LMAO You Crack Me Up Kitty Kat. I'm So Happy You Liked It

LMAO you crack me up kitty kat. I'm so happy you liked it

Play with Fire

Pairing: Hyunjin x afab!reader, Hyunjin x y/n

Summary: The follow up to Of Haircuts and Hyunjin - After his visit to District 9 Salon, Hyunjin can't stop thinking about you. He reaches out to you and ends up taking you on a date.

WC: 5.1k

SS: 3

AU: idol!Hyunjin

Genre: Smut

Content Warnings: Intended for 18+ mature audiences, MDNI! Kissing, oral sex (cunnilingus and fellatio)

Nets: @mirohs-aurora-society @neverendingdreams-net

Part 1

After he left the salon, he had stuffed the receipt into his pocket and headed to the company practice rooms. All through dance practice it felt as though that little piece of paper was burning a hole in his pocket. Thankfully he didn’t make any mistakes, but he wasn’t as focused on his dancing as he should be - all because he couldn’t stop thinking about the message. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Hyunjin returns to the dorm after dance practice and flops on his bed. He removes the little receipt paper from his pocket and holds it in his hand. He reads the message and then re-reads it.

In case you want to do more than look ###-###-#### Y/N.

He crumples the receipt and tosses it to the side with a sigh. He should just forget all about it, forget all about you. While he and the other members are no longer under a dating ban, strictly speaking, it is still discouraged by the company. Seeing you would just be playing with fire. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs again. Maybe a shower will help clear his thoughts.

He grabs a towel from the linen closet and pads down the hallway to the bathroom. He strips his clothes off and turns on the shower before stepping in. The water is nearly scalding, just the way he likes it. He can feel the water washing away the sweat from his body while his muscles slowly relax. 

He closes his eyes and stands under the water for several long minutes, letting it cascade down his body. He takes measured breaths, inhaling deeply, pausing, and exhaling slowly. With each breath he lets his thoughts bleed from his mind until there is nothing.

Eventually, he needs to wash his hair and body. He squirts his body wash on his washcloth and lathers it up. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus swirls around him, enveloping him as he drags it first across his chest then down his body. The subtle lavender is soothing while the eucalyptus is refreshing and provides mental clarity.  

For the moment, he has succeeded in his goal of forgetting all about you. But all of that goes down the drain the moment he begins to wash his hair. The feeling of his fingers scrubbing his scalp immediately makes him flashback to that morning at the salon. 

You squirt a couple of pumps of shampoo into your palm, rubbing it between your hands before working it into a lather in his hair. While you work the shampoo into his tresses, you massage his scalp. Your fingers work a kind of magic that has all the tension melting from his body. It feels like heaven.

Every now and then, your fingernails also lightly scratch his scalp. Each scratch lights up his nerve endings and sends a current of pleasure rippling through his body. He can’t help the slight shiver that follows. He can feel his cock twitching to life between his legs, pressing against his pants. 

The flashback ends abruptly when the shower water begins to run cold. The water streaming down his body may be cold, but his cock hangs hot and heavy from the memory. He exhales shakily and shivers from the cold water. He quickly rinses the shampoo from his hair and by the time he finishes, his body has calmed down, but his mind has not. 

His thoughts race as he steps out of the shower. He dries himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist and heading back to his room. He dresses in sweats and a baggy t-shirt before flopping on his bed once again. 

As he stretches out, his hand hits the crumpled receipt paper he had discarded earlier. He grabs it and sits up. He uncrumples it and smooths the paper against his thigh.

In case you want to do more than look ###-###-#### Y/N.

Before he can second - or third - guess himself, he punches the number into his phone. 

He’s always liked to play with fire. 

You were stretched out in bed, relieving your tired muscles. Your hours at the salon were long and draining, and your hands and feet often hurt after a shift. In the end, you didn't really mind though. It paid well enough, and since it was a high end salon, you'd get to meet the occasional Kpop idol or actor.

While you laid there, you opened your socials for your nightly doom scrolling. It didn't take much scrolling before Kpop fan edits began to show up in your feed. You double-tapped your screen to like a video here or there.

You abruptly stopped scrolling as the next video played and you saw a familiar face. It was a fancam of Hyunjin’s Megaverse dance break. God, he looked so handsome. You admired the precise control he had over his body. You were in absolute awe. And when he hip-thrusted in time to the music, well, let’s just say you felt your entire body flush. You let the video replay several more times - drinking in every single detail. 

Your rapt attention was broken when your phone vibrated with a text notification. Startled, you let the phone slip from your grip and it lands on your face. You let out a pained squeak and sit up. Who could be texting you at this time? All your friends and family live across the world from you. 

You scoff to yourself a little incredulously. There was no way the Hyunjin of Stray Kids was texting you. If you were being honest, you're not sure why you left him your number. Sure, you would have had to be blind to miss either his blatant appreciation of your body or his physical reaction during his appointment. He had flirted, and you had even flirted back. But still, you never would have expected him to actually text you. He was an idol and you were, well, nobody really.

Yet, against all odds, here he was. So you saved his number, took a deep breath, and texted him back.

You giggle to yourself and suppress a smile while kicking your feet. You’re going on a date with Hyunjin!

The next day you put on a pair of lacy panties and a short, flowing dress that ties behind your neck. There is a triangle of skin showing between your breasts and it leaves your back wide open. It’s modest enough but makes you feel cute, maybe even sexy. You slip on a pair of ballet flats and pack a pair of wedge sandals for later. Satisfied with your appearance, you grab your makeup bag and head to the salon to start your shift. 

When you arrive at District 9 you place your belongings in the break room before checking your bookings for the day, you have a full schedule of clients with hardly a break in between. You inhale a deep breath before exhaling slowly, preparing yourself mentally for the day. And then you put a smile on your face and prepare your station for the first client. 

By lunchtime you are absolutely famished. You run down the street to the convenience store and buy a kimbap and a can of milkis. When you return, you all but fall into a break room chair, eager to put your feet up for a few minutes. You pull out your phone as you begin to wolf down your food. You see you have a new notification. 

Skipping ahead to ‘darling’ already? You giggle to yourself and shake your head. Even though you’ve been busy, you can’t help but feel like the day is dragging on. Only four more hours to go. Hwaiting! you tell yourself.

With some measure of luck, your 4’clock, your last appointment of the day, cancels at the last minute. You breathe a sigh of relief and ask your coworker to give you a blowout and style. They loosely curl your hair while you chat about your plans for the evening. You explain that you’re going on a date, but you’re careful not to mention who you’re going on a date with. 

They add a finishing touch by pulling half of your hair back into a fishtail braid secured with a cute ribbon. Happy with the look, you thank them and spend the remaining time putting on some light makeup. Just after 5, you slip out of your flats, put on your wedges. After a final check in the mirror, you grab your bag and walk out the door. 

Hyunjin stands outside of the salon, leaning against the car he’s using for the night. He’s dressed casually and wearing a mask with a ball cap pulled low to help conceal his identity. He arrived just before 5 and has been waiting for you. As he waits, he nonchalantly scrolls through his socials. To passersby, he looks calm and collected. 

The truth is, he’s nervous. His palms are sweating, and a closer look would reveal a slight tremor of the hands. For one, it’s been years since he’s been on anything resembling a date. He definitely doesn’t think outings with the other members count. For two, there were nigh on countless things that could go wrong, and any number of them could cause a scandal. 

He knew he was taking a risk - maybe even a major risk - but there was just something so alluring about you. From the beginning, the moment he walked into District 9, he’s been drawn to you like a moth to a flame. He’s always liked to play with fire. 

He looks up when you walk out of the salon, and the world seems to stop turning, if only for a moment. You call out a soft greeting, and he shivers with pleasure, his name never sounding sweeter than it does coming out of your lips. You look absolutely radiant with your hair falling in soft curls around your shoulders. A light breeze ruffles the skirt of your dress, allowing him a brief glimpse of your plush thighs. 

He subconsciously gives his lips a quick lick before subtly wiping his palms on his pants as he pockets his phone. He gives you a bright smile and walks to open the passenger door. 

“Your chariot awaits, miss!” he chuckles with a playful bow.  

He watches as you mock curtsey back to him and go to get in the car. The car is a little lower than you expected, and he watches as you stumble. Without even thinking, his hands reach out to stabilize you. Your waist underneath his hands feels just right - you’re so warm. The perfect balance of soft and firm. 

He can’t help but give you a gentle squeeze as he helps you into the car. You give him the brightest smile in return. It’s a smile bright enough to melt all of his nerves away. When he shuts your car door and walks around to the driver's side, he has to take a moment to adjust himself in his pants. 

As you settle into the seat of the car, you close your eyes and take a deep breath to calm your nerves. The air is permeated with the scent of Hyunjin. It’s lightly floral with a hint of something else - spicy or herbal? You find it suits him perfectly. 

Just a moment later, the driver’s door opens and Hyunjin folds his long legs into the car. He puts on his seatbelt and makes sure that yours is buckled as well. Then he gives you a bright smile and starts the car. You give him a smile back and he pulls out of the parking lot. 

You study Hyunjin as he drives. Even doing something so mundane, he looks stunning. He’s relaxed in the driver’s seat. His left hand is on the steering wheel while his right hand rests on the gear shift between the two of you. You didn't think you had a thing for hands, but you can’t help but study his hands. 

You observe the way the veins on the back of his hand faintly protrude and snake up his forearm. His fingers are long and adorned with silver rings. His nails are well manicured but unpainted. As you stare, you can't help but imagine the way his hands might feel on you - and in you.

Would his palms be soft or rough against your skin? Are his hands warm or cold? What would the cool metal of his rings feel like as he glides his hands over your body? What would his rings feel like pressed against your folds? And oh - how deep inside would those long fingers reach?

You can feel your body begin to heat up in response to your wayward thoughts - starting with a tingling sensation between your thighs.You shift your gaze outside the window and exhale a shaky breath. You loosely grip the hem of your dress in your fists and subtly squeeze your thighs together. A futily seeking any sort of relief.

Determined to keep looking out the window, you miss the way Hyunjin subtly shifts his gaze to you as you press your thighs. You miss the way he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing, before clenching his jaw. However determined you are, you can’t miss the way tension seems to rise in the car - an energy, a dangerous attraction sparking to life between the two of you.

Thankfully, the car ride is brief and soon enough Hyunjin is parking the car. You take a deep breath as you exit the car. Thankfully, the open air seems to break the tension between you. He’s brought you to the outskirts out the city and as he leads you down the street, he tells you about the little hole-in-the-wall BBQ restaurant the other members found. He and the others have frequented the restaurant enough to befriend the owner who always ensures they have a private room in the back away from the prying eyes of the public. 

Once inside the restaurant, he greets the employees with friendly familiarity and walks toward the very room he just mentioned to you. Ever the gentleman, he pulls out your chair to seat you first. 

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you tease with a smirk. 

He waves you off with a playful scowl, but a faint blush tinges his cheeks as he takes his seat across from you. 

You feel the spark of attraction flare back to life now that you’re seated across from him. As you examine the menu, you wonder if he feels the same. You glance up at him, and find that he is already looking at you. You flush as you meet his eyes and exchange a shy smile. 

You gesture to the menu and ask if he has any recommendations. You spend the next several minutes discussing the menu, stealing glances while the other isn’t looking. At restaurants like these, there’s a fine line between not enough food and too much food and neither of you want to eat too much food. After much deliberation you settle on an order of galbi and samgyeopsal with rice for the both of you. 

Hyunjin leaves the room to place the order, and you fan your face, feeling a bit warm. You’re certain that you must be flushed. When he returns, he relaxes into his seat, one arm across the back of the other chair while his other hand rests on the table. He flashes you a bright smile. 

“So, Y/N tell me about yourself - outside of your job what do you like to do?” he asks?

You spend several minutes animatedly detailing your numerous interests and hobbies - most prominently how you love to read and listen to music. You admit that you are a big fan of kpop and watch his face light up when you reveal you’ve been a Stay for about a year now. He puts on a serious face and asks you who your bias is, pouting when it’s not him. 

You've seen him pout before on live, but it's different in person. Your eyes are immediately drawn to his lush lips. They look soft and hydrated - absolutely kissable. You shake your head to dismiss the thought before it can go any further and reach a hand across the table to where his hand is resting. 

You pat his hand as you give him a sly grin, “there’s plenty of time for me to be swayed. You could still become my favorite.” In an uncharacteristically bold move, you seal your words with a wink.

His mouth falls open, whether in shock or rebuttal you don’t know, because before he can get any words out, the food arrives. The owner himself and another employee bring in the food. They light the grill and place the meat and tongs near Hyunjin then beautifully arrange the banchan dishes before politely bowing and excusing themselves. 

Hyunjin wields the tongs with practiced ease. You shamelessly admire him from across the table while he places first the samgyeopsal and then galbi on the grill. He then takes the scissors and cuts each strip into smaller pieces. The grill is still heating up when the meat is first added, but soon enough your ears and nostrils are filled with the sizzling sounds and tantalizing smells of grilling meat. Your mouth waters in response.

As Hyunjin carefully tends the meat, turning each piece several times, you chat casually. As time passes, you both grow bolder, exchanging flirting words and glances. You feel your face grow warm - whether from the heat of the grill or from the flames of desire, you can't say. Although you could wager a guess.

You're uncertain how much time has truly passed, but soon enough Hyunjin begins removing the first round of meat from the grill and placing them on the nearby serving platter. While he lets the meat rest, he starts laying the second round out on the grill.

After he finishes arranging and cutting the meat in the grill, he picks up a piece of galbi with his chopsticks and holds it out to you. 

“Here, pretty girl, the first piece is for you!”

You flush even further but open your mouth to accept the piece of meat. Your taste buds are immediately assaulted by the sweet, salty, and slightly smoky flavor of the galbi. The meat is so tender it practically falls apart on your mouth without chewing. You close your eyes and moan appreciatively. 

Hyunjin makes some sort of strangled noise, and when you open your eyes, you find him staring at you with lust in his eyes. You meet his heated gaze, with heat in your own gaze, and smile.       

You and Hyunjin take your time; both of you enjoy the carefully cooked meat, delicious banchan, and each other's company. When the food is gone, Hyunjin rises and offers you his hand, which you happily take.

You let him lead you to the front where he pays for the meal before opening the door and ushering you out. Darkness fell while you were eating and without the heat of the sun you find the night breeze just a little chilly. 

Hyunjin pulls you close and guides you back to the car with his hand on your lower back. Your interactions during the meal has nurtured the spark of attraction between you into a roaring flame of desire. As such, you're hyper aware of his hand against your back - the heat from his palm radiates through your body. The warmth spreads throughout your body and pools low in your stomach.

Like earlier, Hyunjin opens your car door and helps you in. As you settle into your seat, you know one thing for certain: your stomach may be pleasantly full, but you're filled with a hunger of an entirely different nature.                                                                           

After he slides into the driver's seat, Hyunjin types the address you give him into his phone. It turns out you only live a few blocks from the salon, so he knows the drive won't take long. Is that a blessing or a curse?

The atmosphere in the car comes to life with the unspoken sexual tension between you and him. Hyunjin feels his cock twitching within the confines of his pants. He inhales a deep, measured breath through his nose in an effort to calm himself. Instead, he gets a deep inhale of your sweet perfume, and he only grows harder. He grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. 

Traffic is lighter this time of day, and in no time at all Hyunjin finds himself parked in front of your apartment. He isn't ready to say goodbye to you, and it seems you aren't quite ready to part either because you haven't made any moves to exit the car. 

Then, it seems you both make up your minds because you speak at the same time he does.

“Hyun-”

“Y/N-”

He gestures for you to continue and waits while you unbuckle your seatbelt to turn and face him. He watches as you close your eyes and take a deep breath before blurting out, “Hyunjin, would you like to come up with me? I don't want the night to end yet…”

For several long seconds he doesn’t move, and he doesn't say anything. He's warring with himself - he wants so badly to go with you. He can't deny how intensely he desires you. He feels like he's burning from the inside out. Following you up to your apartment would just be playing with fire.

You, unfortunately, take his silence as rejection. Your voice trembles as you ramble, “I’m sorry if I misread any signs…I had a great time, but I'll just get going now.”

You scramble to open your door and exit the car, and this shakes him out of his thoughts. He catches your wrist and pulls you back, smashing his lips to yours. 

Your lips against his are so soft and they part in surprise. He takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between them, meeting yours. He relishes in the way your tongue dances with his. He kisses you for several long minutes. By the time he breaks the kiss, you're both out of breath. 

“Please, Y/N,” he pants, “I want you.”

He's always like to play with fire.

He follows closely behind you as you lead him up to your apartment, opting to take the stairs rather than the elevator for discretion. You're out of breath when you stop outside of apartment 14-3. 

You quickly enter the code to your door, and he follows. As soon as you're both inside, he shuts the door and spins you both, so you're pinned against the door, caged in his arms. He claims your lips again in a feverish kiss and you respond in kind. 

As your lips clash and tongues tangle, he maneuvers his thigh between your legs, pressing against your clothed mound. He can feel the heat radiating from your core. And when you begin to shift your hips, he can feel the wetness seeping through your panties. Each time you grind down on his thigh, you also inadvertently provide friction to his aching cock. 

Eventually he can't take it anymore and he breaks the kiss.

“Please, Y/N,” he pants. “I need to taste you. Can I taste you?”

When you nod, blushing, he picks you up, hands gripping your thighs.

He kisses you and then asks, “bed or couch, pretty girl?”

“Couch - living room is through there,” you respond breathlessly, gesturing with your chin. 

He gently sets you down on the couch and wastes no time kneeling before you on the floor. You lift your hips slightly and he peels your panties off, sliding his hands gently down your thighs as he goes. Thick strings of your arousal cling to your panties and he shamelessly sniffs them before throwing them haphazardly to the side. 

“You smell delicious, pretty.”

He smirks at the way your face flames red at his actions and positions himself between your thighs. His slender shoulders keep your legs spread apart. 

He uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart and takes a moment to admire the view before diving straight in. Using the flat of his tongue he slowly licks a thick stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your slick tastes divine - a pleasant balance between sweet and tangy - and he moans. 

He repeats the action a few more times, just as slowly, before dipping the tip of his tongue into your entrance, seeking more of your nectar straight from the source. He could get drunk on you - but it's not enough. 

He shifts your thighs to rest on top of his shoulders, sandwiching his head. He stiffens his tongue and thrusts it into your core, spearing you open. From this new position he can reach deeper, and he repeats the motion again and again. Licking, sucking, slurping. 

You're both moaning messes and he can feel your thighs quivering. 

“Hyunjin, more,” you plead, canting your hips. 

Happy to oblige, he slowly works two of his fingers into you. He scissors them apart and works you open while questing for your g-spot. At the same time, he wraps his lips around your clit. 

When he finds that area of slightly spongy flesh, he gently presses into it, massaging small circles into the flesh. Simultaneously, he uses the tip of his tongue to quickly flick your sensitive bud - all that hard work at learning enunciation paying off. 

Although your thighs muffle all sounds, he can still hear your moans and whimpers. They grow in volume and frequency as he pushes you towards your high. 

Your thighs clamp shut around his head as he pushes you over the edge. He drinks you down, not letting a single drop of your cum go to waste. You moan his name, “Jinnie!!”

He was wrong earlier - the way you moan his name in the height of pleasure is the sweetest sound. And he wants to hear you do it over and over again.

You relax into the couch cushions, breathing hard. You look down between your thighs to where Hyunjin is emerging, his face glistening with the remnants of your release. “Holy fuck, Jinnie…” you pant. “Wait, can I call you, Jinnie?”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before wiping the hand on his pants. He stands up, slowly unfolding his lithe body, and plops himself down beside you. He raises a hand to your cheek and gently turns your head. 

“You can call me whatever you like, darling,” he murmurs. 

You meet his eyes and smile before leaning in and capturing his lips. He tastes like you, but you don't mind. You deepen the kiss, licking into his mouth. When you eventually withdraw, you tug at his lower lip with your teeth, and he whimpers.

“You taste good, Jinnie,” you croon. “But I bet I know something that tastes even better.”

You slide off the couch until you're the one kneeling between his thighs. 

“What do you say, Jinnie baby…” You look up at him, eyes shrouded behind your long lashes. “Can I return the favor?”

You relish in the way he whimpers, “please.”

Your fingers deftly unbutton his pants before you lean forward taking the zipper between your teeth. 

“Fuck…” he hisses, staring down at you. “That's so fucking hot.”

You grin and hook your fingers into the waistband of both his boxer briefs and pants. You give them a gentle tug and he lifts his hips to help you slide them off in one go. You let them pool around his ankles, too distracted by his newly freed cock, which smacks against his clothed abdomen. 

As far as phalluses go, Hyunjin’s is beautiful. It isn’t the thickest you’ve ever seen, but it’s long with the slightest curve to the left. Like his hands, there is a protruding vein that runs along the underside from base to tip. His cockhead is an angry red and leaking precum. With each beat of his heart, his cock pulses and a little more precum oozes out. 

“Eyes on me,” you say before slowly dragging your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing the vein, before swirling it around his tip and sucking hard. You let your tongue dip into his slit and gather more of his salty essence. He lets out a breathy moan. He can't control the way his hips jerk up, pressing himself further into your mouth. He feels guilty, stuttering out an “I’m sorry” but you pay him no mind, simply humming around his cock and pressing his hips back into the couch. Your display of dominance combined with the subtle vibrations make his brain go fuzzy. His eyes roll to the back of his head, and he relaxes into the couch. 

Still loosely holding his hips, you bob your head up and down, taking more of his cock each down stroke. You gag a little when he finally hits the back of your throat, tears springing to your eyes unbidden. You pause for a moment, taking a deep breath, before taking him into your mouth again. You relax your throat and swallow him down inch by inch. 

He lets out a strangled cry and his hips jerk again involuntarily. You tighten your grip on his hips and shove them back into the couch. Pinning him down, you redouble your efforts until his thighs are tense and trembling. 

“I’m so close, please…” he begs. For what - to stop, to continue - neither of you know. 

You slide one hand from his hip to cup his balls as you swallow down his length. As you work your throat around him, he can’t hold back. He reaches one hand down to cup your cheek and emits a strangled moan as he cums straight down your throat. 

You swallow everything down before releasing his cock with a pop. 

Hyunjin knows he’s a goner as soon as he looks down at you kneeling between his feet - spit dribbling down your chin and tear tracks lining your cheeks.

You’re beautiful. 

This was supposed to be a one-time thing. 

To quell the fire inside of him

But this has only been a match in the gas tank. 

There is now an inferno that rages only for you. And he doubts it will be just a one-time thing.   

A/N: Hey all, I hope you enjoyed the 2nd part of Of Haircuts and Hyunjin. Thank you for making it this far. If you enjoyed, please let me know if you'd be interested in a 3rd part. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any of my work.

Tag list: @skzdust @catiuskaa

Synopsis:

The two most influential and feared Korean Crime families, the Lobos and the Clowder's, hate each other.

They have always been, and always will be, enemies.

