasses clinking, a group in the corner shouting about a “sick play” on the TV. You felt the stool beneath you sway. Your skin felt too tight, your chest too heavy. You leaned your head back, letting the light blind you, your eyes stinging as the vodka finally began to numb your brain.

“You know what?” Wooyoung barked, his voice sharp with a sudden, reckless fury. “Fuck it.” He didn’t try to stop you anymore. He didn’t try to be the voice of reason. He reached out and snatched the bottle of bottom-shelf vodka right out of Mingi’s reach. He didn’t bother with a shot glass. He tipped his head back and took a long, burning pull directly from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the fire. Wooyoung slammed the bottle back onto the sticky wood, his eyes watering, a wild, manic light returning to his face. “If we’re going down, we’re going down together!” He leaned in closer, his face flushed under the pulsing violet strobes. The adrenaline of the alcohol seemed to tear a secret right out of his throat—one he had been guarding like a bruised ego for the last week. “And you know what? Fuck the gym guy!” he yelled over the bass, the confession coming out as a jagged, hysterical bark.

You blinked at him, your vision lagging behind your movements. “What?”

“The guy from the texts! The one I was so excited about!” Wooyoung let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh and took another swig from the bottle. “He never showed up. I sat at that goddamn bistro for two hours like a fucking loser, checking my hair in the window reflection!” He shoved a lock of hair out of his eye, his face falling into the same raw misery you were feeling. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be the heartbroken one while you were also falling apart,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “But we’re both losers, aren’t we? I‘m a failed date, and you’re a ghost in a leather jacket. We’re the perfect pair of fuck-ups!”

The irony hit you like a physical weight. While you were destroying your life for a lie, Wooyoung had been trying to build a fantasy that didn’t even want him. 

“He ghosted you?” you slurred, a ghost of a bitter smile twitching on your lips.

“Ghosted. Stood up. I never showed up to the gym again,” Wooyoung cheered, raising his glass to the empty air. “Who cares, right? I just spent six months crushing on him! But now we’ve got rail-vodka and each other!” He grabbed your arm, pulling you off the stool. Your legs buckled, and you stumbled into his chest, the world spinning. “Come on!” he screamed, dragging you toward the the sticky dance floor where the bass was loud enough to stop a heart. 

Mingi watched from behind the bar, his hands gripping the counter so hard the wood creaked. He looked toward the back hallway, his face a mask of dread, knowing that the louder Wooyoung got, the closer the ‘Staff Only’ door was to opening.

You let Wooyoung pull you into the crowd, the heat of the bodies and the roar of the music finally swallowing you whole. You were your old self now—the one who didn’t care, the one who didn’t cry, the one who was too drunk to realise she was breaking her own heart with every step.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Just as Wooyoung was spinning you into the middle of the sweaty, heaving crowd, screaming about being a failure, he slammed back-first into a solid wall of muscle. The impact was enough to send Wooyoung stumbling, his grip on your arm the only thing keeping you both upright. “Hey, watch it—” Wooyoung started, his alcohol-fuelled bravado peaking—until he looked up. The air seemed to vanish from the bar. Standing there, illuminated by a sudden flash of white light, was a man who looked like he’d been rendered in 4K while the rest of the bar was stuck in 480p. Broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of a tight white tee, a sharp jawline, and—as he looked down at the disheveled mess that was Wooyoung—a single, devastating dimple appeared.

“Wooyoung?” the guy asked. His voice was a soft, deep rumble that felt like it belonged in a velvet-lined library, not this neon-soaked dive. 

It was him. The gym guy.

Wooyoung froze, looking less like a bar-goer and more like a deer caught in headlights. His mouth hung open, a stray drop of vodka glistening on his chin. “You…”

“Why didn’t you show up?” the guy asked suddenly, clearly surprised by his own bluntness, his hand reaching out to steady Wooyoung’s waist. His palm looked massive against Wooyoung’s small frame. There was no anger in his voice—just a genuine, heartbreaking confusion. “I waited at Park Bistro for three hours. I thought... maybe you changed your mind because I had to leave so fast after asking you out.”

Wooyoung’s jaw hit the floor. The windows in the background could have exploded and he wouldn’t have noticed. “The Park Bistro?” Wooyoung shrieked, his voice cracking. “No! No, no. I was at Bistro Verre! The one on the other side of the park!”

The realisation hit them both at once—a classic, low-budget sitcom misunderstanding that had cost them weeks of unnecessary heartache.

You stood there, swaying on your feet, watching the scene unfold through a thick, violet haze. The irony was so sharp it was practically sobering. Wooyoung’s fantasy had just materialised out of the smoke and grabbed him by the waist, while your guy was still MIA.

“You waited?” Wooyoung whispered, his bravado having completely evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, shimmering wonder. “Three hours?”

“I had a book,” the guy admitted, a faint, sheepish flush creeping up his neck that made him look human for the first time. “And I really wanted to see you again. I thought... maybe I’d misread the vibe. I almost deleted your number.”

Wooyoung let out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “If you had deleted it, I would have had to join a monastery. Or move to Mars. I’ve been mourning us for days! I’ve been telling everyone you were a hallucination!”

The stranger laughed—a rich, melodic sound that seemed to cut right through the haze. “I’m San. And I’m definitely not a hallucination.” He finally looked at you, giving a polite, slightly awkward nod of acknowledgement to the third wheel currently leaning against a sticky high-top table. “Is he... is he okay to walk? Or should I get him some water?”

“He needs an exorcism and a grilled cheese,” you slurred, waving a hand dismissively. “But mostly, he needs you to stop him from falling over. He’s all yours, San. Please, take him.”

San smiled—that dimple again, a literal hazard to public safety—and turned back to Wooyoung. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here. I think we’re owed a do-over, don’t you? Somewhere with zero strobes and a lot of water.”

“Go,” you shoved Wooyoung’s shoulder weakly. “Go be with your gym crush, Woo. I’m fine.”

“Y/N, wait—” Wooyoung tried to reach for you, but San was already began to weave through the crowd, his large hand stayed firmly anchored on the small of Wooyoung’s back, guiding him through the chaos.

You watched them go, a tiny, bitter-sweet smile tugging at your lips. The universe was still a jerk, sure—but every now and then, it actually nailed the landing.

Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else as you pushed through the heavy, sticker-covered door that led to the smoking area. It was a cramped, fenced-in concrete slab behind the bar, lit by a single flickering amber bulb and the orange cherries of a dozen cigarettes. The cold night air hit your lungs like a slap, making your head spin even faster.

You fumbled for your pack, your fingers shaking so hard you almost dropped it, when a shadow detached itself from the brick wall.

“Need a light?”

The voice was like a nightmare from a past life. You looked up, squinting through the haze, and felt your stomach drop. Standing there, looking exactly as arrogant and polished as he had freshman year, was Juyeon. The dick from your past. The one who had cheated, the one who had started the cycle of you building walls and calling yourself a bitch. He was leaning against the fence, a silver lighter flicking open and shut in his hand with a rhythmic clack-clack.

“Juyeon,” you breathed, the name tasting like acid.

“The one and only,” he smirked, stepping into the light. He looked you up and down, his eyes lingering on your smeared liner and the way you were swaying. “You look like you’ve had a rough night, Y/N. I heard you were hanging around with the geeks. Didn’t think they’d be your type.” He walked closer, the silver lighter sparking a flame that danced in his dark eyes. “What’s the matter?” Juyeon taunted, his voice a low, condescending drawl. “Did the stuttering nerd realise that playing video games doesn’t make you any less of a—”

“Get lost,” you spat, but your knees buckled as you tried to push past him. 

Juyeon’s hand shot out, grabbing your upper arm with a grip that was far too tight. “I don’t think so. You look like you can’t even find the door, Y/N. Let’s get you out of here before you embarrass yourself even more.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you snarled, trying to wrench your arm back. The movement made the world tilt on its axis, the gray campus buildings swaying dangerously. You felt pathetic, your legs heavy and uncooperative, while Juyeon stood there like a stone pillar of arrogance.

“Still got that fire, huh?” Juyeon laughed, but it wasn’t a kind sound. He pulled you closer, his chest hitting your shoulder. “It’s embarrassing, Y/N. Look at you. Standing here alone, smelling like a dive bar, crying over some guy who can’t finish a sentence without stuttering. I hang around Seoyun now, she told me about him. Is that what you’ve reduced yourself to? A groupie for a bunch of nobodies?”

“For fuck’s sake,” you hissed, digging your heels into the concrete, but he began to haul you toward the door. He wasn’t being a gentleman; he was dragging you like a trophy he’d reclaimed, his fingers digging into your skin. “Let me go!”

He didn’t listen. He yanked you forward, dragging you back through the heavy metal door and into the pulsing violet chaos of the bar. “I’m doing you a favour,” he muttered, his voice hardening as he yanked you.

Juyeon’s face drifted closer, his breath smelling of expensive mints and something cold. He didn’t just look angry anymore; he looked predatory, his eyes scanning your disheveled state with a look of pure, skin-crawling possession.

“We’re leaving,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, revolting murmur against your ear. “You’re going to sit in my car, sober up, and stop acting like a tragic lead in a shitty indie movie.”

“Actually,” he drawled, his grip tightening until it bruised, “Maybe you don’t need to sober up just yet. You always were a lot more… compliant when you’d had a few. Why don’t we go back to my place for old time’s sake? You can show me you haven’t forgotten how to use that mouth? A little thank-you for saving you from your own pathetic breakdown. I bet you’ve missed it.”

The crude, casual way he spoke about you—like you were nothing more than a convenient fix for his ego—shattered the last of your composure. “You’re fucking disgusting,” you choked out, your voice thick with a mix of nausea and terror.

Juyeon pushed through a group of freshmen, his shoulder clipping a tall figure standing near the end of the bar rail.

He leaned in even closer, his teeth almost brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell you what. You give me that blowjob you used to be so good at—the one you used to do to get me to stop being mad at you—and maybe I’ll forget how pathetic you look right now. It’ll be just like freshman year, Y/N. Quick, quiet, and you can pretend you’re someone who actually matters for twenty minutes.”

The bile rose in your throat, thick and hot. The memory of the power he used to hold over you—the way he used to make you feel like your only value was in what you could provide for him—slammed into.

“Let her go.”

Mingi.

He looked from Juyeon’s hand on your arm to your pale, terrified face, and his expression went from exhausted to lethal in less than a second.

“Mingi,” you whimpered, the vodka-induced haze making his name sound like a prayer.

Mingi didn’t say a word, he stepped forward, his height dwarfing Juyeon, his shadow swallowing both of you. “I’m going to count to three,” Mingi said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that you’d never heard from the boy who usually spent his time cracking jokes. “And if your hand is still on her when I’m done, you’re going to find out exactly why they call this place The Abyss.”

“Look, man, I know her, we’re on our way to have some fun—” Juyeon started, trying to regain his footing.

“One.” 

Juyeon let out a sharp, nervous bark of a laugh, his pride stung by the way the entire bar was now watching him get punked by a guy in a work shirt. He looked at Mingi, then at you, and his face twisted into something ugly and venomous. “Fine!” Juyeon spat, “Take her! You want this pathetic, used-up piece of shit? She’s all yours!” His mouth curled as he leaned in just enough for you to hear it. “Have fun babysitting the sloppy little fuckup.” Then, with a violent shove, Juyeon didn’t just let go—he threw his full weight into your shoulder, launching your limp, uncoordinated body straight at Mingi. He treated you like you were nothing more than trash he couldn’t wait to get rid of.

You let out a short, choked gasp as you flew backward. You were too drunk to find your footing, your boots sliding on the sticky floor. You hit Mingi’s chest hard, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs, and you would have slumped straight to the grimy floor if Mingi hadn’t dropped his guard and caught you in his massive arms, pulling you against him to keep you upright. 

“What did you just call her?” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last word, a sound of someone forcing air into lungs that had forgotten how to breathe. He stood a few meters away, his chest heaving under his sweater, but he wasn’t just shaking from rage. If you looked closely—past the shadows and the terrifying set of his jaw—you could see his hands trembling violently. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, his fringe falling onto his eyes, making his features softer. This was the boy whose ears turned red whenever you touched him. Every social instinct in his body was screaming at him to retreat, to hide back in that ‘Staff Only’ room where it was safe and quiet. But the sight of Juyeon treating you like trash was the only thing stronger than his own crippling anxiety.

“Yun, let it go,” Mingi muttered, almost covering you, he wasn’t just shielding you from Juyeon—he was shielding you from seeing Yunho. He knew how much it was costing his best friend to stand his ground.

Yunho’s eyes were fixed on the floor for a split second, his lashes fluttering as he fought the urge to look away, to disappear. Then, he forced his gaze up, locking onto Juyeon with a desperate, shaky resolve. “I... I asked you a question,” Yunho repeated. His voice stuttered, the “I” catching in his throat, but he didn’t back down. He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the sticky floor. “What did you... what did you call her?”

Juyeon, sensing the stutter, tried to regain his footing. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “What, are you gonna cry, big guy? I said she’s trash. A liar. A used-up—” Then, with an ugly sneer, Juyeon yanked you from Mingi’s grip and hauled you against him, treating you like you were nothing. “I bet you haven’t even seen her without her clothes on, have you? I bet you’ve been real ‘gentle’ with her.” He pulled you flush against him, his hand sliding down to grip your waist possessively, his eyes fixed on Yunho’s pale, frozen face. “But I’ve had her on her knees more times than you’ve played your little games, and trust me—she’s a lot more useful when her mouth is busy than when she’s talking.” Juyeon sneered, his lip curling in a way that made your stomach turn. “She’s trash.” Juyeon’s voice cracked with his own frantic nerves. With a violent, dismissive grunt, he shoved you away from him. You flew backward, the small of your back slamming into the hard, unforgiving edge of the wooden bar. A sharp, sickening thud echoed in your ears as the wood bruised your middle, the impact knocking the remaining breath out of your lungs. You gasped, your vision swimming with white spots as you slumped against the rail, clutching your stomach.

“Y/N!” Yunho’s voice was a panicked sob. The sight of you hitting the bar snapped the last thread of his restraint. Yunho lunged forward, his large frame moving with a desperate, clumsy speed to catch you before you hit the floor. His hands were outstretched, trembling with the singular need to hold you, to check if you were breathing.

But Juyeon wasn’t finished. As Yunho crossed his path, Juyeon planted both hands on Yunho’s chest and shoved him back with everything he had. Yunho stumbled, his boots skidding on the sticky floorboards. He wasn’t a fighter; he didn’t know how to brace himself. He hit the side of a barstool, the metal screeching against the floor, and he stood there, heaving, his face pale and his eyes wide with a terrifying level of shock. “What, big guy?” Juyeon taunted, stepping toward him, emboldened by the fact that Yunho hadn’t swung back. Juyeon poked a finger into Yunho’s shoulder, mocking the tremor in his hands. “You gonna cry now? You gonna go back to your little computer and tell on me? Look at you. You’re shaking like a leaf.” Juyeon leaned in, “I bet you won’t do anything. You’re just a soft, stuttering loser who has a crush on a worthless bitch like her. Go on. Do something.”

Yunho stood there, his chest heaving, his hands fisted so tight they were white. He looked at Juyeon, then his gaze flickered to you—hunched over the bar, gasping for air, looking small and broken.

The shy boy didn’t stutter.

Instead, a deathly, absolute clarity settled over Yunho. The trembling in his hands didn’t stop, but it changed—it wasn’t fear anymore. It was the hum of a machine being pushed past its breaking point. He looked up at Juyeon, and for the first time, his eyes weren’t searching for an exit. They were locked on target. “Mingi,” Yunho’s voice was steady and hauntingly quiet. “Hold her. Don’t let her see this.”

Mingi didn’t hesitate. He saw the look in Yunho’s eyes—the bridge finally snapping—and he lunged for you. He scooped you up, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “Don't look, Y/N,” he grunted, his own voice thick with dread. ”Just don’t look.”

But you heard it.

The sound was wet and heavy—the sound of a fist meeting bone. Yunho didn’t throw a calculated punch; he swung with the desperate, uncoordinated weight of every lie and every heartbreak of the last days. His knuckles caught Juyeon squarely in the jaw, sending the shorter guy reeling back against a pool table.

For a heartbeat, the bar went silent. The music seemed to fade into a dull hum.

But Juyeon wasn’t a shy gamer. He was a guy who had spent his life stepping on people to feel tall. He wiped a streak of blood from his lip, his eyes turning into something rabid. “You actually did it,” Juyeon hissed, a smile spreading across his face. “You’re dead, loser.”

Juyeon lunged. Unlike Yunho’s desperate swing, Juyeon’s movements were practiced and cruel. He tackled Yunho around the waist, the force of it slamming Yunho’s back against the brick pillar with a sickening thud. You heard Yunho let out a choked, airy gasp—the sound of the wind being driven out of him.

“Yunho!” you screamed, tearing your face away just in time to see Juyeon’s fist collide with Yunho’s cheek. Yunho didn’t know how to guard his face. He didn’t know how to slip a punch. He just stayed there, his hands instinctively coming up to protect his head as Juyeon rained blows down on him. Every hit sounded like a hammer striking a hollow wall. Yunho’s legs gave out, and he slid down the bricks, but Juyeon didn’t stop. He grabbed the collar of Yunho’s sweater, dragging him back up just to shove his knee into Yunho’s ribs. “Stop it! For fuck’s sake, Juyeon, you’re gonna kill him!” you shrieked, struggling against Mingi’s grip, but Mingi held you tight, his jaw set, his eyes brimming with a pained, helpless fury. He couldn’t jump in—not while he was holding you, not while the bar's security was finally closing in.

Yunho’s head snapped back, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, now matted with sweat and red. He was trembling with pain of a boy who had never been in a fight in his life. Yet, even as Juyeon’s fist caught him again, Yunho didn’t crawl away. He reached out, his fingers fisting weakly in Juyeon’s jacket, trying to pull him away from where you were standing.

He was still trying to protect you.

“Look at the hero,” Juyeon mocked, pulling back for one last, heavy blow. “Look at the stuttering freak trying to—” Juyeon’s arm was suddenly caught mid-air. Two massive bouncers finally descended, tearing Juyeon away and pinning his arms behind his back.

Yunho collapsed. He hit the sticky floor, his breath coming in wheezing sobs. His face was a map of bruises, his lip split wide, and his eyes—the eyes that used to look at you with such gentle wonder—were glazed and distant.

“Yunnie!” You finally broke free from Mingi, stumbling across the floor until you reached him. You pulled his head into your lap, your tears dripping onto his bruised skin, mixing with the blood. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, please…”

He blinked, trying to focus on you. His hand, still shaking uncontrollably, reached up to touch your cheek. “Are... are you…” he coughed, a wince of pure agony crossing his face as his ribs protested. “Are you okay, Y/N? Did he... did he hurt you again?” He wasn’t thinking about his shattered face. He wasn’t thinking about the crowd of students filming the scene on their phones. He was only thinking about the girl who had lied to him, making sure she was still standing while he lay broken on the floor.

You weren’t just crying; you were shattering, your body trembling with rhythmic sobs that tore through your chest. Your tears hit his hot, bruised skin, washing away some of the blood on his cheek. You reached down, your hands shaking as much as his, and cupped his face. You didn’t care about the people watching, or the cameras, or the fact that Juyeon was being dragged out screaming. 

Yunho let out a sharp, pained hiss as your hand brushed over his ribs, but he didn’t jerk away. Instead, he leaned his face into your palm, a broken, shaky exhale escaping his bloodied lips. “Don’t... don’t cry,” he whispered, forcing his eyes open, searching for yours through the haze of pain. “Y/N... look at me.” You pulled back just enough to see him, your vision swimming. His eye was already beginning to swell shut, and the corner of his mouth was torn, but the look he gave you was so profoundly gentle it felt like a physical blow to your soul. “It’s okay,” he rasped, his fingers curling weakly around your wrist, right over the red marks Juyeon had left. He squeezed—just a faint, trembling pressure. “I’m...  still here. I didn’t... I didn’t let him take you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “You can’t fight! Why did you do that? You’re supposed to be focused, you have the second phase—”

“I couldn’t…” He stopped to cough, a wince of pure agony flitting across his features before he settled back into that heartbreakingly soft gaze. “The game doesn’t... it doesn’t matter if you’re not there to see it.”

Behind you, you felt a heavy hand settle on your shoulder. Mingi was kneeling beside the two of you, his face a mask of grim resolve, though his own eyes were glistening. “We have to get him out of here, the police are going to be here in a minute, and he needs a doctor.”

Yunho tried to push himself up, his arms trembling violently under his weight. “I can... I can walk,” he lied, his face going pale from the effort.

“Like hell you can,” Mingi muttered, reaching under Yunho’s arms to hoist him up. As Mingi lifted him, Yunho’s hand didn’t let go of yours. He held on with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, pulling you close to his side even as he leaned his full weight on Mingi. You wrapped your arm around his waist, feeling the heat radiating from his bruised ribs, acting as the crutch he refused to ask for.

The movement of being hoisted up sent a fresh wave of agony through Yunho’s chest, and he leaned heavily into Mingi, his head lolling back for a second as he fought the urge to pass out. His face was a map of disaster—his lip was split, a dark bruise was already blossoming over his cheekbone, and his skin was a sickly, translucent pale.

But as you stepped in to support his other side, wrapping your arm firmly around his waist to steady him, he didn’t look at the exit. He looked at you. A weak, fluttering smile tugged at the corner of his bloody mouth. He looked ridiculous, battered and broken, but there was a strange, delirious light in his eyes. “Hey,” he rasped, his voice barely a thready whisper. “Y/N.”

“Don’t talk,” you sobbed, your tears dripping onto his ruined sweater. “Just breathe. Please, just breathe.”

