What started as a no-strings-attached arrangement slowly unravels when Seonghwa proves he’s nothing like the man who broke you. With patience, soft kisses, and an unexpected kind of love, he teaches you that maybe—just maybe—it’s safe to open your heart again.
🌿 Tropes: friends with benefits → lovers, he fell first and harder, “I’ll wait for you” energy, tender care after sickness, protective but soft boyfriend vibes
🎤 Featuring: The rest of ATEEZ as Seonghwa’s supportive (and slightly nosy) friends, Y/N’s protective brother, and her best friend as the voice of reason.
Masterlist
*ೃ⁀➷✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⍣ ೋ✧.*ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ * ˚
The bass from the speakers thrums deep in your chest, matching the low-level anxiety pulsing through your veins as you stand awkwardly near the kitchen island. This wasn’t your idea of fun. It wasn’t even your idea at all.
“Y/N, please,” your best friend had begged hours earlier, tugging on your arm like a child demanding candy. “Hongjoong’s parties are legendary. You need this. New city, new job, new you.”
And because you couldn’t come up with a good excuse fast enough, here you are.
The apartment is sprawling, modern, with sleek hardwood floors and glass walls that offer a stunning night view of the city. Too bad it’s currently crammed with bodies. The air is warm, thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and too much cologne. A group of guys are shouting over a video game in the corner, their laughter cutting above the low hum of music. Others sway together in the living room, drinks sloshing dangerously close to expensive-looking furniture.
You nurse your plastic cup, swirling the contents absently, trying to appear engaged with the party even though you’re screaming internally.
“You’re acting like you’re at a funeral,” your friend teases, bumping her hip into yours as she leans against the counter. “Lighten up, Y/N. This is supposed to be fun.”
“I’m having fun,” you lie flatly.
She gives you a look and disappears into the crowd, already being swept up into a dance circle by a tall man with a toothy grin and bleached blond hair. That leaves you alone again, staring at your phone as if it might save you.
*ೃ⁀➷✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⍣ ೋ✧.*ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ * ˚
“Not your scene?”
The voice is smooth—low, rich, and laced with amusement. It slides into your ears like warm honey, making you stiffen slightly.
You glance up and there he is.
Leaning casually against the counter, half a glass of whiskey in hand, is the most striking man you’ve seen all night. Maybe ever. Black hair styled effortlessly back, a strong jawline that catches the dim kitchen light, and eyes so dark they seem bottomless. He’s dressed in a simple black button-down and dark jeans, but the way he wears them makes them look expensive, tailored for his lean frame.
Seonghwa.
You recognize the name from your friend’s earlier gushing.
“That’s Park Seonghwa,” she’d whispered as you entered the apartment. “Resident heartbreaker. Charming as hell. Zero commitment. Don’t fall for it.”
You had rolled your eyes then. But now, with his full attention on you, it’s harder to dismiss the warning.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says, sipping his drink.
“You’re not wrong,” you reply coolly.
He smiles faintly. It’s not wide or cocky like most men you’ve met, but controlled—lethal in ist restraint. “So why are you here?”
“My friend dragged me,” you admit. “Apparently I need to ‘get out more.’”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
You shrug, fighting a smirk. “Undecided.”
His gaze lingers on you a moment too long, assessing. “Maybe I can change your mind.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m that easily impressed.”
He chuckles—low and warm. “I don’t assume. I test theories.”
Before you can reply, there’s a sudden shout from the living room. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a wide grin and warm eyes—Yunho, you think—calls out.
“Yo, Hwa! You joining the next round?”
Seonghwa glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “Beer pong. You in?”
You arch a brow. “What’s in it for me?”
“Loser does a dare.”
“Is that your best line?”
“Not even close,” he says easily, setting down his glass and extending a hand. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
You hesitate for a beat before sliding your hand into his. His palm is warm, fingers long and graceful as they curl around yours.
“Fine,” you say. “Let’s play.”
As he leads you toward the table where Wooyoung and San are arguing over house rules, you catch snippets of their conversation.
“Who’s the new girl?” Wooyoung asks with a wicked grin.
Seonghwa doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The way his hand lingers at the small of your back says plenty.
Jongho, perched quietly on the arm of a couch nearby, watches the exchange with an unreadable expression. Yeosang doesn’t even look up from his phone.
You’re already in deeper than you intended, and you haven’t even thrown a ball yet.
The beer pong table is already surrounded by a lively crowd, cups arranged in neat triangles at each end. San and Wooyoung are mid-argument, tossing a ping pong ball between them.
“I’m telling you, underhand throws don’t count,” San insists, dramatically gesturing with his free hand.
“They absolutely do!” Wooyoung fires back. “I’ve won tournaments like this.”
“You mean drinking in your dorm room doesn’t count as a tournament,” Yeosang says dryly from the corner, not looking up from his phone.
Seonghwa guides you closer, his hand still resting at the small of your back. The warmth there sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
“Teams?” Yunho suggests, his grin easy. “Hwa, you and—”
“She’s with me,” Seonghwa says smoothly before anyone can volunteer you. “We’re playing against you two.”
“Whoa,” Wooyoung teases, wagging his eyebrows. “Claiming her already? Bold move.”
You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips.
The game begins. At first, you’re focused on just not embarrassing yourself. Your throws are decent, though a few bounce off the rim to groans from your teammate.
Seonghwa is all precision and control—each flick of his wrist measured, graceful. But what distracts you most isn’t his aim; it’s the way he keeps leaning in to murmur tips near your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
“Relax your grip. Like this.” His fingers slide over yours as he adjusts your hand, his touch lingering a fraction too long. “Better.”
“Are you trying to teach me or distract me?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.
He smirks. “Can’t it be both?”
Every successful shot he makes is punctuated with a low murmur of approval and a brief, electric touch—his hand brushing your arm, fingers grazing your waist as he steps past you. It’s deliberate. Calculated. And it’s working.
Wooyoung and San don’t make it easy, heckling loudly each time you miss.
“I’m fine,” Seonghwa says, his voice calm but with a subtle edge as he catches your gaze. “She’s fine. Just needs a little more… focus.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip.
It’s down to the final cup. Your team is trailing by one, and the room has quieted slightly, a small crowd gathering to watch.
“You got this,” Seonghwa murmurs. “Or do you need me to handle it?”
“I’ve got it,” you shoot back, determined. You exhale, aim, and release.
The ball hits the rim, circles—and bounces out.
San and Wooyoung erupt in cheers. You groan, covering your face.
“Guess that’s a loss for you two,” Wooyoung says gleefully. “And you know what that means. Dare time.”
Seonghwa takes the ball from your hand, tossing it lightly as he steps closer. The crowd begins to disperse, but his focus remains locked on you.
“I believe I get to choose the dare,” he says smoothly.
“Go on then,” you say, tilting your chin up defiantly.
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Kiss me.”
A rush of heat blooms across your face. You pull back enough to look at him, startled.
“Really?”
His dark eyes hold yours steadily. “Unless you’re scared.”
You square your shoulders, ignoring the laughter and whistles from the group.
“I don’t scare easy,” you say—and press your lips to his.
*ೃ⁀➷✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⍣ ೋ✧.*ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ * ˚
What’s supposed to be a quick, light kiss for the sake of a dare quickly spirals. The moment your lips meet his, something snaps. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens the kiss. His tongue teases yours, coaxing a soft sound from your throat you didn’t mean to let out.
The room fades. The music, the laughter, everything except the taste of whiskey on his lips and the insistent pull in your gut.
You break apart after what feels like forever, breathless.
Wooyoung’s wolf-whistle cuts through your haze. “Damn, get a room already!”
Seonghwa smirks faintly but doesn’t look away from you.
“Not bad,” he murmurs. “But I think we can do better somewhere quieter.”
Your stomach flips violently. You should say no. You should walk away.
But instead, you hear yourself say, “Lead the way.”
*ೃ⁀➷✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⍣ ೋ✧.*ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ * ˚
The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the bass thumping from the party. Seonghwa’s room is dimly lit by the warm glow of a bedside lamp, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air—woody, spicy, intoxicating. It’s quiet, almost too quiet after the chaos of the living room.
