– name: alanine
– a nsfw blog, minors do not interact. control what you consume.
– reblog: @amortenha
🗒️ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘
where we all get lost in the world.
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📝 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐈 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑
where you become one with love.
enhypen (open): hyung line (for 18+) and the maknae line
*note: i used to write for the stranger things lore as well as the harry potter lore, however, i will not open requests and would not return to writing them soon. apologies.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED/REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS.
summary ⊹ you promised not to forget each other after he graduated. five years later, lee heeseung steps off the bus from seoul looking less like the boy who had promised to return for you. and that was when you realised that you should’ve ruined the friendship, kissed him anyway – because losing him was better than never having him at all.
pairing ⊹ fem!reader x lee heeseung, fem!reader x lee evan
this work contains ⊹ fluff, angst (with happy ending wow), smut with plot. minors do not interact. heavy narration? italics mean flashbacks or emphasis! heeseung is a bit stupid, reader is too, minju is an oc, heeseung is a ghost, heeseung is not really a ghost, heeseung is a coward, so is reader, heeseung is older than reader… lots of jealousy, suppressed feelings, love triangle?! making love! a kiss in the rain! virginity loss! oral (fem receiving), fingering, making out, unprotected sex
length ⊹ 22.8k words (one-shot)
ᝰ from valine ⸻ i wrote this while listening to taylor swift’s ruin the friendship (my advice version). this was such a heavy heavy heavy work! first time writing in a second person pov so please, please be nice!!! <3<3 if you see typos, please disregard ㅠㅠ hope you all like it!! anw, shoutout to my swan for crying and beta-reading because she’s a huge heeseung biased!! ilysm swan!!!
MASTERLIST ⸻ RULES
They say the summer before your senior year could either be the sweetest or the most tiresome.
It is the final, fragile bridge between the reckless warmth of youth and the cold reality of adulthood. For most, it is a season of fleeting late-night drives, shared ice creams under the buzzing streetlamps, and whispered promises of staying in touch after graduation.
But in a quiet, provincial town nestled deep in the valleys far away from the blinding neon lights of Seoul, summer doesn’t taste like romance. It tastes like humidity and the impending dread of survival.
While the wealthy kids in the city are spending their break polishing their resumes and curriculum vitae at elite Gangnam academies, you are trapped under the whirring rusted blades of a plastic electric fan, staring at a mountain of practice lesson plans, and the thick, sticky-note-labelled booklets for your teacher’s appointment exam.
In a countryside public college, a blueprint for dreams is almost impossible. What’s most likely is a bulletproof strategy to keep your head above water. For you, it means counting down the months of a grueling study isolation schedule, praying the academy registration fees don’t spike, and hoping a rural public high school nearby has a single vacancy so you can finally help your parents lift the suffocating weight of the monthly utility bills.
You hear your parents’ voices for the nth time tonight: Just focus on the final year, focus on your exams, Y/N. Be a teacher. Secure a stable salary. Don’t let anything pull you down into the mud with us.
So, you keep your head down. All the time. You keep your head down as you circle grammatical errors with a cheap red ballpoint pen, trying to make sense of the English sentence construction of the students from your immersion. You keep your head down as you eat microwaved rice with a can of spicy tuna in the fluorescent hum of the nearby convenience store.
You kept your head down – too much, perhaps, that you didn’t even notice the change until the quiet air was cut by the low purr of a foreign engine, and a pristine, dark luxury car parked right outside the low stone wall of the house beside yours.
It was a house you knew by heart, a mirror to your own. A two-story countryside home. An entrance of a wide, sturdy stainless steel gate, the kind that shows minor spots of rust around the hinges, but always kept clean.
And there, resting right on the narrow, cracked asphalt road where the neighbors usually parked their sedans and delivery vans, sat the car. It was impossibly sleek, the paint polished to a mirror-like shine that reflected the provincial sun, looking entirely out of place in the familiar rhythm of the neighborhood.
With an unconscious tilt of your head to the side, peering over your window overlooking exactly by his house’s entrance. And after a beat, the driver’s side door clicked open, a sound sharp enough to shatter the stagnant afternoon heat.
Out stepped Lee Heeseung.
For a second, your brain refused to connect the boy who used to split a single five hundred won ice pop with you on the very same curb to the boy who had his hair slicked back into an immaculate style, on what used to be the messy, soft hair with faded bleached hair ends out of DIY sessions with you.
As he stood up straight, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt, his eyes swept over the familiar brick walls of his childhood home. They were the same deep, dark eyes, but the warmth had been filed away, it was already replaced by the dull glare of someone who has adapted Gangnam.
And before the ache in your chest could even settle, she stepped out.
She looked like a watercolor painting dropped into a dusty charcoal sketch. She wore a light, flowy silk dress that seemed completely immune to the oppressive provincial humidity, and as she stood up, the clean scent of her expensive perfume drifted lightly all the way up to your open window. Her skin was porcelain, almost as if untouched by the harsh sun.
She didn’t look snobbish or cruel. Not at all. In fact, as she looked around the modest neighborhood, her eyes held nothing but a gentle, curious warmth. She looked perfect. The embodiment of the life he was supposed to want.
Upstairs, behind the mesh screen of your window, your cheap red ballpoint pen felt heavy and ink-stained in your hand. You pulled back slightly into the shadows of your room, your heart hammering against your ribs as you watched Heeseung walk around the trunk to retrieve their pristine leather luggage.
He didn't look up at your window. Not once.
You watched from the shadows of your room as he guided her through the stainless steel gate. The heavy iron shrieked slightly on its tracks, a sound that used to signal his arrival for your late-night walks, but now simply closed the door on a world you no longer belonged to.
The following days, you tried your best not to run into them.
In the morning, where you would usually do a morning walk to clear your thoughts before your revision, you changed the route. Instead of taking the paved path that cut right past his stainless steel gate, you took the narrow, unpaved dirt path behind the warehouses.
It was a longer walk, and while it did do you good in numbers, the ground was uneven and dusty. And the morning sun hit it earlier, making the heat rise from the soil before seven o’clock.
Around one in the afternoon, the stifling heat inside the house became too heavy to bear. The plastic fan was doing nothing but circulate the humid air when your mother called out from the kitchen mid-revision, asking you to run an errand. She would scold you for frowning as she hands you a faded nylon market bag and a few wrinkled ten thousand won bills to send you down to the traditional open-air market to buy some fresh summer radishes and perilla leaves for dinner.
You welcomed the excuse to step away from the suffocating mountain of lesson plans.
By dinner, you waited for your parents to mention anything about Heeseung. But it seemed they were too caught up in the seasonal decline of their restaurant. With the summer heat turning everyone away from hot stews, they had spent the entire day figuring out how to market naengmyeon to the local factory workers just to go by, their faces lined with exhaustion that always seemed to fill the kitchen.
Your parents would eat their rice in heavy, preoccupied silence, their minds clearly calculating the cost of ingredients rather than who was parking next door. You kept your mouth shut, quietly chewing on your food, keeping the secret of his return tucked away under your tongue.
The next morning, you woke up before the sun could fully mask the town.
Following your new, exhausting routine, you slipped out of the house to take the dusty, unpaved path behind the warehouses, the rough earth biting into the soles of your shoes as the heat began to bleed into the morning air. It was a miserable walk, but it kept you safe.
At least, until late afternoon.
The restaurant was small. It was tucked beneath a low roof that trapped the thick summer heat despite the best efforts of two wall-mounted plastic fans. Before Heeseung had left for Seoul five years ago, this place hadn’t even existed. Back then, your parents were drowning under the weight of a failing hardware shop, constantly borrowing small sums just to keep the lights on.
For the last two hours, you had spent it by helping your mother wipe down the sticky oilcloth tables, your fingers smelling faintly of vinegar and radish broth. Surprisingly, the naengmyeon strategy had worked. A few local factory workers from the nearby textile plant had flooded the place during shift-change, leaving behind a mountain of stainless steel bowls and sticky condensation rings.
You were in the middle of clearing the farthest corner table, your oversized t-shirt damp at the small of your back, when the old glass door rattled on its frame.
The small brass bell chimed.
"Wow, it really smells like authentic naengmyeon!"
The melodic, crisp Seoul dialect made you freeze mid-motion, a stack of dirty bowls heavy in your hands. You slowly turned around. The familiar girl was stepping into the humid dining room, looking entirely like a refreshing breeze in a pale linen sun dress. She was fanning herself softly as her bright eyes eagerly took in the humble handwritten menu taped to the wall.
“Heeseung-ah, look,” she says as she turns back toward the door to pull him inside by his wrist, “their food sure does look and sound amazing. I feel like the cold noodles here are different than in Seoul. We have to try it!”
And there he was.
Heeseung let himself be dragged into the cramped, low-ceilinged restaurant, stepping over the threshold with a heavy, hesitant stride. He was wearing a simple slate-gray shirt, his hair soft and loose around his forehead from the heat. He looked smaller under the harsh fluorescent lights of your parents' shop, stripped of the grand Gangnam backdrop.
Then, his eyes scanned the room and locked right onto you.
The sudden stillness that washed over him was deafening. His arm went rigid in her grip. His eyes dropped to the dirty stainless steel bowls in your hands, to the damp fabric of your shirt, and finally to your face, flushed from the kitchen's steam. A raw, piercing flash of recognition shattered his facade.
“Hi!” The beautiful woman says as she walks toward you, a warm smile on her face, “how do we order?”
You felt your throat tighten, the weight of the dirty stainless steel bowls suddenly heavy in your hands. You looked at her pristine, porcelain face, and then past her shoulder, straight at Heeseung.
“Ah…” you swallowed hard, the word catching on a throat gone dry. You gripped the tray with the bowls, your knuckles white, forcing your gaze away from his searching eyes and onto her bright, expectant face, “you can just take any open table. We only serve two things during the summer… mul-naengmyeon and bibim-naengmyeon. You can just tell me what you’d like.”
“Oh, perfect! One of each, please,” she replied, her voice chiming with a cheerfulness that felt jarringly out of place in the stifling, low-ceilinged room. She turned, her linen dress swishing against the floor, and headed toward a small table directly beneath the oscillating wall-fan, "Heeseung-ah, come sit down. It's so cool right here."
Heeseung didn't answer. He didn't even blink. He stayed rooted to the worn linoleum floor, his gaze fixed on you with such a raw, hungry intensity that for a split second, the background noise of the refrigerator’s hum and the distant traffic seemed to vanish entirely.
“Heeseung-ah?" she called again, glancing back with a playful pout.
He snapped out of it, though his movements were jagged, stripped of the graceful, practiced ease he’d displayed when he first exited the car. He dragged his feet forward, his shoulders hunched in a way that suggested the very air in the room was crushing him. As he slid into the plastic chair opposite the girl, he kept his back angled toward the kitchen, but his profile remained sharply, painfully etched against the fluorescent lights.
He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked firmly onto the grain of the sticky oilcloth table, his jaw clenched so tightly that a small, pulsing muscle twitched in his cheek.
The girl, blissfully unaware of the tectonic plates shifting between you, reached for the stainless steel chopstick cylinder. She caught your eye and smiled again, a kind, pitying, yet genuinely friendly that made your stomach churn.
"I'll..." Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat, terrified that if you stayed a second longer, you might say something unforgivable, "I'll go tell the kitchen. It’ll be out in a moment."
You turned, the heavy bowls clattering slightly as you moved, and practically fled through the swinging plastic strips that led to the kitchen. Behind you, you heard her voice, light and airy, continuing to fill the space you had just vacated.
You reached the sanctuary of the stainless steel counter, your lungs burning, and leaned against it. Your mother was at the stove, the massive pot of broth sending plumes of steam into the air, her back turned to you. She didn't see your face, didn't see the way your hands were shaking as you set the dirty dishes down with a deafening thud.
"Y/N?" your mother asked, not turning around, her voice weary, “what was their order?”
You stared at the small pad in your hand. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Through the small, greasy window that looked out into the dining area, you saw Heeseung reach up and finally, finally look toward the kitchen.
When she wasn’t looking at him.
His eyes were bloodshot. And for the first time in years, he wasn't looking at you with the hollow glare of a city man. He was looking at you with the terrified, drowning eyes of the boy who had never really left.
The next time you were acquainted with her, it happened while you were feeding Byeol, the neighborhood cat, just outside your house.
The plastic bag of dry kibble crinkled loudly in the quiet alleyway. You were crouched in the shadow of the low stone wall, your fingers lingering on Byeol’s soft, striped fur as he purred, a low, rhythmic sound that was the only thing keeping you grounded within the relentless cycle of senior year preparations and the suffocating, broth-scented labor of the restaurant.
It was well past midnight, where the neighborhood was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the occasional hum of a stray insect. The only light came from a flickering, yellowed streetlamp at the corner of the alley, casting long, wavering shadows that made the familiar brick walls of your neighborhood look like a stage set.
“What’s his name?”
The question hung in the humid air, sudden and sharp, cutting through the rhythmic chirping of the crickets.
You froze. Your hand, still buried in the soft fur of Byeol’s neck, went rigid. You hadn’t heard her approach, perhaps because the expensive heels she wore weren't meant for the cracked asphalt of a countryside alleyway, or perhaps because you had been so deeply lost in the mimicry of a life that wasn't yours.
For a heartbeat, you didn’t breathe. You felt a wave of suffocation wash over you. You stared at the cat, his ears twitching at the sound of her voice, and for a second, you desperately wanted to just keep staring at him, to stay in the shadow of the stone wall until she simply dissolved into the darkness.
But the habit of a lifetime, the habit of "keeping your head down" and being the polite, invisible girl, prevailed.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your fingers trembling slightly as you finished smoothing Byeol’s fur. You forced your face into a neutral, polite mask before turning your head just enough to acknowledge her.
"His name is Byeol," you said, your voice sounding thin and foreign to your own ears. You kept your tone steady, carefully polite, "he’s a stray. He hangs around the kitchen when my parents are cooking."
“Oh, Byeol? Oh! He’s the cat Heeseung has been looking for awhile ago!”
Your heart stuttered, "I see," you managed, your voice barely rising above the chirping of the crickets. You stood up, brushing the dust from your knees, a performative movement to hide the fact that your hands were shaking, “Byeol is a charmer here.”
"He said he remembered the cat used to sleep on his porch," she continued, her voice light, shimmering with that effortless, Seoul-bred grace. She didn't seem to notice the way you were pulling yourself back, inch by inch, into the shadows, “Oh, wait, sorry, do you even know Heeseung? It’s the man I was with a while ago in your restaurant!”
Oh, I know him very well, you thought.
You paused, well, knew.
The silence that followed her question stretched, pulled taut by the weight of everything you couldn't say. The crickets seemed to have stopped their chirping, leaving only the distant, heavy hum of the refrigerator from your parents' kitchen and the frantic thrumming in your own ears.
“I…” You started, all memories felt like boiling up in your throat. You looked at her, at the way she stood, so open and unburdened, how the irony of it all was a bitter, cold ache in your stomach.
It was as if you were brought back to all the years before. How Heeseung would wait for your class to end because his class ended earlier than yours. You remembered how Heeseung would carry your bag and try to vow to help you in maths and sciences, in return for your English tutoring. You remembered the way his hair used to look, tangled and soft from the humidity, the ends almost covering his eyes. How his cardigans seem bigger than his frame, the sleeves past his fists.
“I know him,” you finally said, choosing your words to keep them small, safe, and distant, “we were neighbors, schoolmates, even. Before he moved to Seoul. Everyone knows him around here.”
The girl’s face lit up, a genuine, radiant warmth that felt almost like a taunt, "Oh! So you grew up together? That’s so sweet. He hasn't told me many stories about his time here, just that it was... quiet."
Quiet.
You could laugh.
You wanted to, but it would have sounded like a sob. It hadn't been quiet. It had been loud, and messy, and filled with the terrifying, beautiful certainty of being each other’s entire world.
"Yeah," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on Byeol, who was now weaving between her ankles, his tail flicking with a traitorous familiarity, "it was very quiet."
“What’s your name?” she asks, smiling at you.
The question felt like an anchor dropped into a shallow sea, simple and grounding, yet it threatened to drag you under.
You hesitated. In this town, your name was a fixed point. It was the name written on the honor roll in the town hall, the name your parents called when the restaurant was overflowing with orders, the name Heeseung used to call out when he wanted to share a joke or a secret.
But here, standing in the dark alleyway under the flickering streetlamp, it felt like an intrusion. To tell her your name was to officially introduce yourself to the life he had built without you.
“Y/N, Y/L/N Y/N.” you whispered.
The name felt fragile on your tongue, a relic of a version of yourself that still held onto the idea that some promises were meant to be kept.
“Hello, Y/N,” she smiled so irritatingly warmly, as if she wasn’t looking at her lover’s past, “I’m Minju, Choi Minju!”
Minju. That is her name.
Goddamn it. Could she get any more perfect?
You forced a smile, though it felt like you were pulling at skin that had been sun-scorched and raw. You could imagine her saying it in a Seoul cafe, the sound of it likely gracing the guest lists of charity galas or high-end openings. It was a name that belonged to a life of curated experiences, not one earned in the humid, grease-stained trenches of a failing hardware store turned noodle shop.
"Nice to meet you, Minju," you said. The words tasted like dry crackers, brittle and flavorless.
“I’m really excited to stay here for the summer, Y/N-ssi!” Minju says, “I decided to bring Heeseung back to his hometown because he looks so gloomy. And given the vibe of this neighborhood, I know I’m also going to fall in love with this place!”
Gloomy.
You couldn’t even believe your own ears. Heeseung, the boy who promised he would never leave the town, and if he did, he would forever hold the town in his heart because you were in it, the boy who used to laugh out loud whenever he caught up with you on his bike, the boy who wore his heart on the sleeves of his oversized cardigans.
Who willingly left you without a proper goodbye, felt gloomy in the city.
You think it was because this town had already broken him before he could welcome the city. But Minju thinks the other way around. She thought the cure was to bring him back to the very place that had effectively broken him.
You almost think Minju was offensive. She wasn’t just being nice, she was being patronizing in a way that made your skin crawl. She spoke about the town you desperately wanted to escape from – your suffocating reality – as if it were a vintage spot in the hopes of fixing her boyfriend.
And that boyfriend happens to be Heeseung.
Your Heeseung.
Or…he was your Heeseung.
“It’s definitely…different from the city,” you tried to say, your voice tighter than before. You kept your gaze low, focused on the way Byeol was now weaving between her ankles, his tail flicking with a friendly lilt as if insinuating that whoever you talked to was immediately his friend.
“Different is good!” Minju chirped, her eyes dancing as she looked around at the paint of the brick walls and the flickering streetlamp, “Everything is so authentic, you’re so lucky to experience life like this in a soulful place, Y/N-ssi.”
Oh, you wanted to scream.
You wanted to pull your hair out.
You wanted to tell her about the monthly utility bills that made your mother’s hand shake. You wanted to tell her about the rusted blades of the fan that did nothing to stop the heat of your panic when you thought about exams. You wanted to tell her that this soulful place was where you were learning how to bury your dreams just to survive the next day.
The very soulful place Heeseung needed to escape from.
“Yeah,” you breathed, “it has its own rhythm.”
She looked at you, her smile softening into something that almost looked like genuine interest, “Well, I hope to see you around, Y/N-ssi! It was so lovely meeting you. We’ll definitely stop by the shop again for more of that cold noodles. It’s truly a hidden gem.”
Please don’t, you thought. Please, just stay in your pristine world and leave the dust to us.
“Sure,” you said anyway, “enjoy your stay.”
She waved a small, manicured hand and began to walk back toward the main road, the rhythmic click of her heels echoing against the alley walls like a countdown. You stayed rooted to the spot, watching her silhouette shrink until she disappeared around the corner, heading back toward that sturdy stainless steel gate.
Once she was gone, the silence of the alleyway rushed back in, heavier and colder than before. You were alone, but the space where she had stood felt contaminated.
You looked toward the house next door. The windows were dark, but the silence from within felt loud, heavy with the absence of the boy who used to belong to this street. He wasn't out here to check on you, or to explain why he was back, or to apologize for the life he’d chosen.
He was just there, behind those walls, and for the first time, you realized that the "quiet" he’d described to her was actually a barricade. He hadn't just moved to Seoul; he had built a wall, and you were standing on the wrong side of it, holding a bag of cat food and the wreckage of a summer you never asked for.
The first encounter with him happened during your caffeine run in the nearby convenience store.
It was one of those days that reading through pamphlets and the sheer monotony of lesson plans had left your brain feeling static. You needed caffeine, or at the very least, the cold, artificial hum of the neighborhood convenience store to reset your system.
A change of scenery, if you will.
You were standing by the refrigerated section, your eyes scanning the rows of energy drinks, when the automatic sliding door gave a familiar, screeching whoosh.
You didn't look up. You were too busy trying to decide between a cheap coffee pouch and an iced tea. But then, the air in the aisle changed. It shifted, suddenly permeated by the sharp, expensive scent of leather and something citrusy, a stark, sterile contrast to the smell of dust and stagnant heat that usually defined this place. You heard the rhythmic, crisp footsteps of someone wearing expensive soles. They stopped right beside you.
As you watched through your peripherals, he reached into the fridge. You braced yourself to see his hand wrap around a cheap, sugary coffee pouch, the kind he used to chug before your study sessions. But instead, his fingers bypassed the row of cheap drinks entirely. He pulled out a bottle of cold brew, a minimalist glass bottle with a label in an elegant, modern font.
A cold, sharp twist of dread coiled in your stomach. It wasn't just that he was buying something different; it was the way he did it: with a precise, unhurried grace that felt entirely foreign to the boy who used to struggle to fish out enough coins for a two-for-one snack deal.
He didn't acknowledge you. He began to step away, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
"Heeseung?"
The name felt heavy on your tongue, rusty from five years of disuse.
He stopped. He didn't turn around immediately, but his shoulders squared, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight. When he finally shifted, he didn't look at you with the soft, crinkling-eyed recognition you’d spent years dreaming about. He looked at you with a polite, vacant neutrality.
The kind of look you’d give a stranger asking for directions.
“Oh,” he starts, his voice clipped and devoid of the melodic provincial lilt that used to make his sentences sound like a song, “Hello, I didn’t recognize you for a second. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
You wanted to grimace.
“It has,” you managed, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I saw you yesterday. At the shop.”
“Right,” he says without a blink, “My friend – Minju, she says really enjoyed them.”
Before you could respond, the automatic doors hissed again, and Minju appeared, her presence as vibrant and light as his was dark and heavy.
She walked into the aisle, her eyes brightening the moment they landed on you. "Oh! It's Y/N-ssi! We meet again!"
She stepped into your space, completely oblivious to the fact that the man standing beside her had just gone statue-still. She didn't notice the way Heeseung’s jaw was locked, or the way his hand was white-knuckling that expensive glass bottle. She just saw two people who "knew" each other.
"I was just telling Heeseung we should explore more around town," Minju chirped, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, completely bypassing the tension radiating off him, "We’re going to the old reservoir later for the sunset. You should come with us! It’s so much more fun with a local guide, right Heeseung-ah?"
She looked up at him, her smile wide and expectant.
Heeseung didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on a point just above your shoulder, his face a mask of practiced indifference. "Y/N-ssi is probably busy," he said, his voice flat, "she has to help in the restaurant."
Y/N-ssi.
Damn. It hurt more than you realized.
Fuck you, Heeseung, you wanted to say. But you didn’t. Even the thought of cussing him out hurt you more than you thought.
"Oh, nonsense!" Minju dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand, her bangles chiming, a sharp, expensive sound in the stale air of the shop. She turned her bright, searching gaze back to you, completely blind to the static electricity crackling between you and Heeseung, "Everyone needs a break, especially when you're working so hard. It’s barely a two-hour drive to the reservoir, and the sunset there is supposed to be breath-taking. Surely you can spare an hour for some fresh air?"
She spoke with the easy, unburdened confidence of someone who had never had to count change for a meal or sweat over a boiling pot of broth for twelve hours straight. To her, an afternoon at the reservoir was a simple, charming item on a travel itinerary.
You looked at Heeseung.
He was staring at the refrigerated display case, his reflection caught in the glass: a stranger wearing your first love's face. His hand, gripping the neck of that imported cold-brew, was so tight his knuckles had turned the color of bone. He was waiting for you to decline. He was praying you would say no, so he could preserve the fragile, carefully curated reality he’d constructed in Seoul and keep his two worlds from colliding.
"Actually," you said, your voice cutting through the hum of the store, steady and cold, "I think a bit of fresh air would be good. The restaurant has been so busy lately, I haven't seen a sunset in weeks."
You didn't look at Minju when you said it. You kept your gaze locked on Heeseung. You wanted him to see the challenge in your eyes, the quiet declaration that you weren't going to just fade into the background of his tour.
The change in him was instantaneous. The clinical, detached mask he’d been wearing didn't break, but it cracked. For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered. A dark, raw flash of recognition that bypassed five years of silence and landed squarely on the girl he used to share dreams with on this very floor.
"See? I knew you’d say yes!" Minju chirped, oblivious to the atmosphere that had turned razor-sharp. She reached out and tugged Heeseung’s arm, her movements fluid and careless, "It’ll be so much better with a local. It’s too quiet with just us, and honestly, Heeseung-ah, you need to loosen up. You've been so tense since we crossed the provincial border."
Heeseung finally looked away from you, his gaze snapping back to Minju. He forced a smile: a thin, brittle thing that didn't reach his eyes, and nodded, though his movements were jagged, stripped of the grace he’d been projecting.
“Would five be okay, Y/N-ssi?” Minju asked.
“Yeah, five is okay…” You muttered, starting to regret your impulsivity.
"Perfect!" Minju beamed, entirely content, "I'll see you at five, Y/N-ssi!"
They turned and walked toward the register, Minju’s heels clicking rhythmically, Heeseung’s heavy, expensive loafers trailing behind her. You stood in the aisle, clutching your cheap coffee pouch, and watched him go. As he passed the glass door, he didn't look back, but he didn't have to. You could see the way his shoulders were hunched, the way he walked with the heavy, uneven gait of a man carrying a secret that was slowly eating him alive.
The door hissed shut behind them.
You were left in the suffocating quiet of the convenience store. You felt the cold sting of that Y/N-ssi still humming in the air, a reminder of the chasm he’d put between you. You had just invited yourself to an impending doom. And as you walked to the counter to pay, your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Now, other than the grease of stainless bowls, you now had to survive the sunset.
The air had been thick with the smell of scorched grass and the faint, sweet perfume of cheap lilies. You had sat in the back of the school gym, hands trembling inside your sleeves, watching him walk across the stage in that stiff, charcoal-black polyester toga. A gold medal was hanging around his neck as he looked like a stranger even then.
Heeseung met your eyes from the stage, and he nodded, his smile turning bright, delighted to see you at his graduation.
“Hey, hoobae,” Heeseung calls you out in the midst of the chaotic noise of clicking camera shutters and congratulatory shouting like a blade. It was a term of endearment that felt heavy with the weight of the years you’d spent trailing behind him, always one grade level behind, always watching him prepare to leave for a world you weren't yet part of.
He excused himself from his mother, who was busy smoothing the lapel of his toga, and walked toward you. In the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym, the gold medal against his chest caught the light, a gleaming testament to his departure. He looked radiant, polished, and terrifyingly ready to go.
"You actually came," he said, his voice softer now, dropping the playful hoobae for something quieter, more intimate. He smelled of laundry detergent and that specific, sharp scent of nervous excitement.
You stood there, clutching the small, modest bouquet you’d bought from the market, nothing like the expensive, imported flowers his parents had brought, but it was all you could afford. "I told you I would," you replied, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.
"I know," he smiled. It was the same smile he’d worn since you were children, but there was a flicker of something else in the corners of his eyes, a desperation he was trying to hide behind his graduation glow. He reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he dropped it, as if afraid to break the fragile, perfect image of the day, “Can we…go somewhere for a second? The air in here is suffocating.”
“How about your parents?”
“They know I always escape from their gaze, and they know I’m with you. Come on, I’ll drive.”
You followed him out, the transition from the humid gym to the cooling evening air feeling like a shift in reality. The sky was turning that bruised, violent purple, and the cicadas had started their rhythmic, frantic pulse in the trees surrounding the school.
He didn't take you far, just to the edge of the school's parking lot, where his father’s old sedan sat under the flickering light of a streetlamp. He opened the door for you, his head tilting, motioning for you to get in.
The car ride to the reservoir was filled with a brittle, humming silence. Heeseung drove with a jagged focus, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the darkening road ahead. You sat in the passenger seat, the modest bouquet resting on your lap, the cheap plastic wrap crinkling with every bump in the road.
When he finally cut the engine near the embankment, the silence of the countryside rushed in. Heeseung stepped out, still in his toga, and you followed, the thin fabric of your dress doing little to shield you from the sudden drop in temperature.
You shivered, the cool evening air clinging to your skin like a damp sheet. Heeseung noticed instantly. Without a word, he reached into the back seat, pulling out a thick, oversized, cardigan, the one he’d been wearing for weeks, the one that smelled permanently of old books and his specific, warm cologne.
He draped it over your shoulders. The fabric was heavy and oversized, swallowing you whole, its sleeves hanging past your fingertips. As he settled it around you, his hands lingered on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary.
It was a long beat of silence. Heeseung sat on the hood of his sedan with you. His eyes immediately fixed on the water, a mirror of the dying light of the sunset.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said suddenly, not turning to look at you, “what the fuck, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
You laughed, a breathless, startled sound. A laugh that was meant to dispel the sudden, suffocating weight of his words. You leaned back against the windshield, hooking your fingers into the oversized, frayed cuffs of his cardigan.
“Yeah, what the fuck,” you echoed, your voice light and mocking, a playful smirk tugging at your lips to hide the way your chest suddenly ached, “I really thought you’d be stuck in this town forever with me, trying to navigate through here and hope we’d get in Seoul for some job.”
You missed the way Heeseung paused to look at you. The kind of look that felt like he was memorizing your features for a long, indefinite absence. His eyes flickered down to the way you were wrapped in his cardigan, then back up to your face, his jaw tight.
“You think I’m not cut out for Seoul, Y/N-ah?” he asked, his voice playful, “you think low of the batch valedictorian.” He says with a proud lilt, immediately bringing the gold medal in between his teeth in an attempt to look arrogant.
“Cut it out, it doesn’t suit you,” you say, pushing his shoulder.
Heeseung let out a soft, huffed laugh, the gold medal clinking slightly against his teeth before he dropped it, letting it swing back against the polyester of his toga. He didn't move away when you pushed him; instead, he leaned into the touch, his shoulder bumping yours with a familiar, easy weight.
"Suit me or not, it's mine," he teased, his eyes crinkling in that way that usually signaled he was about to get under your skin. He reached up, casually untangling a stray lock of hair that the evening wind had whipped across your forehead, his fingers lingering near your temple.
“I have credit in that, oppa, I helped you ace your English. Don't go to Seoul acting like a genius when half of your vocabulary came from my study guides.”
Heeseung let out a soft, huffed laugh, "Oh, my bad," he murmured, his tone shifting from teasing to something softer, more deliberate. "How could I forget? You’re right. You’re the reason I’m even standing here."
Before you could retort, he reached up, his fingers steady as he removed the medal from his neck. The movement was slow, almost solemn. He leaned in, the scent of laundry detergent and nervous energy surrounding you, and slipped the heavy gold medal over your head.
The weight of it hit your chest. The cold metal against your skin, surprising and heavy. It felt like a promise, or maybe a confession.
He didn't pull back immediately. He stayed close, his hands resting on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing the collarbone where the ribbon now sat. The playful, arrogant "batch valedictorian" was gone, replaced by a gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to commit your face to memory.
"There," he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum. "Now it’s yours, too. Consider it my down payment."
"Down payment for what?" you whispered, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Heeseung didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, really looked at you, as if he were weighing the cost of everything he was about to lose.
"For when I come back," he finally said.
“I’m gonna follow you to Yonsei, just watch,” you teased, leaning back on the hood of the sedan, your feet swinging in the cool night air as your hand traced the medal. You laughed, a light, airy sound that felt like it belonged to a completely different version of you, “I’ll be the annoying freshman who hangs around your locker, just to ruin your reputation.”
Heeseung chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. He turned to face you, his knees brushing against your hip, “Yeah? You think you’ll be able to find me? I’ll hide from you, Y/N. I’ll be the most elusive student on campus.”
“You couldn't hide from me if you tried,” you countered, your voice dropping to a whisper. The playful banter died, replaced by the heavy, suffocating reality of the next morning.
The air grew still. He leaned in, the distance between you vanishing until you could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his breath hitched as he stared at your lips. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis, a terrifying, beautiful precipice. His hand came up, his thumb brushing your jawline, his touch searing and soft all at once.
Then, the sharp, shrill vibration of his phone cut through the dark like a knife.
The screen lit up his face, the harsh white light revealing the tension and the panic in his eyes. Mom.
Heeseung froze. The spell shattered. He looked at you, then at the phone, his face crumpling in a moment of raw, unmasked agony before he shoved the device back into his pocket without answering. But the moment was gone. The distance returned, wider than it had been before.
"I have to go," he said, his voice ragged, "dinner. They're waiting."
You arrived first at the reservoir.
The place where his sedan was parked five years ago now had a wooden bench, a small sign of the slow improvement of the town.
The wooden bench was new, polished and sturdy, standing in the exact spot where he had once sat on the hood of his car, shivering in his toga. You walked over to it, running a hand over the smooth, sanded wood. It felt sterile, impersonal. A "tourist" addition to a place that held the most jagged memories of your life.
You turned to face the water. The sunset was already beginning to bleed across the horizon, turning the sky into that same bruised, violent purple that had haunted your dreams for five years.
You heard the sound before you saw them.
The low, sophisticated purr of a luxury car engine, a sound so entirely out of place in this valley that it made the very air seem to vibrate. The car pulled up, and the contrast was jarring. They looked like an advertisement for a life you hadn't chosen, polished and pristine, pulling up to a backdrop of crumbling embankments and wild, untamed grass.
The doors opened.
Minju stepped out first, her dress fluttering in the breeze like a white petal. She looked effortless, her hair caught in a perfect, windswept style that you knew would take you hours of effort to replicate.
And then, Heeseung emerged.
He was wearing a light, linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the forearms you used to watch over textbooks. He looked good. He looked like a man who had successfully left the valley behind, a man who had traded his old cardigans for clean, expensive silhouettes. But as he scanned the area and his gaze landed on you, his shoulders locked.
"Y/N-ssi!" Minju called out, her voice bright and unbothered by the sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure. She trotted over, her heels clicking against the earth, "We made it! Is the sunset as beautiful as I heard?"
Yeah, the same sunset where I let him go, you thought.
"It’s not bad," you said instead, your voice steady. Though you could almost feel yourself being sucked back five years ago, when you could feel the cold metal of his medal pressing against your skin.
Minju sat beside you on the bench, and Heeseung took the spot beside her, leaving a palpable gap between you and him.
“So, Y/N-ssi,” Minju started, smoothing the fabric of her skirt, her eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that only people who have never had to struggle possess, “how long have you been in town?”
The question hung in the air, deceptively simple, like a stone dropped into a deep, dark well. You didn’t need to look at Heeseung to know he was holding his breath. You could feel the weight of his attention, even though he kept his gaze pointedly toward the horizon, where the violet light was beginning to bruise into black.
“My whole life,” you replied, your voice cool and level. You kept your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of the cardigan you were wearing, a different one, though the phantom memory of the one he once gave you made your fingers twitch. "I’ve never had a reason to leave. It’s a quiet place, but it’s consistent. It doesn't ask much of you."
“But there are a lot of opportunities in Seoul! Have you tried getting in SKY?”
Minju’s question hung there. SKY. The prestigious trinity of Seoul National, Korea, and Yonsei. The very word was a gilded cage of expectations, a social gatekeeper that separated the people who belonged in the city from the people who were meant to stay behind.
You didn't have to look at Heeseung to know exactly what that name did to him. Yonsei. The school he had worked himself to the bone to reach. The place that had required him to shed the boy who sat on that sedan hood in favor of the man sitting beside Minju right now.
“I did,” you whispered, “I didn’t get in.”
Minju’s expression shifts from polite curiosity to a sudden, flustered apology, "Oh! I... I’m so sorry, Y/N-ssi. I didn't mean to - I just thought..." She trails off, her hand moving instinctively toward her throat, her face flushing a deep, embarrassed pink. She is suddenly aware that she has touched a nerve, though she has no idea just how deeply it cuts.
Heeseung, however, remains deathly silent.
He doesn't look at Minju to tell her to stop. He doesn't offer a platitude to make you feel better. He is staring at the water with a terrifying intensity, his hands buried so deep in his pockets that his knuckles are straining the fabric. You can see the tremor in his shoulder, the way he is vibrating with the effort of not turning to look at you.
For the first time since they arrived, he looks small. The prestige of his Yonsei degree, his linen shirt, his "Seoul" aura…it all seems to dissolve in the face of your honesty. He knows you’re lying, or perhaps he doesn't know, but the pain in your voice is real enough.
"It's alright," you say, your voice smooth and hollow, cutting through Minju’s awkward apology like glass, “it probably wasn’t meant for me. I realized pretty quickly that I was better suited for the life I have here.”
You turn your head then, just a fraction, catching Heeseung’s profile. You see his throat bob as he swallows, a slow, painful movement.
"If you don’t mind me asking," Minju starts, tilting her head with that practiced, gentle empathy of someone who has never been told 'no' in her life, "you clearly have the intellect for it, you’re so articulate! You must have had some bad luck that year, surely? Everyone knows SKY is just a crapshoot anyway."
“Maybe,” you say, your voice soft, almost kind, “it happens, Minju-ssi. Don’t be sorry about it.”
As the night passed, you found yourself in a rhythm with Minju. She would ask questions about you, then Heeseung, then about the town. It was her attempt to get to know a part of Heeseung that he desperately wanted to keep hidden.
You found out Minju was a Fine Arts student. Honors. And she met Heeseung while he was hunched over the school computer for God knows how long. You found out how she forced her way in Heeseung’s routine. How she always happens to find him in the campus café and how she would try to pick up his spirits when he looked too lost and undetermined.
It took a lot of Minju’s stories for you to realize that you lost parts of Heeseung – more parts than you could ever think about. At some point, you feel defeated and buried in the background, as the man who sports the face of the boy you greatly loved, wasn’t even the same person you fell in love with.
On the walk home, you felt a hole in your chest. It was as if you were grieving a person that was still alive. It was the kind of ache you feel deep in your bones, but there were no tears that formed in the rim of your eyes, and while you desperately wanted to cry, the best you could muster was a choked sob that could sum up the lump in your throat.
You blamed yourself for not getting in Yonsei. It was as if you were sucked back in five years ago, the moment you found the rejection letter, seeing your grades glaring at you with everything Remarkable, Exemplary. And the only thing that did not meet the cut-off scores for the scholarship admission were your English test scores.
To you, it felt like a slap in the face.
Your parents didn’t even know you didn’t pass Yonsei. They lived with the lie that you chose to stay with them to help them in the restaurant that they were planning that time. You even tried for a reconsideration, writing the deans for reconsideration, annoyingly writing off all of your achievements – as well as Batch Salutatorian in the write-up. And while they did reconsider you, they couldn’t reconsider giving you a scholarship, saying they have already filled their roster, saying how it’s unfortunate, but they cannot make up another slot. They would give you a place in Education, majoring in English, but with a discounted 10% tuition fee.
You didn’t risk it.
Like how you didn’t risk telling Heeseung how you felt before he left for the Seoul bus. Like how you didn’t risk trying harder to get into Yonsei to keep the promise of annoying Heeseung in the pristine walls of the university.
Because you think the rewards that come after it did not have the same intensity as your risks. You laugh to yourself. Bitterly. Because for someone who was so brave in loving Heeseung, you think you are definitely a coward.
The moment you reach your room, you turn on the lights and immediately lay on the bed. The night was too heavy for you.
The silence of your room is not a sanctuary; it is a cage.
You lie there, limbs splayed against the stiff, thin mattress, watching the dust motes dance in the harsh, yellowed light of the ceiling bulb. Your pulse has finally settled into a dull, rhythmic ache. The kind of tiredness that reaches deep in your bones.
You stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint until they look like the map of a city you were never allowed to enter.
Somewhere, on the other side of that thin brick wall, Heeseung is breathing the same air as you. Perhaps he is laughing at something Minju said, or perhaps he is standing on his porch, looking at the same stars that feel so much further away than they did five years ago. The proximity is agonizing. It’s like being tethered to a ghost; you can feel the pull, you can sense the chill of his presence, but every time you reach out, your hand finds only the cold, empty air of your own life.
You reach into the pocket of your coat and pull out your phone. The screen is dark, a black mirror reflecting a face that looks older, harder, and perpetually exhausted.
You think of the 10% discount. You think of the red ballpoint pen. You think of the English test scores that determined the geography of your entire existence. If you had just one more correct answer, would you be in Seoul right now? Would you be the one with the silk dress, the one with the Honors, the one who held his wrist and pulled him into a life that made sense?
You close your eyes, and for a fleeting, dangerous second, you let yourself imagine it.
You imagine walking into a classroom in Yonsei, the scent of expensive paper and polished wood replacing the smell of vinegar and broth. You imagine Heeseung looking up from a desk, his eyes not filled with the terrified look he gave you at the restaurant, but with the uncomplicated, vibrant recognition of a boy who was still yours.
But then the hum of the refrigerator from the restaurant downstairs cuts through the silence. The reality of the monthly utility bills, the exhaustion lining your mother’s face, and the impending dread of the teacher’s appointment exam pulls you back under.
The dream dissolves, leaving behind only the bitter aftertaste of a life you’ve been forced to curate. You roll onto your side, pulling your knees to your chest, hugging the emptiness as if it were a physical thing.
You are a coward who stayed. You are a coward who settled. And the worst part is, you are the only one who knows the truth of it, that you aren't waiting for a miracle. You are just waiting for the day you finally stop caring that you threw your own life away for a boy who stopped looking back.
The air in the restaurant felt heavier than usual, smelling of vinegar and the metallic tang of the stainless steel bowls you’d been scrubbing all afternoon. When Minju walked in, she looked like an illustration from a magazine: clean, crisp, and hopelessly detached from the grime of the lunch rush.
She didn’t come alone. She carried a stack of heavy, thick booklets. The official Teacher’s Appointment Exam review materials.
"Y/N-ssi!" she called out, her voice a bright contrast to the low, tired hum of the local workers eating in the corner. She slid into the booth you had just cleaned, dropping the books onto the table with a soft, expensive thud, "I went to the city bookstore this morning. I remember you saying you were preparing for the exams, and I know how hard it is to find the right materials in the province, so..."
She pushed the books toward you. The spines were pristine, the covers devoid of the wear and tear of a library copy. They were beautiful, authoritative, and utterly humiliating.
"I hope these help," she beamed, her eyes crinkling with a kindness that felt like a serrated edge, "I’m an Art major, so this is all ancient Greek to me, but I know you’ll be a fantastic teacher. You have that... quiet, steady patience about you."
You stared at the books. You thought of your own annotated copies, the ones held together by scotch tape and sheer, frantic willpower, covered in your nervous, looping handwriting.
"Thank you," you managed, your voice sounding thin, even to yourself, "You shouldn't have."
“Nonsense! Consider it as my gratitude for being one of the people that made Heeseung who he is, for being a part of this town,” she smiles, “speaking of Heeseung, I figured I’d let him cool off in the car and I come here to say hello. Honestly, I think he just needs a nap.”
The conversation drifted, as it always did, back to him. You found yourself trapped in the rhythm of it, the supportive local friend role you had inadvertently auditioned for.
By the time the restaurant slowed down for dinner, Minju had invited you to join her for a quick bite at the small cafe near the park. You went, mostly because you were a coward who didn't know how to say no to someone who was actively trying to be your friend.
The cafe was quiet, the warm lighting masking the tired lines on your face. Minju had her chin in her hands, her expression finally turning dim. She looked tired. Young, cheerful, but with confusion and dread on her face.
“Y/N, how long have you known Heeseung?”
The question hung in the air, suspended between the clinking of porcelain cups and the low, muffled hum of the cafe’s refrigerator. You stared down at the foam of your latte, the intricate heart pattern beginning to dissolve into a muddy, shapeless swirl.
How long have you known Heeseung?
Long enough. Long enough that you could trace the map of his insecurities without ever looking at him. Long enough that you knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was lying, and the specific way he gripped a pen when he was terrified of failing.
Minju, be more specific, you wanted to say, the Heeseung then, or the Heeseung now?
Because clearly, Heeseung now felt like a different person. He was a sleek, polished version of the boy who once smelled of old books and laundry detergent. The version you loved and had let go of against your will.
"We grew up on the same street," you said instead, "we were... neighbors. For a long time."
Minju nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her saucer. Her movements were elegant, practiced, the kind of poise that came from never having to rush through a meal or worry about closing times.
"Neighbors," she mused, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "He never talks about it. He talks about Seoul like it’s the only place that ever mattered, but sometimes, when he’s sleeping, he murmurs things. Things about the rain. About a bike. About... someone who helped him with his English."
Your breath hitched, a sharp, jagged intake of air that you quickly masked by taking a sip of the tepid coffee. The taste was bitter, clinging to the back of your throat.
Minju searched your eyes, in search of a piece of a puzzle that she couldn’t quite fit together, “Heeseung’s brilliant, Y/N. He’s the most capable person I know, but there’s a part of him that’s just... hollowed out. I keep trying to fill it with gallery openings, with my plans for our future, with everything I think he should want. But he just looks through me."
You looked at her, at the genuine, desperate hope in her eyes. She wanted a backstory, a reason. Anything she could fix. Anything she could hold against the hollowed-out parts of him. She had no idea that the someone he was grieving was sitting right across from her, wearing a faded t-shirt and smelling of dish soap, holding a spoon that felt heavier than a lead weight.