So when two of them meet by chance outside of the confines of their families, how can they reconcile a lifelong distrust, with their new found love?

-or-

"We're enemies."

"I'm not your enemy, Ji."

MINORS DNI ♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Warnings: Violence, foul language throughout, angst(?), mxm ♧ Authors Note: this is my first ever fan fiction! Feedback welcome.

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ IN PROGRESS ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ ♤ ♡ Lads, it's basically a novel...♢ ♧

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ CHAPTERS ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

♤ Chapter 1 - Parley word count <8k

♧ Chapter 2 - The DLC word count >6k

♢ Chapter3 - Broken Compass

♢ ♧ If you made it this far, thank you for your support! ♤ ♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog ♤ ♡ ©2024Intrikatie ♢ ♧ Ao3 ♤ ♡

up all night

pairing: bang chan x gn!reader w. 3.9k genre: shameless smut summary: chan is in the studio working late, stressed about a deadline and pushed to his limit. you convince him to take his mind off work. warnings: reader has somewhat implied afab anatomy but no gendered terms/pronouns are used. petnames used: baby, love, honey a/n: making my smut debut with chan! written for the best person ever

As of late, Chan has been in the studio far more often than you'd like.

You knew he was a workaholic when you got into the relationship. He cared about his career, music, and group so much he'd push himself to the brink. He wrote, composed, and produced all of his own music and wouldn't have it any other way. If he wanted success, he needed to make it himself.

It came at a cost, though. You saw the way his mental health would deteriorate around the time of deadlines. He'd spend almost entire days in the studio, perfecting every last word and beat. You watched as he shaped this music from his hands, sculpting them to smooth out every edge and imperfection.

Even Chan was far too aware how bad it was for himself. You'd try to find ways for him to take breaks, always bringing him food and water to keep him going. He'd thank you in a million ways, with words and fond touches but it ended in him going back to work.

When he finally was home, he returned to the kind and gentle boyfriend you knew him to be. Holding you as you fell asleep and buying your order at the local coffee shop before you woke up. He'd make you breakfast in bed when he had the time, writing love notes whenever he had to leave before you woke up.

As it always happened, a new deadline was approaching. Chan often slipped out after schedules to the studio and worked himself down to the bone. You tried your hardest to spend as much time in there with him, even if it was just laying on the couch scrolling your feed. Every little thing helped.

That night, you'd ordered him some takeout but it was eaten long ago. The time on your phone showed it was half past three in the morning and Chan was at it in earnest. Headphones on, replaying samples and tweaking sounds.

You looked over from your phone when you heard him swear under his breath and take his headphones off. Chan let out a long sigh and covered his face with his hands for a moment before looking back down at his work.

"It- it just won't sound like I need it to. It's not right, it's.." Chan rambled into the air.

You got up from the couch and walked behind his chair, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and massaging them with your fingers. "I know, Channie. Is there anything I can do to help you right now?"

"No, I'm sorry," Chan let out a long sigh and smiled up at you weakly, "You being here is enough."

You felt a stirring in your stomach at the sentiment, but you wouldn't give up that easily. "I can't just let you suffer alone here. Do you want to take a break or wrap up for the night?"

"I won't remember how I want it tomorrow. If I give up on this now, there's a chance I never fix it and it goes out sounding wrong. I can't do that."

"Chris," You stopped massaging his shoulders to turn his chair around, looking down at him, "I know you want it perfect. Write it down on a sticky note what you want and take a break. It's gonna be four soon and I'm not letting you spend another all nighter here."

Chan looked up at you curiously before deflating back in his chair. "I mean- are you sure? If I forget, it's gonna be noticeable, and-"

"I'll remind you. I'll put it in my phone and tell you exactly what you need to fix. Here, tell me what it is and I'll write it down. Got it?"

Chan paused for a moment before nodding, allowing you to open your phone before speaking. He gave you the exact timestamps of the song and the strange producer jargon that you couldn't quite make sense of. You wrote it down word-for-word just as he needed it.

"There, it's in here for you later," You recited it back to him and he gave a confirmatory nod, "You're all set for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I can't be done for the night, there's too much to work on and not enough time. I'm sorry, just another hour. Please?"

You shook your head and set your phone down on the table before sliding into his lap, straddling him in the chair. "You're not working another second on those songs tonight, Chris."

Chan looked up at you a little stunned before a sly smirk crossed his face. "Baby, you know that's not fair to me. I need to work and you're doing something dangerously distracting."

"What are you going to do, then?" You replied back, unable to hold back a grin, "You gonna remove me from your lap to do some boring work instead?"

You could see Chan chew on the inside of his cheek before sighing. "It's not boring, and I really should get back to it.."

"Then you're going to have to remove me yourself, because I'm not moving."

Chan let out a dramatic sigh before his hands moved up the outside of your thighs, resting right next to your hips. "You know damn well I'm not going to do that."

"And why's that, Channie?"

His hands moved over your thighs, giving a light squeeze. "God, you're driving me insane. Coming into the studio every night and making yourself useful at every opportunity.. I wanted so bad to stop just to make you feel good. You deserve that, instead of me working the whole day."

"Your opportunity has finally come, I'm all yours if you want me right now."

Chan chuckled, "You could ask me that a thousand times and I could never say no."

You leaned in to his ear and whispered, "Then make your move."

There was a moment of silence before Chan pulled you in for a kiss, messy and rushed. His hands were all over your thighs, waist, back. He couldn't pick a spot and stick to it, deciding instead everywhere needed to be felt over.

You tried to keep things centered, your arms wrapped around the back of his neck. One of your hands played with the curls growing on the back of his head, enjoying the soft feeling through your fingers. It was the only thing keeping you sane.

His hands finally found a place to reside when he hooked them on the hem of your pants, giving light tugs as you felt him squirming under you. Pulling away from the kiss with a grin, you looked down at Chan and his flushed appearance. "So eager.."

"Can you blame me? Now stand up and help me get those off," Chan demanded with a rushed voice, helping get you to your feet as he followed in your footsteps. His usually deft hands were fumbling as he desperately pulled your pants off of you and discarded them to the floor.

Watching him undo his own sweatpants like a madman had you giggling at the sight. "You go one week without any action, and this is how desperate you get?"

"I'm a starved man, honey," Chan's face was red and already had sweat on his brow, "I can't wait any longer, not after all that teasing."

"Teasing? What-"

"Get on the damn couch."

That much was enough to have you laying down on the couch without hesitating. His sweatpants joined yours on the floor, showing off the black boxers he was sporting underneath. A quick glance showed he was pitching an obvious tent.

Although as quick as you were, Chan caught you looking. He raised his brows and laughed, "And I'm the eager one here?"

"You are the eager one here, hardly put your hands on me and you're giving those boxers a run for their money," You responded with your own laugh.

"You little.." Chan shook his head and leaned over you, putting his weight on one forearm on the couch as he kissed you once more. Instead of the fast and desperate pace he had set before, Chan was far slower and delicate. It was almost infuriatingly slow.

You couldn't show how much you wanted him to go faster, that would only prove his point. Instead, he was slowly breaking you down by the second, one arm stabilizing himself and the other hand on your neck, softly stroking your jaw with his thumb.

The waiting game paid off when Chan suddenly took your bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a small tug before he pulled away. "I can't keep this up. You win. Damn you, I'm eager."

There wasn't time for any words to respond before Chan was back where he was before, sloppy and fast. He kissed down your neck, excessive in his biting and sucking at the sensitive skin. Not expecting it, a sound broke its way out of you.

You did your best not to give in to the rest of his harsh and aggressive kisses down your neck. After a week of downtime, he was making up for it in marking your neck as his own. Nobody was going to know who the perpetrator of the hickeys were later (other than the upset staff), but it was the idea that mattered.

There were bigger problems actively stealing your attention. Namely, the small amount of friction made with him moving ever-so-slightly between your legs. It was easy to ignore at first, but the neck kisses were causing the pleasure parts of your brain to kick into high gear.

With one harsher movement than the rest, you were unable to bite back a small, unfiltered sound that escaped you. Chan broke contact with your red and bruising skin to look up with a grin on his face.

"What was that, love?" Chan's tone was starkly different than before, far more teasing and with a dark edge to his voice that you only recognized coming out in bed.

Attempts to take his attention off of it failed and you were forced to fess up in the moment. "You have to stop moving like that, it's driving me crazy."

"Moving like what?" Chan shifted his legs, slotting his thigh directly between yours and pressing firmly against you. This elicited a frustrated sigh, the feeling too strong to push away.

Upon no immediate response, Chan pushed his thigh forward and forced a fuller, more in-tact moan out of you. "Fine, fine- that. Putting your thigh between my legs. That's the thing that's driving me crazy."

"There you go," Chan's words were sickly doting in a way that made you break at the seams, "What do you want instead?"

With his thigh slotted firmly between your own, finding coherent strings of words was difficult. "Just.. get this underwear off me and use your fingers instead."

Chan smiled, clearly pleased with your answer. He moved his leg out from between yours, relieving the pressure and allowing you to breathe. He sat back on his legs as he removed the last layer of clothing from below your waist, tossing it to the growing pile on the floor.

He nudged himself closer, Chan's hand finding its way to where his thigh was once situated before. His middle finger teased you with a circular motion around your entrance, so close to where you needed it most.

"Chan." You demanded, shooting him a glare.

"Okay, okay. Just admiring how worked up I've got you," Chan smirked before his finger pushed inside, slowly filling you up and drawing out a long sigh. He worked slowly yet decisively, knowing exactly how you like it.

That was one of the things you loved about Chan: he knew your body like the back of his hand. Where you were most sensitive, what drove you wild, how rough you liked him to get. He could push your buttons perfectly, string you up in his words until you were tied up into a nice present for him.

Before you could process the first, Chan had already added a second finger and was growing more confident. He worked his fingers in and out in a steady rhythm, not slow enough to leave you wanting more nor fast enough to want to slow down.

"That good, baby?" Chan's eyes met yours, and you saw a different side of him for a moment. The way he sought your approval and made sure everything was right had your heart melting. He had confidence in his abilities, but occasionally needed reassurance.

You nodded eagerly, on the cusp of desperation. "It's good, Channie, you're doing so good," You said between soft moans as his fingers pumped deep, feeling him tease a third and giving him a nod.

The third was always a stretch that had you biting back whines in conjunction to moans, but the feeling was too good to beat. The feeling of being full, on his fingers or otherwise, was what drove you wild.

He kissed you once more, slow and tender as his fingers continued to work. It was hard to keep properly connected, devolving into moaning against his lips with small kisses in between.

"Chris," You said, "Can't wait any longer. Need to have you inside, baby."

Instead of his usual entourage of teasing questions, Chan nodded. He made quick work of his boxers, tossing them haphazardly towards the pile as he moved back to you. He was painfully hard, already leaky and worked up.

"Can I?" He looked down for your reassurance, which came with a nod as he lined himself up. His hips moved forward slowly, feeling him filling you up more by the second. It always took a second to adjust to the size, catching your breath as he bottomed out and waited for your signal.

When you gave him the go-ahead, Chan couldn't help but begin a slow and steady pace. He knew better than to go fast right off the bat- he was a lot to handle. But you could hear him whining softly over top of you and knew he was desperate.

Looking up at him, you cupped his face and pulled him in for a quick kiss. "You can go faster, Chris. You won't hurt me."

You heard Chan let out a breathy laugh before his thrusts grew harsher. Instead of the slow, fluid motion of before; he was faster, precise. Every movement had purpose, each angled just right and hitting the sweet spot.

The sudden adjustment had you whining and letting out louder moans, unable to properly cope. It was overwhelming how good he was at it. All you could do was wrap your hands around the back of his shirt and claw at it helplessly as he had his way.

The fabric getting in the way of your fingers on his skin was beginning to frustrate you. "Off," You managed to get out, "Shirt- off."

Chan grinned, sitting up for a moment and slowing down to a snail's pace to pull his black t-shirt over his head and discard it. You reached up, dragging a hand down his chest and over his abs. Every muscle was yours to touch, to claim.

"You like what you see?" Chan said with a laugh.

Deadpanning, you shook your head. "Shut up."

In a second, he was back over top of you and his pace was back with a new force he didn't have before. It was often he was without clothes, but you weren't under the impression a shirt would be the thing holding him back. Either way, you relished in the fact his back was open to you.

Your nails dug in to his tanned skin, dragging along as he fucked into you steadily. You could hear him sucking air in between his teeth followed by his soft moans. He was always one to endure a little pain.

An idea popped into your head when you thought of before, sitting in the chair in his lap. "Chris, stop for a sec." He immediately halted all movements, looking down at you to make sure everything was alright. "Sit normally, facing the booth."

Chan looked at you perplexed for a moment, but pulled away. He did exactly as you told him to, sitting with his legs spread facing the booth he was just sitting in front of not twenty minutes ago. "What are you planning?" He asked.

You sat up and climbed over to him, straddling his waist with your legs and feeling him hard underneath you. "What I wanted to do to you when I was in your lap earlier."

The realization slowly filled his eyes and a knowing smile returned to his face as he sat back, leaning against the black couch cushion behind him. "Go right ahead."

"If you make me do all the work, we're going to have problems," You glared at him as your hand guided his cock, slowly sinking down on it with a sigh.

Chan's large hands wrapped around your waist, slowly guiding you as you moved up and down. Riding wasn't always the easiest job, and it definitely took some getting used to at the start. Your thighs were slowly building up muscle from the practice.

"God, you're so pretty like that," Chan's voice pulled you from your thoughts, looking down at him to see him smiling up at you. His face was pink and he almost had stars in his eyes.

Seeing just how infatuated he was made your heart race and your face flush, almost forgetting to continue to move. "You're pretty, too."

Your hands were situated on his shoulders to keep steady, but one dragged down and you couldn't resist feeling up his chest a bit. Chan looked up at you smirking again. "Do you ever keep your hands off those?"

Snickering, you pushed down a little harder to see him whine and catch his breath before you responded, "If you're going to keep your clothes off all the time, I'm going to feel up the assets you work so hard on."

"Why do you insist on teasing me all the time? You know what happens when you do that," Chan had a dark look in his eyes that you knew far too well.

Shrugging, you moved your hand up to run through his hair. "Did you ever consider I might like what happens when I tease you?"

"So be it."

Without hesitation, you felt Chan's grip around your waist suddenly tighten. You leaned forward instinctively, both of your hands secured around his shoulders.

He began to thrust up into erratically, fast and without caution or precision. The sound of your skin connecting was obscene, thanking the amount of soundproofing around you as a chorus of moans spilled out of you. Every movement had him deep inside you as you attempted to roll your hips along with him.

"Fuck, Chris," You whined, his pace unrelenting and seeming like he wasn't going to let up any time soon, "Close."

There was a distinctive feeling growing, one you knew too well. The amount of pleasure from every movement was rapidly growing as your body was being overwhelmed. Chan heard you, but didn't stop for a moment. It was almost if it was a sign for him to fuck you faster.

Either way, you were tipping over the edge before you had time to process it, spasming around him as you let you a whorish moan. He slowed down, letting you ride out the high. "That's it, baby," He coaxed, "You got it."

Just as you settled down, you felt him start to work himself into a moderate pace again. Your legs felt shot from your energy levels dipping so you asked, "Do you want to me to move, baby? I don't think I have much in me to keep going right here."

"If it's not comfortable to be right there, of course we can move," Chan said with a smile as he allowed you to reposition to pretty much the same spot you were in before. You laid on your back, Chan coming back over top of you. "That better?"

"Much better," You said with a nod as he went back to the pace he had set before. It wasn't as rough as before your orgasm, but steady enough to keep you whining and your brain somewhat fogged up from the constant pleasure.

Meanwhile, you could see Chan was already getting worked up. His face was redder than usual, his eyes trained on one spot, breathing hard as he kept the effort going to thrust his hips in one continuous pace.

His deep groans and whines had begun to turn into full-fledged moans and swears under his breath. His hands eagerly gripped and kneaded at your waist, seeming like he might accidentally bruise the skin. You were about to open your mouth when he said something.

"Honey, I-" Chan was cut off by his own faltered moan, "I'm close, so fucking close."

You pulled him down to kiss him briefly, keeping his face inches from yours as he continued to erratically thrust. "You don't have to wait, cum for me."

Chan nodded vigorously, his hips snapping back and forth at a speed that had you holding onto the couch for dear life, hearing him let out strained moans and teary-eyed cries as he climbed closer and closer to the top.

All of the sudden, he pushed deep inside you, letting out a gasp and a whine as you felt him come deep inside. His hips stuttered as he slowly rocked them, riding out the high. "Oh my god, that.. that was amazing."

Allowing him a moment to catch his breath, you smiled up at him and gave him another quick kiss. "I've missed you, Chris. I've missed this," You admitted after another silent pause.

Chan nodded, pressing his forehead against yours and sighed. He had finally mellowed out, still buried deep. "I've missed you, too. I'm sorry I haven't been able to do this with you and.. be a good boyfriend."

"No, you're okay. I know how much work matters to you and getting things right means that you see that success you've always wanted. I just always miss you in the times you're working, even if I'm in the same room as you."

"I just feel bad when you're here til way too late at night. Speaking of, what time is it?" Chan slowly pulled out, leaving his mess inside you as he quickly grabbed his phone from the floor, "Oh my god. It's half past four."

Your jaw dropped, standing up quickly as Chan hurried around the room to find something to help you clean up. He settled for his own black t-shirt, telling you he'd just go home shirtless if he had to. Of course it looked terribly stained when you had wiped yourself down, sighing while knowing it probably cost a crazy amount.

Digging through a closet, you found one of Chan's old jacket. Chan was standing shirtless and pacing with the rest of his own clothes on, the defiled shirt balled up in his hand.

"Channie, guess what I found?" You asked with a grin, hiding the jacket behind your back.

Chan looked at you with a nervous smile. "Is it something good? I'm just not super stoked to walk home shirtless at four in the morning.."

You tossed the jacket to him, Chan opting to drop the shirt in his hand before he caught it to not get the filth on it. He happily slid it over his shoulders and zipped it up all the way, picking up the soiled shirt once more.

"Shall we go?" Chan said as he double-checked his pockets and walked towards the studio door.

"We shall."

---

aloneness | by design chapter one

pairing: chan x reader ; hyunjin x reader | wc: 16.2k | genre: adult romance, angst | warnings: childhood best friends to lovers ; heavy angst ; death and grieving ; complicated feelings ; failed relationships ; explicit sexual content. the chapter contains heavy themes that could be upsetting to some. if you're concerned it might be an issue for you, please read the unabridged list of warnings, which also contains nsfw warnings. reader discretion is advised. this work is for adult audiences since it contains mature themes and explicit sexual content.

It had been such a long while, it seemed, since Chris had truly loved you. And you loved him in a desperate way, like trying to hold onto a knife not by its handle, but by its blade.

To be intimate with love, the true kind, also means being intimate with loss.

You grew up in a small enough town that most faces you saw, every day, were familiar ones. The employees at the grocery store saw you become a teenager and later, an adult. You were greeted by your first name if you stepped into the post office. You had become acquainted with specific trees, the twists of certain roads, or the lines of the mountains on the horizon. By no means did that make your life dull, not by your standards anyway. The town’s name is Stormhaven—named so by its founders because of the violent storm that raged the first night they established camp on this land. As grand and frightening as the storm was, it was equally beautiful. Something about the geolocation of the city or perhaps the fact that it’s located where the river melts into the sea makes it prone to storms, and they are, indeed, reputed to be gorgeous.

You did leave momentarily though,  to pursue some major you had no great interest in, but it felt right to try and do something. You were the first of your family to go to college. You thought, foolishly perhaps, that you could teach English—you had always been one to read books and enjoy the intricacies of the language in them. To you, words were no different than pigment, sentences were the oil that made the paint, and books were the finished product, the saturated canvas. Now, here’s the thing—you liked English and you liked art, too, thanks to a book you found at the age of 9 on your uncle’s bookshelf. It was your first introduction to the Italian masters and their masterpieces, and you were a little too young to fully comprehend it, but that did not stop you from appreciating it. 

You were the first of your family to go to college. Your parents owned a small general store on the north side of the city, where there’s more forest than city. It’s perfectly situated though—directly on the one road that leads to the good fishing spots. 

The river is at its narrowest there, narrow enough that if one spoke out loud, they could be heard on the other side when people stood on the shore. There was another camping ground there, and cabins, and if the river was gentle enough, it wasn’t uncommon for people to go across it to make new acquaintances. 

You grew up there, in this place loved by locals and tourists alike. Your family was friends with the family that owned the camping ground down the hill, and it helped make business good for everybody involved. 

It also made your summers a lot less boring—you were an only child, with aloneness often forced on you. And it could have been awful if the owners of the camping ground didn’t have a son who happened to be the same age as you.

Chris was always ‘the good guy’, which, at times, rendered being his friend difficult. Because you had to live up to the standard. You had to deserve it somehow. Chris himself never made you feel this way, of course not, it was only fueled by your own compulsion to compare yourself to him at all times. Chris was a good kid, smart, funny, and nice, and he looked good. It made him very popular with the girls on the camping ground. You weren’t particularly popular with the boys. Or with the girls.

Aloneness forced on you. Defining you, almost. 

Except Chris made sure you were never left out. He always introduced you as his best friend and brought you along even though his fangirls clearly didn’t appreciate you being around. Either Chris was oblivious to it or he just didn’t care—in any case, you spent all of your summers with him, from sunrise to sunset and sometimes after. Chris attended the private school in the next town over, so you didn’t see him a whole lot during the year. Still, your family visited his once in a while for dinner, and you and Chris would hang out in the basement to watch movies and eat potato chips. Life had been easy, once.

It would be a lie to say that everything went smoothly all the time with him. When both of you reached an age where hormones are raging, things got a little complicated. Chris got in a fight—a physical fight—with his best friend during a party. It was just before tourist season. Your parents had gone for a couple weeks for a long overdue vacation—they trusted you and Mrs. Bahng with the store, knowing you could handle it, especially since it wasn’t very busy yet. Of course, you threw a party—a low-key one, just a few people. Some guys from Chris’ school also came along. 

By then, Chris was a handsome young man, charming without trying to be, with a dorkish laugh and a good heart. If somebody had asked you if you had a crush on him then, you would have said no, but you would have been lying to them and to yourself. 

The party quickly took a turn when some of Chris’ friends pulled out the liquor they’d brought. It made you nervous. This was your house after all, and if something happened, your parents would never trust you again. You tasted vodka for the first time that night. First in a red plastic cup, mixed with some cheap lemonade, and after that, on the lips of Chris’ friend when he pulled you to a quiet corner to make out with you. His name was Liam. You saw him once in a while when he spent the night at Chris’ place or something. He wasn’t as popular with girls as Chris was and you suspected he was jealous of him, but then, who wouldn’t be? 

