yoursprks

“you can just—just hand it over. i can carry it the rest of the way,” you stammered.

he didn’t even look back. “not unless you want your shoulder fucked up by the time you hit bio lab.”

“i don’t—i don’t want to take up your time or anything.”

“what, like i was busy?” he scoffed, glancing over his shoulder. “don’t stress it, princess.”

and maybe it was the way he said it—but your stomach turned. and then the words fell out before you could stop them.

“are you… gonna expect something from me?”

he stopped. dead in his tracks. right there on the sidewalk. the breeze rustled the corner of your printout, the one he was still holding.

he turned to you, brow furrowed, face unreadable. “expect what?”

you looked down, suddenly wishing you’d kept your mouth shut. “i mean—i don’t know. people say you only help girls if you think you’re gonna get something out of it. i didn’t mean to—sorry, forget it, that was stupid—”

“sex?”

your eyes snapped up. he didn’t look angry. not even annoyed. just… confused.

“you think i’d carry your shit and walk you across campus because i expect to fuck you for it?”

you opened your mouth, then closed it again. he huffed out a laugh, but it wasn’t mean. more like disbelief. like he was realizing something for the first time.

“jesus,” he muttered, glancing away. “i’m not a fuckin’ creep.”

“i didn’t think you were,” you said quickly. “it’s just… that’s how people talk.”

he stared at you a second longer. then he handed you your books, all perfectly stacked. his fingers brushed yours.

“what’s your name?”

you told him and he nodded. “well, now i know who to look for when i need to fix my reputation.”

you blinked.

“you can tell people,” he added with a smirk. “the ryomen sukuna walked you to class and didn’t try to fuck you. crazy, right?”

you smiled. just a little. and that was enough. he saw it. and from that moment on, he always made sure you saw him.

after that first day, things changed.

not in any explosive, movie-scene way. more like soft glitches in the matrix—small, strange patterns that started popping up in your everyday life. like the way sukuna always seemed to be where you were, without ever making it seem intentional.

you’d show up to the dining hall, and he’d already be there, feet kicked up on a chair, nodding for you to sit even before you got your tray. at first you hesitated, standing awkward and clutching your drink, but he’d just pat the seat beside him and go, “you can sit, y’know. i don’t bite. unless you ask.”

you never really responded to those comments. just dropped your gaze, your cheeks warm, and quietly unwrapped your sandwich. he didn’t push. he just talked—about how shit his chem class was, how hungover he still was from friday, how satoru threatened to kick him out of the frat groupchat if he sent one more drunk gym mirror selfie.

he didn’t flirt the way people warned you he would. not really. he teased, sure. but it was light, casual. never serious enough to scare you off. just enough to make your heart kick a little harder when he looked at you.

he called you “shy girl.” like a nickname. like it was endearing.

“shy girl’s got a dark academia playlist,” he’d grin, seeing your phone light up with your study timer. “you gonna let me listen to that while i pretend to do my essay?”

you weren’t even sure when you started spending hours with him. it started in public—shared tables at the library, post-class walks, sitting together on the frat house porch during the golden hour when the boys were too loud inside and you were too overstimulated to focus anywhere else.

then it shifted.

it became nights. not overnight at first. just late. sitting in his room while he scrolled through music and showed you unreleased rap tracks from his friend who “might’ve gotten kicked out but has insane beats.” you’d stay curled on the edge of his bed, hoodie too big, knees tucked up, pretending not to be nervous while he passed you a cold bottle of yerba mate and insisted you had to try it.

you never drank the whole thing. he never let you throw it out. he always finished it with a smirk, like it meant something.

you didn’t remember when you started sleeping over.

maybe it was after midterms, when you accidentally dozed off beside him during an anime rerun, your head slipping onto his shoulder. you woke up with a blanket tucked around you and his arm slung behind you on the couch.

he didn’t mention it. just said “you snore a little,” like it was no big deal.

then it happened again. and again.

somewhere in the blur, his room started feeling like a second home. you kept a lip balm in his desk drawer. your charger was always plugged into the wall. his frat brothers started nodding at you when you walked in like you weren’t just some girl anymore. like you were his girl. even if no one said it.

and sukuna—god, sukuna was soft with you.

but sukuna was still... sukuna. loud and reckless and a little bit of a dick. he still left his empty red bulls on the counter, still got into dumb arguments with toji about which protein powder brand was superior, still acted like he owned the sidewalk when you two were walking somewhere and wouldn’t move for anyone. he still flirted shamelessly with the waitress even when you were sitting right there, not because he meant it—but because it was muscle memory. frat boy habits that died hard.

and sometimes, he’d say shit that stung. not always intentional. sometimes it was just him being careless, a throwaway comment or teasing jab that landed wrong.

but you were shy. sensitive. you’d laugh it off at first, but then you’d go quiet. your shoulders would tense. your eyes would shift down and away, and you’d nod along too much, trying to pretend it didn’t bother you.

he noticed. the second it happened—he noticed.

“wait. hey. fuck, no—i didn’t mean that like that,” he’d say, voice dropping, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached for your hand. “you know i didn’t, right?”

you’d just shrug.

sometimes he’d catch the glassy look in your eyes before you turned away and it made his stomach twist in this awful, unfamiliar way. because he’d seen girls cry before. but never because of him. not like this. not someone he gave a shit about.

and for the first time in his life, sukuna didn’t just apologize.

he adjusted.

he stopped making those comments. stopped brushing things off with humor when you got overwhelmed. stopped calling you “woman” in that joking, condescending tone when you corrected him about something. stopped turning everything into a bit just to avoid the quiet.

because the quiet wasn’t empty with you. it was sacred.

he started pulling back. not from you, but from the rest of it. the chaos. the lifestyle. the late-night parties and girls grinding on him at kickbacks and the endless cycle of beer pong and blackouts and shallow distractions. not because you asked. you never did. in fact, you never brought any of it up.

he just… didn’t want it anymore.

not when he could be with you instead. in his room. on the couch. watching you fall asleep on his shoulder while some old movie hummed in the background. he started ghosting the groupchat more, started saying “nah, i’m chilling tonight” when they invited him out. the first time he missed a themed party, toji asked if he was sick. satoru texted “who is she?” with twenty eye emojis.

sukuna left him on read.

he still teased you. still made stupid jokes and wrestled you into headlocks when you were fighting over what to watch. still took dumb shirtless mirror selfies and asked if he looked “academically hot.” he didn’t lose himself.

but he was learning how to be soft with you.

how to be patient.

how to earn the way you looked at him when you smiled, like maybe he wasn’t some campus legend or cocky asshole or party boy with a body count in the triple digits.

just a boy who liked being around you more than anything else.

and more than anything, he didn’t want to fuck it up.

they didn’t get it at first.

his frat brothers.

they saw you once—curled up in sukuna’s hoodie, hands wrapped around a matcha latte, barely making eye contact with anyone—and the whispers started.

“she doesn’t look like his type,” one muttered under her breath, eyebrow raised.

“thought he liked wild girls,” toji added, squinting toward you from across the common room.

satoru, smug as ever, just grinned. “maybe he’s tryna wife up a sweetheart for once.”

but it was naoya who really crossed the line.

you were sitting on the back porch with sukuna’s jacket draped around your shoulders, talking quietly to shoko. sukuna was only a few feet away, half-listening while pretending to be focused on his vape, when naoya sauntered up beside him.

“shy girls give the best head,” he said, elbowing sukuna like it was funny. “bet she lets you do anything you want. doesn’t even talk back, huh?”

and sukuna didn’t say anything. he just decked him.

no warning. no slow boil. just one clean punch across the jaw that dropped naoya to the grass, stunned and sputtering.

“say some shit like that again,” sukuna growled, standing over him, “and you’ll be spitting out teeth next time.”

toji laughed. satoru was hollering like it was the best show he’d seen all week.

but sukuna didn’t care about any of them.

he turned back toward the house, jaw tense, chest heaving. you were standing by the door now, eyes wide. you’d clearly seen it happen. he didn’t know how much. didn’t know if you heard what naoya said. didn’t want to explain himself with some clumsy, half-assed excuse.

so he just walked up to you, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered low, “you’re exactly my type.”

the words weren’t for you. not entirely. but the way you looked at him—like you’d just seen something real—it stuck.

after that, things shifted.

but truth is, sukuna had no fucking clue how to ask you out.

he knew how to start a fight. how to roll a blunt. how to get a girl in his bed if he wanted to—but this? this was different. he wasn’t trying to just get lucky. he wasn’t trying to play it cool. not with you.

so he did what any hopeless, tattooed, secretly-soft frat boy would do when faced with a problem.

he went on tiktok.

typed into the search bar with an annoyed sigh—“how to ask out a shy girl without scaring her”—and scrolled. and scrolled. and scrolled. most of it was bullshit. some of it was too corny, even for him. but one video made him pause: “bake her something. get her a treat. keep it simple. don’t make her overthink it. just show her you thought about her.”

cue the next scene: sukuna, standing at the front of baskin robbins, absolutely dead-eyed, arms crossed as the teenage employee nervously read back his order.

“you want the message to say… can i be your boufriend?”

“yeah,” sukuna grunted.

“you mean boyfriend?”

“no. boufriend. like, y’know. ‘boyfriend’ but wrong. cute and shit.”

the employee blinked. nodded. “...got it.”

that night, he showed up outside your dorm with the tiny ice cream cake in both hands, a sheepish little smirk tugging at his mouth, like he knew it was dumb but was trying to play it off.

“don’t laugh,” he muttered, cheeks a little red. “it’s cold. like you. so it reminded me of you.”

you blinked. stared at the cake. then stared at him. then blinked again.

“...boufriend?” you whispered, covering your mouth as you giggled.

“it was a choice,” he defended, but the sound of your laugh made it all worth it.

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you leaned against the doorframe, all shy and flustered and pink-cheeked, then whispered: “do i get to keep the cake and the boy?”

he grinned.

“you get whatever you want, sweetheart.”

and that was it.

you kissed him on the cheek that night—just a quick press of lips—but he looked at you like it wrecked him. like you’d just broken the toughest part of him open.

and by the time he walked back to the frat house, empty cake box under his arm, phone lighting up with toji’s texts asking where the hell he was, sukuna just smiled to himself and thought:

Warnings: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, morally grey characters, themes of codependency (a little bit), a bit of a toxic relationship with Soonyoung and reader at times (they like to make each other jealous), bar fights, women being very petty, recreational drinking and drug use, heavy angst, depictions of death (funerals for parents), fight scene that ends in death in a domestic situation, difficult relationships with parents, reader and her husband have a terrible relationship and hate each other, depictions of blood and stabbing in one scene (it is the most graphic scene in the whole fic but kept short), reader agonizes over decisions she's made and struggles mentally with a lot of it, depiction of a full blown anxiety attack, sexually explicit content including fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, crying during sex, a lot of making out and biting, multiple orgasms... sorry this is so long, I want to over-warn for everything happening here so if I have missed something you think needs to be warned, please tell me!

KWON SOONYOUNG IS CRYING THE FIRST TIME YOU MEET HIM. It’s a loud, warbling cry that you’re not used to, and you flinch at the pitch as you hide behind your mother. Soonyoung and his mother are standing in the grand foyer of your home, his fists twisted in her tweed skirt as he begs her not to leave him. 

His mother sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. You’ve seen her around before on the arm of her husband at your family dinner parties and for afternoon tea with your mom. This is the first time you’ve seen Soonyoung, though, and you’re unimpressed as his shrieking only gets louder when she crouches down to look him in the eye fondly, brushing the tears from his face. 

You don’t know a lot of other kids, but the noisiness of him startles you. Unsettles you. Sensing your unease, your mother reaches to pull you from behind her, giving you a single look that you know means please behave. You straighten immediately, turning to watch the sniffling boy as he calms down. 

Soonyoung is round-cheeked, his dark eyes swollen and face reddened from working himself up. His mother murmurs something to him and he nods, wiping the snot from his face with the back of his hand.

Seungcheol must notice the crying has stopped. He appears from the kitchen, giving Soonyoung an unimpressed once over as he strides toward you and your mother. She clucks her tongue at the cheek of her eleven year old, giving him a hard look. 

“Seungcheol, don’t be rude,” she admonishes. “Greet our guests properly.” 

Your older brother glances at you and you lift a shoulder. He’s going to lead the family one day, it’s important for him to show manners. You know this even at a young age - have always known what his place is among your family, what your place is. 

Cheol is in line to become the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, an empire that you cannot fathom at your age but you know is important. You are its insurance, a second heir if something happens to the first and a bargaining chip for future partnerships. A potential logician, if you’re good enough. 

Turning to Soonyoung and his mother, Seungcheol bows politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung. Are you here to play video games?” 

Soonyoung perks up at that, looking at his mom, eyes going round. She grins and nods her head, pulling her hands from where they rest on his shoulders. “He is,” she agrees. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends.” Her gaze drifts to you. “All three of you.” 

That makes you frown. You don’t really like playing video games. Seungcheol never lets you win and forces you to play for hours in exchange for him letting you borrow his AetherLink at night to scroll the internet. You’re not allowed to have one yet, even though you’re only four years younger and all of your other friends have them to enter virtual chat rooms and play online games.  

“Do I have to?” you ask your mom, looking up at her. 

“Yes,” she says firmly, gently nudging you by the shoulder toward where your brother is not so patiently waiting to escort you to the gaming room. “Go.” 

“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, pouting a little.

“I’m not any good.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.” 

Seungcheol moans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!” 

“No way!” 

Seungcheol grins and shoots off toward the gaming room, Soonyoung hot on his heels. You hesitate for a moment, staring after them with indignation. Soonyoung stops at the doorway, turning to you. His face is still ruddy from crying, but he’s suddenly smiling, cheeks round and smooth.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.” 

-

“Holy fuck, can you let me win for once?” Soonyoung groans, rolling over on the mat. He’s dripping in sweat, wiping it away from his brow as he stands with effort. 

Grinning, you skip away from him, reaching for your water bottle. Music pounds through the speakers of the training room. Overhead, the blue neon casts an eerie glow over the two of you. Seungcheol ignores you both in favor of using the weight machines in the far corner of the room. 

On the far wall, your health and fitness data is displayed, each one of your bodies outlined and flashing as new data comes in. Right now, you’re in the red zone, heart pounding hard from your bout with Soonyoung, who is in the orange zone. 

Which confirms your suspicion that he’s not trying as hard as he could be. 

“Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me,” you offer. The water helps cool you down as you eye Soonyoung. Even at fourteen, he’s started to fill out his form more, arms corded as he hones himself into a weapon. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Seungcheol scoffs from across the room. Maybe he wasn’t totally ignoring the two of you. He drops his cool-older-kid act to turn and grumble, “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.” 

The nickname makes you bristle. You hate when people point out that you’re the baby of the family, like you’re something less than or incapable of keeping pace. You especially hate it when Seungcheol uses it to put you in your place, reminding you that one day your shithead older brother is going to be leading the family business. 

The family business is the reason you spar with them at all. Occasionally Vernon joins, though those days are as unpredictable as his appearances. Usually when he’s over at your house, it’s never a good thing. His arrivals are always bracketed with the sound of his father’s manic yelling and his mother’s frantic begging, followed closely by slammed doors and your father’s calming voice. 

Today it’s just the three of you, though. Soonyoung comes over and sits on the mat by your feet, holding a hand up to you. You pass him your water bottle, rolling your eyes at him even though it doesn’t really bother you. 

Nothing Soonyoung does really bothers you. Since that first day he showed up at your house sobbing because his mother was leaving him for the day, he’s grown on you. More than grown on you, in fact. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t noticed your lingering gazes and the way he flusters you when he gets too close, and you hope to keep it that way. 

“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung offers gently, voice low over the metal clang of Seuncheol’s weights. “And it’s not ‘cause I don’t think you can’t take it,” he adds with a grin, bumping his shoulder against your leg. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.” 

“Everyone treats me like a baby.” 

“You are. But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone says how high. Even my dad.” 

That makes you smirk a little. You look at the floor, letting his words wash over you. They do ring true - there’s no one in the Syndicate who would deny you anything, and though you’re utterly terrified of Soonyoung’s dad, he would do anything for you. In a way, it was the Kwon family’s divine purpose to be by the side of the Chois. 

“What about you?” you ask. 

“What about me?” 

“Jump.”

Soonyoung grins and sets the water bottle down, getting up to his feet at your command. “How high, Baby?” 

-

Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear on the day of his parents’ funeral. He’s a far cry from the little boy who showed up at your house to play video games and become friends. 

Instead, he sits in silence, eyes raging - always raging, now. You don’t think the fury stops, his gaze burning the entire ceremony. His grip on your hand is like iron, and after a while, your arm tingles with pins and needles. You say nothing, willing to endure. Eventually, your arm goes numb entirely, and he keeps holding your hand. 

Afterward, Soonyoung says nothing. You do the talking for him, accepting the hand shakes and bows on his behalf when he doesn’t reach out to accept them, thanking those who have come to offer him condolences and respect when he doesn’t speak.

His grip on you is steadfast. Iron and fire. Even when your father drops his gaze down with a look of disapproval, Soonyoung doesn’t let go and you don’t ask him to. If there’s any day that you can break decorum and tradition, it’s certainly now in the wake of Soonyoung’s loss. 

They don’t need to know you’d let him hold you anyway.  

The boy who existed before the murder of his parents is dead. You knew it before the funeral. But when the last guest finally leaves the Choi Estate and Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear, you realize it isn’t just his parents that you’ve buried. 

The sweet, gentle boy who had cried those tears for fear of his mother leaving him has died too. And you don’t think you’ll ever see him again. 

-

“You want me to do what?” Soonyoung asks, pulling you into his room and looking out the cracked door to make sure no one else is around. “Where is your brother?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“You can’t just- ” Soonyoung fumbles for words as he shuts the door and takes a few steps past you into his room proper. It’s dark, safe for the glow of his AetherLink glowing with a paused video game. “Did he see you follow me up here?” 

“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.” 

“I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.” 

You frown. “Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”

“Oh don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan. She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, caving in on yourself a little. Maybe it was a stupid idea to ask Soonyoung after all. But you can’t get over the way all of the other girls were clinging to Lin’s every word as she spilled the details of sleeping with Jeonghan. Everyone else in your friends group had at least made out with boys - you had nothing. 

Being the daughter of the leader of the Choi Syndicate has its benefits. Being accessible to do things like kissing boys and going out with your friends to new cool clubs like Echo Space and Hyper Vibe were not one of them. Getting any of the boys your age to even look you in the eye was impossible, the fear of catching the wrath of Seungcheol and your father looming over them like the Sword of Damocles. 

Soonyoung is Soonyoung, though. Your father has brought him into the fold like one of his own, keeping his oath to Soonyoung’s parents to always watch over him and protect him. You’re old enough now to understand that the bonds between higher members of the Syndicate are bonds of faith and blood, of family and something more. 

If anyone shouldn’t be afraid to kiss you, it’s Soonyoung. He lives down the hall from you, and he’s best friends with your brother. It wouldn’t be that weird. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you lay awake in your bed at night while you stared at the ceiling, fingers trailing your lips. 

Now, you’re not so sure. The way Soonyoung recoils makes you realize you hadn’t thought of the single most important thing before marching in here and asking him to be your first kiss: maybe Soonyoung didn’t want to kiss you. 

It hadn’t even crossed your mind - one of the many downsides to getting mostly everything you wanted. You’re so infrequently told no that in the light of rejection, you don’t know what to do, recoiling like you’ve been mortally wounded. 

Nodding your head, you turn away from Soonyoung, throat tightening as the new wave of emotions threatens to spill over. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” 

“Baby,” he sighs. You ignore him, bolting for the door. Soonyoung is fast, though. He snatches your arm and drags you back toward him, though you turn your face away from him to hide the evidence of oncoming tears. “Don’t be like that.” 

“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.” 

“Would you look at me?”

“No.”

He sighs heavily. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Trying to wrench your arm from his hold is useless. He’s not hurting you, but the grip on your bicep is firm. “Well if I’m so difficult then let me go.”

“Baby.” The frustration in his voice is evident. You ignore the way your nickname rolls off his tongue, the way he’s the only person you don’t absolutely hate the name from. 

“Just let me go!” 

“No. Why do you want me to kiss you?”

The question is like nails against chalkboard now, your embarrassment peaking. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!” 

“Fuck - are you crying?”

“No.”

“Baby, look at me.”

Too afraid that the wavering in your voice will give you away, you shake your head, refusing to turn and face him. With a growl, he gives a sharp tug on your arm, spinning you toward him. You let out a noise of protest, ready to lash out at him again when you feel his mouth on yours. 

Startled, you don’t do anything at first. Soonyoung’s grip is still on your bicep, firm and steadfast. Your eyes blink for a second before they flutter closed, unsure exactly what to do beyond lean into him a little, pressing your lips firmer to his. 

It’s somehow exactly what you expected and totally unexpected at the same time. Soonyoung’s mouth is softer than you were ready for, slotted gently against yours. He’s warm and smells like vanilla and sandalwood, a scent you’ve grown familiar with. Your thoughts peter out, enjoying the way he holds you to him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. 

When Soonyoung pulls away, you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, your breath shaky. He doesn’t pull back very far, looking down at you with a dark gaze. This close, you can see the real Soonyoung. His expression is soft, eyes sparkling in the blue light of his room. He looks so young suddenly, all of the rage and wrath that lurks under the surface of the calm mask he wears gone for just a moment. 

“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. His mouth twitches at the corner, an almost smile. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.” 

He opens and closes his mouth again, trying to find words. You wait him out, heart thudding. He’s still holding you close to him, fingers digging desperately into your arm. 

Footsteps thundering up the stairs wake him from his daze, Seungcheol calling your name. Soonyoung drops his hand and steps away from you, a cool mask of calm sliding into place, the vulnerability gone in an instant. “There’s your kiss,” he murmurs. “Is there anything else you need from me or do I need to jump too?” 

-

Synth pulses through you, vibrating your very bones as you lounge on the velvet couch in a private section of the club. The lights above you are hazy, but you can make out the shapes of holographic dancers, their graphics so high definition that you can see the sweat beading down their bare backs. 

From the VIP section, you have the perfect view of the DJ platform. Screens flash behind it, holographic wonders of creatures and places and visuals flashing brightly. Writhing bodies twist on the dancefloor around the DJ like a pit of snakes. Among them, you know your father’s Taps slither among the crowd, pushing drugs and psychedelics into the hands of those who can afford it. 

A trained eye can spot a Tap well enough. Though they blend in with the nylon and leather of the partiers, they tend to be sharp eyed and lucid, chewing on stim pops or some other substance to keep them awake and alert. 

It’s not the drug dealers in the crowd who keep drawing your attention, though. You shouldn’t be able to spot Soonyoung in the mass of bodies so easily, but you do. His hair is bleached, reflecting the flashing lights around him as he presses in close to the girl attached to him, hips swaying.

Your mouth sours. Leaning forward you snatch one of the bottles from the ice bucket and pour a shot into a crystal glass. Angel raises her brows as you slide the glass over to her and pour another for yourself. She’s not much of a drinker, but she takes the glass wordlessly, sensing your need to have a partner in crime.

Knocking it back, you hiss as the liquor burns all the way back. Even the high grade alcohol is like fire, washing away your irritation for a dizzy moment, veins buzzing. Leaning back, your eyes scan the crowd and settle on Soonyoung again. This time, he’s leading his partner through the crowd and toward the stairs. The stairs that lead to you. 

Seungcheol and Wonwoo crashing onto the seat next to you breaks your concentration. Seungcheol’s pupils are wide as saucers, eyes trailing upward to dance at the visual of a woman with pink skin sliding out of her top. 

Next to him, Wonwoo pulls a small bag with glittering dust from his pocket, shaking it to settle all of the contents at the bottom before unsealing the top. The way the powder glows against the lights tells you its high quality frostbyte, a powerful stimulant named for the biting feeling when inhaled. 

Instead of yelling over the music, you gesture toward the bag, catching Wonwoo’s attention. He gives you a surprised look followed by a wolfish grin. Wonwoo loves when you partake in partying harder, a side everyone so rarely sees from you. 

Sliding a knife from his pocket, you watch with rapt attention as Wonwoo dips it into the baggie, scooping delicately. You’d rather he cut lines on the table, but you’ll take what you can get, watching as he expertly fishes out a decent sized amount for you to take. 

You’re mutely aware that a group of bodies enters your section. Vernon throws himself down next to Angel, jostling you both as you lean over Seungcheol’s half-asleep form toward where Wonwoo extends the knife toward you carefully. You ignore the weight of Soonyoung’s eyes on you as he, Mingyu and a group of girls sit down and reach to fill their glasses with liquor. 

Wonwoo’s hands are steady as he holds the tip of his blade out to you, a hand held underneath to catch any powder that slips off the blade. Careful not to lose your balance and stab yourself, you level your face with the knife, inhaling sharply. 

Immediately the drug bites the back of your throat, eyes watering as you tilt your head upwards and blink for a second, letting it settle. Sniffing harshly a few times, you clear your nasal passage and blow out a breath, feeling the softest beginning of a tingle as you look at Wonwoo, who is still holding his hands out to you. 

“Thanks,” you nod. He grins and pulls back, rubbing the excess powder along his gums as you fall heavily against the back of the booth. 

Turning to look at your brother, you elbow him. “Are you alive?”

“Mhmm,” he grunts, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Lights dance across his face, all pinks and blues and purples as he breathes in heavily. “I am fucked right now. Can you get me a stim pop from Hoshi? If I do anymore frostbyte I’m gonna get a nosebleed. Again.” 

Actually, asking Soonyoung for anything is the last thing you want to do. However, your brother does look like he needs to wake up, the mess of drugs and alcohol in his system working overtime to put him on his ass. Stim pops are a quick fix, a careful mix of sweet candy and methylphenidate to wake up the nervous system. Soongyoung always has them on his person, especially for when he works late night shifts. 

Turning in the booth, you’re smacked with a wave of color. For a moment, you drink it in, tilting your head upward as the figures dancing above explode into a world of lavender butterflies. They’re utterly captivating, your eyes watching them twist and dance in the air as they flutter. 

A laugh bubbles from your lips, entirely childlike. Grinning, you watch them for a few moments more before they disintegrate into stars, entire solar systems hovering and floating through the space above your head.

Seungcheol elbowing you breaks you from your concentration. Right. Stim pop. From Soonyoung. Glancing at the man in question makes your stomach plummet. Soonyoung’s head is resting against the back of the booth, the girl next to him draped over him with her mouth pressed hot to his throat, her teeth overly white in the blacklight of the club. 

A surge of rage shivers through you, your nails scratching across the green velvet, leaving marks in their wake. Leaning forward, you reach out a hand and smack Vernon’s knee to get his attention. He turns his lazy gaze on you, brows raised. When you point at Soonyoung, he nods and yells over his shoulder to get your target’s attention.

Soonyoung’s eyes flutter open and flick to where you’re sitting. He drinks in your expression before muttering something to the woman mouthing at his neck and peels her off, standing up and shuffling over to you. Angel makes room for him, all but sliding into Vernon’s lap as Soonyoung crashes down on the couch next to you. 

“Hi, Baby. What’s up?” 

“Cheol needs a stim pop,” you answer curtly, leaning away from him. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood laced with alcohol. Soonyoung is so close you can feel his body heat, his breath fanning across your bare shoulder as he moves to look at Seungcheol half asleep on your other side. “Then you can go back to your little public sex session.” 

Soonyoung makes an angry cat noise, narrowing his eyes at you as he smirks. He leans toward you further to reach into his pocket, shoulder pressed against you. His scent fills your nose, heady and familiar. You’re dizzy with it, the touch of his warmth against your skin making you flush.

Suddenly, his nearness is overwhelming. Every hair on the back of your neck stands on end, your skin hypersensitive to the way he leans against you. The glow of the lights is sharper than you remember, and you swear you feel the blood rushing through your body.

A response that could be either because of the drugs you inhaled a moment ago or because Soonyoung is pressed against you and you have the sudden urge to lean into him, to feel his warmth, to press your lips against his and feel their softness. 

In an attempt to save yourself from the trap, you shove back at him. He huffs, glaring at you as he fishes a stim pop out of his pocket and hands it over to you. You’re careful to avoid his touch when you snatch it from his nimble fingers, turning your back on him in the booth to look at Seungcheol.

“Why are you being a brat?” His voice is loud over the music, shouted into your ear as he tilts back into your space again. You can feel the warmth of him on your back. 

“Go away.”

“Baby, please don’t start with me.”

“I’m not starting fuck with you.” 

Seungcheol cracks an eye open to observe your argument with a look of interest. Seungcheol’s pupils are dilated like moons, totally empty of any coherent thought. You peel the wrapper off the stim pop, careful to hold it by the cardboard stick as you pop it into your brother’s mouth. 

For a few moments, your brother lolls the candy around his mouth, sucking greedily. Then, he blinks his eyes open, pupils narrowing as he drinks in the lights and the clubs. He sighs in relief, patting your thigh gratefully as the stimulant chases away whatever else is washing him out.

When you turn around, Soonyoung is still lingering, his dark eyes fierce and focused only on you. He looks good tonight. He looks good every night. He has become your picture perfect torture since that night you asked him to be your first kiss, kickstarting something you were incapable of foreseeing. 

The bleached hair is new and you hate how much you like it. The silvery strands look just as soft as his natural black, and it’s a nice contrast to his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. Those stormy eyes are staring at you now, something playful that you don’t like glittering under the surface. 

He pouts at you. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you. Go away!”

“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.” 

“Please fuck off.” 

He rolls his eyes, peeling himself off the couch and muttering something under his breath. You’re sure he has nothing nice to say, so you sink further into the couch, crossing your hands over your chest as you sulk. 

Sticky air clings to your skin. You can feel your heart racing in your chest, the music vibrating your ribcage. Your anger is like a monster given life, fueled by the frostbyte and the feverish anger taking root in your stomach as Soonyoung settles back in his spot, pressing his mouth sloppily to the woman next to him. 

And that’s the problem, really. It’s not you that is pressing your mouth to his jaw while he leans against the back of the seat. It isn’t you running manicured nails down the front of his shirts, pulling at buttons despite the audience. 

It isn’t you and it should be. You want it to be.

It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you for the first time in his room. You’ve had more experience with other people since then, but it dulls in comparison to his simple kiss. You hate it. What you hate even more is how childish it makes you feel, embarrassment heating your cheeks and throat when he catches your gaze across the booth and you divert your attention. 

For the second time, Soonyoung peels the girl off of him, making like he’s going to get up and come sit next to you again. This time, his companion keeps him rooted to the spot, her nails digging into his forearm as she hisses something at him. He groans, head tilted back like he’s once again the most inconvenienced man in the room. 

Wanting nothing more than to blot him out, you call Wonwoo’s name again, leaning forward heavily for more frostbyte. Soonyoung whistles and snaps his finger in your direction as though to tell you no. You bristle, your anger turning to an inferno, burning up inside of you. 

Vernon and Angel both cringe, leaning out of your line of fire as you swivel to angle yourself toward Soonyoung, hands shaking. “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”

“Baby, you don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”

Mingyu, though right next to Soonyoung, doesn’t hear the insult, his tongue being sucked down the throat of the girl sitting in his lap, hips grinding on him. Another girl is pressed to his side, teeth nipping at his jaw. At least someone is having fun, you think, the three of them totally aware of the crackling tension in their booth. 

The girl attached to Soonyoung’s neck a moment ago bristles when she hears your nickname. “Baby?” she asks, face scrunching. “Are you serious?”

“Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”

“Yeah,” you agree, shooting her a venomous look, despite her doing nothing to earn your ire. “Chill, Victra.”

Once again, you turn your back on Soonyoung, standing and scooting Seungcheol over to swap places with him. He does so with a keen eye, watching the scene unfold as he sucks his lollipop happily, content to watch the drama. 

Wonwoo dips his knife into the bag as you settle in next to him, bouncing with excitement. “I love when you do drugs, you’re so much fun.” 

“I don’t feel very fun right now.”

“Drugs will fix it!” 

“Wonwoo, don’t you dare give her that,” Soonyoung warns. He pries Victra’s hands off of him, leaning forward as though to reach across the table. 

“Ignore him,” you insist. 

Wonwoo hesitates, stuck between a rock and a hard place. The last thing he wants to do is tell you no. No one but your father and older brother get to tell you no. Wonwoo knows this better than most people. But he also doesn’t want to cross Soonyoung, a venture nearly as dangerous as pissing off Seungcheol. 

Soonyoung hisses at the girl next to him,  “Stop clawing at me! Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one. ”

“Why the fuck did you even bring me up here?” Victra interrupts, ignoring Soonyoung’s plea. “You’ve done nothing but fawn over her since we got here. This isn’t fun.” 

Soonyoung ignores her. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove a point and be a bitch, though.”

“I’m not proving fuck, Soonyoung. And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”

“So it is about her?” 

“I have a name!” The her in question snaps. You turn around, temper flaring as you level your glare at her. She turns her nose up at you as she says, “It’s obvious you’re bothered he brought me here. Your jealousy is insufferable.” 

“Ding, ding ding,” Seungcheol imitates a bell. You turn around to look at Victra. “Round one! Fight!”

It takes a second for Victra’s words to land. It’s like each one hits you a second apart, packing their own punch as you register them. The pulsing music around you fades to a dull roar as you stare at her, seeing the way her lips twitch upward as she realizes she’s right. You are jealous that Soonyoung brought her up here. 

Victra’s grin is all it takes for you to spill over. Before you can register what you’re doing, you’re out of your seat and leaping over the table at her, knocking over glasses and bottles. Wonwoo cheers in delight behind you as your brother catches you by the waist, trying to keep you on your side of the booth as you tear at his hands to get across the booth. 

Seeing the attack of opportunity while you’re subdued, Victra shoots to her feet. Angel is fast as an adder, one moment sitting in Vernon’s lap and the next striking Victra down into the booth, knee planted in her stomach. Vernon does nothing to stop his girlfriend, opting instead to reach for a water bottle, unscrewing it to take a sip as his girlfriend pins Victra down to the seat with little effort. 

Noticing for the first time that their friend is in distress, the two women with Mingyu lift their heads. As soon as one starts to slide from his lap to reach for Angel, you kick a foot out, striking the bucket of alcohol and ice. The bucket goes flying at her, hitting her hard in the face. She screams, crumbling in Mingyu’s lap, cradling her face. 

Mingyu and Soonyoung are on their feet in seconds, soaked from the waist down and trying to gain control of the situation as it spirals. Mingyu becomes a blockade between Victra’s two friends, trying to keep them on their side of the booth. Soonyoung is prying a bottle from a hand before it can make its way toward you, yelling something indecipherable. 

Angel is still pressing her knee deep into Victra’s gut. Victra’s attention has diverted from you entirely as she screams like a wounded animal, pushing and scratching at Angel’s knee to try and get her off. You’re sure it hurts, but Angel doesn’t budge, sinking her weight into it. 

Leaning down, you grab something to lob at them - someone’s shoe - but Seungcheol manages to haul you off your feet and spin you, planting you into the booth behind him. You growl, shoving at his legs to move him out of the way, trying to re-engage. 

“Fucking hell,” he grunts. “Are you fucking juicing? Why are you so strong?”

“It’s the drugs,” Wonwoo offers unhelpfully. “Really top of the line drugs.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo!” Both you and Seungcheol bark at the same time. 

Wonwoo holds up his hands, leaning back into the seat as he watches the mess unfold with a delighted grin. You strike out with your foot, slamming against the booth’s table, shoving it in Soonyoung’s direction. You hear glass shatter as more things fall off the table, clattering to the ground. There are shrieks and curses that you can’t see with Seungcheol blocking the way. 

“He’s a fucking asshole!” You seethe to your brother, panting with rage. 

“He is, and you did exactly what he wanted you to do.” You try to kick the table again but he stops you, grabbing your knee. You feel like you can’t get enough air, sweat slicking your skin and the velvet of the couch too sharp against your flesh. “Soonyoung loves a fight when he’s fucked up. You know that.” 

“Well fuck him!”

He pulls the stick from his mouth, candied stim gone. He tosses it onto the floor and looks over his shoulder where Mingyu and Soonyoung are corralling the three women out of the booth. “God, Angel  broke that girl's rib I think. Hahahha!” 

“I want to break her fucking face!” 

“I think you broke her friend's face. She is fucked up. That bucket hit her right in the eye. What a shot.” 

“If you’re so entertained, why’d you get in my way?”

“There’s a lot of eyes here.” You glance around, noticing other booths looking at you, people ducking toward one another to whisper. “You have an image to maintain.” 

Adjusting your shirt, you settle back into the booth. “Alright. Alright I’m good.”

When Seungcheol moves out of the way to take a seat, Soonyoung replaces him. You glare up at him, feeling your anger curl up in you again. His lips twitch, a hint of a smirk as he sits down next to you, sighing heavily and tilting his head to look up at the flashing lights.

The girls are nowhere to be found. Angel is sitting back down next to Vernon who hasn’t moved, and there are servers picking up the mess you made. Mingyu is notably absent, though you can guess where he’s gone for the night. He’s good at making scorned lovers feel better about their bad luck. 

“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung notes, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he glances at you sidelong. “I kind of like it.” 

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you warn. He laughs, the fight totally leaving him. “I’m serious. Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.” 

“Alright, alright. When you say jump, right?” 

Soonyoung’s fingers brush against yours. Just the rough feeling of his calluses against the tips of your fingers has you shivering, anger replaced with want. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t move to do anything else but lean back in silence with your fingers touching. 

Resigned, you say nothing else to him. You’d got what you wanted - sort of - even if you know you made an ass out of yourself doing it. It isn’t the first time he’s made you jealous, but it is the first time it’s boiled over so violently. 

You remind yourself not to do frostbyte when you’re mad anymore.

You turn your attention to where Angel is snorting frostbyte up her nose off of her boyfriend’s phone, accidentally turning on the hologram as she does, her face suddenly caged by green screen data. You call her name gently. She looks up at you, pupils blown, reflecting the lights dancing above like dark glass. “Thanks,” you offer. 

Her grin is too wide, teeth too white. She reminds you of a demon more than she does an angel. “Anytime.” 

When you settle back in, you glance at Soonyoung once. He looks down at you, smirking a single time before he leans into you and rests his head on your shoulder. You feel him melt into you, sighing as his eyes close and he nuzzles a little closer. You put your hand on his thigh, squeezing once before you leave it there, feeling the heat of his skin through his pants.

It isn’t until he’s almost asleep, pressed as close as possible to you that you realize maybe he got what he wanted too. 

-

Rain washes over the black city, the mist turning the thousands of digital and holographic advertisements into a watercolor smear of neon. It smells wet and like rot, the drains overworked and belching water and trash back out into the street as you walk, feet splashing. 

You quickly duck out of the way of a group of rowdy men spilling from a bar. You can smell the drink on them, their feet sloshing in the rising water of the street as they dredge toward the next bar. They whistle at the pretty girls dressed in light up raincoats and flickering green contacts, stumbling toward a brothel instead of the bar. 

Gripping your umbrella tighter, you quicken your steps. Grease smoke drifts toward you from various hawker carts, the sizzle of meat making your stomach growl. You ignore them, knowing you have dinner with your family later as you take a corner and plunge into the darkness of an underground stairwell. 

The LEDs on your umbrella cast a pink light as you descend the stairs, careful not to slip on the caked grime. Two guards stand outside metal double doors, music pulsing faintly behind it. They look you up and down, ready to deny entry until you state your name at the bottom of the steps. 

“ID?” the one on the right asks, giving you a critical eye. 

Of course he doesn't believe you. The daughter of the Tower would never walk anywhere without a body guard, especially in this part of the city. You spin the umbrella, the pink coalescing as he takes the phone from your hand and taps it, blue lighting up his face when your ID and profile appear in holographic data above the screen. 

He clears his throat and bows at the waist. When his counterpart doesn’t, he smacks him hard on the back, making the man lean over. “Apologies, Miss Choi. Right this way.” 

Music hits you full on when the doors open, the base creating static in the air. You cringe as it vibrates through your ribcage and teeth, wondering how anyone could stand to be in a club this loud. Popping the umbrella shut, you let your eyes adjust while one security guard remains at the door, shutting it behind you, and the other hands you your ID.

“Should I escort you to the office, Miss?” 

Writhing bodies dance together, scintillating like snakes in a pit. Above them, lasers and holograms light up the world with flashes of colors you didn’t even know existed. A wide bar stretches to the left of the floor, lit up by soft cyan lights. Behind it, the bartenders move in a blur, the glow on their clothes turning them ethereal. 

You glance at the security guard, who waits patiently before shaking your head. You point to the space above the bar where there are two large, mirrored windows looking out into the club. “Up there?”

“Yes,” he answers, hesitating. “Let me escort you.” 

With a roll of your eyes you nod, gesturing to him to lead the way. He clears a path, clubbers and workers alike moving out of his way when he shoves them. You walk behind him, swinging your head from side-to-side as you look at the people, fascinated. 

People with spikes pierced in their skin and whorling tattoos with glow ink stare back at you, glowing contact lenses and gemmed teeth all taking you in. You rarely get to mix in with the crowd that partakes in more unique cosmetic alterations and fashion, fascinated by someone who walks by with red glowing face tattoos like a demon mask. 

At the foot of the stairs, the guard lets you walk up first. It’s clear of people, so he remains standing at the bottom, taking up an imposing position with his hands linked in front of him, blocking the stairway entirely. 

The thud of music vibrates through your boots as you climb the stairs, greeting another security guard. You can tell he’s already been warned you’re here - he bows immediately and keys in the pad at the door, opening the office for you. 

You pass by him airily, stepping into the dry and much cooler office. The door closes behind you, immediately cutting off the sound with high–tech sound proofing. Soonyoung is leaning against the bar, his back to the door as he watches out the windows, a glass in his hand. 

“What in the fuck are you doing?” he asks, tossing you a look over his shoulder. You grin, skipping over to him. He doesn’t grin back, looking you up and down as you join him. You reach for the decanter he’s drinking from but he smacks your hand, viper fast. “Not a chance.”

“What? Why not?”

“You shouldn’t be here, much less without a security team. The Tower will be livid.” 

“The Tower doesn’t have to know.”

Soonyoung’s jaw flexes. “The security team will tell him you were here.”

“Not if you tell them not to.”

“Baby,” he sighs, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. You lean against the bar, watching him. The lights from the club are dimmer in here, but they flash against his face, painting him in golden light. He’s beautiful. “What are you doing here?”

“Angel said you had a bad day.”

“I always have a bad day. And tell Angel to shut her mouth.”

You snort. “You tell her that.”

That gets a grin out of him. He lowers his head, dark gaze finding yours. “You can’t just walk around the Lower City without a personal guard, Baby.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know you’re not. I’m not either but people try to rob me all the time. You, on the other hand, are a lot prettier of a prize than I am.” 

“So you think I’m pretty?”

This time when Soonyoung sighs, it’s affectionate. He sips his glass of amber liquid, turning to watch the crowd outside the office. He holds out his glass to you, a concession. You grin further, accepting it from him and bring it up to your nose to smell. You don’t know anything about liquor, but from the spiced scent you can tell it’s good quality.

You take a tiny sip. It goes down smooth - strong, but good and warm. Instead of giving him the glass back, you cradle it to your chest, leaning against the bar next to him close enough that your arms are almost touching. He continues looking out at the crowd, keen eyes serious and back to work while you look at him. 

Soonyoung is beautiful. His side profile is lethal, the slope of his neck elegant, the curve of his jaw sharp but delicate, his high cheekbones catching the light. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting the snatches of light that come through the dark windows. 

“Did you come here to stare at me?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the crowd. 

“What if I said I did?” 

His mouth twitches at the corner. “Unfortunately I would believe you.”

Watching over clubs isn’t usually Soonyoung’s job. But this club is in a terrible part of the city and isn’t worth much to the Choi Syndicate, so sometimes he’s awarded the opportunity to prove himself to your father and to the elders of the Syndicate that he’s competent and capable of leadership, despite the fact you’ve always known him to be. 

Soonyoung isn’t meant for leading like Seungcheol. But there is a certain level of loyalty and understanding he has to cultivate with the heavies of the family, the Swords who carry out the bloody tasks of removing people from the way and keeping assets safe. His father had been the Sentinel of your family for years until his death, and Soonyoung is expected to pick up that mantle.

This is all a part of that. Soonyoung already has the loyalty of the security team running this hole in the wall, alerting him the second you arrived and refusing to let you go up the stairs alone. Had they failed to do that, you might think a little less of them. 

Soonyoung also probably would have had them beaten. 

Finally, Soonyoung turns to look at you. He sighs and raises his brows expectantly. 

“What?” you ask. 

“What did you come here for? Real answer, this time.” 

“I told you. Angel said you had a bad day. That is my real answer.”

“And?”

You shrug, sipping from the glass and turning toward the windows. “I wanted to make it a better one.” 

That makes him go silent. You can see him turn to look at you, his stormy gaze pinning you to the spot. You don’t look at him, letting him stare as you nurse the drink and watch the dancing crowd down below. They’re beautiful, in a way, an ocean of bodies saying as colors turn them blue and then green and then bright red and then lavender. 

Soonyoung leans toward you, bumping his head on yours lightly. That gets a laugh out of you, stomach fluttering and wishing he would stay leaned against you. He pulls away though, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his eyes back to his job. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, voice quiet. “It is already a better day.” 

The silence is comfortable. You eventually give him the drink back and he takes it, tongue darting out to lick the lip gloss you left. He hums. “Cherries.” 

“You’re gross.” 

He smiles into the glass, taking a sip. “I actually have something for you.” 

“A present?”

He snorts. “Not exactly. Go to the desk - top drawer on the right.” 

Eagerly, you do as he says. The heavy wooden desk sits in the back of the room, imposing even without the metal lockers behind it with weapons. You ignore the heavy guns under padlocks and go for the drawer in question. 

A rectangular box is in the drawer Soonyoung specified, unmarked. You turn it over in your hands, curious. It’s not very heavy and fits mostly in your palm. 

“Bring it over here.” 

You do, trailing back to Soonyoung. He extends his hand and you pass it over to him, watching with interest as he cracks the box open with the sheer strength of his fingers. He pulls out a small device, a wire and what looks to be a plug, tossing the box to the bar. 

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, holding up the device. 

It’s a small rectangle with a keypad and a screen. You raise your brows in surprise. “It is a very old phone.” 

“It is.” He smiles, pleased with your answer. He passes the materials over to you and you hold them against your chest. “That’s the charger and the charging cord. It’s one of the old kinds of phones that requires a phone tower. There are barely any in the city.” 

“And what is this gift for?” 

“I own the phone towers that support it.” You raise your brows. Soonyoung rarely spends the inheritance his parents left behind, so you’re surprised. “It only has a single phone number programmed into it that will call the one I have.”

At this, he reaches into his pocket and produces the phone’s twin. He shakes it for emphasis, pressing a button and lighting up the screen. “You have to make sure to keep it charged. I want you to have it for emergencies only. And I mean emergencies, Baby. This is a last resort kind of device, alright?” 

You chew your bottom lip, dragging your eyes to look up at him. “Why?” 

“Because I need to know that you always have a last resort.” His gaze darkens. “Clearly your assigned security team lets you give them the slip. I need to know that you can hit the dial on this faster than you can on our phones. They’re overly complicated and not quick. With this?” 

He reaches over and turns on the phone in your hand. Once booted, he presses the one button. The device in his hand starts ringing. “Direct and fast access to me at all times. Do it even if you can’t tell me where you are. I’ll find you.” 

Emotion twists your throat. You grip the phone with a vice grip, looking up at him with wide eyes. His face is serious. He slips his phone in his pocket, turning back to do his job. “I will answer,” he promises. “It doesn’t matter when and where. I will answer that phone even if I’m dying. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good.”

-

A knock on your door wakes you up from a dreamless sleep. Darkness spills across your room like ink as you slip from your bed, cursing when you kick the corner of your nightstand. With a raspy voice, you ask the automated room assistant to turn on the nightlights, a hazy purple immediately lighting the circumference of your room.

Squinting against the lavender glow, you pad over your room to open the door. Soonyoung is leaning heavily against the wall just beyond the threshold, his chin tucked to his chest and his hair sweaty and clinging to his temples. 

He doesn’t move when you open the door, the lilac light casting an eerie radiance on the side of his face. It’s hard to make out his expression in the lurking shadow of the hallway, and he offers no explanation for why he’s knocking on your door at three in the morning. 

“Soonyoung?” you whisper, eyes darting down the hall. No one else is around. “Where are Cheol and Vernon?”

“S’cheol is still working. Vernon went to stay at Angel’s.”

“Are you - Soonyoung are you drunk? Or high?”

“Yeah.” 

Both you realize. You can deal with both. 

Grabbing him by the hand, you tug him gently. He pushes off the wall with heavy steps, stumbling through your open door and into the room. You grip him tighter, shutting your door with a gentle click before turning around to face him. 

Soonyoung won’t look at you, turning his face away as he sways a little where he stands. Now that you can see him fully, you realize that there is blood on the collar of his shirt. Heart thudding, your hands reach for it, peeling it back to look at his neck. Specs of dry crimson flake from sweaty skin, making your terror reach new heights. 

He shrugs you off. “Not mine.” 

“I - what’s going on?” 

Instead of answering you, he walks a few crooked steps toward your bed and sits down on the edge. Licking your lips, you approach him slowly. He’s slouched over, elbows pressed to his knees as his head hangs heavily. He still hasn’t looked at you properly and you’re aching to see his eyes. You can always understand him better when you see his eyes, able to read the depth of emotions hiding beneath his mask.

When you reach him, you crouch down. Instead of grabbing for him again and risking him pulling away, you rest your hands on top of your knees. When afraid or upset, Soonyoung is like a cornered animal. You don’t know whether he’s in fight or flight, both just as dangerous as the next. 

“Soonyoung,” you say again gently. You watch his every move. “You’re scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?”