Minju let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping, “I just wish I knew how to reach him.”
You stared at her. The looming fact that she harbors the same feelings that you have for Heeseung. You feel desperation reeking off her. The worry etched on her face, despite her picture-perfect aura and stance. In the middle of her organization and beauty, you can feel the slight tilt of her uncertainty caused by Heeseung.
"Maybe," you said, forcing your lips into a gentle, pitying curve, "you should stop trying to reach him. Maybe you should just let him be wherever he is."
Minju looked at you, startled, her eyes wide. "But I love him, Y/N. How can I just let him be?"
It hit you just like that. It was a silent confirmation that she does love him. You don’t even know if she loves him as much as you do – or maybe more, you didn’t dare to compare. The words hung between you, a fragile, glass-like truth that shimmered with the heat of her confession. I love him.
It wasn't just a statement; it was a surrender. As she stared at you, waiting for some nugget of wisdom or a secret key to unlock his heart, you felt a cold, jagged realization pierce through your ribs. You had spent five years believing that your love was a unique, solitary burden. A private monument you tended to in the dark. But looking at the raw, undisguised terror in Minju’s eyes, you realized that love wasn't a singular experience at all.
You wanted to laugh, a dry, hollow sound that died in your throat before it could even reach your lips. It was almost absurd, the way the world seemed to orbit around a man who had spent five years trying to convince himself he was anchored to nothing.
He was lovable. That was the cruelest, simplest fact of all.
Even now, stripped of his old, oversized cardigans and his boyish hum, he carried a gravity that pulled people into his wake. You had known it back when he was just a boy shivering on a sedan hood, and Minju clearly knew it now, as she sat across from you, offering her entire soul to a man who kept his folded tightly in his pockets.
Regardless of the distance, regardless of the silence, regardless of the fact that he was actively trying to rewrite his own existence to exclude you, he was still the same boy who had made you feel like the center of the universe. The realization was a bitter pill. You realized that even if he never spoke to you again, even if he lived a thousand years in a city you couldn't reach, there would always be someone, somewhere, trying to love him.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because the answer, the only honest thing left in the world, was that sometimes, love isn't a bridge. Sometimes, love is just the act of standing back and watching someone walk away until they aren't even a speck on the horizon anymore.
"I don't know," you whispered, finally looking up to meet her gaze, "I really don't know."
The following days, it felt as if Minju forced you into their orbit.
She became the curator of your shared time, crafting deliberate, suffocating opportunities for the three of you to exist in the same space. It was as if she was match-making two ex-friends who didn’t want to be around each other anymore. She moved through the local landscape with a frantic, bright-eyed energy, attempting to weave the tapestry of your history into the glossy fabric of her own relationship, blissfully unaware that the thread she was pulling was the one holding the entire structure together.
You became a permanent fixture in the passenger seat of that luxury car, a silent, unwilling passenger in a life that wasn't yours to inhabit.
The interior of the vehicle always held the same stifling atmosphere. Minju occupied the space with an air of manic hospitality, constantly checking her phone, adjusting the navigation, and reaching back to touch your arm with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. She treated you like a talisman, a lucky charm she needed to hold close to coax the "best" out of Heeseung.
Heeseung, for his part, retreated into a stillness that bordered on the inanimate. He drove with a mechanical, rigid posture, his eyes fixed on the asphalt as if the road itself were the only thing keeping him from disintegrating. He didn't speak. He didn't look at you in the rearview mirror. He was a master of erasure, performing a quiet erasure on his own memories every time the tires crunched over the gravel of the valley roads.
Yet, the cracks were inevitable. They manifested in the small, involuntary things.
When a familiar song played on the radio, a track you and he had obsessed over during those long, rainy study sessions, you would see his hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
When Minju, in her relentless pursuit of a "healing" narrative, would bring up a local landmark or a shared memory he had tried to bury, the air in the car would thicken, becoming unbreathable. You would watch his jaw pulse, a rhythmic, frantic movement that signaled a storm he was barely containing.
Minju watched too.
Unfortunately, it also meant she watched how Heeseung unconsciously slipped into old habits with you.
The shifts were unnoticeable, almost imperceptible to anyone who hadn't spent their formative years memorizing the geometry of his movements. It wasn’t even betrayal. No, it was a series of reflexes that bypassed his conscious mind entirely.
When they stopped for coffee, Heeseung would order his drink with a splash of hazelnut syrup. A preference he had adopted five years ago specifically because you had once complained that plain black coffee tasted like dirt one time in your high school field trip in the nearest city. He would place the cup on the table, and without even glancing toward you, he would automatically slide the sugar packets to the left side of your coaster, exactly where you used to stash them during those marathon library sessions.
Minju would be mid-sentence, talking about an upcoming exhibition in Seoul, but her voice would trail off as she tracked his hand. She saw the way his fingers lingered on the edge of your table for a fraction of a second too long. The gesture was so intimate, so reflexive, that it felt like an intrusion of a private language she had no right to hear.
Then there were the silences. In the car, if the GPS glitched or they took a wrong turn down one of the winding roads outside the city, the old Heeseung would surface like an apex predator. Before Minju could even reach for her phone to re-calculate, Heeseung would instinctively turn onto the narrow path that bypassed the traffic, a shortcut you and he had discovered on that rusted bike years ago.
He didn't stop there. When a stray dog barked in the distance, a sharp, aggressive sound, he didn't just flinch; he instinctively leaned toward you, his shoulder angling as if to shield you from the noise, a physical habit born from protecting you from the neighborhood dogs when you were sixteen.
You were invited by Minju days after in a café downtown. The café was a study in clinical perfection. Chrome, glass, and the sterile, pressurized hum of an upscale espresso machine. It was a world away from the provincial dust of the life you and Heeseung were currently trapped in.
Minju sat across from you, her hands wrapped around a porcelain cup as if it were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. She looked immaculate, as always, but there was a fragility in the set of her shoulders.
A quiet, terrifying resignation.
She smiles at you when she sees you, inviting you to sit across from her and immediately telling you to order anything you want. You got the cheapest out of the options, too wary not to take her kindness for granted.
“Y/N,” Minju began, her finger tracing the delicate rim of her cup after a beat of silence. Her composure was poised, but you could see how she’s trying her best to hold everything in.
“I’ve always been so sure about everything in my life,” she added, her voice barely a ripple in the quiet, sterile space, “my career, my pace, the trajectory of the people I choose to keep in my orbit. I believed if I worked hard enough, if I was patient enough, I could map out a future where nothing was left to chance.”
She finally looked up, and the raw, unguarded depth in her eyes made your chest ache. There was no sharpness there, no defensive fire. Just a hollow, aching clarity.
“I look at my life in Seoul,” she continued, a sad smile touching her lips, “and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s vibrant, it’s loud, it’s successful. I’ve always wanted color. But five years ago, I met a man who looked void of it. And since then, I spent every day trying to fill in the color, trying to make him feel real. I told myself his silences were just a sign of a complex mind. I told myself his distance was just the weight of his ambition.”
She paused, the silence stretching between you, the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter, the chatter of the people – these were all filled with the heavy silence, too faint, but too much that it felt like a mockery. So mechanical, so precise. It felt as if life dared to mock the reality of your shared history.
“Minju–”
“I was so arrogant,” she cut you off, her voice dropping into that soft register, “I thought, with my persistence, with how I curated his schedule, how I managed his expectations, I thought I was helping him build a future. I didn’t realize I was just…hiding the key to a room he had already locked himself inside…a room he had never actually left.”
Minju looked at you, her glossy eyes taking in your figure and she wanted to laugh at the irony of it. All her life, she thought that by being smart enough, driven enough, beautiful enough, she thought she might have at least deserved him in the end. However, it dawned on her that she treated love like a transaction, a deal where she was the closer.
But looking at you now, she realized love isn’t conditional.
It wasn’t a prize to be earned through accolades or a status to be maintained through sheer force of will. It was just…love. The simple, terrifying, unearned pull of one soul toward another, something that couldn’t be negotiated, or forced to conform to one’s wants.
“All these years, I thought I was the one who could be his salvation, his next and final chapter,” she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time, a sharp, jagged sound that she seemed unable to suppress, “I spent five years of playing the role of his muse, his partner. I was busy patting myself on the back for fixing him that I never realized he was just performing for me. He was wearing the clothes I picked, walking the path I paved, and all the while, he was just…waiting for everything to end.”
Minju looked down at her hands, her knuckles pale against the dark wood of the table, "You know what’s the most painful part? It’s not that he was lying to me. It’s that I was so convinced of my own importance that I didn't even notice I was holding him hostage."
“I look at you, and I see why he never truly arrived in Seoul. He couldn’t. His heart was still beating somewhere in the quiet of this province. His heart was buried under the weight of things left unsaid.”
She leaned back, her shoulders slumping just the slightest bit, the weight of the realisation finally settling into her bones.
“Y/N, I didn’t know about you. Not really. I thought you were just a girl from the province, his neighbor, someone who had to watch him grow up. If I had known, if I had understood that I was competing against someone…someone who loved him – or loves him – maybe I would have fought. Maybe I would have tried to be a villain.”
Minju laughed, “But I didn’t, because I saw the reason why Heeseung fell in love with you. Because I liked you enough to consider you my friend.”
Minju’s laugh was brittle, a sudden sound that seemed to shatter the polished silence of the café. It was devoid of joy, filled instead with a poignant, self-deprecating irony.
“I spent months trying to understand him, trying to parse through his moods and his silence like they were code I needed to crack. And all the while, you were right there. And somehow, I realized that I loved the man that came out of your love.”
She smiled at you, “I looked at you when we met and I didn’t see a rival. I saw someone who lived in a quiet life I was struggling so hard to mimic. I liked you. I truly did. I found myself wanting to tell you about my conveniences, my inconveniences, because you were the only one who seemed to understand everything I was so unsure about.”
She let out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to the table, “It was the most honest part of this whole charade, Y/N. Befriending you.”
Minju looked up at you again, her expression softening into something devastatingly tender. The mask of the high-achieving, city-bound artist was completely gone, leaving behind only a woman who had been hollowed out by her own realization.
“If I had known you were the one he was running toward, I would have hated you with every ounce of my being. I would have made you the villain, I would have made myself the victim, and I would have fought to keep him because that’s what I do. I always win.”
She shook her head slowly, a sad, knowing smile touching her lips, “But I couldn't hate you. Because every time I looked at you, I saw the version of him he was so desperate to protect. I saw the reason he was worth saving. And I couldn't destroy the very thing he loved most in this world, even if it meant my own heart was the one that had to be sacrificed to keep it intact.”
Her hand reached out, not to touch you, but to hover over the table, a testament to her restraint.
“I saw it the other night, Y/N. I watched him look at you, and for the first time, I didn't see the man who lives in my apartment in Seoul. I saw a man who had been holding his breath for a thousand days and had finally, terrifyingly, been allowed to exhale. It wasn't just longing. It was recognition. It was the look of a soul realizing it had been standing in the wrong life for the past years.”
She sighed, a long, ragged sound that she instantly checked, smoothing her expression back into that mask of calm, now reaching out to hold your tensed, clasped hands, “I lost this fight the moment I met him, Y/N. I lost it five years ago, and I’ve just been too stubborn to notice. I fell in love with a man who was already halfway home, and I spent five years trying to convince him that home wasn't worth returning to. That’s not love. That’s just… a very expensive, very beautiful kind of selfishness.”
Minju stood up then, the movement fluid and final, as if she were stepping out of a role she’d been cast in for too long. She didn’t look at the check she had already paid; she didn't look at the cafe that now felt like a stage from which the actors had all departed. She simply stood there, a woman who had meticulously dismantled her own heart to see what lay underneath.
“I’m leaving for Seoul tomorrow,” she said, her voice reclaiming its steady, melodic line, though the vulnerability remained in her eyes, “I’ll be returning to Seoul with the relief that I have made two people who are important to me…happy.”
She reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a gesture so sisterly, so kind, that it made the grief in your throat sharpen into a physical ache.
“Don’t mourn for me, Y/N-nie,” she whispered, her smile soft and devoid of any lingering bitterness, “I’m going to be fine. I’m going to go back to my color. But make sure, for both our sakes, that he finally finds his way back to the only place he ever actually lived. Don’t let him drift, he’s been starving for the sound of his own name from your lips for five years.”
She gave you her sweetest smile as she leaned down to hug you. But it was quick enough for you not to see the tears falling down her eyes. She bowed and turned, her stride as immaculate as it had been the day you met her, and began to walk toward the door. She didn’t look back to see the tears you were finally letting fall, and she didn’t look back to see the empty space where her future had been.
She walked out into the harsh, indifferent light of the afternoon. A woman who had traded her heart for the truth, choosing to lose the man she loved so that he could finally be free to be who he was.
And for you, that was a beautiful kind of love.
When Heeseung dropped you off at your house, the rain started to pour.
It wasn't a gentle, summer drizzle; it was a violent, lashing downpour that turned the gravel path into a slurry of mud. Heeseung had hesitated, his hand lingering on the gear shift, his jaw tight as he stared at the blurred windshield. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then his phone buzzed again. A sharp, insistent vibration that made him flinch.
“Hoobae,” he called out instead, “follow me in Yonsei, hm?”
“I hope you don’t get tired of me,” you promised, your voice barely audible over the relentless drumming of the rain against the roof. You reached out, your fingers brushing his hand on the gear shift. A fleeting, desperate contact before you pushed the door open.
The moment you stepped out, the world turned into a gray, suffocating blur. The rain hit you with the force of a physical blow, cold and stinging, instantly soaking through the cardigan he’d draped over your shoulders. It felt like a shroud. You hurried toward the porch, the mud clutching at your heels, your heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
You were reaching into your pocket, your movements clumsy and frantic, desperate to find your phone. You needed to check the time, you needed to plan if you were getting a wink of sleep from the uncertainty of tomorrow.
But as your foot hit the bottom step of the porch, the slick wood betrayed you.
The world tilted violently. You went down hard, your shoulder slamming into the porch post with a dull, sickening thud. You heard the clack of plastic against concrete before your phone skittered into the pooling water of the driveway.
“Shit,” you scrambled for it, your hands trembling as you clawed at the mud, your fingers fumbling until they closed around the device.
The screen was a web of jagged fractures, the backlight flickering once, twice, like a dying star, before it succumbed to the dark. You pressed the power button, shaking it, whispering, “No, no, no, please.”
You stumbled inside the house, soaked to the bone, the gold medal heavy and freezing against your collarbone. You ran to the kitchen, clutching the dead phone to your chest, and stared at the wall-mounted landline. You stood there, shivering, water pooling around your feet, waiting.
He’ll call the house phone, you told yourself, panic rising in your throat like bile. He’ll find a way.
The house was a hollow shell, echoing with the sound of your own ragged breathing. You paced the kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath your bare, muddy feet, the silence of the landline becoming a physical weight that pressed against your eardrums. Every time the wind lashed a branch against the siding, you jumped, convinced it was a knock, a call, a sign.
But the minutes bled into hours, and the house remained stagnant. You clutched the gold medal around your neck, the metal no longer a promise but an anchor, heavy and cold. You didn't dare take off the cardigan, even though it was soaked through, as if removing it would be an admission that the connection had already been severed.
Only a few miles away, Heeseung was pacing his own room, a space already gutted of its personality. Boxes were stacked like monuments to his departure, and the only thing left on his bed was the empty space where the cardigan had been.
He remembered how he gripped his pen that night. How he had tucked a letter into the pocket of that cardigan, hidden in the frayed seam where he knew you’d eventually find it. He was terrified of the words he’d written. His confessions of how he felt he was being torn in two, how he’d planned to tell his parents he was staying behind for a year, his attempt to enter university with you, how he was waiting for you to tell him to stay.
And most of all, how much he loved you. How he wanted to ruin the friendship.
He kept looking at the window, expecting to see your silhouette in the rain, expecting you to show up at his door because you always did. She’ll find the letter, he told himself, his pride warring with a growing, cold dread. She’ll see that I was waiting for her to say the word.
But you were houses away, shivering in a dark kitchen, never checking the pockets of a sweater that was currently draped over a chair, pooling water onto the floor.
At 4:00 AM, the house was plunged into a pre-dawn blue. Heeseung sat on his luggage in the hallway, his face gaunt. His parents were asleep, and the house was silent.
The family landline had been disconnected weeks ago, the wire hanging limp and dead against the baseboard, a casualty of the family's transition to mobile life. He didn't think to try it. He only thought of the phone in his hand.
By 4:30 AM, after he was dropped off by his parents who woke up minutes before he left alone, with a thumb that trembled against the glass, he typed the message he had been drafting and deleting since midnight.
I’m at the station. I’m leaving on the first bus. I don’t want to go without saying the rest of what I didn't say tonight. Please, Y/N. Come find me.
He hit send.
He stared at the screen, waiting for the ‘Delivered’ icon to be followed by the familiar bubble of your reply. He sat on his suitcase, his heart hammering against his ribs, convinced that if you loved him, if you felt at least the same way, you would be at the station before the engine started.
He didn’t know that houses away, your phone lay on the kitchen table, a dark shattered memoir. He didn’t know that the signal was hitting nothing but air, trapped in the digital ether.
Heeseung watched the station clock tick forward, each second a hammer blow against his resolve. By 5:00 AM, the bus pulled into the bay, a massive, idling beast of steel. He stood up, his eyes darting to the entrance one last time. He waited until the last possible second, his chest aching with a mixture of hope and resentment.
You didn’t come.
He boarded the bus, the air inside smelling of diesel and dust, and pressed his forehead against the glass. He didn't look back at the town, and he didn't look at the phone in his hand, which remained stubbornly, cruelly silent. He convinced himself that your silence was an answer. He convinced himself that he was only the one willing to ruin the friendship, the one who felt love.
In the process, he solidified the walls around his own heart, ready to become the man who would never let anyone hurt him like this again.
And you, at home, finally drifted into a fitful sleep on the kitchen floor, waking up at sunrise to the sight of your dead phone, never knowing that you had spent your final night together waiting for an invitation that was already buried in a pocket you hadn't thought to check.
The clock on your desk glowed with a harsh, neon red 3:00 AM, its light casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. You had been at it for hours, your brain buzzing with the residual static of a marathon study session. The room was a chaotic mosaic of your life: the stacks of review education books, the new books Minju had given you, the colorful highlighters, and the mounting pressure of senior year.
All shoved into half-filled cardboard boxes. Packing felt like shedding skin. You were moving on, leaving behind the provincial life to finally choose yourself this time.
You were sorting through the keep pile, tossing old notebooks into a recycling bin, when your hand brushed against the wool of the moth-eaten cardigan draped over the back of your desk chair.
Even after five years, you still hadn't managed to get rid of it. It was a relic, a soft, decaying reminder of the night the sky turned purple and everything you knew about the world shifted. You meant to wash it one last time, to finally pack it away into the bottom of a box you wouldn't open for years.
You picked it up, intending to fold it, but as you shook it to straighten the sleeves, something heavy thudded against the fabric.
It caught on the frayed hem, snagging on the loose weave of the inner pocket. You frowned, pulling at the fabric, thinking it was a loose button or a stray coin. Instead, you felt the crisp, sharp edge of folded paper.
Your heart gave a strange, sickening lurch.
You reached inside, your fingers trembling as you pulled out a small, rectangular envelope that had clearly been wedged into the lining. It wasn't an envelope, actually. It was just a piece of notebook paper folded over and over until it was a thick, flat square, the edges softened by time.
You knew that handwriting. Even after five years of trying to scrub the memory of it from your mind, you recognized the sharp, precise tilt of the letters.
Heeseung.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, the boxes forgotten. The room felt suddenly too small, the air thick with the smell of old wool, rain, and the ghost of his laundry detergent. Your hands shook so violently you almost dropped it. You unfolded the paper, the creases brittle, threatening to tear.
The ink was faded, but the words were stark, screaming at you from the page.
The letter was written on a sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper, the kind you both used during your endless study sessions in the local library. The handwriting was his. Sharp, slanted, and hurried, as if he were trying to outrun his own courage before the ink dried.
Y/N,
I don’t know if you’ll ever find this. Maybe it’ll stay hidden in this pocket until the wool rots away, and that would probably be for the best. It’s safer that way. For both of us, maybe.
I remember the first time I noticed you. You were just in seventh grade, wandering the halls like you were lost, clutching your bag that was too heavy for your small frame. I was your sunbae. The one everyone expected to be perfect, the one who was supposed to go to Seoul and change the world. I thought I was just being kind when I offered to tutor you because I saw potential in you. I thought I was just being a good senior.
I was so wrong.
I remember the hours we spent in the library, trading secrets disguised as schoolwork. You would tell me how you used your earphones to ignore the world. I would tell you how I intentionally charmed my way to pass English in the best way I can. I’d try to explain the complexities of biology, the mechanics of physics, all while you were busy correcting and laughing at me for my grammar, because in your words: “How can a running batch valedictorian sound like a fool?”
And a fool I was.
Because I’d be pretending to look at the textbook, but I was really just memorizing you. I know the way your brow furrows when a math problem frustrates you, like the whole world is at stake. I know you hum that same soft melody when you’re finally close to a solution, a sound so quiet it feels like a secret meant only for me. I know the way your eyes brighten when you talk about your dreams, and how your nose crinkles when you laugh at my terrible, forced jokes. You have this way of existing that makes the rest of the world look grey, like you’re carrying your own private sunlight that spills onto everything you touch.
I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you until it was already too late. Until my entire world had shrunk down to the space between our chairs, our shared earphone buds, and I realized that I didn’t want to live in any other reality but yours only.
God, there were so many times. Do you remember the night before the finals? You had fallen asleep on your desk, and I sat there for an hour, just looking at you. I leaned in. I was an inch away from your lips. I could smell the vanilla in your shampoo, and I wanted to ruin everything. I wanted to risk the friendship, the prestige, the 'perfect sunbae' title, just to see if you’d wake up and kiss me back.
Or that afternoon by the reservoir, that time you were laughing at my pronunciation and you leaned against me. I turned my head so fast, ready to press my mouth to yours, but you looked at me with those wide, trusting eyes, and I froze. I backed out. I did it at the bus stop, I did it in your driveway, I did it every single time the distance between us felt thin enough to bridge. I was a coward then, and I’m a coward now.
Everyone talks about Seoul like it’s heaven. They talk about my scholarship like it’s a golden ticket. But Y/N, I would trade every sky in that city, every opportunity, every ounce of 'success' just to stay here in this town and work a dead-end job if it meant I could see you every morning. I want to curse every expectation my parents ever laid on me. I want to burn the acceptance letters. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is you.
I’m leaving tomorrow, Y/N. And it feels like I’m walking into a grave everyone and I dug for myself. But, Y/N, I’ll be at the bus station at 4:45 AM. If you come, if you show up before the engine starts, I will throw my bags into the dirt and never look back at Seoul again. I will stay, and I will be yours, and I will live in this town for the rest of my life.
But if you don’t come, I’ll know. I’ll know that we were just a dream, and that it’s time to wake up. It’s the cruelest test I could ever invent, isn't it? Leaving my entire future in your hands while I hide in the dark, waiting.
I’m sorry, Y/N.
I love you, with all my heart.
Yours, always,Heeseung.
The sob didn’t start in your chest; it began as a sharp, hitching tremor in your throat, a jagged intake of air that felt like swallowing shards of ice. When it finally broke, it wasn’t loud. It was a hollow, desolate sound that scraped against the quiet of your room.
You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against the cool, splintered wood of the floorboards. You stared down at the grain of the wood, the lines blurring as your vision filled with hot, blinding tears.
You looked down at your own hands and saw how they were trembling with the sheer, unrelenting force of your grief. You weren't just crying; you were disintegrating.
A sob finally broke free, but it wasn't a release. It was a shuddering, violent convulsion that doubled you over.
You reached out, your fingers shaking uncontrollably, and touched the handwriting on the page. Yours, always.
The lie of it ripped through you. He hadn't been "always" yours; he had been a man constructing a cage out of his own pride, and he had invited you to be the one to lock it. You remembered how you had spent that morning of his departure, how you had woken up, looked at your broken phone, and cried because you thought he hadn't cared enough to say goodbye. You had mourned a rejection that was actually a desperate, hidden plea for salvation.
You looked around your room, at the boxes labeled for your senior year, at the life you had carefully built out of the wreckage he left behind. Everything you had done: every late-night study session, every push to be better, every quiet moment where you tried to fill the Heeseung-shaped hole in your chest, was built on the foundation of a misunderstanding.
The anger hit you like a heavy, physical weight. It settled deep in your gut. It was a sharp, searing heat, the kind that made you want to claw at the walls of your own bedroom. You looked at the cardboard boxes all around you, and you felt a sudden, violent urge to sweep them all off.
You idiot, you thought, your teeth gritting so hard your jaw ached, you absolute, prideful, infuriating idiot.
You looked at the empty spaces in your room, the quiet corners where you’d once imagined him sitting, and the fury gave way to a hollow, echoing resentment. He had held your heart in his hands and decided to use it as a weight to anchor his own fear.
But then, just as quickly, the anger fractured.
Beneath the white-hot rage, that old, stubborn warmth flared up. The one that had never truly been extinguished. You thought of the way he would absentmindedly tap his pen against his chin, the way he’d let you correct his grammar just to hear the sound of your voice.
He hadn't been cruel or malicious. He had been a boy suffocating under the weight of a life he never asked for, terrified that if he reached for the only thing he wanted, he’d drag you down into his own misery. He was a coward, yes. He was a masterpiece of self-destruction.
But, fuck, he was Heeseung. Your Heeseung.
And you are not the same coward as you were five years ago when you wanted to bare out your heart for Heeseung before he graduated. No, you were not going to let this be the end of a story that desperately wanted to start five years ago.
You looked at the letter again. I’ll be at the bus station at 4:45 AM.
You were five years past the deadline, but the challenge still burned in your mind like a promise. You realized then that you didn't need to chase a bus that had left years ago. You needed to chase the boy who had never really stopped waiting for you to find him.
The fear you had carried for five years was replaced by clarity. If he wanted a test, you would give him one.
You stood up, your movements sharp and decisive. You didn't care about the packing anymore. You didn't care about your senior year, the application tests, the expectations of everyone else. You only cared about him. You only cared about the fact that there was a bridge between you and him, and for the first time in your life, you weren't going to wait for him to build it.
You were going to walk across it yourself.
You arrived at the station at 4:40 AM.
The station was cold, but the air between you hummed with the electricity of five years ago. This wasn't just a meeting; it was a superposition of two timelines. The girl who stood here now, five years older, was rewriting the failure of the girl who didn’t get to catch the sight of him leaving.
The bus engine idled, a heavy, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through the soles of your shoes. In every sense, the test was the same: the departure time, the platform, the man waiting in the dark. But the variables had shifted.
Five years ago, you had been the passive variable. You had been the consequence of his decision, a silent factor waiting to be solved. You had trusted that the universe, or perhaps Heeseung, would provide the answer.
You stepped out of the car, your legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. Heavy, trembling, and terrified. You clutched the letter in your hand, the paper damp with the sweat of your palm. You walked toward the platform, your boots clicking sharply against the cracked pavement.
Every shadow looked like him. Every rustle of the wind sounded like his voice.
And then, you saw him.
The clock above the platform read 4:41 AM.
Your throat tightened, a physical constriction that made it hard to breathe. He looked so small in the vast, empty terminal. The "perfect sunbae," the boy who was supposed to change the world, was just a person sitting on a cold bench, destroyed by his own fear.
He didn't see you yet. He was looking at his watch, his expression a mask of hollow resignation.
You stopped, two rows of benches away, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked at the clock again: 4:42 AM.
One minute left. One minute to decide if the last three years were just a mistake, or if they were the necessary, painful crucible that brought you to this exact, terrifying moment.
4:43 AM. You lost him in the sudden rush of crowds as the bus neared. You tried on your tiptoes to see the familiar build. The station had suddenly transformed from a graveyard of memories into a frantic, chaotic obstacle course. The early morning bus had drawn a swarm of passengers. Commuters with heavy backpacks, travelers clutching coffee cups, and hurried people blending into a blur of jackets, trenches, and muted murmurs.
You were shoved aside by a mother carrying her child, her family following close by with lots of bags. You stumbled, your boot scraping against the floor, and immediately tried to right yourself, your eyes scanning the shifting sea of people.
He was not there at the place where he was sitting a while ago. Where was he?
You rose onto your tiptoes, your calves aching with the strain. You desperately scanned for that specific posture, the way his shoulders hunched when he was anxious, the precise, sharp tilt of his head. You saw a jacket that looked like his, but it belonged to an older man with silvering hair. You saw a silhouette with his height, but the stride was too confident, too careless.
Your heart was a trapped bird, beating against your ribs with such force that it dizzied you. The bus engine roared, a guttural, final sound that felt like it was swallowing the air in the terminal.
"Heeseung?" you called out, your voice thin and brittle, immediately lost in the scrape of luggage wheels and the overhead announcement drone.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your chest. You pushed through a group of students, your hands brushing against rough wool and synthetic fabrics, desperate to find the one person who mattered. Your eyes darted everywhere, to the ticket kiosk, the rows of empty benches he’d occupied just moments ago, the closing doors of the bus.
You caught a glimpse of a familiar dark jacket, the back of a head turned toward the boarding line. Your breath hitched. There.
Without thinking, you darted toward him, your heart hammering a rhythm of pure terror. You reached out, but the bus conductor stopped you, asking you for a ticket. Your eyes snapped from the conductor’s hand to his retreating figure.
“I don’t have a ticket!” you snapped, your voice cracking with the frantic, jagged edges of panic. You tried to shove past the conductor, your eyes locked on the dark jacket just a few steps ahead in the queue, “I have to talk to someone, please!”
The conductor, a man with a tired, weathered face, didn't budge. He planted a heavy hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and immovable, "No ticket, no boarding, miss. Step back, you're blocking the line."
"You don't understand!" you screamed, though the roar of the idling engine began to drown out your desperation. You looked toward the queue, but the crowd surged forward in a sudden, impatient wave, obscuring your view. The person in the dark jacket stepped onto the bus steps. You couldn't see his face. Not yet.
You even assumed he had earphones in his ears.
"Heeseung!" you shrieked, the name tearing from your throat.
The figure on the stairs paused. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. The man’s shoulders tensed, a familiar, involuntary reaction to the sound of your voice. He started to turn, but the conductor beside you gave a sharp whistle, and the bus doors hissed shut with a violent, final metallic thud.
The engine surged, a deafening, guttural vibration that shook the ground beneath your boots.
"No!" You lunged toward the glass, your palms slapping against the cold, vibrating surface. Through the tinted window, you saw a blurred shape in the third row, a head of hair that caught the dim terminal light. He was looking out the window, his expression obscured by the reflection of the station lights.
The bus lurched forward. 4:49 AM.
You tried to even chase it. And what’s ironic is the sudden downpour of rain.
The rain didn’t start as a drizzle. It fell in a sudden, violent curtain, as if the sky had been holding its breath for five years just to mock you at the exact moment of your defeat. It lashed against your skin, cold and stinging, soaking through your clothes in seconds. You didn’t stop running. You sprinted alongside the concrete barrier, your boots slipping on the pavement, your lungs burning with the sharp crawl of exhaustion and panic.
You chased the bus until the terminal gave way to the open road, until the red glow of its taillights became two tiny, indifferent sparks fading into the gray, weeping horizon.
You slowed, then stopped, your chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps. The rain turned your hair into a heavy shroud against your face. You were standing in the middle of the bus lane, drenched to the bone, staring at nothing but the wet, empty asphalt. The irony of it hit you with a force that made your knees buckle.
Five years ago, the sky had wept where he left. And here you were. Five years older, five years wiser, and still standing where he left. Watching the same exact ghost disappear.
You let out a laugh, a dry, broken sound that was immediately swallowed by the downpour. You were a fool. You had thought things were going to change this time; but at the end of the day, you were just a spectator to your own heartbreak, and it was right on schedule.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the rain wash the salt of your tears away. You didn't even notice when the biting sting of the deluge on your shoulders suddenly vanished.
As you waited for the thunder to roll, for the world to continue its indifferent assault, but the heavy drumming sound against your coat stopped. The air around you grew strangely still, protected by an invisible perimeter.
You opened your eyes.
A black umbrella hovered over you, its canopy wide and sturdy, shielding you from the storm. You frowned, your breath hitching as you looked up, expecting a stranger, a kind commuter, or perhaps just another cruel trick of your own fraying mind.
The hand holding the umbrella was pale, the knuckles slightly bruised, and the sleeve was dark with rainwater. You followed the line of the arm, up past a damp shoulder, until your gaze met his.
He was soaked to the bone. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clung to him, and he was shivering, but his eyes were fixed on you with a terrifying, absolute clarity. He wasn't on the bus. He hadn't left.
“Heeseung?” you whispered, your voice barely a thread.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said, his voice raw, looking at the ground where his ticket lay on the wet pavement, “I got on that bus. I sat in the third row, just like I did five years ago. But fuck, Y/N, I don’t want to lose you all over again.”
The confession hung in the air, heavier and more suffocating than the humidity of the downpour. He stood there, a man stripped of his "perfect" facade, shivering and drenched, anchored only by the desperate, frantic grip he had on the umbrella.
"I sat there," he continued, his voice cracking as he gestured vaguely toward the road where the bus had vanished, "I watched the city lights blur, and I kept telling myself that this was the right choice. That you’d be better off if I just became the person I was supposed to be. But all I could hear was the way you sounded when you screamed my name – not five years ago, not today, but every single day in my head."
He took a jagged, stuttering breath, his eyes searching yours with such raw vulnerability that it felt like looking directly into a wound.
Suddenly, it felt as if you were brought back five years ago, hours after his graduation, the way you overlooked the reservoir on the hood of his car.
It was all there. The same suffocating weight in your chest, the same damp chill, the same boy. Back then, you had sat on the hood of his car, the engine ticking as it cooled, the stars hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds that mirrored the uncertainty in your hearts. You had been seventeen, brimming with the naive belief that love was an equation that could be balanced if you just worked hard enough.
“I’m sorry,” Heeseung said out of nowhere, making you stand up.
The two words were small, stripped of the grandiosity he had spent years crafting, but they hit you with the force of an avalanche. He wasn't looking at the horizon anymore; he was looking at you, his gaze anchored, stripped of the performative burden of his perfect future.
He shifted, the umbrella tilting so that the edge of it brushed against your damp hair. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice deepening, vibrating against the frantic percussion of the rain, “For being a coward. For not telling you that I loved you all this time. For leaving you because I thought the man who I am now is the best man you could ever deserve.”
You stood there, the rain still lashing at your legs, but his presence was a heat that defied the storm. You looked at him. This man who had been a ghost in your peripheral vision for half a decade, and you realized he wasn't asking for a clean slate. He was asking for something much harder: to be seen in the wreckage.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me, or to love me back. I just wanted you to know that I’ve loved you all this time and I would choose to love you, whether you love me back or not.” Heeseung adds.
A beat passed.
“You’re standing in the rain, Heeseung,” you said, your voice trembling with the terrifying, beautiful realization that the cycle had finally broken, “you’re going to get sick. You’re going to be miserable. You’re going to have to explain to everyone why you didn’t get on that bus.”
Heeseung gave a dry, jagged laugh. Then he reached out, his hand sliding behind your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp hair, pulling you an inch closer until the space between you was practically non-existent.
“Let them,” he breathed, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that made your breath hitch, “let them wonder, let them ask. For the first time since I was fifteen, I don’t care about being the man who changes the world. I just want to be the man who makes it back to you.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and shallow, cutting through the freezing air, “I’m not sorry for leaving because I’m back. I’m sorry because I spent my life convincing myself that the world was bigger than us when it’s not. It’s just us, Y/N.”
“Just us?” you echoed.
“It’s just been us.” He confirmed.
The storm seemed to mute, the roar of the city fading into a distant, inconsequential hum. In the silence of the terminal’s edge, he didn't wait for your permission or your forgiveness.
He simply closed the distance, his lips meeting yours with a desperation that tasted like the reservoir, like lost time, and like the terrifying, wonderful promise of a future that neither of you had dared to write until this exact, rain-drenched second.
The kiss was not gentle at all. It was a desperate, starving crash of teeth and salt-drenched skin that had nothing to do with grace, but everything to do with survival.
His mouth was cold, shivering against yours, but the moment he realized that you were fighting back, that you were holding him just as tightly as he was holding you, he made a sound, a low, guttural noise that vibrated in his chest and straight to yours.
Heeseung’s hands were the most overwhelming part. They were frantic, tracing the line of your jaw, sliding down to your nape, and then bunching in the fabric of your coat as if he was afraid you might dissolve into the mist if he didn’t anchor you to him. His touch was erratic, a desperate attempt to memorize the reality of you. He wasn’t just kissing you, he was trying to devour you – his mouth moving over yours with a clumsy, bruising intensity that spoke of five years of what-ifs and if-onlys.
You could taste the rain mixing with the warmth of his breath. A sharp contrast that made your skin prickle with goosebumps. His stubble grazed your cheek, a rough sensation that felt painfully real, a reminder that he wasn’t a ghost anymore.
He tilted his head, his lips softening, searching for a rhythm that had been lost for half a decade. Every time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, just to let out a ragged, shaking breath against your mouth, he’d pull you back in again, deeper, more possessive, as if he were trying to physically pull you into him.
His heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm that mirrored your own, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to nothing but the friction of your bodies, the heat rising beneath the layers of damp clothing, and the way his tongue finally mapped the territory he had spent so long denying himself. It was a kiss that tasted like apology, like ache, and like the sudden, terrifying realization that you were finally, impossibly, home.
One year later.
“Y/L/N Y/N, Valedictorian and recipient of the university’s Highest Honors, Department of English Language Education.”
The announcement echoed through the grand hall, formal and crisp. As you walked across the stage, the heavy hood of your academic regalia, the blue and white velvet of the Education department, felt like a mantle of finality. The audience’s applause was a roar, a sea of sound that washed away the last four years of endless lesson planning, the grueling practice teaching, and the long, quiet nights spent studying linguistics and pedagogy.
You accepted the gold-leafed certificate, the weight of it in your hands a physical manifestation of every sacrifice. You were the top of your class. You had mastered the theory of education, but the lessons you’d learned outside the lecture halls: the lessons of patience, of trauma, and of wait times – these were the ones that truly defined you.
As you stepped down from the dais, your eyes instinctively swept the crowded, noisy gym. Your parents were there, cheering in the third row, their faces luminous with pride. But your gaze bypassed them. You were searching for a silhouette, a posture, a gaze that had been your compass for the last twelve months.
He’s not here.
A familiar, sharp ache pricked at your chest. He couldn't make it, you told yourself, the thought a practiced shield against the heat and the noise. Seoul is three hours away. He’s closing that deal today. It’s okay. I’m top of the class; I can handle a little disappointment.
You moved with the throng of graduates into the bright, humid air of the school courtyard. The air was thick with the scent of cheap bouquets and the frantic, chaotic buzz of celebration. You felt momentarily adrift, a solitary figure in a sea of caps and gowns, until the crowd shifted, parting like a curtain.
You were quickly swarmed by your parents, their faces flushed with a pride so intense it felt like a physical weight. Your mother pulled you into a crushing embrace, her tears dampening your shoulder, while your father clapped a heavy, trembling hand on your back, his voice thick as he told you how proud he was of his daughter.
“Can I go outside for some air, please?”
They looked concerned, but the sight of your gold medal, glinting fiercely in the afternoon sun, seemed to reassure them. You walked away, your heels clicking against the pavement, the sound growing lonelier as you retreated from the crowd and toward the old reservoir trail.
By the time you reached the edge of the water, it was just past 3:10 PM. The reservoir was a mirror of still, dark glass, undisturbed by the chaotic energy of the campus. You stopped on the grass, the hem of your gown trailing in the dirt. You reached up, your fingers brushing the cool, heavy gold of your own medal, the metal smooth and comforting.
Then, your hand drifted to the deep pocket of your robe.
You pulled out a smaller, older medal. The one Heeseung had won back in high school, the one he had pressed into your palm before he walked out of your life five years ago. It was scratched, the ribbon slightly frayed, but it was warmer than your own, as if it had been waiting for this exact intersection of time and space.
“Now, you didn’t say anything about beating my title of the town’s valedictorian,” a voice said, low and steady, from the shade of the willow tree behind you.
Your heart stuttered, a wild, frantic bird against your ribs. You spun around, the medals clinking together in your hand.
Heeseung was leaning against the trunk of the willow tree, his posture relaxed, his charcoal suit jacket discarded somewhere on the grass nearby. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were lean and steady. He looked older, the sharp angles of his face had softened with the weight of his own experiences, but his eyes, fixed on yours, held the same devastating familiarity that had haunted your dreams for half a decade.
He wasn’t a vision, and he wasn’t a trick of the light. He was standing in the dappled shade, his gaze dropping to the medals in your hands before rising to meet yours.
“Y/N Y/L/N, top of her class, highest honors,” he said as he reached for a bouquet by the passenger seat, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a secret meant only for you. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his shoes silent on the grass, “you really didn’t leave any room for anyone else, did you?”
You couldn't move. Your breath was caught in your throat, a jagged, painful thing, while the water behind you rippled in the quiet wind. The distance between you felt like a chasm that had finally, impossibly, closed.
"What are you doing here? I thought you had a deal to close?" you whispered, your voice trembling. You were terrified that if you blinked, he would dissolve back into the haze of the last five years.
He stopped just a few feet away, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of rain and cedar that always clung to him. His expression shifted from a proud look to a playful tease.
“Yeah, I have a deal to close,” he said softly as he reached out, his fingers hovering for a second before he gently took the old, frayed medal from your trembling hand. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, his own eyes tracing the scratches on the surface, “I have a deal to close with a valedictorian.”
He gave you a bouquet of white lilies, the smile on his face mimicking the boyish grin he always gave you whenever you met, “Congratulations, hoobae. You did it.”
You lunged on him, crying and not minding about the flowers, the lilies were crushed between you, their crisp, green stems snapping and their sweet, heavy scent filling the air as you collided with him. You didn't care. You buried your face into the solid, warm wall of his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive cotton of his dress shirt, the dam finally breaking. You were sobbing, not out of sadness, but out of a year’s worth of held-back breath, five years of longing, and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally being held by him again.
Heeseung didn't move for a long moment, simply absorbing the impact. Then, his arms locked around you, tight enough to bruise, his hands splayed across your back as if he were trying to pull you into his own skin to make sure you were real. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hitching, a jagged, broken sound that told you he was just as undone as you were.
“I have a surprise for you, hoobae,” he whispered in your ear, “do you trust me?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your vision blurred by the remnants of your tears. His eyes were glassy, dark and dilated, searching your face as if he were trying to memorize every contour he’d been denied for so long. He didn’t wait for an answer. He took your hand, his grip firm and grounding, and led you toward the sleek, black car idling near the park exit.
The drive to Seoul was a blur of golden hour light and the low, steady hum of the engine. He didn't let go of your hand for the entire journey. His fingers were laced through yours, his thumb soothing the back of your hand.
He drove with a quiet, focused intensity, his eyes darting to you every few minutes, as if he needed to check that you hadn't vanished. You watched his profile, the sharp slope of his nose, the focus in his gaze as he navigated the highway, the way his jaw worked when he was lost in thought. He wasn't the boy who used to hide in the library; he was a man who had forged a path through the dark just to find you.
As the city lights of Seoul began to puncture the twilight, the atmosphere in the car shifted. The frantic, desperate energy of the afternoon had settled into a low, smoldering heat. The air between you felt charged, thick with the weight of everything you hadn't been able to say over the phone for the last year.
He pulled the car into the quiet, tree-lined driveway of a neighborhood that felt a world away from the city's chaotic core. The house was modest but beautiful, glowing with warm, golden light from within.
He turned off the engine, but he didn't move. The silence that filled the car wasn't empty; it was heavy, expectant, and electric. He turned toward you, his dark eyes searching yours, stripped of all the bravado and the "perfect" professional mask he wore for the world. In the dim light of the dashboard, he looked raw, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes with a terrifying, absolute clarity.
“We’re home,” he whispered, his voice vibrating through the space between you, low and dangerous.
“What?”
He didn’t wait for you to understand. He reached out, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. The touch was possessive, agonizingly slow, and it sent a jolt of fire straight through your core. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.
“I have spent the whole year after the kiss by the bus station,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “imagining exactly how this would feel. But nothing I ever dreamed of compares to the reality of having you here.”
He pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, burning with a hunger that he had been starving himself of for years. He reached for the doorknob, but before he stepped out, he looked at you one last time, a challenge and a promise in his expression.
“Everything I worked hard for,” he said, his voice dropping to an intimate register, “it was all for the moment I could finally show you how much I’ve missed you. And I have a feeling,” he paused, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk, “that we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
He stepped out, his tall frame cutting through the night air, and circled the car. As he opened your door, the city lights reflected in his eyes, bright and unrelenting. He offered you his hand, his fingers steady, his intent clear.
You held his hand, and you were suddenly carried to the house.
Heeseung was in such a hurry that he almost knocked off a lot of furniture in his way, desperate to have you in your shared room. The front door clicked shut behind you, the lock engaging with a heavy, final sound that seemed to seal out the rest of the world. You barely had time to register the minimalist, warm aesthetic of the entryway, the scent of cedar and expensive candles, before Heeseung carried you to the room with a frantic, uncharacteristic lack of grace.
He was a man possessed, his usual composed, professional demeanor shattered by the raw, pent-up electricity of the last year. He stumbled slightly as he navigated around a sleek console table, his shoulder brushing the wall as he turned the corner, but he didn't apologize. He didn't even slow down. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and impatient, and every time you faltered, he tugged you closer, his fingers digging into your palm with a possessive, grounding grip.
