Once Upon A Dream

NAGA SOOBIN X CLEO DENILE INSPIRED READER

The main concept it Royal rivals to lovers! It's such an interesting story cause you'll see loads of snark but so many hidden tender moments that shape a new dynamic! This was such a fun one to come up with because the characters contrast so many of the others I've written.

Fun little fact: Reader tends to summon small sandstorms when distressed; the janitor hates it.

A little concept scene: You were injured after a duel and passed out in the infirmary. When you woke up, Soobin had wrapped around you instinctively, like how snakes coil around things they want to protect. He claimed it was “just instinct.” But after that… you conveniently fall asleep near him again. Just once. Then again.

NECROMANCER V X FRANKIE STEIN INSPIRED READER

I used to be an ace at writing short horror stories, so when I thought of this? You already know I was bubbling with ideas. This story is so rich and complex, it genuinely gives me tingles and I'm the author?? It brings horror fantasy and romance to the table while also keeping you on your toes for something to go wrong. V is so posessive and the reader is so clueless but when breadcomes start to drop unraveling V's secrets and betrayal begins to set it will the reader be willing to work it out?

Fun little fact: always tries to “accidentally” be paired with reader in assignments. (He's obsessed your honor)

A little concept scene: The reader is being pulled in different directions friend groups, responsibilities, her own stitched identity until Taehyung quietly appears beside her. He starts showing up at the right time with offhanded comments like, “I heard your stitches needed reinforcing.” His wings shimmer when she’s flustered, and her limbs detach at the worst moments, but he always catches the pieces.

LUNA MOTHEWS INSPIRED YUTA X CUPID READER

If I had to pick favorites, this one easily makes the top three. Yuta is pure chaos wrapped in charm, an unapologetic menace who thrives on flustering the Cupid reader. You’re used to helping other people find love, but Yuta keeps turning the spotlight back on you in the most inconvenient (and public) ways possible.

Fun Fact: Yuta insists he doesn’t believe in love… yet somehow manages to know exactly when you’re around and turns the charm up to maximum.

Concept Scene: You’re working the sign-up booth for the annual “Matchmaking Mixer,” carefully pairing students, when Yuta strolls in late. Instead of filling out the form, he leans across the counter, smirking. “Forget the rest—just put me down for you.” The worst part? He doesn’t leave after saying it—he spends the whole event sabotaging your pairings so you’ll “have time for him.”

Ghost Rockstar Felix × Operetta–Inspired Reader

Felix is the school’s magnetic ghost musician, wild stage presence, infectious grin, and a tendency to steal the spotlight. The reader is no stranger to commanding a crowd, and you refuse to let him upstage you. The rivalry starts onstage but bleeds into stolen duets, late-night jam sessions, and grudging admiration.

Fun Fact: Felix claims he can’t write ballads… yet you’ve caught him more than once scribbling lyrics that suspiciously match your conversations.

Concept Scene: At the talent show, your set ends with thunderous applause—until Felix’s ghostly guitar riffs cut through the air. “Mind if I join?” he calls from backstage. You glare, but your harmony blends perfectly with his. The crowd loses it, and when you storm off afterward, he just grins. “We should do that again.”

You’re not expecting visitors—especially not at 1:13 a.m.

The pounding on your door startles you enough to drop the mug you were about to rinse. It thuds harmlessly in the sink, but your heart doesn’t slow. You freeze, straining to hear again.

Then your phone lights up.

Jeongin 🦊

open your door he’s going to wake your neighbors and maybe the dead

You don’t even get a chance to reply before there’s another knock—slower this time, then a familiar voice.

“Y/N?” A pause. “Are you awake? I—I have to tell you something.”

You hesitate for a second too long. The door handle rattles.

You swing the door open just in time to catch Seungmin mid-stumble, the shoulder of his oversized hoodie half slipping off, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and wide.

“…Hi,” he says, as if this is completely normal.

“Hi?” you echo.

“I missed you,” he says plainly. “Did you miss me?”

“Seungmin—are you drunk?”

“Jeongin made me drink,” he says solemnly.

From behind him, Jeongin scoffs. “He had one and a half beers and cried during a music video. I made him nothing.”

“You let me,” Seungmin insists.

Jeongin looks like he’s aged ten years since sunset. “I told him to text you like a normal human being. Instead, he asked if I thought you liked him back and then threatened to walk here barefoot if I didn’t call a cab.”

You blink. “Wait. What?”

“Don’t worry,” Jeongin deadpans. “He wore shoes.”

“Y/N,” Seungmin says, and it’s like the world shrinks to just you and him in that instant. “I wanted to see you. So I came. Is that okay?”

You pause—then step back and hold the door open.

“…Yeah. It’s okay.”

—

Seungmin sits on your couch like he’s never been more at home, except he’s quieter now, like the walk sobered him up just enough to let the nerves settle in. His eyes flicker over your apartment—your books, your laundry basket tucked in the corner, the blanket he once teased you for hoarding on warm nights.

He smiles faintly at it, then looks at you.

“I said something earlier,” he says.

“You said a lot of things.”

He nods slowly. “Right. But the one I meant was… I said I liked you.”

You don’t speak. You’re too busy trying to hold back the flood of feeling. The way your hands are trembling. The awful, beautiful way hope is clawing its way into your throat.

“I just thought—if I said it, maybe you’d finally say something too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, guarded now.

He laughs once, without humor. “Come on, Y/N. You think I don’t know? I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you always wait for me to catch up when we walk. The way you remembered how I take my coffee even though I never said it out loud. You like me.”

You do. God, you do.

But you’ve also spent weeks convincing yourself that this wasn’t real. That Seungmin is kind and thoughtful and close to you because that’s who he is. Not because he feels the same. Not because he could ever want you.

“I thought maybe it was a joke,” you whisper.

His eyes darken. “Why would you ever think that?”

“I don’t know. People talk. And you’re—” You bite your lip. “You’re you.”

Seungmin leans forward, slow and steady despite the faint flush still clinging to his cheeks. “Y/N,” he says, voice low. “If this was a joke, I wouldn’t be here with my heart in my hands.”

You swallow thickly.

“Then what was the thing Jeongin said? About a bet?”

He grimaces. “God. That wasn’t about you.”

“Then what—?”