However, Liam turned out to be a little too insistent, touching you in places, and whispering things to your ear. You made up some excuse and fled to your backyard where most people had come to enjoy a small bonfire. You sat with them but your mind was elsewhere, wondering if you ought to let Liam do to you whatever it was he wanted. After all, you weren’t popular, and nobody wanted to date you. Liam was the first guy who kissed you for more than three seconds and who touched you. There might not be one after, so perhaps you shouldn’t pass on that opportunity. 

He did join you by the fire. Liam. He sat not next to you but behind you, his legs locking you in his embrace. It wasn’t even the worst PDA taking place in the group as one of your friends was heavily making out with one of the boys while the others talked. You participated in the conversation, not unaware of the glances Chris shot you a little too often. Maybe, after all, it wouldn’t be a good idea to have sex with his friend. Maybe that made him upset, and you could understand that—he had never pursued any of your friends and had always made it very clear he wasn’t interested in them. You figured he expected the same of you.

But Liam kissed the back of your neck. And then he touched you again and again—your waist, your back, your thighs. He held you in his arms and it birthed a distracting tingling sensation between your legs that you couldn’t blame on the vodka. “Come with me upstairs,” he said into your ear. And you did. You went. 

He kissed you even more in your bedroom, his hands underneath your shirt, his mouth sloppy and wet, too wet. It all happened very fast—you were on your bed and then he was on top of you and he was very hard. It happened so fast, too fast for you to fully process it. It only lasted a few seconds—two thrusts, no more. In between the first and the second, it occurred to you that you hadn't used a condom. And then Liam whimpered pathetically and it was over.

It made you want to throw up, or maybe it was the vodka. Or, maybe, it was just the smell of him—sweat and cheap cigarettes and his musk, which was rather unpleasant in your nose. 

You slid from underneath him, visibly dazed, and it made him upset. Years later, you realized he was mostly upset at himself and ashamed of his premature... conclusion. Still, it was at you he lashed out, maybe for not looking like you had just gotten the dick of the century.

“Don’t be like that,” he told you, shoving his small, softening cock back into his pants.

His sour tone, paired with the soreness between your legs, brought tears to your eyes. It made him more upset even. "What's EVEN the problem anyway?" He raised his voice at you, and whenever someone did that, it always made you cry.

Unfortunately for him, Chris had made his way upstairs, suspecting something wasn’t quite right. He tried to open the door but it was locked. “Let me in.” His voice was unrecognizable, to the point that it frightened you almost. You still felt weird between your legs, sore and empty and full all at once. And above all, unclean. Dirty. You wanted nothing more than showering and washing Liam off you.

“Fucking let me in.”

Liam was very drunk. Instead of post-nut clarity, he had been hit by a strong dose of dopamine that rendered him even less coherent than he had been before. “What is it, Bang? You upset I jumped your virgin friend before you could?”

It occurred to you at that moment that you had never seen Chris angry before, except for fun like when he was playing video games. But something in his voice let you know that the situation was very serious. 

And then he smashed the door open using his shoulder. What happened next would always remain a bit blurry in your memory, but it never left either. Chris grabbed Liam by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. And then they fought. It was nasty. Liam was taller and bigger than Chris, but he was also drunker—Chris, on the other hand, was quick and properly pissed off. Before you knew it, Liam was pinned to the ground under Chris’ weight, being punched repeatedly in the face. Years later, you would admit this to Christopher—that it felt good to see his fist sink into Liam’s face, to see his lip split open, to hear his whining. Still, you knew it was wrong. Something within you, that night, knew that Chris could seriously injure Liam if he didn’t stop, so you stopped him. 

You stopped Chris, too, when he threatened to reprise his attack as Liam was stirring up. You just wanted everyone gone so he made them leave. You heard more shouting from outside but paid it no mind and just went into the bathroom and turned the shower on.

You stood underneath the water, keeping it as hot as you could, scalding your skin, rubbing soap all over yourself as hard as you could using various tools—a washcloth didn’t really cut it, and neither did your loofah or even your nails. In the end, it was your exfoliating cloth that you used to cleanse your body, emptying your bottle of shower gel, steaming up the entire bathroom. But you washed and washed and washed and rinsed and rinsed and rinsed. You did so until you could no longer feel Liam between your legs, only your skin made sensitive from all the scrubbing. 

Chris was waiting for you, sitting on the floor in the hallway. You had wrapped a towel around your body but it was dark and you didn’t care. You could walk naked outside for all you cared. 

That night, Chris took your face in his bloody, shaking hands and asked you if you were okay. You felt strangely okay, like you should have been sobbing or afraid but you were neither of these things. He, on the other hand, didn’t look too good with bruises and cuts on his face and even more on his knuckles. “Your mom will kill you,” you pointed out. The Bahngs preached pacifism. They were some of the nicest people you had ever met.

That night, you put on some comfortable clothes and made Chris sit in the bathroom while you cleaned his wounds. He insisted he could do it and you knew he could but you wanted to. You needed to do something, something useful if at all possible, and he let you, apologizing the whole time for letting Liam come here, and for being his friend in the first place. “He wasn’t like that before,” he assured you.

People change. You didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say.

That night, Chris tucked you in bed but you asked him to stay, so he stayed, holding you in his arms. 

You spent that summer working both at the general store and at the campground. You worked a lot and when it raised suspicions in your parents, you simply said you were saving up for college so they didn’t question it. Chris knew, however, that you just needed to keep your mind, and body, busy. So, when there was no work for you to do, he took you on hikes. Hours-long hikes where neither of you really spoke. You just walked side by side. The more summer advanced, the farther you went. 

You started talking again at one point, for no reason at all. It just happened. Chris told you about his upcoming school year and how he still wasn’t exactly sure what he should be doing with his life. That he felt bad he wanted to leave Stormhaven, that he knew his father expected him to take over the business. You felt the same way. You were scared of the future because you didn’t know what you were supposed to do with your life. When you mentioned it, Chris assured you he thought you’d be a great teacher. You returned the compliment, telling him he would be at home in business school, and that it didn’t mean he had to take over the camping ground. He could do something else. 

It’d be great if we went to the same college, he said, and you agreed. It would, indeed, be great. By now, Chris had become something to you that couldn’t quite be defined by words—a best friend? Yes, perhaps. But it was more than that. He took care of you in a way that was so beautiful and so deep, you knew you could never repay him, that you would always be in his debt.

You loved him. And maybe you knew he loved you, too. 

You worked a lot that summer, even picking up shifts at a gardening center in town, owned by one of your friends’ dad. You didn’t think your absolute need to remain busy had anything to do with Liam. You were over it in the sense that few girls get to experience a wonderful and romantic ‘first time’ and that it hadn’t lasted very long anyway. You were over it, too, because Chris was there for you. 

You were over it because both you and Liam were drunk and stupid and young. 

It wasn’t what troubled you really. The problem was that it felt good to be desired for once. You had wanted Liam to touch you, and you had been flattered to feel him through his pants when you sat between his legs. It had even aroused you. The problem was that you didn’t really want to fuck Liam but you let him do it even though you knew deep down that it was a stupid thing to do. Because it was still better than being unwanted, than having aloneness forced on you.

And you felt disgusting for thinking that way. 

You worked so much it made you ill—one day, when you were helping Mr. Bahng and Chris clean up a few campsites, you had a dizzy spell so intense you momentarily passed out, waking up a few seconds later, laying on your back on the soft soil. It was particularly hot that day, especially considering the summer was ending and you were returning to school the week after. Mr. Bahng made you drink water while Chris cooled you down, pouring water into his hands and pressing them on your neck and face. When you regained some color, he was instructed by his dad to take you home—not on foot, of course, on the company’s ATV. It was almost like a walk of shame when Chris dropped you at your place. You kept telling him you were fine but it didn’t exactly feel like it. You just didn’t want him to go out of his way for you. 

Your mother was home and she already knew everything because Christopher’s dad called her. She made you go to bed, saying she would make you a good meal with broth. But you couldn’t stomach the sandwich she made. Or the broth. 

There was a storm that night, quite strong. Chris stayed with you even though you asked him not to. He said he liked you even though he saw you throw up, and tried to make jokes about it. He made you laugh that night, and it was your most heartfelt laugh in a while. You weren’t scared when the power went out because he was there. 

By then, you knew that you loved him in a special way. It made you feel a lot of things when he held you in his arms or when he kissed the top of your head. 

You kept a small battery-powered light in your bathroom, especially for nights like these. You reached for it in the drawer it had always been, and instead of the light, your fingers wrapped themselves around something else, something innocuous, an everyday item. An unopened box of tampons. 

Your whole world collapsed around you, except it was you who fell to your knees, suddenly completely unable to carry your own weight. Your heart ran marathons in your chest and you froze. It was how Chris found you. He looked at you, then at the tampons, and at you again. 

Then he was on his knees too, wrapping his arms around you. The storm outside matched the one in your heart. You had never been as scared as this in your whole life. You didn’t even cry—you just sat in bed, all night, watching the lightning over the river, staring at the stormy sky, thinking, thinking, thinking. You went through every possible scenario you could think of, and in none of them did it make sense to remain pregnant. 

Chris, once again, was there the whole time, not leaving your side that night and taking responsibility for you the next morning. With his brand new driver’s license—not his learner’s—he took his dad’s car and drove both of you two towns away so you could purchase a pregnancy test. He was the one to go into a store and buy three of three different brands. “To make sure,” he told you. You did the first test and it came out positive. 

The second also. You didn’t need to do the third, so you discarded it. You did cry then, in the not-so-clean bathroom stall of a mall you weren’t familiar with. Just a few tears. What went through your mind was this—that just because you had been greedy, just because you wanted to feel desired for one night, you were going to destroy something beautiful.  

Chris was there for you. He held your hands while you made appointments. He drove you two hours away from home just to make sure nobody would know where you went, telling his parents he was taking you to some event you had never heard of. A two-day event, so it would require the trip to be an overnight one. They bought it. They didn’t even care that you would share a hotel room. Your parents trusted Chris. On the first day, you had a lot of tests done. On the morning of the second day, they proceeded to the abortion. It took about five minutes, then it was over. You stared at the ceiling as the doctor was ridding your body of the consequence of your impure greed. During those five minutes, you reflected on how selfish you were. 

Chris stayed with you while you rested at the clinic. You shared some juice with him. Sometimes the cramps hurt you so bad you couldn’t talk, but it only lasted a few seconds. He held your hand. When you were free to go, he drove you two back to the hotel and you took a nap after having a small dose of the painkillers they gave you. It was over but it had never truly begun, and it felt strange. You felt empty. While you were sleeping, Chris went to the nearest drug store and bought just about every type of maxi pad he found. You bled a lot, and it hurt a lot, too.

Chris ordered pizza but you weren’t hungry. You made yourself eat a few bites and showered in very hot water. That night, he tucked you into bed but you asked him to stay, which meant you wanted him by your side and not on the other bed. He looked at you like he was hoping you would say that.

Christopher kissed you on the lips. Just a kiss, lips on lips, almost chaste, and you knew then that you would marry him someday. He kissed you again on your forehead and you buried your face into his neck. 

“I never thought I wanted children before,” you admitted to him. “What if it was wrong to get the abortion?”

“There’s still time,” he promised you. There was a long silence after that, but he added, “You made the right decision for your future. We’ll have a baby someday, okay? You and I.”

You believed him. And you were happy that year, when you realized, finally, that you had let Liam do this to you because you wanted Chris to do it, and you did not think he could ever feel the same way. 

You weren’t accepted into the very renowned university Chris was going to, but your college was just an hour-long drive away so it wasn’t too bad. You saw each other as often as you could during the first semester, but things got complicated as time went on. He was more and more busy and you were less and less enthusiastic about your studies. It turned out, English and teaching English were two very different worlds, and you did not belong in the latter. You couldn’t believe you were being tested on some supposed ‘ways’ to teach certain things to students. There was no such thing for you—every person is different, so how could one even explain another’s learning process? 

You dropped out on your second semester, leaving in the middle of a particularly boring and arduous English Grammar class, heading directly to the parking lot where you had left your car. You drove all the way to Chris’ apartment, which he shared with two other students. He wasn’t home, but one of his roommates, Changbin, informed you he should be back soon and let you in. 

Chris was there for you. It made you feel inadequate. You were always somehow in need of him or of something, but him most often. You were constantly in his debt.

He soothed your tears and promised you that your parents wouldn’t hate you if you dropped out, but he suggested thinking about another major. “There’s still time,” he said. He often said that.

You got a job at a coffee shop and worked there the rest of the year while weighing your options. You visited a lot of places—parks, various attractions, art museums. The museums were your favorites—there was no museum in Stormhaven, obviously, so to have several options to choose from now was quite the upgrade. You spent countless hours wandering in galleries, observing, learning, feeding your soul, after which you went to the library and gathered some books related to whatever you had just seen. Chris joined you sometimes, but it was really just to be with you and you knew it. He didn’t hate art, it just wasn’t for him. It didn't reach his soul like it did yours. You went to concerts with him too, which he liked a lot more. 

He suggested you try applying into art history for next year, and of course you would love that. Only, you were the first of your family to go to college, and you knew that your very practical parents, aunts and uncles would find an art history major rather pointless. An absolute waste of time. Chris insisted though—he went as far as mentioning it during winter break when both of your families sat to share a generous Christmas dinner. As expected, the response was underwhelming.

But what are you gonna do after? There can’t be enough jobs. 

Can’t you read and learn all that stuff in books or on the internet? What’s the point?

Are you sure? Or are you going to drop out again because it turned out it wasn’t for you?

You couldn’t hold it against them. Your family. They weren’t even wrong. 

You took more shifts at the coffee shop, and in the summer you returned home to work at your parents’ general shop. Chris came to spend some time home too, and it was good to be back there together. He was doing great in business school and you were going nowhere though, so as days passed, your mood darkened. He didn’t let you close yourself off, making you tell him the things that were on your mind just to prove you wrong.

“What do you mean, not enough? I loved you before you went to university, so I’ll love you regardless. So don’t say that. I forbid you.”

You stopped saying it, you just didn’t stop thinking it.

The year after, you moved in with Chris and his two roommates. The plan was to find a place for you two but to be together in the meantime. You didn’t mind, really—Jisung and Changbin were good guys, and Jisung told you about a job opening at the bookstore he worked at. You liked this job a lot. You visited all the museums in this new city, too. 

For your birthday, Ji and Changbin even got you an art book. It was a long essay on one painting in particular, an oil painting titled Loss. The painting depicts a lone woman sitting on a wooden chair in a neutral-colored room, almost reminiscent of a Vermeer, but with bolder colors. The room appears empty except for the corner of a bed on the right, and a window on the wall near which the woman sits. She is looking at the ground, but others say she is looking at her hands which are intertwined, holding nothing. The true direction of her gaze is disputed, but her expression is intricate, complex, unreadable. Depending on the viewer’s mood, she sometimes looks simply pensive. Most of the time she appears deeply sorrowful, almost desperate. To some, she shows no emotion. Thing is—art historians cannot agree. Everyone is right. Everyone is wrong.

The true magic of the painting resides in the sunset filtering through the window—it illuminates the room intricately, the shadows created by it adding to the mystery around the woman's expression. The light is accurate in a way that makes it look so real, yet more beautiful than reality. Its painter produced less than fifteen paintings and is yet considered a pioneer solely based on Loss. 

One of the most fascinating things about Loss is that it is… lost. It was stolen in the 90s while it was transported to a museum in New York, where it was meant to be temporarily exposed for a special exhibition. Nobody knows who did it or where it went, or if it still exists even. 

The book mentioned this and so much more, like how the descendants of the painter had been the primary suspects in the case, based on the fact that they had requested a few times that the painting be given back to them. There had been lawful contracts signed though, yielding it to an art society, binding Loss to museum collections for yet another hundred years at least. Since it was an ongoing case, however, details couldn’t be made public. 

You had never seen it in person—and you never would, obviously—but Loss had become your favorite painting. You didn’t need to describe with words the emotions inhabiting her, the woman on it, you just knew you shared them. What you didn’t know, however, was that you would share them even more someday.

Seeing how interested in it you were, Chris took you on a trip for your two-year anniversary—a museum in Seoul was in possession of three paintings by the same artist and one in Japan had two. You visited both locations and he stayed with you as you stood before the canvases, all of them saturated with light. One of them was a lake, as still as a mirror, on which the sunrise reflected so beautifully you shed a few tears. 

At the very end of the trip, Chris took you on an evening walk around a vast park. That’s when he got on one knee and asked you to marry him. He did it in a way that was so proper, so cliché, that it made you laugh and cry at once. You said yes, of course you said yes. It made sense, didn’t it? Growing up together, growing closer. Falling in love and not even feeling it, just waking up one morning and realizing it’s always been there.

You and Chris made love all night in your hotel room, your bodies close and warm and beautiful. He fucked you hard, desperately, confessing how he had been in love with you since childhood. You had long conversations between rounds as you recovered. “Do you ever regret hurting Liam like that?” you asked him, your head resting on his stomach. Many years had gone by since the event, yet neither of you had forgotten it. 

Chris pulled you up so he could look into your eyes. “No,” he said. “I only regret not going after you earlier. I guess I was hurt that you wanted to be with him and not with me. In retrospect, it was stupid. I should have confessed my feelings as soon as I became aware of them. I should have followed you upstairs.”

You kissed him then, deeply, slowly, your heart feeling like it might burst. You found something rather poetic about all of it, and also fair. It was your hidden love that had pushed you in Liam’s arms, and Chris’ repressed feelings also had played their part. You wanted to forget that night and yet you could not, as though something deeply important had happened, important enough that it was still on your mind tonight, merely a few hours after your boyfriend proposed to you, as you climbed onto him to straddle him, never breaking the kiss, his cock growing hard under you, for you. 

It was as though that night had sealed something, putting both Chris and you on a path, and neither of you knew what the destination was. You didn’t mind going in blindly, not if he was by your side. He had always been by your side anyway, and you couldn’t imagine your life without him.

It felt easy. 

Too easy. 

The wedding took place the summer after Chris graduated. Half of the campground had been reserved for it. Friends and family alike came together to celebrate this union that apparently more than half the town had seen coming anyway. It was a beautiful wedding, underneath a blue sky and then the stars. The air smelled like the freshly grown leafage and the soft breeze carried the scent of the ocean, too. You danced and laughed all night, catching up with former high school friends, people you hadn’t seen in so long, introducing them to your and Chris’ new friends. Jisung’s speech was particularly popular—both very funny and moving, it was clear he had spent a lot of time writing it.

Some time between very late and early morning, you made your way with Chris to the small but cozy cabin you had rented for the occasion. Both of you sat in silence at the kitchen table in your wedding attire to drink some water and eat a few snacks. Chris glanced at you with a knowing smile, reaching for your hand over the table. You smiled at him, too. 

You showered together after slowly undressing each other, and you knew that you would never forget your wedding night. You sucked his cock in the shower and he gently played with your clit, kissing and nibbling at your neck, calling you sweet things. You started fucking on the bathroom counter then moved onto the bed where Chris ate your pussy until you came, and then he fucked you. And when he came, you kept fucking him until he got hard again. You would never forget this and you knew it. That night, you felt loved and desired. You knew it was much like a drug—those were feelings one gets easily addicted to. But you didn’t care. You felt more beautiful, more important then than you ever had. 

When both of you collapsed, spent, satiated, panting, Chris held you in his arms as he so often did, and yet you never grew tired of it. He kissed the top of your head. “Let’s stay here,” he told you.

“Good news then, we rented it for a week, you pointed out with a chuckle.

“No, I mean Stormhaven.” He shook his head. “We don’t have to if you’d rather go back to the city, but it feels at home here, with you.”

You felt the same. So you stayed.

You bought a house in the northern part of town, in the same neighborhood you two had been raised in. As the procedures took place, Chris and you also pondered over the careers you may or may not want. The city’s hardware store was for sale—you could take up a bigger loan and make it yours, you and him. Then Chris’ parents mentioned they were thinking about retiring, and now that their son was back in town, they would be more at peace to do so. 

So, instead, they gave the campground to both of you. That year, your parents decided to sell you the general store too, and for a very low price. They even sold their house and bought an RV with the objective of being on the road and seeing as many things as they could. 

Those years were good ones. Even though you feared things would slow down with Chris, they didn’t. Business was good, life was even better. One night, as you two were getting into bed, Chris watched you as you opened a new box of birth control pills. He took it out of your hands, looked at you, and asked, “Do you still want to have a baby with me someday?”

You thought about it for a few seconds. You had discussed this prior to the wedding, of course. The conclusion had been that you weren’t sure you could be a good mother, so you couldn’t be sure you wanted to be one. Chris understood, but couldn’t see how you would be a bad parent. He wanted kids, and this was something you knew before even dating him. 

Here’s one of the ugliest truths in life—sometimes, you want something. Other times, you want to want something. The two are very different concepts except the human mind, when driven by the heart, is completely unable to distinguish them. It is an excessively shameful thing to admit to it.

You didn’t know at the time. What you wanted and what you didn’t want. It sounded nice, idyllic even, the idea of it—raising a child with Chris, your high school sweetheart, in this house that you made your home in, in the town that saw both of you grow up. It felt right, like life coming full circle, except grander than before.

You didn’t know at the time. You only knew that you loved Christopher more than anything, and that if you were going to have a baby with somebody, it would be him. 

You didn’t take your birth control that night. 

A poet might say that one can only see light if there is darkness. And he would be right, but you would also tell him to fuck right off.

Your mother died when you were six months pregnant. A hidden heart condition. She died in her sleep—your father found her in the morning when he woke up. It traumatized him. 

One day many months prior to that, you found out you couldn’t stomach onions anymore. In fact, the scent of them gave you nausea. It was then that you realized you hadn’t had a proper period in a while. When you mentioned it to Chris, he took your hand and guided you toward the car. “Do you want to buy the test here or in Blue Harbor, like the good old times?” His smile was playful, but a little nervous. Truth be told, if you were indeed pregnant, you didn’t want anyone to know yet, so you made your way to Blue Harbor’s mall, just like you had years ago.

The mall had changed a little but you found a drug store, and Chris insisted he would go get the tests. But you needed other items so you went in anyway. 

You saw Liam as you were shopping for shampoo. He was wearing the store’s uniform. It looked like he was a manager of some sort, by the way he was talking to the girl behind the cash register. You froze, your breath and heartbeat coming to a halt. For some reason, you remembered him with a bloody face. He looked very normal that day. A little thicker than he used to be, just like the rest of you. 

He saw you, too, and color drained from his face. He seemed stuck between wanting to go see you and running away. 

You waited for the pain to hit. You waited for tears, even—you had cried so much after the abortion that you assumed you were scarred for life. But you felt nothing, which almost frightened you. You ought to feel something, right?

You took one step toward the cash register, then another. It wasn’t to go speak to Liam. It was to be there when Chris would go and pay for his purchases. 

Liam saw Chris and actually recoiled. Chris stopped in his tracks, speechless, getting visibly pissed off. But you didn’t want him to be angry. You didn’t want a scene to take place. You wanted the memory of Liam to have as little weight as possible in your life.

You took a deep breath. “Let’s hurry,” you said to Chris. “I’m getting tired.” It wasn’t even true.