If Seungcheol is working the circuit, he isn’t the best to call. Late night circuits include going from club to club under the Choi banner to monitor the drug trafficking and attend small business meetings as appropriate. Seungcheol will drop whatever he’s doing for you in a heartbeat, but it’s more complicated than that. 

In theory, Vernon is easier to get a hold of. He’s already off work and though he might not answer his phone if you call, you know his girlfriend will. Plus, the blood on Soonyoung’s shirt and skin can give you a guess at what’s happened, and Vernon is more equipped for that type of thing than you are. 

“Let me call Vernon-”

“No,” he finally says. “No. Sorry. I just.” 

Your chest squeezes in pain. It’s like you can feel the torture radiating through him, feel the weight of whatever it is that’s dragging him down yourself. Desperation drives you to reach out toward him slowly, watching for any sign of startling him. When he doesn’t move to pull away, you touch him gently, squeezing his knee gently. “What do you need?” 

“My dad always said I should feel something.” His words are halting, coming out slurred. You wait, holding your breath as he works through them. “Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don’t, it means you’re nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined.”

It takes everything in you not to let your grip turn to steel at his words. Instead, you rub your hand up and down his thigh soothingly, saying nothing. Soonyoung has never killed someone before. You would know if he had. He’s the last in your immediate circle of friends beside yourself to take on the weight of stealing life, and you’ve dreaded this day for a long time. 

Murder is an inevitability in your family. Keeping the Choi Syndicate on top requires sacrifice, cruelty and cunning. Soonyoung had started serving as an officially ranked member of the Syndicate over a year ago, and though he had fucked up a lot of people and brought them to the brink of death, he hadn’t actually done it yet. 

“I felt nothing,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fucking nothing.” 

“What do you mean?”

“There was no guilt. I didn’t even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That’s not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just… baser creatures. That we were better because we were… made better.” 

“I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung.” 

“I’m just tired of feeling fucking empty. I don’t give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing.” 

You have no idea what to say. Instead of words, you surge forward, letting go of Soonyoung’s knee to push yourself between his thighs, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches for a moment, arms hanging dead at his side as you press your cheek to his chest, squeezing. 

Inside, you feel your heart crack open. You shove down the overwhelming sense of despair on his behalf, instead focused on him. There’s nothing to say with words, and you hope he can feel what you’re trying to tell him through touch, that he can feel everything you don’t know how to say as you hold him tight, clinging to him. 

Slowly, his arms encircle you. It takes him a moment, but he applies a little pressure back. It makes you scoot in more, pressed as close as you can get to him. He buries his face in your neck, his breaths warm and smelling like tequila. He smells like him too, vanilla and sandalwood. 

“I don’t feel like a person sometimes,” he whispers. “It’s like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so that I didn’t ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-”

He cuts himself off and sinks into you a little more. You bear his weight, willing to carry any burden for him. You don’t think he realizes that he could ask you to jump and you’d say how high. You’ve always been willing to jump for him, always willing to do whatever he wants, whatever he needs. 

Gently, you ask, “You only ever feel when what? You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need.” 

“I feel when I’m with you.” Soonyoung whispers it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to hear. You feel the words hit your skin where he speaks them, a shiver slithering through you. His grip on you tightens a little with the admission, like now that he’s said it, he can’t let go. Won’t. “I feel most like a person when I’m with you.”

Pressing the flat of your hand to his back, you begin to stroke up and down slowly, touch following the careful ridges of his spine. He sighs, shivering in your hold. You want nothing more than to take the pain or whatever he’s feeling away, to rip it from him and to destroy it. 

The fierceness of your love for him is hard to tamp down. A fiery admission of your feelings for him isn’t what he needs right now. You know Soonyoung like the inside of your own soul, everything that makes him tick, every habit he’s picked up over the years. You can sense him standing lost at sea, needing an anchor. Needing you. 

“Okay,” you say softly. “So stay with me. Be a person with me.”

“I’m not made for you.”

“Yes you are.” Your nails dig into his back through his shirt, pressing sharply. The desire to covet him is so intense it overtakes you. “If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone but one another?” 

Silence greets your logic. You stay holding him like that, desperate to keep him there, terrified he’ll shrug you off and get up. He’s done it before, shucking off your affection like something to be disposed of. And still you give it to him freely, begging him to take it. 

He doesn’t shy away from you. Instead you feel him nod, mouth brushing tenderly across your throat in the ghost of a kiss. “If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won’t… I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You hug him tighter. “Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung.” 

-

“Where’s your other half?” the voice causes you to turn from where you lean against the bar. Angel slides up next to you, cocking her head as she does. She looks like a wraith, dressed in a rain slicker over black long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into black pants. Her jacket and combat boots are wet, suggesting it’s still raining outside. “You’re usually attached at the hip. My therapist calls that codependency. Says Hansol and I have it too.” 

“Does your therapist also know you’re a murderer?” you mutter. The bartender slides drinks over to you and you nod in thanks. “Or that you’re only seeing her because Jeonghan made a bet with you? Or that your job often involves extortion? What does she think about that?” 

As a Rook of the Choi Syndicate, Angel’s job is a far cry from the holy nickname she’s sported since she was a child. Like Vernon, her role within your father’s empire is to collect debts owed to the Choi family and to remind them never to fall behind on payments. Other times, she’s simply used as a good tool to put the fear of god into enemies of the Choi family, and she’s good at it.

Raised under the careful tutelage of the Yoon family, there’s no weakness Angel can’t find and use. The only one better at it than her is her step brother, who is probably sitting next to your brother behind closed doors somewhere in the Choi Estate holding a meeting.

As Seungcheol’s future second in command, it’s Jeonghan’s responsibility to learn the ropes just like your brother. One day, it’ll be the two of them leading your family, a thought that makes you cringe with worry. 

Angel answers your question with a shrug. “I’m sure she knows I’m into some shit. I’m learning all kinds of new things about myself.” 

“Oh yeah? Like what?” 

“I don’t like therapy. And I kind of want to ask my therapist why she thinks she’s qualified for therapy when she’s fucking three of her clients.”

A snort escapes you as you shake your head. Of course Angel knows that about her own therapist. Lifting the two drinks on the bar, you drift away from her, eyes flicking over the Rook. “Stay out of trouble, Angel. And give Vernon my love.” 

She grins, wicked sharp and deadly. “No bar fights, hmm? Enjoy the party.” 

The party in question is exhausting. You’ve been playing pretty princess all night, saying hello to all of the right people, shaking all of the jeweled hands, kissing all of the right asses. You’re exhausted and the tension in your shoulder has been knotting further and further. 

Once upon a time you would have been thankful to at least not be Seungcheol. He shouldered a lot more responsibility. Now you’ve realized that you don’t shoulder less than him - it’s just different. If Seungcheol is the sword and shield of the Syndicate, you’re the face and smile. Galas, charities, celebrity events - it’s a never ending stream of smile, pose, shake hands. 

It doesn’t hide the fact that you sit on a throne that belongs to a criminal empire, of course. But it’s also no secret that the Three Syndicates run the city. Your family has long been one of the stalwart backbones of the government and city infrastructure. Only the Kim family and the Yong family come close. 

Still, appearances are everything. Especially when the Yong family owns most of the media outlets, weaponizing it against the Choi Syndicate every chance they get. You make it harder for them, using your appearances and platforms like a carefully wielded sword. 

Spotting Soonyoung among those dressed in dark security uniforms is easy. He nearly blends in with the dark pipe and drape that has been set up all over the ballroom of your home, but you could find him anywhere, your internal compass pointing to him even in the dark.

Soonyoung’s eyes alight on you, sharp and intense. His face is a cool mask of indifference, but you can see the way interest sparks in his eyes as he drinks you in. He’s already seen you in your dress tonight, but it doesn’t stop him from refamiliarizing himself, eyes tracing every dip and curve.

God you wish you were somewhere else with him. Specifically wrapped in the gray sheets of his bed, sweat-slicked and out of breath. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say shyly, handing him a drink.

He takes it and looks up at you, arching a brow. “I can’t drink this, I’m working.” 

“It’s just soda with lime, the way you like it.” 

His lips twitch in a smile as he takes a sip, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t reach out to you and hold you close like you know he wants to, respecting the propriety of his position and the fact that he is on the clock right now. 

“You look tired,” he murmurs, eyes studying your face. 

So does he. As an official Sword of the Choi family, his job keeps him out late, bloodied, and tired. He’s completely changed from the man who sank into your arms that first night he killed someone, hardened into someone that your father sends to do just that often. 

A weapon. A Sword. A trusted knife in the dark for the Choi family.

You think Soonyoung is more capable than being a heavy for your dad and his associates. Soonyoung is intelligent and sharp, having gained perspective and a wealth of knowledge from living with your family. Still, his dad had been the leader of the hired guns for the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung is an efficient killer, his fate bound by his father long ago.

“When are you off tonight?” you ask instead of telling him how tired he looks.

“I’m not.” You frown. He sips his drink again and gives you a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been busy. The Yong family are getting in our way at the docks. I gotta head down there with Vernon and Jeonghan after the party.” 

“The Yongs are doing it outright?” 

“No. We’re pretty confident it’s them though. Jeonghan is working on it. If we can bring the Xu family under our wing, it would be a lot easier to push them out.” 

“They have a son,” you note, thinking about the last event you attended where the Xu heir was in attendance. “Maybe marriage to one of our big hitters? Nexus Capital has an heiress.”

“I’ll mention it to Jeonghan. Who the fuck would want an arranged marriage, though?”

“Not me,” you laugh, wiping the eyelash you spot on his cheek gently. He gives you a tired, albeit affectionate smile. “You’ve been working nonstop. Tell Seungcheol you need a night off.”

“We both know it’s not Seungcheol working me to the bone, Baby.” 

Swallowing thickly, you turn away from him under the guise of scanning the crowd. You know you don’t fool him. Both you and Soongyoung know your father does not approve of your relationship, taking it out on Soonyoung to keep him busy and away from you. 

Your father would never hurt Soonyoung directly. You know that. He loves him like a son - sees his late best friend in the features of the man that Soonyoung has been shaped into under his care and tutelage. When you started dating Soonyoung seriously, you thought your parents might be happy. They adore him and they loved his parents just as much. 

Soonyoung is below your station, though. 

Your father will never say it outright. He wouldn’t insult his late friend’s son that way. But the way your father works Soonyoung harder than anyone else, holding him to a standard he doesn’t even keep for his highest level of men, you realize how deep the dissatisfaction goes. Even your mother’s adoration of Soonyoung does little to shield him from the petty assignments, try as she might. 

Still, you don’t care. And at the end of the day, neither does Soonyoung. As long as he gets to have you, he’s willing to put up with the petty assignments and the working late. 

“Hey,” Soonyoung says gently, bringing your attention back to him. He finishes his drink and sets it on a banquet table nearby. His eyes are averted, looking somewhere across the room as his hand slips around your waist to squeeze you quickly and press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got to go - I’ve got a meeting with Vernon before we head out tonight. I’ll see you when I’m done. Probably won’t be until late morning.” 

“Alright,” You sigh. His hand slips from your waist and you wish you could pull him back to you. “Love you.” 

He grins brightly, giving you a wink before he melts into the crowd, weaving around party goers. Your heart squeezes when you lose sight of him. 

Someone clearing their throat catches your attention. You spin around to see Lan, one of your father’s personal Swords nodding politely at you. “Your father wishes to see you in the West Parlor. I’m to escort you.”

“Oh. Sure.” You set your drink down on the banquet table, wiping your damp hands on your dress. “Lead the way.” 

People bow their heads in respect as you go. You keep an even pace with Lan, which is hard to do with his long strides and your strappy heels digging into your ankles. He slows for your benefit and you give him a grateful smile, the swelling noise from the party leaving you behind as you step out of the ballroom and walk toward the west wing of the house. 

Some people mill about the halls of the estate. You can spot the members of the Syndicate who are on duty, mostly Swords that belong to the security force employed under the Choi family. You spot Chan leaning against a wall while gesturing broadly with his hands as he speaks to the owner of a new club on the edge of the Pearl District. When he catches your stare, Chan winks before focusing his attention back on the owner. Probably trying to work out some sort of deal or partnership, as is his job. 

The west wing of the house is quiet and off limits to the rest of the party. Your bedroom is just up two flights of stairs, your bed calling your name as you pass under the stairwell into the hallway that belongs to the West Parlor, the library, the study and your father’s billiards room. 

Old Man Vero is standing outside your fathers study, his hands linked in front of him and his head straight forward. He glances your way as Lan leans you toward the door, cracking a bit of a smile on his leathery face and giving you a wink. You grin, lightly reaching out and touching his elbow as Lan opens the door for you. Your father’s Swords have been in your life since you were a child, permanent figures of fixed loyalty and familiarity. 

They love you like they love your father, like they love your brother. It isn’t pure fear and power that keeps the Choi Syndicate together. Your father has plenty of that among the ranks, but the loyalty and love between him and his higher ranking members is real. Critical. It was a skill he taught you and Seungcheol, both of you arming yourself with your own shield of friends and confidants. 

Your father sits in a leather armchair, leaned back with his eyes closed. Next to him, a cigar smokes in the ashtray, threatening to go out as the thin wisps of smoke vanish into the air. An old fashioned record player echoes in the far corner of the room, smoothe notes vibrating through the air. 

“Tower,” you greet him formally, bowing at the waist. “How can I be of service to the family?” 

His eyes flutter open and he looks at you tiredly. He looks so much like your brother that it’s uncanny, sometimes. But his youth has worn off, his age more and more evident these days as he spreads himself thin expanding the Choi empire. Your mother has asked him - begged him - to give more responsibility to Seungcheol, but he refuses.

At least you know where your stubborn streak comes from. 

“So formal,” he notes, his lips twitching upward. He gestured for you to sit in one of the arm chairs. You do, smoothing your dress carefully as you sit. Behind you, Lan exits the room, the soft click of the door behind you. “You were always a better student than your brother.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

A hearty laugh makes you grin, feeling a flutter of fondness. He was never an overly affectionate father, but he’s always been kind, though firm. You respect him, which is saying something in your world.

“Spoken like an intelligent woman,” he sighs. You wait patiently, watching as he seems to gather his words. Your stomach knots, sensing a trepidation about him that you’re not used to. “Your intelligence has always been your best asset, though you’re a little hot-headed like your brother.” 

“Steadfast is the mountain,” you say, quoting the Choi family motto.

He grins and adds your mother’s family moniker, “But the fire does burn. I knew marrying your mother was a good choice. Marrying the right person is paramount in this life. Family unions can make or break an empire, and they forge old alliances anew or secure new alliances.” 

A prickle down your spine makes you sit straighter. You had implied as much earlier to Soonyoung about the Xu family, knowing marriage was a viable option to bring the shipping mogul into the Choi empire. Now, though, the notion has you on edge, watching him like a frightened cat.

“I didn’t pick your mother, you know,” he muses, his eyes unfocusing somewhere far away. “But when my father recommended her, I knew he was right. I was familiar with her, of course. We went to school together. Fought like cats, but she was so intelligent and fierce.” 

You’ve heard this story before. Your father hadn’t loved her to start, but your mother had loved him right away. Had always known that she loved him. She’d shown up at one of his billiard nights and told him exactly how she felt, asserting that they would be married and that he would be loyal to her. 

He’d fallen in love with her that night. 

He sighs heavily. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

“Don’t let her hear you sound so disappointed. She might be offended.”

“She’s better than me,” he says. His eyes focus on you, flicking back to appraise you. Sweat slicks on your back and only years of training keep you from not fidgeting under his weighty gaze. “But it would be easier sometimes if you were more like me. Less fire, more mountain. Still, you are rational, so let us speak plainly: you are going to marry the Kim family heir.” 

Silence hangs in the air. You stare at him, your brain taking a moment to catch up with his words. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, processing the firmness in his voice, the way he looks at you with heavy countenance. 

You are going to marry the Kim family heir.

A high-pitched ringing starts in your ears and you feel the buzz of panic start to tingle at the base of your spine. Your fingers dig into the arms of your chair a little, trying to fight the staccato rhythm of your heart from getting out of control. 

“What?” you ask. It feels dumb, compared to the eloquence you’re capable of. 

“Kim Yijun is a perfect match,” he says simply. “He’s in line to inherit the Kim Syndicate. There is tension with the Yong family, and I will not lie to you: they have a far larger reach than we would like. They don’t do things the old way like the Choi and Kim families. They have started to ally themselves with the Arash family in Veridian, giving them cuts and room in our city to spread their reach outside the bounds of their own city.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“The Kim and Choi families have been united before. They’ve always been our first ally in times of city upheaval and Syndicate war, and they, like us, don’t believe in letting outsiders have a seat at the table. The Yong family don’t understand that, and are willing to let vermin have scraps if it means scooting us out.”

“I’m-” you shake your head. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“I’m not asking.” He reaches for a lighter and picks up the cigar. He takes a moment to relight it, taking his focus off of you. You feel your pulse spiking, your grip on the chair like iron. “I am telling you that this is what your future will be. I understand you like the Kwon boy, but-”

You sneer, baring your teeth. “The Kwon boy? Don’t reduce him to some stranger. Soonyoung grew up in this house, he is family. And I don’t just like him, I love him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you bullying him because you’re frustrated that I love him. You love him too.” 

“I do. I love him like my own. But he is not for you.”

“He is. I will not marry Yijun. I am asking you not as a member of this Syndicate, but as your daughter to drop this machination from your plans. I am your blood, you cannot ask this of me.”

“I told you, I am not asking. I am telling you.” 

A tremor starts in your hands. Your heart races so fast that you feel sick, sweat slicking your skin as you begin to pant sharply. The ringing in your ears grows until you feel disconnected to it, like suddenly you’re living in third person. You’re aware that you’re hyperventilating and yet, suddenly it’s separate from you.

Standing abruptly, you feel the world tilt. You take a second to steady yourself, feeling the numb tingle spread throughout you like a flood. 

“Sit down,” your father demands. You hear the warning. Recognize the firmness in it. This is the Tower of the Choi Syndicate speaking, not your father. 

“Take this as my resignation from the family,” you tell him. Your voice doesn’t feel like your own, steady and without inflection. “I’ll renounce my inheritance and will not use the Choi family for any connection or advantages-”

“You will not!” 

His voice startles you. Lures you away from the safety of your detachment. You look at him, eyes wide and shaking. His hand is fisted on the armchair, his rage crackling around him like a thunderstorm. “I will not have my only daughter sabotage everything this family has built for the affection of someone unfit for her station. Kwon Soonyoung is a weapon meant to serve you. You will marry Kim Yijun or I will remove the obstacle altogether.” 

Your entire life there have been two versions of your father. The stoic leader of one of the oldest criminal empires in Hyperion, the vicious man who could be cold and calculating, and who was reverently feared by his enemies. The kind father who watched you and Seungcheol study math together, carefully explaining to you how to carry numbers over in the equation. 

It is the former who sits before you now. Someone entirely unfamiliar to you, though you’ve always known he existed. And why would you? Your father has never had to be ruthless with you before, hiding the way he could cut from you until it was necessary. 

Soonyoung knew. You know it with absolute clarity. You remember the fear in his eyes when you had slipped into his room that night asking for a kiss, the way that he is always so careful about when and where he touches you, the way he takes the assignments and the mistreatment without so much as a protest because it means he gets to have you.

“You would kill him?” you whisper, looking your father in the eye. “You promised to take him in when his family was murdered. He had no one, and you promised his father you’d raise him as your own. You would go back on that?” 

He scowls. “If his father knew what he was, he’d kill Soonyoung himself. That boy is a dog to be set upon whoever his owner wishes, who kills with impunity.” You say nothing. I don’t feel like a person. Soonyoung’s words echo in your mind, haunting. “I hold the collar and I will put him down, if need be.” 

“So you raised a pet to be disposed of at your convenience?”

“I raised a boy who should be grateful I haven’t put him in the fucking ground for sullying my only daughter. I let you two have time, and you should be grateful. It is my love for him that has stayed my hand this long. No more. You will marry Kim Yijun, or you will bury that boy. This is the command of your Tower.”

“Mother will not let you-”

“Your mother doesn’t let me do anything. I am the Tower of this family, and it does what I command. You will fall in line.” 

Tears spill from your eyes. You suddenly feel like you’re standing on a cliff, the vertigo of nothingness at the bottom making you sick with fear. Desperation grips at you as you stare at your father, willing him to change his mind. Begging him. 

His pity doesn’t come. There is only resolute silence, watching as you crumple in front of him, knees going weak as you abruptly sit - fall - on the floor. You bury your face in your hands, grief for something lost stealing your ability to maintain control before you’ve even given an answer. 

I’m not made for you. 

Soonyoung had tried to tell you a long time ago and you’d brushed him off. Of course he was made for you. He was all you’ve ever wanted, and you’ve always been given what you wanted. You made him whole, and he you. How could you not be made for one another. 

“Please don’t do this to me. Daddy,” you whisper, trying to appeal to him with the little girl he loves. “Please, I love him.” 

“Lan will escort you to your room.” You ignore his words, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the tears to stop. You know later you’ll feel pathetic for the display of emotion, for the meltdown in the face of adversity. “You will announce your engagement at the end of the week.”

“Yes, Tower.”

“If you so much as remotely try to sneak around with him, I will put him in the ground and bear the weight of that grief for eternity.” 

“Yes, Tower.”

“Know that I love you. We must make sacrifices for this family we wish not to. But you will make the sacrifice like I have so many times before. So will Soonyoung.” 

You stand, limbs shaky as you look at your father, the heat of your mother’s rage fueling your gaze. “Yes, Tower.”

Sleep claws at you with greedy fingers, unwilling to give you up to the waking light of day. You groan, suspended in that moment of almost awake but achingly unaware. A brush of warm skin on your arm pulls you the rest of the way from heavy sleep, your thoughts sticky as they formulate and you open your eyes, squinting in the gray light of your room. 

Squinting at the clock displayed on your nightstand, you realize it’s late morning. The tinted windows of your room keep out the sunlight, but a single panel has been adjusted to let some of the cloudy day in, a single shaft of gray spilling into your room like muddy water. 

Warmth presses behind your back, the steady touch on your arm trailing up and down. For a second, you lean back into it, feeling your head thud against Soonyoung’s chest, his mouth pressing against the crown of your head. He drags his fingers up and down your arm absently, light as a feather. He smells like soap, a hint of his familiar vanilla and sandalwood. 

“Have trouble sleeping?” the words are mumbled against you. 

“Hmm?”

“There’s lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby.” 

You look at the nightstand. Sure enough, the white pills you crushed are dusted across the surface. The reality of why you used them slams into you so suddenly that you stiffen, muscles locking.

Soonyoung notices immediately, his touch stilling. “What?”

Finding the words is impossible. You don’t know where to start, your father’s words make you dizzy. The sheets stick to your skin, Soonyoung’s warmth too hot to stand. You scramble from bed, kicking at the sheets and putting distance between you as you bolt toward the bathroom. 

“Hey,” he calls after you. You don’t turn to look at him, the cool tile giving you goosebump as the lights flicker on. You close the door behind you firmly, pressing your back against it. Soonyoung’s knocks are immediate, his voice calling your name on the other side. “What’s wrong?” 

The use of your name sours your stomach. You lurch forward, diving for the toilet as the contents of your stomach empty. The bile burns, your eyes watering as you press against the cold porcelain, clinging to it for life. 

Soonyoung opens the door, letting himself in as you heave again. He’s quick to react, opening the medicine cabinet to remove an anti-nausea inhalent. He wordlessly pads over to you, crouching down to extend it toward you. 

You avoid looking at him directly in the eye as you snatch it from him. His brows are pinched in concern, face swollen with what little sleep he got and mouth turned downward. Your stomach roils again but holds as you crack the inhalent and wave it under your nose, breathing in gently. 

The stimulant makes your eyes water, but immediately the churning in your stomach subsides. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, trying to regulate yourself. Soonyoung watches in silence, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch you but doesn’t. 

When you open your eyes, there is so much love and concern on his face that you almost break right then and there. Instead, you clear your throat and straighten, tossing the medication in the trash.

“Thanks, just hungover. I need to shower.”

He looks doubtful. “Alright.”

Soonyoung stands, heading to the shower. You clear your throat and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Alone, please.” 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just want to shower.” 

He says your name again. Not Baby. Not any other derivative. Your name. “You can talk to me.”

Your heart cracks. You panic. Your brain races for the only viable option. “I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung.” You push yourself off the ground, scowling at him. He moves out of your way as you pass him, stunned to silence. “I don’t need you crowding my space every five seconds.” 

Refusing to look at him as you hit the panel in the wall, you instead focus on the water that falls from the ceiling, a storm of heat and the smell of peppermint. You keep your back turned toward him, staring at the water as it heats, steam curling in tendrils where it hits the stone tiles. 

“You can go,” you say sharply. 

“Alright.” 

The gentle click of the door when he leaves is barely audible over the hum of the shower. You let the rushing water lull you into a state of numbness, peeling your clothes off with unsteady, mechanical movements. 

Hot water slicks off your shoulders. You close your eyes and hang your head, letting the feel of the peppering water sluice over your ears, eyes, nose, mouth. You let it blind your senses to nothing but the roar of water, blotting out everything else. 

If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. 

You remember when Soonyoung whispered it against your skin just a few years ago, spoken carefully and clearly, a promise and a warning. He would never let you go. You had to let him go. Telling him what your father has asked of you - has threatened to take away from you - will only make Soonyoung’s feet dig in further.

For as long as you’ve known him, Soonyoung has been a covetous creature. You remember the night at the club he antagonized you just to see that spark of want, just to prove to himself it was him you wanted. You remember the way he clung to you in the dark of your bedroom, the only person who could ever make him whole. Who could make him feel. 

Your father sees Soonyoung as a loyal attack dog - but it isn’t the Tower of the Choi Syndicate who holds Soonyoung’s collar. It never has been. Soonyoung has never asked your father how high. 

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you start deep breathing exercises. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The shaking in your fingers begins to subside, the logic part of your brain turning on. 

The threat on Soonyoung’s life is real. You saw the resolve in your father’s eye, the painful glint. He would hate to do it, but he would do it. You’re entwined too deep into your family’s affairs and business to vanish. There is nothing in the world you have that’s your own, no assets that are not connected to them in some way.

And if you tell Soonyoung, he’ll face the problem like he does everything that stands in his way: try to kill it. 

For a split moment, your brain chases the thought like a mouse after cheese. Like a long math problem, you work out if it’s possible to commit patricide and get away with it. Your mother will never forgive you, but Seungcheol might. Your friends would - they’re loyal to you, especially Jeonghan and Angel. 

The older generation, though- 

You toss aside the thought almost as quickly as you thought of it - not because you don’t want to kill your father, but because it isn’t possible. Not just like that. There are too many pieces on the chessboard, too many domino effects spreading out in every direction if you take that route.

No. There is only a single path for you, set in motion by a hand with more power than you. 

And there’s only one way you can move forward with Soonyoung. 

There’s so much of your mother’s side of the family you’ve inherited. Her side has always been associated with the phoenix, the burning immortality of their name and their strength, a blazing glory. Your maternal relatives have always been the rage and the fire that was needed for a Syndicate to advance, a good partnership for the Choi’s who were cold and steadfast. 

What you need now is the winter of the mountain, not the rage of the phoenix. You need to be a Choi. 

Steadfast is the mountain. 

You love Soonyoung. You love him you love him you love him youlovehimyoulovehimyoulovehimYOULOVEHIMYOULOVEHIM- 

Pressing your fist to your mouth, you bite down for one, blinding moment of untapped rage. You feel your skin break, taste iron and salt, feel pain bloom. 

Steadfast is the mountain. 

Then it’s gone. You drop your hand from your mouth. Open your eyes. Turn off the shower. The rage is gone, buried beneath a layer of newly formed ice. If there is anyone you can do this for, it’s Soonyoung. You love him. You will destroy him. But he’ll be alive. 

Soonyoung is sitting on your bed when you open the door. He’s got a tablet in his hand, the holographic images displaying above the screen, haloing his face in blue light. There are circles under his eyes and his teeth worry at his bottom lip, which is chapped. He’s shirtless, the compact planes of his body half shadowed by the single shaft of light filtering through a window. 

He looks up at you but you ignore him, heading to your closet. The silence is brutal. You push through it, opening the closet doors to reveal a massive space nearly the same size of your bathroom. Track lights kick on, rows and rows of clothes by color greeting you. In the middle, there is an island counter, filled with drawers and biolocked jewelry safes. 

Soft steps tell you Soonyoung is standing at the entrance of the closet. You still don’t face him, walking over to your section of black clothes. You flick through them, eyes scanning. Black seems appropriate. It feels like death, afterall. 

Soonyoung’s voice is soft as his late night kisses. “What’s going on?” 

“I’m marrying Kim Yijun.” 

A beat passes. Then another. 

“Is that supposed to be a joke? I’m not interested in pranks this morning.”

“It’s not a prank.” You pull out a black, silk dress. “The Tower has asked this of me, and I’ll be doing it.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You continue, undeterred as you put the dress back and keep looking. “The Kim family has agreed to the match ahead of the rising tensions with the Yong Syndicate and their new take on foreign allies. A united front of the old families will benefit our family-”

“You’re not fucking marrying Kim Yijun.” 

“All of the metrics we’ve run for public opinion and potential city-wide reaction are favorable. The Tower needs his children to fall in line, and I intend to do so.”

Soonyoung storms toward you. You turn on your heel, holding a finger out to him, voice severe, “Don’t come near me.” 

“Why? Because you know you’ll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you’ll drop whatever bravado this is and let me help you?”

Exactly that. He knows you inside and out. Sees through the front. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need him to believe you, you need him to obey. 

He takes another step and you back up. “I will scream,” you threaten, venom in your voice. “I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they’ll take, with your reputation for violence?” 

“Fuck you, they know I’d never hurt you.”

You hear the waver in his voice. That tiny sliver of doubt, so small and tiny but there. They do know he would never hurt you, but Soonyoung isn’t convinced they’d believe him. It makes you sick, but you latch onto it, unspooling that tiny bit of hurt. “Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?”

Soonyoung is raging. His chest rising and falling, shaking his head back and forth as he tries to understand. You’re rooted to the spot, muscles coiled, pulse thudding in your throat. “You are not,” he growls. “Marrying Kim Yijun. You don’t even want to, don’t try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine.” 

“I belong to the Choi family and it’s what my family needs from me. I will do my duty.”

“Fuck your family!” His roar makes you flinch, briefly closing your eyes. His palm slams on the top of the countertop in front of him, sharp in the silence. “You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You’re not doing it. I’ll fucking kill him, you think I won’t? I’ll murder every last one of them-” 

“You don’t tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung. I will do this, and you will obey.” He bristles, going rigid as your words land like a slap. “When I say jump, you say how high. You’ve always known that.” 

For a second, he cracks. The Soonyoung you first saw on your doorstep, crying and round-cheeked and ruddy returns. His lip trembles and the way he looks at you nearly melts your iron will. You’re so close to collapsing, to laying it out before him, to risking it all. 

“Don’t do this to me.” His whisper is made of glass. Delicate. He presses his palm to his chest, right over his heart. Earnest. “I can’t - you know I can’t. I- please. I can’t do this.” 

Licking your lips, you look him in the eyes. His eyes are your favorite. Dark. Stormy. Endless. They are lined with silver, panic rippling across the surface. 

You lift your chin and push back your shoulders. “You can and you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high.” 

Sunlight warms the back of your neck, humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. You take a deep breath, though the steamy air offers no relief. You snap open a silk fan, waving it in front of your face in hopes of chasing away some of the sweat, feeling the separation between skin and makeup the longer you sit in the wretched heat of the garden. 

It’s not even real sunlight or heat. You can’t tell beyond the projection in the room, but you know that there are vents heating up the room and controls that make the air humid and sticky, making it feel like you’re sitting in a real garden outside somewhere lush. 

Lin drones on and on about something. You tuned her out long ago, eyes flickering back and forth to your watch and the women’s faces around you. None of them here are really your friend - not in the way Angel is, the way Wonwoo or Jeonghan are. 

Yet you’re expected to be here, entertaining the upper echelon wives of the Choi and Kim Syndicates, boiling away in an imaginary garden while you sweat to death, dress clinging to your skin and thighs slippery in the seat as you adjust yourself, uncomfortable. 

“It’s hot as a motherfucker,” a whispered voice comes from next to you. You look up to see the newly engaged heiress of Nexus Capital next to you, glaring behind the dark shade of her sunglasses as Lin continues rambling about something. “Couldn’t she have made it less real?”

A smirk twitches on your lips. You haven’t spoken to her much, but her recent engagement to Xu Minghao had secured the position the Choi Syndicate had been fighting for in the shipping yards and docks with the Yong family, elevating her family into the favored circle of your father.

Suddenly, you remember who had recommended that marriage in the first place. You remember the party, the pretty dress you wore, Soonyoung’s hand briefly on your waist as he kissed you goodbye for a meeting. You had no idea then that your throwaway comment about an arranged marriage to benefit your family would become your own nightmare under an hour later.

Grief is a funny thing. You never knew that you could feel grief for someone who isn’t dead, yet sometimes you feel such an overwhelming amount of grief at the hole that Soonyoung has left behind that you can’t breathe. 

Throat dry, you reach for water, drinking eagerly. You feel a bead of water run down your face, but you ignore it in favor of trying to focus on not panicking. 

Anxiety attacks are new for you. Though your entire life has been colored with stressful situations unique to growing up in a criminal Syndicate, you could never say that you were anxious before. At least not in the way that made the back of your neck too hot and the tips of your fingers buzz with the threat of a looming meltdown. 

You ignore it. It’s all you know how to do. The anxiety medication your therapist gave you doesn't work, and you can’t crush a bunch of pills and inhale them anytime you feel like you’re about to get tunnel vision and spiral. 

Well, you suppose you can, but you’re trying not to get into the habit. 

Instead of acknowledging the way the panic lurks around your edges like a predator waiting to pounce, you listen to the dull conversation around you. Focus on the gossip that you don’t care about, exactly, but know it’s good to have. 

Since marrying into the Kim family, you’re not sure what your job is. With your family, your role as the face, the legacy and the representation of the Choi Syndicate had always been clear and obvious. Now, your husband sends you to stupid things like this with preening people that you don’t like and makes you leave events early when he’s irritable. 

Gossip is a weapon, though. So you gather it when you can, taking in bits of information and storing it for yourself. Rarely do you offer it to Yijun - not that he would take it - but Jeonghan finds the information you share useful. So does Angel, but there’s rarely anything you know that she doesn’t. 

Just as your anxiety begins to fade, the source of it materializes. 

At first, you think you’re seeing things when a door appears in the wall depicting an apple orchard and Soonyoung strolls out into the fake-sun. You blink dumbly, spine tingling as you realize that your mind is not playing tricks on you and it is him. 

He sees you immediately. His dark eyes burn like embers, pinning you to the spot. His face remains motionless but you see his jaw tick, the only sign that he is immediately on edge when he sees you. He’s dressed for work in an all black suit, required for the Swords of the Choi family. 

Giggles breakout around the table as he approaches, the ladies around you all flushed cheeks and demure smiles. You feel the buzzing start in your hands again, this time worse. It goes up your arms, working its way to your chest as the anxiety increases tenfold, heart pounding.

Soonyoung bows. “I beg your pardon, ladies.” 

“My goodness, Soonyoung,” Lin preens. “You must be horribly hot in that suit, but you do look handsome.”

You fight the urge to snarl at her that the imitation of the garden isn’t real and no amount of pretending will make it real. You even imagine reaching across the table and plunging her fish knife into her hand. Instead, you watch Soonyoung, your hummingbird heart fluttering. 

He gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be alright. I apologize for interrupting, but the Tower of the Choi family has sent me to escort his daughter home.” 

“Home?” 

“The Choi Estate.” 

He doesn’t say what he means: the Kim Estate is not your home. 

“Alright,” you say, voice reedy. Your hands are trembling as you slide your chair from the table, the metal legs grinding loudly against concrete. You flinch at the sound, hyper aware of every bead of sweat crawling down your spine, every beat of your heart that is too fast, too hard.

Static fills you as you mumble parting words to the women who watch you in confusion. At least, you think you mumble your goodbyes. Blood rushes in your ears as you take uneven steps toward Soonyoung, who turns on his heel and starts marching toward the apple orchard. 

It feels like you’re in an echo chamber. Everything suddenly feels hollow and everything sounds as though you’re hearing it through a thin wall. Muted. Dull. He opens the door that you can’t quite spot even this close, ushering you inside as your vision starts tunneling to a narrow point, everything else blurry and distorted. 

No. No no no no no. 

Lifting your hands, you glance down at them to see them trembling, opening and closing your fists in an attempt to stop the buzzing feeling, as though you could will it away. You think Soonyoung says something but you can’t hear him over the roar of panic that grips you and tears you sideways.

Instead of following him down the hall, you lurch toward a different hall, rushing toward the powder room. It feels like the walls are narrowing as you throw open the door, breath coming out in pants. Everything feels tight and compact, crushing smaller still. 

Stumbling to the sink you try to turn the faucet on. Once. Twice. Cold water spits from the faucet and you gasp, leaning down over the sink to splash freezing water into your face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, the water is not cool enough to shock you out of your panic. 

Soonyoung speaks behind you. You can’t hear him, the grip of your anxiety so strong that you grab the edges of the sink to keep you up right. You’re heaving now, heart rattling so hard you think that maybe you’re having a heart attack instead. 

A firm grip wretches your attention from the porcelain sink to the mirror, where you see your dripping reflection, eyes blown like saucers. Soonyoung is standing behind you, a hand on your bicep, squeezing. His face is no longer a mask of indifference, but one of confusion. 

His mouth moves and you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “I can’t,” you gasp, ragged. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” 

Then, he does something that catches you entirely off guard. You watch in slow motion as he steps back and removes the gun from the holster underneath his suit jacket. You hear the safety on the gun click and the hum as the weapon charges, ready to fire rounds of plasma if he squeezes the trigger. 

And then he points the gun at your head, the lights on it flipping from blue to red, signaling it’s ready to kill. 

The world stops. The panic vanishes for a split second, replaced with utter shock as you stare at him in the mirror. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you demand, voice stronger than you expect. 

Soonyoung is ten levels of crazy, but he’s never pointed a gun at you before. You stare at him, open-mouthed and wondering if he’ll do it. If he could pull the trigger. He’d told you a hundred times when you were together that he would never let you go and it was always with clarity that you understood what he meant: it’s me or no one. 

With stark clarity, you realize there’s no reason for Soonyoung not to pull the trigger. He doesn’t care much about the value of his own life from what you can glean over the last two years, and he doesn’t really seem to care about yours. 

Not that he should. You promised to make him feel human and you did. Then you took it away from him, leaving him adrift in a vast ocean of nothing alone and untethered. 

No, you don’t think you inspire Soonyoung to feel human anymore. If anything, you probably make him want to be the worst version of himself. 

Soonyoung’s voice holds no emotion when he asks, “Are you with me?”

“Why are you pointing a gun at me?” 

“Breathe,” he says instead. He doesn’t lower the weapon, stormy eyes focused on yours. “Breathe,” he repeats. “Slowly, maybe.” 

“Soonyoung, you are holding a gun at me, what do you mean breathe?” 

“What do you mean what do I mean? I mean what I fucking said. Breathe normally.”

“Lower the gun!” He does. “What the fuck?”

He breaks eye contact, sliding the weapon back into his suit jacket. He turns away from you as though he didn’t have you at gunpoint a second ago. “You were having a panic attack. Sometimes a shock to the system stalls it. Your breathing has slowed down now. And you’re not panicking.” 

A beat of silence passes. Then, “So you leveled a gun at my head?” 

“It worked. Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Yes. Now let’s go. You’re needed at the Choi Estate.”

“Why?” 

“Do I look like I have all the answers? I just do what I’m told. When a Choi says jump, remember?”

You visibly flinch as his words land. Soonyoung doesn’t wait for you to gather yourself, spinning on his heel and exiting the powder room to stride through the halls. Tightness gathers in your chest, left over from your anxiety attack. 

Pressing your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them, you chase after Soonyoung. He’s already by the apartment’s elevator, jamming his finger into the button. He doesn’t look at you as he waits, content to stare at the metal door. 

You don’t know where else to look - you want to look anywhere but him. Turning around, you fixate on the floor to ceiling windows. It’s still morning outside, but it’s hard to tell with the way the clouds block out the view, turning everything to mist. 

This high up in the city is reserved for the elite. You can’t imagine why - there’s nothing to look at but clouds, clouds, and more clouds. It’s what makes them have virtual reality rooms in the first place, trying to recreate the experience that they might have if they were wealthy enough to own land. 

The sound of the elevator arriving makes you flinch. Soonyoung ignores you, getting in and leaning against the wall as he hits a button to go to the parking garage. You scramble in after him, a little breathless as the doors close just behind you. 

Immediately you start shooting down several floors. He glares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. You swallow thickly, watching the numbers decrease until you’re at Lin’s private parking garage. Soonyoung is out of the elevator before it finishes opening all the way, storming toward the car he’s left running idle. 

Normally someone would open a car door for you. Instead, Soonyoung gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. You reach for the handle of the passenger seat and pause. Normally you sit in the back when being driven somewhere, it’s always been like that. But this is Soonyoung and you’ve always been beside him in the car, his equal. 

A muffled get in the fucking car reaches you. Deciding that sitting next to him is too personal, you open the back seat and slide in. You’ve barely shut the door when he punches the gas, slamming you into the back of the seat as he goes. 

“Would you stop being an asshole?” you seethe, ripping the seatbelt from next to you to buckle in. Your hands are still shaking and it takes a moment for the clasp to click.

Instead of answering, you hear the way the car accelerates under his foot. Scowling, you look out the window. He speeds into the lift that brings the car down to the ground floor. Lights blur by as the lift drops at lurching speed, your stomach in your throat. You hate coming to apartments for this reason, the feeling of having to freefall to leave never growing on you. 

It’s raining when the lift opens to the wet street. Soonyoung peels out on the pavement, tires spinning until they gain traction and the car slides onto the road, narrowly missing someone. You slam against the seatbelt, cursing and clinging onto the door as he pushes the gas down, engine roaring.

“Are you trying to kill us?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer you. You think it might be because he’s not explicitly trying to kill the two of you, but he doesn’t care if he does. You try not to think about it so much as he powers through the streets of the Upper City, driving past towering businesses, luxury districts with entertainment and bars and apartment buildings. 

The road starts to incline and you hit a line of trees. The city vanishes behind you as Soonyoung drives the car up the winding road, leaving a world of metal and lights for greenery and earth. The contrast between the cities below and the Estates above is stark, especially as he drive’s higher up the mountain, snatches of the city below visible. 

“Why did you come to get me?” you ask, flicking your gaze to the rearview mirror to watch him. Soonyoung keeps his eyes on the road, but you see his mouth tighten. “Last I checked you’re not an errand boy.”

“So what, you check on me?”

“It’s a figure of speech, you know what I mean.”

“The Tower personally requested I come get you.” 

That gives you pause. Soonyoung’s face reveals nothing as he turns on the street that will inevitably lead to the massive metal wall that blocks off the world from the Choi Estate. There can only be a single reason why Soonyoung was sent to fetch you when usually your husband’s staff would do so.

“What’s happened?” 

Soonyoung doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he rolls the window down at the guard house to show his face. The security team recognizes him immediately, waving him through as the gate begins to slide open to reveal lush, green jungle. 

Gravel crunches underneath the car tires as he drives through the winding foliage on Choi grounds. Your great-great-grandfather had built the Choi compound, the first of the few elite houses on the mountain. He thought it was important to keep the plant life and sprawling greenery to conserve, but you knew it was really about power. Symbolism. Greenery didn’t really exist in the city, and this much space and plantlife meant wealth. 

The sprawling estate you grew up in reveals itself. Multiple buildings dot the property, making it more a family compound than an estate. Now that Seungcheol is old enough, he’s moved out of the main house and into one of the smaller homes, occupying the space with his own men and staff. Still, he’s just a brief stroll away from your childhood home.

Home. Even two years under a Kim family banner hasn’t erased the feeling of home for you. There is nothing in the house you share with Yijun that makes it feel like you. It is as devoid of love as your marriage, merely a placeholder for you to sleep, eat, and occasionally, try to produce an heir. 

Soonyoung pulls up to the long building that serves as a garage, hitting a button on the car’s screen to open one of the bays. He pulls in slowly, the outside world fading as the garage door shuts behind the car, dousing it in darkness until the neon lights above flicker on. 

Without a word, he powers off the vehicle and gets out. Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and get out of the car. He doesn’t wait for you - even shuts the door as he enters the main house so you’re forced to lug it open. 

He’s already opening the door to the main house a few yards away, forcing you again to haphazardly navigate gravel in your heels as you give chase. You’re sweating and irritated by the time you’re up the steps and pushing through the front door, a nasty quip on your lips ready until you see your aunt coming down the stairs. 

“Oh thank goodness,” she says, seeing you. She looks older than you remember, the lines of her face deep and the hair at her temples gray. “Come along.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, uncertain as you step into the foyer and let her take your arm. 

She scowls. “Did that useless boy not tell you? Your mother suffered a heart attack this morning. She’s with Dr. Ymir in the medical wing.”

Your heart thuds to a stop as you wheel around to look over your shoulder at Soonyoung. His gaze is stormy but his face gives away nothing as he turns to leave the way he came, slamming the front door and vanishing down the steps to leave you alone. 

“No,” you mumble as your aunt pulls you down the hall. “He didn’t tell me.” 

Because that’s how much Soonyoung hates you. Hate isn’t even the right word, you think. It is something far deeper and far more sinister, fueled only by taking away something that he valued more than anything else in the world and forcing him to live with it. 

I deserve this, you think as the door to one of the private medical rooms opens, a clinical smell hitting you in the face. I deserve everything that happens to me. 

-

I deserve this. It’s all you can think of as you watch the black casket lower into the ground. Seungcheol stands beside you, his hands linked in front of him. You want to reach out and take his hand in yours, but you don’t want him to look weak. Don’t want others to see him crack like you know he will if you comfort him. 

Instead, you comfort yourself as best you can, which isn’t saying much. You’ve never been good at dealing with your feelings, too much of your mother’s blood running through you. It was your father’s least favorite trait of yours and perhaps Soonyoung’s favorite.

Soonyoung, who has always been your emotional tether and outlet. You’re not accustomed to dealing with grief alone, and the pull of it feels like an undertow threatening to drag you under and drown you. 

Someone shifts behind you, close enough that you feel Yijun next to you stiffen. You turn to look over your shoulder, blinking in surprise as you tilt your head up to see Soonyoung. He doesn’t look at you, dark eyes fixed forward and jaw flexing tightly. He’s standing closer than is necessary, as shown by your husband’s scoff. 

Soonyoung doesn’t move, though. He remains nearly pressed against your back, so close that you can smell vanilla and sandalwood. Turning away from him, you feel your shoulders relax. He ignores you, but he’s there, a stoic guardian that’s just out of reach.

The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is too lost in his grief to notice or care about Soonyoung’s proximity to you. Your brother couldn’t care less, barely realizing that his brother by choice is an inch away from him. But you know Soonyoung is there and that’s all that matters. 

The grief lessens, turning back from churning waters to gentle, lapping waves.

-

“Your brother doesn’t respect me,” Yijun asserts. You look at him in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing behind you in the closet, taking out glinting cufflinks to replace them in the countertop in the middle of the aisles of clothes. “You should work on that.”

“Seungcheol hardly takes what I say to heart.”

Yijun snorts, detecting the lie before you can even get it out. Seungcheol very much values your insight and opinion far more than he’s interested in Yijun’s. He’s made it clear at multiple parties and events now, often asking you how business is and how the shared Kim-Choi accounts are doing, despite not having anything to do with them. 

Seungcheol hates your role within the Kim family. On more than one occasion he’s recommended Yijun make use of you somewhere in the family business, to make you the head of operation somewhere so that your schooling and experience weren’t going to waste. Yijun asserted that your social skills were being put to perfect use, entertaining the wives of his associates and serving as the perfect host when his business colleagues and friends were over. 

“He’s going to be leading the family soon,” Yijun sighs. “It would be better for us if he saw me as a real ally.”

“He does see you as an ally. You’re married to his sister.”

“Exactly, so you should remind him that I’m family.” It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it also doesn’t sound like a request. Sighing, you shut the drawer in the counter forcefully. It draws his attention, gaze darkening. “Don’t you want your brother to respect your husband?”

No, you think. You don’t respect your husband, so why should Seungcheol?

Instead, you sigh. “Of course, Yi.” He doesn’t soften at the nickname. “I’ll talk to him, alright? He’s got a lot going on. And don’t talk about my father’s health that way.”

“I didn’t say anything about his health.”

“Please,” you snort. “I know what you meant about Cheol taking over soon.” 

Yijun had been talking about Seungcheol more and more. You’ve watched with a sour taste in your mouth as your husband tries to earn your brother’s attention and trust, flashing what he thinks Seungcheol cares about in his face, telling him about the new car he acquired, or the historical art piece you purchased at an auction, and the new apartment building he’s constructing. 

Seungcheol doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. The Choi family never has. Your ancestors didn’t make a name for themselves and carve it on the mountain they built their home on by showing off their wealth and what it could do for them. They did it by earning it, and by remaining steadfast and intelligent. Political. 

Yijun understands none of that. As the eldest son of his family, it’s a shame. The real world of the Syndicates is lost on him. He has enough business acumen to run companies under his father’s careful tutelage and instruction, but he doesn’t have the social savvy for it, the right drive. 

His brother does. You think of Kim Minchan and nearly shiver. The middle child of the Kim family has more than enough understanding of the way that things work, but the ocean of blood behind him is enough for you to prefer Yijun leading the Kim Syndicate any day. 