“No, wait,” he insisted, his head swaying as Mingi began to guide him toward the back exit. He squeezed your hand, his grip surprisingly firm despite his trembling. He squinted at you, his vision clearly blurred, and then he let out a tiny, wheezing chuckle that ended in a sharp wince. “I… I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” you asked, your heart breaking at the sight of him.

“Don’t I… don’t I look cool?” he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a dazed sort of hope. He blinked slowly, his lashes fluttering against his bruised skin. “I’m not wearing my glasses today. I put in lenses. I wanted to… I wanted to look cool if you decided to show up at the tournament agian.”

The sheer absurdity of it made a choked laugh escape your throat, even as your heart shattered into a million pieces. Here he was, barely able to stand, his ribs likely cracked and his future in the tournament on the line, and he was worried about his aesthetic stats. “You look amazing,” you whispered, pressing your face against his shoulder, mindful of his injuries. “The coolest person I’ve ever seen.”

“Good,” he breathed, his weight sinking more fully into you and Mingi as his eyelids grew heavy. “Because those lenses… they’re a nightmare to get in. I think I… I think I scratched my cornea for the cause. Level Zero… 100% charisma build, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Mingi muttered, though he was blinking back his own tears as he adjusted his grip on the Captain. “A total, god-tier idiot. Now shut up before you collapse.”

Yunho just hummed, a soft, satisfied sound, and as the cool night air hit your faces at the exit, he didn’t let go of your hand. He just kept drifting, anchored to the world only by the feel of your arm around him and the knowledge that, for the first time in weeks, the map between you was finally clear.

“My car is around the corner,” Mingi said, glancing at the street. “Keep him upright.”

Yunho’s head fell onto your shoulder, his breath hitching. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“The... the girl who drinks too much coffee,” he murmured, his eyes flickering shut as the adrenaline finally began to fail him. “Is she... is she still in there? Somewhere?”

You tightened your grip on him, your heart feeling like it was finally beating in sync with his. “She's here,” you whispered, pressing a bruised, tearful kiss to his temple. “She’s not going anywhere.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The air in Yunho’s bedroom was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low, rhythmic hum of a humidifier. The hospital had released him with a taped-up ribcage, a butterfly stitch on his lip, and a strict warning to rest, but rest was the one thing eluding him. The moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Yunho was propped up against a mountain of pillows, his face covered with purple and deep blue bruises. Every time he tried to settle, a sharp hiss of pain would escape his teeth, his hand instinctively fluttering toward his side.

You sat on the edge of the mattress, your own leather jacket discarded on a chair, feeling smaller than you ever had. You were holding a glass of water, watching him struggle against the heavy fog of the painkillers that weren’t quite doing their job. “You need to close your eyes,” you whispered, your voice still ragged from the hours of crying.

“Can’t,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a breath. He reached out, his fingers fumbling blindly across the blanket until they found your hand. He gripped you with surprising strength. “If I... if I sleep, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. And I’ll be back in B-12 staring at the map you helped me put up.” You shifted closer, careful not to jostle the bed, and ran your thumb over the back of his hand. “You’re still shaking.” 

“I’m fine. I’m not the one who used my face as a shield,” you tried to joke, but it came out as a sob. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his uninjured shoulder. “Why did you do it? You knew you couldn’t beat him. You knew he’d... he’d hurt you.”

Yunho was silent for a long time. You felt his chest expand painfully against his bandages as he took a breath. “Because for a second... I saw your eyes,” he said softly. “When he was holding you... you looked like you believed him. You looked like you believed you were what he called you.” He squeezed your wrist, his thumb tracing the fading red marks left by Juyeon’s grip. “I can handle being beaten up. I can’t handle you thinking you’re anything less than everything to me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes searching the wreckage of his face. He looked so fragile against the pillows, yet his gaze was the steadiest thing you had ever known. “I’m a liar,” you whispered, the confession finally tearing out of you. “I’m a fucking liar. I’m the girl who broke your trust before I even earned it. How can I be ‘everything’ when I’m not even who you thought I was?”

He reached up, his fingers trembling as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, cautious, as if he were afraid you might shatter. He winced as he shifted, forcing himself to lean toward you. He didn’t let go of your hand; if anything, he pulled you closer. “The girl who lied to me is the same one who stayed up until dawn playing Mario Kart with me,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a clarity that the painkillers couldn't touch. “The same one who defended me. The same one who took care of me. The same one who loves me. You can’t change the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

You felt a fresh tear track through the dried salt on your cheek. “I’m a mess right now,” you warned, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of him.

“I’m a mess too,” he pointed to his face with a faint smile that made him look like the boy you’d fallen for again. “We can be a disaster together. Mingi says we’re already halfway there.” For a second, the room fell into a comfortable silence. Yunho’s grip on your hand softened as the painkillers finally started to win, his thumb slowing its frantic tracing of your skin. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed with exhaustion, but he didn’t close them. “You know,” he started, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, sleepy register. “I realized... while I was sitting in B-12 the day after... that I wasn’t actually angry that you lied. Not really.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You weren’t?”

“No,” he murmured, a small, pained huff escaping him as he shifted his weight. “I realized that the only thing I was truly mad at was that... you didn’t ask me to teach you. That Wooyoung was the one teaching you how to play. I spent all those nights thinking I was so smart, and you were right there... but you were learning his reckless crosshair placement instead of mine.”

You huffed a small laugh, the absurdity of it—that amidst the lies, the secret identity, and the brawl at The Abyss, his competitive heart was still pained by a missed coaching opportunity—was so quintessentially Yunho that it made your chest ache with a new kind of warmth. “You’re a tactical snob, Yunho,” you whispered, your fingers curling around his.

“I’m just... very competitive,” he muttered, his voice trailing off into a pout that felt so familiar it made your heart skip. He looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with his bruises. “I honestly couldn’t believe you preferred Wooyoung’s tutorials! My girlfriend? Learning his lineups? Using his crosshair placement instead of mine? I’ve spent months perfecting all of the maps, Y/N. I have spreadsheets. I have data!” He let out a huffed, pained breath, his fingers twitching against yours. “It was insulting. Professionally insulting.”

It was so perfectly ridiculous, that you completely lost your grip on reality. You forgot he was a walking bruise. You forgot the “handle with care” labels the nurses had practically invisible-inked onto his forehead. “You’re such a fucking geek ass nerd,” you whispered, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you lunged forward. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a desperate hug.

“Ooh—agh—yep, those are the ribs,” Yunho gasped, the sound punched right out of him. He stiffened as your weight hit his chest, his eyes widening in a moment of pure shock. “Internal bleeding... yeah, that’s the way to go. That's the way I want to die.”

“Oh my god! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” You immediately tried to recoil, your hands fluttering in mid-air. “I’m an idiot, I forgot, I—”

But Yunho’s shaky hands moved faster than your retreat. He caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you right back into the space you’d just vacated. He let out a long, wheezing exhale, leaning his forehead against your shoulder as he waited for the sharp spike of pain to dull into a throb. “No, no,” he managed to choke out, a breathless, shaky laugh vibrating against your collarbone. “Don’t move. It hurts like a bitch, and I think I felt a rib move, but it was... it was worth it. If I’m going to have a collapsed lung, I want it to be because of you.”

“Stop joking about your organs failing!” you huffed, though you didn’t try to pull away again. 

“What a way to die,” he murmured, his grip softening as he tucked his face into your hair, his breathing finally beginning to steady. “Dying by a hug from the girl who uses another man’s crosshairs.”

You let out a wet, shaky laugh, finally settling into the small space he’d made for you. You were careful now, shifting your weight so you were barely more than a warm shadow against his side. “I’ll change it,” you whispered, gently caressing his hand. “The crosshair. The lineups. I’ll let you teach me everything from scratch.”

“Spreadsheets and all?” he murmured, his voice thick with the first real pull of sleep.

“Even the spreadsheets.”

Yunho sighed, a long, contented sound that ended in a tiny, muffled wince. He didn’t let go of your hand; he just laced his fingers with yours, pinning them against the blanket as if to make sure you were still real. The adrenaline that had kept him upright through the fight, and the hospital was finally being replaced by a heavy, healing exhaustion. “Good,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut for the last time that night. “We’re going to be... we’re going to be the best team the Open has ever seen.”

“You’re unbelievable, Captain.”

“I’m a winner,” he corrected sleepily, his grip softening as he finally drifted off. “And I think... I think I finally won the only game that actually mattered.”

As the silence of the room wrapped around you, you finally closed your eyes. The game was over, the lies were gone, and you were exactly where you belonged—in the middle of a beautiful, bruised, and perfectly tactical disaster.

“Hey, Viper,” you heard Yunho’s quiet voice, barely a thread of sound in the dark room. You opened your eyes, looking at him, thinking he was already asleep, but his eyes were cracked open just a sliver—hazy and heavy, yet still fixed on you with that same unwavering devotion. A tiny tug of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, making the butterfly stitch on his lip crinkle. “Do me a favour?” He paused to take a shallow, careful breath, his hand squeezing yours one last time. “Don’t go back to The Abyss anytime soon. Or... or any bar, really. I don’t think I can fight off all the jerks in this city. I’m actually... I’m really bad at it.”

A tear escaped your eye and soaked into his t-shirt, but you were smiling through it. “You’re terrible at it. Your form was embarrassing.”

“I know,” he whispered, a hint of that shy, dimpled grin touching his voice as his eyes finally remained closed. “But for a guy who prefers spreadsheets to fistfights... I think I held my own. Just... let’s stick to the server from now on. I’m much braver when I have a digital gun.”

“Deal,” you whispered back, listening as his breathing finally deepened into a steady, rhythmic lullaby. “No more bars.”

As the room fell into a deep, peaceful silence, you realized he was right. He was a terrible fighter, a shy strategist, and a tactical snob. But as you drifted off to sleep beside him, you knew you’d never felt safer than you did right there, in the wreckage of his arms.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ Fridays were a cruel joke played by the university registrar. Your timetable was stacked from noon to evening with the kind of back-to-back misery that left you with no time to eat, barely enough time to breathe, and zero patience for the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the building. You were currently dragging your heels toward your last lecture with Professor Lee. She was a woman who seemed to view your existence as a personal insult; a woman who would pick up on you if you breathed too loud or blinked at the wrong tempo. You were five minutes late, your brain was a slurry of 4:00 AM callouts and caffeine-induced regret, and the thermos of coffee Wooyoung had prepared sat forgotten on your kitchen counter like a tiny, lukewarm betrayal.

Then, your phone buzzed.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ATTENTION. WE ARE A REAL ENTITY NOW. I HAVE THE STAMPED FORMS.

You stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. A group of freshmen swerved around you, but you didn’t notice.

You: registered like… legally?

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: LEGALLY. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: As in, with the University Council. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: As in, there is now an OFFICIAL Strategic Digital Coordination Club. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: I have a stamp!

Your brain struggled to process the concept of Yunho navigating campus bureaucracy without spontaneously combusting from the stress.

StarHwa_04: Yunnie, please stop typing in all caps. You’re announcing a club, not a declaration of war.

You: how did you even pull that off?

StarHwa_04: I did the talking. Yunho held the forms and tried to look ‘sturdy.’ Mingi threatened his friend who works around the library into joining as the 5th member.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: BUT IT WORKED!

You: proud of you, captain! 🖤

There was a beat of silence long enough that you could practically see the crimson flush creeping up Yunho’s neck in real-time.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Don’t— Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Don’t call me that when I’m in public. I mean. You can. But like. Respectfully. Professionally. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ANYWAY. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: THEY GAVE US A ROOM.

You: ok. where?

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: IN THE BASEMENT.

You: the basement like… storage?

FixOn_Mingi: basement room is CRAZY. we’re literally a side quest.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Basement like “tactically isolated.” Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Basement like “zero windows.” Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Basement like “the faculty looked at us and said: Yes. Put the gamers where the sunlight cannot reach them.”

FixOn_Mingi: please let me call it a level zero.

Your mouth twitched. You glanced at the door to Lee’s classroom. You could hear her shrill voice already beginning the roll call. The thought of sitting in there for ninety minutes was physically painful.

You: they put us in gamer jail.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: IT’S NOT A LEVEL ZERO! Golden_Retriever_Yunho: IT’S NOT JAIL! Golden_Retriever_Yunho: I’m heading there now to check the Ethernet ports. Is... is anyone around? I don’t want to be the only one there if the lights flicker.

FixOn_Mingi: Can’t make it. I started my shift earlier today. FixOn_Mingi: Celebratory beer on me later? Come around 8:30. I should be done by then.

StarHwa_04: I’m tutoring that cute guy in 15, but I can make it to The Abbys later.

You looked at the classroom door one last time. Screw it. If Lee wanted to fail you for breathing, you might as well give her a reason. You spun on your heel and headed for the stairs.

You: i’m skipping. send the room number.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: You’re skipping? For the club? Golden_Retriever_Yunho: That’s… highly irresponsible. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: (B-12. I’m actually terrified of this hallway.)

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ The basement of the Science Building was a labyrinth of exposed pipes and flickering industrial lights that hummed at a frequency designed to induce a migraine. You followed the yellowing signs until you reached a heavy, reinforced steel door with a small, wired-glass window.

B-12.

You pushed the door open. It creaked with the weight of a century’s worth of neglect, making the man inside flinch. The room was small—a concrete cube that felt like a bunker. Yunho had already claimed the space. He’d shoved the dusty old desks into a perimeter, leaving a wide open space in the middle. He was standing at the far wall, a piece of painter’s tape between his teeth, holding up a massive, hand-drawn map that he’d clearly brought with him. He looked up as the heavy metal door groaned shut behind you, the sound echoing off the concrete like a final judgment. In the dim, fluorescent flicker of the basement, his glasses caught a sharp, clinical glint.

For a second, neither of you moved. Yunho’s stare snagged on you like a hook. You watched it happen in real-time—the tactical assessment being overwritten by total sensory overload. His pupils widened behind his lenses, his mouth opening just a fraction, before his entire face flushed a shade of crimson so deep it looked like it hurt.

“H—hi,” he managed. The word came out far too thin for a man of his stature. The painter’s tape stuck to his thumb, tugging at the skin but he didn’t even notice. He was too busy trying not to blue-screen. You should have gone cold. You should have kept your shoulders squared and let the Viper rasp settle in your throat. Instead, you felt your stomach do a slow, humiliating flip.

Oh no.

You hadn’t seen him up close in days. You’d heard the Captain in Discord—all frantic, careful bursts of leadership and coordination—but this was different. In person, he was all long limbs and nervous energy, a shy soul stretched into a body far too large for its own comfort. His hoodie sleeves were pushed back to his forearms, hands smudged with ink, and that faint crease of concentration between his brows. “I—uh.” Yunho swallowed, his eyes flicking to your boots, then back to your face like it was a physical trial to hold your gaze. “Y—you came.” It sounded like he didn’t fully trust the universe to be kind enough to make it a reality.

“I said I would,” you replied, voice came out normal. No bored rasp. No monster’s purr. Just you. The realization hit you with a rush of heat. You were dropping the act without even meaning to. You were tired, you were real, and the thought of performing for him—of being that sharp, distant thing—suddenly felt like a weight you didn’t want to carry.

Yunho blinked fast, as if he’d been bracing for a blade and got a hand instead. “O—okay,” he stammered, his grip on the tape tightening until his knuckles went pale. “G—great. Great. Um. This is—this is B-12.” He gestured vaguely at the room, as if the concrete cube needed a formal introduction. “It’s… it’s kind of a dungeon. But, uh—” His eyes darted to the overhead lights. “They don’t flicker,” he blurted, far too loud for the small space. Then, as if realizing he’d sounded too eager, his shoulders hiked up toward his ears. “I— I checked,” he added quickly, his voice pitching up. “For the future meetings. N-not because I… I mean, I don’t mind flickering. It’s fine. I’m sturdy.” You stared at him. He stared back for half a heartbeat before his gaze crashed to the floor like it had taken massive fall damage.

Something warm and awful softened behind your ribs.

He’s trying so hard.

And the worst part was… it was working. Not the club—the club was a basement and a stamp held together by desperation. It was him. Standing tall on purpose. Standing tall for the club. Maybe even for you.

“Your glasses,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Yunho froze. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach up and check if they were still there. “M-my—” He cleared his throat. “They’re… they’re okay.”

They weren’t. You could see it now—the frame was slightly warped at the hinge, not enough to scream broken, but enough to whisper it whenever the light hit the plastic. One lens looked newer than the other, replaced in a hurry. He followed your stare and flushed even deeper. “I fixed them,” he said, too fast. “W-well. Seonghwa went with me to get the lens replaced. I just— He did the… the talking. I was… moral support.”

“Moral support,” you echoed.

Yunho nodded like that was a perfectly legitimate job title. “I was very sturdy,” he added, his voice small. Your mouth twitched. The urge to smile was a physical ache. Don’t. If you smiled, Viper was dead. If you smiled, you’d show him exactly how easy it was for him to get under your skin. But then Yunho glanced up again, and his eyes caught yours for a full heartbeat. There was something in them that wasn’t gamer-panic. It was gratitude. And a cautious, terrified kind of hope.

“Can I help?” you asked.

His whole body flinched. Then he nodded so hard it was almost violent. “Y-yes. Yes. I mean—if you want. You don’t have to. You’re—” he swallowed, his voice cracking, “—you’re… you’re very high value.”

You blinked. “What?”

Yunho went crimson. “I—” he squeaked. “Not like— not like that. I mean like—like in team comp! Meta-wise!” His hands flew up, gesturing at nothing. “I just mean you’re… important. A-and I don’t want you to— to touch dusty desks if you don’t—” He stopped, stared at the tape like it might tell him how to be a human being again. You watched him, and the feeling in your chest deepened into something reckless. Something too soft. You stepped closer—close enough to smell faint detergent on his hoodie and see the tiny freckles near the bridge of his nose. He inhaled sharply, like you’d invaded a boundary he didn’t know he’d set.

“I can handle dust,” you said. “I’m not made of glass.”

Yunho’s eyes flicked to your boots again. The corner of his mouth tugged, barely there. “Y-yeah,” he whispered. “You… you look like you could fight a vacuum cleaner.” It was so specific. So stupid. And it made your heart do something it had no business doing.

“Okay,” you said, reaching for the edge of the map he was trying to tape up. “Tell me what goes where, Captain.”

The word landed. Yunho made a noise that was half-choke, half-whimper. “D-don’t,” he breathed, looking at the floor as if it held a new, limited skin for his favourite gun. “N-not like that. Not when you’re—here. In person.” You held the map steady anyway, and in the fluorescent hum of Level Zero, you realized you would do a lot of things just to keep him blushing like that.

The basement was too quiet. The only sound was the sticky schlick of the painter’s tape as you helped him secure the map to the concrete wall. Yunho was standing so close that every time he reached up, his arm brushed against your shoulder. Each contact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the static electricity of the room.

“So,” Yunho started, his voice still small, still careful. He smoothed down a corner of the paper with a trembling thumb. “I was thinking… I realized I don’t actually know that much about you. Outside of the, uh, the absolute carnage you cause when protecting the Spike.”

Your heart did a panicked stutter-step. “What’s there to know? I play. I win.”

“No, I mean…” He finally looked at you. Not a glance, but a real look—full of that earnest, terrifying curiosity that made him so dangerous. “When did you even start? To get that good, you must have been playing since the beta, right? Or did you come from another tactical shooter? Your crosshair placement… It's like it’s muscle memory.”

You felt the cold sweat prickle at your hairline. Muscle memory. Yeah, Wooyoung’s muscle memory. “I’ve been around,” you said, trying to find that edge, but it felt flimsy in the face of his sincerity. “A long time. I don’t really keep track of the years.”

Yunho nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on yours. “It shows. You play like... like you’re not even thinking. Like the gun is just an extension of your hand.” He stopped, his face going a shade darker. “Anyway. I—I actually got you something. Um… For the club. To—to welcome you properly.” He turned away, reaching into a worn-out, grey backpack with a few, colourful pins, that sat on one of the dusty desks. He fumbled with the zipper, his nervousness making his movements jerky. When he turned back, he was holding a small box.

LOGITECH G Pro X Superlight 2.

You’d seen that box before. Not this exact one—this one was new, uncreased like it hadn’t been carried around in someone’s backpack for three days while they worked up the nerve. Wooyoung had dragged you out for coffee once, months ago, on a day he’d been too fried to queue. He’d pretended it was casual. Just caffeine. Just air. Just not being in your room for a second.

On the way back, he’d “accidentally” detoured. You’d followed into the electronic store because you always did, because Wooyoung was easier to deal with when he was moving, talking, and filling the silence with noise. He’d picked up the Superlight 2 like it was holy. Turned the box over. Read the specs like scripture. His fingers had hovered near the price tag, then jerked back like it might bite, then he’d put it down carefully, like setting something alive back into a cage. You remembered the way his mouth had tightened after, the way he’d kept walking faster through the aisles like he could outrun wanting. You had even thought—just for a second—about buying it for him for his birthday. You’d even opened the tab later that evening. You’d stared at the total until your eyes went dry. You’d done the math twice like the numbers might feel pity and change.

Two weeks of groceries.

You’d closed the page.

“Yunho,” you breathed, his name slipping out before you could catch it.

“I noticed that your tracking was a little... jittery,” he said, his voice gaining a tiny spark of confidence as he talked tech. This was his safe space. “I thought maybe your sensor was spinning out. This one has the HERO 25K sensor. It’s... it’s the best. I wanted you to have the best.” He held it out, his hand trembling so much the box rattled.

You took it, your fingers brushing his softly, on purpose. He inhaled sharply, but he didn’t pull away, instead he smiled. “You shouldn’t have,” you whispered, and for once, you weren’t acting. “This is too much.”