Chris blinked, staring at you for a few seconds before putting three pregnancy tests on the counter. You added some toothpaste and shampoo, pretending Liam wasn’t there while the other employee rang your items. 

You made sure to flash your wedding ring and took Chris’ hand in yours. It felt good to make sure Liam saw it. So he would know you carried no parts of him with you. So he would know he didn’t really matter, not in your life, and not in Chris’. 

You spoke very little on the way home. You kept your gaze on the horizon, processing everything. You knew the tests would come out positive. You could feel it within you, this life that was growing. It had a weight to it, light for now, but still very much there. You just knew it. 

You peed on a stick. Then another, and both were positive. You discarded the third test, and Chris cried with you. Before that day, you thought you knew what unconditional love was, but you had been wrong. This—this beautiful burden, this miracle inside you, that was as unconditional as anything could be. 

The shock of losing your mother was so great that it sent you to the hospital, and you were scared to lose your baby, too. Your little girl, who you loved so much already, who already meant the world to you. Chris and you hadn’t been able to find a good enough name yet but that wasn’t important. She was healthy, the doctors assured you of it—it was you who was in distress, and you needed to get a grip before it affected your unborn child. 

None of it was easy. The funeral, then the burial. Supporting your father through it was the worst, though.

But Chris was there for you. He always was. 

He was the perfect husband, the perfect friend, and he would be the perfect father. You could feel it in your bones. There was no way in hell you deserved him and yet he remained by your side. He moved his home office to the basement and painted the upstairs room in pretty shades of green, applying a leaf-patterned wallpaper on one of the walls, turning the room into the loveliest of nurseries. Jisung and Changbin came to help with it, and having them in the house helped you a lot. Your father was there too. The house was too full but sometimes it’s how things have to be. Or else, aloneness would be forced upon you. 

You woke up in the middle of one night with your whole lower body feeling like it was being split in two—it was then that you realized you were just about to give birth. You panicked and yet Chris remained calm. He grabbed the bag he had packed for you and he drove you to the hospital, talking you through the few contractions that overtook you, not blinking an eye at your nails digging into his skin as you held onto him. When it got a little worse, he realized that none of what he was saying helped, so he made you talk. 

He asked you about art. 

You hadn’t been in a museum in entirely too long, but you kept your books and the memories of all of it in your heart. Chris asked if you picked up an interest in a particular art movement these days. He asked you if you had discovered a piece of art that you especially liked recently. You told him that while you hadn’t discovered anything, you had read an interesting article about Artemisia Gentileschi’s most iconic work—Judith Slaying Holofernes. Explaining to Chris the analysis of the art historian you had read helped you get through the worst of the contractions so far.

It also led both of you to agree that your baby’s name would be Judith. 

As you got into Blue Harbor, it felt, a little, like a fire was catching inside you and like it was trying to exit between your legs. 

You begged Chris to drive faster, but it was winter and he didn’t want to risk anything on the slippery road. 

So he asked you to talk to him about your favorite painting. 

Loss. 

Few things were known about this painting. It had been painted in Italy by a man who came from Asia to study Venetian art, but also visited France, the Netherlands, England, and more. He brought with him his wife—the woman in the painting, or so the stories said. They had a son, and soon after, a daughter. 

The daughter became ill, and she died. 

Maybe it was fate, or something much darker, but it was as you remembered the woman’s sorrowful gaze that you realized something was wrong. Chris assured you it was just the contractions but you knew it wasn’t. You could feel it in your bones.

You could feel it creep in, approaching, lurking—aloneness. 

They proceeded to an emergency C-section but it wasn’t enough to save Judith. She had been dead inside you already, they said. They said it wasn’t your fault. 

Forced upon you. Aloneness. 

Loss.

You never really get over it. Loss.

Some voids cannot be filled, they are meant to remain wastelands, barren, contaminated. 

Judith was that to you. And to Christopher. 

You’d swear he fell out of love for you the moment he saw his daughter’s tiny lifeless body being pulled from inside you. For the first time in your whole entire life, he couldn’t be there for you. You couldn’t even be there for him either. It was the beginning of the end, only, you didn’t want to let go.

You had dreams, terrible ones. In some, Judith was alive and well, in which case it made waking up the most difficult thing. In other nightmares, though, you were giving birth to her and she wasn’t much more than blood and flesh pouring from between your legs, yet you loved her nonetheless. 

One night, you dreamt that Liam came into the general store while you worked and stabbed your pregnant belly.

You went to therapy—separately, then together. It did nothing. Some voids cannot be filled. You both made efforts to appear happy, maybe in the hopes of faking it until you made it. Chris took you on dates, and you took him on dates. You hired a handful of employees for the store and the campground so that you’d have more time, but in the end, that also did nothing. All it did was give you more time to be sad at home instead of being sad at work.

Chris had it worse than you, or maybe he just couldn’t hide it as well as you. He ate very little and slept even less. He went on long hikes and usually came back after dusk smelling like sweat and like the forest. You’d ask where he went, if he had a good hike. He’d give you responses but nothing else. 

One day he didn’t come home at all, and his phone went straight to voicemail. You tried to rationalize it, to remind yourself that most trails didn’t have great coverage anyway, and that he knew his way around the forest. You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn’t sleep. When you heard the front door at four in the morning, you flipped your pillow so that he wouldn’t be able to feel how damp it was. You wiped the tears off your cheeks and buried your face under the covers. Chris didn’t stop by the bedroom—just a minute later, he was in the shower.

You missed him. And it felt wrong to miss someone whose scent permeated the bedsheets you lay on. You were losing him, too, and you knew it because aloneness was drowning you even when he was standing right next to you.

That night, you joined Chris in the bathroom. You sat on the counter, observing him. Condensation was gradually covering the glass of the shower but you saw him in a different light—skinnier, with bruises here and there, acquired on his long hikes, no doubt. He saw you but he didn’t acknowledge you.

There were thoughts weighing you down, and you knew that speaking them out loud wouldn’t help, but you had to anyway.

“Chris, I think it would be easier for you if you admitted to yourself, and maybe even to me, that you hate me.”

He turned to you then, water rolling down his shoulders. “I don’t hate you. I’m just sad. My baby is dead. Can’t I be sad?”

“You can be sad, of course.”  You stood, making your way toward the shower, sliding the door open. You would never not be moved by him, his naked body. You felt a tumble in your belly. “But you also resent me.” 

He had the grace not to deny it this time. He averted his gaze. “I don’t want to. I know it’s not your fault. I’m sick in the head.” 

You thought it must feel somewhat the same to be stabbed in the chest. Not even in the heart, no—immediate death would be merciful compared to this. Instead, Chris had pushed a serrated blade just two inches away from the organ, sparing you, hurting you more. 

“Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe it is.” Some truths are meant to remain unspoken, but you loved Chris enough to believe he deserved to know it anyway. “I wasn’t sure at first. That I wanted a baby. Up until the moment I saw the little + sign on the first pregnancy test, I wasn't really sure I wanted to be a mother. I just wanted to be with you.” You gulped, swallowing your tears. “All these years, I felt like I should have kept that first baby. I don’t know why, it just felt like it. Mind you, I didn’t feel that before the abortion, only sometime after. Almost like I knew it would come back and haunt me somehow. Well, it did. Life punished me.”

Chris took a step toward you, cupping your face in his warm, damp hand. Water rolled down your neck and onto the t-shirt you slept in. “That’s not how it works. You didn’t manifest Judith into a stillborn.” He lowered his face close to yours, kissing you, kissing you like he meant it. 

He pulled you into the shower, kissing you deeper, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I love you,” Chris said, pulling your shirt off you. And you knew he did. But he also resented you. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. 

He pinned you to the wall and kissed you, guiding himself at your entrance. You felt him grow hard inside your cunt as he fucked his despair into you. “Fuck me like you hate me,” you begged him. “I deserve it.” 

He pulled away at that, only to wrap your legs around his waist, picking you up. He carried you to your bed, leaving a trail of soapy water behind. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, burying himself inside you again. 

He fucked you hard, harder than he ever had, holding you by your throat or sometimes by a fist in your hair. He fucked you from behind, then flipped you over to look into your eyes as he pounded into your soaked pussy. You hadn’t known a life without Christopher and without his love and his comfort. You wondered how you would keep existing without it. You wondered if you would be able to live without managing to pay off your debt to him. Even as he spilled himself into you, filling you with his sorrow, you wondered how you would cope. 

Even with Chris toppling over you, his weight on your body, his cock softening in your cunt, you felt alone.

Jisung turned to the rest of the room. “Does anyone want more cake?” 

A few hands shot upright, accompanied by enthusiastic statements. The ghost of a smile appeared on your lips as Jisung began his distribution of dessert. This was how you liked your house best—when it was crowded with people you loved. On other days, it felt empty, bleak, too quiet. 

Next to you, Chris shifted his weight on his seat, glancing at you. You stared back at your husband as he forced a smile on his lips. 

You leaned toward him, a frown on your brow. “Are you tired?”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, almost out of habit, and pulled you closer. “I’m just drunk,” he whispered into your ear, eliciting a faint chuckle from you. “Are you tired?”

You were tired, but then you had been tired for years, it felt like. You simply shook your head, knowing it was good for Chris to see people—you didn’t want him to put an end to the festivities on your behalf. Besides, they were celebrating your birthday, so you would feel bad to throw people out.

You watched as Jisung went around the room with the cheesecake leftovers. Chris kept his arm around your shoulders and you let it comfort you a little, even though he didn’t really mean it. It was muscle memory. 

Those who didn’t grab cheesecake were now pouring more wine into their glasses—you handed yours to Arina—Jisung’s fiancée—and she filled it again, and Chris’ too. 

“I heard on the radio that they forecast a particularly sunny summer,” Felix said, speaking to you and Chris specifically, although most guests were also paying attention. “I reckon business will be good for you guys this year.”

“I hope so,” Chris responded, squeezing your shoulder as a public testimony that he still gave somewhat of a shit about you. Maybe this was why you liked your house best when your friends were here—because your husband had to pretend he still loved you when people were around. “We’re thinking of hiring a couple more people, actually.”

“That’s awesome!” Felix flashed a bright smile at you. “I’ll have to try and make time to come visit. It’s been so long since I actually walked around the campground.” 

You knew he meant well, and you knew Felix wasn’t even lying—he had been friends with Chris in high school and he knew the area well despite having moved away a while ago. You knew that at this moment, Felix genuinely wanted to come again later, during the peak of summer season, to see the area at its most beautiful and lively, but you also knew he wouldn’t. Because that’s just how life was. Difficult. He would be busy somehow. And when he wouldn’t be busy, he would want to relax. Or go on a date. Or watch a movie. And you didn’t hold it against him. It had been at least a year since you went over to his place anyway.

“Man, you really should!” Chris nodded, raising his glass at Felix. We expanded a little, to accommodate for trout season. It was too crowded last year.” 

You were about to comment how it was a good problem to have, only you saw at the other end of the table Changbin and his girlfriend, Naomi, exchange a long, quiet stare, then turning to Arina and looking at her wine glass, which was still full. 

Something stirred within you. You knew what was about to happen, and you knew it was probably within your power to stop it. Only, you lacked the strength to do so, and words eluded you anyway. Or will, perhaps.

“Say, Ari,” Naomi told her friend with a mischievous smile on her face. She spoke at low volume, not trying to overpower the main conversation, in which Chris was telling Felix about the sudden and unexpected rise in trout population in the area. “I don’t think I saw you take a single sip of that wine.”

You knew for sure then, by the way color drained from Arina’s face before she turned crimson in half a second, and from the way Jisung almost dropped the cake as he went to put it back on the countertop. 

You couldn’t tell what hurt most—the way Arina’s gaze looked for you but how she dared not look you in the eyes in your own home, or the fact that she was pregnant at all.

Naomi reached over her boyfriend to give Arina the gentlest nudge. “Girl!” 

Changbin took Naomi’s hand in his, pulling it under the table quickly, pushing his own plate of cheesecake in front of her. “Want some? I don’t think I can eat all of it after all.” 

Not saying it was worse. Jisung stared at Arina, then at Changbin, avoiding your eyes at all costs. Meanwhile, the discussion between Chris and Felix was coming to an end as they realized that something was happening around the table. 

You couldn’t hold it against Naomi—she was the latest addition to your friend group, after all, and she didn’t know. Or didn’t know a lot about it all anyway. And even if she did know... You still couldn’t hold it against her. There was no reason for the rest of the world to remain stuck in the past the way you and Chris were. There was no reason for the rest of the world not to be happy at such a joyful prospect. 

Chris let his arm fall back, freeing your shoulders. You felt very alone then.

You knew it had to be you. It had to be you who said something or else the situation would get even more embarrassing and awkward. There had been many moments like this in the past few years, so you knew your way around them by now, no matter how unpleasant. It had to be you. It always had to be you.

“Ari, is it true then?” The thing with sorrow is it often turns people into excellent liars. You didn’t like this about you, but you could be very convincing when you had to be. You looked very happy when you needed to. “Is it really true?”

A timid smile reappeared on your friend’s lips. After a quick glance at Jisung, she nodded gently. “Yes, it’s true.”

As the table erupted in congratulations and a full-on interrogation—How long have you known? How far along are you? Oh my god can it really be true?—you plastered a smile on your face and remained in your seat. There was something else about lying—you had to learn not to overdo it. Proper dosage was essential to how believable you were. You couldn’t jump in place and clap and sing because your friend was pregnant, then people would look at you weird. They would know you’re faking it. They might even deduce that you have been faking it for a long time.

The ghost of Chris on the chair next to you disappeared when he pulled away, as expected. You recognized your own rehearsed smile on his face. 

“I really didn’t want…” Arina began, then stopped mid-sentence as she was searching for her words. Or rather, as she was thinking of the least hurtful way to remind you that your baby had died inside you. “We really didn’t want to crash the party with the news. We wanted to wait.” This, she said to you. 

“It’s alright,” you lied. It was not alright. You hadn’t had a happy birthday in a long time but this one had just turned into a genuine nightmare, as you felt yourself fall into a pit of darkness. Or rather like you were becoming one. “I’m very, very happy for you.”

“It’s such great news,” Chris chimed in. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do, yeah?”

But of course, they wouldn’t want you to come near their beloved child, and you understood that. Because you were cursed. 

The news indeed put an end to the party, which you knew was justified by people feeling awkward. Or maybe they just didn’t want to see the color of your grief. Arina was the last to leave—she stood with you in the doorway while Jisung and the other guys were chatting by their cars. She spared you from another apology but she held you in her arms. “It’ll be your turn soon,” she assured. People said those things sometimes, and it was to alleviate their guilt.

Chris joined you in the kitchen as you were putting empty cups in a trash bag. He grabbed some plates and began rinsing them in the sink.

You knew you had to say something. You knew it had to be you, no matter how unpleasant. 

“The cake was really good,” you commented. 

“Right?” Chris put a little too much enthusiasm into his response. “Mrs. Allen makes the best cakes.” Mrs. Allen owned the only bakery in this part of the city, and everybody feared the day she would decide to retire. Most of her income came from locals purchasing her goods for special occasions or simply because they craved something sweet.

“She does,” you agreed. “Thank you for the birthday party, and for my gift.” He had offered you a hydroponic garden system, something you had mentioned being interested in but weren’t quite sure it would fit in your kitchen. 

“No problem.” He spoke at low volume, now loading the dishwasher. It seemed, for a few instants, as though he was about to say something meaningful. But he finished clearing the countertops. “How about I run you a bath?” 

You accepted his offer, half hoping for something that couldn’t be true, which was that he would join you. Except he wouldn’t and you were well aware of that fact. Most nights, he pretended to fall asleep on the couch so he wouldn’t join you in the bed.

Last week, he saw the notification on your phone. According to your calendar, your peak fertility window begins now and will end in twenty-four hours. You still kept the fertility app. Maybe out of habit, but certainly not out of hope—Christopher had never truly said he wanted another child. Maybe it didn’t really matter either. You hadn’t gone back on birth control and there had been absolutely no pregnancy scares. Not that you had been particularly active… Except that now, you were certain Chris wouldn’t touch you for a long time. Because last week, after seeing the notification, Chris kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in a while. He lay you in bed and undressed you and touched you and you touched him, too. But he couldn’t make love to you. He tried.

He really tried. Until tears were staining his cheeks. You took him in your mouth. You got on top, hoping he would grow hard inside you. But he didn’t. He apologized profusely but he didn’t need to. You had learned to discern the hints life left behind. Some things were meant to be and some weren’t. 

How unfair though. How unfair was it that you and Chris weren’t actually meant to be if you loved him this much? If you had loved him all of your life?

He did run you a bath, with all of your favorite things in it—jasmine oil, candles all around, piano music playing from a small speaker. It didn’t stop you from hearing him locking himself in what had been the nursery. In what still was the nursery—absolutely nothing had changed. Not one thing had been moved. The door just remained closed. Always. 

Could you have been wrong all this time? What if it wasn’t Chris who was meant for you, but aloneness? What if the withering of your heart was your own fault? After all, Judith had been inside you when her heart stopped beating. It had nothing to do with Chris, or with anybody else. Still, it was all he saw in you—the place in which his daughter died.

He was right. It was all that you were. A coffin, a graveyard, a tomb. All at once. And it was all that you would ever be, for as long as you would live.

A crackling sound coming from the walkie-talkie on the counter made you jump. You inhaled sharply, looking away from the laptop screen to offer an apologetic smile to the two clients who were checking into the campground. 

You weren’t supposed to be here today—usually, on Fridays, you operated the general shop, and Chris the campground. Mostly because even though they were now under the same business, you were both more used to those specific establishments, having been raised into them. Only, it was the campground’s big summer opening and Chris was overseeing the event. There would be a concert tonight, by a local band who played covers, and games and other activities were offered during the day. 

Since food was involved, it was less likely for people to stop by the general shop tonight—so you left it in your most trusted employee’s hands, knowing Jeongin would be more than able to handle himself there. He was probably going to sell sunscreen and hats all day—it was stunningly sunny. 

You grabbed the walkie-talkie, walking a few footsteps away to listen carefully. It was Jeongin’s voice that came in.

“Boss,” he said, and you still didn’t know who he was talking to because he called both Chris and you like that. “There’s someone here asking if we sell paint, and I’ve just been looking everywhere and…” 

A faint click followed Jeongin’s question, indicating that Chris had joined the conversation. “Paint?” he repeated. He could barely be heard over the music playing over there. “Paint?” 

You returned to the clients who had finished filling out their security forms while the other two chatted over the radio. You handed them their keycards to unlock the gate and various other spots on the site. You didn’t need to go too in-depth with them—it was the third summer they came here. “Thank you for choosing us again,” you told them with a smile. “If you have issues or an emergency, do call the number at the bottom of the map and someone will come to you.” 

The couple—a man and a woman in their 70s—thanked you warmly and returned to their RV outside. They had rented a space for two weeks. They reminded you a little of your parents. Had they looked this happy when they were on their trips? 

The debate over the walkie-talkie distracted you before you could tear up, even though you missed your mother terribly. 

“Not spray paint, boss,” Jeongin insisted. “Like, just paint.” You heard a voice speaking inaudibly behind him, and then the young man added, “Not wall paint or spray paint. Paint for art. Watercolor?” He said the last word as though he was only repeating it while being wildly unsure about it. 

Everything clicked into place then as you finally understood what they wanted. You grabbed your radio and joined the discussion again. “I didn’t have enough time to stock up the kids’ section,” you explained. It was a mistake on your part, caused by your sleep troubles as of late. After all, it wasn’t uncommon at all for parents to grab a few toys for their children before entering the campground. “Most of the stuff is still in boxes in the back store. I know where it is, I can guide you.”

Jeongin’s line cut abruptly—he had let go of his Talk button. “Jeongin?” Chris asked.

He came back almost immediately. “He says no, boss. He’s asking if we sell real watercolor, not children's stuff.” 

You suppressed a laugh and heard your husband do the same. While nobody in the area understood the importance of art more than you, you couldn’t help but find it humorous that someone would stop at a very rustic-looking general store on the side of the road of a small city to ask for legitimate art supplies. 

You looked at the beautiful landscape out the window—the river, the shore, and behind it all, the mountains. As pretty as a painting. 

“Please apologize on our behalf,” you told Jeongin. “We don’t carry art supplies of the sort. Offer them a discount on their purchase.” 

“Thanks, boss.” And Jeongin tuned out for good, leaving you and Chris alone on the line.

You let a few seconds pass. “How are things over there?” you asked, either to make conversation or because you desperately wanted your husband to speak to you. About anything. Anything at all.

“Pretty good actually. They’re loving the lemonade.” You two had made many batches of it early this morning. Quietly. In your kitchen. Squeezing lemons and then weighing sugar and making raspberry syrup, for the pink lemonade. Alone. “How are you holding up in there?” 

“It’s fine. Every time I’m here, it reminds me of those mornings my mom would have your mom babysit me, and she’d drag me here and put me to work.” The Park Office had been renovated since then, but it smelled the same as it used to. Like cedar and pine, with faint salt undertones. “Should we start carrying art supplies?”

“Man, I don’t know.” Chris laughed and he sounded like he meant it. It made a burst of light appear in your chest, even if it was only temporarily. “Oh, I gotta go. We need ice.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.” But Chris was already gone. 

Your life had reached a point where you doubted that any ice was actually needed. You imagined Chris just wanted to find a good enough reason not to speak to you, just you. He fared well enough—and so did you—in the presence of others, as though they motivated him to pretend better. The first night he didn’t come back home, you thought he was cheating on you. In the end, the sound of his shower woke you up at six in the morning. When you asked him where he’d been, he said he worked on some repairs at the camping ground.

It happened more and more often. Then some of his clothes disappeared from inside his drawers. It happened over weeks, so it gave you time to prepare. To form some sort of shell to brace yourself from the impact of it. By then, he rarely slept in your bed anymore, preferring the guest room or the living room. But when he did, you barely recognized your husband. It did not feel like him, that person under the sheets. 

During your sleepless nights, you pondered over it a lot. You were well aware that Chris hadn’t brought up divorce because it would feel like a failure for him. Like he had failed this marriage and you. You knew there was also the whole issue of the Riverside Campground and Riverside General Store, now become one. The legal problems that would surface during the divorce would be awful, and you knew it. Neither of you had felt the need to get a prenup or anything of the sort. 

Honest to god, you had thought you would be with Chris for the rest of your life. And maybe he had felt the same, and it was why he was so reluctant to leave you. 

Sometimes, you wanted to tell him that it was okay. If he was seeing another woman. He wasn’t going to keep fucking you, was he? Not when you were a graveyard. You couldn’t force him to love you either. He had stopped loving you a long time ago—it just took him a while to come to the realization. You wanted to hate him. To resent him. But all that you could do about Chris was love him, no matter how broken, how misaligned that love had become.

There was this unspoken agreement that at work and around your friends, you made it look like everything was okay. You hadn’t told a soul about your marital problems and you assumed Chris probably hadn’t either. 