Your pulse hammers in your ears.
“You sure about this?” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it—a low growl that makes your stomach clench.
You nod, though your throat feels tight. “Yeah.”
The corner of his mouth curves up, but his eyes stay dark, hungry. “Good.”
In a single stride, he’s in front of you, his hand sliding up your arm to your neck as his mouth crashes onto yours. The kiss is nothing like before—this one is all teeth and tongue and barely restrained urgency. His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head as he deepens the kiss, his other hand gripping your waist to pull you flush against him.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you standing there, looking so fucking untouchable.”
“You talk too much,” you manage breathlessly.
His laugh is low and dangerous. “Then shut me up.”
You do.
Your hands fist in his shirt, tugging it up over his head. He helps, tossing it aside carelessly before his mouth is back on yours. His skin is warm under your palms, muscles flexing as his hands roam down your back to your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.
“Jump,” he orders.
You hesitate only a second before obeying. His hands catch your thighs easily, and he carries you to the bed, laying you down with a surprising gentleness that’s immediately undone by the way his lips trail fire down your neck.
“Fuck, this dress,” he mutters, fingers tugging at the hem. “So pretty, but I need it off.”
“Then take it off.”
His eyes flick up to yours, dark with heat. “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”
But he does, peeling it off you slowly, deliberately, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. He sits back for a moment, drinking you in.
“Perfect,” he says simply, voice hoarse.
You reach for him, but he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, leaning down until his lips hover just over yours.
“Patience,” he whispers. “I’ll take care of you.”
His mouth descends lower—over your collarbone, your sternum, down your stomach—until he’s kneeling between your thighs. Fingers hook under the band of your panties.
“Off?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
They’re gone in an instant.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before licking a long, slow stripe over your center.
Your back arches with a gasp. His hands grip your hips, holding you still as his tongue works you expertly, alternating between teasing flicks and relentless pressure.
“Fuck—Hwa—”
“That’s it,” he praises, voice low and filthy. “Say my name again.”
“Seonghwa.”
“Good girl.”
Two fingers slide into you without warning, curling perfectly as his tongue focuses on your clit. The coil in your stomach tightens dangerously fast.
“Cum for me,” he commands. “I want to feel you fall apart.”
Your vision goes white as you shatter, hips bucking against his mouth despite his firm grip. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity.
“Fuck… you taste incredible,” he says, kissing his way back up your body.
His pants are gone before you realize, and then he’s pushing into you in one slow, deliberate thrust.
“Fuck,” he groans. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
You cling to his shoulders as he sets a brutal pace, every snap of his hips punctuated by low growls and filthy praise.
“You were made for this,” he rasps in your ear. “Made for me.”
The headboard pounds against the wall, but you barely notice. All you can do is hold on as he drives you relentlessly toward another climax.
“Seonghwa—I’m—”
“Cum again,” he orders. “Now.”
You obey, coming apart with a cry that has his own release following moments later, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep with a groan.
The aftermath is quiet except for your ragged breaths. He pulls out slowly, collapsing beside you, one arm draped possessively over your stomach.
“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your forehead.
“Yeah,” you manage, still dazed.
“Good.” He presses a soft kiss to your temple—an unexpected contrast to the roughness before.
You stay like that for a few minutes before slipping out of bed, gathering your clothes.
He watches silently, unreadable.
“Text me,” he says finally.
You just nod and leave.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
You’re barely through the door of your apartment when your phone vibrates.
Unknown Number: Not looking for anything serious. You?
You stare at the message, heart thudding. He wastes no time.
You: Good. Neither am I.
A beat passes before your screen lights up again.
Unknown Number: Rules?
You chew your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The words come easier than you expect.
You: No sleepovers. No dates. No feelings.
Unknown Number: Deal.
Another message follows seconds later.
Unknown Number: You free Friday night?
Your stomach twists—not unpleasantly.
You:vI can be.
Unknown Number: Good girl.
You set your phone down, staring at the ceiling. It’s casual. It’s simple.
So why does your chest feel tight?
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
Meanwhile, across the city, Seonghwa tosses his phone onto the nightstand and runs a hand through his hair. He tells himself this is nothing. Just a bit of fun. Nothing more.
But when he lies back against his pillows, he can still taste your name on his tongue.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The sunlight spilling through your blinds feels like punishment. You’re still groggy from last night—not from drinking, but from replaying the entire night in your head: Seonghwa’s lips on your neck, the way his hands gripped your hips, how you’d let him pull you apart like it was nothing.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Hana.
Hana: You’re alive. Good. Now tell me.
You: Brunch? 11?
An hour later, you’re stirring your coffee at your favorite café when Hana slides into the booth across from you, eyes sharp.
“So?” she prompts.
“So what?”
“Don’t play dumb. I heard about last night. You and Park Seonghwa?”
You sigh. “It’s not like that. We hooked up. That’s all.”
“Hooked up?” she echoes, raising a brow. “Y/N, Hongjoong already told me about him. Seonghwa isn’t exactly… boyfriend material.”
“I don’t want a boyfriend,” you cut in. “We’re adults. It was fun. End of story.”
Hana leans back, arms crossed. “Just… don’t let him make you think it’s more. He’s the type who makes girls catch feelings without trying.”
You roll your eyes. “Relax. I know what this is.”
But even as you say it, there’s a flicker of doubt you can’t explain.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
Meanwhile, across town, Seonghwa is sprawled on Hongjoong’s couch, phone in hand, scrolling idly through texts. His notifications are full, as usual, but he hasn’t answered most of them.
“So…” Wooyoung says, dragging out the word. “Who was that girl you left with last night?”
Seonghwa glances up. “No one important. Just a hookup.”
San smirks knowingly. “Sure. You’re not usually the type to leave a party early for ‘no one important.’”
“She’s Hana’s best friend,” Hongjoong adds. His tone isn’t accusing, but there’s a weight to it. “Don’t fuck her over.”
“I’m not,” Seonghwa replies evenly. “We’re not dating. She knows that.”
“Still,” Hongjoong says. “Hana’s protective. And so am I.”
Seonghwa runs a hand through his hair. “Look, it was one night. That’s all.”
But he doesn’t miss the way Yunho eyes him, like he’s already figured out more than Seonghwa is willing to admit.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The bell above the café door jingles as Seonghwa steps inside, sunglasses perched on his head. He’s here for nothing more than caffeine before his next meeting, though part of him likes how quiet this place usually is.
He slides into line, hands in his pockets, scanning the menu out of habit. Then his eyes catch on something—or rather, someone.
You.
You’re at the counter, chatting with the barista as you wait for your drink. The guy leans forward, grinning too wide, his words making you laugh softly. It’s polite laughter, Seonghwa notes, but still—your attention is all on him.
And Seonghwa wants it on him instead.
It’s not about jealousy. You’re not his. This isn’t that kind of thing. But there’s a flicker of something in his chest that spurs his feet forward.
“Y/N,” he calls out smoothly, voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.
You turn at the sound, surprise flashing across your face. “Seonghwa? I—hi. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Coffee run,” he says casually, his gaze flicking briefly toward the barista, who seems to lose a bit of his earlier confidence.
“Oh. Yeah, same.”
The barista hands you your drink. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” you say, stepping aside. Your eyes meet Seonghwa’s briefly, and he tilts his head toward the door.
“Heading out?”
“Yeah. Work.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
There’s a pause before you give a small nod. “Sure.”
The two of you step outside together into the cool morning air. He matches your pace, his expression neutral but his presence quietly commanding.
“Busy day?” he asks.
“Always.” You sip your coffee, glancing at him. “What about you?”
“Same.” He looks ahead, hands still tucked in his jacket pockets. “Guess we’re both in the grind.”
You give a small laugh. “Guess so.”
When you reach the corner, you stop. “Well… I should get going.”
“Right,” he says smoothly. “See you around.”
“Yeah.” You give a faint wave before walking off, your attention shifting back to your phone.
Seonghwa watches you for a moment longer than necessary before turning back toward the café. Not jealousy, he tells himself again. He just likes having your focus.