“It’s not,” he said firmly, his eyes dropping to the box in your hands. “If you’re not performing at a hundred percent, the whole team... I... I fail.” He cleared his throat, stepping even closer. The smell of his lavender detergent, and a woodsy cologne wrapped around you. “Do you—do you want to try it? One of the computers was already set up on that station over there. I already downloaded the game.” He led you to the desk. The monitor hummed, the university logo moving on the screen. He pulled out the chair for you—a gentlemanly gesture that felt absurd in a concrete basement. “Back home I put mine at 800 DPI with a 0.35 in-game sens,” he said, leaning over you as you sat down. His chest was inches from your shoulder. “But that’s like the standard for entry-fraggers.”

You stared at the screen. You didn’t even know what DPI stood for. You knew Wooyoung moved his mouse a lot, but the numbers were a foreign language. “I... I actually play on a higher sens,” you lied, your voice tight. 

Yunho paused. You could see the gears turning in his head—the tactical brain battling the Smitten Boy. No pro plays entry-fragger on high sens, his brain was likely screaming. It ruins accuracy. He looked at you and saw your bottom lip tremble slightly, noticing how you were gripping the mouse like it might bite you. “Right,” he whispered, his voice softening. “High sensitivity. For the... flick-shots. It makes sense. It’s... unconventional. Just like you.” He reached down, his large, warm hand covering yours on the mouse. His skin was slightly rough, his touch hesitant but lingering. “Here,” his breath was warm against your ear, and you couldn’t help the shiver creeping up your neck. “Let’s just... calibrate the polling rate. We’ll find your sweet spot.” He moved your hand across the pad but you weren’t focusing on the cursor. You were looking at the way his veins stood out on the back of his hand, the way his thumb tucked perfectly against your knuckles. “Is that better?” 

“Yes,” you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Perfect.” In that moment  the lie felt like a wall between you. But as Yunho smiled—a real one that reached his eyes—you realized you’d rather live in the lie than lose the way he was looking at you right now. You pulled your hand back, the skin where he’d touched you feeling unnaturally, annoyingly warm. The “perfect” hung in the air, a flat-out lie with a bitter taste. You needed to move. If you stayed in this chair, under his gaze, the Radiant Rank would eventually see through the act. “Anyway,” you said, pushing the chair back with a sharp scrape against the concrete. “Settings are fine. Great, even. But if this is a club and not just a shrine to high-latency headsets, we should probably get to work! Where’s the rest of that tape?”

Yunho blinked, the sudden shift in energy clearly jarring his processor. He looked at the empty space where your hand had been, then up at you, his expression softening from intense focus to something more... vulnerable. “Right. The tape. Sorry.” He handed you the roll, but he didn’t step back into his own personal bubble. He stayed in yours. “I didn’t mean to corner you. I just—We’ve spent so much time on Discord that actually having you here... it’s like seeing a legend step out of the screen.”

You felt a pang of nausea. Legend. “I’m just a person, Yunho,” you said, and your voice was a little more on the Viper side than you intended—sharp, defensive. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. It’s a long way down when I fall.”

Yunho went quiet. The fluorescent light hummed above you, filling the silence. He looked at the roll of tape in your hand, then finally, he looked at your face—not like a fan, and not like a captain. “That’s the thing, though,” he whispered. “Everyone talks about your aim. Even Mingi won’t shut up about your headshot percentage. But since you walked in here... that’s not what I’ve been noticing.”

You froze, your fingers catching on the sticky edge of the tape. “Oh?”

“You’re really patient,” he stated and it wasn’t a “gamer” compliment anymore. It was an observation of you. “I’ve been stuttering and tripping over my own feet for twenty minutes. Most people—most ‘high value’ players—would have walked out or made a joke at my expense. But you just... you stood here. You helped with the map. And back then, in the quad, you looked at my broken glasses like they were something worth fixing, not something to laugh at.” He reached up, nervously adjusting the warped hinge of his frames. “I think... I think you’re a lot kinder than the person you pretend to be online. And I like that version of you better.” It was the ultimate irony: he was falling for your kindness—the one part of you that wasn’t a lie—while believing that kindness was just a hidden layer of the gamer he admired.

“Yunho,” you started but your voice cracked, exposing how truly nervous you were.

“I’ll go get the chairs from the hallway,” he blurted out, his blush returning in full force as if he’d just realized how much he’d said. “You stay here! Don’t... don’t lift anything heavy. You’re the MVP. I’m the—the manual labor.” He practically scrambled toward the door, nearly tripping over a stack of empty boxes on his way out.

You stood alone in the middle of B-12, holding a tape and a heart that was starting to feel far too heavy for the secret you were carrying. The heavy door groaned open again, snapping you back to reality and Yunho reappeared, balancing two mismatched rolling chairs and a stack of foam padding. He looked like a human Jenga tower, his chin hooked over the top of the padding to keep it from sliding.

“I... I got the ‘ergonomic’ ones,” he panted, setting them down. “Well, they were ergonomic in 2012. Now they just kind of... lean to the left. I’ll give you the one that doesn’t squeak.”

“I’ll take the squeaky one,” you said, reaching out to help him steady a desk that started shaking under the foam padding. It the looked like it was held together only by hope and wood glue. “It’ll keep me awake during the long rounds.” He laughed breathlessly, his shoulders dropping from his ears for the first time. Together, you slid the desk into the corner, the metal legs scraping against the floor

Once the desk was stable, Yunho started cable-managing the old monitor with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics. Without looking up, he asked, “So... why Viper?”

You paused, your hand resting on the back of the chair. “What do you mean?”

“The agent,” he clarified, finally glancing at you through his warped glasses. “Most people with your mechanical skill play Geko or Reyna. They want the glory, and flashy kills. But you... you play the controller. You play the one who hides behind smoke and acid. You play the one who controls the environment so no one can see what’s actually happening.”

He looped a zip-tie around a cluster of wires, his fingers precise, skilful. “It’s a lonely way to play. Effective, but lonely. I always wondered if you picked her because you like being the one in control, or if you just like having a wall between you and everyone else.”

The question felt heavy. He wasn’t just talking about a video game; he was accidentally dissecting your entire life. You weren’t Viper because of the “meta”—you were Viper because Wooyoung was the one with his hand on the mouse, and the “Toxic Screen” was the only thing keeping Yunho from seeing that you were a fraud. “She’s misunderstood,” you said, the words feeling dangerously close to a confession. “Everyone thinks she’s the villain because she uses poison. But she’s just trying to survive in a game where everyone else has superpowers and she only has her chemistry. She has to create her own cover because if the smoke clears... she’s vulnerable.”

Yunho stopped working. He stood up slowly, his height looming over the desk, but his expression was soft, almost pained. “If the smoke clears,” he repeated quietly, stepping toward you, the distance between you shrinking. “You know, in the lore, Viper says she’s a monster. But when I watch you play... I don’t see a monster. I see someone who’s protecting her team.” He reached out, his hand hovering near the sleeve of your shirt, not quite touching but close enough that you felt the heat. “You don’t need the walls in here, you know? In B-12. You don’t have to be the ‘monster’ for us.”

You looked up at him—at the messy blonde hair, and the unwavering devotion in his eyes. He was offering you a safe place, unaware that the walls you had built were the only thing keeping him from hating you. “I’m used to the smoke, Captain,” you whispered, trying your best to give him a smile, but it came out as a grimace. “I don’t know if I know how to play without it.”

“Then we’ll just stay in the smoke together.” With that his fingers flinched, pulling back and clenching hard into the dark fabric of his sleeve. He looked like he was fighting a war with himself, his knuckles white against the ink-smudged skin of his hands. “And for the record?” He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze dropped, landing on your lips for a heartbeat—long enough for your breath to catch—before snapping back to your eyes with a startle, “Viper is... she’s iconic. But at the end of the day, she’s just a bunch of pixels on a screen.” He paused, his voice cracking on the next word, turning small and raw. “I think the girl standing in front of me is… I think you are... devastating. In person. Without the mask.” You wanted to flinch, to look away, to tell him that the girl he was looking at was the biggest pixelated lie of all. But his eyes were so earnest, so terrifyingly steady behind his warped glasses, that you were pinned to the spot. “You’re... you're really pretty, Y/N,” he whispered, the compliment sounding less like flattery and more like a confession he hadn’t meant to let slip. “And I’m—I’m really glad you joined us.”

The air in B-12 was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Yunho was standing in front of you, radiating heat, his gaze fixed on you with a sincerity that felt like he had touched you. The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten. You were looking up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, waiting for the movie-moment. But Yunho wasn’t a movie character. He was a guy who’d just spent his entire monthly supply of courage. He watched you blink. He watched your mouth part slightly. And suddenly, the reality of what he’d just said—and how close he was standing—hit him. His blinked repeatedly,  posture collapsing into a frantic, jerky mess. He practically leaped backward, his heels catching on the legs of a dusty desk. “I—uh—I mean!” he squawked, his voice hitting a frequency only dogs and Mingi could hear. “The light! The Ethernet! I have to—there’s a cable! A very important cable in the… Another basement!” He began to backtrack toward the door, his long limbs flailing like a startled giraffe. He was moving so fast he almost tripped over his own backpack.

“Captain? Are you okay?” you managed, completely stunned by the sudden whiplash.

“Great meeting!” he shouted, grabbing the door handle like it was a lifeline. He didn’t look at you. His face was a shade of pink that suggested he might actually be dying of embarrassment. “Very productive! Map is… map is stable! You’re stable. I’m—I’m leaving!” He yanked the door open, the rusted hinges let out a mournful scream that filled the silence. He paused for one half-second in the doorway, his silhouette trembling against the dim hallway light. “See you in The… The Abyss!”

SLAM.

The door shut with a finality that made the dust dance in the air. You stood there alone in the hum of Level Zero and the surrounding silence was deafening. You stared at the heavy metal door, then back at the map you’d helped him hang. “See you in The Abyss?” you whispered to the empty room, your eyebrows rising in pure confusion.

A second later, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: I’m so sorry. Please forget that I exist for the next 3-5 business days. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Also you are still pretty. Okay. Bye. Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Also, The Abyss is the bar where Mingi works.

 ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ The air outside was crisp, biting at Yunho’s flushed cheeks, Seonghwa walked beside him, hands tucked into his coat pockets, looking composed compared to the frantic skyscraper of nerves next to him. “You’re walking too fast,” Seonghwa noted, his voice smooth and entirely too unbothered. “Unless you’re planning on sprinting all the way to The Abyss, slow down.”

“I’m—I’m optimizing my travel time, hyung!” Yunho squeaked, though he did slow his pace. He adjusted his glasses—the ones he’d told you were “fine” even though the hinge was screaming for mercy.‎‏‏‎

“She called you Captain in person, didn’t she?”

Yunho stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Seonghwa, his eyes wide and haunted behind his lenses. “I think I’m dying. I think my heart has reached its maximum capacity and it’s about to force-quit.” he groaned, his voice muffled and desperate.  “Hyung, I’m in trouble.”

“We’ve established that. You’re a disaster.”

“No.” Yunho dropped his hands, looking at Seonghwa with eyes that were terrifyingly wide. Now, he was just a boy standing under a flickering streetlamp, wearing his heart on his sleeve. “I like her. I really like her. It’s not just the team, and it’s not just because she’s the best Viper I’ve ever seen. It’s… it’s the way she looks at me like she sees right through the stutter. Like she knows I’m a mess and she… she stays anyway.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened, the teasing light fading from his eyes. He leaned against the wall just beside where Yunho abruptly stopped in his tracks. “I know. It was pretty obvious.”

“I’m scared,” Yunho whispered, his gaze dropping to his scuffed sneakers. “Because now she’s coming to The Abyss. She’s going to meet Mingi. In his... his element.”

Seonghwa tilted his head. “And?”

“And Mingi is... Mingi!” Yunho’s voice hit a frantic pitch. “He’s tall—well, I’m tall, but he’s cool tall. He has that deep voice that doesn’t crack every five seconds. He shakes cocktails and looks all... brooding and tactical behind the bar. What if they click, hyung? What if she realises that in real life he can hold a conversation without blue-screening?” He looked at his hands—those massive hands that had been trembling under your touch—and let out a miserable groan. “I’m just a guy who chokes on plain bagels. Mingi is... he’s a Radiant-rank socialiser. She’s going to see the difference. She’s going to realise I’m the bug and he’s the feature.”

Seonghwa stayed quiet for a moment, watching his friend spiral. He reached out, patting Yunho’s shoulder with a grounding, heavy hand. “Yunnie. She’s seen you at your worst. She’s seen you glitch. And she still showed up to the basement to help you hang a map.”

“But Mingi—”

“Mingi is going to drop a glass the second he sees her because he’s terrified of her,” Seonghwa interrupted dryly. “Trust me.” 

Yunho didn’t look convinced. He pulled his hoodie up, the fabric obscuring half his face as they approached the neon glow of the bar. “If she laughs at one of his jokes,” Yunho muttered into his chest, “I’m retiring from the server. I’m moving to a farm. I’m becoming a monk.”

“Just go inside, you idiot,” Seonghwa laughed, pushing him toward the door.

“Okay,” Yunho breathed, a final, shaky exhale. “Let’s go. But if I start crying because she will only talk to Mingi, you have to tell everyone I had an allergic reaction.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ The Abyss wasn’t a bar so much as a hiding spot that had been granted a liquor license. It sat in the shadow at the end of the road like someone had tried to tuck it behind the buildings on purpose—low ceiling, stained brick, and a sign that flickered just enough to make everything look like it was happening inside a glitch. The air inside hit you first. Beer. Old wood. Cleaner that didn’t quite win. And underneath it all, the familiar bite of smoke clinging to leather.

You were already late when you pushed through the door and let your eyes adjust. It wasn’t full yet, but the sound of music and chatter already bordering on too loud. People hunched over sticky tables, someone laughed too hard in the corner. And then you saw them. Seonghwa sat in a booth near the back where the light was softer, like the place had naturally arranged itself to flatter him. He was dressed like he’d never heard of the word casual, even though the shirt hanging off his shoulder tried to lie about it. His hands were wrapped around a glass of beer, and his posture was too elegant for the torn vinyl seat. By the same table were two boys. One had to be Mingi—impossible to miss, dyed dark blue hair, had his work shirt half-hidden under a denim jacket, he looked like he was in the middle of complaining about something with his entire soul. Even from here, you could see the way he talked with his hands, dramatic and wide, like he was conducting an orchestra of problems. The other one had to be the new recruit. He was quieter in the way some people are quiet on purpose. Not shy. Not nervous. Just… watchful. Blonde hair, sharp eyes, hoodie pulled up even though it was warm inside. He sat angled toward the aisle like he wanted a clean exit route, but his gaze kept flicking back to Seonghwa and Mingi anyway, as if he was trying to decide whether this group was worth the trouble.

And then you noticed who wasn’t there. No tall frame hunched in the corner. No frantic scanning of the room for threats that didn’t exist.

Yunho.

Your chest did that annoying little thing it had been doing lately—tightening, then pretending it was just the air.

As if the universe heard the thought, Seonghwa looked up, his eyes finding you instantly. For a second, his expression did that careful, polite blankness then it softened. Not much, just enough. He lifted a hand, it wasn’t a big wave, but small, almost shy, like he didn’t want to draw attention to you. Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he’d already figured out you were the kind of person who ran on sharp edges and pride, a person who didn’t like being handled too gently. You paused in the midway, boots planted, letting the dim light outline you like a warning. And then you smiled. Seonghwa’s shoulders dropped by an inch, relief cutting through his pretty composure.

Mingi noticed the shift immediately. He followed Seonghwa’s gaze, saw you, and his face lit up like a man who’d just spotted incoming chaos. “Oh,” he gasped loudly, already grinning. “It’s her. It’s the—” Seonghwa kicked Mingi’s shin under the table and the taller one hissed through his teeth. “Ow. Okay. Sorry. I was going to say the hero.”

You started toward them, your boots disappearing under the bass and the sound of voices in other booths. The third guy didn’t react. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t look impressed. He just watched you with a steady, measuring stare. The air in The Abyss was thick with spilled liquor,  and the faint bite of someone’s vape. Even as you walked, your eyes swept the room again, searching without permission. Still no Yunho. Just the empty space where he should have been.

Seonghwa followed your gaze. His fingers tightened around his beer glass for a fraction of a second, like he already knew what you were going to ask and was bracing for the impact. “Hey,” he said when you reached the booth. His voice stayed smooth, but there was caution underneath it, careful as a hand hovering over a bruise.

Mingi leaned back and spread his arms like he owned the place, even though exhaustion was clear on his face. “Welcome to The Abyss,” he announced. “Where dreams come to die, and sometimes I get paid. This is Yeosang. Sit down. Before I start charging you a cover fee.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to Mingi—irritation threaded with something that might have been fondness—then returned to you. “So you’re the Viper,” Yeosang said finally. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn't a mockery. It was a simple statement of fact.

Your smile sharpened. “Depends who’s asking.”

Mingi made a sound that was half laugh, half choke. “Oh, great. She’s scary in real life too. Love that. That’s definitely going to lower my blood pressure.” The booth accepted you like it had been waiting only for that. The vinyl creaked as you slid in next to Mingi—the only free spot— sticking faintly to the backs of your thighs. It was warm from bodies and the room’s restless heat. Mingi didn’t flinch at the proximity. Instead, he draped an arm over the back of the seat, radiating warmth that smelled like cigarettes and work-shift sweat.

“Drink?” Seonghwa asked, already signalling the bartender with a subtle tilt of his chin that looked far too polite for a bar.

“Beer. Whatever’s coldest,” you said, your eyes doing one last, involuntary sweep of the shadows. In seconds a server slid in with practiced speed and dropped a coaster in front of you like a marker on a map.

Mingi tapped it with two fingers. “This is your spawn point,” he said. “Don’t wander off or you’ll get attacked by freshmen.”

Seonghwa didn’t even look up from the wet rings that his beer bottle left on the table when he spoke. “She could handle freshmen. They’re just loud.”

“Freshmen are unpredictable,” Mingi argued, gesturing with a straw he just took out of his beer, like it was a tactical pointer. “They have nothing to lose and no social filter. They’ll look you in the eye and ask what your major is before they even know your name. They decide if you’re worth their time based on the answer. It’s feral behaviour.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to your face, tracking the micro-movements of your expression with the clinical detachment. “What is your major?”

Mingi made a strangled sound, dropping the fry. “See? Ambushed in our own booth. It’s a bloodbath.”

You stared at Yeosang for a beat, letting the pause stretch until he almost—almost—blinked. Then you leaned back, letting your shoulders settle against the cracked vinyl of the booth. “Undeclared.”

Yeosang didn’t simile, instead he took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Undeclared. Funny,” he said flatly. “The Viper everyone in this club talks about is famous for her setups. She plays like she has a degree in architecture and a minor in chemistry. It’s all calculated. Pixel-perfect lineups.” He leaned in slightly, the neon light from a Budweiser sign overhead making his blonde hair look like sour cherry. “I haven’t seen you play yet. But you? You don’t look like a calculator. After all, it’s all about math, right? Calculating the perfect lineup.”

The table went quiet. Even Mingi stopped mid-gesture, a glass halfway to his mouth.

Yeosang couldn’t check your stats, at least not yet, but he was judging your vibe, and he’d realized the girl in the booth didn’t quite match the analytical monster he’d heard of.

Your heart did a panicked thud against your ribs. You didn’t know the math. You didn’t even know what exactly he was talking about. You just knew that when Wooyoung played, the screen turned green and the enemies died. “I don’t do math,” your voice came out a bit sharper than intended. You leaned forward, meeting Yeosang’s measuring stare with a coldness you didn’t quite feel. “I play on instinct. If you spend too much time calculating, you’re already dead. Chemistry is for people who need a lab. I just need a mouse.”

Yeosang’s eyes thinned, he didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. “Instinct,” he repeated softly. “Dangerous way to play at a Radiant level. One slip and the whole composition falls apart.”

“Then I guess I won’t slip,” you countered.

“Okay! Tension!” Mingi shouted, clapping his hands together to break the ice. “Traumatising,” he added before lifting a hand to flag one of his colleagues. “Two more Stella’s! And keep them coming until the room stops spinning, Keeho-ya!” The bartender with short hair didn’t question it, he just rolled his eyes dramatically as he reached for the glasses.

The beers appeared in no time as if the Kehoo guy had decided you were a problem that could only be solved with listening to Mingi’s needs and enough alcohol. The glasses slid onto the wood, sweating and cold, catching the red of the Budweiser sign.

The first sip of your Stella Artois hit bitter and clean, tasting of wheat and the metallic edge of a night that was already beginning to fray. You set the glass down, keeping your voice level. “Where’s Yunho?” It was far from the casual, it was the question that had been clawing at your throat ever since you stepped into The Abyss. But you kept your face neutral anyway.

Seonghwa’s fingers paused around his glass. Mingi answered immediately, far too fast to be natural. “Alive.”

“That wasn’t the question, Mingi.”

“Yeah, but it’s the only guarantee we can offer,” he said, flashing a grin that tried for ‘charming’ but landed squarely on ‘exhausted babysitter.’ Yeosang’s gaze shifted, dark and knowing. “Our Captain is… doing Captain stuff. Administrative duties. Existential dread. The usual.” You didn’t buy the act.

Seonghwa finally spoke, his voice careful, like he was stepping around broken glass. “He left earlier. Said he had to check something.”

“Check what at ten on a Friday?” you pressed.

Seonghwa’s eyes dropped to his drink. “He didn’t say.”

Mingi leaned in, lowering his voice until it was a conspiratorial rasp. “If you want my honest opinion? He panicked. Absolute system failure.”

You stared at him. “Because of me?”