Every day you woke up with the clear intention to sit down with Chris and to talk. To make him say that this—all of this—made no fucking sense. That you had to get a divorce, no matter how cumbersome it would be. Nothing could be worse than this anyway. 

And as the coward that you were, every day, you found ways to avoid that conversation. 

A car coming down the road caught your attention, pulling you out of your deep thoughts. The darkness lingered within you, but you appreciated every occasion to be distracted from it. Even work.

The car—a black Jeep Patriot that looked like a rental—stopped at the designated parking space for check-ins. Noticing that, you made sure that none of the tears that had tickled your eyes had messed with your mascara. Unfortunately, it was a little smudged in one place, but you managed to mostly fix it just in time to welcome the customer.

A man that you supposed was in his mid-20s  entered the park office looking a little confused yet resolute. He had hiking attire—dark green cargo pants, a generic t-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. Holding his phone and often looking at it, he made his way to the counter slowly. 

“Hello,” you said before he had even reached you, prompting him to look up. He was, by all standards, pretty, with feline-like eyes and gentle traits. “Will you be checking in with us today, sir?” 

He responded to your smile with a polite one. “Yes. I made the reservation a while ago. Under Lee, Minho.” 

You typed his name into the laptop, quickly pulling up his reservation file. You raised your eyebrows as you looked at it—it was the first time you saw it really, Chris was the one who took care of this stuff usually.

“I have it here,” you told him, double-checking to make sure you had read everything right. “You made an extended stay reservation for two adults in one of our RVs?” 

The campground welcomed RVs on one side and tents on the other, also offering to rent either installation for those who needed them. Renting a fully equipped, luxury RV was by far the most expensive booking option you sold, and he had requested it until the end of the season. From the first day to the very last. 

“Yes, that’s me.” His smile became a little more comfortable, and a little warmer, too. “You seem surprised.”

“Oh, I’m just not used to it—usually, it’s the cabins on the other side of the rivers that get this sort of clientele.” 

You took the credit card—black—that he handed you without you having to ask. You actually had nothing against Pineview Cabins. People who wanted a cabin wanted a cabin, and those who wanted something else came to you. Besides, the owners were a mother and her son, and they were lovely.

“Cabins are for tourists,” Lee Minho said jokingly.

You finished entering his information in the system and gave the card back, finding it a bit easier to smile in his laid-back presence. No matter how long you had spent enduring it, you had never been very good at aloneness. 

“There is a form we require guests to fill—for security purposes,” you explained to him, sliding on the counter the form in question, secured on a clipboard. You shot a glance behind him, looking at his car through the front window, where you could see that there was someone in the passenger seat. “Both of you will have to fill one,” you added, pulling out a second clipboard. “I can go and hand this one to them while you fill yours if you’d like.”

The man shook his head, the corner of his lips curving up. “Nah. Let me call him. He can sulk about paint sometime later.” 

It clicked into place then—this man, and whoever was in his car, had been the ones who, just moments ago, were at the general shop asking for watercolors. 

“It was you!” You bit your lip. “I’m really sorry we couldn’t accommodate you better. I’ll—”

Minho, who had just finished typing a text on his phone, put the device back in his pocket and grabbed one of the pens to start filling out his form. “No need to apologize. I don’t know why he expected to find some legit watercolors here.” 

“Ah, artists.” You spoke in a tone that was clearly sarcastic but not offensive. 

“This one is something, for sure.”

As if on cue, the front door was opened by the man beckoned by Minho through a text and a little voice inside your head said, Yes, this one is something indeed. He was tall, holding himself straight with a perfect posture and yet in a totally nonchalant manner. Still, he was graceful. You saw it in the way he pulled the door open, in the way he took off his fancy designer sunglasses to put them on his head, in the way he adjusted his half ponytail right after. 

If Minho was dressed as though he was heading out for a three-day hike, this one, the artist, was the complete opposite. A loose white graphic tee hung on his broad shoulders. With it, he wore oversized jeans, and he even had another shirt tied around his waist, as though he had expected the weather to be cooler. A multitude of jewelry pieces adorned his body—a few silver necklaces around his dainty neck, many bracelets on his wrists, and rings, too. The ensemble screamed intentional chaos.

The more seconds passed, the closer he was to you and the counter, and you were utterly unable to take your eyes off him. Not just because he had just entered the room and it was a normal thing to look at someone who approached to check-in. But because you had never seen anybody like him before.

He was beautiful, and there was no other way to put it. His face was seemingly perfect—his big, dark eyes were scanning his surroundings as though to evaluate the potential dangers. The rounded tip of his nose complemented his cheekbones well. 

He had a pretty mouth—his lips were obscenely plush. Rosy red. Enticing. With a velvety quality to them. Skin like honey-coated satin. Hair like silk soaked in black ink. 

He was the kind of person who just oozed charisma. Effortlessly. The kind of person whose presence changes the whole vibe of the room. The kind of person everybody notices without them trying. Often, without them wishing for it at all. 

There was a point where you realized you should say something—he was just a few steps away now, close enough that Minho had turned to him. Close enough that you could smell him—he carried with him a strong yet not heavy scent reminiscent of amber and roses with woodsy and musky undertones. You took a deep breath but it wasn’t even to brace yourself to be in his presence. It was to inhale more and more of this alluring smell. It took everything in your power not to immediately ask him what his cologne was. 

“There you are. Here.” It was Minho who spoke first in the end, sliding the second clipboard and another pen toward his friend. Or brother. Or cousin.

Or boyfriend, maybe. 

You had to say something. “Hello.” Simple. Ordinary. A skeleton key of greetings. 

He briefly looked away from the clipboard to acknowledge your presence. “Hi.” 

He didn’t seem thrilled about having been called in here and you felt bad about it for some reason, even though you had been asking guests to fill out a security form for years now. 

“Sorry about this. It’s for security purposes,” you explained. 

“It’s no problem at all,” Minho assured. He was already halfway through his form. 

You gave him a quick nod. “And sorry about the watercolors, too,” you added.

At this, the handsome man reacted a bit more. He straightened up from the counter to face you. It felt, a little, like the air had been kicked out of your lungs. Being face to face, so close to him, felt like falling from a high place. 

He spoke to you softly, almost timidly, like he wasn’t sure he ought to speak at all. “The airline lost my art supplies bag and sent it to the wrong destination. I just wanted to have something while they manage to send it to me.” His voice was pleasant. Smokey and warm, it had a strangely comforting tone.

You barely understood the words he said, not because it was a difficult concept to comprehend, but because of the intonation in which he spoke as well as his pronunciation. It was so unique it demanded your whole attention. As if the placement of his lips at any given time, and the movements of his tongue as he spoke, came together as an orchestra that played an elegant symphony. 

“We actually put in the address of the campground,” Minho interrupted as if he had just remembered that detail. “I hope it’s okay? They should be sending the bag here sometime next week.”

“Or the week after,” the artist sighed, rolling his eyes before returning to his form. His handwriting was small and neat. 

“It’s not a problem at all.” It occurred to you then that you had things to get done to check them in, so you returned to your laptop to get to work. “We’ll let you know as soon as it gets here.” You bit your lip, torn over your curiosity and your pulse quickening so fast it frightened you. “Do you exclusively paint in aquarelle?” 

You reported your attention to your screen as soon as you asked the question, regretting it immediately. Like sending a risky text. Warmth spread at the back of your neck, reaching your cheeks and even your ears. Get a fucking grip.

He was handsome, yes. He was the kind of beautiful that nobody could ignore, yes. To blush a little when he looked into your eyes was one thing. But to be entranced by this stranger like this, to have your heart threatening to jump out of your chest, for your breathing to turn shallow in his presence… That was something else. 

At first, you blamed your many sleepless nights—you had a lot of accumulated fatigue, so it would be normal not to be in your right mind. Then you blamed your lingering heartache. The sorrow you carried with you anywhere you went. The wedding ring on your finger that felt like it weighed a ton while meaning so little anymore.

Then shame crept up from somewhere deep within you, tugging at your heart.

No matter how painful the state of your marriage was, you remained married. And there was nothing wrong with finding somebody else attractive, of course, but this felt different. It felt like you ought to take several steps back and internalize that no matter how hot and interesting this guy was, it wasn’t even for you to take notice of it. He painted. So what? He was insanely hot. So what? He wasn’t the first handsome dude you met during your marital life. He smelled good. Okay? He had pretty lips, but who cares?

GET A FUCKING GRIP!

You figured it was your brain trying to save you. You had known for a long time that your marriage was over and that nothing could save it. It had been such a long while, it seemed, since Chris had truly loved you. And you loved him in a desperate way, like trying to hold onto a knife not by its handle, but by its blade.

Your thought process only took about two seconds, but they felt like two very long seconds. In the end, none of this mattered—even if Chris divorced you, and even if this young god had any interest in you, which was impossible, you would still not do anything about it. If you hadn’t even been able to trust in your life-long conviction that you would grow old with Chris, then you were certainly not going to open your heart to anybody else. Ever. 

The man stared at you like he was thinking about his response before saying it. Minho was done with his form and handed it back to you. 

“He does a lot of things,” he said in the artist’s place. “I bought a painting from him. That’s how we met. It’s watercolor and oil, right?” He turned to the handsome man, who nodded.

“Yes, and encaustic paint,” he added, his voice suddenly a little smaller. “It’s made of—”

“Yes, wax. Hot wax.” You cut him off before he could finish his sentence, feeling a little bad that he felt compelled to explain everything, considering how he looked like he didn’t want to talk to you at all. He was most likely an introvert. It used to be difficult for you, too, to talk to strangers. But you became used to it through this place over the years. Or maybe in a desperate attempt not to be alone.

He stared at you with his eyebrows raised just slightly. “Do you paint, too?”

You couldn’t help a nervous laugh from escaping your lips. “God, no. I wish though. I just… appreciate.”

“Then I’ll have to show you his stuff. Brilliant.” Minho gave his companion a not-so-gentle slap on the back. 

“I’d love to,” you replied, taking the signed form from the artist. “We’ve actually been looking into buying a piece for the main lodge, where we hold some events, activities, shows, stuff like that. We did a few renovations last year, and there’s a wall that’s just so empty and bland. Maybe we—”

Two things happened at once then.

Out of habit—and because you had to as it was literally your job—you let your gaze trail down the form you were now holding. You also realized that you were overdoing it with the conversation, talking a little too quickly just to make up for the fact that you were a nervous wreck. The guy had checked in using a black card. There was about no chance for you to be able to afford anything this young god painted, right?

Then your brain processed the words it was reading.

Full name: Hwang, Hyunjin

Hwang, like Hwang Naro, the painter behind Loss, the artwork that had been fascinating you for years. And he just happened to be a painter, too. For some reason. Loss dated back to the 1850s after all, so there was no correlation to be made. Hwang Naro. Hwang Hyunjin.

Immediately, you reminded yourself that many people shared a last name in Korea after all, so it was only a minor coincidence. Painting was a common hobby, wasn’t it?

“Uh, is there a problem, Miss?” Hyunjin inquired, leaning in closer to also look at his form to double-check.

It wouldn’t have felt any different if you had been kicked in the solar plexus. His scent invaded your nostrils and then your lungs, and it was so violent that you had to hold onto the counter. When he looked up again, you noticed more details on his face. The mole under his eyes. The faint lines on his lips. The other mole on his jaw. The shape of his eyes, perfect, intricate, elegant. Their shade deep enough that you could drown in them. 

You remembered the book Jisung and Changbin had given you for your birthday once, the essay about the painting. One of the chapters contained various interviews and letters from people who had known Naro—he signed his paintings without his family name. One of the interviews had been conducted in the late 1880s, by an author who would later publish it in a journal in the early 1900s. He had spoken to Cornelia, a maid who had worked for the Hwangs during her youth while the family resided in Leiden, a small city in South Holland.

Everybody in town knew that Mr. Naro was handsome and kind. He liked to visit the botanical gardens to practice his colors and florals, and some visitors went there to watch him, too. He would sometimes carry with him small pieces of canvas and hand out sketches to children. Mr. Naro was fond of children, and he loved his only son very much, more than I have ever seen a father love anything before. The women envied his wife and the men envied him, for he was a proper gentleman and loved by all. He and his family lived modestly despite the money he made selling his paintings and giving art courses. 

He summoned me to the courtyard of the house one afternoon. He was painting the sky, which was blue and beautiful. Mr. Naro told me he freed me from my employment. When I panicked, he said, “Fret not, Cornelia, it has nothing to do with your abilities. I am most content having you under my roof.” Mr. Naro looked me in the eyes and said I should take some time to visit places and fall in love, either with the world or with a man, or a woman even. He assured me I would be welcome to return after my trip if I wished, and that if he happened to be gone by then, he would ensure the University hired me. 

He gave me money, more than I had ever seen in my life, and a bag for my travels. I refused yet he insisted, no matter how immense the gift, disproportionate to what I thought I deserved. He said my heart’s color was Alizarin Crimson, with a just drop of Naples Yellow and another of Ultramarine, all of those softened in Flemish White. As he spoke, he mixed the colors on his palette, right in front of my eyes. The final result was a gorgeous pink that reminded me of the carnations that used to grow in my grandmother’s garden. He used that pink to paint a stunning bird in the sky, shading it with black and blue, defining the feathers also with white. He gave me the painting and said, “This is your heart. Do you want to keep it caged up here?” 

I heard he had similar interactions with other maids and even students. I traveled to France where I met my husband and became a dancer. I never forgot Mr. Naro. I never forgot Mr. Naro’s eyes, so dark they were more black than brown, yet soft, gentle, and sad. I wanted to be a painter so I could accurately blend paints to recreate that color, just to see it one more time.

The painting, titled Cornelia’s Colors, was now at home at Musée d’Orsay, and you had been lucky enough to see it with your own two eyes a few years ago, during a short European trip with Christopher. It had been given to the museum by the maid-turned-dancer’s descendants. 

But it was not the intricacies of the painting that were on your mind at that moment, not even the expert blending of the colors on it. It was the shade of Hyunjin’s eyes. So dark they were more black than brown, yet soft, gentle, and sad. 

You shook your head faintly, as though chasing away the thoughts invading it.

“Did I miss something?” Hyunjin asked again, glancing at his sheet. 

“N—No, it’s all good.” And yet, by the way they were looking at you, you were very much aware that your reaction must have been noticed. For a split second, you wondered what would be weirder—if you mentioned something or if you just moved on. “It’s just, your name,” you said before you could even really think about it. “You have the same family name as the artist who painted my favorite painting. And you paint too. So I thought it was just a nice coincidence.” 

Something in Hyunjin’s already somber eyes shifted, worsening the darkness in them. His body language changed in a matter of seconds as he stood straight up again, keeping his shoulders straight. He removed the sunglasses from the top of his head, ready to put them on his nose again. 

Minho stared at him, and then at you again. “It’s not really a coincidence, is it?” he told Hyunjin.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes so faintly you almost didn’t catch it. He took a deep breath, the exhale ending with a sigh—in the dictionary, under Bored, a picture of him at that very moment could serve as a definition for the word. You felt so bad you wanted to hide under the counter like you used to when you were little. 

“Guess not,” Hyunjin said with a shrug. “He’s my great-great-grandfather.” 

Too many seconds passed before you reacted—before the information even made it to your brain. 

You were standing in the presence of Hwang Naro’s direct descendant. You were breathing the same air as him, you were looking upon his divinely sculpted face. You were hearing his voice, coated with amber and honey. 

“Oh my god,” was all you managed, whispering under your breath, a frown digging itself between your brows. “I’m so sorry, I—”

Hyunjin waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not important.” 

Not important. Except his great-great-grandfather had been the artist behind the painting that you had always favored. The painting that had turned out to be prophetic, for you at least. 

“What are the odds though?” Minho, contrary to Hyunjin or you, seemed very enthusiastic about all of this. “I knew it was a good idea to drag you here, Hwang.”

By the look on Hyunjin’s face, you could tell he felt very differently. It triggered your brain back into place though, as you became excessively self-conscious. Of yourself. Of your reaction. You could understand why your mind latched onto any good or interesting thing it saw, because your life had become bleak and empty. Yet it was stupid to care about any of that. To this man, the painting meant nothing, and it didn’t appear that his ancestry mattered much more either. He was clearly annoyed with you anyway. 

With trembling hands, you reached for the keycard printer, collecting the two cards you had just printed. You slid them into their protective sleeves, which were attached to lanyards with the campground’s name on them. 

“Here,” you managed, also trying your best to smile. “These will give you access to everything you need—the entry gate, your RV, the laundromat, and the showers. If you lose them, just call this number here.” With that, you handed them maps of the campground, as you did with any new guest. “We’re here. Your site is right there with the other RVs.” You showed them with your index finger, but you felt your insides disintegrating into nothingness. “Just get past the gate and follow Pinecone Lane, you can’t miss it. You have a parking space at your site.”

“This place is huge,” Hyunjin commented—not to you, but to Minho. 

“Bigger than I imagined,” Minho conceded, but he was speaking to you. 

You nodded. “Yes. This is the tent camping site,” you explained. “Here is the main lodge, with the pool. This is the RV site. There’s walkable beach land all around this part too, and you can rent a boat or kayaks here.” 

“Jesus Christ, that’ll be the best summer of my fucking life,” Minho said with a sigh. “I need this vacation. I’m here to fish, I got a permit for it.”

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Minho had picked up on your unease and was trying to distract you from it. It did manage to slow your heartbeat a little. 

“Ah, fishing!” This prompted the smile on your lips to become more genuine. “Of course. Lots of fishing to be done around the estuary. I love striped bass, I haven’t had any in too long.” 

Your father used to love fishing and he would often take you with him. He would cook the bass on a fire with ingredients he gathered in the forest. Those were some of your most precious memories. You’d usually fall asleep by the fire and wake up at the back of the car as he was driving you home. These days, your father’s arthritis was preventing him from enjoying his fishing trips, so he just stopped going. And every year, you told yourself you ought to go fish by yourself, catch a bass, and cook it for him. You never found the time. Or the courage. Or the courage to find the time.

“I’ll make sure to save some for you if I catch any,” Minho promised. 

“Please don’t. Really.” You pressed your lips together, wondering what to say next. Hyunjin’s sunglasses returned before his eyes and they grabbed their card and map. “I hope you have a wonderful stay. Don’t hesitate to call or visit here, the main lodge, or the general store if you need anything.”

“Except paint,” Minho remarked with a clearly sarcastic and humorous tone, sending both you and Hyunjin into a hysterical fit of laughter. 

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall behind you with a hand over your mouth while Hyunjin clapped and called Minho a fucking dumbass. You hadn’t laughed this much in a long time. In fact, you couldn’t remember at all when the last time was. You wiped the tears at the corner of your eyes, waving at the two men as they walked out. Minho exited first, and Hyunjin lingered in the door frame, hesitating.

He turned to you. You couldn’t read his expression, not with the sunglasses, but his posture was more relaxed than it had been. “Just curious,” he started. “What is it? Your favorite painting?” 

Your laugh came to a halt the same way a delicate crystal glass would shatter into pieces if someone closed their fist around it. 

“It’s Loss.” You wanted to say more, but your voice remained stuck in your throat. And what would you have said anyway?

He stared at you for a few seconds and nodded slowly before leaving. 

There were still tears on your cheeks, but they no longer tasted like laughter—instead, they had the bitter yet familiar taste of aloneness.

... to be continued.

Note: I feel like I say the same thing over and over—but thank you. I could say it a million times and it wouldn't be enough. Thank you to my readers who not only put up with me, but encourage me as well and motivate me to keep trying to improve and to find my voice.

This story was, once again, extracted from the depths of my heart. It is with the utmost humility that I present it to you—when I started writing it, I did so with the intention, specifically, of not releasing it to the public. It's too personal, I told myself. And then I realized that every story I released contain other parts of my soul, and that this one was no different.

So, here it is. The ramblings of a woman who feels like she graduated at the school of Alone and earned a PhD in Loneliness.

Thank you for your support, and for your love. You guys are the best readers. You know this, right? Love y'all.

Welcome to Stormhaven 🤍

** please note that I will soon be restarting my permanent taglist from scratch as I only wish to keep active readers on them in an effort to put my time in the right places, considering the effort and love i put into what i release. by active readers i mean readers who interact at least a little with my content. i do not expect you to read every single thing i put out or to comment all the time. it's really just that there are many fully inactive/silent readers on the list! if you wish to stay on the list or be added to it, please reach out to me. ask is ideal because I can then tag your ask & return to it, but you can DM me as well! thank you for your understanding. **

taglist:

@abiaswreck ; @accalus ; @aimeexx ; @anylady-fics ; @b4kuho3 ;

@binstitsweat ; @cb97percent ; @chans1aptop ; @chartrucewhore ; @hanjingin ;

@hwan-g ; @hyuneyeon ; @hyunfruits ; @hyunjinswifeee ; @hyunniethepooh

@hyuwunjinie ; @hyyuniverse ; @iam2out ; @imseungminsgf ; @k1ra4a

@leedunno ; @lotus-dly ; @miraworldsstuff ; @mmoonriseflowerr ; @naoristerling

@neosracha ; @palindrome969 ; @shywolfcherryblossom ; @skzfelixlove ; @starseekersworld

@straydhampir ; @suhomylife ; @sunlitwilderness ; @ven-fic-recs ; @yourmercibeaucoupsblog

---

💙My Favorite Fics🩵

I do not own any of these fics, I just enjoyed reading them! Most of these fics are smutty, so please, no minors!

Stray Kids

Who Dun It? by @bandgie (multi-member, series)

He Just Loves to Share by @seo--changbin (multi-member)

Ass or Tits? by @kaciidubs (multi-member)

Take Care by @multifandomfantasies (Chan & Hyunjin, series)

All Bark, No Bite by @doitforbangchan (multi-member)

Wait Your Turn by @kaciidubs (multi-member)

Pudding by @thefantasyden (Chan and Changbin)

Dance For Us by @2chopsticks2eyes (Danceracha)

Chan

February Filth Fest - Day 27 by @multiwreckedmess

Curious Cat by @kaciidubs

Slipping Out by @smuttystraykidsthoughts

Among Strangers by @3rachasdomesticbanana

People Pleaser by @lovesick-wonderland

Stack by @seospicybin

Big Bad Wolf by @byuntrash101

Lee Know

Repeat After Me by @jl-micasea-fics

Pent-up Emotions by @fluffylino

Changbin

The Drag Down by @byullielle

Hyunjin

Yandere Hyunjin by @mymoodwriting

Han

Can't Help Myself by @thefantasyden

Sucking Off Dom Jisung by @moonjxsung

Felix

Yandere Vampire Felix by @mymoodwriting

Seungmin

Special Request by @red-airhead

One More by @3rachaslut

I.N

Future AU! by @minminbunny

Stop Hitting Yourself by @bugeater101

Ateez

Jenna and Jealousy by @hongjoongtime117 (multi-member)

Whichever Way by @igbylicious (woosan, series)

Best Girl by @beenbaanbuun (yunho & mingi)

The Paradigm Complex by @shadowynn (multi-member)

Dewdrops at Dawn by @sunmoonjune (multi-member)

Make a Wish by @holybibly (multi-member)

Into the Aurora by @honeyhotteoks (multi-member)

Hongjoong

Coming soon...