“I told Jeongin I thought you were falling for someone else. He said I was being a coward and made me promise to tell you how I felt before the month was over. And then he said if I didn’t, he’d tell you. So I panicked and said, fine, bet I’ll do it first.” He exhales. “It was stupid.”

Your chest twists. “So you came here to win a bet?”

“I came here because I’ve loved you for months and didn’t know what to do with it.”

The silence hangs thick between you, heavy with all the moments you almost said something. Every time your fingers brushed and didn’t linger. Every time your heart stuttered and you looked away.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Seungmin’s thumb is brushing your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t cry.”

“You kissed me,” you whisper. “At the door. You don’t even remember, do you?”

He stares at you. “I didn’t—did I?”

You nod, breath hitching. “You said you were in love with me. And I thought, maybe just for a second, that you meant it. That I wasn’t crazy.”

You’re not sure who moves first. But suddenly he’s there, closer than you thought he’d be brave enough to get.

“I did mean it,” he says.

And this time when he kisses you—gentle, slow, trembling—it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It feels like coming home.

—

You wake up the next morning curled on the couch. A blanket tucked around your legs.

The apartment is quiet—until you hear movement from the kitchen.

You find Seungmin standing there, holding your half-broken coffee machine like it personally offended him. His hair is a mess. He looks like he’s trying to figure out quantum physics with a hangover.

“I was gonna make you coffee,” he says. “Then I remembered I don’t know how.”

You laugh—really laugh, for the first time in what feels like years.

He turns to face you. “Can we talk? Like, really talk?”

You nod.

You’re still terrified. Still wondering if this is too good to be true.

But the way he looks at you—open, warm, honest—it’s enough.

Maybe you don’t need every answer today.

The first time they tried to play matchmaker, it was obvious.

Matthew, subtle as a fire alarm, cornered Yujin with the most suspicious grin imaginable. "Hey, random thought, but if you and Y/N ever ended up alone in the practice room, like say, accidentally locked in, would that be weird? Like, romantically weird?"

Yujin blinked. “You literally just told me the plan.”

“No I didn’t,” Matthew insisted, and jogged off to “not coordinate” with Ricky, Gyuvin, Hao, and Taerae.

Yujin checked his phone.

Yujin: Emergency. The clowns are circling. You: Again? Yujin: They’re locking us in the practice room. It’s like the 4th gen rom-com purge. You: Say less. I’ll bring the drama.

You walked right into the trap, wide-eyed and “clueless.” The door slammed behind you with all the subtlety of a sitcom, followed by the jingle of keys.

“Oops,” Taerae called. “Looks like you’re locked in! Nothing we can do!”

“They think we’re characters in a Wattpad slow burn,” you muttered under your breath.

Yujin was already sitting against the mirror, smirking. “Give it ten minutes. Then we stage the world’s most passive-aggressive fake argument.”

So you did.

“I’m just saying you’re kind of dramatic when you dance,” you snapped after a strategically long silence.

Yujin rolled his eyes. “And you look like you’re fighting invisible ghosts when you freestyle.”

You could hear the squeals through the wall.

"Do you think they’ll kiss?" Ricky whispered, not quietly.

You and Yujin fist-bumped in secret, shoulders shaking with laughter.

—

“It’s not a date,” Hao insisted, “It’s just the four of us hanging out. Me, Ricky, you, Yujin.” The messages caused both of you to snicker, Yujin having been reading over your shoulder. 

“Right,” you said dryly. “A group of four. Who then mysteriously cancels until it’s two.”

“I would never,” Hao responded, the text taking a moment like he was debating on the best response. 

As expected, Hao and Ricky suddenly “got stuck in traffic” even though they lived five minutes away.

You and Yujin sat at the little table by the window, sipping drinks as love songs played overhead.

“Should we look miserable or awkward?” you whispered.

Yujin stirred his straw. “Let’s start awkward. Build the tension. Then I’ll ‘accidentally’ knock over your drink.”

You chuckled. “The drama.”

Minutes later, as your iced latte spilled across the table, Ricky audibly gasped from behind a bush outside. Hao, trying to snap pictures, fell sideways into a potted plant.

Yujin grinned, wiping the mess with a napkin. “Do you think they’re having fun?”

“More than we are,” you deadpanned. Then, softer, “Actually, no. I don’t think anyone could be having more fun than I am. With you.”

Yujin’s ears turned a little red. He ducked his head and murmured, “Same.”

—

Gyuvin was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s play that game where you ask deep questions!”

Matthew nodded eagerly. “Like, if you could date anyone in this room, who would it be?”

Hao smacked his forehead. “Subtle, guys. So subtle.”

You exchanged a look with Yujin. The slow, telepathic kind couples share.

“I think I’d date Ricky,” you said casually.

Ricky choked. “WHAT—?”

“Stable Spotify playlist. Good skincare routine. I could do worse.”

Yujin clapped. “Strong choice. Honestly, I was gonna say Matthew. His rice cakes are elite.”

Matthew looked betrayed. “You guys are messing with us.”

“We’re just answering the question,” you said innocently.

Taerae squinted. “No. Something’s off. This doesn’t feel like awkward flirting. This feels like... chaos.”

You smiled sweetly. “Aw, Taerae. Don’t overthink it.”

—

“Nothing brings people together like a duet,” Matthew said. “We load the queue with romantic songs, lower the lights—bam! They fall in love.”

“We’ve been dating for four months,” Yujin whispered to you backstage, arm casually around your waist where no one could see.

“They think we’re on episode two of a slow burn,” you replied. “Let’s give them the finale.”

You chose the most dramatic love song on the list. Yujin added his usual flair—singing off-key, spinning you like a Disney princess, even fake-tripping at the bridge.

By the time he dipped you and declared, “I have never loved like this!” in a fake sob, Gyuvin was halfway to a meltdown.

“WE’VE BROKEN THEM,” he cried. “WE TRIED TOO HARD.”

You both collapsed backstage, wheezing.

“You were so extra,” you told him.

“You kissed my hand like we were in a 2006 drama,” Yujin said between laughs. “You’re the problem.”

“We’re the problem.”

—

It was a suspiciously well-packed “spontaneous camping trip.”

“Crazy how we forgot all the tents except the one,” Hao said, tossing you a flashlight with a wink.

Ricky added, “And crazy how there’s no signal out here. You’ll just have to… make the best of it.”

Taerae lit the campfire like he was preparing for a romantic K-drama scene.

