FREE THESE BOYS FROM TBE SHACKLES OF BEKIFT!!

hes so pretty im actually loosing my marbles rn ☹️❤️❤️

Elle Korea 🤍

oh gosh,, the fact that there are people with such a mentality is very worrying. if you share the same thought process as anon i would avoid interacting with this blog !!

look, im not saying that you dont deserve the ‘escapism’ of the real world, but sahar hasnt shared anything to do with palestine under skz tags other than basic reminders and how we can help?? there are no images or anything to do with death statistics so i cant really see this being a large discomfort. i would say this is a minor incovenience at best.

if seeing posts about a person raising awareness and promoting a stayblr focused fundraiser bothers you THAT much then maybe block people who post about it? or scroll past that sort of content? there are so many easy solutions to this discomfort of yours. as much as i appreciate this is your way of ‘escapism’ i believe that raising awareness over a genocide that is quite literally killing and ruining/ruined the lives of tens of thousans of people is much more important.

Hey, sorry for the anonymous message, but I would like you to please reconsider using SKZ tags to spread the Palestin fundraiser. I know you mentioned you're trying to reach as many people as posible and it's a noble goal, however I warn against doing so in this way because many people, including myself, go on tumblr and look under fanfic or K-Pop tags to find a form of escapism from the real world and placing a reminder about one of the worst things going on the world right now is incredibly unpleasant and quite jarring. I already aviod the "For You" tab due to some K-Pop fanfic accounts I follow posting about it, but when I'm looking at tags specifically, I'd like to not have the same problem.

Again, I'd like to reiterate that I admire your desire to spread the fundraiser. I just want to ask you to consider going about it in a cautious way. I'd like to clarify this in no way is an attack against you or your goal, I know anonymous messages can be a little threatening sounding and I really don't want you to take this as a slight. You're an excellent writer, and you've written several fics I've quite enjoyed, I'd just prefer you didn't go about spreading the fundraiser in this way.

hello, im wondering how else would i spread the fundraiser to stays if i did not use the tags that stays specifically view?

tumblr operates with tags and that’s why I’m using them to get a wider reach within stayblr, because this is a stayblr fundraiser. it isn’t a tumblr wide fundraiser, it is organized, shared and raised by stays, that again, i was able to reach through tags.

i understand the sentiment, but i’m not sharing news about the genocide, i’m not sharing ground developments, i’m not sharing statistics or graphic images. i’m not even using the tags to share palestinian gofundme’s. i’ve only used the tags to 1) share info about the fundraiser. 2) gauge whether it had reached as many stays as possible, or not.

again, this fundraiser did not come out of the blue. i started it a month ago when skz was heavily associated with two zionists that worked on their latest single, and at a time when zionists proliferated within our fandom and felt very comfortable sharing their hateful ideology. zionism has already infiltrated kpop and we can’t turn a blind eye to it, but that’s another discussion

again, i’m not placing a « reminder » in the tags, i’m sharing updates about an important initiative that many stays are partaking in, and have helped spread by rebloging as well. i want to reiterate that this is a fundraiser BY STAYS and the only way to reach them in this platform is through tags.

so, i say this as respectfully as possible too, if you can’t just scroll past two of my posts, please block me. because i won’t stop using the tags for this specific fundraiser. in less than a day, we’ve already gotten 5 new supporters when we’ve been stuck at the same number of supporters for two weeks now. and that is precisely the goal yesterday’s post.

thank you.

he’s so CUTE.

LEE FELIX YONGBOK???? mymanmymanmyMANNNN HES SO???!!?!

© 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒎. | do not edit and/or crop logo

only sports anime can pull of a fist bump with the emotional intimacy of a kiss

THIS WAS SO ADORABLE I LOVED EVERY SINGLE SECOND OH MY GOSHHH!!! im gonna go hunt for more long gojo fics.

THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET — SATORU GOJO

pairing — neighbour!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.

word count — 14 k

genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)

author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3

masterlist + support my writing

When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.

What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.

Your new neighbor lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were. 

It was frustrating, to say the least. 

You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial. 

You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.

Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.

"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides." 

You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.

“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.

“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbor’s name.” 

That had set the tone for everything that followed. 

He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.

He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.

You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighborhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.

But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Sunday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.

You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.

“Having fun down there?”

You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbor would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.

“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”

“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”

“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”

You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"

You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.

"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"

"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.

Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.

"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."

"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.

"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"

"I will set your house on fire."

He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”

A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting? 

No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way. 

Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.

“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.” 

You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.

"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”

You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.

"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.

"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"

You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.

Why was he only mentioning this now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.

Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there. 

But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.

"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.

On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.

“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loud enough.”

“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”

Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”

“Would you believe me if I said everything?”

But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.

It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.

“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”

He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.” 

You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light. 

The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.

“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”

“Satoru—”

“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”

“You don’t have to—”

“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”

You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”

He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.” 

And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all. 

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal. 

The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.

It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.

“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”

You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”

“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”

Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."

"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."

You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.

So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.

"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."

Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"

“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."

"We?"

"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”

"Is that what this is?"

"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”

You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”

You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.

“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”

“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”

He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”

“You have quite the ideas.”

“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”

“To celebrate what?”

He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”

You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.

The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.

“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.

“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."

His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together. 

And it felt… good.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.

It was chaotic, let's just say that. 

But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years. 

The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.

You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.

"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."

"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.

"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."

"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.

"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"

You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."

His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"

"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."

Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.

"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"

"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.

"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.

Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.

“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."

Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.

"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."

"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."

"You don't think people know how to love now?"

"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."

Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile. 

“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."

You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.

And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.

"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”

He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"

The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.

"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."

"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."

You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”

"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."

You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.

The house. 

It was finished. 

Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty. 

Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you. 

"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.

He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.

“You needed the rest. And I had the time.” 

"Satoru, this would have taken days—"

“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."

You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.

It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful. 

That's all. 

The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.

"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."

He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”

"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"

“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”

"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer. 

He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."

Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.

"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.

"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."

You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.

But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back. 

Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—

"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.

"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination. 

He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.

At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"

You smiled. "No promises."

He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"

He turned.

"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.

His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”

You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.

Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. 

Not that you were staring, of course.

His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”

"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"

"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."

You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.

"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.

You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.

"This is—"

"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.

"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."

He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."

You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.

"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.

“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”

“Should I be afraid?" 

"I take it back. No cake for you."

"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”

"What about it?"

"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."

"Don't sound so shocked." 

You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.

"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"

Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

They looked intimate. 

Happy. 

Like an actual couple.

Your stomach dropped.

"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"

"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."

"Now? But we haven't even finished—"

"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."

"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"

"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."

"Other plans? What are you—"

"Bye!" 

You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.

"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.

He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?

Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned. 

And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life. 

Easy.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.

And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).

Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy. 

"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"

"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."

Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.

If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.

You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.

This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.

Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.

But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.

Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.

You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.

It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.

The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.

You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.

The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.

"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.

"Don't say it.”

"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"

"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"

"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine.” 

You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.

"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."

"It's nothing—"

"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"

The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.

"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.

"Kitchen has better light.”  He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.

For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.

"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."

You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.

He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.

"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.

"It's a new system I'm trying out."

"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately. 

He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.

"Too cold?"

“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”

He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”

“I have renovations to finish.”

“The renovations can wait.”

“Says the man with the perfect house.”

He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"

A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was. 

You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."

“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.

"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"

"What girlfriend?"

“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”

To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh.  "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"

"Your... sister?"

"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."

"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?

"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.

"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.

"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"

"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."

"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.

"You're insufferable."

"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"

Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"

You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.

"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."

With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.

The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.

You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.

The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs. 

It felt…natural in a way.

Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.

One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.

"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"

Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.

"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"

"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.

"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."

You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."

"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”

You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."

“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."

“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”

“As my lady commands.” 

He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.

Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.

“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—” 

Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.

"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.

You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.

You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours. 

"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."

It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.

"What time?" you asked.

"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"

"You just want me for my baking."

"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"

You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.

 He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.

The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.

When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.

As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.

"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."

Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.

"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."

"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.

He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."

The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.

"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."

"I can't take your gloves."

"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."

You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him. 

As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.

"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.

"I haven't skated since I was a kid."

"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."

Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.

"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.

"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."

Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.

"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."

You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends. 

After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.

"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.

"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."

He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."

The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?

Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date. 

Like something couples did.

Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?

"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Just trying not to fall."

"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.

Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighborly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?

"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.

"Um, I don't think—"

"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.

He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.

"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."

"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."

He laughed. "Not everything." 

You didn’t believe him for a second.

Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.

You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?

"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.

You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.

"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."

Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.

"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."

"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."

As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.

Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.

By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.

The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?

He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.

"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.

"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."

You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.

"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."

You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."

"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."

"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"

You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."

"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”

"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."

He blinked. "What I don't do?"

You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."

"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.

"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?” 

You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.

"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"

Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.

You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.

"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".

You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"

"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."

"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"

"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"

This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.

"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."

"Noted." 

Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.

"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.

"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"

Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.

"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."

And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—

"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."

"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."

"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.

"Bedroom?"

"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."

He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.

And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.

The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.

"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.

"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."

"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"

"At seven in the morning?"

"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.

Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.

"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.

"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"

"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"

"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."

You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."

"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."

Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.

"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."

"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."

You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.

"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"

"A dangerous pastime for you."

"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."

"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.

"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.

"And the—"

"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."

"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."

Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"

“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"

"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.

"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."

You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"

"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."

"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."

"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"

You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.

"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."

"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."

He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."

"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."

"My hands, huh?"

"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."

"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”

"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."

Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.

"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."

"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."

You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."

"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"

You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.

"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."

His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"

"Especially then."

Outside, spring painted the neighborhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.

anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna

@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion

@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

am I the only one that's like

🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢 men 🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢

but at the same time

💗💓💞🩷💘💝💖💕💞💓💗💖💝💘💕💘💝💖💗💓💞💕💘 bangchan, lee know, changbin, hyunjin, han, felix, seungmin, jeongin 💖💗💓💞💕💘💝💖💗💓💞💕💝💘💖💗💓💞💕💘💝💖

SOMEBODY RESTRAIN MEEEE OMDS THIS FIC WAS ACTUALLY INSANEEEE DURING THE WAREHOUSE SCENE I ACTUALLY FELT SO UNSETTLES WITH LIKE THE WHOLDEXPERIMENTS THING AND I LOVED THE END SCENE IT WAS SO CUTE AND EMOTIONAL GENUINLEY I WAS ABT TO CRY!!!I LOVE THE WHOLE ENEMIES BUT NOT REALLY ENEMIES TO LOVERS IT WAS SO CUTE AHHHHHHHH I LOVED THIS FIC SM

lhs - under the covers.

AN E2L UNDERCOVER COPS FAKE MARRIAGE AU | FULL FIC

"If this is fake, then why are you begging?"

summary: you’ve never liked lee heeseung. he’s cold, unreadable, and way too good at his job—so of course, the captain decides to partner you with him for an undercover op that requires you to be married.

the rules are simple: go undercover. pretend to be in love. don’t actually fall for him.

except now he’s pinning you against a wall, calling you ‘sweetheart’ in that low, amused drawl, and touching you like he means it.

…so, yeah. this might be a problem.

genre: slow burn | enemies to lovers | undercover cops | fake marriage | SUGGESTIVE CONTENT word count: ~around 20K release date: TBA ⚠️ warnings 18+ MDNI: guns, violence, smut, tension, heeseung being annoyingly attractive while pretending not to care, reader being an absolute menace back, dangerous men doing dangerous thingshate sex but it turns into something desperate & messy, heeseung has a gun AND a filthy mouth (both are dangerous), "you need to stay quiet" but he makes it impossible, heeseung likes pushing you against walls (sometimes to protect you, sometimes not), explicit descriptions of tension: prolonged eye contact, teasing touches, and not-so-fake kisses that turn heated way too fast, sex as a distraction? sex as an argument? sex as a mistake? sex as an act? all of the above., one bed trope but make it fully unhinged (heeseung smirking when you wake up wrapped around him), heeseung is smug, teasing, and cocky in the streets but a menace in the sheets, "you said this was just for the mission. so why do you keep touching me when no one’s looking?", breathplay, lets keep it rough, ppl like it that way

The precinct is chaos, like always. Phones ringing, boots scuffing against tile, someone muttering curses over a jammed printer, another officer shoving a box of evidence onto their desk like it personally offended them. The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air—a tragic crime in itself. Nothing about today should feel different. And yet, something does.Maybe it's the way your phone buzzed with a single-line message from Captain Jung. Maybe it's the fact that he never calls you in without details. "Briefing. My office. Now." You know better than to expect good news.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside, pressing the button for the fifth floor—Captain Jung's office. As the doors start to close, a voice cuts through the noise—smooth, measured, annoyingly familiar. 

"Hold it." 

You debate letting the doors shut. But before you can make a decision that would undoubtedly lead to more paperwork, a hand slides between them, forcing them back open. Lee Heeseung steps in.

He barely looks at you as he presses the same button you just did—as if it wasn't already lit up. "Oh, fantastic," you mutter, shifting your weight against the railing. "Just the person I wanted to suffer with."

Heeseung doesn't react immediately, but you see it—the slightest twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flex before settling against his side. "I'd say the same," he finally says, adjusting the strap of his shoulder holster, voice flat. "But I don't waste my energy lying."

"Right," you say, crossing your arms. "Because you save all your energy for being insufferable instead." 

His lips twitch slightly, but he suppresses it so fast you almost miss it. "And yet, you're still here," he says, shrugging. "Tragic, isn't it?"

The elevator shudders slightly as it begins moving. You glance at the numbers ticking up above the doors, feeling the weight of the silence settle in. Heeseung is annoyingly calm, as always. Hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders squared, face unreadable. He's built his reputation on being calculated, sharp, impossible to crack. But you know him too well. You catch it—the slight clench of his fingers, the way his jaw sets just a little tighter than usual.

"You got the same message?" you ask, watching him from the corner of your eye. "Captain's office. No details."

"Sounds like your fault," you say automatically. He actually exhales a short breath through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. "You always assume the worst of me," he muses. "And I'm never wrong," you point out. He doesn't bother denying it.

For a moment, the only sound is the low hum of the elevator. You feel it then—that unspoken shift, the tension settling in a little heavier than before. Not the usual kind, not the sharp-edged annoyance that defined your partnership, but something else. Something uncertain. Neither of you say it, but you're both thinking the same thing. This feels different.

"Whatever this is," Heeseung mutters, glancing at the doors as they begin to slide open, "let's just get it over with." 

"No promises," you reply. 

The hallway stretches out in front of you, the frosted glass of Captain Jung's office glowing dimly under the overhead lights. You step out first, heels clicking against the tile. Heeseung follows. And just like that—everything changes.

The precinct's Briefing Room B is dimly lit, the glow from the projector casting grainy surveillance footage across the whiteboard. Lakeshore Estates looks picturesque—wide streets, manicured lawns, quiet affluence. Too perfect. A neighborhood like this shouldn't have $32 million unaccounted for in wire transfers. But it does. And that's why you're here.

Captain Jung flips the case file open, his voice sharp, clipped. "Two informants inside Lakeshore have already turned up dead in the last six months. One of our undercover agents—Detective Choi—has been missing since January." A photograph slides across the table, face-down. You don't pick it up immediately, but the silence that follows is heavy. You don't have to see it to know what it means.

"This isn't just money laundering anymore," Jung continues. "It's organized, it's layered, and it's operating under complete anonymity. We're out of assets, and we're out of time. The only option left is deep cover."

You inhale slowly, tapping your pen against your notepad. Beside you, Heeseung doesn't move. His posture is too still, his fingers interlaced, his jaw locked. You know that look. He already hates where this is going.

Jung continues, flipping to the next page. "You two will be moving into 345 Willow Crest Lane. Newlywed couple. Standard deep cover ops—new financial records, new employment history, full fabricated background. You're both taking on the last name Park."

You blink. "You're sending us in together?"

"Yes."

Heeseung lets out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. "Sir, with all due respect, we can't be the only two detectives available for this assignment." Jung doesn't even look up. "You're not. You're just the best."

You feel a headache creeping in already. The best is one way to put it. Another way to put it would be "the most dysfunctional pairing in the history of law enforcement."

"You're both experienced in financial forensics, undercover ops, and organized crime infiltration," Jung continues. "That makes you the only option for this."

Heeseung exhales sharply through his nose. "This is a mistake." "I agree," you mutter, arms crossed.

Jung ignores both of you, flipping through another file before pushing it across the table. "The target is Chairman Kang," he continues, flipping the case file open. "You already know his reputation—drug trafficking, illegal arms deals, organized crime. What we didn't know until recently was that he operates out of a secure location hidden in plain sight—his family estate, nestled inside an exclusive gated neighborhood where law enforcement hasn't been able to get close.."