That’s all.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
Seonghwa lies in bed staring at the ceiling, one arm resting behind his head. The city outside his window is quiet, save for the occasional sound of a car passing below. He’s been scrolling aimlessly on his phone for the past half hour, but nothing holds his attention. Not the unread texts from other girls, not the playlist he tried to relax to.
His thoughts keep circling back to you.
It’s not that he’s thinking about you, he tells himself. Not really. He’s just bored. Restless.
Still, his thumb hovers over your name in his messages longer than he intends.
Finally, he types:
Hwa: Want to come over?
He watches the screen, the three dots appearing almost immediately. His lips curve faintly.
Y/N: It’s late.
Hwa: So?
There’s a pause before your reply comes through.
Y/N: Be there in 20.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, running a brush through your hair as your heart thuds in your chest. You shouldn’t have replied. You shouldn’t be going. But the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he’d pulled sounds from you you didn’t even know you could make…
You’re already slipping on your jacket before you can talk yourself out of it.
The drive to Seonghwa’s apartment feels shorter than it should. When you arrive, he’s already standing at the door in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, hair slightly mussed as if he hasn’t moved from bed.
“You came,” he says simply, stepping aside to let you in.
“You asked,” you reply, kicking off your shoes.
The door clicks shut behind you. He watches you for a moment, eyes dark, expression unreadable.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask lightly.
“Something like that.”
The air between you ignites the moment your bodies hit the sheets. His kisses are hungry, more urgent than last time, his hands roaming like he’s been starving for this since the last time you left.
You’re not sure who moves first, but the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, hands gripping your hips as he backs you toward the bedroom.
“Tell me you thought about me,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and rough.
You don’t answer fast enough, and his teeth graze your skin. “Tell me.”
“I did,” you breathe, your fingers threading into his hair. “I thought about you.”
“Good.”
Clothes scatter across the floor as his mouth maps a path down your body. He’s not gentle, but he’s not cruel either—he’s precise, deliberate, giving and taking in equal measure until you’re both gasping.
When he finally pushes into you, it’s with a groan that sends heat flooding through you.
“God, you feel good,” he growls. “Every damn time.”
The pace is fast, unrelenting. His hand slips between you, circling your clit until you’re clawing at his shoulders, biting your lip to keep from crying out too loud.
“Let go,” he orders, his voice deep and steady.
And you do, shattering beneath him as he follows moments later with a low, guttural sound.
Afterward, the room is quiet save for your ragged breaths. He lies beside you, arm draped lazily across your stomach.
“You’re staying for a bit,” he says—not a question.
You hum in agreement, staring at the ceiling.
It’s still just sex.
That’s all it is.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The air in Seonghwa’s bedroom is heavy and warm, the faint smell of sweat and his cologne clinging to the sheets. You’re lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, the soft rise and fall of your chest slowly evening out.
Seonghwa is beside you, one arm tucked under his head, the other hand resting lazily on your thigh. Not cuddling—not really—but his fingers trace absent patterns on your skin, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a moment.
“So are you,” you counter softly.
He hums in acknowledgment, his eyes fixed on some point on the ceiling. “What do you do for work again?”
You turn your head slightly to glance at him. “You want to talk about work now?”
“Just curious.”
You hesitate before answering. “Marketing. Digital campaigns, social media stuff.”
“Do you like it?”
You shrug. “Some days.”
He’s silent for a beat, his fingers still idly moving on your skin. “Where’d you grow up?”
You frown slightly, turning your head fully to look at him. “Why are you asking me this?”
He finally meets your gaze, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know. Just felt like knowing.”
“But we said no strings,” you remind him, your voice a little sharper than intended. “This isn’t supposed to be… personal.”
“Does asking a question mean there are strings?” he asks calmly.
You search his face for any sign of teasing, but he’s perfectly composed, like it’s a genuine question.
“I guess not,” you admit quietly, looking away. “But… why do you want to know?”
There’s a pause. He doesn’t answer right away.
“Just feels strange,” he says finally, voice low. “Lying here with you and not knowing anything about you.”
You blink at him, unsure how to respond.
He exhales softly and shifts onto his side, breaking the moment. “Forget it. I’ll shut up.”
“Good idea,” you murmur, trying to sound teasing, but there’s a tension in the air now neither of you can quite name.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The next week slips by in a haze of late-night texts and quiet drives across the city.
Hwa: You up?
You: I am now.
Hwa: Come over.
And you do—again and again. It becomes a pattern neither of you names. You don’t stay the night, but sometimes you leave when the sun is already threatening to rise. His apartment has started to feel too familiar: the faintly spicy scent of his cologne in the air, the way the sheets twist around your legs, the sound of his low laugh when you tease him about his obsessively neat living room.
Each encounter is still purely physical—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
“Y/N.”
Hana’s voice cuts into your thoughts as you stir your coffee at the café. She’s watching you with narrowed eyes.
“What?” you ask innocently.
“You’ve been distracted all week,” she accuses. “And don’t even try to deny it. It’s Seonghwa, isn’t it?”
You sigh. “Hana—”
“Seriously? Y/N, I thought you said it was a one-time thing.”
“It was. Until it wasn’t.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Do you really think this is smart? He’s… He’s not the guy to settle down with.”
“I don’t want him to settle down,” you say, a little sharper than you mean to. “This isn’t about relationships. We’re just—”
“—sleeping together,” Hana finishes flatly. “I know. But still… you’re not the casual type.”
You stare into your coffee, the memories of tangled sheets and Seonghwa’s hands flashing through your mind.
“I am now,” you say quietly.
Hana studies you, her expression softening slightly. “Is this because of him? Your ex?”
You swallow hard. “I don’t believe in love anymore, Hana. Not after how that ended. This is easier. No feelings, no expectations, no disappointments.”
Hana reaches across the table, resting her hand over yours. “Just… be careful. Okay?”
You nod, forcing a small smile. “I will.”
But deep down, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince her or yourself.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The living room at Hongjoong’s place is buzzing with laughter and music. Seonghwa sits back on the couch, long legs stretched out, swirling the last inch of whiskey in his glass as he half-listens to Yunho and San argue about which movie to watch.
Wooyoung flops down next to him with a grin. “So, Hwa… since when do you see a girl more than once?”
Seonghwa arches a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” Wooyoung presses. “You’re not exactly known for repeat performances. But now suddenly Y/N’s coming around a lot?”
“It’s not like that,” Seonghwa says smoothly. “We’re just… enjoying each other’s company.”
“Sounds like more than that,” Yunho teases from across the room.
Seonghwa’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, his thoughts drift—back to the way your hair fanned across his pillow last night, the soft sound of your laugh when he’d teased you about your clumsy attempts to sneak out without waking him.
*Flashback*
You’re lying beside him, the sheets tangled at your waist. Seonghwa is still catching his breath, one arm resting across his forehead as he stares at the ceiling.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I used to play piano. For years.”
You glance at him, surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah. Quit when I was sixteen. Regret it sometimes.”
There’s a beat of silence before he turns his head toward you. “What about you? Any regrets?”
You hesitate, your gaze flicking away. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ask personal questions. That’s not what this is.”
He studies you for a moment, something unreadable in his dark eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Right. My mistake.”
*End flashback*
Back in the present, San is still ribbing him. “She’s got you hooked, huh? What’s so special about her?”
“I said it’s nothing,” Seonghwa repeats, though the words taste hollow.
Hongjoong, quiet until now, leans forward slightly. “Just… don’t play with her, Hwa. I don’t know details, but Hana told me her last relationship was bad. Really bad. She doesn’t talk about it, but it’s clear she’s not looking for anything serious right now.”
Seonghwa doesn’t flinch, but something shifts behind his eyes. He drains the rest of his glass and sets it down with a soft clink.
“I’m not looking for anything serious either,” he says evenly. “We’re both on the same page.”
Still, as the conversation drifts back to movies and music, his mind lingers on you. On your guarded smiles, your careful silences, the way you seem to keep a part of yourself locked away no matter how many times he’s had you beneath him.