“Heeseung,” you breathed, his name coming out as a breathless laugh, but he just shook his head, his eyes fixed ahead with a tunnel-vision intensity.
“Not yet,” he rasped, his voice rough.
He steered you through the darkened living room, his long strides forcing you to hurry to keep pace. At one point, he nearly knocked a stack of books off a side table with his hip, the sharp thwack of the impact echoing through the quiet house, but he didn't even flinch. He wasn't looking at the furniture; he was looking at the bedroom door at the end of the hall, which stood slightly ajar, spilling a slice of soft, amber light across the hardwood floor.
He reached the threshold and didn't bother to turn on the main light. He carried you inside, the door swinging shut behind you with a muffled thud.
The room was cool, a sharp contrast to the feverish heat radiating off his skin. He stopped, brought you down, and crowded you back until you hit the foot of the bed, the mattress giving way beneath you as he leaned in his hands coming up to frame your face. His fingers were trembling. A stark, vulnerable betrayal of the calm he had tried to project all day.
He studied you in the dim light, his gaze tracing the path of your hairline, the curve of your jaw, and the pulse fluttering rapidly at your throat. The silence was deafening, amplified by the frantic thrum of your own heart.
“Fuck, you’re finally here…” he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin, “I’ve spent every night for five years staring at the ceiling and imagining this exact moment.”
His hands slid down to your shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch agonizingly slow, as if he were afraid you might evaporate if he moved too quickly. He looked at you, his eyes dark, drowning, and full of a desperate, terrifying adoration.
“I don’t want to waste another second,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips, his intention as clear and heavy as the dark air around you, “tell me you’re mine, hoobae, tell me you’re mine, Y/N. Tell me this is real.”
All the breath left your lungs in a ragged rush. The room seemed to tilt, the golden light of the bedside lamp blurring into a soft, hazy halo around him. You felt the weight of his cheek against your palm, the friction of his stubble, the warmth of his skin, and the raw, unvarnished ache of a man who had finally come home.
“I’m yours,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the sheer intensity of the moment, “Heeseung, I am yours. Everything, all of me. Forever and always.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, as if your words were a lifeline he had been grasping for in the dark. When he opened them, the desperation had shifted into something deeper. He pulled away just enough to reach for the silver chain resting against his throat. His fingers were steady now, a stark contrast to the frantic energy that had carried him through the door, as he carefully unclasped it.
The chain slid away, and he held it up. Hanging from the silver links was a ring, gleaming with a quiet, persistent fire. He didn't put it on you yet. Instead, he took your left hand, his grip gentle but absolute, and pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to your knuckles, then your wrist, then the pulse point that was beating a frantic rhythm against his lips.
He leaned in then, his mouth hovering inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged. He took the ring from the chain and slid it onto your finger, the cool metal feeling like a brand, a permanent mark of the promise you’d both been waiting a lifetime to make.
“I love you, Heeseung,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Fuck, I love you…more than you think.”
Heeseung surged forward, his hands sliding from your palms to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there wasn’t any space in between your bodies. His mouth crushed onto yours, not with the hesitant caution of the past, but with the hunger of a man who had finally been granted permission to consume. It was a kiss that tasted of salt, of desperation, and of the absolute, terrifying relief of no longer being apart.
His lips were hard and demanding, moving against yours with a frantic rhythm that mirrored the pounding of your heart. He lifted you easily, your heels kicking out as he pressed you back onto the mattress, his weight settling over you like a heavy, welcome shroud.
The world outside the room dissolved completely. There was only the friction of his clothes against yours, the clink of your medals, the scent of him drowning out everything else, and the way he groaned your name into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that told you exactly where this night was headed.
Heeseung stripped you entirely of your clothes, leaving you bare underneath him. He kissed you one more time before kissing you down from your lips down to your jaw, to your neck. His tongue licked in between the valley of your breasts as he moaned, taking in the gasps that you leave whenever he does something.
He left open-mouthed kisses as he switched on sucking alternate nipples. His hand playing with the unattended breast by his mouth. His fingers pinching, flicking, rubbing the hardened nub.
“Heeseung, p-please,” you whimpered.
“Please what?”
“Touch me,”
“I am?”
You held his hand to hover near where you wanted him to touch you, and he chuckled and happily obliged, running his middle finger running in between your folds, making you gasp. His middle finger then reached your clit, rubbing circles lightly on it before pressing on it.
He then crawled downwards, his mouth hovering over your core. He ran the tip of his nose on your thighs before prodding his nose around your clit, teasing you as he inhaled your scent, before pushing out his tongue to run across your folds, humming at your taste.
It didn’t take him a while before he folded your legs against you, his mouth immediately lapping your folds, one hand rubbing on your clit, his eyes closed as he devoured you as if he was a man starved of food for the past years.
Teeth, lips, tongue – it was everything and everywhere at the same time. The sound of wet tongue against your pussy was enough to make you moan his name out loud and hold his messy, floppy hair. He was inexperienced at best, but it was everything you needed all the same.
Soon enough, his finger poked around the rim of your hole. He looked at you, looking for the go signal before entering almost half of his finger. He was watching your reaction like a hawk, making sure everything he did was perfect – as if he was performing to become the best today, now that he’s officially yours, and you are officially his.
One finger soon turned into two, until he finally had enough room to curl his fingers against the spongy flesh that is your g-spot. He was basking in your moans every time he curled his fingers against it, straightening his body a bit so he could push your lower belly a bit to heighten the sensation.
Your reaction was immediate, your legs thrashed and wrapped around his frame as you pulled him closer, whines and chants of his name over and over again as if he’s some sort of god that you are compelled to worship because of how good he makes you feel.
“Fuck this, I wanna feel you,” he says as he pulls his fingers out and pushing it in his mouth, sucking on your juices as he keeps eye contact with you. He stripped himself off his clothes, looking into your eyes every time he removed an article.
He reached for your hand and kissed the back of it before intertwining his right hand with your left. Heeseung held his dick, trying to even tease you by tapping his tip against your clit. He leaned down to kiss you before kissing your forehead as he aligned his tip to your entrance, muttering praises and affirmations as he eased you into taking him.
“This is going to hurt,” he whispers, “but hold my hand and trust me, okay?”
“Okay,” you managed to say through your nerves.
You gasped and shut your eyes immediately at the feeling of his tip entering you, and with this, Heeseung kept on peppering your face with kisses again, “Breathe, Y/N, I’m here,” he squeezed your hand.
And you tried to calm yourself down, breathing through your nose to calm yourself down, feeling yourself loosen as Heeseung takes this as the opportunity to push inside. Heeseung groaned as he felt the tightness around him, pausing as he pushed his face to the crook of your neck, peppering kisses on your shoulder, “Shit, you’re so tight, jagiya,”
You blushed as you immediately hugged him, your nails racking his back as you whispered, “Y-you can move, Heeseung,”
Heeseung nodded and started moving slowly, gasping at how you’re throbbing around him. He groaned as he pulled out halfway to push in again until he started a rhythm. His tip hitting your g-spot every time he shifts the angle of his hips.
The first few times were slow, as if he was memorizing every part of you around him. He traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his gaze heavy and reverent, searching your face as if to confirm that the person beneath him wasn't just a figment of his long-starved imagination. His movements were deliberate, an agonizingly tender exploration of territory he had only ever been able to visit in his dreams.
He seemed terrified that if he moved too quickly, the reality of the moment would shatter. He let his touch linger, a silent language of apologies for the time he’d lost and promises for the years ahead. Each breath he drew was jagged, his chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythm that grew deeper, more desperate, and increasingly synchronized with your own.
When he finally allowed himself to shed the restraint he’d carried all day, the room felt charged with a sudden, searing intensity. The air became thick, weighted by the heat of skin against skin and the friction of your bodies finally finding their cadence. He pinned your body down as he picked his pace up, his touch and thrusts transitioning from worship to a raw, consuming demand, as if he was trying to weave himself into the very fabric of your existence.
Every shift was a conversation of surrender. The distance that had defined your lives for five years was dismantled in the space of a heartbeat, replaced by the crushing weight of his devotion and the feverish need to be closer than was even physically possible. He whispered your name into the hollow of your neck, his voice a gravelly, broken plea that signaled he had finally stopped running.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he pressed his forehead on yours, panting as he felt his body stiffening at his impending orgasm, “I love y – shit, are you close? Y-you’re throbbing…”
“Yeah, s-shit, Heeseung, r-right there!” you whined, trying to meet his thrusts as you grind upwards, eyes closed at the overwhelming sensation of him inside you, “Fuck, more, I want m-more, I wanna come!”
He let out a moan as he stilled inside you, coming undone. His body doing minor jolts as he held you tight, his hips shifting slightly to help you reach your orgasm too. Curses and his name were all left to say from you, and you immediately pulled him down to hug him as you came undone around him, your cum coming in heavy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, holy shit – Heeseung, I’m –”
“I’m here, I’m here…let go for me, jagiya.”
The silence that followed was heavy and soft, a stark contrast to the storm that had just swept through the room. Save for the synchronized, frantic rhythm of your breathing, slowly beginning to level out as the adrenaline faded into a languid, exhausted haze.
Heeseung didn’t pull away nor pull out. He collapsed against you, his forehead resting in the crook of your neck, his weight grounding and absolute. His skin was slick, radiating a lingering, feverish heat, and his arms remained locked around you, as if he were still guarding you against the possibility of disappearing. Every few seconds, he would press a small, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing your pulse, which was finally slowing to a steady, quiet beat.
You lay there, watching the way the moonlight filtered through the window to catch the sharp, handsome slope of his shoulders. The room felt transformed, the lingering tension replaced by a profound peace.
Heeseung shifted, his hand moving to trail languidly down your arm, his thumb brushing over the ring he had placed on your finger, the silver band catching the dim light, a permanent anchor in the quiet dark.
He finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his hair damp and tousled, his dark eyes softer than you had ever seen them. All the pretentious act of the Seoul boy – it was all gone. There was only the boy you’d known, and the man who had come back to finish what you’d started.
"I’m never leaving," he whispered, the words not a vow, but a simple statement of fact, as natural as breathing.
You traced the line of his jaw, his stubble grazing your fingertips, “You’re really here,” you murmured, the realization finally settling deep in your bones, “No more waiting.”
He pulled you flush against his chest again, his arms tightening in a protective, final embrace. As you drifted into the kind of deep, dreamless sleep you hadn't known in years, his heartbeat was the last thing you felt. A steady, unyielding rhythm that promised, for the first time in your life, that tomorrow was already secured. You were no longer the girl waiting at the station.
summary ⊹ you promised not to forget each other after he graduated. five years later, lee heeseung steps off the bus from seoul looking less like the boy who had promised to return for you. and that was when you realised that you should’ve ruined the friendship, kissed him anyway – because losing him was better than never having him at all.
pairing ⊹ fem!reader x lee heeseung, fem!reader x lee evan
this work contains ⊹ fluff, angst (with happy ending wow), smut with plot. minors do not interact. heavy narration? italics mean flashbacks or emphasis! heeseung is a bit stupid, reader is too, minju is an oc, heeseung is a ghost, heeseung is not really a ghost, heeseung is a coward, so is reader, heeseung is older than reader… lots of jealousy, suppressed feelings, love triangle?! making love! a kiss in the rain! virginity loss! oral (fem receiving), fingering, making out, unprotected sex
length ⊹ 22.8k words (one-shot)
ᝰ from valine ⸻ i wrote this while listening to taylor swift’s ruin the friendship (my advice version). this was such a heavy heavy heavy work! first time writing in a second person pov so please, please be nice!!! <3<3 if you see typos, please disregard ㅠㅠ hope you all like it!! anw, shoutout to my swan for crying and beta-reading because she’s a huge heeseung biased!! ilysm swan!!!
MASTERLIST ⸻ RULES
They say the summer before your senior year could either be the sweetest or the most tiresome.
It is the final, fragile bridge between the reckless warmth of youth and the cold reality of adulthood. For most, it is a season of fleeting late-night drives, shared ice creams under the buzzing streetlamps, and whispered promises of staying in touch after graduation.
But in a quiet, provincial town nestled deep in the valleys far away from the blinding neon lights of Seoul, summer doesn’t taste like romance. It tastes like humidity and the impending dread of survival.
While the wealthy kids in the city are spending their break polishing their resumes and curriculum vitae at elite Gangnam academies, you are trapped under the whirring rusted blades of a plastic electric fan, staring at a mountain of practice lesson plans, and the thick, sticky-note-labelled booklets for your teacher’s appointment exam.
In a countryside public college, a blueprint for dreams is almost impossible. What’s most likely is a bulletproof strategy to keep your head above water. For you, it means counting down the months of a grueling study isolation schedule, praying the academy registration fees don’t spike, and hoping a rural public high school nearby has a single vacancy so you can finally help your parents lift the suffocating weight of the monthly utility bills.
You hear your parents’ voices for the nth time tonight: Just focus on the final year, focus on your exams, Y/N. Be a teacher. Secure a stable salary. Don’t let anything pull you down into the mud with us.
So, you keep your head down. All the time. You keep your head down as you circle grammatical errors with a cheap red ballpoint pen, trying to make sense of the English sentence construction of the students from your immersion. You keep your head down as you eat microwaved rice with a can of spicy tuna in the fluorescent hum of the nearby convenience store.
You kept your head down – too much, perhaps, that you didn’t even notice the change until the quiet air was cut by the low purr of a foreign engine, and a pristine, dark luxury car parked right outside the low stone wall of the house beside yours.
It was a house you knew by heart, a mirror to your own. A two-story countryside home. An entrance of a wide, sturdy stainless steel gate, the kind that shows minor spots of rust around the hinges, but always kept clean.
And there, resting right on the narrow, cracked asphalt road where the neighbors usually parked their sedans and delivery vans, sat the car. It was impossibly sleek, the paint polished to a mirror-like shine that reflected the provincial sun, looking entirely out of place in the familiar rhythm of the neighborhood.
With an unconscious tilt of your head to the side, peering over your window overlooking exactly by his house’s entrance. And after a beat, the driver’s side door clicked open, a sound sharp enough to shatter the stagnant afternoon heat.
Out stepped Lee Heeseung.
For a second, your brain refused to connect the boy who used to split a single five hundred won ice pop with you on the very same curb to the boy who had his hair slicked back into an immaculate style, on what used to be the messy, soft hair with faded bleached hair ends out of DIY sessions with you.
As he stood up straight, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt, his eyes swept over the familiar brick walls of his childhood home. They were the same deep, dark eyes, but the warmth had been filed away, it was already replaced by the dull glare of someone who has adapted Gangnam.
And before the ache in your chest could even settle, she stepped out.
She looked like a watercolor painting dropped into a dusty charcoal sketch. She wore a light, flowy silk dress that seemed completely immune to the oppressive provincial humidity, and as she stood up, the clean scent of her expensive perfume drifted lightly all the way up to your open window. Her skin was porcelain, almost as if untouched by the harsh sun.
She didn’t look snobbish or cruel. Not at all. In fact, as she looked around the modest neighborhood, her eyes held nothing but a gentle, curious warmth. She looked perfect. The embodiment of the life he was supposed to want.
Upstairs, behind the mesh screen of your window, your cheap red ballpoint pen felt heavy and ink-stained in your hand. You pulled back slightly into the shadows of your room, your heart hammering against your ribs as you watched Heeseung walk around the trunk to retrieve their pristine leather luggage.
He didn't look up at your window. Not once.
You watched from the shadows of your room as he guided her through the stainless steel gate. The heavy iron shrieked slightly on its tracks, a sound that used to signal his arrival for your late-night walks, but now simply closed the door on a world you no longer belonged to.
The following days, you tried your best not to run into them.
In the morning, where you would usually do a morning walk to clear your thoughts before your revision, you changed the route. Instead of taking the paved path that cut right past his stainless steel gate, you took the narrow, unpaved dirt path behind the warehouses.
It was a longer walk, and while it did do you good in numbers, the ground was uneven and dusty. And the morning sun hit it earlier, making the heat rise from the soil before seven o’clock.
Around one in the afternoon, the stifling heat inside the house became too heavy to bear. The plastic fan was doing nothing but circulate the humid air when your mother called out from the kitchen mid-revision, asking you to run an errand. She would scold you for frowning as she hands you a faded nylon market bag and a few wrinkled ten thousand won bills to send you down to the traditional open-air market to buy some fresh summer radishes and perilla leaves for dinner.
You welcomed the excuse to step away from the suffocating mountain of lesson plans.
By dinner, you waited for your parents to mention anything about Heeseung. But it seemed they were too caught up in the seasonal decline of their restaurant. With the summer heat turning everyone away from hot stews, they had spent the entire day figuring out how to market naengmyeon to the local factory workers just to go by, their faces lined with exhaustion that always seemed to fill the kitchen.
Your parents would eat their rice in heavy, preoccupied silence, their minds clearly calculating the cost of ingredients rather than who was parking next door. You kept your mouth shut, quietly chewing on your food, keeping the secret of his return tucked away under your tongue.
The next morning, you woke up before the sun could fully mask the town.
Following your new, exhausting routine, you slipped out of the house to take the dusty, unpaved path behind the warehouses, the rough earth biting into the soles of your shoes as the heat began to bleed into the morning air. It was a miserable walk, but it kept you safe.
At least, until late afternoon.
The restaurant was small. It was tucked beneath a low roof that trapped the thick summer heat despite the best efforts of two wall-mounted plastic fans. Before Heeseung had left for Seoul five years ago, this place hadn’t even existed. Back then, your parents were drowning under the weight of a failing hardware shop, constantly borrowing small sums just to keep the lights on.
For the last two hours, you had spent it by helping your mother wipe down the sticky oilcloth tables, your fingers smelling faintly of vinegar and radish broth. Surprisingly, the naengmyeon strategy had worked. A few local factory workers from the nearby textile plant had flooded the place during shift-change, leaving behind a mountain of stainless steel bowls and sticky condensation rings.
You were in the middle of clearing the farthest corner table, your oversized t-shirt damp at the small of your back, when the old glass door rattled on its frame.
The small brass bell chimed.
"Wow, it really smells like authentic naengmyeon!"
The melodic, crisp Seoul dialect made you freeze mid-motion, a stack of dirty bowls heavy in your hands. You slowly turned around. The familiar girl was stepping into the humid dining room, looking entirely like a refreshing breeze in a pale linen sun dress. She was fanning herself softly as her bright eyes eagerly took in the humble handwritten menu taped to the wall.
“Heeseung-ah, look,” she says as she turns back toward the door to pull him inside by his wrist, “their food sure does look and sound amazing. I feel like the cold noodles here are different than in Seoul. We have to try it!”
And there he was.
Heeseung let himself be dragged into the cramped, low-ceilinged restaurant, stepping over the threshold with a heavy, hesitant stride. He was wearing a simple slate-gray shirt, his hair soft and loose around his forehead from the heat. He looked smaller under the harsh fluorescent lights of your parents' shop, stripped of the grand Gangnam backdrop.
Then, his eyes scanned the room and locked right onto you.
The sudden stillness that washed over him was deafening. His arm went rigid in her grip. His eyes dropped to the dirty stainless steel bowls in your hands, to the damp fabric of your shirt, and finally to your face, flushed from the kitchen's steam. A raw, piercing flash of recognition shattered his facade.
“Hi!” The beautiful woman says as she walks toward you, a warm smile on her face, “how do we order?”
You felt your throat tighten, the weight of the dirty stainless steel bowls suddenly heavy in your hands. You looked at her pristine, porcelain face, and then past her shoulder, straight at Heeseung.
“Ah…” you swallowed hard, the word catching on a throat gone dry. You gripped the tray with the bowls, your knuckles white, forcing your gaze away from his searching eyes and onto her bright, expectant face, “you can just take any open table. We only serve two things during the summer… mul-naengmyeon and bibim-naengmyeon. You can just tell me what you’d like.”
“Oh, perfect! One of each, please,” she replied, her voice chiming with a cheerfulness that felt jarringly out of place in the stifling, low-ceilinged room. She turned, her linen dress swishing against the floor, and headed toward a small table directly beneath the oscillating wall-fan, "Heeseung-ah, come sit down. It's so cool right here."
Heeseung didn't answer. He didn't even blink. He stayed rooted to the worn linoleum floor, his gaze fixed on you with such a raw, hungry intensity that for a split second, the background noise of the refrigerator’s hum and the distant traffic seemed to vanish entirely.
“Heeseung-ah?" she called again, glancing back with a playful pout.
He snapped out of it, though his movements were jagged, stripped of the graceful, practiced ease he’d displayed when he first exited the car. He dragged his feet forward, his shoulders hunched in a way that suggested the very air in the room was crushing him. As he slid into the plastic chair opposite the girl, he kept his back angled toward the kitchen, but his profile remained sharply, painfully etched against the fluorescent lights.
He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked firmly onto the grain of the sticky oilcloth table, his jaw clenched so tightly that a small, pulsing muscle twitched in his cheek.
The girl, blissfully unaware of the tectonic plates shifting between you, reached for the stainless steel chopstick cylinder. She caught your eye and smiled again, a kind, pitying, yet genuinely friendly that made your stomach churn.
"I'll..." Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat, terrified that if you stayed a second longer, you might say something unforgivable, "I'll go tell the kitchen. It’ll be out in a moment."
You turned, the heavy bowls clattering slightly as you moved, and practically fled through the swinging plastic strips that led to the kitchen. Behind you, you heard her voice, light and airy, continuing to fill the space you had just vacated.
You reached the sanctuary of the stainless steel counter, your lungs burning, and leaned against it. Your mother was at the stove, the massive pot of broth sending plumes of steam into the air, her back turned to you. She didn't see your face, didn't see the way your hands were shaking as you set the dirty dishes down with a deafening thud.
"Y/N?" your mother asked, not turning around, her voice weary, “what was their order?”
You stared at the small pad in your hand. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Through the small, greasy window that looked out into the dining area, you saw Heeseung reach up and finally, finally look toward the kitchen.
When she wasn’t looking at him.
His eyes were bloodshot. And for the first time in years, he wasn't looking at you with the hollow glare of a city man. He was looking at you with the terrified, drowning eyes of the boy who had never really left.
The next time you were acquainted with her, it happened while you were feeding Byeol, the neighborhood cat, just outside your house.
The plastic bag of dry kibble crinkled loudly in the quiet alleyway. You were crouched in the shadow of the low stone wall, your fingers lingering on Byeol’s soft, striped fur as he purred, a low, rhythmic sound that was the only thing keeping you grounded within the relentless cycle of senior year preparations and the suffocating, broth-scented labor of the restaurant.
It was well past midnight, where the neighborhood was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the occasional hum of a stray insect. The only light came from a flickering, yellowed streetlamp at the corner of the alley, casting long, wavering shadows that made the familiar brick walls of your neighborhood look like a stage set.
“What’s his name?”
The question hung in the humid air, sudden and sharp, cutting through the rhythmic chirping of the crickets.
You froze. Your hand, still buried in the soft fur of Byeol’s neck, went rigid. You hadn’t heard her approach, perhaps because the expensive heels she wore weren't meant for the cracked asphalt of a countryside alleyway, or perhaps because you had been so deeply lost in the mimicry of a life that wasn't yours.
For a heartbeat, you didn’t breathe. You felt a wave of suffocation wash over you. You stared at the cat, his ears twitching at the sound of her voice, and for a second, you desperately wanted to just keep staring at him, to stay in the shadow of the stone wall until she simply dissolved into the darkness.
But the habit of a lifetime, the habit of "keeping your head down" and being the polite, invisible girl, prevailed.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your fingers trembling slightly as you finished smoothing Byeol’s fur. You forced your face into a neutral, polite mask before turning your head just enough to acknowledge her.
"His name is Byeol," you said, your voice sounding thin and foreign to your own ears. You kept your tone steady, carefully polite, "he’s a stray. He hangs around the kitchen when my parents are cooking."
“Oh, Byeol? Oh! He’s the cat Heeseung has been looking for awhile ago!”
Your heart stuttered, "I see," you managed, your voice barely rising above the chirping of the crickets. You stood up, brushing the dust from your knees, a performative movement to hide the fact that your hands were shaking, “Byeol is a charmer here.”
"He said he remembered the cat used to sleep on his porch," she continued, her voice light, shimmering with that effortless, Seoul-bred grace. She didn't seem to notice the way you were pulling yourself back, inch by inch, into the shadows, “Oh, wait, sorry, do you even know Heeseung? It’s the man I was with a while ago in your restaurant!”
Oh, I know him very well, you thought.
You paused, well, knew.
The silence that followed her question stretched, pulled taut by the weight of everything you couldn't say. The crickets seemed to have stopped their chirping, leaving only the distant, heavy hum of the refrigerator from your parents' kitchen and the frantic thrumming in your own ears.
“I…” You started, all memories felt like boiling up in your throat. You looked at her, at the way she stood, so open and unburdened, how the irony of it all was a bitter, cold ache in your stomach.
It was as if you were brought back to all the years before. How Heeseung would wait for your class to end because his class ended earlier than yours. You remembered how Heeseung would carry your bag and try to vow to help you in maths and sciences, in return for your English tutoring. You remembered the way his hair used to look, tangled and soft from the humidity, the ends almost covering his eyes. How his cardigans seem bigger than his frame, the sleeves past his fists.
“I know him,” you finally said, choosing your words to keep them small, safe, and distant, “we were neighbors, schoolmates, even. Before he moved to Seoul. Everyone knows him around here.”
The girl’s face lit up, a genuine, radiant warmth that felt almost like a taunt, "Oh! So you grew up together? That’s so sweet. He hasn't told me many stories about his time here, just that it was... quiet."
Quiet.
You could laugh.
You wanted to, but it would have sounded like a sob. It hadn't been quiet. It had been loud, and messy, and filled with the terrifying, beautiful certainty of being each other’s entire world.
"Yeah," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on Byeol, who was now weaving between her ankles, his tail flicking with a traitorous familiarity, "it was very quiet."
“What’s your name?” she asks, smiling at you.
The question felt like an anchor dropped into a shallow sea, simple and grounding, yet it threatened to drag you under.
You hesitated. In this town, your name was a fixed point. It was the name written on the honor roll in the town hall, the name your parents called when the restaurant was overflowing with orders, the name Heeseung used to call out when he wanted to share a joke or a secret.
But here, standing in the dark alleyway under the flickering streetlamp, it felt like an intrusion. To tell her your name was to officially introduce yourself to the life he had built without you.
“Y/N, Y/L/N Y/N.” you whispered.
The name felt fragile on your tongue, a relic of a version of yourself that still held onto the idea that some promises were meant to be kept.
“Hello, Y/N,” she smiled so irritatingly warmly, as if she wasn’t looking at her lover’s past, “I’m Minju, Choi Minju!”
Minju. That is her name.
Goddamn it. Could she get any more perfect?
You forced a smile, though it felt like you were pulling at skin that had been sun-scorched and raw. You could imagine her saying it in a Seoul cafe, the sound of it likely gracing the guest lists of charity galas or high-end openings. It was a name that belonged to a life of curated experiences, not one earned in the humid, grease-stained trenches of a failing hardware store turned noodle shop.
"Nice to meet you, Minju," you said. The words tasted like dry crackers, brittle and flavorless.
“I’m really excited to stay here for the summer, Y/N-ssi!” Minju says, “I decided to bring Heeseung back to his hometown because he looks so gloomy. And given the vibe of this neighborhood, I know I’m also going to fall in love with this place!”
Gloomy.
You couldn’t even believe your own ears. Heeseung, the boy who promised he would never leave the town, and if he did, he would forever hold the town in his heart because you were in it, the boy who used to laugh out loud whenever he caught up with you on his bike, the boy who wore his heart on the sleeves of his oversized cardigans.
Who willingly left you without a proper goodbye, felt gloomy in the city.
You think it was because this town had already broken him before he could welcome the city. But Minju thinks the other way around. She thought the cure was to bring him back to the very place that had effectively broken him.
You almost think Minju was offensive. She wasn’t just being nice, she was being patronizing in a way that made your skin crawl. She spoke about the town you desperately wanted to escape from – your suffocating reality – as if it were a vintage spot in the hopes of fixing her boyfriend.
And that boyfriend happens to be Heeseung.
Your Heeseung.
Or…he was your Heeseung.
“It’s definitely…different from the city,” you tried to say, your voice tighter than before. You kept your gaze low, focused on the way Byeol was now weaving between her ankles, his tail flicking with a friendly lilt as if insinuating that whoever you talked to was immediately his friend.
“Different is good!” Minju chirped, her eyes dancing as she looked around at the paint of the brick walls and the flickering streetlamp, “Everything is so authentic, you’re so lucky to experience life like this in a soulful place, Y/N-ssi.”
Oh, you wanted to scream.
You wanted to pull your hair out.
You wanted to tell her about the monthly utility bills that made your mother’s hand shake. You wanted to tell her about the rusted blades of the fan that did nothing to stop the heat of your panic when you thought about exams. You wanted to tell her that this soulful place was where you were learning how to bury your dreams just to survive the next day.
The very soulful place Heeseung needed to escape from.
“Yeah,” you breathed, “it has its own rhythm.”
She looked at you, her smile softening into something that almost looked like genuine interest, “Well, I hope to see you around, Y/N-ssi! It was so lovely meeting you. We’ll definitely stop by the shop again for more of that cold noodles. It’s truly a hidden gem.”
Please don’t, you thought. Please, just stay in your pristine world and leave the dust to us.
“Sure,” you said anyway, “enjoy your stay.”
She waved a small, manicured hand and began to walk back toward the main road, the rhythmic click of her heels echoing against the alley walls like a countdown. You stayed rooted to the spot, watching her silhouette shrink until she disappeared around the corner, heading back toward that sturdy stainless steel gate.
Once she was gone, the silence of the alleyway rushed back in, heavier and colder than before. You were alone, but the space where she had stood felt contaminated.
You looked toward the house next door. The windows were dark, but the silence from within felt loud, heavy with the absence of the boy who used to belong to this street. He wasn't out here to check on you, or to explain why he was back, or to apologize for the life he’d chosen.
He was just there, behind those walls, and for the first time, you realized that the "quiet" he’d described to her was actually a barricade. He hadn't just moved to Seoul; he had built a wall, and you were standing on the wrong side of it, holding a bag of cat food and the wreckage of a summer you never asked for.
The first encounter with him happened during your caffeine run in the nearby convenience store.
It was one of those days that reading through pamphlets and the sheer monotony of lesson plans had left your brain feeling static. You needed caffeine, or at the very least, the cold, artificial hum of the neighborhood convenience store to reset your system.
A change of scenery, if you will.
You were standing by the refrigerated section, your eyes scanning the rows of energy drinks, when the automatic sliding door gave a familiar, screeching whoosh.
You didn't look up. You were too busy trying to decide between a cheap coffee pouch and an iced tea. But then, the air in the aisle changed. It shifted, suddenly permeated by the sharp, expensive scent of leather and something citrusy, a stark, sterile contrast to the smell of dust and stagnant heat that usually defined this place. You heard the rhythmic, crisp footsteps of someone wearing expensive soles. They stopped right beside you.
As you watched through your peripherals, he reached into the fridge. You braced yourself to see his hand wrap around a cheap, sugary coffee pouch, the kind he used to chug before your study sessions. But instead, his fingers bypassed the row of cheap drinks entirely. He pulled out a bottle of cold brew, a minimalist glass bottle with a label in an elegant, modern font.
A cold, sharp twist of dread coiled in your stomach. It wasn't just that he was buying something different; it was the way he did it: with a precise, unhurried grace that felt entirely foreign to the boy who used to struggle to fish out enough coins for a two-for-one snack deal.
He didn't acknowledge you. He began to step away, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
"Heeseung?"
The name felt heavy on your tongue, rusty from five years of disuse.
He stopped. He didn't turn around immediately, but his shoulders squared, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight. When he finally shifted, he didn't look at you with the soft, crinkling-eyed recognition you’d spent years dreaming about. He looked at you with a polite, vacant neutrality.
The kind of look you’d give a stranger asking for directions.
“Oh,” he starts, his voice clipped and devoid of the melodic provincial lilt that used to make his sentences sound like a song, “Hello, I didn’t recognize you for a second. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
You wanted to grimace.
“It has,” you managed, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I saw you yesterday. At the shop.”
“Right,” he says without a blink, “My friend – Minju, she says really enjoyed them.”
Before you could respond, the automatic doors hissed again, and Minju appeared, her presence as vibrant and light as his was dark and heavy.
She walked into the aisle, her eyes brightening the moment they landed on you. "Oh! It's Y/N-ssi! We meet again!"
She stepped into your space, completely oblivious to the fact that the man standing beside her had just gone statue-still. She didn't notice the way Heeseung’s jaw was locked, or the way his hand was white-knuckling that expensive glass bottle. She just saw two people who "knew" each other.
"I was just telling Heeseung we should explore more around town," Minju chirped, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, completely bypassing the tension radiating off him, "We’re going to the old reservoir later for the sunset. You should come with us! It’s so much more fun with a local guide, right Heeseung-ah?"
She looked up at him, her smile wide and expectant.
Heeseung didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on a point just above your shoulder, his face a mask of practiced indifference. "Y/N-ssi is probably busy," he said, his voice flat, "she has to help in the restaurant."
Y/N-ssi.
Damn. It hurt more than you realized.
Fuck you, Heeseung, you wanted to say. But you didn’t. Even the thought of cussing him out hurt you more than you thought.
"Oh, nonsense!" Minju dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand, her bangles chiming, a sharp, expensive sound in the stale air of the shop. She turned her bright, searching gaze back to you, completely blind to the static electricity crackling between you and Heeseung, "Everyone needs a break, especially when you're working so hard. It’s barely a two-hour drive to the reservoir, and the sunset there is supposed to be breath-taking. Surely you can spare an hour for some fresh air?"
She spoke with the easy, unburdened confidence of someone who had never had to count change for a meal or sweat over a boiling pot of broth for twelve hours straight. To her, an afternoon at the reservoir was a simple, charming item on a travel itinerary.
You looked at Heeseung.
He was staring at the refrigerated display case, his reflection caught in the glass: a stranger wearing your first love's face. His hand, gripping the neck of that imported cold-brew, was so tight his knuckles had turned the color of bone. He was waiting for you to decline. He was praying you would say no, so he could preserve the fragile, carefully curated reality he’d constructed in Seoul and keep his two worlds from colliding.
"Actually," you said, your voice cutting through the hum of the store, steady and cold, "I think a bit of fresh air would be good. The restaurant has been so busy lately, I haven't seen a sunset in weeks."
You didn't look at Minju when you said it. You kept your gaze locked on Heeseung. You wanted him to see the challenge in your eyes, the quiet declaration that you weren't going to just fade into the background of his tour.
The change in him was instantaneous. The clinical, detached mask he’d been wearing didn't break, but it cracked. For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered. A dark, raw flash of recognition that bypassed five years of silence and landed squarely on the girl he used to share dreams with on this very floor.
"See? I knew you’d say yes!" Minju chirped, oblivious to the atmosphere that had turned razor-sharp. She reached out and tugged Heeseung’s arm, her movements fluid and careless, "It’ll be so much better with a local. It’s too quiet with just us, and honestly, Heeseung-ah, you need to loosen up. You've been so tense since we crossed the provincial border."
Heeseung finally looked away from you, his gaze snapping back to Minju. He forced a smile: a thin, brittle thing that didn't reach his eyes, and nodded, though his movements were jagged, stripped of the grace he’d been projecting.
“Would five be okay, Y/N-ssi?” Minju asked.
“Yeah, five is okay…” You muttered, starting to regret your impulsivity.
"Perfect!" Minju beamed, entirely content, "I'll see you at five, Y/N-ssi!"
They turned and walked toward the register, Minju’s heels clicking rhythmically, Heeseung’s heavy, expensive loafers trailing behind her. You stood in the aisle, clutching your cheap coffee pouch, and watched him go. As he passed the glass door, he didn't look back, but he didn't have to. You could see the way his shoulders were hunched, the way he walked with the heavy, uneven gait of a man carrying a secret that was slowly eating him alive.
The door hissed shut behind them.
You were left in the suffocating quiet of the convenience store. You felt the cold sting of that Y/N-ssi still humming in the air, a reminder of the chasm he’d put between you. You had just invited yourself to an impending doom. And as you walked to the counter to pay, your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Now, other than the grease of stainless bowls, you now had to survive the sunset.
The air had been thick with the smell of scorched grass and the faint, sweet perfume of cheap lilies. You had sat in the back of the school gym, hands trembling inside your sleeves, watching him walk across the stage in that stiff, charcoal-black polyester toga. A gold medal was hanging around his neck as he looked like a stranger even then.
Heeseung met your eyes from the stage, and he nodded, his smile turning bright, delighted to see you at his graduation.
“Hey, hoobae,” Heeseung calls you out in the midst of the chaotic noise of clicking camera shutters and congratulatory shouting like a blade. It was a term of endearment that felt heavy with the weight of the years you’d spent trailing behind him, always one grade level behind, always watching him prepare to leave for a world you weren't yet part of.
He excused himself from his mother, who was busy smoothing the lapel of his toga, and walked toward you. In the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym, the gold medal against his chest caught the light, a gleaming testament to his departure. He looked radiant, polished, and terrifyingly ready to go.
"You actually came," he said, his voice softer now, dropping the playful hoobae for something quieter, more intimate. He smelled of laundry detergent and that specific, sharp scent of nervous excitement.
You stood there, clutching the small, modest bouquet you’d bought from the market, nothing like the expensive, imported flowers his parents had brought, but it was all you could afford. "I told you I would," you replied, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.
"I know," he smiled. It was the same smile he’d worn since you were children, but there was a flicker of something else in the corners of his eyes, a desperation he was trying to hide behind his graduation glow. He reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he dropped it, as if afraid to break the fragile, perfect image of the day, “Can we…go somewhere for a second? The air in here is suffocating.”
“How about your parents?”
“They know I always escape from their gaze, and they know I’m with you. Come on, I’ll drive.”
You followed him out, the transition from the humid gym to the cooling evening air feeling like a shift in reality. The sky was turning that bruised, violent purple, and the cicadas had started their rhythmic, frantic pulse in the trees surrounding the school.
He didn't take you far, just to the edge of the school's parking lot, where his father’s old sedan sat under the flickering light of a streetlamp. He opened the door for you, his head tilting, motioning for you to get in.
The car ride to the reservoir was filled with a brittle, humming silence. Heeseung drove with a jagged focus, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the darkening road ahead. You sat in the passenger seat, the modest bouquet resting on your lap, the cheap plastic wrap crinkling with every bump in the road.
When he finally cut the engine near the embankment, the silence of the countryside rushed in. Heeseung stepped out, still in his toga, and you followed, the thin fabric of your dress doing little to shield you from the sudden drop in temperature.
You shivered, the cool evening air clinging to your skin like a damp sheet. Heeseung noticed instantly. Without a word, he reached into the back seat, pulling out a thick, oversized, cardigan, the one he’d been wearing for weeks, the one that smelled permanently of old books and his specific, warm cologne.
He draped it over your shoulders. The fabric was heavy and oversized, swallowing you whole, its sleeves hanging past your fingertips. As he settled it around you, his hands lingered on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary.
It was a long beat of silence. Heeseung sat on the hood of his sedan with you. His eyes immediately fixed on the water, a mirror of the dying light of the sunset.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said suddenly, not turning to look at you, “what the fuck, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
You laughed, a breathless, startled sound. A laugh that was meant to dispel the sudden, suffocating weight of his words. You leaned back against the windshield, hooking your fingers into the oversized, frayed cuffs of his cardigan.
“Yeah, what the fuck,” you echoed, your voice light and mocking, a playful smirk tugging at your lips to hide the way your chest suddenly ached, “I really thought you’d be stuck in this town forever with me, trying to navigate through here and hope we’d get in Seoul for some job.”
You missed the way Heeseung paused to look at you. The kind of look that felt like he was memorizing your features for a long, indefinite absence. His eyes flickered down to the way you were wrapped in his cardigan, then back up to your face, his jaw tight.
“You think I’m not cut out for Seoul, Y/N-ah?” he asked, his voice playful, “you think low of the batch valedictorian.” He says with a proud lilt, immediately bringing the gold medal in between his teeth in an attempt to look arrogant.
“Cut it out, it doesn’t suit you,” you say, pushing his shoulder.
Heeseung let out a soft, huffed laugh, the gold medal clinking slightly against his teeth before he dropped it, letting it swing back against the polyester of his toga. He didn't move away when you pushed him; instead, he leaned into the touch, his shoulder bumping yours with a familiar, easy weight.
"Suit me or not, it's mine," he teased, his eyes crinkling in that way that usually signaled he was about to get under your skin. He reached up, casually untangling a stray lock of hair that the evening wind had whipped across your forehead, his fingers lingering near your temple.
“I have credit in that, oppa, I helped you ace your English. Don't go to Seoul acting like a genius when half of your vocabulary came from my study guides.”
Heeseung let out a soft, huffed laugh, "Oh, my bad," he murmured, his tone shifting from teasing to something softer, more deliberate. "How could I forget? You’re right. You’re the reason I’m even standing here."
Before you could retort, he reached up, his fingers steady as he removed the medal from his neck. The movement was slow, almost solemn. He leaned in, the scent of laundry detergent and nervous energy surrounding you, and slipped the heavy gold medal over your head.
The weight of it hit your chest. The cold metal against your skin, surprising and heavy. It felt like a promise, or maybe a confession.
He didn't pull back immediately. He stayed close, his hands resting on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing the collarbone where the ribbon now sat. The playful, arrogant "batch valedictorian" was gone, replaced by a gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to commit your face to memory.
"There," he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum. "Now it’s yours, too. Consider it my down payment."
"Down payment for what?" you whispered, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Heeseung didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, really looked at you, as if he were weighing the cost of everything he was about to lose.
"For when I come back," he finally said.
“I’m gonna follow you to Yonsei, just watch,” you teased, leaning back on the hood of the sedan, your feet swinging in the cool night air as your hand traced the medal. You laughed, a light, airy sound that felt like it belonged to a completely different version of you, “I’ll be the annoying freshman who hangs around your locker, just to ruin your reputation.”
Heeseung chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. He turned to face you, his knees brushing against your hip, “Yeah? You think you’ll be able to find me? I’ll hide from you, Y/N. I’ll be the most elusive student on campus.”
“You couldn't hide from me if you tried,” you countered, your voice dropping to a whisper. The playful banter died, replaced by the heavy, suffocating reality of the next morning.
The air grew still. He leaned in, the distance between you vanishing until you could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his breath hitched as he stared at your lips. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis, a terrifying, beautiful precipice. His hand came up, his thumb brushing your jawline, his touch searing and soft all at once.
Then, the sharp, shrill vibration of his phone cut through the dark like a knife.
The screen lit up his face, the harsh white light revealing the tension and the panic in his eyes. Mom.
Heeseung froze. The spell shattered. He looked at you, then at the phone, his face crumpling in a moment of raw, unmasked agony before he shoved the device back into his pocket without answering. But the moment was gone. The distance returned, wider than it had been before.
"I have to go," he said, his voice ragged, "dinner. They're waiting."
You arrived first at the reservoir.
The place where his sedan was parked five years ago now had a wooden bench, a small sign of the slow improvement of the town.
The wooden bench was new, polished and sturdy, standing in the exact spot where he had once sat on the hood of his car, shivering in his toga. You walked over to it, running a hand over the smooth, sanded wood. It felt sterile, impersonal. A "tourist" addition to a place that held the most jagged memories of your life.
You turned to face the water. The sunset was already beginning to bleed across the horizon, turning the sky into that same bruised, violent purple that had haunted your dreams for five years.
You heard the sound before you saw them.
The low, sophisticated purr of a luxury car engine, a sound so entirely out of place in this valley that it made the very air seem to vibrate. The car pulled up, and the contrast was jarring. They looked like an advertisement for a life you hadn't chosen, polished and pristine, pulling up to a backdrop of crumbling embankments and wild, untamed grass.
The doors opened.
Minju stepped out first, her dress fluttering in the breeze like a white petal. She looked effortless, her hair caught in a perfect, windswept style that you knew would take you hours of effort to replicate.
And then, Heeseung emerged.
He was wearing a light, linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the forearms you used to watch over textbooks. He looked good. He looked like a man who had successfully left the valley behind, a man who had traded his old cardigans for clean, expensive silhouettes. But as he scanned the area and his gaze landed on you, his shoulders locked.
"Y/N-ssi!" Minju called out, her voice bright and unbothered by the sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure. She trotted over, her heels clicking against the earth, "We made it! Is the sunset as beautiful as I heard?"
Yeah, the same sunset where I let him go, you thought.
"It’s not bad," you said instead, your voice steady. Though you could almost feel yourself being sucked back five years ago, when you could feel the cold metal of his medal pressing against your skin.
Minju sat beside you on the bench, and Heeseung took the spot beside her, leaving a palpable gap between you and him.
“So, Y/N-ssi,” Minju started, smoothing the fabric of her skirt, her eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that only people who have never had to struggle possess, “how long have you been in town?”
The question hung in the air, deceptively simple, like a stone dropped into a deep, dark well. You didn’t need to look at Heeseung to know he was holding his breath. You could feel the weight of his attention, even though he kept his gaze pointedly toward the horizon, where the violet light was beginning to bruise into black.
“My whole life,” you replied, your voice cool and level. You kept your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of the cardigan you were wearing, a different one, though the phantom memory of the one he once gave you made your fingers twitch. "I’ve never had a reason to leave. It’s a quiet place, but it’s consistent. It doesn't ask much of you."
“But there are a lot of opportunities in Seoul! Have you tried getting in SKY?”