Heeseung is scanning the documents as fast as you are. You know he's already building a profile in his head, breaking down entry points, psychological patterns, risk levels. It's what he's good at.

Jung continues. "You'll be expected to integrate into the social structure, establish trust, and secure financial access through internal sources. Your marriage needs to be believable. That means attending community events, country club meetings, PTA fundraisers, and neighborhood get-togethers. You'll play the role, you'll blend in, and you'll do it convincingly."

The moment he says it, Heeseung lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You want us to be convincing?" Heeseung shakes his head, leaning back. "We can't even stand each other for five minutes."

"Then figure it out," Jung says, already done with the argument. "Because for the next few months, you will hold hands, you will smile, and you will act like you love each other."

Your stomach twists violently. Of all the assignments you've been given—undercover drug operations, arms deals, high-risk surveillance—this might actually be the most painful.

Heeseung exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "And what happens if we get exposed?" "Then you're dead."

Silence.

Jung closes the folder, leaning forward. "Make no mistake—this is dangerous. You're stepping into something where people have already been killed. If you get caught, we won't be able to pull you out in time. This operation is blacklisted outside of this room. Your only protection is your cover. That's it."

The weight of it settles like cement. For the first time since the meeting started, Heeseung looks at you. It's brief—half a second, barely noticeable—but it's enough. You both understand the stakes now. The banter, the irritation, the competitive tension that has fueled your partnership for years—none of it matters when the risk is death.

Captain Jung exhales, sliding the final document across the table. "Your flight leaves at 0600. Your new house is already secured, and your covers are set."

You inhale deeply, pushing down the nausea creeping into your throat. You've worked with Heeseung for years. You've survived operations together. You can do this. Maybe.

"Fine," you say finally, shoving the file into your bag. "But if you call me 'baby' even once, I'm shooting you."

Heeseung smirks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Looking forward to it, sweetheart."

The house at 345 Willow Crest Lane looks exactly how it did in the surveillance photos—pristine, oversized, and painfully curated. It's the kind of place where the neighborhood watch patrols more aggressively than actual law enforcement and where the biggest crime on record is probably a hedge growing two inches past regulation. It's also your new home.

A deep, uneasy feeling settles in your stomach as you step out of the car, staring up at the two-story house with its perfectly symmetrical windows and fresh coat of off-white paint. It's unsettling, the way everything is already set up, lived-in but not actually lived-in, waiting for you to assume your roles.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Heeseung eyeing the property with the same reluctant scrutiny. His jaw is tight, his hands shoved into his pockets, the subtle weight of reality finally setting in for both of you. "So this is home now," he mutters, his tone flat. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag as you exhale slowly, not bothering to look at him. "Unfortunately."

Neither of you move for a moment, standing side by side in silence. The weight of the assignment hangs heavy between you. This isn't like other cases—it's not just an operation, not just surveillance, not just information retrieval. This is long-term infiltration, the kind that requires complete immersion. The kind that demands disappearing into a role so deeply that the lines blur.

You don't let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you push forward, stepping up to the door and unlocking it with the key provided in your briefing file. The lock clicks smoothly, and as you push the door open, the overwhelmingly staged nature of the house hits you all at once.

The living room is immaculate, decorated in neutral colors, accented with expensive but unassuming furniture. The air smells like fresh paint and manufactured warmth, like it's been lived in just enough to seem real, but not enough to actually feel it. But none of that is what makes you stop short. It's the photos. They're everywhere.

Framed pictures are perched along the fireplace mantle, the entryway table, the staircase wall leading to the second floor. You blink, stomach twisting at the sight of you and Heeseung staring back from glossy prints—your arms around each other, smiles bright, a wedding that never happened perfectly captured in high-definition detail.

You step closer, your breath catching as you scan them. One is of you in a white wedding gown, a delicate veil framing your face, standing beside Heeseung in a sharp black tux. He's looking down at you with an expression so soft and intimate that it feels wrong. Another shows his arm around your waist, hand resting a little too low on your back, his head tilted toward yours like he's whispering something.

But the worst one—the crown jewel of this horror show—is mounted directly above the fireplace. A massive canvas print. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. Two people deeply, irrevocably in love. The kind of picture that doesn't just capture a moment—it tells a story.

The back of your neck prickles. A slow, deep exhale sounds behind you. "Jesus Christ," Heeseung mutters, stepping in behind you. His voice carries the same reluctant horror you feel twisting in your stomach. "That's nauseating."

You swallow down your discomfort and force your expression to remain neutral. "You think I like this any more than you do?" His gaze flickers to the wedding photo again before he exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly. "Could've fooled me. That dress looks expensive. You must've had a great time."

Your fingers flex at your sides as you slowly turn to face him. "I will throw you through that window." A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You'd have to catch me first, sweetheart."

You exhale through your nose, dragging a hand over your face before looking away, gaze sweeping over the carefully constructed life someone had built for you. The furniture, the decorations, the photos—all of it carefully crafted to make this cover airtight. There is no room for error.

From across the room, Heeseung exhales heavily, shifting his stance slightly. "Bedroom's upstairs, right?" You hesitate for half a second before nodding. "Yeah. About that—there's one bed." He stills. The air between you sharpens. His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. His voice is flat, resigned. "That's a joke." You wish it was. "Check for yourself."

You watch as he stares at you for a beat longer before turning on his heel and heading upstairs. You brace yourself. Exactly three seconds later, a sharp, disbelieving laugh echoes down the hall. "Fucking fantastic."

You sigh, rubbing your temples before following him upstairs. When you reach the bedroom, Heeseung is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze is fixed on the king-sized mattress, the pristine white sheets tucked in so perfectly it looks like a hotel ad.

"There's a couch downstairs," you offer, your voice deliberately neutral. He doesn't look away from the bed. "There's a front lawn, too. Should I sleep there instead?" "If you want me to sleep better, I won't stop you."

Heeseung finally turns to face you, his expression blank but the subtle clench of his jaw betraying his irritation. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not sleeping on the couch for months." "Then I hope you're good at sleeping with one eye open," you say, already moving past him to grab your bag. "You snore, don't you?" His voice is slow, assessing, like he's already regretting his entire existence.

"Only when I'm comfortable," you reply smoothly. "So that won't be a problem with you around." Heeseung huffs out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly as he drags a hand through his hair. "This is going to be a disaster."

You don't disagree. But there's nothing either of you can do about it now. "Just stay on your side of the bed," you say as you toss your bag onto the mattress, "and I won't kick you off it." "No promises," he mutters, already walking toward the closet.

You inhale slowly, releasing the breath through your nose as you turn away. This is your life now. Sharing a house. Sleeping in the same room. Pretending to be in love. You can handle criminals, undercover operations, high-stakes investigations. But pretending to be married to Lee Heeseung? That might actually be the thing that kills you.

The neighborhood BBQ is exactly what you expected—too loud, too friendly, and entirely too interested in you and Heeseung. It's hosted at the home of Kim Taesung—the HOA President and primary suspect in the money laundering operation. His house is the biggest on the block, the kind that screams old money but tries to be humble about it.

The cul-de-sac is packed with families, couples, and retirees. The tables are covered in checkered tablecloths, an overwhelming spread of food from every possible cuisine, and an alarming number of matching casserole dishes.The entire neighborhood is here.

You and Heeseung walk up the driveway together, forced into immediate proximity by the number of eyes on you. His arm slides around your waist—a practiced, effortless motion—but you catch the slight hesitation in it. The briefest pause before his palm settles against your hip. To anyone else, it looks completely natural. To you, it feels like a challenge.

"This is my nightmare," Heeseung mutters under his breath. "Welcome to marriage," you reply, keeping your voice light as you plaster on your best 'newlywed glow' smile.

The first neighbor to approach is Mrs. Patel, an older Indian woman in a vibrant floral dress and a no-nonsense expression. She's one of the HOA's longest-standing members, which means she's also one of the most influential. "You must be the newlyweds!" she exclaims, adjusting the gold bangles on her wrist. "We've all been wondering when we'd finally meet you two!"

You grip Heeseung's forearm just a little tighter, just enough to make sure he doesn't say anything stupid. "It's wonderful to finally be here," you say smoothly. Mrs. Patel gives you a long, assessing look before nodding approvingly. "And such a beautiful couple, too! How long have you been married?"

Before you can answer, Heeseung beats you to it. "Two years," he says without hesitation. You blink. Mrs. Patel beams. "Two years! How lovely!"

You don't react immediately, still trying to process the absolute lie that just left Heeseung's mouth. Heeseung catches your delayed response and smirks, clearly entertained by your hesitation. "Yes," you say, smoothing over the moment. "Two wonderful, peaceful, not at all stressful years." You pinch his side discreetly. Heeseung doesn't even flinch.

Mrs. Patel sighs, clasping her hands together. "Young love is such a beautiful thing. How did you two meet?"

You feel Heeseung tense for half a second. You take advantage of it. "Oh, it was love at first sight," you say with a sweetness that is absolutely dripping in venom. "He looked at me like I was the only person in the world."

Heeseung recovers quickly, but you know you caught him off guard. "How could I not?" he murmurs, voice light but dangerously smooth. You hate how easy that sounded.

Mrs. Patel looks utterly delighted. "Oh, I love a good love story! And now look at you—happily settled in! Do you two have children?"

Heeseung freezes. You barely suppress the urge to laugh. From somewhere behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of Sunoo, your intel handler, choking on his drink. You place a gentle, affectionate hand on Heeseung's chest—only to dig your nails in slightly. "We're just enjoying each other for now," you answer smoothly.

Mrs. Patel nods approvingly. "That's very wise. But don't wait too long, dear. Time moves fast, and children are a blessing!" You smile politely, feeling your soul physically exit your body.

Before she can ask any more intrusive questions, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a well-pressed polo shirt approaches with a broad grin. "You must be the Parks!" he says, clapping Heeseung on the shoulder in a way that is just slightly too firm.

You recognize him from the briefing. David Hernandez, a retired FBI agent and Taesung's closest friend. "You're both even better-looking than the photos," he jokes. You keep your smile in place as your mind races. The photos. What photos?

"Thank you," you say, glancing at Heeseung briefly. "We were surprised by how much effort went into preparing everything." David chuckles, sipping his beer. "You'd be amazed how much we know about you two already. You're practically celebrities!"

You don't let the unease show on your face. There's a hint of something beneath his words, something that makes you want to dig deeper, to ask more questions, to find out exactly how much they know about this version of you.Instead, you laugh lightly, leaning into Heeseung just slightly. "Well, I hope we live up to expectations."

David nods approvingly, but his gaze lingers on Heeseung for just a second too long. "We'll be watching," he says, voice too casual. You nod politely, pretending not to read into it. But when he walks away, you feel Heeseung's grip on your waist tighten slightly. "That was interesting," he murmurs.

You don't react immediately, just keep smiling and greeting more neighbors, acting like nothing is wrong. Because if David Hernandez was already watching you this closely, then this mission is going to be even harder than you thought.

The argument starts the moment you step into the house. The second the front door swings shut behind you, you drop the polite neighborhood act, spin on your heel, and glare at Heeseung.

"Two years?" Your voice is low but sharp, edged with disbelief. "Are you insane?"

Heeseung lets out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair as he shrugs off his jacket. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you have a better number?"

"Literally any number other than the one that makes us look suspiciously established!"

Heeseung scoffs, tossing his jacket over the arm of the couch before leaning against it, arms crossed. "What, you wanted me to say six months? Give them a reason to think we're still in the honeymoon phase?"

You grit your teeth, stepping closer as you jab a finger against his chest. "You could've at least consulted me first."

His brows lift slightly, like he's amused by your irritation, which only pisses you off more. "Didn't know I needed permission," he muses, voice slow, calculated.

"You always do," you snap back.

The air between you thickens—not with tension, not with attraction, but with pure, exasperated irritation. Your pulse hammers as you step closer, your glare locking onto his with the force of every argument you've ever had.

Heeseung's jaw tightens, his fingers flexing at his sides. "You know what? Maybe next time, you should lead. Since you clearly have so much faith in your own bullshit."

"Oh, so you admit you're bad at lying?"

"No, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dripping in sarcasm. "I'm just saying you're so much worse."

Your eyes narrow. "Don't call me sweetheart."

"Then stop acting like my wife," he fires back.

"You first," you hiss.

The air crackles. And then—Three sharp knocks on the front door. Your head snaps toward it. So does his. Silence. Then, in perfect unison, you both lunge for each other.

You reach for his shirt, yanking him toward you as he grips your waist, spinning you both until your back is pressed against the door. You barely have time to register the full-body impact, the warmth of him, the way his hand flattens against your lower back before—The door swings open.

And standing there, wide-eyed and utterly delighted, is Mrs. Patel, Mrs. Lee, and Bianca Santiago—the neighborhood's most dedicated suburban gossip queens.

For a split second, the entire world stops. Then—"Oh!" Mrs. Lee gasps, covering her mouth with both hands. Bianca tilts her head, biting back a knowing smirk. "Bad timing?"

You are going to die. Your brain barely has time to process the sheer level of mortification that is about to follow.Because from the outside, this looks bad. Really bad. Heeseung is practically pressed against you, his grip on your waist still firm. Your hand is clutching his shirt like you were in the middle of something completely different.

And of course—of course—this would happen the second you actually get into an argument.

Mrs. Patel bursts into laughter, fanning herself with one hand. "Oh, newlyweds," she sighs dramatically. "Still in the phase where you can't keep your hands off each other!"

"Very healthy," Mrs. Lee nods approvingly. "Very passionate!" "Very inappropriate for the front door," Bianca adds, smirking.

Heeseung recovers before you do. Instead of stepping away like a normal person, he has the audacity to smirk, tilting his head slightly as he looks down at you. "Sweetheart," he murmurs, playing it up, "should we invite them in, or do you want to finish what we started?"

You barely resist the urge to murder him on the spot. Instead, you smile brightly—the kind of fake, saccharine sweet expression that makes his smirk widen. "Darling," you say, voice equally saccharine, "if we're done, then you clearly weren't trying hard enough."

Mrs. Patel laughs again, delighted. Bianca snorts, shaking her head. "Christ, you two are fun." You finally push Heeseung off you, straightening your shirt as you school your expression into something neutral. "What can we do for you, ladies?"

"We just wanted to drop off some welcome gifts!" Mrs. Lee beams, holding up a wicker basket wrapped in cellophane. "Just a few things to make you feel more at home."

You nod politely, glancing at Heeseung, who finally manages to wipe the amusement off his face. "That's very thoughtful," he says smoothly. "Thank you."

Mrs. Patel waves a hand. "Oh, don't thank us yet! We also came to invite you both to the Lakeshore Annual Couple's Dinner!"

You blink. "The what?"

"It's a tradition!" Bianca chimes in. "All the couples in the neighborhood get together for a formal dinner—drinks, conversation, and a few fun activities. You're expected to attend."

Expected. You barely suppress a groan. But before you can politely decline, Heeseung throws an arm around your shoulders and smiles. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

You stiffen immediately, turning to glare at him. Bianca catches it. She smirks. "Oh, this will be good."

Mrs. Patel claps her hands. "Wonderful! We'll see you both next Saturday!"

And just like that, the three women take their leave, stepping off the porch and disappearing down the street—leaving you and Heeseung standing in the doorway, still reeling.

The second they're out of sight, you spin to face him. "What," you demand, "was that?"

Heeseung shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Fake marriage, sweetheart. Thought you wanted me to play the role."

You exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of your nose. "You are insufferable." "And you married me," he deadpans.

The worst part? You don't actually have a comeback for that.

The second the front door clicks shut, silence falls between you and Heeseung. Not the comfortable kind. Not even the tense, slow-burning kind you've grown accustomed to with him. No, this is the heavy, mortifying kind. The kind that sits in the air, stretching out unbearably long, as you both stand frozen in place, the weight of what just happened crashing down on you in full force.

You barely survived the neighborhood BBQ. And now, not even an hour later, the entire neighborhood thinks you and Heeseung were caught mid-makeout session against your own damn front door.

You can already hear the whispers. The amused speculation, the fake modesty, the 'oh, young love, how exciting!' nonsense that is going to follow you for weeks. Your stomach twists uncomfortably. There's no way to fix this. No way to explain to a group of nosy suburbanites that no, you were actually in the middle of an argument, not about to rip each other's clothes off. No way to undo the delighted expressions on the faces of Mrs. Patel, Mrs. Lee, and Bianca Santiago as they practically gushed over the passionate display of 'newlywed' affection.