“I’m just saying,” Yijun grunts, flicking off the lights in the closet. “Your brother has all the reason in the world to respect me and he doesn’t.” He looks at you, face hardening. “Do you tell him not to? Is that what it is? His baby sister tells him how useless her husband is?” 

Danger is in the air. Yijun won’t lay a hand on you, but it doesn’t make this dance any less stressful. You turn away from the mirror, looking at him fully. He’s not terrible to look at - he has a sharp jaw and a broad nose and a pleasant shaped mouth. He’s handsome, even. 

He’s not Kwon Soonyoung. 

Swallowing away the thought, you reach up to put your hands on his chest, placating. “I wouldn’t do that,” you assure him, softening your voice. You hate the sound of your voice, hate the way you pitch it low and gentle. “You’re a reflection of me too. I would never let my brother think any of those things about my husband.” 

Yijun swats your hands away, making you grit your teeth. “Don’t act like a whore. Just - tell your brother. I should be in his inner circle by now. Make it happen.” 

As Yijun leaves the bathroom, the urge to grab him by his collar and yank him back in to smash his head on the counter almost wins. You stare at him until he vanishes in the bedroom, your rage a live, sentient thing. You feel it crawl beneath your skin, slithering and clawing and biting and begging to be let out. 

Steady is the mountain. You take that fire and shove it down. Years of instinct of reacting with your mother’s temper peter out slowly. It’s a shame - you’re the last woman left from her side of the family, the only one who can carry the fire of the phoenix. 

You glare at the bedroom. Somewhere, Yijun lurks, getting into bed. Oh how the shadows of the weak choke out the fire of the strong. 

If killing Yijun wouldn’t risk everything, you’d have done it already. That first month spent with him where you realized this would not only be a loveless marriage, but a hateful one had almost driven you to it. The Choi Syndicate could surely survive a war with the Kim Syndicate - you had better assets, stronger loyalties, and more money. 

But if the Kim family turned to the Yong family… 

Avoiding unification of the Kim and Yong families is why you were married to Kim Yijun in the first place. To murder him now would mean Syndicate war, and despite the fact that every moment with him is hateful and poisonous, you’re too nervous to put your family at risk. 

Especially with your father’s failing health, as Yijun had pointed out. 

Syndicate war isn’t the only thing keeping you from stabbing Kim Yijun until you can’t feel anything anymore. Minchan’s shadow of a presence lingers over your thoughts, one of the few threats you truly fear. Any harm to his brother would elevate Minchan to a position where he could only wield his power more. 

And he’d hunt you like a bloodhound. You’re unsure if there is any corner of the world he would leave unturned if you killed his brother, no matter how much it would benefit him if Yijun keeled over tomorrow. 

Inside your bedroom is dark. It doesn’t feel like your bedroom at all. There’s nothing homey about it, no possession or unique decor, no pictures. You wouldn’t sleep in here at all if Yijun didn’t make you, insisting that he couldn’t trust any of the house staff not to tell your father you weren’t sleeping in the same room. 

Your father doesn’t care. He stopped caring about anything the day you put your mother into the dirt. Even if he hadn’t, as long as your relationship looked functional to whom it mattered, it mattered little to him if you slept in the same room or if you even liked Kim Yijun.

He’d made that very clear the day he tore away your future with Soonyoung. 

Yijun is already snoring when you climb into bed. You grind your teeth, reaching to pull open the nightstand for noise cancelling earbuds and sleep medication. The medication isn’t as strong as the crushed up knockout you might have used previously, but it helps take the edge off without making you vulnerable to attack. 

Which is something you still worry about. 

Setting your phone on silent, you settle in for sleep. It takes a long time, but you finally drift away to thinking about smothering the man next to you in his sleep. 

-

Something wakes you. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you sit up in bed and look around the room. It’s dark, but you can see the barely-there outlines of the furniture in your bedroom. Next to you, Yijun is gone. You can feel the lack of presence there more than you can see it, reaching your hand over to confirm the bed is cold and that he’s not been there for a while. 

You reach for the phone on your nightstand but can’t find it. Frowning, you press your hand on the cool marble, sweeping back and forth to no avail. You lean further, finger finding the button to the light function on the stand and press down. 

Dim, lavender light halos the top of the nightstand. Your phone is nowhere in sight. It’s just your jewelry dish, a decanter for water, and your sleep medication. You’re pretty sure that you put your phone face down before you went to bed, but you can’t be sure. 

Pulling open the nightstand drawer only makes the back of your neck sweat. Your phone isn’t there, but neither is the gun you keep in the top drawer. Both you and Yijun sleep armed, despite having armed guards on the premises at all times. 

Snapping the drawer shut, you roll to the other side of the bed and pull his open. A book, a watch, some pill bottles and a pack of cigarettes fill the drawer. No gun. 

The back of your neck tingles. You rip the sheets off of you, heading to the bedroom door. The house is mostly dark when you open it, the entire second floor dim. Leaning over the banister, you can see a shaft of light falling across the room, perhaps coming from the kitchen. 

Quietly, you stalk toward the top of the stairwell, trying to reduce noise as you creep down. A high pitched whine rings in your ears, heart thundering. You have no idea why you’re so afraid all of the sudden, especially in your own house, but your instincts tell you to be alert and quiet. 

At the foot of the stairs, you confirm the light is coming from the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for people to be in the house in the middle of the night. Official Syndicate business happens at any time, and often goes into the early hours of morning. 

Tonight, it’s not busy. Before you’d gone upstairs to bed, you’d noted that it was a skeleton crew security team for the night, just a few of them at the gate house and walking the premises while you and Yijun returned upstairs for the evening alone. 

Creeping toward the hallway, you pause when you hear voices. You identify Yijun’s voice right away, holding your breath and straining your hearing as he says, “What do you want me to do here?” 

“Keep her contained. Make sure no one from her family can reach her.”

“I already took her phone and her gun.”

Your stomach drops. “Good.” That’s Minchan’s voice, you realize, dread growing tenfold. “The second she finds out the Tower has fallen, she’ll try to run or her brother will try to get her.”

“Or that psycho fuck,” Yijun mutters. 

“You’d be lucky if it was Seungcheol who came to get her. If Kwon Soonyoung comes looking, call me immediately. We’ll make our move in two hours. We’ve got the biggest team outside the Choi estate ready to go in and we’ve got men and women stationed at all the key points.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and babysit my wife?”

“Yes.” Minchan’s tone is nonnegotiable. “We’ll leave the guards at the gatehouse but we can’t spare anyone else. This kind of assault requires everyone. The Yong family will take care of the Pearl District and the Salt.” 

Yijun hesitates. “What about the Yoon family? Are they all accounted for?” 

“Yes. I have a team on the crazy one - what do they call her?”

“Angel, I think.”

Minchan laughs. “Demon is more fitting. Stay here. Stay by your phone. We’ll call thirty minutes before we give the signal to link everyone on comms. We do this right, and the Choi Syndicate is gone.” 

Panic presses in for a moment. Your heart hammers. Your hands shake. Bile churns your stomach. It feels like you can’t get enough air, the pieces of what they're talking about falling into place.

The Tower has fallen.

Your father is dead, and in the wake of the crushing blow, the Kim family intends to strike at yours alongside the Yong family. The realization lands like a blow, immediately slapping you out of your panic. 

Fear turns to rage. Rage turns to ice. You are fire, you are the mountain. 

Steadfast is the mountain, but the fire does burn. 

As quietly as you can, you creep up the stairs. You keep turning over your shoulder to ensure Minchan doesn’t leave the kitchen and catch you creeping back toward your bedroom. When you hit the second floor landing, you all but sprint to your room, gears turning. 

Yijun took your phone and intends to keep you locked in the house until they finish their plan. From their discussion, you know they intend to mobilize within two hours, targeting important members of the Choi Syndicate across the city with the help of the Yong family. 

It means you have only a few minutes to warn your family to respond, to prepare and to fight back or strike first. Which is hard to do without a phone, but your husband doesn’t know you nearly as well as he thinks.

Door closed behind you, you flip the lock on the bedroom door and dash for the closet. The lights above come to life, bathing you in ghoulish, grey light. You dive to the floor toward your shelf holding all of your shoes, the carpet burns nothing compared to the pain starting to bloom behind your sternum where your grief builds slowly under your anger. 

Your father is dead. The Kims are going to turn on you anyway. Your marriage to Kim Yijun to secure alliances against the Yong family was for nothing.

You’ve endured for nothing. 

Snatching a pair of boots, you swallow down the bile again. You will not break now, not when there are more important things than the time you’ve wasted withering away in this cold home. Shoving your hand inside the boot, you come into contact with what you were looking for. Your hand closes around the device, yanking it out and powering it on. 

The screen flashes to life. You press one and hold, hearing the buzz on the phone as it begins to ring. You cradle the phone against your shoulder and ear, nearly sick with the adrenaline that is pounding through you, your vision blurring, hands shaking. 

You grab another shoe, this time reaching inside carefully instead of shoving your hand in. The smooth, bone handle of a knife meets your hand and you wrap your fingers around it firmly, pulling it out. 

Soonyoung answers on the fourth ring. “Where are you?” 

“The Kim family has turned on the Chois. They’re mobilizing for a full scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They’re at the estate and all over the city - anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt.” 

“How many men are at Yijun’s estate?” You can hear him moving on the other side of the line, something rustling. Perhaps clothes as he gets dressed. “Are you armed?” 

“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.” 

“Where are you in the house?” 

“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.” 

“Listen to me,” Soonyoung says, voice like ice. “The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they’ll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?” When you say nothing, he asks again, voice louder. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes.”

“I need you to fight back. Either kill him or hold him off until I’m there.” 

“You need to warn-”

“Don’t worry about the fucking Syndicate! We’ll be fine. You’ve given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself.”

You take a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Okay.”

“Do you have frostbyte?”

“Maybe? Yijun might have it in the nightstand.”

“Take some. Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes.” 

“Okay.” 

You squeeze the phone, unwilling to hang up. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t heard his voice in months. It doesn’t matter that he hates you, it doesn’t matter that you know whatever used to be between you is broken and it’s entirely your fault. You just… don’t want to hang up. 

“Hey.” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, drawing you from your trembling spiral. “Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to. I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” Soonyoung pauses, the silence heavy on the line. “I love you.” 

Nothing breaks you like those words, whispered but firm, whispered in case you die before he gets there. He doesn’t have to say that’s why he’s saying it - you know. You know the chance of him not getting there fast enough is likely and real. He does too, but instead of telling you, he gives you this. 

You whisper back, “I love you.” 

Soonyoung hangs up the phone and you fight a sob. You bring the knife up to your hand, pressing your pointer finger down on the tip. The sting is immediate, making you his in pain as blood beads on the tip of your finger, red and garish in the closet lighting. 

The sting grounds you enough to push yourself from the floor, following Soonyoung’s directions to Yijun’s nightstand. You yank it open, rattling around the contents until you find the bag of frostbyte you were hoping was there. Yijun uses it the nights he attempts to put an heir in you, numbing himself the way you never did, taking your punishment for what you’d done to Soonyoung raw.

Not enough to fuck me up, you think, untwisting the bag and shaking. Just enough to make it easier. 

Dipping the tip of your knife into the bag, you pull out a small lump of the glittering drug. You try not to think about that night at the club all those years ago, when you and Soonyoung were still dancing around one another’s feelings, doing anything you could to get a reaction out of one another. 

You take a sharp breath in. The drug hits your nasal passage and it burns, your eyes smarting as you tilt your head up, cursing and blinking away the tears. It hits the back of your throat, bitter and awful as you cough a little, trying to wait for it to clear your nasal passage.

When the burning subsides a little, you do it again. It’s less harsh than the first bump but still just as awful, making you wonder how the fuck you did this on the weekend with your friends as a teenager. Tossing the back on the nightstand, you stand waiting, closing your eyes and trying to do deep breathing exercises your therapist taught you to calm down. 

Frostbyte works fast. It hits your bloodstream and an electric calm comes over you. Everything comes into sharper focus, the adrenaline pumping as your simmering rage turns to a boil, ready to kick the fucking door down and hunt down Yijun yourself.

Nerves fade away to the background of your mind. You walk toward the door, waiting to the side so when Yijun ultimately kicks it down, you’re ready. 

Ten minutes pass. The entire time your ears are ringing, heart thundering in your chest. You think the frostbyte was a good idea - if you had to wait in silence like this without it, you would have gone crazy by now. Even with the drug, fear nips at your ankles, a hound ever on your tail. 

Yijun’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. Your heart lurches and you inch away from the door, readying yourself. He storms down the hall, fury in each step until he gets to the door and turns the handle. It doesn’t move. He tries a few more times, shaking the door. 

His roar on the other side of the door is loud and feral, making you grin as he thrashes against the door, cursing and screaming at you. The door holds, rattling in place as he slams what you think is his shoulder into it multiple times. 

The bombardment pauses for a second and then restarts ten times stronger. This time, you recognize that it’s his foot slamming into the side of the door. You realize he’s kicking where the door is latched, trying to break it open instead of kicking through it. 

A small crack sounds. You take a breath, readying yourself as you hear another snap go through the door, now rattling loose in its frame. He kicks hard again and the door blows open, nearly smacking you as it does. You roll away from it on the wall, keeping close as Yijun barrels past you, swinging his head from left to right as he looks for you.

It’s your only chance to get the jump on him. You slide from the dark, heart hammering. You’ve never stabbed anyone before, but you’ve practiced. You drive the knife upward, intending to puncture his kidneys. Yijun twists a little to the side, sensing your presence as the knife plunges into his side. 

Yijun screams. Your satisfaction only lasts a second before he throws his elbow backward, catching you in the nose. Pain explodes in your face, blinding you as your eyes water and you stumble backward hands shooting to your face. 

Removing the knife from his side, Yijun screams at you, spit flying as he comes at you. Through tears and warm blood rushing from your nose, you reach for anything to use as a weapon. Your hand closes on the ceramic artwork on the dresser and you launch it at him, hitting him hard in the face. 

The ceramic shatters and he drops the knife. You dive for it but he grabs you by the hair, ripping you upward and backward like a ragdoll. You lose your footing, screaming as he tightens his fist in your hair and drags you toward the bed, tossing you there. 

With a feral shout, you kick your foot forward, catching him in the lower gut. He grunts but wraps his hand around your ankle, yanking you back off the bed onto the floor, where the knife lays. You reach for it, seething, your hands managing to close around it just as he pivots, foot landing against your ribcage. 

Again, pain explodes inside of you. With the frostbyte, you barely recognize it, grabbing the knife and stabbing him in the calf. He shrieks and collapses to a knee, reaching for the knife. This time you rip it back out, nearly losing your grip on the bone handle, fingers slippery with blood. 

You stab him again, this time in the thigh. His knee presses into your stomach, crushing you and forcing air from your lungs. You ignore the pain, stabbing him again and again in the thigh until he falls backward off of you, muscles malfunctioning, tendons give away. 

Yijun kicks out at you with his good leg but you’re already moving, ignoring the way your body is screaming in utter agony, every part of you throbbing and begging you to give up. 

You don’t. You scramble on top of him. His hands shoot up to your throat but you spit at him, a spray of blood blinding him and making his grip loosen momentarily. It’s enough to bring the knife down home again, this time directly in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. 

For a second, he fights back. You hear the wet gasp and he thrashes, but you stab him again. And again and again and again and again -

You think about all of the times that you were forced to submit to him. 

And again and again and again - 

The way he heaved himself on top of you, trying to force a child into you so he could be done with you, the way you’d wish it had been Soonyoung instead. 

And again and again and again - 

The way Soonyoung’s face broke that morning, begging you not to do this to him. 

And again and again and again -

All for the Kim family to turn on the Choi’s anyway, wasting the entire time you’ve spent under lock and key, doing Yijun’s bidding while Soonyoung hated you. Loathed you. Wish you never happened to him. 

Again and AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAINAND- 

Yijun isn’t moving under you. Your hand is warm and wet, the knife becoming slippery as you let it go. It clatters to the floor and you sit backward on his knees. He’s unmoving as you heave, sucking down air that tastes like iron and salt. 

Sweat slicks the back of your neck and down your spine. Somewhere in the house, there’s a crashing noise. You leap for the knife, rolling off of Yijun’s mutilated body toward the door, positioning yourself in a defensive position as feet thunder up the stairs. 

You bare your teeth, knowing this is it. Knowing Soonyoung hasn’t come quickly enough but it doesn’t matter, because you warned them and they are safe. Your penance for destroying him has been paid in half, though never full, and -

Soonyoung appears in the doorway. He looks like an angel from hell, wreathed in shallow light that comes from the first floor, his silver hair stained with blood. He’s in black trousers and a short-sleeve shirt with his favorite band on it - one of his sleep shirts. 

For less than a second, he stares at you. Then, Soonyoung dives at you, dropping the gun in his head and grabbing you. You hadn’t realized that you’d sunk to your knees, looking up at him as he grabs your face, turning you this way and that. He’s asking you a question but you can’t understand him, dizzy and confused and in so much pain that the edge of your vision wavers. 

“Baby,” Soonyoung begs, his voice warped and echoey. “Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?” 

“S’mostly his,” you answer, feeling how heavy your tongue is. Your thoughts are sticky and slow. Concussed, you think. “Maybe broke my nose.” 

Soonyoung’s thumb brushes gently across your cheek, smearing blood. “Can you walk if I help you?”  You think about it. Shake your head. “Okay. I’m going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don’t hurt you, Baby.” 

“Ribs.” 

“Left or right?” 

You pause, breathing in and feeling the pain bloom. “Right.” 

“Okay, tell me if I hurt you, okay? We’re going to take you home.”

“Thank you.” Soonyoung hesitates at your tone, looking at you. His eyes are vulnerable and open, more raw than you have seen them since you were kids. “You didn’t have to come get me.” 

He stares and stares at you. The world fades a little and Soonyoung lifts you toward him. “Of course I did,” he murmurs, so soft you barely hear what he’s saying. “When you say jump, remember?”

-

“Where's this?” You mumble, looking out the window at a small home behind high gates.

Soonyoung has been driving for an hour and a half, his silence nearly unbearable as you both left the city. You don’t ask about where you’re going or if everyone is okay - you don’t think you can stomach the answers right now. Not while in the car. 

Rain mists through the window as Soonyoung rolls it down to punch in a code in front of the gate. It flashes green and the metal starts to roll open, revealing a large but modest house - at least by Syndicate standards. He drives through, gravel crunching beneath the tires. 

“Safe House. Very few people know it exists.” 

“Are we in Levin?” He nods his head. You’ve never been to the small town, but you know it’s mostly a vacation village on the coast. “Who does this place belong to?” 

“Me.” You look at him, surprised. “I bought it when you… got engaged.” 

It’s like a stone sinking to the bottom of your stomach. You don’t have to ask why. It was his failsafe for you, a way to get you away from Yijun if you had just asked. 

You should have asked. Should have just thrown it away and called him, should have begged him from your knees- 

Soonyoung turns the car off and opens the door. You open yours, rain pattering against your red skin. He rushes to help you out of the car, hands hovering around you, unsure where to touch. It makes you want to sob. You want him to touch you anywhere - everywhere. 

Instead, he leads you to the house, a hand wrapped firmly around your forearm to keep you upright and steady as you walk up the steps. 

A porch light flickers on. You cringe away from the brightness, squinting through your fingers as the door opens to reveal Vernon standing on the other side. His eyes flicker between the two of you and he nods, stepping to the side to let you in. 

Warmth blankets you as Soonyoung shuts the door. You’re standing in a small entryway with a staircase to the right leading to the second floor. Straight on, the lights are on, revealing a sliver of the living room. You can hear voices pause as they hear the door shut. 

Angel materializes in the doorway, her hair damp. She’s dressed down like she recently showered, her eyes on you as she heaves a sigh of relief. “It’s Hoshi and Baby,” she calls over her shoulder, coming forward. 

Soonyoung nudges you toward Angel gently. “Take her to shower.” 

“Yeah of course.” 

“Where’s Seungcheol?” You ask, turning to look at Soonyoung, who is already looking at his phone, holoscreen lighting up his face. 

“On his way. The main crew is safe.” He hesitates. “We lost Lan, Old Man Vero and Yoon Minji.” 

Your heart seizes, eyes darting to Angel. “Angel, I’m-”

“Jeonghan is taking care of it.” For the first time in years, you hear a note of pain in her voice, raw and real. Angel has - had - a complicated relationship with her step-mother, the matriarch of the Yoong family. “I’ve already satiated my vengeance. This is his. Come on.” 

You hesitate. Soonyoung nudges you toward the stairs gently by the hip, suddenly looking tired. “Go. I’m going to find a doctor for that nose.” 

“Is it terrible?” 

He huffs, trying not to laugh. “No, but it needs to be fixed. Go. Shower.” 

I love you. It’s on the tip of your tongue, right there. I love you. It’s all you can think about, thundering in your ribcage. I love you. It consumes you, makes you freeze up, staring at him. I love you. 

Angel tugs your wrist delicately and breaks the spell. You follow her up the stairs. She’s careful with you, making you take one step at a time. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so gentle, her eyes softened with worry and her touch on you delicate as butterfly wings. 

Upstairs, she leads you into a room that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. Soonyoung. This room belongs to Soonyoung. You spot his subtle touches, a gaming computer shoved in the corner and powered off. A closet with a metal door that is under lock and key. A single gun sitting on top of the nightstand. 

But what makes the room spin is the touches of you. A teakwood candle sitting on the dresser. Weighted blankets folded at the end of the bed. A bookshelf with all your favorite titles. A jar of saltwater taffy in multiple flavors. 

Angel hesitates by the bathroom door, watching you drink in the room. You turn to her, shaking your head, confused and mouth open. She nods. “I know. I didn’t know either.” 

“I could live and die a thousand times and never deserve him.” 

“I’m not the best judge of character, but I don’t think I believe that to be true.” 

Angel isn’t the best judge of character. But she also doesn’t say things she does not mean. She’s the last person in the world to offer words of comfort, and yet she’s standing in the bathroom staring at you like she can see through you, right down to the very core. 

Maybe she can. Seeing what is rotting people on the inside and sniffing out their weaknesses is what she does best. 

Instead of pointing out where you hurt, she manages to get you into the bathroom. It’s spacious but not grand like what you’re used to - it’s small. Safe. She starts the shower and backs away, helping you get out of your bloody clothing. 

Everything hurts so bad. Your ribs ache, the bruising on them blotchy and horrendous as Angel peels back your shirt. She thankfully doesn’t react - she’s seen worse and done worse. Suddenly, you realize why Soonyoung picked her to help you. She’s steady, her fingers sure as she holds your arm while you pull your pants down.

You don’t dare look in the mirror. From what you can see without it, it’s already bad enough. Yijun hadn’t dealt fatal damage, but you know you’re bruised and covered in dry, flaking blood. 

Angel leaves you in the shower, shutting the door to go sit on the sink, a guardian willing to give you space but ready to help when you need it. Shaking, you shuffle into the stream of hot water, hissing when it hits your skin. 

It’s both heaven and hell. The hot water feels so good on your aching muscles and throbbing pain, but it also hurts when the water taps against your nose, reminding you that it is indeed broken. You suck in sharp air as you slowly begin to work your fingers into your skin, turning the water pink as you wash off the blood. 

Blood that belongs to you. Blood that belongs to Yijun.

Yijun. 

You’re not sorry you killed him. It was satisfying and necessary. But… the weight of your grief comes crashing into you. You could have killed him years ago and ran. Could have gone crawling back to Soonyoung and asked for his help. Could have told him that the only reason you ever agreed to marry him in the first place was to protect him. 

None of it mattered. You bought him a paltry couple years worth of protection and for what? To shackle yourself to a man who thought little of you, who wanted to fuck you until you gave him another version of himself, who wanted to kill you at every moment because he knew you didn’t respect him and because he was afraid of you and the way you command respect from your family, but he never did.

All that time you’d made yourself smaller for him. Held back your bite. Hid your teeth. Mourned Soonyoung everyday, knowing that you’d never touch him again, that he would never kiss you again, that you’d never wake up in the morning when he got home from work and crawled into bed with you.

A potential lifetime of happiness, one of your own making, wasted on a promise that they broke anyway. 

For nothing. It had been for nothing, you’d hurt Soonyoung for nothing, shut him out, promised you would never leave him and threw him away, forced him to jump for you, forced him to leave you when he said he wouldn’t all for nothing nothing nothing nothing notHING NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING-

Angel’s arms are around you. You startle, looking up to see that she is in the shower fully clothed, holding you to her. You hadn’t realized you’d been crying - screaming - in the shower. She presses you closer to her, the only way she knows how to tell you that she’s got you. She’s there. She understands. 

You crumble, leaning heavily on her as you let it out, sobbing. Your throat is raw, your face throbbing each time you squeeze your eyes shut. Angel says nothing, content to hold you while her clothes soak up the water, weighing her down as you let out your grief in full, ugly waves. 

Eventually, the water starts to get cold and your tears start to dry up. You sniff and groan, the pain in your face so poignant that it can’t be ignored. Lifting your head from her shoulder, you glance at her boots, soaked and murky red around the edges.

“Can I tell you something?” Angel asks, voice low. You nod. She hesitates, putting the words together before she says, “He’s going to accept you back. He’s going to do it with no conditions, and ask nothing of you. You’re going to want to torture yourself and beg for his forgiveness and deny yourself of him because you think you should be punished, that there is not a god powerful enough to hurt you the way you deserve.”

You blink in surprise. Angel isn’t religious, despite the nickname. She also isn’t overly emotional or wordy. But you see the severity in which she tells you this, see the pain in her eyes. You remember that she has demons far older than yours, ones that have followed her since childhood. 

And she’s right. She reads you like a book, seeing the fucking pain radiating inside of you, the desire to be punished and hated and whipped- 

“Let him take you back.” Her words are firm. “Don’t make him punish you. Don’t believe for a second that Soonyoung wants to make you pay. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care what you did or why. Just… let him have you. You’ve endured enough.” 

You nod. “Alright. I’ll try.”

“Good. Um - can we get out of the shower though? It’s very cold in here.” 

You laugh, immediately followed by a groan. “Please don’t make me laugh. I am in so much pain.” 

“Yeah, let’s go get you some drugs, dude.” 

-

The three Syndicates of the city are officially at war. Of all the news that has poured in over the last few days, this is the least surprising. When you’d seen Seungcheol that first night after everything went to hell, he’d held you close and promised that he would kill every last Kim in the city.

He had also told you he was proud of you. Not just for surviving Yijun long enough for Soonyoung to come get you, but for being able to warn the family what was coming. Your single warning alone had saved them a great deal and wounded the Kim Syndicate more than you could understand. 

The days following your father’s death are strange. It doesn’t feel like he’s dead - at least, you haven’t truly processed it yet. There are things that demand your attention like being seen by Dr. Ymir for your fractured nose and bruised ribs, and the accounts and logistics of what being at war with the Kim and Yong family truly means. 

On the fifth day at the safe house, you go back home. Seungcheol makes you ride with him, unwilling to let you out of his sight these days. You’re the only two members of the Choi family left, and it’s up to the two of you to rally the troops and remind everyone what the mountain can do. 

Seungcheol replaces your father as the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. Typically there’s a small ceremony to pass the torch so to speak, but there’s no time for that. Seungcheol is buried in problems and trying to maneuver the family into a favorable position, but it’s hard - the Yongs and Kims have been preparing this for a while. 

You’re suddenly given a job again. Fresh in his position leading the family, Seungcheol needs those he trusts by his side, immediately appointing you as the Architect of the Syndicate. There’s no one he trusts more with the finances and the logistics of the businesses under the Choi banner and who have pledged to his family. 

With Yoon Minji’s death, Jeonghan’s takes his rightful side as the Wisdom and second in command to Seungcheol. It’s like you’d always known it would be as a kid, but it brings you no joy to see the two of them together in an office until the early hours of the morning, worn at the edges and sick with the grief they’re ignoring to push forward. 

With no surprise, Seungcheol immediately promotes Soonyoung to the lead military position, rising from Sword to Sentinel in a single night. It’s the same position his father held under your father, and Soonyoung takes it with steely resolve. 

It also means you don’t see him. You move back into your old room at home. At first, it doesn’t feel like your room at all because Soonyoung isn't in it. He had moved into your room when you first started dating, spending two years in that bed with you. Now, he’s taken up residence in his room down the hall, so close and yet the distance feels larger than ever. 

Of all the problems mounting for you to solve, Soonyoung is the most important. You know he shouldn’t be. There are a thousand other things that you need to figure out, like how to assure that the businesses you own in and near the Kim and Yong family territories won’t go under or be attacked, or how to assure that payment to the family won’t increase now that there’s a fight. 

Your days are filled with countless meetings, assuring loyal patrons that the Choi Syndicate will not fall and will not fail them, and that the Choi’s protect their own. You can see the fear in people’s eyes - the city hasn’t had the big three at war in a long time. Already the city officials are cracking down on Syndicate activity to try and establish order. 

It’s farcical at best. 

Squeezing your temples between your fingers, you lean back from the desk in your newly appointed office - which is really just your father’s. It feels weird to be in here. It still smells like leather and sweet tobacco, a little bit of smoke hanging in the air. 

The last time you’d been in this office, you’d fallen to your knees and begged him not to make you marry Kim Yijun. Now you sit at the desk, hanging up the phone as another call ends - not as bad as the first, but not as good as you’d hoped. 

Quickly, you scribble down a summary of the call to give to Seungcheol. You know he’ll read every word you write, determined to hear each concern of those under Choi patronage, whether they’re valid or not. 

At the sound of the door opening, you glance up. Soonyoung sticks his head in, surprising you. You straighten in your seat, heart racing when you take him in. His silver hair has grown longer, tapered a bit at the neck. He’s dressed in all black but he’s clean, indicating that he showered not that long ago. You thought he would be out all day like usual, looking at your watch to see he’s back far earlier than normal.

“Is everything alright?” You start to get up and he rushes to you, hands lifting to help you. “I’m alright. I am well on the mend.”

He chews his lip, nodding before dropping his hands hesitantly. “Everything’s fine I just.” He hesitates. “Do you want to eat lunch?” 

“Oh. Sure.”

Soonyoung’s smile is tentative. Shy. You give him one back, following him out of the office while sending a quick note to Jihoon that you’ll meet with him later. He sends a thumbs down back, less than pleased that you’ve not made time to talk to him about your potential murder charges for Yijun. 

“Are you busy? We don’t have to-”

“It’s just Jihoon.” 

“Ah. He’s persistent, are you sure-”

“I want to have lunch with you, Soonyoung.” 

He blushes and you grin. “Alright,” he murmurs. “When you say jump and all that.” 

That makes you pause. “You don’t have to do anything I tell you.” 

“What?” He stops walking, confused. 

“You don’t have to ask how high if I tell you to jump... I’m wrong a lot of the time. I don’t… want to be that.” 

I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. You don’t say it, but you think Soonyoung senses it when he says, “I’ve always wanted to jump for you. That hasn’t changed.” 

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you. 

Angel’s words come back to you so you swallow down your guilt and you nod, giving him a tentative smile that he returns. This time, he holds out his hand to take you in the kitchen. You take it, the feeling of his fingers wrapping around yours both foreign and familiar. 

The way he holds your hand in his makes you tremble. It’s something so simple and benign and yet you’re screaming on the inside, looking at where your fingers twine together like it’s everything, like it’s the only thing. 

Lunch consists of very badly burned grilled cheese. You don’t care because Soonyoung makes it, insistent that he wants to and that he can. He’s good at a lot of things, particularly on the spectrum of murder and weapons, but he is terrible at putting bread, cheese and butter in a pan. 

You eat it anyway, burnt bread and all. He sits next to you, his stool pulled so close that your thighs touch. You want to reach out and brush your fingers across his face, down his neck, through his hair. You want to touch until you’re grabbing, grab until you’re pulling. 

Instead, you let him lead this dance, too afraid to initiate. 

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you. 

You don’t, but you can’t let go of the fear of rejection. Can’t bring yourself to toe the line beyond what he’s giving you, which is more than you ever dreamed of. So you accept when he offers to take your plate, fingers brushing over the top of your hand either by design or by accident you don’t know. His touch makes you shiver and he notices, pausing. 

Slowly, you look up at Soonyoung. His eyes are dark and misty as ever, churning with emotion that you’re a little too afraid to read. Instead of taking the plates to the sink, he sets them down and reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. 

A sob works its way up your throat but you force it down. You will not cry over this. You will not make him comfort you. 

“Are you afraid to touch me?” His question is gentle. You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb brushes back and forth across your cheekbone. “Why?” 

“I… want to so badly. I just want it to be your choice.” 

“I want you to.” You open your eyes. His earnestness is right on the surface of him, rippling for you to see. “I’m dying for it. Please.” 

Soonyoung’s please sounds like that morning he’d begged you all that time ago. It freezes you in place, heart beating like a prey animal in fight or flight. He steps closer, his breath on your forehead when he whispers, “Please.” 

Slowly, you bring your hands up to his wrists. Licking your lips, you place your hands on him. His eyes close. His skin is warm to the touch and you feel him tremble as you brush your hands upward, tracing his forearms, his corded biceps. You brush your fingertips over the sleeves of his shirt and toward his neck until you’re cupping his throat, your thumbs resting against his hammering pulse. 

You close your eyes, remaining still. Both of you remain that way, his hands on your face, yours on his neck. You’re shaking under his touch, feel his breath against your forehead. His fingers add a little pressure to your face, careful not to hurt you where your bruise is finally fading on your nose as he turns you to look up at him. 

Soonyoung licks his lips, eyes open. “There is not a second I didn’t love you.”

And there it is. The admission that he never hated you. You bet he tried - you know he tried. You know the inside of Soonyoung’s soul better than you know your own, no part of him hidden to you even with time. 

“I don’t care why you did it,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not after everything. I don’t care about any of it. I just… want you.”

“Soonyoung-”

“I know you’re sorry. I know you hate yourself. I know there is guilt eating away at you. Get over it, because none of it changes how I feel. I love you. You’re mine. I don’t want to leave you again. You cannot make me.” 

“I know. I won’t make you.” 

“Good.” Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours gently. He’s careful not to knock noses with you too hard, aware of the pain it’ll cause. “I cannot do any of this without you.” 

“I know.”

Soonyoung’s mouth is tentative when it presses against yours. Your grip on him tightens, leaning forward into the kiss. It is everything - the only thing. You feel something wet on your face, thinking that you’ve got another nosebleed, but when you pull away, you realize it’s because Soonyoung is crying.

Crying for the first time since his parents died. 

You stand up from the stool, gripping the back of his neck to pull him toward you. He melts under your touch, letting you meld your mouths together. He tastes like his burnt sandwich and like him, his mouth warm and wet against yours. Vanilla and sandalwood invade your senses, overwhelming as you grip him for dear life, never wanting to let him go.

He doesn’t want to let you go either. His grip on your hips is crushing, fingers digging into flesh and bone as though he can force you to become one. The thought makes you dizzy. You slide your fingers in his silk-soft hair, wrapping the strands around them to pull lightly, pull him closer, pull him to you, pull him back. 

Soonyoung whines against your mouth and you break the kiss, panting. “Take me upstairs,” you whisper between peppering kissing against his mouth, his bottom lip, the corner of his lips. “Please take me upstairs.” 

He does. Soonyoung grabs you by the hands, tugging you toward the stairs that lead to your room - the room you used to share. The room that still smells like him, even if faintly. He takes you to your bed, where you’ve spent hundreds of nights with him, and lays you down gently like he has a million times before. 

Soonyoung touches you like you’re holy. His hands skim over you in worship, they scratch you in penance, they hold you in reverence. He slots himself between your knees, stealing a kiss from you like it’ll breathe new life into him, bare him anew, purge him of sin. 

You love him. You love him you love him you love him you love him you love him -

A moan leaves his mouth when your nails drag down his back. He is quaking under your touch, his mouth hungry but careful against yours, wanting to swallow you whole but knowing you’re hurt. You know he won’t break you but you wish he would.

There’s time for that later. Now isn’t the time for rough and biting. Now, Soonyoung peels the shirt from your skin, immediately covering your arms, chest, collarbones, shoulders in kisses. You vibrate under his touch, lashes fluttering as he sucks at the sensitive skin of your neck, tongue pressed flat to your pulse as he tastes you. 

You tug at his shirt and he complies, leaning upward to toss it. He’s back on you in a second, pressing you close, hip to hip as he tangles his tongue with yours, drinking you in. His touch ignites a fire and you’re burning, a complete inferno as you drag your fingers up the hard contour of his stomach to the firmness of his chest and around to his shoulders. 

“I love you,” he mutters against your mouth, rolling his hips into you. You let out a breathy sound and he groans. “Fuck I love you. I missed you. I love you.” 

“Please,” you beg. He understands, burying his face in your neck and biting down lightly. You feel like you’re going to burn up under him, an out of control blaze while his fingers work the buttons on your pants. “Never let me go.”

“Never.” 

Jeans scrape down your legs, his hands following. He drags his blunt nails down your thighs. Your hips twitch upward, loving the scratch, loving the way he touches you, loving him. He returns his mouth to yours, unable to get enough of your kissing. 

Soonyoung’s hand slips between your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing against your clit through your underwear. You keen for him, pulling at the long strands of hair at the back of his neck. He moans in tandem, his pleasure driven by yours, loving the way you sound as you start to come apart under the gentle circle of his fingers. 

He only teases you a little, knowing the friction with the fabric between his fingers and your aching cunt isn’t enough. He finally decides that you’ve had enough, hooking a finger to pull them aside, the cool air hitting your sticky folds. 

Before you can complain, Soonyoung’s touch is there. He drags his fingers slow-soft from top to bottom, circling your clit slowly. He’s not in a hurry, dragging it out as he sucks your tongue into his mouth, sliding his fingers back down to press against your entrance but not breach it. 

You whine and he grins, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth until he lets go with a pop. “I love those sounds you make.” 

“Feels good,” you admit, head falling to the side as you close your eyes, enjoying the pressure he puts on your clit, wiggling his fingers back and forth. Your thighs close around his hand but he’s unbothered, drawing more arousal from you as he plays. “Fuck, your fingers.” 

His laugh is throaty and he shakes his head, attaching his mouth to your jaw where he sucks at the skin. He makes himself comfortable with nibbling toward your neck, both of his hands reaching for the sides of your underwear to pull them down. You let him, folding your knees toward your for a moment to help. 

Soonyoung’s hand returns to the wetness between your legs except this time, he’s not teasing. He presses a finger in deep and you whine, hips wiggling. You squeeze down on his finger, pussy spasming as he begins to pump leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

And he does, doesn’t he? The work is far from done and the world is falling apart, but it doesn’t matter because he’s here with you. Because Soonyoung is yours again - always has been - and because he’s drawing your mouth toward his to kiss you messily, swallowing down your moans as he presses in another finger. 

Now you crumble beneath him. You can’t stop your hips from coming off the bed. You loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close, breathing the same air. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes impossible dark and half-lidded as he hooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot. 

You cry out his name and he grins. Now he knows where it is, pressing repeatedly as he fucks you on his fingers, driving you directly toward an orgasm. Your breathing becomes labored, your legs squeezing his hips, your fingers digging into his shoulders. It is so good that you think you might die, letting him yank you toward release. 

Soonyoung kisses you again and you come crashing down, cumming around his fingers, body squeezing, ignoring the ache in your ribs and the millions of other places that you’re sore. He doesn’t slow down, scissoring his fingers to pry you open, to stretch you more.

“Soonyoung,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Soonyoung Soonyoung Soonyoung.” 

“Just like that,” he agrees. You can tell he loves the way you say his name, knows that on your tongue it means something different. “Come on, one more.” 

You’ll give him anything he wants. Never again will you deny him. You let him work you up again, feeling the way your breath gets stuck in your lungs and you shiver, another wave washing through you as you shudder around his fingers. 

When you start to pant, he pulls his fingers out. You feel the wet schlick as he does, immediately hating the way you feel empty, hating the way he leans away from you. Whining, you reach out toward him, needy. He hushes you with a brief kiss, only standing to rid himself of his jeans and briefs. 

Using the fingers covered in your arousal, Soonyoung pumps his cock, smearing a mixture of your slick and his precum down his shaft as he kneels on the bed again, taking his place between your thighs again. You watch with hooded eyes as he rubs the head of his cock through your messy folds, a moan dripping from your lips. 

Soonyoung is beautiful, skin flushed and a sheen of sweat on his arms. His stomach flexes and clenches as he presses the tip of his cock into your entrance, both of you taking a shaky breath together. He slowly slides home, the stretch of him driving you wild, pussy fluttering around him until he’s slotted to the hilt. 

He hangs his head, panting as he plants his hands on either side of your head. He takes a moment to collect himself, shaking. You turn your head to the side, kissing his wrist, peppering any skin you can reach with your love while your hands drift up his back, feeling the muscles flex. 

When he begins to move, you nearly die. It feels so good, your breath lodged in your throat. He lowers his face to yours, kissing you as gently as he fucks you. His thrusts are deep and timed, not hard or fast but slow and measured, pressing all the way in as he uses his weight to his advantage. 

Your fingers turn to talons on his back, nails biting his shoulder blades. He’s precise, the tip of his cock finding the right angle to make you nearly sob in a matter of a few thrusts. It’s familiar. Home. 

Soonyoung lowers himself to his forearms, pressing your chests together. The friction of his skin against your pert nipples makes you squeeze around him, his name a whisper on swollen, kiss-bitten lips. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing shakily as he continues to fuck you.

You feel him everywhere, feel everything that he wants to say. Soonyoung has never needed words to communicate to you and he doesn’t now, the way he shakes as he lets out a wispy moan enough, the way he slides one of his arms under your back to cradle you to his chest, closer closer closer.

He wants to be closer and so do you, arms around his neck, drawing him to you. You never want to let him go, never will let him go. You’ve learned your lesson and this, right here with him is the only thing that matters. 

“Shh,” he hushes. You realize you’re crying, tasting salt on your lips when he brushes his mouth against yours. “I know.” 

“I love you.”

“I know.” 

Soonyoung’s pace picks up only a little bit. It’s enough, sending you careening toward your third orgasm. He can feel it - needs it. He chases after your high, catching your mouth to brush his tongue against yours, rolling his hips until you’re clenching around him, whining into his mouth, lips buzzing against his.

He hums against you, waiting until your pussy lets go of its vice grip to speed up a little bit, the wet smack of his hips against yours loud and lewd, driving him forward until he comes, your name on his lips, his face buried in your neck. His thrusts slow, both of you trembling like leaves until he finally stops, remaining seated inside of you. 

“I will love you for a thousand lifetimes,” he mutters against your mouth, with no intention of moving. “You know that, right Baby?” 

You nod, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. “Leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung,” you rasp, quoting yourself that first night he finally caved, where he finally told you that he couldn’t exist without you. “I will never go anywhere ever again.” 

Unable to sleep, he reaches for his phone and pulls up Instagram. He doesn’t follow you, never thought you’d want him to, but lately he’s found himself looking up your profile all the same. Your posts are all books he wants to ask you about, views from hotel rooms, occasional pictures with friends at dinner– half of the group mid-sentence with drinks in their hands, a stray cat you’re attempting to stroke in Rome, an occasional selfie in front of somewhere beautiful, mussed sheets bathed in sunlight captioned “home”. Try as he might, he can’t imagine where you live. An apartment in the city? A villa in the hills? 

There’s one photo of you he particularly likes he found in a carousel of someone else's wedding– you’re a bridesmaid in a lilac dress, sitting on a wall, feet resting on the thighs of a man (a friend? Someone more?) cropped out of the picture, heels abandoned on the floor. You have a cigarette in your hand, and your eyes are scrunched shut, and you’re blowing a kiss to the camera. He thinks about that photo a lot, and how he hasn’t truly seen that side of you in person. The closest he got was all those years ago, when he talked with you in a bar and your smile almost ruined him with the lightness of it. His crush on you was too obvious back then. Embarrassing. If he scrolls further down, Wonwoo would find photos nameless people have taken of you, candid and laughing at the person behind the camera, and he wonders if they were taken by friends, or given their replacement with selfies, an old partner. 

But he’s not scrolling tonight. Wonwoo is frozen, thumb hovering over the highlighted ring around your profile picture. He hasn’t seen you post a story yet and he’s so, so tempted to see what you won’t immortalise on your grid. He glances at your follower account. Small enough that you’d notice his name amongst the viewers. 

Fuck it. 

His breath catches in his throat. A brief video of you posted an hour ago, in the mirror of your bathroom with the patter of the shower running in the background. You’re still wearing that red bikini and looking like an image conjured from his teenage wet dreams, angling your hip to the side so he can just see the curve of your ass. He swallows hard, entranced in the way your manicured fingernails brush across your collarbone, palm conveniently covering the chain that sits at the base of your throat. Is his ring still on it? Is this meant for him? Should he message you? Did you touch yourself in the shower? Wonwoo’s head buzzes with questions, not knowing that just a floor away, you’re sliding your nightdress up over your hips.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re desperately fighting away the image your mind conjures of him, careful and meticulous, doing it for you. And as you brush your hand over your thigh, you try not to think of his doing the same. And when you circle your fingers over your clit, you suck in a small breath, and give up trying not to remember that dream you once had of him making you come with long fingers buried deep in your wet cunt. Can still feel his fingers on your cheeks, thumb angling your chin up just to– your mouth waters. God. God, you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this. 

Your phone buzzes under your pillow, and you drag your hand from between your legs, flip the skirt of your nightdress back down and turn on your side. You pull out your phone– two notifications. 

The first is your friend.

Bridget [22:19] who is THAT thirst trap for Bridget [22:19] nvm I can guess You [22:20] Bitch <3 Bridget [22:20] slut <3 The second is him. A like left on the same story you’d hoped he would see. It’s stupid, you think, the way this small thing makes you feel. Stupid, because him liking you (or your body, who’s to know, really?) should have no bearing on how you feel about him. How do you feel about him, besides irritated most of the time? Sure, he’s attractive. Anyone with eyes would admit it. And sure, years ago you liked the way his eyes lit up when he talked with you over drinks. But there’s been an entire lifetime between then and now. 

He said he hated you too, so what’s changed? Nothing, as far as you can tell. All that’s different is the proximity, working in close quarters, and you knowing things about him that you probably shouldn’t. A shameful memory of that video brings heat over your body, because you know the way he groans when he–

You shake the thought. The Wonwoo you know in 2025 is cold, closed off, and distrustful. Nothing in the past few hours has given new insight into his personality, just that he’s not immune to finding you attractive on some basic level. You release a heavy sigh, toying with his ring, still sitting heavy on the chain around your neck.

Nothing has changed. 

Wonwoo will behave how Wonwoo does. You close your eyes in the hope that sleep will finally come, and take this night away from you. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re late getting ready for dinner. A call with Rolex and the potential for a brand ambassadorship ran over, but a meeting is finally booked for Tuesday. You call Inès while doing your make-up in the bathroom, and ask her to rearrange yours and Wonwoo’s flights for Zurich, first thing Monday morning. 

The restaurant Bridget has booked means a dress and heels, neither of which you had packed since you don’t have any sponsor dinners this week in Miami, so you have to send out for a personal shopper while you’re tied up with the press. Out of three options, two have necklines that can only be considered appropriate for the club, and one isn’t ideal for dinner with friends, but it’ll do. Soft, pale yellow. The back is lower than you’d like for tonight, dipping elegantly at the small of your back. At least your areolas won’t be visible in this one. 

At six-fifty five, you slip on your heels and rush out the door down the hall to call for the elevator. The wait for it to reach your floor takes an age, and you’re checking your watch when it dings to announce its arrival. The doors slide open, and there’s a small intake of breath. You look up to see Wonwoo straightening his spine, his eyes flitting up at you, down at the phone in his hand, and up again. He’s in a white buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled halfway, black trousers that make his legs look so long, and a long black coat folded over his arm. Looks like something from an old movie, so handsome when he wears his glasses. Your breaths go shallow as you will your fickle heartbeat to relax. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in this same lift and he almost– you almost–

“Are you getting in or what?” he mutters. 

“Sorry.” You shake your head a little and step inside, tucking yourself into the opposite corner. 

The lift rumbles into motion, and the two of you stand in silence. You know his eyes are on you occasionally, lingering glances caught in your peripherals. If he’s not going to mention your almost kiss, your Instagram story, then neither will you. Leaves you feeling off-centre. Unbalanced. But you refuse to be the first to lose your cool. 

“You didn’t bring a jacket,” he says suddenly. An observation, not a question. “It’s cold outside.”

“It’s Miami,” you retort. “How cold can it get?”

There’s a brief moment where it looks like he’s about to argue with you, but it seems he changes his mind when his eyes drop to your neck. “Where’s my ring?”

You slipped it off the chain this morning. Thought it best you stopped carrying it around everywhere you go. 

“In the safe in my room,” you say flatly. “I’ll fetch it for you tomorrow.” 

“Good,” he says, folding his arms. “I missed it.”

Ever since you’ve been tasked with taking care of it, you’ve wanted to ask what it means to him, why he’s so attached, but the two of you fall into uncomfortable silence once again. Finally, finally, the doors slide open to the lobby, where Carlos is already waiting for you. He lifts his hand in a friendly wave, and when you walk over to meet him, Wonwoo falls into step beside you. 

“You look nice,” Carlos says as you greet him. And to Wonwoo– “Doesn’t she look lovely?” 

Wonwoo stiffens. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Good… uh– good dress.”

Hardly looks at you as he says it, and you feel the prickle of annoyance rising up your spine again. Can’t mean it, surely, but he’s hardly going to insult you to your face, not in front of Carlos. 

Carlos slips an arm around your waist. “When was the last time you wore a dress, huh? I didn’t even know you owned one.”

You catch it, the way Wonwoo sneaks a sideways glance, then trains his narrowed eyes forward to focus on the elevators. “Liar, how many times have we had sponsor dinners?” You laugh, shoving Carlos off. “Anyway, what’s this?” you ask, plucking at his Williams puffer jacket over a light blue shirt. “You know we’re going somewhere grossly expensive, right?”