Seonghwa

Mr. Popular by @wooyoungiewritings

All Tied Up by @pyramid-of-starrs

Make Me Water by @bangtanintotheroom

Yandere Seonghwa by @mymoodwriting

The Thing About Pretty Boys by @wonusite

Hybrid, Yandere Seonghwa by @mymoodwriting

Best Friend's Mother by @hwashotcheeto (series)

Before Midnight by @baekmond

Yunho

Coming soon...

Yeosang

Touch Me, Taste Me, Fill Me Up by @littlefireball

San

I See Red by @0097linersbb

Mingi

Coming soon...

Wooyoung

Die for me by @jisungchan

How to Tame a Brat Tamer by @k-hotchoisan

Jongho

Coming soon...

---

Ahhh it's so good!!!

Your Gentle Hands (They Feel Like Home To Me). || Kim Hongjoong. [ Part I ]

Summary: meeting the local outcast shouldn't have ended with you slowly falling for him. yet you did, all while knowing you could never have this man, because you were already someones else's wife. two lovers, a dress shop, and a violent man between it all. we all know how this ends, right? ... right?

Pairing: dressmaker!kim hongjoong x fem. reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Wordcount: 15k

Warnings: playing in the 1800s so general warning for that, reader is married to a very violent man, emotional (justified) infidelity??, misogyny, (domestic) violence, injuries, talks about religion and people suffering because of it, blood, murder, i think that's it??

A/N: can't believe it's finally here. oh my gawd. i love this piece so much, but god did i struggle with it i'm so glad i can finally post part 1. i would really really appreciate reblogs, comments, and likes too, but reblogs are so helpful, so please do it if you liked it it would help me immensely. also comment if anyone would like to be tagged for part 2 of this two-shot! and now onto the most important part: the biggest thanks and hugs and kisses to @yessa-vie and @ghstzzn because without them, this fic would've long been in the damn trash can holy moly. also, thank you so so much to @seulrinnie-rinrin for beating this last minute, i'm so thankful really!! and as always divider credits to @firefly-graphics!

Taglist: @ghstzzn, @kyukyustar, @hwapetals, @foxinnie8, @preciouswoozi, @aussiekpopginger, @kitten4sannie

Available here on AO3.

My Dearest Husband,

The years have been harsh to us, and the cracks in our marriage grow wider with each passing day. Your hands, once embracing me so gentle and loving, now leave bruises upon my skin that no amount of powder or paint can conceal.

I dare not speak of the pain that lingers within me, for fear of invoking your wrath once more. Yet, the time has come for me to break the chains that bind me to this wretched existence and find solace in the arms of another.

Know this, my dear husband, I shall not suffer in silence any longer. Your tyranny shall not be tolerated, and I shall not rest until I am free from the shackles of your oppression.

With every ounce of strength left within me,

[Your Name]

The clock turned midnight.

You sat by the window, the gentle patter of rain against the glass a soothing backdrop to the turmoil raging within your heart. The room felt suffocating, the walls seemingly closing in on you with each passing moment. How long has it been since you last felt a glimmer of hope in this house?

How long has it been since you last felt safe in it?

You closed your eyes. Nothing but silence greeted you.

Good. 

The creak of the floorboards beneath your feet sounded deafening in the silence of the night, and you held your breath, afraid that even the slightest noise would awaken him.

Him.

Your husband, or rather: your own personal tormentor. 

“He's a good man,” your mother in law screamed, her fingernails marking your skin, her eyes desperate and angry. “Be a good wife and learn to obey and endure. My son said it was a mistake, and so be it!”

The black eye he gave you days later told a different story. Yet it didn't matter.

Once outside, you found yourself drawn to the familiar path that led to the edge of the forest. 

Finally stepping outside the small, scruffy looking house, you were greeted by darkness and the occasional chirping of various insects. Luckily, the temperatures were still mild in late September, yet you still pulled the cardigan tighter around you. Despite the darkness and uncertainty that surrounded you, there was a sense of freedom in being away from the suffocating confines of your home.

Just for a little, a few hours, both your mind and body could finally relax.

As you made your way along the familiar path towards the edge of the forest, a sense of anticipation bubbled within you. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to entertain the possibility of a bit of time free from fear and pain. It would only last a short while, making you lose valuable hours of sleep, but still for you, it was enough.

The path before you seemed to stretch on endlessly, disappearing into the darkness of the woods. Tall, gnarled trees loomed overhead, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers towards the heavens. The soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze filled the air, accompanied by the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant cry of a night bird.

The chirping at the insects had stopped entirely.

Despite the late hour, the forest was buzzing with activity. Small creatures - stray cats and dogs known to frequent the area - scurried among the underbrush, their eyes glowing in the darkness as they went about their nocturnal rituals. Every now and then, the faint glimmer of fireflies could be seen darting through the trees, their soft, golden light illuminating the path ahead.

You followed their lead, heart pounding in your chest as you ventured deeper into the forest. For a split second, your mind wandered back to your husband. You knew he was asleep, passed out blank from the amount of alcohol he consumed at The Saloon, the only pub in your village.

Despite knowing he was asleep, the fear lingered like a dark cloud looming over your every thought. The bruises on your skin served as a constant reminder of his violence, and even in his absence, his presence felt suffocating.

“Meow.”

The sound broke the silence of the night, startling you momentarily, making you almost trip over your own feet. Your heart raced as you glanced around, half expecting to see your husband's shadow looming in the darkness. But there was no sign of him, only the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of insects.

He's not here, you reminded yourself, taking a deep, slow breath, it's just a cat. It's okay. You're okay. 

As you stood there, trying to calm your racing heart, the source of the meow emerged from the bushes - a small, scruffy-looking cat with fur as dark as the night itself. 

It's a beautiful cat, you thought.

You crouched down, extending a tentative hand towards the cat. “Hey there, little one,” you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you out here all alone?”

The cat looked you up and down for a moment, then cautiously approached, its movements slow and careful at first. It sniffed your outstretched hand, then rubbed its head against your fingers, purring softly.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you gently scratched behind the cat's ears.

“Looks like we're both seeking some peace in the night,” you said, your words more for yourself than for the cat. But in that moment, it felt like the cat understood, as if it were offering you silent companionship in this dark, lonely forest.

With a sigh, you leaned back against a nearby tree, the cat following and curling up beside you. 

“I should give you a name, right?” you hummed. The cat didn't respond, just continued purring as your fingers went through its unkempt yet soft fur.

“I have the gut feeling that you're a boy, so… let's name you Benji, shall we?”

You giggled as Benji took your hand in his paws, gently biting and licking while his purring filled your ears. 

“You like it? What a good, sweet boy.”

Suddenly, a rustling in the bushes nearby startled you, tearing your gaze away from Benji. The cat hissed, and only then you saw what was making the noise: a… goat? 

A goat that was now sprinting right at you at full speed. Panicked, you hurried to your feet, backing away slowly only to be met by the tree you previously set by. You turned around to run, but as you did, the goat lunged forward, catching your dress with its horns and tearing the fabric apart. A loud scream - your loud scream - echoed through the night, and you fell to the ground, your knees and hands immediately starting to bleed as they hit the forest floor. 

“Help!” you screamed, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart and the goat's relentless assault. In a desperate attempt to escape, you scrambled away, your hands and knees scraping against the rough ground once again, blood mingling with dirt as you crawled towards another tree, away from the animal. “Somebody, please help me!”

Your desperate cries pierced through the darkness. Every fibre of your being screamed for someone to hear your plea and rescue you from this nightmare.

And then, as if conjured by your sheer desperation, a male voice cut through the night. 

“Let her be, you damn goat!” 

Oh finally.

You turned towards the source of the voice, your heart pounding in your chest as you beheld the figure emerging from the shadows. In the darkness, you couldn't see his features clearly, but the silhouette of a lean figure emerged from the shadows. His stature was not imposing, but there was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself. Short, tousled hair framed his face, and his clean-shaven jawline hinted at a youthful charm. Despite his lean frame, there was a sense of agility and grace in his movements as he approached, his steps purposeful yet cautious. His clothes, though worn and faded, spoke of practicality rather than luxury, and the faint glint of silver caught your eye as moonlight danced upon a necklace around his neck.

“Get back, Django,” he commanded, his voice stern and serious. 

For a moment, it seemed as though the goat - Django - hesitated, its wild eyes darting between you and the stranger as if weighing its options. But then, with a defiant snort, the goat actually backed away, its hooves scraping against the forest floor as it retreated back to its owner's side.

You watched in stunned silence as the young man approached, his expression softened by a glimmer of concern. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

You nodded weakly, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and relief as you struggled to sit up. He offered you a hand, and you accepted it gratefully, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you met his gaze.

Your eyes widened. 

You knew this man. 

It was hard not to, because the women at the market loved to gossip about him.

“He's a filthy man. Have you seen the dresses he makes? Outrageous.”

His name was Kim Hongjoong, you believed, a man known for his unconventional ways and said ‘outrageous’ dresses he crafted.

The women's cruel words towards him echoed in your mind, their voices dripping with disgust whenever his name was mentioned. They spoke of him as if he were beneath them, a plague, to be avoided at all costs. But as you looked at him now, you saw none of the malice they spoke of, only kindness and a smile etched into his features.

Hongjoong's eyes softened at your words. He had a pretty face, you realised, staring up at him in awe and curiosity.

You are a married woman! Oh Lord, may you save me from those malicious, evil thoughts!

“You shouldn't be out here alone,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. 

“I'm always here alone,” you responded. “It's my safe space.”

Instead of pressing you further, his eyes scanned your form, his expression growing more serious as he took in the extent of both your wounds and torn dress.

“It's even worse than I thought…” He looked at Django, who's now freely roaming around, seemingly no longer agitated and angry. “This goddamn goat,” he groaned.

“Is he always like this?” you asked.

Hongjoong sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair as he glanced back at Django with a mixture of frustration and resignation. “Unfortunately, yes,” he replied, “He's a stubborn creature, to say the least. His former owner wanted to slaughter him because he was aggressive towards humans and goats alike, but I convinced him to let me take care of him instead.”

“That's very noble of you,” you remarked, a sense of admiration evident in your voice. “Not many would take in a troubled animal like Django and give him a chance to change.”

Hongjoong offered you a small, appreciative smile, his eyes reflecting a hint of pride. “It hasn't been easy,” he admitted, patting Django's head, “But despite a few angry outbursts here and there, he's actually been adjusting well.”

You hummed, still keeping your distance from the goat that just attacked you. You and him probably won't become friends any time soon.

“Do you think you are able to walk?”

You nodded, though the pain throbbing in your knees and hands contradict your words. “I'll be fine,” you assured him, though your voice faltered slightly as you spoke.

Hongjoong's gaze softened with concern as he observed your state, his brows furrowing slightly with worry. “Are you sure?” he asked, his tone gentle yet insistent. “You're hurt, and it's not safe for you to be out here alone, especially with those injuries.”

You hesitated. Despite your initial plan to find solace and peace in the forest, you couldn't deny the reality of your situation - bruised, bleeding, and very much in need of assistance.

Swallowing your pride, you met Hongjoong's gaze with a grateful nod. “I... I think I could use some help,” you admitted, your voice wavering slightly with a mixture of exhaustion and relief.

Without hesitation, Hongjoong stepped closer, offering you his arm for support. “Here," he said, “Lean on me. We'll get you patched up and back home safely.”

“N-no!” you screeched, making Hongjoong falter in his steps and shoot you a confused look, “I-i mean, the night's still young, am I right? There's no need to return home just yet…”

“Why are you avoiding your own home?”

Your heart raced at his question, and you could feel your pulse pounding in your ears. His straightforwardness caught you off-guard, yet you tried - and failed - to hide your uneasiness and upcoming fear.

“You wouldn't understand,” you whispered.

Avoiding his eyes, you bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. The fear of revealing too much, of exposing the dark secrets of your marriage, held you back. You couldn't bear the thought of anyone knowing the truth, let alone a stranger who could very much use this information against you.

Hongjoong must have sensed your hesitation, for he didn't press further. Instead, he offered a gentle smile, his eyes filled with understanding. “It's alright,” he said softly. “You don't have to explain. Let's just get you somewhere safe and comfortable for now.”

His words and tone surprised you. You were accustomed to being met with demands and anger, not patience and empathy. The contrast left you feeling both confused and intrigued. Why was he being so kind to you? What did he hope to gain from helping a stranger in the middle of the night?

You accepted his support, leaning on him as you walked, your steps slow and cautious. The pain in your knees and hands was a constant reminder of your current vulnerability, but Hongjoong's steady presence provided a strange sense of comfort. Despite your initial wariness, you found yourself beginning to trust him.

Oh, what a foolish woman you are.

“Where will you take me?”

“To my house. It would be a shame if your husband would see you like this, with visible injuries and a torn dress, wouldn't it?”

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

That's how long you stared into his eyes, and he stared into yours.

Both of you knew what this meant.

Yet no one spoke it out loud. Society forbade it. 

You exhaled a trembling breath, the truth of his words settling heavily between you. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “It would be a shame.”

Hongjoong’s eyes softened, as if he could read the unspoken pain behind your words. “Let’s go, then,” he said gently, guiding you along the path with Django following closely behind.

“You know,” you whispered, “a married woman should never visit a bachelor's property alone. Especially at such late hours.”

Hongjoong glanced at you, a faint, yet boyish smile playing on his lips. “If you go by the rules of society, then yes,” he said, “but I'm known to do the exact opposite.”

Hongjoong's house came into view after a short walk through the forest. It was a modest building outside the small village, yet it looked charming, nestled amid tall trees that swayed gently in the night breeze. The front was adorned with a small, covered porch, where a couple of wooden chairs and a table sat invitingly. Ivy climbed up the walls, giving the house an almost fairytale-like quality.

It seemed to be well kept too, a stark contrast to your own home.

As you approached, you noticed the sign above the door, “Kim’s Dressmaking,” written in elegant, swirling letters. It was clear that the front of the house doubled as a shop. The large windows displayed a variety of dresses, each more beautiful and intricate than the last, their fabrics shimmering softly in the dim light. 

You remembered the villager's harsh words, and for a small second you thought: should you really follow this unruly man? What if anyone would see you entering his house at night, completely alone?

But you also knew this was quite literally the only solution right now, because if your husband saw you at home tending to your wounds he'd know of your nightly trips, and you couldn't let that happen.

So, the outcast’s house it was.

Hongjoong, who just escorted Django back to a small stall behind the property, passed you and pushed open the door, the bell above it tinkling softly. The interior of the shop was a burst of colour and creativity. Dresses of all styles and fabrics lined the walls, hung from mannequins, and lay draped over chairs and tables. Ribbons, lace, and beads were strewn about in an organised chaos that spoke of hours of dedicated craftsmanship. The scent of fresh fabric and a hint of lavender lingered in the air.

These dresses were made for royalty, beautiful and extravagant, unlike anything normal citizens would wear. You pitied Hongjoong; his talent was being wasted in a small village, while queens and princesses should be the ones wearing them, not women talking badly about his craft the second he turned his back on them.

“Welcome to my workshop,” Hongjoong said, a note of pride in his voice. He led you through the shop and towards a door at the back. “The living area is just through here.”

You followed him into a cozy living space that was a stark contrast to the bustling shop. The room was warmly lit by a few oil lamps, casting a soft glow over the rustic wooden furniture. A large, comfortable-looking sofa took up most of one wall, with a knitted blanket draped over it. Shelves lined with books and trinkets filled another wall, and a small fireplace crackled with a gentle fire, providing a soothing warmth. A modest kitchen area occupied one corner, with a wooden table and two chairs positioned nearby.

“Sit,” Hongjoong instructed gently, guiding you to the sofa. “I'll get some water and bandages for your wounds.”

“Yes, sir,” you giggled, a childlike euphoria suddenly overcoming you. He shot you a grin in response.

You sank into the sofa, the softness a welcome relief after the night's ordeal. You watched as Hongjoong moved around in the kitchen, his movements swift and efficient.

After a few minutes, he returned with a bowl of warm water, a clean cloth, and a small box of medical supplies. He knelt beside you, his eyes focused and serious as he gently took your hands in his.

“This might sting a bit,” he warned, dipping the cloth into the water and carefully cleaning the dirt and blood from your scrapes. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and you found yourself relaxing under his care.

“Thank you,” you murmured, watching him work. The tenderness in his actions was a stark contrast to the harshness you had endured at home.

“You're welcome,” he replied softly, his eyes meeting yours briefly before returning to his task. He worked silently for a few moments, cleaning and bandaging your wounds with practised ease.

“Now,” he said, standing up and cleaning his hands with the washcloth, “all we gotta do is fix your dress now to avoid your husband suspecting anything.”

“I… I don't have any money to pay you,” you admitted.

Hongjoong shook his head, a kind smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry about that," he said. “Consider it my way of helping a neighbour in need. I mean, it was my goat who put you in this situation after all.”

The kindness in his words brought tears to your eyes, and you had to look away to hide your emotions. It's been an hour since you've met this man, and yet he already treated you better than people whom you should be closest to. It had been so long since someone had shown you such genuine care and concern.

Hongjoong led you to a small sewing table in the corner of the room, surrounded by bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and an array of needles and scissors. He pulled out a chair for you and you sat down, feeling a sense of peace settle over you.

“Can I ask another favour of you?” you asked quietly.

Hongjoong knelt down, now looking up to you. It made your heart beat faster, and you hated yourself for it.

“Go ahead,” he said, encouraging you to speak.

“Please don't leave any obvious stitches… my husband would notice and then he would get mad and I really don't-” 

“Hey, hey,” Hongjoong shushed you, carefully taking your trembling hand in his own.

His gentle touch seemed to soothe you immediately. 

“I'll give my very best. Your husband won't notice anything amiss,” he promised.

As he worked, carefully mending the torn fabric of your dress, you watched his skilled hands move with precision and grace. His focus was unwavering, and you couldn't help but admire the artistry in his every movement.

“You know,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “the women in the village talk about you. They say your dresses are too extravagant for common folk.”

Hongjoong chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I've heard the gossip,” he admitted. “But I don't create these dresses for them. Let's say my clients are of more… different backgrounds.”

“You mean women of wealthier status?”

“Indeed.”

You couldn't help but giggle at Hongjoong's response.

“So does that mean… Did you just… indirectly make fun of those women, Hongjoong?” you asked, trying to stifle your laughter.

A mischievous smile spread across his face as he glanced up at you. “Maybe I did,” he replied, his eyes twinkling with a playful glint. “But it's only fair, don't you think? They judge me without understanding, too.”

You laughed again, the sound feeling foreign yet welcome to your own ears. 

Hongjoong’s returned to his work, his fingers working fast, his concentration unwavering. You watched him in awe. There was something comforting about watching him work, knowing he was doing his best to help you. And on top of that, his skills fascinated you. You didn't know much about the craft of dressmaking, yet even a layin like you knew that true skill was needed for such incredible work.

And Kim Hongjoong definitely had that skill.

“Why do you stay here?” you asked after a moment of silence, curiosity getting the better of you. “You could be making dresses for queens and princesses, living a life far away from all the judgement and poverty of this village.”

Hongjoong paused, his needle stopping mid-air as he looked up at you once again. “I could do that, you're right,” he agreed, “but I prefer living peacefully. Going back to the court… it's not what I want anymore. People there are difficult.”

“More difficult than here?”

He laughed. “Yeah, actually. Just in a different way.”

You hummed. Hongjoong finished mending your dress, carefully examining his work before looking up at you with a satisfied smile. “There,” he said, “all done. Your husband won’t notice a thing.”

You looked down at the dress, marvelling at his skill. The stitches were invisible, the fabric as good as new. “Thank you,” you said, your gratitude heavily evident in your voice.

He stood up, offering you his hand once more. “Let me walk you home,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to go alone.”

Panic rushed through you at his suggestion, your heart pounding in your chest. You jerked back, withdrawing your hand from his as if his touch burned you.

“No,” you said, your voice trembling, “I can't let you do that. What if someone sees us together? What if my husband finds out?”

Hongjoong's brows furrowed in concern. “But it’s not safe for you to walk alone at this hour. After what happened in the forest, I can’t just let you go unaccompanied.”

You shook your head vehemently, your hands clenching the fabric of your freshly mended dress. “I appreciate your kindness, Hongjoong, but you don’t understand. If anyone sees us together, it will only get worse for me. My husband… he's not a kind man. He'll make my life a living hell.”

Hongjoong's expression softened. He reached out as if to comfort you, but then hesitated as you took another step back. “I won’t let anything happen to you, but I understand your fear. At least let me watch and follow you from a distance, to make sure you get home safely.”

You nodded reluctantly. It was late after all, and even though the village was small, you still didn't feel safe walking back alone. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Just… Please, be careful.”

Hongjoong gave you a reassuring nod. “I promise. Just stay close to the path, and I’ll make sure you get home safely.” He led you to the door, and as you stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing against your skin, you felt a sudden sadness overcoming you.

You didn't want to leave. Or moreover: you didn't want to go back. Back to him. 

With a final glance back at Hongjoong, you set off down the path, which was the opposite direction of where you first came to his house from the forest. 

The journey felt shorter than you wanted it to be, and before long, the familiar sight of your house came into view. The windows were dark, a sign that your husband was thankfully still asleep. You stopped at the edge of your property, your heart pounding in your chest as you glanced back at the shadowy figure of Hongjoong standing in the distance.

With a final nod and a slight wave, you turned away and walked up to the door. You opened it as quietly as you could, slipping inside and closing it behind you with a soft click. The house was silent, and only the steady ticking of the clock on the wall could be heard. You held your breath, listening for any sign of movement from your husband.

Silence. Good.

Because silence was always better than his usual rage and violence. 

“This is a good night,” you murmured. You quietly moved to the window, trying to see if Hongjoong was still there.

One last time. I gotta see him just one last time. 

But unfortunately, your kind and pretty stranger was no longer there.

The trees seemed to slowly close in around you. 

The forest surrounding you felt alive, watching, waiting.

A shiver ran down your spine as the sound of rustling leaves echoed ominously through the forest.

Just three more steps. One. Two. Three-

“Y/N?”

“Dear God!”

The sudden movement caused the reason you were here today to dart deeper into the underbrush. “Benji!” you called out, frustration now evident in your frantic voice.

Hongjoong stepped closer. “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. What… are you doing here?”

You sighed. “I'm looking for a little cat. Met the little one last week, shortly before Django attacked me. He was gone afterwards. I've been coming here all week, but it's of no use. Last week he was so trusting, but now… it's so hard to even get close to him.”

The sun was piercing through the trees on this warm Friday evening, and you had to squint your eyes as you looked in the direction Benji ran away. 

“I can't see him anymore,” you said.

Hongjoong’s expression softened. “Do you want some help?” he asked. You nodded, shooting him an appreciative smile. “I’d really like that.”