They disappeared soon after, pretending to go “look for more marshmallows” and leaving you and Yujin alone.

You settled inside the tent, your head on his shoulder, fingers laced with his.

“You ready?” you murmured.

Yujin smiled. “Time to break their hearts.”

Moments later, the bushes rustled.

Ricky, Gyuvin, and Matthew peeked in like wildlife researchers.

They froze.

There you were, tangled together under a blanket, faces calm, like this wasn’t new at all.

“Wait,” Matthew whispered. “Wait. No way.”

You lifted your head and waved. “Hey.”

Yujin grinned. “You dropped your fake ‘map’ out there. Also, this whole plan? Cute.”

Gyuvin fell over. “What?!”

“We’ve been dating,” you said casually. “For a while.”

“Since when?!”

“Since before you decided we were soulmates. Thanks for noticing.”

Ricky threw his arms in the air. “We made mood boards!”

Hao looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing. “So all that time you were sabotaging our plans…”

Yujin opened his backpack and pulled out a folder titled ‘Operation: Sabotage.’

Inside: Photos of the boys whispering, timestamps, printed group chat convos, and doodles of Yujin giving Ricky bunny ears.

“I made a scrapbook,” he said proudly.

“You absolute menaces,” Taerae groaned.

“Did you ever intend to tell us?” Matthew asked.

You and Yujin shared a look, then shrugged.

“Eventually,” you said.

“When we felt like it,” Yujin added.

—

The six of you lay under the stars, warmth radiating from the fire and from something softer, more honest.

“So you’ve really been together this whole time?” Ricky asked, resting his head on a log.

“Yeah,” Yujin said, quieter now. “We didn’t want it to be a thing. Not yet.”

“We weren’t hiding it to mess with you,” you added. “Well. Not only to mess with you.”

Matthew chuckled. “I feel like a proud dad and also a betrayed sibling.”

Taerae nodded. “Honestly? Respect. You played us.”

Hao was still shaking his head. “I’m just mad we didn’t catch on sooner. Yujin never smiles that much unless he’s with you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity.

Yujin didn’t say anything—he just reached for your hand under the blanket again, fingers intertwining like it was second nature.

And the boys… they didn’t plan anything else that night. No plots, no staged moments, no forced proximity.

Theo

Theo would be deeply respectful and thoughtful. He’d listen carefully when you talk about your identity and experiences, wanting to fully understand and support you. He’d probably be a little shy about expressing it at first, but once he’s comfortable, he’d make sure everyone knows how proud he is of you — quietly but firmly standing by your side.

Keeho

Keeho’s the most outwardly confident and loud about his love. He’d celebrate your queerness openly, teasing you affectionately and bragging about you to fans and friends alike. Expect him to be your biggest hype man — maybe even designing matching outfits or coming up with cute nicknames that celebrate your identity.

Jiung

Jiung is naturally caring and empathetic. He’d ask questions when you want to share but never pressure you. He’d also be the one to step in if anyone said something ignorant, calmly educating them and showing fierce loyalty to you. His support would be steady and unwavering — the kind that makes you feel safe no matter what.

Intak

Intak would be practical but very warm. He’d show support by making space for your identity in daily life — like using your correct pronouns, respecting your style, and including you in conversations about LGBTQ+ issues. He’d be lowkey protective, and if anyone ever made you uncomfortable, he’d quietly have your back without making a big scene.

Soul

Soul is introspective and genuine. He’d deeply admire your confidence and authenticity. He might be the type to write you little songs or notes that express how much he values your whole self. His support would be gentle but intense — always showing that he sees you fully and loves you unconditionally.

Jongseob

The castle was always quietest before dawn. The kind of silence that settled like dust over old bones, undisturbed for years—centuries, even. You learned its moods long before anyone realized you were watching. The way the walls sighed with cold. The shiver of candlelight when the Beast paced his halls. You memorized the creaks in the floors, the uneven breaths of stone beneath snow.

To the others, you were little more than a shadow. The silent servant. The one who cleaned his broken glass and wiped the blood from his claws when no one else dared get close.

You never asked for thanks. You never offered comfort. You weren’t there to heal him.

You were there to see how far a monster could fall before he stopped pretending he was ever a man.

You never expected to see yourself in his descent.

He didn’t notice you at first. Not really. You were part of the castle as far as he was concerned—another fixture lost in the curse that wrapped around him like a noose. Others came and went. Nobles. Saviors. Cowards. Each one claimed to be the one who could save him. The one who would break the curse with love, as if love were something he had ever been taught to believe in. As if that would be enough.

He destroyed them all in his own way. Not with claws, but with his truth. They couldn’t stomach what he was beneath the fur and fangs: angry, wounded, cold. And yet, somehow, you stayed. Steady. Unafraid. He noticed eventually—how you cleaned up after his rages without flinching, how your eyes didn’t widen when he passed.

One evening, he paused when you lit the fire in the study.

“You don’t speak much,” he said, his voice like thunder pulled through smoke.

“I have nothing to say,” you replied evenly.

He tilted his head, examining you like a puzzle with too many sharp corners. “You’re not afraid of me.”

You glanced at him, at the beast wrapped in tattered silks and velvet torn at the shoulders from years of growth. “I’ve seen worse.”

He didn’t ask what. You think that’s when he started watching.

At first, it was subtle. A glance in the hall. A pause too long when your hand brushed his while handing him a book. Then came the questions, low and sparing. He asked what your name was. You gave it. He asked what you thought of the curse.

“I think it suits you,” you said without blinking.

He laughed then—low and surprised, like he hadn’t heard the sound in years. It made something stir in your chest. Something ancient and cruel. He stopped looking at you like a servant after that. He started looking at you like a mirror.

He didn’t know you had your own curse. Not one spoken aloud or given form by magic, but something deeper. A weight you were born with. The knowledge that you weren’t meant to be soft, or saved. That inside your chest sat something twisted that craved the quiet violence of control.

You had buried it. You had learned to serve, to watch, to wait. But the Beast made it surface again, inch by inch. You didn’t have to pretend with him.

He raged, and you didn’t cower.

He hurt, and you didn’t soothe.

You simply stayed. Let him come undone. Met his anger with indifference, his arrogance with silence.

One night, you found him in the great hall, staring at a torn painting of his old self—the prince before the curse. The eyes in the portrait were softer, empty.

“Do you miss him?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t look at you. “He was weak.”