A slow exhale sounds behind you. And then—Heeseung laughs. Not just a quiet chuckle. Not just an amused exhale. A full-bodied, unrestrained, genuine laugh.

Your eyes snap toward him, burning with disbelief. "Are you seriously laughing right now?"

Heeseung doesn't even try to hide his amusement. He drags a hand down his face, shaking his head as he leans against the door like his knees are barely holding him up. "You—" he wheezes, catching his breath. "You should have seen your face."

"My face?" you repeat, incredulous. "Do you realize what just happened?"

He grins, bright and shameless. "Yeah. Our nosy-ass neighbors think we're so in love we can't keep our hands off each other. It's hilarious."

"No, Heeseung, it's a disaster," you snap, stepping forward, your pulse still hammering from the sheer embarrassment of it all. You shouldn't have let him pull you toward him. Shouldn't have played into the moment, instinctively pressing closer to make it look real. But you did. And now, the damage is done.

"They're going to talk about this for weeks," you continue, frustration bubbling over. "And you just made it worse by encouraging them!"

His grin doesn't falter. "I didn't encourage them."

"Oh, really?" you scoff, throwing your arms up. "Then what the hell was 'should we invite them in or do you want to finish what we started?'"

Heeseung snickers. "That was me committing to the bit."

You let out a long, suffering breath, pressing your fingers against your temples as you try to compose yourself. Heeseung, meanwhile, looks like he’s enjoying this entire thing way too much.

"Relax," he says, shaking his head. "What’s the worst that can happen? They think we’re passionate newlyweds. That’s kind of the point of all this, isn’t it?"

"Not like that!" you snap, pacing the living room. "We were supposed to ease into this whole picture-perfect marriage thing, not throw ourselves into the deep end of ‘we can’t keep our hands off each other.’"

Heeseung exhales, stepping toward you. "It’s not like we had a choice. You saw their faces. There was no talking our way out of that."

You stop pacing, turning to face him, fully ready to argue more—

But then, you actually look at him.

The way he’s standing—too relaxed, too entertained, too damn smug.

He’s enjoying this.

He thrives off your irritation, drinks it like it’s his personal fuel.

And the realization makes something snap.

"You know what?" you say suddenly, tilting your head as your expression shifts. "You’re right."

Heeseung blinks, surprised. "I am?"

"Yup," you say, walking up to him slowly. "We should lean into this. If they think we’re all over each other, then let’s make sure they really believe it."

You see it happen—the moment the amusement fades just slightly from his face, the moment he realizes he’s about to be on the receiving end of whatever you’re planning.

Heeseung narrows his eyes slightly. "What are you doing?"

You hum innocently. "Oh, nothing."

Then, before he can react, you step onto your toes, grip his collar lightly, and press a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek.

Heeseung freezes.

Completely.

His entire body goes still, his breathing halts for a fraction of a second, and when you pull back, his eyes are locked onto yours with something sharp and unreadable.

You smile sweetly. "Just practicing, babe."

Heeseung exhales slowly, his jaw ticking slightly.

Then—he smirks.

A warning.

A challenge.

You barely have time to react before his hands find your waist, his grip firm but not forceful, and he leans in—just close enough that you feel the heat of him, just close enough that your breath catches in your throat.

"You sure you wanna play this game, baby?" he murmurs, voice low.

Your stomach flips.

But you refuse to back down.

"You started it, husband," you say, tilting your chin up slightly. "I’m just making sure you keep up."

Heeseung chuckles under his breath, his thumb brushing lightly against your side before he finally—finally—lets go and steps back.

"Don’t worry," he murmurs, smirking as he turns toward the stairs. "I always keep up."

You watch as he disappears upstairs, leaving you standing in the middle of the living room, still trying to process whatever the hell just happened.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

Your pulse is too loud in your ears.

And the worst part?

For the first time since this mission started—

You’re not sure if you won or lost.

-

The  Lakeshore Annual Couple's Dinner  is  practically a neighborhood-wide spectacle —an event where couples gather to  passively flex their marriages , drink expensive wine, and pretend they're  happier than they actually are.  For you and Heeseung? It's an  improvisation nightmare. 

From the moment you enter the candlelit banquet hall, you can  feel the weight of the neighborhood's attention pressing down on you.  Soft lighting. Elegant tables. The hum of polite conversation. And every time you glance around,  there's always someone watching. 

Heeseung, of course,  is eating it up.  His hand lingers on the small of your back as he guides you toward your table— a perfectly executed display of possessiveness that makes your stomach tighten against your will. 

"Relax, babe," he murmurs near your ear, voice laced with amusement.

You grit your teeth.  "Husband, I swear to—" 

"Shh," he interrupts smoothly, squeezing your hip as you sit down. "Wouldn't want to ruin our reputation, would we?"

His smirk is  too smug, too self-satisfied.  You  want to wipe it off his face.  Preferably with your mouth. …Wait. What? You  shake off the thought immediately. 

It starts innocently enough. A few  casual  questions, meant to make the dinner feel more… intimate.  How did you meet? 

"Work," Heeseung answers smoothly. "We were partnered on a case five years ago."

You  nod, forcing a small, pleasant smile.  "And I've regretted it every day since." The table laughs. Someone sighs about  'enemies to lovers' stories.  You  ignore the way Heeseung's fingers tap idly against your thigh under the table. 

"She's lying," he adds, voice low but  measured.  "She was obsessed with me."

Your  head snaps toward him, jaw clenching.  "I—"

"Couldn't stay away," he finishes smoothly. Your nails dig into the  napkin on your lap. 

And then— the questions get worse. What was your first date like?  You  open your mouth.  Heeseung  beats you to it. 

"Our first date?" he repeats, tilting his head like he's  reliving something fond.  "She got sick halfway through." The table  awws.  You  want to scream. 

"Food poisoning," he explains, shaking his head. "Worst seafood of our lives." You  stare at him, stunned.  Where the  hell  is he going with this?

"I had to carry her to the car," he continues, eyes dark with  subtle amusement.  "And she told me—direct quote—'if you ever bring me back here, I will burn this restaurant to the ground.'" Another  round of laughter.  But Heeseung  isn't done.  He exhales, shaking his head. "That was the night I knew."

Your stomach  flutters— No. Twists. It twists. 

"The night you knew what?" you ask dryly,  refusing to let him win this. 

Heeseung turns his head toward you  slowly , lips curling slightly at the edges. "The night I knew I wanted you."

A breath  catches in your throat.  The conversation  moves forward , the moment swallowed by more laughter, more small talk—but you  can't move past it.  The way he  said it.  Like it wasn't a lie. Like it wasn't  just for show.  The air in the room  shifts.  Something  tighter. Heavier. 

David Hernandez—retired FBI agent and Kang's closest friend—steps forward with a microphone, smiling. "Alright, everyone," he announces, "time for the annual Couples' Game." Groans and laughter  ripple through the room.  But you don't react. Because from the far side of the hall, you  see him.  A man in a  dark suit , too polished for this kind of gathering. And he's  watching you. 

You shift, fingers pressing against your napkin. Heeseung  notices.  His hand—casual, easy, practiced—rests on your thigh. A gesture  for the audience.  A warning  for you.  Stay still. Stay focused.

And then  the first question. "What's your spouse's biggest fear?"  Laughter. Playful groans. The couples  around you answer easily.  But when it's your turn, silence. And then, Heeseung says,  "Losing control." 

The air in your lungs  vanishes.  Your head turns. Your eyes meet his. Heeseung doesn't  smirk.  Doesn't tease. He just  watches.  And for the first time all night— you feel exposed.  Like he's  seeing something you didn't mean to show.  Your pulse  hammers. 

And then—David Hernandez  claps his hands together, moving on to the next question.  The moment  snaps.  But your body  doesn't relax.  Because across the room—the man in the dark suit  still hasn't looked away. 

The dinner was supposed to be over. The interrogation, the intrusive questions, the suffocating weight of being watched— you survived all of it.  But now, just as you're about to slip under the radar,  David Hernandez picks up the microphone again. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, "a final toast to our wonderful couples. And what's a toast without a little romance?" You freeze. The guests laugh, already  anticipating whatever's coming next. 

"Let's see a real kiss," he continues smoothly. "Show us what young love looks like." Your stomach  drops. No. Absolutely not. 

A slow  ripple of excitement  spreads through the room. People  lean in, whispering, waiting.  And then— every eye turns to you and Heeseung.  Because of course they do. Because after tonight— after every stolen glance, every accidental touch, every slow, lingering moment that made it look like you were the most in-love couple in the room—this is the next step. 

You feel  the weight of their expectations pressing in.  You feel  the tension in the air shift, tighten.  And worst of all— you feel Heeseung looking at you.  Your pulse  skips.  You don't move.  Don't breathe. 

And then—a warm, steady hand  cups your jaw.  Your body  goes completely still.  Your breath  catches.  Heeseung is already leaning in, already  committing to the role before you can even think of a way out.  And suddenly,  you're out of options. 

If you hesitate— if you pull back now—it'll look suspicious.  So you  don't.  You  tilt your chin up.  You  let him close the space.  And then—his lips  meet yours. 

The first thing you notice is that  he's warm.  Soft.  Steady.  Too much of both. It's  slow at first. Careful.  A kiss meant to  sell a story, to satisfy an audience.  But then—then it changes.

Because the second your fingers  tighten in the fabric of his jacket , the second  your lips part just slightly beneath his—it's over.  The  shift is instant.  The kiss  deepens, sharpens, spirals into something dangerous. 

Heeseung's grip on your jaw  tightens.  His other hand  curves around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him.  Your  stomach twists.  Your pulse  pounds.  You're supposed to be  acting.  But you can't remember how.

Because his fingers  slip just slightly into your hair.  Because he exhales sharply— low, wrecked—against your lips before tilting your head back and kissing you deeper.  Because when you break apart  just enough for air , he doesn't  move away.  His forehead  rests against yours.  His breath  fans across your skin. 

And the worst part? For just a second—for just  one, fleeting second—you forget that it's not real.  You forget that you  hate him.  You forget that the only reason this is happening is because you're being watched.

And then—the room  erupts in applause.  Reality  slams back into you like a train.  You jerk back  so fast it makes your head spin.  Heeseung  lets you go instantly.  Your lips still  burn.  Your skin still  tingles.  And the look in his eyes— dark, unreadable, something you can't name—  is enough to make your stomach  drop. 

Across the room, the man in the dark suit  finally smirks.  Like he  just got the confirmation he needed.  Like he  knows something you don't.  And suddenly— you're not sure who the real target of this mission is anymore. 

-

The second the front door clicks shut, you round on him. "You—" You don't even have the words. Your whole body is buzzing, your breath too shallow, your lips still tingling from that goddamn kiss. "What the fuck was that?"

Heeseung barely reacts. He shrugs off his jacket, loosening the first few buttons of his shirt like he isn't the problem, like he's not the reason your head is spinning and your pulse is in your throat.

"A kiss," he says smoothly, like it's obvious. "Wasn't that what they wanted?"

Your stomach twists. His voice is calm. Too calm. Like that kiss meant nothing to him. Like you're the only one who's still feeling it.

You grit your teeth. "That wasn't a kiss."

His brows lift. "Oh? Then what was it?"

"You—" You step closer, voice sharp, accusing. "You were all over me."

Heeseung tilts his head, lazily, infuriatingly amused. "You're the one who pulled me closer, sweetheart."

Your jaw clenches. "Because I had to sell it."

He smirks. And something inside you snaps. "You enjoyed it," you accuse, stepping even closer. "You fucking enjoyed it."

His smirk doesn't fade. "Don't flatter yourself, babe," he murmurs.

Your fingers twitch. Heeseung sees it, sees the way you're barely holding yourself together, the way your chest is rising and falling a little too fast. And he leans in. Not touching you, not quite, just close enough to make your breath catch. "Why?" he murmurs. "Did you?"

Your throat goes dry. You don't answer. Which is a mistake. Because Heeseung takes that exact moment to reach up, his fingers ghosting over your jaw, his touch just barely there. Your pulse stutters.

"You got quiet," he muses, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, like he's still thinking about the kiss.

You hate it. You hate him. And worst of all? You hate yourself for not pulling away. So you do the next best thing. You grab his wrist. Tight. And then you shove him back against the wall.

The sound echoes. His smirk flickers, just barely. But then, instead of being annoyed, instead of pushing you off, he laughs. Low. Amused. So fucking infuriating.

"That all you got, baby?"

Your whole body burns. And suddenly, you don't know if you want to slap him or kiss him again. Because he's watching you. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking. Like he's waiting for you to cross that line first. Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

"You push me one more time," you warn, voice trembling with something you can't even name, "and I swear to god—"

"What?" Heeseung leans in, voice dropping, his breath hot against your lips. "You gonna hate-fuck me, sweetheart?"

Your lungs stop working. Heat pools in your stomach. And worst of all, he sees it. He fucking sees it. His smirk returns, sharper than ever.

"You can, if you want," he murmurs. "We are married, after all."

Your grip on his shirt tightens. And for a moment, just a moment, you almost do it. You almost give in. Almost. But then you shove him back one last time and step away.

"You're not worth it," you grit out, voice barely steady.

Heeseung laughs again, low and slow, dragging a hand through his hair. "No?" he hums. "Then why do you look like you want to prove me wrong?"

You storm past him. Because if you don't, you might.

-

It was supposed to be temporary. A necessity. Because of appearances, because of the case, because if anyone in the neighborhood suspected that you and Heeseung weren't actually the perfect couple you were pretending to be, it would all fall apart.

So you agreed. Fine. One bed. One room. Just for show.

But now, in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains, the reality of it hits you all at once.Heeseung is too close. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that you can hear his breathing, slow, steady, maddening. Close enough that you should roll over, create distance, shut this down before it turns into something else.

But you don't. You can't. Because your body betrays you. You stay.

And then Heeseung moves.

You should be asleep. Should be facing the other direction, should be pretending none of this is happening. But Heeseung shifts beside you, his body brushing against yours, his warmth sinking into your skin, and suddenly, you can't breathe.

His breath is slow, heavy. You don't know if he's asleep or just waiting. And then he moves again. Rolls over. Turns toward you. And when his hand lands on your hip, you don't stop him.

You should. You don't. Instead, you let him pull you closer. Slow. Measured. Testing.

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. And then, Heeseung whispers against your skin, "You're awake."

A statement. Not a question.

You swallow. His fingers curl around your waist. "Say it."

Your stomach tightens. "I'm awake," you murmur.

His grip tightens. And then he kisses you.

This time, there's no audience. No reason. No excuse. Just you, pressed against him. His hands gripping your waist. His lips parting against yours. Just your body arching into his, your fingers tangling in his hair, your thighs pressing together because you need more. Because this isn't enough. Because you don't hate him as much as you should.

Heeseung groans softly, deep and low, like he's been waiting for this. Like he's been holding back. His fingers slip under your shirt. His palm presses against your stomach, warm, steady, deliberate. Your hips shift instinctively.

Heeseung notices. His lips curve against yours. "You're desperate," he murmurs.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. "So are you, husband."

His breathing stutters. His next kiss is rougher. Hungrier. His tongue slides against yours, deep and slow, like he wants you to feel every second of it. You whimper—actually whimper—and Heeseung curses under his breath. His hands move, sliding over your bare skin, gripping your thighs, pressing you against him like he can't get enough.

And then you hear it.

A shift of movement outside. A footstep. Someone is standing there. Listening. Watching.

You feel Heeseung tense beside you. His fingers twitch against the sheets, his muscles flexing like he's ready to strike.But then, he turns his head, his lips brushing your ear.

"Don't stop."

Your pulse spikes. "They're listening," you whisper, barely parting your lips.

His fingers tighten on your hip. "I know," he murmurs, his voice so dark and smooth it makes your stomach tighten.He pauses for half a second. Then he shifts, rolling over, pressing his body against yours. His chest is warm, firm, solid against yours, his thigh sliding between yours beneath the sheets.

And then, he speaks. Loud enough for whoever is outside to hear.

"Kiss me, baby. Please."

Your stomach flips. Your breath catches. His fingers press into your hip, just enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. "Kiss me," he breathes again, even louder. His tone dripping with something dangerous.Something that isn't fake at all. The words roll off his tongue like he's begging. Like he wants it. Like he needs it.

You barely have time to react before his lips crash onto yours.

It's not careful. Not slow. Not fake. His hand grips your jaw, his thumb tilting your face up, forcing you to take it. His lips move hungrily, deeply, thoroughly, like he's been starving for this. Like he's craving you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Your legs shift beneath him, parting slightly, allowing him to slot between them. The kiss is messy. Hot. Desperate.

And outside, there's silence. Then a muttered voice.