The two of you moved cautiously, stepping lightly over the forest floor. The silence between you was punctuated only by the occasional crack of a twig or the rustle of leaves.

As you neared the spot where you last saw Benji, Hongjoong held up a hand, signalling for you to stop. He crouched down, peering into the thick bushes.

“There,” he whispered, pointing. “I see him.”

You followed his gaze and spotted the little cat, his eyes wide and alert as he watched you both from the shadows.

“Benji,” you called softly, your voice gentle. “It’s okay, buddy. We’re here to help you.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Benji inched closer, drawn by the sound of your voice. You took a tentative step forward, trying to maintain your balance on the uneven ground. Just as you were about to reach him, your foot slipped into a hidden hole in the forest floor. You stumbled, your ankle twisting painfully as you almost fell.

Behind you, Hongjoong reacted instantly, his strong hand grabbing your arm to steady you. You hissed in pain as his grip tightened around a particularly sore spot.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.

You nodded quickly, trying to brush it off. “Yeah, just twisted my ankle a bit.” You chuckled awkwardly. “It's quite funny, isn't it? I always get hurt when we meet.”

But Hongjoong didn’t let go. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the bruises on your arm, previously hidden by your sleeve. “Y/N… what happened?” he asked, his voice a mix of anger and concern.

You swallowed hard, looking away. “It’s nothing. Just an accident at home.”

He shook his head, his grip gentle but firm. “Y/N, don’t lie to me. Was this… your husband?”

You felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Hongjoong, please. Y-you know I can't talk about it.”

“I know,” he whispered, “But…” 

He didn't continue his sentence. Instead, his eyes found yours, and everything he couldn't say, every single, unspoken emotion you found there, hidden behind those kind, brown orbs. 

And you understood. You understood that if this man had the chance to change your situation, he would do it. Whatever it would take, and all for you. 

A married woman. Practically a stranger still, despite the intimate moment you shared.

In that very moment, you sinned.

And God was your only witness as you fell a little bit for a man that wasn't your husband.

“Meow.”

Benji’s soft meow brought you back to the present. You looked down to see the little cat rubbing against your leg, practically purring his heart out. You reached down, gently scooping the little Grey fur ball up into your arms.

Hongjoong watched you, his expression unreadable to you. “He's still so little. You sure his mother isn't nearby as well?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I've been here to get him every day and haven't seen any other cat here. He seems to be completely alone.”

“Alright then, let’s get him to my home first. We’ll figure something out then.”

You nodded. Without even mentioning, Hongjoong knew you couldn't take him to your own home. 

The path back seemed shorter, perhaps because you weren't alone anymore. Benji fidgeted a lot, but wasn't as much of a trouble as you originally thought. 

When you reached the edge of the forest, the sunlight was brighter, and you could hear the distant sounds of the town.

“I'm glad you don't have any close neighbours.”

“I'm also glad. Because if I did, I wouldn't be able to see you right now Y/N,” he said, and smiled. Oh, that goddamn smile. 

You're not quite sure what it meant, but you felt your heart skip a beat. It was something so beautiful only described in those ‘unholy’ books your mother forbade you to read, but ended up doing anyway. You felt like a young girl again, curious and desperate for love, seeking solace in men that weren't real, but oh so charming.

Men who couldn't hurt you. Couldn't touch any part of your body, only your pure heart.

Yeah, that's how Kim Hongjoong made you feel. With only a smile. 

You felt like you were flying, so free and happy and brave and young again. Like you could conquer the whole world together. 

But Kim Hongjoong wasn't yours. Because in no world could you ever become his.

Stepping foot into his shop was like entering another work, and even though you've already seen his gorgeous dresses, you still looked at them in awe. 

“One day,” you whispered. 

“If you want, you can try a dress on. No one will bother us since the store's closed today.”

You shivered. Hongjoong stood almost right behind you, his warmth radiating off his body.

The temptation to indulge in this small fantasy was strong, but you shook your head. “I couldn’t possibly,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing at all,” Hongjoong replied, his tone gentle yet insistent. “Think of it as a gift. Besides, I could use some help around here.”

Your curiosity piqued and you turned to face him. “Help? With what?”

He gestured to the array of dresses on display. “I’ve been working on some new designs, but I don’t have a proper model to try them on. I use mannequins for display, but it’s not the same. I need someone to see how the dresses move and fit in real life. You can work for me in exchange for taking in Benji. Model my dresses, help me with fittings and adjustments. It’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”

“I'd like that,” you whispered, “it's just… these dresses are made for royalty, not for a woman like… like me, Hongjoong.”

He vehemently shook his head. “You underestimate yourself, Y/N. Just try one on, for me?”

You nodded slowly, and he selected a dress from the rack, a soft, flowing gown in a shade of deep emerald. You took it from him, feeling the weight and texture of the fabric, smooth and luxurious against your skin.

Hongjoong led you to a small changing area behind a curtain. You stepped behind it, your heart pounding. Carefully, you undressed and slipped into the gown. The fabric felt cool and comforting, draping over your body with an unexpected ease. You adjusted the dress, feeling its weight settle around you, and took a deep breath before stepping out.

Hongjoong's reaction was immediate and genuine. His eyes widened, a look of pure admiration spreading across his face. “Y/N,” he breathed, “you look… stunning.”

You blushed, feeling embarrassed yet also undeniably charmed. “I don’t know about that. It feels strange, like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”

“You’re not pretending,” he said softly, stepping closer. “This is you, Y/N. The real you. Sometimes a princess just needs the right dress to feel like one.”

You hesitated, still feeling unsure. “It’s just… I’m not used to this. I feel out of place.”

Hongjoong’s gaze was steady and reassuring, not once taking his eyes off of you. “You belong in this dress, Y/N. Trust me. Walk around a bit, feel the fabric, see how it moves with you.”

You took a tentative step, then another. The dress flowed around you, the fabric whispering against your skin. You turned to look at yourself in the mirror, and for the first time, you saw what Hongjoong saw – a woman who was strong, beautiful, and so, so much more.

“See?” he said softly, standing right behind you. “You’re perfect.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you fought hard to hold them back.

You're perfect.

Oh Hongjoong, you thought, I'm anything but. I'm lost, I'm weak, I'm scared. 

But instead, with his eyes on you, calm and beautiful and so honest looking, all you could mutter was, “Yes. Yes I am.”

He looked at you proudly.

And so, the hours went by, spent with you trying on several more gorgeous dresses and Hongjoong eagerly taking notes and making small changes here and there. 

With each dress you tried on, you felt a little more confident. The first few moments were always awkward, feeling out of place and almost guilty for indulging in this fantasy. But Hongjoong’s constant reassurance and the genuine admiration in his eyes slowly chipped away at your insecurities.

The emerald gown gave way to a sky-blue dress that shimmered in the light. Then a deep burgundy number that made your skin glow. Each dress was a work of art, and each time you emerged from behind the curtain, Hongjoong’s reaction was the same – pure, unadulterated admiration.

“You’re like a vision,” he murmured as you twirled in a pale pink gown. “These dresses come to life on you.”

By the time you tried on the final dress, a stunning midnight blue creation with delicate silver embroidery, you felt like a different person. The woman in the mirror was confident, elegant, and yes, perfect.

Like the princess from your book coming straight to life.

“You must be exhausted,” Hongjoong hummed, helping you step down the small podium, “go ahead and change while I fetch you something to drink, okay?”

“Okay.”

You slipped back behind the curtain. As you changed out of the midnight blue gown into your ordinary clothes, you felt the weight of reality slowly setting in again. 

Looking outside and seeing the sun slowly disappearing meant you head to return home.

Hongjoong returned with a glass of water and a soft smile. “Here you go,” he said, handing you the drink. “You did amazing today, Y/N. Thank you for helping me.”

You took the glass gratefully, feeling the cool water soothe your parched throat. “I'm glad I could be of help.”

“Alright, same day and time next week?” he asked.

Without wasting a second, you agreed. “Yes. I'll be there, Hongjoong.”

Wherever there was light, the lurking darkness was never far away, and you realised that pretty early on.

Even before Hongjoong stumbled into your life, you noticed something. Your husband wasn't coming home after getting off work, instead opting to spend his free time in the town's tavern or with his various affair partners.

And to be honest, you didn't mind.

Instead, you were happy about it. So so happy.

That is, until the townspeople started talking. Ruthlessly. And not about your abusive, alcoholic and cheating husband; no, about you - the ‘bad, sinning wife.’

The wife who couldn't be obedient enough. The wife who couldn't give him children. 

It was unbearable. Their words stung and hurt you deeply, but they were true.

…Right?

Your childhood and adolescence were spent learning about your future duties as a wife. Taking care of the house, obeying your husband without question, birthing his children and believing in God and his good deeds.

And you failed all these duties, so you deserved to be frowned upon. 

Even your own family thought so, too.

The only person who didn't was Kim Hongjoong, who was currently working on a purple gown you stood model for just a few minutes ago.

If he noticed how quiet you were today, he didn't mention it. 

“How does it look?” he asked, glancing up at you shyly, like your opinion truly mattered to him.

“It’s beautiful,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. The gown was stunning, but that was to be expected of him. But today, even his pretty dresses couldn't cheer you up.

He nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “It's even prettier when you're wearing it, Y/N.”

You blushed previously, but only managed a small smile in return, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thank you, Hongjoong. I just… I’m not feeling very well today.”

Hongjoong set his needle and thread aside, his full attention now on you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The genuine concern in his voice was almost your undoing. You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your finger nestling with the fabric of your shabby dress. “It’s nothing, really. Just… the usual gossip in town.”

His expression darkened slightly. “People can be cruel. You don’t deserve that.”

“Maybe I do,” you said quietly, looking away. “Maybe they’re right.”

“No,” Hongjoong said firmly, stepping closer. “They’re not right. You don’t deserve to be treated like this. You’re strong, and kind, and… you deserve so much more than what you’ve been given.”

A sob escaped your lips and you hid your face behind your hands, unable to face Hongjoong's eyes.

“H-how did you deal with this all alone? I can't… I don't even wanna leave my house anymore. The looks they give me, their words… It hurts so much, but I know they're right. I know that I-”

“What could you have possibly done wrong, Y/N?” Hongjoong cut you off, and for the first time since you've known him, he'd raised his voice, and you flinched, because anger could only ever mean one thing and soon his hands would-

His hands slowly took yours into his own, and instead of hurting you, they caressed you carefully as tears fell down your cheeks.

“I'm a bad wife, Hongjoong…”

He vehemently shook his head, his hands gripping your own tighter. “No, Y/N. You're not a bad wife. He is a bad husband.”

“Do you believe in God, Hongjoong?” you quietly asked.

He visibly tensed up, avoiding all eye contact. 

“It's okay,” you quickly reassured him, “I know in my religion it's a sin not believing, but since I'm also struggling… I really have no room to judge you for not believing in God. I also had my suspicions already, since you're one of the only people in town who doesn't attend Sunday mass.”

Hongjoong's shoulders relaxed a little, though he still seemed wary. "I don't know what I believe anymore," he admitted. "But I do know this: no god worth believing in would want you to suffer in a marriage like this.”

“I- please don't say that. God is good, he knows all, and if I am getting punished t-then that means that I deserve it! There's a verse... ah, God, a-according to... to Ephesians 5:22-24, ‘Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is head of the wife, as also Christ is head of the church; and He is the Savior of the body. Therefore, just as the church is subject to Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything’.”

Hongjoong sighed, his expression a mix of both frustration and empathy. “Y/N, I understand that those verses have been drilled into you, but what about the rest of it? The parts that speak about love and respect?”

You looked down, your hands trembling slightly. “I’ve tried to love and respect him, but nothing I do is ever enough.”

“That’s because he should give you the same love and respect in return, yet he doesn't,” Hongjoong said softly. “A true marriage should be a partnership, where both people uplift and support each other. What you have isn’t that.”

“But what if God is just testing me to see if my faith in him is strong enough? And I'm clearly failing him because I'm weak and… and… oh God.” You started sobbing uncontrollably again.

Hongjoong wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you cried. He spoke softly, his voice steady and reassuring. "Y/N, if God is testing you, it’s not to see you suffer but to help you find your strength. And strength doesn’t mean staying in a place where you are being hurt. Strength is knowing when to stand up for yourself and seek the life you deserve."

You clung to him like a child to its mother, your tears soaking his shirt. "I don’t know if I can do that. I’ve never known anything else.”

“You asked me if I believed in God,” he reluctantly began, “and… it's complicated. I do believe in something, like a higher power that none of us can truly grasp, but… I don't believe in the Christian God. Or any other religion's God for that matter. Because to me, believing in something shouldn't come with any rules. Yet all religions do it, and I just… I think that's wrong. They label anything that they aren't comfortable with immediately as bad. I learned that the hard way.”

You pulled back slightly, looking at him with curiosity through your tear-streaked eyes. "What do you mean?"

Hongjoong sighed, his eyes distant as he recalled. "I was… different growing up. I didn’t fit the stereotype that everyone expected. I was more interested in art and fashion than in the traditional roles laid out for men in our community. I grew up in a small religious city just like you and because of that, I faced a lot of judgement. I was labelled a sinner, a bad person, just like you are now. But what truly opened my eyes was when I met two men whom I quickly grew close with. Well… they were in love with each other, and the people from my town… they planned to kill them. By publicly executing them. That night, the three of us ran away, and I haven't been back since.”

“What I also wanna say,” he added before you could speak, “is that if you truly believe in the Christian God and it makes you happy you should never give up your faith. But Y/N… you're not happy, not with your religion and definitely not with your marriage.”

Deep down, you knew he was right. But that also meant that your whole life, your whole upbringing was nothing but a lie. Nothing but pure manipulation. 

And you weren't ready to admit that yet.

He held you for what felt like hours, humming soft melodies and caressing your back over and over again.

“I'm sorry,” you said, your words muffled in his shirt, “I'm sorry for not being able to choose the right path yet.”

“Oh, you silly woman.” he laughed and squeezed you tightly again, “don't you dare apologise for taking your time.”

“Okay,” you hiccuped, wiping your tears away, “I'm sorry for apologising- Oh God, I just did it again.”

Hongjoong chuckled softly, his laughter mixing with your own, lightening the heavy mood. 

After a while, he backed up, and you immediately started missing his arms around you. “Hey, I know you're not feeling too well today, but there's something I wanna do. Something for… for you.”

“For me?” you asked surprised.

“Yeah. You only stood model for dresses that needed nothing but slight retouching, but… I wanna do a dress specifically for you.”

“For me?” you repeated, disbelief colouring your voice. “You’d make a dress just for me?”

Hongjoong smiled warmly, nodding. “Yes, just for you. You're like my muse, Y/N. You give me so many ideas.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt your cheeks flaring up. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Hongjoong replied gently. “Just let me do this for you.”

You hesitated, then nodded slowly, trusting this man completely. “Okay.”

Hongjoong’s face lit up with pure excitement. “Great! Come, I have some ideas already.”

He led you into one of the rooms behind the shop. You quickly saw this was the place where he worked, full of mannequins, fabrics and more. He quickly set to work, pulling out fabrics and sketching designs into a sketchbook. His enthusiasm was infectious, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a flicker of genuine happiness.

“Do you have any preferences?” Hongjoong asked, looking up from his sketches. “A colour you love, a style you’ve always wanted to try?”

You thought for a moment. “I’ve always loved blue,” you admitted. “It reminds me of the sky, the sea… freedom.”

Hongjoong’s smile widened. “Blue it is, then. I can already see you in it, it suits you.”

As Hongjoong started working, you watched him silently in awe. His hands moved with precision and grace, his focus unwavering. It was clear that this truly was his passion, and he poured his heart into every stitch.

Hours passed, but there was still much to do. The room was filled with the soothing sound of fabric rustling and the rhythmic click of scissors. Hongjoong occasionally asked for your opinion, and after a while, Benji joined too, placing himself onto your lap and purring so loudly it made Hongjoong lose focus several times.

When the sun started slowly disappearing, it meant the end of your weekly session. “We made good progress today,” Hongjoong said, smiling. “Let's continue next week.”

When you returned home that day, the smile Hongjoong put on your face still hadn't left your face, not even when you saw the mess in your house or your husband passed out on the couch, completely wasted. Instead, you quietly started cleaning, all your worries and problems elsewhere because at that very moment, all you could think of was a certain man named Kim Hongjoong. 

And how you wished that, in another world, he could be your husband instead.

The next weeks seemed to drag on endlessly, each and every day filled with the same monotonous routine. Your husband’s drinking worsened, and the church, which had once been your one and only safe space, was slowly turning into a place you started to resent more and more each day, because every pair that laid its eyes on you was not viewing you with any kindness, but judgement, and the shame, the utter humiliation you felt was steadily becoming too much to handle. Yet, you reminded yourself that you did have something to look forward to: seeing Hongjoong once a week.

Every session with Hongjoong was a reprieve from the relentless condemnation you faced in the town. His shop became your sanctuary, a place where you could be yourself without fear of judgement. He was always there with a warm smile and a listening ear, making you feel valued and understood in a way you hadn't felt in years.

In a way not even family or close friends could.

One afternoon, as you entered his shop, you were greeted by Hongjoong slumped over his desk, sound asleep with both fabric and needles still in his hands.

You quietly walked over, careful not to startle him. Gently, you took the fabric and needles from his hands, setting them aside. You noticed dark circles under his eyes and the way his clothes hung loosely on his frame, signs of the toll his hard work and sleepless nights were taking on him.

Behind you, Benji made a sound, jumping on the table and staring at his owner.

“Your daddy is a little foolish for overworking himself, am I right baby?” you said, quietly chuckling as Benji laid his head in your outstretched hand. He didn't pay his owner any mind.

Hongjoong stirred at the sound of your voice, blinking awake. When he saw you, a sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Y/N, I'm sorry. I must have dozed off.”

“Don't apologise,” you replied softly, still occupied with petting Benji. “You need to take better care of yourself, Joongie. You've been working too hard.”

He blushed at the nickname you called him, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “I just… wanted everything to be perfect for you.”

“Perfection can wait,” you said gently. “Your health can't.”

He nodded, looking genuinely touched by your concern. “I'll try to rest more. I promise.”

Benji meowed softly, seemingly agreeing with you, and you couldn't help but laugh. “Even Benji thinks so.”

“I'm pretty sure Benji would agree to everything his mommy would say, he practically worships the ground you walk on,” Hongjoong chuckled, reaching out to scratch the needy cat behind the ears. At your insistent gaze, he reluctantly agreed: “Alright, alright. I'll take it easy.”

“Good,” you said, smiling. “Now, how about some tea? It looks like you could use a break.”

Hongjoong nodded appreciatively. “That sounds wonderful.”

You made your way to the small kitchenette in the back of the shop, preparing two cups of tea. As the water boiled, you glanced back at Hongjoong, who was now petting Benji and looking more relaxed. It warmed your heart to see him taking a moment for himself.

When the tea was ready, you brought the cups over to the table and handed one to Hongjoong. He took a sip, closing his eyes as he savoured the warmth. “Thank you, Y/N. This is just what I needed.”

“You do so much for me, let me tend to you once in a while too,” you said.

You both sat in comfortable silence for a while, respectively sipping your tea. After a few moments, Hongjoong broke the silence. “I've been thinking a lot lately,” he began, his voice tentative. “About what you said last time, about the church and how they've been treating you.”

You looked up from your tea, meeting his eyes. “What about it?”

“I've seen how much it's been weighing on you, and it breaks my heart,” he said, his gaze sincere. “But as a mere villager, my hands are bound, although I wish it would be different. Do you think… Do you think it would help if I would accompany you to Sunday mass? Of course separately, but maybe… maybe that could be of help to you.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the sound almost deafening in the quiet of the room. His offer sent waves of emotions crashing through you.

No one had ever been this kind, this lovely to you, especially a man.

You stared at him, momentarily speechless, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm, comforting blanket. He wanted to help you, to stand by you in a place that had become a source of pain and humiliation, for the both of you. He cared enough to offer a hand in a situation he knew he had no control over, and the realisation hit you like a bolt of lightning.

You glanced down at your cup, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and tried to steady your breathing. You had always known that Hongjoong was different, that he was shunned for being different, and that he had a kindness and understanding that was rare in this judgmental town. But now, as you sat there with him, you also realised something else: your feelings for him ran deeper than you had allowed yourself to acknowledge.

Million thoughts swirled in your mind. How could you feel this way about him when you were still bound to a man who had long since stopped caring for you? Your duty as a wife was to be loyal to your husband till death do you apart, and you failed. Miserably. Was it fair to Hongjoong, who had done nothing but support and uplift you, to be dragged into your complicated, painful life? 

No. He deserved a woman who could give him everything he wanted, and that definitely wasn't you. You couldn't even give him your hand in marriage.

And yet, despite the confusion and the guilt, there was an undeniable truth you couldn't ignore: you were falling for him. 

He was the prince you long had hoped you'd find, but you weren't his princess.

You thought back to all the times he had been there for you, his gentle words and warm smiles, the way he listened to you without judgement, making you feel seen and heard. His dedication to his craft, his passion for creating beauty in a world that often seemed devoid of it, mirrored the passion he had for helping you and any living being he encountered. It was this combination of compassion and creativity, of understanding and resilience, that drew you to him like a moth to a flame.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked back at him, his concerned expression making your heart ache. 

He had no idea what was going on inside your head, and in this very moment you made a promise to yourself: the feelings you harboured for this beautiful, perfect man would be kept a secret forever. You would take them with you to your very death.

You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “Hongjoong,” you began, your voice trembling, “I... I don't know what to say. Your offer means the world to me. Truly.”

“But?” he asked, knowing you weren't quite done talking yet.

“I have to decline. I'm not gonna stand by and watch you going into a church you clearly don't want to go to. There's no reason for you to do so,” you said firmly.

“But there is a reason,” he whispered, his fingers slowly drawing patterns on the palm of your hand. You had to take your eyes off him. “You. You are the reason.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and the room seemed to blur around you as his words echoed in your mind. You. You are the reason. How could someone so selfless, so kind, want to sacrifice his comfort for yours? The weight of his sincerity bore down on you, making it difficult to breathe. You wanted to believe that you could accept his offer, lean on him without reservation, but the reality of your situation loomed large and impossible to ignore.

Tears welled up in your eyes again, threatening to spill over. You couldn’t let him do this. You couldn’t let him tie himself to your miseries and your complicated life. He deserved so much more.

But knowing Kim Hongjoong, he wouldn't accept no for an answer, and so you said quietly, “I'll think about it.”

He smiled brightly at you, his hand finding yours and squeezing it tightly. Your wedding ring was an uncomfortable reminder of the future this bond of yours would hold in the future.

Suddenly, Hongjoong's eyes lit up with a familiar spark of excitement. “I think it's time for you to see it,” he said, standing up with renewed energy. 

“See what? The dress?! You're already finished?!”

Instead of answering, he led you to the back of the shop, where a tall, covered mannequin stood. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled away the cloth, revealing a dress so exquisite it took your breath away.