Minju’s question hung there. SKY. The prestigious trinity of Seoul National, Korea, and Yonsei. The very word was a gilded cage of expectations, a social gatekeeper that separated the people who belonged in the city from the people who were meant to stay behind.
You didn't have to look at Heeseung to know exactly what that name did to him. Yonsei. The school he had worked himself to the bone to reach. The place that had required him to shed the boy who sat on that sedan hood in favor of the man sitting beside Minju right now.
“I did,” you whispered, “I didn’t get in.”
Minju’s expression shifts from polite curiosity to a sudden, flustered apology, "Oh! I... I’m so sorry, Y/N-ssi. I didn't mean to - I just thought..." She trails off, her hand moving instinctively toward her throat, her face flushing a deep, embarrassed pink. She is suddenly aware that she has touched a nerve, though she has no idea just how deeply it cuts.
Heeseung, however, remains deathly silent.
He doesn't look at Minju to tell her to stop. He doesn't offer a platitude to make you feel better. He is staring at the water with a terrifying intensity, his hands buried so deep in his pockets that his knuckles are straining the fabric. You can see the tremor in his shoulder, the way he is vibrating with the effort of not turning to look at you.
For the first time since they arrived, he looks small. The prestige of his Yonsei degree, his linen shirt, his "Seoul" aura…it all seems to dissolve in the face of your honesty. He knows you’re lying, or perhaps he doesn't know, but the pain in your voice is real enough.
"It's alright," you say, your voice smooth and hollow, cutting through Minju’s awkward apology like glass, “it probably wasn’t meant for me. I realized pretty quickly that I was better suited for the life I have here.”
You turn your head then, just a fraction, catching Heeseung’s profile. You see his throat bob as he swallows, a slow, painful movement.
"If you don’t mind me asking," Minju starts, tilting her head with that practiced, gentle empathy of someone who has never been told 'no' in her life, "you clearly have the intellect for it, you’re so articulate! You must have had some bad luck that year, surely? Everyone knows SKY is just a crapshoot anyway."
“Maybe,” you say, your voice soft, almost kind, “it happens, Minju-ssi. Don’t be sorry about it.”
As the night passed, you found yourself in a rhythm with Minju. She would ask questions about you, then Heeseung, then about the town. It was her attempt to get to know a part of Heeseung that he desperately wanted to keep hidden.
You found out Minju was a Fine Arts student. Honors. And she met Heeseung while he was hunched over the school computer for God knows how long. You found out how she forced her way in Heeseung’s routine. How she always happens to find him in the campus café and how she would try to pick up his spirits when he looked too lost and undetermined.
It took a lot of Minju’s stories for you to realize that you lost parts of Heeseung – more parts than you could ever think about. At some point, you feel defeated and buried in the background, as the man who sports the face of the boy you greatly loved, wasn’t even the same person you fell in love with.
On the walk home, you felt a hole in your chest. It was as if you were grieving a person that was still alive. It was the kind of ache you feel deep in your bones, but there were no tears that formed in the rim of your eyes, and while you desperately wanted to cry, the best you could muster was a choked sob that could sum up the lump in your throat.
You blamed yourself for not getting in Yonsei. It was as if you were sucked back in five years ago, the moment you found the rejection letter, seeing your grades glaring at you with everything Remarkable, Exemplary. And the only thing that did not meet the cut-off scores for the scholarship admission were your English test scores.
To you, it felt like a slap in the face.
Your parents didn’t even know you didn’t pass Yonsei. They lived with the lie that you chose to stay with them to help them in the restaurant that they were planning that time. You even tried for a reconsideration, writing the deans for reconsideration, annoyingly writing off all of your achievements – as well as Batch Salutatorian in the write-up. And while they did reconsider you, they couldn’t reconsider giving you a scholarship, saying they have already filled their roster, saying how it’s unfortunate, but they cannot make up another slot. They would give you a place in Education, majoring in English, but with a discounted 10% tuition fee.
You didn’t risk it.
Like how you didn’t risk telling Heeseung how you felt before he left for the Seoul bus. Like how you didn’t risk trying harder to get into Yonsei to keep the promise of annoying Heeseung in the pristine walls of the university.
Because you think the rewards that come after it did not have the same intensity as your risks. You laugh to yourself. Bitterly. Because for someone who was so brave in loving Heeseung, you think you are definitely a coward.
The moment you reach your room, you turn on the lights and immediately lay on the bed. The night was too heavy for you.
The silence of your room is not a sanctuary; it is a cage.
You lie there, limbs splayed against the stiff, thin mattress, watching the dust motes dance in the harsh, yellowed light of the ceiling bulb. Your pulse has finally settled into a dull, rhythmic ache. The kind of tiredness that reaches deep in your bones.
You stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint until they look like the map of a city you were never allowed to enter.
Somewhere, on the other side of that thin brick wall, Heeseung is breathing the same air as you. Perhaps he is laughing at something Minju said, or perhaps he is standing on his porch, looking at the same stars that feel so much further away than they did five years ago. The proximity is agonizing. It’s like being tethered to a ghost; you can feel the pull, you can sense the chill of his presence, but every time you reach out, your hand finds only the cold, empty air of your own life.
You reach into the pocket of your coat and pull out your phone. The screen is dark, a black mirror reflecting a face that looks older, harder, and perpetually exhausted.
You think of the 10% discount. You think of the red ballpoint pen. You think of the English test scores that determined the geography of your entire existence. If you had just one more correct answer, would you be in Seoul right now? Would you be the one with the silk dress, the one with the Honors, the one who held his wrist and pulled him into a life that made sense?
You close your eyes, and for a fleeting, dangerous second, you let yourself imagine it.
You imagine walking into a classroom in Yonsei, the scent of expensive paper and polished wood replacing the smell of vinegar and broth. You imagine Heeseung looking up from a desk, his eyes not filled with the terrified look he gave you at the restaurant, but with the uncomplicated, vibrant recognition of a boy who was still yours.
But then the hum of the refrigerator from the restaurant downstairs cuts through the silence. The reality of the monthly utility bills, the exhaustion lining your mother’s face, and the impending dread of the teacher’s appointment exam pulls you back under.
The dream dissolves, leaving behind only the bitter aftertaste of a life you’ve been forced to curate. You roll onto your side, pulling your knees to your chest, hugging the emptiness as if it were a physical thing.
You are a coward who stayed. You are a coward who settled. And the worst part is, you are the only one who knows the truth of it, that you aren't waiting for a miracle. You are just waiting for the day you finally stop caring that you threw your own life away for a boy who stopped looking back.
The air in the restaurant felt heavier than usual, smelling of vinegar and the metallic tang of the stainless steel bowls you’d been scrubbing all afternoon. When Minju walked in, she looked like an illustration from a magazine: clean, crisp, and hopelessly detached from the grime of the lunch rush.
She didn’t come alone. She carried a stack of heavy, thick booklets. The official Teacher’s Appointment Exam review materials.
"Y/N-ssi!" she called out, her voice a bright contrast to the low, tired hum of the local workers eating in the corner. She slid into the booth you had just cleaned, dropping the books onto the table with a soft, expensive thud, "I went to the city bookstore this morning. I remember you saying you were preparing for the exams, and I know how hard it is to find the right materials in the province, so..."
She pushed the books toward you. The spines were pristine, the covers devoid of the wear and tear of a library copy. They were beautiful, authoritative, and utterly humiliating.
"I hope these help," she beamed, her eyes crinkling with a kindness that felt like a serrated edge, "I’m an Art major, so this is all ancient Greek to me, but I know you’ll be a fantastic teacher. You have that... quiet, steady patience about you."
You stared at the books. You thought of your own annotated copies, the ones held together by scotch tape and sheer, frantic willpower, covered in your nervous, looping handwriting.
"Thank you," you managed, your voice sounding thin, even to yourself, "You shouldn't have."
“Nonsense! Consider it as my gratitude for being one of the people that made Heeseung who he is, for being a part of this town,” she smiles, “speaking of Heeseung, I figured I’d let him cool off in the car and I come here to say hello. Honestly, I think he just needs a nap.”
The conversation drifted, as it always did, back to him. You found yourself trapped in the rhythm of it, the supportive local friend role you had inadvertently auditioned for.
By the time the restaurant slowed down for dinner, Minju had invited you to join her for a quick bite at the small cafe near the park. You went, mostly because you were a coward who didn't know how to say no to someone who was actively trying to be your friend.
The cafe was quiet, the warm lighting masking the tired lines on your face. Minju had her chin in her hands, her expression finally turning dim. She looked tired. Young, cheerful, but with confusion and dread on her face.
“Y/N, how long have you known Heeseung?”
The question hung in the air, suspended between the clinking of porcelain cups and the low, muffled hum of the cafe’s refrigerator. You stared down at the foam of your latte, the intricate heart pattern beginning to dissolve into a muddy, shapeless swirl.
How long have you known Heeseung?
Long enough. Long enough that you could trace the map of his insecurities without ever looking at him. Long enough that you knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was lying, and the specific way he gripped a pen when he was terrified of failing.
Minju, be more specific, you wanted to say, the Heeseung then, or the Heeseung now?
Because clearly, Heeseung now felt like a different person. He was a sleek, polished version of the boy who once smelled of old books and laundry detergent. The version you loved and had let go of against your will.
"We grew up on the same street," you said instead, "we were... neighbors. For a long time."
Minju nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her saucer. Her movements were elegant, practiced, the kind of poise that came from never having to rush through a meal or worry about closing times.
"Neighbors," she mused, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "He never talks about it. He talks about Seoul like it’s the only place that ever mattered, but sometimes, when he’s sleeping, he murmurs things. Things about the rain. About a bike. About... someone who helped him with his English."
Your breath hitched, a sharp, jagged intake of air that you quickly masked by taking a sip of the tepid coffee. The taste was bitter, clinging to the back of your throat.
Minju searched your eyes, in search of a piece of a puzzle that she couldn’t quite fit together, “Heeseung’s brilliant, Y/N. He’s the most capable person I know, but there’s a part of him that’s just... hollowed out. I keep trying to fill it with gallery openings, with my plans for our future, with everything I think he should want. But he just looks through me."
You looked at her, at the genuine, desperate hope in her eyes. She wanted a backstory, a reason. Anything she could fix. Anything she could hold against the hollowed-out parts of him. She had no idea that the someone he was grieving was sitting right across from her, wearing a faded t-shirt and smelling of dish soap, holding a spoon that felt heavier than a lead weight.
Minju let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping, “I just wish I knew how to reach him.”
You stared at her. The looming fact that she harbors the same feelings that you have for Heeseung. You feel desperation reeking off her. The worry etched on her face, despite her picture-perfect aura and stance. In the middle of her organization and beauty, you can feel the slight tilt of her uncertainty caused by Heeseung.
"Maybe," you said, forcing your lips into a gentle, pitying curve, "you should stop trying to reach him. Maybe you should just let him be wherever he is."
Minju looked at you, startled, her eyes wide. "But I love him, Y/N. How can I just let him be?"
It hit you just like that. It was a silent confirmation that she does love him. You don’t even know if she loves him as much as you do – or maybe more, you didn’t dare to compare. The words hung between you, a fragile, glass-like truth that shimmered with the heat of her confession. I love him.
It wasn't just a statement; it was a surrender. As she stared at you, waiting for some nugget of wisdom or a secret key to unlock his heart, you felt a cold, jagged realization pierce through your ribs. You had spent five years believing that your love was a unique, solitary burden. A private monument you tended to in the dark. But looking at the raw, undisguised terror in Minju’s eyes, you realized that love wasn't a singular experience at all.
You wanted to laugh, a dry, hollow sound that died in your throat before it could even reach your lips. It was almost absurd, the way the world seemed to orbit around a man who had spent five years trying to convince himself he was anchored to nothing.
He was lovable. That was the cruelest, simplest fact of all.
Even now, stripped of his old, oversized cardigans and his boyish hum, he carried a gravity that pulled people into his wake. You had known it back when he was just a boy shivering on a sedan hood, and Minju clearly knew it now, as she sat across from you, offering her entire soul to a man who kept his folded tightly in his pockets.
Regardless of the distance, regardless of the silence, regardless of the fact that he was actively trying to rewrite his own existence to exclude you, he was still the same boy who had made you feel like the center of the universe. The realization was a bitter pill. You realized that even if he never spoke to you again, even if he lived a thousand years in a city you couldn't reach, there would always be someone, somewhere, trying to love him.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because the answer, the only honest thing left in the world, was that sometimes, love isn't a bridge. Sometimes, love is just the act of standing back and watching someone walk away until they aren't even a speck on the horizon anymore.
"I don't know," you whispered, finally looking up to meet her gaze, "I really don't know."
The following days, it felt as if Minju forced you into their orbit.
She became the curator of your shared time, crafting deliberate, suffocating opportunities for the three of you to exist in the same space. It was as if she was match-making two ex-friends who didn’t want to be around each other anymore. She moved through the local landscape with a frantic, bright-eyed energy, attempting to weave the tapestry of your history into the glossy fabric of her own relationship, blissfully unaware that the thread she was pulling was the one holding the entire structure together.
You became a permanent fixture in the passenger seat of that luxury car, a silent, unwilling passenger in a life that wasn't yours to inhabit.
The interior of the vehicle always held the same stifling atmosphere. Minju occupied the space with an air of manic hospitality, constantly checking her phone, adjusting the navigation, and reaching back to touch your arm with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. She treated you like a talisman, a lucky charm she needed to hold close to coax the "best" out of Heeseung.
Heeseung, for his part, retreated into a stillness that bordered on the inanimate. He drove with a mechanical, rigid posture, his eyes fixed on the asphalt as if the road itself were the only thing keeping him from disintegrating. He didn't speak. He didn't look at you in the rearview mirror. He was a master of erasure, performing a quiet erasure on his own memories every time the tires crunched over the gravel of the valley roads.
Yet, the cracks were inevitable. They manifested in the small, involuntary things.
When a familiar song played on the radio, a track you and he had obsessed over during those long, rainy study sessions, you would see his hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
When Minju, in her relentless pursuit of a "healing" narrative, would bring up a local landmark or a shared memory he had tried to bury, the air in the car would thicken, becoming unbreathable. You would watch his jaw pulse, a rhythmic, frantic movement that signaled a storm he was barely containing.
Minju watched too.
Unfortunately, it also meant she watched how Heeseung unconsciously slipped into old habits with you.
The shifts were unnoticeable, almost imperceptible to anyone who hadn't spent their formative years memorizing the geometry of his movements. It wasn’t even betrayal. No, it was a series of reflexes that bypassed his conscious mind entirely.
When they stopped for coffee, Heeseung would order his drink with a splash of hazelnut syrup. A preference he had adopted five years ago specifically because you had once complained that plain black coffee tasted like dirt one time in your high school field trip in the nearest city. He would place the cup on the table, and without even glancing toward you, he would automatically slide the sugar packets to the left side of your coaster, exactly where you used to stash them during those marathon library sessions.
Minju would be mid-sentence, talking about an upcoming exhibition in Seoul, but her voice would trail off as she tracked his hand. She saw the way his fingers lingered on the edge of your table for a fraction of a second too long. The gesture was so intimate, so reflexive, that it felt like an intrusion of a private language she had no right to hear.
Then there were the silences. In the car, if the GPS glitched or they took a wrong turn down one of the winding roads outside the city, the old Heeseung would surface like an apex predator. Before Minju could even reach for her phone to re-calculate, Heeseung would instinctively turn onto the narrow path that bypassed the traffic, a shortcut you and he had discovered on that rusted bike years ago.
He didn't stop there. When a stray dog barked in the distance, a sharp, aggressive sound, he didn't just flinch; he instinctively leaned toward you, his shoulder angling as if to shield you from the noise, a physical habit born from protecting you from the neighborhood dogs when you were sixteen.
You were invited by Minju days after in a café downtown. The café was a study in clinical perfection. Chrome, glass, and the sterile, pressurized hum of an upscale espresso machine. It was a world away from the provincial dust of the life you and Heeseung were currently trapped in.
Minju sat across from you, her hands wrapped around a porcelain cup as if it were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. She looked immaculate, as always, but there was a fragility in the set of her shoulders.
A quiet, terrifying resignation.
She smiles at you when she sees you, inviting you to sit across from her and immediately telling you to order anything you want. You got the cheapest out of the options, too wary not to take her kindness for granted.
“Y/N,” Minju began, her finger tracing the delicate rim of her cup after a beat of silence. Her composure was poised, but you could see how she’s trying her best to hold everything in.
“I’ve always been so sure about everything in my life,” she added, her voice barely a ripple in the quiet, sterile space, “my career, my pace, the trajectory of the people I choose to keep in my orbit. I believed if I worked hard enough, if I was patient enough, I could map out a future where nothing was left to chance.”
She finally looked up, and the raw, unguarded depth in her eyes made your chest ache. There was no sharpness there, no defensive fire. Just a hollow, aching clarity.
“I look at my life in Seoul,” she continued, a sad smile touching her lips, “and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s vibrant, it’s loud, it’s successful. I’ve always wanted color. But five years ago, I met a man who looked void of it. And since then, I spent every day trying to fill in the color, trying to make him feel real. I told myself his silences were just a sign of a complex mind. I told myself his distance was just the weight of his ambition.”
She paused, the silence stretching between you, the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter, the chatter of the people – these were all filled with the heavy silence, too faint, but too much that it felt like a mockery. So mechanical, so precise. It felt as if life dared to mock the reality of your shared history.
“Minju–”
“I was so arrogant,” she cut you off, her voice dropping into that soft register, “I thought, with my persistence, with how I curated his schedule, how I managed his expectations, I thought I was helping him build a future. I didn’t realize I was just…hiding the key to a room he had already locked himself inside…a room he had never actually left.”
Minju looked at you, her glossy eyes taking in your figure and she wanted to laugh at the irony of it. All her life, she thought that by being smart enough, driven enough, beautiful enough, she thought she might have at least deserved him in the end. However, it dawned on her that she treated love like a transaction, a deal where she was the closer.
But looking at you now, she realized love isn’t conditional.
It wasn’t a prize to be earned through accolades or a status to be maintained through sheer force of will. It was just…love. The simple, terrifying, unearned pull of one soul toward another, something that couldn’t be negotiated, or forced to conform to one’s wants.
“All these years, I thought I was the one who could be his salvation, his next and final chapter,” she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time, a sharp, jagged sound that she seemed unable to suppress, “I spent five years of playing the role of his muse, his partner. I was busy patting myself on the back for fixing him that I never realized he was just performing for me. He was wearing the clothes I picked, walking the path I paved, and all the while, he was just…waiting for everything to end.”
Minju looked down at her hands, her knuckles pale against the dark wood of the table, "You know what’s the most painful part? It’s not that he was lying to me. It’s that I was so convinced of my own importance that I didn't even notice I was holding him hostage."
“I look at you, and I see why he never truly arrived in Seoul. He couldn’t. His heart was still beating somewhere in the quiet of this province. His heart was buried under the weight of things left unsaid.”
She leaned back, her shoulders slumping just the slightest bit, the weight of the realisation finally settling into her bones.
“Y/N, I didn’t know about you. Not really. I thought you were just a girl from the province, his neighbor, someone who had to watch him grow up. If I had known, if I had understood that I was competing against someone…someone who loved him – or loves him – maybe I would have fought. Maybe I would have tried to be a villain.”
Minju laughed, “But I didn’t, because I saw the reason why Heeseung fell in love with you. Because I liked you enough to consider you my friend.”
Minju’s laugh was brittle, a sudden sound that seemed to shatter the polished silence of the café. It was devoid of joy, filled instead with a poignant, self-deprecating irony.
“I spent months trying to understand him, trying to parse through his moods and his silence like they were code I needed to crack. And all the while, you were right there. And somehow, I realized that I loved the man that came out of your love.”
She smiled at you, “I looked at you when we met and I didn’t see a rival. I saw someone who lived in a quiet life I was struggling so hard to mimic. I liked you. I truly did. I found myself wanting to tell you about my conveniences, my inconveniences, because you were the only one who seemed to understand everything I was so unsure about.”
She let out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to the table, “It was the most honest part of this whole charade, Y/N. Befriending you.”
Minju looked up at you again, her expression softening into something devastatingly tender. The mask of the high-achieving, city-bound artist was completely gone, leaving behind only a woman who had been hollowed out by her own realization.
“If I had known you were the one he was running toward, I would have hated you with every ounce of my being. I would have made you the villain, I would have made myself the victim, and I would have fought to keep him because that’s what I do. I always win.”
She shook her head slowly, a sad, knowing smile touching her lips, “But I couldn't hate you. Because every time I looked at you, I saw the version of him he was so desperate to protect. I saw the reason he was worth saving. And I couldn't destroy the very thing he loved most in this world, even if it meant my own heart was the one that had to be sacrificed to keep it intact.”
Her hand reached out, not to touch you, but to hover over the table, a testament to her restraint.
“I saw it the other night, Y/N. I watched him look at you, and for the first time, I didn't see the man who lives in my apartment in Seoul. I saw a man who had been holding his breath for a thousand days and had finally, terrifyingly, been allowed to exhale. It wasn't just longing. It was recognition. It was the look of a soul realizing it had been standing in the wrong life for the past years.”
She sighed, a long, ragged sound that she instantly checked, smoothing her expression back into that mask of calm, now reaching out to hold your tensed, clasped hands, “I lost this fight the moment I met him, Y/N. I lost it five years ago, and I’ve just been too stubborn to notice. I fell in love with a man who was already halfway home, and I spent five years trying to convince him that home wasn't worth returning to. That’s not love. That’s just… a very expensive, very beautiful kind of selfishness.”
Minju stood up then, the movement fluid and final, as if she were stepping out of a role she’d been cast in for too long. She didn’t look at the check she had already paid; she didn't look at the cafe that now felt like a stage from which the actors had all departed. She simply stood there, a woman who had meticulously dismantled her own heart to see what lay underneath.
“I’m leaving for Seoul tomorrow,” she said, her voice reclaiming its steady, melodic line, though the vulnerability remained in her eyes, “I’ll be returning to Seoul with the relief that I have made two people who are important to me…happy.”
She reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a gesture so sisterly, so kind, that it made the grief in your throat sharpen into a physical ache.
“Don’t mourn for me, Y/N-nie,” she whispered, her smile soft and devoid of any lingering bitterness, “I’m going to be fine. I’m going to go back to my color. But make sure, for both our sakes, that he finally finds his way back to the only place he ever actually lived. Don’t let him drift, he’s been starving for the sound of his own name from your lips for five years.”
She gave you her sweetest smile as she leaned down to hug you. But it was quick enough for you not to see the tears falling down her eyes. She bowed and turned, her stride as immaculate as it had been the day you met her, and began to walk toward the door. She didn’t look back to see the tears you were finally letting fall, and she didn’t look back to see the empty space where her future had been.
She walked out into the harsh, indifferent light of the afternoon. A woman who had traded her heart for the truth, choosing to lose the man she loved so that he could finally be free to be who he was.
And for you, that was a beautiful kind of love.
When Heeseung dropped you off at your house, the rain started to pour.
It wasn't a gentle, summer drizzle; it was a violent, lashing downpour that turned the gravel path into a slurry of mud. Heeseung had hesitated, his hand lingering on the gear shift, his jaw tight as he stared at the blurred windshield. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then his phone buzzed again. A sharp, insistent vibration that made him flinch.
“Hoobae,” he called out instead, “follow me in Yonsei, hm?”
“I hope you don’t get tired of me,” you promised, your voice barely audible over the relentless drumming of the rain against the roof. You reached out, your fingers brushing his hand on the gear shift. A fleeting, desperate contact before you pushed the door open.
The moment you stepped out, the world turned into a gray, suffocating blur. The rain hit you with the force of a physical blow, cold and stinging, instantly soaking through the cardigan he’d draped over your shoulders. It felt like a shroud. You hurried toward the porch, the mud clutching at your heels, your heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
You were reaching into your pocket, your movements clumsy and frantic, desperate to find your phone. You needed to check the time, you needed to plan if you were getting a wink of sleep from the uncertainty of tomorrow.
But as your foot hit the bottom step of the porch, the slick wood betrayed you.
The world tilted violently. You went down hard, your shoulder slamming into the porch post with a dull, sickening thud. You heard the clack of plastic against concrete before your phone skittered into the pooling water of the driveway.
“Shit,” you scrambled for it, your hands trembling as you clawed at the mud, your fingers fumbling until they closed around the device.
The screen was a web of jagged fractures, the backlight flickering once, twice, like a dying star, before it succumbed to the dark. You pressed the power button, shaking it, whispering, “No, no, no, please.”
You stumbled inside the house, soaked to the bone, the gold medal heavy and freezing against your collarbone. You ran to the kitchen, clutching the dead phone to your chest, and stared at the wall-mounted landline. You stood there, shivering, water pooling around your feet, waiting.
He’ll call the house phone, you told yourself, panic rising in your throat like bile. He’ll find a way.
The house was a hollow shell, echoing with the sound of your own ragged breathing. You paced the kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath your bare, muddy feet, the silence of the landline becoming a physical weight that pressed against your eardrums. Every time the wind lashed a branch against the siding, you jumped, convinced it was a knock, a call, a sign.
But the minutes bled into hours, and the house remained stagnant. You clutched the gold medal around your neck, the metal no longer a promise but an anchor, heavy and cold. You didn't dare take off the cardigan, even though it was soaked through, as if removing it would be an admission that the connection had already been severed.
Only a few miles away, Heeseung was pacing his own room, a space already gutted of its personality. Boxes were stacked like monuments to his departure, and the only thing left on his bed was the empty space where the cardigan had been.
He remembered how he gripped his pen that night. How he had tucked a letter into the pocket of that cardigan, hidden in the frayed seam where he knew you’d eventually find it. He was terrified of the words he’d written. His confessions of how he felt he was being torn in two, how he’d planned to tell his parents he was staying behind for a year, his attempt to enter university with you, how he was waiting for you to tell him to stay.
And most of all, how much he loved you. How he wanted to ruin the friendship.
He kept looking at the window, expecting to see your silhouette in the rain, expecting you to show up at his door because you always did. She’ll find the letter, he told himself, his pride warring with a growing, cold dread. She’ll see that I was waiting for her to say the word.
But you were houses away, shivering in a dark kitchen, never checking the pockets of a sweater that was currently draped over a chair, pooling water onto the floor.
At 4:00 AM, the house was plunged into a pre-dawn blue. Heeseung sat on his luggage in the hallway, his face gaunt. His parents were asleep, and the house was silent.
The family landline had been disconnected weeks ago, the wire hanging limp and dead against the baseboard, a casualty of the family's transition to mobile life. He didn't think to try it. He only thought of the phone in his hand.
By 4:30 AM, after he was dropped off by his parents who woke up minutes before he left alone, with a thumb that trembled against the glass, he typed the message he had been drafting and deleting since midnight.
I’m at the station. I’m leaving on the first bus. I don’t want to go without saying the rest of what I didn't say tonight. Please, Y/N. Come find me.
He hit send.
He stared at the screen, waiting for the ‘Delivered’ icon to be followed by the familiar bubble of your reply. He sat on his suitcase, his heart hammering against his ribs, convinced that if you loved him, if you felt at least the same way, you would be at the station before the engine started.
He didn’t know that houses away, your phone lay on the kitchen table, a dark shattered memoir. He didn’t know that the signal was hitting nothing but air, trapped in the digital ether.
Heeseung watched the station clock tick forward, each second a hammer blow against his resolve. By 5:00 AM, the bus pulled into the bay, a massive, idling beast of steel. He stood up, his eyes darting to the entrance one last time. He waited until the last possible second, his chest aching with a mixture of hope and resentment.
You didn’t come.
He boarded the bus, the air inside smelling of diesel and dust, and pressed his forehead against the glass. He didn't look back at the town, and he didn't look at the phone in his hand, which remained stubbornly, cruelly silent. He convinced himself that your silence was an answer. He convinced himself that he was only the one willing to ruin the friendship, the one who felt love.
In the process, he solidified the walls around his own heart, ready to become the man who would never let anyone hurt him like this again.
And you, at home, finally drifted into a fitful sleep on the kitchen floor, waking up at sunrise to the sight of your dead phone, never knowing that you had spent your final night together waiting for an invitation that was already buried in a pocket you hadn't thought to check.
The clock on your desk glowed with a harsh, neon red 3:00 AM, its light casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. You had been at it for hours, your brain buzzing with the residual static of a marathon study session. The room was a chaotic mosaic of your life: the stacks of review education books, the new books Minju had given you, the colorful highlighters, and the mounting pressure of senior year.
All shoved into half-filled cardboard boxes. Packing felt like shedding skin. You were moving on, leaving behind the provincial life to finally choose yourself this time.
You were sorting through the keep pile, tossing old notebooks into a recycling bin, when your hand brushed against the wool of the moth-eaten cardigan draped over the back of your desk chair.
Even after five years, you still hadn't managed to get rid of it. It was a relic, a soft, decaying reminder of the night the sky turned purple and everything you knew about the world shifted. You meant to wash it one last time, to finally pack it away into the bottom of a box you wouldn't open for years.
You picked it up, intending to fold it, but as you shook it to straighten the sleeves, something heavy thudded against the fabric.
It caught on the frayed hem, snagging on the loose weave of the inner pocket. You frowned, pulling at the fabric, thinking it was a loose button or a stray coin. Instead, you felt the crisp, sharp edge of folded paper.
Your heart gave a strange, sickening lurch.
You reached inside, your fingers trembling as you pulled out a small, rectangular envelope that had clearly been wedged into the lining. It wasn't an envelope, actually. It was just a piece of notebook paper folded over and over until it was a thick, flat square, the edges softened by time.
You knew that handwriting. Even after five years of trying to scrub the memory of it from your mind, you recognized the sharp, precise tilt of the letters.
Heeseung.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, the boxes forgotten. The room felt suddenly too small, the air thick with the smell of old wool, rain, and the ghost of his laundry detergent. Your hands shook so violently you almost dropped it. You unfolded the paper, the creases brittle, threatening to tear.
The ink was faded, but the words were stark, screaming at you from the page.
The letter was written on a sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper, the kind you both used during your endless study sessions in the local library. The handwriting was his. Sharp, slanted, and hurried, as if he were trying to outrun his own courage before the ink dried.
Y/N,
I don’t know if you’ll ever find this. Maybe it’ll stay hidden in this pocket until the wool rots away, and that would probably be for the best. It’s safer that way. For both of us, maybe.
I remember the first time I noticed you. You were just in seventh grade, wandering the halls like you were lost, clutching your bag that was too heavy for your small frame. I was your sunbae. The one everyone expected to be perfect, the one who was supposed to go to Seoul and change the world. I thought I was just being kind when I offered to tutor you because I saw potential in you. I thought I was just being a good senior.
I was so wrong.
I remember the hours we spent in the library, trading secrets disguised as schoolwork. You would tell me how you used your earphones to ignore the world. I would tell you how I intentionally charmed my way to pass English in the best way I can. I’d try to explain the complexities of biology, the mechanics of physics, all while you were busy correcting and laughing at me for my grammar, because in your words: “How can a running batch valedictorian sound like a fool?”
And a fool I was.
Because I’d be pretending to look at the textbook, but I was really just memorizing you. I know the way your brow furrows when a math problem frustrates you, like the whole world is at stake. I know you hum that same soft melody when you’re finally close to a solution, a sound so quiet it feels like a secret meant only for me. I know the way your eyes brighten when you talk about your dreams, and how your nose crinkles when you laugh at my terrible, forced jokes. You have this way of existing that makes the rest of the world look grey, like you’re carrying your own private sunlight that spills onto everything you touch.
I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you until it was already too late. Until my entire world had shrunk down to the space between our chairs, our shared earphone buds, and I realized that I didn’t want to live in any other reality but yours only.
God, there were so many times. Do you remember the night before the finals? You had fallen asleep on your desk, and I sat there for an hour, just looking at you. I leaned in. I was an inch away from your lips. I could smell the vanilla in your shampoo, and I wanted to ruin everything. I wanted to risk the friendship, the prestige, the 'perfect sunbae' title, just to see if you’d wake up and kiss me back.
Or that afternoon by the reservoir, that time you were laughing at my pronunciation and you leaned against me. I turned my head so fast, ready to press my mouth to yours, but you looked at me with those wide, trusting eyes, and I froze. I backed out. I did it at the bus stop, I did it in your driveway, I did it every single time the distance between us felt thin enough to bridge. I was a coward then, and I’m a coward now.
Everyone talks about Seoul like it’s heaven. They talk about my scholarship like it’s a golden ticket. But Y/N, I would trade every sky in that city, every opportunity, every ounce of 'success' just to stay here in this town and work a dead-end job if it meant I could see you every morning. I want to curse every expectation my parents ever laid on me. I want to burn the acceptance letters. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is you.
I’m leaving tomorrow, Y/N. And it feels like I’m walking into a grave everyone and I dug for myself. But, Y/N, I’ll be at the bus station at 4:45 AM. If you come, if you show up before the engine starts, I will throw my bags into the dirt and never look back at Seoul again. I will stay, and I will be yours, and I will live in this town for the rest of my life.
But if you don’t come, I’ll know. I’ll know that we were just a dream, and that it’s time to wake up. It’s the cruelest test I could ever invent, isn't it? Leaving my entire future in your hands while I hide in the dark, waiting.
I’m sorry, Y/N.
I love you, with all my heart.
Yours, always,Heeseung.
The sob didn’t start in your chest; it began as a sharp, hitching tremor in your throat, a jagged intake of air that felt like swallowing shards of ice. When it finally broke, it wasn’t loud. It was a hollow, desolate sound that scraped against the quiet of your room.
You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against the cool, splintered wood of the floorboards. You stared down at the grain of the wood, the lines blurring as your vision filled with hot, blinding tears.
You looked down at your own hands and saw how they were trembling with the sheer, unrelenting force of your grief. You weren't just crying; you were disintegrating.
A sob finally broke free, but it wasn't a release. It was a shuddering, violent convulsion that doubled you over.
You reached out, your fingers shaking uncontrollably, and touched the handwriting on the page. Yours, always.
The lie of it ripped through you. He hadn't been "always" yours; he had been a man constructing a cage out of his own pride, and he had invited you to be the one to lock it. You remembered how you had spent that morning of his departure, how you had woken up, looked at your broken phone, and cried because you thought he hadn't cared enough to say goodbye. You had mourned a rejection that was actually a desperate, hidden plea for salvation.
You looked around your room, at the boxes labeled for your senior year, at the life you had carefully built out of the wreckage he left behind. Everything you had done: every late-night study session, every push to be better, every quiet moment where you tried to fill the Heeseung-shaped hole in your chest, was built on the foundation of a misunderstanding.
The anger hit you like a heavy, physical weight. It settled deep in your gut. It was a sharp, searing heat, the kind that made you want to claw at the walls of your own bedroom. You looked at the cardboard boxes all around you, and you felt a sudden, violent urge to sweep them all off.
You idiot, you thought, your teeth gritting so hard your jaw ached, you absolute, prideful, infuriating idiot.
You looked at the empty spaces in your room, the quiet corners where you’d once imagined him sitting, and the fury gave way to a hollow, echoing resentment. He had held your heart in his hands and decided to use it as a weight to anchor his own fear.
But then, just as quickly, the anger fractured.
Beneath the white-hot rage, that old, stubborn warmth flared up. The one that had never truly been extinguished. You thought of the way he would absentmindedly tap his pen against his chin, the way he’d let you correct his grammar just to hear the sound of your voice.
He hadn't been cruel or malicious. He had been a boy suffocating under the weight of a life he never asked for, terrified that if he reached for the only thing he wanted, he’d drag you down into his own misery. He was a coward, yes. He was a masterpiece of self-destruction.
But, fuck, he was Heeseung. Your Heeseung.
And you are not the same coward as you were five years ago when you wanted to bare out your heart for Heeseung before he graduated. No, you were not going to let this be the end of a story that desperately wanted to start five years ago.
You looked at the letter again. I’ll be at the bus station at 4:45 AM.
You were five years past the deadline, but the challenge still burned in your mind like a promise. You realized then that you didn't need to chase a bus that had left years ago. You needed to chase the boy who had never really stopped waiting for you to find him.
The fear you had carried for five years was replaced by clarity. If he wanted a test, you would give him one.
You stood up, your movements sharp and decisive. You didn't care about the packing anymore. You didn't care about your senior year, the application tests, the expectations of everyone else. You only cared about him. You only cared about the fact that there was a bridge between you and him, and for the first time in your life, you weren't going to wait for him to build it.
You were going to walk across it yourself.
You arrived at the station at 4:40 AM.
The station was cold, but the air between you hummed with the electricity of five years ago. This wasn't just a meeting; it was a superposition of two timelines. The girl who stood here now, five years older, was rewriting the failure of the girl who didn’t get to catch the sight of him leaving.
The bus engine idled, a heavy, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through the soles of your shoes. In every sense, the test was the same: the departure time, the platform, the man waiting in the dark. But the variables had shifted.
Five years ago, you had been the passive variable. You had been the consequence of his decision, a silent factor waiting to be solved. You had trusted that the universe, or perhaps Heeseung, would provide the answer.
You stepped out of the car, your legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. Heavy, trembling, and terrified. You clutched the letter in your hand, the paper damp with the sweat of your palm. You walked toward the platform, your boots clicking sharply against the cracked pavement.
Every shadow looked like him. Every rustle of the wind sounded like his voice.
And then, you saw him.
The clock above the platform read 4:41 AM.
Your throat tightened, a physical constriction that made it hard to breathe. He looked so small in the vast, empty terminal. The "perfect sunbae," the boy who was supposed to change the world, was just a person sitting on a cold bench, destroyed by his own fear.
He didn't see you yet. He was looking at his watch, his expression a mask of hollow resignation.
You stopped, two rows of benches away, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked at the clock again: 4:42 AM.
One minute left. One minute to decide if the last three years were just a mistake, or if they were the necessary, painful crucible that brought you to this exact, terrifying moment.
4:43 AM. You lost him in the sudden rush of crowds as the bus neared. You tried on your tiptoes to see the familiar build. The station had suddenly transformed from a graveyard of memories into a frantic, chaotic obstacle course. The early morning bus had drawn a swarm of passengers. Commuters with heavy backpacks, travelers clutching coffee cups, and hurried people blending into a blur of jackets, trenches, and muted murmurs.
You were shoved aside by a mother carrying her child, her family following close by with lots of bags. You stumbled, your boot scraping against the floor, and immediately tried to right yourself, your eyes scanning the shifting sea of people.
He was not there at the place where he was sitting a while ago. Where was he?
You rose onto your tiptoes, your calves aching with the strain. You desperately scanned for that specific posture, the way his shoulders hunched when he was anxious, the precise, sharp tilt of his head. You saw a jacket that looked like his, but it belonged to an older man with silvering hair. You saw a silhouette with his height, but the stride was too confident, too careless.
Your heart was a trapped bird, beating against your ribs with such force that it dizzied you. The bus engine roared, a guttural, final sound that felt like it was swallowing the air in the terminal.
"Heeseung?" you called out, your voice thin and brittle, immediately lost in the scrape of luggage wheels and the overhead announcement drone.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your chest. You pushed through a group of students, your hands brushing against rough wool and synthetic fabrics, desperate to find the one person who mattered. Your eyes darted everywhere, to the ticket kiosk, the rows of empty benches he’d occupied just moments ago, the closing doors of the bus.
You caught a glimpse of a familiar dark jacket, the back of a head turned toward the boarding line. Your breath hitched. There.
Without thinking, you darted toward him, your heart hammering a rhythm of pure terror. You reached out, but the bus conductor stopped you, asking you for a ticket. Your eyes snapped from the conductor’s hand to his retreating figure.
“I don’t have a ticket!” you snapped, your voice cracking with the frantic, jagged edges of panic. You tried to shove past the conductor, your eyes locked on the dark jacket just a few steps ahead in the queue, “I have to talk to someone, please!”
The conductor, a man with a tired, weathered face, didn't budge. He planted a heavy hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and immovable, "No ticket, no boarding, miss. Step back, you're blocking the line."
"You don't understand!" you screamed, though the roar of the idling engine began to drown out your desperation. You looked toward the queue, but the crowd surged forward in a sudden, impatient wave, obscuring your view. The person in the dark jacket stepped onto the bus steps. You couldn't see his face. Not yet.
You even assumed he had earphones in his ears.
"Heeseung!" you shrieked, the name tearing from your throat.
The figure on the stairs paused. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. The man’s shoulders tensed, a familiar, involuntary reaction to the sound of your voice. He started to turn, but the conductor beside you gave a sharp whistle, and the bus doors hissed shut with a violent, final metallic thud.
The engine surged, a deafening, guttural vibration that shook the ground beneath your boots.
"No!" You lunged toward the glass, your palms slapping against the cold, vibrating surface. Through the tinted window, you saw a blurred shape in the third row, a head of hair that caught the dim terminal light. He was looking out the window, his expression obscured by the reflection of the station lights.
The bus lurched forward. 4:49 AM.
You tried to even chase it. And what’s ironic is the sudden downpour of rain.
The rain didn’t start as a drizzle. It fell in a sudden, violent curtain, as if the sky had been holding its breath for five years just to mock you at the exact moment of your defeat. It lashed against your skin, cold and stinging, soaking through your clothes in seconds. You didn’t stop running. You sprinted alongside the concrete barrier, your boots slipping on the pavement, your lungs burning with the sharp crawl of exhaustion and panic.
You chased the bus until the terminal gave way to the open road, until the red glow of its taillights became two tiny, indifferent sparks fading into the gray, weeping horizon.
You slowed, then stopped, your chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps. The rain turned your hair into a heavy shroud against your face. You were standing in the middle of the bus lane, drenched to the bone, staring at nothing but the wet, empty asphalt. The irony of it hit you with a force that made your knees buckle.
Five years ago, the sky had wept where he left. And here you were. Five years older, five years wiser, and still standing where he left. Watching the same exact ghost disappear.
You let out a laugh, a dry, broken sound that was immediately swallowed by the downpour. You were a fool. You had thought things were going to change this time; but at the end of the day, you were just a spectator to your own heartbreak, and it was right on schedule.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the rain wash the salt of your tears away. You didn't even notice when the biting sting of the deluge on your shoulders suddenly vanished.
As you waited for the thunder to roll, for the world to continue its indifferent assault, but the heavy drumming sound against your coat stopped. The air around you grew strangely still, protected by an invisible perimeter.
You opened your eyes.
A black umbrella hovered over you, its canopy wide and sturdy, shielding you from the storm. You frowned, your breath hitching as you looked up, expecting a stranger, a kind commuter, or perhaps just another cruel trick of your own fraying mind.
The hand holding the umbrella was pale, the knuckles slightly bruised, and the sleeve was dark with rainwater. You followed the line of the arm, up past a damp shoulder, until your gaze met his.
He was soaked to the bone. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clung to him, and he was shivering, but his eyes were fixed on you with a terrifying, absolute clarity. He wasn't on the bus. He hadn't left.
“Heeseung?” you whispered, your voice barely a thread.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said, his voice raw, looking at the ground where his ticket lay on the wet pavement, “I got on that bus. I sat in the third row, just like I did five years ago. But fuck, Y/N, I don’t want to lose you all over again.”
The confession hung in the air, heavier and more suffocating than the humidity of the downpour. He stood there, a man stripped of his "perfect" facade, shivering and drenched, anchored only by the desperate, frantic grip he had on the umbrella.
"I sat there," he continued, his voice cracking as he gestured vaguely toward the road where the bus had vanished, "I watched the city lights blur, and I kept telling myself that this was the right choice. That you’d be better off if I just became the person I was supposed to be. But all I could hear was the way you sounded when you screamed my name – not five years ago, not today, but every single day in my head."
He took a jagged, stuttering breath, his eyes searching yours with such raw vulnerability that it felt like looking directly into a wound.
Suddenly, it felt as if you were brought back five years ago, hours after his graduation, the way you overlooked the reservoir on the hood of his car.
It was all there. The same suffocating weight in your chest, the same damp chill, the same boy. Back then, you had sat on the hood of his car, the engine ticking as it cooled, the stars hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds that mirrored the uncertainty in your hearts. You had been seventeen, brimming with the naive belief that love was an equation that could be balanced if you just worked hard enough.
“I’m sorry,” Heeseung said out of nowhere, making you stand up.
The two words were small, stripped of the grandiosity he had spent years crafting, but they hit you with the force of an avalanche. He wasn't looking at the horizon anymore; he was looking at you, his gaze anchored, stripped of the performative burden of his perfect future.
He shifted, the umbrella tilting so that the edge of it brushed against your damp hair. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice deepening, vibrating against the frantic percussion of the rain, “For being a coward. For not telling you that I loved you all this time. For leaving you because I thought the man who I am now is the best man you could ever deserve.”
You stood there, the rain still lashing at your legs, but his presence was a heat that defied the storm. You looked at him. This man who had been a ghost in your peripheral vision for half a decade, and you realized he wasn't asking for a clean slate. He was asking for something much harder: to be seen in the wreckage.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me, or to love me back. I just wanted you to know that I’ve loved you all this time and I would choose to love you, whether you love me back or not.” Heeseung adds.
A beat passed.
“You’re standing in the rain, Heeseung,” you said, your voice trembling with the terrifying, beautiful realization that the cycle had finally broken, “you’re going to get sick. You’re going to be miserable. You’re going to have to explain to everyone why you didn’t get on that bus.”
Heeseung gave a dry, jagged laugh. Then he reached out, his hand sliding behind your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp hair, pulling you an inch closer until the space between you was practically non-existent.