"They really are together."

Another pause. "Shit. That's… intense."

The gravel crunches. The presence outside shifts. But Heeseung doesn't stop.

His lips move down your jaw, his breath hot, heavy, controlled. His tongue flicks against your pulse, teasing, testing."You like this," he murmurs, so quiet it's almost just for you.

Your thighs tighten around his waist. His smirk presses against your throat. "Admit it, baby," he whispers. "You love letting them hear how good I make you feel."

Your nails dig into his shoulders. "You're disgusting," you hiss, but it comes out shaky.

His teeth graze your skin. "You're wet," he whispers against your throat. "And I haven't even touched you properly."

You almost bite your lip to stop the sound that threatens to escape. Almost. Because then his hips roll against yours, slow, deep, teasing.

And you moan.

Loud enough for the whole damn street to hear.

The figure outside finally moves. The voices fade. The footsteps retreat. They're gone.

But Heeseung doesn't move. Neither do you.

His lips hover just over yours, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. His hands are still on you. His body is still pinning you down.

And now, there's no excuse. No reason. No one left to perform for. Nothing stopping you from pushing him away. Nothing stopping him from letting you go. But neither of you do.

Instead, his fingers brush the corner of your mouth. His lips part like he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

Because now, you both know. This wasn't just for them. It wasn't just for the mission. Not really. Not when your body still aches for him. Not when his hands are still lingering. Not when he doesn't pull away first. And definitely not when you don't want him to.

The kitchen is too quiet.

The coffee smells rich and strong, filling the room, but it does nothing to cut through the thick tension that lingers from last night. From the moment you woke up tangled in the sheets with Heeseung's hand still gripping your waist. From the way he refused to be the first one to let go.

Now, as you stir your coffee, pretending everything is normal, pretending your thighs aren't still aching from how tightly they had clenched around his waist last night, pretending you aren't hyper-aware of him standing across from you, it's a losing game.

Heeseung leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching you. You refuse to look at him. The silence stretches.

And then he speaks. "You gonna talk about what happened last night, baby?"

You still. Your fingers tighten around the mug. But you don't answer.

Heeseung tilts his head, studying you. Waiting. And when you still don't say anything, he exhales sharply. "Fine. I'll start."

Your stomach tightens as he sets his cup down and pushes off the counter. "Who the hell were those people watching us?" he says, his voice losing the teasing edge from earlier. "Because that wasn't some nosy old lady peeking through the fence. Those were professionals."

You exhale slowly, finally lifting your gaze. "I don't know yet."

His brows lift. "Yet?"

You roll your shoulders back, forcing yourself into work mode. You need to focus. "Could be rival traffickers," you say evenly, setting your mug down. "Could be clients who don't trust our cover yet."

Heeseung nods slowly, his smirk from earlier finally gone. You almost miss it. Almost.

"So we're being watched," he states.

"Yes."

His jaw tightens. "And we just played right into their hands last night."

You look away. It's not a question. But you still feel obligated to answer. "Yes."

Heeseung sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Fuck."

You exhale sharply, straightening. "It's not a bad thing," you say. "If they think we're real, they won't question us as much. It gives us credibility."

His eyes flicker over you. "You sure that's what you were thinking last night?" he murmurs.

You freeze. Your pulse spikes.

And the worst part? You don't know the answer.

You clear your throat, ignoring the way his gaze darkens just slightly at your hesitation. "You're deflecting," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "We need to figure out how much they know."

Heeseung sighs, rolling his shoulders. "They had too much access to our house. That means one of two things—"

You nod, already following his train of thought. "Either they're locals who have the ability to move around unnoticed—"

"—or they've paid off someone in our network to let them get close," he finishes grimly.

Your stomach twists. Because both options are bad.

Heeseung pushes a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing slightly under his t-shirt. It's distracting. You grit your teeth. Focus.

"So what's the move, baby?" he says, casual, easy, like he didn't just call you that on purpose.

Your eye twitches. "We run surveillance on the street," you say tightly. "We watch who's watching us."

Heeseung hums, nodding. "Okay."

"And in the meantime," you continue, voice calm, measured, totally not affected by him at all, "we keep playing the perfect couple."

Heeseung pauses. Then, his lips twitch. "Perfect?"

You regret your word choice immediately. His smirk slowly returns. "You think we're perfect, sweetheart?"

Your teeth clench. "That's not—"

"You said it, baby," he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice warm, teasing.

Your pulse spikes. "You just said," he continues, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter, "that you and I—"

"Heeseung."

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "—are perfect together."

-

The air-conditioning in the store is a stark contrast to the heat outside, but it does nothing to cool down the tension simmering between you and Heeseung. It's been lingering ever since the conversation this morning. Ever since he pinned you with that smug smirk, acting like he had the upper hand, like you were the one struggling more.

You are not struggling. You refuse to struggle.

So when Heeseung grabs a cart and effortlessly rests one hand on the handle while the other slides into his pocket, looking far too comfortable in this fake domesticity, you ignore him. Instead, you focus on the list in your hands, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, ignoring the way your pulse still isn't normal.

This is just an errand. Nothing more.

It starts small. A casual "Babe, what do we need?" that earns him a sharp glare. A lazy arm draped over your shoulders as you stand in the produce aisle, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair. A low "Want me to pick the best ones for you, baby?" as he grabs apples, grinning when you glare at him like you want to shove him into the fruit display.

You try to stay neutral. You fail.

By the time you reach the dairy section, Heeseung has pushed the cart so close to you that your hip brushes against it every time you move. And when you reach for a bottle of milk, he leans in—completely unnecessary, completely on purpose—his chest pressing against your back as his arm reaches over yours.

His breath is warm against your ear. "Need help, sweetheart?"

Your entire body locks up.

Heeseung hums, voice lower. "Or do you just like having me this close?"

Your fingers tighten around the milk bottle. You inhale sharply. Then, before you can stop yourself, you turn around too fast. The cart shifts. Your hip bumps into it. And somehow—somehow—you end up pinned between the handle and Heeseung, trapped in a space that is entirely too small for your liking.

His lips curve into a slow, satisfied smirk. "Close quarters," he murmurs, eyes dark and amused. "Feels familiar, doesn't it?"

Your stomach flips. You refuse to react. "Stop playing games," you bite out, your voice lower than intended.

Heeseung tilts his head, pretending to think. "But we're having so much fun."

You narrow your eyes. "You're having fun."

His smirk deepens. "And you're pretending you're not."

Your teeth clench. You're about to shove him away—about to remind him that this is a public place—when someone clears their throat behind you.

You go still. Heeseung's smirk vanishes instantly. Your stomach drops. Because when you turn around, you see him. A man in a dark polo, watching the two of you carefully.

You don't know him. But you know exactly what he is. One of them. And now, he's waiting. Watching. Testing.

Your heart pounds. And then Heeseung moves. So smoothly, so effortlessly, that if you weren't already hyper-aware of his every move, you might not have noticed the subtle shift. He steps closer. Not tense. Not nervous. Just…easy. Like this is normal. Like this is real.

It's different from last night. Worse. Because last night, there had been shadows and secrets and something unspoken.But here? Now? In broad daylight, in front of someone watching, in the middle of a damn grocery store, there's no hiding. There's nothing to mistake this for.

His lips move against yours slowly. Deliberately. Like he's savoring it. Like he's telling this man—telling you—that he's not afraid of being seen like this. His hand slides to your waist, his grip gentle, unhurried. Your fingers fist into his shirt, barely thinking.

Because the worst part? You melt into it. Not because of the act. Not because of the mission. Not because of the audience. But because he feels good. Because he knows exactly how to kiss you.

And when he pulls back, when he lingers for a second too long, when his breath is still warm against your lips, your stomach sinks. Because he's looking at you like he already knows. Like he can see straight through you. Like he knows you want more. And maybe maybe you do.

But then, from behind, the man clears his throat again. And Heeseung? He doesn't even glance back. He just smirks against your mouth. His thumb strokes over your cheek. And then, loud enough for the other man to hear, he murmurs—

"See, baby? I don't mind putting on a show."

Your entire body burns. Your stomach twists. Because for a second, just a second, you forget who this is for. You forget this is fake. You forget everything. And the worst part? You think Heeseung does too.

The car ride is silent. Too silent. The air between you and Heeseung is thick, charged, suffocating. You can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours. You can still hear his voice—low, teasing, smug as hell—whispering against your mouth in that damn grocery store. "See, baby? I don't mind putting on a show."

Your entire body still burns. You should be furious. You should be telling him to keep his damn hands to himself next time. But instead, you're gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. Instead, you can't stop thinking about the way his thumb brushed your cheek, the way he kissed you like he had nothing to prove, like he was just… enjoying it.Like he was just kissing you because he wanted to. Not because someone was watching. Not because the mission required it. Not because he had to. And that, that's the part that's making you lose your mind.

It happens fast. One second, you're keeping your eyes locked on the road, willing yourself not to glance at him. The next, Heeseung exhales sharply and shifts in his seat, tilting his head toward you. And then he speaks.

"So," he starts, too casual, too dangerous. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

Your jaw tightens. You know exactly what he's referring to. But you pretend not to. "Talk about what?" you ask, voice calm, steady. Too steady.

Heeseung sees through it immediately. He shifts again, his smirk audible even before you look at him. "The fact that you liked it," he murmurs.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. You refuse to react. "You kissed me," you say simply. "Not the other way around."

Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Yeah," he muses. "And you kissed me back."

Your stomach twists. "You were playing your part," you say, forcing nonchalance into your voice.

Heeseung laughs. Low. Dark. Amused. "And you weren't?"

Your breath hitches. You don't answer. Because you don't have an answer. Because he's right. Because you were too into it. Because it felt too good. And now you don't know what to do with that.

The silence stretches again. But this time, it's different. This time, it's thick with something neither of you want to name. And then, Heeseung speaks again. Voice low. Casual. Like he's not about to completely ruin your life.

"So, what if we just lean into it?"

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, shifting in his seat, like he's not suggesting something completely insane. "Think about it, sweetheart," he says, his voice silk-smooth, dangerous. "We have to keep playing this part, right?"

You don't answer. Because he's right. Because you do. Because whoever was watching you last night, whoever was following you today, they still need to believe it.

Heeseung tilts his head, watching you closely. "We keep up the act. But we make it more… convincing."

Your stomach drops. "And by that, you mean—"

Heeseung smirks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. "Sex, baby."

Your entire body tenses. Your hands clench around the steering wheel. Your heart pounds so violently you swear he can hear it. "You're insane," you say flatly.

He laughs. "Am I?" he muses. "Or am I just thinking ahead?"

You grit your teeth. "This isn't necessary."

Heeseung shrugs. "Maybe not. But it'll help."

"Help?" you echo.

He nods, completely unbothered. "You really think whoever's watching us won't be looking for signs of intimacy?" he says. "We have to sell it."

Your stomach flips. You hate that he has a point. And worse? He knows he does.

"You don't trust yourself," he says suddenly.

Your head snaps toward him. "Excuse me?"

Heeseung just smirks. "You don't trust yourself," he repeats, voice low, knowing. "You think if we start fucking, you'll catch feelings."

Your breath catches. Because that's not it. Is it?

Heeseung leans closer, voice dangerously soft. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I won't fall in love with you."

Your chest tightens. Your throat feels too dry. You should tell him no. You should shut this down.

But instead, your fingers loosen around the steering wheel. And when you speak, your voice is quiet. "You're so confident," you murmur. "But what if you're the one who falls first?"

The smirk on his lips flickers. Just barely. But you catch it. And that's all it takes. Because now? Now you know. This is going to be a disaster. And you're about to let it happen anyway.

The tension doesn't ease when you get home. It only gets worse. Because now, there's no one watching. No mission excuse. No reason to keep pretending—except for the one you both just created.

The deal was simple. Use each other. Keep the cover. Nothing more. But the moment you step inside, the moment the front door clicks shut, locking you in with him, you realize something. You're not thinking about the mission anymore. And neither is he.

You don't know who moves first. One second, you're standing there, the next, Heeseung is on you. The kiss is a collision.Hard, hot, devastating. His hands grab at your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips crash into yours, all tongue and heat and pure fucking need. There's nothing slow about it. No hesitation. No pretending.

His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer, forcing your body to mold against his. You feel every inch of him—hard muscle, sharp edges, the unmistakable heat of him pressing against your stomach. Your fingers tangle into his hair, pulling hard, dragging him deeper.

He groans and suddenly, you're moving. He's walking you backward. Fast. Desperate. You barely register the path through the house, until your back hits the nearest surface. The dining table.

Heeseung's hands are on your thighs instantly, lifting, gripping. "Up," he mutters against your mouth.

You don't hesitate. You hop up onto the table, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him into you. Heeseung groans, his hands gripping your ass, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. "You're already making this too easy," he rasps, his teeth grazing your jaw.

You should shove him away for that. Instead, you tilt your head back, baring your throat. His lips are on your neck in an instant. Biting. Sucking. Marking. Your breath shudders.

"Heeseung—"

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin, his smirk audible.

You should say something. Tell him to slow down. To stop making this feel like more than it is. But then his fingers slip beneath your shirt. And suddenly, you don't care anymore.

Heeseung rips your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His lips trail down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. You shiver, arching into him as his hands slide up your back, unclasping your bra in one smooth motion.

Your stomach clenches. "You've done this before," you mutter.

Heeseung laughs, low and dangerous. "You sound jealous."

Before you can retort, his mouth is on you. You gasp, your head tilting back as his lips close around your nipple, his tongue flicking, sucking, teasing. Your fingers tangle into his hair, holding him there, your back arching as heat pulses through you.

"Fuck," you breathe.

Heeseung hums against your skin. "That's it, baby," he murmurs, his teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm."Knew you'd sound so pretty for me."

Your stomach tightens. You should hate him. But you don't. Not when he finally moves lower, kissing down your stomach, his fingers sliding beneath your waistband.

He glances up at you, his eyes dark, heated. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs.

Your breath catches. You don't. Heeseung smirks. "That's what I thought."

The fabric of your shorts is gone in seconds. Your thighs part instinctively, inviting, desperate. Heeseung groans as he presses forward, grinding against you through his jeans. "Feel that?" he murmurs, voice wrecked. "That's all you, baby."

Your stomach flutters violently. He moves fast—too fast, like he's losing control, like he can't hold back, like he doesn't want to. Your nails dig into his back as he pushes his jeans down just enough, his cock sliding against your soaked entrance.

Your breath shudders. "Heeseung—"

"Shh, sweetheart," he murmurs, his tip teasing your clit. He grins when your hips buck instinctively. "Needy," he muses, pressing a kiss to your throat. "You want it that bad?"

Your fingers tighten around his arms. "Shut up," you mutter.

Heeseung just laughs—before finally pushing in.

Your breath breaks. Your fingers clench, nails raking down his back as he fills you, stretching you, giving you no time to adjust. "Fuck," Heeseung groans, his forehead dropping against yours. "You're so fucking tight."

You pant, shivering. Heeseung's lips brush yours, teasing. "Think you can take it?" he whispers.

You clench around him in response. His smirk drops. "Shit," he breathes.

Then he moves. And it's not slow. It's not soft. It's desperate. Relentless. Rough. His hips snap into yours, deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath catch, your body tighten, your fingers claw at his back.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters, his breath hot against your neck. "You feel so fucking good—so wet for me."

You can't think. You can't do anything except take it. Your back hits the table, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. Heeseung groans, gripping your hips, holding you there.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice wrecked. "Letting me use you like this."

Your stomach clenches violently. "Shut up," you whisper, barely able to breathe.

Heeseung laughs, deep and dark. "Yeah?" he murmurs, tilting his head. "Make me." His thrusts deepen, slowing, grinding, dragging pleasure through you like fire.

Your breath catches. You're so close. Heeseung notices immediately. He smirks, his hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. Your body shakes.

"There we go," he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction. "That's my girl."

You snap. The pleasure hits too fast, too hard. Your body tightens around him, your nails raking down his back as you fall apart, trembling, panting, gasping. Heeseung groans, burying himself deep, grinding through your high until he follows. His breath shudders. His hands tighten. And then, he spills into you, shaking, wrecked, completely gone.

The room is quiet. The only sound is both of you breathing. Heeseung doesn't move right away. Neither do you. But eventually, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. And then, he smirks.

"See, baby?" he murmurs, his voice low, teasing. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Your stomach sinks. Because you already know. This was the worst idea of your life. And you want to do it again.

The morning comes too soon. Your body aches in places you don't want to acknowledge, your skin still buzzing from last night, from Heeseung, from the way he had completely ruined you on that table.