Seonghwa scrolls aimlessly on his phone later that night, lying on his bed with one arm draped over his forehead. The laughter and teasing from earlier still echoes faintly in his mind—San’s smug grin, Wooyoung’s relentless teasing—but it’s your face that keeps flashing behind his eyes.
Your laugh, soft but guarded. The way you always seem to pull back slightly when conversations dip too close to personal.
He shouldn’t care. You both agreed—no strings, no expectations. But his fingers are already hovering over your name in his messages.
Hwa: You up?
The reply comes faster than he expected.
Y/N: I was trying to sleep.
Hwa: Don’t. Come over.
A long pause, then the familiar three dots flash.
Y/N: On my way.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
When you arrive twenty minutes later, he’s already waiting at the door, leaning casually against the frame in sweatpants and a fitted black tee. His hair is slightly damp from a shower, and there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“You really don’t like sleeping, do you?” you tease as you step inside.
“Not when I could be spending my night better,” he says smoothly, closing the door behind you.
As soon as the lock clicks, his hands are at your waist, pulling you in. His lips find yours, hot and insistent, a kiss that tastes of familiarity and barely restrained hunger. A kiss he became to like over the last weeks.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
Later, you’re both sprawled across his bed, the sheets twisted around your legs. Not quite cuddling—never cuddling—but close enough that the heat from his bare skin seeps into yours where his arm brushes your side.
“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, softer.
“Just tired,” you reply, staring up at the ceiling.
“Long day?”
“Yeah. Work’s been a lot.”
He hums in acknowledgment. His fingers trace idle patterns on your thigh, not entirely conscious of the motion. “I hated my first job out of college. Did I ever tell you that?”
You glance at him, surprised. “No.”
“Yeah. Worked at some fancy event company. Hated every second of it. The hours, the people, the fake smiles.” He exhales a quiet laugh. “Guess that’s why I ended up doing music full-time.”
“You seem happier now.”
“Much.”
There’s a pause. His thumb slows on your skin.
“What about you?” he asks carefully. “Do you like your job?”
You stiffen slightly. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” he presses gently. “That’s not much of an answer.”
“Why do you want to know?” you ask, voice sharper than intended.
His hand stills. “Because we’re lying here. Feels weird not knowing anything about you.”
You sit up slightly, pulling the sheet around yourself. “We said no strings, Seonghwa. Isn’t this crossing a line?”
“Does asking about your day count as strings?” he counters, tone calm but measured.
“You tell me. You’re the one asking.”
He watches you for a beat, then sighs and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Fine,” he says finally. “No strings.”
But his hand stays on your thigh, thumb tracing circles again—like he can’t quite help himself.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The soft sound of your breathing fills the room, steady and unhurried. Moonlight slips through the curtains, casting pale streaks across the sheets where you’re curled up on your side, hair falling loose around your face. For once, you stayed. Not by plan, but because you’d passed out almost instantly after collapsing into his bed, exhausted from work.
Seonghwa lies beside you on his back, one arm tucked under his head, staring at the ceiling. He’s wide awake, though his body is relaxed.
You’re beautiful.
He’s known that since the first night, but there’s something different about seeing you like this. Soft. Peaceful. Guard down in a way it never is when your eyes are open.
He exhales quietly. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. Shouldn’t let his thoughts stray past what they have—past sex, past casual.
But he can’t help wondering.
What’s your favorite color? Do you have siblings? What was your childhood like? He wants to ask—wants to know all the little, inconsequential things about you. And he can’t figure out why.
It’s not like him.
This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Yet here he is, memorizing the way your lashes fan across your cheeks, the tiny furrow in your brow even in sleep. His hand itches to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, but he doesn’t move.
Not until minutes later, when his body shifts on ist own.
He turns onto his side, facing you, and lets his arm drape gently across your waist. Not tight—just enough to feel the rise and fall of your breath.
He tells himself it’s for comfort. That the warmth helps him sleep.
But as his eyelids grow heavier, his last coherent thought is that this feels dangerous in a way he doesn’t want to admit.
The soft light of early morning seeps into the room as Seonghwa stirs awake. For a moment, there’s a warmth pressed against him, the faintest trace of your scent lingering on his sheets. He instinctively reaches out, hand skimming across cool fabric.
Empty.
His eyes open fully now, scanning the space where you’d been hours earlier. The sheets are rumpled, the faint indentation of your body still visible, but you’re gone. No sound of running water. No faint rustle in the kitchen. Nothing.
A flicker of disappointment twists in his chest, sharp and unexpected.
He shouldn’t feel this way. This is what you do—come over, leave, no strings. It’s the rule. You’re both good at following it.
So why does the sight of his empty apartment feel heavier than it should?
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
Meanwhile, across town, you step out of your shower and rub at the foggy mirror, meeting your own tired gaze. You can still feel the ghost of Seonghwa’s arm around your waist from hours ago, the warmth of his chest against your back.
You hadn’t meant to stay the night. It had just… happened. You’d woken in the early morning hours, still cocooned in his sheets, and found yourself staring at him as he slept.
He looked unfairly beautiful like that. Relaxed in a way he never seemed when awake, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hair tousled against the pillow.
For a dangerous second, you’d let yourself imagine what it might be like to wake up beside him every morning. To have his arm pull you back in when you tried to leave the bed. To hear his low, sleepy voice murmuring your name.
But you’d shoved the thought away.
This isn’t that.
This isn’t love. This isn’t a relationship. It’s casual sex. That’s all it will ever be.
You’d dressed quietly, leaving before the sun fully rose, forcing yourself not to look back at the man sleeping so peacefully in the bed you’d just left.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The restaurant is alive with gentle clinks of cutlery and the warm hum of conversations blending together, but at their booth tucked near the window, it feels like its own little world. Seonghwa leans back against the leather seat, his arm draped casually along the backrest, fingers brushing the edge of the booth as his dark eyes drift over the group.
Yunho is recounting some mishap at work, his hands animated as he tells the story. Hana and Y/N sit together across from Seonghwa, Hana laughing brightly at Yunho’s description of a clumsy coworker. Y/N’s lips curve into a soft smile as she listens, her head tilted slightly toward Hana, her hair falling like a curtain that catches the low golden light of the restaurant.
Seonghwa’s gaze lingers longer than it should. There’s nothing new about seeing you smile, but there’s something about how unguarded it is here, surrounded by people you seem comfortable with. It’s a contrast to how careful you are when it’s just the two of you, as if every word you speak to him is weighed first.
He exhales slowly, turning his attention to his untouched water glass. This isn’t supposed to mean anything. You’re not supposed to mean anything. It’s a casual arrangement, and that’s what keeps it simple. Clean.
The waiter approaches, carrying himself with polite professionalism. “Evening, everyone. Can I get you started with any drinks or appetizers?”
The group murmurs their preferences—San immediately orders something spicy for the table, Wooyoung teases him about burning his tongue off again, and Yeosang requests green tea. The waiter’s pen hovers over his notepad as he glances to Y/N.
“And for you, miss?”
You look up, your polite smile small but sincere. “I’ll have the salmon, please.”
“Excellent choice.” He jots it down briskly, his tone no warmer or cooler than it had been for anyone else. “Would you like a pairing recommendation for wine?”
“Oh—no, thank you. Just water is fine,” you reply.
“Very well.” The waiter finishes with Hana and departs smoothly.
Seonghwa doesn’t realize until the moment passes that he’s been gripping his glass a little tighter than necessary. He adjusts his hold, fingers loosening as he leans back once more, expression as unreadable as ever.
Across the table, Wooyoung raises a brow with a sly grin. “You’re quiet tonight, Hwa. Deep in thought?”
“Just listening,” Seonghwa replies smoothly. It’s not a lie—he is listening. To the sound of your laughter as Yeosang makes some dry remark, to the way you murmur something softly to Hana that he can’t quite catch.
His eyes drift again—over the curve of your jaw, the way you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the small tilt of your head when you listen. Every detail feels like it’s etching itself into his mind.
It’s fine, he tells himself. This is nothing. Just a group dinner. Just casual.
But deep down, the thought feels less convincing than it did weeks ago.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The cool night air greets you as the group spills out of the restaurant, laughter carrying down the street. Hana hooks her arm through yours, leaning in with a grin. “That wasn’t so bad, right?”