His smile splits his face as he laughs. “I need to rep the team, so I’ve been told.”

“Ah–” you say knowingly. “Can’t fault you for that, I suppose.”

Wonwoo clears his throat, and while you pointedly ignore the interruption, Carlos turns his attention on him. “What are your plans tonight?”

“Me?” says Wonwoo, distracted, scanning the faces exiting the elevator into the lobby. “I don’t know. Mingyu mentioned dinner with someone he knows.”

Your phone buzzes. You fish it out, and see that your driver is pulling up. “Uber’s close by,” you say to Carlos. “We should head outside.”

“Sure,” he says to you with a smile, and to Wonwoo– “Have a good night, mate.”

You don’t wait for Wonwoo’s reply. Just link arms with Carlos and walk out into the night. Unfortunately, Wonwoo is right. It’s cold. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bridget is positively giddy as enter the restaurant. You put it down to her new boyfriend, Eric, who is very sweet and completely enamoured with both her and Carlos. As you’re shown to your table and settle into your seat, you look at her questioningly. 

“Do we have two more coming?” you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs– one beside you, and the other on the other side of the table, beside Bridget.

“Oh, just a couple of friends!” she says, a tiny smile playing on her lips, focusing very hard on her menu. “Very last minute, hope you understand.”

You narrow your eyes. “Well, who is it?”

Bridget doesn’t need to answer, because you catch the movement of the hostess behind you, showing an equally blindsided Wonwoo, and a smiling (like a cat who got the canary) Mingyu, who winks at your horrible, evil, sneaky friend. You’re cutting them both off your Christmas card list.

Mingyu slips into the seat beside Bridget before Wonwoo has a chance to react, leaving him with no other option than to sink into the chair next to yours. It’s crowded, the table is meant for five instead of six, too small for this many people. Wonwoo’s arm brushes yours. 

“They couldn’t sit two celebrities at a bigger table?” you grumble.

Bridget grins devilishly. “I prefer it like this,” she says (in your head you’re calling her a liar). “Very cosy, don’t you think?” She touches Mingyu’s arm gently. “Thanks for coming, darling,” she says.

Carlos leans over you to ask– “Wonwoo, why didn’t you tell us you were coming earlier?”

Wonwoo looks at him, then slides earnest eyes over to you. “I didn’t know.” And then quieter– “Honestly.” 

Bridget claps her hands together, grinning wide at you, daring you to say something. “We couldn’t have it looking like a double date, now, could we?” You hide your burning face in your menu. “No offence, Carlos, but wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“No FIA rules about who dates who,” teases Carlos, raising an eyebrow at you. 

You roll your eyes. “You all know fine well that I don’t date my colleagues.” You feel Wonwoo shift next to you, but you won’t pay him any attention. “Too messy.” 

Carlos waves his hand dismissively. “It’s only messy if your last name is Horner.”

There’s stunned laughter around the table, even Wonwoo covers his mouth with his hand to stop his laugh escaping.

“Or if you’re accused of sharing information,” you say, smiling. “PR disaster.”

Bridget tilts her head to the side, like an innocent puppy you know she isn't. “Maybe you should date someone from Ferrari instead.” 

You try to press sharp on her toe under the table but you get Eric instead, who yelps. Bridget grins. You feign innocence. “Maybe I shouldn’t date at all.”

Time moves like molasses. Bridget and Mingyu seem to take extra time choosing their drinks (she has the same gimlet she always has. Mingyu has a beer), ordering their meals (Mingyu asks for a few more minutes twice) and when your espresso martini is placed in front of you, everyone (including the waiter) turns to look at you bemused, as you knock it back and order another. 

“What?” you say, wiping the foam from the corner of your mouth with your ring finger. “It’s been a long week.”

Dinner moves slower, if at all possible. By the time Bridget finishes picking at her starter, you’ve finished your second drink and you’re signaling to the waiter for a third. You sneak subtle glances at Wonwoo when you think he’s not looking. He’s only half listening to the animated conversation playing out in front of you, going between looking down at his plate and staring off into space. Every time either of you move, your skin brushes his, and it’s just enough to drive you crazy. 

You pick at your food. Truth be told, you shouldn’t let Bridget’s meddling get the better of your mood, since there’s no possibility of anything between you and Wonwoo anyway, because–

You work together

He hated you for years

What happened last night was the result of too many drinks on your part, and him mistaking frustration and friction for sexual tension, or something

He’s only a man, after all. Don’t they all think with their dicks?​​

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Whatever Bridget and Mingyu were pulling hasn’t worked, because the night ends with you outside waiting for your uber, tipsy and shivering in the wind. The others are still inside, trying to decide which bar they want to try next, and you said your goodbyes early on account of an early start tomorrow morning. Carlos is staying put, sitting at the bar and flirting with a model who turns out to be a friend of a friend of a friend. He’s given you his jacket though, and you’ve pulled it around your body tight to keep the chill of the wind out. 

There’s the noise of the door behind you and you turn to see Wonwoo watching you, and you almost snap your neck turning back to face the road again. Wonwoo comes to stand at your side. Too close. Close enough that you can catch his cologne on the wind. 

“You need to take this off.”

You nearly choke on air as you whip your head around to look at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Carlos’ jacket,” he says, raising an eyebrow and casting his eyes down over your form. “You’re wearing a competitor's merchandise.”

He’s right. It looks questionable if twisted a certain way, but it’s easily explained. “I’m cold,” you say simply, looking back out to the road again, looking for any sign of your uber. 

“Well, I warned you,” he chides.

“I didn’t bring anything warm that’d go with this anyway.”

“Here,” he starts. You catch movement in the corner of your eye. He shrugs off his jacket, turns to you, and tugs on the sleeve of yours, and moves into your space. You swallow thick. “Have mine. Can’t have our Head of Communications caught up in a dating scandal, can we?”

“I think I’m safe, with Carlos inside chasing models.” You laugh, though you let him slide the Williams jacket down your arms. The wind makes you shiver, but he’s got you. He slips his (still warm from his own body) coat over your shoulders. It shrouds you. He shrouds you, still up in your personal space, still not stepping back to give you room to breathe. 

“What about you?” you ask, and the concern evident in your voice surprises you. “Aren’t you cold now?” 

Wonwoo huffs a gentle laugh. “I’m okay.”

“Did you get the feeling we’re being set up?” he asks quietly. 

“Hmm,” you agree, keeping your eyes trained on the road. “Bridget’s as subtle as a brick through a window.”

“Mingyu too.” Wonwoo chuckles. He sounds fond for once. “I’m sorry, you know?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t kn–”

“No–” he interrupts. There’s a long pause. You can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him. You’ve had a little too much to drink and you know yourself. Know you’ll lean into a moment if he lays it out for you. Best not to look at all. “I mean about last night. I shouldn’t have tried to–”

“Right–” you cut him off back. He must regret it, and the decision on how to handle these brewing feelings has been snatched from your hands. “No. No, it's fine.” Your voice is too tight to feign feeling normal about the direction this conversation went. “Let’s forget about it.” 

As soon as you say that you have the urge to take it back, but God, it’s too embarrassing. It feels like you’ve lost a game you didn’t know you were playing, and fuck, do you hate to lose. 

Until quietly, he says, “I’m gonna go and give this back to Carlos.”

The sound of the door leaves you alone with your swirling thoughts and the lump in your throat. It doesn’t matter. In fact, this is good, right? Because nothing actually happened and he’s not even interested. It was just… you don’t know what it was. Your uber pulls up, and before you close the car door you look through the window to see Wonwoo being clapped on the shoulder by Carlos, and being introduced to the model, and the model’s equally beautiful friend. Wonwoo smiles wide at her, brilliant and blinding. 

He’s not interested in you. He’s got no reason to be. This is– this is good, right? So why does the scene unfolding before your very eyes make you crave a cigarette, and another drink?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo’s laying in bed reading his book when there’s a noise outside his door– not a knock, sounds like someone trying to get in. He stands, wary, watches the handle jiggle, and moves over to look through the peephole. It’s you, except you’re moving away, trying the door across the hall. 

Wonwoo pulls the door open, calls your name questioningly. When you turn you almost topple over, so you brace yourself backwards on the opposite wall. You look at him with slow surprise and a loll of your head, and he wonders if you’ve been drinking alone this whole time. He’d intended to hitch a ride back to the hotel with you, but in the few minutes it took to give Carlos back his jacket and sign an autograph for his new ‘friends’, you had disappeared. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

You rush toward him, stumble over your own feet as you clamp your hand over his mouth. “Shhhhh,” you whisper. Wonwoo freezes, save for his deepening frown, because you don’t seem the slightest bit disconcerted by the fact he’s having to hold you steady. “I lo– lost m’room. Everythin’ looks the same.” 

“Jesus– how much did you drink?”

Your hand slips from his mouth, dragging clumsily along his jaw, before you let it fall against his chest. He catches your wrist gently before you can lose your footing again.

“En-enough,” you say, interrupted by hiccups, eyes slipping shut for a second too long. “Needed to cl–clear my head. M’all muddled.”

He exhales, long and tight, and glances down the corridor– empty, thank God. “Come on. You’ll wake up the whole floor.”

“Ugh.” You shake your head, stubborn even like this. “M– my room’s right here, ‘swear.” You slip out of his grip, try swiping your keycard on the door across the hall. The light blinks red.

“Not yours,” Wonwoo mutters, catching your elbow before you smack it into the wall. “Just come in, we’ll call reception and figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

You blink up at him, lashes heavy. “With you?”

“Yes, with me.” His voice grits low. “Unless you want to roam the halls all night?”

Something about that makes you laugh– too loud, and you slap your own hand over your mouth to muffle it. He drags you inside quickly, kicks the door shut with his heel, and for the first time tonight you look flustered. It’s somewhat reminiscent of the night before in the elevator, and Wonwoo isn’t sure how to take it. Your disregard for him today showed Wonwoo you clearly don’t think of him in the same way he thinks of you. But the way you’re looking at him now, with the tension positively tangible, radiating from your body– it has him at a loss. 

And then you shrug out of his touch again and the moment is dissolved. You sway once, twice, before letting yourself collapse onto the end of his bed, dumping your clutch on the floor, and struggling with the strap on your heel. He stands there for a moment watching your usual grace reduced to clumsiness, and he pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses before kneeling to the floor in front of you. He takes your heel onto his thigh to help unbuckle the strap, pointedly ignoring the way you stiffen under his touch, the sharp intake of your breath. He can’t let himself read into it.

“Why’re you being s’nice to me?” you ask, softer now. He slips the heel from your foot, then repeats the action with the other. Your breath shudders. 

He runs a hand through his hair, lets your bare foot slip from his thigh to the floor, exhales soft. “I’m always nice.”

“No you’re not.” Your lips twitch, the faintest smile, and you lean back on your elbows, head tipping back and exposing the long line of skin that Wonwoo has thought too much about. His eyes fall back to his knees, your ankles either side. Being between your legs like this isn’t what he imagined. “You snap at me. And when you’re not snapping you ignore me.”

There have been certain moments in Wonwoo’s life when he has remained silent when he shouldn’t have. He knows, in hindsight, that what he regrets most are only actions not taken, words left unsaid. So–

“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”

“But you don’t wanna kiss me?” You say, and the words come soured.

Wonwoo’s breath hitches in his throat, but when he glances up, your head is falling back into the sheets, body too heavy to prop up any longer, pretty eyes fluttering shut as you finally surrender to exhaustion. 

He’s not sure how to handle this. At first he tries to wake you, but you’re dead to the world. He calls Mingyu to ask if he’s still with Bridget (he isn’t). He calls reception to try and figure out your room number (they won’t give it). He thinks better of asking the staff to help you to your room because (a) leaving you drunk and in the care of strangers doesn’t sit right with him, and (b) you’d pull out the pear of anguish for him if this out of character behaviour brought any bad press on either of you. 

Wonwoo settles for pulling the blanket over you gently, letting you sleep it off as long as you need. He switches off the lamp, sets himself stiffly in the armchair by the window, and resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. At least tomorrow is only free practice.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Deft hands skate across your skin, slipping down your leg, and massaging his fingers into the arch of your foot. He brings it up, presses his lips to your sole, circles long fingers around your ankle and drags his nose up your calf, mouths at the skin as he goes. He hooks your knee over his shoulder, nudges your thighs apart, wants easy access, wants you pliant, wants you open, wants you bear. Nips at your inner thigh on one side and slides his hand up the other, and works his way up in little circles, slow slow slow. He starts to lick, gathers spit on his tongue and laves it over your skin, blows cool air across the warmth he brings. Casts his eyes up as he gets ever closer to where you need him, takes in the way your chest rises quick quick quick with each shallow breath, smirks soft as your breath hitches when he just barely brushes his fingers over your cotton clad cunt. Smiles wide when you shudder as he does it again, and again. Makes a low, appreciative sound when you get needy, grind against his fingers and chase the little friction he allows you. Frustrated, you whine his name–

“Wonwoo–”

You startle yourself awake to the bed smelling both unfamiliar and not, still wearing the dress from the night before. You blink the sleep from your eyes, push yourself up to sit and freeze when you spot him sitting in the armchair, straightening his spine and blinking slowly, the early morning sun filtering through the gap in the curtains lays a slice of light across his face. He looks as dazed as you feel.

“Did you–” he starts, voice rasped with sleep. “Do you dream of me?”

You suck in a sharp breath. Bite your lip to stop them from betraying you further.

“What did you dream about?” he asks, firm and insistent. 

“Nothing,” you blurt out. “Work. Why am I here, Wonwoo?”

The question is both feigned and pointless because although your memories swirl, you can piece it together. You remember his touch, his polite concern, the disappointment you felt when he didn’t touch you the way you truly wanted in your drunken stupor.

“You’re lying,” he breathes, watching you with the sort of look you’ve only seen on him just before he pulls on his helmet– entirely focused. “I heard you. I hear you all the time.”

Embarrassment crawls up your neck. You want to laugh, to deny, to point out how ridiculous this is, but words only fail you. The memory of the dream, of being teased and drawn out and brought to the edge, sits heavy and slick behind your ribs. Your mind spins. He hears you? Heard what? God, it’s just a dream. They’re just dreams! They have no bearing on reality and they certainly don’t change whatever the fuck is happening here.

“Wonwoo– I– I can’t,” you start desperately, and you watch his face sag. “I don’t know–”

There is no strategy for this. No neat line to cross with a chequered flag. You fall back down, dragging the duvet up over your face, and he remains where he is. 

“You don’t know what?” he asks, voice thick.

“What to think, I guess?” you admit, voice muffled beneath the duvet. A pause. “You’re– you’re confusing me.”

He huffs a begrudging laugh, and quietly, he replies– “You’ve confused me for ages.” 

You fall into a wooden silence yet again, your face growing warmer and warmer beneath the sheets, until you push them down and take in a cooling, heavy breath. 

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Too early,” he murmurs, settling back into his chair. He must be so uncomfortable. “Sleep a bit more.”

What you want: 

Invite him in. (The bed is big enough for the two of you to lay side by side with a gap to rival the size of the Grand Canyon between you.) Slip a hand into his and lay there, figure out if this is a good idea or not. If it’s smart. If it could work. Whatever it is. 

What you really want is to kiss. Deep and languid and slow. What you want is to know how he’d really touch you, if it’s the same as it is deep in your subconscious. What you want is him. Exactly as he is. 

What you do:

Slip out of bed, find your shoes and your clutch neatly placed next to the nightstand, offer quiet apologies for taking up his time, his bed, for dreaming of him (you don’t say that last part), insist you go when he protests, because he’s got practice later today and it’s more important he’s well rested than you. You rush out the door without looking back, and once it clicks closed you scarper down the hall into the elevator and jab the button for the ground floor, and press your burning forehead against the mirror on the back wall. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Avoiding Wonwoo proves difficult. On Friday, you task your team with recording his every move for social media, you wrangle more time with Netflix so they’re following him everywhere but the toilet, even find that guy who asks nonsensical questions for YouTube and all but physically push him in Wonwoo’s direction. As for yourself, you throw yourself into work and keep company everywhere you go, so even when Wonwoo falls into step beside you as you rush through the paddock, there’s no gap in the conversation for him to occupy. When you’re seeking out Edoardo in the garage, it’s Wonwoo who helps you find him, even while cameras are on him. If he notices the way you’re doing your best to cut him out, he doesn’t mention it, he’s just ever present, always in the corner of your eye. 

The trouble is, even if you avoid his actual presence, he takes up every crevice of your mind anyway. If you’re not working on his campaigns, or his interviews, or talking about him (and Charles) with the team, then your recent dreams swim back into your vision and you forget what you’re supposed to be doing entirely. This is exactly why you don’t mess around with someone at work. Too much mess for what it’s worth. 

On Saturday, qualifying goes so badly Wonwoo places P13 on the grid, and Charles places P9. There’s an issue with Charles’ car, and Wonwoo’s is perfectly fine. Not the worst, but certainly not living up to his track record. Edoardo is all foul language and irritation, and while he’s in this mood every member of the team that can slip away does so, moving slow to remain unnoticed. You hold your ground, because dealing with men in power and their tempers is nothing new– your dad, your old boss, your current boss. They’re all the same. Overgrown babies throwing their toys out of the pram. You usher him into the backroom and close the door to keep away prying eyes while Edoardo rants at the air in four different languages. You spend the time going through your emails as you wait for Edoardo to run out of steam, and eventually while he’s catching his breath, you casually ask if he’d like a cup of tea. Edoardo sighs. He would, thank you. 

Outside the garage is where you bump into Wonwoo, closely followed by a couple of social media admins with cameras. 

“Give it five minutes before you go in,” you say.

Wonwoo looks over your head at the garage. “He’s upset?”

“Upset is a euphemism,” you mutter. “But if you go in now he’ll lose a lung. Go take a break,” you say gently to the admins. Nothing Edoardo has to say to Wonwoo should be caught on film anyway. They say polite goodbyes as they scarper the other way, but Wonwoo doesn’t linger by the garage as you head in the direction of the hospitality unit. No, he falls into step beside you. 

“You’re avoiding me,” he says, after you look at him with pointed disdain.

“I’m working.” You walk faster, but Wonwoo and his ridiculous long legs can easily match your pace. 

“Haven’t you delegated everything by now?” He scoffs. “Weren’t you supposed to be covering my interviews while Jeonghan’s with Gabriella, why’s Carmen doing it?”

“I’m busy.”

“And you’ve got these kids following me around with cameras all day asking me to be their performing monkey.”

“So perform,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap. “This is part of your job whether you like it or not, and we need to catch up with our competitors on social media. We’re falling behind.” 

“Hold on– can we just–” In one swift motion he moves in front of you, brings you to a sudden halt with his hands on your arms and you jolt back out of his touch. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You glare at him because God, you’re not having this conversation here. “It had better be about work,” you hiss. “Because I’ll kill you if you make another scene like you did in the e–”

“No– no, I–” he pauses and sucks in a breath. He drags his gaze away from your face then, fixing on something over your head. Pink creeps over his cheeks, there’s sweat drying on his neck, the under-suit turtleneck hardly hiding the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. It’s almost endearing, but Christ, you want to shake the words out of him.

“Could you wear my ring again?”

Your lips part, but no words come out at first. Of all the things he could’ve said, this wasn’t what you would ever have expected. “Uh–”

“I was doing better when you had it on.”

Your eyes narrow. “I never had you down as the superstitious type.”

“I’m not, really. But I’ll take any good luck charm if it helps me win.”

You blink. 

“I’m not your talisman,” you laugh, incredulous. “You think I’m the problem with your qualifying? That you dropped so far on the grid because I wasn’t wearing your fucking ring?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not the problem. Just– when you wore it, I was doing so well, and I liked knowing you had it safe with you.” His hands twitch uselessly at his sides. “And when I asked you to take it off– I didn’t even want it back. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

The admission sits between you, heavy, sticky. All these years he’s made excuses to do the exact opposite and you can’t pinpoint when it changed. Heat crawls up your throat. For a moment you forget where you are, the sharp smell of rubber and petrol, the low rumble of engines starting up somewhere nearby. All you see is him– sweat still drying at his temple, pink at his ears, eyes shining in a way that’s too close to an admission of feeling.

You glance over his shoulder, subtly checking to make sure no cameras are near enough to catch this conversation. “I’ll wear it on one condition.”

He exhales, almost sounding relieved. “What?”

“You’ll do everything I ask.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “I already do that.”

“You do not. The admins have been telling me you’re being uncooperative when they’re trying to make content.”

Wonwoo crosses his arms. “Well you’re not the one asking.”

You roll your eyes. “It comes from me and you know it.” Wonwoo doesn’t answer, just scrunches up his nose in that way he does. “Come on, Wonwoo,” you say, voice low. “Perform for me.”

A barely there flicker of a smile, a small nod, and he’s moving out of your space. Wonwoo jogs back towards the garage and Edoardo, race-suit slung low around his hips. You wonder if this is what it feels like when you both win.

Later when you’re laying in bed, Wonwoo’s ring back on the chain around your neck, you check Tiktok. There’s a new video with over a million views since it was posted this afternoon, captioned ‘Outtakes with Jeon Wonwoo.’

It’s silly. Just spliced together clips of him sighing dramatically, more of him being told to pose for the camera and his lovely natural smile goes all wooden as he holds up his thumb, hugging Charles with a confused “–no idea what you’re telling me to do? Put my hands where? On his butt?” and Charles desperately trying to contain his laughter. Cut to another clip captioned ‘break time’– Wonwoo sitting on a high stool, staring absentmindedly, kicking his legs and eating a banana. When he catches sight of the camera on him he swallows the rest of the banana whole, and almost chokes on it.

It’s so silly, but it has over a million views since it was posted earlier today, and the comments are awash with fangirls saying he’s effortlessly funny and his english is soooooo cute and TIL THE DENTIST KNOWS ITS HIM– which is a little odd considering the whole thing gave you the most sickening cuteness aggression. How mortifying.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

On Sunday night, when you’re working from your hotel bed in your pyjamas, you get a text.

Wonwoo [21:14] I’m assuming you wore it?

Despite yourself, a half smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You lean back against the headboard and snap a quick photo of his ring, resting perfectly between your collarbones, grainy in the dim light from your laptop screen. 

You [21:15] Congratulations on P2. Still can’t say I had much to do with it You [21:15] IMG_4286

Wonwoo [21:15] I appreciate it anyway Wonwoo [21:15] Why don’t you come celebrate with us? Wonwoo [21:15] IMG_1938

It’s a dimly lit photo of his own, him and Max (who took P1) and George (P3) in a bar, and they’re all smiling wide at the camera. There are others at the table with them– you recognise a strategist from Red Bull, some staff from Mercedes. No one but Wonwoo from Ferrari. Wonwoo’s glasses are slipping down his nose, and he’s in a baggy white t-shirt rolled at the sleeves, with his hair pushed back like he’s walked straight out of a shampoo commercial. His glass halfway to his mouth.

You [21:15] Can’t. Got an early flight. We both do

Wonwoo [21:16] Maybe Inès has us next to each other again

You laugh. Nearly text back ‘God forbid’ before something has you deleting it.

You [21:16] Maybe cool it with the beer You [21:16] I couldn’t bear it if you smelled of alcohol right next to me so early in the morning You [21:16] And we don’t want a repeat of the last couple of times either of us got drunk

The reply is almost instantaneous. 

Wonwoo [21:16] Who’s we? I was gonna ask if I could come see you

Your breath sticks in your throat. Images of your recent dreams flashing through your imagination that you shake away. You lock your phone and unlock it within seconds. Read the message a third, a fourth, a fifth time, and you still can’t think of a reason why he’d want to leave his friends to seek out your company if it’s not for–

Another text vibrates you out of the fog. 

Wonwoo [21:18] What's your name? Why’s Wonwoo got you saved as Taskmaster? Is he dumping us to go hang out with you?

You [21:18] Who’s this?

Wonwoo [21:18] George. Your turn

You [21:18] Do me a favour, would you George?

Wonwoo [21:18] Anything for the woman he’s been agonising over texting for the last hour Wonwoo [21:18] Or man. I’m an ally 🫶

Your heart hammers in your chest. You’re being reckless, you know, but you just want to see if he’ll live up to his word. If he’ll do as you say. 

You [21:18] Tell Wonwoo if he wants my room number he’s going to have to work for it

Wonwoo [21:18] Saucy 

Across town, Wonwoo is wrestling with George to get his phone back. The others look on, laughing and jeering, but with a sharp twist to George’s nipple through his shirt, Wonwoo’s phone finally slips from his grip. Wonwoo takes off to the bar to collect himself. 

Wonwoo [21:20] They took my phone out of my pocket. Ignore them Wonwoo [21:20] Wait. Work for it how?

You [21:20] Your fangirls on TikTok are saying it’s been forever since you posted a selfie. They’re desperate for one. They need food for their edits of you

Three little dots appear and disappear in quick succession. A full five minutes goes by before you get a notification from Wonwoo on Instagram– he’s sent you his story. 

There is safety in the privacy of your room, but still you feel the need to slip down and hide your shamefully heated face under the duvet. You click the story, and it’s just a mirror selfie. Pretty face half obscured by his phone, but his sleeves are rolled just high enough that you can see the definition in his arms, the veins in his hands, and how broad his shoulders are. Caption in the corner, a simple ‘only got podium because of you’ and it’s not for you since he’s posted for all his 9.4 million followers to see, but it’s got your gross smile widening anyway. 

Wonwoo [21:26] Well?

You [21:26] Good job You [21:26] 8/10 

Wonwoo [21:27] Your turn

You blink stupidly at your screen. 

You [21:28] My turn to what?

Wonwoo [21:28] Post a selfie on instagram

You [21:28] I hardly think my measly 214 followers are interested in me bare faced in my pyjamas  

Wonwoo [21:28] At least one is

You [21:28] You don’t follow me

Wonwoo [21:28] Who said I meant me

Your face flames, but the everyone_woo started following you notification comes through only seconds later, and it’s ridiculous the way it makes your pulse skip. You glance at the mirror on the wardrobe across the room, at the mess of your hair, your soft pink pyjama shorts, the matching tank top sans bra. He couldn’t have messaged you an hour ago?

You grab your phone and slip into the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. It isn’t forgiving, so you switch on the mirror light instead. Better. You fix your hair, tilt your chin, let the strap of your pyjama top slide off your shoulder, and lean a little forward on the counter. Not too posed, but obvious. One quick snap, and the reflection of the flash across your collarbones makes his ring gleam. 

You deliberate for a good thirty seconds before posting it to your story. Caption: early flight club ✈️

It’s out there. Your stomach twists in anticipation of his response, and you lock your phone, slide across the counter lest you seem too eager to read any reply he might send. You splash water on your face, take longer than necessary to brush your teeth (for the second time tonight) just for something to occupy you for a moment longer. 

When you’re back in bed, you finally dare to look at your phone again, and there it is, amongst a few likes and a reply from Bridget with a bunch of aubergine and squirt emojis.

Wonwoo [21:31] Cute

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumbs still damp as you type.

You [21:33] Not what I was going for

Wonwoo [21:34] Well I didn’t want to be too forward

You stare at that for too long, the simple weight of it pressing down on your chest. You can’t imagine what he’d say if there wasn’t this strange tension between you. What he’d tell you if neither of you were inclined to hold back. 

You [21:34] Tell me

Wonwoo [21:34] Rather tell you in person

Your breath stutters. You almost ask him to come to you, tell you anything he wants, but instead you chicken out and send–

You [21:36] Shouldn’t you be celebrating instead of texting me?

Wonwoo [21:39] Like you said, got an early flight. On my way back to the hotel

Another pause. Your throat goes dry as you stare at yourself in the mirror of the vanity and wonder if you can really do this.

Wonwoo [21:41] I’ll be back in twenty minutes Wonwoo [21:41] If you want to come up

You can feel yourself teetering recklessly on the edge. You could. There’s nothing but your own arbitrary rules to stop you. You’ve been telling yourself you’re only curious to experience it, you just want to see what it’s like, just to try him on for size. It’s not like you like him. And it feels beyond reason, the way want drives you to type ‘yes, I’ll be there’ only for the message to remain unsent. Still– there’s the unsettling anxiety rolling in the pit of your stomach. You delete the message. Type it again. End up sending nothing at all.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The plane is mercifully quiet at dawn since most of the team have a later flight out but even through your haze of too-little sleep and too-much coffee, you spot him immediately. Brim of his bucket hat tugged low, hoodie zipped up, mask over his face. Inès has done it again. Two seats, side by side.

You stow your bag in the overhead locker and settle into your seat, pull your book from your bag just for something to do. Wonwoo doesn’t even say hello. He keeps his eyes down, thumbs busy with his phone. You tell yourself you don’t care. If he’s disappointed about last night he can sulk if he wants to. But the silence feels all wrong now.

By the time you're in the air and the seatbelt light clicks off, you can’t take it anymore. “You don’t have to sit next to me, you know,” you mutter, eyes still on the same page. “If I’ve pissed you off that much.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You could swap seats. The plane’s half empty.” You set your book in your lap and turn to look at him. He’s pulled his mask down over his chin, watching you with a cautious expression. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. So let’s just pretend we didn’t–” Flirt you almost say, but the word lodges in your throat. “–talk. We made a mistake.”

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. He leans back in his seat, finding sudden fascination with the buttons on the side of his armrest.

“You’d been drinking, I shouldn’t have–” you start, but falter in lieu of words you can’t find to accurately describe the shift in tension the last few days have brought about. “I shouldn’t have encouraged whatever we were doing.”

“I see,” he seethes, red creeping over his ears. 

You bristle. “You’re angry with me?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? Jesus Christ, I’m embarrassed that I–” He breaks off, lowering his voice to a hiss. “You think I’m annoyed because you didn’t show up?”

Your pulse hammers. “Aren’t you?”

“God, you’re impossible,” he whispers, sharp enough to make you flinch, then pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“For fucks sake, Wonwoo.” You lean just far enough toward him that your shoulders brush. “I’m soooo sorry for not throwing myself at you just because you were horny and drunk,” you hiss in his ear, ignoring the heat radiating off him. 

His jaw tightens. “That’s not– I had two dri– you were the one who–” He exhales hard, shaking his head. “Forget it. You’re determined to misunderstand me anyway.”

“Fine.” You slam your book shut, shove it into the seat pocket with more force than necessary. “Consider me misunderstood.”

The silence after that is brutal. He angles his body away, arms crossed, staring out the window at nothing but ocean. You turn on your side to face the aisle as best you can, scrunch your eyes shut and pretend to sleep, but every minute of his quiet only tightens the knots in your stomach. Only twelve hours to go. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Forty minutes in and the aircon cuts out. The cabin heats fast without it. Wonwoo shrugs off his hoodie, and you do the same– wishing you’d worn a day-old t-shirt rather than the only clean thing you had left in your suitcase, a satin camisole with a too-low neckline. You’ve got to find a new assistant who cares about your professional reputation. 

Fifteen minutes later, when the cabin is already sweltering and your skin is going slick with sweat, the announcement comes. You have to make an emergency landing in the Bahamas, and they’ll either fix the plane or rebook your flight. 

It’s fine. It’s okay. This happens all the time. Doesn’t stop your nerves from spiking because fuck do you hate when plans go awry. Beside you, Wonwoo is unperturbed. Of course he doesn’t give a shit if you have to cancel a six-million euro meeting with Rolex if it gives him an easy out. 

The descent is bumpy. You keep your hands folded tight in your lap, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. Wonwoo notices– and out of the corner of your eye you think you see his hand almost reach for you. You blink. Must be the heat fucking with you, because when you sneak a sideways glance again, his hand is resting as it was before on the armrest.

On the tarmac, the captain’s apology is drowned out by the sound of the ground crew and the complaints of your increasingly stressed fellow passengers. The press of heat makes you feel sick. They keep you confined to your seats while they work, handing out bottles of water that do little to cool your sweat slick bodies. Wonwoo’s hat and mask have long been shed, and he sits with his head tipped back, neck long and lovely and wet, eyes closed so his pretty eyelashes fan over pinked cheeks.  

After an hour on the ground, you’re starting to feel dizzy. You focus on a bead of sweat that’s sliding slowly down his temple and over the curve of his jaw. You hitch your breath as it catches in the hollow of his neck before disappearing into the collar of his wet shirt. You stare longer than you mean to. Takes a little longer for you to realise he’s caught you looking.

Doesn’t say anything, but he holds your gaze for a moment too long, and the look on his face sucks the air from your lungs faster than the heat. 

Wonwoo clears his throat. “You look terrible.”

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice is ragged with heat and exhaustion.

“You’re sweating through your clothes.”

“So don’t look.” Pervert.

“Here, have some of my water.”

You lazily shove the bottle in his outstretched hand away. “I said I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth.

Wonwoo swears under his breath. “Would you stop being so fucking stubborn for once?”

Your mouth opens, ready to berate him for pushing your buttons for no good reason, but nothing comes out. Just caught by the way his heavy lidded eyes flicker to your lips, and further, to your camisole sticking to your dampened skin, and the way your chest rises faster, harder than you’d like. The way he looks at you in this moment is a beautiful knife, cutting right through you. He swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. You both look away at the same time.

It’s clear the plane isn’t going anywhere within another twenty agonising minutes. The captain breaks the news: the flight’s canceled, the next direct to Zurich isn’t until tomorrow night. Unless you’d like to take three connections and spend the next thirty-six hours pinging around North America and Europe, this is it. When the announcement lands, your stomach flips. Wonwoo just leans back, unreadable, while you call Inès and ask her to make sure you’re on the flight out of here, and find you both somewhere to stay for a night. 

Another twenty minutes and they’re finally bringing the plane up to the gate. Your vision swims when you stand and reach up to open the overhead locker, and you stumble against the seat across the aisle from yours. Wonwoo makes a soft sound of admonishment before standing to guide you back to your seat with gentle hands on your arms. Everything feels foggy, the way he whispers your name, the way he holds a water bottle against your neck, the way his hands aren’t cold at all, right now. He must be suffering in this heat too, but you can hardly speak. All you can do is nod vacantly, when he says it’s okay, it’s okay, they’re letting us off soon. Let me go talk to someone– don’t move, okay? Okay?

You can’t tell if it’s been seconds or thirty minutes by the time you hear Wonwoo calling your name again. He sounds far away, underwater almost, but he’s touching your arm. Slowly blinking your eyes open, he’s right there with a stewardess and a wheelchair, and he’s leaning down, saying something like c’mon, can you put your arms around me? And when you do, when you circle your arms around his neck, his cheek presses against yours and he’s lifting you out of your seat and into the chair and it’s hard to let go– you don’t want to let go, you cling and sob and he’s saying it’s okay, you’re okay, I promise. It’s the closest you’ve ever been. And God, how utterly mortifying this whole ordeal has become. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Bahamas

The airport passes by in a blur. The staff help you through passport control while Wonwoo follows closely behind with your bags, and with another twenty minutes of the sweet luxury of air conditioning in baggage claim, you slowly come back to your senses. Wonwoo floats the idea of going to hospital but you’ve got enough strength back to firmly refuse any notion of that. Even so, Wonwoo won’t let you out of the wheelchair while he waits to collect your suitcases. Without the worry you’re going to pass out, the two of you are back to a terse silence, but you catch him watching you once, then twice, like he wants to talk but doesn’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say either. Just want to wash the humiliation and the drying sweat from your skin. 

Inès calls you back while Wonwoo is pushing you toward the cafe and a member of airport staff follows behind with your bags, he sits you at a table and rushes off to the counter to buy something, anything, with ice. Your freedom will be brief, so you take the opportunity to stand and stretch your legs, albeit bracing yourself on the table for support. You’ll do much better once Wonwoo stops treating you like you’re made of glass. 

“Rolex said they’ll get back to me later today to reschedule,” Inès says. “I’ve found you both a hotel thirty minutes away from the airport. Will that do? Would you like one room or two?”

You briefly wonder if you’re still out of it. “What?” you ask, sliding into a chair and pushing the wheelchair away from your table with your foot. “Two, Inès. Two rooms, please.” 

“Two rooms, got it,” she says, and you can hear the clacking of keys under her long nails. “Are you okay? You sound–”

“I’m fine–” you say, sharply cutting her off. “You’ll send me the details?”

“You’ll have the email in a few minutes,” she says. And then she apologises for the travel delay as if it were her fault, and clicks off. True to her word, the email confirmation comes through by the time Wonwoo is back with several bottles of water in a bag and a huge to-go cup filled with ice in his hand. 

“Where’s your wheelchair?”

“Wonwoo, seriously, I’m fine now. Let’s leave it for someone who really needs it, yeah? 

Wonwoo appraises you quietly. You sigh, stand (carefully) and pluck an ice cube from the top of the cup, hold it against your chest and let it melt over your skin. “Come on, let’s find a taxi.”

Even still, Wonwoo won’t let you take the luggage trolley from the staff. He takes it, balances the bag of water bottles precariously on top, pointedly ignoring your rolled eyes and ‘for God’s sake, I can carry ONE bag!’ and heads in the direction of the taxi rank, back outside in the heat. You act like you don’t care for the way he’s looking out for you, but he’s making it so difficult.

The torture of still, hot air is thankfully brief, but the next agony is the crawling traffic. A thirty minute drive stretches into forty, then fifty, then an hour. Wonwoo keeps his eyes fixed on the window, but his knee bounces, a quiet tell. You scroll your phone, feigning disinterest, though your pulse ratchets every time his thigh shifts closer to yours on the cramped backseat.

The hotel is pristine. Floors so perfect you could do your make-up in the reflection, and you make a mental note to buy Inès the prettiest flowers for booking you into luxury after the morning you’ve had. Check-in takes forever and all you can think about is the shower you’re going to have as soon as you’re in the room. The receptionist smiles brightly as you give her both your names, says of course without qualm when you ask for an afternoon check out, and she hands over your keys– 207 and 208. Of course. Whatever. Doesn’t mean you have to see each other again tonight. You send off some of your clothes to be laundered, Wonwoo too, and make your way to the elevator.

“Are you feeling better?” Wonwoo asks once inside, as he presses the button for your floor.

“Yes, thanks,” you say. Embarrassing the way he took care of you. Not that you’re not grateful, but that he had to at all. “I’ll be right as rain as soon as I’m clean.” 

Upstairs, you swipe into your room, drop your bag by the door, and cross to the curtains to find the balcony. Wide, white stone, overlooking the pool below, and ocean a little behind the line of trees. And when you slide open the glass doors to catch your breath, you see him. Standing exactly where the gap should be. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you. His hair is damp at the nape, clinging to his neck. The line of his back is taut, his t-shirt wrinkled from hours in the heat. Then he glances sideways. Catches you there, frozen, one hand still on the doorframe.

You turn, an inconceivable thought taking over, and make your way over to the bathroom, yank the door open and gasp when you see Wonwoo in a mirror image of you, having had exactly the same notion. He meets your eyes across the room, a crooked, incredulous smile spreading on his beautiful face, and says “Do you want to shower first or should I?”

A laugh falls out of you before you can stop it. Fuck Inès’ flowers because at this point she has to be pranking you. Her and Bridget and the universe have joined forces to shove you and Wonwoo together at every opportunity. Wonwoo’s laughing in disbelief too, and he looks so lovely and light like that, you can hardly breathe.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The shower is heaven– steam curling under the soft lights, high-pressured water washing away the stickiness of the day. You take your time, working the soaped cloth into your skin, towel off, massage your skin lotion until the scent of jasmine sits heavy in the air and your skin feels softer than ever. You wipe away the condensation in the mirror, do your skincare in the mirror, tug on last night's pyjamas, and knock on Wonwoo’s door to let him know the bathroom is all his, before crawling beneath the covers of what feels like the comfiest bed you’ve ever laid on. Sleep takes you quickly.

When you wake, the light is fading, the sky outside a soft pink. Your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand:

Wonwoo [19:14] Are you feeling better? Wonwoo [19:14] Should we get dinner? You didn’t eat all day

You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, and then you lock the screen. You roll over, bury your face in the cool side of the pillow, and will yourself not to think about him laying on the other side of this wall, waiting for your answer. You push away the thought, grab your book instead just to find something to lose yourself in.

Another buzz from your phone comes a little later, and for a fleeting moment you hope he’s trying to persuade you, but it’s just Bridget, with a link to an Instagram post. You bolt upright in bed so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. 

[DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE] JEON WONWOO’S NEW BEAU? A FORBIDDEN WORKPLACE ROMANCE, STEAMY MOMENTS, AND A CONFUSING TIMELINE 

It’s a fan-submitted post– four images on a carousel. The first being a shot of the two of you outside the restaurant, he’s standing close, wrapping his coat around your shoulders. Easily explained, you think, no matter what your pounding heart says.

The second is less so: you and Wonwoo in the pool last week, bodies suspiciously close, both of you staring intensely at one another. It’s grainy, poorly lit, but it’s obviously you. 

Next: paparazzi shots from Saturday, his hands on your arms as he stopped you from walking. You remember the taut conversation, but in this snapshot it looks like he’s looking directly at your cleavage. 

And last: a black and white still from the CCTV camera in the hotel elevator– your hands clasping the bare skin of his waist, his cradling your face, and worse still, the unmistakable look of desire in your eyes.

Formula One star Jeon Wonwoo spotted getting cozy with Ferrari’s Head of Communications– timeline of their new relationship? Read more on the Deuxmoi website… link in bio. 

Your blood goes ice cold. Before you can stop to think, you’re out of bed, book falling loudly to the floor, phone in hand, padding across the carpet and into the shared bathroom. A few quick strides and you’re hammering on his door. He answers quickly, barefoot, shirtless (of course. Any other time you’d roll your eyes but this time you shoulder past him into the room), hair still damp from the shower, grey sweats low on his hips. His eyes widen when he sees the wild look on your face.

You shove your phone at him. “Look at this.”

He takes it, flicks back and forth through the photos, jaw tightening. Then he looks back at you, expression unreadable. “It’s nothing, isn’t it? You’ve dealt with worse.”

“Nothing? I’m not the celebrity here, scandal doesn’t usually involve me.” Your voice spikes, and you sink down to sit on the edge of his bed, holding your head in your hands. “Wonwoo, this is Deuxmoi. Deuxmoi! They think we’re in a relationship. That’s crazy.”

There’s a flash of something like hurt on his face, but it’s gone before you can register it. He exhales, long and steady, and tosses your phone back. “Look, we’ll handle it, okay? We’ll handle it however you want.”

You blink. “What does that even mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, calm in the face of your panic. “If you want me to deny it, I will. If you want me to say nothing, I’ll keep quiet. If you want me to–” He stops, runs his tongue over his bottom lip, thinking better of the words he was about to say. “Whatever you want.”

You groan frustrated, falling back on the bed, throwing your arms over your face. Your stomach rumbles, and Wonwoo sighs, grabs a t-shirt from the back of the chair and shrugs it on, before coming to sit next to you on the edge of the bed. Quietly, you say, “I guess dinner’s off the table now.”

“Funny,” he scoffs. “I figured you weren’t interested when you left me on read.”

“That’s not funny at all.” You swallow hard, trying to mask the crack in your voice. 

“Notice how I’m not laughing?”

He isn’t. And somehow, that’s worse. There’s a brief silence, punctuated only by the sound of another embarrassing rumble of your stomach. “We could order room service?” you offer, voice coming out more pathetic than you’d like. Wonwoo huffs a small, rueful laugh and stretches across the bed for the phone on the nightstand. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re on the balcony when the food comes, two bowls of risotto, a coconut panna cotta for you, a strawberry mousse for him, and a bottle of champagne you didn’t order. Someone probably recognised Wonwoo’s name. The server barely has time to roll in the cart before you hear Wonwoo ushering him out again, large tip pressed into his palm. 

He brings the cart out to you on the balcony, the humid night air soft against your skin, the pool below lit turquoise, the sound of birds settling in for the night in the trees. Wonwoo settles into the chair next to you at the little white table.

For a while, it’s quiet, only punctuated by the pop of the champagne cork and the scrape of cutlery. Your stomach eases with the first real meal of the day, and you’re glad for the dim light– grateful he doesn’t seem to notice how often your eyes flick up to him, to the slope of his throat, the perfect shape of his mouth, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he bends over his plate.

Your phone buzzes just before you start your dessert, and Wonwoo fills your empty glass while you check it. It’s Jeonghan, nothing but the same link Bridget sent and a series of question marks. You sigh, and lock your phone again, pulling your plate toward you. 

“It’s not just me you ignore then?” Wonwoo asks, tone deceptively mild, toying with his half-eaten dessert. That’s rich of him to ask, given your history. 

“Excuse me?”

He rolls his head to the side with a hesitant sigh, an endearing pink blooming on his skin. “I keep wanting to talk to you,” he says. “But I can’t figure out if you’d rather I leave you alone.”

Your heartbeat suddenly feels so loud in your ears, but you keep your face composed. It’s hard to know, lately. If you fed into this, you can guess where it’ll lead, but your reputation at work is more important than whatever this might be. “I don’t know, Wonwoo,” you say quietly, honestly. “You confuse me.”

He glances up, eyes wide and a little surprised. “I’m the one who’s confused.” 

“I think about you all the time,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, before you let yourself consider the consequences, and those few little words silence you both. You set down your spoon and fiddle restlessly with the napkin on the table, but Wonwoo’s reaching over to still your hand with his. 

Your breath stutters. “Your hands are cold,” you say. 

Time moves like honey, and the air between you hums with electricity. You can feel his eyes on you but you can’t look because if you do– instead you push your plate aside and stand, moving over to lean on the balcony wall, taking in slow, steadying breaths in a desperate bid for the night air to cool you, palms flat against the stone.

Wonwoo joins you after a beat. Stands close behind and cages you against the wall with his arms. Rests his hands on top of yours and you let him twine your fingers together. Your eyes flutter shut as he leans closer, bodies mere millimetres apart, ghosts his lips across the shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t. You can’t. “This is stupid,” you mutter, as his breath warms your neck, tip of his nose feather light over your skin. Desire licks up your spine. “We’re being stupid.”

The problem with kissing is that it’s your downfall. Just one and everything comes tumbling down, so when he says ‘yeah, I know’ voice low and ragged as he breathes the word into your skin, and presses a soft, lingering kiss onto your shoulder, you know you’re fucked. What Wonwoo does with his lips should be none of your concern.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“This has to stay here, okay?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Just once.”

“Uh huh,” he says, lying through his teeth. Wonwoo has a taste of the feeling now and can’t give you up. He already knows he’s going to want this again and again, but he’ll agree to anything you say right now. You could ask him to capture the moonlight and he’d find a way to bottle it. 

Wonwoo had wanted to start careful. Knows you frighten easily and he doesn’t want to cut this night short on account of his haste to touch you, but God, he can feel the desperation on you because it matches his. Your tiny exhale when he drags his lips over your neck tells him it’s okay to keep going, and he leaves another gentle kiss there, almost verging on tender. You angle your head toward him, cheek against his temple and he slides a hand up your arm, warming the skin. Your now free hand reaches back to twist into his t-shirt and drag him flush against your body. 

Your ass against his crotch leaves nothing for your imagination, and your soft pleased noise pleased only has him reaching down your body, slipping his hand under your pyjama top and splaying it wide over your stomach, rubs a calloused thumb over the expanse of soft, pretty skin. Catches the hitch of your breath as you cant your hips against his hard cock and presses his whimper into the crook of your neck. “Kiss me,” you whisper. He looks up at you, twisted at the waist to watch him, lips full and slightly parted, heavy lidded eyes clouded with hunger. “Before we change our minds.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. Not likely for him, he thinks about saying, but you’re reaching up to catch his chin in curled fingers, tug him up just to let him chase your lips. Fuck. The tentative caution unravels into something hungry, desperate. His hand comes to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he draws you closer. When you finally kiss him deep and open, tongue sliding across his own something dirty, he’s too desperate and too obvious but he can’t find it in him to care. You whine into his mouth when he nips at your bottom lip, and he wonders if you’ll make the same noises when you come. 

The strap of your pyjama top slips from your shoulder, and he uses the opportunity. Slips his hand from yours and peels your top down on one side over your breast, breaks the kiss just to watch your nipple pebble in the cooling night air. “You’re so pretty,” he coos, cupping the swell of your tit, leaning back down to lave another wet kiss on your shoulder. His other hand ventures lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pink pyjama shorts, dips low enough just to tease at your folds. “Thought about taking this off you last night,” he admits. “Why didn’t you come?”

“Wanted to,” you whisper, angling your hips forward, chasing more of his touch. “S’bad idea.” 

He laughs against your skin, low and derisive. “God, you’re so fucking annoying.”

You hum, wiggle torturously against his aching cock. “Aren’t you one to t–” you’re cut off by your own choked exhale when he slides a long finger over your clit.

“Oh?” he whispers coyly against your neck. “Are you sensitive?”

“Shut up,” you manage, but you’re tipping your head back against his shoulder and your pretty eyelashes fan over the apples of your cheeks as you lose yourself in the feeling of him circling your sensitive bud, gasp as he gathers wetness from your entrance and smoothes it back over your clit. He presses his lips, soft, against your temple. “Fuck.”

God, he wants to hear you say that while deep inside your cunt. His pets grow frenzied, slipping his finger over in tight circles drawing pretty little noises from your perfect lips, and he loves the way you claw at his arm when he dips two fingers shallow inside, out, then deep. His vision goes clouded when you get so wet it coats his knuckles, likes the way you admonish him when he draws his fingers out of your pussy to bring them to your mouth. Feels like he’s losing his mind when he watches you open up for him, slide your wet, pink tongue over his fingers and moan at the taste of yourself on his skin. Finds it so obscenely hot that he buries his head in the crook of his neck just to hide his face, sucks a purple bruise over your pulse point before you drag your fingers from his mouth and twist to face him. Below, the quiet is punctuated with someone’s laugh in the pool, the sound faint and distant. His hands fall to your waist, your palms flat against his chest, and though he can see you’re about to speak he cuts you off– leans in to capture your lips with his, slides his tongue over yours, wet and heated, until you’re breaking off with a gasp. 