It was supposed to be for the mission. It was supposed to be nothing. But then he had kissed you like he meant it.Then he had whispered filthy things against your skin, dragging pleasure through you like it was his only goal in life. And worst of all? Then you had let him.

And now? You're in trouble. Because instead of getting up, getting dressed, and pretending it never happened, you're still in bed with him. Still naked. Still pressed against his warm, solid body, his arm thrown lazily over your waist.

And worse? He's awake. You feel it in the way his fingers start to move slowly, absently, tracing circles against your bare hip. You freeze. Because you already know. You already know exactly where this is going. And you're going to let it happen anyway.

Heeseung doesn't speak at first. He just moves. His hand slides lower, slipping between your thighs, his fingers brushing against where you're already slick and warm. You suck in a sharp breath.

"You still wet from last night, baby?" he murmurs against your ear, his voice husky, slow, teasing. Your thighs clench around his wrist. Heeseung chuckles. "Yeah," he muses, his fingers pressing deeper, finding your clit, stroking slow circles that make your breath catch. "That's what I thought."

Your hips shift instinctively, chasing his touch. His breath shudders against your neck. "So needy for me already," he hums. "I should've known you wouldn't be satisfied with just one round."

You should shove him away. You should stop this before it spirals even more. But then he presses his cock against your ass, already hard, already throbbing, already so fucking desperate for you. And suddenly, you don't care anymore.

You don't know how much time passes. All you know is Heeseung is inside you again. All you know is his hands are gripping your thighs, pulling you apart, his cock dragging deep, hitting all the right spots, making you tremble. All you know is you're gasping his name, your nails raking down his back, your body arching into him, needing more, more, more.

"Fuck, baby," Heeseung groans against your throat. "You feel so fucking good—"

Then the doorbell rings.

You both freeze. Your body locks up. Heeseung stiffens. For a second, silence. Then it rings again. You gasp softly, your breath shaky, still reeling from the pleasure he had been dragging you toward.

Heeseung grits his teeth, lifting his head, glaring at the door like he's debating whether to murder whoever is standing outside. Then a voice.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lee?"

Your blood runs cold. Because you know that voice. Heeseung knows it too. You both whip your heads toward each other. Because standing outside your house, waiting for you to answer, is one of the targets. And you're still naked, sweating, tangled in each other, caught in the middle of something that is definitely not mission-related.

You panic first. Heeseung groans, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. "Fucking hell," he mutters. Then another knock.

The knock at the door is too sharp. Too deliberate. Heeseung barely has time to pull on his shirt properly before you're both stumbling toward the front door—faces flushed, breaths still uneven, bodies still humming with the remnants of what just happened in the bedroom.

The last thing you expect when you open it is Park Jae Hoon. Your primary target’s right hand man.

Chairman Kang’s Assistant.

A man whose connections run deep, whose operations are too well-hidden, whose wealth has made him untouchable for years.

Right now? He's standing at your doorstep, looking straight at you with a pleasant smile. And then he says it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lee?"

Your stomach drops. Your breath catches for half a second—just long enough for it to be a mistake. Behind you, Heeseung doesn't move. You feel his entire body tense, his presence turning sharp, rigid—so fast it makes your skin prickle. But he covers it in an instant.

Heeseung tilts his head, a fraction of a second too slow, like he's calculating. "Park," he says smoothly, his voice dangerously calm.

Jaehoon smiles wider, his gaze flickering between the two of you, watching, assessing. "I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time," he continues, the casual tone doing little to mask the underlying weight of his words.

He knows. Maybe not everything. But something. Your mind races through possibilities. Was it a slip? A baited trap? A misdirect? Was he testing your reaction? Did he say Lee just to see how you'd respond? Your fingers twitch at your side.

Heeseung speaks before you can, so smoothly it makes your head spin. "That's funny," he muses, his lips curling into a smirk.

Jaehoon raises an eyebrow. "What is?"

Heeseung's hand settles on your waist, casual, possessive, like he's done it a million times before. "That's the second time this week someone's called us Lee," he hums, shaking his head with an amused scoff. "Wonder where that's coming from."

Jaehoon laughs lightly, like he's not the one who just said it. "Must be a mix-up," he says smoothly. "I'm terrible with names, my apologies."

Liar. You know it. He knows it. And Heeseung? He knows it, too. His grip on your waist tightens slightly.

"It happens," you interject, finally finding your voice. "We'll have to remind people."

Jaehoon watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then, he changes the subject. "My wife and I would love to invite you to dinner tonight," he says. "A small gathering. Just some neighbors getting to know each other."

Your stomach twists. You force a polite smile. This is a trap. It has to be. It's too soon. You've been in town for less than two weeks. And yet, he's standing at your door, already pulling you closer, already testing you.

And the worst part? You have to say yes. Because if you don't? You're as good as caught.

You and Heeseung arrive at the Park estate precisely at 7:00 PM. The house is massive—all glass windows and dark wood, sleek and modern but old money through and through. The kind of wealth that doesn't flaunt itself but never lets you forget it's there.

The door swings open before you can even knock. Park Jaehoon is already waiting. His smile is pleasant, but his eyes—sharp, assessing, watching every little detail.

Beside him, his wife Minji greets you both warmly, her voice smooth and charming, her demeanor soft where Jaehoon's is all edges. But you're not fooled. She's just as dangerous. She just hides it better.

Dinner is set up outside, under dim garden lights, the table covered in expensive wine and fine-cut dishes. Other couples from the neighborhood are there—people with money, status, power. People who either don't know what Jaehoon does or are too complicit to care.

And throughout the entire meal? You're being watched. Jaehoon is subtle about it. Testing you in small, careful ways. Watching how you and Heeseung interact. The way he pours you a glass of wine before his own. The way your hands brush when you pass him the plate. The way he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. All of it measured, calculated.

A lesser agent wouldn't have noticed. But you do. And so does Heeseung. Which is why you don't react. You just smile. Lean into his touch, laugh at his jokes, touch his thigh beneath the table when no one is looking. You give them what they want to see.

And Heeseung? He plays along like he was made for this. His voice is smooth, his touches natural, his attention never leaving you for long enough to seem disinterested. To anyone else, you're just another married couple—young, rich, successful, maybe a little too in love. But to Jaehoon? This is a test. And you're praying you don't fail it.

It happens when you least expect it. When you're finally settling into the act. When Heeseung has his arm draped lazily over the back of your chair, fingers tracing light circles on your bare shoulder. When Jaehoon smirks suddenly, takes a slow sip of his wine, and speaks.

"You two have been together for how long now?"

Heeseung answers smoothly. "Five years."

Jaehoon hums. "And how did you meet?" A standard question. One you prepared for. One you practiced. You open your mouth to respond—

But Heeseung beats you to it. "She wouldn't leave me alone."

The entire table goes silent. Your breath catches. Jaehoon raises an eyebrow. And Heeseung—the bastard—just smirks, leaning into you. "She practically stalked me, begged me for a date."

A laugh ripples through the table. Jaehoon chuckles, shaking his head. "Is that true?"

Your pulse spikes. You know what he's doing. He's testing your reactions. If you get flustered, if you hesitate, you'll look suspicious. So you adapt. You scoff, turning to Heeseung with a smirk. "I literally saved your ass in law school."

More laughter. The tension eases. You slide a hand to Heeseung's thigh under the table, squeezing hard. A warning. But Heeseung? He just smirks. He's enjoying this too much.

Jaehoon nods approvingly. "You two remind me of my wife and me," he muses. "Good chemistry. I can always tell when a marriage is real."

Your stomach twists violently. Because that? That was the real test. And you still don't know if you passed it.

The ride home is silent. Tense. Charged. You're still reeling from the dinner, from the questions, from the way Jaehoon watched your every move like he was cataloging them, looking for the slightest hint of a lie. But more than that, you're still reeling from Heeseung. From the way he smirked through every question like he was having the time of his life. From the way he ran his fingers over your bare skin at the table, teasing, touching, like he wanted to push you to the edge. From the way he played his part so fucking well that you almost believed him.

And now? You're alone. Back in the house. Back inside the lie that's feeling a little too real.

You step inside first, your heels clicking against the floor, your body buzzing with pent-up frustration. The second the door shuts behind you, you round on him. "What the fuck was that?" you snap, voice sharp, controlled.

Heeseung just smirks. "Which part?"

Your teeth clench. "You know which part."

He shrugs, undoing the top button of his shirt like he's completely unfazed. "Relax, baby," he drawls, voice smooth, teasing. "We didn't get caught."

You step forward. He doesn't move. "You enjoyed that way too much," you say, your voice low, accusing.

Heeseung tilts his head. "And you didn't?"

Your breath catches. Because he's too close now. Because he's looking at you like he already knows the answer.Because he's right. You did enjoy it. Not just the act. Not just the mission. Him. His hands, his voice, the way he touched you. The way he kisses you like he means it. The way he watches you like he wants to ruin you.

You exhale sharply. "This isn't real," you bite out, like you're trying to convince yourself.

Heeseung smiles—slow, devastating. "Yeah?" He steps forward. You step back. Until your back hits the wall. Until he's right in front of you, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to smell the cologne still lingering on his skin.

His fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, his touch barely there. "You're shaking," he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. "You—"

"You want me to stop?" he asks, low, husky.

Your body betrays you. Your legs part slightly, just enough for him to notice. Heeseung hums, pleased. "That's what I thought."

Before you can process it, he's sinking. Kneeling in front of you. His hands slide up your thighs, parting them effortlessly, his breath hot against your skin. You feel his smirk against your inner thigh. "You look so fucking good like this, baby," he murmurs.

Your head tilts back against the wall. Your heels dig into the floor, your fingers clutching at the surface behind you."Fuck," you whisper.

Heeseung chuckles. He lifts your leg, sliding it over his shoulder, keeping you open for him. "You've been tense all night," he muses. "Let me take care of you."

His fingers hook into your underwear, dragging them down slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring every second. And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, fingers tangling into his hair, gripping, pulling. Heeseung groans against you, his hands tightening on your thighs, his tongue working slow, deep strokes against your clit. Your hips buck. He grips you harder, pinning you in place.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me do my job, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightens. Because this isn't pretend. Because this isn't just for the mission. Because he's devouring you like he fucking means it.

Your heels dig into his back, your body trembling as he laps at you, sucking, teasing, fucking you with his tongue until you're panting, until you're so close you can't think. And then he pulls back.

You whimper at the loss. Heeseung looks up at you, his lips slick, his eyes dark, hooded, ravenous. "You taste so fucking sweet," he murmurs.

You can't breathe. "Please," you whisper.

Heeseung smirks. "Please what, baby?"

You grit your teeth. "H-Heeseung—"

"Say it."

Your face burns. "Make me come," you whisper.

His smirk vanishes. His fingers dig into your thighs. Then he dives back in.

And this time? He doesn't stop.

Not until you're shaking, gasping, falling apart against him, your back arching off the wall, your body pulsing with pleasure so intense it feels like drowning. Not until you moan his name so loud that if anyone was outside, they'd know exactly what he's doing to you. Not until he's pulling back, pressing kisses along your thighs, grinning up at you like he just won something.

Like he owns you. And maybe maybe he does.

Because you're ruined now. Because you'll never be able to look at him the same way again. Because this—whatever this is— it's not just for the mission anymore.

And you're in too deep to pretend otherwise.

-

The morning after should have been awkward. Should have been tense, unbearable, suffocating. But instead? It's calm.Too calm. Like neither of you are willing to acknowledge what just happened.

Like if you don't talk about it, if you don't look at each other for too long, if you don't think about the way Heeseung had dropped to his knees and ruined you against the wall, then maybe just maybe you can pretend you're still in control.

So you do what you do best. You compartmentalize. You shove everything into a box, lock it away, and focus. Because you're not here for him. You're not here for whatever this is. You're here to take these people down. And it's time you started acting like it.

You spend the entire morning pouring over files, surveillance reports, and connection maps, trying to untangle the knots of this case. Heeseung sits across from you at the kitchen table, back to his usual self—calm, sharp, focused. For the first time since arriving here, it feels like the job is actually taking priority again.

You take a slow sip of coffee, flipping through one of the files. "We need to start pulling deeper on Kang's network."

Heeseung nods, scrolling through his laptop. "We know he's the link between the local trade and the international markets is Jaehoon, but we still don't have enough to prove it."

Your fingers tap against the page. "Which means we need to figure out where the shipments are coming in."

Heeseung exhales sharply. "That's the problem. These guys don't use the usual channels. No ports, no major transport hubs. Whatever they're moving, it's coming in completely off-grid."

You narrow your eyes at the report in your hands. "Then we need to look at what they do control. Warehouses, private properties, storage facilities—anything that could be used to funnel products in and out without setting off alerts."

Heeseung hums in agreement, his fingers moving quickly over his keyboard. "There's a location that keeps popping up on our surveillance feeds. A warehouse on the west side, owned under a shell company that leads back to Kang."

Your pulse picks up. You lean over the table, studying the map on his screen. "How well-guarded is it?"

"Moderate security. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to make it clear something valuable is there," Heeseung mutters. "Cameras, patrols, rotating staff."

"Which means we can't just walk in."

"Not without drawing attention."

Silence stretches as you both consider the options. Then an idea.

You glance at him. "How many of the staff do we have IDs on?"

Heeseung clicks a few files open. "Not all, but a decent amount. Why?"

You smirk. "Because if we can't walk in as ourselves, we walk in as them."

Heeseung leans back in his chair, eyeing you. "You want to go inside the warehouse as employees?"

You shrug. "It's the best option. Less risk than breaking in, more access than staking out from the outside."

Heeseung rubs his jaw, considering. "We'd have to steal IDs. Learn their routines. Get in without tipping anyone off."

"Exactly," you murmur, your mind already calculating. "We need disguises. Uniforms. A way to get in and out without raising suspicion."

Heeseung sighs, but there's a glint in his eyes. "You're getting too excited about this, sweetheart."

You smirk. "It's the job."

He shakes his head. "No, you just like the thrill."

You don't deny it. Instead, you straighten. "We need to pick a target—someone whose absence won't be noticed immediately. Someone low enough in rank that we can take their spot, but high enough that they have clearance."

Heeseung clicks through the personnel files, narrowing the options. "This guy. Jung Minseok. Mid-level logistics coordinator. His access logs show he's in and out frequently but doesn't stay long. No high-clearance tasks, but enough movement to slip under the radar."

Your eyes narrow. "Perfect."

Heeseung exhales. "You're sure about this?"

You flash him a wicked grin. "Trust me, babe," you murmur. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

The warehouse is colder than expected. Dim lighting, the faint hum of industrial fans, the scent of metal and damp concrete—it's a perfect front. From the outside, it looks like any other storage facility. But on the inside? You know there's something bigger hiding beneath the surface.

You and Heeseung slip in effortlessly. Disguised in stolen uniforms, fake IDs clipped neatly onto your collars, posture sharp but unassuming—just another pair of employees in the sea of warehouse staff. No one looks at you twice. No one asks why you're here. It's almost too easy.

Heeseung adjusts the clipboard in his hand, murmuring under his breath as he falls into step beside you. "We've got maybe thirty minutes before someone notices an extra set of names on the shift list."

You nod subtly, your eyes scanning the stacks of wooden crates, metal containers, and labeled shipments. "Then we work fast," you mutter back.

Heeseung smirks. "My favorite kind of job."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you split up. Heeseung heads toward the office records, blending seamlessly into the workers checking logs. You go for the storage section. Where the real secrets are buried.

The deeper you go, the quieter it gets. Most of the workers are occupied with the main shipment areas—leaving this section mostly empty. Your steps soften. Your breath slows. You count every turn, every exit, every security camera in sight.

And then you see it. A door. Unmarked. Unassuming. Tucked away at the back of the facility—but with a security lock that's far too advanced for a basic storage room.

Your pulse kicks up. This isn't just a warehouse.

You pull out a small device, hooking it onto the electronic lock, watching as it overrides the security input in under fifteen seconds. With a soft click, the door unlocks. You push it open.

And then your breath catches.

Inside, the room is small, dark, sterile. But the thing that makes your blood run cold? The medical equipment. IV bags. Monitors. A locked steel cabinet filled with vials of something you can't identify.

This isn't just a warehouse. This is a holding facility.

And before you can process what that means, you hear footsteps approaching. Fast. Coming right for you.

Your heart pounds. Footsteps—close, coming fast, heading straight for the room you're in. You have seconds. Not minutes. Not enough time to take photos, not enough time to process what you just saw, not enough time to do anything except get out.

Your body moves before your mind catches up. You press the door shut just before the footsteps round the corner, locking it again with a silent flick of your wrist. The electronic lock clicks back into place. You step away just in timefor two men to stop directly in front of the door.