Mingi shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, though his eyes remained sharp. “He panics professionally. It’s a core skill, like his aim or his ability to colour code a spreadsheet. Yunho’s brain is like a very expensive computer that starts smoking if you open more than three tabs. You? You’re like a high-res 4K tab he wasn’t prepared to open.”

Seonghwa shot him a warning look. “Song Mingi. Enough.”

“What? I’m being descriptive!” Mingi turned back to you, defensive. “He saw you in that basement today and his internal fans started whirring. He needed to go stand in a cold room and reboot.”

Seonghwa’s gaze moved past you, scanning the crowded bar, then settled back on your face. “He doesn’t drink much,” he added simply. “This place… it’s a lot for him.”

“I can tell,” the words sounded sharper than you intended.

Mingi’s eyebrows lifted, interest sparking in his eyes like a flare. “Oh. You know know.”

Seonghwa sighed—softly but with a clear resign. This was the part of the evening he’d been bracing for. “He’s okay,” he said, and you could tell he meant it as a balm. “He just gets overwhelmed. It’s loud in here. The sensory input is… high.”

Your fingers tightened around the cold glass. “It’s not that loud.” Seonghwa didn’t argue further. He didn’t have to. His silence said everything: It is for him, when you’re the one sitting by the same table.

Mingi interrupted the heavy quiet by clinking his knuckle against your beer. “Anyway. Enough about our missing, trembling Captain. You’re here. Which is terrifying. And exciting. Mostly terrifying.”

“You talk too much,” Yeosang said flatly.

Mingi pointed a finger at him. “And you talk like you’re delivering a terminal diagnosis.”

“I am,” Yeosang replied, unblinking.

Mingi turned back to you, undeterred by the salt. “So. How does it feel?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave. “To walk into a room and have three grown men immediately rearrange their entire nervous systems just to accommodate your presence?”

You blinked, taken aback. “Is that what’s happening?”

Mingi leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the booth. He looked comfortable, but his eyes carried that permanent hint of ‘loser panic’ that only the truly observant could see. “I’m just saying. Yunho saw you once and started making major life decisions. I saw you once and immediately considered becoming a slightly better person. It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You?” you asked, an eyebrow lifting as you took another sip of your beer. “A better person?”

He tapped his chest. “Me. It lasted for about four minutes. A personal record.”

Yeosang muttered, “Don’t encourage the clown.”

“I’m not encouraging him,” you said. “I’m observing.”

Mingi’s smile went sharp but in a way that felt like he was playing a character. “See? That’s your problem. You watch people like you’re trying to figure out where to insert the knife.”

Yeosang took a slow sip of his beer. “She’s just paying attention.”

Mingi’s eyes flicked to him. “Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not,” Yeosang said simply. “I’m correcting your flawed premise.”

Mingi looked back at you, undeterred. “Still. It’s fascinating. Yunho’s the kind of guy who apologies to inanimate objects when he bumps into them. I’ve seen him tell a chair he was sorry.”

“He does not—” Seonghwa started, then paused. “Actually, he does.”

“He definitely does,” Mingi looked at you, his gaze warmer now, threaded with a playful sincerity. “And you? You look like you’d fight the chair. You’d win, too.” You didn’t smile, but the tension in your shoulders loosened just a fraction. Mingi caught it instantly, his eyes lighting up like he’d landed a perfect headshot. “There it is. A crack in the armour.”

Seonghwa rubbed his temple. “Leave her alone.”

“I’m building rapport, hyung! It’s called networking.” Mingi leaned in again, whispering, “Unless it’s working. Then it’s flirting.” Yeosang made a quiet sound—half exhale, half disbelief—and looked away.

You held Mingi’s gaze, steady and unimpressed. “You’re different in person. From what I expected.”

Mingi blinked. “Different from what? The Discord version of me?”

“Yes. But also, different from Yunho,” you said, and the name landed on the table like a heavy coin. “He’s all… exposed nerves. And you’re—”

“Also exposed nerves,” Mingi supplied, his grin widening. “I just have better packaging. I’m confident because I gave up a long time ago. Yunho still thinks if he tries hard enough and is polite to enough chairs, the universe will reward him.”

“And you don’t?”

“I think the universe is a scam,” Mingi clinked his glass against yours. “So I scam it back.” You should’ve rolled your eyes. You should’ve told him he was full of it. Instead, you found yourself watching the way he carried himself—the loose shoulders, the humour used as a shield. The “loser vibe” was right under the surface, but he didn’t hide it. He wore it like a brand name. Mingi raised his glass. “To beer. To missing Captains who are currently screaming into pillows. And to the fact that you showed up to this dump anyway.”

Seonghwa lifted his glass a second later, his eyes soft. “To you being here.”

Yeosang hesitated, then tapped his glass against the others. Minimal. Precise. You drank with them, the bitterness of the hops settling in your chest. And when the next round arrived—unasked for, inevitable—you realized the night wasn’t going to let you leave with your mask intact.

After your third beer, the alcohol was starting to feel heavy. You’d skipped dinner to make the meeting, and the Stella was hitting your bloodstream harshly. The bar felt a little too warm, the bass of the music thumping a bit too hard in your temples. “I need air,” you muttered, sliding out of the booth. The vinyl let out a sticky shlick sound as your legs detached.

“I’m coming too,” Mingi said, jumping up with surprising agility. “My lungs are craving a toxic cloud of their own.”

The night air was a shock—cold and damp, smelling of wet pavement. You leaned against the stained brick wall of the alleyway, the world tilting just a fraction to the left. Mingi pulled out a pack of Camel Blue’s, flicking a silver lighter, the orange flame dancing in the wind before catching. He inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing like a dying star. The orange glow illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the permanent “panic” hiding behind his grin.

“You look like you’re waiting for a boss fight,” Mingi said, offering the pack to you. You took it, because you would never say no to a free cigarette, even if you didn’t feel like smoking.

“Yeosang’s very intense,” you muttered, leaning your head back against the cold, rough brick.

“Yeosang is a human patch-note,” Mingi chuckled, blowing a plume of smoke toward a flickering streetlamp. “He doesn’t see people; he sees data points and hitbox errors. Don’t take it personally. He’s just… efficient.”

He went quiet after that, watching a stray cat dart behind a dumpster.

“Yunho thinks he’s the lucky one,” Mingi continued suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. “He thinks he’s the one who won the lottery because you showed up. He thinks you’re the ‘feature’ that’s going to save the club.”

You felt a sharp, cold pang of guilt. “I told him not to put me on a pedestal.” You took a drag of the cigarette, the smoke burning your throat. You looked at Mingi—this guy who scammed the universe back. You realized then that you weren’t just lying to a guy you liked. You were infiltrating a brotherhood that was built on a level of sincerity you hadn’t expected.

“You look a little… glitchy.” Mingi pointed out, leaning against the wall next to you, looking more like the tired student he was.

“Just the alcohol,” you lied, taking a shallow drag. “Empty stomach.”

“Yeah, Yunho does that too,” Mingi chuckled, blowing smoke away from you. “Forgets to eat when he’s in the zone. I once found him trying to meal-prep at 3 AM, staring at a bag of rice like it was a complex tactical problem.” He looked at you then, his gaze softer than it had been inside. “He really likes you, you know. And not just because you’re a god-tier Viper. He’s... he’s scared of you, but in the way people are scared of things they actually care about.”

The world spun again. You closed your eyes, the rough brick scratching your shoulder. The guilt was worse than the nausea. “He shouldn’t,” you whispered. “He shouldn’t like me.”

“Too late,” Mingi said, tapping his ash onto the pavement. “He’s already built a shrine to you in his head. Just... try not to knock it over too hard, okay? He’s made of glass, tempered one but still glass.”

You opened your eyes to Mingi watching you closely, his expression uncharacteristically serious, a one you wouldn’t expect from him. In the dim light of the alley, you realized that Mingi wasn’t just the clown—he was the one who watched the watchman. He knew Yunho was falling, and he was quietly asking you to catch him. “He can take a lot of pressure, but once he cracks… he shatters. That’s why we’re here. Me and Seonghwa. We’re the padding. We make sure the world doesn’t hit him too hard.”

“I’m not who he thinks I am,” you said, the truth bubbling up, fuelled by the alcohol and the exhaustion. You took a deep drag of the cigarette, smoke filling every bit of your lungs. You felt your body tense, instead of the usual, relaxing sensation that nicotine provided.

Mingi just shrugged, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “None of us are. I’m not a ‘radiant socialiser’ as Yunho likes to call me. I’m a guy who works two jobs and fails his midterms because I’m too busy worrying about my friends and a gaming club that probably won’t exist in six months. We’re all faking something, Y/N. Some of us just have better skins than others.” He nudged your shoulder with his in a friendly, grounding gesture. “Just don’t drop him, okay? I’m too tired to glue him back together.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The heavy door of the bar swung open, letting in a blast of cold night air that sliced through the warm, hop-scented haze of The Abyss. Yunho stood there, framed by the neon “Open” sign, looking like he’d just finished a marathon. His hair was wind-blown, his glasses were slightly fogged from the transition in temperature, and he was clutching a filled paper bag from a 24-hour convenience store like a shield. He looked “sturdy.”

At least until he saw the table.

You were leaning into Mingi’s side, your head tilted back as you laughed at some ridiculous, unfiltered story he’d just finished telling. Mingi’s arm was still draped lazily across the back of the booth, his eyes bright and chaotic, clearly thriving on the attention. To your left, Yeosang was staring intensely at a coaster, his eyes glazed and his posture suspiciously slumped—he’d hit his limit two drinks ago. But at least the drinks made him loose his sharp edge. And Seonghwa? Seonghwa was a vibrant, alarming shade of pink that started at his collar and climbed all the way to the tips of his ears, though he was still trying to maintain the “caregiver” energy.

Yunho’s entire soul seemed to leave his body for a moment. He stopped mid-stride, “I—uh—”

The sound of his voice—thin and cracked—was enough to make you sit up straighter. You pulled away from Mingi’s side, the sudden loss of heat making the alcohol-induced fog in your head swirl. “Yunho?” you said, your voice softer than you intended, a smile already forming on your face.

Mingi didn’t move his arm. If anything, he leaned further back, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Look who it is! You’re back!”

Yunho didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on you—on the way your shoulder was pressed against Mingi’s chest, and the way you looked so much more relaxed than you had in the basement. The paper bag in his hand crinkled loudly as his grip tightened. “I brought… I brought snacks and electrolytes,” Yunho blurted out, holding the bag up. “For tomorrow. Because… because hydration is a tactical advantage.”

“Yunnie, sit down,” Seonghwa muttered, though his words were a little slurred. He reached out and grabbed the hem of Yunho’s sleeve, trying to pull him down. “You’re making the air anxious.”

“You’re a tactical advantage,” Mingi cackled, reaching out to snag a bottle from the bag. “We’re currently debating if Y/N could take on a bear in a fistfight.”

“I’d win,” you murmured, your voice a little slower, a little warmer from the beer and vodka shots you downed 5 minutes ago. You looked at Yunho, a lazy smile not leaving your lips, not even for a second. “Hey, Captain. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Yunho squeaked, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the paper bag. “I just... I didn’t think you’d be having so much fun. With Mingi.” The way he said the name wasn’t angry. It was sad. It was the sound of a guy who had spent his last percentage of social battery on coming back to The Abyss, only to find the “movie moment” he’d imagined was already starring someone else. He finally slid into the tiny space on the opposite side of the table, as far away from the Mingi-proximity as possible. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the wood. He looked at Seonghwa, who just gave him a blurry, empathetic nod.

Yeosang, who had been staring at a coaster like it held the secrets of the universe, suddenly blinked. He shifted his gaze from the wood to the frantic skyscraper beside him. “Statistically, a grizzly has a 100% win rate against a gamer,” Yeosang chirped in, his voice lost the flat and clinical tone, but still each time he opened his mouth made you nervous. “Even one with your... instincts.” He looked at you, then at Yunho. “And Yunho, you’re trembling. It’s making the table rattle.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Captain” you leaned across the table, completely ignoring Yeosang’s remark, your chin resting on your hand. The movement caused you to pull away from Mingi, and Yunho’s entire body seemed to deflate with a massive, silent sigh of relief. You reached out to tap the back of Yunho’s hand. He flinched at first, then slowly, tentatively, turned his hand over and let your fingers rest in his palm. His skin was cool from the outside air. “I missed you,” you whispered.

Yunho’s pupils blown wide behind his fogged lenses. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He stayed frozen in that half-lean, his fingers curled loosely around yours in a way that felt like he was holding something expensive, fragile. The bar around you was a symphony of chaos—Mingi was currently shouting over the bass, trying to explain god knows what to Seonghwa, who looked like he was contemplating the heat death of the universe. To your left, Yeosang was lining up peanut shells in a perfect, clinical formation.

But between you and Yunho, there was a pocket of air that felt ten degrees warmer than the rest of the room.

“Y-you did?” Yunho’s voice was barely a breath, he didn’t look at the drinks nor at his friends. He just looked at where your skin met his, as if he was waiting for a system error to pop up and tell him this wasn’t real. “I—I thought you’d be... I thought I was being a nuisance. Leaving the basement like that.”

“You’re a lot of things, Yunho,” you said, your thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. “A nuisance isn’t one of them.”

Yunho’s thumb twitched, finally gaining the courage to stroke back against the side of your hand. His touch was hesitant, feather-light, but it sent a jolt through you that cut right through the vodka-haze.

He suddenly remembered the bag on his lap. “I, uh... I didn’t just get electrolytes for the team.” He reached into the bag. He’d brought mango jellies for Seonghwa, and double tuna kimbap for Mingi, but he put them aside and pulled out a small, separate plastic wrapper. It was a strawberry milk carton and a pack of honey-butter chips. “Sugar helps with the... It can slightly slow the absorption of alcohol. And the milk is... it’s soothing. For the throat. After all the smoking.” He glanced at the cigarette pack on the table and then back at you. “I wanted to make sure your stats didn’t drop.”

“My stats are fine, Captain,” you smiled, the lazy, alcohol-softened curve of your lips making his heart rate visibly spike in the vein of his neck. “But I’ll gladly take the milk,” the alcohol made the words come out more vulnerable than you intended. He pushed the items toward you with the tips of his trembling fingers, careful not to let his hand linger too close to yours. “You’re hands are shaking,” you pointed out, shifting your weight to lean across the table until you were deep in Yunho’s personal space. “Is the ‘social energy’ drain really that bad? Or is it just me?”

“Hey! Lover boy!”

Mingi’s voice cut through the air, he slammed a fresh, dripping beer down in front of Yunho, nearly splashing the paper bag of convenience store peace offerings. “Stop staring at her like she’s the last ult point on the map. Drink! We’re celebrating the birth of Level Zero!”

Yunho flinched, his hand jerking away from yours for a second as he sat bolt upright, his spine snapping into a rigid line. He looked like a student who’d just been caught sleeping in a lecture hall. “I—I’m celebrating!” Yunho stammered, grabbing the beer with too much force. His ears turned a shade of fiery crimson that put Seonghwa’s alcohol-flushed face to shame. “I am very celebratory! Huzzah!”

Mingi stared at him for a dead, unblinking second. “Huzzah? Did you just say huzzah? Yun, we’re a gaming club, not a Renaissance fair.”

Yeosang blinked slowly, his head finally lifting an inch from the table. “He’s broken. Get a new one,” he droned. “His social processor is clearly thermal-throttling.”

You ignored them. Your focus was entirely on the way Yunho was currently trying to disappear into his seat. You reached out and slowly, deliberately, hooked your finger under the silver chain around his neck. You tugged, just an inch but enough to force him to lean closer, until his glasses were nearly touching your cheek. “You know,” you breathed, your lips almost grazing the sensitive skin of his ear. The scent of your perfume and the humid heat of the bar seemed to trap the two of you in a private bubble. “If you keep holding my hand like this in public, people are going to start thinking the Captain wants more than just a ‘strategic partnership.’” In response, Yunho made a tiny, muffled sound—a sort of broken whimper that he tried to cough away. “I liked it better when we were alone in the basement,” you whispered, letting the implication sink in like a poison. “You were much… sturdier then.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Yunho didn’t just jump; he launched. His knees slammed into the underside of the table with a heavy thud that sent the beer glasses rattling. You slid your hand from his palm up to his forearm, feeling the frantic, jumping beat of his pulse beneath the sleeve of his hoodie. You leaned even closer, your shoulder brushing his chest, until the scent of your perfume mixed with lingering smoke was the only thing he could breathe. “You’re glitching again,” you purred, the low, bored rasp of your voice carrying perfectly across the table.

Mingi stopped mid-sentence. Yeosang’s peanut-stacking hand froze in mid-air. Even Seonghwa’s glazed eyes sharpened, focusing on the two of you like a high-speed camera.

“I—I am not glitching!” Yunho squeaked, though his voice was two octaves higher than usual. “I am merely... processing the current... social environment!”

“Is that what it is?” You tilted your head, your lips hovering a hair’s breadth from his jawline. You reached up and slowly, deliberately adjusted his glasses, your fingers lingering on his temple. “Because it looks like your ping is spiking. I think we need a frequent connection check to make sure our Captain stays synced with his MVP.” Yunho’s breath hitched so hard it sounded like a sob. He looked at you, his pupils so blown they practically swallowed the honey-gold of his eyes. He was a second away from blue-screening. “Don’t look so scared,” you said, loud enough for Mingi to choke on his beer. You let your hand slide down to cup his flushed cheek, your thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing well, baby.”

The word hit the table like a grenade.

Yunho didn’t jump this time. He didn’t launch. He simply... stopped. His jaw dropped. His eyes went wide and vacant. A soft, high-pitched whirring sound actually seemed to come from his throat as his brain tried to categorise a reality where Viper had just called him ‘baby’ in front of his best friends.

“Did she just—” Mingi’s voice was a strangled wheeze. He slammed his hands onto the table, shaking the glasses. “Did she just call him baby? In public? In front of witnesses? I’m recording this. I’m putting this on the club’s permanent record.”

“Call an ambulance,” Yeosang deadpanned, reaching over to poke Yunho’s frozen shoulder. Yunho didn’t even flinch; he just slowly began to tilt to the side. “He’s reached critical mass. His internal fans have stopped spinning. He is literally overheating.”

Seonghwa leaned back, a look of profound, weary amusement on his pink-tinged face. “I told you she was dangerous, Yunnie. I didn’t think she’d actually kill you.”

Yunho finally made a sound. It was a faint, pathetic squeak—the sound of a balloon losing air. He looked at you, his face a shade of crimson, and then, with the grace of said baloon, he lowered his forehead onto the sticky wood of the table with a muffled thud.

You sat back, picking up your glass and taking a slow, satisfied sip. You looked over at the rest of the boys, an eyebrow arched in a challenge. “What?” you asked innocently. “A Captain needs to be kept in peak condition. It’s just... tactical maintenance.”

Mingi pointed a shaking finger at the pile of defeated blonde hair that was Yunho. “Tactical maintenance? You just deleted his entire operating system! Look at him! You’ve turned our Radiant leader into a sentient heap of anxiety!”

“He’ll reboot,” you said, though you reached out and gently ruffled the hair at the nape of Yunho’s neck. He shivered under your touch, a long, full-body tremor. “Eventually.”

Yunho remained facedown on the table for couple of minutes, a motionless monument to social catastrophe. Then, with a slow, mechanical creak, he began to rise. He didn’t look at you directly. Instead, he reached out a shaking hand and gripped his beer glass like it was a life jacket. He took a massive, desperate gulp—nearly half the glass—swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed frantically. “System… restored,” he wheezed, wiping foam from his lip with the back of a trembling hand. He sat up, his posture so straight it looked painful, though his ears were still glowing a vivid pink. He cleared his throat, trying to find that steady voice, but it came out a little too airy. “I’ve processed the data. The… the ‘baby’ variable was unexpected. But I have adjusted my defensive line.” He took another, smaller sip, finally brave enough to look at you over the rim of the glass. His eyes were still wide but there was a flicker of something new there—a tiny spark of competitive heat. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered, the beer giving him just enough liquid courage to lean back toward you. “You use psychological warfare. You’re trying to… to tilt me before the match even starts.”

“Is it working?” you asked, resting your chin on your palm, watching the way he tried to look confident while his hand still rattled against the glass.

“It’s a critical hit,” Yunho admitted, a small, shy smile finally breaking through the embarrassment. He looked down at the hand you’d been holding, then back at you. “But I’m a high-level strategist. I’ll… I’ll adapt. Just don’t do it again when I’m holding hot coffee. I’d like to keep my skin.”

“Look at him,” Mingi groaned, leaning his head on your shoulder. “He’s trying to act cool. Yunho, you literally just died. We saw the light leave your eyes.”

“I was rebooting!” Yunho snapped, though he looked more like a flustered golden retriever than a hardened leader. He turned back to you, his gaze softening. “Anyway. I accept Level Zero as our official name. We are a team now. And I… I have strawberry milk to protect.” He moved the small carton closer to you, his fingers lingering near yours for a fraction of a second. The bold flirt had cracked him, but as he sat there, sipping his beer and watching you with that unwavering devotion, it was clear he wasn’t running away anymore.

The air in the booth had become filled with laughter, spilled beer, and the high-octane energy of Level Zero members. But the alcohol and the warmth were finally catching up to you, making the neon signs blur at the edges. “I’m heading out for one more,” you said, sliding out of the booth. You tapped the pack of cigarettes in your pocket. “Min?”

Mingi looked up from his third attempt to explain a concept of “soulmates” to a very confused Seonghwa. He looked at you, then his gaze flickered to Yunho—who was currently peeling the straw for your strawberry milk with the focus of a bomb technician.