“Let them,” he breathed, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that made your breath hitch, “let them wonder, let them ask. For the first time since I was fifteen, I don’t care about being the man who changes the world. I just want to be the man who makes it back to you.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and shallow, cutting through the freezing air, “I’m not sorry for leaving because I’m back. I’m sorry because I spent my life convincing myself that the world was bigger than us when it’s not. It’s just us, Y/N.”
“Just us?” you echoed.
“It’s just been us.” He confirmed.
The storm seemed to mute, the roar of the city fading into a distant, inconsequential hum. In the silence of the terminal’s edge, he didn't wait for your permission or your forgiveness.
He simply closed the distance, his lips meeting yours with a desperation that tasted like the reservoir, like lost time, and like the terrifying, wonderful promise of a future that neither of you had dared to write until this exact, rain-drenched second.
The kiss was not gentle at all. It was a desperate, starving crash of teeth and salt-drenched skin that had nothing to do with grace, but everything to do with survival.
His mouth was cold, shivering against yours, but the moment he realized that you were fighting back, that you were holding him just as tightly as he was holding you, he made a sound, a low, guttural noise that vibrated in his chest and straight to yours.
Heeseung’s hands were the most overwhelming part. They were frantic, tracing the line of your jaw, sliding down to your nape, and then bunching in the fabric of your coat as if he was afraid you might dissolve into the mist if he didn’t anchor you to him. His touch was erratic, a desperate attempt to memorize the reality of you. He wasn’t just kissing you, he was trying to devour you – his mouth moving over yours with a clumsy, bruising intensity that spoke of five years of what-ifs and if-onlys.
You could taste the rain mixing with the warmth of his breath. A sharp contrast that made your skin prickle with goosebumps. His stubble grazed your cheek, a rough sensation that felt painfully real, a reminder that he wasn’t a ghost anymore.
He tilted his head, his lips softening, searching for a rhythm that had been lost for half a decade. Every time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, just to let out a ragged, shaking breath against your mouth, he’d pull you back in again, deeper, more possessive, as if he were trying to physically pull you into him.
His heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm that mirrored your own, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to nothing but the friction of your bodies, the heat rising beneath the layers of damp clothing, and the way his tongue finally mapped the territory he had spent so long denying himself. It was a kiss that tasted like apology, like ache, and like the sudden, terrifying realization that you were finally, impossibly, home.
One year later.
“Y/L/N Y/N, Valedictorian and recipient of the university’s Highest Honors, Department of English Language Education.”
The announcement echoed through the grand hall, formal and crisp. As you walked across the stage, the heavy hood of your academic regalia, the blue and white velvet of the Education department, felt like a mantle of finality. The audience’s applause was a roar, a sea of sound that washed away the last four years of endless lesson planning, the grueling practice teaching, and the long, quiet nights spent studying linguistics and pedagogy.
You accepted the gold-leafed certificate, the weight of it in your hands a physical manifestation of every sacrifice. You were the top of your class. You had mastered the theory of education, but the lessons you’d learned outside the lecture halls: the lessons of patience, of trauma, and of wait times – these were the ones that truly defined you.
As you stepped down from the dais, your eyes instinctively swept the crowded, noisy gym. Your parents were there, cheering in the third row, their faces luminous with pride. But your gaze bypassed them. You were searching for a silhouette, a posture, a gaze that had been your compass for the last twelve months.
He’s not here.
A familiar, sharp ache pricked at your chest. He couldn't make it, you told yourself, the thought a practiced shield against the heat and the noise. Seoul is three hours away. He’s closing that deal today. It’s okay. I’m top of the class; I can handle a little disappointment.
You moved with the throng of graduates into the bright, humid air of the school courtyard. The air was thick with the scent of cheap bouquets and the frantic, chaotic buzz of celebration. You felt momentarily adrift, a solitary figure in a sea of caps and gowns, until the crowd shifted, parting like a curtain.
You were quickly swarmed by your parents, their faces flushed with a pride so intense it felt like a physical weight. Your mother pulled you into a crushing embrace, her tears dampening your shoulder, while your father clapped a heavy, trembling hand on your back, his voice thick as he told you how proud he was of his daughter.
“Can I go outside for some air, please?”
They looked concerned, but the sight of your gold medal, glinting fiercely in the afternoon sun, seemed to reassure them. You walked away, your heels clicking against the pavement, the sound growing lonelier as you retreated from the crowd and toward the old reservoir trail.
By the time you reached the edge of the water, it was just past 3:10 PM. The reservoir was a mirror of still, dark glass, undisturbed by the chaotic energy of the campus. You stopped on the grass, the hem of your gown trailing in the dirt. You reached up, your fingers brushing the cool, heavy gold of your own medal, the metal smooth and comforting.
Then, your hand drifted to the deep pocket of your robe.
You pulled out a smaller, older medal. The one Heeseung had won back in high school, the one he had pressed into your palm before he walked out of your life five years ago. It was scratched, the ribbon slightly frayed, but it was warmer than your own, as if it had been waiting for this exact intersection of time and space.
“Now, you didn’t say anything about beating my title of the town’s valedictorian,” a voice said, low and steady, from the shade of the willow tree behind you.
Your heart stuttered, a wild, frantic bird against your ribs. You spun around, the medals clinking together in your hand.
Heeseung was leaning against the trunk of the willow tree, his posture relaxed, his charcoal suit jacket discarded somewhere on the grass nearby. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were lean and steady. He looked older, the sharp angles of his face had softened with the weight of his own experiences, but his eyes, fixed on yours, held the same devastating familiarity that had haunted your dreams for half a decade.
He wasn’t a vision, and he wasn’t a trick of the light. He was standing in the dappled shade, his gaze dropping to the medals in your hands before rising to meet yours.
“Y/N Y/L/N, top of her class, highest honors,” he said as he reached for a bouquet by the passenger seat, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a secret meant only for you. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his shoes silent on the grass, “you really didn’t leave any room for anyone else, did you?”
You couldn't move. Your breath was caught in your throat, a jagged, painful thing, while the water behind you rippled in the quiet wind. The distance between you felt like a chasm that had finally, impossibly, closed.
"What are you doing here? I thought you had a deal to close?" you whispered, your voice trembling. You were terrified that if you blinked, he would dissolve back into the haze of the last five years.
He stopped just a few feet away, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of rain and cedar that always clung to him. His expression shifted from a proud look to a playful tease.
“Yeah, I have a deal to close,” he said softly as he reached out, his fingers hovering for a second before he gently took the old, frayed medal from your trembling hand. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, his own eyes tracing the scratches on the surface, “I have a deal to close with a valedictorian.”
He gave you a bouquet of white lilies, the smile on his face mimicking the boyish grin he always gave you whenever you met, “Congratulations, hoobae. You did it.”
You lunged on him, crying and not minding about the flowers, the lilies were crushed between you, their crisp, green stems snapping and their sweet, heavy scent filling the air as you collided with him. You didn't care. You buried your face into the solid, warm wall of his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive cotton of his dress shirt, the dam finally breaking. You were sobbing, not out of sadness, but out of a year’s worth of held-back breath, five years of longing, and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally being held by him again.
Heeseung didn't move for a long moment, simply absorbing the impact. Then, his arms locked around you, tight enough to bruise, his hands splayed across your back as if he were trying to pull you into his own skin to make sure you were real. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hitching, a jagged, broken sound that told you he was just as undone as you were.
“I have a surprise for you, hoobae,” he whispered in your ear, “do you trust me?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your vision blurred by the remnants of your tears. His eyes were glassy, dark and dilated, searching your face as if he were trying to memorize every contour he’d been denied for so long. He didn’t wait for an answer. He took your hand, his grip firm and grounding, and led you toward the sleek, black car idling near the park exit.
The drive to Seoul was a blur of golden hour light and the low, steady hum of the engine. He didn't let go of your hand for the entire journey. His fingers were laced through yours, his thumb soothing the back of your hand.
He drove with a quiet, focused intensity, his eyes darting to you every few minutes, as if he needed to check that you hadn't vanished. You watched his profile, the sharp slope of his nose, the focus in his gaze as he navigated the highway, the way his jaw worked when he was lost in thought. He wasn't the boy who used to hide in the library; he was a man who had forged a path through the dark just to find you.
As the city lights of Seoul began to puncture the twilight, the atmosphere in the car shifted. The frantic, desperate energy of the afternoon had settled into a low, smoldering heat. The air between you felt charged, thick with the weight of everything you hadn't been able to say over the phone for the last year.
He pulled the car into the quiet, tree-lined driveway of a neighborhood that felt a world away from the city's chaotic core. The house was modest but beautiful, glowing with warm, golden light from within.
He turned off the engine, but he didn't move. The silence that filled the car wasn't empty; it was heavy, expectant, and electric. He turned toward you, his dark eyes searching yours, stripped of all the bravado and the "perfect" professional mask he wore for the world. In the dim light of the dashboard, he looked raw, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes with a terrifying, absolute clarity.
“We’re home,” he whispered, his voice vibrating through the space between you, low and dangerous.
“What?”
He didn’t wait for you to understand. He reached out, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. The touch was possessive, agonizingly slow, and it sent a jolt of fire straight through your core. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.
“I have spent the whole year after the kiss by the bus station,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “imagining exactly how this would feel. But nothing I ever dreamed of compares to the reality of having you here.”
He pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, burning with a hunger that he had been starving himself of for years. He reached for the doorknob, but before he stepped out, he looked at you one last time, a challenge and a promise in his expression.
“Everything I worked hard for,” he said, his voice dropping to an intimate register, “it was all for the moment I could finally show you how much I’ve missed you. And I have a feeling,” he paused, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk, “that we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
He stepped out, his tall frame cutting through the night air, and circled the car. As he opened your door, the city lights reflected in his eyes, bright and unrelenting. He offered you his hand, his fingers steady, his intent clear.
You held his hand, and you were suddenly carried to the house.
Heeseung was in such a hurry that he almost knocked off a lot of furniture in his way, desperate to have you in your shared room. The front door clicked shut behind you, the lock engaging with a heavy, final sound that seemed to seal out the rest of the world. You barely had time to register the minimalist, warm aesthetic of the entryway, the scent of cedar and expensive candles, before Heeseung carried you to the room with a frantic, uncharacteristic lack of grace.
He was a man possessed, his usual composed, professional demeanor shattered by the raw, pent-up electricity of the last year. He stumbled slightly as he navigated around a sleek console table, his shoulder brushing the wall as he turned the corner, but he didn't apologize. He didn't even slow down. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and impatient, and every time you faltered, he tugged you closer, his fingers digging into your palm with a possessive, grounding grip.
“Heeseung,” you breathed, his name coming out as a breathless laugh, but he just shook his head, his eyes fixed ahead with a tunnel-vision intensity.
“Not yet,” he rasped, his voice rough.
He steered you through the darkened living room, his long strides forcing you to hurry to keep pace. At one point, he nearly knocked a stack of books off a side table with his hip, the sharp thwack of the impact echoing through the quiet house, but he didn't even flinch. He wasn't looking at the furniture; he was looking at the bedroom door at the end of the hall, which stood slightly ajar, spilling a slice of soft, amber light across the hardwood floor.
He reached the threshold and didn't bother to turn on the main light. He carried you inside, the door swinging shut behind you with a muffled thud.
The room was cool, a sharp contrast to the feverish heat radiating off his skin. He stopped, brought you down, and crowded you back until you hit the foot of the bed, the mattress giving way beneath you as he leaned in his hands coming up to frame your face. His fingers were trembling. A stark, vulnerable betrayal of the calm he had tried to project all day.
He studied you in the dim light, his gaze tracing the path of your hairline, the curve of your jaw, and the pulse fluttering rapidly at your throat. The silence was deafening, amplified by the frantic thrum of your own heart.
“Fuck, you’re finally here…” he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin, “I’ve spent every night for five years staring at the ceiling and imagining this exact moment.”
His hands slid down to your shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch agonizingly slow, as if he were afraid you might evaporate if he moved too quickly. He looked at you, his eyes dark, drowning, and full of a desperate, terrifying adoration.
“I don’t want to waste another second,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips, his intention as clear and heavy as the dark air around you, “tell me you’re mine, hoobae, tell me you’re mine, Y/N. Tell me this is real.”
All the breath left your lungs in a ragged rush. The room seemed to tilt, the golden light of the bedside lamp blurring into a soft, hazy halo around him. You felt the weight of his cheek against your palm, the friction of his stubble, the warmth of his skin, and the raw, unvarnished ache of a man who had finally come home.
“I’m yours,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the sheer intensity of the moment, “Heeseung, I am yours. Everything, all of me. Forever and always.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, as if your words were a lifeline he had been grasping for in the dark. When he opened them, the desperation had shifted into something deeper. He pulled away just enough to reach for the silver chain resting against his throat. His fingers were steady now, a stark contrast to the frantic energy that had carried him through the door, as he carefully unclasped it.
The chain slid away, and he held it up. Hanging from the silver links was a ring, gleaming with a quiet, persistent fire. He didn't put it on you yet. Instead, he took your left hand, his grip gentle but absolute, and pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to your knuckles, then your wrist, then the pulse point that was beating a frantic rhythm against his lips.
He leaned in then, his mouth hovering inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged. He took the ring from the chain and slid it onto your finger, the cool metal feeling like a brand, a permanent mark of the promise you’d both been waiting a lifetime to make.
“I love you, Heeseung,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Fuck, I love you…more than you think.”
Heeseung surged forward, his hands sliding from your palms to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there wasn’t any space in between your bodies. His mouth crushed onto yours, not with the hesitant caution of the past, but with the hunger of a man who had finally been granted permission to consume. It was a kiss that tasted of salt, of desperation, and of the absolute, terrifying relief of no longer being apart.
His lips were hard and demanding, moving against yours with a frantic rhythm that mirrored the pounding of your heart. He lifted you easily, your heels kicking out as he pressed you back onto the mattress, his weight settling over you like a heavy, welcome shroud.
The world outside the room dissolved completely. There was only the friction of his clothes against yours, the clink of your medals, the scent of him drowning out everything else, and the way he groaned your name into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that told you exactly where this night was headed.
Heeseung stripped you entirely of your clothes, leaving you bare underneath him. He kissed you one more time before kissing you down from your lips down to your jaw, to your neck. His tongue licked in between the valley of your breasts as he moaned, taking in the gasps that you leave whenever he does something.
He left open-mouthed kisses as he switched on sucking alternate nipples. His hand playing with the unattended breast by his mouth. His fingers pinching, flicking, rubbing the hardened nub.
“Heeseung, p-please,” you whimpered.
“Please what?”
“Touch me,”
“I am?”
You held his hand to hover near where you wanted him to touch you, and he chuckled and happily obliged, running his middle finger running in between your folds, making you gasp. His middle finger then reached your clit, rubbing circles lightly on it before pressing on it.
He then crawled downwards, his mouth hovering over your core. He ran the tip of his nose on your thighs before prodding his nose around your clit, teasing you as he inhaled your scent, before pushing out his tongue to run across your folds, humming at your taste.
It didn’t take him a while before he folded your legs against you, his mouth immediately lapping your folds, one hand rubbing on your clit, his eyes closed as he devoured you as if he was a man starved of food for the past years.
Teeth, lips, tongue – it was everything and everywhere at the same time. The sound of wet tongue against your pussy was enough to make you moan his name out loud and hold his messy, floppy hair. He was inexperienced at best, but it was everything you needed all the same.
Soon enough, his finger poked around the rim of your hole. He looked at you, looking for the go signal before entering almost half of his finger. He was watching your reaction like a hawk, making sure everything he did was perfect – as if he was performing to become the best today, now that he’s officially yours, and you are officially his.
One finger soon turned into two, until he finally had enough room to curl his fingers against the spongy flesh that is your g-spot. He was basking in your moans every time he curled his fingers against it, straightening his body a bit so he could push your lower belly a bit to heighten the sensation.
Your reaction was immediate, your legs thrashed and wrapped around his frame as you pulled him closer, whines and chants of his name over and over again as if he’s some sort of god that you are compelled to worship because of how good he makes you feel.
“Fuck this, I wanna feel you,” he says as he pulls his fingers out and pushing it in his mouth, sucking on your juices as he keeps eye contact with you. He stripped himself off his clothes, looking into your eyes every time he removed an article.
He reached for your hand and kissed the back of it before intertwining his right hand with your left. Heeseung held his dick, trying to even tease you by tapping his tip against your clit. He leaned down to kiss you before kissing your forehead as he aligned his tip to your entrance, muttering praises and affirmations as he eased you into taking him.
“This is going to hurt,” he whispers, “but hold my hand and trust me, okay?”
“Okay,” you managed to say through your nerves.
You gasped and shut your eyes immediately at the feeling of his tip entering you, and with this, Heeseung kept on peppering your face with kisses again, “Breathe, Y/N, I’m here,” he squeezed your hand.
And you tried to calm yourself down, breathing through your nose to calm yourself down, feeling yourself loosen as Heeseung takes this as the opportunity to push inside. Heeseung groaned as he felt the tightness around him, pausing as he pushed his face to the crook of your neck, peppering kisses on your shoulder, “Shit, you’re so tight, jagiya,”
You blushed as you immediately hugged him, your nails racking his back as you whispered, “Y-you can move, Heeseung,”
Heeseung nodded and started moving slowly, gasping at how you’re throbbing around him. He groaned as he pulled out halfway to push in again until he started a rhythm. His tip hitting your g-spot every time he shifts the angle of his hips.
The first few times were slow, as if he was memorizing every part of you around him. He traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his gaze heavy and reverent, searching your face as if to confirm that the person beneath him wasn't just a figment of his long-starved imagination. His movements were deliberate, an agonizingly tender exploration of territory he had only ever been able to visit in his dreams.
He seemed terrified that if he moved too quickly, the reality of the moment would shatter. He let his touch linger, a silent language of apologies for the time he’d lost and promises for the years ahead. Each breath he drew was jagged, his chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythm that grew deeper, more desperate, and increasingly synchronized with your own.
When he finally allowed himself to shed the restraint he’d carried all day, the room felt charged with a sudden, searing intensity. The air became thick, weighted by the heat of skin against skin and the friction of your bodies finally finding their cadence. He pinned your body down as he picked his pace up, his touch and thrusts transitioning from worship to a raw, consuming demand, as if he was trying to weave himself into the very fabric of your existence.
Every shift was a conversation of surrender. The distance that had defined your lives for five years was dismantled in the space of a heartbeat, replaced by the crushing weight of his devotion and the feverish need to be closer than was even physically possible. He whispered your name into the hollow of your neck, his voice a gravelly, broken plea that signaled he had finally stopped running.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he pressed his forehead on yours, panting as he felt his body stiffening at his impending orgasm, “I love y – shit, are you close? Y-you’re throbbing…”
“Yeah, s-shit, Heeseung, r-right there!” you whined, trying to meet his thrusts as you grind upwards, eyes closed at the overwhelming sensation of him inside you, “Fuck, more, I want m-more, I wanna come!”
He let out a moan as he stilled inside you, coming undone. His body doing minor jolts as he held you tight, his hips shifting slightly to help you reach your orgasm too. Curses and his name were all left to say from you, and you immediately pulled him down to hug him as you came undone around him, your cum coming in heavy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, holy shit – Heeseung, I’m –”
“I’m here, I’m here…let go for me, jagiya.”
The silence that followed was heavy and soft, a stark contrast to the storm that had just swept through the room. Save for the synchronized, frantic rhythm of your breathing, slowly beginning to level out as the adrenaline faded into a languid, exhausted haze.
Heeseung didn’t pull away nor pull out. He collapsed against you, his forehead resting in the crook of your neck, his weight grounding and absolute. His skin was slick, radiating a lingering, feverish heat, and his arms remained locked around you, as if he were still guarding you against the possibility of disappearing. Every few seconds, he would press a small, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing your pulse, which was finally slowing to a steady, quiet beat.
You lay there, watching the way the moonlight filtered through the window to catch the sharp, handsome slope of his shoulders. The room felt transformed, the lingering tension replaced by a profound peace.
Heeseung shifted, his hand moving to trail languidly down your arm, his thumb brushing over the ring he had placed on your finger, the silver band catching the dim light, a permanent anchor in the quiet dark.
He finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his hair damp and tousled, his dark eyes softer than you had ever seen them. All the pretentious act of the Seoul boy – it was all gone. There was only the boy you’d known, and the man who had come back to finish what you’d started.
"I’m never leaving," he whispered, the words not a vow, but a simple statement of fact, as natural as breathing.
You traced the line of his jaw, his stubble grazing your fingertips, “You’re really here,” you murmured, the realization finally settling deep in your bones, “No more waiting.”
He pulled you flush against his chest again, his arms tightening in a protective, final embrace. As you drifted into the kind of deep, dreamless sleep you hadn't known in years, his heartbeat was the last thing you felt. A steady, unyielding rhythm that promised, for the first time in your life, that tomorrow was already secured. You were no longer the girl waiting at the station.
One drunken night with your best friend turned into a habit. Messy, filthy, addictive.
No strings. No feelings.
At least that's what you tell yourself.
Jake’s mouth was on yours before you could even talk yourself out of it. Your fingertips thread through his dark hair, back pressed up against the bathroom sink of someone’s shitty frat house.
“Jake, you’re drunk…” you whisper, words slurring as his hands find your thighs, pushing up the fabric of the sheer dress you wore that night.
His hands roughly turn you around to face the bathroom mirror. You catch a glimpse of yourself, cheeks burning, pupils dilated wide.
“So are you—“ Jake replies with a drunk chuckle. His accent vibrates low and deep in your ear. Your brain is turning to mush as his large hands push the fabric of your dress up past your hips.
His pants are already unbuckled as he stands behind you. His white jacket was tossed carelessly to the floor.
“Is it so wrong to fuck my best friend at least once in my life…” Jake confesses, the scent of alcohol lingering on his lips.
You chuckle. Maybe it isn’t so wrong to have sex with your best friend at least once.
That's what you thought when you were both drunk off your asses.
That one night turned into two. Then two turned into more—and as time went on, you found yourself waiting for a different side of Jake to come out when no one else was around.
Jake 10:43 pm
So are we just going to pretend that I
didn’t just have the best sex of my life
with you at that party?
You 10:45 pm
Was it? I mean I wasn’t expecting you
to be so fucking huge.
Maybe I manifested it…
Only for your messages to go back to homework reminders the next morning.
Over the years, Jake’s seen you at your absolute worst, throwing up in bushes after one too many shots of tequila, crying in the bathroom because of a shitty breakup.
He’s also seen you naked more times than you can count.
But that’s what friends are for, right?
So, of course, he offers to stay and help clean up after hosting a birthday party at your apartment.
The sound of glass in the sink and running faucet water fills the silence between you. He helps you load the dishwasher and take out the trash.
The contrast of the quiet compared to the noise of the party before gives you a minute to breathe.
After a few moments of tidying up, the apartment is left in pristine condition—thanks to Jake.
“Thank you for helping clean up. I appreciate it,” you say with a soft voice, wiping your hands dry with a white dishrag before tossing it aside. You glance around at your space, no longer covered with red solo cups and paper plates.
The apartment was now dimly lit by a small lamp, the air quiet yet charged.
Jake looks you up and down, tearing his eyes away from your body in that same sheer sequined dress, knowing this isn’t the time to complicate things.
“That’s what friends are for,” Jake says playfully, walking by and ruffling your hair in the process. He walks through the kitchen to the living room, plopping down on the couch with a soft sigh.
“Comfortable?” You ask playfully as you join him. The TV plays soft music in the background helping to ease the sharp tension.
Since you and Jake started hooking up, you both agreed there had to be some ground rules.
Rule one. No making out.
Rule two. No staying the night.
Rule three. No catching feelings.
All those rules have been kept intact throughout all these weeks. A little foreplay, fiery sex, then before Jake can crash for the night, he’s out the door.
The two of you told yourselves the rules were just in place to keep things casual. But you know that’s not the full truth.
The rules were made to eliminate something else.
Risk.
The risk that this could turn into something more, the risk that this could change the way you see each other.
The risk that this could throw away all these years of friendship like it was nothing.
You haven't even kissed him since that first night you hooked up.
And the thought of doing it again makes your palms sweat and your heart race.
“Yeah, comfortable…” Jake says, waving you over with a soft smile. Gently patting the cushion next to him, inviting you closer.
Your heart races, your mind reminding you of how things usually go after this.
You hesitate before sliding next to him until your bare thighs are pressed against the denim of his.
You’ve done this enough times to know exactly where this is going.
“So how much did you drink during the party…” You ask as he leans in. Your eyes locking with the wide brown of his. Jake's breath falls warm against your cheek as his hands hesitantly reach out. Still unsure if you really want this.
“Not a single drop. I’m completely sober,” Jake confesses.
There it is. That familiar sharp tension that’s just begging, aching to be broken. Like a tight rubber band just begging to be snapped.
You open your mouth to say something, anything. Anything to distract you from the fact that Jake wasn’t looking at your tits or your thighs.
He was looking at your lips.
“Jake, I—“ you choke out, voice shaking before it’s immediately cut off by the feeling of his lips on yours.
Your breath catches, and your eyes widen at the impact. This can’t be happening.
This is breaking a rule.
Jake’s hands find your hips, softly pulling you into his lap as he brushes his lips against yours. Soft, hesitant, like he knows this is wrong just as much as you do.
But you don’t fight it.
You lean in, hips barely moving against his own as your fingertips tangle in his dark hair. Mouth moving against yours with a soft, calculated rhythm.
“We shouldn’t—“ Jake gasps, his mouth hot as it pulls away from yours. A moan slips past his lips as you subconsciously grind your hips against his.
Your hands find his broad shoulders, gripping them tightly for support. You gasp, heart racing in your chest from the arousal and the intensity of the moment.
“Stop, stop stop…” Plays over and over in your mind like a broken record.
“We shouldn’t. Jake, the rules—“ you gasp into him, choking back a strained moan as his hands softly find the hem of your sheer sequined dress, pushing it up your thighs just an inch.
“Fuck those stupid rules…” Jake whispers, his lips easily finding yours again, perfectly slotting with your own.
“Your lips taste like heaven,” Jake whispers between heated kisses, his hands warm against the bare skin of your thighs.
You let out a sigh of relief as he kisses you again, hungry, hot, like he's been waiting way too long to do this.
Your hands grab at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to anchor yourself in one way or another.
Jake's hands slide up your body to your waist, rough hands skimming over the glittering fabric as it bunches dangerously high on your thighs. His large hands pull you into his muscled body even more.
On instinct, Jake pushes past your parted lips with his tongue, moaning as he explores the warmth of your mouth. His hands only grip you tighter as his tongue drags against your own.
“Jake—” You whisper against his lips before He closes the distance instantly. Jake's mouth finds yours again, hot and hungry, without a care, hunger overtaking his thoughts.
“Jake—” You gasp again, slightly firmer, your palms finding his chest to stop him before he can kiss you again. Not because you don't want him to.
But because of the risk of what you know will happen if you do.
Jake’s brows furrow at your breathless plea, there's a pause, like you're both trying to figure each other out.
He exhales, letting his head drop to the crook of your shoulder. His heart beats hard in his chest as he aches to hold himself back.
You feel warmth pulsing between your thighs. This is wrong. This is Jake. Your Jake.
The Jake that threatened to beat up your shitty exes, the Jake that never let you walk behind him on the sidewalk. The Jake who always texted to make sure you got home safe.
“Tell me to stop, tell me to fucking stop and I swear I’ll leave out that door right now,” Jake says his voice raspy like he’s reached a breaking point of no return.
His breath comes in sharp pants as he rests his head against your shoulder, holding you close like that would convey all the things he can't quite put into words.
He’s not sure when things changed from physically needing you, no—he doesn't physically need you.
And that's the harsh truth.
It terrifies him more than you know.
Jake trembles against you, his breathing rigid because just like you, he knows this changes everything.
Those rules were like a shitty dam built between the two of you in a weak attempt to stop this moment from happening.
“Please,” You whisper, the sound barely audible over the sound of the TV in the background. It's the only thing grounding you in the moment and reminding you that this is real.
And when you don’t say no? The shitty dam breaks.
Jake kisses you again, barely holding back a deep groan in his throat. His chest vibrates against yours as he lets his hands slide to the back of your thighs, closing any distance left between your bodies.
“I—you…fuck” Jake gasps between kisses like the feeling of his mouth can communicate better than any words.
Jake pulls you closer. His thick bulge ached behind the zipper of his jeans. You gasp he lets his soft lips drag across your jawline. His hips grinding up into yours. The friction of your soaked panties against the denim of his jeans pulls another moan from you.
With no hesitation, his hands slide the hem of your dress pushing it up so it pools at your waist.
“Holy fuck…” Jake whispers as he pulls away from your skin to look between your bodies. His fingertips brush against your wet panties, thinner than the stupid rules you tried to put in place to keep this from happening.
“You like…soaked,” Jake says, his voice deep with want as he pulls the damp fabric to the side. His fingers run through your folds, your cheeks burning with heat. Too far gone to care.
“Kissing the way you do has that effect on me…” You confess, voice barely loud enough for Jake himself to hear.
Jake curses again, drawn out and deep as he plunges a finger into your aching hole. You grip the back of the couch tightly in an attempt to keep yourself from slamming back down onto his hand.
You pant as he shoves another finger in deep with ease, your slick dripping down his hand to his wrist as he finger fucks you. How mouth agape, parted with awe.
Your fingertips dig harder into the edge of the leather couch as he finds your clit, circling it with a maddening pace as you moan straight into his ear.
“Fuck Jake…” you whimper as you ride his fingers, shame completely thrown out the window as the wet sounds echo off the walls.
Your thighs are scorching as you grind into him more, knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of him.
“These are in my fucking way…” Jake whispers. His voice is husky as he helps pull your drenched panties down before pulling you back onto his lap.
Jake moans as his hand rubs your pussy through the folds, slick, wet, hot. His hips shuddered, his bulge twitching, aching to be freed from his jeans.
You reach down between the mess of your bodies to pull the zipper. Your bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you push down the fabric of his jeans and boxers, just enough to free his aching cock.
Jake let’s put a moan of satisfaction, throwing his head against the couch as you stroke him. His hips fighting not to buck up into your hand.
Jake is huge, his tip swollen and leaking from leaving a damp spot on his jeans.
“Jake you're huge…” You gasp, your hand looks tiny as it wraps around his cock.
“You can take it. I know you can.” Jake says, his eyes full of desire as he looks down at you. The scent of sex already filling the air, his fingertips still sticky from playing with your pussy.
You grind down onto him, bare skin on skin as Jake helps to keep your dress out of the way. Pussy lips dragging against the outside of his cock. The slick friction is erotic, the sounds of deep moans falling from both of you.
You line yourself up with him. His large tip notching in your glistening hole. The stretch is already making your brows furrow.
Jake guides you like second nature. Gently holding your ass to support you on his lap.
“Taking me so well already. Fuck you’re gorgeous like this.” Jake praises as he helps guide you down onto his cock.
The stretch burns—but it’s quickly replaced by pleasure as he slides into you, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl.
Your forehead rests against his as you fully sink onto him with a deep groan of satisfaction. Jake groans, his moans growing deeper and more erotic.
“So much Jake—so full…” You wince as you start to slide up and down his thick length. The wetness is smoothing your ride.
Your hands slide from the back of the couch to his shirt. You grip it tight trying to find a good rhythm.
“That’s it...that’s what I like to see. Good fucking girl.” Jake praises, with a soft smack to your ass before sliding to your hips to help guide you up and down. The slick sound of him entering you and the slap of skin on skin fills the room.
You smirk at his praise. Riding him faster, harder, the feeling sends pleasure waves throughout your entire body. He’s so deep, it’s making your vision blur.
The swollen tip of his cock kisses your cervix with every slam down onto his lap. The sound of heavy panting fills the space between you.
Your thighs burn from the effort, pussy clenching around him as he thrusts his hips up off the couch to meet you in time with your thrusts.
“Fuck…fuck…so fucking deep baby..not gonna be able to pull out—shit,” Jake mumbles as his lips messily find your own. Breath shaking between each messy, uncoordinated kiss.
Jake watches you ride him through his dark bangs. He’s completely lost in the sight of your tits bouncing in that dress, the way you pull on him with every move.
“Look how you fit…fuck you’re made for me. No one else can take all this fucking cock baby.” Jake caresses. His hands are still guiding your hips. His cock twitching inside your warm walls.
“Shit…Jake…I’m—gonna fuck—“ you gasp, moans tearing through your throat between words.
“Gonna cum baby? Want you to cum all over my cock? Squeeze me good, I fucking need it..” Jake grunts, his fingertips digging into you hard. His breath is shaky as he twitches inside your heat.
His hand slides between the mess of fluids between your bodies, sweat and arousal. His fingertips brush across your sensitive clit. Rubbing small circles, helping to push you over the edge.
“Jake I'm gonna fucking cum..gonna cum in your lap Jake...” you whimper desperately, your thighs burning, stomach scorching even more as he pushes you over the edge. You moan into his shoulder as the feeling of release fills your body. Wave after wave of arousal coats his lap and soaks his jeans.
“Oh my god…Holy fucking shit…Holy—“ Jake mumbles as he watches you fall apart. He’s never seen you come this hard, never felt you come this hard.
Jake rocks into you, everything slippery, and hot as he picks up the pace. You clench him tighter as you ride out the rest of your release.
“Cum inside me Jake…please Jake,” you beg through glassy eyes. The last thing you want is for him to pull out, to lose the pleasure and warmth.
“God…” Jake whispers under his breath as he spills into you. Hips rocking underneath you as he paints your insides with his hot release.
Soft moans fall from his lips as the pleasure tears through him, filling you up in the best way possible.
You lie limp on top of him, his body going boneless under you as you cling to each other completely breathless and out of words.
The only sound that fills the room is your breathing mixed with his. The TV paused from inactivity. The soft sound of the dishwasher in the kitchen starts to bring you back to reality.
Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say, a filthy mess between you.
“I think we only have one more rule to break” Jake whispers, his voice like a knife cutting through the silence.
You glance at him trying to read his expression. His cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy. His dark hair sticks to his forehead from the sweat, his shirt clinging to his body.
kate's note: Thank you guys for reading! I wanted to try something different this week and write something a little filthy and short since my fics usually run on pretty long! I'm so weak for campus Jake I could literally write about it forever. Also Bed Chem is and will always be a Jake song for me.
SUMMARY. summer, 1983. you work at reeltime video, alphabetize tapes, and fall in love with stories too big for your small town. park sunghoon, campus heartthrob with a members only jacket and a habit of returning late tapes, is the last person you'd expect to work the summer shift beside you. but then he does. and one thursday, he climbs through your window.
CONTENT. slowburn, virgin!reader, experienced!sunghoon, first time sex, praise kink, mutual pining, falling in love over summer, 1980s nostalgia, video store setting, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, window climbing scene, rom-com tropes, soft smut, emotional climax, sunghoon in love and desperate, mentions of reader’s first time, safe but descriptive intimacy, lots of feelings
WORD COUNT. 7,890
FROM ALANINE. thank you so much for waiting! <3 this is the product of my steve harrington brainrot all because sunghoon’s english name is steve. lmao
MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.
Week One, Summer, 1983.
People had a lot of dreams when they were younger.
There were loud ones: become an astronaut. Win an Oscar. Move to New York. Share a kiss or two with their partner as they walk in the City of Love.
And there were quiet ones: learn to play the guitar. Own a dog. Kiss someone in the rain. Feel seen.
You never really knew where you were. You thought that maybe you’re in the middle ground, somewhere in between the loud and the quiet dreams.
You’ve always wanted to become a filmmaker.
At the age of four, while most of the children your age clutched toy cars or dolls and played pretend, you sat wide-eyed in the living room thinking about how colors blended like watercolors while watching The Sound of Music. You didn’t understand the story then, but you understood awe.
It was then when you said you wanted the blooming feeling in your chest to be what you felt everyday.
At the age of sixteen, your heart soured for John Travolta in Grease. Not because he was perfect, but because he danced like he meant it and wore heartbreak like a leather jacket. You rewound the tape more times than you could count, just to watch Sandy’s transformation. You liked that love could be theatrical. Big. Loud. And a world full of music.
Still, most days, you were small. You watched people the way you watched your movies.
You worked at ReelTime Video not because it paid well, but because it felt like it was the closest thing to your dream: shelves lined with stories, whole worlds trapped in plastic cases. You looked after each day, not minding you were working during summer, because you got to smell old film sleeves, listen to the soft whir of rewinding tapes, observed the way people wandered the aisles like they were searching for something more than a movie.
And then he walked in.
Park Sunghoon.
Campus heartthrob. Ice hockey team captain. Meticulously known for his Ray-Bans, his Members Only jacket, and the trail of girls who giggled whenever he passed by. His hair was swept up the same way John Travolta had it – that easy, voluminous coif with a single curled strand falling just so against his forehead, like it was placed there by a stylist, not sweat and effort.
He wasn’t the kind of boy who borrowed films from a small-town rental shop. But he came. Every week. A different girl on his arm each time. Sometimes they chewed gum loudly, leaning into him. Sometimes, they twirled his car keys like they were the ones driving. He never returned the tapes on time, though. He always owed a late fee, and he never apologised. And still, he got away with it, because he smiled like a boy who never needed to ask for forgiveness.
The first time you saw him walk in, you nearly dropped the E.T. VHS you were reshelving. Not because he was beautiful – well, he is gorgeous, but that wasn’t the point.
It was because he didn’t belong in your world. He was Top Gun, all American swagger and golden-boy confidence. You were Cinema Paradiso, quiet and tucked behind the reels, watching people fall in love with stories that weren’t theirs.
Still, maybe it was the contrast that made you notice him more. Or maybe it was the way he barely looked at the movies, just gestured toward whatever his date picked, only to drift toward the horror section alone, hands in his pockets, humming something you couldn’t hear.
You told yourself not to care. You weren’t like the girls on his arm. You never walk around with poofy, curly hair with dangling hoop earrings (you tried doing it once). You were the girl behind the counter who sorted VHS tapes by genre and alphabetised the Star Wars trilogy twice a week. You were practical. Not necessarily bright. You had things to do, movies to make, dreams to follow.
Still, you found yourself looking forward to the bell above the door jingling each Friday night. Even when you knew he wouldn’t look at you. And when he did, he mispronounced your name each time, regardless of whether you have your name plate plastered on your chest as if it were a badge on your vest.
You usually dreaded Thursdays.
It’s the day that feels like a buffer more than Wednesdays. It’s usually the limbo of doing something and doing nothing. You were currently sitting behind the counter, sipping on your watered down strawberry milkshake when the door chimes again, quieter than usual.
You think it’s just another customer who comes to check what you have on display, because you shuffle the options every Thursday, so people could beeline to it on a Friday afternoon and rent the films.
You’ve just finished bending over the drama section, re-slotting Kramer vs. Kramer on a milk-grass gray sky with the hum of the fan behind the counter and the overwhelming pressure of the stack of tapes that need re-shelving.
The strawberry milkshake tasted so sweet as you neared the bottom of the cup, and it was when you were busying yourself with trying to suck in the strawberry bits when you heard it: the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps that stop too quickly, too awkwardly. You glance up, squinting through the narrow gap between the shelves.
And you freeze.
You even had to check the calendar by your desk to check whether today was a Friday, because Park Sunghoon is standing before you, wearing a navy blue vest that coincidentally matched yours. And when you racked your gaze down, there was the embroidered ReelTime patch stitched crookedly above the left chest.
Then, you blink.
He looks annoyed. Not cocky, not smug. He looks gutted.
You waited for the usual smirk, the quip, the mispronunciation of your name when he met your gaze.
But instead, he groans.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Please don’t tell me I’m working with you.”
You blink again. You stare a second longer, as if squinting might make the image disappear. No such luck.
“I… don’t think I’m mentally equipped for this,” you say flatly, straw still in between your lips.
He gestures at you, “That makes two of us.”
You slide your milkshake away like it might combust in your hands.
“Why are you here?” you ask, slowly standing up, “Did you get lost looking for your reflection or something?”
“Did they hire you for your customer service?” He deadpans, shooting you a look.
You open your mouth to retort, but then the bell above the door chimes again.
Two sharply dressed adults step in, and the temperature drops ten degrees. His parents. You know this without being introduced. The posture, the judgment, the expensive perfume that doesn’t suit the musty, tape-sleeved air of ReelTime.
You step out from behind the counter, clutching the corners of your vest like a shield.
“Miss Y/N?” the man says, voice precise, smooth, like it’s been filed down to a razor edge, “Mr and Mrs Park. We spoke briefly on the phone.”
“I think you spoke to my manager, actually,” you squirmed.
“Well, she said you’re one of the store’s most efficient hires,” Mrs Park chimes in with a rehearsed smile, “And we’re hoping you can help Sunghoon adjust to this…environment.”
”Environment?”
”This store,” Mr Park says, “We’ve arranged for Sunghoon to work here until school resumes. A bit of structure. Accountability. You know that.”
Your gaze drifts to Sunghoon, who looks like he’d rather chew glass than be standing here.
”And you want me to…”
”Keep an eye on him,” Mrs Park answers, too quickly. “Make sure he shows up on time. Stays out of trouble. Make sure he learns the value of responsibility.”
”I don’t need a babysitter,” Sunghoon grits out, throwing you a pointed look.
”But you sure act like you do,” you mutter. His eyes narrow at you.
Mrs Park clasps her hands together, “This is going to be such a wonderful experience, sweetie,” she says as she looks at Sunghoon. And you look at Sunghoon again. Vest wrinkled. Arms crossed. Standing beside a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia.
Yeah, you’ll be needing another milkshake.
Week Two.
Sunghoon was still annoying.
Still insufferable. Still looked like he belonged in a Levi’s commercial instead of a two-bit video rental store that smelled like plastic wrap and cherry lollipops. Still insufferable. Still wore his Members Only jacket like it was part of his soul. Still hated clocking in at exactly 2:00 PM every Thursday and Saturday.
But there were small things you noticed now.
Like how he always adjusted his watch when he passed the “Staff Picks” shelf. Like how he sighed every time he lifted the VHS flap to check if a tape is rewound, only to mutter, “People are the worst.”
And how, without fail, he hummed Footloose under his breath while reshelving tapes. Always Footloose. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes offbeat, sometimes too loud. Sometimes just the chorus, or “kick off your Sunday shoes,” on repeat like a vinyl is stuck in his head.
“Do you even like that movie?” you’d asked once.
”Never seen it,” he replied flatly, then whistled it again two minutes later.
Sunghoon still rolled his eyes when customers asked questions. Still leaned against the counter with a dramatic groan like the mere idea of alphabetising rom-coms would kill him. Still called out, “Your boyfriend’s back!” every time someone in a varsity jacket walked in.
But he still showed up. He worked, albeit not enthusiastically, but still, he worked.
Sort of.
Still, that day, like most, passed in the lazy predictable rhythm of summer. Dust motes floated. The fan above the counter spun. Your strawberry milkshake that varied in sweetness each day melted too quickly.
You were halfway through sorting returns when the bell chimed. A delivery guy walked in, carting a box labeled in thick black marker: REELTIME VIDEO – SUMMER SHIPMENT.
A gasp like someone proposed to you rang in Sunghoon’s ears, “Someone get engaged?” He asked, not even looking up.
“Summer shipment,” you whispered, darting from behind the counter like you were in a scene from Chariots of Fire, “It’s finally here!”
”Wow,” he said flatly, “Can’t wait.”
You didn’t even hear the sarcasm.
You opened the box like it was sacred scripture, “WarGames,” you breathed, “Scarface, The King of Comedy. Flashdance! Risky Business! Oh, my god, Valley Girl!”
“I feel like I should care,” Sunghoon says as he stretches after tossing Rambo into the action shelf without looking, “But it’s hard when you’re naming titles like they’re your kids.”
”They’re better than kids,” you said, holding up Flashdance to the light like a relic, “They don’t cry, and they don’t ruin your career.”
He snorted at that. A quiet, surprised kind of laugh. You didn’t look up, too enamored with glossy tape spines and crinkled plastic.
”You’ve been waiting for that leg warmer movie, huh?” He asks, peering over your shoulder, finally curious.
”It’s Flashdance,” you deadpan, “It’s about passion. Dreaming. Being told no and doing it anyway. It’s the most alive a film’s ever felt.”
He leaned against the counter, “Is it the dancing that gets you?”
You gave him a look, “It’s everything. The grit, the sweat. She’s a welder by day and a dancer by night. She gets rejected and still dances her way to that audition like the stage was made for her.”
Sunghoon hummed, “So, you like underdogs.”
You opened your mouth to correct him, but realised he was right, anyway, “Maybe.”
He watched you with that unreadable look again, the one you were starting to realize wasn’t disinterest. It was the look of someone watching something they didn’t quite know how to name.
“You always this weird about movies?” he asked.
“I’m not weird. I’m passionate.”
“Tomato, tomato.”
You stuck your tongue out at him and went back to cataloguing.
He didn’t go back to Footloose this time.
Not yet.
He just stood there, watching you carefully stack your sacred films, his fingers drumming against the counter, just listening.
And something about that silence felt less like boredom and more like paying attention.
Week Three.
It was Tuesday. Sunghoon didn’t work Tuesdays.
You’d already counted the till, re-shelved Fame for the fourth time, and were halfway through a rewatch of Before Midnight Strikes on the tiny TV behind the counter. Summer heat clung to your skin like a second shirt. The fan buzzed overhead, spinning warm air in lazy circles.
You weren’t expecting the bell to chime.
So, when it did, you looked up out of instinct, not excitement.
And there he was.
Sunghoon, in his usual cream polo and khakis, Members Only jacket slung over his shoulder, Ray-Bans tucked in his collar. No shift vest. No clipboard. No pencil on his ear. Just him, standing there awkwardly, one foot halfway still out the door like he hadn’t made up his mind about being here.