Holding your breath, you keep walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just normal. Like you were never there. Like you don't have the weight of a game-changing discovery sitting in your chest. Like your stomach isn't twisting at the thought of what kind of people need an unmarked medical room in a warehouse.

You don't look back. The guards don't look at you. But the moment you round the corner and spot Heeseung standing at the other end of the hall, his sharp gaze immediately locks onto yours. And in that second—he knows.

You reach him just as he's tucking his fake employee badge into his pocket. Heeseung doesn't say anything at first.Just tilts his head slightly, waiting. Waiting for you to confirm what he already suspects.

You keep walking. "We need to go. Now."

That's all he needs to hear. Heeseung nods once, slipping into step beside you, keeping his posture loose and unbothered. Like you aren't both walking the fine edge of disaster. Like you aren't milliseconds away from being caught. Like your heart isn't still racing.

You weave through the warehouse, your breathing calm, your fingers twitching at your side. The exit is in sight. Almost there.

And then—"Hey!"

Your stomach drops. You don't freeze. Don't react. But Heeseung? He turns first. Smooth, easy, like he was expecting this.

A man—one of the security supervisors, judging by the badge clipped to his shirt—is watching the two of you. His eyes narrow slightly. "New guys, huh?"

Heeseung laughs easily. "Yeah," he says. "Boss told us to check the perimeter before heading out. All clear."

The man studies him. For a second too long. For a second too dangerous. You stay silent.

Then the man nods. "Good," he mutters. "We can't afford mistakes right now."

Mistakes. Your fingers twitch.

Heeseung hums. "You expecting a shipment?"

The man scoffs. "Something like that," he says vaguely. "Just keep your head down and don't ask questions."

Heeseung smirks. "No problem."

And just like that the man walks off. You exhale slowly. Not too relieved. Not too fast. Just enough to finally step outside. Just enough to not look suspicious. Just enough to know that this was too close.

The second you're in the car, the moment the warehouse is behind you, the second you're safe—you finally breathe.

Heeseung shifts beside you, watching you. "So," he says, too casual. "What did you find?"

You grip the steering wheel. "Not here."

Heeseung tilts his head, smirking. "That bad?"

You don't answer. You don't have to. Because whatever's happening in that warehouse? It's bigger than you thought.And now? Now you need to figure out exactly what the hell you just walked into.

The drive back is silent. Not the kind of silence that comes from comfort. The kind that feels like something is about to snap.

You can still hear your own heartbeat. Still feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins, making everything feel sharper, heavier, too much. The discovery at the warehouse—the medical room, the vials, the unspoken implications— it's still racing through your head, looping over and over, suffocating you.

You don't know what it means yet. You just know it's bad. And now? Now, you're sitting in the passenger seat, your leg bouncing, your fingers clenched into fists, your breath just a little too shallow. You need to calm down. You need to focus. But right now? Right now, you feel like you're about to lose it.

The moment you step into the house, you head straight for the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter, exhaling sharply. Heeseung follows. You don't have to look at him to know he's watching you. He always does. Especially now.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable. "You're shaking."

You exhale. "It's nothing."

Heeseung hums. "Liar."

Your fingers tighten around the counter. "You need to let this go for tonight," he murmurs, stepping closer.

You shake your head. "I can't."

"You have to."

Your breath shudders. Because you know he's right. Because your body is still vibrating from everything that just happened. Because your mind is still running in circles. Because you don't know how to make it stop.

But Heeseung does. And before you can argue he's behind you. Warm. Solid. Too close. His hands trail down your arms, slow, steady. Grounding.

"Look at me."

You don't. Heeseung leans in, his lips grazing your ear, his voice softer now. "Let me help you."

Your body clenches. Your fingers loosen against the counter. Your breath catches. Because you know exactly what he's offering. And worse? You want it.

You turn around. Slow. Deliberate. Your back hits the counter, and Heeseung steps in between your legs, his hands bracketing your hips. He's too close now. He's waiting. You could stop this.

But instead you fist your hands into his shirt and pull him in.

The kiss is messy. Desperate. Hot. His hands slip beneath your shirt, dragging up your spine, gripping, holding. You don't even realize you're moving until your ass hits the counter, until Heeseung's hands are spreading your thighs, stepping in closer, deeper.

His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you to the edge, pressing himself against you, grinding slow, teasing. "You needed this, didn't you?" he murmurs against your lips.

You don't answer. You just kiss him harder.

Your shirt is on the floor before you can blink. Heeseung's hands slide under your thighs, gripping, holding. "You gonna let me take care of you, sweetheart?"

Your breath hitches. You nod. And that's all he needs.

Because then he's undoing your pants, dragging them down, his fingers already teasing at your heat, smirking when he feels how wet you are. "Already soaked for me," he murmurs. "You needed this more than you let on."

You whimper when his fingers stroke up your slit, circling your clit, pressing slow, deep. "Let me make you feel good," he whispers against your jaw.

You don't stop him. Because for once you don't want to think. You just want to feel.

Afterwards, you're still on the counter, your legs tangled around his waist, your breathing uneven. Heeseung presses a kiss to your jaw. Soft. Lingering. Like he doesn't want to move. Like he wants to stay here. And for a moment—just a moment—so do you.

But then reality crashes back in. Because whatever's happening in that warehouse? It's not over. And now? Now you have to figure out how much worse it's going to get.

-

The house is too quiet after what just happened. The kitchen still smells like sex, like heat, like the remnants of something neither of you want to name. But now? Now, you're back to business. Because no matter what's happening between you and Heeseung, no matter how tangled this is getting, no matter how good he feels—the mission comes first.

You're seated at the kitchen table, the blueprint of the warehouse laid out between you, files stacked on the side, notes scribbled across every margin. Heeseung leans back in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw, watching you as you go through the details again.

"Let's go over this one more time," you murmur, eyes scanning the blueprint. "What do we know for sure?"

Heeseung exhales, tapping his finger against the table. "Chairman Kang's operation is bigger than we thought," he starts. "We knew he was trafficking, but whatever's in that warehouse—"

"—it's not just product," you finish, voice tight.

Your stomach twists. Because the medical equipment, the IV bags, the locked storage cabinets filled with vials— they weren't transporting drugs. They were doing something else. And whatever it was? It involved people.

You pull out the file on the warehouse employees, flipping through it until you reach Jung Minseok—the logistics coordinator whose ID you stole to get in. You slide the file toward Heeseung. "His logs don't match the shipment records."

Heeseung frowns, scanning the notes. "What do you mean?"

You point at the log timestamps. "Look. According to our intel, this warehouse is supposed to be moving goods in and out weekly. But Minseok? He's logged in and out of that medical room every other night."

Heeseung's jaw tightens. "Which means," you continue, voice steady, "this isn't just a storage facility. They're keeping something in there."

Heeseung looks at you, eyes darkening. "Or someone."

Your breath catches. Because he's right. Because this isn't about trafficking goods anymore. Because people are involved.

You sit back in your chair, heart pounding, the weight of the realization settling deep in your bones. "Fuck," you whisper.

Heeseung's fingers tap against the table, his mind already moving ten steps ahead. "If they're keeping people there, we need to figure out why," he mutters. "What's in those vials? What are they doing to them?"

You exhale sharply. "It's not drugs," you say. "At least, not the kind we were expecting. This is something else."

Heeseung studies you, then tilts his head. "You have a theory."

Your fingers grip the edge of the file. "Organized trafficking rings don't keep people in one place unless there's a reason. Either they're waiting for transport, or—" You pause. Your stomach tightens. Heeseung's gaze sharpens. "Or what?"

Your throat feels too dry. You meet his eyes. "Or they're being experimented on."

Silence. Heavy. Sharp. Unbearable.

Heeseung's fingers curl into a fist against the table. "They're running tests," he murmurs, voice too low.

You nod, exhaling slowly. "And we don't know on who, or why, or for what purpose."

His jaw clenches. "Then we need to find out."

The weight of it presses into your chest, heavy, suffocating, unshakable. People. Not just drugs, not just weapons, not just another smuggling operation. This is something worse. Something bigger. Something you weren't prepared for.

You and Heeseung are still sitting at the kitchen table, files and blueprints scattered between you, the cold dregs of coffee in your mugs long forgotten. Heeseung leans forward, his elbows resting on the wood, his brows furrowed in deep thought.

"This changes everything," he mutters.

You exhale sharply. "No shit."

Heeseung rubs a hand down his face, his fingers curling into a loose fist as he processes. "We need more information," he says. "We go back—"

Knock. Knock.

Your breath catches. The sound is sharp, deliberate. Not frantic. Not casual. Calculated.

You and Heeseung freeze. For a second—just a second—neither of you move. Then, instinct takes over. You're both silent, barely breathing, reaching for the weapons hidden beneath the table, tucking them discreetly behind your backs.

Another knock. Steady. Even. Waiting. And then a voice.

"Mr. and Mrs. Park."

Your stomach drops. Because you know that voice. Chairman Kang himself. From the dinner party. The one who barely spoke, but watched everything. The one who lingered when no one else did. The one who, even then, felt like a problem.

Now, the most dangerous man in the city is standing at your doorstep. And he knows you're home.

Your pulse spikes. Heeseung's jaw tightens. Your eyes meet—a silent exchange, a thousand questions packed into one glance. Heeseung tilts his head slightly, his expression calm, calculating. You understand immediately. Play it cool.

You inhale, steady, controlled. Then you walk to the door. You flick the lock. Pull it open just enough.

And there he is. Chairman Kang. Dressed in an impeccable dark suit. Expression cold and calculating beneath his pleasant facade. But now now he's smiling. And you hate it. Because it's not polite. It's not friendly. It's knowing.

"Forgive me for the late visit," Kang says smoothly, his voice warm, pleasant. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Heeseung appears at your side, casual, relaxed. But you know him well enough to see the tension beneath it. "Of course not," Heeseung says easily, leaning against the doorframe. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Chairman Kang tilts his head slightly, as if considering. Then he steps forward. Into your space. And murmurs, just for you to hear— "Why don't we talk inside?"

The air thickens the moment you step back and let him in. Chairman Kang doesn't hesitate. He walks inside like he belongs here, like he's done this before, like he already knows more than he should.

Heeseung shuts the door behind him. Locks it. Subtle. But not really. Kang notices. He smiles. "How hospitable."

You return the expression, tight-lipped. "We like our privacy."

His eyes flicker between you and Heeseung. Like he's studying, comparing, searching. You don't fidget. You don't move. But your pulse ticks up. Because this this is dangerous. You don't know why he's here yet. But you know it's not good.

Heeseung gestures to the living room. "Sit. Have a drink."

Chairman Kang hums, glancing around the space before lowering himself onto the couch. "You keep a lovely home," he comments.

You tilt your head. "It's temporary."

Kang nods, lacing his fingers together. "Of course," he murmurs. "How long have you two been married again?"

You smile. Heeseung leans forward, pouring whiskey into a glass, sliding it across the table toward him. "Five years," he says smoothly. "I assume you did your research before you came here."

Chairman Kang lifts his brows. "Naturally." But he doesn't touch the drink. Just lets it sit there. Waiting.

Heeseung exhales sharply, leaning back into the chair, stretching out like he's perfectly at ease. You stay standing. Watching.

Kang turns his attention back to you. "I've been meaning to ask—what was it that brought you here again?"

You tilt your head. "Business."

"Ah." A slow nod. Too slow. Too measured. Then he glances at the scattered files on the kitchen table.

Your stomach tightens. Because even though none of those files are directly related to the mission it's still too much. Too many notes. Too many blueprints. Too much evidence that you aren't just a happy, newlywed couple settling into a quiet life.

Chairman Kang smiles. "And what kind of business is that again?"

Your jaw clenches. Before you can answer, Heeseung beats you to it. "Investment," he says smoothly. "Real estate. Properties, stocks. The kind of things that keep your wealth moving."

Kang hums. "The kind of things that keep your name clean."

Your breath catches. Because that wasn't an innocent remark. That was a test. A trap. And you know it.

Heeseung's smirk doesn't falter. "I wouldn't say that," he muses. "A name is only as clean as the person who holds it."

Chairman Kang chuckles. "And yours is spotless?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Silence. The tension pulls tighter. Then Kang tilts his head. And finally, he slips.

"I have to say," he murmurs, "you two are very different from the last couple."

The room goes still. Your pulse stumbles. Heeseung's fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against the chair.But he doesn't move. Doesn't react. Just lets the weight of that statement settle. Then he speaks. "Oh?"

Chairman Kang shrugs. "The previous tenants."

You tilt your head. "We weren't told much about them."

He hums. "No, I imagine not."

Your stomach knots. Because this? This is new information. The mission files never mentioned anyone else staying in this house before you. And if there was a couple here before where are they now?

Heeseung exhales slowly, as if bored. "And why does that matter to you?"

Kang smiles. "The same reason I came here tonight," he says lightly. "Curiosity."

You watch him. He watches you back. And then he stands. Straightens his suit. Looks between the two of you one last time. Then he nods.

"Enjoy your evening," he says, turning toward the door. "I was quite pleased to meet you both at dinner. I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon."

The casual threat beneath his words is unmistakable. This wasn't a social visit. Chairman Kang himself came to assess you, to study you, to let you know he was watching.

You don't move. Don't speak. Just watch as he walks away. As he lets himself out. As the lock clicks behind him.

And when you finally turn to Heeseung his expression is unreadable. But his words are deadly serious. "We need to find out what happened to that couple."

Because now? Now you know this mission is bigger than you ever imagined. And if you aren't careful? You might be next.

The house feels different after Chairman Kang leaves. Like it's not just a house anymore. Like it's a crime scene. Like there are shadows in every corner, waiting for you to find them.

You and Heeseung stand in silence, the weight of what just happened pressing between you. The files on the table feel heavier now. Everything feels heavier now. Because now? Now you know this house wasn't meant for you. It was meant for them. And whatever happened to the last couple it wasn't good.

You don't speak as you move. You don't tell Heeseung what you're looking for because you don't know. You just know it's here. Somewhere. The truth is somewhere in this house.

So you start in the obvious places. The bedroom. The office. The storage spaces. You check for anything out of place, anything that doesn't belong, anything that looks like a message someone didn't want found. But there's nothing.

And then you stand in the middle of the living room, frowning. Thinking. And then you look down. At the floorboards.At the slight misalignment of one near the fireplace.

Your breath catches. And then you kneel. Your fingers skim over the edge of the wood, pressing lightly. And then it moves. Not much. Just enough. And that's all you need.

You pull it up. And then you find it. A small metal box, tucked away beneath the floorboards. Hidden. Buried. Waiting.

Your fingers tremble just slightly as you lift it out. It's light. Not heavy enough to hold a weapon. But heavy enough to hold something dangerous.

You place it on the table, Heeseung standing beside you now, watching. You glance at him. Heeseung nods. "Open it."

You take a slow breath. And then you do. The latch clicks. The lid lifts. And inside is a phone. And a small, folded piece of paper.

Your pulse jumps. You pick up the paper first, your breath catching at the words scrawled in desperate, jagged handwriting.

"If you're reading this, you need to run."

Your stomach drops.

"They aren't who they say they are."

Your breath shudders.

"And they know you're here."

Silence. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

You turn the paper over. There's one last sentence. Scrawled hastily, like whoever wrote it was running out of time.

"They took my wife first."

You and Heeseung stare at the note. Neither of you speak. Neither of you move. And then you pick up the phone. It's old. Dead. The battery long drained. But you know you just know whatever's on it? It's not meant to be seen.

You swallow hard, looking at Heeseung. "We need to power this up."

His jaw tightens. He nods once. "Let's go."

You grab the box, the note, the phone—everything. You turn—

And then the lights go out. The house plunges into darkness.

The moment the lights cut out, you don't hesitate. You react on instinct. Your hand goes to your weapon immediately, muscles tightening, senses flaring. Beside you, Heeseung moves just as fast. His breath is steady. His presence is solid.And yet something feels wrong.

This isn't just a power outage. This isn't just a coincidence. And then a crash. From the front door. Your pulse jumps.Footsteps too heavy, too fast. Coming straight for you.

Your mind races. How did they get here so fast? How did they know? And then Heeseung is moving. Gun raised, body shifting in front of you and you realize. They're coming for him.

"Move!" Heeseung hisses.

But you don't. Because you can't. Because everything is happening too fast. Because this is all wrong. They're not supposed to know who you are. They're not supposed to know where you live. They're not supposed to be coming for him. And yet they are.

You see the shadowed figures moving in the darkness, too many of them, closing in, aiming for him— and your decision is made before you even think it through. You move first. Fast. Too fast. You grab him, shove him toward the back of the house. "Go!"