“Nah,” he said, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. He leaned back, spreading his arms over the vinyl. “I think I’m gonna stay here and make sure Yeosang doesn’t actually join the peanut army. Go ahead, Viper. Don’t get lost in the smoke.”

The heavy industrial door of The Abyss groaned as you pushed it open, the transition from the humid bar to the biting night air feeling like a cold bucket of water over your head. The alley was quiet, exactly what you needed right now. You leaned against the cold brick, fumbling with your lighter. Your hands were somehow steady, but your head felt heavy. You managed to spark the flame, the orange glow momentarily blinding you. You took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs as you stared at the damp pavement.

Slam.

Yunho emerged into the alley, the warm, yellow light from the bar spilling around his silhouette, making him look even taller than usual. He wasn’t wearing his hoodie anymore—just a thin T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. He looked around wildly for a second before his eyes landed on you. He didn’t say anything at first, just walked over, shoes crunching on a stray bit of gravel, and came to a halt a few feet away.

“You smoke too much,” Yunho murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes, more grounded than he’d been all night. He tucked his hands into his pockets, a shy smile lighting up his face as he stepped even closer, his shoulder bumping yours as you blew the smoke away from him.

“That’s how addiction works, Captain,” you answered, a bit of humour in your voice as you took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing a fierce, defiant orange against the gloom. The silence of the alleyway felt different than the silence of B-12. In the basement, it had been about the lie. Here, under the warm, yellow light of a streetlamp, it felt like the first real crack in the mask.

Even if the smoke scent was too heavy in his lungs, Yunho didn’t move away; if anything, he leaned into your space, his proximity radiating a heat that made the alcohol in your veins hum. You caught the way his eyes tracked the movement of your hand, the way he seemed to be memorizing the curve of your fingers against the filter. The silence was no longer awkward, it was heavy. 

It was becoming too much. Too real.

You looked up at him, your vision starting to slightly swim. Yunho didn’t look like the nervous boy who chokes on plain bagels anymore, but maybe it was just the beer in his system making him more relaxed. The smoke swirled between you, grey and thick, before the wind caught it and pulled it into the night. You felt the nicotine rush collide with the lingering vodka, a sudden, dizzying wave that made the brick wall behind you feel like it was leaning away. You didn’t go far—you couldn’t. You swayed, your boots scraping against the damp pavement as gravity betrayed you.

“Whoa—hey” Yunho’s reaction was instinctive, his reflexes firing before his brain could even process the panic. He moved into your space, his large hands catching your shoulders to steady you. He was warm, solid. He didn’t pull away once you were stable; instead, he kept his hands there, his thumbs brushing against the leather of your jacket, bracing you against the world’s sudden tilt. “You’re really drunk,” he noted, his voice softening into something protective. “I shouldn’t have let you drink that last shot,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his voice full of guilt. “I saw the bottle. I calculated the units, and I still let you…” He stopped, letting out a shaky breath that ruffled your hair. 

“I’m efficiently hydrated,” you looked up at him, a lazy smile pulling at your lips. The frigale air between you was becoming heavy with the unsaid things from the basement and the “baby” you'd dropped like a bomb inside the bar. It was intimidating—the way he was looking at you with that crushing, quiet worship.

You needed to break it.

“So…” you began, your voice nothing more than a mare, smoke-damaged rasp. You turned your head slightly, looking at him through the corner of your eye as you tapped the ash onto the wet pavement. “Back in the basement…” You tilted your head back against the brick, looking at him through your lashes. “You called me pretty.”

Yunho’s entire body went rigid. The hands on your shoulders didn’t drop, but his fingers twitched. He looked down at his boots, then at the flickering “Open” sign, then finally back to you. The shy smile from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a sincerity that was far more dangerous. “I did,” he admitted, the sound barely audible over the hum of the bar’s generator. He was so close that the tips of his shoes were touching yours. “I was... that was a tactical observation. Based on... visual data.” He was so tall that he had to incline his head sharply to maintain eye contact.

“Visual data,” you repeated, your smile sharpening as you took one last drag and flicked the ember into the wet gutter. Now, with the cigarette thrown away, you closed the final inch of space until your jacket was brushing the front of his T-shirt. “You were very certain about that data in the basement. You seemed so... sturdy when you said it.”

Yunho didn’t back away. Even with his heart likely hitting 150 BPM, he stayed still, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there, trapped by his own honesty. “I’m still certain,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a deeper register that made the ground under your boots feel unstable again. “The data is... it’s consistent. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen on a server. Or off one.” He looked like he wanted to bolt, but he also looked like he would stay in that freezing alley for a thousand years just to keep holding your shoulders. “And the resolution is getting higher. You’re not just pretty. You’re…” He paused, his eyes searching yours as if for permission to say what he wanted to. “You’re terrifying. And I can’t seem to look away.”

You let out a small, huffed laugh, “Terrifying? That’s a 100% win rate for Viper.”

“I’m not talking about the game now,” Yunho said softly, his hand moving, finally leaving your shoulder to ghost along the line of your jaw. His skin was cool, but the intent behind the touch was fire. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing your temple with the lightness of a butterfly wing. “I’m talking about you.”

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, watching his pupils blow out until they nearly swallowed the brown of his eyes. You tilted your head, your lips inches from his, close enough to feel the frantic heat radiating off his skin. Yunho’s eyes fluttered shut, he was so visibly nervous he was actually shaking, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches. But you knew he was waiting for it as much as you were. He was braced for the impact of a kiss. You could feel the slight tremble in his jaw, the way he was shaking from the effort of staying still. He was a man standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to push him.

You paused mid-lean, your nose almost brushing his, and felt the sharp, hitching catch in his throat. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t close the gap either. Instead, you let out a soft, hummed laugh that ghosted over his lips, making his eyes snap open in dazed confusion. “You know, Captain,” you whispered, your voice a silken thread that made the lump in his throat even tighter. You let your hand slide to his chest, your fingers splaying over the middle of his ribcage. “A good strategist never reveals their best play during the first match.”

Yunho’s eyes looked dazed and half-blind with adrenaline. He looked like a man who had been braced for a collision only to find himself suspended in mid-air. “W-what?”

The vibration of soft spoken words was hitting the space between your mouths. “I think we’re still at Level Zero,” you murmured, your lips almost grazing his. “And I’d hate to ruin the progression curve by skipping to the final boss on night one.”

The confusion on his face was almost painful to watch. He was trying to process the logic, his brain struggling to switch back from ‘romance’ to ‘tactics.’ “You’re… you’re pausing the game?”

“I’m saving the progress,” you corrected, a lazy, mischievous glint in your eyes as you finally pulled back just an inch. “They say the third time’s a charm, right? Basement… bar… maybe next time, Captain.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke on. Yunho stood there, his hand still frozen against your jaw, his lips parted as if he were trying to catch the phantom heat of the kiss you’d just denied him. He looked absolutely devastated—but in a way that was fuelled by a terrifying amount of adoration. He wasn’t just “glitching” anymore; he was a total system failure. His chest heaved, a single, sharp breath escaping him that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. “That’s…” he started, his voice cracking and jumping an entire octave. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the Captain. “That is… highly irregular tactical behaviour.”

“Is it?” You pulled back another inch, making the cool air hit the space on Yunho’s chest where your heat had been. “I thought I was just keeping the stakes high. You wouldn’t want a game that’s too easy to win, would you?”

Yunho’s hand finally dropped from your face, but his fingers curled into a fist as if he were trying to hold onto the sensation of your skin. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the white mist of his breath mingling with yours. “I don’t think I could handle it being any harder,” he stepped closer, invading your space again, his height looming over you. “You’re… you’re playing on a level I haven’t even unlocked yet.”

The world decided to tilt then.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream at the exact same moment a gust of wind whistled down the alley. Your knees, which had been locked in a bold, flirtatious stance, suddenly turned to water. You swayed, the brick wall behind you feeling like it was receding into the dark. “The ground,” you mumbled, burying your face in the soft cotton of his T-shirt. You felt dizzy, the smell of him—lavender detergent mixed with some sweet, slightly woodsy smell—acting as the only thing keeping you grounded. “The ground is lagging, Yun.”

He shifted his grip, one arm sliding around your shoulders to pull you closer, while the other was firm on your waist. A tiny sound escaped him—half laugh, half choke. “You shouldn’t have smoked that cigarette.” 

“Tell me what you want,” you murmured against the skin of his collarbone, completely ignoring his correct remark. Your stubbornness, and the need to feel his warmth around you, made you press so close that the cold night couldn’t fit between your bodies anymore. “Do you want me to go back inside? Do you want me to go home?”

His fingers tightened at your waist, the smallest squeeze telling you he needed the closeness as much as you did. “I want you to be okay.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

Yunho looked down at you like you were a problem he’d been trying to solve for months and had finally, terrifyingly, reached the last step of the equation. “I want—” He shut his eyes like he could brute force the courage into existence. “I want to stay in this lobby,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of honesty he couldn’t believe he had. “I want the timer to stop. I want to keep you here before I sober up, and you walk away turning back into someone I glitch in front of.” He let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, his glasses touching softly against your temple. The Captain was gone. The Radiant rank was gone. There was just a boy in a thin T-shirt shivering in a dark alley because he was too far gone to care about the cold. “You’re so loud, Y/N,” he breathed, his eyes still squeezed shut as if the sight of you would be the final blow to his system. “Even when you’re quiet, you’re the only thing I can hear. It’s like you’re a frequency I’m tuned to, and everything else is just static. So no. I don’t want you to go back inside. And I don’t want you to go home.” He looked down at your lips—the ones that had teased him, mocked him, and called him baby—and his grip on your waist tightened until it was almost possessive. “I want you to tell me this isn’t a strategy, tell me you’re not just tilting me because you can. Tell me that when you look at me, you’re not seeing a mission or a teammate.”

You leaned back just enough to see the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his lips were still slightly open. You wanted to snap back with something sharp, something that would keep the armour intact. But the “lag” was too heavy, and his heat was too real. You inhaled, then exhaled slowly, the cold air burning your lungs more than the cigarette did. “Captain,” you whispered, leaning in again—this time not to provoke, but because the world felt steadier when you could hear his breathing. “If you kiss me right now, I might actually start believing you.”

Yunho went still. Every muscle in him locked like he was about to take a hit. “You… you still want that?” The question sounded like he couldn’t afford to misunderstand.

You looked him dead in the eye, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous velvet that felt like it was vibrating against every pore on his skin. You took a step forward, forcing him against the cold brick, letting him feel the softness of your body against the rigid tension of his. “I’m done making the calls, Yun. My head is spinning, and I’m sick of being the one in control.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth, then back to his blown-out pupils. “I need someone to handle me. To put their hands on me and tell me exactly where to go and what to do.”

The effect was catastrophic. He didn’t just blush; he looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. “H-h-handle?” he stammered, his voice cracking so badly it was almost a squeak.

“Yeah,” you nodded, your lips brushing the heat of his neck, “So are you going to be the Captain and take what’s yours, or not?”

For a guy who had spent more time on a headset than talking to girls, the blunt weight of your request was a total critical hit. “Y-Y/N,” he wheezed, looking like he was witnessing a miracle and a catastrophe at the same time. “You... you shouldn’t... that’s a very... high-level implication.”

“Is it?” you whispered, stepping on your toes to press a light kiss right under his ear.

“Yes!” he squeaked, his eyes wide and panicked, his glasses fogging up from the heat radiating off his face. “I—I don’t have the... the experience points for that kind of dialogue! I’m... I’m just the strategist. I don’t... I’ve never... handled... anyone.”

“Then learn,” you whispered, enjoying the way his pulse was visible in his neck. He was terrified. He was overwhelmed. And it made you feel nothing but joy. “None of this is a strategy,” you finally murmured the words he needed to hear the most. “I’m not that good of an actress. I just want you.”

The air in the alleyway seemed to hold its breath.

“So do something,” you challenged, your thumb tracing the jumping pulse in his throat. “Show me the Captain, Yunho. I’m waiting for the command.”

“N-no,” he said. It was meant to be firm, but it came out trembling with nerves. His eyes darted over your face like he was running a full tactical scan and hating the results. You were so close, he could have leaned in, he could have finished the “three times a charm” countdown right there. Instead, he let out a long, shaky exhale that ruffled your hair, and he gently but firmly, tucked your head back under his chin. “You’re drunk,” his voice was rougher than before but it wasn’t an accusation. It was more a boundary he was forcing himself to hold. “And I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

You let out a breath that came out more like a laugh. “I’m just lightly buzzed,” you corrected, because you were still you, still stubborn, still allergic to vulnerability. “And I give you my full consent,” you tried to stand taller just to prove the point but the sidewalk immediately tilted in response, like it was personally offended.

Yunho’s grip tightened, instinctively, steadying you like you weighed nothing. “I won’t—” He shut his eyes, like saying it out loud would hurt. “I’m not kissing you like this.”

Heat flared in your chest, sharp and humiliating. “Because you think I’ll regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. Too fast. Too honest. “Because I’ll regret not stopping if you do.”

That landed somewhere deep, under the mask, under the alcohol haze. You stared at him for a beat, then tipped your head back against the night air, exhaling hard. “God. You’re infuriating.”

“I know,” Yunho whispered, like it was a fact he’d already logged and accepted. The humiliation you’d felt a second ago didn’t vanish, but it transformed into something else—a grounding realization. Yunho wasn’t rejecting you; he was protecting the version of you that he worshipped, even if that version currently had silver smoke on her breath and a head full of vodka. 

“You’re really going to be the hero, aren’t you?” you murmured, your voice small, the usual rasp replaced by something raw. Your fingers tangling in the messy, wind-blown strands of his hair. “Even when I’m being the villain. You just… stay the hero.”

Yunho’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look away. “I’m not a hero, Y/N. I’m just a guy who’s very, very bad at losing things that matter.” He took a shaky breath, his forehead dropping back down to rest against yours. His glasses were cool against your skin, but his eyes, peering through the lenses, were burning. “I can be infuriating all night. I can be the most annoying strategist you’ve ever met. I’ll calculate your water intake, I’ll tell you to sleep, and I’ll walk you to your door without touching you once if that’s what it takes to make sure you wake up tomorrow and don’t wish I was someone else.”

“Okay,” you surrendered. You let your hands slide down from his hair to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart. You took a step backward to reclaim at least a bit of control, but your ankle immediately betrayed you. You stumbled—more dramatic than you meant, less graceful than you wanted—and Yunho caught you so fast it was like he’d been braced for impact the entire time. “I can’t walk,” you admitted, your voice looping into a slight, giggly slur as you leaned your forehead against his chest again. 

He didn’t move, keeping his hands locked on your waist, his thumbs tracing the line of your hips through your clothes. He was like a human cage, but for the first time, the cage felt like the only place you were safe. “Okay,” he said, voice going calm in a way that was never actually calm. “We’re in a medical situation.”

“It’s not a medical situation,” you scoffed, trying to push yourself off him like pride alone could stabilise your ankles. Your legs immediately wobbled, and your attempt at independence turned into a slow-motion betrayal. “It’s just the air… It’s too loud, which makes everything worse. Spinning.”

Yunho tightened his hold without even thinking, one arm bracing your waist, the other steady at your elbow. His hands were warm through your jacket. Sturdy. Annoyingly so. “Viper,” he said, and your stomach dipped at the way he used the agent name instead of yours. “You can’t walk.”

“I can walk,” you insisted. “I just need to—” You took one step to prove it and the sidewalk tilted like it was laughing. You lurched, boots skidding, and Yunho caught you again, quick and practiced. He didn’t even flinch. He just absorbed you like you belonged there.

“You are not doing a hero sprint right now,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His breath puffed out in a small cloud in the cold. “Okay. New plan.”

You narrowed your eyes up at him. “What plan?” He looked down at you, and for a second he looked so young it made something in your chest ache. Like he was trying to be the Captain, trying to be responsible, trying to keep you safe, and the weight of it was too big for his shoulders but he carried it anyway. 

“I’m taking you home,” he said.

Home. The word hit softer than it should have. You tried to laugh it off. It came out as a tiny, undignified huff against his shirt. “I can… tactically retreat on my own.”

Yunho’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself. “You just got nerfed by beers and vodka. There’s no retreat. There’s only… extraction.”

“Extraction,” you repeated, like you were testing the word for weakness. He nodded, very seriously. You stared at him for a beat, then lifted a finger to poke his chest, right over the hammering heart. “You’re… so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he said automatically.

“You said ‘medical situation.’”

“That was a factual observation.” You snorted and it turned into a giggle against your will. Yunho’s gaze flicked to your mouth again—quick, involuntary—then away like it physically hurt to look for too long. He swallowed, throat bobbing. “Can you… can you tell me your address?”

“My address?”

“Yes.”

You blinked slowly. “Captain, I live in… I live in a building with the… the stairs.” 

Yunho stared. You stared back, pleased with yourself.

He exhaled through his nose like someone had just handed him a bomb and a pair of tweezers. “Okay. Great. Perfect.”

“I can show you,” you offered, like you were being helpful. He hesitated, eyes tracking the line of your body, the wobble lingering in your posture, the way your head kept wanting to tip forward like sleep was waiting just behind your eyes. 

Then, very carefully, as if he was asking permission from every law of the universe, Yunho shifted his stance. “What are you—” you started. He ducked, turned, and in one not-so-smooth motion he scooped you up. It wasn’t bridal, not exactly. It was more… practical. One arm under your knees, the other behind your back, close and secure like a carry-out of a very expensive, very stubborn package. This time your brain stopped working. Your hands flailed for a second before instinct found fabric—his shirt, his shoulder, the back of his neck. “Yunho!” you hissed, half scandalised, half outraged, wholly aware of how easy it was for him. “Put me down!”

“No,” he said, immediate and firm.

You blinked at him. “No?”

He adjusted his grip like you weighed nothing, jaw set like he’d committed to a mission and was not taking feedback. “You’re going to fall.”

“I would not fall.”

“You did fall,” he corrected.

“I stumbled.”

He looked at you, expression flat in a way that was almost comical. “You nearly ate the sidewalk.”

“I was checking it,” you said, because your dignity was a dying animal and you refused to finish it off.

His lips twitched again. “Thank you for your service.”

You huffed, then—feeling the exhaustion and the vodka pull at your eyelids—you leaned closer. If he wouldn’t kiss you because you were drunk—fine. You’d take what he was willing to give. You shifted in his arms, settling your weight against his broad chest, and let your head fall against his shoulder with a deliberately heavy, exaggerated sigh. 

Yunho jumped so hard he almost dropped you. “Are you—is the—is the unit secure?”

“I’m making your job harder,” you mumbled. “Strategic burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” he whispered, his voice finally softening. He tucked you closer, his large hands carefully avoiding any “unnecessary” contact, though the way your body pressed against his was clearly making him short-circuit.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home,” Yunho said.

“My home?”

A long, shy pause. He swallowed so hard you heard it. “Mine. If you want. I... I have a couch. I’ll sleep there. You can have the bed. It’s... it’s been washed. Recently. I mean—it’s clean! I’m not—I’m not a weirdo!”

You lifted your head, squinting at his panicked face. The “handle me” comment was clearly still playing on a loop in his head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he said quietly, finally looking at you with that crushing, quiet worship. “I want you somewhere I can... I can keep an eye on your health bar.”

That sentence should’ve made you bristle. It didn’t. It made your throat go tight. You swallowed. “If you drop me, I’m suing the Radiant Rank.”

Yunho’s mouth twitched—barely there, but real. “Noted. Recalibrating grip for maximum stability.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎The first thing you felt was the soft cotton—smelling faintly of lavender. You opened one eye, and the world immediately punished you for it with a sharp spike of light. You weren’t in your apartment. Yours was messy, smelled like burnt toast, coffee, and didn’t have a $5,000 ergonomic setup glowing in the corner.

Yunho’s room was terrifyingly organised. His shelves were lined with pristine figurines, his hoodies were folded with military precision, and his secondary monitor was currently displaying a System Sleep screen that cast a soft blue glow over the bed. Then, a heavy, warm weight shifted beside you. You froze, your heart doing a frantic sprint. Slowly, painfully, you turned your head. Yunho was passed out on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans and shirt from yesterday, though the hood was twisted awkwardly around his neck. He wasn’t even under the blankets—he’d clearly laid you down, tucked you in, and then collapsed right next to you like a loyal guard dog who’d reached his limit. His glasses were crooked on his face, one arm hooked over his ear, the other poking dangerously close to his eye. His mouth was slightly open, and he was snoring—not a loud, obnoxious snore, but a soft, huffing sound that was so puppy-coded it made your chest ache.

Suddenly, Yunho’s nose twitched. He let out a long, shaky sigh and his eyes fluttered open. He blinked, the world clearly a blur without his lenses properly adjusted. “O-oh!” he croaked, his voice deep from sleep. He shoved his glasses up his nose, realised they were crooked, and ended up knocking them onto the carpet. “O-okay. Morning. Objective… objective reached.” He looked at you, and the memory of the almost kiss must have hit him because his face went from sleepy to high-aware in two seconds. “I—I didn’t… I mean, I stayed because you wouldn’t let go of my shirt!” he blurted out, gesturing frantically to your hand, which was indeed still clutching the hem of his shirt. “I tried to leave! But you said—you said I was your ‘support’ and I had to stay!” He scrambled back, nearly falling off the edge of the mattress. “Did you… do you need water? Ibuprofen? A tactical retreat?”

You didn’t let go of his shirt immediately. Instead, you tugged it, pulling him a fraction closer as you let out a dry, sleepy chuckle. “Support?” you echoed, voice rough with sleep and last night’s drinks. 

Yunho froze halfway through his frantic retreat. The morning light made him look unfairly soft. “I carried you,” he said, like he was reporting a mission debrief. “You kept insisting you were fine. Then you tried to salute a mailbox.”

