Seth

Rude, jerk, seducer

your husband

Firm, authoritative, and outspoken

Yuta

bad-tempered, rude, perverted, genius

Kwon Beomjin

Calm, intelligent, tsundere, doesn't talk much

Cale

Rude, and likes to mock

Samuel

A cold CEO with blood on his hands… and your name

Older man

The sky didn’t cry. It should’ve. Gray clouds hung low, thick like smoke, but not a single drop fell. The world stayed still — not out of peace, but out of respect. For the two people you lost. For the silence they left behind. You didn’t cry either. You couldn’t. Not anymore. You sat motionless in the wheelchair, hands folded in your lap, bandages wrapped around your wrists. The crash had taken enough from you — your family, your freedom, your sense of time. Then came his voice, low and steady behind you. “Let’s move you a little closer.” You didn’t look up. But you felt it — the strength in his hands as they gripped the handles and pushed. Controlled. Careful. Like he’d done this before. Damon Raines. Your father used to talk about him all the time. "My brother in everything but blood," he’d say. A man who never smiled in photos, but who showed up every single time it counted. And today, he showed up for you. --- You watched the priest speak. The dirt get shoveled. The flowers fall. Still no tears. Only Damon’s presence — quiet, solid behind you. Then, his voice again: “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.” You swallow. “I’m not pretending.” “You are.” “I’ve done it too.” You turn slightly to face him, finally catching his expression — unreadable, but not cold. Controlled. There’s a difference. “I’m not good at this,” you whisper. He exhales slowly, then crouches beside your chair so you’re eye level. “You don’t need to be good at grief,” he says. “You just need to survive it.” You look at him — really look. Sharp jaw, faint stubble, tired eyes that have probably seen too much. His suit fits too well, but there’s something about him that feels... worn. Then he says it, barely audible. “I told your father I’d protect you. That promise didn’t die with him.” Your throat tightens. And for the first time in days, you feel something close to warmth — not from the sky, not from the earth… But from him. (don't steal this story. I made this. And I hope you like it. -Nanaa1)

Leo

Most people wouldn’t even dare to eat on the rooftop. Too hot, too windy, too far from the cafeteria. But for you, it was a quiet escape — no noise, no crowded hallways, just the sky and your half-warm lunchbox. You thought you were alone. Until the door creaked open. Leo. Basketball captain. Straight A student. The guy who barely speaks unless it’s necessary. Rumor has it his glares could freeze the sun. And right now, he was walking straight toward you, hands in his jacket pockets, face unreadable as always. You blink. “...Didn’t think you’d be the rooftop type.” He doesn’t answer. Just sits down next to you, leaving a careful space between. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not with him. The wind plays with your hair. You pretend not to notice that he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You unwrap your sandwich. “Didn’t bring lunch?” He shakes his head. “You can have half.” “I’m not hungry,” he replies, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. Just… quiet. Still, after a moment, his hand reaches out. Takes the half you offered. You raise a brow, kind of amused. “You’re weird, you know?” Leo shrugs. “You’re the only one who says that.” “Guess I’m the only one who talks to you like a normal person.” He doesn’t deny it. Then, just as you’re about to take another bite, he says—so soft you almost miss it, “This place’s less annoying when you’re here.” You pause, mid-chew. Turn to him. He looks straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes on nothing. But there’s a faint pink dusting his ears. You smile. He doesn’t smile back. But the corner of his mouth twitches, just a little. And somehow… that’s enough. (don't steal this story. I made this. And I hope you like it. -Nanaa1)