In one hand: a greasy brown paper bag. In the other: a pink plastic cup with a striped paper straw poking through the lid.
You blinked, “Has there been a change in schedule?”
He gave a shrug that didn’t match the way his ears turned the faintest shade of pink.
”Relax,” he said, walking toward the counter, “I just passed by the corndog stall around the corner. Got hungry.”
You raised a brow, “So you bought two corndogs?”
He faltered for just a second before holding the bag out to you.
”I thought maybe you forgot lunch again,” he muttered, “And, I don’t know, you’re always drinking that strawberry sludge.”
Your eyes dropped to the milkshake in his other hand. Condensation trailed down the sides like it had just left the freezer. It was your favorite milkshake place. Moore Milk, please! It even had the striped straw that you had to fish out from the strawholder because you wanted the straw to match the drink.
Moore Milk, please! is a whole street away from ReelTime, and three blocks away from the nearest corndog stall. And instead of opening your mouth, you kept it shut. Cheeks tainted a faint pink.
So, he filled the silence, in the way he always did when words made him uncomfortable, “Look, it’s not a big deal, I just –“ he broke off, setting the drink down in front of you without meeting your eyes, “–I was hungry. That’s all.”
You stared at the milkshake. Then at him.
His hair was mussed from the sun. His shirt had a slight wrinkle on one shoulder. He hadn’t shaved, and you could see the faint beginnings of stubble on his jaw. He looked like someone trying not to look like he cared.
You took the corndog gently, fingers brushing his, “Thanks,” you said, voice quieter than usual.
“I didn’t poison it,” he said.
”I know.”
You sat back down behind the counter, taking a tentative sip of the milkshake.
It was cold. Perfect. Your heart twisted. Sunghoon lingered, watching you sip, then fidgeted like he was about to turn back toward the door. But before he could leave, you said, “Do you want to help me sort the new horror titles?”
He paused. Looked at you.
“You’ll let me mess with your sacred alphabetizing system?”
“Temporarily.”
He smirked, “I’m in.”
And just like that, something softened. Not all at once. But it was enough. Enough to know he didn’t just pass by the stall. Enough to know he remembered.
Week Seven.
There was something between you and Sunghoon.
You never talked about it, never touched it, never named it aloud. But it existed.
It existed in the way he handed you your strawberry milkshake in all of your shifts. Surprising you with a different flavor every Wednesday for variety. Sometimes, it’s chocolate, sometimes, it’s banana. Sometimes, Sunghoon argues the banana split is the best because it’s all flavors in one.
It also existed in the way your fingers brushed while re-shelving The Breakfast Club, and neither of you moved. In the way he watched your lips move more than the screen during each post-shift movie night every Friday. It existed in the way he leaned back a little further on the beanbag, spreading his legs wide enough for your knee to bump his, then didn’t move when it did.
Nothing had happened. But something had almost happened, enough to shift the gravity a little when he walked into the room you’re in.
It started with a broom.
You were sweeping near the front counter, music drifting from the tiny stereo wedged behind the register. The usual mellow summer tape you’d made of OSTs and hits from rented movies. Sunghoon was half-heartedly dusting the shelves, mostly poking at cobwebs and muttering about how rental stores were doomed once someone figured out how to play movies from home.
You twirled the broom like a mic stand, turned to him dramatically, and started belting out Hopelessly Devoted To You with exaggerated hand gestures. Sunghoon stared, then scoffed. Then, in the most unexpected twist, grabbed the mop and joined you.
”Great,” he said, feigning dread, “We’ve officially lost it.”
You gave him your best power ballad eyes, and he rolled his. And just like that, the two of you were sweeping and lip-syncing like it was your last night on earth, brooms-turned-microphones, exaggerated spins, mock drums and guitars. It was stupid. And fun. And so very you.
Then the tape shifted, the soft synths of Take My Breath Away began to play.
Sunghoon blinked at you from across the room, mop held upright between his hands like he forgot he was holding it.
Something in the air has changed.
You laughed nervously, half-turning away, but then you heard the slow drag of footsteps. When you looked again, Sunghoon was walking toward you, a half-smile tugging at his lips, not teasing, not smug.
Just soft.
He offered a hand.
”Dance with me,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal.
You hesitated, “What, right now?”
”Well,” he gestured around the empty store, “I don’t see anyone else.”
You laughed again, but it came out shaky. Still, you placed your hand in his. And under flickering fluorescent lights, with old tapes watching from the shelves and the air faintly smelling of dust and lemon cleaner, you danced.
Not well. Not smoothly.
But real.
He rested his hands on your waist like he’d done it before. You looped your arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your bodies swayed, your heart pounded, and for a moment, one fragile, fluttering moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded into grainy static.
His forehead nearly brushed yours.
You wondered if he was going to kiss you. You think he almost did.
But then the track changed. And like all almosts, the moment passed.
The gravity shifted after that, until now.
It’s Friday afternoon.
Sunghoon is already out front, manning the register. You’re at the back of the store on a stepstool, reorganising the top row of the Action shelf and untangling an old promotion sign. You can’t see much, not with the shelves dividing the store, but you can hear the bell chime faintly. Then, loud, boisterous voices that don’t belong here.
”Yo, Sunghoon! No freaking way, man. This where you’ve been hiding?”
You pause, grip stilling on the corner of a Lethal Weapon tape.
”Dude, seriously,” another laughs, “You’re working here now? That’s hilarious.”
Sunghoon exhales, “What are you guys doing here?”
”Picking up a horror movie for Soojin. Remember her? Back in town for the weekend. You knew that, right?”
You freeze.
Then a sarcastic, “‘Course he knew. Probably the first to know.”
Your fingers tighten on the shelf as the first guy cackles, “Man, what even happened to you? You used to be the guy. Now, you’re pushing tapes and punching timecards. No girls, no parties. You parents really put you on a leash, huh?”
”She dumped him,” the other says, matter-of-fact, “Finals week. And boom: grades dropped, Coach lost it, now he’s stuck here. This is, what? A redemption arc?”
”Shut up,” Sunghoon mutters.
”No, for real, though. What was her name again? That chick you work with. Kind of cute in a…weird way?”
You feel your stomach twist.
“Don’t.” Sunghoon says sharply.
”Ooh, touchy. Is she your little VHS rebound?”
You don’t wait for Sunghoon’s reply.
You slip off the stepstool. You press your back against the shelf, quietly inhaling, blinking away the sting behind your eyes.
Whatever he was going to say, if it was ever meant to defend you, it wouldn’t matter. You knew you weren’t part of his world. You were just the convenience, the detour, the fixer-upper project until Soojin came back.
You pull yourself together. Smooth your expression like a tape cover. And when you step out from the back, you act like you didn’t hear a thing.
Week Ten.
It happens on a Wednesday.
You’re behind the counter, giggling with half a burger in your hand and mustard at the corner of your mouth.
Sunghoon’s sitting on the floor of the employee side of the counter, one leg stretched out and lazy, the other bent as he picks fries from the paper bag like he’s selecting jewelry.
You’d caved and let him convince you to try that greasy burger joint down the street after a full week of him whining about how “you can’t judge a burger till it’s falling apart in your hands, Y/N.”
The fries are too salty. The cola is flat. The burger’s a little soggy.
And it’s perfect.
Sunghoon’s grinning at you like you said something funny, or maybe he’s just laughing at the mustard on your face. And for a second, the store feels like your own tiny, flickering universe.
And then the bell over the door rings.
You glance up. You don’t recognise her at first.
She’s standing in the entryway like she stepped off the set of Heathers. Hair glossy and curled, cardigan folded neatly over her shoulders, high-waisted skirt pressed flat without a wrinkle. Not an ounce of sweat on her despite the summer heat.
Her eyes sweep the shop. They land on you first, then him.
You feel it in the air when she recognises him.
”Sunghoon?” she says, a little breathless.
He turns his head, still chewing, mid-fry, then pauses, “Soojin?”
You blink.
That’s Soojin?
The Soojin? the one his friends mentioned with lowered voices and locker room guilt? The reason his grades plummeted and his parties peaked?
”Oh,” she says, blinking fast before offering a polite smile, “I didn’t know you were working here now.”
Sunghoon stands, brushing crumbs off his vest, the same ReelTime navy as yours, “Yeah, long story.”
And now she’s looking at you. She doesn’t smile, not quite. But she does tilt her head just enough for it to feel like a judgment.
You wipe your fingers on a napkin, suddenly all too aware of your frizzy hair and ketchup-stained uniform, “Hi, I’m Y/N,” offering your name, too fast.
She repeats it back. Perfectly.
”I didn’t know Sunghoon had coworkers,” Soojin says, still smiling.
”She’s the best one here,” Sunghoon mutters beside you, still chewing on the last fry. And you look up at him, startled. He doesn’t meet your eyes.
”I was just passing by,” Soojin says, “Thought I’d check in. You weren’t answering my calls.”
”Well, I’ve been busy,” he shrugs.
Soojin nods, gaze dropping to the food wrappers. Then the way you’re both sitting too close. Then the way your straw is in his cup, “Oh,” she says, “Well, I should go.”
”You sure?” you offer, too quickly, too brightly, “You can stay a while! Hang out with us! The fries are the only ones left from mine. We already ate our burgers. I can order from the place and have you both catch up?
Soojin blinks, “Oh, that’s… okay.”
Sunghoon’s watching you now. Not her. You feel it.
But you kept going.
”It’s sweet you dropped by,” you say, “Honestly, you two would look good together. Still do, I guess.”
His brow furrows.
You ignore it.
”Anyway, he’s here around most days, you know where to find him.”
Soojin leaves soon after. You return to your seat, pretend your burger hasn’t gone cold. Sunghoon doesn’t sit again. Instead, he tosses his last fry into the trash and says nothing.
The thing is, you meant to move on quietly.
Like a soft fade to black – no fuss, no sound, no lingering close-ups.
You weren’t supposed to bring Soojin up in conversation like she was the solution to Sunghoon’s loneliness. You weren’t supposed to smile while doing it either. But deflection’s a hell of a drug.
”She still likes you, you know,” you say too cheerfully one afternoon, arms crossed behind the counter at ReelTime as you watch Sunghoon restock tapes with half a brain cell, “Soojin.”
Sunghoon doesn’t even look up, “Yeah?”
”Yeah,” you hum, reaching for the tape gun beside the register, “She’s come in three times this week. Didn’t even check the horror section, which I know she likes. Just hovered around the rom-com aisle until you showed up.”
”Hmm,”
You frown, “You’re not flattered?”
Sunghoon sighs through his nose and mutters something about “You’re weird,” before shoving Risky Business back onto the shelf a little too hard.
Over the next few days, you commit to the bit.
You recommend movies Soojin might like. Tell Sunghoon he and Soojin “look good in the same frame.” Point out something new in Soojin’s look and nudge Sunghoon’s side at the same time and ask him if he thinks she’s gone prettier.
Sunghoon becomes quieter every time.
More offbeat. More detached.
At one point, you say, “You still talk to her more than me these days.”
He snaps. “That’s because you keep pushing her into my arms like it’s a goddamn school play.”
You freeze.
But instead of confronting that truth, you deflect again. Shrug.
“She likes you, Sunghoon. I’m just trying to help.”
He doesn’t reply.
He just walks away, tossing a tape onto the return bin with a little too much force.
It’s past closing when Soojin finally leaves.
She lingers by the counter for a moment too long, smiling sweetly at you, eyes flicking to Sunghoon in the back who’s restocking tapes like they haven’t been talking for the past thirty minutes.
”I’ll call you,” she says to him, casual. “If you’re free, Saturday.”
He nods, distracted, not even looking up.
And then she’s gone. The bell above the door jingles, and silence falls like a dropped reel.
You start to clean up. Avoid his eyes. Focus on the register drawer like it’s full of gold. You sense him still standing in the same spot. Unmoving. Like the silence is louder than he can bear.
“You done playing cupid?”
His voice slices through the quiet.
You flinch, fingers stiff on the edge of the drawer.
“I was just helping.”
“Bullshit.”
You turn slowly. He’s standing by the horror shelf now, arms crossed, brows pulled together in that way he gets when he’s trying not to yell.
“Sunghoon –”
“Why are you doing this?” he asks, “Why do you keep pushing her at me?”
You shrug, trying to smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes, “You guys were good together.”
His expression hardens. “That’s not an answer.”
You start organizing receipts. Anything to keep your hands busy. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to stop acting like we’re not –” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “Like something didn’t happen.”
Your heart stutters. “Nothing happened.”
His eyes snap to you. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Lie.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. His voice is hoarse now. Raw.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been acting?” he says, voice lower now. “You won’t meet my eyes. You swapped shifts. You barely talk to me unless it’s about her.”
“You should be with someone like her,” you blurt out. “She’s – she’s pretty, and perfect, and you dated before –”
“I don’t want someone like her!” His voice breaks on the last word. “I thought you knew that.”
You stare.
And then you say it. Quiet. Trembling. Cruel in how much you mean it.
“I was just your rebound, wasn’t I?”
The silence is brutal.
Sunghoon shakes his head like he’s been slapped, “You think I’d waste this much time being around you if you were just that?”
“You needed to get back on track. Get serious. Your parents asked me to look after you, remember?” You try to laugh, but it wobbles, “Maybe that’s all I ever was. Someone to keep you stable until you got your girl back.”
“You think that’s all this was?” he asks, incredulous.
You don’t answer.
He walks toward you, stopping a foot away. His voice drops, “Do you even see what you’re doing?”
“I’m doing what you’re too scared to do,” you whisper.
Sunghoon’s eyes flash, “Which is what?”
“Choosing someone who makes sense.”
That shuts him up.
You’re breathing too hard. You can feel your pulse behind your ribs.
But he doesn’t say anything else. Not a single word.
So you gather your things. Your tote bag, your walkman, your silence.
You don’t look back when you walk out the door.
You don’t see how he runs a hand through his hair and stares at the register like he wants to throw it across the room. You don’t see how he stays behind long after your shift, just… stuck there, under the sick buzz of fluorescent lights, with too many things left unsaid.
He doesn’t walk you home.
Week Twelve.
You scoff when you hear Take My Breath Away play in your walkman. You’ve plugged your earphones in while you were scanning different College brochures on your desk, desperate to get out of this town and finally away from everything.
It’s the last week of Summer.
Which means, it’s the last week of avoiding close proximity with Park Sunghoon. Last week of glossing over his name when someone mentions ReelTime. The last week of pretending you didn’t start falling for the boy who hummed Footloose under his breath and brought you milkshakes just because.
You tear your gaze from a brochure of NYU and look at the clock. It’s well past 10 PM. The house is quiet, and you know your parents have gone to bed. You wish you could say the same for your thoughts.
Lately, they’ve been louder than ever.
You tell yourself this is better. That all you did was reset the distance that should’ve been there in the first place. That he was always meant to go back to his world: varsity jackets, old money, perfect girls with perfect hair – and you were meant to stay in yours.
Still, when the tape clicks and rewinds, you don’t press play again. You stare out the window instead.
And that’s when you hear it.
A faint tap. Then another. Like pebbles. You narrow your eyes and push the curtains aside. And you nearly choke.
Because Park Sunghoon – almost six feet of campus golden boy in a hoodie and wind-tousled hair – is clumsily scaling the trellis outside your window. One sneakered foot slips before he catches it again with a hiss, “Shit.”
But it isn’t just that he’s climbing.
It’s the way he looks – rumpled, raw, real.
His hair is down. Ungelled, unstyled, unruly. Not swept up the way he usually wore it, that John Travolta coif you always secretly admired. Instead, it falls naturally over his forehead, soft and wild, like he didn’t even check the mirror before rushing over.
And you can’t lie, it does something to you.
You fling the window open, “What the hell are you doing?!”
”I’ve been calling for days,” he pants, gripping the ledge, “Your mom is terrifying.”
”You’re going to fall and break your stupid legs –“
”Well, it’s too late to back out now, is it?”
And then he hoists himself over, lands with a thud on your carpet, and straightens up with all the grace of a boy who’s desperate, messy, and in love.
You step back.
He’s never looked less like the Park Sunghoon who walked into ReelTime on week one. And never more like someone you could actually lose your heart to.
”You’re insane. My parents are downstairs –“
”You think I didn’t consider that?”
”Why are you here?”
”To break my legs, probably.”
”Sunghoon, you shouldn’t be here.”
”I know.”
”My parents could kill you.”
”I know that, too.”
”So why are you here?”
And he looks at you, really, really looks at you.
The kind of look that strips you bare, pulls all the air out of your lungs, and replaces it with something heavier. His voice is lower now, steady in the way it always is when he’s saying something that might hurt.
“Because you were so convinced that I would pick Soojin over you.”
Your throat tightens.
”Y/N,” he says, like it aches to speak your name, “You’re not – Jesus, you’re not some detour.”
You try to look away, but his voice tethers you in place.
“You’re not just some summer phase I’m using to bounce back. You’re not the girl behind the counter who alphabetises tapes and gets left behind when the year restarts.”
You whisper, “You don’t know that.”
”I do,” he says, stepping forward, closing the gap, “Because I was supposed to go back. To parties, to old habits. But then you happened, and it stopped being fun to pretend.”
Your heart clenches, “Sunghoon –“
”You kept trying to push me back to her. And I kept letting you even if it was against my will. Because I thought maybe that’s what you wanted. I thought maybe you didn’t see me like I saw you.”
”I do,” you whisper, “I just didn’t want to be the girl someone settled for after everything else didn’t work out.”
”You’re not,” his voice breaks on the words, “you’re the girl I fell in love with without even realising it.”
The words hang in the air like static: thick, heavy, electric.
Your mouth parts slightly, but nothing comes out. The room is too full of what he just said. Of everything he’s trying to mean.
He presses on, voice hoarse, as if if he stops now, he might not say it at all.
“I didn’t want to,” he admits, a breathless, broken laugh escaping his lips. “God, you were so annoying. You alphabetized everything. You had a favorite genre, for Christ’s sake. You wouldn’t shut up about Bette Davis monologues. You made me try milkshake flavors I didn’t even know existed when all I used to run on was beer and Gatorade.”
He exhales. His eyes are glassy under the pale yellow light of your bedside lamp, but they never once leave yours.
“But you also—”
He swallows.
“You also made me look forward to every fucking Thursday.”
The way he says it — like a confession, like a goddamn prayer — nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs.
And suddenly it’s too much. The weight of it all presses against your ribs, spills into your fingertips. All the quiet Thursday nights, all the awkward shared glances over worn VHS cases, all the strawberry milkshakes and alphabetized aisles, all the waiting. All the almosts.
You take a sharp inhale.
And your voice, when it comes, is just a breath, shaken and soft, like the beginning of something too big to name.
“Park Sunghoon…” you begin, barely holding yourself together, “…there are still so many films I want to watch with you.”
“Not just on Thursdays. Not just after shifts, or during summer. Every day. Every stupid day of the week. Morning, noon, and night. I want to watch every movie with you; the good, the bad, the cheesy ones that make us groan, the ones you hate but pretend to like because I love them.”
His breath catches.
You reach for him slowly, like you’re afraid this is still a dream, and rest your palm against his chest. His heart is beating like a drum.
“I want to make time stop in the middle of a scene because we’re laughing too hard,” you whisper, “I want to fight over who gets to rewind. I want to sit with you in quiet, sunlit rooms with nothing but stories playing between us.”
You smile again, watery but certain.
“I want my forever to start at the end of a movie we never finished.”
And that’s all it takes.
Sunghoon kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every word he never said, for every late tape and every moment he pretended you were just the girl behind the counter. His hands hold you like you’re precious. Like he’s terrified you’ll slip through his fingers if he moves too fast.
You kiss him back with everything you’ve got all the ache, all the yearning, all the love that bloomed quietly on slow Thursdays and bloomed louder every day since.
And to you, it feels like the movies. But not the dramatic, perfectly choreographed kind.
No, it’s more like Cinema Paradiso: nostalgic and aching, sweet with something too big to name. Like the kind of kiss you rewind just to feel again. A kiss that feels like a promise and a farewell all at once.
It’s the kind of kiss that belongs in a scene you’d always watched from behind the counter. The kind of kiss you thought was just acting. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like music swelling beneath dialogue. Like Maria running across a field in West Side Story. Like Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face when the Eiffel Tower lights up. Like Molly’s hands over Sam’s in Ghost, quiet and grieving and impossibly full.
It’s the kiss that changes the plot.
And when his hands hold your face like he’s afraid he’ll wake up from this, you realize something: You are the girl. The girl in the movies. The girl he chose. The girl he’s kissing like the credits haven’t even started yet.
Sunghoon kisses you like he’s been meaning to for weeks. Not like a boy kissing a girl, but like a man finally finding something that makes him believe in softness again. Like he’s spent the whole summer terrified of shattering you.
His lips move slowly against yours, once, then again, deeper, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your mouth. You feel his hand skim the edge of your jaw, the pad of his thumb grazing your cheek like he’s checking if this is real; and your hands slide into his hair – it’s still down, mussed and ungelled, nothing like the cool boy who strutted into ReelTime on Week One.
Gone is the boy with Ray-Bans and swagger. In his place is someone real. Someone who showed up. Someone who stayed. And somehow, impossibly yours.
The kiss deepens, but never loses its carefulness. There’s no rush to it. No fire threatening to consume. Just a warmth that sinks into your skin, slow and steady, like sunlight on an old filmstrip.
His hands find your waist, pause there. You nod, and that’s all he needs.
You move together like you’re learning. Like you’re figuring out choreography only your bodies know. Your fingers tremble slightly as they work at the buttons of his shirt. He helps, tugging the fabric away, and when it catches on his wrist, you both dissolve into soft laughter.
The lamp casts gold over the curve of his shoulder. You memorize that color.
You sit back on your knees and tug your own shirt off. He looks at you, not with hunger, but with wonder. Like you’re a scene he wants to rewatch a hundred times and still never fully understand.
He reaches for your bra strap with slow fingers. You nod again. It slips down your arms and pools on the sheets, forgotten.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pounce. Just looks.
"You’re beautiful," he says, like it hurts.
Then he leans in and kisses your shoulder, the slope of your neck, the hollow beneath your ear. His lips are soft and deliberate. Your skin feels like it’s been marked with a thousand commas, a story in motion.
And all the while, the music hums on. Take My Breath Away floats like a secret, like a vow.
"Tell me if anything feels off," he whispers, "Please. I mean it."
You nod. But more than that, you reach for him, wordlessly asking him to stay close. You lie back on the bed. He follows. He kisses you again, deeper now, his hands mapping the places between your ribs and hips like he already knows them, like he’s just tracing the familiar.
You fumble with your shorts. He helps. There’s a clumsy tangle of limbs and laughter as he gets caught in your blanket, and you muffle a squeak against his chest. It’s messy. But it’s yours. It’s real.
When you’re bare beneath him, he pauses, "Are you sure?"
You search his eyes. They’re so open, so full of something that can only be called care.
"I’m sure."
His throat bobs, "We can stop. Anytime. I mean it."
You reach up, curl your fingers into his hair, and kiss him. That’s your answer.
Still, when he lines himself against you, he doesn’t push. He waits. He kisses you again, softer, even slower than before. His hands are everywhere but nowhere inappropriate: stroking your jaw, cupping your shoulder, steadying the thrum in your chest.
And then, carefully, he begins to ease in.
You gasp. Not in pain, not in fear. Just surprise. The sheer unfamiliarity. The weight of something new. He freezes, "Breathe," he whispers. "You’re okay. Just breathe."
And you do. You breathe through the strangeness. The burn. The impossibly close sensation. He kisses you through it, murmuring into your skin. His hands never stop moving, never stop checking, steadying. He lets you set the pace.
Your hips tilt. And he moans, soft, muffled against your collarbone.
There’s a rhythm now. A gentle give and take. A story written in touches.
Your room is small, but tonight it feels like the center of the world. You clutch at his shoulder. He pants your name into your neck.
You tighten around him, and he falters, whispering brokenly, "That’s it. Just like that. You’re okay, sweet thing. I got you."
“Fuck, I can’t control my m-moaning, my parents would kill me if they h-heard me,”
He laughs softly before kissing you, and you moan into his lips.
You feel it rise. That golden, breathless tension that thrums between you like the rising swell of a final act. It’s warm and full, not just in your chest, but everywhere. In the way your toes curl into the sheets, in the way your breath stutters beneath his mouth, in the way your body sings with the closeness of him. It coils, slow and insistent, like the crescendo of a score you’ve heard a thousand times but never truly listened to. And when it breaks, it doesn’t shatter.
It melts.
Your world folds inwards. Breath caught in your throat, your eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in something soft and reverent. It steals the air from your lungs and leaves something heavier, something sweeter behind.
And when you fall, you fall like a reel unraveling. Unspooling. Whole.
Sunghoon follows with a quiet, stuttered groan. One that makes your skin erupt in goosebumps; his arms caging you in like he couldn’t bear to let you drift even an inch away. He presses deeper, breath warm on your neck, hips slowing to ride out the aftermath. You feel everything. Every quiver. Every unspoken word. Every thud of his heart where it meets yours.
Then, silence.
But not an empty one.
Just the soft, mechanical hiss of the Walkman spinning over, the gentle rustle of the sheets settling around you like an exhale. The occasional clink of his ring against the metal zipper of your pillowcase. The hush of his breath on your skin.
And then, finally, the quietest thing of all: the way he doesn’t let go.
His arms don’t fall slack. His body doesn’t shift away. Instead, he molds closer, nose brushing your temple, lips leaving feather-light kisses across your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose.
And then, your mouth.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice sandpapered at the edges.
You nod, your cheek brushing his shoulder.
“You?”
He lets out a short laugh, breathless, wrecked, dizzy, and buries his face into the curve of your neck, “I think I saw the gates of heaven.”
You laugh too, the sound escaping you in a hush. You roll slightly, your knees brushing his thigh, one of your hands still tangled in his hair. Your room is dark now, save for the soft glow of your bedside lamp and the faint fuzz of the tape rewinding back into silence. You reach out and brush his hair from his eyes, still a little winded.
“This doesn’t change the way I think about Top Gun, by the way,” you murmur.
“Oh?”
"Maverick’s still my first love."
He groans, flopping onto his back like you’ve wounded him, “Are you serious right now?”
You smile, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, eyes closed, content, "Dead serious. And it doesn’t change the fact that Grease is better than Footloose. Or that you still alphabetize everything wrong."
He snorts. “Okay, that’s just low.”
You continue, grinning now, "And I’m still going to charge you late fees."
Sunghoon shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you again, his expression half-exasperated, half-captivated.
"Anything else, sunshine? Wanna kick me while I’m already love-drunk and naked in your bed?"
You laugh softly. That sleepy kind of laugh that only comes after something real and rare. The kind of laugh that feels like a secret.
And then, quietly, the words you’ve been carrying since that first shared movie shift, since the first time he mispronounced your name, since the first time he handed you a milkshake and asked your opinion:
“Well…” you drawl, playing coy, “I feel like no one could top the story of the male protagonist falling in love with the second lead who hid herself behind the counter of an old film rental store.”
His eyes crinkle with that crooked grin, the one that never fails to melt something inside you, “Said male protagonist is as handsome as I am?”
You purse your lips, pretending to consider, “Let me think about it.”
He scoffs, nudging your hip with his knee beneath the sheets, “Unbelievable.”
But your smile softens. You reach out, tracing a finger down his bare shoulder, memorizing the realness of him. How close he is. How chosen he feels.
“Let’s just say,” you murmur, voice quieter now, more honest, “even if there were a hundred more movies to watch... I’d still pick this one.”
His breath catches.
And without saying another word, he leans in and kisses you again.
Slow. Sweet. Steady.
Like he’s promising to show up for the next scene, and the next, and every one after.
hii! i wanted to request a kinda suggestive werewolf sunghoon x reader who's surprisingly not scared of him. him having a soft spot for her and soft dom vibes but not literally smut!! tyy love your work ♡
– tell me all your deepest desire. | psh.
PAIRING. alpha, werewolf!sunghoon x fem!reader
CONTENT. suggestive content (15+), supernatural elements, possessive behaviour, emotional tension, implied claming/mating themes, implied dom!sunghoon
WORD COUNT. 1,646
AUTHOR'S NOTE. thank you so much anon for this ask! i enjoyed writing this. <3
MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
You always felt him.
Literally, he hovered.
From your classes in Statistics to the Library, there was always a looming presence you seem to feel settled deep within your bones, along with two golden glowing eyes that you kept catching in the corners of your vision. He didn't just stare, he bore into you.
Not with curiosity, but with something that felt like it was meant to scare you. Or test you. Or both.
Others kept their distance. Some changed directions entirely when he passed by. You'd seen it too many times: people shrinking in on themselves when he turned the corner, heads ducking low like his gaze might burn right through them.
People were always warned of Park Sunghoon.
The first time you heard of him, you told yourself that you were keeping your distance. It was the safest option, and you wanted to graduate soon enough without the mess that involved creatures like his kind.
But distance, as it turned out, was not something Sunghoon allowed. It was something that he didn't accept when it came to terms to you.
He never spoke to you directly, not at first. Just lingered. Not like a ghost. More like a storm-cloud. Predictable in the way he hovered outside lecture halls, sat two rows behind you in the library but never once opened a book. You'd leave a study room and find him leaning on the vending machine outside. Not watching. Just there. As if he had nowhere to be.
It wasn't flirting. It wasn't even subtle. It was instinctual. Primal.
Yet, there was something oddly reassuring about the weight of his gaze. Something steady about the way he stood in your periphery. Silent, still, simmering. It made your fingers twitch on your pen. Made your spine straighten. Made you aware of yourself in ways that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen.
Rumors always preceded Park Sunghoon. Alpha-in-the-making. Fourth of the original seven. Strongest tracker in his lineage. Cold, efficient, cruel when provoked. He was never supposed to lead.
But legends rarely ask for permission.
When the former alpha stepped down, it was Sunghoon who took the mantle. Not the eldest, not the loudest, not the one everyone expected. Just the one everyone knew better than to challenge. He didn’t fight for it – well, mot publicly. The title bowed to him. Or maybe the others simply knew they wouldn’t win.
Even now, months into the semester, people still talked about it in hushed tones. The unexpected rise. The hierarchy shift. The quiet ruthlessness behind those amber-lit eyes.
He always looked out for you when you come to the campus, even when you left it. Picked your favorite pastry from the campus café and left it without a note in your locker. Told off a sophomore for bumping into you and not apologizing.
It wasn’t romantic. It was possessive. Careful. Constant.
It was maddening.
Because you knew what it looked like when a wolf was circling.
And still, Sunghoon couldn't find himself to come near you to tell you what was it that he wanted from you.
Like right now, while you were in the Campus Library, working on something that you wanted to finish so you could doze off in your free day tomorrow. You felt his gaze prickle your skin, the coldness of the night seems to have heightened because of his presence.
You didn't have to lift your head to know it was him. The way the air shifted. The way your body registered it before your mind did, like the way trees brace for thunder before it breaks
You kept your eyes on the paper in front of you, your handwriting steady, though your heartbeat had started to crawl up your throat.
"You know I know you've been following me, right?"
Your voice doesn't rise. It doesn't even waver. It's barely a murmur, a thread pulled between your breath and the silence that cloaks the library like a fog. But it's enough.
The chair across from your creaks. You glance up, and he's already there: Park Sunghoon, in all his brooding, broad-shouldered, bone-carved glory. Head tilted, but not surprised you spoke first.
His gaze doesn’t soften. It never does. But it quiets, like winter’s first snowfall, and somehow that’s worse, “And here I thought I was being subtle,” he says, voice low, rough-edged velvet.
You blink, “Hovering outside my classrooms? Sitting across the room in every place I go? I think subtle left the building the moment you glared at my Statistics prof for keeping me overtime.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. But not quite.
"What do you want, Sunghoon?"
That gets his attention.
His golden eyes flash with something. Not surprise, not amusement, but something older. More reverent. Like the very idea of your courage is something he’s memorized and replayed.
"You're not afraid."
He says it like a challenge.
Like a discovery. Like a slow-burning fact he’s only now willing to say aloud.
You hold his gaze, even if your fingers twitch slightly beneath the table, “Should I be?”
That earns you something close to a chuckle. Low, almost breathless. But not unkind.
"Most people don't look me in the eye," he murmurs, "They flinch, they avoid. They cross the street before I even get close. But you keep holding your ground."
You shrug, trying to play off the way your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, "Maybe I just have bad instincts."
His eyes glint, "Or maybe you're the only one with good ones."
He leans in slightly. Not enough to breach propriety. Just enough for your breath to hitch and your thoughts to scatter like startled birds.
“You’re curious,” he says, tone velveted with something darker, “You wonder why I’m always there. Why I hover.”
Your silence betrays you. And he sees it.
“You wonder what it means,” he says, his voice nearly a purr now, “You wonder what I’d do if I got too close.”
You straighten. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Sunghoon smirks, slow and knowing. “Too late.”
You hate how warm your ears feel. How your skin tingles under his stare like it’s trying to memorize the weight of it.
Then his voice drops, rough and dragging like smoke, “You ever read about my kind?”
You blink, “In textbooks. Legends. The usual.”
He hums, “Then you know what happens when we find someone who calms our instincts.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because no, you hadn’t gotten that far. Most of what you’d read had been vague folklore: cryptic warnings, dramatized rituals, blood and moons and whispered prophecies.
He doesn’t wait for you to answer.
“We circle,” he says, “We linger. We stay close. Not always because we want to.”
Your throat goes dry, “What do you mean?”
He watches you for a moment, eyes flickering down. From your throat, to your collarbone, to your hands curled on the table like you’re trying to hide how they tremble.
You notice his gaze. And you tried to say something, but nothing comes out.
“I’m not some rabid thing, Y/N,” he says, and his voice is cool, but there’s heat underneath it, “I can control myself.”
A pause.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want.”
Your stomach flips.
And he knows it. Of course he knows it. That slight, infuriating tilt of his mouth says as much.
“You’re interesting,” he muses, “You’re smart. Brave. I bet any other wolves would want to get their hands on you, but they have to go through me."
Your breath catches. Not because of the words, though those alone are enough to short-circuit your nervous system, but it's because of the way he says them. Low, certain. Not a threat, a truth.
They have to go through me.
As if it’s already a given. As if some invisible line has been drawn around you, and he’s etched his name into the perimeter.
You stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears like war drums, “Why?” you manage to whisper.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“Because you feel like mine,” Sunghoon says simply.
And it hits like a freight train.
The thing is: he’s not even close to you. Still seated across the table. Still giving you the illusion of space. But you feel him everywhere. The press of his stare on your lips. The heat blooming low in your belly. The ache in your palms from curling your fingers too tight to stop the trembling.
He leans back, like he can sense the tension climbing your spine.
“Don’t worry, pretty,” he murmurs, voice so casual it almost makes your skin prickle, “I won’t take anything you don’t offer.”
And somehow, that’s what undoes you. Not the power in his stance, not the quiet authority in his tone, but the restraint. The way he gives you the choice, even as he coils around your senses like smoke.
Your mouth opens, again, like maybe this time, you’ll say something clever. Something that will even the playing field, ground you back into the present.
“Sunghoon…”
He rises.
Tall. Solid. Radiating something ancient that brushes up against instinct, that tells you to flinch or flee, but you don’t.
You really don't want to.
“Careful,” he drawls, “If you say my name like that again, I might start thinking you want me to claim you.”
Your breath hitches. And it’s obvious. Written on your face, etched into your silence.
His grin stretches out wider.
“I’ll see you around,” he says, backing away like he didn’t just set your entire world on fire. Like he didn’t leave the scent of his promise wrapped around your throat.
He turns, disappears into the far end of the library, and it takes several seconds before you realize your fingers are still curled around your pen like a lifeline. Your heart’s still hammering.
– love grows, where my rosemary goes. | psh. (PREVIEW)
PAIRING. jock!sunghoon x fem!reader
SUMMARY. summer, 1983. you work at reeltime video, alphabetize tapes, and fall in love with stories too big for your small town. park sunghoon, campus heartthrob with a members only jacket and a habit of returning late tapes, is the last person you'd expect to work the summer shift beside you. but then he does. and one thursday, he climbs through your window.
CONTENT. slowburn, virgin!reader, experienced!sunghoon, first time sex, praise kink, mutual pining, falling in love over summer, 1980s nostalgia, video store setting, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, window climbing scene, rom-com tropes, soft smut, emotional climax, sunghoon in love and desperate, mentions of reader’s first time, safe but descriptive intimacy, lots of feelings
WORD COUNT. 7k-ish
RELEASE DATE. july 19, 2025
MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.
”I… don’t think I’m mentally equipped for this,” you say flatly, straw still in between your lips.
He gestures at you, “That makes two of us.”
You slide your milkshake away like it might combust in your hands.
“Why are you here?” you ask, slowly standing up, “Did you get lost looking for your reflection or something?”
“Did they hire you for your customer service?” He deadpans, shooting you a look.
You open your mouth to retort, but then the bell above the door chimes again.
Two sharply dressed adults step in, and the temperature drops ten degrees. His parents. You know this without being introduced. The posture, the judgment, the expensive perfume that doesn’t suit the musty, tape-sleeved air of ReelTime.
You step out from behind the counter, clutching the corners of your best like a shield.
“Miss Y/N?” the man says, voice precise, smooth, like it’s been filed down to a razor edge, “Mr and Mrs Park. We spoke briefly on the phone.”
“I think you spoke to my manager, actually,” you squirmed.
“Well, she said you’re one of the store’s most efficient hires,” Mrs Park chimes in with a rehearsed smile, “And we’re hoping you can help Sunghoon adjust to this…environment.”
”Environment?”
”This store,” Mr Park says. “We’ve arranged for Sunghoon to work here until school resumes. A bit of structure. Accountability. You know that.”
Your gaze drifts to Sunghoon, who looks like he’d rather chew glass than be standing here.
”And you want me to…”
”Keep an eye on him,” Mrs Park answers, too quickly. “Make sure he shows up on time. Stays out of trouble. Make sure he learns the value of responsibility.”
”I don’t need a babysitter,” Sunghoon grits out, throwing you a pointed look.
”But you sure act like you do,” you mutter. His eyes narrow at you.
Mrs Park clasps her hands together, “This is going to be such a wonderful experience, sweetie,” she says as she looks at Sunghoon. And you look at Sunghoon again. Vest wrinkled. Arms crossed. Standing beside a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia.
PAIRING. idol!sunghoon x staff, fem!reader
SUMMARY. you work behind-the-scenes for one of the biggest kpop companies in the industry, belift, and you have a secret: you run one anonymous X account to vent every frustration and grudge about the company's visual ice prince, park sunghoon. he finds this account and instead of reporting you... he starts flirting?
CONTENTS. enemies to lovers (e2l), SUNGHOON IS DANGEROUSLY FLIRTY. slowburn, praise kink, hair pulling, dom!sunghoon, dirty talk, light marking, reader is teased into begging, mentions of big dick sunghoon hehe, oral (f receiving) p in v, unprotected sex (pls dont; reader is on the pill, BUT STILL). a bit of angst if you squint, there's a bit of power imbalance, semi-public sex. body worship. she fell first, he fell harder. MDNI.
WORD COUNT. 10.9k (i genuinely thought it was 20k)
AUTHOR'S NOTE. hi, i’m back! and with lots of fic ideas i hope you enjoyyyy. hnggg. i really have no other stuff to say. HAHAHA. hope you like it <3<3
MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.
It starts, as most mistakes do, with a tweet.
You're more of a background poster than anything. An anonymous handle with a blurry profile pic which you've taken while you were out in the Han river, barely 300 followers, and two things everyone can piece together if they pay attention:
One, you work at BELIFT.
Two, you work closely with ENHYPEN.
Too close, maybe. Close enough that you retweet clips of Jungwon being the cutest cat-like leader you've ever met. Close enough that you've ranted about Heeseung's additional ad-libs and last minute line changes, praised Ni-ki's professionalism at 3 AM, and the most damning of them all, tweeted far too often about how Park Sunghoon is the human embodiment of a soft-launch breakup.
Your followers think you're just funny. That you're just playing a bit. That maybe you're a delusional fan with a production job fantasy.
There had been a lot of replies to your tweets every now and then, asking if you really work in BELIFT and for ENHYPEN, or if Heeseung really does have a girlfriend. Some have the audacity to even question whether you really work in BELIFT or you're just another person acting like you do in order to have X engagement.
You even remember the time you've landed into one of Sunghoon's protection teams, saying that you were setting him up, and you laughed to yourself while you're checking the outfits lined up for Sunghoon in the music shows.
Like every anonymous poster, you don't reply. You never do. But still, the page grows.
ENGENEs aren't sure what to make of you. Your tweets toe the line between sarcastic slander and genuine devotion. It's not exactly hate, it's more like aggravated admiration. Like the kind of loathing that only forms when someone sees too much of a person. Sees past the polish, past the performance.
Especially when it comes to Park Sunghoon.
The ice prince of BELIFT, the company's visual jewel – oh, and your most consistent headache.
You don't actually hate him, but you sure as hell tweet like you do.
You were just off the set when your next mistake happens.
A Manila folder is tucked under your arm, barely holding on with pitch revisions and last-minute cue cards, some of which crumpled from being tossed back and forth between departments. A black mask hides half of your face, and your bucket hat hides the rest.
Safe to say, you look like a ghost in the mirrored lobby glass.
It's 2:07 AM, and you're on your third iced americano of the day and second mental breakdown of the week, and it's Monday.
The music video shoot ran longer than expected, again.
Jungwon's scenes needed reshoots. Heeseung's hair was frayed and pink at the roots even if he had his roots retouched eighteen hours ago. The harness used in Sunoo's wire-flying scene was too tacky.
And Sunghoon?
Well, Sunghoon, of course, had notes.
"It feels stiff, the camera blocking doesn't match the beat. I look bored, too."
You were bored, you think. And he looks not even short of perfect – albeit bored, perfect, still. But no one ever tells him that.
Because Park Sunghoon, for all his breathtaking angles and God-tier lighting, is never, ever satisfied. And worse, he somehow knows exactly when to glance at your direction when you're rolling your eyes behind the monitor.
It's always the same. You glare, he smirks, you look away.
Later, you tweet. And tweet.
[nuguhasdoubts]
park sunghoon blinked at the script today like it owed him money. he's so unserious for someone that pretty.
10 likes. One reply. You scroll.
[nuguhasdoubts]
heeseung gives you a small nod and you feel seen. sunghoon stares into your soul and suddenly you're 12 and being picked last in PE again.
35 likes. Four replies. One quote tweet: "this is the most specific kind of hate ever," it read, and you snort.
[nuguhasdoubts] 2:15 AM
no way he asked for natural lighting only during a night shoot. the director blinked five times. i blinked six.
[nuguhasdoubts] 2:16 AM
i hate that they still found a way...
[nuguhasdoubts] 2:21 AM
"can we do that again?" no, park sunghoon, we cannot. i've been standing for ten hours my spine ha sfolded like origami.
[nuguhasdoubts] 2:24 AM
he said thanks to everyone. do i forgive him?
[nuguhasdoubts] 2:31 AM
he walked past me and smelled like money and that another 13. and he is a tamburins endorser. still, i almost forgave him. almost.
You slam the X app shut at exactly 2:35 AM, just when you finish scrolling through your timeline and finish the read. Your phone's screen gives in to black, and for a moment, the smallest, briefest moment, it feels like silence.
But then your phone buzzes again.
And again, and again.
A cascade of notifications light up the cracked top corner, your battery bleeding at 8%, like it's crumbling under the weight of your life. You paid no mind, it could be one of those For You notifications built in to X's system depending on your tweets and interactions.
So, you stuff your phone deep into your jacket pocket and don't look back.
The night smells like asphalt and boiled coffee. The streets are empty now, save for a few flickering lampposts and a stray cat peering out from behind a row of parked scooters. You walk with your hand-me-down PRADA bag from your manager slung over one shoulder and the Manila folder hugged to your chest like it's an extra organ you're afraid to leave behind.
You've just wrapped a eighteen-hour shoot.
Eighteen hours of whispers through earpieces, running cables, resetting blocking, coordinating the makeup crew when Jay's contour got smudged, as well as rushing down to the pantry to get Jake his iced americano because his sugar was crashing.
Eighteen hours of explaining that no, natural lighting at night doesn't work that way, Park Sunghoon.
You almost laughed when he asked it. But he'd been so serious, too serious, and so of course, they made it work anyway.
You don't even remember when the grudge started.
Maybe it wasn't even a grudge. Maybe it was just a slow, quiet erosion of patience. One missed cue at a time. One more perfect shot that had to be redone because Sunghoon found the camera blocking off from the center just a tad. One more request that, had it come from anyone else, would've been given not much attention, but from him? It became gospel.
The elevator is quiet when you step in, except for the gentle ping of each floor and your own reflection staring back from mirrored walls. You look exhausted, hair damp from humidity, lanyard still looped around your neck – a stark contrast from the tall, sleek, glass gleaming in the dark of a building that looks like it should be filmed, not lived in.
It's part of the HYBE executive housing arrangement, a perk they throw in for long-term staff or those tied to core artist departments like production, creative, and management.
You'd wanted to cry the day you moved in. Not because you were happy, but because you really weren't.
The 27th floor smells like jasmine from a diffuser that someone in HR probably chose to help boost employee morale. You unlock your door with a fingerprint and step into a condo that's too clean, too white, too empty.
The living room is minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows and an unobstructed view of the Seoul skyline. All cold lights and late-night neon blinking somewhere in the distance. There's a record player you bought on impulse last year. It sits untouched on the console. You never really had time to use it.
You drop your bag onto the couch. It's beige. You should feel proud. This is what people your age fight for. A stable job. A sleek place in the city. A title under one of the most powerful entertainment companies in the world.
But most nights, you stand here and feel like you've wandered into someone else's life.