You smile, pulling your jacket tighter against the breeze. “No. It was… nice.”
Nice feels too small for what it really was. You’re not used to this—the easy chatter, the feeling of belonging, the way Seonghwa’s dark eyes had met yours across the table when no one else was looking. It had felt… different.
“Bar next?” Wooyoung calls over his shoulder. “C’mon, we can’t call it a night yet!”
The group murmurs their agreement, falling into step down the sidewalk. Seonghwa is a few paces behind you, his hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. You can feel his presence without looking back.
The bar is only a block away, neon lights glowing in the distance when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the city.
“Y/N?”
You freeze, the sound of your name cracking like glass in your chest. Slowly, you turn, and there he is.
Your ex.
Dressed in a tailored coat and polished shoes, his hair styled just as perfectly as you remember. But his eyes—those same eyes that once promised you the world—are scanning you now with something sharper. Calculating.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says smoothly, stepping closer. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You look… amazing.”
You grip Hana’s arm instinctively. “What do you want?”
He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Just to talk. Can’t I say hi to my girl?”
“I’m not your girl,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “Not anymore.”
The others have stopped a few steps ahead. You can feel their attention shift back toward you, the air thickening around the group.
Your ex sighs dramatically. “Y/N, I made mistakes. But we were good together. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that.”
You blink at him, heart hammering. “You cheated on me. Lied to me. Treated me like I was disposable.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, his tone sharpening. “I was going through a rough time—”
“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice low. “Don’t you dare make excuses.”
“Hey.”
The voice comes from behind you—steady, calm, but carrying an unmistakable edge. You turn to see Seonghwa stepping forward, hands still in his pockets but his posture shifting slightly, protective without being aggressive.
“She said she’s not interested,” Seonghwa says evenly. His dark eyes lock onto your ex’s with quiet authority. “You should go.”
Your ex bristles, his gaze flicking between you and Seonghwa. “And you are?”
“A friend,” Seonghwa replies simply, though there’s a weight to the word that makes your chest tighten. “One who doesn’t like seeing her harassed.”
The two men stare each other down for a beat too long before your ex exhales sharply and takes a step back.
“Fine. But this isn’t over, Y/N,” he says, his voice low and pointed.
“Yes, it is,” you reply firmly, holding his gaze until he finally turns and disappears into the crowd.
Silence lingers for a moment before Hana squeezes your hand. “You okay?”
You nod stiffly. “Yeah.”
Seonghwa’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, something unspoken passes between you—something dangerous and warm.
“Let’s get to the bar,” Wooyoung says lightly, trying to break the tension.
The group begins to move again, but Seonghwa falls into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to make your pulse trip.
The bar is loud and alive, neon lights casting colorful patterns across the walls as music pulses through the air. You’re on the dance floor, moving to the beat with Hana and Wooyoung, letting your body sway and your hair fall into your face as you lose yourself in the rhythm.
You’re not drunk—your glass of tonic water still sits half-full on the table—but you dance like you are. Like you can shake off the sick knot in your stomach left by the encounter outside. Like you can erase his voice from your memory.
For a while, it almost works.
Seonghwa watches from the booth with the others, his dark eyes following your movements without making it obvious. He hasn’t said much since the incident earlier, but you feel his gaze every so often, steady and unreadable.
When the group finally decides to call it a night, Seonghwa offers to walk you home. You hesitate, but something in the quiet way he asks—no pressure, no expectation—makes you nod. Instead you go to his apartment, like a Routine you both became customed to.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
His apartment is quiet when you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, your chest tight and your hands trembling slightly as you set your bag down. The faint scent of Seonghwa’s cologne hangs in the air—clean, warm, and grounding in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.
“Y/N,” his voice comes from behind you, soft and steady.
“Don’t talk,” you interrupt, spinning around to face him. You step into his space, your hands reaching for the hem of his shirt with urgent fingers. “I don’t want to think. I just—”
But Seonghwa catches your wrists gently, his hold firm enough to stop you without being harsh. “Wait.”
Your eyes snap up to his. “Please. I need this. Hard. Rough. Just make me forget everything.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he studies your face, reading the raw emotion there. He exhales slowly, his thumb stroking over your pulse point where it beats frantic beneath his touch.
“Y/N,” he says again, firmer now. “I’m not him.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he cuts in gently, his gaze unwavering. “You’re asking me to treat you like he did. But I’m not going to. I’m not like him.”
You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing. “I just—”
“I know,” he murmurs, tugging your hands down between you, his fingers weaving through yours. “I know you’re trying to drown it out. But you don’t have to with me.”
“I can’t—”
“You can,” he insists softly. “You don’t have to pretend this doesn’t hurt. I’m not here to use you. I’m here because I want you—not a distraction, not a replacement. You.”
The words leave you stunned, your breath catching in your chest.
He brings a hand to your cheek, brushing away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. “Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Before you can answer, his lips find yours—not hard and demanding, but slow, deep, unhurried. His hands cradle your face as if you’re something fragile.
When he guides you to his bedroom, his touch remains patient, reverent. He undresses you carefully, his fingers brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing every inch. His mouth trails kisses down your neck, your collarbone, each one whispering, you’re safe here.
The night unfolds differently than you imagined—no frantic pace, no harsh hands. Instead, Seonghwa takes his time, pulling soft sounds from your lips with every stroke, every kiss.
“I’m not him,” he murmurs against your skin as his body moves with yours. “I’ll never be him.”
You close your eyes, clutching at his shoulders as you let yourself feel—not to forget, not to erase—but simply to be held. For the first time in months, you don’t feel broken.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The morning sunlight spills through the curtains, warm and soft. Seonghwa sits on the edge of his bed, still shirtless, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the crumpled sheets where you’d lain hours earlier.
You’re gone now—slipped out quietly like always. But this time, something feels different.
He’d watched you sleep for a while after you drifted off last night, your face finally free of ist usual careful mask. There were little details he hadn’t noticed before: the way your fingers curled slightly against his chest in your sleep, the faint crease between your brows that only smoothed out when he brushed his thumb across your temple.
Seonghwa exhales, rubbing at the back of his neck. He’s never paid this much attention to anyone—not the women he’s hooked up with in the past, not even the ones who tried to stay longer than a few nights. But you… you’re different. And for the first time, he’s willing to admit it to himself.
He’s falling. Hard.
Later that day, he’s sprawled on Hongjoong’s couch with Yunho and San. Mingi lounges on the floor, scrolling his phone, while Wooyoung flicks through the TV channels without settling on anything.
“So, Hwa,” Wooyoung starts with a grin, “when are you gonna admit Y/N isn’t just another hookup?”
Seonghwa stays silent, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
Seonghwa shifts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know. It’s… everything. She doesn’t try to impress me. She doesn’t give me her whole life story. Half the time, she keeps me at arm’s length, and I can’t stop wanting to know more.”
Hongjoong watches him quietly, his expression unreadable. “Sounds like you’re catching feelings, Hwa.”
“Not catching,” Seonghwa corrects softly. “I think I already have.”
The room falls silent for a beat before Wooyoung lets out a low whistle.
“Well, shit,” he says. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Neither did I,” Seonghwa admits, a faint, conflicted smile tugging at his lips. “But I’m not sure she’s ready for someone to love her.”
“Maybe she just needs someone patient enough to try,” Yunho says quietly.
Seonghwa nods slightly, his thoughts already drifting back to the way your fingers clutched his shirt last night as if you didn’t want him to let go.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
You sit at your desk, staring blankly at your computer screen, fingers poised over the keyboard but unmoving. It’s not that you don’t have work to do—you do. Deadlines, emails, the usual grind. But your thoughts keep drifting.
To him.
To Seonghwa.
You shouldn’t be thinking about last night, but you are. The way his hands had moved over your skin like you were something precious. The way he whispered against your neck, “I’m not him. I’ll never be him.” The words had burrowed deep, unsettling something you’d worked hard to keep buried.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to get attached. You’d been clear about the rules from the start: no strings, no feelings, no staying. And yet… here you are, wondering what he’s doing right now, if he’s thinking about you too.