The gown was a deep, saturated blue that shimmered like the ocean under a sky full of shining stars. The bodice was intricately embroidered with silver thread, forming delicate patterns of stars and swirling vines. The neckline was elegant and modest, dipping just enough to be flattering without being revealing. The sleeves were long and fitted, ending in graceful points that brushed against the tip of your hands, embroidered with the same silver designs that already adorned the bodice.

The skirt flowed from the waist in cascading layers of silk and tulle, creating a voluminous yet ethereal effect. Each layer was edged with even more silver embroidery. The back of the dress featured a row of tiny, delicate buttons that ran from the nape of the neck to the small of the back, adding a touch of old-world charm.

You gasped, unable to fathom what you were seeing. “Hongjoong, it’s... it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His entire being seemed to relax as a delicate reddish colour adorned his cheeks. “Thank God you like it, it would've been worthless if not.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you reached out to touch the dress, your fingers trembling slightly. “Thank you, Joongie. I don’t know what to say.”

He smiled gently. “How about trying it on? I’d love to see you in it - No, I need to see you in it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Hongjoong carefully lifted the gown from the mannequin and handed it to you. You stepped behind the changing screen, the luxurious fabric feeling cool and smooth against your skin.

As you tried to change into the gown, you realised just how intricate it truly was. The buttons down the back were nearly impossible to fasten on your own, and the delicate fabric seemed to slip through your fingers. You struggled with the fastenings, your frustration obvious as you fidgeted with each and every button like a little child.

“Hongjoong,” you called out softly, your voice trembling. “I think I might need some help.”

He was at your side in an instant, sending your heart into a frenzy. 

So close.

Too close? 

No, not close enough.

“Of course, let me help you.” His fingers moved carefully over the buttons, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of intimacy as he worked, his hands warm and steady against your back.

When the last button was fastened, he stepped back, his eyes wide with admiration. “Y/N, you look... absolutely stunning.”

You stepped out from behind the screen, feeling like you had stepped into a fairy tale. The dress fit perfectly, accentuating your figure perfectly and complimenting every unique feature of yours. You twirled slightly, the skirt flowing around you like a dream.

Not once did Hongjoong’s eyes leave you. “It’s perfect,” he murmured. “You’re perfect.”

Your blush deepened as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. The dress was everything you had ever dreamed of and more.

As you moved, you felt the cool brush of the fabric against your bare skin, a sensation that made you acutely aware of your body in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Just seconds before, Hongjoong’s hands had lingered on your back, and the memory of his touch sent a jolt of both pleasure and guilt through you. The touch of a man, one who truly cared for you, was something you hadn’t realised how much you really had craved until now. 

“I feel like a princess,” you whispered. You didn't notice a tear streaming down your check until Hongjoong carefully cupped your face and wiped it away. 

“Would the princess like to dance with me?” he sheepishly asked, sending a playful wink your way that made you both laugh and blush.

You managed a smile through your tears. “Yes, I would love that.”

Hongjoong’s eyes sparkled with joy as he extended his hand to you. You placed your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. He led you to the centre of the room, where he gently placed his other hand on your waist, the contact sending a shiver down your spine.

For a moment, you both stood there, simply enjoying the shared closeness. Then, slowly, he began to guide you in a swift motion, your movements mirroring each other with an ease that felt almost magical.

The dress flowed around you as you twirled. Hongjoong's eyes never once left yours, his gaze filled with a mixture of undying bliss and something deeper, something you were almost afraid to name.

“My husband never danced with me, not even on our wedding day,” you said.

Hongjoong’s expression softened, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he led you in another gentle turn. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

You looked up at him, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “Hongjoong, I…”

He shook his head slightly, stopping your words with a gentle smile. “You don’t have to say anything, Y/N. Just… let’s enjoy this moment. Let’s pretend, even if it’s just for a little while, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with emotion as you followed his lead, the two of you moving together in perfect harmony. In his arms, the weight of your troubles seemed to lift, if only for a brief moment. The dress, the dance, the soft glow of the afternoon light filtering through the shop’s windows - it all felt like a scene from your favourite romance books.

You and Hongjoong were lost in the moment, the world around you fading into the background as you danced together. His hand on your waist, the warmth of his touch, the way his eyes never left yours - it was all so perfect, so right, like nothing else in your entire life.

Just as Hongjoong spun you gracefully, a voice shattered your beautiful moment. “Well, what do we have here?”

You both froze, turning to see an elderly woman standing in the doorway, her sharp eyes fixed on you. You didn’t recognize her, but there was an unmistakable air of authority surrounding her. Hongjoong stiffened beside you, his hand dropping from your waist as he quickly took a step back.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said, his voice stern but polite. “What brings you here?”

Mrs. Lee’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene, her gaze lingering on your flushed cheeks and the way you were anxiously clenching the skirt of the beautiful dress. “I’ve been looking for you, Hongjoong. We need to talk about my daughter.”

Your heart sank, and a wave of terror washed over you. You quickly stepped away from Hongjoong, trying to compose yourself.

“I… I should go,” you stammered, avoiding Mrs. Lee’s piercing gaze. “Thank you for everything, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong reached out, his hand gently touching your arm. “Y/N, wait-”

Mrs. Lee’s voice cut through the tension. “Hongjoong, I’ve been very patient with you. My daughter, Sooyeon, is a good match for you, and it’s time you stop dilly-dallying and make a decision.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone measured. “Mrs. Lee, I’ve told you before, I’m not ready for marriage.”

Mrs. Lee scoffed, her eyes flicking to you with clear disdain. “Not ready for marriage, yet you have time for… this?” She gestured between the two of you, her meaning unmistakable.

You felt a flush of shame and panic. “This isn’t what it looks like. I'm a married woman,” you began, but Mrs. Lee cut you off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Save your breath, young lady. I know exactly what this is. And believe me, the town and your husband will hear about it!”

The threat hung heavy in the air, and you could see the worry etched on Hongjoong’s face. You almost fainted at the panic that rushed over you. He stepped forward, placing himself slightly between you and Mrs. Lee. “There’s no need for threats, Mrs. Lee. Y/N and I were just… discussing some alterations for her dress.”

Mrs. Lee raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Discussing alterations, were you? In each other’s arms?”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to respond, but you couldn’t bear it any longer. “Please, Mrs. Lee,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s not what you think.”

I don't wanna die. 

I don't wanna die.

She looked at you, her lips forming into a cold smile. “I’ll keep this quiet - for now. But only if Hongjoong agrees to meet with my daughter. Alone.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mrs. Lee replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Think about it, Hongjoong. Both your reputation is on the line here.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the ultimatum pressing down on all three of you. Finally, Hongjoong sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine. I’ll meet with Sooyeon.”

Mrs. Lee’s smile was triumphant. “Good. I’ll expect you at my house tomorrow evening.”

With that, she turned and left the shop, leaving you and Hongjoong standing in shocked silence. You could feel the tears welling up, the reality of the situation crashing down around you.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Hongjoong shook his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and sadness. “It’s not your fault, Y/N. None of this is.”

You wanted to believe him, but the guilt and fear were overwhelming. “I should go,” you said.

Hongjoong tried to stop you, but you rushed behind the curtain and hastily took the dress off. Finally, in your normal clothes again, Hongjoong tried to get ahold of you, but you took off in such a hurry he couldn't even open his mouth and practically sprinted out the open door.

“Y/N, wait,” he called after you, but you were already out the door, the tears streaming down your face. As you hurried home, you could only hope that Mrs. Lee would keep her word, because if not, there was a real possibility you would be dead real soon.

And the man you loved as well.

Your family's stall at the weekly market was as busy as ever. The familiar hustle and bustle of vendors calling out their wares and customers bartering for the best deals filled the air. You tried to focus on helping your mother arrange the vegetables, but your mind kept drifting away. 

“Y/N, are you alright?” your mother asked, her brow furrowed with concern as she noticed your distracted state.

You forced a smile. “Yes, mama. Just tired, I guess.”

She took off her gloves and took your face into her callused hands. Your body immediately relaxed at your mother's touch, while your mind was spiralling. 

“I should've never let your father marry you off to this douchebag,” she tearfully exclaimed.

Ah. There it was. The lies.

You knew your mother had always harboured guilt about your marriage, but it wasn't fair for her to carry the blame. It was a decision made by your father, and you had gone along with it, hoping for the best. But the weight of her words only added to the turmoil inside you. Her attempts at comfort now seemed hollow, given how often she had turned a blind eye to your suffering.

“It's not your fault, Mama,” you said gently, placing your hand over hers. “You couldn't have known how things would turn out.”

She sighed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I just want you to be happy, Y/N. You deserve so much more than this.”

Her words stung. Where was this concern when you needed it most? When your cries for help went unheard?

While your father and older sisters didn't even pretend to care, your mother did - in a way. Yet never enough to actually help.

Maybe blaming her was too much. You knew that without your father's approval she couldn't do anything. After all, she was just a woman like you, trapped in a time where all you could do was listen and obey the men in your lives.

Yet it hurt. So much. Sometimes, all you wanted was to return to better times. Back in your mother's lap, laughing with your sisters while she told stories about love and worlds too perfect for your understanding. 

You were the last unmarried child remaining in your parents house. All your sisters were married off to good, somewhat wealthy husbands, either already with child and or waiting to be blessed with the fruit of life. All was well, until your father's business began to lose some serious money. He grew desperate to maintain the family's status, and in his desperation, he had accepted the first marriage proposal that came your way - no matter the man behind it. 

While all your sisters were given away to live in good, wealthy living households like the one you grew up in, your husband was working in a factory, barely making enough to support himself, yet alone a wife and future offspring. 

On top of that, he didn't even hide the fact how he was treating you. Your family knew. The town knew. Yet no one really cared, because you were now nothing but a poor, lowly woman.

And so, you became an outcast in your own family. You were the sister who had married below her status, the daughter who had brought shame to the family name. Your father, once proud and authoritative, could hardly look at you without a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes. Your sisters, though affectionate in public, whispered behind your back, their words filled with pity and disdain.

Your mother's concern, when it did come, was always in private. She would hold you and cry, promising that she had tried to convince your father to wait for a better match, that she had tried fighting for you. But where was she when you needed her most? When you had begged her to intervene, to stop the marriage, she had been silent. When you had showed up late at night with wounds serious enough to kill, she sent you right back home. And now, her tears felt like salt in an old, festering wound.

But while your mother had her faults, she was really the only family member you could really confide in. So, you took a deep, steady breath and turned to her with a determined expression. “Mom, there's something I need to tell you. Siwoo… Siwoo's-”

“Y/N,” she cut you off, “Don't slander your husband's name in front of me.”

“Mom, please-”

“Enough! We're in public!” she hissed, glancing around nervously.

You bit your lip, the words dying in your throat. The market's noise seemed to close in around you, a suffocating reminder of the ever-watchful eyes of the townspeople. You had learned long ago that your cries for help would only fall on deaf ears or, worse, invite further scrutiny and gossip.

So you swallowed your pain and simply nodded. “Yes, Mama. I'm sorry.”

She looked at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of regret and helplessness. “Let's finish up here. We'll talk later at home. Could you deliver the usual supplies to Mrs. Goo? You know the old lady can't walk anymore, but she pays us well. Your sister's too busy with the children to do it herself.”

You nodded again, grateful for the distraction. As you gathered the supplies and made your way through the busy market, you tried to steady your nerves. The fresh air and distance from the stall helped clear your mind a bit, but your conversation with your mother still pressed down on you.

She didn't even try to listen to you.

Navigating the crowded paths, you marvel at the sights and sounds of the market: the colourful array of various products, the lively chatter of people, the smell of freshly baked bread. It was a small reprieve from everything, yet it didn't keep your mind occupied for long. 

Turning a corner, you nearly bumped into Hongjoong, who was accompanied by Mrs. Lee's daughter, Sooyeon. The first thing you noticed was how awkward he seemed with her, keeling the woman at arms length, a stark contrast to how natural and at ease he was when he was with you.

“I'm really bad with women,” he said, clearly embarrassed. 

You chuckled. “I don't believe you. You act so natural and nonchalant when you're with me! Does that mean I'm not a real woman in your eyes? you teasingly asked.

His expression turned serious. “Of course I see you as a woman. But… everything feels easy when it comes to you.”

“Hongjoong!” you exclaimed, surprised.

You hadn't seen each other for a month now, but if he had something to say about you avoiding him, he didn't speak on it.

His eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his smile was somewhat strained. “Y/N, it's good to see you.”

Sooyeon glanced between the two of you, a curious look on her face. “Hello, Y/N. How are you?” she asked, her tone polite but detached.

“I'm well, thank you. Just running some errands for my mother,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. You could sense the tension in Hongjoong's stance, the way he seemed almost relieved to see you yet burdened by Sooyeon's presence.

“Oh, look at those flowers! They’re so pretty!” Sooyeon suddenly exclaimed, her attention captured by a nearby stall. She moved toward the vibrant display, leaving you and Hongjoong a few moments alone.

Hongjoong let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Y/N, I’ve missed seeing-”

Your whole demeanour changed. Now, you thought, now's the only chance I got.

“Joong, I need your help,” you urgently whispered.

He glanced over at Sooyeon, ensuring she was still distracted. “How can I?...”

You clasped his hands with all the strength left in you. “He's gonna kill me. Tonight. H-he… he bought a gun. He's going to kill me and there's nothing I can do!” you sobbed.

Hongjoong's eyes widened in alarm, and he squeezed your hands reassuringly. “Y/N, we have to get you out of there. Do you have anywhere safe to go?”

You shook your head, panic making your thoughts race. “No, I have nowhere. I can't go back to my parents. They won't help.”

He looked around, his mind clearly racing as well. “We’ll figure something out. But first, you need to stay calm. We don’t want to draw any attention.”

“Please, Hongjoong, I’m so scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

He nodded firmly. “I know, but you’re not alone. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

Sooyeon returned, holding a bouquet of vibrant flowers. “Aren’t these lovely?” she asked, oblivious to the tension.

Oblivious to the fact that in just a few hours, you would be dead. Literally gone. Irradiaticated from the world.

He forced a smile. “They are, Sooyeon.”

You took a step back, the moment of closeness slipping away. “I should get going. Take care, Hongjoong. And you too, Soo Yeon.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” Hongjoong said, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer.

I'll be coming to your house later, his eyes said.

And I'll be waiting for you, Kim Hongjoong, you answered, before turning around and walking away.

You wondered if you would ever see the man you loved again. Because if he wasn't fast enough, all he would see was your dead body on the cold floor.

The clock you'd usually hear ticking in the background now lay broken on the floor, just like everything else in this godforsaken home.

In his rage this morning, Siwoo had left nothing, beating your home and your body until nothing but a mess was left behind.

Quietly, you sat in the corner of the room, your breath shallow and uneven. You waited.

And while you did, you asked yourself one last question: how would you face your death?

Would you face it fiercely, staring it directly in the eye, brave and unwavering? The thought appealed to you, the idea of going down with defiance and dignity. But the truth was, you didn't feel brave. You felt small and terrified, a helpless pawn in a cruel game, played by a man who created his own evil rules. The bruises on your body, the scars on your soul, they only told a story of survival, not of courage.

Would you cry, beg for mercy while already knowing that there was nothing saving you from this cruel fate? Your tears had dried up long ago, replaced by a numbing acceptance. You had begged before, pleaded for mercy in both whispers and screams, but Siwoo's cruelty knew no bounds. He thrived on your pain, feeding on your despair. You learned that begging would only fuel his sadistic pleasure.

Or would you smile and take its hand, leaving this world knowing that this life was all you had, that there was no use grieving it no more? This life, filled with suffering and loss, had hardly been spent well. But in the midst of all the darkness, there were fleeting moments of light - memories of laughter with your sisters, the warmth of your mother's embrace, the gentle kindness of Hongjoong. Perhaps those moments were enough to justify a smile, a final act of defiance against a life that had sought to break you.

There was no time for an answer. The door creaked open, and Siwoo stepped in, his eyes cold and merciless. 

You could almost feel death’s cold breath on your neck with his arrival. 

He approached slowly, savouring the fear he thought he saw in your eyes. "Ready for round two?" he sneered, raising a hand to strike you again.

But something inside you snapped. Perhaps it was the realisation that you had nothing left to lose, or perhaps it was the flicker of defiance that had always burned within you, hidden beneath layers of pain and submission. As his hand came down, you moved.

With a speed and strength born of desperation, you grabbed the broken clock from the floor and swung it at him. The sound of shattering glass and metal was followed by his roar of pain as the clock connected with his head. He stumbled back, blood streaming down his face, his eyes wide with shock.

“You bitch!” he screamed, lunging at you. But you were ready. You dodged his attack and grabbed a shard of broken glass from the floor. The sharp edge bit into your palm, but you didn't care. You had only one thought: survival.

As he came at you again, you thrust the glass into his side. He howled in agony, doubling over. You didn't stop. You couldn't stop. You pulled the glass out and stabbed him again, and again, each thrust fueled by years of pent-up fear, anger, and pain.

He fell to the floor, clutching at his wounds, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You stood over him, your chest heaving, blood dripping from your hands. For a moment, you simply watched him, your heart pounding in your ears.

“Y/N,” he rasped, his voice weak and broken. “Please…”

But there was no mercy left in you. You raised the glass one final time and- 

A hand grabbed yours. You immediately knew it wasn't your husband's, because he would never touch you like this, all soft and careful.

“Y/N,” the voice said, “Don't do it. Don't ever be like him.”

He gently pried the glass shard from your hand, his touch tender but firm. You fell into his arms, the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. His embrace was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the violence you had just endured. He held you close, murmuring soothing words you couldn't quite make out over the sound of your own sobs.

“It's okay, it's over,” he whispered, his hand stroking your hair. “I'm here now.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his shirt. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a glimmer of hope. Hongjoong was here. Your Hongjoong was here. You weren't alone anymore.

It could've been the end, but the moment was short-lived. 

Siwoo, with a last surge of strength, lunged at you both. His fist connected with Hongjoong's face, sending him sprawling to the floor. His punches were relentless, each blow harder than the last, and you screamed for him to stop. But he wouldn't, he couldn't. He was beyond reason, lost in his own madness. Siwoo turned to you, his eyes blazing with fury. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking you to your feet.

“You think you can get away with this?” he snarled. “You're nothing but a woman, Y/N. My woman! I can do whatever I want with you!”

You struggled relentlessly against his grip, the pain in your scalp sharp and blinding. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Hongjoong trying to get up, blood trickling from his nose. Siwoon turned his attention towards your lover.

In that split second, you remembered the gun. The one Siwoo had bought. It was in the bedroom, just a few steps away. You had to get to it. You had to end this.

With a surge of adrenaline, you twisted in Siwoo's grasp, breaking free. You stumbled towards the bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest. You could hear Siwoo's footsteps behind you, his curses filling the air.

You burst into the bedroom and saw the gun on the nightstand. Your hands trembled as you grabbed it, turning just in time to see Siwoo barreling towards you, yanking Hongjoong with him. You raised the gun, your finger now laying directly on the trigger.

“Get away from him!” you screamed, your voice shaking.

Siwoo paused, a twisted grin spreading across his face. “You think you can scare me with that?”

Your hands steadied, and you took a deep breath. You locked eyes with your man for a second. “You're right, Hongjoong. I'm not like him. I'm worse.”

The first shot rang out, deafening in the small room. Siwoo's eyes widened in shock as the bullet hit him. You didn't stop. You couldn't. You fired again, and again, each shot a release of years of pain and fear and rage.

Siwoo collapsed to the floor, his body twitching one last time, blood pooling around him. You stood over him, the gun still in your hands, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

He was dead. You dropped the gun and turned to Hongjoong, who was struggling to sit up. You rushed to his side, cradling his face in your hands.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, tears streaming down your face.

He nodded weakly, his eyes filled with pain but also relief. “I am. But you aren't.”

It wasn't a question, yet you shook your head. You laughed, and Hongjoong looked at you like you were crazy. Maybe you were. 

“I've never felt this good,” you whispered, “because now I can do this.”

Careful to not hurt him further, you took his face into your hands. He was all bloody, but nonetheless beautiful.

And then, you pressed your lips onto his, desperate and hungry and so, so much more.

Hongjoong responded, his arms wrapping around you despite the pain. He held you close, pouring all his love and reassurance into the kiss. When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily.

But as the adrenaline faded, reality started to set in. The room was a mess, the evidence of the struggle all around you. The sight of Siwoo's lifeless body, the blood on the floor, and the gun still warm in your hand triggered a rising panic within you.

You started to hyperventilate, your breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps. “What have I done? Hongjoong, what have I done?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Hongjoong cupped your face in his hands, trying to calm you down. “Y/N, look at me. Focus on me. We need to think clearly.”

But it was too late. The full weight of what had just happened crashed down on you. You screamed, a raw, primal sound that echoed through the house. You fell to the floor, clutching your head, rocking back and forth as the horror of the situation consumed you.

Hongjoong knelt beside you, trying to soothe you, but his own panic was beginning to surface. “Y/N, please, we need to stay calm. We need to make a plan.”

His words barely registered through the fog that clouded your brain. Your cries grew louder, more desperate, as you struggled to comprehend the violence you had just unleashed.

“My angel, my love”, he pleaded with you, “listen to me. You have to listen to what I-”

In the distance, you both heard the sound of approaching footsteps and voices. Many approaching footsteps and noises. The shots had already alerted the people, and they were coming to investigate. The panic in Hongjoong's eyes matched your own as he realised the danger you were in.

“Y/N, listen to me,” he said urgently, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you lightly to get your attention. “We don't have much time. They're coming.”

Through your tears, you managed to focus on him. “What do we do, Hongjoong? What do we do?!”

His mind raced as he formulated a plan. It was desperate and dangerous, but it was the only way he could think to protect you. He picked up the gun and looked at you with a pained expression. “Y/N, I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?”

You nodded without hesitation. “I-i do, Joongie. Of course I do! But don't you dare try to endang-”

Before you could protest further, he aimed the gun right at your leg and pulled the trigger. The pain was immediate and excruciating, a burning agony that shot through your body. You screamed, collapsing to the floor, clutching your wounded leg.

Just a moment later, numerous people burst through the door, their eyes widening at the violent scene before them. Siwoo's body on the floor, you bleeding and crying, and Hongjoong holding the gun.

“What have you done?” you cried out, not even realising this sent off a completely wrong message to all the surrounding people. 

What you meant was why, why would he ever sacrifice himself like that.

Why?

Why? 

But all the mob heard was you screaming in anger at the man who just supposedly killed your husband, and now tried to shoot you.

Why, you wanted to scream. At whom you weren't too sure; at the universe, at God, at Hongjoong himself.

And as the angry mob launched at him, as multiple people were surrounding you and the lifeless corpse of your former husband, all you could think about was how not one, but two men lost their lives today.

Your abuser, and your lover.

And in the middle of it there was a woman who wept for them both, once out of sheer, unexplainable happiness, and once at the loss of the man whom she could now never hold in her arms again.

Part 2 here.

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