“Then why do you keep him on the wall?”

His eyes finally met yours, gold and unreadable. “Because I forget what I used to be.”

You stepped closer, the firelight catching on the edge of your gaze. “Maybe you were never that man to begin with.”

He turned then, fully, slowly, like a predator recognizing its kin. “And what would you know about monsters?”

You didn’t smile. You didn’t blink. You simply said, “I know I like them better than liars.”

The air changed between you.

He reached for you, slow and deliberate, claws catching the edge of your sleeve. He didn’t pull. He simply held.

You watched him—watched the way his breath hitched, the way his jaw tensed as if he wanted to say something cruel, or kind, or nothing at all. You lifted your hand and placed it over his. Fur. Bone. Heat.

“I don’t want the prince,” you said softly. “I want the thing underneath.”

His shoulders shook, not with rage, but restraint. No one had ever told him that. No one had ever wanted him exactly as he was. And you—quiet, loyal, lurking in the corners—had waited until now to bare your teeth.

His mouth met yours like a storm against the cliffs—violent, searching, desperate. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was real.

You kissed like people who knew they would never be loved by anyone else the same way. Like the world would not understand what you had found in each other.

When he pulled back, his lips were red, and his voice was raw.

“Who are you?” he breathed.

You leaned close, pressing your palm flat over his heart, which thudded like a war drum. “I’m the one who sees you,” you whispered. “And the one who won’t let you forget what you really are.”

He nodded once. Like a vow.

And you knew then, he would never try to be human again.

Because you had given him permission to be the beast.

And in return, he would drag the monster out of you with reverence.

The curse never broke. The kingdom never rejoiced.

But somewhere in that forgotten castle, two things born in shadow chose each other.

Not despite their claws.

You knew he wasn’t real the moment he smiled.

Too polished, too precise. Like a blade carved for charm. The kind of smile that shouldn’t survive the palace’s iron walls and whispering halls, let alone find you at the center of them. Your life wasn’t built for visitors, not ones with warm hands and eyes that crinkled when they laughed.

But Chan didn’t come to be welcome. He came to win.

You were the heir, locked behind a curtain of silk and stories. “Cursed,” they said. “Poisoner of princes.” The kind of heir who didn’t cry at executions, who whispered to fire like it was an old friend. You wore your veil like armor. And when your father’s court paraded suitors in, you smiled softly and scared them away with nothing more than a quiet truth.

You didn’t need venom. Fear did the work for you.

Chan, however, didn’t flinch. He bowed like he belonged, spoke like the world owed him a throne, and laughed like he'd stolen the sky. You watched him from your throne—saw the slight delay in his answers, the way his gaze shifted just too quickly when your father spoke of wealth.

Con men knew to mimic nobility. But they couldn’t fake silence. Not like yours. Not like power earned from surviving.

You let him in anyway.

Because you wanted to see what a liar did when caught by someone worse.

He told you stories—about the deserts he'd crossed, the cities he'd charmed, the monsters he’d slayed with nothing but a dagger and a prayer. You’d heard better. From men with less to prove.

And yet…you didn’t stop him.

Not when he snuck into the archives to “accidentally” run into you.

Not when he whispered, “You don’t really believe the rumors about yourself, do you?” with that too-soft voice that almost made you believe he cared.

You saw the way he lingered. The way he looked at your veil like he wanted to see the eyes beneath it—not for power, not for fear, but because he was curious. Stupid, reckless curiosity.

You could’ve ended it. Ordered his arrest, dragged the truth from him. You’d done worse for less.

But for once, you wanted to know how the game played out.

The lamp was a myth. A beautiful one. Hidden beneath your family’s gardens, locked behind runes and riddles. Chan found it.

Of course he did.

You watched him reach for it—hands shaking, breath held like a man about to become more than himself. You knew what he didn’t.

It didn’t give. It took.

His first wish was small. Status. Influence. Something subtle, clever.

The next day, he charmed three advisors into naming him court consultant.

The day after that, he forgot the name of the woman who raised him.

You didn't speak of it, but you saw the edges unraveling. The way he smiled like it hurt. The way he touched objects like he wasn’t sure if they were real. The way he looked at you like he needed to memorize your shape.

He was losing himself. But you still weren’t sure what part of him was ever honest.

That was the problem with masks. You forget which face came first.

The kiss came during a storm.

Not the literal kind. Your father’s court was collapsing—corruption, betrayal, an uprising beginning to bloom like rot under gold. You knew Chan was tangled in it. Part of the plan. Maybe the plan.

You cornered him in the old banquet hall, doors sealed behind you. His hand was on your wrist before you could speak, his eyes wild with something that wasn't fear—but wasn’t far from it.

“You’re too close to this,” you said.

“I was never far,” he replied.

You stepped closer. “If you kiss me, I’ll know it’s fake.”

His jaw tightened. Rain hit the stained glass above like the world was breaking open.

“Then don’t let it be.”

You didn’t move. Not yet. But when his hand brushed your cheek, when his mouth hovered near yours like he was waiting for permission—that was real.

So you kissed him. Like a challenge. Like a truth. Like the only thing left in the world that couldn’t be stolen.

You didn’t know how many wishes he made after that. You only knew what it cost him.

He forgot things mid-sentence. Hallways. Names. Once, he looked at your face like he knew it meant something, but not what.

And yet, when he touched your hand, it was still gentle. When you spoke, he listened like it mattered more than anything else.

Maybe that’s what love was. Not the fireworks. Not the declarations.

Just staying. Even when it hurts.

You found him again in the gardens—where the lamp had once rested, now cracked open like a split bone. Magic bled from the cracks. So did he.

He was kneeling by the fountain, fingertips red, eyes distant.

“You used it again,” you said.

“I had to.”

“Why?”

His voice broke. “Because they were coming for you. Because I caused it. Because I had to fix it.”

You dropped your veil.

He flinched—not at your eyes, but at the gesture. The intimacy of it. The faith.

“You don’t flinch when people lie to you,” you said softly. “Why do you flinch when I tell the truth?”

He looked up, bleeding and trembling and so, so tired.

“Because the truth doesn’t leave room for escape.”

You knelt beside him. Touched his face. The garden smelled like memory—wet earth, broken things, old wishes.

“Then stop running.”

He kissed you like he was trying to remember.

The final wish wasn’t for power. It was to return everything.