“Wait–” you say, but he’s chasing your lips. “Wonwoo, stop.” He swallows uneasily as you slip out of his grip, chest heaving, and he’s taken aback for a second until you’re tugging at the crook of his arm. “Can’t get caught with your dick in my mouth out here.”

“Oh.” He blinks stupidly, and you laugh at him, sending sparks through his veins. 

“C’mon,” you say, pulling him by the wrist into your room. Once inside you don’t look back at him as you ask, “Close the curtains?” 

While he draws the curtains, you rush over to your suitcase, dig through it as he takes his place on your bed, leaning back against the headboard, and tries to decide what he should do with his clothes (he leaves them on) until you come up triumphant with a little box of condoms. 

“Might keep this assistant after all,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Sorry?” 

“Nothing,” you say, glancing up at him. “Why are you still dressed?”

“I thought you could help me,” he tries in some stupid attempt to sound sexy. You laugh again, that lovely sound. You don’t laugh around him enough, he thinks, and he’s swallowing his embarrassment down because you’re gonna fuck him anyway. You climb into his lap, smooth bare legs straddled over his hips, damp crotch of your shorts against the thick bulge in his sweats, giving an experimental grind that draws small gasps from both of you. 

And then you’re tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, saying “Off.” He helps you drag it over his head, plucks off his glasses and casts them to the side, uncaring that they clatter to the floor. You leave a trail of soft kisses over his jaw and down his neck, a tentative suck over his collarbone leaving a barely there bruise, and harsher over his chest. You scratch lightly over the tattoo on his ribs and he shudders. “I think I hate this,” you say into his skin. 

He nods, dumbstruck. Yeah. Yeah, he’s been hating it for a while too. “Getting rid of it,” he pants.

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “First laser appointment is next week.”

“Ah,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.” He loves the way you look at him, eyes big and earnest, and (dare he say?) pleased to hear it’ll soon be gone. 

You kneel above him to give him enough room to shed his sweats and boxers at the same time– thick, hard cock bobs against the hard line of his stomach. Feels a little fucked up when you settle on his thighs, hand sliding down his body, electric over his skin, fingers curling around his cock and he watches, enraptured, as you gather spit on your tongue and lean over to let it pool onto the head of his cock. He sucks in a ragged breath, hands flying to your hips when you work it over him, twisting tight over the head. Humiliating, the way he fucks up into your circled fingers. Humbling, when he surges forward to kiss you desperate just for you to dodge him, sweet, evil smile playing on your lips. Ever since he’s known you he’s always felt a step behind, and this is no different. 

You move down down down, and meet your glassy eyes with his as you lick a thick, wet stripe up his length. Shudders as you take him in the slick heat of your pretty mouth, cheeks hollowed out, pulling back just to lave your tongue over the head and lap away the precum beading there. He’s always loved the way your mouth moves, when you speak languages he doesn’t understand, when you’re subconsciously worrying your bottom lip as you pour over your book, the occasional times you wear that deep red lipstick (he wants to ruin it), and especially now– lips pink and kiss swollen and wet with spit and his pre-cum, with his cock slipping between your lips. 

He’s giving himself away, the way he groans, but it’s only got you more eager, and you’re humming self-satisfied around his cock. Nearly loses his mind as he catches your hand slipping between your legs, pushing your shorts to the side to play with your clit, view hidden from him under the bunched cotton. Infuriation flares inside his chest. Wants to see. Needs that pleasure for himself, really, because he can’t have you taking control of this too. He reaches over, hand slipping flat past the waistband of those shorts and onto the flesh of the ass he’s been desperate to touch, and he echoes your order from earlier. “Off. Wanna see you.”

You’re still stubborn. Watch him with half-lidded, fucked out eyes as you sink your mouth further over him, feels you sigh out through your nose as you push past your gag reflex and he groans so pornographic. You hold there for a moment, eyes flutter closed, and Wonwoo’s brow pinches in pleasure, feels the tightness all over his skin. “Off,” he insists, pulling you off him with a dirty pop. “Don’t wanna cum yet.” 

He almost gives in when you pout, look up at him with those big beautiful eyes just to make him weak. “I wanted you to cum,” you complain, but he’s ignoring you, rolling you off him to the side and dragging your shorts down your legs just to slot between them. 

Nudges your thighs apart with his knees and he groans again at the sight of your wetness making your flesh shine. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin. “Always thought that.” Mouths rough at your thigh, swipes your wetness away with his tongue and revels in the way your breath hitches when he rolls the pad of his thumb over your clit. “Fuck,” he coos, between gentle nips at your skin, using his other hand to slide up your body and push up your top over your breasts, and you tug it off over your head. Feels a little breathless seeing his ring sit gleaming at your throat, while you’re exposed beneath him. In nothing but your jewellery and his. Dips his head and drags his tongue over your core, and watches your hands find purchase in the stark white sheets. Wants them in his hair, in his mouth, back around his cock while he drowns himself in the taste of you and your sweet little sounds. “You taste so good, baby.” 

Your brow furrows. “Don’t call me that,” you complain, but you’re reaching over to touch his face so gently. “M’not yours to call baby.” 

He holds in his frustration, buries it deep in his bones, channels the feeling into a harsh suck over your clit and takes pleasure in your resulting needy whine. Not yet is what he’d say if he were braver. Soon is what he’d say if he were a few drinks deep. Be my baby is what he’d say if he were sure. Instead he settles on pressing your whispered name into your skin as he slips his fingers into your tight, blinding heat and rolls his tongue over your clit. Reclaims his confidence in the pretty noises he draws from your lips. If you’re not gonna be his then he’ll settle for occupying your thoughts for as long as he can. 

Wonwoo laps at the juncture of his fingers in your cunt, peppers feather light kisses over your clit, teases his tongue in tiny, slow, circles until your fingers find purchase in his hair and he moans loud as you drag his face harder against your body, grinding his nose over your clit, your patience with him wearing thin yet again. Makes him feral– fucks eager fingers into you, makes a little o with his mouth and hums over your clit, sucks gently, drawing desperate, panted breaths from your lungs. Knows how he must look to you, watching him with lust clouded eyes over the expanse of your body, lets his eyes close as he loses himself in the taste of you. He moans with you as he crooks his fingers at that perfect spot to make your legs shake, and fucks his aching cock against the mattress when his mind fogs over as you soak his chin. With a choked sob your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands twist in his hair and he groans, self-satisfied, at the sharp pain. He keeps fucking his fingers into you, working you through it, keeps licking at your clit until you shove him off with a broken cry. 

He sits back on his calves, running soothing hands over your thighs while you come down from your high, wants to kiss you through it so badly but you’re already turning onto your side, fumbling clumsily for the condom box and tossing it toward him. Wonwoo makes quick work of it while you turn onto your front, rest your forehead on your crossed arms– he finds one his size and rolls it on, and you raise your ass into the air, giving him a mind-numbing view of your pulsing, sopping core. Feels as though he’s had the air knocked out of him. “Please, Wonwoo,” you beg, head falling to the side so you can watch him line himself up against your core. “Give it to me.”

Wonwoo knows this is the most perfect moment. Tries to feel wholly present as he sinks his length deep into your tight, hot cunt, and knows that this night will come back to haunt him if it only happens once. If he can only piece together the memory of your touch, and not live it over and over again, it’ll be his undoing. Pushes your body down with his hands on your hips, flush against the mattress and you tilt up your hips, and he lays over you, both moaning loud and unabashed in tandem, feeling that delicious pressure take over. “Feels good, Wonwoo,” you murmur. You sound drunk on it. On him. Shit.

“M’not gonna last,” Wonwoo says, the heat of equal measures embarrassment and desire on his face.

“S’okay,” you say gently. “Just wanna feel you.”

Wonwoo trails his lips over your shoulder as he fucks into you slow and hard and desperate, breathes fractured moans into the shell of your ear and the wetness seeping out of your soaked cunt coats the back of your thighs and the front of his, makes obscene noises that only drives him to fuck you harder. Pushes the air out of your lungs until you’re gasping, anguished, and he’s kissing over your neck, your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth and you’re twisted at what must be a torturous angle just to kiss him lazy and messy but it’s perfect. You’re perfect. 

You’re sliding out a hand from beneath your head, grasping at his hip as he fucks into you, nails digging crescent moons into his skin. Wonwoo covers it with his own, twines your fingers together and pants your name into your cheek. Nearly whites out as your cunt clenches exquisitely around him and you’re crying out again, sharp and punctured. Chases his own end as you babble, catches his name on your lips and comes hard, rolling his hips deep deep deep and empties into the condom. 

Already knows he can’t let this be the end as he sags his sweat slick body against yours. Can’t carry on working alongside you, without burying his cock to the hilt in your body when you’re alone. Can’t sit next to you on yet another long haul flight without taking your hand in his. He already can’t win a race without searching for your face in the sea of people crowding him. How could he do it now, knowing this was how good you were together?

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Wonwoo,” you say, once your voice comes back to you. “You’re heavy.”

He nods, sated, against your back, pulls his cock from your body and the emptiness makes the ache evident. Rolls off you to the side, and already you miss the weight of him, but he keeps his palm flat over the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh. You keep your head turned the other way. Know if you look at him like this it’ll make you delirious, so you won’t. He’s trailing his fingers along your spine, leaving gentle kisses across the bruising sucks he’d already bloomed on your skin.

“Be right back,” you say, shifting away from his touch. 

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, concern obvious in his tone. 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just wanna clean off.”

You slip away barefoot to the bathroom, where you collect yourself against the door for a moment, before moving to the skin to splash water on your face to cool the burn. God. God. 

The mirror is still fogged from his shower earlier, the faint trace of his soap clinging to the steam-slick tiles. You brace your hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging. Your body is buzzing– every nerve still alight, every inch of you aching in the most devastating way.

It was supposed to be once. A release of pent up energy, an inevitability you’d both been circling. So good that even now, your thighs tremble and your skin prickles at the memory of his mouth on your throat, the way your name burned on his lips while he was buried inside you.

You splash more cold water over your face, over your chest, try to scrub away the heat. You can’t walk into the paddock with this in your head. You can’t look at him across a conference table and pretend you don’t know how he sounds when he loses control, how his hands mould perfectly desperate around your hips, or how he looks so fucked out when he’s got you close to the edge.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, pressing the towel hard against your face. What were you thinking?

The trouble is you’re not thinking at all. You haven’t been. For weeks, you’ve been trying to push the feeling away, trying not to want, and now you’ve gone and done the worst possible thing by giving in to him.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “You okay?” Wonwoo’s voice, low and quiet, like he knows you’re freaking out. Like he feels it too.

Your heart lurches, traitorous. You grip the counter tighter, force your voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“Can I come inside?” he asks, and you’re taken aback that you want to let him in. Your imagination races– flashes of him fucking you in the fogged up mirror, washing away your sins in the shower, sharing the stream and more of those torturously languid kisses. You can’t. Once was a bad idea to begin with, it has to end here. 

“No. I’ll be out in a minute,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. “Wait– can you bring my pyjamas please?”

“Sure,” he says, and you can hear his retreating footsteps. 

You busy yourself with soaking a washcloth in warm water, slipping it between your legs and rinsing away the evidence of your need for him. There’s another knock at the door, and Wonwoo says through it, “Your shorts are kind of– they’re–” he falters, but you get it. “I got you this instead.” And he’s opening the door just a crack to slot his arm through– the t-shirt he was wearing, a pair of his shorts, and a pair of white cotton briefs from your suitcase. 

You pad over to take them from him. “What about you?”

“I don’t wear anything to sleep anyway.”

You close your eyes, inhale a steadying slow breath, because tomorrow you’ll have to go back to normal, somehow pretending this never happened. How, you don’t know. And then he’s pulling the door closed again with a soft click, so you shrug on his clothes, appraise yourself in the mirror. Everything in it is his.

You slip back into the bedroom, his shirt brushing mid-thigh, the cotton carrying the faint warmth of his skin. Wonwoo’s pulled on his sweats again, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows propped on his knees, head bowed in his hands. When he glances up at you, his expression is unreadable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, sliding beneath the covers on your side, pulling the duvet over your lap. The sheets are warm from his body. Yours too. 

“No problem,” he says. Gets to his feet, slow and deliberate.

For a beat you stare, heart caught in your throat. The sight of him standing there– broad shoulders, hair mussed from your touch, the waistband of his sweats hanging low on his hips– sends your stomach tumbling. Panic prickles under your skin. 

“Oh. You’re– heading back to your room?” 

He looks at you with something akin to dull surprise. Blinks it away in a moment. “I suppose so,” he says, voice clipped. And then he’s making his way into the shared bathroom, door pulled sharply closed behind him, and you hear the running water of the tap, and after a minute, the soft click of the door on the other side. 

You sink down into the sheets, stare at the ceiling, wringing your hands under the covers. Regret floods hot and fast, tangling with frustration. Why didn’t you just tell him to stay? Why didn’t you admit that you wanted the heat of his chest pressed to your back again, with his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin until you fell asleep?

Instead, you lie awake, replaying every second in torturous detail. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. And now– the silence is too loud.

On the other side of the wall, Wonwoo lies flat on his back, one arm slung over his eyes. He can still smell you on him, can still hear the soft gasp you made when he pushed into you, can still feel the trembling in your thighs when you broke apart under him. You didn’t want him to stay. He pushed too far, too soon, and now he’s ruined the fragile thing between you.

Neither of you sleep. You, chest tight with words you can’t bring yourself to say. Him, staring at the ceiling in the dark, mind spinning with the same question on loop: how the fuck can we go back to normal?

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The vibration of your phone drags you out of a shallow, fractured sleep. It’s still dark, just a smear of light starting to edge over the horizon. You fumble for it on the nightstand, eyes squinting against the too-bright glow at the notifications on your screen.

Edoardo [05:32] Are you already handling this or do I need to be concerned?

Your chest tightens, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you can fully process it, another buzz–

Bridget [05:34] How’re you doing darling?

And as if the universe has decided that sleeping in is not in the cards today– an email notification from Inès pings through. Rolex has offered to reschedule for Thursday, 11:00. Your flight should get in at 06:35, but let me know if you’d like to push for later. 

PS - you should know everyone in the office is talking about you and Wonwoo. 

You toss the phone to the side and drag both hands over your face. Sunrise isn’t even here yet and already you’re cornered on all sides.

Room service answers on the first ring, your voice hoarse when you order a pot of tea and nothing else. You set your laptop under your arm and slip outside barefoot. The balcony stones are cool, damp with morning air. You fold yourself into the corner chair, prop your feet on the wall, and watch the sky soften from violet to peach while birds chatter in the trees below.

For a few blessed minutes, it’s just you, the smell of Wonwoo’s soap still clinging faintly to your skin, the promise of hot tea on its way. You tell yourself you’ll figure it out. That you’ve handled worse fires than this.

The door beside you slides open, and Wonwoo steps out, hair a mess, glasses lopsided on his nose, eyes shadowed from the same restless night, he scrunches his eyes together in the dim morning light and he’s so sweet that you’re hit with a pang of longing. He leans one hand against the balcony rail, phone in the other. His voice is flat when he says, “Mingyu woke me up. Said my face is everywhere.”

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth, glance back at your screen. “Edoardo’s already on me too.”

He hums, too tired to talk it out, sinks down into the chair beside you. For a moment you both just sit there, brittle in the hush of this early hour. You steal a sideways glance at Wonwoo, who’s looking out over the water. The way he shines in the morning is something worthy of poetry.

“Last night was a mistake,” you say finally, staring at the way the rising sun casts amber light over the ocean. 

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either. Just exhales and rubs a hand over his neck. “But you don’t regret it?”

Your head snaps toward him, heart stumbling. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something raw there, a glimmer that leaves your throat dry.

“I regret how complicated it is,” you murmur.

That earns the faintest twist of his mouth, not quite a smile. “I can live with complicated.”

The words hit you like a strike to the sternum. Live with complicated. You tell yourself not to read into it, not to let your brain chase down every possible meaning hiding under his quiet delivery, but your pulse betrays you. A part of you wants to laugh, because complicated is such an absurd understatement for the mess you’ve just made together. Another part aches– sharp and insistent– because if he can live with it, maybe you could too. Maybe it isn’t just the gravity of last night that’s keeping you tethered here beside him. The silence stretches again. The sky blushes gold, the air turns warmer, and for the first time since yesterday you don’t feel like you’re on the verge of breaking, every which way.

Room service arrives, a quiet knock at your door. You regret not having ordered enough for two but after your first few warming sips, you offer him some from your mug, and he takes it gratefully, fingers brushing yours over the handle. 

“Rolex meeting’s not for two days,” you say. “But we’ll have to call into the office today once we figure out how we’re going to play it.”

“Are you going to tell them?” he asks.

“That we had sex?” you laugh bitterly around a yawn. “God no.” He nods sagely, takes a long gulp of tea and it makes you wonder if he’s just doing it to hide his face. “The worst one is from the CCTV in the elevator. Anything else can be easily explained as friendship.” You sigh heavy. 

“We could tell them I liked you,” he offers, still staring into the mug. “And that you rejected me. Ask them to release the rest of the footage.”

Your breath hitches. Liked. Again. “I suppose,” you agree, voice flat.

“It’s close enough to the truth,” he says, and you suddenly can’t speak. What was last night if the like is past tense? And it’s almost like he can sense it, the way your pulse spikes and the tension knotting your spine, because he tacks on, “They don’t need to know I still do. Like you– I mean.”

“Oh.”

The word feels too small and stupid in the quiet between you. You want to reach for something clever, something equal, but your mind is a blank page except for the echo of I still do.

It loops over and over, burrowing under your ribs, muddling every careful line you’ve drawn between want and work, need and denial. Last night was supposed to be once. A mistake you could compartmentalise, shove into the dark corner of your brain labelled things we don’t think about at the office. But now– now he’s cracked the door wider, and you don’t know how to walk through it without leaving behind what you’ve built.

Your chest feels hot, your throat tight. You take the mug back from him just so you have something to hold, fingers wrapping hard around the ceramic, grounding yourself in the warmth. He doesn’t press, doesn’t even look at you, and somehow that only makes the confession feel heavier.

You tilt your face toward the sunrise, blinking hard against the tears pricking at the corners of your tired eyes, and tell yourself the heaviness in your body is just lack of sleep.

Your laptop pings with another email– but you can barely read the subject line from Gabriella before Wonwoo is pushing your laptop closed. “Hey!” you admonish. “That could be important, I need to–”

“Sleep,” he interrupts. His tone is soft, persuasive. “Come on. They can handle things without us for a little longer.”

You open your mouth to argue, but your body betrays you with a yawn, aching bone-deep from exhaustion. He sets the mug down on the table before extending his hand to you, and you stare at it for a long moment before giving in without a fight, slipping your fingers into his. Wonwoo guides you gently through his door. His bed is unmade, sheets tangled from his apparent restless night. You crawl in beside him, he sets his glasses on the nightstands and draws the covers over both of you, and the room feels impossibly still. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd– just settles close enough that your shoulders touch, hands still clasped beneath the sheets. 

“Just a few hours,” he murmurs, already sinking into sleep, thumb stroking absentmindedly over yours. 

“Just a few,” you whisper back, though you know the world outside will come crashing in soon enough.

For now, the sunrise paints the ceiling in soft gold, a warm breeze filters in through the open door, and you turn onto your side, tuck your body against the quiet warmth of him. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s the startling vibration that drags you out of the depths of sleep, a muffled buzz rattling atop the nightstand. You blink against the pull of your eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, and it takes you a moment to even register that the sound is your phone.

You shift to reach for it– only to still when you realise Wonwoo’s arm is heavy across your waist. His chest flush against your back, his breath measured and warm at the curve of your neck. And lower– he’s hard, thick against your thigh through the thin barrier of fabric.

The call clicks off. Blessed silence. But before you can let relief settle, the phone starts buzzing again, shrill in the quiet of the room. You should get it. You need to get it. Instead, you stay perfectly still, heart pounding, because the pressure of him against you is enough to short-circuit every thought in your head.

Wonwoo stirs, makes a low noise in his throat that sounds too close to a groan, the noise absentminded and unintentional– but it sparks fire anyway. His nose brushes the back of your shoulder, lips grazing skin in a touch so deliberate it sends a lick of need up your spine. The phone is still buzzing but by the time you rouse from the bed, with Wonwoo grumbling behind you, it rings off again. You look over your shoulder and Wonwoo has rolled onto his back, hair mussed, eyes hazy with sleep but dark with something heavier. 

Your phone rings again, but you don’t care now, because your hand finds the line of his jaw, the other sliding over the nape of his neck, and you’re pulling him up to you. His mouth crushes into yours, clumsy with sleep and hunger for touch, and you hum into his mouth, fingers twisting into his hair. The sound he makes when you part your lips for him is wrecked, needy, and it only unravels you more.

He guides your leg over his lap, holds your hips down, keeps you grinding against him, until you slide a hand between your bodies and bunch the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free his cock. He whines, delicious, as you circle your fingers around him and drag. Every careful argument you’ve rehearsed since last night burns away in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his body against yours. Your phone stops, mercifully, only for the silence to throb with urgency. Whoever it is will call again. You know it. 

“Listen–” you try, breaking off from his mouth with a sharp breath.

“I’m listening,” Wonwoo says, then scrapes his teeth along your jaw. One of his hands rags down your body, slipping under the hem of his t-shirt that you still wear, dancing his fingers over soft skin, finds your naked waist and grips it, slender fingers digging so desperate, and he trails further until he’s cupping your breast, running his thumb over the swell of flesh.

“You’re obviously not,” you chide. You can feel him hard against your clothed cunt, and you press against him, giving an experimental grind. Fuck. 

Wonwoo tsks. “You haven’t said anything yet.” He’s kissing down your neck. “How can you tell whether I’m listening or not?” 

“You’re distracted,” you say, and he’s pulling his t-shirt off your body, tosses it to the floor.

He huffs a laugh, rolls his hips to drag the thick, hard line of his cock against your cotton clad pussy, already dampening the material. “You’re not exactly making it easy for me.” 

This conversation is a thin veneer– for the desire you hold within you, for the convoluted mess of feelings you’re trying to keep bottled. What Wonwoo will do with his body will haunt you, as he already does in your dreams, but you’re letting it happen anyway, despite the words you said yesterday. You whine as he rolls his hips again, fucking his cock slow against your core, walls clenching around nothing. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you getting wet.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” you pant. You’re moving over him now, sliding your needy clit over his length. The condoms are in your room, but breaking apart to fetch them would break the moment too. So you lean, brace your palms on his knees and let him tug your sodden underwear to the side. Moans come broken and in tandem as he dips two long fingers inside, crooks them and draws your wetness out. He smears it over your folds, over the juncture of your thighs, dips again to gather more as works it over his cock. 

Wonwoo uses his thumb to press his length hard against your cunt and slides slow, and it’s so so much better without the barrier of your underwear. Can feel the heat of him better. You like the way he watches where your bodies meet, his hunger pure and open, and more still when his eyes meet yours and he searches your face for all your tells as he fucks his length against you, cockhead bumping over your clit. The crotch of your underwear slips back over you, over his cock against you and he moans again, desperate, as his pre-cum seeps through along with your juices, making the thin white cotton sopping wet, and almost sheer. Can see the slit of the head of his cock every time he slides up. 

It’s a crude display you fear you’ll never recover from, but that doesn’t still your hips. Doesn’t stop your eyes from clouding over with hazy lust and insatiable need. Doesn’t stop Wonwoo from littering praise with his lips pressed into your skin– how hot you are, how he’s needed this, how you feel so fucking good, baby. Baby. Doesn’t snap you from your reverie, this time, only makes you dizzy. 

“Oh God,” you babble, and he’s nodding along with you. He lifts your chin with his hand, tugs you toward him to kiss you deep, and he flops backwards onto the bed dragging you forward, his dirty groan sending shivers down your spine. “Wan’ you inside. Now.” 

“Yeah?” he pants, but you’re already slipping a hand behind, lining him up against your pulsing entrance and sinking onto him. His sounds spur you on, so good you want to sink your teeth into them. You ride him hard and cant your hips in a way that makes the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, makes him hold you down, grind the base of his cock against your clit to draw littered moans from your kiss-bitten lips. He’s digging his fingers into your hips so hard you’ll surely bruise, but this is how you want it. Frenzied and raw and so hard it’ll leave you sore for days afterward. 

Tears prick at your eyes when your hips falter out of their rhythm, but Wonwoo’s taking over, fucking up into you from below. “Fill me up so good,” you whine. 

One of his hands moves, loops a circle around your wrist, and he drags it to his mouth. Presses a kiss to the pulse point there. “Tell me what you feel.”

You sigh, the pleasure wracking through you still, makes it hard to understand what he wants.

You laugh, unsure. “I– I feel like I’m gonna come soo–”

“No. Tell me you like me,” he whispers into your skin, so quiet you almost miss it over the obscene sound of the slide of his cock inside you. He slows your hips to a halt, cock buried to the hilt. Without the movement you can feel how the wetness has pooled on his skin. God. Fuck, the feeling of him so deep makes you squirm in his lap, but he holds you tight. “Wanna hear you say it.” 

He must know, surely. How could he not, because you wouldn’t have taken in your body if you didn’t have some feeling for him. What difference does saying it aloud make? “I like you,” you confess, breathing hard, but the weight of it in your chest is already lightening. 

“Yeah?” You nod, and then he’s moving again hips slower this time, taking one hand and slipping it between your bodies, teasing with your clit. That, along with the look on his face, mouth parted and pretty, eyes dark with lust, has your end rocketing toward you. 

You cock an eyebrow. “You’re gonna make me say it and then not say it back?”

He smiles wide. “I like you t–” He’s cut off by a moan, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Shit– fuck, baby. Just got so tight.” 

He’s sitting up again, manoeuvring your legs so they cross at your ankles behind his back, and this new angle makes you cry out with pleasure. You’re soaking into his lap, the wet slap of skin, the bite of your bunched underwear pushed thoughtlessly to the side, and the drag of his thick cock inside your tight, wet heat, has you so fucking close. 

“Ah– so good,” you whine, a fractured, pathetic sound. “Gonna come, Wonwoo, I’m coming– God–”

“Cum on my cock, yeah, fuck– just like that,” he pleads. “You feel so fucking good. You’re so good.” His body moves charged under your touch as he works you through it, kisses your open mouth as you cry out, swallows your pretty sounds with his mouth as his own hips begin to stutter, muscles taut and corded and he’s panting “Fuck. Fuck– yeah, baby, me too,” into your skin. Comes so hard inside your body that it has you swearing you can see stars, hands carding through his hair, sweat beading on his forehead that you sweep away with your lips.

When he pulls his cock from your pussy, your underwear slotted back in place, his cum and yours seeps out of you, thick through the material, and Wonwoo groans at the filthy sight of it. Drags two fingers through, gathers a little and brings them to your mouth. You open without question, and your eyes flutter closed in bliss when he presses them into your wet, hot mouth, tongue curling around his fingertips, lapping away the taste of you both together. 

“Is it good?” he whispers. 

“Mhm,” you murmur. “So good.” 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He holds you in his lap like this, letting you come down slowly, hands sliding over the smooth skin of your back, and he trails his lips along your collarbone. You cradle his head in your arms, cheek resting heavy against his temple, fingers gently toying the hair at the nape of his neck. He loves the softness of it, hasn’t been touched this delicately in years, and right now, if asked, he’d confess he wants to live like this, wrapped up in each other.

“Can I ask you something?” he whispers into your skin.

“Mhm,” you murmur back, too fucked out to form words.

“Does it need to stay here?” 

You sigh. “You know it does. We’re too messy. We can hardly get along most of the time.”

“That was before,” he presses.

“Maybe,” you say, leaning back to look at him, hands smoothing over his shoulders. You’ve got that reluctant look on your face that pricks his nerves. “But you don’t know. We hardly know each other properly.” 

“So let me know you properly.” He pouts, draws you back in to press a kiss to your cheek. “What should we do today? Should we go to the beach?”

You let out a sad little laugh. “I’ve got work.” 

He sighs, frustrated. “You never stop working. Take a day off.” 

You lean back away from him again, frowning, hands pressed flat over his shoulders. “Did you forget the two of us are caught in a dating scandal? Back to back with your sex tape this isn’t an ideal time to take a day off.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and he feels you bristle under his touch. “What does it matter if it’s true? We’re not doing anything wrong. Let them talk.”

You scoff. “It’s not true, though, is it? We’re not dating. We just fucked.”

“Twice.”

“That’s not th–”

“And I don’t want it to stay here,” he cuts you off, hands falling to your hips in the hope he can anchor you here with him, voice growing more insistent. “Just say you want this as much as I do.”

He’d hoped you’d give in, but you’re pushing off him and tucking your head down, avoiding his eyes. He goes for your hand but you move out of reach, and grab his t-shirt to pull it over your head and hide his marks left on your skin. 

And as you both go quiet, and your sated bodies sag against each other, you think this is it. It’s a bitter twist to break him free from the haze that took over. You’re insistent you’ve let this thing between you run its course, and now it has to stay here, in this room. But at least he’ll always know how he could undo you, and you in turn him, the mess he made of your body is proof of it.

And then you’re picking up your phone, frown tightening and your breath quickens. The glow of the screen washes your face ashen. You exhale hard, thumb skimming over the notifications, expression clouding.

Wonwoo hates it instantly. Hates how quickly your focus shifts away from him. He moves closer, mattress dipping under the weight, wrapping his arms back around your waist, nose brushing the divot in your neck. “Ignore it.”

“I can’t.” There’s reluctance in your voice that he holds onto. 

“Tell them you’re sick.” His voice dips, coaxing. He’s pulling you back down against him. “What do we even have to do today? Nothing. Let’s walk on the beach. Or– or get coffee. Pretend we’re not us for a while.”

The fantasy is so vivid in his mind he almost believes it could happen. But you’re shaking your head, standing up and slipping out of his arms. “I’ve got to call Edoardo back. And Gabriella.”

He watches you scroll through messages, and feels the pout tug at his mouth before he can stop it. “You’re so stubborn.”

Your eyes flick to him, and despite yourself, your expression softens a little. “And you’re annoying,” you say softly, reaching out to run a soft thumb over his bottom lip, pushing his sullenness away. “At least you’re cute.”

It warms him more than it should. But you’re already moving toward the balcony door, phone pressed to your ear. 

“Francesca, ciao. Mi dispiace, non sono stata bene. Puoi passarmi Edoardo?” You step out into the bright sunshine, lighting up your anxiety ridden face, door clicking shut behind you, and Wonwoo is left alone with his thoughts.

The echo of your earlier confession still pulses in his head, but now it mixes with the reminder that although your world has been taken over by him and his reputation, it’s still so much bigger than him. And he doesn’t like sharing.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your last call ends and you’re left staring at your own reflection in the black glass of your phone screen, Gabriella’s voice still needling at the edges of your skull. There’s laughter down below from the pool, at a bitter contrast with the kind of anger that coils tight in your chest.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, try to work your way through the disbelief of it all, trying to make sense of why she would have turned herself in after dragging it on for so long. It feels– pointless. Was the goal to just set fire to his life, and her own in turn? You want to scream. Instead you shove back from the balcony chair, slide the door open with more force than you mean to.

Wonwoo’s just stepped out of the bathroom, wiping the condensation from his glasses and pushing them back on. His hair is damp, towel slung low around his hips. Steam clings to his skin, the scent of his soap curling through the air, and he smiles soft and unguarded at the sight of you, falters when he takes in your expression– it almost undoes you. You want to cross the room, put your arms around him, hold him against you until the tension in your body melts away. But you can’t. Not when the truth tastes this bitter on your tongue, not when his fucking cum still dampens your underwear. Shit, you need to shower so badly.

His brows knit together, cautious. “What did they say?”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, dig your nails into your palms until it hurts. “It was your ex,” you bite out. “She’s the one who leaked the tape.”

The words hang heavy, souring the air between you. His body goes taut, mouth parts in surprise. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and that silence cuts deeper than any outburst could.

“She turned herself in this morning,” you continue. “It’s being kept under wraps for now, but it’ll break soon, Wonwoo. You should stay offline.”

There’s a sharp tick in his jaw. He drags a hand through his wet hair, exhales heavy, like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. You ache to touch him, to soften the edges, but you keep your hands to yourself. This isn’t your place.

“Say something,” you whisper, because the silence is too much. “Why would she do that?” Wonwoo doesn’t look like he understands it either for a minute, and then you see something click in his eyes. “What is it?”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get the details fourth-hand: the police to Jeonghan to Gabriella to you. Wonwoo was right– it was just a pathetic bid for his attention. The ‘ex’ she supposedly cheated on him with doesn’t even exist, and the profile Gabriella had for him on Instagram belonged to her. Turns out love really can make you crazy.

She’d told him several months ago that she wanted to get back together, spent a few weeks pleading her case over texts and voicemail– all while Wonwoo shut her out, uninterested in rekindling their relationship– until she went dead silent. Later, she leaked the photos knowing it would bring her character into question in her industry, in the hope he’d reach out (and of course you’d been against it) so on the back of your advice and Mingyu’s, he’d blocked her number. 

After the Vanity Fair cover came out, every trace of her across Wonwoo’s ribs erased, she uploaded the video, a last ditch effort that only fucked her over worse than him. She hadn’t said why she chose to turn herself in, but Wonwoo wonders if it was the DeuxMoi post, if seeing him move on with someone new made her realise her efforts were fruitless. You almost feel sorry for her.

Wonwoo’s kind of fucked up over it, doesn’t know whether to unblock her and try to talk it out, nods in agreement when you tell him that’s a bad idea. Kind of stings that he wants to talk to her at all, because if it were you you’d haul them over hot coals through the courts. Still. It’s not your place. You’re there for his reputation and not his feelings. 

You still need to shower away the mess he made of you earlier, so you leave him with his mood and take to the bathroom where you stand under the stream for a long time, and hope it does something to soothe the ache in your chest. It doesn’t. Your freshly laundered clothes are delivered in the meantime, thank God, because you can’t go the whole day wearing stuff that smells of him. You pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, the weather too warm for working from the balcony in much else. 

With Edoardo assured you’re handling the DeuxMoi issue, you’re determined to fix it before the story takes on a life of its own. It starts with calling Jeonghan back, who asks how you want to play it. 

Truth be told, you’re tired of being the one who makes all the decisions, who has to look at every action from every possible angle, to figure out if a look could be misconstrued or words twisted. And before all this, you loved your job, but now it feels like you’re flailing, having made mistake after mistake where Wonwoo is concerned, letting him bleed through the gaps of the line you drew between work and your emotions. It’d be nice to have another assistant to help compartmentalise your life, as well as your suitcase. You’ll just have to do it yourself.

Wonwoo’s words from earlier swim back to you. He’s right, it’s closest to the truth. Nobody needs to know it went further than your argument in the elevator if nothing more is going to happen. 

“Call on the hotel staff who leaked the still to post the rest of the footage, and they’ll see us having a dispute and me going to my hotel room alone. Say we’re close friends as well as colleagues and unfortunately we’d both had a couple of drinks, but now it’s resolved, and Wonwoo is entirely focused on the upcoming Grand Prix.” 

There’s a long silence at the end of the line, but eventually Jeonghan says, “Are you sure?”

You blink. “Why would I not be sure?”

“We all thought you and Wonwoo–”

You cut him off– “Who’s we?”

“Well–” he starts, uncertain. Another pause. “Listen, if I tell you, you have to promise not to cut my bonus.”

You laugh, a little irritated now. “What if I push you off a cliff instead?”

“That’s fine so long as you still pay me,” he retorts.

“Spit it out, Jeonghan,” you say shortly, growing ever frustrated. 

“We had a betting pool in the office. How long it’d take you two to get together.”

Your voice drops. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

Jeonghan chuckles nervously. “Mingyu let slip that Wonwoo had a little crush on you, and everyone got really excited for a big enemies to lovers thing. Honestly most of us were rooting for you.” 

You’ve no idea how to answer him, completely lost for words. You sit frozen, phone pressed to your ear, Jeonghan’s words echoing in your head. A little crush. 

“Rooting for us,” you repeat, voice hollow.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan says quickly, as if padding it with cheer will soften the blow. “You should’ve seen Inès– she nearly cried when she saw DeuxMoi’s post and we all thought it was happening.”

“Inès is in on this too?” 

“Why do you think you’ve been sat next to each other on every flight since the start of the season?”

You’re going to burn the entire office to the ground, you think. You shut your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. The ache in your chest spreads sharper, like something’s cracking open. It’s stupid– you know it’s stupid– but hearing it out loud, that Wonwoo liked you, that your colleagues are silently cheering for you, it makes the memory of last night coil differently in your stomach.

“Right,” you manage. “Well, tell Inès to save her tears. There’s nothing to root for.”

“That’s not what it looks like from the outside,” Jeonghan says gently.

“Well none of you know what’s happening on the inside, do you?” you snap, harsher than he deserves. “It was one mistake, Jeonghan–” you falter, nearly giving the game away. “In the elevator, I mean. And you’d better not let the betting pool bullshit get to Edoardo if you want to keep your head, or your precious bonus.”

“Actually–”

“Promise me, Jeonghan,” you hiss.

He laughs nervously again, mutters something about you having his undying loyalty, then promises to draft the response exactly as you instructed. You end the call before he can say anything else, flop into the padded chair behind you. 

“Shit,” you whisper, dragging both hands down your face.

Behind the door to Wonwoo’s room, you hear the dull thud of a drawer closing, the shuffle of him moving around, and for a second you’re tempted to march in there and beg him to tell you what to do. How to navigate this uncommon ground, to ask if he regrets it, and see if he thinks this is as impossible as you do. But you can’t. Because it isn’t your job to give in to your every desire. It’s your job to clean this mess before it buries you both alive. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo feels unsure interrupting your work, has done his best to avoid you all morning, but it’s getting into the afternoon, and neither of you have had anything but tea and water since the early hours. You’re out on the balcony still, legs stretched out, bare feet resting in the other chair, laptop balanced on your lap. Your face set in that frown you wear when you’re trying to hold the world together.

“Do you want to get lunch?” he asks. Tries to keep his voice casual, but the tentative intention behind it is obvious.

Your eyes don’t leave the screen, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “It’d be foolish to be seen together right now,” you say, voice flat. 

Right. Of course. Wonwoo shifts, presses his palms against the stone wall, and exhales slow through his nose. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “Room service?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

What he wants is to throw your laptop in the fucking pool. What he wants is to pull you outside, make you forget work and just be with him, here in this beautiful place. Wonwoo disappears back inside, orders without asking your preference– he’s already noticed what you’ll actually eat and what you’ll push around a plate until it goes cold. When he comes back, you’re still typing furiously, shoulders tense, and worrying your lip so hard he thinks you’ll surely bite through it.

“Take a break,” he says quietly. “Your eyes will go bad if you keep staring at a screen like that.”

Finally, you twist to look at him, lips quirking at the corners, a drop of mirth in your tired, pretty eyes. “Oh really? Is that what happened to you?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, the ghost of a smile. “Yup. I learned the hard way.”

For a moment, the weight between you lightens, like if he leaned a little closer, you’d meet him in the middle instead of pushing him away. But then your laptop pings again, and your gaze flicks back to the screen.

Wonwoo straightens, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t push further. He can’t. Not when you’re still holding him at arm’s length, even as you wade through the mess that is his personal life and try to salvage something worthwhile from the wreck. Your food will come soon, and he’ll be damned if he lets you work through that too. Until then, he’ll stay quiet enough that you let him keep your company. He shifts your feet off the chair and over his lap as he settles into it, and you give him a pointed look before drawing your legs away, setting your feet on the ground instead. 

After a while, a knock at the door breaks the silence. Wonwoo moves to answer it, relief and dread mingling in his chest. He tips the server and wheels the tray outside. You close the laptop at last, though not without a little sigh of resignation, and set it on the table beside you. Wonwoo notices– the way your shoulders sag, the way your face softens just a fraction without the harshness of the screen glaring at you.

He uncovers the dishes. “C’mon. Eat,” he says simply, handing you the plate he knew you’d prefer.

Your eyebrow quirks, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”

“Didn’t you once say you’d move to Italy just for the pasta?” he replies, a little pride flaring in his belly when it elicits a laugh from you.

You take a cautious bite, and then another, appetite sneaking up on you now that food is in front of you. Wonwoo eats slowly, quietly, watching you more than his own plate, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around the fork, the faint hum you make when you’re satisfied. For a little while, it feels like a ceasefire. The pressure of DeuxMoi, his ex, the lies– it all fades to the edges as you both pick at your plates in a rhythm that feels almost normal.

You break it first, of course. “Room service three times in less than twenty-four hours. The staff are going to think we’re sex obsessed freaks.”

Wonwoo snorts softly. “They’ll think we’re busy. They don’t care what people do in their own rooms.”

“They do when one of them is famous.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Okay, so let them call me a sex freak.”

You laugh, swatting gently at his arm. “God, Wonwoo, I’m begging you to make my job a little easier for once.” 

He grabs your retreating hand, tugs it up to brush his lips over your knuckles. “I’m begging you to make my job easier,” he says. “I try to concentrate on the race and all I’m thinking about is y–” 

He stops short when he sees your wide smile falter, the sudden shallow breaths. Wonwoo wants to reach across the table, shake you by the shoulders out of your hidden world and ask when you’ll let him kiss you again. Instead, he lets your hand drop from his and the conversation stutters there, you finish the rest of your meals in silence, eyes decidedly cast down.

When you’re finished you load the tray with your empty plates, tuck your laptop under your arm, and tell him you’re going to pack up, get ready for the airport. Wonwoo nods, says he’ll do the same, even though his suitcase has been ready beside the door for the last three hours. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The taxi ride is suffocating. The humid air pressing through the vents, the slow traffic outside, the driver’s radio tuned low. You sit with your knees angled toward the window, your face carefully arranged into neutrality. Wonwoo watches the side of your face instead of the buildings flashing past, his chest tight with everything unsaid. 

He should’ve brought this up earlier. Wants to know if last night was only a mistake to you, if you’re really capable of walking away like it was nothing. His hand twitches against his thigh. 

“About last night–” he begins, quiet.

You cut him a sharp look, flicking your eyes pointedly toward the driver before staring back out the window. Wonwoo closes his mouth. Stares down at his hands, jaw tight, and the silence gnaws at his gut all the way to the airport.

The lounge is cooler, a little more privacy with people sitting further away, busy with their work or their own conversations, but you’re no more forgiving. You sit across from him, your laptop open again, and he feels the wall between you rising brick by brick. It makes him restless, anxiety lacing through his veins.

Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We need to talk,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up, eyes firm. “Not here,” you hiss. “Someone might hear.”

“So what?” He snaps back. “Let them hear.”

“Are you insane?” you whisper back through your teeth. “Do you want to hand them another scandal on a silver platter? Jeon Wonwoo fights with girlfriend in airport lounge?” 

The word girlfriend draws a bitter laugh from him and you scowl. Wonwoo swears under his breath. He doesn’t care about the headlines, about DeuxMoi, about the vultures waiting for another scrap of drama. What he cares about is the potential of you and him, slipping further away with every cautious word.

Wonwoo pushes up from the chair. “Come with me.”

You hesitate, glance around, then rise reluctantly, laptop tucked under your arm. He leads you through the lounge, weaving past clusters of businessmen and couples until he finds a corner leading to an emergency exit, half-hidden by a structural column, tucked away out of sight.

“Wonwoo–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Will you kiss me again?” His voice is ragged, raw. He’s close enough now that he can see the brief tremble of your bottom lip, the way your fingers tighten around your laptop. “I don’t want this to end before it’s even started.”

Your lips part, the air between you charged and taut. For a beat, you don’t move. Then you surge forward, press your mouth to his, and the dam breaks.

It’s frenzied, sharp teeth nipping at his lip, the hot slide of his tongue over yours, your laptop nearly tumbling from your grip as his hand anchors the back of your neck. His other hand finds your waist, hauling you closer, and he kisses you like he's drowning. The taste of you, the heat of your body, your quickened breath reminds him of last night, and again this morning. It’s too much and not enough.

It deepens too fast, spirals until you’re breathing hard against his lips, chest heaving. You tear yourself back with a gasp, eyes dark and clouded, almost mournful.

“This is it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I’m sorry I broke my own rules, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Wonwoo’s chest constricts. He shakes his head, wanting to argue, but you force a crooked, brittle smile. “Maybe in ten years or so, if I quit or you retire, we can pick it back up.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pretend to find humour in it.. His eyes bore into yours, silent and wounded, because to him, none of this is a joke.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Modena, Italy

On your return after the meeting with Rolex (terse between you and Wonwoo, friendly in the face of others) you’d given him back his ring on the promise that you’d wear it on Grand Prix weekends, if his superstition still called for that. He’d protested, but you argued it wouldn’t be a good idea to wear it day to day now, since it turned out everyone at work had bets riding on the two of you. 

You’d also told Inès, in no uncertain terms, that you didn’t want to be seated next to Wonwoo again, and she delivered: separate schedules, separate briefings, separate transport when necessary. You only cross paths in rooms where it would be impossible not to, and there, the two of you perform as colleagues and nothing more.

It’s worked, that’s for sure. The storm DeuxMoi stirred up has quietened. The rumors faded, drowned under fresher scandals, more salacious fodder. Online, at least, the world has moved on.

But you– you’ve thrown yourself into work, into emails, into KPIs, and career development programs for your subordinates, favouring schedules with Charles over Wonwoo, and rewriting Edoardo’s speeches until the cadence rings smooth. You keep your head down and mind your business, but still, you can feel his absence like a phantom limb, an itch unscratched.

Edoardo notices. He doesn’t bring it up for a while, but you catch the way his brow furrows when Wonwoo’s attention lags in meetings, when his performance during practice sessions falls flat. “Something’s off with him,” he muttered once, voice low. “What on earth happened between you?” You’d bitten your tongue until it ached.

At night, the walls of your too large home seem to echo with the quiet. You lie in bed with your hand between your thighs, trying to chase the release that came so easy with him, but it can’t get there. You move your fingers the way you think he would, but it’s hollow and leaves you unsated and kicking at the sheets in frustration. He did it better. He did it so much better, and you can’t scrub the memory of it from your skin.

Sleep comes late every night, and when it does, he’s waiting there. Dreams of him fucking you into the mattress, of his voice ragged and his breath hot against the shell of your ear, of his mouth drawing out sounds from you you can hardly remember making before. You wake gasping, sheets tangled, body aching with need.

The worst part is the way he pretends. The way he hardly acknowledges your hellos in the office, just nods, a stiff dip of his chin that twists something in your chest. The way his eyes slide past you like you’re just another staff member, like the brief stay in the Bahamas never happened. It drives you half mad.

You type messages on your phone late at night. 

I think I made a mistake. 

Wonwoo, can we talk? 

I can’t stop thinking about you.

But every time your thumb hovers over send, you remember his silence in the office, his polite distance, and you wonder if he doesn’t want you anymore, and maybe you’ve ruined it for good. And so every message is discarded. Deleted and retyped and repeat. Again, and again, and again.

The days bleed together. It’s been nine days since the Bahamas, since your lips on his in the lounge, since you told him it was over before it could even begin. And now you’re on home ground, where the air is thick with history, where the ground of the city itself seems to hum with ghosts of legends, where Wonwoo’s presence surrounds you but he won’t speak. 

There’s a dinner tonight with some sponsors, you, Edoardo, the head of engineering, Charles and Wonwoo, everyone’s partners. Fourteen total. Edoardo has asked for you to host, ‘since you keep your home so beautiful!’ and he’s sure your cooking is sublime. First of all– sexist. Second– your cooking is fine but you’re tired, so you’ve hired a chef for the evening and put it on the company card. Third– it’s easy to keep a house nice when you’re never fucking home to see it. Of course you don’t say any of this to your boss. Just smile and assure him it’ll go well. 

The problem is the people coming tonight love to drag a dinner on, laden with wine and cigars and you know the night will last well into the early hours. Edoardo has already had a case of wine delivered to your house. Earlier in the week, Inès, bless her heart, had asked carefully, kindly, if you’d like her to arrange a scheduling conflict that’d get you out of it, book the others in at a nice restaurant instead, but how would that look? No, you’ll get through this like you do everything else. 

You’re blotting off your lipstick in the mirror when the doorbell rings. Not the chef, she’s already in the kitchen, not the guests– too early yet. Your assistant calls, “Lo prenderò, signorina!” from down the hall.

You hear his voice before you even step out of your bedroom. Deep and familiar, lovely in the way it snags at the fibres of your heart.

“Wonwoo?” He stands in your foyer, clutching a bouquet of snapdragons and lilacs clutched in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other, wearing something smarter than his usual casual attire, all in black. His eyes flit unsure from you, to your assistant, to the floor. Your assistant looks over him approvingly, raises her eyebrows at you and brings her fingers to her lips to kiss them. 

“I– uh. I wasn’t sure what to bring,” he says.

“Those are lovely, thank you,” you say, as your assistant takes the flowers from him and rushes off to the kitchen to arrange them in a vase. “Should we have the champagne with dinner?”

“Or you can save it,” he says, shrugging. You can hear your assistant padding upstairs. “Whatever.”

Whatever. 

“I–uh. Am I the only one here?” He lifts his watch to check the time. “Sorry. I thought it started at eight.”

“Eight-thirty,” you say. You’re not sure what else to add. He’s early, painfully so, and you haven’t had time to steel yourself against this awkwardness. You weren’t prepared to be alone with him.

“Right.” He shifts his weight on his feet, stuffs his now empty hands in his pockets, glances around your entryway. “Nice place. I’d wondered what your home would look like.”

“Yes. Well, I like it.”