Could Seonghwa—Park Seonghwa, who’s known for never sticking around—really fall for someone like you?
You huff out a bitter laugh under your breath. Don’t be ridiculous. You know his reputation. Women come and go in his life like seasons. He’s charming, he’s beautiful, but he’s not the type to stay.
Still…
You remember the look in his eyes last night when you tried to push him into something rough. How he stopped you, held you gently instead. How his thumb brushed over your knuckles like he wasn’t in a rush to get to the physical.
Your chest tightens. Maybe he’s different. Or maybe he’s just good at making it feel different.
You shove the thought away and focus on your screen. This isn’t love. It can’t be. Love is messy, destructive—it leaves you hollow the way your ex did. You swore you’d never let yourself go there again.
But when your phone buzzes with a text from him—Hwa: You busy tonight?—your pulse betrays you, skipping like it’s dancing to a rhythm you don’t want to hear.
The storm hits harder than you expected. Sheets of rain pour down, the wind whipping at your clothes as you trudge down the street with your coat pulled tight around you. You’d stayed late at work, hoping the weather would clear, but now you’re paying for it.
Your umbrella sits uselessly in your apartment. You’d forgotten it in your rush this morning. The icy water soaks through your jacket and pants, clinging to your skin, chilling you to the bone. Your hair sticks to your cheeks in wet clumps, and your fingers feel numb as you fumble for your keys.
By the time you stumble into your apartment, you’re shivering violently. Your head aches, and a heavy fog seems to settle behind your eyes.
You peel off your soaked clothes and change into dry pajamas, but it doesn’t help. You’re already feeling feverish, your skin clammy and your muscles aching. Curling up under the covers, you pull the blanket over your head and tell yourself you’ll warm up soon.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once. Twice. Several times.
Hwa: You okay? Haven’t heard from you.
You ignore it. Your eyes are too heavy to keep open.
Hwa: Y/N?
Your last coherent thought before you slip into restless sleep is how stupid it is to feel this weak.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The first few unanswered texts don’t bother him. Not really. You’ve ignored him before—sometimes you’re busy, sometimes you just don’t want to talk. He respects that.
But when hours pass with no reply, and your phone doesn’t even show as ‘read,’ unease creeps in.
Seonghwa stares at his screen, thumb hovering over your name. Something isn’t right. He can feel it deep in his gut.
“Hyung, you okay?” Yunho asks from the other side of the studio.
“I’m fine,” Seonghwa lies, pocketing his phone. “Actually… do you know Y/N’s address?”
Yunho blinks. “I don’t, but maybe Hongjoong does. Why?”
“You’re going over there?” Hongjoong asks cautiously after giving him the address.
“She’s not answering. I just… something feels off.”
“Be careful,” Hongjoong warns. “She values her space.”
“I know.”
The drive feels longer than it is, rain pounding against the windshield as the wipers work furiously. By the time he pulls up in front of your building, his chest is tight with worry he doesn’t want to name.
The door to your apartment is unlocked when he knocks. That alone sets his nerves on edge.
“Y/N?” he calls softly, stepping inside.
There’s no answer. The apartment is dim, the faint sound of rain drumming against the windows. He sets his keys down and moves toward your bedroom.
You’re curled in a tight ball under a mountain of blankets, your face pale and damp with sweat. Your hair clings to your forehead, and your lips are slightly parted as shallow breaths escape you.
“Y/N,” he says again, crouching beside the bed. He lays a hand on your forehead and swears softly—it’s burning hot.
You stir faintly, eyes cracking open to slits. “Hwa…?”
“I’m here,” he says firmly. “You’re burning up.”
He disappears into the kitchen and returns moments later with a damp cloth and a glass of water. Gently, he presses the cloth to your forehead, his hand supporting the back of your head.
“You should’ve called me,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t be alone like this.”
“I didn’t… want to bother you,” you whisper weakly.
“You could never bother me.”
As you drift back into fevered sleep, Seonghwa stays by your side, his fingers brushing over your knuckles as he whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time, he means it.
The steady sound of your shallow breathing fills the small bedroom. Seonghwa sits cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, his back leaning against the wall, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. The damp cloth on your forehead needs refreshing again, but he doesn’t move yet.
His eyes wander the room, taking in the little details. A stack of books teeters on your nightstand—fiction, poetry, even a few well-worn classics. A soft throw blanket is draped over a reading chair in the corner, its edges frayed from use. There’s a faint floral scent in the air, mixed with the clean linen smell of your sheets.
Your space is so unmistakably you—cozy, warm, lived in. It’s nothing like his own immaculate apartment, where every surface is polished and nothing lingers long enough to feel like home.
With a quiet sigh, he stands and pads into your kitchen. The small space is tidy but clearly used often. His fingers brush over a handwritten grocery list stuck to the fridge. It makes his chest tighten in a way he can’t name.
He opens cabinets and finds enough to put together a simple meal—soup, rice, and tea. As the pot simmers, the comforting aroma fills the apartment, mingling with the soft patter of rain still hitting the windows.
When it’s ready, he pours a small bowl and carries it back to your room. You’re still asleep, your face a little less pale than before. He sets the food on the nightstand for later and carefully swaps the warm, damp cloth on your forehead for a fresh one.
“You’ll need this when you wake up,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
Settling back onto the floor, he stretches his legs out and leans his head back against the wall. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. Right now, he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
The hours slip by. The storm outside softens to a gentle drizzle, and his eyelids grow heavy.
When sleep finally claims him, his hand is still resting near yours on the edge of the bed—as if even in unconsciousness, he’s making sure you’re not alone.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The first thing you notice when you wake is how light your body feels. The ache in your head has dulled to a faint throb, and the feverish heat that had held you captive seems to have broken overnight. You blink against the soft morning light streaming through the curtains and shift slightly under the blankets.
That’s when you see him.
Seonghwa.
He’s curled on the floor beside your bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting near the edge of your mattress—as if he’d fallen asleep trying to reach you. His chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, and a lock of hair has fallen over his forehead.
You sit up carefully, your heart giving a strange little twist. The night before is hazy in your memory, but you remember enough. The damp cloths, his quiet voice, the way he’d told you “You’re not alone.”
Pushing back the covers, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand slowly. You’re still a little weak, but steady enough to make your way to the kitchen.
The air is filled with a faint, comforting aroma. You pause when you see the pot on the stove, still warm to the touch. Lifting the lid, you find a simple but fragrant soup. A bowl and spoon sit neatly on the counter, waiting.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
Why would he do all this? Stay the entire night, sleep on your floor, cook for you? You’d told yourself this was casual. He’d agreed. But nothing about this feels casual.
You hear a quiet rustle behind you and turn to see Seonghwa standing in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair is mussed, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
“You’re up,” he says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And you look better.”
“I feel better,” you admit, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. You glance back at the stove. “Did you… you made this?”
He nods. “You hadn’t eaten. Thought it might help.”
“Why?” The question slips out before you can stop it. “Why would you do all this?”
His gaze softens, and he steps closer. “Because you needed someone to take care of you. And I wanted to.”
You swallow hard, emotions you can’t name swirling in your chest. “Seonghwa… this isn’t—this wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I know,” he says simply. “But maybe I don’t care about the deal anymore.”
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.
You stand frozen in the kitchen, the weight of Seonghwa’s words sinking into you like stones. “Maybe I don’t care about the deal anymore.”
Your chest tightens, your mind spinning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be like this—so patient, so steady, so different from every man before him. You were supposed to keep it simple. Safe. Detached.
But here he is, watching you with those dark, unwavering eyes that see far too much.
“Y/N.” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it now—a resolve. He steps closer until he’s only a breath away. His hand lifts, gentle but firm, his fingers brushing under your chin to tilt your face up toward his.
You meet his gaze reluctantly, and the intensity there makes your breath hitch.
“I’ve fallen for you,” Seonghwa says plainly, his voice low but certain. “I know it’s not what we agreed on. I know it could break everything we have. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You swallow hard, your hands curling into fists at your sides.