Memories. Names. The lives his lies had ruined.

It took all of him. Left him empty.

You buried the lamp in the river.

When he woke, he was in your chambers. No guards. No titles. Just soft sheets and a life waiting to begin again.

He blinked slowly, staring at you like a dream.

“Do you know who I am?” you asked.

He smiled, weak and wondering.

“No. But you look like something I was afraid to want.”

You laughed. A real one. The kind that didn’t sound like poison.

“Then don’t be afraid this time.”

He took your hand. His touch was light. Real.

They called him Hercules.

The name echoed across the land like a storm, reverberating with both awe and fear. Some whispered it as a warning, others as a prayer, fingers trembling as they spoke the name of the mighty demigod. Children idolized him as the epitome of strength and valor, their innocent minds believing the stories of his invincibility. Kings, rulers of entire empires, begged for him, for his power could turn the tide of war. And the gods—gods who saw him as a mere tool, a weapon in their divine arsenal—toyed with him, twisting him into something neither man nor god.

But you knew better.

You knew the man behind the myth. Or at least, you would come to.

The first time you met him, he was already broken.

You had been a healer long before the war had come to these lands. Your hands had known the taste of death, stained crimson not by the blood of enemies, but by those whose lives you could not save. Your heart, once soft and full of compassion, had grown calloused in the face of endless suffering. The gods had abandoned this war temple long ago, and with their departure, the last remnants of hope had withered. Still, the desperate came. They came seeking your whispered spells, hoping for the mercy the gods no longer provided.

He appeared at dusk, when the world was painted in shadows, barefoot, broad-shouldered, and silent. His skin was spattered with blood—yet not his own. His eyes, dark and empty, were like the bottom of the river Lethe, a reflection of a soul lost, drowning in its own despair. He didn’t speak, didn’t even make a sound as he collapsed at the entrance of the temple, as if the weight of centuries had finally crushed him.

You rushed to him, expecting to find wounds, to offer your healing hands to a broken body. But when you touched him, his skin was unmarred, smooth as marble, unbroken by the battles he’d fought, unscarred by the wars waged on his soul.

"Are you in pain?" you asked softly, your voice trembling as you tried to make sense of the contradiction before you.

His voice was gravel, worn by time and sorrow. "I don’t feel pain."

You looked into his eyes then—really looked—and you saw it. The truth. The hollow void that lingered there was not from injury, but from something deeper, something that no spell could heal, no herb could soothe. This was not the kind of pain you could fix.

He didn’t tell you his name, not at first. But in time, the stories came.

Hercules.

A name forged by gods, shaped by war, tempered in fire. A demigod who could slay a hydra without hesitation, who once held up a mountain to save the world from ruin. But the stories never told the truth of what lay beneath the legend—the torment of a man who had lived for centuries without ever truly living, without ever feeling.

They said he was a weapon, a tool of war and glory. They never spoke of the man who sat in silence long after the battles had ended, staring at the fire like it held the answers to questions he didn’t know how to ask. They never told of the emptiness that consumed him when the cheers faded, when the blood stopped flowing, and when the gods’ voices fell silent.

And then there was you.

You didn’t see a hero. You saw the broken pieces of a man who had long since forgotten how to feel, how to be human.

One night, as the two of you sat beneath a canopy of stars, he finally spoke, his voice a mere whisper in the quiet dark.

"Why did you come here?" you asked him, the question that had lingered in your mind for days.

His eyes met yours, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something flicker in them—a spark of something forgotten, something fragile.

"I heard you could undo curses."

You froze, the weight of his words pressing down on you.

"You want to feel pain?" you asked carefully, though the answer was already clear.

He nodded, the motion slow, as if he had been preparing himself for this admission for longer than you could understand.

"Why?" you whispered, heart pounding in your chest. "Why would you want that?"

"Because," his voice cracked, "if I can’t feel pain, then I can’t feel anything. Not joy. Not love. Not regret. Not guilt. And I... I want to be human. Just once. Just to feel something real. Even if it breaks me."

The ritual was ancient. Forbidden. It had been passed down in whispers, kept hidden from those who would seek to misuse it. It was a spell that could grant him mortality, could take away his divine invulnerability. It would strip him of everything that made him a god—and leave him with the full weight of what it meant to be human.

You warned him. "The pain will be real. It will take something from you. It might break you."

He said nothing, his gaze unwavering, as if the world could crumble around him and he would still stand, resolute in his choice.

And so, you performed the ritual.

At first, the pain was slow. It was emotional, not physical. Memories surfaced, jagged and sharp. Lovers he had forgotten, faces he had buried in the ashes of his past. The children he could not save, their laughter still echoing in his ears like a distant, unreachable dream. The horrors he had committed under the gods’ command, the bloodshed that haunted him like a specter.

And each night, he would wake, trembling, soaked in sweat, his body shaking not from the wounds that never were, but from the weight of the memories now flooding back.

He would stare at you, his eyes wide and lost.

"You're crying," he whispered once, surprised, his hand reaching up to touch his face, as if he could not believe what he was feeling.

"Because you are," you said softly, your voice raw, and for the first time, he smiled—a broken, shattered thing that stole the breath from your lungs.

You loved him in pieces. Not the hero, not the legend—but the man who had been forgotten in the stories. The one who, despite everything, still believed in the possibility of something real.

He fell in love with you in silence, in the quiet moments when you weren’t looking, when you were busy tending to the wounded or gathering herbs. He fell in love with the way you moved, with the tenderness you showed even to those who had long lost hope.

But the curse demanded its price.

To become fully mortal, to feel the full spectrum of human experience, he would have to give up the last of his divinity. And with it, the immortality that had kept him alive for centuries. He would die.

You begged him to stop, your heart breaking at the thought of losing him.

"You’ll die," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"I know," he said, his thumb brushing your cheek, as if savoring the warmth of your skin one last time. "But I’d rather die free. Free to love you. Free to feel. Even if it’s only for a moment."

"Gunwook, please," you cried, the words raw in your throat. "Don’t do this for me."

He cupped your face, his touch gentle but certain. "I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this because you showed me I could. Because I want to be real. Even if it hurts. Even if it breaks me."

And when the final seal was broken, when the magic faded, and the gods’ hold slipped away—he screamed. His knees buckled, and you caught him in your arms, your heart shattering as you watched him bleed, watched him finally experience what it meant to be human.