When his eyes return to you, they linger a beat too long. “You look nice too.”

“Thanks.” You close your arms over yourself, hands curled over your elbows. “I had a shower and everything.”

That pulls the faintest smile from him, quick to vanish.

Your assistant is back, hovers in the doorway with a polite, curious expression. You can feel the way the room crackles with the strangeness of it, how easily could someone so removed from the situation notice the fractures between you two? “Perché non torni a casa, Elena?” you tell her gently. “Hai lavorato duramente oggi.”

Her brows lift, eager to be away. “Sei sicuro?”

“Sì, sì. Buona serata.” You give her a grateful look until she grins, gathers her things, and slips out with cheerful goodbyes. The door closes behind her with a final click that leaves you and Wonwoo alone, save for the chef in the kitchen. 

It’s almost worse without a buffer. 

“I like the way you speak,” he says. “In Italian, I mean. I still can’t get the hang of it.” 

You falter, searching for something to say that isn’t completely ridiculous. In the end you say, “I’m sure Charles wouldn’t mind helping you with it, or anyone in the office, really.” 

The silence stretches, heavy and awkward. To fill it, you gesture toward the garden. “I was about to set the table. It’s such a nice night, I thought we could eat outside.”

“I can help.”

You shouldn’t let him, but you do. Together you lay out plates, silverware, glasses, jugs of water that will likely remain untouched, and napkins folded with a precision that doesn’t really matter, since the rest of your guests will be happy and drunk in no time at all. Neither of you speak much, and the scrape of porcelain against wood fills the quiet. Occasionally you can feel his eyes on you, and having him in your home like this, helping you with the table, feels agonisingly domestic.

When you’re done you brush your hands off, and he says, out of nowhere, “Can I have a tour?”

You blink at him. “A tour?”

His mouth curves, uncertain. “I just– I want to see how you live.”

It’s not an absurd request, most other circumstances you’d have offered one anyway. It just felt odd, letting him in your space after everything, but something in his tone makes you relent. You lead him room by room, narrating stiff, like an estate agent: kitchen (he says polite hellos to the woman chopping vegetables at the island), living room, the dining room, the study with its neatly organized shelves of books high to the ceiling, the main bathroom that you’ve used exactly zero times in favour of your en-suite, two guest rooms that are often occupied with friends when you’re home after the season. He makes small comments, nods, a murmur of approval here and there. It almost feels normal.

Until you reach your bedroom. You hesitate in the doorway as he steps to the middle of it, and looks around. You follow because you can’t very well leave him standing there alone.

“It’s very you,” he says quietly, his gaze sweeping over your furniture, the artwork and photographs on the wall, the muted tones of your bedding, and the flowers he brought sitting pretty on your windowsill, the sweet scent of the lilacs drenching the room. His eyes settle on you again, softer now. 

He takes a hesitant step closer. Your breath catches, your body moving with a will that betrays your brain. A magnetic pull closing the scant inches between you, the barely there brush of the back of his hand grazing yours, his gaze flicking down to your mouth. You tilt toward him, and he toward you, almost, almost–

The doorbell rings and it startles you out of your daze, pulling back, and his mouth parts with words unsaid, eyes snapping toward the sound. You swallow hard, smooth down your dress, and say under your breath, “I’d better get that.”

His eyes fall to your lips again, for a brief moment. “What are we doing?” he asks, under his breath.

You don’t know. How can you, when he’s claiming all the space inside your head, even while you sleep? You don’t answer, just turn and make your way downstairs, to greet the rest of your guests with a big smile and go back to pretending everything is as it was. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Nine bottles are emptied by the time your mains are served, because the sponsors surely know how to put it away. It’s Peter from AWS, Sophia from the Armani Group, Stephen from Shell, and their spouses. The former two Wonwoo hardly knows, but they’ve been friendly enough. It’s only Stephen that Wonwoo has heard stories about. 

Wonwoo sits not quite across from you, close enough to watch the way your earrings dazzle in the light when you turn your head, the careful curve of your smile as you answer Sophia’s questions about your decor. Stephen flanks your other side, and Wonwoo notices how when he leans in, you shrink back, how your smile goes stiff when he talks too close in your ear. 

He notices how Stephen’s gaze lingers too long, too often. Not when his wife is speaking, of course but when she’s distracted, wine glass in hand, attention turned to Edoardo beside her. His eyes find you every time, dragging slowly over the neckline of your dress, down to where your necklace sits pretty on your collarbones. It makes Wonwoo’s stomach knot, seeing it without the ring that’s slotted back on his finger. 

Wonwoo sips at his wine, tells himself to work his expression into something lighter, because this dinner is important for the team, for the sponsors, and for you. He tells himself that this is not his business, that you’re more than capable of handling yourself. 

Still, every time Stephen leans forward, whiny voice forced smooth, gaze fixed on the contours of your body, Wonwoo has to school his expression into neutrality. He knows if he lets it slip, if he lets anyone see what he’s thinking, the whole table will know how he feels about you. Makes no sense for him to feel possessive over you, especially when it concerns someone you’re showing clear lack of comfort around, but he feels it all the same.

He has no right to say anything. Not when he’s already been told by you that this thing between you has no place in the real world. Not when you’ve been so careful to build these walls between you at work, to look through him like he could be anyone else.

And so the irritation sits like lead in his chest, and he says nothing. Instead he keeps his hands steady, bantering jovially with Charles, laughing in the right places at Edoardo’s anecdotes. Answering questions and joining in the conversation where he can. But he doesn’t miss an opportunity to meet your eyes across the table, ask silently if you’re okay, and try to take that small reassuring smile you give him as enough to convince him that you are. 

At one point Edoardo’s wife, María, remarks that everyone here is a couple, except for you and Wonwoo. She leans in, eager for gossip, and asks, “Are either of you seeing anyone? You’re too young and beautiful not to.”

The entire table turns to look at you both, and it makes Wonwoo feel like he’s under a microscope, but you just laugh it off, say your last relationship ended a few years ago, and if Edoardo keeps adding to your plate then surely you’ll never have time for a lover ever again. Edoardo gasps at that, clutches his chest and scolds you for blaming him rather than admitting you’re a workaholic. Wonwoo hides a small smile behind his glass. 

María turns her attention on him. “What about you, Wonwoo? No one special you’re keeping secret?”

Wonwoo clears his throat. “I think everyone at this table has heard more than enough about my love life.”

There’s a smatter of quiet, awkward laughter around the table. 

And María smiles sweetly, says, “I wonder what it must feel like to be single these days. All those apps, it sounds wretched.”

A louder chorus of laughter this time, and Wonwoo agrees. He takes another long sip of wine and lets the conversation move on without him. He catches your eye for a moment, and you offer him a tiny, grateful smile. 

Adrienne leans over and says, “Wonwoo, have you been here before?”

“Nope,” he says, “First time.”

“I keep telling Charles we should get somewhere like this,” she gushes, looking out over the rolling hills, all pink and orange under the setting sun. “Isn’t the view stunning?”

Wonwoo looks over at you, only to find you already watching him. “Yeah,” he says, meeting your eyes. “It is.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The sky dims to a cool blue and fills with the swirl of smoke, mixing with the silver of the thin clouds on the horizon, by the time the twelfth bottle is emptied. You tell everyone to stay put, keep drinking, keep enjoying the wine. “I’ll clear the plates,” you say, sliding to your feet.

Wonwoo stands too, almost instantly. “I’ll help.”

Adrienne smiles up at you both. “Aren’t you a sweet pair?” she sighs, eyes shining like she’s watching a romance unfold. She’s almost as drunk as the rest of them.

“We’re not a pair,” you say under your breath, but Adrienne doesn’t catch it. 

Charles tugs Adrienne more firmly into his lap. “I’d help too, but someone seems to have taken me hostage.”

Adrienne presses a kiss to his temple, giggling soft, and the other end of the table erupts in laughter at Peter’s story. You roll your eyes, a half smile on your lips in effort to play along, but your pulse is a drum in your ears as Wonwoo follows you into the kitchen, carrying a small stack of plates.

The clatter of the dinner party fades behind you, replaced by the muffled scrape of porcelain against marble as you set things down on the counter. You can feel him at your back– reaching around your body to lay his stack next to yours.  

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Of course,” he says, voice low. 

He doesn’t look at you when you turn to rinse the cutlery, just leans back against the island, and says too loud, “I don’t think much of Stephen.”

“Shhh,” you admonish, glancing toward the door, though you know they won’t hear you from all the way outside. His profile is cut sharp against the warm kitchen light, hair falling into his eyes. Makes you want to smooth it back with your hands. “You’re drunk.”

Wonwoo ignores your observation and presses on. “Does he always look at you like that?”

“He looks at everyone like that,” you whisper. “Trust me, I’m no special case.” 

“I think you’re special.”

The wine must have loosened Wonwoo’s grip on sense, because he’s leaning down behind you, but the wine must’ve loosened yours too, because you’re letting him, so pathetically desperate for him to touch you. He presses a kiss to your shoulder next to the strap of your dress. Holds there, sighs against your skin. 

“I’ve had too much time to think this week,” he says.

You huff a small laugh. “Jeonghan must be letting you off easy.”

“I’ve missed you bothering me,” he says, another soft kiss pressed to the nape of your neck. 

You tsk. “You can’t just say you missed me?”

He smiles against your skin. “Okay,” he whispers. “I missed you.” 

You can’t figure out how it starts, if it’s his hands that slide to your waist that turns you, or if you do it of your own accord. Just know that your arms wrap around his neck as he pulls your chests flush against one another. One of his hands travels up your body, trails over your shoulder, fingers delicately caress your neck. Makes you wonder if he can feel the way your heart beats faster. You just know that your mouth is already wet with want as your lips meet in the middle, slow and deliberate and deep. The taste of wine on his tongue makes you feel dizzy. The air between you hums, prickling with all the things neither of you will say, but this kiss makes up for it. The slow pull of his teeth on your bottom lip tells you he needs this. The quiet moan he presses into your open mouth says enough. The push of his hips into yours says plenty. 

A roar of laughter from outside breaks you apart, panting, and you realise with a jolt that your lipstick smears his face. You reach out to grab his jaw with your hand, and rub at it with your thumb. Fuck. Shit. You’re just making it worse but he’s smiling, pulling at your hand and pressing soft lips into your palm. 

You should say something– anything. Instead, you clear your throat, voice too soft when you manage, “They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”

“They’re drunk,” he replies simply, and it’s true. No one will notice. No one except you, heart knocking stupidly against your ribs, all too aware of the way your hand lingers too long in his grip, and of the way he watches your face for any inclination you’ll let this happen as it should. “Can I stay tonight?”

Your first instinct is to laugh, to brush it off, to remind him of the twelve drunk colleagues in your garden, that it’s barely eleven and you’ll be hard pressed to get rid of anyone before one, to remind him that they saw everything—the headlines, the photographs, the grainy image from the hotel, and they’ll be watching to see if there’s a break in the act tonight too, drunk or not. The rules you’ve set for yourself still hold purpose, to prevent this kind of mess.

But the words don’t come. His hand is still warm around yours. His thumb traces the curve of your palm like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His eyes– dark, steady, so unbearably sure– hold yours with a question that feels bigger than the one he asked.

Yes hovers on your lips. You hear yourself exhale instead, shaky and low, borrowing time. “Wonwoo…”

Another wave of laughter breaks from outside and you swallow the lump in your throat. You turn, tearing off a piece of tissue from the roll and wetting it under the tap. 

“Hold still,” you murmur, stepping back to him. His hands stay braced back against the counter, body loose but eyes pinned on you as you wipe away the telltale red smear on his lips. He leans into your touch just barely, almost like a reflex. The faintest pink blooms across his skin where you rub too hard.

“There,” you whisper, chest tight, when it’s gone. “Perfect.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move, doesn’t let his eyes leave you. Only when you step back does he shift, straightening slowly, jaw setting in a line. You gesture toward the crate of bottles, keeping your voice steady. “Can you take another out?”

He nods and reaches for a bottle. On his way back out he gets close, fingers dragging across the small of your back, nose sliding up the back of your neck, a last kiss pressed behind your ear. When he’s gone, you leave the plates where they are and slip upstairs. In the mirror of your bathroom you find your lipstick smudged, colour worn thin from his kiss. The sight alone makes your pulse spike all over again. You grip the counter hard, knuckles whitening, trying to will the heat out of your body.

So you fix your lipstick, reapply foundation where necessary. Smooth your dress, dab perfume at your pulse point like it could take away the feeling of his fingers over it. Downstairs, laughter carries in with the breeze through the open doors, Wonwoo’s voice among it.

If you let him in your bed tonight, give in yet again, could it be okay?

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo’s eyes find yours as you come outside again, lipstick re-applied, and as perfect as ever. If you’d given his request any consideration at all, there’s no indication. The seats are all shifted now, everyone settled into their post-dinner rhythm, the kind that grows easy when the food is finished and the wine has taken root. Most are at the table, still chatting lively, but Edoardo, Peter, and Stephen have trailed a little further away, standing in a small circle with their cigars and their glasses, talking intently.  

You slip into the chair beside him, legs crossing neatly, smile polite and unreadable as Adrienne laughs at something Charles mutters into her hair. Wonwoo wants that. Doesn’t see why he can’t. Doesn’t see why you wont, because every time he dares to touch you, you seem to want it as much as he does. Adrienne leans over to pluck a cigarette from the pack on the table, and Charles reaches into his pocket to find his lighter. The way they move is almost automatic, a practiced comfort after years of knowing one another. Wonwoo wants that with you. 

“May I have one?” you ask her, almost idly, like it’s nothing. Wonwoo blinks, caught off guard by the request.

Adrienne raises her brows, and slides one across to you. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“It’s been ages,” you admit, slotting it between your lips, casual. “Feels like the right kind of night for it.”

Charles flicks the lighter for Adrienne’s first, then leans across to light yours too. Wonwoo watches the glow of the flame across your face in the semi-dark, watches the way you tip your head toward the flame. Loves the way the smoke curls from your lips as you exhale, slow and steady. His throat goes dry. He shouldn’t think it’s hot, but he does. It’s devastating, the way you affect him.

The curve of your mouth, the way you draw in deep, the way your fingers rest on your lips as you take a drag, it makes something coil tight in his gut.

Without thinking, Wonwoo plucks the cigarette from your fingers as you lower it, ignoring the way your expression lifts a little in surprise. He holds your gaze as he takes a drag himself, lungs heavy with the forgotten bite of it. He hasn’t touched one in years, not since training, not since his mother made him swear to never touch one again. But with your lipstick stain on the filter, it feels more like tasting you again.

When he exhales, it’s deliberate, a slow ribbon of smoke winding into the night air.

Your brows lift, amused. “Since when?”

“I don’t,” he says, and his voice is a little rough around the edges. He passes the cigarette back to you, fingers brushing yours, letting the faintest smirk ghost across his lips. “Just felt like the kind of night.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The guests slowly filter out the front door, they pile into chauffeured cars with peals of laughter that breaks the softness of the night. Charles and Adrienne linger a little longer, but sometime after one they too announce their departure. Charles hoists Adrienne onto his back, heels dangling from the straps in her hand, and she’s laughing loud. He turns red faced with wine and effort to Wonwoo, asks if he wants to be dropped off, and Wonwoo glances sideways at you. You give an infinitesimal shake of your head. 

“Mingyu’s picking me up in a few minutes,” he lies. 

Charles looks between you, a tiny knowing smile playing on his lips, and Wonwoo can’t bring himself to care. Just wants them to go so he can kiss you without your worries taking precedent. “Okay, enjoy the rest of your night,” Charles says, and walks out the door, Adrienne clinging on to him, waving happily and yelling her thanks to you for hosting. 

When the door clicks closed and you turn to him, that polite and poised smile you’ve worn all evening is gone. Your earrings catch the light as you tilt your head, watching him with an expression that says you’re as tired of pretending as he is.

“God,” you murmur, half to yourself, slipping your heels off at the threshold. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Wonwoo huffs a laugh, low in his chest. “You handled them well.”

“You helped.” Wonwoo’s eyes flick down to your mouth yet again, remembering the feel of it in the kitchen, the lipstick, the cigarette you shared. When his eyes lift again, yours are heavy with want, drawing him in with that same gravity that’s been gnawing at him for so long.

He doesn’t move at first. Feels the moment stretch taut, like a breath held underwater. It’s you who closes the gap. You breathe in sharp and shallow as his hands fly to your waist, and yours fist in his shirt, pulling him down, and his mouth finds yours yet again.

It’s almost feral the way you kiss him, hard and messy. His hands framing your face because he needs to hold you, needs to remind himself that this is real. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and you gasp into his mouth when his hips press into yours, the proof of how much he wants this, wants you, evident in the thick length hardening beneath his trousers. 

“Fuck,” you pant when he tears his lips away to kiss down your jaw, your throat, biting lightly where your pulse hammers. “Wonwoo–”

“Don’t tell me it’s just once.” His voice is ragged against your skin. “Not again.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” You shake your head, tilting it back to give him more, letting him taste every inch of skin he wants. You shove him off after a moment, chest heaving, just to lead him upstairs. He feels sleazy as he watches your ass as you walk up the stairs, reaches out to touch, take a firm handful and pinches playful and you’re laughing, pulling at his hand and dragging him up to your room. 

In your bedroom is where he kisses you slow and dirty. You moan into his mouth when he squeezes the meat of your ass, drags down a strap of your dress to caress the skin he exposes, rolls his thumb over your puckering nipple. He groans as you press your hand over the tent in his trousers, rub firm over the length of it through the material. 

He walks you backwards across the room until the mattress dips under your shared weight, and he cages you in with his arms. Wants to keep you like this, bated breath and hot beneath him, wants to mold your body with his, make your pleasure his own, make it belong to him. Fucks him up a little, when you pull off his mouth, and your eyes go heavy and clouded with lust as your eyes zero on your own hands pull his shirt untucked, dip under the material and trail your nails over his skin, lighting little fires in their wake. Fucks him up a lot when your kiss-bitten lips fall into a pout after you drag his shirt over his head, and say “It’s unfair how hot you are. I never stood a chance.” 

Feels much the same about you, says so, calls you beautiful as he slides his hands down your thighs to pull up your knees and nudge them apart, lets the satin of your dress pool like water at your hips and exhales, satisfied, as he runs his middle fingernail over your lace covered clit, finds the material a little damp. 

“You’re so sensitive,” he observes, a pleased spark running through his veins. 

“Hardly,” you complain, sucking in a breath as his soft pets quickly turn insistent. “Couldn’t get there this week.” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice deep and thick, head swimming with the implication. “You couldn’t get yourself off? Were you thinking of me?” You nod, and he can’t fight the smug look off his face. 

“Have you touched yourself while thinking of me before?”

“Yeah–” you admit, voice tiny and embarrassed. “Have you?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, intentionally avoiding saying how often, and he loves the way you draw your bottom lip between your teeth as you picture it. “Can you do it now? Show me how you get yourself off?”

Can feel the heat flush on your body as you shake your head no. “Want you to do it.” 

He smiles. “Another time, then?” he presses, almost too casual.

“Yes. Yeah, another time,” you breathe, and he keens forward to catch your lips in another kiss. You break off, peppering your lips across his jaw, and between them you whisper, “Wonwoo, touch me.”

Wonwoo gives in to your pleas without a fight. Drags your underwear down slow over your legs, you kick them away, let your knees fall apart so he can see how wet he makes you. He circles your clit, swollen and sensitive, with a calloused thumb, hums pleased when it draws a little sigh from you. Slides down over your damp slit with two fingers and dips in, moves to line his body against yours just to mouth wet at your neck, keeps slipping his fingers in and out, too shallow to bring you close, enough to wind you tight, your harsh small breaths a giveaway it’s working as intended. 

“Don’t tease,” you beg, but he can feel the way your entrance pulses around his fingers and it sends a lick of want right through him, wants to work you up enough that he’s got you doing that on his cock. 

Wants to sink his teeth into the sounds you make, but he settles for the swell of your breast. Leaves little marks over your skin, sucks a bruise on your sternum, draws your nipples into his mouth with his tongue, one after the other, coats them in his spit and blows cool air through pursed lips, watches them pucker with a self-satisfied hum.

You turn on your side with a frustrated groan, facing away from him, but his fingers still find purchase between your legs. With a harsh suck to the crook of your neck he drives his fingers deep, crooking them firm and revelling in the way your head tips back and your breaths go shallow. At this new angle the heel of his palm rocks against your clit as he plunges his fingers inside your slick, wet cunt, driving you closer to the precipice with each thrust and curl. You whimper, legs begin to tremble, and as you get impossibly wet, he coos in your ear. “Are you close?”

“Yeah,” you pant. “Yeah m’close.”

He wants to take photographs of you like this, so pretty and fucked out over him, mouth parted in a little o as your pussy drenches his hand while he fucks his fingers into you and grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. Knows it’s a stupid thing to bring it up now so he tucks the thought away for later, for a promised another time. Feels the way you clench, hears the way you wail, broken, and your body goes all tight against him, has him fucked up, the way your eyes roll back, and he holds you closer just to rut his aching, neglected cock against your behind.

You draw in a ragged breath as your body relaxes, and he pulls his fingers from you. He takes the wetness that coats his fingers and works it over your thighs, sighs at the way they glisten in the dim light of the moon outside your window. Wonwoo breathes heavy against your skin, and you’re turning over to face him, dazed smile lighting up your beautiful face. It punches all the air out of his lungs, the way you look at him. 

He craves you, your mouth, your touch. “You’ve no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.”

You soften, look at him with something like adoration, a contented glow under your skin. He wants more of that– your smile instead of your scowl, wants to stop bringing you problems to fix, wants to share this bed with you, a year from now, two, three, a decade, and keep you sated. Keep you his. That’ll come later. Right now he wants to fuck you so full of his cum that it drips down your legs. Wants to take your sighs in his mouth and swallow them like sweet wine. Wants your release for himself again, and again. 

You’re pulling at his belt, pushing his trousers and his boxers down his thighs, and then you’re sliding your leg over his hip, trying to get the angle right so he can line his cock up with your core, make love to you like this. That’s what it feels like, this time. All that carnal, fraught need melting into tenderness as he slides inside, a blinding, tight heat that has him burying his face in the crook of your neck, the light scratch of your fingernails on his back running seams through him, makes him undone.

His arm bands around your waist as you rock against each other, skin against skin, the drag of your nipples against his chest. His lips trail over your shoulder, yours pressed into his hair, feels your breath hot and quickened against his scalp. Pushes into your open, pliant body slow slow slow, the achingly deep, wet slide tightening the coil in his gut. Hears your broken sob and feels the clench of your pussy simultaneously. Nearly comes apart with it himself, but he keeps rolling into you, with firm, slow strokes. Feels your lips ghosting against his forehead, whispering sweet nothings into his skin. 

Wonwoo can feel you hurtling toward your end, wants to claim it as his. “You like how good I fuck you?” he rasps. You answer with a broken moan. “Yeah– shit, tell me you’re mine, baby, tell me–”

“M’yours,” you gasp, words shallow and half formed on the back of a twisted guttural sound. “M’yours, Wonwoo.”

Electric in his veins, he gasps too as you clench his cock so tight. “Yeah– yeah you fuckin’ are.” Works a hand awkwardly between your bodies to toy with your clit, draw your earlobe between his lips just to sink his teeth into it, and you keen, nails digging into his skin. You cry out, babbling his name while you ride on the wave of your release. “Coming– fuck, Wonwoo.” You whine through it, a gush of wetness soaks him and the sheets below and his vision nearly whites out. 

“Oh my God,” he groans. Your pussy pulses around him, rolls you onto your back and himself on top, hiking both your legs around his waist just so he can drive into you with hastened, erratic thrusts, each one punctuated with breathless grunts. 

“Wan’ it in me,” you slur. “Fill me up– please, please, Wonwoo– fuck–”

Pleasure rips through him so hard his eyes roll back, and you’re babbling praise in his ear. Comes with a force that shakes him, cock twitching desperately inside you as he empties his cum into your body, seeps out around him. You drag your fingers through the mess of your slit around his cock, bring them to your mouth and run them over your bottom lip, leaving a translucent sheen that you lick away with a quiet hum of satisfaction. “So good, Wonwoo,” you whisper, offering him a taste. “Taste it.”

“Pervert,” he teases, but he leans in anyway. Draws your wet fingers into his mouth, salted and heady slick over his tongue. Makes him woozy, the way you look at him delirious as he laps your fingers clean. 

A little later, after you’ve caught your breath, you shower together. Wonwoo presses your back against the cold tile and soaps down your body with the cloth, works his way slow and gentle over your skin, between your thighs, almost drops to his knees to lick you out when he catches your breath stutter, but you’re pulling him up, laughing into his lips and saying you can’t possibly go again before sleep. 

Afterwards, Wonwoo helps you change the sheets, and you laugh about the alien domesticity of it all. Then, as the horizon slips a pale yellow with the fast approaching dawn, you lay in bed, all shy, silly smiles and soft touches. Wonwoo asks if he can stay here again, after the race on Sunday, and you give him a forlorn little smile.

“Did you forget you’ve got a flight to catch?”

“Oh.” He laughs, disappointed. Fuck his favourite cousin for getting married right when he’s got you. “Yeah I did actually.”

You grow quiet once again, his hands smoothing over your arms, until he catches your necklace glinting in the low light, looking too bare. He reaches around your neck without asking, unclasps the chain, warm from your body, and slips his ring over it. “Need my good luck charm this weekend,” he says simply, voice slow with exhaustion, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth where a smile quirks.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm,” he says, even though he’s on the edge of sleep.

“Why’s it so special?” Your voice is low, tentative. “Did she give it to you?”

That makes him laugh. “You think I’d make you wear something my ex-girlfriend gave me? You don’t think that’s really fucked up?”

You laugh too, relieved. “I only knew that it was special. Not why.”

“It’s from my grandparents,” he says. “They took me to a bunch of races when I was a kid, made me love it. My grandfather always wanted to race but never got the chance, so when I said I wanted to drive for Ferrari one day, he put me on the karting track as soon as I turned seven. They paid for everything. Got me to where I am. They bought me this–” He touches the ring, sitting pretty in the notch between your collarbones. “–when I got my first seat.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Why don’t I ever see them at the track?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “They’re getting old, and travelling is hard for them, and they hate staying in hotels now. They come when they can.”

You’re overthinking. He can see it in the way you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. Wonwoo pulls it away with his thumb, kisses soft at the dent you made there. “Would you like to invite them here in September? For the Italian Grand Prix?”

“Here?” Wonwoo can’t fight the smile from his face. 

“I have a lovely guest room,” you say.

“You do,” he agrees, happily. Another long pause. “Are you sure?”

You nod, smiling too. “Try not to get sick of me before then?”

“I won’t,” he promises. Whispers it onto your lips, and chases it with a kiss that tastes like a promise.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Imola, Italy

Wonwoo [16:14] You look pretty today

You [16:15] I’m just wearing the team shirt like always

Wonwoo [16:14] Yes but you look really nice in it. Good boobs

You [16:14] Pervert 😑

Wonwoo [16:14] Missed you all day Wonwoo [16:14] Can we get away for a few seconds? Wanna kiss you so bad

You [16:15] Sorry! Your schedule’s jam packed and there’s no time allotted for kissing! 

Wonwoo [16:14] Fine.

You laugh, imagining the sullen pout fixed on his face.

Wonwoo [16:14] Can I kiss you in the paddock after the race?

You [16:15] Lol no

Wonwoo [16:15] What if I get podium?

You deliberate for a minute, because a podium is entirely possible with his skill, and the more you think about kissing him in the open, the more you don’t hate the idea. Still, you’ve given in to him enough lately.

You [16:16] Get P1 and then we’ll talk 

Wonwoo [16:16] Yeah? Promise?

You [16:16] 🙄 Okay sure 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The roar of engines and cheers and clapping still thrums through the concrete, vibrating under your feet long after the chequered flag waves. The crowd is a living, breathing animal, tens of thousands of voices surging in a tide of screams and applause. Wonwoo’s car streaks past the chequered flag, a scarlet blur crossing into history before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing. The commentary over the trackside speakers rings in your ears–

 AND AS SEEN ON SCREEN, JEON WONWOO WINS THE GRAND PRIX! HIS SECOND WIN FOR FERRARI!

Your headset crackles with Edoardo’s elated shout, the engineers cheering, Charles’ laughter cutting through as he takes P2 only a hair behind and congratulates his friend. The garage explodes, mechanics jumping, hugging, slapping each other’s backs. You can’t stay composed when the very air that surrounds you buzzes with electricity, happy tears prick at the corner of your eyes and you clap and cheer along with the others. 

When the anthem plays, you watch him on the podium, hair plastered against his forehead damp with sweat. He lifts the trophy and the cameras flash, capturing him from every beautiful angle. He finds your face in the crowd and his grin spreads wide and unrestrained and proud– the kind of smile you’ve seen directed at you out here once before.

And then comes the champagne. He twists the cork, sprays the bottle wide and wild, and it arcs across Charles’ back, into the crowd, soaking anyone lucky enough to be close. And then he’s turned again, lifting the bottle high for the cameras, glory making him shine.

When he comes down, it’s chaos. Photographers swarm, Jeonghan ushers him through in your direction, and reporters shout questions over one another. He answers most of them quick, that same smile plastered across his face. He’s barely handed his bottle and trophy off to an intern before he’s pulling at his gloves, unfastening his suit around his collar, peeling it back from his body to reveal the tight turtleneck undershirt below. The press already know he’s been excused from post-race media, on account of his imminent flight to Seoul, but that doesn’t stop them from crowding him. 

Jeonghan is the first to pass you in the crowd, smile knowing and humorous playing on his lips. Then Mingyu, who claps you on the shoulder like a proud dad. Very odd. And then Wonwoo, whose eyes soften as he takes you in. He’s flushed, sweat and champagne still wet on his skin, vibrating with adrenaline. He’s beautiful. He draws you into a tight hug before you can react, one arm over your shoulder, the other slotted around your waist, and the quickened flash of cameras in your faces makes you lightheaded. 

“Guess I’ll be seeing you,” you shout over the racket. 

You can feel him nod. “If you get a chance you should come join us,” he shouts back.

You’d thought about it already, but the schedule won’t budge, so you shake your head. “Just call me when you’re back.” 

There are people everywhere and he’s lingering too long, holds his arms around you too long, though you’re not exactly letting go either. Fans are pressed against barricades, cameras still snapping, Jeonghan calling Wonwoo from across a sea of people that now separate the two of you from him. You’re standing out in the open, painfully visible. 

“Wonwoo–” You’re not sure what you want to say, what you can say with all these people here. That you’re proud? That you’re sorry you wasted all that time hating each other? “Congratulations.”

His eyes search yours, dark and steady even with his chest heaving, with sweat dripping down his temple. “Are you gonna make good on your promise or what?”

And before you can think it through, before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to draw him in, and kiss him sweet in front of everyone. 

It’s not a stolen thing this time. Not a whisper in the kitchen, not a hurried press of mouths in a quiet corner of the airport lounge. It’s full, deliberate, your hands bracing at his jaw as the world gasps and cameras click rapidfire. For half a second, he freezes. Then his hands fist in the material of your top at your back and he’s dragging you closer, kissing you back like it’s something he’s always wanted.

The crowd erupts. Someone wolf-whistles. You hear a dozen shouts in too many languages to pick out. Wonwoo pulls back, smiling so hard you want to laugh and cry at the same time. He presses his forehead to yours, breath hot, voice low enough only you can hear. “Same again next time?”

You laugh, a wet, helpless sound. “You’re an idiot.”

But you’re smiling, wide and aching, even as presses a rough kiss against your cheek one more time and pulls away, turning toward the waiting car that’ll take him to the airport. He waves once at the crowd, at Charles calling something after him, at Edoardo giving him a proud smile and a final thumbs up. And then he’s gone, the tinted window of the black car obscuring him from view.

You stand rooted in the same spot, watching until there’s nothing left to see. A familiar figure sidles up beside you. Edoardo, sleeves rolled, still holding the comms headset in his hand. He follows your gaze to where Wonwoo’s car disappeared, then looks back at you, a sly quirk tugging at his mouth.

“You kids figured it out, then?” he asks simply, like he’s asking about the weather.

You look at him, startled. “You don’t care?”

“Why would I care?” His eyes are twinkling. “You two just won me five hundred euros.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Several hours later, you’re in a bar celebrating the double win with some of the team, and their partners. Adrienne, Inès and several others interrogating you about Wonwoo all night, and they squeal with laughter when you refuse to answer their drunken, lewd questions, when your face burns instead. Thankfully, you’re saved by a text from him at last. 

It’s a picture. A Getty photograph of the two of you in the blurred crowd, both of you smiling into the kiss. It’s so perfect you almost want to pay the ridiculous sum to have the watermark removed and keep it framed on your nightstand. It’s absurd, the way he changed everything you thought about him out of nowhere. A Wonwoo you once thought cold and standoffish is not that at all. He’s sweet, and loving, and so, so warm. 

Another text startles you out of your fuzz.

Wonwoo [00:19] We look good together, don’t we?

Yes, you think, hearting his message and covering your beaming smile with your hand. You really do. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

GOD I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG

You make it over just in time to hear Wonwoo say “–don’t think it was a strategy issue so much as conditions, and other driver’s racing styles.”

“You’ve been doing a lot more media appearances than usual. Critics are saying you’re taking on too much work, and it’s distracting you from the race. What are your thoughts on that?”

Wonwoo’s eyes flit over to you, and straight back to the man holding a mic in front of his face. 

“Are you the critic in question?” asks Wonwoo, flatly. “Because I haven’t heard anyone saying that.”

The interviewer laughs in disbelief. “No– I–”

“You don’t think that’s a stupid question?” Wonwoo asks, tilting his head to the side. “Every driver has media obligations. The rain doesn’t come down that hard just because I’ve taken a few photos.”

Jeonghan places a hand on Wonwoo’s arm, smiles at the crowd of people in front of them– “Thanks for your time everyone, we need to get going now–” and as he leads Wonwoo into the garage, you follow. 

Once inside Jeonghan makes himself scarce and Wonwoo flops into a chair. “Here to scold me already?” He scowls. “You can’t give me a minute?” 

You frown. “No. I thought you handled that fairly well, considering.” 

Wonwoo laughs sharp. “You’re kidding?”

You shrug. “You could’ve laughed it off as you said it, it would sound more friendly. But I think people like it when drivers answer ridiculous questions with a little joke. Certainly works well for Max. You did good.”

If Wonwoo is grateful for the compliment, he doesn’t show it. 

“I wanted to ask you about your trip to Seoul, after the Italian Grand Prix. How long were you planning on staying there?”

He blinks. “A week or so. Why?”

“Esquire Korea asked for an interview with you. I wanted to know if I could schedule it to coincide with your trip home. I don’t want to interrupt your time off, so I could tack it on to the end of your week. What do you think?”

Wonwoo lets out a long suffering sigh, and says, “will I have a babysitter?”

Irritation flares in your chest but you push it down. “Jeonghan, probably, he has family there and I figure he wouldn’t snub a paid trip to visit them.”

He sighs again. Runs a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. It’s getting long.

“Fine,” he says flatly. 

“Good. Let Inès know what dates you’ll be free ASAP, and I’ll finalise the details by Wednesday.” There’s a pause. You’re not sure how to end this conversation. “Sorry about your race.”

He pushes his tongue into the fat of his cheek. “It’s whatever.”

You don’t know what’s compelling you to stay there, to keep talking. Maybe it’s because he sounds so– so dejected. Not that you particularly care for his feelings, given his disdain for you. But he’s still a person, and there’s no one else around. “You’ll get them next time.”

“I’m a big boy, you know?” he says, looking up at you and raising his eyebrows. “I don’t need consoling. Least of all from you.”

This, you think, is the reason people don’t warm to him. Pushes a little kindness away like it’s a knife. Fuck him. Fuck him and his attitude. 

“Of course you don’t.” You smile stiffly. “See you next week.”

“Next week?” he asks abruptly. “Not in Japan?”

“Italy, for Vanity Fair.”

Wonwoo stares at you blankly.

“Mingyu okayed it. It’s on your calendar.”

He huffs air through his nose. “Fuck– fine. Whatever.”

As you turn you have to fight the self-satisfied smile off your face.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Milan, Italy

It’s been a busy week. Too busy, really, but you like that. Sure, you’ve spent more hours than you would’ve liked trawling the internet for a trace of Wonwoo’s name tangled up in this mess with his ex, but it’s still been free of his actual presence souring your mood. Sure you’ve been emailing translators (and Mingyu or Jeonghan when the time difference doesn’t suit) at ridiculous hours, but still– a good week. 

The problem is the pictures keep cropping up in new places. Just in the last twenty-four hours, the pictures have made their way out of obscure Korean gossip circles and into K-Pop subreddits, twitter, Tiktok, and likely soon, the news. His ex’s name is everywhere, which is unfortunate, but ‘the guy’ is still nameless. Thankfully, her team agreed that the best course of action would be to claim the pictures are fake, designed to embroil her group in scandal, and ruin their image of ‘innocent charm’ in a bid to ruin their efforts in the charts. Despite your pushing, you haven’t seen them release a statement yet. It’s… frustrating, for lack of a better word. 

Gabriella has still had no luck finding the man behind it, but she persists, and in the meantime you’d tasked Jeonghan with going back to basics with media training Wonwoo before his interview this afternoon. You’ve hardly had to speak to him at all. No luck today, though. With Mingyu on leave, Jeonghan busy with Charles, and the rest of your team tied up with the regular work of the season, supervision falls to you.

You find Wonwoo in wardrobe. He’s frustrated, you can tell that much. The stylist he’s talking to looks equally as annoyed, looking exasperated between him and the Adidas shirt she holds in her hands. 

“You don’t understa–”

“Is there a problem?” you ask.

Wonwoo glances at you, shoulders sagging in what almost looks like relief. “Can you explain to her that I can’t wear this?”

“I’ve already checked–” she argues back. “You aren’t working with any competing brands, I don’t see what the problem is.”

You stretch out your hand. “May I see it?”

She huffs as she shoves it at you, and you turn it over. The back of it is completely open. “Oh… I see.”

“Right,” says Wonwoo, nodding. “So you see, I can’t–”

“No, no. You can–” you start, and Wonwoo gapes at you. “We just need– excuse me?” you ask, smiling at the young intern hovering nearby. “Would you ask the make-up artist for the concealer she used on Wonwoo, please? A brush too, and some setting powder.”

She looks over at him curiously. “Sure, no problem.”

To the stylist you say, “Would you mind giving us a moment, please. He’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Great,” she says, before making her way toward the door. “Thanks.” 

Once it clicks shut, you ask, “So how big is this tattoo?”

Wonwoo leans against the wall. “Small. It wraps around a little.”

There’s a knock at the door, and the intern enters with a bag that she hands to Wonwoo, and makes for the door again. You go to follow her, but Wonwoo clears his throat. “Uh– sorry–” You turn to find him looking blankly at the assistant, and then at the kit in his hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She looks to you wide eyed, and you sigh. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. Would you mind fetching us all some coffee please?”

The door clicks shut again, and Wonwoo swallows thick. “I thought it’d be better if she helped instead.”

“The fewer people who know about your tattoo the better.”

“Right.”

“Come on,” you say tightly. “Let's get this over with.”

Wonwoo hesitates for a beat, before shrugging his t-shirt off over his head. You don’t make a show of looking, but you find yourself curious as you spot the ink curling over his ribs. It doesn’t look at home there on his skin, a phrase in romantic script in a language you don’t understand, her initials and a date, presumably their anniversary underneath. Maybe it’s because the rest of his body is too bare. Maybe it’s because you never pegged him as a romantic person. You swallow the lump in your throat. This is supposed to be professional. Mechanical. And here you are judging. 

“Your definition of small seems pretty skewed,” you say dryly, reaching for the concealer to squeeze a little onto the back of your hand. 

He doesn’t rise to it. Instead, Wonwoo watches you with a guarded stillness, moving only to cross his arm loosely over his middle to keep it out of your way. You dip the brush into the concealer and step closer, the air between you tightening.

“Hold still.”

His gaze flickers down as you work, feathering product over the fine black lines. His skin is cool to touch, and it’s infuriating that you notice the goosebumps raising under your fingertips.

“You do this often?” he asks quietly.

You shoot him a sharp look. “Covering up mistakes? Constantly.”

“I meant other people’s make up.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “But Is that what you think this is? A mistake?”

“It isn’t?” you counter, adding a second layer of concealer, grateful for the excuse not to meet his eyes.

Silence stretches between you, save for the whisper of the brush against his skin. Then, softer: “I don’t know anymore.”

“Do you want to get back together with her?”

“No.” 

“Why not?” you murmur. 

There’s a brief pause. A stilted breath. “Why are you asking?” 

Your face reddens and you duck your head to concentrate on buffing powder into his side. You don’t know why, really. “We’d have to handle the situation differently, that’s all.” The truth, sort of. “There,” you say, stepping back once you’re sure the ink can’t be seen beneath the layers. “Crisis averted.”

Wonwoo glances down at his skin, then back up at you. “Thanks.”

The gratitude in his voice sits heavier than it should. You clear your throat, stuffing the brushes back into the bag. “No need to thank me. Just make sure you don’t sweat it off on camera or we’re all screwed.”

He gives a small begrudging laugh, and you hate how it makes your stomach dip.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The interview goes so much better than you expected. Half attributed to the journalist’s lighthearted interview style, and the other you can only thank Jeonghan for. You think you even saw Wonwoo smile once or twice, so you make a mental note to make Jeonghan’s birthday present really fucking expensive this year. 

Later, you’re waiting in the lobby for your taxi when Wonwoo exits the lift. Barefaced once again, bucket hat pulled low over his eyes. You expect him to leave without a word, so you lift your hand to offer a polite wave, keep up appearances that you’re friendly now you work together, but instead he’s making his way over. 

“I wanted to– err…” he trails off. Fiddles with the ring on his right hand. 

“To what?” you prompt, raising an eyebrow. The irritation is already bubbling in your chest. 

He swallows, draws himself taller. “I wanted to say thanks again.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “It barely took a minute of my time,” you dismiss, and then after a moments thought you tack on– “though if you ever want to go swimming again you might want to consider laser rem–”

He shakes his head. “No– I mean with the pictures and my ex. Mingyu said you’ve been emailing him in the middle of the night, so I figured it’s been taking up more of your time than I thought it would.”

“Right…” You blink. Wonwoo being concerned about your working hours enough to actually talk to you wasn’t what you would’ve ever expected. “Well it’s my job, so–”

“Yeah. ‘Course.” His lips flatten into a line. “Are you waiting for your driver?”

“I don’t have a driver.” Your laugh almost sounds genuine, takes you a little aback. “Green initiative, remember? I’m on the five-ten to Modena.”

Wonwoo opens his mouth for a second, then clamps it shut. Nods. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, expecting that to be the end of it, but he lingers, rubbing his thumb against the silver band on his finger.

“I’m… driving that way,” he says finally, each word clipped, almost like he has to force them out. “Edoardo wants me in Imola tomorrow morning. More test runs. Modena’s on the way.” 

You look at him, caught between surprise and suspicion. “And?”

His gaze flicks past you, to the doors opening and closing with the lobby’s steady stream of people heading home after a long day at work. He exhales, sharp. “Do you want a lift?”

The way he says it, you almost expect him to retract the offer before you can answer. Gentlemanly, but reluctant. Merely obligation, no generosity in it. 

“That’s unnecessary,” you reply, slow. “I already booked my ticket, and I can work from the train.”

“I know.” His jaw tightens. “Just thought I should offer.”

It hangs there, heavy, awkward, a tie knotted too tight. You wait, but he doesn’t add anything. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, tall and stiff, like he’s fulfilling some duty carved into his bones.

“…Sure,” you say at last, because anything else feels too unnatural. “Thanks anyway.”

Wonwoo nods once, curt. Still, he lingers.

“Yes?” you prompt again.

He sighs. “Mingyu said I should apologise.”

“Oh.” Unexpected. 

“He said I’ve been rude, and you don’t deserve it, and you’re just trying to do your job.” The words sound rehearsed, rushed. Not an apology you’ll accept. 

“So do you need me to call Mingyu, then?”

He stares at you, confused. “For what?”

You tilt your head to the side, smile big and fake. “To apologise for you.”

His sniffs, annoyed, scrunches up his nose. God, you do enjoy pissing him off.  

“M’sorry,” he says, so low you barely catch it.

“Say again? Didn’t hear you.”

“Fuck’s sa–” He clears his throat. His whole face is flushed with indignation. “I said I’m sorry.”

You have to make a real effort to stop the shit-eating grin from taking over your face, and it’s only then that Wonwoo meets your eyes. For once, for the first time nearly a decade, he holds. 

“Are you happy now?” he asks, under his breath. “Are you satisfied?”

“Never,” you mutter, under yours. And then you catch sight of the taxi pulling up outside. “That’s my ride.”

And then he surprises you again– picks up the laptop bag at your feet and heads straight through the automatic doors. It takes you a second to get your brain into gear to chase him out. By the time you reach him, he’s already pulling open the car door and stepping back to hold it for you.

You narrow your eyes at him, snatch your bag from his hands. “I can carry my own things, Wonwoo.”

“I was helping,” he retorts.

This is strange. This isn’t the Wonwoo you’ve had to spend all these weeks with. Suddenly wanting to be helpful out of the blue. 

“If I wanted your help, I’d ask for it,” you snap. “Don’t touch my stuff.” 

His eyebrows furrow, the flush of annoyance patching up his neck. “Okay. Fine, I won’t get in your way again.”

“Good!”

“Great!”

You slide into the backseat, and Wonwoo slams the car door behind you. You don’t see him storm off, but you catch the way the taxi drivers’ eyes follow him in the mirror, and after a moment he turns to you and asks excitedly, “Quell’uomo era Jeon Wonwoo?”

“Sì, signore.”

He gasps. “È il tuo ragazzo?”

“No, è il mio collega.”

He gasps again, louder, this time. “Ferrari?”

“Sì, signore.”

And so your fifteen minutes of quiet is lost to fast paced conversation about cars, and racing, and drivers you’d rather not think about.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sakhir, Bahrain

Wonwoo takes his first podium of the year. Third place, Charles in first. The cheers from the garage are deafening– the crew run out to meet them both, tear them into hugs. You hang back in favour of sending Jeonghan into the fray. With Wonwoo this happy, there’s nothing to worry about when it comes to post-race media, because the smile splits his face wide, and his laughter bubbles out of him when he speaks, and anyone can see that there’s nothing that suits him more. 

It’s a crying shame you’ll have to wipe it off him, later tonight.

There’s a video. 

One Gabriella says is unmistakably him. Still no face, but his voice, and the ring he wears on his right hand is enough of a giveaway. ‘It hardly matters about the tattoo at this point,’ she’d said. Once again, you haven’t looked. The signal notification scorches a mark into your phone, but there it’ll stay until Wonwoo can watch it for himself. 

You and Jeonghan decide to wait until after the press commitments before pulling him away from the paddock, to drag him away early after his first podium with Ferrari would only raise concerns, and the last thing you’d want on a night like this is to draw prying eyes. Keep him happy, keep him talking, for once. 

Later, you find him in the garage. He’s laughing with Charles, his girlfriend, Adrienne, and some of the engineers– his beer hardly touched. Most of the group meets you with big smiles or celebratory hugs, and Wonwoo must be beyond happy with his race because his smile doesn’t drop even a little. He even nods in greeting. Adrienne pulls you into conversation, gushes over the anniversary gift you sent them, and Charles joins in, says his mother was asking after you. 

“Oh I hope Monique’s well too!” you exclaim. “I’ve been trying that recipe she sent me and I still can’t get it right, but tell her to come for dinner during the summer break if she’s in the area, and I’ll make her something edible.”

Charles grins, says, “I’m sure she’d love to.”

One of the engineers, Paulo, offers you a beer from the coolbox but you shake your head.

“Sorry guys, I need to talk to Wonwoo for a minute.”

His face falls. “It can’t wait?”

Charles and the others look between you with curiosity. “No, we need to go over some changes for tomorrow morning.”

He frowns, puzzled. “It’s my day off.” 

You offer a terse smile, and Charles catches it. Knows something’s up that you can’t say in front of others because God, he’s been on the receiving end too, once or twice. 

“We’re heading out anyway, right, Adrienne?”

She nods, a proud, winning smile plastered on her face– links her fingers with his and offers swift goodbyes before pulling him out into the night. They’re sweet, those two. The engineers quickly say their goodbyes too, when you lead Wonwoo into a small room and shut the door behind you. 

“Are you mic’d?” you say, as you sit down.

Wonwoo swallows thick as he follows suit. “No.”

“You should’ve warned me there was a video,” you mutter. “We’re working on burying it, but we can’t guarantee it won’t be picked up or sent to anyone we’re not able to handle.” He ashens when you slide your phone across the table, with the Signal notification there waiting. “Is it you?”

His hands shake as he presses play, and you only wished you’d turned down the volume first. It’s only fourteen (awfully, agonisingly long) seconds, but it’s obscene. Panted breaths, the slap of wet skin, a whispered jagiya (hers), a desperate groan (his). You shift uncomfortably in your seat, swallow your surprise, and press your hand to your cheek in a desperate bid to cool the heat building there. 

“You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intend. He flinches. 

“I didn’t– God–I…” he trails off, dragging a hand through his hair. “We were twenty-two, for fucks sake. It was supposed to be for us.”

“Look, nobody here gives a damn if you fuck someone, but you’re the one who got into a secret relationship,” you snap. “This could be an easy fix if you’d let us work the angle right.”

His eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“Take ownership. Say you had a girlfriend and it’s all in the past. And this is embarrassing but who doesn’t have videos of themselves with their long term partner? This isn’t career-ending for you.” 

“It would be for her.” He’s shaking his head. “I can’t do that.” 