“I want to be around you—not just for a night. I want to know you, every part of you you’re scared to show. And I’ll wait, Y/N. If you ever decide you’re ready to let someone in again… I’ll be here.”
His thumb brushes your jaw lightly, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your chest ache.
“You don’t have to say anything now,” he continues softly. “Just know… I’m not going anywhere.”
Your lips part, but no words come out. You’re drowning in the warmth of his nearness, the sincerity in his voice shaking loose cracks in the walls you’ve built around yourself.
Then the front door slams open.
“Y/N!” a familiar voice bellows.
You flinch, pulling back instinctively as your brother barrels into the apartment, rain dripping from his coat. His eyes sweep the room, locking on Seonghwa immediately.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demands, his gaze sharp as it flicks between the two of you.
Seonghwa straightens, his expression calm but unreadable, as you stumble back a step, still trying to find air in your lungs.
The slam of the door rattles the air, and Seonghwa’s body tenses instinctively. A man stands there, soaked from the rain, his presence filling the small apartment with a charged energy.
“Y/N!” the stranger barks, his sharp eyes darting immediately to her, then to Seonghwa. “What the hell is going on here?”
Seonghwa straightens slowly, his jaw tightening as he measures the situation. He doesn’t move closer—not yet—but his gaze flicks from the man’s wet hair sticking to his forehead to his familiar sharp features. There’s something about him…
And then he sees it.
The same hair color as Y/N’s, though slightly darker from the rain. The same piercing eyes, blazing with protective fury. Even the same tiny mole under his left eye—the one he’d kissed on Y/N’s cheek just nights ago.
Her brother.
It clicks into place like a lock turning.
The man’s glare sharpens on him. “Who the hell are you?”
Seonghwa meets his stare calmly, not flinching. “I’m Seonghwa,” he says plainly. “I’m…She is someone important to me.”
Y/N lets out a strangled noise behind him. “Seonghwa!”
But he doesn’t falter. He’s not going to lie, not about this. “I was here because she’s been sick. I stayed to take care of her.”
Her brother’s eyes narrow further, scanning Seonghwa from head to toe like he’s sizing him up. “You stayed the night?”
“Yes.” Seonghwa’s tone is even, unapologetic. “She needed someone.”
Y/N covers her face with her hands. “Oh my God…”
The man’s eyes flick back to his sister, softer now but still guarded. “Y/N… are you okay?”
“She’s fine,” Seonghwa says gently before Y/N can answer, his voice low but steady. “I made sure of it.”
Y/N groans, peeking at him between her fingers, her cheeks flushed scarlet.
Seonghwa doesn’t look away from her brother, holding his gaze firmly. He’s not here to hide. Not from her family. Not anymore.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
You stand frozen in the kitchen, the weight of Seonghwa’s words sinking into you like stones. “Maybe I don’t care about the deal anymore.”
Your chest tightens, your mind spinning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be like this—so patient, so steady, so different from every man before him. You were supposed to keep it simple. Safe. Detached.
The sound of the door clicking shut echoes like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. You stand frozen for a moment, staring at the space where Seonghwa had been, his calm voice and steady eyes still lingering in the air like a phantom touch.
Your brother is still standing near the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly now that Seonghwa’s gone, but his eyes—your eyes in another face—are still sharp with concern.
“Y/N,” he says finally, his voice softer than before but no less serious. “What’s going on?”
You sink onto the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest as though it could shield you from the weight of his questions.
“It’s… complicated.”
He sits across from you, leaning forward. “Complicated how? Is he your boyfriend?”
“No,” you blurt out, too fast. “I mean—he’s not. Not really.”
Your brother raises a brow. “Not really?”
You bury your face in the pillow. “We were supposed to keep it casual. No feelings, no expectations. But now…”
“Now what?”
You swallow hard, fingers tightening on the pillow. “Now he says he’s fallen for me. And I—” Your voice catches. “I think I feel the same. But I can’t. Not after… everything.”
Your brother’s expression softens as he exhales slowly. “You’re scared.”
“I don’t trust myself,” you admit. “I let someone in before, and it destroyed me. What if I let him in and it happens again?”
“What if it doesn’t?” he counters gently. “He stayed here all night to take care of you, Y/N. He cooked for you. Slept on the floor so you’d have your space. That’s not nothing.”
“I know,” you whisper. “And that scares me more.”
Later that afternoon, Hana sits cross-legged on your bed, sipping tea while you pace the room.
“So he told you he’s falling for you?” she asks, wide-eyed.
You nod miserably. “And I froze. I couldn’t say anything. Then my brother stormed in, and Seonghwa just… answered him. Honestly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
Hana sets her cup down and leans forward. “Y/N, I know you’re scared. But maybe this is different. Maybe he’s different.”
“That’s what terrifies me,” you admit. “I’m starting to believe he might be. And if I believe that… and I’m wrong?”
Hana reaches out and squeezes your hand. “Or what if you’re right?”
You let out a shaky laugh, your chest tight with emotion. “I don’t know if I can risk it.”
“You don’t have to decide today,” she says gently. “But don’t push him away just because of fear. You deserve to be happy, Y/N. And he seems like he wants to be the one to give you that.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at your hands. Hana’s words echo in your head, tangled up with the memory of Seonghwa’s soft voice: “If you ever decide you’re ready… I’ll be here.”
The truth is, you don’t know if you’re ready. But the thought of Seonghwa waiting—patient and steady—makes something deep in your chest ache with a longing you can’t ignore.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
Seonghwa sits on his couch, the muted glow of the city outside his window doing little to ease the weight in his chest. His phone rests on the coffee table, screen blank. No messages. No calls.
It’s been a week.
A week since he confessed. A week since her brother stormed in. A week of silence.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might hold answers. He tells himself not to check his phone again. He’s done that enough already.
Maybe she doesn’t feel the same. Maybe he scared her off. Maybe this was all a mistake.
His phone buzzes, startling him. He snatches it up, hope flaring—and quickly fading when he sees the name.
“Hongjoong,” he answers flatly.
“Hey. You sound rough. Everything okay?”
Seonghwa exhales through his nose. “Not really.”
“Y/N?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “You haven’t heard from her?”
“Not a word.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I think… I think I pushed too far. She probably doesn’t feel the same.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can feel it, Joong.”
“You’re overthinking,” Hongjoong says gently. “You’re not the type to open up easily, Hwa. Maybe she just needs time to process it.”
“Time,” Seonghwa echoes bitterly. “How much time is enough before I accept it’s over?”
Hongjoong sighs. “You’re asking the wrong person. But if she’s worth it—and I think you believe she is—then give her the space she needs. And if she doesn’t come back… at least you know you tried.”
Seonghwa leans back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
A sharp knock at the door makes him flinch. He lowers the phone, frowning. “Someone’s here. I’ll call you back.”
“Alright. Don’t spiral too hard.”
He ends the call and rises slowly, crossing the apartment to the door. Another knock, a little softer this time.
When he pulls it open, his breath catches.
“Y/N.”
You’re standing there, hair damp from the drizzle outside, clutching your bag like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. Your eyes meet his, uncertain but determined.
“Hi,” you say softly, your voice barely audible over the quiet drizzle outside.
Seonghwa steps aside wordlessly, and you slip into his apartment, your wet shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. The familiar scent of him—warm, clean, slightly woody—wraps around you like a blanket, though your pulse is still thrumming wildly.
You set your bag down and turn to him. He’s standing there in his black hoodie and sweats, hands loose at his sides, eyes searching yours but saying nothing. He’s giving you space. Letting you speak first.
You inhale deeply, clutching your hands together to stop them from shaking.
“I like reading before bed. I like rainy mornings when I don’t have to leave the house. I like chamomile tea with honey even though I know it’s too sweet. I like fresh flowers on the windowsill even if they don’t last long.”
His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I like cozy blankets and soft music when I cook. I like writing lists even though I rarely finish them. I like bookstores. I like learning new things, even small ones.”
Your voice cracks faintly as you continue.
“And I hate the sound of doors slamming. I hate being yelled at. I hate how arguments make me feel small and how silence makes me feel forgotten. I hate how my last relationship made me scared of love. I hate that I started believing I didn’t deserve it.”