And as he sobbed into your shoulder, the pain, the agony, the rawness of it all... you realized something.

This, right here—this was love. Real. Beautiful. Terrifying.

And for the first time in centuries, Hercules became a man. A man who could love. A man who could hurt. A man who could heal.

The woods were never safe.

But they were hers.

The village knew better than to follow the red cloak past the tree line. They spoke of her in hushed tones, warning curious souls of the girl who walked with bare feet and a blade tucked in her boot, who returned to town only when the moon bled full and her hunger grew too loud to ignore.

Red.

Not her name, not really, but close enough. She wore it like a crown. Her eyes shimmered like garnets, her smile sharpened by cruelty and charm. They thought she was cursed. Maybe she was.

She didn’t care.

She lived by the rhythm of the forest, by the pulse of prey and predator. She’d long since stopped pretending to be either. She was something else. Something more.

And then he came.

A howl broke the silence one night, low and amused. Not quite animal. Not quite man.

She didn’t run.

She followed.

She found him where the trees twisted tighter and the air turned silver with mist. He stood barefoot in a ring of crushed flowers, shirt half undone, golden eyes gleaming with a hunger that mirrored hers. A man, yes, but only barely. His teeth were too sharp. His smile too wide.

"You’re not scared," he said, voice velvet and danger.

"You’re not hiding," she answered, tilting her head. "Most things do."

He laughed. It echoed like moonlight cracking.

"Name?"

"Red."

"Of course it is. I’m Hendery."

She smirked. "That your name or the one you stole from someone tastier?"

He only grinned.

Their dance began with teeth and wit. She set snares just to see if he could escape. He left claw marks near her fire, spirals and symbols that made her bones hum.

He brought her secrets. She fed him lies.

They fought. They bled. They flirted through fury, hearts colliding in a storm neither could name.

Sometimes he was a wolf, lean and silver-furred, watching her from the edge of the lake.

Sometimes he was a man, firelit and laughing, lying beside her with his fingers tangled in her hair.

"Why don’t you eat me?" she asked once, half-asleep.

He pressed a kiss to her throat.

"Where’s the fun in that?"

But the forest did not love what it couldn’t control.

Something older stirred. A curse, bound in the bones of the first wolves, in the blood of the first girls who wandered too far. It wanted her gone. It wanted him chained.

The trees grew hungrier. The sky split open with thunder.

He changed.

The shifts became violent. His eyes blackened. His touch burned.

She chased him down when he vanished, dragging him from dens of rot and madness.

"You’re slipping," she hissed, shoving him against a tree. "Fight it."

"What if I don’t want to?" he snarled, voice breaking.

She didn’t flinch.

"Then I’ll kill you before it does."

Their kiss that night was teeth and blood and desperation.

They didn’t win because they were pure.

They won because they were monstrous.

Together, they turned the curse back on itself, laughter slicing through ancient spells like knives. He bit down on the throat of the old magic. She ripped through fate with claws made of fury and love.

Madness carved their souls, but they wore it like armor.

He never tamed her.

She never devoured him.

They met in the middle—two wild things who refused to fall.

And when they walked from the wreckage, hand in bloodstained hand, the forest went silent.

Finally.

Red had found her match.

And the Wolf would never run again.

Hanbin

You nodded off during a late-night talk, your arm lazily hooked around his. As he adjusted your jacket, you mumbled something like, "Feels nice... being with you. I always feel better when it’s you." He stopped for a second, unsure if you even knew what you were saying. He glanced at you you were fully asleep, eyes shut, breathing even. A small, warm smile tugged at his lips. “...You make me feel better too.”

Jiwoong

You’d drifted off on the couch, head tipping toward his shoulder. Just as he reached to adjust the pillow behind you, you whispered, barely audible, "You’re so good to me, Jiwoong... I wish you knew how much I like you." He froze. Blinked. The moment passed as quickly as it came. He didn’t say anything, just watched the slow rise and fall of your chest with a dazed expression. Later, he sat beside you a little closer than usual.

Zhang Hao

Your eyes were fluttering shut while watching him tune his violin. Without thinking, you whispered, "Hao... I like when you play. And... I like you." He glanced over, a faint crease forming between his brows. “You like—” He paused. You were asleep, head lolling against the cushion. He blinked once. Twice. Then returned to his violin, but his fingers trembled on the strings for the next few notes.

Matthew

You were nodding off beside him, mumbling through a yawn. "You always take care of me... I think I’m falling for you." He slowly turned to you like he didn’t quite process it. “Wait… wait, what?” he whispered. Then you shifted, completely out. He stared for a long beat, mouth open in disbelief, then softly face-palmed. “…Don’t do that to my heart, bro.”

Taerae

You were lying in bed after a long day, both of you quietly on your phones when you drifted off mid-scroll. Out of nowhere, you sighed, "I think I’m gonna fall for you if you keep being like this..." Taerae looked over immediately. You were already asleep, thumb hovering over your screen. He blinked a few times, face slowly warming, then tucked the blanket around you more tightly. No response just his quiet smile in the dark.

Ricky

You fell asleep mid-conversation, cheek resting on your hand. He leaned back to grab his charger when you murmured, "I like you more than I should, huh..." He froze, eyes wide. “Wait—what?” He leaned in a little too fast, accidentally bumping the table. The noise jolted you upright. “Huh? Wha—what happened?” Ricky quickly smiled, too wide. “Nothing! Nothing. You said... uh... something about soup.” He didn’t sleep that night.

Gyuvin

You were half-asleep in the backseat of a van after a long outing, leaning against the window. He was scrolling through photos when you murmured, "You’re my favorite... don’t tell the others." His head snapped toward you so fast it almost gave him whiplash. “…Huh?” You didn’t move. He blinked in stunned silence, then stared out the window with the softest, most bashful grin. No one had to know—but he’d remember.

Gunwook

You were curled up beside him with a blanket over your head, complaining earlier that you were too tired to think. Moments later, he heard: "Why do you have to be so easy to like..." Gunwook’s eyes slowly widened. He gently pulled the blanket back to look at your face. Fast asleep. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if he should feel honored or panicked. “...Wow. Okay.”

Yujin

You met Yeosang on a night when the world was quiet. The rain fell in a steady rhythm, muffling the hum of the city, and the fog clung low to the streets, swallowing the glow of streetlights. You were walking home alone, your umbrella tilted slightly against the wind, when you saw him—a figure standing at the edge of the river, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, and the rain clung to his skin like he belonged to the night itself.