You studied music and dance because you were in love with movement. You loved the language it conveys, the hush before a curtain rises. You loved creating. Not cueing. Not directing for one hair strand to be curled on Jake's forehead to recreate Zayn Malik's hairstyle. Not adjusting the lighting angles so it could highlight Jay's jawline. Not keeping a lot of vitamin products just in case Sunoo forgets his.
You became a production assistant because it was your foot in the door – but now the door feels like a wall.
And somehow, in the middle of all that, he exists.
Sunghoon.
The boy with swan limbs and dagger eyes. The boy who lives your dreams without knowing he's holding them.
Sometimes, you bother to hate him. Not really, though. But there are times that it's enough to make it through another twenty-hour shoot where he asks in the middle of one scene to have his Tiktok redone because it doesn't feel like it's the one.
Everyone bend over backwards, because he smiled at the end of it.
You hate that he's the personification of everything you've ever wanted, just born with it in his palm. You hate that he's also charming and polite. And once in a while, he bothers to say thank you, and when he does, it sounds so sincere.
So, you conclude that you hate that you can't actually hate him.
You roll over and finally plug in your dying phone. You have new notifications from X. You exhale through your nose, jaw tense.
Tomorrow, you'll deal with it.
But tonight, you lie in an apartment for your loneliness, thinking about the boy who doesn't know he lives in your head rent-free, and the dream that somehow slipped from your gasp and landed in his.
You wake up to the sound of your phone buzzing against your nightstand like a trapped insect.
You ignore it.
You drag yourself out of bed. Shower. Coffee. Outfit. You pull your production lanyard over your head and loop it twice so it doesn't swing. Your tiredness presses into your muscles like wet sand, but you move through it. You always do.
You don't look at your phone.
Not when you button your black trousers. Not when you tie your hair back. Not when you slip your HYBE identification card into your back pocket, not when you slide your keys and hand cream into your bag like it's any other day.
You go down to the lobby and sit awkwardly on the sofa near the vending machine as employees pile up in the lobby with their own things to look after.
There were a lot of discussions and complaints. You hear someone saying that there'll be a remix for SEVENTEEN's title track from a Western label. Another employee is too busy contacting production for Hobi's scheduled Tiktoks with other idols of HYBE.
The shuttle pulls up just in time for call just before you could know about every idol group's business.
By the time you reach the elevators of BELIFT, your phone buzzes again. Fifth time this morning.
You've ignored every single notification since the moment you stepped into the lobby. You had to. If you let even a single one in, you might've screamed. Out loud. In front of security.
You're already late, not scandalously late, but late enough to get the side-eye from the senior stylist who believes the world runs five minutes earlier than your clock does.
The lift opens. You barrel into it.
Third floor, fitting.
Dress rehearsals, new concept. New accessories. Another hell.
You mutter apologies as you push through the crowd of stylists and interns hauling rolling racks. Your arms ache from last night. You barely slept.
You turn the corner toward Studio B, prepping the lines in your head for the morning checklist, when someone stops you.
"Hey," says Jiyeon, one of the production coordinators, "Sunghoon has asked for you."
You blink. Once, twice. "What?"
"Sunghoon said he wants you to check something about his outfit. Costume issue or something. He's in the dressing room."
Your stomach dips.
"Why didn't he tell stylists directly?"
Jiyeon shrugs, "He said, and I quote, 'Can you get the girl with the blank face and the shiny clipboard? She'll know what I mean.'"
Your face twists, "Did he actually say I'm blank-faced?"
"Verbatim."
You blink, "And you still came to get me?"
"He also said please."
"Okay?"
"It's the first time he's done that," Jiyeon reasoned.
"Right."
You adjust your headset, sigh, and head toward the solo dressing room.
When you push open the door, he's already there, sitting on the edge of the couch in sweatpants and the teaser outfit. One arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other, fiddling with a button.
You stare at him from the doorframe like he's sprouted a second head.
He blinks up at you. Tilts his head, and then had the audacity to smile.
Park Sunghoon does not smile at you. Not unless he wants something. Not unless he's being paid. Not unless he's being insufferable.
"There she is," he says, stretching slightly, arm flexing against the couch as he drops the half-undone button, "Miss Blank Face with the clipboard. I was starting to worry you hate me that much not to go."
You blink, "You called me for a costume issue."
"Did I?"
You glared, "I have three stylists on stand-by. If this is about layering or fabric, I suggest–"
"Nah," he interrupts, rising to his feet in one fluid, confident motion, "This is more of a you thing."
The hell does that mean?
Your eyes flick over his outfit. Teaser fit: A white shirt, goggles hanging on his neck, beige cargo pants that are unbuttoned, his face lacking the needed peach makeup you specifically requested the makeup department. Still, it's nothing that needs your attention.
Still, you walk over, pulling the clipboard from your side and adjusting your headset.
"Okay, walk me through what's wrong."
He hums and walks toward you, slowly.
You notice now that his hair's still slightly damp, curled at the ends like he's fresh out of the wash and has rushed to set. But Sunghoon never rushes. He meant for the undone, wet look. He still looks fucking hot.
You hate him.
His cologne is faint but there, something woodsy and clean, and with a citrus edge that makes your already-dulled nerves ring with alertness.
Sunghoon stops in front of you. Too close.
He bends slightly at the waist, dramatic, exaggerated, inspecting.
"What's wrong," he echoes, as if thinking over your words, "Well, I've been thinking."
"That's never good."
He grins, "Funny. So, I've been thinking. Maybe I've been unfair to you."
You blink for the nth time today, "Huh?"
"You do a lot around here. You coordinate, direct, remind everyone when Ni-ki is wearing pink when he doesn't like pink. You work hard." He pauses, tilts his head, eyes dancing, "Even with a blank face."
You resist the urge to launch your clipboard at him.
He continues, utterly unbothered, "I think I misjudged you. Or maybe, we start off the wrong foot.. or, well, maybe I'm just starting to see you in a new light."
You squint, "Is this a bit?"
"Depends. You into roleplay?"
You stare.
He smiles wider.
The smirk now spreads over his face like butter on warm toast – easy, practiced, dangerously self-aware. As if he knows exactly what he's doing.
You've seen Sunghoon flirt before. He does it when the cameras are off. He knows how to bat his lashes just enough for things to go his way, how to draw people in like gravity with the perfect mix of boredom and beauty.
Usually, you've seen him give it to anyone else he deems worthy enough to give him what he wants. But this? This is directed at you.
Which is impossible. You're just a production assistant.
You narrow your eyes, "Do you need something, Sunghoon?"
He taps his lip, "Just wondering why someone might say I smelled like money and Le Labo and... what was it? Oh," he leans in, "Regret."
You freeze. But your face doesn't move. You've trained for this. You've worked backstage during entire album rollouts with less than four hours of sleep. You've sat through re-edits of comeback trailers frame by frame. You do not crack under pressure.
You kept your expression neutral.
"Sounds like a weird comment."
"Exactly," he says breezily, circling you like a shark, hands crossed while toying with his lips, "There was this thread. So dramatic. Really makes me wonder what I did to deserve that kind of hate. Or maybe..." He glances back at you, "Admiration. Hard to tell, isn't it?"
Your pulse thuds in your ears, "Must be some fan account."
"Oh, definitely a fan." He stops. Smirks.
You grit your teeth.
He knows.
But he won't say it out loud. Not yet. Not while he can watch you squirm.
You tuck your clipboard back under your arm and square your shoulders, "If you're done wasting my time, I have three racks to coordinate and a backup battery dying in the hallway."
He leans closer again, just a breath from your ear, "You know," he mutters, voice all sugar and daggers, "I never minded the hate. It's the interest that's flattering."
You step back, "Get dressed."
"I am dressed."
You point at the goggles hanging on his neck, "Fully. And you have makeup in ten."
He grins, but he lets you go, for now.
You don't rush as you leave, you don't want to give him the satisfaction. But the second you close the door, your back hits the hallway wall and your fingers tremble.
The convenience store near HYBE is quiet at night, save for the humming of refrigerators and the distant buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. The world outside still feels far too loud, too fast – but here, it feels suspended. Dim. Air-conditioned.
You sit at one of the corner tables, hunched over your bibimyeon like it holds the answers to your crisis. Your microwaved sotteok lies abandoned in its bowl, skewers askew like bones after a fight. You haven't touched it.
You're still scrolling.
Your thumb keeps twitching over the heart button, just to see what tweet comes next. It's like watching your own downfall unfold one quote tweet at a time. Funny, devastating, strangely intimate. People keep dissecting the phrasing, the tone, the way your thread reads less like a joke and more like a diary entry.
You're a meme now.
You take a long sip of your watered down iced latte.
The convenience store is nearly empty. Just a tired cashier scrolling on his own phone behind the counter, and a guy in a hoodie a few aisles down browsing the ramyeon shelf. You don't pay attention. You can't. Not when your screen lights up again.
[shnprod]: do you think she's like actually into him?
[prodheegy]: is this user setting sh up again? lol
[sunoology]: so is this a real life au?
[jakewonbitz]: she's acting like she's really a hybe employee lmao
You want to crawl out of your skin.
You bury your face in your hands and groan quietly, elbows braced on the table. You consider deleting the account. Hell, maybe you should delete your entire identity.
You don't even notice the hoodie guy approaching until you hear the clink of a canned drink being set beside your food.
"That bad, huh?"
You nearly drop your phone.
Your head jerks up. A guy in a black cap, mask, and a loose hoodie sits across from you like it's the most casual thing in the world. His eyes are familiar, moles too familiar, but they're crinkled in amusement. Mischievous.
"You always look this haunted after scrolling your timeline?” he asks, stirring the cooked buldak in the cup.
You blink, "Do I know you?"
He tilts his head, mask hiding his mouth, but you see the smile in his eyes.
"No," he says, "but I feel like I know you."
Your stomach drops.
You snap your laptop shut – no, not your laptop, your phone – your phone, you idiot – and immediately swipe out the X app. Too late. He's already seen the screen. Maybe even the notifications section you're scrolling through.
You scramble, wiping your hands on your pants like that'll fix the sweat suddenly slick on your palms.
He gestures lazily toward your tray, "Mind if I join? Looks like your sotteok's crying for company."
You scowl, "There are seven empty tables."
"I like this one," he says, and finally pulls his mask down just enough to sip his canned coffee.
Park Sunghoon.
Of course.
You inhale sharply, "What are you doing here?"
"Late last minute run for Outside. I'm also craving tteok and buldak," he sips again, "you?"
You look at him flatly, "Avoiding a mental breakdown."
He hums, "Same."
You narrow your eyes.
He props his chin on his palm and lets his gaze settle on you like he's waiting. For what, you didn't know. But it unnerves you.
"Rough day at work?" He asks.
"Could say the same about yours."
"Oh? Did I cause you a problem?" He grins.
You curse under your breath, but you school your expression anyway, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right," he says, biting back a smile, "but if you did happen to be the anonymous X user who's been tweeting about my glow and expensive cologne, I'd say your taste is... complicated."
You nearly choke on your own breath.
"I didn't say glow," you hiss, "I said smelled like money and Another 13, which is –"
"An oddly specific compliment, don't you think?" He cuts in, eyes sparkling.
You gape at him.
"You're delusional."
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, "Sure, but if you were her – and I'm not saying that you are – you're kind of funny. Intense. Unhinged, if you will."
"Thanks?"
"I like it," he says, easily.
You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
But you wipe your mouth with a napkin, inhale slowly, and grab your phone like it might shield you from the embarrassment.
"You're not funny," you say, standing up.
He stands, too, "You're blushing."
"I'm going to kill you."
"And tweet about it later?" He adds, raising a brow.
You march toward the exit. But still, behind you, you hear the soft tap of his sneakers as he calls out, low, sweet, and dangerously smug: "Don't forget to add the part where I said please."
You shove the door open.
"Park Sunghoon, you're up,"
The sound engineer barely glances your way as he gestures toward the mic stand. You stand to the side with a clipboard in hand, the checkboxes already half-filled for Jungwon and Heeseung. You're just assisting, nothing more. Yet, you've told yourself that three times now.
But then he strides in, all calm confidence and sweat-slicked neck, and your grip on the clipboard tightens.
"Hey," he grins.
"Hey," you replied, stiff.
You pretend to scan the equipment checklist, heart already quickening. His mic pack is in place, corn snaking down under the hem of his shirt. Too much movement and it'll slip. And of course, just as the engineer starts toggling the frequency, the mic shorts.
"Hold still."
"I'm always still," Sunghoon murmurs.
You crouch slightly, trying to get a grip on the cord slotted against the curve of his back, just beneath the tucked hem of his shirt. The mic pack is wedged awkwardly under his belt, and to fix it, you'll have to – you sigh, instead.
You reach around, fingers grazing his waistband.
Sunghoon tenses under your touch.
"You nervous?" He asks, voice a low murmur in the mic, only audible to you.
"Shut up,"
"Your hands are shaking," He remarks.
"I said shut up."
"So you do like touching me."
You jab the mic pack into his lower back, hard.
He flinches slightly, but you know there is a grin plastered on his face.
"You're cute when you're mean."
You move to step back, but suddenly, his hand gently, lightly, brushes your wrist. The touch is barely there, but it startles you all the same.
Your eyes snap to his. He's watching you. And he's looking at you. You pull your hand back like you've been burned, "There," you say stiffly, "fixed."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Because I think I need a little more adjusting." His voice dips, suggestive.
And you nearly drop the clipboard.
The engineer calls out from behind the glass: "Perfect, signal's steady now."
You take a full step back. Sunghoon lets you go this time.
As he takes position for his mic test, you catch your reflection in the mirror beside the recording booth. Your cheeks are flushed. His are not.
But he turns, meets your eyes once more, and then.. he winks.
You almost broke the glass.
It's been two weeks since the convenience store incident.
So, it means, it's been two weeks since Sunghoon took an interest in making your life a living hell. By being mean to you? No. Worse. By flirting with you on each set and only you could hear it.
It's two weeks of faking indifference as he winked at you during rehearsals, smirked when he passed you during call time, and offered annoyingly specific compliments like: "New hand cream?" or "Didn't peg you for a lemon girl."
Two weeks of dodging any mention of that thread on your timeline.
You thought maybe – just maybe – the storm was passing. That the account would die down again. That people would forget. You'd even muted your own username, turned off DM requests. Held off from posting anything remotely unhinged, despite the itch in your fingers every time Sunghoon so much as breathed in your direction.
You thought it was over.
Until now.
Busying yourself with a sweet, rare pocket of silence as you stood outside the styling lounge while fanning yourself with the lighting cue sheets, you pull out your phone.
And there it is. A notification.
A quote tweet from an account you don't recognise.
But first, the tweet that started it.
[yuniecore]: @.nuguhasdoubts if ure really from belift, what do u think is sunghoon's type? end all the gf stans rn
Well, you shouldn't entertain that.
But your finger hovers. There's already traction on it – likes, bookmarks, a couple dozen QRTs. And then, you stumbled upon a quote tweet from a zero-follower account with the handle "icedamericano07", a white dog icon, and no header.
[icedamericano07]: bite. brains. knows how to handle wires. doesn't take my shit. @.nughuhasdoubts, what do you think?
You freeze.
No. No way.
You read it again.
The phrasing. The cadence. The cockiness.
Knows how to handle wires? Your fucking clipboard almost slips out of your hands.
You open the profile: no name, no description, no tweets other than this one. But you know, you know, you know it's him.
[nuguhasdoubts] on Direct Message:
you're actually sick in the head.
[icedamericano07] on Direct Message:
sick? no. curious? absolutely.
you didn't answer the question.
am i wrong?
do you know how to handle wires? 😏
You stare at the screen like it just slapped you.
[nuguhasdoubts] on Direct Message:
this is workplace harassment.
i could report you.
[icedamericano07] on Direct Message:
and say what? that i guessed your burner account from how you described my cologne too accurately?
please.
you're one exhale away from writing a sonnet about my jawline.
You slam your phone face-down on the nearest surface and inhale so deeply you almost see stars. But... you can't help but admit that there's a strange thrill. Like the person you've been screaming about in anonymity knows and instead of retreating, he's daring you to keep going.
[icedamericano07] on Direct Message:
just admit it.
you like me.
[nuguhasdoubts] on Direct Message:
i tolerate your existence. barely.
keep dreaming.
A pause. And then,
[icedamericano07] on Direct Message:
then let me give you better material to tweet about.
Your mouth goes dry.
You slide your phone back into your back pocket like it's cursed. Then storm into the studio like your shoes are on fire. But as you pass by the mirrors lining the wall, you catch your reflection: flushed, breathless, and worse, smiling.
It happens after a brutal Friday run-through.
You're coming down from twelve straight hours of lighting cues, sound checks, and last-minute styling disasters for ENHYPEN's Walk the Line tour. The studio's thinned out. Most of the staff are gone, only a few stragglers left packing up cables and costume pieces.
You've unhooked your headset, pulled your hair down, and wiped your face with the only half-clean tissue in your bag. You're exhausted. You've barely eaten. You ache everywhere – especially your back and the sharp crook of your shoulder where the production clipboard had dug into you all day.
You slump onto the edge of the stage, legs dangling, sipping from a lukewarm water bottle. That's when he finds you.
"Thought I'd find you here," Sunghoon says, voice low and lazy as he crouches beside the platform edge.
You don't even look at him, "Congratulations."
"What's my prize?" He murmurs, inching closer until his knee brushes your thigh.
You scoff, "A slap, probably."
His laugh is warm. Daring. Annoyingly smooth.
"I'll take my chances."
You finally glance at him.
He's still in his post-rehearsal sweatpants and hoodie, hair damp from the shower, exposed skin glistening just a bit from the leftover heat of the day. He looks like he should be in a magazine ad for bad decisions and good lighting.
You shift your leg, and he doesn't.
He raises an eyebrow, "You always look this uptight?"
You bristle, "Excuse me?"
"Your shoulders," he says, reaching over and ghosting his fingers just over your back. You flinch.
"You're wound up like a tripwire."
"I've been on my feet for twelve hours."
"You're always like this," he hums.
"Maybe because someone's always provoking me."
He grins, "You're tense."
"No shit."
"Let me help."
Your head snaps toward him. He doesn't flinch, doesn't smile. His gaze is steady. Confident. Dangerous.
"Let me loosen you up," he says, low.
Your heart slams against your ribs, "You're out of your mind."
"Am I?" he murmurs, leaning in.
His palm presses to your back, hot and wide and deliberate. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Not low enough to be excusable. Just maddeningly right.
"This is a game to you."
Another shrug, "Isn't it fun?"
You blink, and yet, your breath catches. You should leave, you should get up, push him away, throw your empty water bottle at his head.
His hand slips slightly lower, "You have a choice," he says, "Say no, and I'll leave. Beg just right, and I'll help you."
Your pride should take the way out, but your body.. your body aches. You've been holding tension for weeks. In your muscles, in your bones, in every sarcastic tweet and every hissed comeback and every moment he's stood too close just to make you feel it.
You don't say anything.
And maybe that's enough.
Because Sunghoon exhales, moves behind you, and with maddening slowness, slides his hands over your shoulders. He massages, presses, kneads. Firm, skilled like he's done this before, like he's good at this.
He leans in, "Relax," he murmurs, hot breath against your neck.
"Don't get used to this," you snap.
"I wouldn't dare."
You felt his fingers work down your spine.
And that's how it happens. One moment you're letting Park Sunghoon rub the knots out of your spine in the dim stage after-hours. And now, he guides you slowly onto your back against the stage floor, cushioned by the jacket he shrugs off for you. The silence is tense, electrified, only broken by your breathing and the faint creak of the floor beneath you.
When he kneels between your legs, you suck in a breath.
He looks up, "Still with me?"
You nod.
"Words."
"Yes,"
"Good."
He peels your trousers down slowly. Painfully slowly.
Not rushing, not fumbling – like he knows what he's doing and he knows you'll let him. Like he's done this in his head a dozen times already.
You shudder when the fabric hits your ankles, your back pressed against the cool steel railing at the side of the stage, spotlights dimmed, the rest of the venue swallowed by shadow. You're hidden here, but it makes it worse. Every sound, every breath, every filthy noise is amplified in the quiet.
It's 11:47 PM, and you're letting Park Sunghoon, the man who's made your job ten times harder, the man who's cocky and smug and always, always gets under your skin, kneel for you.
You hear the soft shuffle of his hoody as he makes himself comfortable. Your underwear is still on, it's the last thing protecting your sanity. But he drags his knuckles over your thighs so softly, it makes you ache. He hooks a finger in the waistband and pauses.
"Still good?"
"...Yes," you whisper, "I'm fine."
You're really not.
You're dizzy. You're humiliated by how much you want this. How your body is trembling with anticipation even when your brain is screaming: don't you dare make this mean something.
This is Sunghoon. And this is better than admitting what's been rotting in your chest.
Because if he touches you like this, it's fine, right? It's fine because he doesn't mean it. Because he's just playing a game. Because it's him, the man you can't stand.
So, it can't hurt you.
He kisses the inside of your ankle. Featherlight. Then a little higher, again, and again. His lips trail up your leg like he's marking a path. He alternates, your left thigh, then the right – until his mouth presses to the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You jolt.
And all the while, you keep your eyes fixed straight ahead. Because you can't look down. You don't want to see the way he watches you. You don't want to see if there's pity, or curiosity, or anything that might crack you open.
It's easier in the dark.
It's easier when you don't see him.
Because he's everything you're not. An iced, golden boy. Loved. Gorgeous, gifted, perfect. He has what you lost: center stage, applause, the confidence of someone allowed to dream.
You hate him.
You hate that you don't, really.
And your panties are soaked. He sees it. You know he sees it because he lets out a low, almost reverent sound, like he's praying under his breath as his thumb drags over the damp fabric.
"This wet for me?" He asks, genuinely curious, like he's still not convinced it's real.
Oh, you badly wanted to scream.
Then, tongue flat, he licks you over your panties. A bold, slow stripe. And had the courage to hum.
"Cute," he says, and your breath catches, "you taste desperate."
You slap a hand over your mouth. He smirks. You feel the smugness even without looking down. And then, he peels the fabric to the side. A beat of silence.
You can hear the way you're wet, the quiet obscene sound of his breath brushing your soaked folds. He exhales like it's smoke: slow and deliberate.
His thumb spreads you open.
Then, his mouth is on you.
His tongue flattens against your clit in one slow drag, then circles it with calculated precision. Fast once, then slow, then again, like he's testing what makes you twitch. Your grip on the railing tightens, and you accidentally let out a soft moan.
Hand sliding behind your thighs, anchoring you in place as he eats like he's trying to memorise how to unravel you. And god, he's good. Too fucking good.
He alternates between flicks and sucks, rolling his tongue, then locking his lips around your clit to suck gently, then harder. It's like he's experimenting, showing off.
Your hips buck, and he groans into you – on purpose – sending vibrations through your core. It's disgusting how fast your body responds.
"You like that? he asks, voice hoarse between licks, "Didn't think someone with such a smart mouth could be this quiet."
You almost choke on air.
Then his hand comes up, just one, sliding down the front of your thigh, fingertips dragging over your skin like he owns it. He presses two fingers into you slowly. Testing, stretching. Just enough to curl inside you as his tongue keeps working.
Your knees buckle, "Sunghoon–"
He freezes.
Then he drags his mouth up and looks at you, eyes dark, "Say it again."
You shake your head, humiliated, and in return, he presses his fingers deeper, making you gasp, "Sunghoon!"
His lips are back on you in a heartbeat. And then you're unraveling, thighs clenching around his head, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your orgasm crashes into you. The tension shatters. You come with a full-body tremble, your hips jerking helplessly into his mouth as he keeps licking, greedy and relentless, like he doesn't want to stop.
And, really, he doesn't.
He licks you through it and after it. Slow, gentle strokes to your oversensitive clit that makes your thighs twitch and your fingers claw at the railing for mercy.
Finally, he pulls back.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are glistening, his cheeks are flushed.
You're panting, drunk, dazed, wrecked.
And he has the audacity to smirk.
"Thanks for the prize," he says, cockily and devastatingly handsomely.
You stare at him, wide-eyed.
He shrugs like it's no big deal, "You looked like you needed a release."
You don't speak, you can't.
Sunghoon stands, wipes the corners of his mouth again like he just finished eating lunch, and steps away. Hands in his hoodie, whistling. And then: "See you tomorrow," he says, already walking off.
And you're left there, shaking, heart in your throat, wondering what the hell just happened; and why your body still aches like he barely scratched the surface.
It's been three days.
Three whole days since Park Sunghoon dropped to his knees in the shadow of a stage that had once only echoed with your voice calling lighting cues and ruined you.
Three days since he looked up at you through his lashes with that insufferable glint in his eye, tongue dragging over your soaked underwear like you were dessert after a sold-out show. Three days since he made you come with nothing but his mouth and his smug persistence.
Three days.
And now?
Now he's normal.
No, worse than normal – he's professional.
He walks through the halls of the tour venue like he owns them, and he kind of does. The Walk the Line tour is halfway through its Asian leg, and Sunghoon is still very much the ice prince on stage. The sweet-faced visual in every behind-the-scenes clip, the golden boy who laughs in rehearsals and delivers lines with lethal charm on live broadcast.
He nods at staff like you don't exist. Like he didn't taste you and leave you shaking. Like you weren't a real thing. Just another part of his routine.
"Morning," he says when he passes you in the hallway on the second floor.
No wink. No smirk. Not even a pause.
Your breath stutters, "Hey,"
But he's already gone. No backwards glance. No tension in his shoulders. Just air between you. A silence so loud it swallows the past whole.
You even try to rationalise it.
It was just one night. Not even a whole night. It was fifteen minutes, to be exact. That's how fast he has made you come in his mouth.
He's an idol. You're a staff. You have a clipboard and a headset and no business letting anyone, least of all him, crawl between your legs when your ID is still swinging around your neck.
You try to tell yourself it didn't matter. That it was a tension release, a temporary unraveling, a misstep that the both of you would walk away from untouched.
But you are touched.
Everywhere.
Your body still aches with phantom heat. Your lips still press together when you pass the dressing room where it happened. Your stomach still twists when you catch his scent on the stairs – that stupid expensive fragrance that always clings to the collars of his hoodies.
And worse? He knows.
Because sometimes, he spares his time to look at you. Just for a second. A flicker of a glance. Like a hook, just enough to tug at the thread holding you together.
In rehearsals, when he's practicing formations. You're crouched in the tech booth, reviewing cue sheets, and then his gaze skims right over his monitor and lands on you. You freeze, he doesn't even blink.
When you hand off a chain correction for the stylists during makeup, he takes it, touches your fingers too long, and thanks you like he always does, sweetly, almost innocently.
But it's a game. And you're losing.
He doesn't even flirt anymore, not like before.
No sly whispers about your lips, no jokes about how cute you look when your clipboard shakes. He doesn't bait you during mic checks or complain about his in-ears just so you'll come closer.
He asks other people now. Always polite. Always charming.
Two months later, you're seated in the staff corner during the pre-recording run of Walk the Line in Jakarta. Coffee half-finished. Cue sheets wrinkled. A setlist spread across your lap like armor.
The world around you blurs, stylists touching up roots, dancers rushing in and out, interns double-checking security barricades.
Then, he slides into the seat across from you.
No warning.
"Hey," he says, casual, "You've been quiet."
Your breath catches. You don't meet his eyes. You fiddle with the edge of your script. "Not sulking, are you?" he adds, voice low enough for only you to hear.
You inhale sharply, you refuse to bite. But your knuckles tighten over your pen.
"I've been working."
"Didn't know work required you to ignore me."
"That implies I acknowledged you to begin with."
He lets out a soft, faux-offended gasp, "Ouch."
When he stands, crumpling his coffee cup in one hand, he adds over his shoulder: "You taste better when you're annoyed."
Your jaw goes slack, and you even barely process his retreating figure.
What does he even want at this point?
That question bugs you each day, that's why when you spot him alone on the balcony behind the rehearsal room, leaning against the railing with his hoodie up, phone in one hand, you took your chances.
You were going to ask: What was that night? Why are you still playing?
But then, he looks up and smirks. Like he knew you were coming, like you're already predictable.
"Need something?" he asks, cocking a brow up as calm as can be.
You flinch and walk away.
And that night, that night you try to draft a tweet. Something vague, sharp, cathartic. Something like your old self before all this mess. But everything comes out wrong.
Too raw, too revealing. Too much like someone who cared.
You delete it all. You stare at your screen until it fades to black.
It's pathetic, the way you look for him.
You should be reviewing lighting logs or updating the asset board for the upcoming comeback for DESIRE:UNLEASH. You should be sleeping, crying, screaming into your pillow. Anything but this.
But here you are, behind the rehearsal studio, under the sliver of moonlight that pools on the balcony concrete like spilled milk. Looking for a boy who only ever leaves you aching.
And there he is.
Like the last time, he's leaning back against the railing, hoodie on, phone in hand. Like he isn't the reason your world's been spinning sideways for weeks.
He doesn't even look surprised when he hears your steps. Of course, he knew you'd come.
You hate that he's beautiful even like this. You hate that you still want him anyway.
"Of course, you're out here."
He looks up, just his eyes, no real shift in his posture. And then – God, that smile. That goddamn smile.
"Could say the same about you."
You walk over slowly, carefully, as if daring yourself to get close might make the moment more bearable.
Well, it doesn't.
He tucks his phone away, gives you a once-over, casual and amused, "You gonna scold me? You look like you're about to yell."
Really, damn you, Park Sunghoon.
"I might," you declare, teeth clenched.
He laughs, "Should I be scared?"
You pause in front of him, cross your arms, and for a second – you don't say anything. You just look at him.
At the boy who ate you out like a secret. At the man who walked away like it never happened. At the person who sees all of you, but keeps his eyes closed.
You inhale sharply, "What do you want, Sunghoon?"
"Right now?" he drawls, pretending to think, "Maybe a drink, a nap? A massage would be great –"
"I'm serious, Sunghoon."
"So am I," he says, breezily.
"I don't get you," you begin, and your voice is steady, for now, "You flirt, you vanish, you tease, and then –"
Your breath hitches.
"Then you touch me like I'm more than that, and pretend that it didn't happen."
He doesn't say anything.
You glance sideways, searching for his face under the low hood, but he doesn’t look back. Just presses his lips together like he’s stifling a laugh.
You feel your chest tighten. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” he says, softly. “Just familiar.”
Your heart stutters.
“I want to hate you,” you confess. The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, before you can dress them up in sarcasm or hide them behind a bitter joke, “I want to hate you so bad. Because you ruin everything. You ruin me.”
His brows knit, finally, but he still doesn’t interrupt.
“I hate the way you look at me like you already know what I’m thinking. I hate that I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. I hate that you're everywhere – the damn rehearsal room, the elevator, the breakroom, the f –”
You stop.
“But mostly,” your voice lowers, cracks, “I hate that you touched me like you meant it. And then walked away like you didn’t.”
You both stand there for a long, loaded second. The wind lifts your hair. Somewhere inside, a faint bassline from another studio vibrates through the floor.
“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper. “I didn’t ask for you.”
Sunghoon turns to you, finally, slow and unreadable. He takes you in: eyes drifting from the trembling fists at your sides to the way your jaw clenches like you’re holding yourself together with glue and prayer.
And then he smirks.
“That’s not what your tweets said.”
Your chest caves.
“Fuck you,” you breathe, and it hurts. God, it hurts, how fast the ache rushes in.
“You’re really going to turn this into a joke now?” you ask, barely holding the cracks together. “You think quoting my tweets makes you clever? You think it makes this easier?”
“I think you’re the one who made it complicated,” he says.
Your eyes sting.
“And you’re the one who kept playing the game.”
Sunghoon shrugs, “You were playing too.”
“I stopped!” you yell, too loud, too suddenly. You catch yourself, voice dropping again. “I stopped when I realized none of it meant anything to you.”
He looks away.
“You want to know the worst part?” you ask, shaking now, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms.
He doesn’t answer.
So you keep going. Because now, you can’t stop.
“I can’t even trust myself anymore. I walk into a room and you’re there and suddenly I’m stupid again. I let you do that to me and I didn’t even ask why – because I thought maybe, just maybe, it meant something. Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Maybe you looked at me and actually saw me.”
Silence. Long. Agonizing.
Finally, he says, softly, flatly, with nothing behind it:
“I don’t do real.”
You flinch like he slapped you. And for the first time in weeks, you have nothing left to say.
No jokes. No comebacks. Just the steady collapse of something inside you, like the floor gave out.
You nod.
“Right,” you whisper, “Of course you don’t.”
He looks at you like he wants to say more. His throat works around the words. But whatever they are, he swallows them.
So, you nod again. And walk away.
And this time, he lets you. And that’s the worst part.
Because you wanted him to follow.
The days blur after that.
You don't cry. Not like you thought you would. Not in the way you expected: no gasping sobs into your pillow, no dramatic tears behind the studio monitors. No, instead, it settles in quieter. Colder. Like frost.
You keep your head down. Do your job. Show up early, leave late. Laugh when you need to. Answer questions. Avoid him.
Always, always avoid him.
You stop using the staff pantry, too many memories. Too many shared glances across the coffee machine. You choose the service elevator now. Keep a spare headset in your pocket in case someone says his name in the group channel.
Even when he's nearby, you pretend he isn’t.
And to your own disbelief, he does the same. At least, on the surface.
You catch him once – just once – watching you across the stage while Jungwon rehearses his solo. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t look away either. It unsettles you.
The teasing is gone. The grins. The little traps. Nothing. Just a vacuum where he used to exist. You try to tell yourself this is better. You try.
But it’s 1:13 a.m. now.
And your apartment feels too quiet.
You’ve had your phone on Do Not Disturb for three hours. You haven’t checked the nuguhasdoubts account. You’ve ignored three separate texts from your production groupchat, one passive-aggressive reminder from the schedule board, and two attempts from Sunoo to FaceTime you “just because.”
There was so much more than he let on, you think. That’s the way Sunoo has always been, always ahead of everyone in ways that you couldn’t understand how he does it. Maybe, he’s empathetic – or, maybe, he’s just too nosy. But you think he’s empathetic, it’s Sunoo.
You’re curled on the couch in sweats, face bare, hair tied up, a bowl of congealed kimchi stew on your coffee table.
You try watching something: a rerun, a music show, a mukbang, but everything reminds you of him. Of them. Of the life you orbit but can never truly belong in.
Your apartment, a perk of working under HYBE, is too pristine for how worn you feel. White walls, modern fixtures, perfect view of the Han River; and none of it feels like yours. You’re just a tenant here. A ghost with a staff badge and too many secrets.
Your hand twitches toward your phone. Then away. Then toward it again.
You turn it over.
One new text.
[unknown number] 1:15 AM.
i'm outside. just five minutes.
if you hate me after this, i'll leave for good.
Your pulse slams through your chest.
You sit up. Walk to the door.
Your knees feel wrong. Like someone’s replaced your bones with glass.
You press the button for the camera feed. The screen flickers.
And there he is.
Sunghoon. Standing under your building’s awning. Hoodie pulled up, rain soaking the hem. His sneakers are wet. His shoulders are hunched like he's bracing for impact.
Your fingers hover over the buzzer. For a second, you tell yourself: don’t do it. He doesn’t deserve this. Then your heart says: but I still want to hear what he’ll say.
And you buzz him in.
The intercom clicks off.
Your hand falls to your side.
Your chest feels like it might cave in.
You leave the door open for him.
Just a crack.
The door swings open with a soft creak, rain still whispering against the windows behind you. He steps inside like he’s trespassing. Like this space might reject him.
His hoodie is soaked through, dripping water onto the hardwood. His shoes are ruined. But it’s not the mess that unsettles you — it’s the look in his eyes. He’s not smug. Not cocky. Not teasing. He looks like he’s searching for something, and terrified he won’t find it here.
You don’t say anything at first. Just toss a towel to him. Not kindly.
“Dry off before you ruin the floor.”
He catches the towel one-handed. Rubs the back of his neck, slowly, like he's trying to buy time.
You cross your arms, back rigid, “Why are you here, Sunghoon?”
“I…” His voice is cracked from the cold, “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”
Your jaw tightens, “That’s not an answer.”
He drops the towel onto your kitchen chair. Looks at you. Really looks at you.
“I didn’t think you’d open the door.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
You fold your arms tighter, “You’re not here to make peace, are you? You’re not the type.”
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m here because I haven’t been able to sleep. Or eat. Or exist right since you walked away.”
You kept quiet.
“I can’t think straight, I can’t even rehearse properly, my mind keeps looping back to the balcony, and the look on your face like I’d just torn you open and smiled about it.”
“You did,” you whisper, voice small, sharp, “You looked me in the eye and said you don’t do real. Like I hadn’t already given you everything real about me.”
“I know,” he chokes, “And I wanted to say I didn’t mean it. But I knew I’d sound like a liar.”
“Then why come now?” you demand, shaking, “After all this? After weeks of avoiding me? After you made me feel insane for wanting you?”
Silence. Just the sound of rain ticking against your glass balcony door.
Then, with a breath:
“Because I realized I’m not scared of you breaking me,” he says, “I’m scared that you already did.. and I let you go anyway.”
Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
“I thought keeping it casual would protect us. That I could make you laugh, keep you distant, pretend I didn’t care,” he continues, voice rising now, “But then you stopped talking to me. You stopped smiling. You looked through me like I was no one. And I swear to god, it felt like dying.”
You take a step back, “Why now, Sunghoon? Why only when I walked away did you start realizing any of this?”
He shakes his head, “Because I was a coward.”
You flinch.
“You were brave enough to ask what this was. I just kept pretending it was easier to laugh than to admit I gave a fuck.”
Your hands are trembling, “So, now what? You show up drenched and desperate and say you care? And I’m supposed to forget how you left me behind?”
“No,” he says, “You’re supposed to tell me to leave.”
You blink.
“But you haven’t.”
His voice drops. “Which means… maybe there’s still something left.”
You hate him for being right.
He steps forward. Rain still clings to his lashes. His voice turns raw, stripped of every mask he’s worn until now.
“I don’t want anyone else reading your tweets,” he whispers. “I don’t want anyone else getting to look at you the way I have. I don’t want anyone else making you laugh the way I should’ve.”
Tears sting your eyes. You hate that, too.
He exhales, voice low, vulnerable, trembling at the edge of everything he’s ever avoided saying.
“The show’s over, Y/N. And I still want you all the same.”
A beat.
Your throat tightens, but you don’t falter.
You look him straight in the eye and whisper, “I’ve stayed for the ending credits.”
The silence in your apartment feels louder than anything else tonight. Not the hum of the air conditioning, not the rustle of city lights outside the window, not even your heartbeat, which has betrayed you too many times when it comes to him, “Then let me make it worth your while.”
And finally, fucking finally, he kisses you. Like he really did mean it. Maybe, he does. Sunghoon holds the sides of your face and kisses you deeply, trying so hard to memorise how you taste because he had done everything to deprive himself off of it. Each kiss translated into: fuck, I’ve always wanted to kiss you since the very first tweet.
You gasped against his lips, letting out a small noise of shock at how intense he is just from kissing you. He walks further, pushing you to the couch before he hovers over you and cup your cheeks as he looks into your eyes, kissing the tip of your nose before he kisses you again, softly, this time. Sunghoon slots himself in between your legs, holding your hand as he kisses the inside of your palm before diving to your jaw, leaving little kisses to his wake as he leans down and to suck on your jaw, leaving marks of ownership as if he’s afraid anyone had the guts to claim you.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against your skin before toying with the straps of your night gown, flicking it against your skin so faint you almost missed the snap of the fabric against your skin, “I’m really sorry,” he whispers as he pulls your tank top to pool above your breasts, breathing at how he finally had the chance to have you like this: under him, beautiful, vulnerable – and it all boils down to him on how he should win you, again. In the charm that only a Park Sunghoon has.
His mouth envelops around the bud of your nipple, moaning hard at how he tastes the expanse of your skin. He shifts his weight down, focuses on sucking your nipple as his eyes flicker over to you, making sure you’re with him as he finally proves himself to you as he alternates between each nipple.
Sunghoon travels to the valley of your breasts, tracing the tip of his nose all throughout the flushed skin. He kisses down a trail softly to your stomach, kissing over the expanse of it, each stretch mark, each mole that you didn’t even know existed there. He travels down and became face to face with your pulsating core. He breaths out, a familiar sight right before him, but this time, he’s not hiding anymore.
“Shit,” you breathe out as you feel his breath fanning over your core. He pokes his tongue on the wet patch that has formed on your underwear, groaning as if he’s tasting you again for the first time. He chuckles when he meets your heated gaze, “Relax,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You better,” and he chuckles at your breathy threat.
He hums before licking a stripe over your clothed core, giving you what you want but not exactly the way you want it. It was a while of teasing you, mixing his saliva with the wetness that is evident over the cotton of your panties. And after a while, Sunghoon pulls it down before immediately diving into your clit.
You squeal and immediately tighten your thighs around his face, holding on his hair tightly as he alternated on flicking his tongue against your clit and sucking it hard that whenever he lets it go, a pop is evident between your close bodies. He ate you out like he wanted to prove something, that him in love and eating you out was better than the last time he did so, but evidently in lust. And he doesn’t slide a finger inside you. He focuses his tongue and mouth in all the places you needed him.
“Bedroom,” you try to say as you tap his shoulder, “please,” you added.
Sunghoon stopped and grinned at you before scooping you with his arms and carry you bridal style. Both of your heartbeats as loud as it could be, thumping against the vulnerable expanse of your chest. He lays you down softly on your bed with a thump, and it’s almost as if Sunghoon is met with a sudden rush of urgency, he strips himself off his clothes before leaning down again to kiss you.
He grinds his crotch against yours, hissing as his shaft feel the wetness from your core smearing all over him. He presses his forehead on yours as he stayed that way for a deadly, long time. Just his shaft slipping in between your hungry folds, edging the both of you the way you both have played this game for so long. You whimper whenever you feel his tip grazing your hole just a tad, but lose it whenever you feel the drag of it against your clit.
“Please,” you beg again, “I need you, Hoon.”
“Goddamn,” Sunghoon mutters, as if bracing himself. He perches up, arms on either side of your head before lining his tip against your already throbbing entrance. He pokes the tip of his dick against it, letting out a broken moan as he feels how wet you are. And he eases himself in – too slippery, he thinks – and you’re comfortable just right. You hug his dick snugly but fit him inside easily, it was as if it was a perfect fit.
“Such a perfect pussy for me,” he groans, “I fit you so well, Y/N,”
He drags each thrust slowly, making you want to feel each vein, each drag, how your walls pulsate around his big dick that even with little movement, bullies your cervix in such a delicious way. Each thrust has his lips hanging over yours, and a small part of you wishes he kisses you while he does, but with each hard thrusts, he is jutted forward, and his lips only graze yours.
“Park Sunghoon,” you called out, “kiss me.”
And his eyes meet yours, before breaking out into a grin and obliges you. This kiss was slow, taking its time. Teeth clashing here and there, tongues desperate to feel each muscle, breaths exchanged in heavy and deep heaves, each meant a confession heavier than the last one. God, amidst all miscommunication and the game you willingly played with him, Sunghoon was a fit candidate to what you know is love.
“I love you,” Sunghoon stutters as his thrust increased, beating you to a love confession that you had unwillingly placed upon the category of competition on who gets to say it first.
Well, you’re glad he said it first.
You smiled before reaching out to wrap your arms around him before cupping the side of his face, and he leans in, kissing the inside of your palm again with his free hand wrapping around the circumference of your wrist, “You idiot,” you laugh, and he does, too, “I love you, too.”
And then you’re coming, climax crashing into you before you realise that you are coming undone around him. This makes him groan around you, chasing his orgasm, and then: “Shit, can I come inside?”
You laugh at him seeking approval, but you nod, anyway. And he comes inside you, pulling you up in a hug, as if he needed your body against him to ground himself in the intensity, and Sunghoon shudders at each emotion flowing out of him. His lips busying itself kissing whatever skin near to his mouth, but his eyes are screwed shut as he lets out breathy exhales, trying so hard not to cry but he does.
Tears staining your back and his sniffles fill the room and you pull him away to cup his cheeks, “Sunghoon,” you call him softly.
“I’m sorry, I love you, I fucking do,” he says softly, looking into your eyes, “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”
A smile breaks out from your lips, “You’re goddamn cheesy.”
“Only for you,” he chuckles.
And you smile at him as if you placed all the past behind.
Sure, you first thought how crazy it is that everything started with just one harmless thread about him being the man everyone desired to be. You first thought how this is a mistake, how everything was a mistake. That your world didn’t belong in his, because his perfection didn’t deserve an ounce of taint from your life, but you’ve come to realise that Sunghoon is as human as you are.
He was a perfectionist, true, but he was a coward all the same. Masking his imperfection in his continuous strive to become perfect, and this is one of the times that he let himself be imperfect to have the one thing he has deprived himself of: love.
As the night when on, legs tangled with each other as he slept beside you, his mask of indifference and cockiness finally shed off to make you see the boy who only wanted to be perfect to feel the love he thinks he deserve. You brush his hair off his forehead, and place a kiss on his forehead, letting the warmth dissipate.
Cut scene, cut the chase. The curtains are drawn down, the show is over.
SUMMARY. you and sunghoon are both off-limits. you're still living with your ex, and he's off to get married to someone that has been arranged for his family business. but that doesn't stop you both from trudging boundaries when it's just you and him in your own world.