Seonghwa takes a small step forward, his face softening. You meet his gaze, tears welling in your eyes.
“But I think…” You take a trembling breath. “I think I don’t hate the idea of trying again. Not with you.”
The tension in the room shifts, warm and fragile. Seonghwa exhales slowly, as if he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your sleeve as you stand in the middle of Seonghwa’s apartment. The air feels thick and fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it. You’re painfully aware of his gaze on you—steady, quiet, waiting.
You bite your lip, eyes darting to the floor. “I don’t know if I’m good at this… at being with someone again.”
Seonghwa steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s approaching a frightened bird. “Y/N,” he says softly, his voice deep but warm. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”
You fidget with your sleeves harder, your chest tight. “But what if I mess it up? What if I can’t give you what you deserve?”
His hand comes up, tilting your chin gently until your eyes meet his. There’s no hesitation in his gaze—only calm certainty.
“Then we figure it out together,” he says. “Because, Y/N… you’re the best thing that’s ever wandered into my life.”
Your breath catches. The weight of his words sinks deep into your chest, curling around the fear and softening it.
Then his lips find yours—soft, tender, unhurried. It’s not the kind of kiss that burns with hunger. It’s the kind that whispers promises you never thought you’d hear again.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “Not unless you tell me to.”
Your hands lift hesitantly to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. This felt safe. It felt like home.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
His hands are warm against your cheeks, thumbs stroking lightly as if he’s memorizing your skin. The kiss deepens—not urgent, but unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to feel you.
When he pulls back, his gaze lingers on yours, searching. “Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice low and careful.
You nod, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m sure.”
He exhales softly, and then his lips are back on yours, his hands sliding down to your waist. He peels off your jacket, his fingers grazing your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. There’s a reverence in every movement, as though he’s unwrapping something delicate.
The two of you stumble gently toward the bedroom, his mouth tracing a slow path along your jaw, down your neck. He pauses to press a kiss just below your ear, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful.”
His words send a flush creeping across your skin, heat pooling low in your belly. You help him tug his hoodie over his head, fingers skimming his warm skin. He guides you down onto the bed, his weight settling carefully over you, supported by his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
When he kisses you this time, it’s different. Less about need, more about feeling. You arch slightly beneath him, your body already responding to his slow, deliberate pace. His hand trails down your side, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. “Can I?” he asks, even now giving you the chance to say no.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He lifts it off you, tossing it aside before his lips return to yours. His palm spreads across your stomach, then drifts up to cup your breast gently, his thumb circling until you sigh into his mouth.
Clothes disappear between slow kisses and soft touches, and soon you’re both bare, your skin pressed against his, warm and alive. His fingers skim down your thigh, coaxing your legs to part for him. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. Instead, he takes his time exploring you with lips and hands, memorizing every sound you make.
When he finally presses into you, it’s with a groan that vibrates against your neck. “God, you feel perfect,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours.
Your hands clutch at his shoulders as he starts to move—slow, deep strokes that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out. There’s no frantic pace, no urgency—just the steady rhythm of two people learning each other all over again.
“Look at me,” he whispers, and when you do, the tenderness in his eyes makes your chest ache.
The coil of tension in your stomach tightens as his thrusts deepen, each one sending sparks shooting up your spine. When your release hits, it’s softer than you’re used to—less an explosion, more a wave washing over you, leaving you trembling in his arms.
Seonghwa follows soon after, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you, his breath hot and uneven. He doesn’t move right away, just holds you, his hand smoothing over your hair.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel used. You feel cherished.
The soft glow of morning slips through the curtains, casting faint golden stripes across the bedroom. Seonghwa stirs awake, blinking slowly as he takes in the quiet space around him. For a moment, he thinks he might still be dreaming.
You’re curled up against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and even. His arm drapes loosely over your waist, and his hand rests over your stomach, fingers unconsciously tracing light patterns on your skin.
A faint smile tugs at his lips as he lets his nose brush against your shoulder. Your scent lingers there—sweet, faintly floral, comforting. He presses a gentle kiss to your bare shoulder, then another just below it.
You shift slightly but don’t wake, your body relaxing even more against his.
Seonghwa exhales softly, tightening his hold just enough to feel the steady beat of your heart under his palm. There’s no urgency in him now—no fear, no second-guessing. Just quiet contentment.
This. This is what he’s wanted for longer than he let himself admit. Not just the heat of your skin or the sound of your laugh—but this stillness, this closeness that feels like home.
He presses one more kiss to the curve of your neck and murmurs so softly it’s almost lost in the hush of the room, “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”
His eyes flutter shut again, and for the first time in a long time, Seonghwa allows himself to simply exist in the moment—holding you, the warmth of your body grounding him to something real.
•·.·''·.·•*ੈ✩‧₊˚.ೃ࿐*ೃ༄·˚ ༘ˏˋ°•*⁀➷⋆·˚ ༘
The office buzzes with the usual chatter as you settle back into your desk, trying to focus on your overflowing inbox. But whispers ripple through the room like waves, drawing your attention.
“Did you see him?” one of your coworkers murmurs to another by the water cooler.
“Tall, dark hair, perfect jawline—God, he’s like straight out of a drama,” her friend gushes.
You frown slightly, curious.
“Who’s he waiting for?” someone asks.
Another coworker smirks knowingly. “Apparently for Y/N.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
The group glances at you, eyes wide with curiosity. “There’s a guy in the lobby,” one of them says. “Handsome. Really handsome. He’s holding flowers and said he’s here for you.”
Your cheeks flush hot as a mixture of embarrassment and warmth blooms in your chest.
You stand slowly, smoothing down your blouse. “That’s… my boyfriend.”
The words feel strange yet exhilarating on your tongue. My boyfriend.
The murmurs intensify as you make your way toward the elevator, your coworkers’ curious eyes trailing after you.
Sure enough, when the elevator doors open to the lobby, there he is—Seonghwa. He’s leaning casually against the marble wall, a bouquet of pale pink and white flowers cradled in his arm. His head lifts as he spots you, and his expression softens into that heart-stopping smile that’s just for you.
“Hi,” he says, stepping forward. “Thought I’d surprise you.”
You feel the corner of your mouth twitch upward. “You’re causing quite the stir upstairs.”
“Good,” he says simply, handing you the flowers. “They should know you’re taken.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms as you bury your nose in the blooms. “Thank you.”
“Ready to go? The others are already at the restaurant.”
You nod, letting him guide you out into the crisp evening air.
At the restaurant, the group is already gathered around a large table. Hana’s eyes light up as she spots you. “Finally! And you brought your flower delivery boy.”
Wooyoung grins devilishly. “So it’s official now? We can stop pretending you two aren’t disgustingly in love?”
“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warns, though the faint pink on his ears gives him away.
You slip into the seat beside Seonghwa, your hand brushing his under the table as you settle in. The warmth of his fingers curling around yours feels like the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it is.
Author’s Note:
This fic is a little outside my comfort zone since I usually don’t write smut, but I wanted to challenge myself and explore a softer, more emotional take on intimacy. It’s a story about healing, trust, and the slow unraveling of walls built too high. I hope this feels as tender to read as it was for me to write. 💕
Kibum, where do I start? Key is a switch, usually a dom. He’s a bratty sub and a ruthless dom. I also can see him being a bit of a brat tamer as a dom. He enjoys the control he has over you. I don’t see Key having much of a daddy kink, but more of a sir kink. He’s got a bondage kink (giving), for sure (i mean have you seen born to shine????) I’m talkin whips, chains, leather straps, handcuffs, the whole nine yards. On nights when he’s feeling a little more sensual, silk ties are involved. Key also is into toys as well. He loves using a vibrator against your clit while he pounds into you. He loves watching your eyes roll into the back of your head in pure bliss. And while you’re chasing your high, he’ll whisper dirty things in your ear. “Naughty girl, you take me so well.” Sometimes he’s into edging (giving), it’s usually used as a punishment towards you. He’s a big tease. He’ll keep edging you until you beg for him to stop. “Please let me cum, sir.” Once those pretty words fall from your mouth, only then will he let you climax.
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