You wouldn’t have noticed him if you hadn’t glanced twice. If you hadn’t caught the way his outline flickered slightly, as though he were nothing more than a trick of the mist. You slowed your steps, blinking against the blur of rain, unsure if your tired eyes were deceiving you. But then, a car drove by, its headlights sweeping briefly over the riverbank, and you saw it—the way the beams passed right through him.

You stopped. Your breath caught in your throat, the world around you suddenly too still. The city was full of strange things late night wanderers and ghosts in human skin. But this wasn’t that. This was something else. Something unmistakably wrong.

You should have turned away. You should have walked faster. But you didn’t.

Instead, you lingered. Staring. And when he turned toward you, his eyes met yours, and you knew with bone-deep certainty that he was not alive. There was no fear in his gaze no malice, no cruelty. Just sorrow, worn quietly like a second skin. His eyes, dark and tired, softened with surprise. And when he spoke, his voice was as soft as breath.

"You can see me."

It wasn’t a question. It was a quiet realization, a whisper of disbelief. You didn’t answer right away. Your hands clenched around the handle of your umbrella, knuckles white with the force of it. You couldn’t seem to look away from him, even when your instincts told you to run.

And then, slowly, you nodded.

The faintest smile tugged at his lips haunting in its gentleness. Grateful. Tragic.

And that was how it began.

His name was Yeosang. And he didn’t remember how he died.

You saw him again the next day. And the day after that. It became a strange, silent routine. He would appear without warning sometimes leaning against the railing of the bridge where you walked at dusk, sometimes standing beneath the awning of your apartment building, sheltered from the rain he could no longer feel.

He didn’t speak much at first. You weren’t sure he would stay. But you never turned him away.

And slowly, he grew bolder. He began to talk about nothing and everything. About the pieces of life he could still remember. His favorite café, where he used to sit by the window. The bookstore he wandered into on rainy afternoons. The way he liked to trace constellations with his eyes when he couldn’t sleep. Small, human things, spoken with a faint ache, like he was recalling the memory of something he could no longer touch.

He told you he didn’t know why he was still here why he was tethered to the world. But he knew he couldn’t move on. Not yet.

And you—you didn’t mean to get attached. But you did.

Yeosang was unlike anyone you had ever met. Gentle and observant, with a quiet, steady presence that made the world feel less sharp. You would sit with him by the river at dusk, watching the water catch the last slivers of sunlight. You would walk through the narrow streets of the city, your footsteps silent against the worn cobblestone. And you would talk.

He listened with careful eyes when you spoke of your life the mundane details, the trivial frustrations, the small hopes you carried in your chest. And when you fell quiet, he would tell you about his world, the one he had lost.

Once, as you sat on the steps of your apartment, you asked him what it felt like to be caught between. To linger in a world that had already let him go.

He was silent for a long time. His gaze fixed on the faint glow of a streetlamp down the road. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet, distant.

"It’s like holding your breath," he murmured. "For so long that you forget what it felt like to breathe."

And something about the way he said it—the heaviness in his voice, the weariness in his eyes made you want to help him breathe again.

You helped him remember.

The memories came back in pieces slowly, cautiously, like fragments of a half-forgotten dream. The riverbank where he once used to walk. The bakery where he bought bread on cold mornings. The rooftop where he stood when he was angry at the world. Small, ordinary places that came with flashes of feeling.

You walked with him to those places, let him trace the outlines of his past. His eyes grew brighter when he remembered something clearly a fleeting glimpse of who he used to be.

And then, one night, as you stood by the river where you first saw him, he remembered the end.

The truth came slowly at first a flicker of disjointed images. Running footsteps. Distant voices. Rain. And then the weight of it crashed over him.

He told you everything.

How he had been chased by men whose names he could no longer recall. How he had slipped, his foot catching against the jagged stones of the riverbank. The sharp, sudden pain of falling. The current dragging him under. Water filling his lungs, heavy and suffocating. Alone. Forgotten.

Your chest tightened as you listened. You wanted to reach for him, to hold his hand. But your fingers would only pass through him. So you watched, helpless, as he struggled to keep his voice steady.

And when he faltered, you whispered his name. Soft. Gentle. As if saying it could anchor him.

Yeosang’s eyes met yours, wide and disbelieving. And then he smiled a faint, fleeting smile, the kind you give when you’re already saying goodbye.

You knew it was coming. You had felt it in your chest for days—the shift in the air, the slow unraveling. You knew he would have to leave.

But you didn’t expect it to hurt this much.

It was raining again the night he left. You were walking home when you realized he was unusually quiet, lingering a few steps behind. You stopped beneath a streetlamp and turned toward him, and in that moment, you knew. He was ready.

"It’s time, isn’t it?" you asked softly, even though you already knew the answer.

Yeosang smiled. Sad, but sure. His eyes were soft, warm with something you didn’t dare name. He stepped closer, close enough that you could almost imagine the warmth of him. His gaze traced your features slowly, memorizing you.

"You gave me back the pieces I lost," he murmured. "I remember now. And because of you... I’m not afraid to leave."

Your throat tightened. You shook your head faintly, but he reached for you—his fingers brushing your cheek. The ghost of a touch, faint and fleeting.

"Thank you," he whispered.

And then, he was gone.

Just... gone.

The rain was the only thing left to touch your skin. The streetlamp flickered faintly overhead, and you stood there for a long time, your hands trembling at your sides. You waited for his voice, his presence. But the city was quiet. Too quiet.

You mourned him like you would someone you had loved for a lifetime. Even though you had only known him for a short while.

You sat by the river where he once stood, hands curled around your knees, listening to the water. But the world felt quieter now. Distant. As though something warm had been scraped away.

And then weeks later you heard him again.

You were walking home from the café when it happened. The street was dim, the lamps flickering softly against the mist. You were fumbling for your keys when you heard him.

"You still hum when you’re nervous."

You froze. Your breath caught painfully in your chest. You turned, and you saw him.

Except—it wasn’t him.

The man standing before you was alive. But his voice, Yeosang’s voice was unmistakable. When he smiled, it was warm and unfamiliar. And when he reached for your hand, it was solid. Alive. Human.