Heeseung grits his teeth, stumbling slightly, cursing as he reaches for you. "Are you insane?!" he snaps.

"They're after you," you hiss. "I can handle this—"

You don't get to finish. Because in that half-second of hesitation you feel it. The needle. The sharp sting at your neck.And then your body locks up.

You barely register what happens next. You hear your own breath catch, your pulse stumbling, the way your fingers try to reach for your gun— but they don't move. Because your limbs aren't working anymore. Because your vision is tilting, blurring, slipping. Because you were wrong.

They weren't after Heeseung. They were after you. And you just delivered yourself straight into their hands.

Heeseung's voice breaks through the haze, sharp, panicked— "Shit—" He's grabbing you, catching you before you hit the floor, shaking you— but it's too late. Your body is already shutting down. Your muscles go limp, your breathing slows, your eyelids grow too heavy. Heeseung's grip tightens. "No, no, no—stay awake—"

You try. You really try. But then the last thing you hear is the sound of him fighting. The last thing you feel is the way his fingers dig into your arms, holding onto you like he can stop this from happening. The last thing you see is the sheer terror in his eyes. And then everything fades.

The first thing you notice is the smell. Not blood. Not chemicals. Something sterile. Like a hospital. Like a place where people don't leave.

Your head pounds. Your body feels heavy, like it isn't yours, like you're floating just beneath the surface of consciousness. But then a voice. Soft. Weak.

"You shouldn't have come here."

Your breath catches. Because you're not alone.

Your eyelids flutter. Your vision is blurry, foggy, distorted. But you see them. Across the room. A woman. Slumped against the wall, her skin pale, her eyes hollow, her breath slow and uneven. She looks barely alive.

Your pulse kicks up. You try to move but you can't. Your wrists are bound. Your ankles are strapped down. And that's when the panic sets in.

You're in the medical room from the warehouse. You're in Chairman Kang's facility. And now you understand why he personally came to your home—you weren't just targets, you were his next subjects.

Your breathing sharpens. Your head spins. You yank against your restraints—but they don't budge. The woman watches you, her expression unreadable.

"You should stop that," she murmurs. "It won't help."

Your voice comes out hoarse. "Where—" Your throat feels raw. "Where are we?"

The woman tilts her head. And then she smiles. But there's no joy in it. Only pity.

"You're in their hands now," she whispers. "Just like me."

Your stomach twists. "No," you breathe. "That's not—"

"You thought you were safe," she interrupts, her voice still eerily soft. "But they were watching you the whole time."

The first thing Heeseung does when you disappear is destroy something. It's instinct. A chair, a glass, a wall—it doesn't matter. Because none of it matters. Because you're gone. And the only thing that matters now is getting you back.

Sunoo doesn't stop him. Not at first. Not when he slams his fist into the nearest hard surface, not when his breath comes ragged and sharp, not when his hands shake so badly he looks like he might rip the entire house apart with his bare hands.

Because Sunoo knows. Heeseung needs a second. A second to break. A second to fall apart before he becomes something lethal.

But after that second? Sunoo speaks.

And his voice is dead calm. The words land like a sharp slap. Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough. Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to pull Heeseung back from the edge before he steps too far.

"This is why I was always in your ear," Sunoo says, tapping the surveillance equipment spread across the table. "This is why I was watching. I've got her last coordinates. I've got the pattern of their movements. And I can get you to her."

Heeseung exhales. Shaky. Then he straightens. His expression locks down. His hands stop shaking.

Because Sunoo is right. Because this isn't about him. Because every second he wastes being angry is another second you spend in the hands of people who shouldn't have you. And he's not going to let that happen.

Sunoo is already moving. His fingers fly over the keyboard, multiple screens lighting up in front of him. CCTV footage, satellite feeds, last-known locations. He was always the eyes of this operation, the voice in your earpieces, monitoring from a distance, ensuring you both stayed alive. Now he's the only chance Heeseung has of getting you back.

Heeseung doesn't speak. He just watches. Waits. Burns.

Sunoo doesn't bother with small talk. Heeseung doesn't need it. Instead, he mutters, "They took her out of the city."

Heeseung's jaw tightens. "How do you know?"

Sunoo tilts the screen. "There's a twenty-minute gap between the power outage here and the city's surveillance picking up again. I checked every street camera within a five-mile radius. They didn't use the main roads. No cars leaving the area that shouldn't be."

Heeseung processes. "And?"

Sunoo's fingers move faster. "And that means they took a route with no traffic cams, which means back roads, which means—"

Heeseung catches it first. "Warehouses."

Sunoo nods. "Industrial district, abandoned lots, private holdings—we've already seen them use off-grid locations for storage. It makes sense they'd use one for this, too."

Heeseung leans in. "Give me a list."

Sunoo pulls up four locations. "Top two are too high profile," he mutters. "Security teams rotate there frequently. If they're keeping her somewhere discreet, they wouldn't risk a place with eyes on it."

Heeseung taps the third. A warehouse near the docks. Privately owned. Minimal records. Not enough information for something that should be easily explainable.

Heeseung knows that feeling well. It's a front. It has to be. And if it's not—he'll burn through every other location until he finds the right one.

Sunoo exhales, leaning back slightly. "So what's the plan?"

Heeseung's jaw flexes. "I go in."

Sunoo stares at him. "…Alone?"

"Yes."

Sunoo scoffs. "Heeseung, do you have any idea how fucking stupid that is? You've always had me watching your back through the earpiece. You've always had her as your partner. Going in alone is suicide."

Heeseung doesn't answer. Because he does. Because it doesn't matter. Because nothing matters except getting you back.

Sunoo sees it in his face. And suddenly, his voice drops lower. Serious. Unyielding. "She's not dead."

Heeseung's stomach tightens. Sunoo holds his gaze. "She's not dead. But she will be if you rush in there without thinking."

Silence. Tense. Thick. Then Heeseung speaks.

"Find me a back way in. And I want you in my ear the whole time. Like before."

Sunoo exhales sharply. Mutters, "You're fucking impossible." And then—he does it. Because Heeseung isn't waiting.Because Heeseung isn't leaving this house without a plan. Because the moment he walks out that door— he's not coming back until you're with him.

Sunoo grabs the small earpiece, pressing it into Heeseung's palm. "I'll see everything you see. I'll warn you about any movement. Just don't turn this damn thing off like you usually do."

The moment Heeseung steps out of the car, he isn't human anymore. He's a ghost. A shadow moving through the night, silent, unseen, deadly. The kind of thing people fear in stories but never truly believe exists. Until they meet him. Until it's too late.

"Three guards at the perimeter," Sunoo's voice crackles through the earpiece. "Two more by the south entrance. Security systems active but operating on a standard loop. You've got a blind spot on the east side."

The warehouse is exactly what Sunoo predicted. A private facility, tucked away near the docks, barely guarded—because no one expects trouble. Big mistake.

Heeseung moves without hesitation. He weaves through the darkness, hugging blind spots, slipping past security cameras.

"Guard approaching on your left," Sunoo warns in his ear. "He's alone."

He takes out the first guard before the man even sees him coming. One silent cut to the throat. No sound. No warning. Just darkness swallowing the body as it drops.

"Two more coming around the corner in fifteen seconds," Sunoo's voice is clinical, detached. It has to be. "Take the path to your right."

Then the next. Then the next. Each movement is efficient. Ruthless. Because Heeseung doesn't fight to entertain. He fights to eliminate. And tonight? No one gets out alive.

The moment he steps inside, he knows he's in the right place. The smell is wrong. Sterile. Like a hospital—but colder. More manufactured. Like this place was never meant to be seen.

His fists tighten. Because he already knows. You're here. And they're going to wish you weren't.

"I've got heat signatures," Sunoo says through the earpiece. "Fourth floor, east wing. Multiple bodies. One matches her profile."

Guard by the entrance? Taken out with a knife to the ribs—silent, quick, nothing but a gurgle before he's gone.

Two men at the security desk? Their heads slam against the control panel, the sound swallowed by the low hum of the machines.

The one who almost saw him? Heeseung twists his neck until it snaps. Not even a grunt. Not even a second to react. Because Heeseung isn't giving them a chance. Not when they took you. Not when he still doesn't know what they've done to you. Not when you could be dead already.

That thought makes him move faster. More brutal. More dangerous.

"Heeseung, your heart rate is spiking," Sunoo warns. "Don't lose control. Not yet."

And then he finds the back rooms. And then he hears your voice. Weak. Shaky. But still there. And that's when he stops being quiet. That's when he stops giving them mercy.

"Heeseung, I'm picking up significant electronic activity in that room," Sunoo's voice cuts through. "Something's wrong. These readings... they've done something to her."

For the first time since stepping into this warehouse, Heeseung hesitates. For the first time since this mission started, he doesn't know what to do. Because he was prepared to find you hurt. He was prepared to find you bleeding, unconscious, on the brink of something unfixable. But this? This is worse.

Because you're here. Because you're looking right at him. Because you're alive. And you don't even know who he is.

The earpiece crackles. "Heeseung, what's happening? What do you see?" Sunoo's voice is tense, urgent—but Heeseung can't answer. Can't speak. Can barely breathe.

"Baby."

The word comes out soft, desperate, wrecked. Heeseung is already moving before he realizes it, crossing the space between you in seconds, dropping to his knees. His hands find your face, trembling as his fingers brush over your skin, like he needs to make sure you're really here.

You don't pull away. But you don't react either. You just blink at him. Your expression is vague, confused, distant.

"Who are you?"

The question lands like a gunshot. His breath catches. His chest tightens, burns, aches in a way he didn't know was possible. Because he doesn't know how to fix this. Because he doesn't know how to fix you. And Heeseung—Heeseung always has a plan. Except now. Now he just has you. And you don't even remember him.

"Shit," he breathes, his hands gripping the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the ridge of your cheekbones.

In his ear, Sunoo's sharp intake of breath is audible. "Memory manipulation. The readings make sense now. Heeseung, you need to get her out. Now. Before they realize you're there."

Heeseung swallows hard, trying to steady his voice, trying to pull himself together when all he wants to do is lose it completely. "It's me," he murmurs. "It's Heeseung."

Your brows pull together slightly. Like you're trying. Like you want to understand. But then your expression wavers.And when you speak, your voice is small.

"Where's my husband?"

Something in Heeseung's chest cracks. Because it's him. He's your husband. Even if it's not real, even if it's just the cover, even if neither of you have ever said the words like you meant them—it's still him. And you don't even remember.

"Heeseung," Sunoo's voice is gentler now. Understanding. "The chemical compounds they've been using... this isn't permanent. But you have to move. Now."

Heeseung's grip on you tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to scare you. Just enough to keep himself together. Just enough to keep from falling apart completely.

"It's me," he whispers again, his forehead dropping against yours. "I'm your husband, baby. I'm right here."

Your eyes flicker. Your breath shudders. And then you shake your head.

"No," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "No, my husband—he was supposed to find me. He said he'd find me."

Heeseung closes his eyes. Because he did. He did. But you don't know that. You don't know him. Not anymore.

And that's when he knows. That's when he understands. He didn't get here too late to save you. He got here too late to save the part of you that remembered him.

"Guards incoming," Sunoo's urgent voice cuts through. "You have less than thirty seconds. Get her and get out."

Heeseung doesn't waste another second. He slips an arm beneath your legs, the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly. You don't fight him. You don't pull away. You just go completely still. Too still. Like you don't care what happens to you anymore. Like you don't know if you should.

And that? That might be worse than anything else. Because if you don't believe you can be saved, how is he supposed to convince you? How is he supposed to bring you back? How is he supposed to make you remember him again?

Heeseung exhales slowly, pressing his lips to your temple, closing his eyes for just a second. And then he moves. He gets you the hell out of there. Because whatever happened to you here? It's over. And whatever happens next? It's going to be him and you. Even if you don't remember him. Even if you never do.

"Exit route clear," Sunoo's voice steadies him, guides him. "I've got eyes on you both. Bring her home, Heeseung. We'll fix this. I promise."

But even as Sunoo's voice offers reassurance in his ear, Heeseung can't shake the hollow feeling in his chest. The look in your eyes—blank, unrecognizing—might be the thing that finally breaks him. Not the mission. Not the danger. But the fact that the one person who knew him better than anyone now looks at him like he's a stranger.

And as he carries you through the darkness, your body limp in his arms, he makes a silent vow. He'll make them pay. Every single person who took your memories. Every person who put that emptiness in your eyes. They won't just die.

They'll suffer.

-

The underground garage exploded with gunfire, bullets ricocheting off concrete pillars as Chairman Kang's security detail formed a human shield around him. Blood pooled beneath bodies that had fallen seconds earlier, the air thick with cordite and desperation.

Sunoo's voice crackled through the comms, urgent and sharp. "He's heading for the helicopter. Rooftop exit. Two minutes." A pause, then—his voice dropped, suddenly tense. "Heeseung, we've got another player. My systems just detected a security breach. Someone else is in the building."

Through the smoke and chaos, a single figure moved with deadly purpose. Not Heeseung—he was elsewhere, fighting his way to you, his only focus getting you out alive. This was someone else. Someone different. The movements were too precise, too calculated. Too lethal.

"What the hell?" Sunoo's voice was barely audible over the gunfire. "They just bypassed every security protocol like it wasn't even there. Whoever this is—they're good. Too good."

The figure moved like a shadow, dressed entirely in black, face obscured by a sleek tactical mask with glowing blue interface points. On their sleeve—a subtle insignia. A ghostly "S" that seemed to shimmer and fade depending on the light.

Specter.

The elite assassination unit that wasn't supposed to exist. The ghosts that governments denied knowledge of. The solution to problems that couldn't be solved through official channels.

Chairman Kang had made it to the stairwell, flanked by his three remaining guards, their weapons raised as they pushed him toward the roof access. His face was slick with sweat, eyes wild with the realization that his empire was crumbling around him.

"I have a plane waiting," he barked into his phone. "Tell them to be ready. I don't care about the flight restrictions. Money isn't a problem. Just get me—"

The door to the stairwell opened.

The guards fired instantly—a barrage of bullets that would have torn apart any normal attacker.

But the Specter agent wasn't normal.

They moved like water, impossibly fast, bullets seemingly curving around them. One guard dropped, throat sliced before he could even register the movement. The second fell immediately after, the assassin's blade finding the precise point between armor plates. The third emptied his magazine in desperate bursts that hit nothing but concrete.

Kang scrambled backward, fumbling for his own weapon. "Wait—" His voice cracked. "I can pay. Whatever they're offering you, I'll double it."

The Specter agent paused. Tilted their head slightly.

For a moment, the stairwell was silent.

For a moment, Kang believed he had a chance.

Then the assassin spoke, voice distorted through the mask. "Some debts can't be paid with money."

A single shot echoed in the enclosed space. Clean. Precise. Final.

Chairman Kang is dead. Assassinated before he could disappear for good.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that. The mission was supposed to be an infiltration, a takedown, an arrest that would put an end to his entire operation. But Kang was too powerful. Too many people in his pocket. Too many ways to slip through the cracks.

And in the end? The only way to stop him was to eliminate him.

Sunoo's voice had been tense over the comms, relaying information in real time. "Kang's trying to run—fuck, he's got an entire fleet of private security. If he gets out of the country, we lose him forever."

Heeseung had been mid-firefight, barely dodging bullets, his mind still split between the mission and getting back to you. "Can you get me a location?" he had demanded.

Sunoo's voice had been sharp. "The only way this ends is if someone puts a bullet in his head, and guess what, Heeseung? That someone isn't you. You need to get her the fuck out of there."

And Heeseung had hated it. Hated that he wasn't the one to finish it. Hated that while he was carrying you out of that warehouse, too weak to even recognize him, someone else had put an end to Kang's empire.

But in the end? It didn't matter. Because Kang was gone. The operation was over. And now? Now Heeseung had to deal with what was left of you.

The first thing Heeseung notices when they bring you back to the precinct is how silent everything is. Not the usual kind of silence—the kind that lingers after a long mission, the kind that settles when adrenaline fades and exhaustion creeps in.

This is different. This is deafening. This is the kind of quiet that feels like mourning. Because even though you're alive—Even though you're here, wrapped in too-thin hospital sheets, an IV drip in your arm, nurses and doctors hovering over you—you're not really here at all.

And Heeseung? He doesn't know how to bring you back.

Chairman Kang is dead. Heeseung should feel victory. Should feel relief. Should feel something other than this gaping, hollow ache sitting in his chest. But he doesn't.

Because this mission wasn't supposed to cost you. Because Heeseung had gotten to you in time. Because he was supposed to be too late for everything except saving you.