You press on. “Her team is insisting we ignore it completely. They haven’t even put out a statement and quite frankly they’re grossly mismanaging everything. Do you have any idea how hard it is to spin that into something salvageable now there’s a video like that?”

He looks up at you, eyes wide. “Have you seen it?”

“No,” you sputter. You heard plenty. “God no. I don’t want to.”

“Why? Most people in the press would’ve.”

“I’m not in the press. Not anymore,” you retort, defensive. “Why do you care?”

“Wanted to know if I’d still be able to look you in the eye.”

The bitter laugh falls out of you before you can stop it. “You hardly look at me anyway.”

Wonwoo’s jaw ticks. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”

“I need you to stop wearing that ring.” 

He levels you with a look. “Absolutely not.”

You huff air through your nose. “If you continue to wear it you’re more likely to get noticed while people try to figure this out. Don’t be stupid, Wonwoo.” 

That makes him pause. His mouth opens, then shuts again. After a beat, he says quietly, “It’s important to me. If I take it off on the road, I’ll lose it.”

You grit your jaw in annoyance. Shit, you could fucking shake him. Rub at your neck and still your hand over the chain you disturb there. And then you’re unclasping your necklace, and Wonwoo, quick on the uptake, removes his ring and hands it to you, watches as you slip the chain through the band. And when you attempt to hand it to him, he draws his hands into his lap, and says, “Oh– I thought you were gonna wear it.” 

“Just tuck it under your shirt.”

“It’s your necklace.”

“It’s your ring,” you deadpan.

He shrugs, leans back in his chair and crosses his arms in defiance. You scowl. 

“For fucks sake, Wonwoo,” you hiss, slipping the necklace back around your neck, and tucking the ring out of sight under your collar. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sweat slick skin, the scent of something woody and atmospheric, touches that make you lightheaded. It’s not anger that simmers in your body but want. He’s between your legs, face pressed to your skin, face shrouded by dark, messy hair. He lifts his chin, meets your eyes across your body, pushes long fingers into your–

You wake with a start, alone in your hotel room. Skin sticky and cheeks flushed. It takes a second for the dream to come back to you in your foggy, sleep-addled state, but when it does your stomach twists, water-brash in your mouth. There’s no meaning in it, surely? It’ll just be because the sound from that fucking video won’t leave your brain, right? You push yourself up in bed, check the time– 2:41am. Your alarm will go off in twenty minutes anyway, might as well finish packing your suitcase and do your best to put your dream at the very back of your mind.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’ve got the aisle spot, as always. Business class this time instead of first. The flight out of Bahrain is early enough that the plane is filled with the exhausted hush the team. Wonwoo boards late, hood up, headphones looped around his neck, glasses slipping down his nose. You watch him look for his seat number, hoping to the heavens and back that it’s not the empty one right next to your seat. But fate (or rather poor Inès being lumbered with logistics for half the team) has a cruel sense of humor, because right beside you is where he comes to a halt. If he offers you a passing glance as he opens the overhead locker, you refuse to notice, because you’re boring a hole into the page of your book. 

“Excuse me,” he says, sounding as tired as you feel. You tuck your legs to the side, push back in your seat as hard as you can to allow him the biggest gap to get through. He shifts past to slump into his seat and you catch it– a waft of his cologne– smoky and sweet and woody. Catapults you right back to your hotel room, and you shift in your seat. Your skin feels all prickly and hot. 

Once he’s buckled himself in, you expect him to pull his headphones on as he usually does, but in your peripherals you catch him looking at you curiously, and after a second, he leans over the armrest. “What are you reading?”

You glare at him. Flash him the cover (The Hypocrite, by Jo Hamya) and Wonwoo laughs, at what you don’t know. Or care, even! 

“Are you annoyed with me already?” he asks quietly, brows pinching together. 

“I just want to read,” you mutter, and you don’t wait for Wonwoo’s reply before you jab at the button to raise the privacy screen between your chairs, and he has to jolt out of the way.

An hour or so later, when you’re in the air and the wifi isn’t cutting out, you get an email from Inès. 

Hope you’re travelling safe!

We received the clips and interview (see attached) from Esquire late last night and they want your approval before pushing it to print. 

Inès CarvahloExecutive Assistant to Head of Communications

You type back your thanks and make sure to include a PS that says ‘Jesus Christ, Inès, just because I work crazy hours doesn't mean you have to as well. Please get some sleep for the rest of us!!!’ before clicking on the attachments. 

The interview comes out as you expect, knowing Bridget and her work like the back of your hand. And the pictures… well– he looks incredible. Which you suppose isn’t too difficult a task. 

You knock on the privacy screen, and a moment later you hear him press the button to bring it down. He’s taken his hood down, and his hair is messy from sleep. He’s looking at you half-surprised, half expectant, and pales when you pass him your phone.

“Nothing to worry about this time. They want my approval for the Esquire interview.”

He stares at you. “Do you usually get approval?”

You laugh. “No. It’s only because Bridget loves me.” Wonwoo doesn’t reply. “Do you want to read it? Tell me what you think?”

“Does it even matter what I think?”

You shrug. “Sure, it should feel authentically you.”

“Nothing about this shit feels authentically me,” he murmurs, but he takes your phone in his hand anyway, and you absolutely do not think about the way his fingers brush yours. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

You’ve been fighting a bug for the last two days. This morning, it got the better of you. It’s not often you’re affected by the exhaustion of travel, but there's more on your plate than usual, and so you’re watching the race while holed up in your hotel room, thanking God that Jeonhan can handle your duties while spreading out his own to the rest of the team. 

Races always have you holding your breath at parts, but the Chicane always makes your stomach twist. Lap seven, and they’re already playing a game of chicken, and your heart is in your throat. Lap forty-two, and tensions are too high. Fernando goes into the back of Charles, and both go slamming into the wall in a blur. Wonwoo is alongside them, and narrowly escapes unscathed. You can’t breathe, the anxiety not at all helping the ache in your body for what feels like an age before the safety car comes out, and the news comes through that everyone is okay. Charles is out of the race, but once the debris is cleared, Wonwoo has the advantage. With bated breath you watch, enraptured, cradling your increasingly sore stomach in your arms, but he wins, and you can release the tension in your chest. Wonwoo takes P1.

God, he looks so happy. He’s almost barreled to the ground with the weight of the team, you see Jeonghan and Mingyu clapping him on the back, and he’s scanning the crowd, looking for Edoardo, or Charles, maybe, but can’t find them. He’s whispering something in Jeonghan's ear, and Jeonghan’s shaking his head back, and then the screen clicks back to the highlight reel. You turn off the TV after a few minutes, overcome with a wave of nausea, and you send a mass congratulations text to the team while laying on the bathroom floor. 

The clock reads 11:37pm when you’re woken from a restless sleep by rapid knocking at your door. You stumble across your room and look through the peephole to see Wonwoo, slumping against the opposite wall, in a baggy black t-shirt, Ferrari-issued bomber jacket, and jeans. He’s got a bag in his hand. 

You rub your eyes as you open the door, and the smell of liquor hits you immediately. It turns your stomach. “Shit– how drunk are you?”

Wonwoo laughs lazily. “A lot. They took me out to celebrate. You didn’t come.”

You fail to get his point. Stand in the open doorway and cross your arms. “Did you lose your room or something?”

“Jeonghan said you’re sick,” he slurs. 

“I’m fine,” you lie, while it feels like your skull is being pierced. 

“Brought you soup.”

You blink. “Y– you what?”

“Soup,” he repeats, thrusting the bag he holds into your hands. 

This feels like it should be a practical joke you don’t understand. You peer down the hallway, wondering if you’ll spot some other drivers with cameras in their hands, jeering and teasing. It’s empty, save for Wonwoo and his bag. 

You take it from him cautiously, briefly wondering if he’s poisoned it.

“Are you wearing my ring?” 

You reach up, pluck out the chain from beneath the collar of your pyjamas to show him the ring dangling from it, before saying, “I’m wearing my necklace.”

“Do you even know what that ring means to me?” he murmurs. 

Wonwoo has always been hard to read, but with his eyes locking yours, a line of sweat beading on his forehead, lips parted in that pretty way he does for photographs, you find yourself even more bewildered, and completely lost for words. 

“I hardly know anything about you,” you breathe.

“Can I co–” he starts, but then he goes positively grey, and his chin drops. Fucking hell.

“Jesus, Wonwoo, are you going to be sick?”

He nods, clasping a hand over his mouth, and you’re ushering him into your bathroom just in time for him to vomit in the same toilet you had your head in not three hours ago. You pour him a glass of water and leave it on the counter while you retrieve your phone from the nightstand. 

You [11:39] Come get Wonwoo, please. Room 503. Mingyu [11:40] WHAT Mingyu [11:40] Sorry. Be there in fifteen 

Mingyu knocks gently on your door in twelve minutes, breathless and red faced. The poor guy must’ve sprinted here from the bar. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, as you let him inside and show him to the bathroom, where Wonwoo is falling asleep with his head tipped back against the wall. “He said he had to do something– we all thought he was just at his limit and wanted to go sleep it off.”

“How does he even know my room number?”

“Oh– he’s only a few doors down,” Mingyu says indifferently, bending to pull Wonwoo up. Wonwoo groans as he’s jostled about. “He probably saw you.”

“Right.”

Wonwoo’s head lolls to the side, but Mingyu’s got him. Half carries, half drags him from your room and then stops just outside your doorway. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Can you get his key from his pocket? And grab the door for me?”

“Uh–” Shit. “Yeah, sure.”

You slip your hand in his jacket pockets first, find nothing but his phone. You check to make sure he’s still got his eyes closed before you pat down his jean pockets for anything that resembles a wallet and you find it in his back pocket. You fish it out, find his card and rush to open the door Mingyu directs you to. He dumps Wonwoo on the bed without ceremony, and starts pulling off his shoes. 

“Is he okay?” you ask, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

Mingyu laughs, tossing one shoe on the floor before untying the other. “He’s fine, he’s just not used to drinking.”

It really shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter that Wonwoo, who hates you, got drunk as shit celebrating his first win and left his team early to show up at your door with food. Nothing makes sense when your head is pounding like this. 

“I’m gonna take his jeans off now,” warns Mingyu.

“Right. Yeah,” you blurt, heat creeping up your cheeks. “Goodnight, Mingyu.”

Back in the quiet relief of your room, you open the container. Chicken noodle, still hot. You skipped everything but a few plain crackers for breakfast, and now your body cries out for sustenance. You eat faster than you should, thoughts of Wonwoo only returning when your spoon scrapes the bottom of the takeout pot. Why was he even thinking of you? In the bathroom you brush your teeth, wash your face with cool water in the sink, and level yourself with a look in the mirror. It’s just food. It doesn’t mean anything. Get a grip. His ring dangles from the chain around your neck, mocking you.

In bed, you agonise over texting him. If you should ask why he came, if you should bring up what he said about his ring. Ask what it means. In the end you settle for:

You [00:23] Thanks for dropping off the soup.

You’re laying on a bed, sheets mussed with sleep. You’re resting your head in his lap, and he’s toying with the chain around your neck. Moves his hand down your body soft soft soft. Says he thinks of you. Makes you burn.

You wake to the buzz of your phone.

Wonwoo [10:12] You’re welcome. I’m really embarrassed

You stare at the message, because yeah, you’d be embarrassed too. And he should be, showing up to your hotel room like that, in the middle of the night as drunk as he was. It’s a wonder he had the nerve to text you back at all, because you certainly wouldn’t have. But he brought you soup. Because he heard you were sick. And despite rotting in bed for ages wondering why on earth why he’d do that for you, you can’t settle on anything, other than it being pretty nice. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Maranello, Italy

You’re starting to suspect this gym-instructor ex-boyfriend of Wonwoo’s ex-girlfriend doesn’t actually exist because why the fuck can no one find a shred of information on him? You say as such to Gabriella, and she gives you a look that says she’s been wondering the same. Wonwoo is in France for a few days, working on possible brand ambassadorships, and Jeonghan is keeping you in the loop as best he can. After the incident at the hotel, you’ve decided to keep your distance where you can. The problem is any time you’re on the same flight, you’re seated together. And lately Wonwoo has been trying to talk to you. It’s a little unnerving, after years of flopping between clipped responses and radio silence. 

You’re shut away in your office most of the week, catching up with sponsors, signing off on events, attempting to keep up with the media. You’re on hold again with the ex-girlfriend’s label. They’ve been avoiding yours and Gabriella’s calls for the last two weeks, and it looks like they’re palming you off again and pretending no-one is available. You’re on minute thirteen when your personal phone starts buzzing on the desk. You press mute on your work phone before you pick up. 

“I’m calling about a video,” says Bridget. She’s whispering. “There’s a rumour going around that it’s your driver, and I must say, if so, it’s a very flattering light.”

Oh God. Your heart is in your throat. “Bridget. Bridget– listen to me. You can’t print anything about this–”

“And I won’t, came straight to you. You’re lucky it wasn’t picked up by our editor. I’m assuming you want this buried?”

You heave a long-suffering sigh. “Have I told you I love you lately?”

“Nowhere near enough, darling.” She hums, happy. “There is something you can do for me though–”

“Uh oh–”

She cackles. Your evil, delightful friend cackles while you’re pulling out your hair. “Nothing awful. Can you get us in the Paddock Club in Miami?”

“Who’s us?”

“I’ve started seeing someone,” she whispers excitedly. “And he has this huge mancrush on Carlos Sainz–”

It’s your turn to laugh then. “No problem. I’ll have two passes sent over this afternoon.”

“Oh you’re a sweetheart!”

“Don’t attempt flattery when I’ve just been bribed,” you say, smiling into the receiver. “You’ll come meet me for dinner while we’re there? Let me meet him?”

“Of course, of course!”

You’re interrupted by the sound of the hold music coming to an abrupt halt, and you say quick goodbyes to Bridget only to be told, once again, that the manager you requested is unavailable.

Later, you have a stream of emails from publications with less integrity (or more, depending on how you look at it) anyway, asking for confirmation, asking for a statement from Ferrari, and Mingyu calls you at one AM in a panic, having had the same.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The next few days are occupied by fielding calls from the media, an official statement on both Wonwoo’s personal social media accounts, and Ferrari’s, and a press conference, where Wonwoo was flanked by both you and Gabriella. The agreed stance is as follows:

The photos and video were taken by Wonwoo and his now ex-partner, several years ago. 

It was a loving relationship, and the video and photos were taken consensually.

No, you will not confirm or deny if the other party is a member of a well known K-pop group.

Legal action will be taken against the person responsible for releasing them, and the police are involved.

There have been countless angry messages and emails from the ex’s management company (Inès has been keeping a tally for you) but with the Miami Grand Prix looming, there simply hasn’t been time for you to get back to them. Hahaha. Jeonghan is holding fort in Maranello with Gabriela, acting as a translator between her and South Korean police, while you catch yet another flight sitting next to Wonwoo. 

It’s past midnight, and he’s already asleep by the time you board and slip your bag into the overhead locker. The trouble with ITA airways is that there’s no privacy doors, so working on sensitive issues is pretty much impossible with all the eyes around you. And so, unable to work and unable to get into the book you brought, you settle in to sleep too. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Whispers surround you. You’re clapped on the back by older reporters, jeering and saying ‘saw your article! aren’t you brave!’ You can smell the meanness, the condescension on them. They’re like your dad, and the last thing you ever want to be. When the drivers come out into the paddock, you’re recognised for once. You draw scowls and side eyes from the PR managers, and tight, fake smiles from the drivers. Hardly any of them give you more than five words. And then comes Wonwoo, who you wronged, and who won’t talk to you at all. The memory morphs. Instead of biting remarks in your voice recorder you’re calling out, right there in front of everyone, saying you’re sorry.

It feels surreal, to wake from yet another dream about Wonwoo only to find him right next to you, turned on his side in his chair and scrolling on his phone, the reflection of Tiktok in his glasses. You rub the sleep from your eyes, and he looks up. 

“Morning,” he whispers. The lights are still out, and you check your watch to see you’ve only been in the air for five hours. “You’ve been talking in your sleep again.”

Shit. Shit shit fuck shit. “Anything interesting?” 

His thumb pauses scrolling for the briefest of moments. “Work, I guess. Couldn’t really hear.”

God, you should catch up on what you missed while you were sleeping. You pull your laptop from the  bag under your seat and Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Do you ever stop working?”

You huff a laugh under your breath. “What would I do instead?”

He locks his phone, drops it into his lap. “Play a game, listen to music, read a book,” he offers. “You always have a book when we fly, where is it?”

You shrug. “I didn’t like this one so much.”

“I’d offer you mine but it’s something else I saw you read before.” In the semi-darkness you swear you can almost see him smiling. Your stomach twists.

“Work it is then,” you say, grinning fake, tapping your laptop awake. 

“What about a movie?” he counters. 

“And waste thirty minutes going through all the options only to find nothing I want to see?” you mutter, typing in your password. “No thank you.” Wonwoo stares at you for a moment. “What?”

He blinks, setting his jaw. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·​​

Miami, USA

The good news– the weather is beautiful as it usually is in Miami, your schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon, and your hotel has a rooftop pool.

The bad news– the bikini your assistant back home packed for you is hardly your swimsuit of choice for a work trip. This was one you’d bought a few years back, one your then boyfriend complained was too small. 

You pull it on anyway. At least it’s red. You throw over a loose t-shirt and a pair of shorts, debate with yourself about leaving your work phone in the room, before slotting it in your bag and making your way upstairs. 

The view is something else. The bustle of the city feels far away up here, and you order a glass of wine at the bar before settling in on a sun lounger. It’s so quiet, with hardly anyone poolside on a midweek afternoon. You slip off your t-shirt, prop yourself up on your elbows on your front, and pull out the book you’ve barely had the chance to get into. 

An hour goes by, and you’re on your second glass of wine, and waiting for your food to arrive. Another, and you’re growing tempted to ignore the occasional buzz from your phone and you’re ordering another glass. By hour three, your book is tucked away, your shorts are shed too, and you’re slipping into the pool. You dip under the surface, let the water rush over your head, let your body drift of its own accord. 

After a moment you break to tread water, find yourself a few metres away from where you entered, wipe the droplets from your face, and it’s then you hear them on the other side of the pool. A bunch of drivers with wide smiles– Charles and Carlos calling your name, Pierre, Alex, and Yuki who wave you over, and Wonwoo, who looks like all the air has been sucked out of his chest. There goes your relaxing afternoon. But to avoid him would be to draw speculation, and that won’t do in front of drivers from other teams, so you swim over. The water isn’t as deep over here, but you still have to push up from the tips of your toes in order to cross your arms over the coping and rest your chin on them. 

“Hi guys,” you say with a smile. “Enjoying your evening?”

“More so now you’re here,” says Carlos, with an exaggerated, ridiculous wink.

You laugh. “Don’t flirt with me, darling, I couldn’t take you breaking my heart again.”

Carlos clutches his chest. “I’d never, never break your heart.”

“You already did!” you gasp. 

“When?”

“Remember two years ago? The Constructors' Championship win?” Charles says, and you’re grinning, already knowing where he’s going. “You called the cake she made for the team ugly.”

“You made that atrocious thing?” Carlos’ eyes go wide. “Well now I’m embarrassed.”

You splash water on him and he yelps. The others are laughing, but Wonwoo doesn’t. His eyes flit back and forth between you, watching carefully.

“And I’ll never make a cake again!”

“If it’s any consolation it tasted great.” He laughs when you give him a look. “No, really!”

“Hmm,” you say, suppressing your laugh. “You know slandering my cake is why you lost your seat, right?” Carlos pretends to look wounded. 

The conversation moves easily, even with Wonwoo keeping quiet. Alex and Pierre seem to notice that he isn’t joining in, that his friendly demeanour has suddenly and obviously shifted into something charged, but they don’t mention it aloud, just exchange quizzical looks, as they take in the way Wonwoo diverts his attention anywhere but your face when you speak. 

“We’re gonna grab drinks,” says Charles. “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” you say, smiling up at them. “Gonna swim.”

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Carlos asks you. 

“Meet you downstairs at seven?” 

The rest of the guys exchange looks.

“What’s tomorrow?” Alex asks.

Carlos waggles his eyebrows. “It’s a date.”

You sigh. “We’re going to surprise my friend’s new boyfriend at dinner,” you explain. “He’s a big fan of Carlos, for some reason.” 

With that the group say quick goodbyes. You wish them well for the media day tomorrow and they filter away, but Wonwoo hangs back, tells them he doesn’t feel like drinking tonight. He’s still avoiding your eye, so you push off from the edge and make to turn but he’s suddenly calling you back, voice sharp. You give him a bemused look, but he’s already casting his eyes downward, plucking at a hangnail on his thumb. 

“You’re wearing your necklace.”

Ah. Fuck. You hadn’t even thought about taking it off, considering you’re not likely to be caught in any photographs off the paddock, even less in the comfort of your hotel. 

“Shit. Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t think.” 

“I guess it doesn’t matter now.” He pauses. “Do you think I could take off my shirt?”

You blanche. “Why would you do that?”

“To swim,” he laughs.

“Oh. Yeah. I suppose you’re right, no need to hide anymore.”

And even though it’s perfectly normal, that no one would think anything of someone pulling their t-shirt off in order to swim, you still avert your eyes when you catch sight of his bare skin. You turn away, swimming off to put plenty of space between you. 

The water is cooler at this end of the pool, refreshing against your skin. You kick lazily, roll onto your back, watch the way the sky casts pink and orange until your chest loosens again. The murmur of voices from the bar drifts, but soon it’s only the rhythm of your own breathing.

A ripple of water breaks the quiet– Wonwoo sliding into the pool. You glance once, then deliberately away, but he doesn’t retreat to a corner. He follows. For a while, neither of you speak. You swim laps, he mirrors. A strange, wordless competition. Kick, glide, breathe, repeat– until your body begins to ache, lungs burning, both of you too stubborn to be the first to stop.

Eventually you can’t hold it anymore– you surface with a gasp, dragging in lungfuls of humid air. You rest your arms on the coping, lean your forehead against your hands. Wonwoo surfaces a beat after, hair plastered to his skin, chest heaving. Instead of giving you space he draws closer, crowding you against the tile.

His eyes search yours, fierce and unsteady. “What’s your problem with me?”

The question cuts deeper than you expect. You blink, caught off guard, words tangling in your throat. He presses on, voice rough with exertion and something sharper.

“Everyone seems to love you,” he says, voice barbed. “You buy them gifts. You tell off your staff for working a fraction as hard as you do. You have people’s families over for dinner. You make cakes for your team. You laugh so nice with everyone you meet.” He pauses to heave a sigh. And then quieter, gentler– “Not a single person has a bad word to say about you.”

You scoff. “You’re saying it like it’s a bad thing.”

“You don’t treat me like that.” 

Heat flares in your body. “I– what are you talking about?” you whisper, turning your face away. The other drivers keep glancing over. 

“You’re all smiles for everyone but me. Any time you see me your face drops. What did I do to you?” 

“Nothing. It’s just different,” you hiss. 

“How is it different?” he snaps.

You look at him, wild eyed. “Because you don’t like me!” 

There’s a long, horrible silence. Droplets of water bead down his face. “I liked you,” he says, low. “Back when we first met. I liked you a lot.”

The admission hangs heavy between you. He liked you. Liked, past tense. Your breath won’t settle, because of the swim you put it down to, not from the proximity of his chest against your side. 

“Then I hated you. And now I don’t know what to think.”

You don’t know what to say, how to untangle what he means– or what he wants from you in this moment. So you just hold yourself against the tile, staring at each other, while the setting sun bathes your faces in golden light, and the silence between you becomes charged enough to crack. 

His eyes flick over to the bar, watching the other drivers drink and talk. “Do you like Carlos?”

“No!” Your incredulous laugh is sharp. “What?”

“He has a crush on you.”

“He’s like that with everyone. Fuck, he flirts with Charles more than he does with me.” Heat creeps up your chest. Indignation or– “For God’s sake, Wonwoo, even if he does it’d be none of your fucking business anyway.”

You heave yourself out of the water, not caring even a little bit that you’re splashing him as you go. You storm over to your sun lounger and towel off as quickly as you can manage, gather up with your things and make your way to the elevator. 

You jab the down button, jaw so tight it aches, towel wrapped tight around your body. The elevator doors slide open and you step inside, relief already cooling the fire in your chest– until a wet slap of bare feet echoes behind you. Wonwoo slips in just as the doors close, dripping water across the floor, hair still soaking, sticking to his temples.

“Are you serious?” you all but shout. “You’re getting water everywhere. Do you have any consideration at all?”

He ignores the rebuke, leans past you, and presses a random button– twenty-something, you don’t even clock which. The elevator hums into motion.

“Give it back,” he says, voice low, rough. You frown. “My ring.” His gaze drops pointedly to your chest, where the thin chain glints on your damp skin. “I want it back.”

Anger sparks hot and quick. “Oh now you want it back? No ‘thanks for looking after it’? No gratitude?”

His jaw ticks, moves closer to crowd you against the wall, and you draw yourself up to your full height. “It’s mine.”

“Fine,” you hiss, dropping your things to the floor without a thought, fingers flying up to your neck only to fumble with the clasp. “Fuck you, Wonwoo. Take your fucking ri–”

You can barely get it off you before he closes the little space between your bodies. His hands frame your face, damp and desperate, and you freeze, words dying on your lips. Against your better judgment, you don’t push his hands away. Against your better judgement, you hold your breath and wait for his next move. Against your better judgement, your hands fall to his waist. And like before, goosebumps rise on his skin under your touch. 

“I–” he whispers, breath fanning across your lips. “I think I want–”

The ding of the elevator snaps the moment in half. You shove at his chest, stumbling away, mouth dry, towel half-slipping down. The doors open onto a pair of startled hotel guests who take in the scene– your flushed face, his lack of a shirt, your chests heaving in sync.

Humiliation crashes over you. You scramble to gather your things from the floor, duck your head, and push past them into the hallway without a word. You’re on the wrong fucking floor, but no matter, you just need to be alone. 

Behind you, Wonwoo doesn’t follow. Just stands there, water dripping to his feet, eyes on you like he can’t quite believe what just happened either.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you for reading, everyone! if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging to get it seen outside of my small following. thank u ily <3

final chapter coming soon

taglist: @idkwtnmsstuff @yoshit-he-dinosaur @mingiboye @kkaetnipjeon

@lleercy @itsnotnaomi @ateez-atiny380 @mauvsworld

The meeting goes as it always does as the beginning of the season looms– articles, social media posts, press agreements. You wonder how Wonwoo will handle the spotlight Ferrari demands. His lack of drive to perform outside of his contractual obligations has been an issue before, at Williams and Alpine. You suspect the once rumoured deal with Mercedes fell flat because of it. It won’t fly here.  “Moving on to our green initiative,” you say. “We’ve made a commitment to reduce our carbon footprint, and I really hope you’ll all honour it in your downtime too– we’re avoiding flying private for the foreseeable future.”

There’s a chorus of groans from around the table.

“I knew you’d all hate it.” Your lips quirk up in a rueful smile. “Don’t worry, no one’s making you fly RyanAir. We’ll have you in first or business where we can.” 

Wonwoo is frowning. “I’ve got a personal commitment in Seoul straight after–“ he starts.

“The wedding after the Italian GP,” you interrupt. “I know the timing is tight. We’re already looking into other options for you.” Wonwoo leans back in his seat but his shoulders still hold the tension. “It’s not set in stone, if we can’t make something work then private can still be a last resort, but let’s not abuse it the way we have been.” 

The meeting wraps up shortly after and everyone makes to leave, but you call Wonwoo’s name, asking him to stay for a few more minutes. Mingyu, his manager, lingers too. 

You wait until the room is cleared, until you sigh, pull out a tablet from your bag, open up an email chain and slide it across the table. Wonwoo’s eyes narrow as catches his name in the subject bar.

“A few of our sponsors have some concerns,” you say. A euphemism if there ever was one. Wonwoo’s lack of patience for the media circus is no secret. He swears in interviews, he gives short, clipped answers, he’s occasionally outright rude. The sponsors don’t like it. It doesn’t matter that he’s a clean racer, that he wins often despite shit cars and shit conditions, doesn’t matter that he plays well with his team. Nothing matters when he’s not commercial enough. 

There’s a look on his face you can’t decipher, and this is what the people who don’t like cite as the reason. Too guarded. Too quiet, even in those sudden bursts of anger after a bad race. The only times you’ve seen him smile is when he’s on the podium. It’s a wonder his old teams had anything nice to say about him, but evidently they did otherwise Edoardo would never–

“What do they want from me?” Wonwoo’s jaw ticks as he keeps his eyes trained on the tablet in front of him.

“A softer image,” you say plainly. “More time in the paddock, a friendlier face for the press, let your fans take pictures in the street, an editorial or two, be more open with Netflix, let them see who Wonwoo really is.”

“My personal life is private–” he says, voice clipped.

“Yes–” you interrupt. “We know fine well how hard you work to keep everyone out.”

“Okay–” interjects Mingyu. “I think we can make a compromise here.” Wonwoo nearly snaps his neck to stare at him, but Mingyu is looking at you. “What if we create something new for the hounds. Some false storylines, a new persona–”

You hold up a hand to stop him. “First off, the hounds? Let’s not forget my background, Mingyu–” You’re interrupted by a scoff from Wonwoo, and you narrow your eyes at him. “Second, they can smell a rat a mile off. If you come out this season with an entirely different personality and you’re suddenly an open book, not a single person on earth will buy it. Not to mention– can you tell a lie with a straight face? It’s hard enough getting anything print worthy out of you. Can you remember all the little details you’d need to falsify to fend off people who’ve learned everything they possibly can about you?”

Mingyu chews on the corner of his mouth. 

Wonwoo scowls. “This is bullsh–” 

“That’s enough,” you snap. “Quite frankly I don’t know how you’ve gotten away with doing the least you possibly can for all these years, but it’s not going to work here, and it won’t work with me. If you want this contract beyond your first year, you can suck it up.”

The look he gives you is ice cold. You heave an exasperated sigh.

“Just start small, give a little here and there.”

“How small?”

“We’ll start with a magazine. There’s a number that want you or Charles– I’ll speak to Jeonghan and go over the options to find the least offensive hound.” 

Mingyu laughs nervously, and Wonwoo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Sounds good?”

“Sure. Fine,” mutters Wonwoo. 

“Good.” You don’t wait for anything else before you’re standing, collecting your things and making to leave. You’ve got a call about Charles’ next editorial in five minutes– thank God he’s easier to work with. “Mingyu, speak to Inès to schedule a meeting with PR on Friday?”

“Yep, no problem,” he says, making a note on his phone. 

You’re just about to walk out the door when Mingyu calls your name, and you turn, expectant. There’s a long pause. A heavy look between him and Wonwoo. 

“Yes?” you prompt.

“Can I speak with you ten minutes before the meeting?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’d like to touch base on a couple of things going on in Wonwoo’s–uh– personal life. We should discuss it privately.”

You cast your eyes over to Wonwoo, who is staring pointedly out the window.

“Sure, call my direct line or come to my office, whatever’s convenient.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The rest of the week flies. Countless meetings, endless calls, pouring over documents and emails and making sure the departments don’t put anything stupid into words. You’re invited to speak at a conference in a few months in Japan, you’ll be mid-season and swamped, but Inès can figure out the details. You’re just finishing a call with a sponsor when Mingyu knocks your half-ajar door. You wave him in and he closes the door behind him.

“Must run now, Stephen,” you say into the receiver, motioning for Mingyu to sit. “Give my best to your lovely wife, and the kids!”

You heave a sigh as the line clicks off, and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Watch your girlfriend around that one. The sponsorship lead from Shell. Chases any woman under the age of forty.”

“Uh– yeah, I will,” says Mingyu slowly. “You okay?” He doesn’t look any less concerned when you wave him off, but he lets it go anyway. He seems nice, this manager. Younger than expected but by all accounts he and Wonwoo are a good fit, and that matters in this game. “Actually girlfriends are what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

“I don’t give out relationship advice,” you deadpan.

“Not mine,” he says. “Not even Wonwoo’s really. His ex.”

You have little patience for drivers and their relationship woes. It seems Mingyu can see it in the way you level a look at him, because he dives right in.

“She’s famous, back home, at least. I don’t know if you know much about idol culture but they’re not supposed to date. It doesn’t look good. She and Wonwoo kept it secret for the six years they were together.”

Six years? Six? Jesus Christ, no wonder he keeps his cards close to his chest. There’s been rumours of a secret partner, of course, since he’s never been the type to get caught taking someone back to his hotel room on race weekends, but never anything more than a whisper. 

“I’m failing to see how any of this is Ferrari’s problem?”

Mingyu wrings his hands together. The pink on his cheeks deepen.

“Well, she left Wonwoo for someone else, you see. Eight months ago. And now they’ve split up too, it turns out he’s in possession of some– uh–”

“Some what?”

“He’s got some– some compromising photos. Of Wonwoo. And her.”

Fuck.

“Explicit?”

“It’s possible,” admits Mingyu. “The threats were vague, apparently.”

Great. Just great. You’re going to kiss Charles on the forehead for being heaven sent when you see him. Wonwoo has been here five fucking minutes and already there’s a mess to clean up. 

“Her name and management company?”

Mingyu slides a slip of paper over your desk. You recognise the name, but you can’t picture her face. 

“The boyfriend? He’s famous too?”

“No. He was her personal trainer. All we know is his name and his instagram, but it’s private.”

Shit. No one to reign them in. Though sometimes it does make them easier to buy off, or to scare. 

“Have you told anyone else?”

Mingyu shakes his head.

“Good. I’ll need to get legal on this too, you’ll inform Wonwoo?” 

“Yes– yes,” he sighs, sounding relieved, almost. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” you say, voice sharp. You’re already punching in your assistant’s extension. “Hi, Inès, get Gabriella for me, please. It’s urgent.”

While you wait to be patched through, you call Mingyu back as he’s walking out the door. “For the record, Mingyu– if anything like this happens again, don’t you dare wait until Friday.”

He grimaces. “Got it.”

And so because you were late while bringing Gabriella up to speed, the PR meeting ran late. There goes your afternoon attempting to catch up on your emails, so you can count your Saturday at the poolside goodbye too. Thanks very much, Jeon Wonwoo. 

He doesn’t look at you once during the meeting. Keeps his eyes trained on the powerpoint Jeonghan put together for Wonwoo and Charles. 

“We’ve scheduled a few things for both of you before the start of the season,” Jeonghan, your team manager, says. “Namely, for you, Wonwoo, since you’ll have to catch up to Charles’ level of commitments. You’ll find the first few are already on your calendar. The first of which is with Esquire. It’s in London next Thursday.”

“We have the three of you on the six-twenty AM flight from Pisa,” says Inès. “You’ll be flying out of Heathrow two days later for Melbourne.”

Wonwoo nods, but Mingyu is the one to speak. “We’ll have someone from the team with us, then? For guidance?”

Jeonghan looks to you, as do the rest of your team. This is where you do your job best, after all. Knowing the angles the drivers could be hit with is what you were scouted for in the first place. 

“That’ll be me,” you say. “Jeonghan too, he’ll be in London beforehand for another project.” 

Wonwoo’s expression hardly changes, but anyone can feel the shift in the air. Anyone can tell he’d rather the ground swallow him up. 

“I’ll fly out with you so we can prepare on the way. It’s regrettable that we can’t touch base beforehand, but my schedule’s very suddenly jam packed.” Mingyu shifts in his seat. “Jeonghan, can you make sure Wonwoo has some guidance notes by Monday?”

Jeonghan nods, jots it down in his diary. 

You clasp your hands together. “Charles, you’re in Paris next week?”

“Yeah,” he says. Offers a winning smile. “Finally got locked in with Celine.”

“Have I told you you’re a Godsend, lately?” 

You don’t miss the way Wonwoo rolls his eyes. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’ve always liked airports. The shopping, the little samples they throw in every time you buy a perfume, the people watching. You’ve specifically always liked airport lounges. You’d hoped to slip in unseen, find a corner to relax in with your double espresso, and at least get through a chapter of your book before work takes over again. But it’s unusually crowded and it’s hard to find a seat alone. It’s not to be though, because it’s five-fifteen in the morning and your name is being called by Mingyu from across the airport lounge. Let alone someone who’s hated your guts for the better part of a decade. Fuck fuck fuck. 

It’s evident that Mingyu and Wonwoo are stark opposites, where one’s sunshine smile is offered up at a mere grumbled hello, the other can’t even be bothered to open his eyes. Wonwoo has his head tipped back in the chair, the brim of his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes, arms folded. You take the only spare seat on the row, next to Wonwoo.

“You’re not a morning person, either?” asks Mingyu, from Wonwoo’s other side. “I could barely get my boy out of bed earlier.”

“I’m fine,” you say stiffly. The last thing Wonwoo would want is to have anything in common with you, never mind how true your lack of personhood before ten-AM may be. “Just had a late night.”

“Working?” Mingyu asks sympathetically. 

“No rest for the wicked,” you sigh.

And maybe your tired eyes deceive you, but you swear you see the corner of Wonwoo’s lips twitch up. 

Mingyu talks too much, as it turns out. He chats incessantly about the schedule, the notes Jeonghan drew up for Wonwoo, the plans he’s made for dinner in the city (and would you like to join them? Uhh-), and tells stories about the few times he’s been to London in the past. He’s lovely, really, but you’ve got thirty minutes before your flight and you can barely get your body into gear as it is. 

“Mingyu,” you interrupt. “I’m so sorry but I’ve got to catch up on some emails now.” 

A lie, but your brain is melting.

His sweet smile falls for a second. Bless him. “Right, of course, sorry!”

You pull out your phone and your earbuds. All you’re doing is playing a match three game, but what Mingyu doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

Later, on the plane– you find that Inès, in all her wisdom, has booked Wonwoo’s seat next to you instead of Mingyu. The look he gives you as you double check your seat number is all disdain, so as soon as the aisle quietens, you get up to see if Mingyu wants to switch, but you find him fast asleep, cap pulled low over his face. 

“Thought he was a morning person,” you murmur under your breath as you ease back into your seat, and you swear you hear Wonwoo huff a laugh, but you look over and he appears to be as fast asleep as he was before. Whatever. You’ll give him (and yourself) an hour before you have him going over notes. Sleep comes too easily. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You dream of a blur of cars, the smell of rubber on tarmac, flashing cameras, and dizzying heat. You are twenty-one and freshly broken. Wonwoo pulls off his helmet, triumphant smile splitting his face. He turns, meets your eyes across an ocean of people trying to reach him. You hardly know each other yet, but he’s looking at you. For you, maybe. 

London, UK

The first bump of tyres on tarmac jolts you awake, and the panic that sets in is like that dreadful feeling of realising you’re late for work. Brings you right back to your first year on the job, when the sleepless nights would have you zombified throughout meetings, and you’d have imposters’ syndrome for the months on end.

Your dreams are all half-formed memories lately. Strange that it was about Wonwoo’s first podium, but you draw that up to this week being taken over by his image regeneration campaign, and it probably doesn’t help that he’s right next to you, book in hand, glasses he so rarely wears these days slipping down his nose. 

“You talk in your sleep,” he mutters, turning a page. He’s reading Strange Houses, and it’s on your list. If it were anyone else you’d ask them about it. 

“Could’ve woken me,” you complain, pushing yourself up to sit properly. “We’ve lost valuable time getting you ready.”

“Mingyu and I have already gone over your orders,” he says flatly. 

You frown. “Guidance from PR is something you’re going to have to get used to at some point.”

“Guidance is a funny way of putting it when it’s dictating my life.”

“This isn’t the military,” you snap. “But it is part of the job you signed up for. You want to race? Well, you’ll need to put that pretty face to work too. This is what your sponsors want, and they are how we’re all paying our bills.” 

Wonwoo opens his mouth to retort but words seem to fail him. Your face is flushed. You’re tired, you’re embarrassed to have been caught sleeping, you’re irritated, and on top of that you realise you’ve just called him pretty. For God’s sake. 

“A friend at Esquire has already sent the questions for you over,” you say, smoothing the wrinkles out of your shirt. “Let’s go over some preferred answers in the taxi.” 

“Are we supposed to have that?”

“It pays to have connections,” you say shortly. 

Wonwoo frowns, says under his breath– “don’t I know it.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tomorrow is the photoshoot (you’d insisted Wonwoo be well rested before he’s photographed at all) but this afternoon is blocked out for the interview. Thank God they gave you Bridget at your request, one of your oldest friends from your first magazine. One of the few who didn’t give a fuck that you were only there because of your silver spoon. Didn’t care that you were barely nineteen in a senior reporter's position and on an undisclosed salary. ‘Nepotism is unavoidable,’ she used to say, cigarette in hand. ‘May as well use it.’  You haven’t seen each other in person in a few years but you always had time for each other on the phone. She has tight hugs and cheek kisses for you, and handshakes for Mingyu and Wonwoo. 

She meets the three of you in a suite at The Corinthia, the penthouse of which will be used for the shoot tomorrow. Serves high tea, with little crustless sandwiches and scones and tartlets that go untouched by everyone but Mingyu. You pour yourself and Bridget a glass of champagne. Wonwoo opts for water. This room doesn’t exactly scream Jeon Wonwoo, but who the hell knows what does? 

“We’ve met before, actually,” she says brightly to Wonwoo. “Though I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

“I do,” he says, quietly. Awkwardly. “It’s been a long time.”

You roll your eyes and pray this isn’t going to be like pulling teeth.

The questions start easy enough, but Wonwoo remains stiff and closed off. He gives little more than two sentence answers, and you can see the way Bridget is trying to dig deeper without scaring him off. These are questions about work, for fuck’s sake, you’d think it would be simple to bring out some passion in him, but he looks like he’d rather be talking about the way paint dries. Jeonghan enters the room quietly mid-interview, and you wave him over to sit next to you.

“How’s it going?”

Ha– how’s it going? It’s like pulling teeth. It’s boring, flat, comes off like he thinks he’s too good for this.

“Wonwoo is his usual self.” 

“And how are you settling in at Ferrari?” Bridget asks. “We heard from Charles that you haven’t spent much time together yet.”

This was one you went over. It’s not unlike a magazine to twist words to pit drivers against one another. Anything for a little drama. Bridget is particularly good at that, as were you.

“Charles is great,” Wonwoo says simply. “He just has his schedules and I have mine. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other properly once we’re on the road together. And everyone at Ferrari has been very welcoming. I’m really lucky to be part of the team.”

“And what about working with your old nemesis?” Bridget asks, mischievous eyes darting towards you. This is part of why you love her. She usually toes the line where you’re concerned, but occasionally has something up her sleeve.

Wonwoo stares at her. “I don’t have a nemesis.”

“Well, sure, it’s been a while. But we all know that article didn’t shine you in the best light, and those snubbed attempts at interviews in the paddock afterwards left a sour taste in everyone’s mouths. Are you telling me it’s been all sunshine and roses working under your Head of PR?” Bridget winks at you and you suppress a smile. She’s the devil. “Word on the street is she’s a tyrant.” 

“This is all starting to feel very tabloid,” whispers a concerned Jeonghan.

“Relax,” you whisper back. “She’s only saying this to wind me up. It won’t end up in print.”

Wonwoo doesn’t seem to know how to answer, eyes flicker over to Mingyu, to Jeonghan (not you), but Bridget thankfully takes pity. 

“Speaking of schedules, with Charles working with Celine, we’re all wondering what we’ll see from you. Is there anything exciting coming up for you this season?”

“Not sure I can give the game away so soon. You’ll have to ask the tyrant in PR, I’m afraid,” quips Wonwoo, and it’s the first time in years that you’ve heard a hint of humour in his voice. 

Bridget laughs gleefully, and from then on the interview goes just that little bit smoother. You’ll take whatever you can get.

Thirty minutes later, you’ve said your goodbyes to Bridget, and Jeonghan gently catches your elbow as you’re about to walk out the door. “Are you okay with this?” he asks. “Being called a tyrant? It might not land how we hope it will.”

You remember how things used to be. How drivers used to scowl as they caught sight of you in the paddock, how Wonwoo in particular avoided you ever since that one article came out. Your reputation for kindness was in the pits then, but working alongside them changed their view of you. Now your experience in journalism comes in more helpful than they’d like to admit, and despite your history, most of them have come to like you. And the worst thing your team have to say is that you make them work. So, what’s a little bad press for the public eye? 

“Sure,” you say with an unbothered shrug. “It’s better for me to be the bad guy than Wonwoo. This is good. For once it’ll come off like he has a sense of humour, and it’s about time he showed some personality instead of coming across like a stuck-up assh–”

And at that moment, Wonwoo brushes past you. “Excuse me,” he says tightly. 

Mingyu gives you a small, flat smile, and follows him out the door. Great. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The rest of the day is a simpler affair. You take five minutes to touch base with Inès on the schedule for Melbourne, and have her chase your team for the KPIs on recent campaigns, while Wonwoo and Mingyu disappear off to do whatever they have planned. Bridget calls and asks if you’d like to catch up later over a drink. (You would. She’ll meet you in Velvet, the hotel bar, for cocktails and music and conversation.) You and Jeonghan eat together in your hotel room while going over requests from brands, and finally, after what feels like an age, you take yourself down to the bar earlier than necessary with your book, in the hopes of finally getting a moment’s peace before the musicians start. 

Unfortunately, barely five minutes goes by before Mingyu finds you, sliding onto the elegant sofa opposite your armchair. ‘Unfortunately’ sounds mean. He’s one of the few managers you’ve taken a liking to, but you were really really hoping for some alone time. It’s only after he says “Do you mind if we join you?” that you notice Wonwoo hovering behind him, an expensive looking camera dangling from his neck, annoyingly polished for so little sleep, and you can’t tell if he’s waiting for an invitation or looking for an excuse to leave.

“You do photography?” you ask, a false smile plastered on your face. If he can’t fake it in public for the sake of reputation, you certainly will. It wouldn’t do to have anyone think there’s bitterness within the team, especially in such early days.

“I dabble.” Wonwoo gives nothing, but he takes a seat at Mingyu’s side. All his energy must’ve been sucked up by Bridget. 

“He’s really talented,” says Mingyu.

“That’s good,” you say, slipping your book back into your bag. “We can use that–” You’re interrupted by a huff of breath from Wonwoo. “Yes?”

“Is there ever anything you don’t use?” he asks, his sharp eyes meeting with yours for the first time you can recall in forever. You don’t appreciate his tone, or the accusation, and it’s taking everything in you not to bite back as you would have done in the past.  

You lean forward. “Everything is marketable. Aren’t you a whole decade into your career, Wonwoo? I would’ve thought you’d have learned that by now.”

There’s a tick in his tight jaw, and after a beat he looks away. It sends a bitter lick up your spine to know you can still get under his skin. The silence is brief but charged– at least Mingyu is there to put an end to it. 

“We wanted to thank you,” he says slowly, and you catch the way he presses his heel onto Wonwoo’s toe. Wonwoo’s nostrils flair. “For your efforts with his image. And the other thing.” 

This isn’t the place to discuss that. Sure, it’s discreet, and the tables are far enough apart, and the music is at just the right volume that your conversation doesn’t carry, but you never know. You take another glance at Wonwoo, who is suddenly very bothered by how his jacket zip isn’t laying right. 

“It’s all being handled by the other team. I have very little to do with it.” 

“Still,” presses Mingyu. “We appreciate your lack of judgement, and your willingness to– uh– to fix it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s not like we had much of a choice, is it?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to speak but the words are barely formed before your lap is full of a tipsy Bridget. She’s hugging you tight, squishing your cheeks in that awful way she did when you were a rookie, and she’s saying “God, sweetheart, I’ve missed you. When are you coming back to London? The other nepo-babies aren’t half as interesting as you.” 

You grin up at your old friend. “Never if I can help it. You should come to Italy.”

Bridget scoffs. “Not for all the sun lotion in the world. I need clouds, darling.” 

She clambers out of your lap with all the grace of a baby deer, and it’s only when she stands to straighten her skirt that she notices the two men sitting on the sofa facing your chairs. “Oh, hello again,” she says, shooting a pleased look out of the corner of her eye at you. “You didn’t tell me we’d have company.” 

“My fault,” says Mingyu. “We stopped by unannounced. We’ll leave you to catch up.”

“Oh, don’t leave on my account,” insists Bridget. “I’m just about to drag her outside for a cigarette anyway.”

Wonwoo’s eyes dart over to you. “You smoke?”

You quirk an eyebrow, a little taken aback. “I quit. Save for one or two at a wedding, or a funeral,” you say, voice terse. “Bridget– I tell you this every time we see each other.”

She waves you off. “Everyone’s quitting like it’s fashionable. Like smoking isn’t the hottest thing they can do. I keep hoping you’ll start again.”

This job keeps pushing you and you might, you almost say, but Wonwoo is still looking at you, in a sort of surprised way. It’s not like he knew anything noteworthy about you to begin with, it’s not like your smoking matters, what’s there to be surprised about?

Mingyu is the first of the two to stand, but Wonwoo isn’t far behind. They wish Bridget well, reaffirm they’ll meet with Jeonghan for breakfast, and they’ll see you at the shoot, and say their goodnights. And then it’s just you, your old friend, and a Marlboro Red in her hand ready to be lit. 

She pulls you out to the garden lounge, saying something about how she misses smoking indoors but this isn’t half bad. She doesn’t bother looking at the menu because it’s always the same. A gimlet for her, an espresso martini for you. The waiter lingers at your table a little too long, compliments your lipstick. 

 Bridget leans back in her chair, flicks the lighter and takes a deep drag. “He still likes you then?”

“The waiter? I’ve never seen him befo–” You’re cut off by a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Who?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. 

“Wonwoo.”

Your splutter is anything but polite, barely caught in a napkin (and thank God it was caught, your white shirt would’ve taken some damage) drawing side eyes from the others at the surrounding tables. You stare at her confused, and she stares straight back incredulously, both palms turned upwards.

“You cannot be serious, Bridget?’