“That mailbox was suspicious,” you mumbled.

Yunho’s mouth twitched. It was the smallest fracture, but you saw it anyway. “Do you feel sick?”

You shifted under the blanket and immediately regretted every decision you’d made since the invention of vodka. The room tilted, then steadied. Your stomach did a slow, offended roll. “I feel… punished,” you admitted.

Yunho nodded, very serious. “Okay.” He slid off the bed, moving carefully like he didn’t want to startle you. “I’ll get water,” he said. “And… food. Something with salt. Electrolytes. I have—” Yunho made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. He turned toward the door, then stopped like he’d hit an invisible wall. His hand hovered on the knob. “And,” he added, voice quieter, “I’m sorry if… if last night was uncomfortable. I should’ve—”

“Captain,” you interrupted, and your own voice surprised you with how gentle it came out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t kiss you,” he said.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I noticed.”

His throat bobbed. “I wanted to.” The confession landed heavy, even through the hangover haze. 

Your chest did that stupid, traitorous thing where it tightened and warmed at the same time. “I wanted you to,” you said, eyes on his shirt, because looking at his face felt too dangerous in the daylight. “But I… get why you didn’t.”

Silence stretched. The room hummed with the low, expensive quiet of his PC in sleep mode. When you glanced up, Yunho was staring at you like you’d handed him a code he’d been trying to crack for months.

“You’re not mad?”

“Should I be?”

Yunho’s brows pinched. “You were… very persuasive.”

You huffed a laugh that hurt your skull. “You were very… stubborn.”

“I was responsible,” he corrected automatically.

“You were infuriating,” you corrected back.

His mouth twitched again. This time it stayed. A real smile, small and exhausted, like it cost him something. “I’ll take infuriating,” he said. “As long as you’re safe.”

“Get the water,” you ordered, defaulting to the only armour you had left. “Before I start thinking you like bossing me around.”

Yunho’s smile disappeared so fast it was almost comedic. “I don’t—” You arched a brow. He exhaled, defeated. “Okay. Water.” He cracked the door open, then paused again, glancing over his shoulder. “And,” he said, voice careful, “when you’re sober… if you still want—” He gestured helplessly between your faces. “The… the thing,” he finished, mortified.

“You mean the kiss?”

Yunho shut his eyes like you’d shot him. “Yes.”

Your lips curved, slow and sore and real. “Bring the water first, Captain,” you said. “Then we’ll negotiate.”

Yunho’s eyes opened. “Okay,” he whispered, like it was the only word he trusted himself with. 

You laid back as he disappeared into the hallway, staring at the ceiling of his perfectly organised room. Your head throbbed. Your stomach rolled. Your pride was in critical condition. Yunho’s place was quiet in that expensive way—soft carpet, no neighbour noises, no random clutter screaming for attention. Somewhere down the hall, a cupboard opened. A mug clinked. Then a voice you recognised—too loud, too familiar, too awake.

Mingi.

Your soul tried to crawl out of your body and file a resignation letter. You sat up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted. You put a hand on the mattress, breathing through the wave of nausea until it backed off. You needed a shower. Desperately. You smelled like beer, smoke, and poor decisions. Yesterday’s make-up making your dry skin itch. You stood up, grabbed your jacket off the chair like it could shield you from humiliation, and cracked the bedroom door open.

The hallway light was a little too bright and smelled like coffee. You stepped out, and there he was. Mingi was sprawled on the sofa, long legs kicked up, one arm flung over the backrest. He had a blanket half-draped over his lap and an expression that said he’d been awake for exactly one minute and already chosen violence. His head turned at the sound of your footsteps. His eyes widened. Then his grin broke across his face like a flare.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, loud enough to wake the dead. You froze mid-step. Mingi sat up a little, delighted. “Why are you here?” he shot, like it was the funniest question in the world. You opened your mouth to defend yourself and immediately realised you did not have the energy to lie with your whole chest. So you closed it again. Mingi’s gaze flicked past you, to the bedroom door behind you, then back to your face. “You slept in his room,” he said, scandalised and thrilled.

“I slept,” you corrected flatly.

“Sure,” he said, not believing you for even one second.

From the corner of the kitchenette, Seonghwa appeared with two mugs and the careful, gentle posture of someone trying not to trigger a hangover-related crime. He was in grey pyjamas — a little too big on him, sleeves pushed up, hair damp like he’d just washed his face. He looked soft and domestic and entirely too awake for this hour. He took one step into the living space, saw you and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He stopped so fast the coffee sloshed toward the rim. “You—” Seonghwa’s voice was strangled in his throat. His gaze flicked from your face to your jacket to the bedroom door, like he was putting together a crime scene in real time. “I… uh…” Seonghwa’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. “Good… morning? I didn’t realise we had a guest suite.” he blinked hard, trying to reboot his brain. Then his cheeks went pink.

Mingi made a sound like a dying seagull. “Hyung. Hyung, look at her. She’s holding her jacket like she’s about to flee the country. Did the Captain finally land a headshot? Or were you guys just… discussing lineups all night?”

“Mingi!” Seonghwa hissed.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. The motion made your head throb in protest. “I need a shower,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Mingi’s brows lifted. “A shower?”

Seonghwa’s eyes went round again. “The bathroom is—” he started, then stopped, like the word bathroom had suddenly become illegal.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you both acting like I just said I’m going to detonate a grenade in the sink?”

Mingi leaned forward on the couch, grin sharp. “Because it’s our bathroom,” he said slowly, like he was explaining a complicated concept to a child. “And you’re… a girl.”

Seonghwa looked like he might pass out into the coffee mugs. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “It’s completely fine. Use whatever. There’s… there’s towels. Extra towels. Clean towels. I buy towels like it’s a coping mechanism.”

“That tracks,” you muttered. Mingi threw his head back and laughed. You started toward the hallway, moving carefully, one hand on the wall. As you passed Seonghwa, he shifted to give you space, still staring like he couldn’t believe you were a real person and not a hallucination caused by a hangover. 

“Y/N,” he said, voice low and concerned, and you paused. You glanced back. Seonghwa’s expression softened, the shock fading into something warmer. “Are you okay?”

You should have said yes. You should have been sarcastic. You should have thrown on the mask and kept walking. Instead, the hangover stripped you down to the truth. “I’m… functioning,” you said because it was all you had. “But my head is in terrible shape.”

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to Mingi, like he was silently begging him not to make a joke. Mingi, for once, actually shut his mouth. Seonghwa nodded, slow. “Okay,” he said gently. “Shower first. Then we’ll feed you. Damage control.”

“Damage control,” you repeated, then turned toward the bathroom before your pride could do anything stupid.

Behind you, Mingi called out, way too loud, “Try not to fall, okay? Captain will cry.”

You made it to the bathroom door like it was a high-stakes hostage extraction—one agonising, calculated step at a time, your hand skimming the wall for balance while your brain protested the very concept of movement. The door was ajar, a sliver of sanctuary waiting for you. You reached for the handle, leaning your weight forward to shove it open.

WHACK.

The door didn’t just open; it exploded outward at the exact same moment you leaned in. The heavy wood caught you square in the forehead with a sound like a wet towel hitting a tile floor. For one blessed second, the world went silent. Your skull rang like a cathedral bell on Sunday morning. You saw stars—actual, flickering 4K pixels—dancing in your peripheral vision.

“Oh my—Y/N!” Yunho’s voice hit you a beat after the impact, sounding like a man witnessing a natural disaster. Yunho’s hands went into a state of total emergency. He dropped Ibuprofen, shirt, and a clean towel to the floor. “I ended her,” he whispered, horror-struck. “I’ve committed a war crime. Are you okay? Do you see double? How many fingers am I holding up? Do I need to perform a field tracheotomy?!”

“You…” you rasped, your voice sounding like it was coming from a different zip code. “You… door’d me.”

“I know! I’m so sorry!” He hovered over you, his hands fluttering near your face, terrified to touch you but desperate to catch you. “I don’t have my glasses on! I just washed my face and looked for the painkillers in the cabinet!”

Mingi’s voice erupted from the living room, muffled by a sofa cushion but dripping with pure, unadulterated delight. “CRITICAL HIT! Captain’s got 100% accuracy on friendly fire! Is she dead? Can I have her mouse?!”

“SHUT UP, MINGI!” Yunho shrieked, his voice hitting a register that suggested he was nearing a total meltdown. “Please don’t die. I’ll give you my PC. I’ll give you my soul. Just blink if your brain is still in one piece.”

You slowly raised a hand and pressed your palm to the bridge of your nose. The bruise was already blooming like a poisonous flower.

Seonghwa appeared, looking like a weary Victorian ghost in his silk pajamas, holding a spatula for reasons no one understood. He took one look at the scene and let out a sigh that lasted ten years. “Why,” he asked the ceiling, “is this my life?”

“Hyung, I attacked her!” Yunho wailed, clutching his hair. “I used the environment against her! I’m a monster!”

“I got door-stunned,” you corrected, trying to maintain your dignity while the hallway tilted forty-five degrees to the left.

“I’ll get ice, Mingi, stop googling ‘how to inherit a teammate’s skins.’ Yunho, stop shaking before you shake the building off its foundation.”

Yunho’s hands finally landed—light as feathers—on your shoulders, steadying you. His face was so close you could see the sheer terror in his eyes. “I’ll… I’ll carry you,” he whispered, his voice wrecked with relief that you were still breathing. “To the shower. To the hospital. To the moon. Just say the word.”

“You’re going to get me a cold cloth,” you said flatly, the Viper voice returning out of pure spite.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, snapping into a salute that nearly took out your eye.

Mingi snorted from the couch, loud enough to echo. “Careful, Captain! If you salute any harder, you’ll give her a concussion on the other side. Perfect symmetry!”

“WHY DID YOU SLEEP ON THE COUCH, GO TO YOUR ROOM, MINGI!”

You looked up at Yunho—tall, gorgeous, and currently one minor inconvenience away from a heart attack. You stepped past him into the bathroom, your hand on your throbbing forehead. “Captain?”

“Yes?! Anything!”

“Next time,” you muttered, closing the door—very, very slowly—until only a crack remained. “Try a stealth entry. Your ‘push’ is too strong.”

Yunho’s muffled voice came through the wood, “Copy that.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The bathroom door creaked open, and you stepped out into the hallway, smelling of Yunho’s soap and feeling significantly more human. You were wearing one of his massive shirts—it swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh and the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. Your hair was damp, sticking to the back of your neck, and your forehead was sporting a magnificent, throbbing red knot where the door had made its grand entrance.

You walked into the living room, and the silence was instant. Mingi was mid-sentence but his jaw actually clicked shut. He looked at you, then slowly turned his head to look at Yunho. Seonghwa froze, his eyes darting from your bare face to your legs to the fact that you were wearing Yunho’s clothes, and then he looked down at his coffee like it might provide an escape route. Yunho... Yunho just stopped breathing. He was sitting on the edge of the armchair, and the second he saw you, his brain underwent a total meltdown. He stared at his own shirt on your frame, his eyes tracing the way it hung off your shoulders, and his face turned a colour that shouldn’t be possible for a living human. 

“She lives!” Mingi finally yelled, breaking the tension like a sledgehammer. He pointed a finger at the bruise on your head. “Nice horn, Viper! You look like a very grumpy unicorn.”

“It’s an accessory,” you muttered, leaning against the doorframe. You felt smaller without the makeup, more exposed.

Yunho finally found his voice, though it was about three octaves higher than usual. “Is it... is it comfortable? The shirt? I—I have others! I have a soft one! A fleece one! I can give you my entire wardrobe! Just—just don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Like... like that!” He gestured wildly at your face. “My defence stats are at zero!”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, desperately trying to save the situation. “I have ice. For the... ‘accessory.’”

“I’ll take the ice,” you said, sliding into the kitchen chair.

Yunho scrambled to help you, but he was so distracted by the sight of you in his clothes that he accidentally tripped over the leg of the table, stumbling right into your space. He caught himself, his hands landing on the back of your chair, effectively boxing you in. He was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the way his eyelashes fluttered behind his glasses. He looked down at the bruise, then at your damp hair, and his expression softened into something so pure it made your Viper heart shrivel with guilt. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, his voice deep and honey-sweet, ignoring Mingi’s muffled snickering from the sofa.

“Only when I think about the guy who did it,” you teased, but your voice lacked its usual bite. Yunho leaned in, his thumb hovering just a millimetre away from the swelling on your forehead. 

Seonghwa didn’t just clear his throat; he made a sound like a polite engine failing. “Mingi, we need to do some grocery shopping. Get your ass up, we’re going,” he said, his voice reminding you the one of a parent that left zero room for negotiation.

“Why me?” Mingi whined, his voice muffled by the sofa cushion. He didn’t even open his eyes. “I don’t eat groceries. I eat takeout and the tears of my enemies. Send Yeosang.”

“Yeosang doesn’t live here, and you are currently occupying the space where my patience used to live,” Seonghwa replied, walking over and literally hooking his fingers into the collar of Mingi’s hoodie. “Up. Now. We’re out of milk. And eggs. And… detergent.”

“We have three bottles of detergent!” Mingi yelped as he was hoisted upward like a disgruntled house cat. “Hyung, I’m in the middle of a recovery! I’m a wounded soldier!”

“You’re a distraction,” Seonghwa muttered, dragging him toward the door. He shot a look over his shoulder—a quick, sharp glance at Yunho that said: Don’t screw this up, and a softer, respectful nod toward you. “We’ll be back in an hour. Or two. Depending on how long it takes Mingi to stop crying in the cereal aisle.”

“I want the ones with the marshmallows!” Mingi’s voice faded as the front door was hauled open. “Wait—did she just wink at me? Hwa, did Viper just wink at—OW!”

SLAM.

The apartment went silent. Not a normal silent, but that heavy, ringing quiet. Yunho was still standing there, his hands still hovering near the back of your chair, his chest heaving slightly. The shirt you were wearing seemed to glow in the morning light, a constant reminder that he’d carried you, he’d tucked you in, and he was currently the only thing standing between you and the rest of the world. He looked at the closed door, then slowly, tentatively, his gaze slid back to you. Without Mingi’s commentary, the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. “He’s… he’s right,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking like a middle-schooler’s. “We are out of… Um, milk.”

“You have a carton standing on the island, and another one by the sink,” you said softly.

Yunho squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a pained expression crossing his face. “I know. Hyung is… he’s not a very good liar when he’s stressed.” He reached for the bag of ice Seonghwa had left on the counter, wrapped it in a clean tea towel, and stepped back into your space. He didn’t ask this time. He just leaned down, his face inches from yours, and gently pressed the cold pack against the angry red knot on your forehead. The cold was sharp, but the heat of his proximity was worse. “Sorry,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the side of your temple to keep the ice steady. “I’m still… sorry about the door. And The Abyss. And… everything.” He looked at your bare face, his eyes lingering on the bridge of your nose before dropping to your lips, still murmuring apologies. 

You reached up, your fingers snagging the drawstrings of a fresh hoodie he put on while you were showering, yanking him downward. He let out a startled gasp, his balance tilting as he was forced to brace his other hand on the table behind you to keep from face-planting into your lap. “You’re talking too much, Captain.”

Yunho’s eyes went wide behind his lenses, his breath hitching. “I—I am? I’m just providing… status updates…” 

With your free hand, you reached up. Your fingers brushed his temple—slow, cool, and deliberate. You felt him shiver, a tremor that started in his shoulders and ended in the hand holding the ice pack. Very gently, you hooked your index finger around the bridge of his glasses and lifted them off his face.

The world for Yunho suddenly went soft-focus. The sharp edges of the kitchen, the glare of the morning sun—it all blurred into a haze of colour, leaving only you as the sharpest thing in his universe (because you were the only thing close enough for him to actually see.)

“There,” you breathed, setting the glasses on the table behind you. Without his glasses, Yunho looked… defenceless. His eyes were huge, dark, and rimmed with thick lashes, looking softer and more terrified than you’d ever seen them.

“I—I can’t…” Yunho’s voice was a wrecked and breathless. He was looking at your lips, then your eyes, then back to your lips. “You’re… you’re too close. I’m going to disconnect.”

“Then disconnect,” you said, your hand moving from his hoodie to the back of his neck, your thumb tracing the sensitive skin there. The ice pack was forgotten, slipping from his grip and hitting the floor. You didn’t care. Neither did Yunho.

Yunho’s world was currently reduced to the smell of his shampoo on your damp hair and the feeling of your hand on his neck. “I’m not sturdy,” he confessed, his voice a whisper against your skin. “I’m really, really not. When it’s you… I can’t help but shake. I’m made of glass.”

“Good,” you murmured, closing the gap until your lips were a heartbeat away from his. “I always did like breaking things.”

“You know what they say, Captain,” you continued, your voice dropping into that dangerous, low register that usually sent him running for the nearest exit. Your fingers trailed up from his neck to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Three times a charm.”

Yunho’s breath hitched. He knew exactly what you meant. The basement, where you’d almost touched. The bar, where you’d whispered in his ear. And now… this. “I—I…” He started to lean in. It was slow and agonisingly cautious, but just as his lips were inches from yours—just as you could feel the frantic, shaky heat of his breath—he froze. He stayed there, suspended in the air, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire body locked up. He was filled with pure, unadulterated panic. His brain had finally hit a fatal error and you decided not to wait for him to reboot. You tilted your head and pressed a light, feather-soft peck to the corner of his mouth. It was barely anything—just a ghost of a touch—but the effect was tectonic. Yunho started to shake. Literally. You could feel the vibration through his jaw, through his hands on the table, through the air between you. He was a man holding onto the last shred of his “Good Boy” programming, and it was currently catching fire. He let out a shaky, frustrated exhale against your skin. His eyes snapped open, the shy Yunho didn’t just leave the room; he was deleted from the server. “Fuck it,” he muttered finally—profanity that sounded so wrong and so right coming from his mouth. He didn’t lean this time; he crashed. Yunho’s hand flew from the table to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your damp hair as he pulled you into a kiss that was anything but sturdy. It was desperate. It was messy. It was the sound of a man who had been polite for far too long finally deciding to take the objective. He tasted like the coffee Seonghwa prepared and the mint of his toothpaste, and he was kissing you like he was trying to memorise the sensation before the world started rendering again. 

The kiss was everything you didn’t want to admit you wanted. It was warm, it was desperate, and it was the first time Yunho felt truly solid, like he’d finally found his footing. His hand was firm against the back of your head, his fingers anchor-points in your damp hair. But as the initial rush of heat began to settle into something deeper, something more permanent, the cold reality of the room started to leak back in. He pulled back just a fraction, your lips were still buzzing, your breath hitching in your throat. Yunho didn’t let go immediately; he leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a small, dazed smile playing on his mouth. He looked… happy. He looked like he’d just won the championship. His hands were still trembling, fingers slowly retreating from your hair like they were afraid of the reality of what had just happened.

“I—uh.” Yunho’s eyes immediately dropped to the floor, his ears turning a shade of purple-red. He started to move, but it was jerky—like a character model with a broken animation cycle. He reached for the glasses you’d set on the table, his fingers fumbling and knocking them over twice before he managed to hook them behind his ears. “O-okay,” he stammered, his hands immediately flying to the drawstrings of his hoodie. He started pulling them, tightening the hood until his face was practically cinched shut like a drawstring bag. “That was… that was a high-level encounter. Very… very efficient. Good… good execution.” He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at a loose thread on his sleeve, picking at it with a frantic, rhythmic motion. Then he noticed the ice pack on the floor. “Ice!” he shouted, way too loud for the two feet of space between you. He lunged for the tea towel, nearly tripping over his own feet again. “The—the swelling! Thermal regulation is… is critical for… for recovery!” He scrambled back into your space, his hands shaking so hard the ice pack rattled against your skin. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Yunho,” you murmured, hands sliding to the edge of the chair. You pushed yourself up slowly, carefully, as if your motor functions were still buffering. The oversized shirt grazed your thighs as you stood, and you felt Yunho’s eyes track the movement with a heavy, focused intensity.

He held the ice pack like a relic, hovering it a hair’s breadth from your forehead. His hood was still half-cinched around his face, the drawstrings white-knuckled in his fist. Reaching up, you pinched one of the strings, tugging gently until the tension gave way. His face emerged—flushed, earnest, and so painfully adorable you felt a twinge of guilt.

“Hey,” you said, your voice dropping an octave.

His gaze flickered to the bruise before snapping back to your eyes. “It’s swelling.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I’m trying to be useful,” he whispered, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His grip tightened on the towel, then loosened, his instincts clearly at war. “You—” he started, but the words seemed to snag in his throat.

You offered a small, genuine smile. “Come here.”

He blinked, looking momentarily lost. “I’m already… here.”

“Closer,” you corrected.

Yunho hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping in, finally abandoning his negotiations with gravity. He didn’t touch you yet, but he stood close enough that his warmth bled through your shirt—close enough to reveal the fine tremor in his body.

You reached for the ice pack, guiding it to your forehead to steady his shaking. When your fingers brushed his, Yunho inhaled sharply, as if you’d pressed a blade to his pulse.

A strangled, breathy laugh escaped him. “I—okay.”

You looked up at him, and the need to perform completely vanished. You were hungover, bruised, and barefoot in his kitchen, yet a terrifying sense of happiness settled over you.

“I’m—I’m undergoing a scheduled reboot!” he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s a large patch! Lots of data!”

“The data says you’re a dork,” you countered, pulling him closer by the hoodie strings. “And it says you stopped kissing me much too soon.”