But now, sitting here in this fucking hospital ward, watching you lay there, breathing but gone, awake but empty—he knows the truth. He knows he was too late in every way that mattered.

"You should go home."

Sunoo's voice is quiet, careful, treading that thin line between concern and something else. Something closer to pity.

Heeseung doesn't answer. Doesn't even look at him. He just sits there, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on you as you stare at the ceiling. Not moving. Not speaking. Not anything.

Sunoo exhales slowly. "You haven't slept in three days."

Heeseung still doesn't answer.

Sunoo shifts beside him, arms crossed. "You know she's being monitored 24/7. She's safe now."

Safe. The word tastes like ash in his mouth. Because you're not safe. Because you might never be safe again. Because even if no one is coming for you now—Even if Kang is gone, even if the organization is dismantled, even if the case is over—it doesn't matter.

Because you still don't know who he is. Because you're still looking through him like he's a stranger.

And for the first time, Heeseung lets himself say it. Lets himself acknowledge it out loud. "I lost her."

Sunoo goes completely still. For a long moment, neither of them speak. Then a sigh. Slow, measured. "I don't think you did," Sunoo murmurs.

But Heeseung just shakes his head. Because it doesn't feel like that. Because it feels like you're right there in front of him, and he still can't reach you. And that? That feels worse than losing you completely.

It happens too suddenly. One second, you're staring at the ceiling, unfocused, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. The next? Everything crashes back at once. The mission. The warehouse. The drugs. The way your body felt like it wasn't yours. The way Heeseung looked at you when you said you didn't know who he was.

Your breath catches. Your fingers twitch against the sheets. And then the sound of his voice. "I lost her."

Your stomach drops. Your throat tightens. Because you know that voice. Because you know that tone. Because you know him.

And the second you finally understand what those words mean—the second you realize what he thinks, what he's feeling, what he's convinced himself of—you react on instinct. You turn your head. Your lips part. And for the first time since the mission ended, since the rescue, since you woke up in this fucking hospital bed—you say his name.

"Heeseung."

Heeseung stiffens. Like he's not sure if he imagined it. Like he's not sure if he should believe it. But then he looks at you. And your eyes are different. No more emptiness. No more confusion. Just you. Just you, looking at him, remembering him, saying his name like you never forgot it in the first place.

And Heeseung—he just sits there. Frozen. Barely breathing. Because he doesn't know if he's dreaming. Because for the first time in weeks, he lets himself hope. "Say it again," he murmurs.

And you do. "Heeseung." Stronger this time. More certain. More you. And that? That's when he finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

The moment your voice cuts through the silence, everything stops. Everything that's happened—the mission, the warehouse, the days of emptiness, the unbearable weight of losing you while you were right in front of him— it all hits Heeseung at once. Because you're here. Because you remember. Because you're saying his name again.

And for the first time since this entire nightmare started—he breaks. One second, he's frozen in place, too afraid to move, too afraid to believe this is real. The next? He's on his feet, crossing the space between you in seconds, dropping to his knees beside your bed.

And then his arms are around you. Tight. Unyielding. Desperate. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. Like he's trying to make up for every second he thought he lost you. Like he's never going to let this happen again.

His breath is ragged against your neck, his entire body shaking, his fingers digging into your hospital gown like he's anchoring himself to you. And then—then, you feel it. The warmth against your skin. The way his shoulders tremble. The way his breath shudders. Heeseung is crying. And for the first time, he's not trying to stop himself.

You blink, still groggy, still adjusting to the weight of the memories crashing back into you. You can feel the wetness of his tears against your skin, the way his arms tighten around you, the way his entire body is trembling against yours.

And suddenly, even though your heart is still racing—even though you should probably be overwhelmed—you feel something else instead. Something warm. Something so undeniably real. And for the first time in what feels like forever—you laugh. Soft. Breathless.

And Heeseung goes completely still. Slowly, he pulls back, his eyes red, glassy, disbelief written across his face. His voice is hoarse, wrecked, raw from everything he's been holding in. "Are you seriously laughing right now?"

And that? That makes you laugh again. Because of course Heeseung—the man who just burned through an entire warehouse to save you, the man who went feral the second you were taken, the man who has never looked so undone in his life— of course he would say that.

You smile, tilting your head, reaching up to wipe away one of the tears on his cheek. "Heeseung," you murmur, soft, fond, teasing. "Did you cry for me?"

He scoffs, sniffing, shaking his head. "Shut the fuck up."

And then he kisses you. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades. The hospital. The mission. The fear. Everything that's happened dissolves into nothing. Because this is real. Because this is you. Because this is what he's been waiting for.

The kiss is desperate, deep, a thousand unspoken words packed into every movement. His hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your jaw, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you all over again. Like he's trying to pull you back into him completely. And you let him. Because you're back now. Because you know him again.Because he never really lost you at all.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath still uneven, his hands still holding onto you like you might disappear if he lets go— you take a deep breath. And then you smirk. "So," you murmur. "Did we win?"

Heeseung pulls back fully, eyes narrowing, staring at you like he's never been more offended in his life. "Are you—"he exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

You grin. "I mean, I'm assuming the mission is over, but—"

He groans, pressing his fingers against his temples, like you are single-handedly going to be the death of him. "You wake up from a fucking near-death experience, remember who I am for five goddamn minutes, and the first thing you want to know is whether or not we won?"

You shrug, laughing again, your body finally feeling lighter for the first time in weeks. "Well, did we?"

Heeseung stares at you. And then, after a long moment, he exhales. His lips twitch. And finally—finally—he smiles."Yeah," he murmurs, brushing his fingers through your hair, voice softer now. "We won."

Heeseung still hasn't let go. He can't. His forehead is pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face, his breath shaky against your lips. And when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. Raw. Wrecked. "I thought I lost you."

Your fingers curl against the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like an anchor. "You didn't."

He lets out a breathless, bitter laugh. "I did." He swallows hard, his shoulders shaking slightly. "You looked at me," he murmurs, "and you didn't know me. You didn't even flinch when I held you. You didn't trust me."

His hands tighten around you, like he's trying to make up for every second he couldn't touch you like this. "You asked me where your husband was," he whispers. "And I was right fucking there."

Your chest tightens painfully. Because you remember now. Because you remember the look on his face, the sheer devastation in his eyes, the way he still held you like he was protecting something precious, even when you didn't trust him. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

Heeseung shakes his head. "Don't." His thumb traces your cheekbone, gentle, reverent, like he's still afraid you'll disappear. "Just don't."

His throat bobs, his breath coming faster, and then— he laughs. Quiet. Shaky. But there's nothing happy about it. "I can't do this again," he murmurs, his voice breaking completely.

Your fingers tighten around him. "Heeseung—"

"I mean it." His hands move to cup the sides of your neck, his touch warm, solid. "I can't fucking do this again. I can't lose you again. I can't—"

His voice catches. His head drops slightly, pressing against yours, his fingers trembling against your skin. "I love you."

Your heart stumbles. Because it's the first time he's said it. Because it's not part of the mission anymore. Because this is real. And Heeseung? He looks terrified. Like he's never said anything this important before. Like he's afraid of what comes next. Like he means it so much it's killing him.

"I love you," he whispers again, his breath uneven, his lashes wet. "And I don't want to live without you. Not ever again."

Your fingers move up to his face, your thumbs brushing against the curve of his jaw. Heeseung leans into your touch instinctively. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he lets himself feel everything. The fear. The relief. The love that's been sitting there, waiting, drowning him completely.

And you? You just pull him closer. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his, your fingers threading through his hair as you whisper, "I love you too."

Heeseung freezes. His breath hitches. Like he didn't expect you to say it back. Like he didn't think he deserved it.And then—he's kissing you. Desperate. Rough. Messy.

Like he's trying to pour everything into you at once, like he's trying to show you all the ways he loves you, all the ways he's never going to let you go again. You kiss him back just as hard. Because this is real. Because this has always been real. Because you were always going to end up here—together. And for the first time, neither of you are running from it.

"If you two are done—"

You jerk away from Heeseung immediately, eyes wide. Heeseung groans loudly, tilting his head back, exhaling sharply. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, beyond unimpressed, is the captain.

Heeseung lets out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

The captain raises a brow. "Glad to see you're both in good spirits."

You clear your throat, still slightly breathless, trying to make yourself look less— less like you were just making out in a hospital bed while Heeseung poured his heart out to you.

The captain sighs. "Well, too bad. Because I'm officially putting an end to whatever the hell this mission was."

Your brows pull together. You're still piecing things together, memories slotting into place like broken fragments reforming into something whole. The mission. The undercover op. Chairman Kang. Everything. "What happened?"you ask.

The captain takes a step closer, looking between you and Heeseung before finally sighing. "The short version?" he mutters. "It's done. Kang is dead. The remnants of his operation have been taken care of, and the international task force has picked up whatever's left. You two did your jobs."

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, unimpressed. "We know all that already," he says. "What's the real version?"

The captain exhales, running a hand down his face. "Chairman Kang's operation was never just about trafficking," he starts.

Your stomach tightens. You already know this. You saw it with your own eyes. "The medical room," you murmur. "The vials. The experiments."

The captain nods. "He wasn't moving product—he was developing it," he explains. "Experimental compounds. Something stronger than any narcotic we've seen, but with enhanced neurological effects. Something that could manipulate memory, suppress emotions, alter cognitive function at will."

Your pulse kicks up. Because you felt that. Because you lived that. Because you were one of his test subjects.

"He was using live trials," Heeseung mutters darkly, his voice deadly quiet.

The captain's jaw tightens. "Yeah. And you two walked straight into it." He pauses, glancing at the door as if checking that no one else is listening. "There's something else. Something that didn't make the official reports."

Heeseung's posture shifts subtly—more alert now.

"Kang wasn't killed by local law enforcement," the captain says, voice lowered. "Or by any of our people. The ballistics don't match any standard issue weapons."

"Then who?" you ask, leaning forward slightly.

The captain's expression darkens. "Specter."

The word lands like a stone in still water. Heeseung tenses beside you.

"Bullshit," he says, but there's uncertainty in his tone. "Specter is a myth. A ghost story intelligence agencies tell each other."

The captain pulls a small tablet from his jacket, slides his finger across the screen, and turns it toward you both. The security footage is grainy but clear enough—a figure in tactical gear with that unmistakable insignia. The ghostly "S" that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

"This was pulled from Kang's security system minutes before his death," the captain says. "We're talking about a black ops unit so classified that most governments deny its existence. They operate beyond jurisdiction, beyond oversight."

"Why would they target Kang?" you ask.

The captain shakes his head. "That's the million-dollar question. What was Kang working on that attracted attention at that level? What makes a ghost decide to step out of the shadows?"

He tucks the tablet away. "Whatever it was, it's above our pay grade. Way above. And that's exactly why you two are being pulled."

You swallow hard. Your body still feels the effects. The blankness. The confusion. The way you looked Heeseung in the eye and didn't recognize him. The way it took days before everything came back. Your fingers curl into the hospital blanket, your chest tightening.

"So what happens now?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

The captain doesn't hesitate. "Now?" he says. "Now, you're both off the case. Permanently."

Your head snaps up. "What?"

The captain crosses his arms, leveling you both with a look. "Your cover was blown the second you got taken," he states. "There's no way to justify keeping you two in the field—not after everything that's happened. And with Specter involved? I'm not risking either of you getting caught in whatever crossfire might be coming."

Heeseung doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Doesn't react. "You're benching us," he mutters.

"No," the captain says flatly. "I'm giving you both a fucking break."

Silence. And then he tosses something onto the hospital bed. Two files. Reassignment orders. One for you. One for Heeseung. "You're both being transferred to different departments. Low-risk assignments. Desk work. Non-negotiable."

You stare at him. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

You glance at Heeseung. He's silent, his fingers drumming against his thigh, eyes locked on the files but not moving to pick them up. Then—"That's not all, is it?"

The captain exhales heavily. "No," he mutters. "You're both being granted a sabbatical before reassignment. Three months. Paid leave. Get your heads on straight."

You blink. "We don't need—"

"Shut up." The captain raises a brow. "Both of you. You're taking the damn break. End of discussion."

Your lips press into a thin line. Beside you, Heeseung still hasn't moved. Then—"And after?" he asks.

"After," the captain says, "you decide what you want to do. If you want out, I'll sign your papers. If you want back in, I'll find a way to make it work. But right now?" He looks between you both. And for the first time, his expression softens. "You need time."

For the longest time, Heeseung has never known anything but this life. The mission. The objective. The next target, the next fight, the next time he has to put everything on the line. But now? Now, for the first time, he doesn't have to think about any of that. Now, the only thing he has to think about is you. And what comes next.

Heeseung looks at you. And for the first time in weeks—he smiles. "Guess we're going on vacation, baby."

You scoff. "You cried over me, and now you want to joke?"

He groans, covering his face with one hand. "Jesus Christ—" And this time? This time, he laughs too. Because it's over. Because he has you. Because for once—for once, he doesn't have to worry about anything except the two of you. And that? That's something worth living for.

The second the captain leaves, the room is silent. For exactly ten seconds. Then—"So, where are we going?"

You blink at Heeseung. "Going where?"

Heeseung grins. "Vacation, baby."

You groan. "You just confessed your undying love to me, and now you're calling me 'baby' like a jackass?"

His grin doesn't falter. "I call it affectionate growth."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, fine. Where do you want to go?"

Heeseung leans back, hands behind his head. "Somewhere quiet. A private villa, maybe. A beach. Minimal clothing. Just me, you, and the ocean."

You snort. "So you want to lay around half-naked all day and pretend you're a billionaire playboy?"

Heeseung smirks. "I don't need to pretend, sweetheart."

You stare at him. Then—"We're not going to the beach."

Heeseung frowns. "Excuse me?"

"You hate the heat," you deadpan. *"You get cranky after two minutes of direct sunlight. You'll be miserable the whole time and take it out on me."

Heeseung looks personally offended. "That is not true."

"You literally threatened to stab a vending machine last summer because it was too hot to function."

"Okay, first of all, that machine stole my money."

"It was broken, Heeseung."

"I was suffering."

You scoff. "Right. So no beach."

Heeseung tilts his head. "Then where do you want to go?"

You hum, thinking. "Somewhere colder. Mountains, maybe. A cabin. Snow. Hot chocolate. A fireplace."

Heeseung pulls a face. "I love you, but I refuse to spend my vacation freezing my ass off."

"You just said minimal clothing."

"Yes. Because of the heat. Not because I want to be an icicle."

"You can wear a sweater."

"You want me to look like a fucking lumberjack?"

"You already do."

"Take that back."

You smirk. "Make me."

Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face. "This is our first vacation together, and we can't even agree on a destination."

"Sounds like a problem for you, babe."

"You're literally impossible."

"And yet, you love me."

Heeseung looks at you, tilts his head, then— "Debatable."

You shove him. He laughs. And even though the argument continues—even though neither of you agree on anything, even though you'll probably be bickering all the way to the airport— for the first time in what feels like forever—everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. Just you and him. Right where you belong.

fin.

Taglist: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @ddolleri @ijustwannareadstuff20 @somuchdard @beariegyu @zzhengyu @annybah @luciavrseblog-com @aehrizone @ayyonoona @lamin143 @heeseunggotrizz @elairah @firstclassjaylee @peppycho @kukkurookkoo @petalsofink @bussolares @wolfhardbby @flawlessapollo6 @strayy-kidz @jwywife @heelovesmeknot @gaytron3000 @motherscrustytoenailclippings @starniras @ash-engen @fancypeacepersona @sunhyeswife @simj4k3 @tender-is-the-moon @yunjica @m3wkledreamy @clandestineself @lightxo @ddolleri @beeboobeebss @augustloaf

i care btw. i care abt the song ur listening to or the bug u saw or how u just got outta the shower or how ur happily hanging out w ur friends or how ur kinda sad or how good was the meal u just had or ur fav character from an indie game nobody knows or if u chugged down some water. i always will

IK ACTUSKLLY CACKING SO HARD RN. NO JIKE THERE ARE TEARS COMING OUT MY EYES IM BEING SO FR "why is this fully korean man singing 'country roads take me home'" PLS IM FONNA PISS MYSELF "i think thats just lsd" GET OUT

YOU GUYS HAVE GOT TO READ THIS SMAU ITS SO FUNNY

୨♡୧ choose you: karaoke bus

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a/n: this fic really is a comfort fic for me to write... i hope you guys are okay with the direction it's going. if not, gomenasorry ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. @en-dream @sugarikiz @jwonistic @wensurr @theothernads @sh0dor1 @vveebee @ardentsnowfall @tasnemluvs

(bold means i couldn't tag (• ᴖ • ｡)