She blinks, surprised. “You can’t be serious? You’ve never noticed him looking at you like that?”

The laughter bubbles out of you. “He looks at me like he despises me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did given what I said about him.”

“That was years ago.” Her face scrunches up, confused. “You are talking about that shit your dad wrote, right?”

“Well, yeah. His edits,” you say. “It was under my name, though. I still used the things he shouldn’t have told me.”

Bridget takes a long sip of her drink. You trace your finger around the rim of your glass. “You could’ve corrected him. Told him it was your nasty fuck of a father. Anyone with eyes could see he liked you.” 

That dream from the plane comes swimming into vision. Wonwoo’s hair was longer, back then. You’d talked a little in the hotel bar, a few nights before the Italian Grand Prix. Nothing out of the ordinary between acquaintances– it was polite, friendly at best. He bought the first round, you bought the second. His knee knocked yours under the table, and you both apologised. He asked about the book you were reading (East of Eden), you asked what he thought of Italy. He said he liked it fine, you said you’d like to live there someday. At twenty-one, someday felt like it was unachievable, in the far off distance ever out of reach. Of course, with your connections, nothing is ever out of reach. When you said goodnight you wished him well for the race, told him you’d put money on him so he’d better come through. 

And then came his first podium. The next race, his second. The next, his third. Felt like a rollercoaster that wasn’t stopping. He was untouchable. Incredible. In between races you wondered if you’d cross paths again, but it didn’t pan out that way. And then came the crash. Five cars taken out with a mistake Wonwoo shouldn’t have made. Millions down the drain. No one was seriously hurt, at least, but it was enough to knock his confidence. 

A few weeks later, you found him in another hotel bar, nursing a drink alone in the corner. Didn’t object when you sat down uninvited and said thank you when you said how sorry you were to see it happen like that. Talked a little more after a few drinks. Talked a little too much, your dad would laugh later. 

And then the article. You never directly quoted him, or gave the slightest hint that he was your source, but he’d read it and he’d know. You knew that when you submitted it. It was only after it was published that you saw your dad’s edits, and there was no coming back from that. Afterwards, he’d snub you during post race interviews, have his then manager arrange it so you weren’t able to get a look in, and whenever you saw each other off the track he’d turn the other way without so much as a hello.

You shrug. “We’d only talked outside of work like, twice. We weren’t friends.” 

Bridget hums around her gimlet. “He would’ve been more if you’d let him. Those pictures after he won– the ones where he’s looking right at you?” You remember the ones because you and Bridget were standing right behind the photographers when it was taken. Wonwoo– so perfectly centre frame, helmet tucked under his arm, smile so wide it was blinding. A bright spot in the grey. But he could’ve been looking at anyone. “They’re still talked about.”

You scoff. She’s always trying to find romance in the wrong places. 

“Sure, I can’t tempt you?” she says, pulling another cigarette from the box. 

You roll your eyes, a smile teasing at the corners of your lips. “You’re terrible.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The morning comes too soon, and you’re dressed from the waist up for sponsor meetings (on camera. Why, God, why?) until eleven-twenty rolls around. Your call with Anselm has run over, and you should already be upstairs for the shoot. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You haven’t even had breakfast. Just one pitiful coffee the Italians would spit on and the chocolate left on your pillow last night. 

Jeonghan knocks on your door as you’re signing off. 

“Apparently they’re– uhh– they’ve started upstairs,” he says as you open the door, snorting when he clocks your mismatching red Snoopy pyjama bottoms and black blouse. “Are you go–”

“Do not ask me if I’m going like this, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan smirks like a schoolboy. “Are you going like that?” 

You jab a finger into his chest. “I will threaten you with physical violence if you test me today.”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond to that, just tucks his chin down and tries his very best not to laugh.

“Give me five minutes.”

You change in the bathroom, fix your makeup and apply a little perfume. When you’re ready, Jeonghan walks you upstairs and you fill him in with the sponsor's requests. It’ll be Jeonghan’s job to get the ball rolling with the rest of the team.  

In the penthouse there’s a mass of people, noise coming from every corner, Bridget is over by the window, taking her own behind the scenes videos on her phone. She waves you over. 

“Morning, darling. Are you as worse for wear as me?” 

“Hmm, no I stopped after my third and had the staff help you into a taxi,” you say with a small smile. “Did you get home okay?”

Bridget purses her lips. “Well my door was unlocked this morning, but I wasn’t robbed. So that’s something.” 

You look around the room, scan the faces. “No Wonwoo?”

Bridget nods toward the bedroom. “They’re set up in there.”

“Thanks.”

You find him on the bed. Sleeveless top and blue jeans, hair pushed back from his face. It’s a good look for a cover, it’ll draw people in. His eyes flick over to you when you walk in, and immediately back to the camera. After a minute you realise he’s natural. After another you realise you’re not needed for this at all. Mingyu and Jeonghan come to stand by your side, and together, you watch him move. Wonwoo barely needs direction from the photographer, knows all his angles, and the way to contort his body into lines that evoke something deeper, something like desire. 

“Has he always been this good?” you hiss at Mingyu in disbelief. 

“Yeah,” he whispers back. 

“Well why the fuck has no one seen it?”

Mingyu crosses his arms. “No one’s pushed as much as you.”

Jeonghan laughs. “Mingyu, you realise he’s in for it now? She’s gonna get him on every cover she can.” 

Mingyu nearly snaps his neck to look at you for confirmation, but you ignore him, because Jeonghan’s right. Your mind is already whirring and going over which would suit him best. Which writers you know would be able to pull the most from him, where you could fit more into the schedule, if you could combine race weekends with a quick shoot. 

Wonwoo must be able to tell something is afoot, because he keeps looking over to watch the three of you warily. Mingyu and Jeonghan bicker either side of you, the details of which you don’t care to know because you’re now set on showcasing the man in question under a whole different light. Unfortunately for Wonwoo, sex sells, and he’s got it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Melbourne, Australia

Wednesday starts with a team breakfast at the hotel. You’ve been here a grand total of 23 hours, most of which you’ve been awake, but it’s nothing a short nap before lunch can’t fix. Jeonghan is running on the same amount of sleep, so you’ve agreed to treat the day like a relay race. You thank God for your team, thank God they’re just as good as you expect them to be. 

Wonwoo’s Esquire cover won’t be out for another few weeks, so for the meantime you’ve pushed for more time with Netflix, another couple of sit down interviews, and a photoshoot by the cars with Charles. Tomorrow will be the regular media day, and with hardly any movement in the schedule, it makes more sense to get the extra bulk done today. Most of which will be done on site, at least. Less moving parts the better on race weeks. Not that Wonwoo appreciates it, but you can deal with his bitterness  if it means the sponsors and the fans get what they need from him. 

He sits at the other end of the table, between Mingyu and Charles. They’re talking animatedly with the engineers, and Wonwoo is making jokes, laughing so hard it scrunches up his whole face. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise from all of the people in-between you, but it’s a relief to see there’s some lightness there. It’s a shame he’s not like that naturally in the public eye, it’d make your job that much simpler. You’re watching him carefully, considering the angles you could push, when he meets your eye, and his smile fades. Shoulders sink, casts his gaze down at his plate, and his lips settle into a thin line. You’ve already heard from Mingyu how Wonwoo resents more being added to his plate. You suppress a roll of your eyes. God, if only he could make his open distaste for you a little less obvious. Not that it matters, really.

After touching base with Charles’ PR officer, Lara, watching over Wonwoo’s sit down with Netflix (terse, moody, difficult), and handing off duties with a fresher-faced-than-you Jeonghan, you retire to your room to sleep. You’re woken forty minutes later to a call from Gabriella. 

“It’s worse than we thought,” she says. “The photos are out. News is already spreading in online circles in South Korea.”

“What?” you splutter. You fly up from the bed, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder so you can pull your jeans back on. “It’s bad?”

There’s a pause. “It’s pretty dark. Her face is half visible. Her mouth on his– uh–”

“Okay, I get the picture,” you say sharply. You feel a little bit queasy thinking about his d– “Is he identifiable?”

“His face isn’t in them, and as far as we can tell, his name hasn’t been mentioned online yet. But there’s a tattoo on his ribs, do you know if it’s been seen on him before?”

You wrack your sleep deprived brain, but nothing comes up. “I don’t. I’ll get the team on it,” you say. “How’re negotiations going?”

“They’re going nowhere. We can’t get in contact with the guy. He’s like a ghost. The number the ex had for him is disconnected, and the IG profile disappeared. We’re checking the last known place of work and the address she had for him.”

Hmm. Less than ideal. 

“We’re working with the agency's legal team to fix this quietly,” Gabriella continues. “Once we’re in touch we’ll see if we can persuade him to take down the photos, but you know how fast this story can break. I’ve suggested it might be better to own it and seek justice through the system, but they’re insisting it’s not possible.”

You sigh, searching your suitcase for your Ferrari polo shirt. “We’ll ignore it for now. Worst comes to worst we could claim it’s a deepfake. I’ll contact her agency and see how they want to play it.”

“I’ll send the photos over Signal. You should know what you’re dealing with.”

Your spine stiffens. You don’t want to see those photos. That’s an invasion of privacy you can’t push past. 

“I’ll go find him now,” you say. “Call me if there’s any updates?” 

“Of course.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You find him in the paddock, talking to a fresh faced reporter, with Jeonghan standing to the side with his voice recorder, smiling fake like he’s trying to stave off a migraine. You hang back, shoot Jeonghan a text that just says wrap it up! office asap! and wait for his smile to slip into neutrality as he checks the notification. He rests a hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, interjects with a politeness that even the harshest critic couldn’t find fault with, and steers him to follow you in the direction of the makeshift office. 

Once inside, Jeonghan sits, but Wonwoo doesn’t. He just has an insufferably confused look on his face, eyes slipping between you, who is wild eyed from lack of sleep, and Jeonghan, who shrugs. You close the door.

“Turn that off,” you say, gesturing to the mic the producer from Netflix attached this morning, but Wonwoo just stands there, brows pinched together in a frown. “What’s this about–” 

You move in front of him, yank the mic pack from his belt, press the mute button, pull the cable just in case, and Wonwoo just stares at you like you’re insane.

“Do you have a tattoo?” you ask, sitting down at the table and placing his mic pack in your bag for safekeeping.

He blinks, surprised. “What?”

“A tattoo,” you repeat. “On your ribs.”

“Yes.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Some photos have been leaked. I need you to look at them, tell me if it’s you. If it isn’t, great. If it is— well, we’ll deal with it.” 

Wonwoo pales, sinks into the nearest chair. “You’ve seen them?”

“No. And I won’t,” you reassure. It doesn’t look like he believes you but you press on. “I haven’t opened the message. You check them, delete them afterwards. Okay?” 

He swallows thick, nods. Jeonghan looks away when you slide your phone across the table, point to the Signal notification from Gabriella, and let Wonwoo take it before looking away yourself. He holds it close against his chest like there’s eyes behind him, and his breath stutters to a halt. 

“Shit,” he breathes.  “Yeah– it’s me.” 

You exhale hard through your nose. “Okay. It’s fin–”

“How could this possibly be fine?” he hisses. 

“Does anyone know about your tattoo? Aside from your ex, and the artist, I mean.”

Wonwoo tilts his head, runs a hand along his neck. “Mingyu. My brother. A few close friends– they wouldn’t say anything. Someone I met once. In Amsterdam.”

“Please say it was a one night stand and not a sex worker,” says an exasperated Jeonghan.

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow. “The former,” he snaps. “What the fuck, Jeonghan?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Listen, man, I’m just checking. You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Would they remember the tattoo?” you ask.

“I don’t know. We were both pretty out of it.”

“What about shoots?” you ask. “Paparazzi? Have you ever been photographed without your shirt on?”

“Not since before I got it,” he says.

That’s something, at least. This is fine. It’ll be fine.

“Okay– good.” You stand up. Wonwoo is wringing his hands in his lap. “We can work with this. Keep your shirt on, and stay quiet. If you need to talk to anyone about this whole thing, keep it between me, Jeonghan, and Mingyu. I’ll contact her agency now and work out a plan.”

“I should call her,” he murmurs, pulling his phone from his pocket, and your body stills.

“No you fucking shouldn’t,” you insist, a bite in your voice that drags his attention back to your face. “Not until we get to the bottom of this. Have you wondered at all how this guy got your photos in the first place?”

For the first time in years, since that night after his crash, Wonwoo looks vulnerable. 

“Don’t call her, Wonwoo. You can’t.”

He leans forward on his elbows. Fists a hand in his hair. “I hate that you’re telling me what I can’t do.”

The heat flushes in your face in an instant, and you’re biting back before you can stop yourself. “You knew where I worked, Wonwoo.” Your lip curls into a snarl. “You knew signing your contract that there would be no way to avoid me. How about a little appreciation, huh? Since I’m going out of my way to fix your mess and your shitty attitude.”

On your way out the door you run into Mingyu. “He’s in there,” you grumble. “You need to get your boy in line, help him see what we’re trying to do here.”

And though nobody else knows the reason behind your soured mood, everyone avoids you for the rest of the day.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

it's a miracle you don't crumple to the ground the moment you step over the threshold into your home.

the lights are dimmed in the living room, and a wonderful smell wafts from the kitchen and a few clinks sound off before your husband turns the corner of the foyer, soft smile on his face as he comes to greet you.

"welcome home, baby." wonwoo's voice is deep, sending shivers down your spine in the best way possible as you smile tiredly, slipping your shoes off and letting wonwoo take your coat and bag. "hi, won."

"how was work?" he asks absentmindedly, hanging up (his) your coat and work bag in the closet before taking you in for a quick hug, breath brushing against your temple before he kisses it. "i missed you."

smiling, you sigh heavily, letting your hands flatten against wonwoo's sculpted back as he rubs yours softly, hands ghosting over your dress shirt as you fight back a giggle.

"work was tough," you say once you pull away, letting wonwoo push your hair away from your face as his thumb gently brushes over your moving lips. "a coworker was moved to a different department so now i have to take over their workload until they're replaced."

wonwoo's eyes sharpen slightly in annoyance at your workplace's terrible habit of deferring all of their problems to you, but he doesn't say anything, grabbing your hand instead and tugging you into the kitchen.

the smell of steak and vegetables—your favorite after-work combination—fills your nose the moment you step in front of the stove, and your heart bubbles with contentment at the same time your stomach rumbles with unchecked hunger.

wonwoo grins, pulling you closer to him with his hand on your waist. he takes a spoon, scooping a little of the steak's sauce onto it as he gently guides it to your mouth.

"mmm, won. this tastes amazing." you hum happily, cheeks starting to hurt from your wide smile. he pecks your cheek, just happy to see you ready to eat. "i'm glad. you look like you need some decompression time."

"how'd you know?" you ask dryly, moving to pull plates out of the cabinet before wonwoo tugs you back to him, grip tight on your waist as he speaks.

"no. let me do it."

the finality in his voice makes you flush, but you speak anyways. "won, you've already cooked me dinner. at least let me get some plates—"

"no, baby. you just go to the table. i'll take care of the rest. let me finish what i started, okay?" wonwoo's gentle in the way he refuses you, cupping your cheek before softly bringing your lips to his. "i can do this myself. all i need you to do is to relax for me."

unable to respond without flushing an even darker red, you give in, shuffling to the dining room table as wonwoo starts to finish up in the kitchen.

after a few minutes of struggling to stay awake at the dining table, wonwoo comes in with a plate in each hand. his white button-up is slightly unbuttoned at the top from his work in the kitchen, and his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose as he smiles. "here you are."

he serves you like a professional, plate gorgeous as always before he hands you a spoon and fork. wonwoo gets himself situated too, nodding to you. "try it."

hungry and half-awake, you happily take the command, taking a piece of steak and vegetable to your mouth as you grin seconds later. "just as i said—absolutely amazing."

when wonwoo chuckles, it's a lighthearted sound, and he brings his glass of water to his lips as he grins. "good. made it with you in mind."

you roll your eyes at wonwoo's rare attempt at flirting, but blush nevertheless as you continue to eat. he's attentive to every bite you take, secretly swooning when you excitedly rant about all the flavor the dish carries. wonwoo thinks its adorable, seeing your eyes light up when you take another bite.

"someone's getting a little sleepy," wonwoo teases, noticing the way your eyes start to droop and your movements slow. doing your best to deny it, you shake your head, taking a half-bite of a carrot.

"no, no, i just..." your eyes feel so heavy, but you do your best to keep them open, shuffling to the edge of your seat as you sigh. "just thinking about work and what i need to do tomorrow."

wonwoo stands up suddenly, forsaking his plate to walk around to your side of the table and push your plate away. "that's it. we're getting you to bed."

"won, i'm fine. i promise." you mumble, almost slumping against wonwoo before he gets the memo. he then scoops you up into his arms without a second thought, cradling you to his broad chest as he carries you to your shared bedroom.

"you are going to bed. we can finish dinner together later." wonwoo says with a soft tone of finality, and you're too spent to even argue, snuggling into his chest a little more before he sets you down on the soft sheets.

you're grinning tiredly when your head hits your pillow just right, and the smell of wonwoo blankets you when he slips your work pants off and puts his sweatpants on you in return.

a warm fuzzy blanket covers your already warming body seconds later, and he's brushing hair from your forehead, kissing it as he runs a finger down your jawline.

After everyone settles with their devices and questions, Wonwoo takes the initiative to greet and introduce himself to everyone before addressing the matter. He admits to everything while making sure no one dares to cross the boundaries again.

“....Additionally, I want to make this clear, I would not be tolerating any questions intended with slander or malice towards my son and my former partner. To avoid any doubts, I have shared the employment details of Y/N with the external auditing team and the entire hiring process has been audited and cleared by the auditors. I'll put up the details after the conference. There was no foul play, she was hired fairly and totally based on her qualifications”, there's a threat underlining in his tone, “And if I see anyone writing up articles with twisted words or mobbing my son and Y/N anywhere or publishing private details, then please be ready to face lawsuits and by lawsuits, I want to clarify that it would not end with regular visits to courts, it would not end at all certainly.”

The typing on the keyboard stops, the entire hall goes silent. Each and every person present in the room freezes, they are flabbergasted. It's new, this version of Jeon Wonwoo, the man who has never exercised his influence, never at once been anything but polite is now openly challenging the press.

“We can now proceed with questions.”, he continues as he sweeps a glance at all the cameras, staring at the main one through which the livestream is being broadcasted, “I'd once again like to remind everyone to be careful with the words. This is to make sure that no one later gets to say that they haven't been warned.”, his lips now stretch with a tight smile.

The questions drop significantly in numbers, though the journalists edge the boundary trying to test the waters, Wonwoo totally shuts them off. He just stands, answers the one which he deems appropriate and tells off the rest.

After the press, he goes directly to the company building because the shareholders have called for a meeting. A lot of questions are thrown at him, he's put at the pedestal while everyone gets at his throat.

He handles them for the day.

Next, he's driving to his parents home. He is greeted with a slap across his face by his father, his mother keeps crying and throwing tantrums.

And he lets them let it out as he waits like a good son like he always has been. Once they get to a state of listening, he explains everything, earnestly and honestly.

For the first time, he speaks about his struggle, the love he left behind to be the heir of Jeons' and how difficult and suffocating his life has been since then.

But he realises that his attempt to confide in his parents is fruitless when they ignore everything he had just said and start badmouthing about you.

“No one gets to talk bad about Y/N and Jae and if it takes to move mountains to protect them”, his icy glare locks on his parents, “I will move the mountains.”

Then he leaves, without looking back.

You have just put Wonjae to bed. It has been a long day with everything going on. When you and your son topped the trending searches the previous night as soon as your details were published online, you were scared, more for your son.

Wonwoo had left your home late at night with a simple request to you.

“You don't have to worry about anything, I promise I'll handle it all. I'll keep both of you safe. Just don't leave the house tomorrow.”

You've seen the press conference, you are aware that he has been to the office and you know he's out there fighting off the world, all alone.

And you hope that he comes home tonight.

Wonwoo stands outside the door. It's late and he's contemplating if he should go inside or just leave. He's tired, physically and emotionally but he just wants to see your face.

Suddenly the door opens, leaving him shocked. You stand at the threshold as if waiting for him.

You see through him, all of him and your heart twinges in ache.

“I'm sorry, I know it's late.”, Wonwoo says feebly when you take his hand and lead him inside.

“I was waiting for you.”, comes your honest reply.

He goes straight into Wonjae's room, kisses his forehead and comes out. He lingers for a bit, quiet on the surface but his mind runs miles.

“I should probably head back now”, Wonwoo says, giving you a small smile, “You can go back to the office tomorrow, I hope there won't be any issues. Let me know if anyone makes you uncomfortable.”

You take a step closer to him, searching for his eyes. And your heart breaks to see the tear stains on his cheeks but you don't pry.

“Did you eat, at all?”

He purses his lips for a moment before shaking his head, “I'll have something on my way back.”

You take both his hands into yours and say, “Stay, please.”

Wonwoo goes stiff, he's not sure if he's hearing you correct.

“Are you sure?”, he asks, “I don't want to be a bother–”

“The only thing that's bothering me is how you think you're alone in this.”

You both sit in silence as you watch him eat.

“I have had Mr. Jung send over some of your clothes.”

And it's quite as well now that he lays in your arms. You stroke his hair gently as he snuggles his face into your neck.

“Stop thinking and try to sleep.”, you tell him, your tone warm, “You had a long day today.”

Wonwoo just hums, pulling you closer. For him, this is what he wants, you are all he wants.

He looks up to see your face and smiles.

“What?”, you ask, squinting your eyes.

“You are beautiful.”

Your heart skips a beat. It brings back old memories, the way he's with you in the moment.

“That’s a huge confidence boost since it's coming from the most eligible bachelor of the nation.”, you tease him, “Everyone wants you, Wonwoo.”

“Not anymore, now I'm a man with a child.”, Wonwoo chuckles, “And I made it very clear that I'm very much indulgent towards the mother of my child.”

You ponder over for a moment before saying, “Today at the press conference, you've been referring to me as your former partner when you could have just called me as the mother of your child. It would have meant less significance.”

“That's what, I wanted to make it clear that you were not just a fling, not a one night stand. That we had something much more deeper than that, that we were lovers, that you were my significant other.”

You stare at him, trying to register his words. Wonwoo stares at you, leaning in closer. You are in a daze, in your head he registers as your college lover, not some CEO, not the father of your child. He's just your lover, your soulmate.

Wonwoo notices your dazed vision, the way your hands are gripping softly on his forearms. Tonight you've been different, you've let him in more than you usually do. He gets that tonight you're as vulnerable as he is.

So he hovers over your face just to press a soft kiss on your forehead. You close your eyes, feeling his lips lingering on your cheeks as he presses kisses on them.

“Good night, Y/N.”, you hear him say and open your eyes to find him looking at you fondly.

“It's gonna be crazy at work tomorrow.”, you whisper, as you pull down his face on your chest with him tangling himself entirely around your body.

“It won't be that bad, I promise.”, Wonwoo assures you and hums softly to bring you to sleep.

You take a deep breath as you park your car in the designated parking slot. Your steps are casual but your heart is thumping vigorously in your chest as you walk through the building.

You could feel eyes on you but surprisingly there are no whispers or murmurs. Once you settle in your cabin, you sigh in relief.

Work is slow today and it's lunchtime. You don't expect your friends group to actually stay friends with you, everyone would just be acquaintances, you think.

So when you walk into the canteen, you're stunned to find Sooji and Sunjae calling out your name. Yoongi is present as well as, all waiting for you while saving you a seat.

No questions are asked and you fall back into conversations like nothing happened.

“It must have been so difficult for you, Y/N.”, Sooji says, caressing your back, “I'm so proud of you.”

“We understand now why you were trying so hard to hide your son, it was to protect him.”, Sunjae adds, “You always have us, you're not alone in this.”

You sniffle, “Guys, you are gonna make me cry.”

“You're already crying.”, Yoongi chirps in, “Oh but we can't have you seeing what if Mr. CEO sees us making her cry?”

Sooji laughs, “Y/N must not be knowing about the mail.”

“What mail?”

Sunjae takes out his phone and shows an email from the day before, apparently it was sent to everyone in the company.

Your eyes go round as saucers. To sum up it was clearly stated that if anyone is found gossiping about the matter or made any provoking attempts, they'd face immediate termination. It was sent directly from Wonwoo's account.

No wonder, people weren't being openly nosy.

“This guy…”, you mutter under your breath.

There's a perk, you suppress your laugh when the obnoxious Mr. Joo doesn't act so obnoxious today. He seems timid, extra careful with his words. His entire demeanor towards you has changed and you're liking it.

It's 9 at night when you get ready to clock out for the day. There's a knock on your cabin door and you groan assuming that more work is coming your way.

“Come in.”, you say, waiting for the laptop to shut down.

“Are you done with work?”

It's Wonwoo and your first instinct is to pull him inside looking outside to make sure no one sees the two of you.

When you turn to face him, he's trying hard to not laugh.

“Everyone knows now, Y/N. There's no need to hide anymore.”

It clicks and you frown. Then you're sighing, “Right, I forgot. But here, you're still my boss so let's maintain the decorum.”

Wonwoo observes quietly as you pace around the cabin absentmindedly.

He grabs your shoulders to still you, “Is something bothering you?”

There's a lot you want to say. The fund embezzlement going in the company, has your head jammed and the more you dig into it, the more you're scared to unveil the truth.

You look up at Wonwoo and ask him, “Do you trust me?”

“More than myself.”, he answers immediately, “What happened, Y/N?”

You shake your head, “Give me sometime, I'll let you know everything.”

Wonwoo, though worried, nods, “Let's go home, Jae must be waiting for us.”

“Hmm. You can leave first, I'll just sort some of the files and leave.”

“Nope. We're leaving together, ma'am.”, Wonwoo exerts, “I'll drive us home.”

You squint eyes at him, “Aren't you being a bit forward?”

“And what if I am?”

“Wonwoo–”

“It’s already late, let's leave. Please?”

After home, you greet your son and go straight to wash up while Wonwoo sits with him, listening to him carefully narrating his whole day.

“Papa, are you and Mama friends now?”, Wonjae asks his father.

“We are not there yet.”, Wonwoo answers honestly, “I have hurt Mama a lot in the past so it'll take a lot of time and consideration for her to forgive me and be friends with me. But I'm trying.”

Wonjae suddenly hops onto his lap, hugging him. His tiny hands caress his father's back, “I hope Mama will forgive you, I want us to live together and be a happy family like my friends say they have.”

You go stiff stepping out of the bathroom, as your son's voice reaches you. You don't know yet if you'll be ever ready to let Wonwoo again. You do trust him to be a good father but to have as a partner, you're not sure about that.

“I think you should give Mr. Jeon heads up.”, Jihoon suggests, “Because the way it's proceeding it's gonna hit him like a freight train.”

“I agree, your and Wonjae's details were made public to stir commotion and turn the notion against Mr. Jeon, just because they know we're digging up this matter.”, Yoongi adds, “I'm trying to find more concrete evidence but what worries me is that I'm sure they'll strike again and we don't know with what.”

You sit silent, absorbing every word both the men offer. It's been over two months and there's a sickening feeling in your guts saying things are about to shake up and for worse.

“I should talk to Wonwoo right?”, you look up with hesitancy, “Are you both sure? I'm not sure how he'll react, given we don't even have a definite proof.”

“Mr. Jeon trusts you, Y/N. We all saw how he went up square with literally everyone to protect you and Wonjae.”, Jihoon assures, “It would be hard for him but he deserves to know the truth before it destroys everything.”

You nod, unsure, “I'll try to talk to him soon.”, and give a small smile, “Wish me luck guys.”

“Goodluck.”, Yoongi says, “Don’t stress much about it. I'm positive we'll get something soon. Jimin is also working on it.”

That night your attempt to have a talk with Wonwoo fails when Jeonghan decides to drop by before leaving for an overseas schedule. Mina too gets invited and Jeonghan makes Wonwoo rent an entire arcade so everyone could have some fun.

You sit on the sofa, quietly watching as Jeonghan tries to teach Wonjae bowling. Your gaze shifts to the right only to find Mina occupying a dancing machine struggling to get the steps in beats.

You are startled when you feel something cold against your cheek. It's Wonwoo smiling cheekily, pressing the ice cream stick.

“Mina definitely needs some lessons.”, he jokes, as he sits beside you.

“Why don't you teach her?”, you snide, trying to tear the cover but failing. Wonwoo takes it, swiftly tearing it, holding the ice cream stick to your mouth as if the habit stayed. It jogs up the old, good memories.

You clear your throat, “T-Thanks.”, you say, taking the stick from his hand.

You both sit in silence, when Wonwoo takes the chance to entwine his fingers with yours. And you let him.

“Your mind is occupied.”

You look up to him, not choosing to speak. And when he meets your gaze, you rest your head on his shoulder instead.

“Look at Jae”, your finger points out towards your son, smiling, “Doesn't this feel like a Deja Vu? I remember Jeonghan teaching you bowling and now he's teaching our son.”

Wonwoo just nods, his eyes glassy as nostalgia hits him. His heart aches again remembering the university days, crushes at the thought of your lonely battle after he left and crumbles for the time lost not knowing about his own son.

Later, when Wonjae requests you take him to the photobooth, you lead him in unsuspectingly. As soon as you step in, the little guy runs out pushing his father in, pulling the curtains.

“I should really stop Jae from being anywhere near Jeonghan. He's making him a mini copy of his.”, you grimace.

“I like it though.”, Wonwoo admits and you glare when he ushers you towards the spot to take the pictures.

He holds the button and watches you fondly as you fuss about not knowing how to pose.

“Let's just stand and smile for the first one.”, you suggest and he agrees standing close to you, shoulders touching as he bends a bit.

He presses the button, the picture gets taken. Now he leans in, your heads touching for the next one.

“What should we do for the last one?”

“I think I know.”

Wonwoo suddenly grabs your waist, pulling you against him and before you could react, he's taking off his glass and sliding his other hand up to your neck, smashing his lips against yours in a breathless kiss.

You try to push him but he doesn't budge, rather he deepens the kiss making your legs weak and lungs give out. Your mind is too clouded to register the soft clicks of the button being pressed constantly.

He licks your lips, before resting his forehead on yours. You catch breaths when he pulls away and walks to the collection counter and comes back with 7 sets of photo strips.

“Came out nice.”, he smirks showing you the strips and your eyes go wide seeing all of them being about you two kissing.

You're left speechless and resort to giving him a glare and are about to walk out of the booth but Wonwoo grabs your hand, spinning you to pin against the wall.

“Jeon Wonwoo, what the hell are you doing?”

“Oh no the full name? After I gave you that mind blowing kiss? I expected something else, something more.”, he leans in close, teasing and nudging your nose with his, loving the shades of pink and red creeping on your neck and cheeks.

You groan, avoiding eye contact, “Let go! Anyone could walk in. What if Jae sees–”

He shuts you up mid-rant pressing another kiss, softer this time before letting go of your hands.

You almost run out, fixing your hair and wiping your lips. Wonwoo follows behind, wearing his glasses back and shoving the photo strips in his inner coat pocket.

Jeonghan is impressed, Mina is totally unimpressed at the vividly evident exchange that might have happened inside the booth. And your son, he innocently asks to show the pictures you both had taken.

“Should I show him?”, Wonwoo whispers in your ear.

You throw him a glare, “Have you gone crazy?”

“For you, maybe I am.”

“Shut up.”

Wonwoo is the designated driver for the night and after dropping off everyone else, he drives to your house.

“Goodnight Papa.”, Wonjae kisses his cheek when he lifts him up in his arms and carries him to the door.

“Goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow again.”, he says, putting him down as you unlock the door. Wonjae nods and goes inside waving him goodbye.

“And I'll see you tomorrow, hmm?”, he asks, his low tone, insinuating that he can't wait to see you again.

“I don't have a choice Mr. Jeon, do I? We have a meeting in the morning.”, you use your professional tone just to irk him.

And it works, you observe how his jaw clenches for a moment before he gives you a pointed look, “Careful there, I have been holding back after I got a taste of you. You wouldn't want me to lose control now, would you?”

You are running inside immediately, leaving him behind laughing.

You knew this day would come sooner or later but nothing could have prepared you for it.

Wonwoo's parents sit in front of you, their expressions are anything but welcoming or warm.

And they say exactly what you already know they'd be saying.

“Leave our son, stop using this child to pull him into a relationship.”

They keep berating, you keep listening. You're head-stead, the words are pouring but you're actually paying no mind. It's just a formality, your presence here because no matter what they are Wonwoo's parents and you just wanted to make sure this is a one time thing, that you won't be meeting that ever again if they choose to be jerks about the situation.

And the moment they bring up Wonjae to say something vile about him, you're on your feet ready to leave but not before knocking some senses into them.

“Instead of crying out loud here in front of someone you barely know, setting up a meeting behind your son's back like cowards, why don't you talk to your son? Oh maybe you did and he didn't listen because neither did you both listen to him even when he was speaking his heart for years.”

You heave a deep breath, your heart thawing in an odd satisfaction seeing their faces crumbled into shock. You decide to leave, not wanting to waste another second.

“Do you really think he loves you? If so then why didn't he look for you all these years?”

Your halt hearing those words.

“Didn't you join this company only to have his attention, to make him know about the child?”

Your heart plummets.

“You know he could do a lot better than being with a woman like you. Did he ever tell you Jenna? I bet he didn't. You're ruining everyone's lives here.”

Your ear rings at the mention of the name. Of course you know Jenna, everyone knows Jenna. But you don't go any further and head out straight. Their words haunt you for days.

One evening, Jeonghan is stunned to see you waiting outside his villa. 

He moves around quietly as he welcomes you into his place. He notices the tiredness your eyes hold.

“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced.”, you say as soon as you enter, “I just need to know something.”

Jeonghan offers you juice and sits across from you, listening patiently.

“Was there something going on between Wonwoo and Jenna Choi?”

Jeonghan's eyes widen for a moment and he masks it.

“Only the truth, Han.”

He sighs, “Jenna liked Wonwoo, a lot.”, he threads his words carefully, “So she sent a marriage proposal to the Jeons and of course Wonwoo's parents accepted immediately. She is an heiress and the marriage would be profitable for both the companies.”

“What about Wonwoo?”,you feel dread when you ask the questions, “When was this? What happened next?”

“Wonwoo had no say.”

“He didn't deny.”, you note to yourself and Jeonghan sighs again.

“And this was fairly recent, 2-3 months prior to when he came to know about you.”, Jeonghan bites his tongue, “The talks of marriage were in progress but nothing was made public mostly because Wonwoo didn't say anything. Nothing, not a word, as if he never heard of it, as if he wasn't aware at all.”

Jeonghan looks at you, his gaze dropping next moment, “The marriage is not happening anymore since he found you again. But Y/N, even if it weren't for you, the marriage wouldn't have happened, Wonwoo–”

“Thanks Han”, you said getting up, “I got to know everything I needed to know. Please don't tell Wonwo about today, I'll talk to him soon.”, a pause, “Promise.”

Jeonghan’s eyes drift back to your defeated expression and he raises alarmingly, “Y/N, Wonwoo loves you, please never doubt that. And the marriage? He'd have called it off sooner or later.”

You just give him a small smile before leaving.

The meeting went longer than the stipulated time. You enter one of the bathroom stalls and take out your phone to check for the messages when your ears perk up the mention of your name.

“Don't you think Mr. Jeon would be only with Y/N because they have a child?”, someone says from the other side of the door.

You go stiff.

“Do you mean he's going up for a compromise?”, you hear another voice ask.

“Exactly. Otherwise how does it make sense? Mr. Jeon would have definitely married someone of same status to expand the business, but rather he got stuck like a woman like Y/N.”

A woman like you? What does it mean? What kind of woman do they perceive you to be? 

“Maybe she's the one who ousted herself to make everyone aware of their past relationship. Otherwise why would she join here?”

Oh you know now, that's what they think about you. That's the image, a cunning woman using her son to force a chaebol into an unwanted relationship.

Your appetite is long gone and for the rest of the day you're cooped up in your cabin. But no matter how much you try to divert your mind, to indulge yourself into work, those words keep coming back and it makes you feel sick to the core.

It's a long day, you conclude as soon as you hear Jihoon’s words.

“What do you mean by that?”, you are flaring, “Why can't you process my resignation, Jihoon? Are you even the head of HR?”

Jihoon sighs, he takes deep breaths before answering you, “I can process everyone’s resignation except for the executives and above–”

“I'm neither of them.”, you shot back instantly.

“How is it possible? Isn't this against the protocol?”, you ask defeated.

“And you. If you let me finish.”, he says rubbing his temples, “Mr. Jeon has your employment details courted under him, that means he's the final approver if you put the papers. It has to go through him. I don't even have access to your employment details.”

“He is the protocol, Y/N. He makes rules and exceptions. We can't question him and those who can, either they are unaware or aren't bothered enough with this.”

You settle into your cabin again with another lost battle.

There's only one time you step out of your cabin that is to find your hair tie. It's your favourite, the one Wonjae had bought for you with the prize money he got for winning a quiz competition.

Your mind traces back your footprints and you start searching within the washroom, the department desks and even call your friends to check if they had it with them in case you had accidentally left it with them.

You go to the main cafeteria, though you hadn't visited there today. 

“Still searching?”, Sooji asks when she comes and finds you looking through the chairs and tables. 

“I can't lose it, Sooji, it's a gift from Jae.”, you sound so desperate that she feels bad and joins you.

Sunjae arrives sometime later.

“I think I really lost it.”, you say, almost broken. You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't hear the whispers around you.

“Does your blue scrunchie have pink flowers on it?”, Sooji asks in a hushed tone.

Your eyes shoot up, as you nod frantically, “Yes? Yes. Did you find it?”

“I didn't but I can see it.”, she says cautiously, “Look behind you.”

And you did immediately, only to collide on Wonwoo’s chest.

You compose yourself and step back before he could hold you and as your gaze drops, you see the scrunchie tied on his wrist.

And the CEO was seen around the entire office roaming in the headquarters with a scrunchie round his wrist.

“I came to give this to you.”, Wonwoo speaks in a poised tone and raises up his hand for you to take it off his wrist, “You left it in the conference room.”

You glance around to find people already murmuring, “Thank you.”, you say in a small voice. 

Wonwoo watches you for a moment and detects your dampened mood.

Sooji takes the chance and in the pretense of having conversation with Sunjae she slips out that you didn't eat anything the entire day.

You glare at your friends and grimace when you notice that Wonwoo is giving you a pointing look, the one which means a mix of concern and irk.

“I'm taking you out now. I know a place where they serve your favourites and it's good. Log off for the day and get your belongings.”, Wonwoo orders, taking your hand into his and with the other hand he is pulling out his phone to inform his driver, “If you have any meetings, please reschedule them to tomorrow and loop me in those.”

“Everyone is watching, Mr. Jeon”, you say in a hushed tone, trying to pull out your hand from his grip.

Wonwoo leans in whispering in your ear, “Come with me while I ask you nicely or I'll pick you in my arms if that's how you want to be out of this office.”

The entire office goes into a frenzy. The employees find it hard to believe that they're witnessing their CEO openly holding hands with an employee. They know who you are exactly but this is something else.

It's like Jeon Wonwoo is making a statement.

Wonwoo is worried, for the past few weeks he could feel you drawing a line. He could see you slowly recoiling from him. Whenever he visits your apartment nowadays, you're either making plans with Mina or retreating into your bedroom at the sight of him, leaving him alone with Wonjae or having him leave after Wonjae is asleep which is abrupt because you were letting him in, you let him share the bed, he was getting used to the quiet morning routines, the subtle feeling of belongingness.

But now he gets none of it.

He observes as you sit quietly opposite to him in the booth he had reserved at the restaurant. Your eyes are dazed, you are lost in thoughts that you don't even notice that he crosses the table to sit beside you.

“Did I do something to upset you?”

Your reverie is broken by his soothing voice. You find him sitting beside you now and your heart clenches in ache when your eyes meet.

You shake your head in a ‘no’, putting your head against the wall but Wonwoo doesn't buy it. 

He slides towards you, ever so slightly, “Then why are you retreating?”, his voice cracks a little, it's agonizing.

There's a lot to say, a lot to do. But you have no words to offer, at least tonight.

“Tell me please.”, Wonwoo pleads, “Let me fix it.”

“Let's eat first, I'm hungry.”

No, you're not.

You both eat in silence, with Wonwoo occasionally throwing glances at you. It takes a lot of courage for you to take him back to the office.

Wonwoo is puzzled, he has no idea why he's back in your cabin, at night when he had called off for the day.

You take a deep breath and face him, holding a bunch of documents and sight doesn't really settle well with Wonwoo.

“There has been fund embezzlement going on in the company for a long time.”, you start cautiously, “And we tried our best to collect proofs for the past few months and this is all we could collect.”

Wonwoo isn't surprised. But you are though, seeing his calm demeanor.

“I am aware, Y/N.”, he says calmly, “And I have people working for me to uproot them from the core so that they don't dare to think of committing something like this again.”

You are partially relieved hearing him.

“Thanks for these materials, it'll surely be helpful.”, Wonwoo says, placing the documents on the table and suddenly pulling you by your arm. You fall onto his lap grabbing his shoulders in reflex while his arms lock around you tightly.

“Won–”, your eyes go wide when he kisses you. You're pushing him but it's of no use, he presses against you harder.

“I love you so much.”, he confesses between the kisses and your heart almost stops. He leans up to meet your gaze, “I really do, there was no else after you. It has been you always.”

“There are cameras–”, you gasp as he trails kisses your neck and sucks a particular spot that has your toes curling, “S-Stop–”

“Not even Jenna Choi?”, the words slip out even before you can comprehend.

Wonwoo's eyes darkened, “Did you meet my parents?”

You don't speak. But he gets the answer.

“You two would make a great couple Wonwoo, your marriage would be beneficial for companies as well.”, you say tearily, “You should be with someone like her.”

His heart breaks at your words, at the pain that's etched on your face. He finally understands the reason why you have been building up the walls again.

“You shouldn't be burdened to be with me just because we have a child. You'd always have Jae in your life. We can take care of the custody. Jae might be young but he would understand.”, your chin is quivering and it's a battle to not let those tears fall, “I don't want to tie you down, you can stop now.”

“Stop what now?”, Wonwoo asks, terrified.

“Stop chasing a woman like me.”

Wonwoo takes great offence at the insinuation behind your words. He wants you to see yourself through his eyes. He wants to show where he puts you when it comes to respect, love and admiration.

“Y/N, why don't you see that I'd always chase you. I'd always want to be with you. I made a mistake back then but when the universe gave me another chance I'd not let it go to waste.”, he presses a soft kiss on your forehead, wipes the tears that fall from your eyes, “I might have spent all my life being the good child to my parents but I would have never married Jenna. I could never love her because I have you in my heart. The marriage wouldn't have been fair for either of us. I was finding ways to break it off completely and right in time I found you again.”

You're sobbing, trying to pry away his hands that are holding you. It's too much to take, too much is at stake and you don't know what to think of anymore. Your mind squares out.

“Why didn't you find me, Won? Why didn't you tell me about your identity and reason to leave? Why did I have to find out from someone else that you were about to get married?”, your voice turns quieter, “Why don't you trust me?”

“Y/N–”

You ponder for a moment before speaking again, “It was Mr. Jung who leaked our pictures to the media.”

“Words don't mean anything when your actions have been contradictory.”, you say, getting off his lap and Wonwoo is scared of the coldness in your demeanor.

Wonwoo freezes.

“He has been trying to convince the shareholders to vote you out from the company and acquire all the shares himself.”, you look at him with a pained smile, “He has been plotting this for a while and he wants to use me to tarnish your image and reputation. He is connected to find embezzlement as well.”

You take out a file from one of the drawers, “It has some circumstantial proof but not enough to pin your uncle down. I'm not aware of the motive. I know it's not easy to believe whatever I am saying but I think you should investigate yourself before he acts up again. We tried but we don't have enough connections to draw out the proof.”

“I had requested Chan look into some shady stuff and your uncle has been involved in many of those, especially the skeptical legal matters before I joined.”, you crouched down to meet his lowered gaze, “Wonwoo?”, you shake his shoulders, “Pull yourself together. It's gonna be your toughest battle.”

“I’ll have my driver drop you home.”, Wonwoo says in a cold tone.

And your heart constricts, your grip on his shoulders loosens off. You know Wonwoo would never believe you over his uncle but still it stings.

“I can go on my own. Take care.”, you say and walk out without giving him a chance to speak.

You don't remember when was the last time you actually saw Wonwoo. He has been coming home, there's no official work that would have you require him for a discussion. Wonjae asks about him and you don't know what to tell him anymore.

You start applying for other companies, Chan offers you to join him. There's so much going on in your mind, your head hurts.

So does your heart. Everything happens for a reason and you think it's time you close the chapter of Wonwoo in your life and finally move on. Except you can't totally shut him off because you'll have to see him because of your son. Complicated.

You finally put the papers and submit it to resign. Now you wait for it to get approved miraculously, hoping Wonwoo will approve it.

Jihoon and Yoongi are pissed at the lack of action on Wonwoo’s side but they're more ragging about your decision to resign.

A week later, you are in your cabin, eyes wide in shock as you read the article on your phone. The news is all hitting all the tabloids. Mr. Jung has been ousted and it's said that he has been sacked, effective immediately.

Before you could read further, there is a knock on the door and you're walking out only to be stunned.

It's Wonwoo, beside him standing with head bowed down is Mr. Jung. You see his parents at a distance.

“Apologize to her, Jung Ryeon.”, Wonwoo commands, his voice calm but the tone, icy, “On your knees.”

You hear loud gasps, everyone has gathered, all eyes are on the scene.

Mr. Jung gets down on his knees, head hung low, “I'm sorry, Y/N. Greed took over me and didn't think twice before hurting my own family. Please tell Jae that grandpa is sorry.”

Wonwoo hisses, “Don't you dare take my son’s name with that filthy mouth of yours.”

He calls the police and they escort Mr. Jung out of the building.

You are stunned with everything happening at a fast pace and what scares you is the look in Wonwoo's eyes when he walks towards his parents.

“I hope the two of you get a clear message from this. Don't ever try to meddle in my life again. Stop asking Y/N to meet you behind my back or bring up my son.”, Wonwoo seethes, “If you want your precious company to be intact and in my hands, then try to be good parents and stop interfering.”

His parents don't have the courage to meet his gaze and they walk out quietly.

The crowd gasps when they hear their CEO.

“Because if I were to choose between the company and Y/N. I'd choose Y/N. Her and my son, my own family.”

Wonwoo doesn't meet your gaze either, he simply dismisses the crowd and walks towards the elevator, without exchanging any words with you.

Your heart thumps vigorously within your chest. You're too embarrassed to step out of your cabin even during lunch and miraculously, there's a takeout sitting at your door.

At night you're washing the dishes post dinner when your son comes to you smiling wide.

“What happened honey?”, you ask, ruffling his hair, mirroring his smile.

Wonjae giggles, hugging you, “Papa said he'll be coming tonight and staying with us.”

Your smile drops, you aren't sure if you're ready to see him again when you both haven't been talking for so long that it felt like decades.

Wonwoo arrives late at night. He doesn't punch the code, he rings the doorbell. You open the door only for your eyes to fall off on seeing him with luggage bags at the threshold.

Still you don't pry, don't talk, just let him in and close the door. He stands in the hall, lost, as if for the first time arriving at the place. You just walk past and enter your bedroom.

Wonwoo checks into his son's room to find him sleeping. He takes a deep breath and enters your room to find you reading a book, totally unbothered by his presence.

He clears his throat, he walks around the room, no response.

“I'm staying here for a few days, I'm renovating my house.”

You scoff, “Don't you own like 10 properties over the city? Why here, go to your other houses.”

You go back to reading until the book gets snatched from your hands. You sit up glaring at him only to see him kneel in front of you.

Your expression softens, you understand him, understand how hard it must have been for him to go through that. So you pull him into your embrace.

“I'm sorry, forgive me.”, he says, head hung low, “For the past days, it was hell not seeing you but I was so ashamed that someone so close to me, the one I considered my true family, could harm you or Jae. I promised myself to fix everything before coming back to you. So I am here today.”

"You really need to learn how to communicate.", you chastise, "You have no idea how worried I was. I thought that you were gonna leave, again."

"I would never."

It's quiet, it's soothing, the silence.

And it's still comforting when he changes and lays beside you, taking you into his arms.

“Who told you could resign?”, Wonwoo breaks the silence and feels you go stiff under his touch.

You plant your face further onto his chest to avoid meeting eyes. You choose to stay mute.

“I rejected it by the way.”, Wonwoo adds, his tone teasing and you immediately glance up at him with a pout.

He swears his heart skips at the sight and lays you on your back, hovering over, kissing you. And he smiles when you don't resist, kissing him back. He would take anything you'd give.

It's been four months since Wonwoo has been staying at your place and everything feels blissful to be honest, which scares you sometimes. You like waking up to him, leaving for and coming back from work together, picnics on holidays.

It's pleasant to see Wonjae beaming nowadays, just because he gets to live with both of his parents.

You think something is wrong with you. You, for the sake of lord, can't look at Wonwoo without pressing your thighs together today. The way his biceps are on flex as he carries Wonjae around the house effortlessly. The way he always kisses you dumb after settling on the bed but never going further. The way that towel hangs low on his waist when he's fresh out of the shower, his abs on display. His not so subtle touches whenever he's passing by you, be it at home or work.

So you blame him for your state tonight. As soon as Wonwoo enters the room after putting your son to sleep you press him against the door and crash your lips onto his.

Wonwoo is surprised but equally excited when you lead him onto the bed without breaking the kiss. He immediately flips you, so now you're under him as his tongue parts your lips to enter your mouth.

You moan when his knee presses against your crotch while his lips trails down kisses on your neck and collarbone. He pulls back and starts to unbutton your nightgown slowly with a teasing smile on his face.