Yunho froze, his brain clearly processing your words. You could almost see the combat report running through his head. Then, he let go of the ice pack—leaving you to hold it—and his hands found the soft cotton of your shirt at your waist. “The data is... uh... historically accurate,” he murmured, his voice finally dropping back into a lower, steadier register. “I should probably optimize my performance then.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, his eyes darting to your lips and staying there. He tilted his head and closed the distance, it wasn’t the careful, hovering touch from before; this was firm and certain, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl against the cold floor. It was soft, lingering, and sweet.  His touch turned sure and steady after realising you weren’t pulling away. He made a small, needy sound in the back of his throat as he tilted his head to deepen the contact. His large hands settled at the small of your back, pulling you closer, his thumbs tracing the line of your spine through the thin cotton of his shirt. He was still trembling, still twitchy and nervous, but the way he kissed you was anything but shy.

“Objective… definitely reached,” he breathed. His thumb grazed your cheek, moving with a gentleness that felt like he was handling something breakable. He took a shaky breath. “Can we… Can we make this a daily quest?”

“A daily quest? I don’t know, Captain. My schedule is pretty packed. What exactly are the requirements for this quest?”

Yunho took a shallow, shaky breath. His gaze drifted to the side, eyes tracking the way the sunlight hit the kitchen tiles as he mentally mapped out his ‘requirements.’ “Um… Well,” he started, his voice dropping into a low, melodic mumble. He didn’t look at you; instead, his long fingers began to fidget with the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt—his knuckles brushing the fabric near your hip in a way that felt entirely too intimate for a “professional” debrief. “Requirement one,” he whispered, finally meeting your eyes for a fleeting, shy second. “I want… I want a synchronized login every morning. Even if you’re grumpy and haven’t had coffee yet. I just want to know you’re awake.” He shifted his weight, his broad shoulders hunching slightly as if he were trying to make himself smaller, more approachable. “Requirement two: a minimum of thirty minutes of… of actual proximity. Not through a headset. I mean sitting on the sofa together. Or me walking you to your classes. Just… being the person who gets to carry your bag.” He stopped, his throat bobbing as he struggled with the next one. His thumb traced a slow, nervous line over the back of your hand. “And requirement three,” he said, his voice cracking just a little. “Frequent… connection checks. Like the one we did just now. Making sure I’m the only one who gets to see you like this—dump hair, in my clothes, looking… looking devastating.” He looked back at you, his honey-brown eyes soft and pleading behind his glasses. “And maybe… if the connection feels unstable… I get to kiss you until it fixes itself. Does Viper approve those patch notes?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating between you. “Interesting. Those are very high-maintenance tasks, Captain.” You reached up, sliding your hands over his broad shoulders to link them behind his neck, drawing him back into your space until he had to lean down, his forehead resting against yours. “But you know, looking at the mechanics of this quest… it sounds an awful lot like you’re asking me to be your girlfriend.”

The word girlfriend hit him with the force of a high speed train. 

Yunho blinked, his entire posture stiffening for a split second before he completely melted. A shy smile broke across his face—the kind of pure, radiant expression that made your heart do a frantic sprint. “Is the… is the intent that obvious?” he leaned down until his nose brushed against yours, his glasses clicking softly against your forehead.

“Terribly,” you whispered back, your fingers playing with the messy hair at the nape of his neck. “But I think I’m ready to accept the invite.”

He let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension finally leaving his massive frame as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, hugging you so tight your toes barely touched the kitchen floor. “Good,” he murmured into your skin, his voice muffled and warm. “Because the matchmaking for this was a nightmare, and I really don’t want to play with anyone else.” 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Viper and Captain were currently defeated—not by a rival team, but by a flat-pack bookshelf.

Yunho was sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden dowels and hex keys, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he squinted at a manual. He looked adorable—his hair messy, the sleeves of his oversized flannel pushed up to his elbows. 

B-12 didn’t smell like damp concrete and old cables anymore. Now, it smelled like IKEA furniture, jasmine-scented candles that Seonghwa had “donated,” and the faint, lingering tomato sauce from the takeout pizza containers stacked by the door. It looked different now with soft LED strips glowing purple and blue behind the monitors, and a plush rug covering the cold concrete. Framed Level Zero posters—mostly hand-drawn by Mingi lined the walls. 

“Yun,” you murmured, leaning over his shoulder. “I think screw J-12 goes into hole B, not A.”

Yunho was hunched over the manual like it was a high-level tactical blueprint, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “No,” he whispered, his voice similar to the one of a soldier trying to defuse a bomb. “The diagram clearly shows a 45-degree angle for the dowel. If we miss the alignment, the structural integrity of the entire One Piece collection is compromised.”

You didn’t answer with logic. Instead, you slid down onto the floor behind him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pressing a lingering, warm kiss to the sensitive skin just below his ear. “Captain,” you murmured, leaning your head forward to rest your chin on top of his shoulder. “Stop reading the manual for five seconds.”

Yunho blinked, finally looking away from the Step 14 in the instruction, that familiar, soft flush creeping up his neck. “You’re very... distracting today.”

You laughed in response, pulling his hand away from the screwdriver. He didn’t resist, just let you crawl into his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Yunho’s breath hitched—a soft sound that told you that even after over a week of this, you still had the power to make his heart lag. He wrapped his massive arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.  “Y-Y/N,” he squeaked, his neck turning a vivid shade of pink that clashed horribly with his shirt. “I am... I am currently in the middle of a high-stakes assembly phase. Precision is required.”

“You’re doing great,” you hummed, ignoring his protest. You trailed a row of soft, kissy, distractions along his jawline, feeling the way his pulse began to drum against your lips. “But your heart rate is getting high. You need a break.”

“I don’t... I don’t need a break,” he lied breathlessly, though he was leaning back into you involuntarily. He let out a shaky exhale, his eyes fluttering shut behind his glasses. “We need to finish preparing the headquarters. For Level Zero. For the... for the mission.”

“The mission can wait ten minutes,” you whispered, reaching around to lace your fingers through his.

He bit his lip, his eyes darting to yours, then down to your mouth. He was still the boy who hadn’t figured out how to handle the physical side of things without blushing until his ears burned, but he was getting braver. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath hitching. “I still think screw J-12 goes in hole A,” he whispered against your lips, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency.

“Is that so?” you breathed, your lips ghosting over his as you felt the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest. “Then I guess you’ll have to prove it to me later. But right now...” You didn’t give him the chance to argue. You tilted your head and closed the gap, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted like the strawberry milk he’d been sipping on earlier. Yunho made a soft, needy sound in the back of his throat, his grip on your waist tightened, his large hands splaying across the small of your back as he pulled you even closer, as if trying to eliminate every last millimeter of space between his shirt and your skin. He was still shaking—that “shaking skyscraper” energy never truly left him—but there was a newfound hunger in the way he followed the lead of your lips.

When you finally pulled back, just far enough to see his face, he looked absolutely ruined. His glasses were stained with a print of your make-up foundation, his lips were red and wet, and his eyes were dazed and swirling with that crushing, quiet worship. He let his forehead drop against yours, his hot breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the basement. “Y/N, you’re... you’re literally overclocking me. I can’t process the instructions if you keep... doing that.”

“Then don’t,” you murmured, sliding your hands up to cup his face, your thumbs grazing his burning cheekbones. “Let the instructions wait. Let Mingi and Yeosang deal with the shelves when they get here. Just be here with me.”

Yunho let out a shaky, breathless laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into your touch. For a guy who lived his life by the meta, by the stats, and by the strict rules of the Radiant rank, being “off-script” with you was clearly the most terrifying and exhilarating thing he’d ever experienced. “They’re going to make fun of me,” he whispered, his hands sliding up from your waist to rest tentatively at the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a reverence that made your chest ache. “Mingi’s going to see the half-finished bookshelf and the... and the way my face looks... and he’s going to know. He’s going to say I have ‘zero rizz’ and that I’ve been compromised.”

“You have been compromised, Captain,” you teased, nipping gently at his lower lip.

He shifted his weight, settling you more firmly onto his lap, his large frame providing a solid, warm anchor in the middle of the chaotic mess of wooden boards and screws. “Fine,” he murmured, his voice dropping back into that devastatingly low register. “Mission parameters have been updated. The bookshelf is officially de-prioritized. Current objective...” He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours one more time. “...is just this.”

The manual was forgotten. The unfinished bookshelf was a distant memory. In the purple and blue neon glow of B-12, the air was heavy, warm, and charged with an intensity that was entirely unauthorized by the Radiant rank. You smiled, slow and lazy, as you let your weight settle completely into his lap. Your hands left the safety of his shoulders and slid downward, finding the hem of his grey flannel. You slipped your fingers underneath the cold fabric, meeting the searing, trembling skin of his lower back. Yunho didn’t just gasp; he made a soft, broken sound—half-whimper, half-plea—and arching his back involuntarily. His grip on your waist tightened until it was almost painful, his knuckles white against the denim of your jeans. 

The air in B-12 was thick enough to choke on. The neon purple glow from the LED strips caught the silver of the chain around Yunho’s neck as you pulled him down. Yunho’s glasses were gone now, put aside on the plush rug. Without them, he looked exposed. His hands, usually so careful to maintain “tactical distance,” had finally lost their battle with restraint. One was buried in your hair, his fingers curling into the strands at the base of your skull, while the other had slid beneath the hem of your shirt. His large palm was splayed flat against the small of your back, his skin scorching against yours, his thumb tracing a frantic, possessive rhythm. He was a 6’2” mess of heavy breathing and racing heartbeats. He kissed like he was trying to memorize your soul, a soft, desperate whimper vibrating in his chest every time you pulled him closer.

You were just about to let your hands slide higher up his neck when—

SLAM.

The heavy industrial door didn’t just open; it hit the wall like a frag grenade.

“YO! VIPER! I GOT THE NEW MONSTER FLAVOUR AND THE—"

Mingi froze. The plastic bag of drinks, sweets and spicy chips swung once, then twice, before slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor. For three seconds, the only sound in B-12 was the hum of the servers and the frantic, shallow breathing of the two people currently tangled on the floor.

Then, the silence shattered.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” Mingi’s voice hit a register that was physically impossible for a human male. He slammed his hands over his eyes, but his fingers were spread wide, his jaw practically unhinged. “MY EYES! MY IMMORTAL RANK EYES! YUNHO! ARE YOU—IS SHE—ARE YOU UNDER HER SHIRT?! IN THE HEADQUARTERS?!”

Yunho pushed you off him in pure panic, scrambling backward so fast he nearly knocked over the half-finished IKEA shelf, his face turning a shade of purple that looked like a medical emergency. “M-MINGI! THE UNIT ALIGNMENT! IT WAS... IT WAS A SENSORY CHECK!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking three times in a single sentence. He tried to stand, but his legs were still liquid, and he ended up half-collapsing against the wooden boards.

“A SENSORY CHECK?!” Mingi shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Yunho’s flushed face. "YOU WERE TASTE-TESTING HER LIPS! THE CAPTAIN IS COMPROMISED! VIPER HAS INVADED THE SITE!”

“Song Mingi, for the love of—why are you screaming?” Seonghwa stepped into the room, looking polished as ever, followed by Yeosang, who was currently occupied with a handheld console. They both stopped. Seonghwa’s gaze traveled from the discarded glasses on the rug, to your ruffled hair, to Yunho—who was currently trying to hide his entire body behind a single wooden plank. Seonghwa let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that came from a man who had seen his family collapse into chaos too many times. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I told you the IKEA assembly would be stressful. But I didn’t realize it would be... sensual.” Seonghwa’s elegant brow furrowed, and he sighed, the sound carried the weight of a thousand tired parents. 

Yeosang didn’t even look up from his game, though his lipslift up into a lethal, dry smirk. “I told you he had high ping. I didn’t realize his ‘frequent connection checks’ involved physical contact. Do you need a manual for that, Yunho? Or did you figure out where the screw goes on your own?”

Yunho groaned, burying his face in his hands as he slid down the wall. “I’m retiring,” he muffled into his palms. “Tell the freshmen... I was a good leader.”

“A good leader?” Mingi howled, finally recovering enough to look without his hands covering his eyes. “You're the GOAT! You’re the Rizz-Master! Level Zero Captain... is in love! In B-12! On the floor! With VIPER! This is on the permanent record! I’m going to marry you off!”

“Shut up, Mingi!” Yunho squeaked.

“Mingi, you’re giving me a headache,” you chimed in, standing up, and smoothing out your shirt with a level of composure that was frankly terrifying given that your hair was still a bird’s nest and your lips were swollen. “Seriously,” you added, crossing your arms. “If you scream one more time, I’m locking the B-12 doors and you will be permanently forbidden from entering."

“You can’t do that! This is Level Zero headquarters!" He looked at Yunho, “Captain! Tell her! Tell her you’re the boss! Tell her she can’t—”

“She can do whatever she wants,” Yunho’s muffled voice came from behind his hands. One of his fingers peaked out, pointing weakly at you. “She’s the MVP. I’ve... I’ve surrendered the site.” 

“He’s compromised," Yeosang deadpanned, finally closing his console. He walked over and poked Yunho’s shoulder with his toe. “Hey. Are you still in there? Or did she actually delete your personality?”

“I’m processing,” Yunho groaned, finally dropping his hands. His face was still a violent shade of red, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles. He looked at you, and for a split second, that “crushing worship” flickered in his eyes before he remembered he had an audience. He scrambled to find his glasses, his hands shaking as he shoved them back onto his face. 

“That’s enough,” you cut in, stepping toward Yunho, deliberately straightening his glasses and patting his chest—right over his racing heart. You looked back at the trio with a sharp, lethal smirk. “The Captain is officially off the market,” you stated, your voice low and final. “So unless you guys want to help with Step 15 of this bookshelf, I suggest you go back to the convenience store and get some snacks that aren’t currently leaking all over the rug.”

Mingi looked at the leaking drinks, then at you, then at the absolutely dazed, smitten expression on Yunho’s face. “Fine,” he huffed, picking up the bags. “But I’m picking the wedding colors. And I’m telling the freshmen that the Viper didn’t just join the team—she stole the trophy.”

“Mingi, stop being a child,” Seonghwa said, his voice cutting through the noise with that effortless authority. He looked at Yunho, who was still trying to fix his hair and look dignified. “And Yunnie... breathe. Your heart is going to beat out of your ribs.”

A gentle, knowing smile touched Seonghwa’s lips as he looked at you, he stepped forward and pulled you into a warm, steady hug. “I suppose we don’t need to worry you’re gonna leave us with for a better team anymore," he murmured near your ear, his voice full of a genuine warmth. He stepped back just an inch, keeping his hands on your shoulders. “Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

You blinked, a rare moment of genuine speechlessness hitting you. You’d spent so long being a “Legend” or a “Goddess” that being called family felt like a status effect you didn’t know how to cleanse. “I—” you started, but Seonghwa just patted your shoulder and walked toward the leaking bags Mingi had dropped.

“If you’re family, that means you have to help Mingi clean the rug,” Seonghwa added over his shoulder, the parental tone returning. “And Yunnie? Put the manual down. You’ve clearly found a better way to spend your time.”

Yunho, who had been watching the interaction with a look of pure, melting relief, let out a soft huff. He looked at you, his eyes shining behind his glasses—the embarrassment was still there, but it was being overtaken by a fierce, quiet pride. “See?” Yunho whispered, stepping up behind you and resting his chin on your head, his arms wrapping around your waist in front of everyone. “I told you. They’re a mess, but they’re our mess now.”

Mingi groaned from the corner where he was scrubbing the floor. “Yeah, yeah, welcome to the family. Now come help me get this strawberry milk out of the carpet, MVP! The Captain is too busy being a simp to help!”

“He’s not a simp,” you defended, leaning back into Yunho’s chest. “He’s just... tactically affectionate.”

“Tactically affectionate!” Yeosang cackled from the chair. “I’m putting that on the Level Zero website.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ “Smaller on the carrots, Y/N,” Seonghwa coached gently, nudging your hand. “We want them to soften, not provide a crunch.”

Across the room, Yunho was buried in the sofa cushions, his long legs tangled in a knitted throw. The blue glow of the TV reflected in his glasses as he tried his best to focus on his game on the PS5. Every few seconds, he’d lean his head back and glance toward the kitchen, his gaze lingering on you with a soft, dazed smile before the game pulled him back in.

“Captain, focus!” Yeosang’s voice crackled. “You just walked into a wall.”

 “I’m just... checking the kitchen’s progress.” Yunho defended, his ears turning pink. 

“He’s checking the chef,” Seonghwa corrected dryly, stirring a pot of stew. 

You paused the chopping, leaning around the corner of the breakfast nook to catch Yunho’s eye. He was already looking, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he navigated a particularly tricky platforming sequence. You winked and blew him a theatrical kiss. Yunho’s hands twitched on the controller—a fatal error in-game—but his face lit up. He physically reached out one hand into the air, catching the kiss and pulling it to his chest and pressing it against his heart with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

“Ewww!” Yeosang groaned, sprawled in the armchair nearby with the second controller gripped loosely in his lap. He didn’t even look up from the screen, but his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Captain, you’re lagging in real life. It’s embarrassing to watch.”

“Let him be, Yeosang,” Seonghwa chided, though he was wearing a knowing smirk as he tasted the stew. “At least someone in this house is getting some romantic practice. Though,” he added, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically shy, “I suppose I might be joining him soon. I have that... meeting next week.”

You stopped chopping, your eyes widening. “The tutoring guy? The one with the architecture major?”

Seonghwa’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, and he focused very intently on stirring the carrots. “His name is Hongjoong. And yes. He asked if we could go for coffee after our last session. He said he wanted to thank me for helping him actually pass his exams, but... he was blushing quite a bit when he said it.”

“That’s huge!” Yunho cheered from the couch, this time not looking away from the screen.

“It’s just coffee,” Seonghwa said, pointing a wooden spoon at Yunho, though the smile never left his face. He was usually the one taking care of everyone else—patching up Yunho’s frayed nerves or making sure Mingi actually ate a vegetable—so seeing him flustered was like finding a secret Easter egg in a game you thought you’d 100% completed. 

“Architecture major? And he was blushing? Hwa, that’s a critical hit,” you said, setting the knife down and leaning your hip against the counter. 

Seonghwa’s hand paused its rhythmic stirring. He looked down into the pot as if the vegetables could give him advice. “He’s very... sincere,” he murmured. “He brings me mango jellies every time we meet for a session, and he always remembers exactly how much sugar I take with my coffee. Last time, he stayed for twenty minutes after the tutoring ended just to talk about the ‘aesthetic symmetry’ of our team’s logo. He said it was ‘elegant, yet sharp.’”

“He likes the logo?” Yunho chimed in from the couch, his head popping up over the cushions like a curious golden retriever. “That’s a green flag, hyung. That’s a 10/10 teammate-in-law.”

Seonghwa’s hand slowed in the pot, his gaze drifting to the steam rising from the stew. “Well... I’m not sure if he’s even interested, like, romantically,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. “I tried to hug him goodbye last time, but he went so rigid I thought I did something stupid. He didn’t even touch me.” Seonghwa let out a soft sigh, his lips pulling into a small, rare pout that made your heart ache just a little.

“Well, maybe he’s just shy?” you offered, leaning closer to him and giving his arm a supportive squeeze. “I mean, look at Yunho. If I’d tried to hug him in the first week, he probably would have phased through a wall.”

“Hey!” Yunho protested from the couch, though he didn’t deny it.

“Maybe he’s just old-fashioned,” Yeosang deadpanned, not even looking up from his game as he rapidly tapped the triggers. “Maybe he’s waiting until marriage for physical contact. A true gentleman of the architectural arts.”

“Yeosang, please,” Seonghwa groaned, though the pout twitched into a reluctant smile.

“I‘m serious,” Yeosang continued, his lips lifting into that lethal, dry smirk. “Some people don’t have the Captain’s high-speed connection. They operate on dial-up. You have to give the data time to process before you go in for the romantic interactions.”

“It wasn’t a romantic interaction, it was a hug!” Seonghwa defended, his ears turning red.

The cozy, bickering peace of the kitchen was shattered a second later. The front door groaned on its hinges, slamming back against the wall with a violence that made the soup spoons rattle. A wave of cold, sharp air and the heavy scent of cigarettes flooded the room.

Mingi didn’t walk in; he surged. “DROP THE SPOONS!” Mingi bellowed, he didn’t even stop to take off his boots, skidding across the floor until he reached the kitchen island. “I have it!” he shouted, voice echoing off the kitchen tiles. He smelled like he’d been standing in the Smoking Area of The Abyss for six hours, but he didn’t seem to care. 

“Mingi, you’re tracking mud onto the rug,” Seonghwa sighed, though he moved closer to look.

“Forget the rug!” Mingi breathed, tapping the phone screen, pulling up a registration portal. “The Amatour‘s Summer Open! It’s official. But it’s not just a trophy grab this year. Look at the fine print.”

Yunho scrambled off the couch, the knitted throw falling to his ankles as he hurried over, peering over your shoulder. You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as you read the text aloud. “The top four finishing teams will be awarded a direct seed into the Challengers League. Fully sponsored. A dedicated gaming house in Seoul.” 

The silence that followed was absolute. This was the door to the big stage.

“We can turn the basement into a career,” Mingi whispered, his voice uncharacteristically low. He looked at Yunho, his eyes burning with a mix of terror and excitement. “Captain? Is it time to actually level up?”

The room went silent for a heartbeat before Yunho let out a bark of a laugh. “The Summer Open? Mingi, have you seen us play together?” He pointed a thumb at Seonghwa. “I love him, he’s my hyung, my best friend, but we aren’t getting past the first round of qualifiers with Seonghwa as our sentinel. We’d be eliminated before the loading screen finishes.”

“Hey!” Seonghwa protested, “I’ve improved!”

“Hyung, having you on a team it’s a death sentence in a tournament,” Yeosang added.