CONTENTS. smut, some angst, some fluff. LOTS OF JEALOUSY. smut with plot. not beta-read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
WARNINGS. lots and lots of jealousy. sunghoon is DOWN-BAD for reader, but the feeling’s mutual. indirect cheating (but not really???). semi-public sex, dom!sunghoon, bratty reader. somewhat mean hoonie. oral (both f and m receiving), p in v, unprotected sexual act (use protection at all times), temperature play, sensory deprivation, slight bondage (just tying up), sir kink (oh yeah baby), spitting kink. use of pet names (wiee). THREE SEX SCENES. (seldom mentions of hyung line: heeseung, jay, and jake) IDK I WROTE THIS BEFORE I COULD FULLY WRITE EVERYTHING.
WORD COUNT. 4.7k
AUTHOR'S NOTE. FINALLY IT'S HERE. belated happy birthday, my hoonhoon! this is my hoon birthday gift for y'all. hope you like it! (did i write two sunghoon smuts already? yes, yes i did.) also, wait for further updates, i might be updating anyone from the hyung line soon! wink wink.
MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.
There was something about him.
Park Sunghoon was the image of something so mysterious – yet, so captivating. His eyes held something deeper than what he tries to convey. You tried to hard to look away, but his actions, his stance – they command attention.
So much, that they commanded yours.
He has been a constant, a regular at the bar that you're working in every weekend to make ends meet. He was the hot bachelor that belonged in the upper VIPs that usually had a secluded room where they could share small talk over top shelf drinks.
Your first encounter with Park Sunghoon was when Byeol called in sick, and that meant you took over her shift as the personal-hired entertainer at Room 130.
"Please, Y/N," Byeol pleaded through the phone, coughing as her voice scratched against her throat, "if I could, I would. I'll take over your shift for the next week. You'll have my pay for tonight."
Now, additional income is something that is very difficult to shake off, no matter how it takes a night that consists of Neoguri noodles off of your schedule.
You wore your signature red cocktail dress, one that hugs all your right proportions beautifully, but not too tight, with a slit that doesn't go too up high on your thigh. Matched with a wave that's swept to the side, it is a no-brainer that the four men of Room 130 didn't even ask where their usual entertainer, Byeol, is.
"What a pretty face," Jake comments as he takes a sip of his armagnac, his eyes travelled down to your legs, but went back to your face, "nice voice, too." He adds.
Sunghoon was late, muttering an excuse that was along the lines of: his mother made him stay for a supposed meet-up with someone.
"Mommy's still on it?" Heeseung jokes, grabbing some of the snacks on the table, shaking his hand to remove the residue of it before pouring it to his mouth.
Sunghoon sends a look over Heeseung's way, making the oldest boy chuckle, "Well, you have to follow mommy's orders, or else, you're gonna whine about how your daily allowance has been reduced to half."
The rest of the boys chuckled, alongside the girls that were in the room to hold them company. Sunghoon was not the most pleased, he knew that Heeseung is right. He has to find a lady or else he will be arranged to a wedding just to keep up his expenditures and his lifestyle.
"Who's the girl?" Jay asks as he places his hand on the small of the back of the lady that sat on his lap, his eyes on the girl that giggled as she kept on tracing the edge of Jay's jawline.
"I don't know," Sunghoon grunted, eager to down a shot that was already on the table, "all I know is I have to find a partner ASAP, or else, I'll be wed to someone I could care less about."
That was when his eyes landed on you, singing a song softly as you held your vintage microphone. His eyebrows perched up slightly, and he smiled to himself.
Now, it has been approximately the fifth consecutive week that Sunghoon had tried to talk to you, alone, on your supposed shift at the public part of the bar.
Sweeping past through sweaty bodies as well as people that are drunk off their minds, Sunghoon was determined to at least know you better. It only took one song and one damn dress to catch Sunghoon's attention.
Lucky for him, he had caught your attention, too.
The thing was, you had a boyfriend – well, a roommate, if you will. Since love was obviously out the window, and that you were trying to sustain each other's stay in your apartment that has its contract nearing its end by the end of December.
Well, another reason was that your then-boyfriend was still trying to win you back.
And while you're certain that you're over him and is keeping him at bay for benefits, he certainly was not, and it somehow was making you guilty that you're somehow leading him on even when it was Sunghoon's face that you think of whenever you press your bullet vibrator against your clit, leaving out broken, breathy moans that underestimated how much you think you're going to moan for Sunghoon if time permits you.
Which brings you to here, a never-ending cat and mouse game that you have established with Sunghoon, who clearly was so head-over-heels for you.
The ordeal was simple: you, one of the bar's beloved entertainers, would finish a song that you sing and dedicate for Sunghoon, but wander off with a smile as you try and find yourself a suitable man vying for your attention. It was effective for you to make him jealous and demand your attention on him for the next hours.
Sunghoon had never gone past the eating only the third base, and Sunghoon was more than willing to eat your pussy on hours end. And you were willing to let him go past that, if only you haven't seen the ring that adorned his left hand, snug tight around his ring finger.
It was a stark reminder of how he was not for you, just how you are starting to become his.
"You sing here often?"
"I do," You'd giggle to whoever this guy's name is, you really didn't know, nor even tried remembering. You were sure it wasn't his name that you'll be screaming in the bathroom stalls of the bar.
"I should bo-"
"Then I'd want to book you, privately," Sunghoon cut the guy off, his voice reeking of jealousy and authority as he stood behind you, your back flushed against his chest.
"Ya," the boy raised his voice and poked Sunghoon's blue sweater tank top, "do you mind? We're talking here."
"And I'm talking to her, as well," Sunghoon responded, his eyes crinkling into amusement, "do you not want to talk to me, baby?" He pouts at you, nuzzling his chin to your neck as he leaves light kisses on it, making you gasp.
"I.." You trail off, biting your lip as your eyes moved back and forth between the guy and Sunghoon.
"I'm not wasting my time on this," the guy raised his hands in defeat, backing away, leaving you with the guy that you have tried to flirt indirectly through the night.
"Fancy seeing you here against sweaty bodies," You giggle as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down teasingly to have his lips over yours, to which Sunghoon growled and pushed his lips on yours, immediately pushing his tongue inside your mouth as his hands dug on the curves of your waist.
"You drive me so fucking crazy," he whispers to your lips, in which you hum as a response. Not a long while after, you're being guided to one of the restrooms, his lips now attacking your neck to leave noticeable bruises that you're trying to cover up before you go to your morning shift at the local library of your town.
He pushes you to an empty restroom, not minding to lock it as he cages you in between his body and the sink. “Are you having fun?” He suddenly asks as he pools your dress up your hips and starts rubbing you through your wet panties, “Playing with me, are you having fun?”
You looked at him through lidded eyes and nod, “I do,” you say as you bite your lip, spreading your legs wide, “I like it when you’re so crazy for me.”
He grunts and kneels down, pulling your panties down as his nose is immediately wafted off by the smell of your arousal spreading throughout your core, “So wet for me, the guy did that to you?” He spoke as his thumb pressed on your bare clit, making you shudder.
“N-no,” you squeaked out, holding on the sink behind you, “it has always been you.”
“Always been me?” Sunghoon chuckles as he blows air to your sensitive cunt, “I don’t know, babe, I’m starting not to believe it given how many times I’ve practically pulled you off against men who are thirsting over you.”
Not leaving you any moment to respond, Sunghoon attaches his lips to your sensitive nub, moaning at your familiar taste that he had been obsessed with.
Moaning his name, you immediately hold on his hair, tightening your grip on his soft, brown-black hair, to which Sunghoon tuts as he pulls away, his thumb replacing his lips as he presses and rubs circles on your clit, “You don’t get to touch me, princess.”
Grasping your wrist, Sunghoon had practically forced your hand off his hair, placing it on the sink behind you to continue his ministrations on your pussy.
“Love this pussy so much,” he breathes out, poking his tongue out to fuck your hole with, “so pretty, could get in this forever.”
You moaned in response, desperate to cum just by Sunghoon’s fingers alone. Instinctively, your hands went to play with your breasts, pulling your dress straps down to pool on your arms, you bit your lip as you pinched and flicked your nipples, mimicking the way Sunghoon does it when he was mouthing your tits instead of your pussy.
Sunghoon looked up at you and smirked, sneaking in a hand between your legs to spread your labia apart, forcing his tongue deeper into you as he shook his head sideways, nose prodding against your clit, mouth leaving out noises, making sure that anyone could walk in the unlocked restroom and catch you both in such sinful act.
With buckled knees, you started to grind on his tongue, your mind dancing on the quick release that you felt was bubbling at the pits of your stomach, “Y-you eat pussy so fucking good.”
“That’s where I’m best at, babe,” Sunghoon winks at you, pushing his middle finger inside you after tracing your hole with it, “and can you blame me? Your pussy tastes like heaven.”
“O-oh!” You squeaked out, feeling your orgasm could come if Sunghoon continued this. And as if Sunghoon knows how to push your buttons, he adds a second finger, then a third, his tongue now dancing on your clit as he panted against your core.
“Fuck - shit, Sunghoon!” You exclaim as you push his face to your core, panting as you whine, eyes screwed shut with your other arm failing to hold on the counter, regardless of how dry the sink it may be, body convulsing as you cum on Sunghoon’s face.
Sunghoon happily licked through your folds, slurping your cum messily and noisily. He stood up with your cum glistening on his lips, his mouth sporting the smuggest grin that made you want to kiss his face silly.
“Damn,” you breathed out, leaning toward his chest to ground yourself.
“We’re not done yet.”
Needless to say, Sunghoon made sure that you could cum thrice from his fingers and mouth alone.
The following week, you were in the same position — however, instead of your hand holding on the sink, it was Sunghoon’s, with his other hand fisting your hair as he holds you still while he fucks your mouth to prove a point.
“So f-fucking warm,” Sunghoon grunted, his balls trodding against your chin as he kept on cursing, too lost in the bliss of your mouth taking him tightly, mimicking a virgin pussy.
With blood almost drawn on his lips, Sunghoon lets out a guttural groan as he pushes you against his pelvis, his penis bullying its way on your throat as strings of warm cum painted your throat.
“Should get you jealous more often,” Sunghoon comments as he regains his breathing, “such a desperate slut you become once you start reminding me whose pussy my dick belongs to.”
Before you could respond, the tall boy pushes his lips against yours hungrily, tongue immediately poking inside to start a tongued kiss with you, cupping both of your cheeks, he made sure you aren’t going anywhere.
“Thighs,” you started, too overtaken by lust, but Sunghoon heard it, he held your face with one hand to force you to look at him, “Your thighs, Sunghoon, I want to-“
“Yeah? Wanna grind on it, pretty?”
You nod, anything that could have you feeling him against your throbbing core, “Please,” you pleaded, grabbing his wrist to make you suck on his ring-clad finger, “want it, so much.”
Sunghoon almost lets out an animalistic growl as he pulls you to one of the stalls. He reaches behind you to lock it before turning around and places the seat down, sitting on it before urging you to straddle him.
Pooling your dress over your lap, you did as you were instructed. Hanging both arms around his neck, you stood up to pull your panties down, the slight string of arousal visible from the cloth.
On the other hand, Sunghoon already had his pants and boxers discarded, his angry cock lay erect against his stomach. You licked your lips and straddled him again, your legs on either side of his thighs, thigh-grinding long forgotten.
Both of you hissed as your pussy made contact with his dick, and soon enough, you were both a grinding mess, your grinds interrupted by humps as you groped your tits, your head thrown back as you continue to moan Sunghoon’s name.
“Yeah, moan that n-name, he’s y-yours, isn’t he?” Sunghoon hissed, his hair all over his face before leaning down to suck on your free boob that has been exposed from the tubing of the dress that was pulled down by you prior.
“Mhm, he’s mine!” You squealed as you hit your high just in the same time as the pale boy you’re sat on.
“Fuck,” you chuckled.
“Damn,” Sunghoon said breathlessly before kissing your lips and leaning his forehead against yours.
It was the first time he kissed you on the forehead after hooking up.
Last, last week’s hookup session with Sunghoon has all become you’ve ever thought about as you placed the books on the shelves, pausing every now and then as you daydream of it.
It has been two weeks since Sunghoon had shown up in the bar that you’re working at every weekends.
And while you hoped that he could at least sweep in to wave or send a smile your way. But Friday had gone, so has Saturday, even Sunday - no signs of Sunghoon.
His absence seemed to gnaw on you as you started to search for him during weekdays at your off-duties, but none. No sign of Sunghoon.
And you can’t even text him, since he hadn’t given his number, and you didn’t, too.
You’ve found his Instagram page, but it has never been updated apart from the photo of a golf course which he had posted four days ago. Stories didn’t also help, as he never updates his stories. DMs are off, and the only way to contact him was through e-mail.
E-mailing him had crossed your mind the moment it reached Thursday, you were so close to losing your mind that you didn’t even care whether or not to message him through his work e-mail, regardless of the possibility that anyone within the network could see it.
“That’s too much of a thought,” said a voice that startled you. Turning around, you saw the infamous Sunghoon leant agains the bookshelves, arms crossed, mouth adorning a soft smirk that you’ve grown to love.
“Please, I bet you’re thinking I’m thinking of you,” you snorted as you continued sorting the books, eyes not meeting his as his gaze challenged you.
“Well, I don’t even have to bet. I know you’re thinking of me whether you admit it or not,” Sunghoon countered.
“What an ego,” you muttered as you rolled your eyes, disappointed by his sudden absence for two weeks, even without giving you a notice as to why.
“Where are you off to, tonight?” He asked out of nowhere.
“Home, as usual.”
“My place?”
“No, what do you mean?”
“You said you were going home?”
“Since when had your place been my home?”
“Are you willing for it to be?”
“Sunghoon, what?” You furrowed your eyebrows at him, looking at him as if he had three heads in one body.
“I’m serious, stay with me.”
“Sunghoon—“
“I don’t take no for an answer.”
“Sunghoon!”
“What a noisy librarian do I have here,” Sunghoon smirked, “I like it when you’re noisy though.”
With an exasperated sigh, you pulled Sunghoon at the back of the library, “What are you doing, Park Sunghoon?”
“Full name? Ouch,” he placed a hand on his heart.
“Sunghoon,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Let’s go home,” he said instead of answering your questions, pulling you by your arm to the direction of his car that has been parked in front of the library.
Now, it was supposed to be just a talk. A negotiation between you and Sunghoon to finally end whatever it was between you both, both your heart and mind exasperated by the uncertainty that was brought about by you and him.
But here you are, biting your lip as Sunghoon kissed you on your neck, alternating between kissing, licking, and sucking, as he kept your hips pinned down by the grip of his hands on it.
“Stop moving,” he demanded, looking at you with such fire in his eyes whenever you bucked your hips up onto him.
“Need you,” you whined out, desperate to grind on him again, this time, you were hoping that it would last long and be much more comfortable than the last time that you did in the stalls.
“I know, sweetie,” Sunghoon smirked before sitting up to grab his black necktie which he had on his nightstand, “This okay?” He asked as he raised the necktie before you, insinuating a plan that he had in mind.
With a nod and a verbal agreement, Sunghoon wrapped the blindfold around your head before pulling away to see you in your totality: laid back, eyes covered by the velvet cloth of his necktie, and naked — all just for him.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” Sunghoon comments as he grabbed the cloth ropes that dangled on the edge of the headrest, grabbing it with a smirk, he hoists your arms up, making you gasp, as he tied it to the to the headboard.
He tested whether the knot was tight or just right, before peering down at you and cupping your cheeks as he leaned down to kiss on you.
Adjusting his body, Sunghoon left a trail of kisses from four face down to your nipple, before swirling his tongue around your sensitive nub. Pulling back, he grabbed the cold glass of champagne that sat on the trolley by his bed. Grabbing a small ice cube from the bucket of the bottle, he circled the ice around your nipple, earning a gasp from you.
"Cold, isn't it?" He questioned before leaning down again to give your other breast attention, and after a while, he switched places, giving you the same amount of pleasure from the cold and his warm mouth alone.
He trailed the melting ice cube down your body, making you shiver at how the cold trail was instantly replaced by his warm lips as he kissed you along the wet path of the melted ice cube.
"You and your pretty body," he whispers before grabbing another ice cube again, this time, he placed it on his tongue, letting the cold replace the warmth of his tongue.
Peering down between your legs, he crawled down until he was face near your core, making you sigh in anticipation, it was moments like this that you craved for Sunghoon to speed up his actions. It was no lie that Sunghoon ate pussy pretty good, and sometimes, you think, how good could he be when he finally has his dick inside you?
Sunghoon pokes his cold tongue against your hole, making you squeal as your legs thrashed up in surprise. He grinned as he gave kitten licks to your core, his hands pushing your legs far apart before diving into your cunt.
Moans and groans and the occasional noise from Sunghoon's licking on your core were all that could be heard in his bedroom. He kept his eyes on you, basking in your reactions before he inserted his middle and ring finger inside you, contrasting the coldness of his tongue.
"Fuck! I love your m-mouth," you whimpered out, wriggling from the overwhelming feeling that only Sunghoon had managed to get out from you.
"Always f-fucking my pussy with that m-mouth so, g-good - Sunghoon!" you exclaimed as you came on his mouth without warning, Sunghoon humming as he licked through your folds, mimicking the noise of that a happy man.
He straightened up and freed his aching cock from the restraints of his trousers and boxers, hissing as his dick slapped against his stomach before hovering over you again to tip your chin up for a messy kiss.
Sunghoon licked into your mouth before prodding it open so he could spit into it, "Swallow," was all he said before you closed your mouth and opened it in front of him to show him that you did what was told.
The boy groans as he places his dick in between your folds, setting his pace as he starts from something that's agonizingly slow, drawing out a pained whimper from you.
"Hoonie, want your cock."
"Yeah?" he breathed out, picking up his pace, "you already have it been your legs, pretty."
"No," you shook your head, "want it."
"Want it, where?" he starts to slow down without much thought as he dawns realization to what you said.
"Cock, Hoonie, w-want it inside me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, fuck! Please, hurry!" you pleaded, hands pulling against your restraints, "Want it inside me, Hoonie, please!"
"Condoms?"
"No, raw."
"Baby–"
"Please!"
One beg from you and Sunghoon's heartbeat has already picked up. Before you both even started seeing each other to hook up, you have already established that the farthest you could go with each other is oral. Other than that is off the table, as you have said, you both are completely off-limits.
Sunghoon's chest warmed at the thought of you warming up to him, "Okay, baby," he breathed out, "are you sure?"
"I am," you whined.
He leaned over and removed your blindfold and restraints, letting you adjust before pushing his lips on yours, "Thank you, thank you," he muttered in between kisses as he pulls himself away, prodding the tip of his dick on your throbbing hole.
"I gotta say," Sunghoon chuckled as he pushes his tip inside you slowly, earning a delicious moan from you both, "you're so goddamn pretty, more exceptionally so when I'm inside you."
Sunghoon has a way with words, that's one thing that you made yourself known. That was something about him that you think was what sealed the deal – he fed into your need for constant assurance, even though there were limitations between you both.
"Push it all in," you demanded.
Without another word, Sunghoon pushed himself inside, earning a throaty groan between you both.
"Shit, f-feel so g-good for me, oh, my god," Sunghoon breathed as he pushed his face into the crook of your neck, your arms immediately finding home around his torso.
Sunghoon picks up his pace as he continues on bullying his way inside you, relishing on how your pussy throbs around his dick. With every thrust that he lands inside you, your eyes roll at the back of your head, feeling the pulse of the veins of his dick with every drag.
"God, Sunghoon, I–" you cut yourself off with a groan by his ear, cradling his face as he placed light kisses on your shoulder, "Fuck, Sunghoon, so good!"
The boy pulled his face away, prying your mouth open as he spit into your mouth, his cock drilling inside you in the slowest, yet most delicious way. It was as if he was trying his best to memorize how your gummy walls enveloped his dick, in the hopes of making your pussy remember his.
And, to commit this into memory, Sunghoon removes the ring he had clad around his ring finger, reaching for your left hand that hung around your shoulder, and, in a lust-filled haze, he wore the finger around the nearest finger that was accessible to him, he'd fix that later.
Your eyes wandered to the ring that adorned your thumb, before biting your lip and looking at him. Sunghoon already adjusted himself, kneeling straight as he hikes your leg up and places it on his shoulder; and with a roll of his hips, both of you are already a whimpering, moaning mess.
"So f-full, fucking finally," you moaned out and Sunghoon reaches for your other hand to intertwine it with his, "Yeah? Been dreaming of it for so long, huh?"
Tapping your cheek he makes you look at him, "Been dreaming of this, t-too, baby," he says, panting, "been dreaming of d-doing more than just this, too,"
You looked at him with doe eyes, your lips dropping down to his lips, "Kiss me, Sunghoon."
Sunghoon nodded and kissed you, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts, it was in that moment that only the two of you existed.
"You're squeezing me so f-fucking..." Sunghoon trailed, eyebrows drawn to each other in concentration, "..so fucking good for me, God, I love you."
His hands travelled down to your clit and rubbed circles around it, making you whimper and pull his face to yours, your lips wanting to get a taste of his again.
"Not gonna last l-long, princess," Sunghoon muttered in between grunts, "You close?" He said as he looked at you, searching your eyes for more than just your sign of being as near as he is.
You hum reaching your head up to peck his lips, "M-me too, Hoonie, dick is f-fucking me so g-good," your head attempting to throw back as his tip kept on hitting that sweet spot inside you.
"I love you," Sunghoon whispers as he lets go of your leg on his shoulder, pressing onto your body as he finally lets go of his cum inside you, your release following suit after he kept on thrusting even if he was coming undone inside you.
For a while, you both had stayed in that position, Sunghoon still deep inside you in between your legs, legs weakly wrapped around his body, both of your arms wrapped around his neck as you combed through his hair.
There was a heavy weight in the air, something that demands to be addressed.
Sunghoon lifts his head up, his chin rest against your chest. With a quick kiss on the valley of your breasts, he pulls the hand that had the ring wrapped around your thumb, he kisses your inner wrist, before, with lidded eyes, removing the ring and placing it instead to your ring finger, kissing your palm after a close inspection.
Sunghoon had never been so sure in his life, until now.
"I meant what I said," Sunghoon says quietly, his eyes now trained on your hand, eager to confess that it had always been you all along.
"Sunghoon, we can't.."
"Why?"
"You're going to get married,"
"I called it off."
You looked at him with a gasp, "What?"
"I said I found a partner, I always told you I'll always have you close, right?" he says as he sent you a soft smile, relishing in the hand that played with his hair.
"You're crazy," you chuckled.
"You make me go crazy over you," Sunghoon smiles with his eyes almost close.
"I love you, too, Sunghoon."
And when your eyes both meet, Sunghoon smiled softly, and that was when you both knew – it was where you both are supposed to be.
Sunghoon hums as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, this time, sure.
"Stay with me tonight," Sunghoon whispers.
"I'll stay tomorrow, too," you add.
"And on the days after that?" Sunghoon asks, his cheek pressed against your chest.
DISCLAIMER. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED/REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.
SUMMARY. you and sunghoon are both off-limits. you're still living with your ex, and he's off to get married to someone that has been arranged for his family business. but that doesn't stop you both from trudging boundaries when it's just you and him in your own world.
CONTENTS. smut, some angst, some fluff. LOTS OF JEALOUSY. smut with plot. not beta-read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
WARNINGS. lots and lots of jealousy. sunghoon is DOWN-BAD for reader, but the feeling’s mutual. indirect cheating (but not really???). semi-public sex, dom!sunghoon, bratty reader. somewhat mean hoonie. oral (both f and m receiving), p in v, unprotected sexual act (use protection at all times), temperature play, sensory deprivation, slight bondage (just tying up), sir kink (oh yeah baby), spitting kink. use of pet names (wiee). THREE SEX SCENES. (seldom mentions of hyung line: heeseung, jay, and jake) IDK I WROTE THIS BEFORE I COULD FULLY WRITE EVERYTHING.
WORD COUNT. 4.7k
AUTHOR'S NOTE. FINALLY IT'S HERE. belated happy birthday, my hoonhoon! this is my hoon birthday gift for y'all. hope you like it! (did i write two sunghoon smuts already? yes, yes i did.) also, wait for further updates, i might be updating anyone from the hyung line soon! wink wink.
MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.
There was something about him.
Park Sunghoon was the image of something so mysterious – yet, so captivating. His eyes held something deeper than what he tries to convey. You tried to hard to look away, but his actions, his stance – they command attention.
So much, that they commanded yours.
He has been a constant, a regular at the bar that you're working in every weekend to make ends meet. He was the hot bachelor that belonged in the upper VIPs that usually had a secluded room where they could share small talk over top shelf drinks.
Your first encounter with Park Sunghoon was when Byeol called in sick, and that meant you took over her shift as the personal-hired entertainer at Room 130.
"Please, Y/N," Byeol pleaded through the phone, coughing as her voice scratched against her throat, "if I could, I would. I'll take over your shift for the next week. You'll have my pay for tonight."
Now, additional income is something that is very difficult to shake off, no matter how it takes a night that consists of Neoguri noodles off of your schedule.
You wore your signature red cocktail dress, one that hugs all your right proportions beautifully, but not too tight, with a slit that doesn't go too up high on your thigh. Matched with a wave that's swept to the side, it is a no-brainer that the four men of Room 130 didn't even ask where their usual entertainer, Byeol, is.
"What a pretty face," Jake comments as he takes a sip of his armagnac, his eyes travelled down to your legs, but went back to your face, "nice voice, too." He adds.
Sunghoon was late, muttering an excuse that was along the lines of: his mother made him stay for a supposed meet-up with someone.
"Mommy's still on it?" Heeseung jokes, grabbing some of the snacks on the table, shaking his hand to remove the residue of it before pouring it to his mouth.
Sunghoon sends a look over Heeseung's way, making the oldest boy chuckle, "Well, you have to follow mommy's orders, or else, you're gonna whine about how your daily allowance has been reduced to half."
The rest of the boys chuckled, alongside the girls that were in the room to hold them company. Sunghoon was not the most pleased, he knew that Heeseung is right. He has to find a lady or else he will be arranged to a wedding just to keep up his expenditures and his lifestyle.
"Who's the girl?" Jay asks as he places his hand on the small of the back of the lady that sat on his lap, his eyes on the girl that giggled as she kept on tracing the edge of Jay's jawline.
"I don't know," Sunghoon grunted, eager to down a shot that was already on the table, "all I know is I have to find a partner ASAP, or else, I'll be wed to someone I could care less about."
That was when his eyes landed on you, singing a song softly as you held your vintage microphone. His eyebrows perched up slightly, and he smiled to himself.
Now, it has been approximately the fifth consecutive week that Sunghoon had tried to talk to you, alone, on your supposed shift at the public part of the bar.
Sweeping past through sweaty bodies as well as people that are drunk off their minds, Sunghoon was determined to at least know you better. It only took one song and one damn dress to catch Sunghoon's attention.
Lucky for him, he had caught your attention, too.
The thing was, you had a boyfriend – well, a roommate, if you will. Since love was obviously out the window, and that you were trying to sustain each other's stay in your apartment that has its contract nearing its end by the end of December.
Well, another reason was that your then-boyfriend was still trying to win you back.
And while you're certain that you're over him and is keeping him at bay for benefits, he certainly was not, and it somehow was making you guilty that you're somehow leading him on even when it was Sunghoon's face that you think of whenever you press your bullet vibrator against your clit, leaving out broken, breathy moans that underestimated how much you think you're going to moan for Sunghoon if time permits you.
Which brings you to here, a never-ending cat and mouse game that you have established with Sunghoon, who clearly was so head-over-heels for you.
The ordeal was simple: you, one of the bar's beloved entertainers, would finish a song that you sing and dedicate for Sunghoon, but wander off with a smile as you try and find yourself a suitable man vying for your attention. It was effective for you to make him jealous and demand your attention on him for the next hours.
Sunghoon had never gone past the eating only the third base, and Sunghoon was more than willing to eat your pussy on hours end. And you were willing to let him go past that, if only you haven't seen the ring that adorned his left hand, snug tight around his ring finger.
It was a stark reminder of how he was not for you, just how you are starting to become his.
"You sing here often?"
"I do," You'd giggle to whoever this guy's name is, you really didn't know, nor even tried remembering. You were sure it wasn't his name that you'll be screaming in the bathroom stalls of the bar.
"I should bo-"
"Then I'd want to book you, privately," Sunghoon cut the guy off, his voice reeking of jealousy and authority as he stood behind you, your back flushed against his chest.
"Ya," the boy raised his voice and poked Sunghoon's blue sweater tank top, "do you mind? We're talking here."
"And I'm talking to her, as well," Sunghoon responded, his eyes crinkling into amusement, "do you not want to talk to me, baby?" He pouts at you, nuzzling his chin to your neck as he leaves light kisses on it, making you gasp.
"I.." You trail off, biting your lip as your eyes moved back and forth between the guy and Sunghoon.
"I'm not wasting my time on this," the guy raised his hands in defeat, backing away, leaving you with the guy that you have tried to flirt indirectly through the night.
"Fancy seeing you here against sweaty bodies," You giggle as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down teasingly to have his lips over yours, to which Sunghoon growled and pushed his lips on yours, immediately pushing his tongue inside your mouth as his hands dug on the curves of your waist.
"You drive me so fucking crazy," he whispers to your lips, in which you hum as a response. Not a long while after, you're being guided to one of the restrooms, his lips now attacking your neck to leave noticeable bruises that you're trying to cover up before you go to your morning shift at the local library of your town.
He pushes you to an empty restroom, not minding to lock it as he cages you in between his body and the sink. “Are you having fun?” He suddenly asks as he pools your dress up your hips and starts rubbing you through your wet panties, “Playing with me, are you having fun?”
You looked at him through lidded eyes and nod, “I do,” you say as you bite your lip, spreading your legs wide, “I like it when you’re so crazy for me.”
He grunts and kneels down, pulling your panties down as his nose is immediately wafted off by the smell of your arousal spreading throughout your core, “So wet for me, the guy did that to you?” He spoke as his thumb pressed on your bare clit, making you shudder.
“N-no,” you squeaked out, holding on the sink behind you, “it has always been you.”
“Always been me?” Sunghoon chuckles as he blows air to your sensitive cunt, “I don’t know, babe, I’m starting not to believe it given how many times I’ve practically pulled you off against men who are thirsting over you.”
Not leaving you any moment to respond, Sunghoon attaches his lips to your sensitive nub, moaning at your familiar taste that he had been obsessed with.
Moaning his name, you immediately hold on his hair, tightening your grip on his soft, brown-black hair, to which Sunghoon tuts as he pulls away, his thumb replacing his lips as he presses and rubs circles on your clit, “You don’t get to touch me, princess.”
Grasping your wrist, Sunghoon had practically forced your hand off his hair, placing it on the sink behind you to continue his ministrations on your pussy.
“Love this pussy so much,” he breathes out, poking his tongue out to fuck your hole with, “so pretty, could get in this forever.”
You moaned in response, desperate to cum just by Sunghoon’s fingers alone. Instinctively, your hands went to play with your breasts, pulling your dress straps down to pool on your arms, you bit your lip as you pinched and flicked your nipples, mimicking the way Sunghoon does it when he was mouthing your tits instead of your pussy.
Sunghoon looked up at you and smirked, sneaking in a hand between your legs to spread your labia apart, forcing his tongue deeper into you as he shook his head sideways, nose prodding against your clit, mouth leaving out noises, making sure that anyone could walk in the unlocked restroom and catch you both in such sinful act.
With buckled knees, you started to grind on his tongue, your mind dancing on the quick release that you felt was bubbling at the pits of your stomach, “Y-you eat pussy so fucking good.”
“That’s where I’m best at, babe,” Sunghoon winks at you, pushing his middle finger inside you after tracing your hole with it, “and can you blame me? Your pussy tastes like heaven.”
“O-oh!” You squeaked out, feeling your orgasm could come if Sunghoon continued this. And as if Sunghoon knows how to push your buttons, he adds a second finger, then a third, his tongue now dancing on your clit as he panted against your core.
“Fuck - shit, Sunghoon!” You exclaim as you push his face to your core, panting as you whine, eyes screwed shut with your other arm failing to hold on the counter, regardless of how dry the sink it may be, body convulsing as you cum on Sunghoon’s face.
Sunghoon happily licked through your folds, slurping your cum messily and noisily. He stood up with your cum glistening on his lips, his mouth sporting the smuggest grin that made you want to kiss his face silly.
“Damn,” you breathed out, leaning toward his chest to ground yourself.
“We’re not done yet.”
Needless to say, Sunghoon made sure that you could cum thrice from his fingers and mouth alone.
The following week, you were in the same position — however, instead of your hand holding on the sink, it was Sunghoon’s, with his other hand fisting your hair as he holds you still while he fucks your mouth to prove a point.
“So f-fucking warm,” Sunghoon grunted, his balls trodding against your chin as he kept on cursing, too lost in the bliss of your mouth taking him tightly, mimicking a virgin pussy.
With blood almost drawn on his lips, Sunghoon lets out a guttural groan as he pushes you against his pelvis, his penis bullying its way on your throat as strings of warm cum painted your throat.
“Should get you jealous more often,” Sunghoon comments as he regains his breathing, “such a desperate slut you become once you start reminding me whose pussy my dick belongs to.”
Before you could respond, the tall boy pushes his lips against yours hungrily, tongue immediately poking inside to start a tongued kiss with you, cupping both of your cheeks, he made sure you aren’t going anywhere.
“Thighs,” you started, too overtaken by lust, but Sunghoon heard it, he held your face with one hand to force you to look at him, “Your thighs, Sunghoon, I want to-“
“Yeah? Wanna grind on it, pretty?”
You nod, anything that could have you feeling him against your throbbing core, “Please,” you pleaded, grabbing his wrist to make you suck on his ring-clad finger, “want it, so much.”
Sunghoon almost lets out an animalistic growl as he pulls you to one of the stalls. He reaches behind you to lock it before turning around and places the seat down, sitting on it before urging you to straddle him.
Pooling your dress over your lap, you did as you were instructed. Hanging both arms around his neck, you stood up to pull your panties down, the slight string of arousal visible from the cloth.
On the other hand, Sunghoon already had his pants and boxers discarded, his angry cock lay erect against his stomach. You licked your lips and straddled him again, your legs on either side of his thighs, thigh-grinding long forgotten.
Both of you hissed as your pussy made contact with his dick, and soon enough, you were both a grinding mess, your grinds interrupted by humps as you groped your tits, your head thrown back as you continue to moan Sunghoon’s name.
“Yeah, moan that n-name, he’s y-yours, isn’t he?” Sunghoon hissed, his hair all over his face before leaning down to suck on your free boob that has been exposed from the tubing of the dress that was pulled down by you prior.
“Mhm, he’s mine!” You squealed as you hit your high just in the same time as the pale boy you’re sat on.
“Fuck,” you chuckled.
“Damn,” Sunghoon said breathlessly before kissing your lips and leaning his forehead against yours.
It was the first time he kissed you on the forehead after hooking up.
Last, last week’s hookup session with Sunghoon has all become you’ve ever thought about as you placed the books on the shelves, pausing every now and then as you daydream of it.
It has been two weeks since Sunghoon had shown up in the bar that you’re working at every weekends.
And while you hoped that he could at least sweep in to wave or send a smile your way. But Friday had gone, so has Saturday, even Sunday - no signs of Sunghoon.
His absence seemed to gnaw on you as you started to search for him during weekdays at your off-duties, but none. No sign of Sunghoon.
And you can’t even text him, since he hadn’t given his number, and you didn’t, too.
You’ve found his Instagram page, but it has never been updated apart from the photo of a golf course which he had posted four days ago. Stories didn’t also help, as he never updates his stories. DMs are off, and the only way to contact him was through e-mail.
E-mailing him had crossed your mind the moment it reached Thursday, you were so close to losing your mind that you didn’t even care whether or not to message him through his work e-mail, regardless of the possibility that anyone within the network could see it.
“That’s too much of a thought,” said a voice that startled you. Turning around, you saw the infamous Sunghoon leant agains the bookshelves, arms crossed, mouth adorning a soft smirk that you’ve grown to love.
“Please, I bet you’re thinking I’m thinking of you,” you snorted as you continued sorting the books, eyes not meeting his as his gaze challenged you.
“Well, I don’t even have to bet. I know you’re thinking of me whether you admit it or not,” Sunghoon countered.
“What an ego,” you muttered as you rolled your eyes, disappointed by his sudden absence for two weeks, even without giving you a notice as to why.
“Where are you off to, tonight?” He asked out of nowhere.
“Home, as usual.”
“My place?”
“No, what do you mean?”
“You said you were going home?”
“Since when had your place been my home?”
“Are you willing for it to be?”
“Sunghoon, what?” You furrowed your eyebrows at him, looking at him as if he had three heads in one body.
“I’m serious, stay with me.”
“Sunghoon—“
“I don’t take no for an answer.”
“Sunghoon!”
“What a noisy librarian do I have here,” Sunghoon smirked, “I like it when you’re noisy though.”
With an exasperated sigh, you pulled Sunghoon at the back of the library, “What are you doing, Park Sunghoon?”
“Full name? Ouch,” he placed a hand on his heart.
“Sunghoon,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Let’s go home,” he said instead of answering your questions, pulling you by your arm to the direction of his car that has been parked in front of the library.
Now, it was supposed to be just a talk. A negotiation between you and Sunghoon to finally end whatever it was between you both, both your heart and mind exasperated by the uncertainty that was brought about by you and him.
But here you are, biting your lip as Sunghoon kissed you on your neck, alternating between kissing, licking, and sucking, as he kept your hips pinned down by the grip of his hands on it.
“Stop moving,” he demanded, looking at you with such fire in his eyes whenever you bucked your hips up onto him.
“Need you,” you whined out, desperate to grind on him again, this time, you were hoping that it would last long and be much more comfortable than the last time that you did in the stalls.
“I know, sweetie,” Sunghoon smirked before sitting up to grab his black necktie which he had on his nightstand, “This okay?” He asked as he raised the necktie before you, insinuating a plan that he had in mind.
With a nod and a verbal agreement, Sunghoon wrapped the blindfold around your head before pulling away to see you in your totality: laid back, eyes covered by the velvet cloth of his necktie, and naked — all just for him.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” Sunghoon comments as he grabbed the cloth ropes that dangled on the edge of the headrest, grabbing it with a smirk, he hoists your arms up, making you gasp, as he tied it to the to the headboard.
He tested whether the knot was tight or just right, before peering down at you and cupping your cheeks as he leaned down to kiss on you.
Adjusting his body, Sunghoon left a trail of kisses from four face down to your nipple, before swirling his tongue around your sensitive nub. Pulling back, he grabbed the cold glass of champagne that sat on the trolley by his bed. Grabbing a small ice cube from the bucket of the bottle, he circled the ice around your nipple, earning a gasp from you.
"Cold, isn't it?" He questioned before leaning down again to give your other breast attention, and after a while, he switched places, giving you the same amount of pleasure from the cold and his warm mouth alone.
He trailed the melting ice cube down your body, making you shiver at how the cold trail was instantly replaced by his warm lips as he kissed you along the wet path of the melted ice cube.
"You and your pretty body," he whispers before grabbing another ice cube again, this time, he placed it on his tongue, letting the cold replace the warmth of his tongue.
Peering down between your legs, he crawled down until he was face near your core, making you sigh in anticipation, it was moments like this that you craved for Sunghoon to speed up his actions. It was no lie that Sunghoon ate pussy pretty good, and sometimes, you think, how good could he be when he finally has his dick inside you?
Sunghoon pokes his cold tongue against your hole, making you squeal as your legs thrashed up in surprise. He grinned as he gave kitten licks to your core, his hands pushing your legs far apart before diving into your cunt.
Moans and groans and the occasional noise from Sunghoon's licking on your core were all that could be heard in his bedroom. He kept his eyes on you, basking in your reactions before he inserted his middle and ring finger inside you, contrasting the coldness of his tongue.
"Fuck! I love your m-mouth," you whimpered out, wriggling from the overwhelming feeling that only Sunghoon had managed to get out from you.
"Always f-fucking my pussy with that m-mouth so, g-good - Sunghoon!" you exclaimed as you came on his mouth without warning, Sunghoon humming as he licked through your folds, mimicking the noise of that a happy man.
He straightened up and freed his aching cock from the restraints of his trousers and boxers, hissing as his dick slapped against his stomach before hovering over you again to tip your chin up for a messy kiss.
Sunghoon licked into your mouth before prodding it open so he could spit into it, "Swallow," was all he said before you closed your mouth and opened it in front of him to show him that you did what was told.
The boy groans as he places his dick in between your folds, setting his pace as he starts from something that's agonizingly slow, drawing out a pained whimper from you.
"Hoonie, want your cock."
"Yeah?" he breathed out, picking up his pace, "you already have it been your legs, pretty."
"No," you shook your head, "want it."
"Want it, where?" he starts to slow down without much thought as he dawns realization to what you said.
"Cock, Hoonie, w-want it inside me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, fuck! Please, hurry!" you pleaded, hands pulling against your restraints, "Want it inside me, Hoonie, please!"
"Condoms?"
"No, raw."
"Baby–"
"Please!"
One beg from you and Sunghoon's heartbeat has already picked up. Before you both even started seeing each other to hook up, you have already established that the farthest you could go with each other is oral. Other than that is off the table, as you have said, you both are completely off-limits.
Sunghoon's chest warmed at the thought of you warming up to him, "Okay, baby," he breathed out, "are you sure?"
"I am," you whined.
He leaned over and removed your blindfold and restraints, letting you adjust before pushing his lips on yours, "Thank you, thank you," he muttered in between kisses as he pulls himself away, prodding the tip of his dick on your throbbing hole.
"I gotta say," Sunghoon chuckled as he pushes his tip inside you slowly, earning a delicious moan from you both, "you're so goddamn pretty, more exceptionally so when I'm inside you."
Sunghoon has a way with words, that's one thing that you made yourself known. That was something about him that you think was what sealed the deal – he fed into your need for constant assurance, even though there were limitations between you both.
"Push it all in," you demanded.
Without another word, Sunghoon pushed himself inside, earning a throaty groan between you both.
"Shit, f-feel so g-good for me, oh, my god," Sunghoon breathed as he pushed his face into the crook of your neck, your arms immediately finding home around his torso.
Sunghoon picks up his pace as he continues on bullying his way inside you, relishing on how your pussy throbs around his dick. With every thrust that he lands inside you, your eyes roll at the back of your head, feeling the pulse of the veins of his dick with every drag.
"God, Sunghoon, I–" you cut yourself off with a groan by his ear, cradling his face as he placed light kisses on your shoulder, "Fuck, Sunghoon, so good!"
The boy pulled his face away, prying your mouth open as he spit into your mouth, his cock drilling inside you in the slowest, yet most delicious way. It was as if he was trying his best to memorize how your gummy walls enveloped his dick, in the hopes of making your pussy remember his.
And, to commit this into memory, Sunghoon removes the ring he had clad around his ring finger, reaching for your left hand that hung around your shoulder, and, in a lust-filled haze, he wore the finger around the nearest finger that was accessible to him, he'd fix that later.
Your eyes wandered to the ring that adorned your thumb, before biting your lip and looking at him. Sunghoon already adjusted himself, kneeling straight as he hikes your leg up and places it on his shoulder; and with a roll of his hips, both of you are already a whimpering, moaning mess.
"So f-full, fucking finally," you moaned out and Sunghoon reaches for your other hand to intertwine it with his, "Yeah? Been dreaming of it for so long, huh?"
Tapping your cheek he makes you look at him, "Been dreaming of this, t-too, baby," he says, panting, "been dreaming of d-doing more than just this, too,"
You looked at him with doe eyes, your lips dropping down to his lips, "Kiss me, Sunghoon."
Sunghoon nodded and kissed you, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts, it was in that moment that only the two of you existed.
"You're squeezing me so f-fucking..." Sunghoon trailed, eyebrows drawn to each other in concentration, "..so fucking good for me, God, I love you."
His hands travelled down to your clit and rubbed circles around it, making you whimper and pull his face to yours, your lips wanting to get a taste of his again.
"Not gonna last l-long, princess," Sunghoon muttered in between grunts, "You close?" He said as he looked at you, searching your eyes for more than just your sign of being as near as he is.
You hum reaching your head up to peck his lips, "M-me too, Hoonie, dick is f-fucking me so g-good," your head attempting to throw back as his tip kept on hitting that sweet spot inside you.
"I love you," Sunghoon whispers as he lets go of your leg on his shoulder, pressing onto your body as he finally lets go of his cum inside you, your release following suit after he kept on thrusting even if he was coming undone inside you.
For a while, you both had stayed in that position, Sunghoon still deep inside you in between your legs, legs weakly wrapped around his body, both of your arms wrapped around his neck as you combed through his hair.
There was a heavy weight in the air, something that demands to be addressed.
Sunghoon lifts his head up, his chin rest against your chest. With a quick kiss on the valley of your breasts, he pulls the hand that had the ring wrapped around your thumb, he kisses your inner wrist, before, with lidded eyes, removing the ring and placing it instead to your ring finger, kissing your palm after a close inspection.
Sunghoon had never been so sure in his life, until now.
"I meant what I said," Sunghoon says quietly, his eyes now trained on your hand, eager to confess that it had always been you all along.
"Sunghoon, we can't.."
"Why?"
"You're going to get married,"
"I called it off."
You looked at him with a gasp, "What?"
"I said I found a partner, I always told you I'll always have you close, right?" he says as he sent you a soft smile, relishing in the hand that played with his hair.
"You're crazy," you chuckled.
"You make me go crazy over you," Sunghoon smiles with his eyes almost close.
"I love you, too, Sunghoon."
And when your eyes both meet, Sunghoon smiled softly, and that was when you both knew – it was where you both are supposed to be.
Sunghoon hums as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, this time, sure.
"Stay with me tonight," Sunghoon whispers.
"I'll stay tomorrow, too," you add.
"And on the days after that?" Sunghoon asks, his cheek pressed against your chest.
DISCLAIMER. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED/REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.