The roar of the engines was deafening, the scent of burning rubber and gasoline thick in the air as cars tore down the track. You stood at the pit stop, your heart pounding with every lap, every turn, every moment that could make or break the race. The tension in the air was electric, but your focus remained locked onto one car—the matte black and red number 88, the one piloted by Liu Yangyang.

He was fearless on the track, a prodigy in the racing world, known for his audacious overtakes and razor-sharp instincts. To the public, he was a rising star. To you, he was something more your best friend, your biggest headache, and the one who had stolen your heart before you even realized it.

You gripped the radio headset tightly, watching as he weaved between competitors, pushing the limits with every lap. "He's pushing too hard," you muttered, your fingers tightening around the radio. "Tell him to ease off before Turn 3."

The team engineer merely chuckled. "You tell him. He only listens to you."

With a sigh, you pressed the button, your voice steady but urgent. "Yangyang, don’t take the inside on Turn 3. You’re gonna clip the curb."

Static buzzed in your ear before his voice came through, smooth yet laced with mischief. "You don’t trust me?"

"I do, but I also know you," you shot back. "And I’d rather see you win than scrape yourself off the asphalt."

A chuckle. "Got it, boss."

You held your breath as he approached the turn. Normally, he'd take the risk, pushing his car to the absolute limit, but this time, he hesitated just for a second. It was enough. He held his line, accelerating cleanly out of the corner, gaining ground on the car ahead. Relief flooded your veins, but your pulse still hammered, though you weren’t sure if it was from the race or the way he always made you feel.

Lap after lap, the tension built, the world narrowing to the flashing of numbers on the screen, the roar of the engines, the gasps and cheers from the crew as Yangyang moved up the ranks. And then, the final lap arrived. You gripped the edge of the table, your nails digging into the surface as he barreled toward the finish line, locked in a brutal battle for first place. For a breathless second, it looked like he wouldn’t make it but then, with one final burst of speed, he pulled ahead.

The checkered flag waved, and the pit erupted in cheers. The world blurred as you tried to process it—he had won. He had actually won.

Before you could even move, strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground. "Did you see that?!" Yangyang's voice was electric, his sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. "Told you I’d win."

You laughed, shoving at his chest. "Because you actually listened for once."

His grin was bright, his eyes gleaming under the flashing lights of cameras and celebration. "Maybe I should start listening to you more often."

Something in his gaze made your breath hitch. You were used to his teasing, but this felt different. More intense. More real. Before you could react, his thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a streak of grease you hadn’t even noticed.

"You worry about me too much, y'know?" he murmured, his voice softer now, just for you.

"Someone has to."

His lips curled into something between a smirk and something softer, something almost vulnerable. "Maybe you should just make it official then. Be my lucky charm, both on and off the track."

Your heart stuttered, like a car misfiring before catching speed again. The noise of the crowd faded, the flashing cameras became nothing more than background static.

You smirked, mirroring his confidence. "Depends. Does that mean I get a say in your reckless driving?"

He laughed, leaning in, close enough that you could see the warmth in his dark eyes. "It means you get a say in everything."

The first night you spent at Changbin’s apartment felt like falling into a dream.

Not a whirlwind, hearts-pounding, movie-style kind of dream—but something gentler. Slower. The kind where you fall asleep laughing at a movie neither of you finished, your legs tangled under the blanket, popcorn bowl abandoned on the coffee table. Where your last conscious thought is the weight of his arm draped around your waist, and how natural it feels for his chest to rise and fall against your back.

It was late. You were tired. And despite it being your first night together, there was nothing rushed or hesitant about it. It felt right. Familiar, even. Like you’d been doing this for years.

So when the sun rose, painting golden warmth across the soft gray of his sheets, you stirred slowly; peaceful, half-asleep, head nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

Changbin was still asleep, lips parted just slightly, hair sticking out in five different directions. Your eyes traced the curve of his cheek, his relaxed jaw, the way his lashes brushed his skin. And before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted closer, your lips brushing just near his ear.

"Good morning," you whispered, voice still husky with sleep.

Except he moved at the exact same time.

You leaned in. He turned his head.

Your lips met.

Soft. Accidental. Startling.

You froze—eyes wide, nose brushing his. And so did he.

Then came the blink. Then the tiny inhale.

“…Hi,” Changbin murmured, voice rough and confused and warm enough to melt the sun.

Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t uh, I meant to say good morning. With words.”

“I noticed,” he replied, and you half-expected a smirk, some teasing comment, but instead? He just smiled. Bare, boyish, and breathtaking. “I like the way you say good morning.”

You buried your face in his chest, partly to hide, partly because his skin was warm and you suddenly had no idea what to do with your hands.

"You're never letting me live this down, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

The next morning, you woke up alone.

Which was weird, considering you knew Changbin had the day off. And he hated waking up before noon if he didn’t have to.

You rolled over, groggy, only to find a very lump-shaped figure hiding completely under the blanket.

"Changbin?"

No response.

"Are you- are you sulking under there?"

A muffled voice emerged. “Didn’t get my good morning yet.”

You blinked. “Are you serious.”

The blanket rustled. A dramatic sigh followed. “Rules are rules.”

You huffed a laugh, crawling closer until you found the edge of the blanket and peeled it back. His hair was a mess. He was pouting—full-on, exaggerated bottom lip and all.

“You started this,” he mumbled. “Now I can’t function properly unless I get it.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too hard. “Fine.”

You leaned in, kissed him softly just a brush. Just enough to count.

“…Better?”

Changbin let out a pleased little noise. “Much.”

It became routine. Ritual.

Every single morning, without fail, Changbin would hold your hand hostage under the covers, refuse to open his eyes, and whine about his missing “good morning” until you leaned in and kissed him awake.

Sometimes it was playful. Sometimes it was slow and lazy, your arms curled around each other as the kiss lingered a little longer than necessary. Sometimes he would pretend to fall back asleep just to get a second one. Or third.

“You’re spoiled,” you told him one morning as he nuzzled into your neck, grinning like a child who got away with something.

“You made me this way,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Now suffer the consequences.”

And suffer you did if “suffer” meant being held like a teddy bear for twenty minutes every morning, your hair rumpled and face kissed into oblivion.

Not that you’d ever complain.

Because you used to dread mornings.

Now? You woke up excited. Warm. Loved.

And every single day, without fail, Changbin smiled the moment he felt your lips press to his and whispered