Yunho looked at Mingi’s phone again, then at Seonghwa, then finally at you. You could feel the slight tremor in the hand resting on your back—but his gaze was focused. “But I guess, we aren’t just a basement team anymore,” Yunho said, pulling you a little closer, his thumb grazing your side. “We are registered with the University Council, we have the best teamwork in the rank, the most aggressive flex, and we have Viper.” He looked at the group, a slow, victorious smile spreading across his face.

“The Summer Open starts in six weeks,” Yeosang declared. “If we’re going to do this, we do it right. We start the pro-grind tomorrow. Are we in?”

“I’ve already started drafting the training schedule,” Mingi said, his lips quivering into a sharp smirk.

It hit you all at once.

If Level Zero entered an official tournament, you couldn’t just Ratatouille your way through. In a casual scrimmage, you could hide. You could blame “lag,” you could let Wooyoung carry the game from the safety of your apartment while you talked into the mic. But a regional pre-elimination? There would be officials. There would be hand-cams. There would be the terrifying reality of a mouse and keyboard in front of you—and no Wooyoung to bridge the gap. 

The air in the room seemed to thin out. You felt the blood drain from your face, leaving you cold in the middle of the heated kitchen. You looked at Yeosang, who was laughing, and Mingi, who was already talking about team jerseys. They had no idea. They thought they had a Radiant-tier Viper in their ranks. They didn’t know they had a girl who could barely navigate the menu without a panic attack. 

“Y/N?” It was Yunho’s voice. “You’re… you’re really quiet,” he murmured, his voice low enough that the others didn’t hear over Mingi’s latest joke. He pulled you closer to his chest, his finger spreading on the small of your back. “Are you okay? You got very pale.”

You looked down at his hand—the hand that shook when it touched you. If you told him the truth, the “Daily Quest’’wouldn’t just be over; it would be a total server wipe. You’d be the girl who lied. The girl who used her best friend to trick Yunho into falling in love with a mask. “I’m fine,” you rasped, voice coming out thin and brittle. “Just… thinking.”

“We don’t have to do it,” Yunho said suddenly, he looked around the room, then back at you. “If you don’t want to—if it’s too much—we can just stay as a club. I don’t care about becoming pro, Y/N. I just care about you.”

He was ready to throw away his dream—the Summer Open, the chance to prove Level Zero was real and worth of a professional title. 

“No,” you whispered, your heart breaking in real-time. “We should… we should do it. Let’s sign up.”

As the boys cheered and Mingi started typing, you felt a cold, hard knot form in your chest. You had only a couple of days to figure out how to do the impossible. You had to tell Wooyoung. And God help you, you were going to have to tell him that the Viper lie was about to be exposed.

Yunho laughed, ducking his head to hide his blush, but he didn’t pull his hand away from you. He leaned in, whispering into your ear, “I guess I really am going to have to handle a professional team now, aren’t I?”

“Wait, wait!” Mingi’s eyes suddenly lit up, that mischievous, “I-have-an-idea” glint taking over his face. He leaned forward, slamming his palms onto the desk. “Viper! Isn’t your roommate also a gamer? That guy—Wooyoung, right? I think I talked to him in The Abyss once or twice.”

Your heart didn’t just drop; it performed a total system shutdown.

“He looks like the type who’d be a total demon on a mouse.” Mingi continued, his voice rising with excitement. “Maybe he’d join us? We could kick Seonghwa out and actually have some real chances! If he’s even half as good as you, we’d be unstoppable.” The room went quiet for a second. The overhead light felt too bright, too hot. You could feel all the eyes in the room shift to you—heavy, curious, and hopeful.

Seonghwa let out a dramatic, betrayed sigh. “Oh, I see how it is. The Team is already looking for my replacement. Fine. I’ll just go back to being the Vice President and eating my feelings in the corner.”

“No, Hyung, it’s not like that!” Yunho said, immediately flustered, his shy side pulling him back. “I just… I mean, if Y/N’s roommate is a high rank, it would be a shame not to ask, right? It would make her feel more comfortable having a friend on the team.” He turned to you, his eyes wide and full of that pure, devastating trust. “What do you think, Y/N? Do you think Wooyoung would want to sub in? It would take the pressure off of us to carry Mingi and Seonghwa every round.”

You looked at Yunho—his messy hair, the way he was looking at you like you were the smartest person in the room. You felt like a total fraud. If Wooyoung joined the team, the secret wouldn’t just be out; it would be broadcast in 4K. “I… uh…” Your voice was a dry, you had to swallow the lump forming in your throat to continue. “Wooyoung is… he’s busy. He has a lot of… laundry. And his, uh, PC is in a very bad shape. He wouldn’t be able to play with us.”

Mingi laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair—a move that made Yunho’s jaw tighten just a fraction. “Come on, Y/N! Just ask him! We’ll give him a jersey! We’ll even let him use Seonghwa’s chair!”

“Hey!” Seonghwa shouted again. 

“Seriously, I’ll ask him,” you lied, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s... he’s got a very specific gaming schedule. Very antisocial.”

“Specific gaming schedule?” Yeosang’s eyes flicked over to you, sharp and analytical as always. He tilted his head, his dry smirk returning. “What, does he only play during lunar eclipses? Or is he one of those grinders who only logs on when the sun goes down?”

“Something like that,” you mumbled, retreating toward the sink under the guise of needing water. Your hands were shaking so badly you had to grip the glass with both palms.

Yunho followed you. He didn’t say anything at first, just moved into your space, his large frame blocking the others from view. He reached out, his hand hesitating before he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was so tender it felt like a physical burn against your skin. “You’re really tense,” he whispered, his brow furrowed with that earnest, protective worry. “Is it because of the tournament? Or is it... is it because of Wooyoung? If you don’t want him on the team, Y/N, we won’t ask. I don’t want to crowd your home life with Level Zero business if it makes you uncomfortable.”

It’s not my home life I’m worried about, Yunho. It’s my entire existence, you thought, looking up at him.

“It’s fine, Yunnie,”you forced out, trying to summon even a flicker of Viper’s confidence. “I’ll talk to him tonight. I’ll see what he says.”

“That’s my MVP,” Mingi cheered, oblivious to the internal collapse happening five feet away. He was already back on his phone, probably looking up custom jersey designs. “We’re gonna be the most feared team in the Summer Open! Viper, Captain, and maybe the Secret Weapon Roommate! We’re basically the Avengers of the basement!”

“I’m still not giving up my chair,” Seonghwa grumbled, though he was already plating the stew, his temporary ‘betrayal’ forgotten in favor of feeding his team.

Dinner was a blur. You ate mechanically, nodding in the right places as Mingi and Yunho debated tactical rotations and map bans. Every time Yunho squeezed your hand under the table, a fresh wave of guilt crashed over you. He was building a future for the two of you—a pro career, a life where you were the stars of the server—and you were still stuck on the tutorial level.

The moment the door to Yunho’s apartment closed behind you that night, the cold night air hit you like a physical slap. You didn’t even wait to get to the subway. You pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over Wooyoung’s contact.

The phone picked up on the second ring.

“What‘s up bitch,” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding suspiciously like he was currently mid-match. “How’s the Captain? Did he finally figure out how to kiss without a manual, or do I need to send him an instructional PDF?”

“Young,” you rasped, leaning your head against a cold brick wall in the alleyway. “We have a massive, server-ending problem.”

The clicking of his mechanical keyboard stopped instantly. The silence on the other end was heavy. “What happened?” his voice was suddenly sharp, all the teasing gone. “Did he find out? Did you slip up?”

“No,” you whispered, a tear finally escaping and trekking down your cheek. “Worse. Mingi wants you to join the team. And Yunho... Yunho just signed us up for the Summer Open. The Pro-Am qualifier. Offline, Wooyoung. With cameras. With officials.”

There was a long, hollow silence. Then, a low whistle. “Holy fuck... okay. So we’ve moved from ‘mild deception’ to ‘federal fraud,’” Wooyoung muttered. “Y/N, if you go to that tournament, you’re dead. The second you touch a mouse in front of a ref, your Viper becomes a common garden snake.”

“I know,” you choked out, searching through your bag for the pack of cigarettes you bought earlier. “But I couldn’t say no. He was going to give up his dream for me. He was going to stay in the basement forever just because he thought I was nervous. I couldn’t let him do that.”

“So what’s the plan?” Wooyoung asked. “Because unless I can teach you ten years of muscle memory in six weeks, or I figure out how to wear a wig and a voice-changer, we are—to use a technical term—screwed.”

“I don’t know,” you said, looking up at the flickering streetlamp. “But I think the “Legend” is about to have a very public heart attack.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The door to your apartment hadn’t even fully clicked shut before you collapsed.

You didn’t make it to the sofa. You sank against the wood of the door, your knees hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet hallway. The adrenaline that had kept you upright in Yunho’s kitchen—the fake smiles, the forced nods, the mask—finally evaporated, leaving nothing but a hollow, freezing terror behind. Your chest felt like it was being crushed.

“Y/N? Is that you?” Wooyoung’s voice drifted from the living room, followed by the familiar scoot of his gaming chair. He appeared in the hallway a second later, still wearing his headset around his neck. He stopped dead when he saw you. “Whoa, whoa—hey!” He was across the hall in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. 

“He likes me, maybe even loves me,” you choked out, the words coming out as a broken sob. You gripped the front of Wooyoung’s hoodie, your knuckles white. “He looks at me like I’m... like I’m everything. And I’m nothing.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his hands coming up to steady your shaking shoulders. “Hey, look at me. You aren’t nothing. You’re just a girl who got caught in a very long, very stupid prank that went off the rails.”

“It’s not a prank anymore!” you shrieked, the sound muffled by your own knees as you curled into a ball. “It’s the Summer Open! He signed us up! Mingi wants to buy jerseys! Jerseys! They want to put my name on the back of a shirt like I’m actually someone worth watching!” You started to hyperventilate, the air coming in short, panicked gasps. The image of bright lights, the officials standing behind your chair, the crowd watching the big screen—flashed in your mind like a horror movie. You could see the moment the game started. You could see your hand shaking on a mouse that felt like a foreign object. You could see Yunho’s face when he realized his “lethal Viper” couldn’t even move. “I have to tell him,” you gasped, clutching your throat. “I have to tell him tonight. I’ll send a text. I’ll delete my account. I’ll move. I’ll—I’ll join a convent.”

“You aren’t joining a convent,” Wooyoung said firmly, grabbing your wrists to stop you from clawing at your own skin. “And you aren’t texting him. You’re in a full-blown mental breakdown. You don’t make tactical decisions during a system crash.”

“He called me the MVP,” you sobbed, hot tears streaming down your face and dripping onto the floor. “He said he’d throw away his dream for me. How can I look at him? How can I let him kiss me knowing every part of our relationship is built on a lie?” You looked up at Wooyoung, your eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Mingi asked about you. He knows your name. He wants you to sub in. He thinks we’d be ‘unstoppable.’” You let out a hysterical, wet laugh. “We would be unstoppable because you’d be playing for two people! You’d have to grow four arms, Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung went quiet. He pulled you into a tight, grounding hug, letting you sob into his chest. He didn’t offer a joke this time. He knew the stakes. He knew that for someone like Yunho—someone whose entire world was built on loyalty, data, and Level Zero family—this kind of betrayal wasn’t just a white lie. It was a total wipe of his trust. “We’re in the endgame now, Y/N,” Wooyoung whispered into your hair. “You either tell him and lose him, or you play the tournament and get exposed in front of the whole world.”

“I can’t lose him,” you whispered into his shirt, your voice small and broken. “I can’t. But I can’t be the player he expects me to be either.”

Wooyoung remained on his knees, his hands hovering tentatively near your shoulders. “Y/N, just listen—” 

“No.” The word was flat, dead, and final. With a sudden, jerky surge of energy, you pushed off the floor. You shoved Wooyoung’s hands away with more force than intended, your palms hitting his chest as you scrambled to your feet. Your skin was crawling with a sudden, suffocating need to be away from the pity, away from the eyes of your best friend, and away from the girl who didn’t exist. “Don’t,” you rasped, stumbling back a step. “I can’t handle a pep talk from the guy whose hands I’ve been stealing for weeks!”

“I’m not trying to—”

You didn’t stay to hear the end of the sentence. You turned and bolted for the kitchen, your boots clicking hollowly on the floor. You needed something to numb the static in your brain, something to wash away the taste of the lie you’d been feeding Yunho all evening. You reached the kitchen and ripped the refrigerator door open. The white light spilled out, blindingly bright against your tear-stained face. You ignored the water, ignored the leftover takeout, and grabbed a cold bottle of beer from the back of the shelf. You didn’t bother with an opener. You grabbed the edge of the granite counter, hooking the cap against the stone and slamming your palm down. The cap hissed and flew off, skittering across the tile, but you didn’t look at where it landed. You took a long, burning swallow, the carbonation stinging your throat as you leaned your weight against the counter. You stared at the dark window, watching your own reflection—red-eyed, hair a mess, looking nothing like the “Legend” your boyfriend thought you were.

Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. He didn’t come closer. He just watched you, his usual snark completely erased, leaving him looking just as exhausted as you felt. “That’s not going to fix anything, Y/N,” he said softly.

“I’m not trying to fix it,” you whispered, the cold glass slick against your palm. “I’m trying to forget that I’m the villain in my own fucking love story.”

“We’ll figure it out. I’ll just… I don’t know, wear a wig? Or we’ll say you have a wrist injury and I’m your legal guardian. Relax! He’s whipped! The guy looks at you like you invented the internet. Or maybe we just tell him the truth. He’ll probably think it’s a ‘cute tactical ruse’ or whatever.”

“It’s not a ruse!” You turned to face him, the cold glass bottle trembling in your hand.

“Oh, come on,” Wooyoung teased, standing up and walking toward you with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill! So you lied about being good at a video game. People lie about having hobbies on first dates all the time! Just go to him, bat your eyelashes, and say, ‘Oops, I’m actually a noob.’ He’ll probably just offer to coach you.”

The bottle slipped. It hit the floor with a violent, crystalline clink, shattering into pieces. The sound seemed to trigger a total system failure deep inside you. Your breath hitched, a broken, wheezing sound, and then the sob tore out of your throat, raw and ugly.

“Jesus Christ—Y/N!” Wooyoung’s eyes went wide. He scrambled forward, his teasing facade instantly replaced by genuine panic. “I was joking! It’s okay, we can fix this—”

“We can’t fix it!” you shrieked, the tears overflowing, hot and stinging against your cheeks. You slumped against the counter, your hands over your face as the weight of the last few weeks finally crushed your spine. “He only likes me because of a lie! He doesn’t like me. He likes the girl who can carry his team. He likes the girl who is ‘iconic’ and ‘calculated’! He likes someone who doesn’t exist!”

“That’s not true,” Wooyoung whispered, reaching out to steady you, but you pushed his hands away.

“It is true!” you wailed. “I love him, Wooyoung. I’m so far gone I can’t even see the damn shore anymore. And every time he looks at me with that… that stupid, honest adoration, I feel like I’m poisoning him. I’m a virus in his system!” You looked up at your best friend, your vision blurred by tears, your chest aching so hard you could barely draw air. “I can’t tell him,” you whispered, the words sounding like a death sentence. “If he finds out his girlfriend is just a liar… he’ll never trust anyone again. It’ll crush him. He’s so pure, and I’m… I’m just the girl who let him believe in a fake.”

Wooyoung stayed silent. The snark was gone, replaced by a hollow, heavy realization. He didn’t have a witty comeback. He didn’t have a tactical solution. For the first time, he realized this wasn’t about a game; it was about the destruction of a soul. “You’re not a fake, Y/N,” the words felt thin and useless in the quiet apartment.

“I am! I am a fucking liar,” you sobbed, sliding down the cabinets until you were a heap on the floor, your face buried in your knees. “In reality, I’m nothing! He can’t love me!” The words came out as a strangled scream. You weren’t just crying; you were shaking, your hands clutching at your own hair as you rocked back and forth on the kitchen tiles. Wooyoung reached out to grab your wrists, but you wrenched yourself away.

“Y/N, stop, you’re not making sense—”

“I am making perfect sense!” You looked at him, your eyes bloodshot and wild, a hysterical, broken laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Who makes the call-outs? Who hits the headshots? Who is the ‘legend’ he’s so proud of? It’s you, Young! It’s your timing! Your game sense! Your talent!” You pointed a shaking finger at his gaming setup. “He loves Viper! And Viper is you! You play her!” Your voice cracked, dropping to a horrified, wet whisper. “Oh my god… he loves you. He’s in love with a version of me that is actually just… you. Every time he praises ‘my’ performance, he’s praising you. Every time he’s in awe of ‘my’ logic, he’s in awe of your brain.”

“That’s not how it works, Y/N, he knows you—”

“He knows a script!” you clutched your stomach as if you were physically ill. “He knows the girl who speaks when you tell her to. He knows the girl who wears the mask you built. If I sit down at that computer during the tournament, he’s going to see a stranger. He’s going to realize the girl he kissed is just… a fraud.” The kitchen felt like it was tilting. “I’ve stolen his first love,” you whispered, staring at the shattered glass. “I’ve taken this pure, beautiful thing he feels and I’ve tied it to a lie. If he finds out his girlfriend can’t even choose a proper skill to use… it’ll destroy him."

Wooyoung dropped to his knees in front of you. The usual spark in his eyes was replaced by a scary, focused intensity. He watched you for a long moment, letting out a slow, long-suffering sigh. “Okay,” he said, his voice flat with forced calm. “I’m teaching you how to play.”

You made a miserable sound into your knees.

“No, listen,” Wooyoung continued, nudging your shoulder with his elbow. “I’m going to be honest with you—it’s going to be hell. You’re going to fail your exams. Your attendance is going to tank. You’re going to survive on caffeine and regret, and you’ll forget what sunlight looks like.” He paused, looking at the door, then back at you. “But we’re going to fix this. I’m going to make sure your Viper is so real we will never have to fake it again.”

The kitchen light was clinical and the bottle was still shattered, but for the first time, the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing. You looked up from your knees, staring at Wooyoung like he’d suggested you learn to fly a plane in a week. “You’re… you’re going to teach me? I can’t even jump and move at the same time without looking at the keyboard.”

“I know,” Wooyoung stood up, offering you a hand—not a gentle pull, but a firm yank. “I’ve seen your ‘skills.’ You’re a disaster. You’re a bottom-tier scrub who shouldn’t be allowed near a mouse. But,” he jabbed a finger toward the gaming chair, “you’re my disaster. And I’m not letting you lose the only guy who actually made you feel something just because you can’t aim.”

He dragged you toward the desk, the dual monitors flickering to life and casting a harsh blue glow over your tear-stained face. “Here’s the deal,” Wooyoung slammed a headset onto the desk. “From this second until the tournament, you aren’t a student. You aren’t a girl with a boyfriend. You are a script I am rewriting. We play until your fingers lock up. We drill lineups until you see them in your sleep. If your phone buzzes? Ignore it. If Yunho calls? Tell him you’re studying.”

He leaned down, his face inches from yours. “You said he loves Viper? Fine. By the tournament, you’re going to be Viper. Not my hands. Yours.”

You looked at the mouse. The guilt was still there, a heavy stone in your gut, but a new spark was starting to flicker—spite. Spite for the lie. Spite for the version of you that was nothing.

“Okay,” you whispered, sitting down and gripping the mouse until your knuckles turned white. “Patch me in.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”

Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”

Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”

Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”

Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”

Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”

“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.

The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”

Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”

The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”

“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”

Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”

“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.

Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.

Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”

Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”

Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”

“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”

Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”

“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”

Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.

Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”

Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”

Seonghwa blinked, genuinely startled. “They don’t?”

“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”

“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”

“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”

Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”

“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”

Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”

Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”

“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”

“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”

“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.

“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”

Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”

“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”

“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”

“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”

Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”

Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”

“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.

“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”

Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”

Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”

Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”

Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”

“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”

Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”

“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.

Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”

The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree. 

“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”

“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”

Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”

Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”

Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”

Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”

“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”

Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”

“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”

“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”

Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”

Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.

“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”

Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”

Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.

Then, he clicked Print.

The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.

[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]

Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.

“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.

Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.

“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.

“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.

“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.

“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.

The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”

The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.

[OUT OF PAPER.]

Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.

Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.

Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.

Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.

He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.

A dozen heads turned.

Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.

“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.

An hour.

The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.

The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”

Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”

“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”

That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”

“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.

“Hyung?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”

Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.

The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.

“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”

You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.

“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.

The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”

The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.

You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.

You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.

It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.

The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”

Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.

The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”

Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.

The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.

The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.

The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird. You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.

There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days. Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country. You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.

Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.

“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”

Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”

“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”

The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.

“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”

Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.

“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”

Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.

Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.

“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.

“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest. Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.

The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.

You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.

When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”

“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.

“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”

She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.

They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”

You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”

Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”

You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.

The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”

Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”

“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”

Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses. You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him. 

It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”

You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.

Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.

Viper.

The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.

The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.

“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.

“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.

The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming. With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.

Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.

Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.

“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”

The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.

“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”

“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”

The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.

“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”

Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.

[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL) Channel: #general-tactics

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.

FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.

“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”

Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”

“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”

“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”

“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”

You opened your mouth to defend your honour.

He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”

“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"

“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”

“I was saving him from bullies!”

“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”

“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.

Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”

“I do NOT bite people!”

“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”

“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.

“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”

“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”

“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”

Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”

You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”

“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”

“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”

Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”

“And if I do?”

“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”

“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.

Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”

“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”

“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”

“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”

“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.

“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.

You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.

You: Surprise me.

You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ...oh. Okay. Wow. Yes. Ma’am.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”

Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”

“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”

From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”

“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.

Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”

“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”

Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”

“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”

Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”

Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.

“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”

“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”

“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”

Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.

“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”

Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”

“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”

Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”

“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”

But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.

“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”

“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”

Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”